Journaling Through Bipolar Disorder

Copyright © 2019 Max Josephs.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-7591-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-7590-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018912258

Archway Publishing rev. date: 03/18/2019

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

PROLOGUE

I ’ve finally de cided to break off relationships with toxic people in my life: my father, my former boss who claimed to be my friend, and another so-called friend, Doris.

My stomach is acting up again; it must be the I.B.S. once again, and this time it really hurts—the pain, I mean. I’m not making this stuff up; it’s real. Just last week I had chest pains, and we decided to go to the hospital because I thought I was having a heart attack. I was in the hospital for about 36 hours, which was just a precaution to be checked out. All was fine after all. The cardio doctor said three things to me: 1) you need to lose the weight by next year or else you could have a stroke or worse; 2) you need to join a gym; and 3) you need to get the lap band.

I have been struggling with my weight for the past seven years. I’m like a roller coaster—up and down with my weight. I‘d lose a little and think I was heading in the right direction, and then bam! I’d gain it all back. What I learned is that these diets don’t work; they all give you some sort of hope, but then there’s little hope once you start them. For the past year, I’ve been on the Autoimmune Paleo Protocol Diet, and I still weigh over 300 pounds. I know a lot of the medications I take to control bipolar disorder cause weight gain, so I guess I’m screwed.

I’m a chef by trade, studied in Europe at the finest schools available. Graduated in 1983, even though my dad was sure I was going to fail and didn’t hesitate to tell me so. But why would he send me to school only to fail? Doesn’t really make any sense. But I did not fail; I made it through three difficult years of school. People who are toxic people suck you dry; they’re rude, insensitive, and have only one agenda—theirs. They don’t care about your feelings. You are, however, allowed to terminate toxic relationships, even with people to whom you are related or claim to love you. You are allowed to walk away from people who hurt you over and over. I’m finally realizing this, but it still hurts And lots of times, I still forget because I still have hope …

CHAPTER ONE

M y story actu ally begins in Germany, when in 1964, I came to the United States, along with my parents, and nine-year-old brother, Peter. I was born, in the city of Essen, which is known for being very industrial. We came to the States on the USS Berlin from Germany. My father has told me that it was a six-week journey to get to Ellis Island. My aunt, and dad’s sister, sponsored our family to come to the USA. We arrived in April of 1964.

As far as can I recall, I was your average kid, just like every other kid in the United States. We lived in Chicago on the northwest side, close to a huge baseball field.

What I do remember is a great snow storm, in the winter of 1967, the snow being higher than me at the age of three. When the snow storm was over, cars were parked everywhere in the streets, like they just stopped in their tracks.

My father was a painter, and my mother was a housewife, taking care of my brother and me.

We moved a lot, when I was younger. I remember the places, but not the streets. I do remember that once we lived in a three-floor apartment building and the neighbor next door had a black poodle name Googy, that came to our apartment every day. He was soft and furry and gave me a lot of attention when we played together. I remember being so happy to see and play with Googy, as nobody else gave me the love and attention like he did.

School was difficult for me, and what I remember about school is quite fuzzy, but I do remember that I didn’t get the best grades. We spoke only German at home and in our social community, yet lessons in school were in English. My parents didn’t speak English, so I didn’t have anyone to help me do my homework, which made school very difficult.

I remember one specific incident about homework while attending public school. I took my homework home one day and hid it downstairs near the garbage, by the back porch. I didn’t understand the work, and didn’t want my father to call me stupid, or punch me in the head, like he usually did when I didn’t understand something.

When I got home, my father asked me where my school books were. I simply said, there was no homework that day. I got away with that for that night; however, the next morning, when I went back downstairs to get my books, they had disappeared! The garbage men took my books and threw them away! I went to school and when my teacher asked where my books were and I replied that I lost them, my teacher called my father and told him what had happened. I remember getting beaten by my father that night for losing the books and for lying about my homework. Yes, just another beating from my father with his belt. My mother did nothing to protect me, or maybe she didn’t have a say in the matter.

My fear of my father grew each and every day. He beat me for everything, and sometimes for nothing. If I ran, he would chase me, and when he caught me he would beat me even harder. I learned to block out the pain, but the fear never left me. My father was a huge man; strong and muscular, with hands like baseball mitts. That didn’t stop him from beating anyone and everyone who crossed him, including my mother.

My mother was all of five feet tall and 110 pounds, with pitch black hair and big blue eyes; she was a beauty. My father said he married her because she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Mama was a tiny woman who wanted to be perfect and have a perfect life, whatever that meant to her. She did not want to leave Germany, so she became pregnant with me so my father wouldn’t force her to go to America. She didn’t know my father very well, because he always got what he wanted, and when I was just 8 months old, we came to America.

My mother always loved fashion and