Still Riding That Bipolar Train
Destination: Anywhere but Here
Emptiness fills itself with my soul.
But I’m okay. I’m always okay, even when I’m not.
That’s my mantra.
I go to sleep at night afraid of the monsters in my closet, under my bed, and in my dreams.
The monsters crafted from painful memory, regret, and trauma.
And the imagined monsters that prey on loneliness.
Those of paranormal origin.
I tell myself I have to wake up in the morning, knowing there’s nothing that I want to wake up for. Nothing to look forward to.
I’ll have my coffee, read a few chapters of a fictional world that’s more appealing than mine, push out a few freelance articles for my clients, go to the fitness center, make myself eat, take my meds, do my work for the bank, and then go to bed hollow to do it all again.
I heard somebody on TikTok today cry and say, “I’m not okay. I wake up to go to bed.”
*thumps chest* — I feel that in my soul.
I’m okay, though.
I have no desire to harm myself.
In fact, I have no desires at all.
A few weeks ago, my cousin came to town to take me to lunch. I hadn’t seen him in two years. He knew my family was leaving, and I think he felt a sense of responsibility to come to check on me. I’m grateful for that, even if it did feel weird. We don’t have a close relationship.
He chose a Mexican restaurant in Omaha, and as we sat there sipping our sodas and waiting for our tacos, he asked me why I wasn’t trying to date anybody.
I didn’t flinch or hesitate.
“I’m expired. I’ve used my chances. Even if someone did feel attracted to me enough to flirt, I’d have to wonder what was wrong with them. How damaged are they if they’re going to pursue someone as damaged as me? And even if they do think I’m pretty and charming and worth the hunt, as soon as they peeled back the layers to see me for who I am, after they’ve drawn my secrets from me under the illusion of trust, after they’ve skinned and filleted me, they’d leave because I’m not what they thought I was.”
“That’s kinda sad, Wendi.”
“That’s kinda true, Derek.”
The doctor sent me a message through OneChart to recommend cholesterol medicine. That was a wake-up call I didn’t want to answer. But I’ve opted out of the medicine. I’ve opted into the gym and a healthier diet.
High cholesterol? How old am I?
Why does 51 feel like 92?
I have never taken care of myself because I was naturally skinny — until I learned to eat my emotions. I lived on Mountain Dew, coffee, and candy bars. Never cared. I was still pretty enough for all the boys to chase me. Who needs healthy when you have youth?
That’s how I ended up with bones brittle enough to shatter when I slipped playing red-light-green-light with the grand-littles.
Now I care, but in a weird, weird way. It’s not as much “care” as it is fear — fear of aging. Fear of breaking.
I saw myself in the fitness room mirror this morning as I curled dumbbells. Really saw myself. The bags under my eyes were heavy from the lack of sleep due to nightmares. Without the magic of contour and concealer, my jowls looked heavy, drawing down my face. My hair, which was cut too short last time and boasts an all-new post-menopausal frizz, was in a state of disarray, made worse by the exercises that required me to lie down. My arms sagged.
Worse than that, I looked empty. I looked dark. I looked hollow. I looked sad.
I don’t always look that way. I’m good with makeup. A hair-straightening iron works wonders. I’m smart enough to wear 3/4 length sleeves on my shirts. I do know how to put myself together, and my Leo-infused mask of confidence is off the hook when it needs to be, but this morning, I was not put together.
How did I become this?
I was ashamed walking back to my apartment after my workout because I didn’t want anyone to see me. I quite literally hung my head and stared at the ground as I made my way back to my building. I still have an embarrassing limp from my shattered shinbones, even though it’s been two years — made worse by the damned squats and dead bugs I’m doing at the gym to try to get to a point where I can trust my ankle and knee, in spite of their screws. When I exercise, I snap, crackle, and pop as the metal rod pushes into the bone. But I do it so I maybe one day won’t limp.
Or break again.
Or die.
Nick said I should consider getting a wheelchair. I winced.
He winced back, but with a question mark at the end of it.
If I wanted to take myself somewhere — like to a craft show or convention, I couldn’t do it because, between my leg and my back, I couldn’t stand for more than 10 minutes.
He asked why I looked repulsed at the idea.
Because no one wants to flirt with an old woman in a wheelchair.
(If I’m not looking, why am I looking?)
“Mom,” he hedged, “It’s not because you’re old. It’s because you’re injured. If I crushed my leg and had to be in a wheelchair, would you think I was weak?”
I scoffed.
He raised an eyebrow, leaned forward with his elbow on his knee, and told me that for all I know, a strong, handsome, charismatic, loving man might be honored to push me along and pop wheelies with my wheelchair.
I rolled my eyes and huffed.
Lori said Nick was never meant to be my person — not the way he’d become in the past two years. He was meant to be a stepping stone, and I turned him into my rock.
I’ve spent my life leaning on men (I got it from my mamma), and I transferred that post-divorce energy, apparently, onto my son — the only one of my three children who gave a shit about where I’d go after my husband threw me out with the trash. (Not that my other two kids don’t care, but they care from a distance).
That is how my sister consoled me when I cried about him leaving, “He was never supposed to be your person. He is your child.”
She is a strong, independent woman. My Irish Twin. She doesn’t lean on anyone but herself. She doesn’t need to.
I don’t know how she does it.
I do not know how to be alone. I do not know how to live “for” me. I do not know how to find a sense of purpose when the only life form that craves my attention is my cat.
I know I mean the world to my grandkids… but they are no longer here. I do get to see them in 3 weeks, but when each hour lasts a day and each day lasts a year, three weeks is an eternity.
It all sounds bleaker than it is, really.
I’m just writing my way through as a way to expel the energy.
I bleed ink.
I’m not whining a “poor me” story. I’m venting. I’m thinking out loud. I’m making room for the light, so I’ll be ready for it when it returns.
I have an appointment with my psychiatrist on Monday.
All aboard the bipolar train.
I will ride this out, holding on, breathing deep, and coaching myself until the pendulum swings the other way.
And I know it will.
I’m okay.
I’m always okay.
Even when I’m not.
