What the Pictures Don't Show

I couldn’t stop staring at the pictures.

I’ve pulled them up on my phone more times than I can count, just trying to convince myself they’re real.

The first time I saw that “before” picture, I was completely flabbergasted. I knew I was overweight, but I had no idea it looked like that. We didn’t even have a full-length mirror in the house at the time, so I never really saw the full picture.

But seeing them side by side?

It stopped me.

More than a year apart, and it feels like I’m looking at two completely different lives.

Back then, my day-to-day life was the best I could make of it while living with crippling depression and constant pain. My knees were so bad that just getting to the restroom meant using a walker. Some days, even the smallest tasks felt overwhelming.

I knew I was struggling. I knew my quality of life had changed drastically. But the pain was so intense that I could only focus on getting through a couple things each day. Even something as simple as going downstairs felt impossible on my own.

The hardest part wasn’t just the weight.

It was the pain. It was the instability. It was falling. It was needing a walker just to get around, and a wheelchair to leave the house for four years.

That was my reality.

And mentally… I was a mess.

From the outside, I tried to make it seem like I was doing okay. I showed up the best I could. I smiled when I needed to. I said I was “fine.”

But inside, the depression was heavy. It sat with me every day. And when I let myself really think about what my life had become—how much it had changed—it was overwhelming.

So a lot of the time, I didn’t let myself think about it too deeply.

I just focused on getting through the day.

One small thing at a time.

And somehow… even like that, I kept going.

But things weren’t getting better.

My knees kept getting worse and worse. I hadn’t left the house except for doctor’s appointments in about four years. And even that was an ordeal. Getting down the stairs was horrific, and having to use a wheelchair felt humiliating.

Every doctor I saw told me the same thing—I needed to lose weight before they would even consider replacing my knees.

I tried. I really did.

I started to lose a little weight, but not nearly enough to make a difference in their eyes.

And I felt stuck.

Like no matter what I did, I wasn’t going to get out of this.

Until someone stepped in and changed everything.

A friend recommended a doctor who was willing to do the surgery despite my weight.

And that decision changed my life completely.

Each of the three surgeries brought their own kind of pain, and I struggled through all of them.

But somewhere in that process, something shifted.

I learned that I can do hard things.

I started to build a kind of confidence in myself that I didn’t have before. I began standing up for myself more. Things that used to get to me don’t even bother me now, because I know there are more important things to focus on.

Everything feels different.

Sometimes I look in the mirror and it still catches me off guard. It feels like I’m looking at someone else.

But in the best way.

I’m just starting to get back into life again.

And I don’t take that lightly.

“Still going” means something different to me now.

It means continuing to learn.
Keeping faith in the process.
And doing something—anything—each day until those small things turn into bigger ones.

It means not giving up on myself.

And it also means recognizing the people who stood by me through it all.

My husband has been through so much taking care of me over the last couple of years. And a big part of this journey, for me, is finding my way back—not just to myself, but to the wife he once knew.

I’m not finished.

But I’m here.

And I’m still going.

10 Years

 

10 Years

 

It’s been 10 years. 10 solid years.

There’s got to be something bigger…A DECADE.

 

10 years since my suicide attempt

10 years since my last attempt at self-harm

10 years since I left that hospital resolved to never return

10 years since I started this blog

10 years since I started my book

10 years since I learned that I could be a mental health advocate

 

It’s been a decade.

 

I was forty years old back then, and I misunderstood everything. I still didn’t know why I cut myself, or why I ever said I wanted to die, even though I loved my husband so completely. I could tell other people that were struggling that they were loved and needed in this world. For some reason, it just didn’t apply to me.

 

You never could have convinced me at nineteen when I finally started getting treatment for my disease that I would be FIFTY years old and still talking about this. I just assumed back then that you took a pill for a while, maybe saw a doctor, perhaps a therapist and cried it out and boom! You’re good. I had no idea what I was in for.

 

I’m still in treatment every single day, and I always will be. The difference is now, I don’t hang my head in shame.  Now, I hold my head high because I made it to FIFTY and I’m pretty close to stable! I still have my horrendously bad days, and that’s something I’m prepared for. It will probably always happen, and I have better coping skills nowadays to get me through. My bad days don’t seem to last as long, and they certainly don’t drive me to self-harm.

 

I certainly never thought that at fifty years old I would be celebrating all of these milestones. There are things in my life that make it hard to feel like celebrating, but I’m working through it. Just for a minute, I can take some time and feel proud that I did it.

 

It’s not just about medication. You have to do the work. You have to talk to yourself every single day. You have to learn how to filter out negative thoughts. You have to teach yourself to say, “you know what, we didn’t get that done today, but it’s OK, tomorrow is another day”. Be nice to yourself. Read good books. Watch good movies. Listen to how other people talk to each other and gain perspective. Try therapy. Find yourself a GOOD doctor. Don’t just settle. You have every right to the best medical care. Surround yourself with good people that care about you. You’ll find your way. Just remember that you owe it to yourself to live the best life you can.

 

OK, I’m off my soapbox now. But I do get a lot of questions about these things. Just don’t forget, you’re still going to have bad times, but this does not make you a failure. That’s still a life lesson I’m trying to learn! Just try again tomorrow! I don’t feel fifty years old. Except for my bone-on-bone osteoarthritis knees, but that’s a whole other story! I don’t think I look my age or like I’ve been fighting demons for decades. I’m still going to keep fighting them with all that I have, I owe it to myself, and I owe it to my husband. We still have a lot of years together and there’s nobody else I would want to spend them with.

 

 

 

 

 

Bipolar Disorder 28 Years in the Making

I just turned 47 years old, and I suffer from bipolar disorder. Never in a million years did I think I would still be struggling at this age. Back when I was diagnosed, I remember thinking, I’ll just take these pills and that will take care of it. From age 19 on, things have progressively gotten worse with my symptoms. My 20’s were a nightmare filled with self- injury, suicide attempts, and hospitalizations.



It wasn’t until my 30’s that I started to see things more clearly. That is in a large part due to marrying a kind, caring, and compassionate man. That, coupled with finally getting mental health coverage, finally allowed me to choose a doctor that was a good fit for me. It was a struggle. It’s been very difficult to find one that I felt I could trust.



As I turned 40, thing seemed to come apart at the seams. I attempted suicide once again in 2013 and was hospitalized. I felt like I was starting all over again. The hospital was horrible, and I received no help whatsoever. I had to make the decision to try to play by the rules to get myself out of there.



In the years since that hospitalization, things have been incredibly up and down. I won’t lie, nothing has been easy. I now have a good doctor, but I think she might even be a bit confused about what to do next. It doesn’t help that I have a medication-resistant system.



I go to bed every night with the hopes that tomorrow will bring me a brighter day, and I’ll experience fewer symptoms. It’s useless for me to make to-do lists anymore. I’m overcome with guilt if I don’t accomplish everything on it. I don’t mean to make it sound as if the years have all been bad, and I never feel decent. I’ve accomplished some things I never thought I would, and my marriage is a strong and happy one.



However, the losses I’ve experienced have been crippling and incredibly difficult to endure. I have yet to attempt therapy again. I can say that no good has ever come from my experiences with therapists. Maybe I just never found the right therapist, or maybe I’m just too damn stubborn. My last therapist fell asleep while I was talking, so I’m passing on the experience for now.



At this stage in my life, I’ve been struggling quite a bit. Turning 47 doesn’t help matters any. You hope that after all of these years, you would have some insight into what does or doesn’t work on a daily basis. That is not the case for me. I’m grateful for the little things, and I try not to get too down on myself for the bad days.



For now, I will take comfort in the little things that some people may find trivial. A good movie, a good book, hearing my husband say I love you, and the occasional comments from folks around the world that are grateful for the honesty in my writing.

First Blog of 2020

I’ve been struggling. That’s not news to anyone that follows my Twitter feed. I don’t even know the reason life has been so hard for me lately. But, when life gets hard on me, things start falling by the wayside, and one of those things has been writing. I’ve mostly been featuring guest posts on my blog just to keep it active, while I’ve sat by and wished it was me who wrote every single article. I will say one thing that I do know for certain; losing our cat Hayley has had a profound effect on me. I knew it would be difficult when that day came, but I didn’t realize it would hurt like this.



So, it’s been hard to come up with topics when my brain is only stuck on that one tragic event. My health hasn’t been great, and family issues are never-ending, so all of that factors in as well.



The biggest struggle for me right now is watching my friends, peers, other advocates making an impact with their blogs or books or just overall advocacy. I feel like I’m running in the slow lane, and everyone is lapping me on the left. Don’t get me wrong. I am happy for anyone that is finding success, especially in the mental health field. I just thought I would be farther along than I am now, and it’s really stressing me out.



I want to write meaningful and impactful pieces once again. My brain seems to think that I’m all done with that. I cry most nights, just trying to find that one thing that will drag me out of this funk and back into the world. It’s pathetic to feel so envious of the people that I care about. I had hopes that once I sat down and started writing, I could create a masterpiece. I think that’s going to take more than one of these painful “come to Jesus” moments. I want to write for other publications again. It would help to have writing prompts I think. I don’t sign up for these projects because I’m afraid of letting everyone down, especially myself.



I didn’t want this to sound like I’m broken down and feeling sorry for myself, but it appears that’s how it’s coming across. My apologies. I’m just in a tricky place right now, and I’m hoping that someone will read this and perhaps take a moment to offer a few words of advice. Thank you so much for listening (reading, I should say). Wish me luck!

Then and Now

A lot of time has passed since my suicide attempt in 2013. Many things have changed. Some for the good, others for the bad. I’ve struggled with hard days, sometimes becoming hard weeks. However, I haven’t been quite as low as I am right now. Days have gone by without me even noticing. Sometimes I don’t even leave my bedroom. I keep it dark and stare off into space with the same TV shows or movies playing repeatedly in the background. I’ve cried, I’ve raged, I’ve even wanted to throw in the towel. This much pain is very difficult to carry.



Quite honestly, after two months of feeling this badly, I’m about to lose hope. I’m forcing myself to keep writing about my feelings so I can perhaps make sense of them.



Everyone always wants to look for a reason when I feel this way. Are you taking your medication? Did you see your doctor? Have you tried yoga? In looking back I realize that I do have a reason for the depression to start, just not necessarily to last as long as it has. In the first week of August, we said goodbye to our beloved cat, Hayley. She was by my side for 18 years. I know I’m still grieving, but there is a difference between just grieving and a major depressive episode.



I miss her so much, I’m not even sure how I’m going to get through this without her. Not being able to wake up to that beautiful face every morning has made my days unbearable.



The heavy burden that is bipolar depression feels nearly impossible to carry. I can’t seem to do it, I’ve tried. I’m not even sure what else to do.



Recently I posted on Twitter that I don’t want to be left behind; I want to stay relevant. I know that probably seems silly considering the battle I’m facing. It’s not silly to me; I worked very hard to try to become a positive influence in the mental health community. We’re taking a month-long hiatus from our podcast so I can recharge, and even that terrifies me. This is the first time I’ve been able to write anything in months.



I’m desperately shrugging off the urge to call this garbage and throw it all away. Still, maybe it will help me…maybe it will help someone reading it. After all, isn’t that the reason why we put ourselves out there like we do? I hope being honest about my struggles lets others know they’re not alone in this fight. Still, I would love to find out how I’m going to climb out from under this dark cloud. Perhaps all it takes is time, and maybe I’m doing everything exactly the way I should be. Maybe I’m not failing as my depression likes to tell me.



One day, I’ll be able to look back on this and be grateful I didn’t give up. Until then, I’m going to have to force myself to stay the course. Remain calm and take it a step at a time. I’ll get there; I just wish I knew when.

Saying Goodbye

There’s a myriad of emotions that person experiences when they lose a beloved pet. For some, it’s not just your run of the mill sadness, it’s a deep-rooted grief that completely cripples you. You always know deep down in your heart that one day you aren’t going to have them anymore. So, you spoil them and cater to their every whim. All because one day you won’t be able to. Especially once they start to get older.

Coping with the loss of my cat, Hayley after 18 years has caused a whole new set of problems. The first being massive panic attacks. Hayley wasn’t technically a therapy pet, but she would have passed with flying colors had I tried to certify her. She checked on me if I coughed, let alone a full-blown panic and crying. So, I’m feeling more alone than I ever thought I would, and having bipolar disorder isn’t helping the situation. I was thoroughly depressed before any of this came up with Hayley, so this piled on top is just too much weight to carry.

I know there are people out there that don’t treat their pets the same way…don’t treat them like they’re one of the family, but that’s not us. Every day, I found myself thinking of her and it immediately launches me into a panic attack. It’s only been 2 days since we said goodbye. I’ll never get that image of her passing out of my head. I considered closing my eyes for it, but when it came down to it, I was more worried about Hayley possibly feeling scared. Then the Vet listened and said, “Her heart has stopped. She has passed away”.

That cat meant everything to me. I don’t work out of the home, so I am usually home with all the cats every day. Hayley has been sick off and on for 2 years, so I feel like I have been caring for her all of that time. She was 18!!! She lived a good, full life but that’s not enough. 

She loved us and we worshipped her. She was the most beautiful cat I have ever seen. She was smart and knew exactly when her mom needed her.

Since this past Tuesday, I’ve experienced 11 different panic attacks because she wasn’t there and I expected her to be. Here are the steps in the grieving process:

Grief typically has five stages;

1. Denial
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Depression
5. Acceptance

I am most certainly in the denial part. I keep telling myself that if I don’t think about it, I’ll be fine.

Here’s a quote from the Bipolar Lives website:

It doesn’t matter if it’s a friend, family member or pet. The loss of a loved one can be especially devastating if you are bipolar.

I can’t comprehend what the next year or so is going to be. I keep thinking about her Christmas stocking. I don’t think we’ll put it up. I’m having trouble seeing photos of her too. They instantly cause anxiety. It’s like this feeling like somebody has two hands wrapped around my windpipe and it hurts to breathe.

So, is there a way out of this? For me personally, I don’t stop grieving until my brain tells me that it’s safe. I can’t do yoga or write down my feelings every day, etc. None of those things are helpful to me. My plan of attack is to talk to my doctor and see what she can do for me.

In the meantime, I’ll deal with this pain and heartache. The next stage of grief is anger. I’m not looking forward to that one.

Wish me luck.

A Million Pieces

I didn’t see this one coming. I was blindsided by my own brain. To my knowledge, no one can predict depression, but there are certainly warning signs. I used to be able to feel it coming on. My body would start to feel heavier, and my mind would turn to darkness.

Sometimes, this disease makes me feel locked out of my own life. Everything still goes on without me, even though I should be right in the middle of it. I worry about anything and everything. In the back of my damaged brain, I know that worrying won’t help the situation. Right now, though, it feels like the only thing I can do. 

I need to wake up tomorrow with a renewed sense of hope. I don’t want to carry around this black cloud above my head. The truth is, I hope for that every single night.

In June, my husband and I took an all-expense paid trip to California for a mental health conference. I thought I had left my social anxiety and agoraphobia at home. Even though I loved where we stayed in Laguna Beach, and the people were fantastic, I still dealt with daily migraines and the feeling that everyone was staring at me all the time. My health isn’t so great. My weight is out of control, and both of my knees have been injured. Anyway, I’ve been struggling ever since we got home. I do miss Laguna Beach.

This time feels different; it’s not just vacation is over blah; it’s crippling depression and anxiety constantly bubbling up to the surface. I won’t even try to go into the family issues, because quite frankly, it’s far too upsetting. But, things are not good there either. Just thinking about it all causes panic attacks.

I rescheduled my most recent doctor visit due to a migraine, and I should feel relieved, but all I feel is guilt. I know it was last minute and I should have gone, but nothing gets me out of my bedroom these days. I feel like such a tremendous failure.

People are very nice about my struggles, but how long will that last? That isn’t to say that they aren’t good people. I just mean I’ve been stringing them along for a while now.

I feel like I’m about to shatter into a million pieces. 

As if I didn’t have enough to be emotional about, we had to take our beloved cat, Hayley to the vet, and have her put to sleep. She was 18 (that’s how long we’ve been married) and had gotten very sick. I know it was the humane thing to do, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. Aside from my husband, that cat was my whole world. I was literally with her 24 hours a day. Right now, I’m stuck between denial and just completely falling apart.

I miss her so much.

So, I ask…how long will it last this time? When will I wake up in the morning and want to live? Don’t get me wrong; I’m not suicidal. I’ll never go back there again. I just don’t feel like a part of the world right now, and with Hayley gone, I’m now alone constantly. What a crippling and painful experience. Depression brings out the worst in people, especially me. The question is: When will I find the good in me?

I’m grateful that I’m still here and that I can put my thoughts down on paper. I never want to think about suicide again. I suppose every day that I wake up is a good one. Let’s just hope that it can be enough for me right now. Enough to stop feeling so lost and alone. I can only hope.