I Am Me

Tonight, I realized I needed to write. I was – and still am – unsure about what I need to say, what I need to convey, and in what ways I need to connect to the outside world; but, I know I need to write.

The thoughts running through my head have roots in my identity. They are tied to the black community, feminism (or womanism if you will), the LGBTQ community, and the mental ill. I still cannot put my finger on what exactly I need to articulate, but I do know that I need to be heard.

I’ve found myself reading a number of inspirational womanists tonight: bell hooks, Audre Lorde, and Sojourner Truth. To say I feel inspired would be an understatement, but inspired to do what – I just cannot formulate, I just cannot say.

But if I had to guess, I would say I’m inspired to speak of who I am, of how I identify, of who I aspire to be, one day, if not today.

I am a black, bisexual, bipolar woman. Those four identifiers most capture who I am and how I identify with and navigate through the world. Those four identifiers are what, at the end of the day, I can come back to, read about, think about and re-orient myself to when I feel lost, othered, or detached from myself and the world around me. Those four identifiers are – not exclusively – but majorly a part of who I am. Yet still, they are a part of who I am that I am encouraged, subtly and obviously, not to be – or at least not to be openly, honestly, and proudly.

Tonight I possess the bravery to be defiant of that fact. Tonight I possess the will to be unabashedly and unapologetically myself. Tonight I possess the power to defy those who wish to stifle or silence me. If this feeling of defiance will last until tomorrow remains unknown, at least for now, but at the moment I am proud to be me. I admit this feeling is, unfortunately, rather foreign. Though still I wish it be an experience of everyone. Even if only a few times, it’s validating in a manner that all should be validated, all should experience, all should feel for themselves.

We all should have the experience of being unapologetically ourselves. Whatever that means to each and every one of us. We all should have the right to proudly declare and live out who we feel we are meant to be. We all should have the right to be truly and authentically ourselves, despite who society says we should be, despite what others claim us to be.

While words have poured through me onto this page, I still cannot quite put my finger on what it is exactly my heart needs to declare, but I feel satisfied in saying that it is that I am me. I am who I am meant to be. I am proud of myself, of where and who I am today, and of where and who I will be tomorrow, and of where, who, and what I will be, eventually.

A Walk in the Park

Walk in the park with Brie

One of the biggest factors of maintaining mental stability, for me, has been exercise. In fact, the first time my former psychologist and I determined I’d reached a positive and healthy place was also the first time I trained to run a 5k.

Now one of my favorite things to do during the day is to take Brie, my family’s puppy, on a walk in the park or through the neighborhood. Today’s walk was rough, though; I just didn’t want to do it. Yet half way around the lakes I found myself smiling at the sleeping ducks and marveling at the sunbathing turtles who quickly scuttled away at the sound of Brie’s gangling tags.

I kept asking myself what was so drastically altering my mood. Was it the sun warming my body, or the lapping water of the lake, or the presence of a happy animal, I wondered. Honestly, I still don’t know, but to find such an effective coping mechanism is amazing.

Seroquel Withdrawal

I’ve decided to start on a new project: one of self-awakening. I’m hoping this will serve as both a motivator for myself and a vehicle of understanding for those it reaches.

The past few days have been, in a word, brutal. A hard to explain brutal. I’ve spent so much time within mania’s breast that I’d forgotten the harsh winds which effortlessly lift and guide her, permitting her to cut gracefully through the air. I had knocked on wood, sheepishly wishing for mania to swoop me up, coaxed with false promises of peace and rest. I dreamed foolishly of safety from the angry swirling sea, now below. But the higher I go the softer the water looks.

It has been brutal. A falling into a fitful sleep, just to wake two hours later and realize that’s the only rest you’re going to get, brutal. A finding out it’s only 3 pm and bursting into tears because it’s so early still in the day, brutal. A waking up my parents sobbing at  3 am because all I want to do is sleep, but I don’t know if the pain is coming from the inside or the outside, brutal. Waking with cheeks already drenched in tears, brutal.

Sweats, shakes, vomiting, agitation, brutal. Seroquel I hate you.

To better explain: with permission to finally quit taking the anti-psychotic drug, Seroquel, I was excited to reclaim my body; I didn’t realize I’d be looking at at least a month of withdrawal. My only consolation is that after three weeks I must be reaching the end of this horrid withdrawal period. Though just this morning I had to choose between continuing to puke at my feet (with an all too curious puppy hanging around) or aiming the rest of my stomach contents in the general direction of our pool and spa. I scored in both. Only thanks to acid does my family have any comfort in the future sanitation of our leisurely swims.

This, I’m learning, is yet another dirty side of mental illness. And it deserves just as much exposure and understanding as the rest of it.