The Lies We Tell Others

And ourselves. I am so good at this. If there was a profession that included lying without remorse, guilt, or thinking twice, I would be your ideal candidate. I’m sure there is somewhere – probably in the government. But I am waiting for them to contact me. I’d be perfect, but I’d never pass the psych test.

So let’s run it down, shall we? I lost my shit this week. Halfway through another mind-numbing week of doing nothing that was even close to what I was promised I would be doing when I took this job, I broke. I literally broke. If not for my best friend, numerous kleenex and two hours on the phone with her, I would have either offed myself or ended up in a small room in the psych unit of the hospital. And how do you explain that to the people who hired you 4 months ago? How do you explain that you are not the icon of perfection you led them to believe you are? How do you admit to yourself and to them that you are failing, falling? I found myself trapped in a maze with no exit. I just ran round and round, a mouse trying different avenues of escape and always coming up agaisnt a dead end. Around and around in my brain until I began to believe I the the only escape from the maze would be if I were not here anymore.

Because I do not understand my purpose. I do not understand the suffering my brain puts me through. I do not understand why every morning when I wake up I have to run through a list in my mind to see if I can make it through another day. It is exhausting. It is too much. There is nothing special about who I am or what I do that being here or not would make a difference. And anyone without this disease does not, cannot, understand the battle. The weight we carry. The agony that is always banging on the door in our heads…

The saddest part is the only person I can tell is my best friend who also suffers from this horrendous disease of being bipolar. No one else can understand. “Normals” (those people who seem to be able to deal with life – who are not one step away from a straight jacket) cannot imagine what we go through. But she understands the pain. The severe mental anguish that is paralyzing and frightening and leaves one so out of control that you do not know what you will do because you cannot escape your mind. I owe my life to her this week.

I have a sister who suffers from something similar to what I have, but she is in the “borderline personality disorder” category, so she is allowed outburst of anger and irrationality. She has been trying to kill herself since high school – whether it was starving herself (which she did for years on end), or showing me as a teen the myriad of ways she was planning on killing herself (razors, drugs, jumping from bridges), and sometimes included me in the process, if it involved me being the passenger in the car she was driving while on a cocktail of medication she was prescribed that she took in doses she felt were appropriate – not what had been prescribed.

I never judged her. I loved her. I ached for her and her pain. But she cannot do that for me. She has no tolerance for me. She has no tolerance for the demons I battle on a daily basis. She believes I “make my own reality”, one outside what is real, and that I should be punished for that. I have never felt so abandoned or demeaned by someone I thought loved me. But as with the rest of my family, if I am not perfect then I am a problem. And my family ignores problems. Shuns them. I have been shunned.

Even the man I love does not understand, and I cannot confide in him these feelings. I had to come up with the excuse of food positioning, just so I could take the rest of the week off from work and hole up in my apartment, because I am too afraid of the outside world right now. I know I am not stable. I do not know to get stable. I do not know if I will ever find stability.

My new shrink does not understand, nor does she not give me the indication that she cares. She, like my boyfriend, thinks pills will make it all better. But they don’t. And all I want to do is take a cocktail of all the medication I have been hording for 3 years and never, ever wake up. I am so tired of being here. I am so tired of not knowing if, from one day to the next, my brain will allow me the strength to get out of bed, shower (which is so exhausting), and actually walk out the door that is the only thing that keeps the outside world away. And I have been terrified all week of opening that door. I cannot call her. All I can think of is going to the E.R. and asking to be institutionalized, but then everyone will know. The “secret” will be exposed.

And as much as I would love to be put away, I can’t do it, because my boyfriend shows up in 5 days. For a month. This will be good. He will center me, for 30 days. But then he will leave again and the demons will return. The roller coaster will begin again and I will be in the same place I am now, scared, shaking, terrified of what lies outside the door I keep locked and the shades I keep shut.

I know what I have done. The spiral I have slid down. I know I am not lying to myself. I know the demons are here and I am fighting them with every fiber of my being. But I am lying to everyone else. And I am terrified of them finding out the truth. Because I no longer know what to do. All those close to me (with the exception of my best friend) are exhausted by my “disease”. Sadly, they do not even see it as a disease. They see it as an inconvenience. And thus, it makes me feel like an inconvenience to them. To their lives. So, I just want it all to end. The lies. The pain. This existence. If I were not so afraid of what could go wrong if I tried to kill myself, meaning I would wake up and still be alive, I would do it in a moment. Without hesitation.

I just have not figured out how I can do it without waking up ever again.

© Sorrow & Kindness

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