18 September 2013

*updated* Mom's Birthday

September 18, 2013. Wednesday. Mom's birthday. Depressed, moreso than yesterday at psych office. Smoking heavy. Tomorrow's anniversary of getting locked up. Still pissed. Miss Mom. I feel she's the only person, aside from Rachel, to understand me and my bipolar. I'm even an enigma to Dave. I guess at least he loves me. Pissed I have to have bipolar to such a degree that I have 6 medicines to take, plus marijuana to keep it remotely under control. I still cycle, a lot, but I don't feel right if I were to call at every swing. That'd be like every week or so. All I can expect from medicine is to lessen the severity of active symptoms. The anxiety never completely goes away. It ebbs and flows. Some days I can handle being around 2 people, others I'm a recluse, like today. I don't want another hospital stay, ever. But I know that's an impossible goal. I'm a severe bipolar. It's going to happen. Just a matter of when. My guess? When this cocktail loses potency. I showed everybody, though. I stayed out of the hospital for a year. HA!! I still have my advocacy/reform goals. Still penning Nyla. Still continuing life. It'd be great if SSI would come through. Going to Mom's ashes to smoke a joint and meditate with quartz and petrified wood. Maybe I'll get a visit.

Mom's grave.

Who was your mother? 

Mine was my rock in a very hard life. She was in an accident in '01. It almost killed her. I was an off duty EMT in the county she wrecked in. I almost went. My gut told me to keep playing video games. It's nasty out, they don't need to pick you up too. Soon dispatch called on the radio for me to call my boss at Cameron Hospital. What I heard next from a friendly voice scared the life out of me. "Sarah, your mom's been in an accident. She's hurt pretty bad, you should come."

She was gorked out on morphine with a shattered pelvis. Shattered. The x-ray looked like a jigsaw puzzle. She also broke her foot almost in half. She was fucked up.

Before that moment, Mom was just an abusive bitch out to ruin my life.

After that moment, she was a person. For the first time in my life, Mom was a person, not a monster. And around that time I became a human to her.

I visited her at the hospital and when she came home on bedrest. We chatted. We played games (always killed me in Scrabble). Watched TV (Dr. Reid or Ageng Hotchner arguments ensued when Criminal Minds came out). I cooked for her, cleaned her, helped her to the commode.

I mothered her.

We grew to know one another. We grew to love one another.

She stood helpless as the bipolar began to take over my life like a cancer. She stood helpless staring at the cuts on my arms. I wanted it known. I was at the edge of suicide.

She stood in my thoughts as I contemplated, even attempted suicide. She stood helpless as I fought the fiercest demons for my life, not knowing what was going on, let alone how to fight.

I wasn't diagnosed with Bipolar until I was 24. I blindly fought for years before then. That confirmed my suspicions that I was indeed fucking crazy. Neither one of us knew what. the. fuck. we were in for. Once we had a diagnosis, we researched. She learned my patterns. Oh the arguments we would have after she shot down my mania. She armed herself with knowledge.

Together we fought it tooth and nail. It wasn't controlled, however. Nothing worked medicinewise and I was too caught up to consciously realize I was out of control.

The day Mom was diagnosed with Stage IV Lung Cancer is the day I began to die. I was just getting to know her, she couldn't leave already. She wasn't allowed to. I was her primary caregiver as she slowly wasted away. She declined treatment, which pissed me off. I couldn't lose the woman that became my best friend.

She stood by me as I stood by her, protectively. Through long conversations and countless hours at the computer researching bipolar we figured out that she was likely bipolar too. We fought the same demons, just by different names. Though I can't prove she was bipolar, we bonded, we understood, we knew.

She knew so well that she got me a grief counselor while she was hospitalized the final time. She even tried to educate and prepare Dad for the whirlwind that is me.

Who was Mom? A human being. A friend. A companion. A cheerleader. A mother.

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