Before my illness took form. My biggest fear was of dieing. I didn’t want things to end. I didn’t want to miss out on new movies and music in the future. There were things I wanted to still do.
Once depression and BiPolar hit; death seemed welcoming. I mean, who wants to live like this? No joy, no hope and a mind that’s gone. It took me years of therapy, to not see death as a solution. Good meds + good therapist = some form of stability.
I’ve been described as a boat on the sea. One wave will tip me one way and almost make me sink. A very delicate balance. That about sums it up for my mental state.
My fear is no longer death. It’s losing what little sanity I have left. When I first started therapy, I was in a group of women who were all going thru menopause. I was in my late 20’s. Interesting mix.
I had an aunt who went thru menopause and ended up inpatient… for life. But that was waaaaay back then, she really would be a great great aunt or something. I sometimes think that my fate is commitment.
Part of me welcomes the security and safety of being institutionalized. Then I realize, I can’t just walk out when I want too. I was in a rehab hospital for my knee surgeries. I enjoyed it. I liked the low expectation of the people around you. The reduced stress and predictability. I felt safe.. I guess that’s the key, safe.
I watch the news and think, ‘see that’s why I don’t go out’. Sometimes I think there is no safe situation. It’s a state of mind, not an actual existence.
I’m afraid I will go thru menopause and lose all I have worked so damn hard to achieve. This state of stability, no matter how momentary, my independence and my creative mind.
There’s also the fear of my mother dieing and me following suit by killing myself. I don’t know what I’ll do when the time comes. And it scares me.