On August 1st or 2nd (I can’t remember the date exactly) my grandma had a hip replacement done. The surgery went by fast and she apparently handled it really well, however, she’s now in a rehab facility and all she can do is complain and she’s coming home within the the week. Let me just explain the circumstances to you here. IF my grandma comes home that means either my grandpa or myself will have to stay home because she cannot walk 200 feet by herself. Her physical therapist over at the rehab center has even told her she can’t get up to use the bathroom alone, yet.
IF she comes home, grandpa/myself will have to miss work, or any other things so that someone is with her all times. This is will put more stress on our family than she realizes. I’m already stressed enough. Could I ever possibly tell her this? No. She’ll get mad, it’ll lead to an explosive fight and by the time she does come home she won’t even look at me. (She fights like a child). My opinions, my stresses, or worries never matter in this house. Just hers. Always hers.
I was on the fence about writing this post as it deals with issues I don’t like to talk about but here it is.
A little bit ago I was out of town with a woman I was talking to. (Yes, I know. So lesbian. We barely know each other and we already went out of town). We were sitting on her friends couch and she looks at me and says, “can I introduce you as my girlfriend to my friends?”
I screamed, internally. I said, “yes!” I mean, obviously. But I was screaming. Why? Why was I screaming when I just said said yes? Well, there are two reasons. The first one is really very simple; I was happy.
The second; I was/am terrified. I handle relationships about as well as I play the flute. Which, trust me, if you heard me play any instrument you’d realize how bad that actually is.
Relationships are built on trust… and that’s hard for me. Let me break it down for you. I trust her to catch me if I fall. (Even though I’m taller than her). I trust her not to poison my food. I trust her in my house. I trust her with my car. My past… the part people hear and cringe at… that… I’m terrified about. Do I think she’s everyone else? No. She’s the first person in a while who didn’t run at the word “Bipolar” and the name “Caroline” but she doesn’t know the half of it. The parts I keep buried. The parts of me that are… monstrous.
Whenever I enter a new relationship there’s always this question. What if she finds out I’m not who she expected?
I’m only writing this because, for once, even if this relationship lasts for the next three minutes, forever, or the next two years, I just want to be the person who isn’t afraid to take a chance. I want to know what that’s like.
(Also, if she reads this I might have some explaining to do).
I know it’s been a minute since I’ve written anything and I’m about to explain why but I would just like to take a moment to say that I’m a bit nervous. Writing has never been one my of strong suits but then when you add my ‘feelings’ to the mix, I think most of the time I probably screw it up, horribly; Especially if there are other people reading it. However, I will say I like writing no matter terrible I am at it. That being said, let’s continue on with the story about why I haven’t been writing.
Earlier this year I decided it would be a good idea to make a journal and a blog so I could keep my thoughts in order and it did… for a while. But there was an issue with my blog. Not a big issue, a minor one… sort of. One that could’ve been fixed with a simple conversation but I didn’t know how to do that. See, in my life when I have to tell someone close to me that I don’t like something they are doing it ALWAYS turns out bad. So I prolonged the conversation and stopped blogging and eventually stopped journaling.
All this person was doing was bringing up my personal blogs at work, in public, out in everyday life. This person is the only one I know who follows me. I like my privacy. I like things to be kept to oneself. I was talking about close personal stuff. I didn’t know/understand how to have a meaningful conversation with this person about my privacy because I thought they would get mad.
Turns out, it was all in my head. They didn’t get mad. They were supportive and understanding. They weren’t anyone else I’d ever dealt with in my life who had ‘threatened’ my privacy because they didn’t like it.
Now, after a few months of trying to reevaluate my life and get more things squared away, I can safely say, this is my first blog post and my journal entry entry is just a few moments away.
This post is going to be a little different than anything I’ve written about previously. I don’t normally talk about these things. I think mainly because I don’t know how. I identify as gay. I’m attracted to women. I’m not ashamed of it and that’s not what we’re here to discuss. What we’re here to discuss is the rest of it. The part that I don’t tell anyone exists. The part I’m afraid of.
I’m 24 years old and I’ve slept with more people than I can count on both hands. That makes me feel ashamed. Does it make me feel like a slut? Like a whore? Not at all. I like sex. Who cares. But what I’m ashamed of is that I can’t remember all of their names. They blend together. I ran into a woman that I had ‘relations’ with and couldn’t remember her name. She told me I should be ashamed. She started to belittle and demean me but before she could finish, I agreed with her. I told her she did nothing to deserve what I did to her. She looked astonished like she never in million years thought she would hear me agree with her.
That was almost two years ago. Now I’m doing a bit better. I was in a successful ‘friends with benefits’ relationship until she got married. Which I’m so happy for her and so proud of her. Her boyfriend (now husband) at the time knew about us and there were no secrets. Every time I feel ever the need to do something ‘unhealthy’ I tend to go driving. I would honestly rather pay more for gas than hurt someone’s ego and mine.
My therapist and I have talked at length about how I separate sex and love. I use sex as band aid for problems. I’m not an addict. I don’t need it to fill some hole or void in my life/heart. The problems I have, my bipolar leaves me feeling I’m not wanted. So as you can guess what is it I do? Go find sex. I want someone to want me. I get I what I need then I leave. They’re left feeling alone and horrible about themselves.
I never stopped to think about the consequences of my actions until the day she ran into me. I’ve been thinking about her a lot recently and how I’ve been changing since then.
Blog coming soon. In process of typing it up.
Today I went to see my psychiatrist because on Wednesday I had a hour long pseudo-seizure. My grandmother, who I live with, went into full blown panic after it was over. Saying “this needs to stop, it’s been happening for two years, you can’t keep living like this.” Yes I know, she’s a parent, she worries. But the fact remains, I have been living with this. For two god forsaken years. My seizures come and go as they please destroying anything they see and taking what they can.
The only way I’m able to maintain a job is I have a boss who is the most understanding man about the whole thing, plus my other health issues.
Anyways my grandma drags into my doctor and starts to tell him about the seizure. He asks me a couple of questions to which I answer honestly. He thinks changing a medication I take called Topamax to a higher dosage will make a difference. My grandma both agree and just when I think the appointment is going to come to end that my whole world gets thrown up against the wall.
She tells my doctor she doesn’t my bipolar medication is working for me. (Depakote). I think it does. He takes a look at my blood levels and he said they looked good last time we ran them. If my medication wasn’t working ‘properly’ we wouldn’t be seeing the numbers I’m looking at. He then asked her to describe why she thinks my medication isn’t working. My grandma said, “we’ll be sitting there talking, laughing and the next minute and she’ll fly off in a rage.” She then looked at me and said, “Do you remember when said you went off on your friend for no reason?” I looked right back at her and I said, “Do you ever wonder if maybe it’s how you say things? How you address me?”
My doctor asked me of this if any of this was true and I just shrugged. All the questions that followed were ones he couldn’t answer. That no one can. He kept telling me if want my independence back and to move out I have to get a better job. Yes doc, I know. But you’re not answering my question. How can I get a better job knowing that I can barely smile? How can I get a better job know that I don’t at night? How can I get a better job know that my seizures will stop me from having it? He couldn’t answer my questions. He kept telling me (along with everyone else) to smile, to get better, okay, great. I will, as soon as someone tells me how. Because for the past two years I’ve been struggling to figure it out.
First, before I get into my post, I’d like to apologize for the lack of blogs I’ve had. It’s been really stressful and I essentially haven’t had time to process anything but thank you for being patient.
Lately I’ve been having strong feelings. About almost anything. Most of the time this only occurs when I’m under huge amounts of pressure or there’s something my body/mind isn’t telling me. I’ve been overreacting, becoming mad, paranoid and very anxious about little things. Then the very next day, I’ll my feelings out on the table and realize that none of them have any bearing.
For example, I think I’m losing my best friend. I think we’re drifting apart and I won’t be able to stop it. Now, is this my paranoia talking or is it actually happening? I laid all the “know” facts out on the table.
- I’m bipolar.
- Thinking people hate you is a part of it.
- She still talks to you.
Then after that I literally could not think of anything else. I sat there and I said, “You’re fucked.”
I don’t know what I’d do if we weren’t friend anymore. But I also don’t know what I’d do if I’m losing my mind. Some days, I hate this illness more than others.
You know how I mentioned, everything is basically elevated? I was in the shower just listening to my music like I usually do when a dance song comes on. At first I go to skip it but then some happy bone in my body decides it really wants to dance. For then next 45 minutes or so I had a solo dance party in my bedroom. Mind you, I had just finished crying over the fact that my best friend might hate me and the love my life doesn’t know I exist. But hey, all that matters is Usher got me to forget all about it.
Oh, mental illness how you make life a surprise.