The last few weeks have been more intense than any I have experienced. Aside from the outlandish (being offered an episode on a reality docu-series, getting to tell Congress about my high school sex life, turning my friends yellow, this new rare freakshow health problem I’m suddenly dealing with, etc.) my subconscious has been exploding with revelations and annihilating the barriers that have plagued me and hindered my happiness literally my entire life.

I recently talked about my realization that all the hateful, horrible opinions that were beaten into me as a child were untrue and, later, about how free I suddenly am with this realization that none of what had happened was my fault.  With my newfound self-validation, I tackled opponents who had continued to emotionally abuse me up until now, and I informed them that I’m shutting the whole dysfunctional cycle down by removing myself from it whenever they’re projecting anger through hurtful language. I made sure they knew I’m just fucking exhausted from all these years of garbage and I am so ready to be over it, so it’s not even something that affects me anymore. They’re forgiven because I see where they’re coming from. Anytime they want to change, I’m open to help because, Lord knows, I’ve had the luxury of gobs of therapy, and maybe others haven’t. I get that. I’m all about getting everyone else to be happy and free from bullshit, too.

VICTORY!

Oh, but silly me for assuming that this would be the end of this incredible toppling-over of those long-instilled beliefs under which I lived. As my subconscious kept plowing forward, I suddenly realized that, if I was a beautiful, smart, intelligent, etc. person, this would mean that maybe I was really loved a lot more than I’d ever thought. And maaaybe people weren’t just trying to be closer to me to use me and reject me. And maaaaybe the people who did hurt me and reject me only did so because they felt intimidated…or… or something.

Oh. Ew. Weird. Really?

But then, I remembered back to when I was talking to that one crazyhot vixen from my high school, and I was apologizing for saying awful things about her out of my own insecurity (and the fact that I was probably in love with her). She and I were talking about how she’d never done anything to offend me, personally, and how I’d realized that I only said awful things about her because I was so threatened by her ability to seduce any teenage lover she wanted.

And then I blurted, “But I never, ever thought you would give a shit about what I said about you…”

I thought about that for a minute. “I hated myself so much, I never thought anybody could possibly be bothered by any stupid thing I said about them.”

She said, “Whoooooaaa…”

And we sat there in silence for another minute.

Never once in my entire life did I ever assume that I had any clout over anyone else’s feelings; I simply never thought I was important enough to be taken seriously…at all… in any circumstance… ever… From here, I can see that I just assumed I was floating through my interactions with people without having any affect on them at all, positive or negative. Needless to say, the idea that anybody regarded me as someone  intimidating and/or gave my self-loathing proclamations any credence is still laughable to me… And, unfortunately, it’s also probably true….

It took me 4 effing years since then to realize that I probably did that to a bunch of other people… other than her…

Aaaaaahsheeeeeyuuuuaaaaat. Dammit, really?!

So, in the tradition of the 12 Steps (which work on any sort of recovery, btw – not just alcohol abuse), I flung my dignity by the wayside and acknowledged that maybe some of these people I’d always thought were out to hurt me actually might’ve been hurt by my emotional flailing too. And, like I do, I sought out everybody I had an inkling might’ve been affected by this, fully realizing that a) this shit all happened a really, really long time ago and b) I was going to look like an emotionally unstable/crazy person who can’t let go of the past by bringing this shit up.

Whatever. Apologies are definitely one of those things that are better when delivered late than never. And in the off-chance that any of these people I hurt held onto the same kind of anger and misguided beliefs that I did from my opponents, then they definitely deserve an apology… Or even if they didn’t, really. It doesn’t matter. When I fuck something up, I should apologize. Simple as that.

I am both mortified at the realization that I was kind of a cunt to people because I hated myself and didn’t know it and thankful for the insight/opportunity to recognize it so that it nevereverever happens again. And, in the future, I won’t have to bother people who ran away from me years ago with retarded apologies (“retarded” is used in the literal sense here, folks. Calm it down.) that interrupt their current lives like an unhinged maniac.

So… that’ll be nice.

…

But, ultimately, I feel so much lighter, so much freer. All those mantras RuPaul has had me saying for 20 years suddenly all make sense; I couldn’t love anybody properly until I loved myself. What other people say about me really isn’t any of my business because it doesn’t have anything to do with me anyway. (4 Agreements, ahoy!)

I’m pretty exhausted, but I’m also really, really fucking happy for a change. This is new; I like it.

I hit the wall today and crumpled. I sobbed harder than I can remember; I hurt worse than I have in many, many years.

I have encountered yet another freakish, unbelievable health problem that is confusing and scary and for which there is no absolute cure. It is very taboo, so much so that I am not comfortable discussing it publicly yet. I am too tired of being belittled, not taken seriously, and mocked with horrible stigmas to handle such hurtful ignorance and rejection right now.

Greg also collapsed under the sudden weight of yet another roadblock yesterday. It broke my already aching heart. In the last 6 years, he has dealt with continuous curve balls regarding my health. First there was an unexpected baby, which forced him to fling himself into work and support us while I was unemployable. Then there was my mental illness that continued to be undiagnosed until just last year. Finally, when it seemed I would finally be able to love him freely and spoil him with the unconditional support and physical attention he deserves, I am given another barrier, another thing to overcome, that is already driving us apart and forcing me to pull myself away from me because it physically hurts my body too much to interact with him.

In the last few months when I have felt better, he has finally allowed himself to feel all the emotions he’s suppressed over the years in order to plug away and keep our family afloat financially and emotionally. I saw him become debilitated with relief and the impact of the toll my burdens have taken on him. He slept for days. He had anxiety about being able to reconnect with us on an emotional level because he has become so insecure with himself. Because of his selflessness and inability to focus on himself, he has lost a sense of self and the ability to be happy with himself and his own company. This was one of his most appealing features when we met, and I can see that the lifestyle my presence has created for us has beaten this out of him. He has been seeing a therapist to deal with me and the effect I have had on him because he is unable to share his struggle with me. These things are not fabricated; they are hard evidence.

Greg has never hurt anyone deliberately or devastated anyone’s feelings in his life because of his own dysfunctions. I have, more times than I can count. I finally am in a mental place and in a relationship in which I can shower my partner with love and smother him with all the luxuries he has unconditionally given me. But because of my constant ailments, I am constantly unable to do this.

I am slowly breaking him. I see this. It hurts me worse than any guilt I have ever experienced. I know these health problems are not my fault; I know that I have been working defiantly to give him the wife and Chloe the mother they both deserve, but I am becoming disheartened at my continuous inability to deliver these things. I am seeing evidence that I am a drain on the person who has loved me the most fearlessly and unconditionally, and I cannot help but think that he will continue to give until there is nothing left of him.

I love him too much to let that happen. This I know as fact. I will not waver on this belief.

Greg deserves someone who will give him what he deserves instead of someone who will slowly suck every wonderful thing out of him. As I cried, he began to blame himself for sharing his emotions with me because he believed they were what was hurting me the most. I assured him that they weren’t; they were among the two things that kept me fighting for a better life when I was sick – the other being the fact that my beautiful daughter deserves an awesome mother.

If it had not been for either of these, I would not be here today. I mean that sincerely; I would not have had the courage or responsibility to keep working for a solution even when there was no end in sight and no hope that it would come. I was hospitalized a second time for suicidal intentions less than a year before I met Greg and conceived Chloe. Since then, I have had the worst mental episodes of my life, but, despite them, I have never once considered suicide. I fully believe things have played out this way on purpose.

I realized that the only better choice I have than removing myself from their lives is to control what I can while I continue to work for better health. I have been given the necessary gifts to continue this far; I am not foolish enough to dismiss them now, not when they seem to be aligning so perfectly. I feel so connected to God/Spirit/the Universe’s intentions for me.

I have this book I have been working on slowly for the last ten years that is almost finally complete. It is something I believe in more than anything I have ever produced. I believe it will be great. I believe it will bring us success that will relieve some of the burdens from Greg, as he is always preoccupied with our finances and the feeling that he has no room for failure. I believe that, right now, in this moment, working to get this writing work out into the market is the best use of my energy with the most immediate hope of helping us morally.

So I will continue to work to be physically better and I will continue to work at what I know I can do best and that I will flourish at, until there is a day when I can’t anymore. That day isn’t today. It probably won’t be for a long while. It may never come, but I can’t worry about that right now. I want to do what I can while I can.

Greg deserves that and so much more, because he has always given me exactly that. I don’t have any idea what this new obstacle will present to require changes in my life; I don’t know how this will affect our relationship or what potential it has to damage him further. I can’t worry about that or it will sap the energy from me, which is too valuable to jeopardize.

I am thankful for his love and for my mental clarity right now; otherwise, this would be impossible.

Well, here’s a fun story about my blatant naivete to start off our week!

So, I have a few friends who are having some big events going on- one is celebrating her wedding with a big celebration after being married for about a year and a half; one is pregnant for the first time; another just celebrated her 21st birthday; another is wrapping up her last year being my daughter’s teacher. So, I found this amazing ancient Ayurvedic/Hindu skin treatment called “Ubtan” that was made from chickpea flour and spices to increase blood flow to the skin and create a beautiful, healthy glow in Indian brides, who would cover their bodies with it every day for 40 days before their wedding. I thought it would be a glorious way to celebrate my friends in their times of change, so I took myself to this magnificent Indian market in Raleigh and bought the ingredients necessary – tumeric powder, chickpea flour, sandalwood powder, fenugreek powder (for this specific concoction) to be mixed with whatever the user wants as a base, like honey, lime juice, rose water, avocado, yogurt, milk, or anything else mooshy and edible.
I got home, mixed the stuff, put it in mason jars with instructions and mailed them off, only handing one to the husband of the pregnant gal when I ran into him at the bakery last Friday (when we were both missing her yoga class… oooops.)

I saved a little extra for myself and decided to indulge myself in a little ancient beauty therapy for Mother’s Day. I applied a little to my skin and soaked it in through steamed, open pores. Deeelightful. Until I washed it off my skin and noticed that I looked yellow… jaundiced, even. I mean, my skin felt incredible and was full of vitality and rejuvenation and supple…ness? and good things. It was just effing yellow.

And thaaat’s when I realized that this particular treatment was designed to give brown gals a healthy glow, because yellow will only slightly lighten the skin of someone with dark pigmentation. On pasty whiteys like myself, it only acts as a stain because, essentially, I am a blank canvas.

Luckily, only one of the girls I sent it to is white like me. The others are darker in tone than I am and I think they’ll be okay, although I’m sending a warning anyway. Heh. My bad.

Next time, everybody’s just getting a card, dammit.

“‘Mother’ is the name for God on the lips and hearts of all children.”-The Crow

Recently, I have been talking with a lot of my girlfriends who are hurting and dealing with the aftermath of years of emotional abuse about the incredible power our mothers have over shaping our psyche and inner voices. Before this year, I never stopped to realize that Mother’s Day is a hard, sad day for so many people.

I have so many friends and family members who still ache from the toxic ways their mothers spoke to them or treated them out of their own self-doubt and insecurity. It is staggering to see the manifestations of so many mothers’ shortcomings. So many people flinging themselves into toxic relationships in search of the love their mothers never gave them, and so many people drowning out the hateful inner voice created by their insecure mothers with alcohol and drugs… it’s heartrending.

If you have a mother to whom you can bare your soul, give thanks. If you have a mother whose love is unconditional and who never withholds it as a means to manipulate your spirit, give thanks; you are blessed. If you have a mother who is right there to love you the way you are and fiercely defend you when you are broken and at your worst, then you are among the luckiest people in the world.

One of the luxuries of growing up and coming into our own is learning to choose people in our lives who can fill in the spots that our mothers or fathers were unable to. Friends are family that we choose, and I pray that everyone who hurts from the mistakes of their parents have found and surrounded themselves with people who let us grow and flourish the way everyone deserves.

I also hope all children everywhere are able to find the Love and ability to forgive and heal that we all deserve. Freedom from the beliefs instilled in us by our opponents is one of the greatest gifts we can give ourselves; this is something I’ve learned in my years of therapy and recovery. I really do pray and hope every single soul finds the hope offered in letting go and relinquishing power over the people who are not worthy of controlling our emotions, no matter if those people were lovers or parents or adolescent bullies or people we thought were our friends.

Ultimately, though, I pray that everyone learns to love and validate themselves and no longer has to seek these things from those who fail to provide it. Like the wise RuPaul Charles says, “If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell you gonna love somebody else?” I hope everyone is filled with the love and confidence we need to spread it selflessly to our sons and daughters and friends and families. Sometimes we’re called to be parental figures to people we aren’t related to, and our whole world would be better if we loved ourselves enough to give each other the love they deserve, too. I hope everyone who has been hurt by their parents has the ability to forgive and heal and stop the cycle so it doesn’t continue with our children.

I tend to believe this is the foundation of all humanity’s problems and potential to improve and heal. I like to imagine a world in which it’s possible for everyone to work from love and forgiveness.

One day, I’d like everyone to have a happy Mother’s Day.

When I was 17, I was horny. I was not a Democrat or a Republican. I wasn’t caught up in social climes or busy trying to push an agenda on anyone, or busy delving into the annals of the Women’s Rights Movement, or screaming about the horrors of abstinence-only sex ed.
I just wanted to get laid by my boyfriend.
That’s it.

Believe it or not, my high school boyfriend and I waited a year and a half before we finally decided to go for it (which, in teenage years is roughly a millenium, I believe) and, it may be shocking to many of you out there, but we absolutely used protection. Every single time. AND we agreed to never have sex if either of us was drunk. And then, a few months in, I considered putting myself on birth control, which was a huge inner struggle for me because, you know, only “skanks” and “sluts” get on birth control… I didn’t want to be known as a slut, but I also didn’t want to get pregnant and wind up “barefoot and in a trailer”, of which a friend had warned me when I told her we could always try “pulling out.”

Knowing that my mom would chain me to the confines of my room if I expressed my intentions of getting protected to her, I talked to other girls at my school (in the bathroom. Duh.) and learned that the South Carolina (where I lived at the time) Department of Health would provide me with thorough education about birth control, a safe, full gynecological exam, and free birth control.

With absolute terror, I attended the mandatory educational session (with aforementioned boyfriend in tow, who totally deserves credit for holding my hand in a room filled with teenage girls trying to get birth control. Dang. I must’ve been hot shit in the sack… hunh…) The girls in the small classroom and I looked at each other; I recognized one of my sisters’ friends and my immediately thought, “Oh no! What is SHE doing here!? She seemed so nice!” I felt so dirty and ashamed of us. I wasn’t “poor” or “slutty” or “trashy”; I came from a nice family in the suburbs! How did I end up here?! I didn’t tell anybody but my very closest friends, and I cried a lot about how shady the whole thing felt and how guilty I felt for doing this supposedly terrible thing; I wanted my mom to be with me to guide me through this, yet I didn’t dare tell her because I knew she’d be disgusted and embarrassed by me.

Anyway, for the next year-and-change, I kept going back to SCDHEC for checkups and prescription refills. Every time I went, the staff was careful and kind, gentle and comforting, but frank about what I needed and should be considering. I can’t believe I’m praising the South Carolina government, but this program is among one of their best efforts. I was having sex before I put myself on birth control, and I have no doubt that I would’ve continued even if I’d never heard about this program. It was going to happen; I had raging hormones, a boyfriend, and a free schedule. However, where my parents and society’s expectations of a “decent young lady” failed me, the Health Department supported and gave me the resources I needed to continue having healthy sex and a happy life.

When my mom was lecturing me about the inherent evils of sex before marriage after she found out about my foray into doin’ it, I told her I was getting birth control from the government. She gasped, “They can’t do that!!!” and I may’ve laughed at her.

At the time, I actually took for granted what was being given to me for free. In fact, I felt like it was a punishment for being so disgustingly wanton and perverted, instead of looking at it as an incredible gift given by a forward-thinking, post-feminist society. For years I felt ashamed and embarrassed that I’d chosen to sneak around and get birth control from the government, like some trashy loose woman.. or a hooker! (::gaaaaasp!!:::)

Now as an adult, I know, first of all, that prostitutes pay for their own OB/GYNs because they get tested more often than the Department of Health will regulate and, also, they have more money than I did working part-time at the Chick-Fil-A double drive-thru, and secondly, just how much the government saved my ass back then. They knew I was going to start having sex; it’s what hyper-hormonal teenage bodies are intended to do, people. It’s science.

The fact that SCDHEC was right there with information and easily-accessible public birth control information and medicines is both amazing and wonderful to me. I haven’t needed their help in over a decade, but I am so, so very grateful that it was there for me when I needed it, so that that terrified teenage girl with all the social stigmas weighing on her wouldn’t have been strapped to a life of motherhood she would have felt only guilty of. They gave me comfort and someone to talk to about real, pertinent issues that were going on with me and my immediate needs; their female doctors were gentle and informative about my body and what I was going to experience; they gave me a chance to have a happy young adulthood and the freedom to do it on my own. The idea that I ever took that for granted embarrasses me, but I felt like I should find a place to discuss it publicly.

I’m not interested in political parties. I’m not interested in talking about who is lobbying for what and how specific politicians are somehow more amoral than others and how the idiots barking on television about those politicians are fueled by Satan/the Nazi party/Illuminati/Communism. I just want to talk about people who, like me, need information and help and cannot get it from anywhere else except public services. I was given that gift and I believe in an America where everyone else deserves that, too. I would happily give a few extra tax dollars to help a 17 year old girl safely learn about sex and her body with the right tools and information at hand, because others did it for me. It’s just that simple, really.

Every day this week, I have had dinner on the table by the time Greg gets home from work. After we’ve finished, we go out on a family walk and then play a board game or video game before Chloe goes to bed. My house is clean; I have been keeping up with it every day. I have been doing yoga and going on walks daily. I have done a little gardening maintenance, kept up with friends, written a couple letters, eaten 3 meals a day. I’ve been normal.
None of this is boring to us because it is such a novelty at this stage; we are elated. Last spring, this scenario would’ve been impossible. 3-5 days out of the week, Greg would come home to a cluttered house with leftovers for dinner and a wife who couldn’t do much more than stare vacantly and tremble with elusive pain as anxiety took over my grasp on reality. This was what he’d grown accustomed to, and the guilt of my contributing to this lifestyle was crippling; it did nothing to quell my crippling anxiety and the cycle seemed doomed to continue.
When I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder last spring, I called a friend who had also dealt with this and I specifically remember her saying, “You will love the feeling of consistency once you’ve been medicated correctly.” I remember thinking that such a lifestyle was impossible for someone like me.
A year later, for the first time since I can remember (maybe 15 years?), it is not. My days are full of energy and achievable tasks that I am tackling with enthusiasm. I wake up at 6:30, work consistently all day, and fall into bed around 10, exhausted but content. Finally, we seem to be making progress around our home instead of just feeling like we are treading water. I have not been gripped with my annual bouts of psychosis in months.
This life of banality is so, so exciting to me. I am leaping into every day and luxuriating in my competence and the resulting enthusiasm.

I spoke to an Indian man at a 7-Eleven across the street from my first university about the career of Mohammed Rafi. We discussed the song “Jaan Pehechaan Ho”, and the man told me it roughly translated into “Introduce yourself to life!”
I finally am!

The last month has been this nonstop blur of the most vivid emotions I’ve felt in decades, from every possible extreme. I’m cackling with elation and sobbing with heartbreak as I’m encountering an intense melange of situations, revelations, interactions and happenings. It’s like I’m feeling in technicolor. Initially, I was terrified and I’ve been constantly checking to make sure I’m not manic, but I’m not – I’m still sleeping soundly; I’m not starting a million projects I’m unable to finish; I’m not making terrible, rash decisions; I’m not doing anything mindlessly or out of my personal control; I’m not flailing about and feeling invincible; I’m taking care of myself and what needs to be done on a daily basis…

I’m okay; I’m just alive.

It took me a couple weeks to realize that, with the clearing away of my mental haze, I’m finally just wide open to experiencing normal human emotions again as they are happening on a day-to-day basis. Without the cloud of depression or mental illness fogging my ability to function, I’m fully absorbing everything that’s happening to me from the exciting to the devastating and I’m finally able to feel it completely.

I’d forgotten what that was like. I forgot what it was like to be able to focus solely on a sense of joy without the mental stagnation of physiological anxiety or fling myself entirely into grief when appropriate. I forgot what it’s like to revel in complete, unadulterated feelings attached with individual circumstances and life events. I’d been removed from this sort of emotional process so long I forgot it was a part of being human; it was something I forgot to look forward to recovering once my mental illness was properly diagnosed and treated.

I feel alive again. Pain and joy and love and anger all feel vivid and organic and pure in a way I’d forgotten about. It’s incredible. I know it’s weird to feel giddy about feeling emotional pain, but I’m just so relieved that I don’t feel numb or preoccupied with the noises in my head anymore. I’m free to feel things deeply again like everybody else without it resulting in a physical or psychological collapse.

Dear God, what an amazing luxury.

When I reached out to Naomi a few years ago, I wasn’t prepared for the cacophony of emotion that came along with her. I didn’t mind it, nor was it too much of a surprise; she’d always been the type to bring along more than expected.

She welcomed me into her arms, into her home with a warm smile and delight in seeing me again. She excitedly brought up memories of us playing together at her home, at our school, away at Girl Scout camp, and I shared with her some photos my mom had sent of the two of us smiling, holding hands. We remembered playing in her pool at her birthday party, making up games in the dogwood in my backyard, and giggling to each other from inside our sleeping bags on hot summer nights. I sat inside her home among the piles of clothes and art and tutus and projects and costumes and Dumbo figurines and pictures and toys while we talked for hours about where we’d been since then and what we’d seen as adults. Like peeling our own onions, we exposed the sides of our pasts we hadn’t let anyone see and nodded with recognition at the answers to the questions we’d forgotten we’d once posed about each other. As she spoke of her childhood and the pain she’d endured, I was intrigued by all the things she revealed to me that had been kept under cover when we were little girls together, secrets that she’d carried with her every day that caused her to appear mangled and misunderstood when she stood in plain view of the rest of us. Where we’d seen a mischievous, stuttering little girl, there had been a scared, abandoned child who had no sanctuary at home and no compassion from confused, intimidated peers. Her loud, rambunctious playfulness had tried to overcome her ever-present uncertainty of herself in a world of people she couldn’t trust. I didn’t know how valuable trusted friends were to her at such a volatile age, in such a vulnerable emotional place; I couldn’t have known how my words and friendship affected her.

A stubborn part of me refused to believe I’d been that important to someone. “What a self-centered, awful, egotistical thing to assume of oneself – that a friendship could have been all the hope someone had…”, I believed.

Naomi had been sick for many years by the time we reunited, and I was scared and upset when I learned the extent of what she’d been fighting against. I listened to her describe the symptoms and conditions of Cushing’s Disease and I researched the condition on my own time; it seemed more than I could process. She was constantly in and out of the hospital with horrible coughs that brought up waste from her lungs in chunks. She was reduced to a wheelchair a lot and used a boisterous dog for assistance in her daily life. She made no excuses for herself and blazed forward through her life, pursuing her interests and being in contact with those she loved despite her crippling illness. She dressed to the nines for backyard bonfires or friends’ birthday parties, and when an attendant at Disney World told her her evening dress would confuse other little girls at the park, she balked, “I’m fat and in a wheelchair; I don’t think anyone’s going to confuse me for Cinderella.” and wheeled herself inside.

I sat with her one night when she was alone in the hospital. All night, she barked and coughed up chunks of stuff that she spit into a cup and handed to a nurse for testing. She was hooked to IVs and machines and had to be given big, important-looking procedures during which I was asked to leave the room. She chatted the evening away, showing me pictures of her family and her friends and the vacations she’d been able to take and the costumes she’d been working on for various events. I stayed awake until she said it was okay to sleep. I tried not to wince when she woke me up with her coughing. I left later in the morning when she insisted I go home and bathe; her husband was coming back soon and she’d be okay. I was glad someone had been there with her during the night, although this was only one of the two monthly trips to the hospital she made regularly.

I was never able to go back.

In the last two years I had chosen to put some distance between us. There were some parts of our personalities that clashed and I knew it wasn’t worth hurting anyone’s feelings over, but too much time together would have made us resentful. I grappled with intense guilt because I knew her time here was limited, but I knew better than to try to fit together pieces that don’t belong; I’d been hurt too many times by forcing those relationships before.

She continued to call. I responded when I could, but never made arrangements to drive all the way up to where she was, about an hour from my home.

Two days before she died, she asked if I would help her with the incredible annual gala she had been putting on for other young people who were seriously ill and could not afford to attend formal dances or felt too uncomfortable to do so. I had helped with hair and makeup of guests and greeting the press a couple years ago, but my mental illness prevented me from attending last year. I was looking forward to getting back on board this year, as I’m finally in a place where I can make plans and be expected to follow through with them completely and without melting down with anxiety beforehand, and I saw the importance of this event both to her and to the community. I was excited to be a part of something positive again. She wrote me a long message about how she needed my help and how I was someone people would listen to and respected; she would appreciate me pulling what strings I could to get some donations for the gala’s silent auction. I told her I’d do my best and I meant it. She told me her illness had taken a turn for the worse, but I didn’t have time to ask her more about it because I was having to type from my phone. She had to go; her friend was there and needed attention. I told her we’d talk soon. She said “hugs”. I sent love.

And then she was gone.

And suddenly, I’m left looking at these pictures of those two little girls, wrapping our arms around each other and smiling at the camera, thinking of nothing else but being happy to be together in that moment. And I realize that that’s maybe all she wanted from me was to just be there with her when she was hurting, no matter how unworthy I saw myself. It was something I could do to make it better. It was something I could afford easily. It was something that meant something valuable to her.

I hurt so terribly with this feeling that I didn’t just stay by her always when I could. She deserved someone to always hold her hand.

I hope she had enough love.

And, with this self-validation, I am free. My life finally, finally feels back on track. It’s been 17-ish years since it derailed – 10 since it tried to kill me and I started trying to figure out how to stop it – and, suddenly, it’s finished. All the Answers aren’t just something I’m trying to mentally process; they’re in my heart, where I believe them and know them as Truths. And suddenly, I am filled with this rapture and energy every day to get up and sprint back into the game.

I know I’m not manic; not only am I heavily medicated to keep myself away from it, but I collapse into bed at the end of the day with a clear mind and no terror that I have so much left to do that I’ll never get to. I’m just busy again. My body isn’t used to it yet; I’ve spent the last 5-ish years being paralyzed by untraceable anxiety about 45% of the time and I’m not used to being on the go all day. It’s okay; I’ll catch up.

My mental collapse at this time of year suddenly makes so much sense; it is this time of year that my anxiety and resulting depression (and literal bouts of insanity) would start kicking into overdrive with the terror that another “school year” had passed and I was on the verge of “inevitable failure.” In fact, EVERY self-sabotage in the last 17 years has been because of this genuine assuredness that I was on the brink of ruining everything, because of this inherent belief that I was “wrong”, that I was going to only succeed in fucking up. When my life was blessed with the gift of Greg and Chloe, the pressure to succeed was heavier than ever and I collapsed under the weight, spending 3-5 days every week for the last 5 years overwhelmed by such anxiety and guilt that my sanity started playing tricks on me and I couldn’t move. All those symptoms of losing track of time and being so seized with terror that I couldn’t focus or move without going into panic attacks were borne of the inherent belief that I didn’t deserve this and would eventually lose it all from my shortcomings.

I consciously knew that, by being disabled from my mental bouts, I was ultimately fucking up and squandering everything, and my guilt doubled my symptoms. I’ve known that I was terrified of failure – I’d identified the problem years ago in my talks with Daisy and my therapists – but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why I was so certain that I would or what I could do to change it. I kept repeating the concept that I was worthy and able to myself, but it never rang true; I wasn’t convincing myself. With the recent realization that I actually always have been capable of great things and only thought I wasn’t because I let it get beaten out of me so many years ago, all this fear has suddenly, finally evaporated.

I am finally able to indulge in enjoying my life’s gifts. I am no longer terrified of spending time with my daughter with the knowledge that I wasn’t good enough for her; instead, I am seizing every moment to be with her and show her all the things that I love and want her to love. I feel like I have so much time to make up with her, but a part of me is so happy that she is still young enough to start remembering me the way I want to be instead of the guilty, terrified mother I have been, spending most days in our pajamas and unable to do much. She has been so patient and so unconditionally loving, as children are wont to do with their mothers, and I am so happy that I have a chance to give her all that she deserves.

The same goes for my incredible husband. For years now, he has carried us selflessly, getting up every day and doing everything needed to keep our small family afloat. He has spent so many days going to work all day and coming home to a defunct wife who has had to collapse into bed with raging mental episodes while he tries to deal with a child he has only been able to get to know in these exhausted, terrified hours he has left. Without taking time to preserve himself, he has continued to worry over me and continued to believe that I wanted to get better and was working to fix myself through therapy and fighting for mental clarity. When I was finally diagnosed properly with bipolar disorder last year, he was relieved that it seemed we were finally getting answers and that my medicine would finally be supportive of me getting my life back on track. While it has, he has still continued to wait patiently while I’ve worked to get through this last mental block, and now that I have, I want so desperately to give him the time to mentally recover from the shitstorm he’s been battling during our whole relationship. I’ve been wanting to spoil him and take care of his every need, so he can finally relax and regroup. I know that he has sacrificed so much of himself that he’s lost track of who he is and what it is that makes him happy in order to care for us, and I’m so grateful to finally, finally have the mental wherewithal to give him time to recover that and take care of himself. I am happy to pick up my slack and give him a chance to relax. I am so grateful that his resentment for my condition isn’t as great as his joy to see me “back” and his relief to know that he’s not going to be stuck with me as a burden forever.

There’s some work that has to be done to clean up from these years of dysfunction. For a while, I will have to prove that this is genuine and not just another one of my “I CAN GET BETTER! WATCH!” spells. I have to show that this change of heart isn’t just me forcing myself to “get better”; it is a realization that I am better/okay and my terror isn’t dictating my daily life anymore. However, I can’t convince everyone of how real it feels just by telling them. It will take time. I’m so very happy to have time and to still have family who loves me and has been waiting patiently for this to which I can finally start giving back to them as much as they give me. I will have to deal with their hesitation to trust my ability to maintain this momentum, but I understand completely where it comes from. I’m not frustrated; just grateful that they’re still here and giving me the benefit of the doubt. I also have to get my body back into a healthy state. All this inactivity and losing track of what I’m eating and when has taken its toll and I’m heavy and lacking energy right now with the weight of all of it. It’s okay; I’m not angry at myself for letting me get this way and I don’t hate my body. I just want to make it up to myself and get myself back to a state that feels weightless and energized so I can keep up with my new pace. I have the energy to do it and the lack of desire to fill myself with unhealthy fuel. It’ll happen.

I am shocked and excited by how much I want to do and this overwhelming confidence/knowledge that I really can and will be able to. My daily task list has grown exponentially, but I’m not making physical lists manically that let me down at the end of each day by being incompleted (which always only proved to reinforce this belief that I couldn’t achieve anything successfully. It was a vicious cycle.) My mind, finally relieved of the involuntary obsessive doubts and consequential psychosis, is pouring out creativity and I am overwhelmed with excitement at seeing myself produce quality, inspired work. This, of course, only adding fuel and further validation to my belief that I’m capable of accomplishing wonderful things. It feels like an upward spiral.

I no longer have the daily nagging urge to drink my mind into relief. I am too energized and motivated to get things done and to participate in my life to want to hinder my body and mind with substances. I see the need to be lucid and present for all of this. The relief from this daily struggle is overwhelming.

I am so content. I am so excited. I have been enjoying every single thing that makes my life wonderful, from my family to living where I do to what I can create to what is available to savor in my daily life. The novelty of this awakening might subside after a while when it is no longer bright and shiny and new, but that’s okay.

It has been so, so long that I’ve been pushing my way through all this. I never really thought I would get here, to be honest. I never thought I’d figure out why I was crippled by doubt; I knew myself well enough to know that brainwashing myself with daily affirmations would never work and I never saw myself fitting all the pieces together. And they’re here. It all makes sense. It feels so complete.

I will continue to take my medications because I recognize that my mind isn’t capable of keeping itself sane/healthy and that my involuntary depression and manic episodes will only throw me off track and begin to brainwash me into thinking I’m a failure again. I can’t afford that lifestyle ever again. It is worth it to me to keep my mind in line and I am thankful to finally have the right diagnosis to create a daily life of functionality for myself.

I turned the corner. I feel so optimistic. I know that I’m not “cured” or going to be free of problems for forever; there will be bouts of mental doubt and there will be failures and there may be more mental episodes in the future. That’s okay. I know I can handle them because I’ve been surviving them this long; they won’t be able to let me feel defeated anymore with the inherent knowledge that I am capable of tackling them. That’s exciting to me. What an incredible relief.

If you have been reading these blog posts for any amount of time or keeping up with my story in general, I want to thank you. So many of my friends have shown support and faith over the years when I never, ever could and never was ever to believe them/you. I always felt I was fooling everyone into believing I was something better than I am, but I’m happy to report that I was wrong. I cannot thank the people in my life for refusing to let me brainwash you, too and for stubbornly putting up with my self-doubt and self-sabotage. I probably wouldn’t have; I would’ve had enough of my eternal whining to have kept me around as a friend. Nobody likes a self-pitying whiner.

Much much love and light to you. And me!

It’s a Tuesday and you’re just, you know, not. You could drag yourself into public and shuffle among the masses, questioning your inherent self-worth and life’s ultimate purpose, or you could make yourself an event for others to appreciate with little to no effort. Your choice!

Just follow these three easy steps and you’ll be shocked at how much dignity and respect you get anywhere you go!

1) Dress entirely too nicely for where you plan to be for the day. Look, my Gran wore a red and black Chanel suit to my first birthday party, which was held at my parents’ kitchen table with only them and my other grandparents in attendance. You know what everyone else wore? Doesn’t matter. If you’re the best dressed person in the room, people are going to notice and feel underdressed in response. The outfit should be flawless (no rips or tears, wear accessories appropriately, etc. You aren’t in the drunk tank; have some dignity.) but DO NOT worry about doing your hair or makeup. The clothes will do the work. Also note that “nice clothes” doesn’t automatically mean “expensive garb”. As long as it’s classy and well-tailored, it doesn’t matter what the price tag said. Costume jewelry and props (cigarette holders, muffs, parasols, opera glasses) are ideal, but pick one only; you aren’t a circus.

2) Gigantic sunglasses are imperative. Nobody has to know you’re suffering from seasonal allergies/pink eye and just don’t feel like putting on any makeup or making eye-contact like a grown up. Gigantic shades make you look glamorous, aloof, and preoccupied with some residual ailment obtained from somewhere in your busy, socially exhausting agenda. Maybe you were up all night drinking with an old friend in his penthouse at the W after he finished performing a one-night-only gig at the biggest venue in town. Maybe your eyes are bleary from chomping stogies over poker with some politicians’ wives. Maybe you’ve been up for three days cranking out your masterpiece so your agent will quit pestering you. Honestly, maybe you were doing none of those things and are exhausted from caring for a fussy, sick kid all week; however, your fancy clothes and fab sunglasses tell a totally different story. The more gigantic and audacious the better! You’re not here to answer to the masses’ aesthetics; you have a life. If you’re a lady, don’t be afraid to don some men’s shades; perhaps you swiped them off your lover’s nightstand as you dashed out of the house. Plus, sunglasses are an invaluable tool for communicating with those around you and getting what you want. I’ll explain in a minute.

3) How you carry yourself is of the most importance here. You can’t just stroll around wearing fancy duds and acting totally normal; then your outfit is a hindrance to your cause and not an asset. Plus, you’ll look a little delusional, Miss Havisham. Instead, you immediately need to adopt the mentality that it is simply too early to be wherever you are, no matter what time of day it is. Even if it’s 5 p.m, it is too blasted early for all this effort, don’t you agree? Tilt your chin slightly upward; you’d be facedown in a gutter and still be looking down your nose at this wretched sunlight. PLEASE NOTE: This DOES NOT mean that you are angry at or spiteful toward everyone else! Treating people like crap will only get spit in your food and no extra favors! (Plus, you’re hideous when you’re upset.) You must act as if you and everyone around you have all been shuffled out of necessary slumber to attend to whatever tedium it is that has to be done today. Treat everyone as if they are your allies in this unbearable travesty; act impressed that they are all holding themselves together so well in the face of this apparent adversity. (People dig feeling like they’re accomplishing something or that others think they’re awesome for just being themselves. Flattery gets you everywhere.) Speak softly so everyone has to be quiet and lean in intimately to hear you, and lay on the pet names, especially if you’re in the South. Treat people who wait on you (sales clerks, servers, etc.) as though they’re doing you an incredible favor and providing you with great relief and convenience you could never live without in your condition. Be sure to lower your chin and speak conspiratorially to them over your shades; let them know you feel their pain. Touch people gently on the arm when asking for assistance; be sure to thank them sincerely. If you want to treat yourself to something edible, do so boldly, as though you’re rewarding yourself for soldiering on through this ghastly sunshine. This can work for any budget. If you buy something cheap, then giggle about how you’re “slumming it” for fun with a Cheerwine and a Slim Jim for breakfast, like a mischievous child. If you buy something decadent, then it’s because you simply can’t be expected to settle for all of life’s shortcomings. Either way, you deserve this treat! And so does everyone else! We all work so hard and we don’t get any of the love we truly need; let’s change all that and give it to ourselves and each other. We can change the world!

Above all, stay classy. You can be a little loose and seem a tad fatigued, but seeming disoriented or wobbly screams “can’t handle booze” which is the foremost faux pas for any fabulous person.

And there we are. Don’t say I never gave you anything.