Suicide Watch: My Story

I never got to see John David in this costume. It was for a first grade play he was in. My mom made it for him and took this picture. I was in the hospital. I had tried to commit suicide.

Do you see the sadness in my son's eyes? He didn't know what I had done, he just knew that his life had been turned upside down and everyone he loved was letting him down. Terrifying him.

My ex-husband, his father, and I were in the midst of our divorce. His father was having an affair and left us. I had an undiagnosed mental illness and I was an active alcoholic.

John David saw a lot of screaming, sobbing, so much anger. John David once called 911 because he thought I was going to hurt his father. The things he saw, you can see reflected in his eyes.  John was 7, Jack only 3 1/2. Luckily Jack's memory of this time is much more fuzzy, but of course he bears his own scars.

In my mind, I thought my boys would be better off without me. I was so absorbed in my own pain, I didn't realize how my death would make things so very much worse for the boys I was trying to protect.

Obviously my suicide attempt didn't work. I am SO unbelievably lucky.

I have spent every day since that day trying to make up for that look in my son's eyes. Trying to make his pain go away. Trying to fix the sins of the past.  But it doesn't work like that.  I can't fix it for him.

But I can share my story. I can tell you that even though it was awful, we made it. I am incredibly close to my two young men.  I have worked like hell to make them know that there would be one constant in their life.  That no matter what, I will be there for them.  And I am.

There are too many families who are not as lucky as we are. Mental illness is insidious, it can be black, painful, overwhelming. For one moment, it even eclipsed my love of my boys.

But I'm still here. My boys are adults now who know about all of the secrets of my past. I want them to be aware that both mental illness and alcoholism can have a hereditary component.

I want you to all know that mental illness is real. I'm sure you know someone who lives with it and suffers from it.  One reason I'm writing this is because someone very close to me "doesn't buy" this whole mental illness thing. They think it's just an excuse for being weak.

Mental illness has not made me weak, it has made me strong. I don't have everything all figured out yet, not by a long shot. But I do know that I will never willingly leave my sons and my husband. It's the kind of strength that has been forged by fire. We all have our scars, but I refuse to try to hide mine.

I'm hoping that by shining a spotlight on this part of my life I can start to let it go. To stop punishing myself for my actions. And maybe in doing so, just one person will hold on a little longer. Maybe one person will change the way they view mental illness.

Thank you for taking the time to read my story. Feel free to share it. I'm not looking to get a bunch of clicks, to up page views, I'm just hoping maybe someone in your life will read it too.

Enough With The Bipolar Already!

This poor blog has been dead in the water for quite some time now.

In the last couple of years I have gone to rehab and gotten sober, (almost 21 months of sobriety so far) grown my pet blogs beyond what I hoped for, and then let my mental health problems drag me down into a big dark pit of hopelessness.

Mental illness has the ability overtake all reasonable thought and if you're in a vulnerable position, it will do just that. I've let mental illness hold me hostage for way too long now.

I want to find the sound of my own voice and stop letting the chatter in my head run the show. It's not the hearing-other-people's-voices kind of chatter, for me it's all self defeating chatter.

Here's an example of how this affects me in real life: a couple of days ago I decided to go change from pajamas into 'real clothes'. Actually trying to take pride in my appearance for once. Then I caught myself saying out loud, “It doesn't matter what shirt you pick, you’re a fat pig anyways.” I said those words, out loud, to myself without even thinking about it.

Hey bipolar voice...SHUT THE HELL UP!  I've listened to you long enough, now I'm going to start using my own voice again.

I want my life back. I want to stop hiding in the house. I want to find ways to express my emotions again. I want to look for the beauty in things. I want to feel like a positive force in the world again. I want to tell my brain that I am not a fat pig.

I am smart, I am funny, I am loving, but I am NOT bipolar type II disorder. It does not define me. Not if I don't let it.

This may be a lot a bloviating, with no follow through. This might be another false start, but at least it is that…a start.

I’m fairly sure that this poor little bloggy doesn't have very many readers anymore, but if you’re out there then I’m saying, “Hey, it’s me, Mimi and I’m still here!”

Now if you wouldn't mind, cross your fingers and join me in hoping that I can start to dig myself out of this hole.  Baby steps are fine, as long as I'm still moving forward.