June 22, 2009

Who am I?

"Who am I" is a thought that I've had recently. How do you, the reader, know who I am. Through my writing I hope I explain myself well enough. My mind is a bit fuzzy still from the anti psychotic. So, will have to write more a bit later on this. Consider it a paused post.

Okay, unpause the post. Back to it with a clearer mind. After reading Identity on The Secret life of a Manic Depressive blog I feel up to finishing this post.

How come sometimes I feel just like saying "Hi I'm Deb, I'm manic depressive, and so yeah, I'm crazy, move along, you'll be better off for it". Isn't there so much more of me? But why then do some people not stick around? Is it due to my illness I'd guess? Because yes I do know that I'm ill. Not right in the mind. I'm bright, incredibly so, at times, but 'weird', as well. Why do I use the word 'weird' you ask? Well, like we (my childhood friends and I) decided "Eleanor Rigby" was the song that best suited me. We would sit in my friend Ann's living room and listen endlessly to The Beatle's albums on the turntable. They, along with me, agreed that Eleanor Rigby just seemed the right bit of "odd, bizarre, silly" that matches Deb. Yeah, I've embraced from high school that I was always different. Prided myself on it many a time, as well. Never really minded that I was a round peg in a large square hole of high school life. Never fit into any cliquey bunch, nor did I last long in any particular group. Not good enough for band - hell I got laughed at for putting my lips the wrong way on a French horn. Did some gymnastics, but that didn't last for long. Always the flighty little bird, never settling down for a long, hard, good try at something.

I see in my mental map as I look back a marked trouble of ADHD. At age 9 in grade 4, the teacher suggested to my mother I be given pills 'to help settle her down'. My mum said phooey on that! I had speech therapy for stuttering for about 5 years as well. Through most of high school, I believe. There are definite gaps of memory btw. Some items of remembered horror or enlightenment stand out, but it's a very patch-work quilt of memory.

On Facebook now, when I get high-school friends saying hello, I often have no memory of them, at all. The names are vaguely familiar but to pull up a memory of when I interacted with them is impossible. Kind of bittersweet in a way.

Who am I? I'm Deb, mother of two gorgeous girls that make every single day a joy to live. I'm wife to a lovely man who's a great dad. I'm me, a 48 year old woman who loves food and whom weighs far too much. But the weight doesn't bother me a whole lot. I'd rather be happy within the vast skin of this body God gave me than be sad that I'm not the size of Celine Dion.

I try to live happily within the confines of being manic depressive. I was diagnosed after a few dramatic episodes where I completely felt 'different'. I shall explain those if you care to ask, but would rather they aren't out in public view. Suffice it to say, it was enough information for the family doctor to refer me to a psychiatrist, whom I've been seeing since. They didn't just slap on the label of manic depressive without a long oral story by me of feelings, thoughts, events and actions/reactions to those events.

Hope this goes to explain "me" for the benefit of my readers. Did I do an okay job of it? I'll continue the thread of 'what's me' tomorrow.

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