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Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Can we somehow come up with a way to have 30 hours in a day instead of 24?

First things first, it's been entirely too long since I blogged--as per usual, haha. This time around, however, the craziest of my schedule is about 90-95% to blame. Here's the thing--I LOVE being busy, I thrive when working on roughly 5-20 projects, I'm so much happier overall when my life is hectic. Once again, this is why I will forever and always be grateful that I was properly diagnosed (once I took the initiative to get myself tested, since my family kept me from doing so for quite sometime---or you know, the first 23 years of my life) with moderate to severe ADHD and set up on a medication schedule. It took very little time--maybe a couple of months to get the strength and dosage quantity ideal for my body, mind and schedule--but I never regret going through 5 rounds of testing followed by a stair step method of trying out the medication to get to where I am today. People hear about the 5 rounds of testing and they outwardly, dramatically groan as if to sympathize with me. I then get to correct them and explain that, not only is this the proper process of diagnosing and treating anything medical and/or psychological, but also that I requested that my doctor test me for as much as he saw fit. On my mother's side, I have an aunt who is severely bipolar with schizophrenic tendencies (the bipolar disorder was exacerbated by improper medication and entirely too much of it from a very young age; the schizophrenic tendencies were created almost entirely by these medication issues--especially after they started being obvious, and the solution chosen for her was to medicate more and more); on my father's side, I have an alcholic aunt (my dad's twin sister actually) who began her struggles at the age of nine. My dad's brother is a whole different story--I'm not even sure what his issues may be, especially since I haven't seen him since I was roughly 12 or 13, by his choice. For sure, he's got some deep-seated repression issues. My mother's mother is very likely bipolar herself, but she's never been diagnosed--I haven't spoken to her since Christmas 2005, when I was 19. She has missed so much--as did my grandfather because he refused, until very recently, to even attempt to reach out to us, citing that "he had to live with her" (ie, my grandmother) as the reason (so yes, he lacked any balls at all). He and I have reconciled (he also now speaks to my mother, whom he didn't speak to in this time either), but I will never trust much of my extended family ever again. The decision to cut ties was pretty mutual, though I have no idea if my grandmother realizes this--she probably thinks she just gave us a big "F you" this entire time. Sometimes, I'm sad when I remember that she missed my graduation from Ole Miss (she grew up right outside of Oxford in Abbeville--in the house I lived in for about nine months in 2005, right before everything went to hell with the family)--as did my grandfather, who is the very reason I'm a 3rd generation Ole Miss Rebel in the first place.
{Side note: I love this story. My grandfather grew up in Chicago, and when it came time for him to pick a university, he wanted to find the most southern school he could find, with the perfect southern hospitality and a less hectic way of life than he was accustomed to in his youth. Naturally, he chose Ole Miss and fell in love with it, which admittedly is pretty easy to do. When my mother was looking around at universities, my grandfather said--only half joking--that she could go to any school as long as they didn't have a tiger as a mascot . She visited and actually really liked Alabama, but her heart loved Ole Miss. When I was college "hunting", I simply stepped on the campus early in the morning to go to the Turner Center to work out--oh, the dedication and drive of my teens!-- and knew I was home.}

Not only that, but my 2os are something they know nothing about, nor have really bothered to ask about in any way. Though my decision not to speak to them was rash, I don't regret it nor do I think I was being immature by deciding to cut ties with them--the words they said to me can never be unspoken, and the emotions behind them make it impossible to believe they used those words to achieve anything other than hurting me as much as they could. I may be stronger now, and their words would not cut so deep if they said them now, but even if it were the case that this falling out happened now as opposed to 6 years ago, the end result would be the same. I've never hated as she hates, and I hope to never hurt anybody as they hurt me.

But I digress! The above stories make up a good bit of why I'm happy I went through such rigorous testing and now, nearly 2 years later, I'm still so proud that I got tested in the first place. My love of being busy would not be possible if I could not stay on task, and the anxiety and depression would creep up much too quickly. Nothing is perfect, of course, nor will I ever be completely free from that anxiety or depression or so many other things, but I can handle them now. I get to win over and over again in the battle for my sanity. Nothing can take that away from me. I can be an individual and not be afraid of who that person may be. Of course, when I fall, I fall down pretty hard. I don't have relapses and episodes every other day anymore, so every few months when I have the feeling that I may relapse at all, I just down completely. I'd rather feel intense sadness or pain or anything that constitutes a real feeling than to feel, quite literally nothing at all. Luckily, I'm getting much better at keeping these at bay these days, and I have incredible friends who help pull me through them when I need help. My friends are wonderful for so many reasons, but if I had to choose a single reason why they hold such a special place in my heart, it is how willing they are to simply listen. Words can sometimes fail us, but that true, patient, loving ability to listen--completely and without personal motive--well, all I know is that for me, that has yet to fail me. It's not that I need to feel important (though it doesn't hurt!), or even special or unique in my pain; I've learned that I sometimes just need to be reminded that I am heard when I need it the most. Sad as it may be, I've accepted that there is a very good chance that I'll never stop needing--albeit, only occasionally--that I am real. That I am here. That I exist. There are worse things to need.

But yes, busy doesn't even begin to describe the chaos I call my life these days. Controlled, well organized chaos that is...covered in post it notes. I thrive on this, and I have people who understand me. People that enjoy my company, and love me. People that don't mind having to remind me that not only am I real, but that they wouldn't want to live their lives devoid of my presence. I wouldn't want to imagine my life without them in it either.

Because of these things, I am grateful. More than anything, these things and people remind me that I've found peace within myself, something I for so long didn't believe existed. And, of course, that even if I'm in a place full of anxiety, there is always a way to find that peace again. I'm capable of reaching it, even if it seems impossible to do so at the moment. I know I can, because I've done it before. I've always had help, but I'm no longer seeking to reach a point of not needing that help. I finally believe that needing others means you are that much stronger, and very, very real.