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PostPosted: Mon Nov 13, 2017 10:04 pm 
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I did a quick skim to make sure I’m not just submitting a reboot here, though considering the proposed subject matter, it seems impossible that I’m not covering familiar territory for some of us here. Anyway, here goes:

I’m a broken clock. But, like any broken clock, I assume I’m right twice a day. I don’t mean this literally, of course, and I’d argue that the number of times per day I’m correct has gone up since starting Suboxone (Zubsolv, actually, but whatever) but it doesn’t change that I’m a broken clock. My relationship with my wife, what’s left of it anyway, is a constant reminder to me of just how broken a clock I am.

What I mean by it all is that I’m type II Bipolar. The more I find out about the disorder, the more I realize what a lifelong struggle this has been for me. Angry outbursts, “going psycho” as the kids who pretended to be my friends—likely for access to my grandparents’ swimming pool—used to call it; getting ditched at recess because I was perhaps a little too overzealous about the passing fancies of my fellow sixth graders. It was tough, and it instilled in me a lot of trust issues that persist now into middle age. I don’t say that as an excuse for any of the horrible things I’ve done, only to note that I’ve noticed that I’m not particularly good at being good, and that I started early.

Before I went on Suboxone, I was all about any and every substance that could bring me to an altered state. Vicodin (and eventually Norco) was always a favorite, but not in regular supply. Alcohol then became my most reliable means of achieving oblivion. I drank until I couldn’t financially afford to do so anymore. Then I started putting it on the credit card.

I thank Zubsolv for my sobriety. I think I’d still be chasing highs from the depths of my lowest lows if not for its effects in my life. Too, it’s ability to ease my anxieties is a welcome change from those horrible moments between fifths of Bacardi.

I have a point to all this, or I think I do, and I think that point is that I’m profoundly pissed off. I’m pissed off at my wife and my mother for treating me like a child. I’m angry at my dad for not really treating me like anything. I don’t blame him—he’s had a hell of a time dealing with my severely bipolar mother—but he could at least say something. Anything. I’ve long held a suspicion that I am loved by my father but not liked. That’s lessened as I’ve gotten older and become at least superficially different, but when I was a teenager, he might as well have had it painted on my bedroom door. I say my wife and my mother treat me like a child, that’s not quite it. I don’t feel like anyone but me has my side. I’m a broken clock, remember, so if I’m angry, it must be one of those twenty two other times in the day where I’m wrong as hell. I feel like my right to anger is self declared and sustained. And what do you think that does besides just make me even more angry?

Most of all, I’m angry that I’m broken. I used to think of Bipolar Disorder as an asset, something that made me different—not necessarily better, but different; unique—from everyone else, but the older I get, the more I see it as my worst liability because it makes me untrustworthy, whether I’m lying and sneaking or not. Zubsolv has made my highs a little lower and my lows a little higher, but it hasn’t cured me. I’m angry about that. I’m angry that nothing ever will cure me; not even me.

Even now, take your own considerations of me from this brief introduction. Some of you know me already, or know at least my version of some of the specifics as I have written about them in other threads. How do you see me? Does being bipolar lessen my credibility overall? If no, are you possibly answering the question from the vantage point of your own dance with this terrible Disorder? It’s not a label I ever wanted slapped on my can, for sure. And I don’t mean to impugn anyone else’s credibility here. As I’ve said, I’m angry, and sometimes say the wrong thing when I’m in that state. I’m standing here watching a version of myself burn another, more palatable version of myself to the ground. I am a liar. I am untrustworthy. I’m angry and afraid. This feels like a cancer diagnosis except I am the cancer.

Anyone else relate? I’m sorry if you do. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

B. Byrner


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PostPosted: Tue Nov 14, 2017 6:00 pm 
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Your post makes me sad because I see my brother in you. The comment about his father loving him but not liking him. That is my brother. He demands so much of others that they just cannot give. So he is broken too. Also an addict, but you my friend are ahead of the game compared to him because he is still self medicating at 50 years old and will not stop using because dope is now his best friend.

I can feel your torment through the screen and it's painful on my end. My brokenness is different than yours, it's too much empathy that causes my addictions. I need to drown it out. And i need to distance myself from others pain which makes me a bad sister. And sometimes a bad friend.

I pray you get a therapist and also go to meetings. We are blessed to find angels in these places who can help us live with our brokenness. Those with very strong constitutions that can help us without falling under the weight of our torment. Who can guide us and help us to finda way through our mixed up thoughts.

i hope you find some peace.


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PostPosted: Wed Nov 15, 2017 8:21 pm 
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Hi Sylvia,

I’m sorry to hear about your brother. The road was hard enough turning around at thirty four, I could only imagine what it must look like from fifty, having walked that much more of it. I’m doing what I can to get better. I’m reading books, identifying myself like an bird in the Audobon guide. I just left my psychiatrists office after my second visit in as many weeks. I feel like I’m telling them my house is on fire and all they can recommend is I turn down the air conditioning. I was no sooner out of the building than I was on the phone trying to book another psych. The one I’m currently seeing was referred by the rehab center I went through, their only recommendation that work with my insurance. This new doc isn’t taking on any patients as they’re booked through April. They gave me a number for another psych, the one I dropped for my current because they stooped taking my insurance. I don’t know what to except self medicate. I’m not talking getting high, but I can’t get help I can trust. I’m on trileptal which has done exactly shit. After describing my week, how it almost ended in messy divorce, the doc recommended upping my dose by 300mg. Mind you, I’m still not at a therapeutic dose of this nonsense. I’d love to see a doctor who takes me a little more seriously, but short of walking in with bandages on my wrists or bullets on my breath, their attentions are wrapped up in everyone else at present. My problems may be penny ante, but they’re my problems and they’re ruining my life.

I don’t know. I guess we’re all broken people trying to make the most of a broken system. If finding a Sub doctor had been this hard, I’d probably be dead by now, so there’s that to be thankful for as we head into Turkey Day next week.

Thanks very much for your response. Myself, I’ve never been guilty of overempathizing. And somehow that exteme has made me a shitty friend, also. I’m definitely a better acquaintance than I am a friend.

B. Byrner


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PostPosted: Thu Nov 16, 2017 12:03 pm 
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Please give your psychiatrist and the meds time to work. It's times like these that it's ok to let go of some control and let someone else do the heavy lifting. Your therapist doesn't know you so it takes time to develop a relationship. Please don't do anything drastic, you can't take it back once it's done. Listen to some music and try to get in a good place. Do you enjoy the outdoors? Sometime I find a long hike in the woods clears my head.

stay strong.


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PostPosted: Thu Nov 16, 2017 4:28 pm 
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I’m not planning on anything drastic, I’m just annoyed that whether I had told her I’d had the best or worst week of my life, they still aren’t upping me—by their own admission—to anything therapeutic. Telling her about something I had done that very nearly ended my marriage this week got the same reaction as if I’d told her I saw a cool looking dead bug in the parking lot. I’m not looking for anything nuts, even if it’s all show, something a little less dismissive would be nice. Really, I think that’s my mistake and a huge part of what’s wrong with this kind of treatment. Psychologists believe in the mind’s ability to heal itself, psychiatrists in a drug’s ability to alter and mask undesired behaviors. There’s no real cross pollination of the two in a single office. I’m just bad enough that my life is clinging to the rim of the toilet, but just well off enough that they haven’t sent for the men in the white coats with their van full of magic.

Giving it time is the only option I have, whether I stay or go. My hopes aren’t high. My trust level in this office is pretty low. They haven’t betrayed me, perse, but neither have they given me any indication that they give a shit one way or the other what happens with me.


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