Daddy issues

I don't really know where to start.

My mom and dad got married young and divorced in about a year. My mom remarried to my step dad when I was 3. I saw my dad every other weekend. I had everything I wanted and needed thanks to my dad and step dad and mom. My brother was born when I was 9. When I was about 14 I found out my dad (biological dad) was a drug addict. Looking back now, I see where a piece of my heart broke off. I have dealt with him struggling with addiction my whole teenage and adult life. It was very hard on me. I saw multiple counselors to help me.

My mom and step dad got divorced a few years after I got married. Again, looking back, I can see my heart breaking again. My step dad and I were very close, or so I thought. But I guess he thought that when he divorced my mom, he divored me too. I mean, I wasn't his biological kid. Even though when I was a sophomore in high school I changed my last name from my biological dad's last name to my step dads. Over the years my biological dad and I have had a hot/cold relationship. Fighting, not fighting, not speaking, speaking... My step dad seemed to drop out of my life almost overnight.

It hurts so much to analyze this part of my life. When my children were born it seemed my step dad struggled to communicate with me. He saw my son after he was born, and my daughter. But there were never conversations over the phone, no dinners with the family, no birthday or Christmas cards. I briefly reconnected with my step dad a few summers ago. We both lived in Edmond and he had a pool. He let us come swimming whenever we wanted to. I think he even got me a birthday card that summer. Then after that... Nothing. He moved to another state. I tried to get him to have dinner with us before he moved. He never did. Then when he moved he never contacted me again. He has a new wife and a new family. My brother sees him a lot. But I just don't fit into his life. My kids won't really know him.

I've thought about confronting him about it. To find out where, if ever, we went wrong. But I'm too terrified of the confirmation of rejection. Or to find out that maybe it is all in my head. I've made a lot of mistakes in my life. I was a very rebellious teenager. My brother was too. I just have never been able to find out the difference between me and my brother, besides that he's my step dads only son. But I was his daughter for 17 years of our lives. Wasn't that enough to keep me in his life forever? What did I do that was so horrible? Or am I just so invisible that I don't matter at all? My children deserve to know him. When I was struggling with my biological dad, my step dad was there for me.

I've tried to keep up to date on his life, even though we don't talk. I wished him a happy Father's Day and happy birthday, but I never got any response. Sometimes it hurts to see him posting things on Facebook. Because it's like looking in on a life I'm not a part of anymore. I always called him dad. Just dad. But what do I call him now? Do I ever call him at all?

Journaling song lyrics and other things

When I got out of the hospital I got a journal. A pretty lime green spiral journal. I wrote in it every day for quite a while. Sometimes I wrote about my feelings or what I did that day. Other times I wrote song lyrics. Not my own lyrics... Just whatever song that was in my head at that time. Depending on the mood I'm in, or what I'm feeling, I have a song playing in my head. The lyrics of the song describes my feelings perfectly. It's crazy, like I'm in my own music video. Sometimes the song is sad, and reveals feelings to myself I didn't even know I was feeling. I have a playlist on my iPad of purchased songs that I've had in my head. Even after those feelings are long gone, I can go back to a certain song and it will bring back those exact emotions. It's not exactly a good thing. I can go back years in my head and still get those feelings back. I'm sure this isn't a new thing. I'm sure everyone can do this... Can they?

Music is so powerful for me. I sang in my room at night in the hospital when I was alone. One day a woman came in with a guitar and we sang songs while she played. It was kind of childish at the time, or so I thought. But months later, because of that day, I bought a guitar. Oh don't get me wrong, I can't play a tune on the damn thing, even though my brother has tried to help me learn. But sometimes I get it out and tune it and strum it mindlessly. Is interesting what little things like can make a day brighter.

Lately I've had some really good days. The kids are in school and it's quiet here. I can relax and do things for myself that was hard to do during their summer vacation. I can take a long bath if I want to. I can pick up around the house without the kids going behind me and cluttering it up again. But hey, let's face it, I'm not much of a house cleaner! I do make sure certain things are done daily, like the dishes. I do laundry on weekends and will sweep the floor or whatever needs to be done. I know I've had good days. I'm lucky to have them too. My husband works hard so I can have these good days. I'm able to stay home and not have to worry about the stress and pressures of a day job. Because my life is stressful all by itself. Bipolar can be a daily struggle. I fel like I've been riding this awesome wave of "good" for weeks. I feel good, things are good. I'm good. The word good starts to look like a weird gooey mess after I write it too many times. But it's true. I'm good. I'm sure the wave will die down at some point. I mean, the days are getting shorter and its been raining off and on. But I'm still good.

I'm goooooooood. Good. LOL

Jumping in with both feet

To start I want to give you some background on myself. I am 32, have 2 kids and a wonderful husband. I'm a stay at home mom and I love it. My husband and I got married only about three months after meeting. We got married in November of 2000 and have been married for almost 13 years. And for many of those years I lied to him. I lied to him in probably every way a person could lie. I hurt him many times with my careless decisions, mood swings and emotional chaos. But he stood by me, forgave me and loved me through it all. In November 2010(ish) we had reached a breaking point. I needed therapy. It was clear as day. So I started seeing a psychologist and a psychiatrist. Almost immediately I was diagnosed bipolar with major depression and severe anxiety. Suddenly we could see a pattern that throughout our past years of marriage, my bipolar, depression and anxiety had majorly ruled our lives. I was put on medication and we were able to repair our almost broken marriage. I continued on my medication and things got better and better.

I do want to say though, this was not my first time on mood altering(stabilizing) medication. As a teenager I was put on an add medication but discontinued that on my own. Then Paxil right after I got married, which made me feel horrible. And I believe it was during my first pregnancy that I was put on an antidepressant which I continued for postpartum depression. I also had postpartum depression and anxiety after my second pregnancy.

So fast forward to earlier this year, 2013. I'm not sure exactly when it started, but I felt like I was being pulled to the edge of a cliff with a dark and terrifying fall into nothingness. I began to think suicidal thoughts. Some days I could distract myself. I began distancing myself from my husband. I didn't want to tell him how I was feeling. We had plenty of other life stresses and I didn't need to add to our plate. But one evening I remember we were driving in the car and I told him. I said the word I hadn't said aloud, ever. That I was suicidal. Suicidal... It was such a scary word to me. It made the situation so much more real. I mentioned to him "what if I need to go to the hospital?" He was sure we could work through it with the help of my therapists. And it did get somewhat better...but that was short lived. One day, April 30th to be exact, I just broke. I broke into a million little pieces. Thankfully I was with my therapists when it happened. They knew I needed to go to the hospital. So from my therapists office I called my husband, who had no idea I was feeling suicidal again, and we set up a plan for me to go home and get my things ready and to to the hospital.

I was a blubbering, crying heap of a mess. And unfortunately my kids witnessed it all. There was nothing I could do to stop it though. So we got to the hospital and I was admitted. It took hours to get placed in a mental health facility and my husband and kids were there to support me with hugs and kisses. Finally I got placed in a good facility where I was taken by ambulance. I had to say goodbye to my husband and kids. That was so so hard.

When I got to the facility, hospital... Whatever you want to call it, I was still a mess. They gave me a nice warm meal (the food there was really good) and got me settled in. I had a room with a roommate. She was very sweet. Our room had our own bathroom with shower. All of my clothes and toiletries were taken and put into a basket where the nurses kept until designated times of the day when we were allowed hygiene time. It felt foreign to me then, but thinking back on my week in the hospital, I felt safe and cared for. I got exactly what I needed. Everyday, about twice a day, I was asked if I felt suicidal, how I rate my depression, etc. I met with a new psychiatrist everyday to discuss my progress. My medication was changed and it was like I was slowly being pulled out of the black abyss I had fallen into. My husband, mom and dad visited me during the designated visiting hours. My kids weren't allowed to come up there. That was hard. But phone calls were allowed for most of the day and I called every single chance I had.

The days were rigidly scheduled. We had breakfast, medication time, hygiene time, group therapy time several times a day, exercise time, art therapy, lunch, free time, dinner, medication time in the evening, snack times and bedtime. It was sometimes very much like kindergarten for adults. But going through the motions felt good. I was inpatient for about a week. Whenever someone got to go home it was like a celebration, all day. So when my day came, it felt really good.

I remember coming home and posting on Facebook about being in the hospital. I never told anyone that I was headed to the hospital, so when I posted that I was out I had this outpouring of support from so many people. It felt so good. I didn't feel judged or anything. I did feel fragile though. Like I'd been through this big thing, breaking then glued back together. 

I continued therapy and I still go once a month. The fragile feeling slowly faded. I feel more "normal" than I have in like, ever. My kids are in school full time and my days are my own. In the back of my mind though I worry. I worry about the days becoming shorter and the holidays, which is always such a source of stress for me. But I will take it one day at a time. 

Thanks for reading. I hope to post regularly :):