Blogging makes my heart break

Blogging has been difficult for me this year. Within six months I’ve lost two close friends. Ulla (Blahpolar) died in September 2016, and Johnna (Painkills2 from All Things Chronic) earlier this year. Johnna played a significant part in supporting me through my grief over Ulla’s passing.

Johnna and Ulla were active and involved blogger.s Their avatars were everywhere. Their part in my life has made me a better person. And now they’re gone. And as life evolves and changes, it seems the ‘old crowd’ has scattered to the wind. I open up WordPress and feel the impact of those departed – the ones that faded quietly away never to return, the friends who kindly bid farewell as they moved on with life. And then the dead. Nothing is the same anymore and the bloggosphere feels so foreign and empty. I don’t adapt well to change. And I form attachments very quickly. While I have since made wonder new friends and know there are plenty of new friends to be made, loss is still so fresh that right now, I’m not sure what direction I will take with my blog.

Not to mention I can barely keep up with following everybody else. I feel so guilty. That I’m not present, reading and interacting like I used to. Life doesn’t leave me with too much spare time. There’s work, which is a mammoth undertaking, exhausting keeping up and avoiding mistakes because of my poor memory. Since my L5 lumbar spinal surgery, its difficult after a full day of sitting at work, to come home and sit and blog. I’m not a laptop-lying-down kinda person. And then there’s my bipolar personal management plan I try so hard to keep to – routine, vigilant for triggers and combating them, lots of sleep etc. Its hard work trying to be healthy.

Stay, go, limit interaction, change the purpose of my blog. I’m not sure. But when I figure things out, you’ll be the first ones to know. In the meantime, know my friends, I love you all and will do the best I can for now.


The fight

Every morning I paint my lipstick on

and I con the world into believing that I belong

I smile and joke

and try to float

the current to the end of day

trying, trying to pave my way

to seamlessly behave

as is expected

living others’ perspective

then home, where I’m alone

my lipstick washed by tears

the pressured load to please

its finally released

and I can breath

now freed

to mourn my desperation

for this depression situation

and with each tear that falls

you’re a failure” Life calls

ungrateful and lazy

pull yourself together you crazy!”

failure, failure, failure echos

as death solemnly smiles and beckons

but still I wake and put my lipstick on

I might be done but I won’t be gone

a tug of war Depression and Life

I’ll participate, butI don’t walk away from a fight

Stop beating yourself up

Living with bipolar disorder sometimes means living with a great sense of failure. Our genetics are wired differently and one of the many consequences of being ‘faulty’ means we are inconsistent.


The highs and lows make it difficult to follow through on tasks – over committing when hypo/manic, to withdrawing when depressed. Our social anxieties, OCD and panic attacks ostricise us and our lives become overwhelmed with self-doubt, self-loathing and guilt; feeling that we have disappointed loved ones, not lived up to expectations

give yourself a break

The remedies to this situation are not easy. But we do as we always do, we try. And we keep on trying:

  • don’t set high expectation that are unrealistic. Keep your expectations reasonable and within proportion
  • no two bipolar disorders present in the same way. Don’t compare yourself to others
  • don’t take the judgments of ordinary folk to heart. They do not walk in your shoes
  • above all, try to treat yourself gently, to love and accept yourself
  • and never, ever give up trying

Unwanted reflections

Loving an active alcoholic involves, amongst other things, a lot of anxious anticipation.

The apprehension of waiting for the impending unravelling. The fear of the dreaded PHONE CALL – that they’ve been arrested, been killed/injured in a car accident or *deep breath* have killed someone else on the road. The waiting for the inevitable ‘other shoe to drop’. The ever-present foreboding of their unpredictable behaviour and abuse.

The prospect of hope based on their declarations that ‘this time is different’. But having to live in constant caution against hoping too much, because lies and disappointment always overshadow their promises and declarations.

believe - themetapicture-com

Source –


Lover the Loser hated to see or hear me crying. Just as with my Alcoholic Ex. Tears incited anger. I wonder if my tears were a mirror of their failure. If my tears were tangible evidence of the consequences of their behaviour. And I have to wonder if that is why neither one of them has ever tried to contact me after parting ways. I can only assume they are immensely relieved that the mirror has gone. No longer are they faced daily with a reflection of their shame, their guilt, their inability to live an undiluted life.

Perhaps it’s not that I’m unwanted. Perhaps it’s merely a case of not wanting to face themselves each day reflected in the mirror of my tears.


Bipolar is a bully

I feel like a complete and utter failure. I’ve had a confusing year and I’ve lost my footing with my beloved blog. Like a cold car engine on a frost-bitten morning, I can’t seem to get going again. To get the pace idling and the stories flowing.

I write and I delete. Then I write again. And delete again. Nothing makes sense and every blogging effort seems to be futile. That includes posting my own work as well as interacting with fellow bloggers’ posts. I can’t seem to read beyond 100 words and my attention scatters.


I feel so angry with bipolar – the way in which it steals my ability to participate in life. Living reeks of ground hog days grinding over and over – get up, get dressed, make it through a days work without incident, crumple into a heap when I get home. Being hyper-vigilant I do nothing ‘wrong’ to anger the ordinary folk. Everything seems taxing and twice as hard to do. Even sleeping has become yet another failure thanks to insomnia.

While I realise I’ve just been diagnosed with early symptoms of psychosis and am feuding with new meds/old meds side effects and withdrawals, I can’t help but feel inadequate, incapable. A great big fat loser who can only manage the bare minimum of the nuts and bolts of life.

Bipolar is a bully. It’s sneaky and it fights dirty. It has me pinned to the ground in a wrestling death grip and I just don’t know how to bounce back.

A tragedy of human proportions

Isn’t it tragic when one of the people who created you, exhibits such displeasure in who you are, in who you have become, and will not allow you to be yourself. Who shows no concern in your mental health, is ashamed by the diagnosis – hell, won’t even say the word……


Hell, doesn’t even believe I am sick. I ask him to google, read up on bipolar because that will give him a better understanding of his only child. He tells me he doesn’t need to do that, he has a general idea of it. I need to exercise. And meet new people. Then I’d be right as rain.

I was trying to build bridges with him after a long period of no communication. But after this, I’m not interested in bridges. Only being left alone by said party.

If its not one loss its another. I’ve been thinking about suicide a lot. I know how I will do it. I have two options. One, gunshot. Two, jump. I’ve chosen the building. And it seems appropriate to jump since that’s what my mother did 23 years ago. And after all the bullshit today, I decided I would do it. No sooner had that thought crossed my mind, than I had an actual visual flash inside my brain. Followed by “FUCK THAT! Why should I let them rob me of my life!”

Just because I have failed my whole life to please that man does not mean I have to be sentenced to death. If he doesn’t like his daughter, then he should just fake it ’til he makes it. Am I right? I am who I am and I have a lot more good qualities than bad. He needs to take parenting classes more than I need to be committed.

If his only child brings displeasure and embarassment to him, then I’d say that says more about HIM than it does about me. So FUCK THAT! For the time being, I choose to live. And live any way I want to.

yesterday i cried

yesterday I cried. I cried for all the loss, the loneliness, confusion, betrayal and fear. I mourned my pets, both living and dead, that I will never hold again. I wept at the cruelty of my husband. Choosing alcohol, not me, never looking back. My mother choosing death over me. My father never choosing me. I cried for the times I tried to please but brought only disappointment. For my endless failures. Wrong choices, missteps, bad decisions. My body aches with unbeaten sorrow. An unbearable misery that makes me want to claw my skin off my bones. I cry until my beath is short and my vision blurred.

The Cry By. Stèphane Berla on

The Cry By. Stèphane Berla on


Bipolar, I fucking hate you, I silently screamed. I hate that you make everything hurt so much, amplify every emotion to the point of physical pain. You give no answers. All the while feeding me with confusion, betrayal, self-doubt, isolation, anger. You’ve taken so much, how much more do you want from me? Except, maybe for me to give in? Sometimes I wonder why I try so hard. So much time, money, effort, to achieve, what exactly? Because no matter how much medication, therapy, support, its always there, tucked just below the surface, laughing at me, waiting to draw back the curtain of sanity and show the world just how crazy and different and scary I am. It revels in the judgments and the obvious whispers of you don’t belong here and you never will.

But today is yesterday’s tomorrow. It may hold hope. So I put my mask on, try to look my best and carry on with the mundane, like a programmed robot (fixed smile, robot voice “hello, I am fine. Hello, I am fine”)

ANNOUNCEMENT: This episode was brought to you courtesy of the trigger gastroenteritis. Bipolar exploits any weakness.