Bang Bang, He Shot Me Down...

Bang bang he shot me down~
bang bang I hit the ground~
bang bang that awful sound~
bang bang my baby shot me down...

Or...

One of Oprah's "Ah Ha Moments".

On Wednesday in a blinding flash of clarity, I realised that my husband is one of my key "Triggers".For those of you who are not familiar with BPD triggers, it's what drives my world, but not always in a good way, unfortunately.

For example, he can come home from work and say, "I'm home!" in a cheerful and loving manner and I immediately feel cheerful and loving! Ah, he's happy, he's had a great day, being home is a good thing and the evening will go well. Everything is fine! Alternately, he can come home and say in a tired voice, "I'm home," and I immediately start wondering if he's depressed, or if he's just sick of living with me, or if something I've done in the preceding day has irked him, or if the whole bpd/bipolar disorder thing is just weighing him down. Could be he's just fatigued. Of course as soon as these thoughts (referred to as "twisted thinking") start to run rampant through my head, it's like horses through a starting gate, and I am, at this stage, powerless to stop them, as I've yet to learn the techniques I need to turn the tide in a different direction. Can I? Apparently. Am I? No.

Triggers are powerful, powerful signals for those with mental illness. Anyone who's been abused in any fashion will more than likely have triggers from those events. I know I have, and my husband knows what they are. For the most part, the triggers from my past have mostly been worked out. Unfortunately, there are new ones cropping up all the time.

What frustrates me is how your (my) day can go from average to downright-shit-in-the-toilet with the slightest trigger. And while an outside observer may say, "well, don't LET IT!", mental illness simply isn't that easy to control. An example:

I read the newspaper on my husband's computer. I have mine set with some freakin' setting that has locked my local newspaper out, so that all I get is gibberish if I try to open it. He knows I use his computer. He doesn't mind. He's free to use my computer, and I don't mind. He has access to my email if he wants it. I have access to all his files and he has access to all mine. In my mind, if you have an honest marriage and have nothing to hide, this shouldn't be a problem. Anyway, I was looking for the bookmark I had set for my newspaper, and came across some bookmarks HE had set for BPD groups; essentially, support groups for him. BANG BANG!

Everything froze. For a brief moment, everything stood still as I stared at the undeniable proof that the man I love so dearly needs support in living with his wife. Undeniable proof that he seeks shelter from strangers when my behaviour becomes so unpredictable that he cannot understand it, or deal with it, on his own. Undeniable proof that he looks elsewhere in desperation when I am so crazy that he has no other option but to search for some sort of answer when I am not rational enough to give them on my own.

And I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, and the blood rushing in my ears. BANG BANG!

Hands in hair, fists in eyes. BANG BANG!

Anxiety level rising up, shooting up! I can't breathe! BANG BANG!

And then my mind breaks free~takes off on it's own and runs it's sick path; of COURSE he needs these groups! I'm wretched! Look at all the awful things I've said and done! No one would be able to cope with it. Who'd want to? Who could love me? *I* certainly don't! I'm nuts. I'll never be anything but nuts. If I can't do it, how can I expect those around me to? And the pain keeps rising and rising, twisting and clutching at my chest and in my head, my thoughts so completely skewed and wild that finally, I stop...because I'm too tired to go any further.

And I want to hurt myself. I want so desperately to punish myself for what I've put him through. Those thoughts slip through my mind ... so many ways ... and I scare myself. I drive faster and faster, more and more reckless, and the only things stopping me are the knowledge that I'll have no control over who I take with me ... and the look on my husband's face when he gets that phone call. But I need that pain! I need that punishment. Oh gawd, I want that hurt.

I collect the blades and alcohol and bandages and cotton and polysporin and butterflies. It's such a ritual. It's alternately neat and tidy and messy. The first pull doesn't hurt: it's just a marker. the second one over the first stings. The third and forth hurt some; then the fifth, sixth, seventh ... they hurt ... go deeper, wipe up, go deeper. When it stops hurting, you clean it up, and start putting it back together. Take pride in putting it back together. Never more than an inch long because that's longer than the bandage, and I can't go to an emergency ward: if they find out you cut, they drop you in psych. Make sure the butterflies are tight: faster healing, less scars.

And for thirty minutes, you feel better. For thirty minutes, you've bled away the pain. And as it gradually wears down, the humiliation sets in and you realize what you've done, again. You've acted out, like a child. You'll have the marks to prove it. And you feel worse than ever ~ especially when you see the sadness in his face when your loving husband sees the bandages you're trying so hard to hide.

Don't get me wrong. I don't put this on HIS shoulders; the blame goes where it belongs, which is squarely on mine. In more rational moments, I recognize that this is nutty behaviour. Normal people don't torment and abuse their bodies out of frustration. Normal people don't NEED pain to soothe their mental anguish. Normal people can use a regular formula of math to guide their lives: 2+2 will nearly always equal 4; for me, it can equal nearly anything.

Because I suffer from two mental illnesses, when I'm struck with symptoms of rising mania or panic which can mimic each other, I have to more or less try to calm myself enough to assess the symptoms based on thought processes, and then medicate myself. Can you imagine how difficult this is during an Olympic Nuttiness Event like the one described above? I try, and I'm getting better at it. Mania is more agitation, shakiness, irritation, sometimes energy. A BPD attack has more twisted thinking attached to it, so I have to pay more attention to the thought processes. If I'm thinking, "everyone hates me because I'm worthless", or "of course it turned out like this, I might as well just quit/leave/die right now", then it's more than likely BPD.

The medication is nearly the same. How I THINK is very different.

At the end of the day, when my husband comes home, it's crucial to make every effort to turn that back off; it's not his fault that these thoughts go through my head. And here's why:

Every day my husband tells me he loves me, and that he'll never leave me. He's NEVER harsh or mean. He assures me that the rough times are a small price to pay for the joy we share when the stupid illnesses are under control. And he says that even though it's damned difficult at times and he does get tired, I DO refill the cup, by loving him right back.

Today I'm busy trying to control those thoughts. I really don't want to fuck up another weekend.