I read an article in the New York Times today by a bipolar author who takes lithium to keep her from going into manic episodes. She’s scared of these episodes and doesn’t feel herself when it happens.

You can find the article here.

My mother loved her mania. I make up that she only felt alive when she was manic. It was insanity growing up with her. I tried to make sense of the world as best I could, but when you live with someone constantly having manic or depressive episodes, and especially when that someone is supposed to help you learn how to navigate the world and determine your own reality, it’s extremely difficult to uncover what reality really is. I think that it has left me with a permanent sensation of disassociation from reality or the world. I always feel like my life is not really my life. It’s like a movie that’s playing for me. Sometimes movies or books feel more real than my reality. When I finish reading a book or watching a movie and re-enter the world, I feel out of place, untethered, and unmoored, like it will disappear in the blink of an eye and be replaced by something else. It’s hard for me to pay attention sometimes, because I’m drifting off into a dream of what I would like life to be or imagine it to be.

I hate this feeling. I want to be connected and grounded. Instead I feel like I’m floating up into the sky like a balloon. I’m trying to teach myself better ways to cope than the methods I used to use, but I’m scared I’m never going to be able to anchor myself for more than a few days at a time.

So true. In my case, the OW was a friend of mine, someone I thought was close to me and cared about me. A mutual friend of ours knew about the affair but kept quiet, just looking at me like she felt so sorry for me. But she didn’t actually do anything. After I found out about the affair, I felt so humiliated, so demeaned and belittled. I could not believe how people were ok with what had happened when my world had just blown up in a fiery mushroom cloud of pain. Only a few friends were upset. But in the end their understanding and anger was based on their own fear in their own lives and they stopped talking to me. This whole thing has been incredibly, discouragingly, extensively, and overwhelmingly lonely.

So I wrote a small ditty about my childhood growing up. I think it’s one way to deal with the trauma I’m beginning to realize I still feel from such a long time ago. Maybe. I dunno. Anyways, here it is. It’s sad, but also meant to be funny.

She chased the neighbor with a shovel round the yard,
Threw some concrete at another neighbor’s car,
And she says the cat wrote my birthday card.
I know what’s going on. It’s really not that hard.

Cause Momma’s gone crazy again.
She’s packed her bags and gone clear round the bend.
One day she’ll be back, but there’s no telling when.
Cause Momma’s gone crazy again.

We sent her to Hawaii. Two weeks later they sent her back.
She cussed out her boss again, then she got the sack.
We’ve got to move, but that’s okay, there ain’t nothing much to pack.
We’ll just find another one bedroom shack.

Cause Momma’s gone crazy again.
She’s packed her bags and gone clear round the bend.
One day she’ll be back, but there’s no telling when.
Cause Momma’s gone crazy again.