Well Deserved Vacations

I was able to sneak away for a few days and visit Montreal.  Loved it so much.  I walked and walked and walked and explored and meandered and ate and walked some more and spoke a wee bit of French.  Visited the Rodin exhibition at the Musée des Beaux-Arts.  I ate a few bites of poutine, because I felt obligated to do so.  I drank a Quebecois Beer.  Ate some crepes and found a 16 month Le Petit Prince wall calendar.  Oh and a Stone Roses tshirt.  Not that they're Canadian....

Vacations are ESSENTIAL to mental well-being.

Back to the grind again.  Next vacation isn't until February.  I can do this.

Real vs. Imaginary

Anyone caught in the turbulence of mania and/or psychosis can probably relate to the questions of what was real and what was imaginary.  I saw people that weren't there, heard whispers and voices from out of nowhere (not frightening ones, by the way), and experiences strange bouts of smell.  Despite the shitty circumstances of Real Life intertwining with my mental illness, I forged through it all as best I could.

Even while stable, however, I find myself second guessing certain things.  For example, one evening after a therapy session, I could have sworn I saw an acquaintance at my usual post therapy bus stop at the time.  But was that real?  I told myself it wasn't real, mainly because I had just poured my heart out in therapy and realized I could have potentially triggered an effect of bipolar and/or PTSD.  I chose not to say a word to the acquaintance to determine if it was real or not, as I didn't want to appear to be the crazy woman talking to invisible people at a bus stop at night.  And so instead I just fiddled with my phone, where there were at least real life friendships and acquaintances in e-format.

But now I wonder.  Maybe my acquaintance was indeed there?  But why wouldn't he say anything?

Freedom

It's been a long road to get to where I am in my bipolar recovery.  I'm still asking questions as I go along, but good, important questions and not the imprisoning kind that lead to depressive states.

I've met a lot of control freaks in my search for the 'right' kind of mental health peers and professionals in my life.  Man am I grateful for my freedom.  I'm grateful for a psychiatrist who truly collaborates with me and listens.  I'm grateful for the support groups I've found where we collectively support and are supported amongst a group of people in varying mental health journeys in their lives.  I'm grateful for the wisdom to walk away and not give a second thought to the Control Freaks who don't want me to succeed.

I've learned that Control is one of the scariest traits to encounter in a human being.  

That is not to say that I'm always right.  No way.  I'm full of faults and mistakes that I have made and will continue to make.  But I'm not going to give away my self worth to powerful people whose underlying mission is to go through life destructing other people's happiness.

I apologize for my vagueness in this posting.  I'm writing it as a little 'note to self.'

Empowerment is a healthy, healthy thing after a series of instances of being manipulated.

Being told 'you're crazy.'

So they didn't tell me like that.  They didn't say, "yeah, you're crazy."  Instead they said things like:

"We're worried about you."

"The things you're looking for are (long pause) fleeing.  We think it'd be best if we admitted you."

"People are bothering you?  Sounds like classic paranoia to me.  These meds should stop that.  Just don't stop taking them."

Looking back at certain things, I feel like I was caught in a horror movie...like a psychological thriller.  Oh man!  Trauma!  Serious trauma!

I try to not spook myself and not get caught in the cycle that trauma creates.  I try to think of the Good People I met on my path.  I try to think of the ones whose efforts were to make me feel safe, when they saw the fear and confusion on my face.

So here's the thing about telling my story....

I have been trying to sort out ways in which I could recreate my experiences with mental illness in a constructive way that might be able to help others keep fighting the good fight.

But I don't have an ending yet, and that's the trouble I keep encountering.  Which is why I keep this ridiculously slow blog going so that a EUREKA moment might hit me one day.

I've been trying to get off Seroquel for over the past year with the assistance of my psychiatrist and I almost ended up BACK in the hospital the first go and had severe allergic reactions and panic attacks from hell during the second attempt.

Then I just went through breast cancer and didn't want to mess around with meds while I went through that.  But boy oh boy are there a lot of questions about long-term effects of psychiatric medications and overall health.

My psychiatrist has suggested I come off them and just go forward with PRNs for sleep and anxiety.  Which is completely different advice than former psychiatrists of mine would have given.  Quite frankly, I'm afraid to go off the medication because I hear voices sometimes that startle me while messing around with all these heavy-duty drugs.

So yeah, I'm taking my medication and commited to therapy and wellness and good diet and exercise and stress-relieving techniques and getting involved in support group and advocacy.  But it's all a balancing act and I haven't reach the top of the mountain yet where I would like to rest on the mountaintop and Tell My Story someday.

My Story intertwines a bit, and perhaps I need more to go on.  I need more to work with here.  Hmmmmm.