#and while i love him... Nine was a much more stable man. Rose deserved someone whod she'd already helped
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NineRose is superior than TenRose, and I'll die on this hill.
#NineRose#doctor who#I love Ten. but he literally sucks. jes literally the worst. yes a lot of the worst comes after rose but still. it reallt shows he's a loser#and while i love him... Nine was a much more stable man. Rose deserved someone whod she'd already helped#rehabilitate. thats Nine. she doeamt deserve to have to rehabilitate Ten then Ten Too. its not her job.#Ten is just an emotional/enerfy vampire and shouldnt be permotted near anyone romantically till hes seen a therapist.#/smacks him repeatedly with a newspaper/ BAD TIME LORD! GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER!
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THE CROWS : A TIMELINE .
2 WEEKS BEFORE APOCALYPSE : scarecrow and willow meet. she’s a semi-truck driver who has just gotten into an accident on the highway at night, thanks to a drunk driver who was harassing her. at that time he is known as captain ████████ , captain of the first team of firefighters to arrive at the crash scene ( read all about her accident / her first meeting with scarecrow, and everyone else’s life before the collapse here ).
DAY OF THE APOCALYPSE : the day that everything really goes to shit. defined as the first day of the end of the world. the fire captain and willow have kept in contact, he’s been visiting her at the hospital as she recovers from her injuries. she’s just being discharged, all cleared, and he comes into the hospital room rather panicked. something’s wrong, that’s all he says. he helps her gather her things, brings her back to her house, starts helping her pack provisions. they need to get the hell out of the city.
A MONTH INTO THE APOCALYPSE : something in him changes. he isn’t the sweet, charming, loving firefighter she first met. he’s watched his entire team die ; a month in the apocalypse is feeling like years of extended torture. ( i’m fairly certain something else happened that made him snap, but i’m not entirely sure yet ; a drabble will be written once i know, obviously. ) she sees the light in his eyes turn dark, watches his aura shift to something so evil she nearly gets goosebumps every time he breathes next to her. he’s cold, bitter, and this world is his. and so is she. it’s just the two of them with no home.
THREE MONTHS INTO THE APOCALYPSE : something catches willow’s eye. a young boy who has to be twenty, maybe younger, and, seemingly, his girlfriend. the man once known as a captain is now scarecrow, and he dismisses it. willow takes it upon herself to make this her solo mission. ( read here about how they met luke ). luke and ariel quickly become close with willow, and they begin to be her one saving grace. it’s been three months, she loves scarecrow, but he’s becoming increasingly suffocating with his cruelness. the two new recruits give her love, companionship, protection -- all in the way she deserves. they give back some of the life that was once in her eyes. it’s the four of them, still with no place to call home.
ONE YEAR INTO THE APOCALYPSE : they meet marie. luke stumbles upon her while he’s on a run with ariel, and she can’t communicate the same way he can. he pulls out his notebook, writes back and forth with her, gets her to stop threatening him with a gun to his head. their group is small, maybe ten now with the addition of marie, and they still have no place of residence.
TWO AND A HALF YEARS INTO THE APOCALYPSE : the group is up to twenty people ( not too bad for a group that has no place to live ), and they’re on the coast. they decide to set up a place of residence on an old oil rig not too far from the coast. it’s stable, it’s safe, and they’re able to use boats to get to and from, bringing in supplies from dry land. the group is at twenty people, and finally have a home on an oil rig.
THREE YEARS AND TWO MONTHS INTO THE APOCALYPSE : famine. they call it black summer. there’s a severe shortage of supplies, animals, water, fish -- they’re starving. a few of the group has fallen ill, but they still stand twenty-eight people strong. it’s at this point that scarecrow introduces the thought of doing the unspeakable. they acquire costumes, he acquires his mask, and there’s an older woman in the group who creates makeshift masks for the others that resemble a crow. they only strike at night, they take everything they can, and they are ordered to bring back any bodies of the fallen. they eat those that were casualties. ( probably some unspeakable things that happened besides that, more will be added in time. i’m still getting to know the complete history of the group. ) the group is at twenty-eight people, living at the oil rig.
THREE YEARS AND SEVEN MONTHS INTO THE APOCALYPSE : this is the day ariel dies. read about her death here. the group is down to twenty-seven people, but it feels like such a bigger hole than that.
THREE YEARS, SEVEN MONTHS, AND FIFTEEN DAYS INTO THE APOCALYPSE : their home falls. it’s a week or so after ariel has died, most of the group is brokenhearted, vulnerable ; their strongest in line of defense and keeping the place running, luke and willow, are distracted, depressed. another group who has been made rival due to their antics during this harsh black summer comes in and torches the place. they’re discouraged, at their lowest ; willow and luke hold no hard feelings towards this group, for even they don’t blame them for the retribution. if someone had come in, taken their dead, devoured what was left of their loved ones -- there would be hell to pay, too. the group loses some people from the small war, leaving them with twenty-two people and no home.
THREE YEARS, SEVEN MONTHS, AND SEVENTEEN DAYS INTO THE APOCALYPSE : driving them out of their home wasn’t enough. this enemy they’ve created, this rival group, they take luke captive. they were out in the open, vulnerable, no shelter, low on weapons. not much is known about this time, but it was a pivotal point in the group, especially for willow. luke is like her little brother, and it was very unsettling. the group now has twenty-one people, no home, and a serious vendetta.
THREE YEARS AND NINE MONTHS INTO THE APOCALYPSE : willow gathers people for a final attack on the rival group, ready to get luke back once and for all. the following join her, despite not having gone over this expedition with scarecrow first: abe, rose ( and rebel ), marie, and about eight other random crow members ( people who were okay openly defying scarecrow, people who had been effected by luke one way or another, wanted to help him ). willow and the others create enough of a ruckus that lukas is able to take out a guard in front of him, grab the keys, escape. there’s a rendevous in the woods, as there always is after a mission, and he meets up with his group again. today is the day luke comes back home. the group now has twenty-four people, still no home, but they’ve got their lukas.
FOUR YEARS AND ELEVEN MONTHS INTO THE APOCALYPSE : abe joins the group. they stumble upon him together ( luke, marie, willow, and a couple of other people from the group who tagged along ). it takes persuasion for scarecrow to allow him to join, mostly because of his unhealthy, toxic characteristic of being possessive with willow. as a result, once he’s part of the group, willow does her best to keep away from him for the most part. abe has proven to be a strong asset ; an ex-navy seal, an excellent sniper, and an excellent fighter. he’s a strategist at its finest. ( marie has a little crush on him. ) the group has thirty-three people, and are still without a home.
FIVE YEARS AND FOUR MONTHS INTO THE APOCALYPSE : rosalina joins the group, as well as her canine companion, rebel ( a male, all black german shepherd ; he’s around eight or nine years old ). she immediately vibes with abe ; abe has always been hesitant of scarecrow’s tactics, always looking for a way to take him out one of these days, and while rosalina doesn’t trust her new leader, either, she can’t survive on her own any longer. scarecrow accepts her into the group himself, not shy in the way he shows interest in her. this makes willow feel unsettled. along with a beautiful smile and the added joy of now having an animal in their presence, rose also offers them a new home. she’s been holed up at her old sheriff’s office essentially since the beginning ; she has weapons, and having only been one person using them, has plenty of ammunition. the group is now at thirty-three people, and they have a new home.
FIVE YEARS AND NINE MONTHS INTO THE APOCALYPSE : the sheriff’s office was short-lived. overrun, the group is forced to move on to the next place, wherever that might be. they lose some people during the fight. the group is down to twenty-six people, and they are without a home.
AROUND 6 YEARS INTO THE APOCALYPSE ( PRESENT DAY ) : the group stays in tents scattered around the forest floor, constantly moving. they haven’t done much to try to look for a new place since the fall of their old one. the group is currently at thirty-one people and growing, and they have no established home.
#* dyn. the crows.#* canon. the crows.#*#* ooc. no diggity.#idk i might have to change this at some point but#this is a rough work-up#* canon. the first lady.#* canon. the scarecrow.#* canon. the young and reckless.#* canon. the quiet.#* canon. the defiant.#* canon. the one who is always with us.#* canon. the envied.
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You are such a good writer, I love your stories. I would like to see a story in which Donna meets Harvey's mother. 😍
I took forever with this and I’m so sorry. I hope it was worth the wait though and that you like it.
Because of You
Read on ao3
Donna had learned of the destruction of a phone call from a young age. She was nine when she watched her mother crumble under the news of her grandfather’s death. In college, she held her friend as she cried after receiving word of her boyfriend being in an accident. But something inside her had shattered the day she was told that Gordon Specter passed away. Harvey’s broken expression was one that was burned into her brain.
And on that morning, as he answered a call from his brother, she saw the same look cross over his features.
Her heart was in her hand long before he hung up and she held her breath as he stared blankly ahead.
“Mom had a heart attack,” he finally uttered, his voice distant.
The words cracked the earth in two and spurred her to life at the same time.
Instantly, she was calling Louis and telling him they wouldn’t be able to make it to work today and why. Then she delicately grabbed Harvey’s arm, leading him to the bedroom where she threw some casual clothes of his on the bed before slipping into a sweater and jeans herself. She watched as Harvey changed out of his suit, still in a daze.
Walking over to him, she placed her hands on his face, locking his gaze on hers.
“It’s going to be okay,” she said firmly, almost as if daring the universe to disagree.
Harvey was finally beginning to fix things with his mother and Donna would fight heaven and hell and everything in between if fate was cruel enough to steal her away when the hole in his chest was just starting to heal.
Staring at her, he nodded, some of the life coming back into his eyes as he drew strength from her declaration.
From her.
And then they were a whirlwind, flinging some more clothes into a bag because they both knew they wouldn’t be coming back here tonight.
As they headed out, Donna laced her fingers through his and together, they prepared to face the world.
Hours later, Harvey and Donna stepped through the doors of the hospital, still hand in hand. During the drive, Marcus called again to let them know that Lily was in stable condition but only the tiniest bit of tension had been lifted from Harvey’s shoulders.
Donna could almost see the memory of his father’s death replaying in his mind.
Nervousness continued to radiate off him as Marcus led them to her room after pulling him in for a hug.
Harvey halted in the doorway, frozen as he took her in from where he stood, so small and fragile as she lay in bed. Gently, Donna squeezed his hand, urging him on and they both made their way over to her.
Katie rose from the chair she had been sitting on beside the bed and Donna shot her a sympathetic smile as she noted the weary expression she wore.
“Harvey,” Lily said as she spotted her son. “You didn’t have to come all the way here.”
“Of course I did,” he replied. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” she answered. “But no one will seem to believe me.”
She shot a pointed glare at Marcus who promptly returned the look.
“At least I’m finally getting to meet you,” she said, turning her attention to Donna before an argument could break out between her and the younger Specter.
Even though she and Harvey had been dating for a few months, Donna hadn’t had the opportunity to meet his mother. Their lives had been a hurricane with the firm becoming Specter Litt and Mike and Rachel’s wedding and then Mike and Rachel leaving. Most days they had to steal a moment simply to take a breath.
“I wish it was under better circumstances,” Donna couldn’t help but respond.
“Me too,” Lily sighed. “Hospital beds aren’t very comfortable.”
The corners of her mouth quirked up a bit and she could see some of the light returning to Harvey’s eyes as he began to breathe again.
“You two need to leave now to get Margot ready for her play tonight,” Lily declared suddenly to Marcus and Katie.
Harvey’s older niece had gotten the lead part in her school’s play. In the midst of the chaos that was their lives, Donna had found time to FaceTime the young thespian and give her all sorts of tips and advice. She was absolutely delighted, grasping on to every word that came out of Donna’s mouth. She would be lying if she said it hadn’t boosted her ego a little but she would never admit it to Harvey who teased her endlessly. But he was looking forward to the videos Marcus promised to send as much as her.
“You’re right,” Marcus mumbled, looking at his watch.
Yet hesitation at leaving continued to linger on his features.
“Go ahead,” Harvey told him, reassurance heavy in his tone. “We’ll be fine here.”
Marcus gave a subtle nod as a look of understanding briefly passed between the brothers.
“Feel better,” he said softly to Lily.
“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Katie added.
And then with quick goodbyes they were gone, Lily waving off the last of their concerns.
“Harvey do you think you could get me something to drink?” she asked when it was just the three of them. “My throat’s a little dry.”
“Of course.”
As he left the room, the older woman motioned for Donna to sit. After doing just that, Lily reached out and took one of Donna’s hands in her own.
“Thank you,” she stated sincerely, completely out of the blue.
Confusion washed over Donna and for a second she wondered if Lily was alright.
“For what?”
“When Harvey first came to see me I asked him why he wanted to fix things. After all this time. Why now?” Lily explained. “And he told me that it was because someone very special to him convinced him that he needed to. I’m guessing that’s you.”
A small smile rested on Lily’s features but the air had been knocked out of Donna’s lungs.
That had been ages ago. She and Harvey weren’t even a couple yet. The fact that he told his mother about her, even though it was as little as three words, sent sunlight shining through every inch of her being and she basked in the warm glow.
“I didn’t know he said that,” she said quietly, more to herself than anything else.
“I didn’t know you. And I hadn’t even seen or spoken to him in years. But from then I could tell that he loved you.”
Donna’s throat closed up and she stared at her hand in Lily’s, so much like her son’s while her vision began to blur.
“So thank you. For bringing my son back to me after so long. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in the past. But now I have the chance to fix them. I get to be a part of his life again. And I will always be grateful to you for that.”
Every one of her heartstrings broke as a tear slid down her cheek. Hastily, she wiped it away, trying to find her voice.
“You don’t need to thank me. We all deserve second chances. And no one can make Harvey do anything he doesn’t want to. At the end of the day, reaching out to you was his choice.”
“Still…you played a big part in it,” she said. “I’m just happy that he listens to you. Lord knows he doesn’t when it comes to anyone else.”
At that, a bubble of laughter burst from Donna’s chest.
“Oh yeah. Your son is one very stubborn man.”
“It runs in the family,” Lily said drily. “Although I bet you’re pretty stubborn yourself.”
Her eyes glittered and Donna couldn’t suppress a grin of her own.
“Yep. We’re gonna have some really difficult kids someday.”
This time it was Lily who chuckled but before she could respond, Harvey returned with a bottle of water.
Blinding affection surged through her at the sight of him, coating her veins in stardust.
He walked over to them, carefully handing the bottle to Lily before resting a hand on Donna’s shoulder. The simple touch painted her in a shade of gold.
“If you guys leave now you can stop for something good to eat before going to Margot’s play,” Lily declared.
“Mom we’re not-”
“You’re not staying here all night,” she interrupted Harvey who’d already begun to protest.
He opened his mouth to argue but she beat him to it.
“I need to get some rest.”
“Sure. Of course,” he said quickly, concern flickering across his face.
“Stop looking like that I’m fine,” she chastised. “Just a little old.”
“Not that old,” he smiled.
He reached forward, taking her hand in his and giving it a tender squeeze.
“If there’s anything you need, call us.”
“I will.”
“We’ll see you in the morning okay,” he said as Donna rose.
“Hope you feel better,” she added softly.
“Thank you,” Lily responded. “And thank you for coming here.”
Despite her earlier words, Donna could tell that Harvey’s presence meant the world to her.
“You don’t need to thank me for that,” he said, an echo of Donna’s previous statement and she couldn’t help the little smile that appeared on her features.
It was when they were out in the hallway that Donna threw her arms around him and pressed her lips against his. He automatically responded, his hands finding her waist as he opened his mouth for her, returning the kiss.
“What was that for?” he asked when she pulled away, stars in his eyes.
“I just love you,” she said.
He stared at her quizzically, knowing her well enough to guess that there was more to it than that.
“Your mom told me about when you came to see her…back when Jessica left and everything. She said that she asked you why and you told her it was because someone very special convinced you to.”
“Well I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” he murmured.
Her heart swelled even more than it already was, something Donna hadn’t thought possible.
“It’s probably stupid but I don’t know…hearing that..it meant a lot to me,” she confessed quietly.
“It’s not stupid,” he assured her. “I’m really glad that you did by the way. Convince me I mean.”
“I’m glad that you actually listened to me.”
“I always listen to you.”
Donna raised an eyebrow at that.
“Eventually,” he added with that little smirk she adored.
She grinned at him, the love of her life while he gazed at her as if she hung the moon in the sky.
And between the walls of a hospital, where life ended and began, Donna fell into him for the millionth time. She would never stop falling.
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Can I Blame My Mental Illness For My Lousy Behavior?
Content Notice: eating disorder
Seven-and-a-half years ago, on the night of my 35th birthday, I told my husband that I wanted a divorce.
It was 2 AM. Maybe we’d been arguing, I can’t remember. I can’t remember a lot from that period, except the embarrassment. I remember the embarrassment with incredible accuracy.
Earlier that evening, we’d gone to dinner with my grandparents to a local Italian place. I can’t remember the name of the place; it’s not there anymore. It was replaced first by a Japanese place that served sushi that was only barely decent. Then by a Chinese place. Then a place that served Pho. Now I think it’s a Mexican food place.
I had Carbonara, which I also remember. It was surprisingly good for a place that would be out of business in 6 months. We had a bottle of red wine, probably Cabernet. I didn’t love wine yet, but I drank it because it seemed like the grown-up adult thing to do when you’re 35.
We went home and put the kids to bed; they were 14, 11 and nine then.
And at 2 AM, when he asked what was wrong with me, I told him I wanted a divorce.
He asked me to reconsider, pleaded the way only someone who has known you 20 years, who has seen you through every awful thing that has happened to you since you were 14, can.
I didn’t reconsider.
I feel the deepest level of shame, shame to my very core, that I walked away from my children. That 2 AM seemed like a good time to leave my kids and the only family they’d even known, to create a new family that they never asked for. I have bipolar disorder. And this is what unmedicated mental illness looks like for me.
The next day, we sent the kids to school and decided how to tell them. Maybe it was me who thought it would be a good idea to take them to pizza after telling them their lives were about to be ripped apart. Another poor choice in a long list of poor choices.
He told me if I wanted to split up our family, I’d have to leave. So I left.
I left my children there, the people I made in my body. The people who meant more to me than anything, I left at home.
Before I left, my 14-year-old gave me something she’d made with Perler beads, a little boy playing soccer. I kept him in the bag I took when I left, right up until last week.
When I took the figure out of the overnight bag, the black one with cherries on it, that I still use and still hate, I broke his foot off, and I cried. The foot can probably be ironed back on, but that’s not the point.
The point is, I broke him, and them.
In the year before I left my family, I left myself.
My body wasted, worn down and broken from an eating disorder I denied. I stocked and stashed laxatives around the house. I ran until I fractured my leg and then ran on it still, even though it was excruciating until I broke it all the way.
And even then, I went to the gym and spent an hour a day on the elliptical on the broken leg. The elliptical is a low impact machine, or that’s what I told myself. In my broken brain, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable alternative to running on the road.
I lost ⅔ of my body weight in six months.
I bought handbags costly enough to feed a small nation, a drawer full of yoga pants from Lululemon, running shorts, dozens of new bras, thousands of dollars of new clothes. Every pound I lost deserved a reward, and I gave them to myself.
Despite barely hanging on to our ballooned mortgage, I shopped. At J. Crew, Gap, Macy’s. Nowhere too expensive. I must have figured no one would notice. Until the debt piled up and refused to be hidden.
The day after I told my husband I wanted a divorce, I packed my bag with my Perler-bead boy, two pairs of overpriced Lulu shorts, two sports bras, underwear, two sundresses, two bras with matching panties that I’d bought the week before, and my toothbrush. I went to my grandparent’s house.
I went there — I guess because it was the closest place, three blocks from my house, in a tiny town where everyone lives no more than a few miles away from each other. My grandmother gave me a room with a giant bed covered in an equally giant comforter which was in turn covered with roses. That night I drove around, with regret, but also a bizarre mix of conviction and pride, sure I’d made the right choice.
One day after that, I left my grandparents’ house to visit my sister three hours away. Fourteen years younger than me, she was in college at the time, pursuing the degree I never got, but she was away for the weekend. Instead of waiting for her, I bypassed the campus and drove to the Bay Area where I met my (now) husband.
We spent two nights and days together.
I’ve never written this. I’ve scarcely repeated this story to anyone outside a very tight-knit circle.
I am ashamed.
I’m not ashamed about the love I feel for my husband and the two babies we went on to make. I’m not embarrassed by the strength and struggle of what most would call a rebound marriage and the blended family, both beautiful and disastrous, that goes with it.
I feel the deepest level of shame, shame to my very core, that I walked away from my children. That 2 AM seemed like a good time to leave my kids and the only family they’d even known, to create a new family that they never asked for.
I have bipolar disorder. And this is what unmedicated mental illness looks like for me.
When the fog of a long season of depression lifts, and the manic energy arrives, bringing with it a bunch of irrational decisions, it’s easy to flush your meds — which is exactly what I did — right down the 50-year-old pink toilet, in the first house I ever owned.
I quite literally flushed all my meds because exercise and diet had restored my sanity. Or at least fooled me into thinking my sanity had been restored.
And with that “cure” came insurmountable debt, an eating disorder that leached the calcium from my bones, a delinquent mortgage, and a black overnight bag with cherries on it, filled with two days of clothes, a toothbrush, and a tiny beaded figure that my 14-year-old thought would give me comfort while I was gone.
My grandmother came into the spare bathroom situated across from the spare bedroom I was sleeping, but not really ever sleeping in, without knocking. The sight of my wasted body, the protruding collar bones, the sagging skin, must have alarmed her.
I was too busy thinking about the 10 more pounds I needed to lose to notice or acknowledge her reaction or when she said she was going to the kitchen to make me the mashed potatoes and gravy I’d take two bites of and then rinse into the sink.
When I came back from the Bay Area and the two days that I had sought to make me forget the mess I had left, I borrowed $1,200 from my grandparents and rented a tiny two-bedroom apartment.
In that apartment, I’d make spaghetti for my kids, and we’d eat it off of a wicker patio table that had, the week before, been next to my grandmother’s pool. They would go to sleep on small twin-size air mattresses I bought at Target. I would lay awake on the queen size version. Because I wasn’t sure what I was doing, and also because mania robs you of sleep, making you believe two hours is sufficient.
I had only a few things my ex let me have, a few things that I had charged on a credit card that wasn’t entirely maxed out, a fluffy floral sofa and a patio table that my grandmother gave me. And my mania and my shame.
I listened to the song “Lucky” on repeat, singing along, crying and learning the chords so I could play it on the acoustic guitar my dad had given me on the birthday I celebrated before I left everything behind for a new life.
I was so lucky to have a new life and a new person to love, who loved me.
And I was on a manic cloud that made it all seem so perfectly idyllic.
That’s what mania did to me.
But I can’t blame it. Not because it wasn’t there, but because that’s a bullshit excuse. I wish I could say that every mistake I’ve made, every lousy decision, is all a manifestation of my faulty brain chemistry.
But the truth is, even if it was the mania, I still have to sleep with the image of my kids crying over pizza the night I told them that I’d never share that house, the first one we’d bought, scrimped and saved for, again.
Four years after the wicker patio table and that hideous sofa, I saw the psychiatrist who would finally officially diagnose me over a bag of Sunchips and a Starbucks latte. The man that would medicate me, adjusting formulations over and over, until a year after that, I was at last, after 20 years, stable.
I haven’t had a single suicidal thought in nine months. I haven’t had a manic episode in much longer than that. I can’t remember a lot of words or phone numbers and addresses I had memorized for 20 years — because that’s what Lamictal does while it keeps me from buying useless shit instead of paying my mortgage.
My mouth is dry, and I gained 15 pounds — because that’s what Zoloft does while it keeps my OCD and eating disorder at an arm’s distance and my depression suffocated.
For a while, I was on one medication that made me fall asleep sitting up. I can’t remember what it’s called because I was asleep, and also because of Lamictal stealing my words.
But I take them every day, eight of them, along with a colorful handful of supplemental horse pills that I hope do something to counteract what the pharmaceuticals are doing to my liver. Every morning with breakfast, over coffee with the man I adore. Every night at the bathroom sink, right before I shea butter my hands and spoon to sleep with that same guy.
And I sleep. Mostly restful. At least five hours usually, always striving for seven. Our two littles sneak into our king-size bed and kick me in the face. Sometimes I end up on the bottom 5 percent of that giant mattress. And it makes me angry because no one likes to get kicked in the face by a six-year-old, but then I wake up, and I love them even more than the day before.
I am still ashamed. But despite that, or in spite of that, my life is beautiful.
I have all I need and most of what I want. When I can’t sleep, I can write at 1 AM, and in the morning I will have coffee that is made just how I like it, by a man who is my match, paired with my pharmacy of meds, and probably two fried eggs that we collected from our backyard hens the day before.
My big kids, two of whom are adults now, are fantastic. The two kids Matt and I made, that united our family around a common love, are people I can’t imagine living without. My life is as perfect as I could ever ask for or deserve.
And the Perler bead soccer guy is on my dresser. A reminder of why I swallow a dozen pills every day.
This article first appeared on ravishly.com. Read more from Joni here.
Also at ravishly:
Why Do You Hate Your Body?
13 Things My 4-Year-Old Needs To Discuss at 4 A.M.
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Can I Blame My Mental Illness For My Lousy Behavior?
Content Notice: eating disorder
Seven-and-a-half years ago, on the night of my 35th birthday, I told my husband that I wanted a divorce.
It was 2 AM. Maybe we’d been arguing, I can’t remember. I can’t remember a lot from that period, except the embarrassment. I remember the embarrassment with incredible accuracy.
Earlier that evening, we’d gone to dinner with my grandparents to a local Italian place. I can’t remember the name of the place; it’s not there anymore. It was replaced first by a Japanese place that served sushi that was only barely decent. Then by a Chinese place. Then a place that served Pho. Now I think it’s a Mexican food place.
I had Carbonara, which I also remember. It was surprisingly good for a place that would be out of business in 6 months. We had a bottle of red wine, probably Cabernet. I didn’t love wine yet, but I drank it because it seemed like the grown-up adult thing to do when you’re 35.
We went home and put the kids to bed; they were 14, 11 and nine then.
And at 2 AM, when he asked what was wrong with me, I told him I wanted a divorce.
He asked me to reconsider, pleaded the way only someone who has known you 20 years, who has seen you through every awful thing that has happened to you since you were 14, can.
I didn’t reconsider.
I feel the deepest level of shame, shame to my very core, that I walked away from my children. That 2 AM seemed like a good time to leave my kids and the only family they’d even known, to create a new family that they never asked for. I have bipolar disorder. And this is what unmedicated mental illness looks like for me.
The next day, we sent the kids to school and decided how to tell them. Maybe it was me who thought it would be a good idea to take them to pizza after telling them their lives were about to be ripped apart. Another poor choice in a long list of poor choices.
He told me if I wanted to split up our family, I’d have to leave. So I left.
I left my children there, the people I made in my body. The people who meant more to me than anything, I left at home.
Before I left, my 14-year-old gave me something she’d made with Perler beads, a little boy playing soccer. I kept him in the bag I took when I left, right up until last week.
When I took the figure out of the overnight bag, the black one with cherries on it, that I still use and still hate, I broke his foot off, and I cried. The foot can probably be ironed back on, but that’s not the point.
The point is, I broke him, and them.
In the year before I left my family, I left myself.
My body wasted, worn down and broken from an eating disorder I denied. I stocked and stashed laxatives around the house. I ran until I fractured my leg and then ran on it still, even though it was excruciating until I broke it all the way.
And even then, I went to the gym and spent an hour a day on the elliptical on the broken leg. The elliptical is a low impact machine, or that’s what I told myself. In my broken brain, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable alternative to running on the road.
I lost ⅔ of my body weight in six months.
I bought handbags costly enough to feed a small nation, a drawer full of yoga pants from Lululemon, running shorts, dozens of new bras, thousands of dollars of new clothes. Every pound I lost deserved a reward, and I gave them to myself.
Despite barely hanging on to our ballooned mortgage, I shopped. At J. Crew, Gap, Macy’s. Nowhere too expensive. I must have figured no one would notice. Until the debt piled up and refused to be hidden.
The day after I told my husband I wanted a divorce, I packed my bag with my Perler-bead boy, two pairs of overpriced Lulu shorts, two sports bras, underwear, two sundresses, two bras with matching panties that I’d bought the week before, and my toothbrush. I went to my grandparent’s house.
I went there — I guess because it was the closest place, three blocks from my house, in a tiny town where everyone lives no more than a few miles away from each other. My grandmother gave me a room with a giant bed covered in an equally giant comforter which was in turn covered with roses. That night I drove around, with regret, but also a bizarre mix of conviction and pride, sure I’d made the right choice.
One day after that, I left my grandparents’ house to visit my sister three hours away. Fourteen years younger than me, she was in college at the time, pursuing the degree I never got, but she was away for the weekend. Instead of waiting for her, I bypassed the campus and drove to the Bay Area where I met my (now) husband.
We spent two nights and days together.
I’ve never written this. I’ve scarcely repeated this story to anyone outside a very tight-knit circle.
I am ashamed.
I’m not ashamed about the love I feel for my husband and the two babies we went on to make. I’m not embarrassed by the strength and struggle of what most would call a rebound marriage and the blended family, both beautiful and disastrous, that goes with it.
I feel the deepest level of shame, shame to my very core, that I walked away from my children. That 2 AM seemed like a good time to leave my kids and the only family they’d even known, to create a new family that they never asked for.
I have bipolar disorder. And this is what unmedicated mental illness looks like for me.
When the fog of a long season of depression lifts, and the manic energy arrives, bringing with it a bunch of irrational decisions, it’s easy to flush your meds — which is exactly what I did — right down the 50-year-old pink toilet, in the first house I ever owned.
I quite literally flushed all my meds because exercise and diet had restored my sanity. Or at least fooled me into thinking my sanity had been restored.
And with that “cure” came insurmountable debt, an eating disorder that leached the calcium from my bones, a delinquent mortgage, and a black overnight bag with cherries on it, filled with two days of clothes, a toothbrush, and a tiny beaded figure that my 14-year-old thought would give me comfort while I was gone.
My grandmother came into the spare bathroom situated across from the spare bedroom I was sleeping, but not really ever sleeping in, without knocking. The sight of my wasted body, the protruding collar bones, the sagging skin, must have alarmed her.
I was too busy thinking about the 10 more pounds I needed to lose to notice or acknowledge her reaction or when she said she was going to the kitchen to make me the mashed potatoes and gravy I’d take two bites of and then rinse into the sink.
When I came back from the Bay Area and the two days that I had sought to make me forget the mess I had left, I borrowed $1,200 from my grandparents and rented a tiny two-bedroom apartment.
In that apartment, I’d make spaghetti for my kids, and we’d eat it off of a wicker patio table that had, the week before, been next to my grandmother’s pool. They would go to sleep on small twin-size air mattresses I bought at Target. I would lay awake on the queen size version. Because I wasn’t sure what I was doing, and also because mania robs you of sleep, making you believe two hours is sufficient.
I had only a few things my ex let me have, a few things that I had charged on a credit card that wasn’t entirely maxed out, a fluffy floral sofa and a patio table that my grandmother gave me. And my mania and my shame.
I listened to the song “Lucky” on repeat, singing along, crying and learning the chords so I could play it on the acoustic guitar my dad had given me on the birthday I celebrated before I left everything behind for a new life.
I was so lucky to have a new life and a new person to love, who loved me.
And I was on a manic cloud that made it all seem so perfectly idyllic.
That’s what mania did to me.
But I can’t blame it. Not because it wasn’t there, but because that’s a bullshit excuse. I wish I could say that every mistake I’ve made, every lousy decision, is all a manifestation of my faulty brain chemistry.
But the truth is, even if it was the mania, I still have to sleep with the image of my kids crying over pizza the night I told them that I’d never share that house, the first one we’d bought, scrimped and saved for, again.
Four years after the wicker patio table and that hideous sofa, I saw the psychiatrist who would finally officially diagnose me over a bag of Sunchips and a Starbucks latte. The man that would medicate me, adjusting formulations over and over, until a year after that, I was at last, after 20 years, stable.
I haven’t had a single suicidal thought in nine months. I haven’t had a manic episode in much longer than that. I can’t remember a lot of words or phone numbers and addresses I had memorized for 20 years — because that’s what Lamictal does while it keeps me from buying useless shit instead of paying my mortgage.
My mouth is dry, and I gained 15 pounds — because that’s what Zoloft does while it keeps my OCD and eating disorder at an arm’s distance and my depression suffocated.
For a while, I was on one medication that made me fall asleep sitting up. I can’t remember what it’s called because I was asleep, and also because of Lamictal stealing my words.
But I take them every day, eight of them, along with a colorful handful of supplemental horse pills that I hope do something to counteract what the pharmaceuticals are doing to my liver. Every morning with breakfast, over coffee with the man I adore. Every night at the bathroom sink, right before I shea butter my hands and spoon to sleep with that same guy.
And I sleep. Mostly restful. At least five hours usually, always striving for seven. Our two littles sneak into our king-size bed and kick me in the face. Sometimes I end up on the bottom 5 percent of that giant mattress. And it makes me angry because no one likes to get kicked in the face by a six-year-old, but then I wake up, and I love them even more than the day before.
I am still ashamed. But despite that, or in spite of that, my life is beautiful.
I have all I need and most of what I want. When I can’t sleep, I can write at 1 AM, and in the morning I will have coffee that is made just how I like it, by a man who is my match, paired with my pharmacy of meds, and probably two fried eggs that we collected from our backyard hens the day before.
My big kids, two of whom are adults now, are fantastic. The two kids Matt and I made, that united our family around a common love, are people I can’t imagine living without. My life is as perfect as I could ever ask for or deserve.
And the Perler bead soccer guy is on my dresser. A reminder of why I swallow a dozen pills every day.
This article first appeared on ravishly.com. Read more from Joni here.
Also at ravishly:
Why Do You Hate Your Body?
13 Things My 4-Year-Old Needs To Discuss at 4 A.M.
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from Healthy Living - The Huffington Post http://huff.to/2kjQuqb
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