Drove down to Sheboygan today with a crisis center friend to visit another at his sober living. Lighthouse walks, beach talks, bird watching, rock snatching, and crab rangoons.
recovery friends 05.22.23
Tag Archives: healing
independence 05.21.23
I discharged from the crisis center two days ago and got the keys to my new apartment. I’m learning new skills and so proud of this little space in the world I’m making for me and my kiddos ♥️
My un-diagnosis
Hi, my name is Bobbi.
And more than likely, I’m not bipolar.
Mmmm. Deep exhale.
While institutionalized at Winnebago Mental Health, I did not have a doctor, let alone a psychiatrist, assigned as part of my care team. The bipolar diagnosis came from two court-appointed evaluators who sat down with me for forty minutes and drew their conclusions.
Dr. Bales, who should’ve retired fifteen years ago, looked at my file the entire time, barely listened to me speak, vaguely pointed at the list of potential medications, and said, “You need mental health help.”
Okay, bro. I’ll tell that to my therapist and outside psychiatric care provider I willingly sought out on my own for a psychiatric evaluation before being chapterized.
Dr. Thuman, a psychologist, at least listened to my story. I believe she drew the same conclusion of bipolar disorder, but she wasn’t called to speak in court and I’ve yet to see her notes.
Two forty minute conversations.
One nervous breakdown.
That’s all it takes for the court to seal your fate with a chronic diagnosis and an order to take medication that’s been making me sick.
When I started the Abilify, I began on a 5mg dose for three days before being bumped up to 10mg. Aside from sleeping better, I didn’t notice any other differences in my thinking, mood, or behavior.
Upon discharge at Winnebago Mental Health Institute, a locked facility with some of the most severe mental health cases in the state, I wound up at the Winnebago County Crisis Center where I started experiencing some concerning side effects with the medication.
I have a restless feeling in my limbs, particularly in my fingertips and feet. I can’t sit still long enough to watch TV or read. I’m experiencing unspecified anxiety, a tightness in my chest that no amount of breathing or yoga can dissipate. I’m waking up with headaches consistent with interrupted breathing in my sleep.
The county psychiatrist took me up as a patient and is currently titrating me down on the Abilify. My 10mg dose was reduced to 5mg for a week, and now I’m down to 2mg. He prescribed medication to abate the restless feeling.
I’m getting help.
I’m feeling heard.
I’m supported and will be long after discharge tomorrow as I continue to meet with Dr. Vicente.
So, if it’s not bipolar disorder, then what is it? That’s the magic question.
I can say nothing conclusive has been decided. According to my psychiatrist, my symptoms are consistent with a nervous breakdown followed by four days of major insomnia and extremely limited sleep while on vacation with my family over spring break and that the behaviors mimic C-PTSD.
This feels much more nuanced considering this is my first breakdown. I haven’t experienced highs and lows consistent with a bipolar diagnosis, so I’ve been hesitant to own it as mine.
Signing off from the messy middle.
Love and Light,
Bobbi
My Separation Reality
Last September, I posted a piece titled My Divorce Fantasy in which I got really honest about the state of affairs in my marriage. I concluded it hopefully, truthfully, authentically. I’m going to start this one the same way.
My husband and I are currently going through a separation. I could give a wagon full of reasons why we made this decision, but even typing that ignites that bittersweet tingle behind my eyes and warmth in my chest.
After having a nervous breakdown and spending 17 days institutionalized in a prison dressed as a mental health facility, the old Bobbi died. Flat on the concrete floor of that solitary confinement cell, hair in twin braids, sunflower seeds scattered around, my soul briefly left my body. And when I floated back into my body, I leveled up. There was no going back.
And like my diagnosis, my marriage felt constricting and tight, a skin I needed to shed.
I can’t go back to the same cycle of disagreements and conflict, the same stormy patterns. I owe this new self the space to discover who arises from the wreckage of my old life without the responsibility of shepherding his healing journey.
Our futures look like a lot of therapy – individual and couples – while we shelter our babies in the eye of the hurricane. And this will be the most amicable, healthy separation because of the mutual love we have for those boys.
In four days, my divorce fantasy becomes my separation reality. I get the keys to my own small, lovingly curated apartment. I answer only to myself. I prioritize making my own dreams a reality and bad vibes are checked at the door. I have consistent solitude to prioritize my mental, spiritual, and physical health. I parent with patience, instilling the values and boundaries I find most important, without compromise. After separation, I never find my “other half” because I’m already whole. I don’t ask permission to have needs – they live inside me guilt-free.
I feel sad. I feel happy, angry, optimistic, guilty, scared, proud, confused, terrified, but ultimately hopeful. Because I know this is the right decision.
Love and Light,
Bobbi
freedom ride 05.10.23
Channeling wicked witch of the West on a too-small bike vibes, I found some treasures while cycling through Winnebago County Park.
My shiny, new diagnosis
Hi, my name is Bobbi.
And I’m bipolar.
Yikes, even typing that sentence has me feeling like I’m wearing giant clown shoes or spilling out of a bra two cup sizes too small. The diagnosis doesn’t resonate or fit, but according to the court-appointed psychiatrist and psychologist for my involuntary commitment, it’s mine.
Disclaimer: I’ve spent more time researching and debating which toothbrush to buy than I’ve spent researching bipolar disorder. My future, far more informed self is already cringing reading this. However, Struggle Bus Confessions has always been my place to heal messily and in real time. Here’s the messy middle, y’all. I apologize in advance for my ignorance.
According to the American Psychiatric Association’s DSM-5, bipolar disorders are described as “a group of brain disorders that cause extreme fluctuation in a person’s mood, energy, and ability to function.”
I’m diagnosed with Bipolar I specifically which “is a manic-depressive disorder that can exist both with and without psychotic episodes.”
Additionally, bipolar disorder falls between “depressive disorders and schizophrenia spectrum disorders. People who live with bipolar disorder experience periods of great excitement, overactivity, delusions, and euphoria (known as mania) and other periods of feeling sad and hopeless (known as depression). As such, the use of the word bipolar reflects this fluctuation between extreme highs and extreme lows.”
If I’m being completely honest, I hate the term itself. “Bi-” signifies a binary which feels like you’re either one or the other without a lot of gray in between. In this case, manic or depressive. For the majority of my life, I haven’t felt either one of those ways chronically.
I hate that it’s mine, too. With one single event of manic-like thinking and behavior, I’ve managed to secure a diagnosis. I’ve felt the euphoric high but have yet to experience the low. There has been no crash. My mood has never been dramatically swing-y until having a spiritual awakening several weeks ago.
So, yeah. It’s complicated.
I’m court-ordered to take medication and am currently initiating my nightly med disbursement of 10mg of aripiprazole (Abilify) and 5mg of melatonin at night.
And they’re fine. I just don’t know if they’re necessary. Time to start researching, I guess.
Source:
Truschel, R. (2020, September). Bipolar definition and DSM-5 diagnostic criteria – psycom. PSYCOM. Retrieved May 8, 2023, from https://www.psycom.net/bipolar-definition-dsm-5
Unshackling from people-pleasing and codependency
On March 10th, 2023, I hit a critical threshold in my recovery from people-pleasing and codependent tendencies. Knowing my beliefs and values weren’t going to be universally accepted among my colleagues during professional development at work, I still stepped into my power and spoke my truth in a very direct, public way.
Something in my body knew nothing would be the same after that conversation. Prior to my chance to speak, my leg shook like crazy. My heart beat rapidly. I couldn’t focus.
I excused myself to take deep breaths and watch the snow fall through the school entrance. I channeled my “Rebecca-from-Ted-Lasso” energy and made myself ferocious in the bathroom, silently roaring at myself in the mirror.
I quit shrinking; I made myself big to advocate for the change our students need and deserve. And for the first time in almost a decade at my job, I didn’t know where I stood with every person in the room.
Immediately afterwards, I felt shell-shocked. My mind didn’t know what to tell my body to feel. I went to debrief with my soul sister work wife and ended up sobbing hysterically. The breakdown was about so much more than humane, equitable grading practices – it was knowing I lost my most coveted survival mechanism at work, and that I could never go back to shrinking myself to prioritize the comfort of other adults.
After carrying me through the most intense stretch of my breakdown, she shepherded me to another beloved colleague who helped me unravel and re-ravel the chaos in my brain and body. She listened non-judgmentally and helped me recognize the feeling that came up: anger triggered by a feeling of urgency.
Anger? That feeling I never let myself feel for long before slapping a happy face sticker on it and sweeping it under a rug? What was it doing at work?
I’ve always been triggered by others’ showy anger and couldn’t believe that mine had made some of my colleagues that I love, respect, and admire uncomfortable. I couldn’t shove it back in the box though. She’d been freed from her shackles, and I knew we would be walking side-by-side for a long time.
Wiping tears away, I asked my colleague where she puts her anger when it becomes too much. She simply opened her palms wide and simply said, “In God’s hands.”
I stopped crying and set down my lovingly prepared cup of calm tea. Nothing ever resonated so deeply in my soul before.
Since that conversation, that’s what I’ve done. When my anger takes over, I cry. I find a quiet place, get on my knees, and beg God to carry it for me before we burn up together. And it works.
I’ve found myself shattered and on my knees more times than I can count since reaching that critical recovery threshold, but I love the me that’s rising from the ashes on the other side.
She’s empowered, strong, and activated. She feels her feels and calls out injustice every single time, not just when it’s safe and convenient.
I trust her. I trust us. I trust me.
22 Ways I Grew in ’22
1. I learned the difference between reacting and responding.
…and every day since has been a practice in choosing to pause, breathe, and respond. In creating that space, I give myself the freedom to choose how I show up, rather than letting my triggers dictate my direction.
2. I found joy exploring my spirituality.
Religion and spirituality aren’t synonyms, which was news to me. I found peace and purpose exploring my spirituality through discerning adult eyes. In abandoning the intolerant and sexist religious doctrine of my childhood and embracing a god of unconditional love and infinite grace, I’ve found healing.
3. I experienced true body neutrality.
Breaking up with diet culture started before 2022 for me, but this was the year I spent an entire 365 days enjoying the freedom that comes with accepting my body exactly as it is. I dress my body in a way that feels right and comfortable, and I feed myself when I’m hungry.
4. I practiced being the watcher of my thoughts and feelings.
I am not my loneliness, my guilt, my anger. I am the one watching a part of me that feels lonely, guilty, angry. And as the watcher, I can validate that feeling, practice non-judgement, and show compassion to that part of myself without letting it become me. Much easier in theory than practice. Right now, reaching this level of consciousness requires solitude and silence in my closet. Maybe someday, I’ll be skillful enough to carry this practice into the rest of my day.
5. I discovered Internal Family Systems.
… and found power in isolating warring parts of myself to identify triggers and survival coping mechanisms that kept me safe as a kid but are no longer serving me as an adult.
6. I boundaried up.
A lack of boundaries had me accepting responsibility for everybody else’s emotional states and needs while leaving me completely blind to my own. I read the books, practiced the scripts, messed up, and tried again. I’m still terrified of being rejected every time I have to set a boundary and have the hard conversation, but I’m pushing myself to do it anyways.
7. I faced my codependent tendencies.
…and found peace in accepting the reality that all I have control over in this whole world are my thoughts and actions. I release responsibility for anybody else’s happiness and healing and accept full responsibility for my own. Chronic daily guilt over what I did/didn’t do/should have done is dwindling as I work through this.
8. I parented in a way I’m proud of.
Well, mostly. I still have my moments. But this year I started practicing repair when I mess up and putting the kid before the behavior. My wildest hope is that my boys grow to be their truest, most beautiful selves. My greatest privilege is watching them learn who that is.
9. I challenged injustice when I saw it.
Following the murder of George Floyd in 2020, I heard the term “performative ally” for the first time. I had to sit with the yuck that good intentions can make for sh*tty allies, and there was some room for me to learn and grow in my allyship. For too long, I let fear of conflict keep me silent. I hold myself accountable to using my privilege and voice when encountering biased language and behaviors. And when I mess up, I commit to educating myself and others . As poet Maya Angelou said, “Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.”
10. I explored nature.
Joy is moonlight fractured through ice-tipped tree branches and the first warm spring breeze on bare legs. I discovered getting outside is one of my most potent, underutilized coping mechanisms.
11. I (we) broke a marital cycle.
My partner and I tackled the most toxic of our communication patterns this year. For years, we’ve known better. Now, we’re actually doing better. (Baby, there is nobody I would rather forge new neural pathways with than you. These days, I’m proud of the marriage we are modeling for our kids. We’ve got this.)
12. I rethought my relationship with alcohol.
I set some self boundaries around excessive alcohol consumption after I spent my 31st birthday on the floor of a bar bathroom, forehead cooling on the toilet bowl. I commit to continue being reflective and intentional when I engage with alcohol.
13. I aired out some shame skeletons.
Author and researcher Brené Brown writes, “Shame cannot survive being spoken. It cannot tolerate having words wrapped around it. What it craves is secrecy, silence, and judgment. If we speak shame, it begins to wither.” There are plenty more skeletons lurking in my closet, but the few I’ve let out left it feeling much less haunted in there.
14. I firmed up my values.
The two values I turn to when making difficult decisions are courage and growth. I’m trying to get better at pivoting quickly when I realize I’m out of alignment with these.
15. I gossiped less.
I fundamentally believe people are doing the best they can with the resources they have at the time. And I just want to move through the world embodying that way more than I am right now.
16. I dreamed seriously.
This year, I let myself want: to write. to heal. to exhale.
17. I saw other successful women as inspiration, not competition.
Prior to 2022, my ego couldn’t handle reading authors like Glennon Doyle, Liz Gilbert, and Martha Beck. I would have been crippled with envy over the successful writing careers they built by living reflective lives and writing vulnerably. These women are now my soul teachers who’ve given me the keys to set myself free in order to imagine my most fulfilling life and to pursue it relentlessly.
18. I chameleoned less.
My gift and curse is the ability to transform into whatever version of myself feels most advantageous in any given circumstance. It happens almost instinctively. This survival mechanism, coupled with people-pleasing tendencies, left me a total codependent mess with a convoluted sense of self. It may have served me as a child moving every 3-4 years from one military base to the next, desperate to belong. But as an adult, not so much. I know what it takes to be liked by a roomful of people. But it leaves me not liking me very much.
19. I started practicing mindfulness.
For years, I’ve heard of the profound impact simple behaviors like breathing, walking, journaling, stretching, and meditating can have on a person’s life when done regularly and with intention. I wasn’t nearly as regular or intentional as I hoped, but I started.
20. I flossed regularly.
(For real this time – not just my annual hack job the night before my appointment. I promise, Dr. Whilm!)
21. I carved out this little corner of the internet.
And in doing so, I built a place to heal out loud, to find my voice, to take my dreams seriously.
22. I learned I still have a lot to learn.
I would love to tie all of this up in a pretty little bow and say I’m officially all healed, case closed, thanks… ha! But the good news is that unlearning all the things I’m not and remembering who I am underneath all of the cultural conditioning is profoundly meaningful work and actually kind of… fun? I hope to carry this energy into 2023 and stumble through the new year with grace, grit, and integrity.
I am not my mind
I’ve been in many dysfunctional relationships, but none more so than the relationship between my mind and body.
I was the tallest first grader in my class. We lined up on risers in the school courtyard, perspiring and squinting under the midafternoon island sun. I was an awkward giraffe standing between boys in the back row, a full head taller than every other girl in my class. I bent my knees and dropped a few inches right before the camera flashed.
My nickname through second grade was Skinny Minnie. I liked seeing myself as Minnie Mouse – my parents’ cute, adorable sidekick. One day while giggling through multiplication flash cards with my mom, she made an offhand comment that the nickname no longer fit, that I wasn’t so skinny or mini anymore. Even at the age of 7, I knew I lost something shiny. I grieved the loss of my thin privilege.
In third grade, I hated my teeth. With every baby tooth lost, its adult counterpart came in like a crooked, decrepit fence post. My face had zero curb appeal thanks to my teeth. If I caught myself smiling, I closed my lips.
In fifth grade, a classmate made a comment about mouth breathers. I didn’t realize a person could breathe the wrong way, and I was repulsed to discover I was one of them. My inner critic shamed and berated me through entire class periods while I practiced intentionally breathing through my nose, struggling to adjust to less oxygen.
Puberty made every day feel like tiptoeing on thin ice in front of an audience. Naked.
Overnight, my thighs thickened, my breasts budded. Stretch marks spread like a cracked windshield between my thighs, to my calves and hips and breasts. My body stopped feeling safe – my wayward mind equally lost.
In the battle between trusting my body or mind, puberty divided them further. My mind committed numerous sins against my body throughout adolescence and early adulthood.
I verbally abused her. I shamed her and ridiculed her and starved her. I lectured her and patronized her and treated her with general contempt. I traded her away to avoid disappointing others just to end up disappointing myself.
I ignored her, denied her, silenced her, disassociated from her.
One time, I tried to protect her. I said no, but a boy took her anyway. Even while he assaulted her, while I froze on that bed and stared at that wood-paneled ceiling, dust particles dancing in the sunbeam shining through his window, my mind blamed my body for freezing, for not fighting harder.
But my mind was wrong.
My mind was wrong.
My body’s quiet wisdom never deserved to be silenced, her curiosity and calm crushed by my misled mind. She deserved to be honored and cherished.
And even after all these years of betrayal and abuse, she never gave up. She’s still here.
I’m still here.
And every day for the rest of my days, I vow to value and nurture this body who steadfastly endured so much. Never again will my mind gaslight her gentle intuition.
The most profound realization in my healing is that I am not my thoughts.
No, I am strong legs swinging higher, higher and the wind in my hair. I am the belly rush of letting go.
I am closed eyes, a spontaneous smile, cheek to the sun.
I am a beating heart and raised arms on a dance floor. I am music and movement and magic.
I am the nose nuzzled in my boys’ hair, the soft hand they slide theirs into.
I am healing.
I am peace.
I am here.
I’m a mom with no maternal instinct
While pregnant the first time, I carried a lot of worries about what life as a mother would look like. I logically knew there would be less sleep and more expenses and, like, diaper changes and stuff, but I didn’t stress too much about the parenting part. Our culture fed me this idea that once I became a mom, this “motherly instinct” would kick in and I would just inherently know the right thing to do in any given situation. After all, mother knows best.
I took comfort in this. It lulled me into a sense of safety knowing this instinct would kick in once the baby came and all would be well. I mean, this parenting thing couldn’t be that hard, right? Lots of people became parents.
And then I became a parent. And I held this child I’d been growing in my body for nine months, and my skin prickled, and I sobbed with joy, and I knew my life would never be the same again, and I was so, so okay with that. I felt a lot on the day I met my child, but not some lightswitch of parental instinct. Maybe it would come?
When they sent me home from the hospital, I remember pretending to be prepared and confident while on the inside I was a torment of worry, wondering how in the hell I was going to keep this baby alive when I hadn’t even managed to work brushing my own teeth twice daily into a routine.
What were these people thinking, sending me home with a human? Couldn’t they see I had absolutely no idea what I was doing? Where was this instinct I’d been promised?
It didn’t get any better. Everything was hard. Everything was learned. Nothing was automatic.
Childbirth? My body may have instinctively gotten the process going, but my babies came into the world with skilled professionals and modern medicine in the form of a glorious, glorious epidural.
Breastfeeding? Latching? Trigonometry to me.
Thank god for diapers with convenient labels like “Front” and “Back” so I didn’t look completely incompetent in front of the nurse I felt like I had to prove myself to.
Even bathing my newborn at home for the first time was hard. His soft skin became dolphin-slick once wet, and I worried I’d fumble him like a football. I kicked myself for not taking notes while the labor and delivery nurse bathed him so adeptly in the hospital sink.
Getting my kid to sleep literally anywhere besides my arms and the car seat became a complicated scientific process of independent and dependent variables – maybe the fleece pajamas will help, let’s try white noise, maybe if I set him down so, so gently, like a bomb…
At one point, I remember googling “help i am a mom with no maternal instinct what do i do”
I felt a lot of shame about this. I really, truly believed I wasn’t a good mom because it was so hard for me and none of it felt natural.
But I’m thinking differently now.
Maybe parenthood feels so hard because parenthood is so hard. And what I believed was supposed to be instinct actually just ended up being really, really hard work on my part. And, like, a lot of love and commitment to do best by my kids.
After all, you don’t become a good parent by simple instinct. You become a good parent by showing up again and again. By trying and failing, learning and unlearning. You tap into your village and resources and commit yourself to raising the next generation to be braver and kinder and more prone to grace than judgment. Biology shouldn’t get the credit for the hard work – that was all us.
So, I proudly affirm: I have no maternal instinct.
But I am still a good freaking mom.
Struggle Bus Confessions 