Greiving

While the understanding of mental illness has come a long way there is still much more to be learned by all. The stigma attached to a person who is mentally ill is still greater than what the news reports would have you believe. Sure, the few studies that have been done say society is more accepting of the fact that mental illness is a disease and not a mere moral failing. Yet almost fifty percent of society said they would still be hesitant to leave a child with someone they knew was mentally ill. The big misconception that always infuriates me is most is society no longer believes we are violent. I’m not so sure of that. It seems like we may be rowing uphill with this particular fact. The studies do show that a person who suffers from a mental illness is 10% more likely to be a victim of violence than being the actual perpetrator. However, the horrible incidents of shootings that have happened in recent years that receive tremendous coverage from our news always make sure to report, “…and they are to be believed to be struggling with a mental illness!” Why don’t we ever hear of the great accomplishment of the mentally ill on the news? I am sure they are numerous. As far as the fear factor is concerned, not just violence but the entire disorder, I go by my own personal experience and say that those studies must be wrong to some extent. I have lost count of the times when I thought that I had a true friend, one that had accepted me as a whole person, bipolar disorder and all. They always think I am funny and outrageously fun. The time will always come unfortunately when I wander off the reservation into a manic episode, and they get a true glimpse into my mind. Guess what they do? They stand quietly, very still at first, then back away very slowly, then pick up the pace until they are in a flat-out run trying to get away from me. No more lunches together at the Waffle House, no more going shopping at the Bargain Ben on fifty cent day, no more phone calls. Complete desertion. All because I did not sleep for a few days which threw me into a state of complete mania. So, what if I did talk incessantly about the DEA camping out across the pasture recording every movement I took. What if I did go up to the couple at the next booth and lay a kiss on the hot guy sitting with his wife, who was young enough to be his daughter, so I made an error in judgment, causing his wife to reach over and grab my hair and start banging my head on the table trying to defend what was rightfully hers. Oops. Luckily, my friend grabbed me by the waist as I was about to defend myself and managed to forcibly drag me out of the restaurant and throw me in the car. When we got into the car, she started laughing so I thought all was good. She did recognize I was in a crisis and saw to it that I received the help that I needed. However, after I was stabilized, she became unreachable. That is just one of my experiences. There have been many, just not as severe. In the end, they simply do not like what they see, and people don’t like what they can’t explain or what they don’t understand. Honestly, though I do not like what I do not understand either.

I do not understand grieving. Maybe being bipolar is preventing me from doing it appropriately compared to the rest of society. I know I should not be concerned about the rest of society but as a human being, it is something I cannot help. As a person, I want to be accepted and they do not want to accept me. Humans depend on each other. We depend on love from one another and from each other’s companionship. Thanks to my illness I feel ostracized. I am very lonely. I believe when we grieve, we are supposed to cry. Our eyes are supposed to flow with tears. I do not know what has happened except my tears have evaporated. I tell myself it is the antidepressants but deep inside I cannot seem to utterly convince myself of that. If only I could have a good, long cry I believe I would feel so much better. Cleanse me of all the sorrow that has accumulated inside. Inevitably it seems I am wired to respond to grief with mania and I do not want anyone to witness that. It is first taboo and embarrassing in a lot of situations.

I see my counselor once a week for an hour and my psychiatrist once every two months and the rest of the time I cope with grieving alone. My parents have both passed. My mother died two and half years ago and my father died merely two months ago. I am all alone now. I have yet to have that gut-wrenching cry that I am supposed to have. I have however had many consecutive nights of not sleeping where I eventually turn up the rock music and find myself dancing all about the house. What kind of daughter am I?

Lately, as I try to sort out my feelings over grieving, I have come to feel somewhat better about myself when I think back to the time I had with my parents. I have concluded that when I thought I was weak is when I was the strongest. My mother was blind and suffered from Alzheimer’s. For many reasons we did not place her in a nursing home, and I ended up caring for her for four years. I was disabled and did not work so the responsibility fell upon me. She died at home holding my hand. Not one single tear fell from my eyes the moment she drew her last breath even though my heart was weeping terribly. Nor did the tears come at the funeral. I felt like everyone was looking at me like, “Your one cold bitch, Serina.” My father’s health was not good either and when my mother passed away his health tragically went downhill and once again the responsibility to care for him was left to me. I am so grateful that responsibility was given to me and I am so glad I had those last days with them. Yet instead of crying, I dance. It makes no sense at all.

My feelings are still raw from my father’s death. We developed an incredibly special relationship during our time alone together. It was also the first in my life that he told me that he loved me. For two years and five months, we told jokes and laughed loudly. We watched the news constantly and picked innocently on each other over politics.

I have tremendous guilt from my father’s death. I kissed him on the forehead one afternoon when he was in the hospital and told him that I loved him. He said he loved me too. The doctors said that morning he was improving. He did sound better that day. It was getting late though. I checked his vitals, I had gone to nursing school, and all looked good. Three hours later the nurse called and said that he had coded, and he was gone. Just like that. It was not supposed to happen that way. I was holding my mother’s hand when she left me, but I did not get that chance with my father. Yet, still not a tear.

Some days I feel like I am going to morph into my rocking chair, sitting and staring at the television. I usually get manic, so depression is always unfamiliar to me when it happens. I seemed to have slipped into a mixed episode right now. I am experiencing some true and fleeting moments of depression and I do welcome them. They make me feel, dare I say, normal. So, my rocking chair is where I stay during times of confusing contemplation. It is so comfortable, I sink into it and it seems like a nice, tight embrace. Like me, my rocking chair is wobbly, torn, and part of the guts are starting to fall out. My rocking chair sits beside my father’s recliner and I find myself repeatably looking over at it to see how he is doing. Is he comfortable? Does he need something to drink? Is he sleeping or sitting in quiet contemplation? What is he thinking about? Our days were busy and structured. Medicine first, bath and fresh clothes, then more medicine. Then taking care of all his pets came before making our breakfast. By the time we finished eating nurses and therapists would start coming in and out of the house.

My many counselors have tried teaching me guided imagery over the years to help expel some of my anxieties. However, nothing helps with being afraid of the dark. And my father always insisted that all the lights be off at night. Complete and utter darkness terrifies me. If I open my eyelids and there is not an inkling of light hit my pupils, I automatically think I am dead. Thoughts like, “Well, this is it, Serina. You are dead. But where are you? You are not hot. Can’t be hell. No light means no heaven. Yeah, you went and screwed that one up didn’t you? Must be purgatory. Now, what is it they said about this place? I really wish I had paid better attention when I was alive. I’m in real trouble.” The fear is so real. It is palpable!

Back to meditation. The very few times I was able to get past the uncomfortable feeling that accompanies the darkness I would start to search for my happy place like I was told so many times to do. In the blackness, I search, and uneasy thoughts enter my mind. What will I find as I sit and wither away into the darkness? Instead of finding peace, lurking behind every corner, around every tree is an unknown evil. Then I see my father lying in his casket. Distress engulfs me and I must escape as quickly as I can. So much for that therapy. It was nothing more than an exercise in futility.

My father had a prize possession. He called her Kalico. She was a 23-year-old cat who weighed about 25 pounds. They were attached at the hip most of the time. He would feed her bologna and pieces of bread with heavy mayonnaise on it. I would go check on my father at night and I would find them sleeping together. Kalico would be curled up against his chest with her head laying on top of his outstretched arm. I always said that cat would live as long as my father but no longer. Kalico immediately knew something had happened to my father after he died. She started eating less and less until she quit all together. When my father was alive, she would go outside several times a day but for only brief periods of time. Four nights ago, she dashed out the door and has not returned. The grief was too much for her too. God bless her precious heart. Some people hate it when then wrong. I hate it when I am right. Now I am going to fix myself a bologna and cheese sandwich with extra mayo since I still have not figured out how to cry.