Incredible kids who are kind, brilliant, and the brightest light in this world – check

Beautiful house in the suburbs with a great school district – check

Steady and fulfilling career, getting to work with some of the greatest people – check

A collection of the most compassionate people I call family and friends – check

Reasonably healthy body with manageable diseases…well, mostly – check

I started this blog to help myself and others create calm amongst the chaos. That which lives inside us and the inescapable chaos surrounding us. The chaos that feels like it’s closing in. Getting darker. Where feeling anything but being terrified, horrified, angry, and helpless, is to be ignorant or disillusioned. It’s all so heavy. And it all feels so hopeless.

I don’t know a solitary cause, but as beautiful and put-together as my little life looks on the outside, on the inside, it feels like it’s all crashing down.

The structures and love are stable for the kids; that’s the ultimate priority.

But I…I’m falling apart. My dreams for what this blog would be. Gone.

Every bit of energy I’ve got is funneled into being there with and for the kids. Any residual energy goes into work. And the final remnants, if there are any, go into my relationships.

So when the kids are gone or asleep, the workday is over, and I’ve disengaged with others…it’s just me. Or what feels like a shell of who I used to be.

We’re all struggling. How could we not be? And I don’t claim mine is worse than others. In fact, mine is wrapped in guilt, with the knowing that things are so much worse for others.

What a privilege it is to have my challenges while also having medical care, a warm home, steady income, beautiful people in my life, and a greater sense of safety than so many.

I’m not going to list all the things that weigh on me. One, because it would sound like a woe-is-me tribute. And two, because ultimately, they aren’t the entire cause of my implosion.

My bipolar is.

My CPTSD is.

Yeah, a match made in heaven hell.

I’ve been no stranger to therapy for the past 14 years of my life, but the past two have been highly intensive, as it’s been necessary.

• EMDR therapy to unravel the problematic circuitry created by years of assorted abuse and traumatic events.
• Couples therapy which, from my side feels like attempts to figure out how to help my wife live with a partner who’s avoidant, anxious, and causing emotional whiplash on a daily basis.
• Talk therapy, where I try to make sense in this seemingly senseless world, seek to find the capability to reconnect with my estranged parents, and calm my perpetually conflicted heart.
• Psychiatric therapy to apply pharmaceuticals to balance my brain so I can find some semblance of a baseline and attain a level of functionality.

Even with these, my life is like climbing a rocky, perpetually muddy mountain. Sometimes, I make it to beautiful plateaus. With grass and rivers and trees. Where the sun shines, the birds sing, and life seems like it might be ok.

These plateaus could last anywhere from minutes to weeks.

Then the sun gets hotter, the birds sing louder. The world begins buzzing with this intoxicating energy. I thought I felt alive before but oh my gosh, now I’m elevated, elated, and somehow, on top of the world. Nothing can bring me down. I’m unstoppable.

This hypomania can last days to weeks.

But inevitably, the clouds roll in, the rain begins to pour, and the pleasant plateau disintegrates. I’m back to climbing the mountain, digging my toes into the vertical climb. But the downpour doesn’t let up. I keep slipping. I try to make it look like I’m not struggling, painting the picture of a perfect life, but I’m losing my grip and know I’m seconds away from losing my footing. Once hairline fractures, the spiderweb cracks start shooting across my charade.

And then, the rocks crumble, the ground gives way, and I start going down. I claw through the mud and swing my arms around for something or someone to grab onto. Despite fighting the downfall, I keep losing more and more ground. I can’t keep up the beautiful façade anymore. Tears slip out at inopportune times, and I retreat to hide the wreckage. If there are witnesses, I explain them away to some external, relatable struggle.

Sometimes I think about just letting go, surrendering to the drop. But I can’t. Because there are two little people whom I would climb a mountain of fire for. I’ll climb through anything, always for them, as long as I’m breathing.

I keep going down, and then I’ll feel a hand on my arm. They’ll catch me and stop my descent. I’ll try to wriggle out of their grasp, I want to save them from me, but they’ll dig their fingers in and pull me up. I’ll scream for them to just let me fall, it’s what’s best. They’ll refuse to let me go.

Maybe I’ll tell them about the rain and how I can’t find my footing. They’ll offer me shelter, give me some food, make me feel safe, like I can summon the strength to climb again. Sometimes I manage to stay that long and climb back up with renewed resolve. Other times, I’ll sneak out in the middle of the night because the longer I stay, the more I put them at risk of sliding down the mountain with me.

This spiraling into depths can last seconds to months.

I used to think eventually, I’d make it to the summit. No more climbing, no more being washed away by torrential downpours. Maybe it would get windy, rainy, snowy still. Of course, it wouldn’t be all sunshine and flowers. But, I wouldn’t fear the fall. I could look over the edge and know I’m never going back down again.

But even with the best therapy, the most incredible support network, the most sophisticated cocktail of medications…I’ll never get there.

No matter where I am, it’s an endless climb. A muddy, ugly, isolating ascent. As inviting as the plateaus are, sometimes I refuse to stay long because I know it’s all bound to get washed away. Though, there are times where I do stop, take off my boots, and soak in as much as I can for even just a little a while. Just enough to hold onto, as I ascend toward the next one.

---

 I can’t keep writing like I’m on even, stable terrain. Because I’ve always been trying to clear these peaks, while inevitably slipping into deep crevasses.

So, I think instead of writing like I’ve conquered the climb, I’m resigning myself to offering field notes. They’re more likely to be documented on the climbs and plateaus. Silence is a reliable sign that a landslide has taken hold or I may be taking refuge in someone’s care.

Maybe others will find these field notes helpful in their mountaineering. Or maybe all these will be are simple scratches in the rock. Subtle signatures that I was here, only discovered if others climb a similar path.

The one thing about having this hideous disease that turns my brain against the world is that through the tsunami of pain, darkness, and seemingly endless despair, somehow I am fortunate enough that people exist who will brace themselves through the wind and rain to hold me up and pull me out from drowning. Their beautiful, strong souls shine through my carnage-cluttered mind.

 I owe my entire life to them.