bi-polar, bipolar, change, comfort, mental disease, mental health, mental illness, stress, truth
My husband and I, in one of our epic Christmases, gave my daughter a kitchen to play at. As she was two at the time we didn’t spend a lot of money on thing. But for my daughter it was a favorite. Because, like all children, she grew we ended up giving that kitchen to my best friend for her children. Today, while driving by my friend’s house, I saw that kitchen on the side of the road right beside the large trash cans. My friend was getting rid of that precious kitchen. And it took all that I am not to stop, rifle through my friend’s garbage and take that kitchen back. My daughter wouldn’t play with it even I did bring it home and I believe my husband would get his usual ‘have you lost your mind’ look.
I know that every mom has these moments. I know that every mom at some point has her heart broken by the realization that their child is getting older. I know this and still I wanted to dig through that trash.
The truth of the matter, when we get right down to it, is that I don’t like change. And when I say I don’t like change I mean this in its entirety. I wash my hair once or twice a week because this keeps my hair looking good and uniform. I have two pairs of jeans and yet I wear jeans almost every day of the week. I don’t like to go to a new place, whether that is a restaurant, tourist attraction, and certainly a city. I don’t like going places because I have to sleep in beds that are different than mine. I don’t like to switch doctors, even when I don’t like them, because the fear of the change is greater than the disgust of the treatment. I don’t like to clean on Mondays because that isn’t the day I clean. I don’t like change and while I will often push myself for my family the truth is, I could survive never leaving the chair I am currently sitting in.
This wasn’t always the case. For the majority of my life I have dreamed of the places I would go, the person that I would become, the future that would be all mine. For a great period of my life I actually moved at least once year. I wore beautiful clothes, had nice haircuts, and a toned and tanned body. I had dinner parties and went to clubs. So while this doesn’t necessarily define or disprove my fear of change, it does show that I have changed.
Somewhere about three years ago, I wanted things to change into an area that wouldn’t change. I don’t have to think very hard to admit that this aversion to change was a result of an out of control mental episode. During that episode I took risks that would later scare me. My children, always so supportive and loving, were beginning to notice that their mother wasn’t like any other. When I have a manic episode so many things change so quickly that I can’t always remember details until I see that result long after the episode has quietly gone away.
Currently I am dealing with another episode, although this one is very different from the one that occurred three years ago. This one is all about change at its root. The changes that my body has recently gone through. The changes that my mind has taken has resulted in a rather disturbing trend; I get virtually a panic attack, with stomach aches, headaches, and pain on levels that is hard to describe, every time I even think of leaving my home. Whether I am going to my child’s doctor, my doctor, my mother’s home, the grocery store, my friend’s house, the panic starts and the breakdown makes that single step towards a different view.
Change is hard. Unless you are young, believe in your own immortality, and have the desire for a new something, you probably can acknowledge that in some aspect change is not something that you seek out. Some people like to move, yet moving is listed as one of the most stressful things that we know of. Change is hard. And unless you stay in your chair, as I really wish that I could, it is also unavoidable.
So while I won’t go to my friend’s and rifle through her trash, I will have to continually find a way to change.