Stigma Fighters: Michelle Lee Gagnon

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Stigma Fighters: Michelle Lee Gagnon

CRASH

I’m just going to let loose. Forget about punctuation marks and such. I’m spewing a hornet’s nest from my mouth. I’ve been riding a manic high for three days now, one I haven’t felt in over a year. Oh the things I got done and the creative projects and I wanted to skip in the sunshine and I finished writing long stale books of mine and oh the beauty and color of it all. CRASH! I knew I was bound to relapse eventually. In bed all day and welcome to sob fest 2015. I can’t do anything and I don’t want to talk or get up. Leave me the fuck alone all of you!

I’ve made amazing strides this past year; almost don’t recognize my former self anymore. I wrote two books, quit smoking after 30 years, I’m dieting and exercising, trying to be more social after almost losing friends. But it’s never enough is it? I have fixed and worked on every angle and aspect of myself and my life and my way of thinking and I’ve pitched myself out the door and worked through the days that were hard step by step. I could talk myself through just about anything.

I have tried harder than I thought anyone ever could. And my support team has loaded it on. Fix this fix that oh this is next for you. I became so positive I thought I wasn’t bipolar anymore. But even being scrutinized under a fucking microscope there’s still things to fix. God I’ve tried. Someone please know how fucking hard I’ve tried every second of every day. Please know somebody, anybody! Maybe there are just a few things I can’t fix.

I won’t be skinny Michelle with the perfect bikini body ever again because the medicines keep me from losing weight and I’m just spinning my wheels with this dieting, always failing and going over my points every day. I’ve even given my scale to my mother and kept all sweets out of the house. I am so tired. No one could possibly know the inner defeat and negativity and rage I feel all at the same time. Oh how I want to please and astound everyone. No one ever wanted it more. But I can’t get there. It’s not true that God doesn’t give you more than you can handle. My plate has been severely overflowing for a long while now and the hits just keep on coming.

There’s supposed to be a path revealed to me and he is saving me for something amazing. I don’t have any faith anymore. I’m getting old and the two dreams I’ve had all my life never come true. I know my writing is a gift from God and it is solely my life line and my only survival kit. But what about me? I got left behind I guess. I’ve done too many things wrong in my life. I sob my sorry’s over and over like a god damned chant. It’s like magic voodoo I am performing as I sit on my bedroom floor rocking back and forth. I can’t fix anything else. I don’t want to do this anymore. Yay for my amazing strides that I never got a sticker chart for or a high five for. Yes I know I sound like a child.

For every little accomplishment a thousand among the day, more than a normal person could ever possibly understand. Each little thing magnified a million times larger than a little thing should be. Like washing the dishes or taking a shower or doing a workout or keeping my eyes open or grocery shopping. Things I could never do before. Do I feel I’m entitled to something? Absofuckinglutely! I’ve grieved so hard and so long and I’ve lost so many people and so much of my relationships are gone that I can’t get back and I am alone 90 percent of the time. I live with my sister and she goes in her room all of the time. Because I talk to her and distract her too much because I am so attention and conversation starved.

I don’t mean to bother anyone and I try to keep to myself. The other ten percent I’m writing or on the computer writing or staring at face book at all the amazing lives that everyone seems to have. Oh the disappointment over what I have become. I had the world in the palm of my hands and now I guess I’m equal to a bottom feeder? I am on disability and suck money out of the government and take it from people who truly earn their money and it doesn’t matter that I did work for so many years in human services. People think I can still work and that I’m just a leach. They don’t see the shaking hands, the exhaustion from seven medicines, the sleeping in the daytime because of severe insomnia and roaming the night. The panic attacks, the icy cold fear in social situations, being petrified ill do or say the wrong thing, knowing others don’t like me and trying to fit in. I can’t even drive on the highway anymore. My performance at work would be embarrassing to say the least. I’m lucky I kept my jobs over the years and I did manage to work, as I was always sick or depressed. This was before my diagnosis or medications. Now I can’t go even two days without meds or I end up a puddle on the floor literally. If one more person tries to positive coach me through it all I’m going to throw up in their face.

They want me healthy. So do I! It’s not like I’m doing all this on fucking purpose. Take now to work on you. What do you think I’ve been doing all this time? I’m sorry I’m such a loser when I used to be “somebody.” And most of all I will never be loved by a man again and ill die alone, because no one wants a fat girl with bipolar. No this rant is not self pity. It’s a long time coming after being stellar enough to win a fucking academy award for too long. I have a structured routine that others think is not enough, but I made it and its safe and its comfort and it is what I know at the present time. But this is all just me having too much free time on my hands to think when everyone else is busy with life and real things. They are under stress and I have to accept that it’s why we hardly talk or visit with one another. No one respects me anymore.

But I feel I deserve a hell of a lot of respect for surviving and enduring myself on the front lines of battle. I wear combat boots every day. Everyone is like what happened to Michelle, why does she not have a life and never go out of the house. People talk about me you know says a sibling. They think there’s something really wrong with you. Wait did he just say that really?? My own brother. Can I scream or hysterically laugh right in his fucking face? I’ve been working on me and doing so good and that is what everyone wanted I thought. I was feeling somewhat proud. Thanks for ripping that away.

Oh God someone please understand, please don’t let me be the only one, please have mercy on my forsaken and jaded soul. I’ve been punished for long enough. Don’t I deserve anything at all? I know I’m blessed with the amazing people I have in my life. But sometimes it isn’t enough! I want something for me please. Is it too much to ask. I guess it is. The old me is gone and I can’t get her back or fix anything else. All the tools in my toolbox seem to be broken from overuse. I need a break, something has to give. I know I’m such a burden but please bear with me. I hate this start and stop highway too. My pdoc told me I’m like a “breath of fresh spring air” last week. Now look at me. Another graceful fall from a pedestal other people put me on.

What kind of future do I have to look forward too? I try to stuff with the word alone. I shove it down my throat and try to accept it. Over 900 pages of poetry and a memoir I just got bound at staples. All the words that people drowned out or didn’t want to hear. It’s all I have. I’m just amazed that I’m fucking still here. How about we all are happy with that for a change? Imagine spending 24 hours with me. You never could. There. Now you know. I’m forced to do that every single day. Yes I know I sound like a tape recording and I complain a lot in my down phases, but hey they don’t last half near as long as they used to. That medicine is a miracle. Finally the right combination. But four of them stopped working long ago. Well don’t try going off of those or you will screw everything up again and have another breakdown. We don’t need another family suicide victim. I haven’t thought about hurting myself in almost two years. But thanks for reminding me it’s always an option.

Yes I know I remind you all of them and how they didn’t make it. And I love you all so much that it aches inside and no I don’t ever want to say goodbye to any of you and yes I do realize how lucky I am and no I don’t want to go to hell and yes somehow I went from wanting to die every day my whole life, to a person who is among the living and learning. Hey quick question? Did you know trying to live is actually a million times harder than trying to die is? Oh wait that thought would never cross your mind, because your normal and I’m so not. I guess all the love in the world won’t let me let go, ever.

(Note: This does not pertain to everyone in my life. A few have told me how proud they are of me.) Thank you all for listening even though I sound like a raving lunatic! Please forgive me for subjecting all of you to this tantrum.

 

12509289_10206736481703771_3040353167975001192_nAlong my journey through life I have met people that have influenced my life in unique ways. People living against all odds yet have had the amazing will to fight for survival. People full of insight, wisdom and courage. Life has certainly been put in perspective through 20 years of working in the human services field. Thank you to all of you for teaching me about real life. I was diagnosed bipolar at age 29. I have a strong support team and am very blessed. My friends and family mean the world to me. In truth it’s not just the medications that help me to remain stable. It’s always been my strong love for the English language. It keeps my firing burning and saves me at my darkest moments. I wish to even help one person get through their day, through the words that I share. I am 42 years old. I have a Bachelor’s Degree in English and Philosophy and a strong background in Journalism and Psychology. My influences include Kay Redfield Jamison, Charles Bukowski, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Anais Nin and Emily Dickinson, to name a few. I am a new self published author, of Mistress of Moods Poetry Collection, available now on Amazon kindle. I have written and bound five other poetry anthologies, a book of prose and one memoir, that have yet to be published. I am currently working on a sequel to my first memoir. I run 3 blogs of poetry on Face book in my spare time.

By | 2016-03-26T09:07:20+00:00 March 26th, 2016|Categories: Bipolar, Stigma Fighters|1 Comment

One Comment

  1. Nabilah Safa March 26, 2016 at 9:32 am - Reply

    Thank you for writing this, Michelle.

    “Did you know trying to live is actually a million times harder than trying to die is?” This quote especially hit me. I have felt this way so many times. I think this is the hardest thing for people to understand sometimes.

    To make it through each day, sometimes each hour, is absolutely exhausting. And we all deserve a gold star for being here haha.

    I just wanted to say I really enjoyed reading this.

    Nabilah

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