The Craze and Daze of Mania

A few weeks back, I ran across a book I ordered.  'Madness: A Biploar Life,' by Marya Hornbacher.  While I am still in the middle of reading her account of dealing with bipolar; I can only do so in swatches because some of her story is mine. 

To me, her being diagnosed with an eating disorder along with depression was a coping mechanism she built to survive.  It was a form of isolation to make sense of her world.  Add in her illicit drug use, sexual misconduct, and self-medicating with alcohol; I really do see myself in some of her rants.

What doesn't surpise me is the use of prescription drugs to control some of the mood swings.  However, doctors can only guess when making decisions about outpatient care options. Every individual is different; the lack of follow-up care in her case is as striking as in my own experience. 

Can you imagine not being able to seek care because of military restrictions dealing with forms of mental illnesses?  I know from mine own view -- sometimes

I CAN NOT GET OUT OF MY HEAD. 

Giving me a drug to 'slow me down' in fact only heightens the being stuck and culls the frantic creativity that fuels my soul. While on drugs, no matter how hard I try; thoughts just race like a wheel in a rut and can make no rhyme or reason.  I guess for myself since, I have an uncanny recall.  My memory is a detrimental when dealing with the affects of any abuse or preceived abuse.

So... while I did practice some of Marya's coping skills which lead to her multiple hospitalizations.  I on the other hand, had to learn how to deal with my crazes or I could have wound up in military prison.  Talk about fear being a motivator; military prison in some ways was worse --- amped up--- in the form of control more than my own familial upbringing.

The question must be asked: How did I make it through 20 years of military service without being hospitalized or jailed? Did I do some really stupid shyte? Was there exhibited behaviors that could have ended a military career and or taken a life?

Oh yes, I did.  But one magic word got me through:

Compartmentalization

More to come later..........
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On days like these

With tears welling in my eyes

I move about on tentative feet

Trying not to step on anyone

On days like these

Anxiety runs rampart on my body

So tense I can bite through nails

I hear Walt’s barbaric yawp

On days like these

Not yelling or screaming is so hard

I try not to rage against the machine of my mind

Because it scars and scares my boys

On days like these

My chest is so tight and heart races

I can hear my own heartbeat

Sitting back trying to breathe and focus

On days like these

No pin point of light to guide me through

Just tension I can chew

I tremble, falter, and pace

On days like these

With no tobacco to chain smoke

No wine to ease my ravaged mind into sleep

I just want these days to …… release

My Truths: Bipolar Mania

This may ramble and drift a bit but here goes:

Looking back and talking with family members; my onset with bipolar was in childhood.  I had uncontrollable rages as a small child and sudden outbursts of crying jags.  I would hit and throw things - my mother not knowing how to deal with me; tied and gagged me to a pole out in the backyard.  This was a story told often at family gatherings and very humiliating.  I was very young around 3 to 4 years old.

Later, my parents divorced and custody was given to my mom with visitation with my father.  This alone is traumatic to a child and then the regular beatings took place. Yes, it was beatings not just spankings.  Eventually, I was brought under the control through fear of getting hit or worse. 

Who wants to be hit or debased for crying................ At the age of five, I learned how to lie to avoid being hit by lying very well.  I also learned early; men were not to be trusted as my mother married again soon after her divorce was finalized.

Funny this is; we were told as children.  'ALWAYS tell the truth, I may get mad but --- not as mad if you lie to me.'  No matter what though, we were hit for small thing like: unclean rooms, grades, notes home from teachers, toys left out, lost items, dirty dishes, dust, laundry being left on the floor and all the other house keeping chores we were given.   (Talk about a mix messages, why tell the truth if you are still going to be humiliated or hit?) 

I used to think, I was the problem.  I was the cause of my mother's anger issues. That if I was only good enough; she would not be bothered by me quite so much and could possibly be happy.  Little did I know then but, I suspect she is bipolar as well.  It explains a lot --- just I don't excuse it.

Another thing that drove my mother to distraction was tears.  How can a person expect an upset child to stop crying if they are being spanked? Yet, there were times I was in trouble -- with that sickening feeling in my stomach -- trying to stop crying -- only to be hit again -- such a vicious cycle. 

Here is a kicker folks,  persons with bipolar are highly creative, outgoing, charming, and bright.  People pleasers in a crowd --- look around --- we are every where.  In a crowd of folks usually the loudest or obnoxious folks are in the middle of rapid cycling and God forbid they are drinking.  Those folks who self medicate to excess have a tendancy to become abusive or do self harming behavior they pay for later in life (drinking / driving).

One thing is becoming apparent in our family home, we may have a son with bipolar disorder.  Seems there is a genetic connection and I may have passed this on to him.  I am not feeling unhappy about it though I do worry.  I do know I am better equiped to deal with the highs and lows than a 'normal' parent and he is my child.  I waited forever to have children mostly out of fear of harming them.

At age 16, I made a conscience decision not to harm my own future children.  I was laying on the floor whilst my mother sat atop me choking and hitting my head against the floor.  I made the decision then to get out of her house and make my own way.  It was the best decision I ever made.

Though, my story with my mother in her house ended basically there on that floor.  I was not diagnosed with bipolar until I was in my late twenties.  How I survived in such a strict environment on active duty for 20 years is shocking to me as I look back but, I did it. 

Another thing, I am blessed to have our children and will teach him ways of coping even doctors are not aware of; 'remember that creativity?'  I am so very fortunate to have been given the opportunity to raise such lovely boys though I am flawed.  Just now, we will have another platform from which to form a tighter bond. I am forever in debt and blessed our boys come to me when they are in pain or trouble.  This is all possible because of my husband and Our Creator.

Peace and Joy be with all who pass here

Rapid Cycling

Let me tell you; this is not about bicycling or the gym. I am a manic depressive who ‘rapid cycles.’ I feel sorry for my family because at times I cannot phantom being around me. Who wants to live with a mother who one day is baking cookies and the next is a zombie on the couch lost in thought? What I do know is; time is drawing near where I will have to seek pharmaceuticals again because sometimes I just can’t shake the anxiety or isolationism of my disorder.


Funny………. I worked hard on myself to be what I was expected to be as a child. Yet, my rapid racing mind along with my machine gun tongue just cut my mother to the core; then in she would strike out to get my submission. Who could blame me, her, or the situation; she hated being a parent.

She tore us from our family; went to California to get away from the stigma of being divorced. Men came and went; little miss perfect developed her own coping mechanisms and eventually caught their eye which was terrifying when a young person just wants to disappear. (More later)


I just wanted to be normal but, who can define that? Today, I can’t tell you what that illusion is. I do know, I have a rigid moral code. What I find is right; feels like a steel knife I walk on – my steps cannot waiver because I will slip upon its edge and die.

Not once, have I gotten an apology since, in her mind she was doing what she needed to do to raise us into proper adults. Who is a proper adult here? Neither my sister nor I; hang with her. As a matter of fact, I have only been in her home less than five times in 25 years. My children don’t know her name but, have met her.

I don’t want my truth mixed up with their childhood. I have learned how to compartmentalize so well; she taught me – sometimes I am numb to pain until I appear cruel. Yes, I am still angry I don’t know why but, I am. Most of the time I feel stupid as I don’t understand her nature; while she holds some blame – not all because I lived passed her. Is this nature or nuture?

Now you are probably wondering why I am writing this post. Will I delete it tomorrow due to its sensitive nature? I don’t think so, because once upon a time; I wrote poetry now, I write to purge myself of the guilt of being me.

Am I still just a wounded child.............