From total darkness to an incredible lightness of being.

Once upon a time, I existed in a dark, dark room. The windows had been blacked out, and monsters lurked everywhere, not just under the bed. I forgot that feeling was anything more than emotional pain, so I needed to cause myself physical pain, just so I could remember a different sensation.

My left arm. That has been a constant, ugly reminder of that dark room, of those dark times. Those scars stood out, a staunch reminder that once upon a time, I was Not Okay.

I've woken up recently. I realized that I transitioned from that dark room to a room where there was light, but still a film over the windows. I was seeing, but not clearly. When I had that realization, when I let myself feel completely again, I decided never again would I let that film cloud the way. No matter what hurt it brought, it's worth it. And in these few short weeks since that's happened, I've felt more emotions -- good and bad -- than I have in years. It's incredible. I decided a I needed a visual reminder, something that speaks to me, that has always spoken to me, to make me recall how much life sucked before the film was lifted from the glass.

I had started to transform my left arm from a thing of darkness to a thing of light, but it stalled. Just an outline, something that had been done erroneously, something that I was unhappy with. I decided to take charge again, to draw that reminder out and down, and my forearm piece was born.

After that, I took a deep breath, and decided to turn my upper arm into a thing of beauty, even if it wasn't what I originally envisioned. I wanted...no, needed...to own it. I needed to make it something that reflected the incredible lightness that had become being me these days. Behold. The focal point is no longer my scars. It is hours of loving work, sisterly inspiration, backing from friends, and a lot of encouragement from many places. It isn't what I originally wanted, but it IS something I love, and it does reflect the beauty that my life has become.

A song bird in flight, and a freshly opened flower for every day. Welcome to my new bright room, y'all.

Introspection.

I've neglected Things-that-are-awesome Thursday, and FlogYoBlog Friday.  I also have an award that I am deeply honoured to receive, but I am choosing to wait before publicly receiving it and sharing it.

I have had a week full of introspection about where my life is as an individual, because as a parent I'm really kind of right on track.  That prevented me from blogging on Thursday.

Friday morning brought news of the tragic passing of a schoolmate that while I wasn't particularly close to, I had at least one class with every semester, for four years.  The short of it is that she ended her own life.

This news had an unexpected effect on me.  I've lost other classmates before, and as with this one, we were friendly but not close.  I certainly mourned their passing, and felt a deep sympathy for their families and friends.  They're ALL tragic in their own right - we're young in the grand scheme of things.  Some left behind children, all left behind an aching void in the lives of those they were close to.

Heather's passing, however, left me a bit lost.  Here's why:  I've been there before.

I've toed the edge of the depthless chasm she ultimately stepped off of.  I know what it's like to be enveloped in that darkness and that hopelessness.  I even know what it's like to slip, though I'm incredibly blessed that there was miraculously someone there to throw me a rope when I had slipped over the ledge, before I hit the bottom from which I couldn't return.

I was angry when I learned of her death.  I was angry that I hadn't reached out to her long before now, and I felt immensely guilty, knowing that I may have been able to, through my complete understanding of where she was, help her.

Of course, none of these feelings were valid logically, because I also know that when you set your mind to make that movement off the ledge, you mean it.  I also know well that she had many friends and family who had tried to help her before.

What can I say?  I'm semi-Catholic.  Guilt is what I do.

I've decided that in addition to my other philanthropic pursuits, I want to give a little piece of myself to one more thing, on a more personal level.

I want every one of you, readers, to know that *someone* understands.  If you ever find yourself so overwhelmed and exhausted that you're considering just giving up, know that there is someone who knows exactly where you are, and that they care.  That I want you to make a bet with me and put up a fight, even if it's just to prove me wrong.  Get angry, take solace, do whatever you must do.  Just don't give up. 

I can always be reached at accidentallymommy@gmail.com, and I often check here for comments multiple times a day.

Ultimately, there is no situation so bleak and hopeless that there is nothing left to live for.  Someone will always care for you and be left feeling bereft at your absence, even if it is just an anonymous Accidental Mommy on the internet. 

If you're so close that you don't think you can wait for me to check my email or my comments, there are other ways to find help and hope.

http://www.hopeline.com is the address for the Kristen Brooks Hope Center and the home of HopeLine, a 24 hour anonymous suicide prevention hotline.  The telephone number is 1-800-suicide.  (1-800-784-2433). 

I mean it when I say that I love you.  Every single one of you.  It may not be on the same level as your most intimate friends and family, but it IS love, and love should always count for something.

Be well, my friends, and be kind to yourselves.  You're always worth it.

Tackling Taboo: Bipolar Parents

With the decriminalization of Postpartum Depression through massive amounts of media coverage, I'd like to try and create a new initiative: decriminalizing and myth-busting Bipolar Disorder in parents.

You see, I'm a Bipolar Parent.  It's something that I tend to keep to myself, so writing this post is monumental for me.  With the pop-culture examples like the story of Joan Crawford in Mommie Dearest and the fictional but true-to-life tale in Blue Sky, disclosing Bipolar Disorder to the general public is met with discrimination and even fear.  Telling most people that you're a PARENT and Bipolar, though, is met with judgement and assumed abuse.

That is absolutely not the case in many (if not most,) families with a Bipolar parent.

See, we're no different from a mother with PPD or a father with PTSD.  We go to counseling, we make decisions in conjunction with our physicians on which therapeutic pharmaceuticals to take, and we manage our lives so that outside stressors and triggers are avoided.  If anything, parents with BPD are MORE careful in how well their disease is managed.  We are, afterall, parents.  It is not our disease that defines us in most cases; it's our children and our desire to be functional members of society just like everyone else.  Our disease is simply a speed bump that must be navigated around.

Now, that's not to say it isn't difficult sometimes.  As with any long-term disease, certain treatments may cease to work to their fullest.  Physicians and therapists will occasionally move or close their practices.  Outside stressors and triggers can't always be avoided.  In those situations, it's crucial to have a support system in place such as an understanding partner, supportive family, and a friend or two that is close enough to be trusted with watching our children for an emergency doctor's appointment or a late-night phone call for a sanity check.

A common myth is that a woman who gets pregnant - either by choice or by mistake - is automatically putting her fetus at risk by taking dangerous drugs that will cause terrible deformities.  This is exactly that: a MYTH.  I will not discuss specific medications in this blog because I am not a licensed pharmacist or physician, but there are multiple psychotropic medications approved for the management of BPD that are also considered relatively safe for use during pregnancy.

Another myth: mothers with BPD cannot breastfeed due to the medication they're taking.  Wrong again!  See above for the debunking of this myth.

Myth 3:  BPD is genetic and any person who reproduces is automatically sentencing their child to a life of misery and insanity.  Incorrect!  While yes, genetics do play a role in BPD, it is not a guarantee that the offspring of parents with BPD will end up with a positive diagnosis later in life.


Myth 4:  Parents with BPD are incapable of being responsible enough to take care of children properly, or they are child abusers.  This is probably the myth that bothers me the most.  Being Bipolar does not automatically make one a bad parent!  It is my experience that those of us with BPD are *MORE* attentive to our children, even OVER attentive, and due in part to that myth exactly!  BPD is no more an indicator of how fit a person is to parent than Diabetes or Asthma or Allergies is.  Joan Crawford is NOT the norm, here, people!

There is a wonderful web resource for friends, family, and those afflicted with BPD called Bipolar Lives if anyone has more questions or would like to research the condition more.  Please - educate yourselves!  Help debunk the popular and incorrect opinions that run rampant in our society today.  Most importantly, remember that even those of us parents with BPD are people, too.