I decided on the name of this website because when I first read Christine Miserandino’s beautifully written article it finally gave me a way to help explain what having manic depressive disorder is like to others. If you haven’t read it, she explains to a friend how she wakes up each morning with a handful of spoons to use throughout the day, some days it takes all those spoons just to get the basics done and other days she wakes up with less spoons and therefor has a worse day. When I used this terminology, my husband finally “got it”, he tried to understand all along, but this really made it sink in, he now knows some days I’m lacking spoons and I must try harder. When I’m having an unusually difficult time handling myself, he’ll tell me he’s giving me his spoons for the day, it may not seem like much, but it means the world to me. He is my reason for fighting the daily battle we all fight with this disorder; without a reason I wouldn’t try, honestly.

My daily battle is easiest to fight if I remain on a set schedule, at least during the week, weekends can be more freestyle but still routine. On the weekends, I get to spend all of it with Cameron, he has a way of centering me, I can’t explain it but if he’s around my world is better and my fight easier. For the last several years, I have been studying at SNHU online getting a degree in English, this was decided while I was in my deepest depression, to give me something to strive for. I had dropped out of college at 19 in order to raise my then 2-year-old daughter B, she was joined not long after by my son S. It has been difficult being back in college, especially after a 24-year break but it has given me something to shoot for, something to be proud of and I’m learning so much. I have almost the same day everyday and it is the healthiest I’ve felt since the depression. I may seem boring to some but boring seems to be good for me.

The best and worst part of my day is around 5:30 when Cameron gets home from work. It’s the best because I miss him when he’s not here and count the hours till he gets home, the worst because no matter how much I miss him when he gets here, I can’t express it. My brain somehow manages to make me feel less than and I can’t say or do what I truly feel, it sucks for me, but I imagine it’s worse for him. I send notes tucked in his pockets or lunch in which I try to explain how I feel about him, so he doesn’t ever forget and after all these years, he understands. I guess the trouble is that there is still a part of me which is surprised he came back to me at all, thankfully he understands that too.

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