I'm sure I used to like myself, I know I did

But I don't anymore.

I try.

I really try to.

But I don't.

I hate me.

I really truly honestly hate me.

So I don't I don't fight for me. I don't believe in me. I don't work for me.

I self-sabotage. I doubt. I give up. I give in.

It hurts.

It hurts all the time.

I'm alone.

I'm alone all the time.

I'm so lonely I can't take it.

I did it to myself, but I can't take it.



I know when I was 7 I thought I was fantastic.

I worked hard. I worked all the time.

I had dreams.

I had goals.

I was happy.



Then the bullies came.

And the doubt came.

Then more bullies.

Then the pain came.

Then the memories came.

And everything I was or ever had been was shattered.



I cannot do this.

I hate this.

I hate this so much.

I can positive self-talk until I'm blue in the face. I don't believe it.

I can tell myself it's not my fault. I don't believe it.

I don't believe it, and I don't believe in me.



So lost. So alone. So scared. So done.

Because I told myself I would....

This morning I told myself that I wanted to write today. Since I am trying to stop breaking promises to myself, and follow through with plans/goals, however small, I am now sitting down to write.

I had a fleeting thought last night while trying to fall asleep that is the inspiration for this post. "Just how much time have I really wasted?"

Yesterday I was feeling very inspired after a fabulous day at TEDx Vancouver, but did not seem to be able to translate any of this new found mental energy into physical action. This is pretty much the story of the last ten years of my life. Periods of extreme hopeless depression, followed by wacky crazy hypomania, interspersed with time in "the middle". During these "middle ground" times I was often inspired, hopeful, or even gung-ho, but it never ever translated into action.

So this morning I woke up with the nagging question, "ok so how much time DID I really waste?"

Being the uber-nerd that I am I set out to quantify it. The numbers are both good and bad, but I think that the good outweigh the bad. Providing, that is, that I turn things around and start taking action.



So here it is:

312,974.   The number of hours I have been alive as of this moment.

388,320.   The number of hours I have left in my life if I die at the age of 80.

The good news is that my life is not even half over. It's not too late.


87,658.   The number of hours I have been away from full time work and fighting this illness.

The bad news is that that is a LOT of seemingly wasted hours as I am not much better off.


56,978.   The number of hours, up until this posting, since my brother-in-law and then Drs pulled me back from the brink after my near fatal suicide attempt. I call these, and any after, my bonus hours as it really is miraculous that I am even here. And yet I continue to waste bonus hour after bonus hour.

The good news is that I was given these bonus hours. Something in the universe worked to keep me here and give me another chance. More good news is that this number will only continue to grow.



Alright, so now what?

Most people would look at these numbers and be motivated to get moving, to make a decision, to make a start. I spent all day in my apartment suffering from what I have aptly heard called "decision paralysis", and self doubt.

I know I need to move. Somewhere. Anywhere. Unfortunately, I do not trust myself to choose the right direction or path. Most would argue that any path would be better than standing in one spot, and they would be correct. However, my issues are so ingrained that I am still unable to choose any of the 50 paths flying around in my brain. I am unable to take even one small step.

"Every journey, no matter how long, begins with a single step."

"You don't have to see the entire staircase, you just have to see the first step."

I know these things. I believe these things. And yet it still feels as if I am standing here wearing cement boots.



Now what?

I don't know.

MIA

I haven't written in a very long time.

2 reasons for this.

1. September and October were VERY hard months for me. Horrible depression. Suicidal thoughts. Too much alcohol. Too much junk food. Too many pills. Too little activity. Too little action.

2. Someone from my real life (a friend {or so I used to think}) stalked my Twitter account, found my blog and read the whole thing. This in itself felt like a violation. But then this person started using my own words against me. "oh on such and such a date you said blah, blah, blah, that must have been about me" and "oh on your blog you said you lied to your friends, that means you're a liar and I don't trust a word you say". This person then continued to use my bipolar as an attack and insult, my past as a weapon, and my words thoughts and feelings against me. This person (as of today) is no longer in my life. I vow to NEVER let them back in, or to let anyone else like them in. I deserve better.

No one ever uses a cancer diagnosis as a weapon. No one ever blames, shames, and attacks someone after their MS or Parkinson's symptoms flare up. I know I have ranted about it a thousand times, but this is one of the things that angers me more than almost anything else related to dealing with this illness.

Ignorance just pisses me off. Judgmental pricks piss me off. And even more so judgmental pricks who are absolutely clueless and know NOTHING about the topic they're spouting off about piss me off.

Good riddance to bad rubbish.

Welcome back hope.

You will see more of me soon.

I promise.

Not this....

I don't know what I want.

It's sad, but I literally have no idea.

I just know it's not this.

It's not even in the vicinity of this.

But I feel so trapped, stuck, like nothing I do would matter any way. Like even if I did know, it would be impossible to achieve, obtain, or make happen. So why bother?

And then I don't bother.

And I keep not bothering.

So another day, week, month, year passes. With me still not knowing. Still being stuck. Still being trapped. Still being nowhere near anything positive, good, or constructive.

Excuse me while I bury my face in my pillow and cry. Again.

What do I want???

Isn't that the $64,000 question?

What do I want?

I truly have no idea. None.

More than this, I know that. More activity, more excitement, more happiness, more fulfilment, more success.

But how, and at what? No clue.

I had dreams as a child, but they all seem stupid now, or it's much to late to pursue them. I have ideas now, but they all seem stupid and I constantly doubt my ability to even attempt let alone achieve them.

I want....... more

But what the hell does that even mean?

Sigh. Going back to bed. I know the answer to my $64,000 question doesn't lie in there with me, but honestly, it's the only thing I have the energy for now.

First we take Manhattan........

I have realized something. I am just as insecure about the things I write on my anonymous blog as I am about the things I say in real life. Too many times I walk away from conversations thinking, "oh my gosh why did I say that? They must think I'm so stupid. I am so stupid. They must be laughing at me, or think I'm nuts. Why do I even speak?".  It is the same with this. I enjoy writing. I want to write everyday, heck two or three times per day even. However, I have no confidence in my words or ideas. "People will think I'm stupid, no one will want to read that." Which is completely illogical because I started this blog simply as a diary to get my thoughts out. A place for me, and no one else. But then a few people did read it, and that's when the pressure started. Self-imposed of course, but pressure nonetheless. Pressure to be informative, to be interesting, to be provocative, to be right.......

Ah that darn pressure to be right.

To pick the right topic, say the right thing, say it the right way, and always seem witty and intelligent while doing it.

Seems rather ridiculous even to me as I sit here typing it.

I'm not exactly sure if it is the fear and embarrassment of being wrong or the stubborn irrational drive to always be right, but whichever it is, it is hardwired into me. I've been this way as long as I remember. It's as if, somehow, being wrong or letting others see that I am sometimes wrong will spoil the facade. My act will be given away and everyone on earth will see everything I've been trying to hide and mask for so long. Everyone will find out that I'm nuts, and I'm not as smart as I pretend to be.

The funny thing is I am smart. Very smart. Ridiculously smart actually (in terms of IQ points and test scores). I know this. It's a fact. Always has been. Unfortunately, I am also ridiculously nuts so even though I know I'm smart I don't actually feel smart and I doubt myself constantly.

This leads to a horrible situation where either I am right and will fight tooth and nail to prove it to you, or I am wrong but will still fight tooth and nail to prove that I'm still right anyway or somehow it's not my fault I'm wrong.

Even more ridiculous is the fact that deep down I know there is actually nothing wrong with being wrong. It happens to everyone. Everyone. Some, more than others. Many, more than me. But it DOES happen to everyone. Daily.

Being wrong can be a very positive thing. I truly believe that we learn more from our failures than from our successes. That being wrong can lead to research and learning that will only help you in future.

Unless you're me. Then it's bad. Very, very, very, very bad. It means you're weak. It means you suck. It means everyone is gonna find out your dirty little secret and no one will ever love you for the rest of your days. An overreaction? Of course it is. But it is also a very accurate depiction of my inner monologue. Did anyone ever hear the Adam Sandler stand-up comedy bit where the mother keeps saying "NOOOOO, they're all gonna laugh at you."? Well that mother is my inner voice.

I keep saying that others' judgment of us, and the stigmas they assign to us need to end NOW. I am right, of course. However today I am feeling a tad hypocritical (and I really really hate that). Why do I feel hypocritical you ask? How can I expect outsiders to stop judging me and assigning me stigmas and stereotypes when I can't even do it for myself? Until I can stop judging myself, and accept and love me for me illness and all, how can I demand that anyone else do it?

So here we go #twitterpsychward, it starts with us. Until we demand respect from ourselves, until we can stop judging and hating ourselves based simply on the fact that we have an illness, until we can love and forgive ourselves, we cannot tackle the outside stigmas, judgments, and barriers.

Join me won't you?

My name is Cristina. I have bipolar II disorder and it's not my fault. I've had a lot of hard times, been in a lot of trouble, made mistakes, and yes I've been wrong sometimes, but that's ok. It's all ok.

My name is Cristina. I have bipolar II disorder and that doesn't make me any worse or less of a person than anyone else. I have value, I deserve respect, and my illness does not define me.

My name is Cristina. I have bipolar II disorder but I will feel guilt and shame no more. I am more than an illness, more than my diagnosis. I am a bright, smart, wonderful person, and I am fantabulous.

My name is Cristina, and if you think differently you and I will have issues. Starting now.

Speak up #twitterpsychward. Who are you?

First we change our own perceptions. Then we change those of the world.

I just had to write this.....

Yesterday when I read the news of former NFL football star Junior Seau's suicide I cried.

Did I know him? No. Was I a devoted fan? I had heard of him, seen him play, recognized his talent, but no.

So why would I shed actual tears over the death of someone I didn't know, who had no impact whatsoever on my life? Because I've been there.

More times than I would like to admit I have been in a place so dark, so painful, so lonely, so empty, and so hopeless that I would've done anything just to make it stop.

And I did things. I have done many things. In fact, the only reason I sit here still alive today is coincidence and luck. Am I glad I am still alive? Yes. Now I am. But do not judge me or anyone else unless you have been in that horrible endless cavern. Unless you've felt the unbearable, indescribable, intangible pain that we have felt. You will never in your life know hopelessness and loneliness unless you are unfortunate enough to be one of the millions suffering with a serious mental illness.

Let me make one thing very, very clear. Suicide is not about you. It is not about the family, the friends, the co-workers, the neighbours, the doctors, or anyone else. It is a desperate, frustrated, hopeless attempt to stop the seemingly endless pain. A pain that takes over your entire body. A pain that permeates every muscle, bone, joint, and cell in your body. It is a physical pain. It is an emotional pain. It is a mental pain. And it is relentless.

Don't write articles on how suicide is selfish and we all need to make our kids watch the video of Junior's mother's crying. That's ridiculous. If you knew anyone suffering with depression, bipolar, or schizophrenia you would never suggest that as a useful tool for preventing suicide. Because a suicidal person is not thinking about their family at that moment. They are not thinking about the tears or aftermath. The only thing in their mind at that moment is the pain and emptiness, and an uncontrollable need to make it stop. Shaming them with the potential pain suffered by their family would, frankly, just cause them more pain, guilt, and sadness-possibly pushing them over the edge. Because if you knew anything about the mind of someone in the grips of a major depression you would know that at that moment they are 100% sure that their family, and the world as a whole would be a lot better off without them. The fact that they are wrong about that is irrelevant. And you shaming them with their own thoughts is downright ignorant, and potentially dangerous.

A suicidal person, in fact anyone in the grips of depression or other mental illnesses, needs simply this: compassion, support, and understanding. That's it. They don't need advice. They don't need to be told why their thoughts are wrong. They don't need to be told how their illness or death would affect other people. Because they already know. They place so much guilt, shame, blame, and hatred on themselves that they certainly don't need it from you. Especially if that you happens to be a seriously misguided sports writer who is completely ignorant when it comes to helping people with a mental illness.

Do we need to pay attention to this tragedy? Definitely. Do we need to discuss suicide more, discuss mental illness more, and better help those suffering? Absolutely.

Is the guilt and shame game the way to do it? Certainly, absolutely, most definitely not.