Alone.

Went to a walima yesterday. Bride is four years younger than me. Groom, three. They looked happy, masha Allah. Terribly, terribly young and happy.

Can’t shake the feeling that I’m going to die alone.

A Conversation

I went to an Islamic conference yesterday. An old friend who I hadn’t seen in a few months sat down next to me during a break.

We exchanged salaams.

“How are you?” I asked. I expected a pat answer.

“Hanging in there,” she replied wearily. I nodded, picking up the undercurrent of feelin’ like crap. Then, in an unexpected burst of frankness, “I was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder.”

“Oh,” I said. Emboldened by her honesty, I continued. “I have that.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “You do? Subhan Allah.”

“Yeah. It’s okay. What are you taking?”

Our exchanged continued. The conversation dwindled. We bid salaams when the program was about to resume and she went back to her seat.

It was the most honest exchange I had all evening.

Two Little Pills

Every morning after I wake up, I reach for a little blue box that lies upon my desk. This is my pill cutter. Next to my pill cutter is a blister pack and a white bottle. This is my medicine. I pop out a big pill from the blister pack, put it into the pill cutter, and push down. The ‘snap’ lets me know its through and I open the lid to see a freshly cut pill, chalky dust around the incision site. I take a half, turn it again, and snap it down into a fourth. I put it on the side.

I open the other bottle and shake out a pill. Will it be a 2 milligram or 5 milligram pill? Today, it is a 2 milligram. No need to cut this one.

I put the two pills side by side in my palm, and toss them back with a glass of water. Some days the chalky aftertaste of the cut pill lingers in my mouth if I do not drink enough water.

This is my daily dose of medicine.

***

It was not always like this. During the upheaval of adolescence, I convinced myself that my cyclical mood swings and depression were just a symptom of the sweeping changes going through my body. High school, weight gain, acne, low self-confidence…of course I was depressed. The travails of growing up, right?

Looking back, I can see now why it took so long for me to realize there was a deeper undercurrent at work. So many bad things happened one after the other. Ridicule and mockery from the other kids at school post-9/11. The unraveling of my parent’s marriage, and the dragged out legal aftershocks.

I refused to admit that maybe this was not circumstantial. As adolescence matured into adulthood, the reasons I had grew varied. If I was a better Muslim, I wouldn’t feel like this. If I lived someplace warm, I wouldn’t feel like this. If my parents just got divorced, I wouldn’t feel like this. If I could get out of high school, I wouldn’t feel like this. If I could just lose 15 lbs, I wouldn’t feel like this.

And then, all these things happened. A horrible accident put the fear of God into me, my parents finally divorced, we moved someplace warmer, I finished high school, started college, and those pesky 15 lbs slid off after escaping from the high pressure crockpot that was high school. For a few months, I was convinced, absolutely convinced, that this was the end of my rollercoaster ride. No more weeks and months of feeling good followed by feeling like crap. No more dropping out of school. No more uncontrollable crying jags. No more wandering flights of fancy that never materialized.

I was on top of the world. Doing well in school, engaged in extracurriculars, athletic, bright eyed, and bushy tailed. I felt like a rockstar. I thought, how could I ever feel sad when I feel like this?

Then of course, came the incredible fall. It happened almost overnight. I can remember the specific catalytic event. The fall has signs, and I can always feel its encroach, but the day the ‘up’ switches to a solid ‘down’, there’s always a trigger. The first day of winter break in high school. Falling off a skateboard. Daylight Savings Time. A simple argument. It sounds absurd, but that’s the way it goes.

The mornings when I jumped out of bed ready to take on the world were gone. Every limb felt heavy, and the simple act of waking up and getting out of bed was monumental. It was so much easier to sleep. Sleep was such a great thing, it was like being dead. I wished I was dead. I didn’t want to kill myself, because suicide takes effort. Also, you get a guaranteed ticket to hell. It sounds strange, but I thank Allah for making suicide a 100% guarantee into hell. I think a lot of Muslims are still walking around today because of that guarantee. Including me. If there had been even a sliver of mercy in suicide, I would have latched onto it and thrown everything away.

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months. I could not find the motivation to get out of bed, even simply to bathe or comb my hair. My mother was beside herself with worry. A family member finally dragged me to the doctor, who made the diagnosis of bipolar disorder. He started me on a regimen of low dosage medication.

Starting the medication was what really began the change in my life. For so many years I had been in denial that I had a problem. I wanted to figure it out on my own. I thought starting medication would be like giving in and saying I was crazy. Just because the disorder was something I couldn’t see, I couldn’t believe it existed.

That wasn’t the end, though. After starting the medication, I thought, wow. I feel great. I’ve been able to go more than four months without feeling down. I must be “cured!”

Then I slowly, slowly, stopped taking the medication. It wasn’t willful neglect. I would miss a day, take it the next, miss a couple of days, and take it again until the stretches of time in between grew longer and longer. The rubber band snapped, and when it did, I started to as well. Another crash and burn.

I realized I was missing the big picture. I saw a problem that I thought was “fixed.” Every time the “fix” didn’t work, I thought there must be something else. I finally realized I was completely wrong.

Be sure We shall test you with something of fear and hunger, some loss in goods, lives, and the fruits of your toil. But give glad tidings to those who patiently persevere. Those who say, when afflicted with calamity, ‘To Allah we belong, and to Him is our return.’ They are those on whom descend blessings from their Lord, and mercy. They are the ones who receive guidance.” – The Quran (2:155-157)

Marriage.

I never thought anyone would want to marry me for the longest time, that I was just destined to end up alone. It seemed like there was such a wide selection of prettier, thinner, funnier, more charming, NORMAL girls out there. I walked around with quite the inferiority complex. Even though I never came out and said it, people could sense I felt less than them. People can smell fear, and when they sense you are afraid of them or feel they are better, they immediately grow distant toward you, and do not see you as their equal.

Over the past couple of years, and I can’t place my finger on it, but I outgrew this inferiority complex with people. I think it happened when I finally stopped seeking reward with them, and essentially wrote them off as a source of contentment and happiness. It was when I finally stopped relying on people to make me happy. Nothing and no one but Allah can make us happy. This was when I noticed the subtle changes in how certain people who before seemed like the “cool, untouchable” cliche suddenly became friendly and approachable. I can’t say this lesson was due to any nobility of spirit on my part. It was a hard won lesson because in the depths of my despair, not a single tearful phone conversation, not a single hug or embrace from a close sister, nothing could make me feel better except turning back to Allah. I remember driving to school one day and crying and crying, begging Allah not to leave me, to help me, please, I have no one left. I could barely see the road, I was that beside myself. When I finally arrived at school, I felt hollowed, emptied out. In a good way.

This illness, this condition, this test…it is a way for Allah to test my mettle and see what I’m made of. I can either pass or fail, and each time I am afflicted with a low episode it is simply a test from Allah to see how I will react. If I will forebear with patience or suffer myself to pity. I feel like I have been failing this test each time, because I don’t react with patience, I just fall into despair and abandon my prayers and can do nothing but lie in bed. I don’t want to be this person. Please Allah, don’t let me be this person.

I still struggle with the fear that I am never going to get married, but I try to console myself with the fact that whoever we are meant or not meant to be with, it is already written. If I don’t ever get married, then it is the will of Allah and I just need to stay chaste and be a good Muslim. When I have a low episode I feel like if only someone would touch me or hug me or hold me close, I would feel better, and insha Allah if I do get married I can have all that, but it’s not going to solve or cure this, although it will help. I used to think that once I got married, I would be fine, but of course this is not true. Marriage is simply marriage, it is not a magical pill.

I have been seeking spiritual counseling, and alhamdulillah I have been benefiting a lot from this counseling. My counselor reassured me that insha Allah I will find the person who will not see my condition as a detraction, but rather as a way to gain blessings from Allah. The days when I can’t get out of bed, he can bring me water to make wudhu with if needed. He will encourage me and help me and support me in the low times, not see it as a negative. Insha Allah I hope I find that person, even though I have mentally prepared myself not to. Maybe I shouldn’t prepare myself not to ever get married, maybe this is really just holding me back?

A curious beast.

A curious beast, bipolar disorder is. When I find myself struggling out of the abyss of a particularly bad low episode, some days I will go through feeling fine, like I can do anything, like it’s “finally over.” I can see all the plans I have for me stretched out in my mind like unalienable truths. Yes, I can get a 4.0, yes, I can work out everyday, yes, I can memorize the entire Quran, yes, yes, yes. Everything seems so full of hope and light and promise. Then there are the days where it seems like I am just destined to fail, to go back to my turtle shell. I’m finding myself on the trailing edges of this “mixed-mode” stage, like where two different colored brushstrokes meet in a painting, one light and one dark.

I read Saba’s The Muslim’s 5-Step Guide to Bipolar Mastery. It’s been helpful just knowing that I’m not alone in this, that other Muslims go through the same thing. I read through it very quickly the first time, pretty much absorbed it like a woman dying of thirst in the desert who has finally found water. The second time around I’m going to go through it more thoroughly, insha Allah.

So this particular Muslim Humpty-Dumpty has put back the salvaged pieces of her life, again. I feel like there are pieces still missing here and there but nothing a little plaster can’t fix. I know, inevitably that I will fall and break again, but Allah made us strong and stubborn, and somehow I’ve always found a way to keep going.

This must be what it’s like to walk after surgery, he thinks. You see the scars and know that nothing can ever work the same again; you’re ready for that. But no one warns you that your heart will break just a little when you take those first steps, because your body is stubborn and stupid and will find a way to keep going, no matter what they take from it, and one day you’re going to get dressed and walk out your door and no one will know you used to be different at all.

People can’t tell.

One thing that amazes me about the turmoil of depression and bipolar is that no one can tell I have it. The last couple of days I’ve dragged myself out of bed to do things that were unavoidable in order to continue a livelihood. I made myself shower, I made myself put on clean clothes, I made myself look as normal as possible. When I was out there, in the world, I felt numb. I could feel the sun on my face and the breeze against my body, I could crack a joke with a desk clerk or smile and laugh, and they can’t tell the difference. The whole time, I feel numb inside, but people can’t tell. They’re all fooled by a little eyeliner and a smile.

As soon as I get home, I dissolve right back into slothdom. I need to face what’s bothering me:

• dropped out of school
• not praying 5 times a day (i’ve tried, really tried. I’ll pray a few in a row, then can’t, then eat to alleviate guilt. Deep down I feel like no amount of praying will be enough)
• out of control eating
• lack of energy to do even basic things that make a human, human. like bathing regularly.
• can’t clean and keep my living space tidy
• can’t help around the house
• find nothing enjoyable
• online 24/7, wasting time. truthfully, i’m hiding from dealing with my problems
• hurting my family
• sleeping all day

I think…I think I’m trying to hide from God. Like if I drown myself enough, He won’t be able to see me, and I won’t have to think about how I’m sinning.

I’ve swung through the gamut of emotional states these past few days. I remember one day was up all night, and it was fajr time, and I suddenly found myself so full of resolve, I took a shower, went to the masjid for Fajr, read Quran, beseeched God to help me…and all I asked for that day was, “Let me pray on time today, that’s it.” I was good until Zuhr. Then Asr time rolled around and I felt the tug of slothness and instead of fighting it I just let it roll over me. The time for Asr started getting staler and staler and then it was almost maghrib and I just started stuffing my face, hunched in front of the computer watching mindless re-runs and pretending like I was invisible. Like I didn’t know I should have prayed Asr, or Maghrib, or Isha. It reminds me of that Dawud Wharnsby Ali song, “Afraid to Read.”

He sets the book next to his head

Counts the prayers he’s missed

And lays so hopelessly in bed,

Oh Allah, he’s so afraid to read.

That’s me. Except I’ve lost track, lost count, hundreds of missed prayers, potentially thousands. I feel so, so guilty and it hurts and I don’t know how to deal with pain except through eating and forgetting. I feel like a dispicable excuse for a human being.

I’ve always struggled with needing perfection. Either I’m the perfect Muslim, praying 5 times a day, reading Quran, perfect person, eating healthy and in moderation, and a slight 120 lbs (hah, in my dreams), perfect student, or I’m not. I’m chasing after perfection and when I can’t have it I just dissolve into a sub-human.

I’ve got a gameplan. Fajr is only a few hours away. I’m going to fast today.

That way, I won’t have any choice BUT to pray. I won’t be able to eat. I’m going to take a shower, and fast. And then maybe fast the next day too, and the next, and the next, until I have this thing beat. Insha Allah.

If I was really, really bad, this wouldn’t be hurting as much as it is, right? It wouldn’t feel like a deep gaping wound in my soul, and heart, and mind, right? I don’t feel alive right now. I feel like a ripped up paper doll because I’m not praying. But, I’m gonna beat this thing. I can, I can, I can. One step at a time.

In the meantime, here’s an ayah to hang by.

Thrown my life away.

I can’t believe it. I’ve essentially thrown my life away. Again. Every time I build something up I just tear it back down. I can’t plan anything ahead. Even though I was feeling fine at the beginning of this semester, I made myself purchase only a one semester parking decal, because I was afraid this might happen. I can’t ever plan ahead.

I’m taking my medication regularly but it doesn’t feel like it’s working. The horse job didn’t work out. I need to find a job just to get myself out of the house.

I wonder how Allah can forgive me for all the sins I’ve committed, all the prayers I’ve missed. I can’t even bring myself to cry, I feel so numb. Sleep is my only escape. I’m letting my family down so much, I’m letting myself down. What’s going to happen to me? I’m so scared. I eat all the time and I can’t stop. The moment I stop the pain comes flooding back into my senses.

I feel so alone and scared. Who will ever want someone like me? Who will ever put up with me? I’m going to die alone. I feel like I’m going to hell.

It hurts just to make myself write this, but at least I can remind myself that I still have a brain.

No glitter in the gutter.

Shit. Shit. Fuck. Just fuck it all to hell.

Now that I have that out of my system…

I had to leave my old blog because too many people knew who I was and it was too suffocating. I didn’t have the freedom to write what or how I wanted because I was afraid people would judge me. I lost the comfortable cloak of anonymity that the internetz is supposed to provide. I lost the ability to just be me.

So, the bi-polar monster has struck again. Things started to become difficult once more, and getting out of bed stopped being worth it. I wish I could find a purpose in life. I wish I could stop being bi-polar. I wish for so many things.

I’ve already gained 15 pounds by just sitting around being a slob. I hate feeling like this. I can’t believe everything came crashing down around me, when I was at the height of my game. School was going great, I had just got a great job…but there was something missing inside. It all felt fake. I was subverting how I was really feeling. The truth is, I’ve been miserable for so long. I don’t know how to be happy by myself anymore. I don’t know how to make myself do things for the sake of just doing them. I’m a failure, a disappointment. I’m such a loser.

I can’t do this anymore. I need to wake up tomorrow, brush my teeth, and hit the pavement to find a job. Preferably on a horse ranch, under a big open sky, doing manual labor. Physical, honest work where I don’t need to think.

Holy crap. I just checked Craigslist and there was an ad for a job working with horses. Call me crazy (heh) but I went ahead and shot them an email. Worst case scenario, they don’t like me. Or the job is already taken. Best case: I start working again. Find a reason to roll out of bed in the morning.

I fucked up, I did. I really did. But I need to stop feeling sorry for myself and own up to the fact that I’m a grown-ass woman. And that means clearing out of this well-worn groove in my bed, and throwing this computer out the window.

All in good time…all in good time. I remember reading during the golden age of Islam, the treatment in psychiatric hospitals for the patients was just good old fashioned manual labor, productive labor. That cured most of the problems. I think that’s the problem with me. I just get trapped inside my head too much. I end up in stifling white-collar jobs that utilize only my big ole’ slightly sick, damaged brain. And that’s when all the hell starts.

The happiest I am is when I’m moving. I need to do something that gets me moving. Then I can go from there.

Tomorrow, tomorrow is a new day. It’s not too late. I can reverse this. I can be good again.