Mental Illness, AKA: Life...And I want to make out with an enchilada

On being Bi-Polar-

Sometimes it sucks, but for the most part it’s just who I am, like being tall, anemic or blind—it’s WHO I AM and it’s OK. I don't bite and foam at the mouth-not anymore at least.

My mom thought otherwise. She felt the need to discuss ‘my condition’ with her church friends, speaking in hushed voices behind the safety of the pulpit. Hiding. As if I contracted this by using a dirty needle to numb a vicious addiction. IT’S NOT AN ADDICTION! IT’S NOT SOMETHING I DID!

And then my mom would call me(with the best of intentions) and say “Hey Mariah, you know my friend Carol from church? Well, she married a man whose cousin is Bi-Polar too!” And then she’d ask if MAYBE I could talk to him. Um, no.

Shit, trust me, if I could have controlled this insanity I would have, but I couldn’t, so I diligently took pills for years—little yellow and blue pills, which evened out my mood so that I couldn’t feel shit. I didn’t feel the mania, or the depression. I didn’t feel anything. I couldn’t feel the good; I couldn’t tell if I was depressed, mad, or agitated.

I couldn’t even tell if I was hungry.

Sometimes the medications would leave a salty residue on my skin and people would stare when I was caught licking my arm in the grocery store. AND SOMETIMES,( because I have lived here FOREVER, and people know me and my history) people took my arm licking as if I was having a meltdown and then they would over step their boundaries and wrongly inform my family—which led to unnecessary worry for my mom.

I WASN’T HAVING A MELTDOWN!!!! I was craving salt. Morons.

The thing that gets me is that people will NEVER talk to me about it, except for Dr. B but he’s a flipping idiotic baboon who tried to drug me and locked me up against my will in a looney bin, so I don’t talk to him anymore.

It’s not like I want to talk about it all the time, but you know what?? If it comes up it’s a little rude to excuse yourself to the restroom or suddenly lose eye contact with me while you shuffle your pretty feet in the sand. It’s also a little rude to shun me and to think that I can’t handle my life and my responsibilities.

I handle them just fine.

Confession: I quit the pills.

Dr’s ALWAYS tell me that if I needed to take medication for blood pressure I would. If I needed to continuously check my glucose I would. YES, OF COURSE I WOULD! But this is different; these are drugs because I am considered 'mentally ill'.

Mentally ill. Those two words leave a bitter aftertaste in my mouth, like I’ve been munching on coffee beans for days (I suppose it easier to just stamp 'Mentally Ill' on my forehead than actually figuring out the underlying problem, but I'm NOT a Dr. with a fancy PHD degree, so what do I know?).

My life is a circle of chaos, a swirling pit of mistakes and DAMMIT, I wanted to feel those mistakes—I wanted to feel the warmness of my children’s love. I wanted to wrap my tongue around a cheesy enchilada and taste it. I wanted to burst into tears at Hallmark commercials like I used to and I wanted to wake up in the morning and relish in the happiness of my life—but those things were not possible when I popped the yellow and blue pills.

So I flushed them a few months ago, and I feel fantastic! My head may be a bit swirly, and I may have a bit of mania and depression here and there, but who doesn’t?? I'm sure it's just a matter of time before I flip out, but until then I'm enjoying my drug free life. Well, almost drug free, I'm not quite ready to ditch the happy little white pills just yet.

Now, excuse me, I have a cheese enchilada to make out with.


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