I am more than knee deep in shit

So things at work are not going well to say the least! I had a project deadline of end August and I’m still busy with the project, nevermind starting the documentation necessary for close out (usually about a hundred pages) And I cannot go on because there are protests going on in my country so half of the people I need cannot be reached! This project has been going on for 2 years now and whenever I want to present my findings, it gets torn to pieces and I have to start over again! I am so over this, I just want it to be done but there is nothing I can do because no one can help me and I have run out of ideas. I don’t even know how to pray anymore :(.


My bipolar is trying to create a bigger problem so that I don’t have to face this one or maybe try and land me in hospital so that I have a legit excuse for not getting anywhere but I see the sneakyness and I’m trying to not go that route. Really trying… I also usually give up at this stage of the game but I’m not willing to do that either. I’ve considered cutting to get rid of the frustration but after years of cutting, the idea of taking a blade to my body has become foreign and dare I say too scary? Suicide also does not inspire me although it sounds attractive at this stage I just don’t have the guts to do it. So here I sit. In shit street. Nowhere to turn to. HELP



A rant about crippling pain

So I saw my psychologist two days back, we tried to get to the source of my pain, it was taxing and tough and I cried a lot. After an hour we ended up with me as a kid lying on my bed in the fetal position sobbing away. When I got home this is what I wrote in my journal:

 …All that I saw was my young self lying on my bed crying furiously at the injustice and the pain that won’t go away. The pain that made me wish myself dead…  The injustice in the world that I hated as a child, now being made a victim of. The intense anger at being held against my will in this victim role, not being able to rise above it all. To be untouchable. To be the strong woman who lifts others or of the mud, now myself in the thick of it and unable to escape it. Being proven only human. Not the super human I knew I was destined to be. Falling prey to human emotions. The anger, still raw and untainted by the ground which it has been buried deep under. If I had someone then to talk to me, to curb the hopelessness which spread like mould over the damp absorbing walls of my mind, turning me into a sort of super human, but not the good kind. The kind that will always want to return to its own waste. With all my creative power I’m recreating the death of my innocence and failing to resurrect it again. So I wade through the waters as the tide rises. Hoping that this time it would swallow me whole, spit out my bones for my parents to mourn over.


Well that was rather disturbing…

In my previous blog; I’m not okay, not in the least, I wrote about how bad I was feeling. Well thing is it got worse, the dip became a hole and and the hole a very deep ocean with me at the bottom (with no gills). I started questioning my existence and even entertained thoughts of how to exit this life. My reasoning was as follows: People always say to commit suicide is selfish because of the pain you cause your loved ones. But what about how selfish they are for expecting you to continue living for their sake when you are in constant pain? The pain of severe depression is like nothing I have ever experienced in life, at each moment you feel that you cannot continue anymore. My husband tries to understand this, but let’s be honest, unless you have been there you cannot fathom the pain and desperation.

Weird thing is during this depression I still did everything that I was supposed to do up to the last day. That is good i guess, it has the disadvantage of people thinking you’re okay because you’re still functional when you are everything but okay. I remember Sunday night I went really deep, I stood up after writing in my journal and just collapsed on the floor. I just lay there crying. I was mourning…


Mourning the death of my megalomania. The idea that somehow all this pain will someday be worth something when it precipitates into a story that brings hope to people. Something in me just realized that my existence will be extraordinarily tough and a constant battle, but not spectacular. All this pain would have no value, it is just part of being me. Ordinary me, that will some day die and have a small funeral.

It is weird how my megalomania kept me alive. It is as if somewhere in my life my psyche decided to construed this idea of greatness in order to make the suffering bearable and someone just came and pulled that brick out of my wall, bringing the whole house down.

I am slowly making peace with the fact that being a wife and a daughter is enough reason to stay alive. No I’m lying, I haven’t even started accepting it.

not listening

Lamotrigine and contraceptives (Nuvaring)

So I just found out that my Nuvaring (contraceptive of “choice”) interacts with my Epitec (Lamotrigine). The Epitec may lower the efficacy of the Nuvaring and the Nuvaring can cause depression or mood swings.  Aaaargghhhh! There is just no fukn winning is there?? I feel like this is my mood stabilizer soap opera all over again. Thing is, I have sex regularly since I’m married (Not saying that that is the rule, it just is in my case. I’m having regular sex cos I’m in a stable relationship where morning glory and the like has to be entertained.) I’ve tried the Implanon (implant in your arm that last 3 years) and that made me super depressed. I then considered the Mirena but the gynecologist said it will do the same. Someone suggested the copper -T (spelling?) but the idea freaks me out. So any suggestions? Plz fellow bloggers I need help here, and no condoms won’t solve the problem.

not pregnant.gif


I just lost 8 months… :(

Went to the beach saturday, parked the car, put my handbag in the boot. Had a lovely walk and when I came back I found that someone had broken into the car and stolen my bag. A lot of stuff was in there like a brand new damn expensive lipstick (Estee Lauder), my wallet with all my bank cards and my driver’s license, ofcourse a very fancy handbag but most of all, the biggest loss: My journal… An Alice in wonderland themed Moleskine. It was almost full, few pages left. It contained daily entries from October last year.

I wrote anything and everything in that journal! I was obsessed with it and it kept all my secrets. See the reason this is such a big loss is that one day I would like to write a book about my life and the wisdom I’ve gained but my memory sucks so I penned down every thought in my precious… Now a very busy, adventure-filled 8 months is gone. Just like that. It is probably in a dustbin somewhere. All I can do is pray that God will remind me of the important stuff when I need it. Ugh!!!


I already have a new journal, I bought my next one a while ago because it was just so beautiful and the last pages of my stolen one was in sight. But now I don’t know if it is such a good idea to carry my life in my handbag with no backup. Hence why I’m considering journaling electronically.  Thins is there is something therapeutic to writing, to seeing your thoughts fill up a book. Holding my super fancy pen in my hand. Watching my handwriting change with my mood…

My worst fear is that one day somebody finds it and publishes all my dark secrets but that’s the bipolar paranoia talking  probably. Talking about bipolar, I’m seeing my new psychiatrist tomorrow, I feel pretty euthymic (stable) so hopefully he will just give me a new script but leave everything as it is. It’s an hour appointment because it is my first appointment with him. I dunno what we’re gonna talk about for an hour, it’s not like I can remember on what meds I’ve been in the past 6 years. (there are a few that stand out, because they ruined my life like seroquel) I Know this psychiatrist (kinda), He is a long time friend of the in-laws. He and my husband get along very well, in fact they’re very similar. If he is half the man my husband is, I’ll be fine.

I want to write a post on how I don’t feel like a real bipolar since I haven’t ever experienced elation, only depression and hypomanic episodes with mixed features (like a depressed mood). Are there any of you who also feel like you aren’t really bipolar? plz comment or inbox me I would love to talk to you.

Okay that’s my rant for the day, as always thanks for reading!


Close to the scene of the crime… (talking about my suicide attempt for the first time)

Exactly two years ago, I was in this city, also with my husband on a business trip, same street just 2 blocks up. Two years ago I attempted suicide. My husband found me passed out on the bed, I’d taken about 40 tablets, I wanted to take all 90 I had spread out on my bed but I passed  out before I could get to all of them. That was God’s grace. I remember the day so vividly. I woke up the morning and checked the internet to see if I had passed my exam (honours). I had failed, although I went in with a 70%, I didn’t get the minimum of 40% needed in the exam. I knew why I failed the exam, I had been so doped up on meds while I was writing.

I couldn’t even drive to campus, much less write an exam, but I did.

I should’ve asked for a sick test rather.

Back to the day of the attempt. After getting my exam results, I had a panic attack and after recovering from that I decided a bath would do me good. I stayed in the bath for about three hours, thinking about the repercussions of failing this subject.

My future seemed gloomy and the challenges ahead insurmountable. Weakness took over and as the day progressed I became smaller and the world with all its monsters bigger.

There was another factor which contributed to my thoughts and emotions spiraling out of control, I had stopped taking my effexor (venlafaxine) that morning. I knew I was supposed to do it gradually while in hospital, but my psychiatrist didn’t want to book me in. (I begged him to book me in) I told the bastard I was suicidal and I listened to his conversation with the nurse who told him that they have space at the moment but he said no it is fine I can wait till  next monday (it was tuesday) to come to hospital. He fucked up good by not booking me in. He said I should lower my effexor dose while I wait to be admitted. Problem is the pharmacy didn’t have the lower dose available and I hadn’t been warned about the wicked withdrawal symptoms you have when stopping effexor (another reason why I call him a bastard).

By the afternoon I was losing my mind. I couldn’t string one rational thought together. My emotions were spinning inside and I felt that God had left me. I decided I can’t breathe anymore, I need rest from this life. I didn’t think of it as killing myself, I thought of it as just ending the unbearable pain. I didn’t consider the impact my death would have on my husband and family. I was in a state of mind I had never experienced before. By the time I was sitting on my bed counting my pills and planning which to take first my friend messaged me. I blatantly told her “okay I have to go take all my pills now, bye” Maybe that was my survival instinct clawing its way through the dense fog of batshit crazy but it didn’t work. She didn’t realize what I meant with “all my pills”.

I started with my mood stabilizers, then my benzos (calming meds and sleeping pills) then I moved on to the lithium. Which I believed would seal the deal. I hadn’t taken enough of them before I passed out.

I remember my husband screaming at me to wake up. I remember my husband dragging me down three flights of stairs. I remember being in an ambulance. Next memory came two days later. A government hospital. Cold.

As soon as the nurse believed I was awake for good. I was kicked out of the bed and told to go sit in the waiting room, the psychiatrist would come see me. I sat there for 6 hours, so cold.

My mouth was black from the activated carbon they had given me to stop my system from absorbing all the meds. I was blissfully unaware of this tell-tale sign of why I’m at hospital. The looks I got from the other patients waiting to see a doctor is what got to me the most. Thing is I’m privileged enough to have a medical aid, but I was admitted at a government hospital because the med aid doesn’t cover suicide attempts. They could smell the priviledge on me and didn’t approve of me taking up precious space in the qeue. After asking for a blanket for the 100th time I was told there isn’t even enough blankets for the patients in the wards so I have no chance of getting a blanket.

I was alone, My husband left my side after I had been awake for about 30 minutes. I could hear the anger-fear-anguish in his voice as he told me that he was going home to get some sleep. He will be back later. I was alone with my thoughts for those six hours.

When the psychiatrist (still in training) finally came to see me I had already gathered from what I saw around me that I didn’t want to stay here for longer than what was necessary so I told her I wouldn’t do it again and that I will be under constant supervision till I’m admitted to the private psych hospital on Monday. This was true. My parents had flown down to be with me. So she gave in to my plea and said she will discharge me when my husband comes back. I tried phoning him from borrowed cell phones (a scarce thing in a government hospital) But he didn’t answer till 3 hours later. More time for me to ponder about the meaning of life. When he finally came back I was discharged into his care. We didn’t speak for the rest of the day.

Later that day I got a call from my in-laws telling me that if I ever pulled a stunt like again they would give me a hiding. They were trying to be casual about it. They’ve never been able to talk to me about my bipolar, nevermind my suicide attempt. My parents didn’t phone me. They spoke to my husband to organize their trip to come visit us. little did I know that my father in law had phoned me while I was in hospital shitting them out for having such a daughter that would do this to his son.

I’m tired now, and frankly too upset to tell you the rest of the story. I will tell you the rest in my next post. All I can say is that the following weeks were a living hell. Stay tuned if you’re considering suicide, you need to hear what I have to say. Forgive for ending on this dark note, but my hands are dead, I cant type further.

Join me!

So I use this blog to tell of my experiences with bipolar disorder and share memories that influenced my life and made me who I am. This process of talking about what happened facilitates the recovery process.

time to shine

If you want to join me on this blog by contributing your stories, comment and I will contact you. This site is meant to be place where you can rant! by sharing our stories, we help others realize that they are not alone and proves that recovery is possible. Hope to hear from you soon.

Welcome phrase in different languages. Word clouds concept.