The Wrong Word (A gift of my Psych meds)

Chair.  

I’d meant to say “table.” But it doesn’t come out like that. Once again, for the 507th time, my children correct me. “Mom. You mean put the folding table down, right?” I’m pretty sure I’m in a constant state of rolling my inner eyes.

There’s a weird side effect of my particular psych medication. Inability to recall words (and use the wrong ones). Which is frustrating, considering words are necessary for speaking, thinking, writing, and surviving. But I guess if I have to pick “can’t find the right word” or “I can’t keep thrusting this wrecking ball on my loved ones. I need to remove myself from this equation”....well. You can guess which is the lesser of two shitpiles.

It means that I go through stretches of time where I’m afraid any semblance of creativity in the form of the English language has abandoned me like a fickle fog. Leaving me to trudge around in the muck of “Can I actually convey what my mind is thinking right now? Am I going to keep forgetting these words and missing the dialogue inside my head?”

It only gets worse when I’m frustrated as hell because every pencil left on the ground means our dog suddenly decides she’s a beaver and chews them all up, only to barf all over the floor. I start shouting “Wa....this....mmm....m....fmarker...needs to get put behind in the drawer bin...”
*blank stares from my offspring* which ticks me off even more.
I meant to say “You need to pick these pencils up and put them in the school drawers.” (we homeschool. So it’s important to be organized and not let the dog snarf down every drawing implement we possess. Because standards, people.) I have to stop. Carefully find the words, and try again-hoping my words don’t come out a jumbled puddle for the umpteenth time.

But you know what’s better? Not throwing my marriage license or the title to our car in the trash because I couldn’t stand clutter. Or the fact that I don’t go into a blackout rage because toys were left out on the floor of the kids’ shared bedroom. This “forgets the words and their order” medication means that I can find a new barometer of balance in the intricate web of my brain. And I pray to God that I can fit in a few words here and there that make sense.

That desperate and exhausting pendulum of deep-seated suicidal depression and rapid-cycling hypomania gets to be reigned in. Given boundaries. And while the resulting state of psyche isn't perfect, it’s a hell of a lot better than the swinging wrecking ball of bipolar disorder dragging me in whatever direction it pleases.
So I’m learning. Learning how to speak. Learning how to trust my voice in the midst of feeling like I’m so untrustworthy to myself.  Because now I have a partner, a psychiatrist, a prescribing nurse, a naturopath, and a faith community that gathers around me and gives me the safe space and encouragement I need to keep doing what is necessary to be alive. To be a mom who is present. A spouse who is invested. A member of the community that takes care of herself well and focuses that energy in loving others well.

So...FORKS at the floor, peeps. (Find your healthy, people. It’s worth it.)
-Kileah

p.s. Hey there. It's been what...like 6 years or something ridiculous since I last posted here? Anyhow. So much has transpired. I'll update slowly. Maybe. Probably. Also? You are loved.

This post is to participate with Ravishly.com’s focus this month on #MentalHealthMay