Love and Mental Illness (Part II)
I've finished up the books I've checked out, at least the applicable sections. The insights I have gleaned have been truly eye-opening. As a depressive, I know from my own experiences, therapy, and medications what helps and what does not. When you have your own mental illness, it is easy to think you can just automatically understand other mental illnesses.
You can't.
I'm glad I read these books. One was written in the way a basic textbook or workbook would be written. While it didn't "dumb down" the topic, it refrained from excessive scientific talk and was easy, even engaging, to read. The other one was dry; it was the summation of a study revised (slightly) to be a guide to both practitioners and families. Since much of it is geared towards family therapy, much of it didn't really apply to me. I'm not family. I'm close, or at least I was. In many ways, I know more about him and his illness than his son does, and I doubt anyone else is close enough to be able to really monitor the swings. I could be very wrong, too.
It is heartening to read that you did, in fact, do some of the right things. It is discouraging to read that you may have inadvertently done things that were not helpful, although your intentions were good. As I have been more open about my current struggle with depression and his battle with bipolar disorder, friends have been coming out of the woodwork sharing their own stories of depression and BPD.
We are not alone, and something must be done about this stigma.
Last night, a couple of my girlfriends insisted, lovingly, that I keep a girls' night that we'd scheduled before I was dumped. I had cancelled it, and they understood. Then an hour or two before the appointed time, the texts started coming. "Are you sure you don't want to come out for just a little bit?" I acquiesced. In many ways, it was good, but after an hour I hit my limit, my wall. All I wanted to do was pay my check and go home, but I was largely trapped. So I did the only thing in my state I could do: I shut down. Fortunately, they are loving friends and they understood.
But between that conversation and some Facebook comments, I'm seeing a trend in some of my friends I don't quite know how to handle. That trend is anger towards D.
It comes from them caring about me. They are tired of seeing me hurt by guys. They weren't there, they hadn't yet met him. Ergo, it is easy to think he's a "jerk" and that I could "do better." They haven't read up on BPD, nor do they have mental illnesses of their own, so it's easy to dismiss that as some sort of excuse. They think I, too, am excusing the behavior simply because I "think" I'm in love and he happens to have BPD.
Some are vacillating between anger at him and understanding that any guy, regardless of mental illness or not, would have gotten cold feet and probably run away at the point we were at. Things had indeed moved very quickly. We both fell in love very quickly. It is easy to be scared when that happens. Which then brings on the cliched lines, the "if it's meant to be..." and "love finds a way..." and "God has a plan..." While I'm not denying there is truth in those statements, when you are where I am they ring particularly hollow.
I am well aware that much of what I am saying I said before, after J broke up with me. What I cannot adequately explain is how this one is different. As D was leaving my house, having broken up with me, I asked quietly for a hug. Most people in that situation would make the hug as platonic and short as possible, if they agreed to the hug at all. D wrapped me up and held on tight for a long time, just as he did when we were dating. It wasn't a hug between friends, but between two people who genuinely love each other.
Loving someone with a mental illness has its own challenges. I have a mental illness. I know there are times where I am distinctly unlovable. When I am in an episode, I get prickly, short, edgy. My fuse becomes non-existent. I get quiet, mopey, down. The last thing I want to do is be around people and interact with them. There are days where things like basic hygiene and eating are the most arduous of tasks and I simply can't accomplish them. I can only sleep with the help of copious amounts of medication, and yet I don't want to get out of bed. For people who don't have a mental illness, the fact alone that I am a depressive can be enough to make them think twice about getting involved with me and opting out, even though I am medicated and have been in therapy and regularly use my therapy techniques.
I know that there are additional challenges in loving someone with a mental illness different than mine. I know that, should we patch this up, the possibility is very real that he will do this again, that I will be pushed away because of errant chemicals running amok. I know I could very easily have my heart broken again, but that is true even if I date someone else. Right now, I can't help my own feelings for him, the fact that I love him even with the mental illness. Mental illness doesn't define who we are. I don't want to be defined or labelled for my depression, and I refuse to do that to others.
He wrote me several poems while we were dating, and a snippet of one I will share because it means the world to me, especially right now.
"She stared into his eyes,
and through thousands of lies
she saw he was of great worth."
He is, and I just need to somehow show him that. I can't make him see that, I can't make him believe it. All I can do is love him and try.
You can't.
I'm glad I read these books. One was written in the way a basic textbook or workbook would be written. While it didn't "dumb down" the topic, it refrained from excessive scientific talk and was easy, even engaging, to read. The other one was dry; it was the summation of a study revised (slightly) to be a guide to both practitioners and families. Since much of it is geared towards family therapy, much of it didn't really apply to me. I'm not family. I'm close, or at least I was. In many ways, I know more about him and his illness than his son does, and I doubt anyone else is close enough to be able to really monitor the swings. I could be very wrong, too.
It is heartening to read that you did, in fact, do some of the right things. It is discouraging to read that you may have inadvertently done things that were not helpful, although your intentions were good. As I have been more open about my current struggle with depression and his battle with bipolar disorder, friends have been coming out of the woodwork sharing their own stories of depression and BPD.
We are not alone, and something must be done about this stigma.
Last night, a couple of my girlfriends insisted, lovingly, that I keep a girls' night that we'd scheduled before I was dumped. I had cancelled it, and they understood. Then an hour or two before the appointed time, the texts started coming. "Are you sure you don't want to come out for just a little bit?" I acquiesced. In many ways, it was good, but after an hour I hit my limit, my wall. All I wanted to do was pay my check and go home, but I was largely trapped. So I did the only thing in my state I could do: I shut down. Fortunately, they are loving friends and they understood.
But between that conversation and some Facebook comments, I'm seeing a trend in some of my friends I don't quite know how to handle. That trend is anger towards D.
It comes from them caring about me. They are tired of seeing me hurt by guys. They weren't there, they hadn't yet met him. Ergo, it is easy to think he's a "jerk" and that I could "do better." They haven't read up on BPD, nor do they have mental illnesses of their own, so it's easy to dismiss that as some sort of excuse. They think I, too, am excusing the behavior simply because I "think" I'm in love and he happens to have BPD.
Some are vacillating between anger at him and understanding that any guy, regardless of mental illness or not, would have gotten cold feet and probably run away at the point we were at. Things had indeed moved very quickly. We both fell in love very quickly. It is easy to be scared when that happens. Which then brings on the cliched lines, the "if it's meant to be..." and "love finds a way..." and "God has a plan..." While I'm not denying there is truth in those statements, when you are where I am they ring particularly hollow.
I am well aware that much of what I am saying I said before, after J broke up with me. What I cannot adequately explain is how this one is different. As D was leaving my house, having broken up with me, I asked quietly for a hug. Most people in that situation would make the hug as platonic and short as possible, if they agreed to the hug at all. D wrapped me up and held on tight for a long time, just as he did when we were dating. It wasn't a hug between friends, but between two people who genuinely love each other.
Loving someone with a mental illness has its own challenges. I have a mental illness. I know there are times where I am distinctly unlovable. When I am in an episode, I get prickly, short, edgy. My fuse becomes non-existent. I get quiet, mopey, down. The last thing I want to do is be around people and interact with them. There are days where things like basic hygiene and eating are the most arduous of tasks and I simply can't accomplish them. I can only sleep with the help of copious amounts of medication, and yet I don't want to get out of bed. For people who don't have a mental illness, the fact alone that I am a depressive can be enough to make them think twice about getting involved with me and opting out, even though I am medicated and have been in therapy and regularly use my therapy techniques.
I know that there are additional challenges in loving someone with a mental illness different than mine. I know that, should we patch this up, the possibility is very real that he will do this again, that I will be pushed away because of errant chemicals running amok. I know I could very easily have my heart broken again, but that is true even if I date someone else. Right now, I can't help my own feelings for him, the fact that I love him even with the mental illness. Mental illness doesn't define who we are. I don't want to be defined or labelled for my depression, and I refuse to do that to others.
He wrote me several poems while we were dating, and a snippet of one I will share because it means the world to me, especially right now.
"She stared into his eyes,
and through thousands of lies
she saw he was of great worth."
He is, and I just need to somehow show him that. I can't make him see that, I can't make him believe it. All I can do is love him and try.
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