I originally started this post on 07-19-2020. Lots has happened since, but I still needed to continue this. Just keep that in mind when you read the this one next paragraph.
After a short conversation with my mother on the phone and some interesting clarity provided by Art on 07-19-2020, I am really leaning toward mental illness. Specifically, Bipolar Disorder. This is not a spiritual awakening.
Okay. I don’t really believe that either. The main reason I was finally able to convince myself that all this crap is real is the documentation of all the repeating numbers I have been seeing for the last three years straight. It would be different if I sat staring at the clock waiting for the time to hit 11:11 and 11:22, etc. But, I don’t. I bet you don’t either.
I cannot fake that shit. I cannot make that shit up when I have the screenshots and pictures to prove it. Bipolar Disorder my ass.
And I am not the only one, am I? There are a bunch of you reading this now that know exactly what I am talking about. But, let me delve into this a bit further.
My Bipolar Disorder symptoms started when I was a toddler according to my mother. I still have a scar on my left hand from where she said I would bite when I had anxiety. I would cry out of the blue for no reason at all and this continued from then. I was told I was too sensitive and took what people said too seriously when it was a negative comment toward me.
Does that sound familiar to any empaths out there reading this? If you were raised with a narcissistic family member, I am sure you know exactly what I am talking about.
I have heard the comment, “She is just too sensitive,” so many times. Back then, the word ‘sensitive’ meant you cried too much. You were a weakling. A weenie. “Be careful what you say to her…you’ll make her cry.”
I gotta say…that pissed me off to no end. I was just too scared to say anything back then. Well, I am sure as shit not afraid now to let anyone know, that they were, and probably still are, full of shit.
Nowadays, if you are sensitive, it’s because you FEEL things more.
Ever ask one of those people what those ‘things’ are that a sensitive person feels?
No one will tell you that it is other peoples emotions that we are feeling.
If you are sad because your dog just got hit by a car, I can FEEL that sadness in you and it makes me cry. I watched a short video on YouTube of a man who was filming an incoming tornado that was extremely close to his home, with just him and his little girl. I could not only hear the terror in his voice. I could feel his terror.
Many times I wanted to tell my mother, “Do you think I like crying out of the blue and looking crazy to others, including you?!”
Fast forward to, I think, age 12 or 13. I dunno. I was in 6th grade. How old are we when we are in 6th grade? I was that age. Mom had me see my first therapist for my issues with random depression and anxiety. I had even tried running away from home twice by this age. I do not remember the session whatsoever. It was years later that my mother told me one thing the therapist asked her after my session, was if I had ever been molested. Mom said the therapist said I showed characteristics of a child who was molested. My mom told her, “No.”
My mother was not yet aware that the very first memory of my childhood was when her younger brother used his hand to force my head and mouth down onto his penis. I was 4 years old. He was 15 or 16. I will never forget my grandparent’s green bathroom. Ever.
Three times I tried to run away from home as a kid. I was that scared of my mother. She was the, “Don’t cry or I will give you something to cry about,” mother. Anger was not allowed in my home. Not from me, anyway. It was a sign of disrespect. The first time I rolled my eyes, I was slapped in the face so hard, I never did it again.
I guess she nipped that one in the bud pretty quick, didn’t she?
Want to know how I learned to keep my elbows off the table? I was smacked in the arm or the face until I took them down. And believe me, it only took the one time. That is how I learned all my manners.
But, she got a polite kid out of it. Silver lining, eh?
Dude, do you know where the ‘keep your elbows off the table’ came from? If you were to ask 99% of baby boomers out there, they will tell you it’s bad manners and that’s it. They would not be able to tell you why.
There are a few stories that go way back and the one I found on a website, that I cannot seem to find now, was that back when not every one had an actual table, they would lay a large piece of wood on something else and when leaning on the table, it would flip up the wood and there goes everyone’s food. Another website described reasons why back then it would be considered rude to have your elbows on the table.
My problem with this is that most of us were bred to obey the rules with no explanation of why they should be obeyed.
“Because I said so.”
Mind you, I am sure my mother was just going by what she was taught about manners. I have no idea if Grandma slapped the shit out of her to teach her these things, but man…it came from somewhere.
Truly, at my house, I wasn’t allowed to ask why. If I just happened to, the answer was, “Because, I said so.”
When I was a nanny for Daizyrai and Lily, if they asked me why I told them to do something or not do something, I told them why.
One afternoon, I was watching Daizyrai, age 5. We are in their bedroom on the bed, watching YouTube videos together. She gets a little excited watching Ryan’s Toy Review and started to jump on the bed.
“Sweetie, please don’t jump on the bed. If you fall off, you might hit your head on the closet there.”
She stops jumping.
A minute or two later, she starts to jump again and sure enough, she falls off the bed and hits her head on the closet. She took it like a champ, though.
“I’m okay! I hit my head, but I didn’t hit it hard.”
“Good, good! I am glad you’re okay. See? That is why I don’t like it when you jump on the bed. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
It wasn’t a lie. It was the truth. She never jumped on the bed in my presence again.
She didn’t need to be spanked. She did not need to be slapped in the face.
I felt she did need to know that there was a great reason for letting her know I didn’t want her to do something fun like jumping on the bed. I cared if she got hurt.
It is not hard to do that. Yet, so many parents don’t. Why?
After trying to runaway three times during my adolescent years, when I was fifteen years old, my mother found me on the floor of our kitchen with a knife to my wrist, in tears. This would be my first out of four attempts at suicide throughout my life.
She put down her purse and keys and without so much as a step in my direction said, “Do you want me to take you to the hospital?”
It reminded me of the, “Do you want to get slapped?” question.
She was saying, in my mind, “I don’t want to do it, but I will if you don’t knock this off.”
My mother is the one who told me years ago I should write a book about my life. Once I started blasting all this that I was going to write about, I no longer find it odd that she has not once asked to read anything I have written. Wait til my BOOK comes out…These posts are just snippets of what is going to be in it.
***I am going to wrap this post, but continue it on another post. I have not even scratched the surface on what I had to go through with multiple hospitalizations and TONS of medication like Paxil, Seroquel, Haldol, Wellbutrin and Lithium. Let alone my meth use. It’s the symptoms of someone using meth combined with the symptoms of someone sensitive that will show why I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. Funny that all my bipolar symptoms went away and I was happier and WOKEN UP one year after I stopped putting all that crap in my body.***
Keep an eye out for part 2 and for the love of Joe, STOP watching main stream media. Laters ya’ll.