…but I’m going to write it anyway.

It’s possible I’ll regret it.

And It’s Gonna Be A Four-Parter, because I can’t shut the fuck up.  I guess that covers my Thursday and Monday posts then!

I told everyone on Twitter to friend me on Facebook because my life is on there for everyone to read.  I try to keep it light and funny, even when I feel dark.  The problem is, by the time they got to Facebook, everything I said had fallen to the bottom.

I have a sub-category here dedicated solely to depression.  It started out as just one post about being bipolar, confiding in strangers but as time went on, I found myself telling you more.  The things I say you, I say for two reasons.  The first is that I am a writer.  I was born to express myself with my hands.  While I may talk a lot, it’s my hands that speak for me.  If I’m troubled, I can’t tell anyone how I feel the way I could if I was able to write it.  Secondly, I think there are a lot of people out there who are suffering and either don’t know why or are too scared to talk about it for fear of being somehow punished.

When I got sick and had my full hysterectomy, my condition got worse.

I became everyone’s worst nightmare.

I am a 32 year old woman going through menopause, trying to find the right balance of estrogen to make me a normal 32 year old woman.  In the eight months since I’ve had it, I have yet to find that balance.  I have finally donned the Mega-Patch, where no duct tape is needed to keep it on, and I can only hope it will bring me the balance I need.  I don’t know what it’s like for a woman of proper age to go through menopause, but at the age of 32, it is torture.  I cry.  There’s no depression, no reason.  Tears just fall.  I’m freezing cold and layer up in 70 degree weather and strip off those clothes during a hot flash an hour later.  Someone once told me she cried for three days because her husband forgot to bring in the mail.  I have at least 20 more years of this left.

Let’s take that and add in a bipolar disorder with a splash of anxiety.  When I was first diagnosed I was 18.  It was the first time I had the strength to ask for help. Even as a kid, I knew I was off balance.  Shit, I was voted most unique of my class.  I campaigned for it.

Back then, 18 years ago, they called it “manic/depressive with an anxiety disorder”.  I liked that.  Bipolar just makes me feel like I’m not sure which end of the Earth I need to be on.

When I feel the slightest bit of sadness, I seek help.  I have a therapist and I am medicated.  The problem with me (there are oh, so very many), is that I have developed medication sensitivities over the years.  After giving birth to my first son, I found I couldn’t take certain narcotics.  After my second, I can’t take ANY narcotics.

The same goes with bipolar medications.  Anxiety is easily controlled.  Xanex and I are in love.  My medical records go where I go and the reactions along with them.  What happens is that something will be wonderful until I gain a tolerance and the medication needs to be increased.  Then in time, I’m “allergic” to that medication and it is crossed off the list.

My friend Tom might read and remember this but I was put on a medication once that made my fair fall out and had me gain weight.  I remember one day he looked at me in sympathy and said he could see my scalp.  That’s when I pulled my hair back and bought a fake hair clip that looked smokin’ hot and I wore that as the medication that caused it worked it’s way out of my system.

Blah, blah, blah, time goes on.  If you want more details, read that category.  It’s time to tell you the now.  This is a long fucking post but it’s really for me.  I think someone might cry and I know some asshole will call me an unfit mother but they are just too fucking weak to take a look in the mirror to see the hate they spread.

Unfortunately, you’ll have to wait to read more on Thursday.

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