Rejection

I remember a story where a college student papered his walls - I think his bathroom - with rejection letters.

I so relate.

Depression and Creativity

Hi everyone.  Haven't been around for a while.  Generally, I've been better - much more stable. Last check it was 33 days and counting without a "crash," although at the moment I'm dipping lower than in a while.

Which brings me to the creativity issue.  I haven't written in a while because I didn't want to.  I couldn't really think of something pithy and amusing, or otherwise indignant.   But I was in the kitchen today and all of a sudden ideas started to fly into my mind.  

Which brings me to the often-written about link between being bipolar and  creativity.  It seems to hold true.  We sit in our misery and gain an understanding about life that is unique.  We are freed from the bullsh@#$ that society puts on us.  And we become rebels of a sort, because we can't - really can not - conform to society's mores.  

There is a good book about this topic by Kay Jamison - "Touched By Fire."  There is just a ton of stuff written on this.

But really, I could do without.  It's not like I'm Van Gough for pity's sake.  

Half empty

Well, I pulled out of yet another crash with my soul intact so far.  But it seems like every time I fall down it gets harder to stand up.  Luckily the falling hard hasn't happened that often.  Instead I have been living in this in-between space.  Where I reside - I feel the darkness like a membrane that could rupture at any moment.

And I' m looking for work.

It does seem like my life is half-empty.  I  know it would help to reframe it, but I'm too tired.  I feel exhausted by what I've been through, what I am still going through, what I have to live up to.  I feel hopeless and beseeched by problems and hurdles.  I haven't found my sanctuary.

Instead I'll ask all of you to look closely at your life.  I wish I had realized how lucky I was in times past.  I think we all grow complacent and don't remember to thank, God, the fates, or whomever your higher power is.   Do you have good solid relationships?  A job?  Your health? 

Thank your lucky stars, because it can all go away in a heartbeat. 

It's not fair

It's not fair. Why did it happen to me?  Why can't I be like everyone else?  Why can't I think like everyone else?  Why do things hurt me over and over and over again?  How can I stop them from hurting? 

How?

It's Baaaack

The darkness.  The vice grip on your insides.  The total lack of hope.

The inability to get through simple things.  The inability to function without crying jags in bed in fetal position.

And the self-loathing.  Bloated and gaining weight from the medicines.  I look absolutely awful. I'm back to not washing my face or flossing my teeth.  

And I must be an awful person to have this happen to me.  In fact, I'm probably making myself sick.  If I was just different none of this would hurt.  If I was really sick medicines would work.  So it must be me.  The people around me would be better off because I can't help them or care for them the way they should be cared for.  Something is just wrong with me and I should be able to make it better.

But I just can't.  I don't know how.

1000 hits

Time for a little celebration. Today my blog got it's 1000th view! (Actually it's at 1003) Wow. That's a lot of folks willing to read about bipolar disorder.

Thanks all of you who have been walking along with me. I know it's been helpful for me. I hope it's been at least a little helpful for you.

It's a slippery slope

Here's the thing. My mood is a fragile beast. Just getting it's sea legs back, so to speak. After being in total despair for months and months, it's starting to come up a little tinsy bit.

But life has normal ups and downs. And I'm too newly born to handle them. Being sad still touches that dark place even though I know it shouldn't. But it does. So I get sad, and then I REALLY get sad. Like I can't be a little sad. It's not in my make up at the moment.

Which is a very precarious place to be, since being sad is a part of life. I don't know how to avoid it. If anyone has a magic cloak that would deflect all that was troubling in life, let me know. We could make a mint, and I wouldn't have to worry about finding another job.

Until then I will try and tip toe around life, trying to stay on this high wire. Trying not to fall off to one side or the other. Trying to keep my courage.

Stability ain't what it's cracked up to be

I have been stable about 95% of the time for the past several weeks.  That means I generally know that my mood will be close to the mood the day before.  Although I still have mood swings, they now look like little waves.  What does this mean?

I'm productive.  I can organize and stay on task.  I can work.  It is highly unlikely I will fall apart in public (but never say never).  I can make social engagements and know that I will be able to go.  I don't spend any time on the floor and very little crying in bed.  There are days in a row where I don't cry.  There are stretches of time where I don't ruminate (but never a whole day.)  I can function like a normal member of society.

These are better.  Generally, these are good things.

But stable doesn't mean happy.  It hasn't brought joy back into my life.  My life still feels empty and meaningless.  I still don't understand why this happened to me.  I am still upset, scared, angry, sad.  But really, I miss joy.  I miss giddy.  I miss frivolous.  I miss a good belly laugh.  I miss bliss.

I had one very tiny interaction with joy recently.  Notable because it is the only one I can remember for months and months and months.  I was with my youngest daughter.  She, admittedly, is rather charming and has a real zest for life.  We were in the kitchen and had spent most of the day together (older daughter off doing older daughter things with friends).  She was on a chair and I - for no reason and totally spontaneously - picked her up and swung her around.  And she laughed that good belly laugh.  Joy peeked up at me a tiny bit.  Then everything snapped back to normal. 

Sigh.

I don't know how long it will take to come back.  I worry never. 

But I can function.

The courage to suffer

My therapist has me doing some amazing reading on finding meaning in life.  In one book there is the idea that it takes courage to suffer.  This concept really resonated with me.  

It takes courage to endure suffering.

Because it does.  Because it is hard.  Because it takes more out of you than you can imagine.  Because it would be so easy to not get up again.  To find a way around the suffering.  To mask the suffering with substances.

So, I've been telling folks that I know that are suffering how courageous they are.  Because I don't remember being told exactly that when I was at my worst (friends and family, don't feel bad and if you did tell me and I forgot - that's the memory issue).  Sometimes it seems to surprise them.  I'm not telling them that they will feel better soon, or how sorry I am that they feel this way.  I am applauding them for something they didn't realize they had.

Courage.

How did I get here?

Now that I'm starting to come into the light, so to speak, I'm looking at the debris around me and saying, "Holy Shit."  I don't have much memory of the past year, being medicated and mentally ill can do that to a person.  I also haven't really been myself - so to speak.  Or at least the self that I used to be.

I've made some major decisions in the past year, and in the immortal words of the Talking Heads. "How did I get here?"

I've got a lot of catching up to do.

Relationships

Someone remarked this weekend that one person can't make another happy.

To a certain extent that is true.

Another person can't heal your wounds. Can't undo heartache. Can't rebuild broken dreams. Can't cure bipolar disorder.

However, they can salve the wounds. Pour kindness and caring on them. Wrap them in a blanket of love and understanding. Hold their hand. Help them build new dreams. Help them believe there is a future. Help them by giving them something to lean on when they can't stand by themselves. Let them know they are worthy and lovable, even when they are bipolar. Accept them. Try to understand them. Ask them what they need. Cradle them when they cry. Be present and witness their suffering, even though seeing them upset causes you grief. If you feel grief, cry with them. Don't shield them from your pain.

For Christ's sake, take them out to Starbucks and make them talk about the weather.

But the ironic thing is the extent to which another person can harm someone else. In big and little ways. It just doesn't seem fair.

Classified Ad

I quit my job. I'm pretty sure I've mentioned that here.

Now I need to find a new job. I'm stable enough, if not the life of the party.

I'm having a really hard time figuring out what to do, what I would find satisfying, what I would be a decent fit with. One of my magazines recently had an article where you are supposed to picture yourself as 95 and on your death bed. What would you tell your younger self about what they should do? If I knew that, I wouldn't need to go through the exercise.

And let me just say that being bipolar isn't exactly a self-esteem booster. So I got to thinking, what if I was to write a job sought ad? What would I say?

Bipolar chick in need of a position. Highly honed sharp sense of humor from time down in the dumps. Endurance well beyond the norm. Appreciative of normal, stable supervisors who do not judge a person by their disabilities. Challenging intellectual work a plus, as it serves as a good distraction. Compassionate of those who are in pain. Strong empathetic streak. Intolerant of passive aggressive folks or other indirect behavior. Likely to call a spade a spade. At times there is a high potential for uber-productiveness. At times, person may seem a little low. Bipolar individuals are known for their creativity. Looking for a stable environment without triggers. Presence of other treated mentally ill folks or recovering addicts welcome.

OK - what does that lead to? Anyone know?

Road to Recovery

The road to recovery isn't smooth and it isn't straight.  It doesn't always make sense. Sometimes it feels like the scenery never changes.  It feels all uphill - both ways.  

Sometime you know you've walked a certain stretch before, but have magically transported backwards to walk it again.

Sometimes it's so dark you can't see your hands in front of your face.

But somehow, as you keep walking, you eventually make progress.  Not dramatic, not overnight.

But you look over your shoulder and are amazed that you actually have walked farther down the road.

But, as always, you have a long way to go in front of you, and there is no rest for the weary.

The Sound of Music

I'm peeking my nose out of the tent.  I'm looking around at the wasteland around me. Observing the debris from the storms.   It's not over yet, but there's a break in the winds.

I don't want to come too far out, having tried that before and was thrown mighty hard.  I know that when I do come out, I'll be vastly different from when I went in.

But, since no one is watching, I put on some background music.  Something that speaks to me. Something that gives instead of takes.  Something that sustains me.

It's been a long time since I heard music in this place.

I wrap my faith around me like a blanket to keep warm.  I'm fed from my beliefs.  And the soundtrack to my life is gospel.

Inspiration

I'm sitting at my computer with my sick, lice ridden daughter is playing on the floor.  Looking for inspiration on what to write today.  I guess today what strikes me is two things:  1) isn't it a bummer when "real" life gets messy and ugly and you still don't feel well, and 2) how am I going to know exactly when I will feel better or normal.  Everyone says that I'll know, but it's been so long I'm really not sure.  And of course, I'm not sure I believe everyone, even with the recent improvements.

My therapist, however, did a good job yesterday of actually convincing me that I was sick.  That's not an easy thing to do, but she's a good therapist.

And yes, life moves on whether you like it too or not.  Maybe it's a good thing, may it's not.  But I don't really have a choice.  I will nit pick again, and tend to her sick belly.  I will make dinner, and smile at the dinner table.  I will clean the bathroom, and review my work e-mails from home.  Because none of these things care whether or not I'm bipolar and symptomatic.  They just keep piling on.  Maybe that's why folks go into the hospital.  Not just because they need to be safe, but also to rid themselves of the strain of daily life.

So, on my first point, will I know that I'm better when I can slog through all this with a smile? Can anyone?  What does it mean to be happy?  Is that the same as having my symptoms under control?  Is happiness everyone's normal state?

Bipolars to the poles!

Oh my God, oh my God, Oh my God.  I just found out about the coolest thing.  Totally.  

A group of young folks from "all over" Australia have put together an expedition to the two "poles" to raise money for research about and awareness of bipolar disorder.  

I love these folks.

What a fabulous idea.  A trek to the North Pole or a cruise to the South Pole.  If I didn't get so very seasick, I'd so be on that boat.

Here's the web-site:  www.bipolarexpedition.org

Yahoo - you go bipolar folks!

Where is God in all this? (Thoughts on faith and depression.)

Jesus wept.

The shortest sentence in the New Testament. Sometimes when things are really powerful, they take less space to tell. Think about how much the impact would be diminished if it took a paragraph to describe it in detail.

Jesus wept.

Jesus wept for you and for me. Jesus felt pain. Jesus felt anguish. Jesus looked at mankind and realized how screwed up we all are, and he wept with the intensity of it all. Jesus was just reflecting the pain that we all feel. The basic gut wrenching sorrow. Even if you don't believe, you can acknowledge the commonality of the human condition that is reflected here.

Jesus wept.

OK, it's really easy to loose your faith when the going gets hard. I know I did. Of course, the old adage is true: you can't be mad at God and say you don't believe. I didn't believe, but I also went through the whole "why would God allow this" crap. Even going through it I knew it was bullshit.

Jesus wept.

Because in my faith, God is there to be with you in your pain. To weep for your pain. To give you solace if you choose to embrace it. One of my campers slipped a book about hope and faith into my purse when I wasn't looking. It was a wake up call. It gives me strength every time I read it. Because I believe (not I know) that God can be with me in my suffering If I choose it. I also believe it may not make a huge difference. But I choose to believe in what I can't see. Sometimes it helps and sometimes it doesn't. But, I do remember that:

Jesus wept.

Fatal Attraction

My husband recently reported to me a conversation he had with a co-worker.  That co-worker knew I was sick, and was concerned.  My husband told him that I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.  The co-worker remarked that "It's not fatal or anything."  Now, I have no issue whatsoever that my hubby is telling folks.  It's his story too.

I do take issue with the thought that this is not fatal.  According to my reading twenty percent of folks with bipolar disorder commit suicide.  That's right.  One in five.  And that's not including all those poor folks who weren't ever diagnosed but still felt the pain.

To give you some perspective, this is a worse rate than the ten or twenty year survival rates from prostate, thyroid, testis, uterine cancers, as well as melanomas.  To give you more perspective, the five year breast cancer survival rate is eighty six percent.  

Another statistic - people with bipolar disorder more frequently attempt to commit suicide and more frequently are successful at it.  We are better at it than others.  No joke.

And I can tell you why.  It is mighty seductive.  It's like some diaphanous Shakespearean creature from a Midsummer Nights Dream.  Beckoning.  All your troubles could be over.  All your pain will end.

Damn right this thing can be fatal.

Weathering the Storm

Well, my friends, I've been away for a while.  Trying to "fake it until I make it."  In other words, trying to pretend I'm normal.  Didn't work.

Anyway . . .

In my last post, I reported that I was starting to level out.  While I was away, my mood continued to sort of stabilize, or as my pdoc said, the drugs are starting to dampen my cycling. Think of it this way:  I'm a boat in a storm.  The storm is wild, waves crashing all over the place. Now after the drugs, the waves are smaller and predictable so you know when to put on your life vest (ok, really you'd keep it on all the time.) But it's still storming.  And my feet continue to stay wet.

Also as I mentioned in my last post, it has stabilized on the low side.  Not a good thing.  But, as we say around here, at camp, and everywhere else, "it is what it is."  

Tricycles

All folks who are bipolar experience some kind of cycling. For many folks, that means months of one mood, then flipping to another. As I've discussed before here, I'm a rapid cycler. Which means I cycle every few days. And my ups are "mixed states," which means a little of the up and a little of the down, all at the same time. In order to see what's going on, my doctor has me charting my moods. In order to picture my chart, think about a wild roller coaster ride that goes non-stop. And, yes, it is exhausting.

In order to stop cycling, I am on three different mood stabilizers. That's right, three. And none of them have seemed to put a dent into my mood. During my last doctors appointment he noted that I was on three anti-cycling drugs, and I was still cycling. Three drugs - so that makes my cycles tricycles!

This week I had a few days in a row that were the same mood. From a cycling standpoint, that's a good thing. However, the mood wasn't up to a normal mood, so that was a downside. It's hard to know which is better, dealing with the roller coaster - in which case you know the down won't last, but also know the up won't either. And the up isn't that great. Or staying stuck in one place.

This, my friends, is one of the main dilemnas of bipolar disorder.

Maybe someday I'll graduate to a bicycle.

What do I want to be when I grow up?

When you are in your early 20s, the world is your oyster.  So many career paths to take, and so little time.  However, being young you often don't know what you want, and feel battered about by life.  You don't understand the opportunities you really have.

I guess being bipolar makes you young again, because I'm there again.  As a result of being so majorly unstable for so long, I am now without a job.  They didn't fire me, because that would be picking on the disabled chick.  However, they clearly didn't have any idea how to handle me.  I had ceased to become me, and I didn't want to want to work with folks that treated me like someone fragile and incompetent.  

So now I need to find new work.  But my pdoc doesn't want me to work until I'm stable.  Really stable.  Not just the improved state I'm in now.  I have lots of time to ponder my next career move.

I figure I have nothing else to do, so I'm trying on lots of hats.  But it's hard to find one that fits my bipolar skull.  And will pay the rent . . .

Who's driving this boat anyway?

I was talking to my therapist today (camp, alas, has ended.)  We were talking about how to balance being bipolar with life.  When do you say "I'm not going to let this illness run my life. (stomp, pout)."  And when do you say "I have an illness that needs me to make different choices than I might otherwise make. (sigh, look down to the ground.) "

Because I have bipolar disorder (so my doctors say.)  There is no cure for what I have.  Now that this has awakened in my brain, I'm stuck with it.  I wish it had stayed asleep, but we don't get to relive our past.  As much as we might like to.  

So we can only mold our future and try to learn from the past.  What did I learn?  Don't make hasty decisions.  Clearly communicate.  Don't make assumptions.

So how do I make decisions going forward?  What do I do now that I've quit my job?  What kind of trip should I take next week?  How am I going to structure my days without work? What should my relationships look like?

One good thing that has come out of this is a reinforcement of my spirituality.  This load is too heavy to carry alone.  But even if God is a co-pilot I still struggle with who is driving this boat - me or my bipolar bear.

My eulogy

One of the books I'm reading speaks of drafting your own eulogy as a way of determining your priorities and goals in life.  You are supposed to write it not as you are but as you would like to be.  I have been mulling this around in my head for weeks.  I couldn't get started on this exercise no matter what.  I was stuck.  

Also, since I'm getting on a plane in a week and since I have an enormous phobia about flying, I am convinced that doing such a thing will make the plane crash.  Seriously.  That's just the way my brain works.  I should add that going to a doctor can also make the sickness real.  This I believe.

But back to the eulogy.  It's really been bugging me that I couldn't put pen to paper on this one.  Then last night at a hockey game with my husband, of all places, it started to flow right out of my head on into my hands.  So there I was amidst the cow bells and shouts writing down what I wanted to be remembered for.  Here goes:

She faced adversity with perseverance and wit.  She paid her dues.  She endured more than most in her lifetime but she didn't allow it to detract from the simple pleasures in life.  She appreciated that happiness can often flow from the small - the sound of a hard rain, good food, good company, a beautiful flower or a good book.  She loved to read and write; she treasured the written word and helped others understand adversity through it.  She wasn't afraid of looking like a fool.  She wouldn't pass up the opportunity to try something new because she might look awkward or incompetent. 

She strove to better the world for the people she loved, and those around her.  She had a strong sense of right and wrong, and always spoke for the unjust.  Her professional life embodied these principals, but family was her center.  She made her loved ones feel total affection and a deep, abiding love.  She will be remembered for her laugh and twinkling smile.

She died peacefully in her sleep, surrounded by her children and their partners, her grandchildren, and her great-grandchildren. 

Let's hope I get there.  Over and out.

Cycling, weight gain and other fun with bipolar disorder

I don't really know what to say.  I just knew it was time to write.  So this isn't a coherent one subject blog.  But that probably fits my current mental state anyway.

Let's see, what's been happening here?  Well, I had a really good stretch, and then crashed. Fetal position on the couch crashed (which is one step up from fetal position on the floor.)  My doctor says that's what happens with bipolar disorder.  You don't just wake up better, but as the medicines kick in your cycling should be more days in the up and the downs shouldn't be as bad.  Still working on that not as bad thing.  And whoopee!  Lots more cycling in my future.  My therapist said I'm getting good at containment.  That means people around you can't tell when you are in immense pain. It's a good skill if you want to work.

So, that will mean more tweaks with my meds.  Not a bad thing.  Other than the weight gain side effect of two of the drugs I'm taking.  Good thing I haven't had to wear my work clothes lately.  Sweats are us.  It's amazing, I'm eating less and gaining more.  Love those side effects.

Also, I'm back on the wagon of not being sick.  I think this is just a really really bad case of heartache.  Tragic love story, so to speak.  'Cause, as I've said time and time again, if I was sick, the medicine would make me better.  After seven months something should be working.

Speaking of working . . . well that's another blog for another time.

Over and out.

To vent, perchance to vent, perchance to vent some more

(I really hope somebody out there gets my cultural references . . .)

I hate this disease.  It stinks.  I am not one to look at it in a positive light and say "Oh look at this golden opportunity to better myself, take my life in a different direction."  Bull @#$.  I could do that willingly without the pain, thank you.

And everything has changed, and everything is different.  And you can't be the person you were before, and you don't like the person you are now.  And you have no idea what person you will turn out to be.  You feel hopeless, and helpless.  And yes, we're working on this in camp.  But, man, does this suck.  

Today I just want to stamp my foot and throw a tantrum because I am so fed up with this.  And I'm terribly scared too.  

Man, life is so not fair.

For the ladies only

So, girlfriends, we've all had that time of the month.  Even more so, we've had the time before the time of the month.  That's right, PMS. (OK any guys who didn't heed my title warning can stop reading now if they choose.)

PMS strikes without prejudice - all walks of life, all sizes and shapes.  Except that it really really likes folks with mood disorders.  Nothing like a few hormones to monkey with any mood stability.

Then I was told about B6 from my pdoc.  He said try 200mg of B6 the week before your period.  I was skeptical at best, but had nothing to loose.

OMG what a difference.  I've only tried this for one month, but I'm ready to go buy a carton of this stuff.  It seems to be a miracle pill.  

So, B6 B4 its 2L8.

Out of the Mouth of Babes (Take 2)

My youngest daughter has lice.  OK - there's a whole blog in that alone, but I'm not going there today.

Anyway, I was brushing her hair this morning and the topic of lice came up.  I said - "You're not out of the woods yet."  To which she replied, "No, but I'm on the edge."

So well said.  I've had a stretch of stable days.  With no big crashes in about 5 days.  So maybe, just maybe, I'm on the edge of the woods.

I hate to get my hopes up.  I'm kind of superstitious.  And I believe that if I expect the worst, I'll never be really disappointed.  But you guys can hold my hope.

The stigma of mental illness

One of my fellow campers had a great line - "I'm going through stuff I wouldn't want on a t-shirt." We all chuckled because we immediately understood.

But at the same time, we've been told that there is nothing wrong with being mentally ill.  That it is not our fault.  It is our genetic make-up, our inheritance from our genetic background. Therefore, there is nothing to be ashamed of.

OK, don't you see the massive inconsistency.  If there is nothing to be ashamed of why don't we have t-shirts and fundraisers to find a cure.  Why don't we have plastic arm-bands, along the lines of "feel strong."  And if we do have them and I don't know about it - why is it so hidden that I haven't found it.

And if there is nothing wrong, why is my work place - which shall pointedly not be named - treating me so differently than folks with other disabilities or medical conditions.  Why do I have extra hoops to go through, extra pressure put on me, and a total lack of understanding and empathy.  

Because I am mentally ill and that scares people.  Because mental illness has been made fun of for way too long.  Can you imagine making fun of someone with breast cancer?  You'd be shut down mighty fast by the posse.  But making fun of the mentally ill, the crazies, the loonies, that's still socially acceptable.  How often have you heard someone say - "She's a head case."  Or "He must be manic."  It's OK to ridicule the nut jobs.  And every time we do, we erode their sense of self worth, and degrade the public's opinion of mental illness.

But of course, those of us that are mentally ill - we can poke fun at ourselves all we want. Because we need to lighten the load.  And hey, we're all crazy anyway.

Growing Pains

At Camp yesterday during arts and crafts time, we had to choose an animal that we felt represented ourselves, and then choose animals that represented the major players in our lives.

I selected a butterfly for myself - because I am trying to view this as a metamorphosis instead of the nightmare it often feels like.  Butterflies are beautiful and emerge from a long sleep completely transformed.  But a butterfly is very fragile and can't take a lot of weight. Particularly when learning how to fly.  I choose another butterfly for my mate - since I believe we have a lot of growing to do together.  As the closest one to this crazy ride, he will both be the most affected by it and the most changed by it.

So, there we are.  Floating with no place to land.  Trying out our new wings.  A partnership but not a merger.  Growing together - will all the growing pains and struggle that usually accompanies rapid change.

Books

Since I've spent some time bashing books on bipolar and depression, and since a commenter mentioned a couple to me (one I had read and one I had not), I thought it might be helpful to tell you the books I do use.  It is also worth noting that nothing - not even these books - helped when I was in fetal position on the floor.  (OK, sedatives helped a little bit) Ironically the self-help books only seem to help when you are on the path of recovery.  That's why I had such a negative reaction to them for so long. Here goes:

"Why am I still depressed?" by Jim Phelps, MD

This is the best book I have found on Bipolar II.  It really helped me understand the illness, and is particularly good on describing the medicine side of things.

"The Mindful Way through Depression" by Williams, Teasdale, Segal and Kabat-Zimm

Think calm, meditative thoughts.  Learn how to live with the pain and keep it separate from yourself.  Learn how to use your senses to alleviate suffering.  I'm still working my way through this one.

"Take Charge of Bipolar Disorder" by Julie Fast and John Preston

Julie Fast is one of the queens of bipolar disorder.  In addition to this book, my husband is reading one of her other books: "Loving Someone with Bipolar Disorder."  They have a "4-step" plan, which I normally hate and don't hesitate to ridicule.  However, some things in this books really resonated with me, particularly some of the ways they explained certain symptoms.

"The Bipolar Workbook" by Monica Ramirez Basco

Pretty basic kind of cognitive behavioral approach stuff.  But, again, I have found some of the passages helpful in that I could see myself and my symptoms.

"Anxiety and Depression Workbook for Dummies" by Elliot and Smith

Yes, it's part of that series, and yes, it's good.  Some of the better written exercises I've done come from here.

And of course - 

"The Unquiet Mind" by Kay Jamison

This is like the bipolar bible.  This was the first thing my doctor suggested I read - right after he had given me my diagnosis.  It's her story and it's worth a read if you are bipolar, or if you love someone with bipolar.

So, that's my Sunday book review.  I've got a larger stack of of books in the basement that I might pull out and try again - books like "Feeling Good," books that are standards for depression but ones I haven't gotten into yet.  The books above, however, I just pulled from the side of my bed.

Happy Reading.

Symptoms

I was reading some of my bipolar books yesterday - and I have quite a few - and something jumped out at me, even though I'd read it before.

Hopelessness, being needy and suicidal thoughts are all symptoms of bipolar disorder. Apparently our brains are so messed up that this becomes a norm.  Almost a common place thing.

Like ear pain when you have an ear infection, or shortness of breath when you have asthma.   When you have bipolar your symptoms are emotional, and thus impossible to differentiate from other emotions.  You actually have to learn whether it is the bipolar talking or you talking.  I know I've blogged a bit before about this - but it always strikes me as particularly cruel.

Meanwhile, I still am trying to continue to separate from my illness.  To see if getting up and going instead of giving in helps.  Sometimes it has, and sometimes it hasn't.  Because I still have symptoms of bipolar disorder.  

Progress?

Rome wasn't built in a day.  One step forward, two steps back.  It's always darkest before the dawn.  Time is a great healer.  (OK - I'm really hoping He who laughs last, laughs hardest.  That would work for me.) Maybe even slow and steady won the race?  Certainly tomorrow is another day.  

And in the words of Amy Grant - "It takes a little time to turn the titanic around."

I was optimistic after a couple days that were more stable than most.  Apparently I follow directions well and when I was told to separate from my illness I did.  Because, by golly, I've never not gotten good marks in class.

But I guess my illness missed me, because it decided to visit this morning.  Can't really say the feeling is mutual.

But here's some of the lyrics from the Amy Grant song that keeps running through my head (at least when I'm trying to be hopeful):

"It takes a little time sometimes

To get your feet back on the ground

It takes a little time sometimes

To get the titanic turned back around

It takes a little time sometimes

But baby you're not going down

It takes more than you've got right now

Give it time

. . .

You can't fix this pain with money

You can't rest a weary soul

You can't sweep it under the rug, now honey

It don't take alot to know

It takes a little times sometimes."

Separation

Shhhhh.

my head counselor says I'm supposed to try separating from my illness

she says we need a break from each other

she told me no blogging

so I'm not blogging for a while

To sleep. perchance to dream. . .

(OK - I saw Hamlet this weekend)

I know I've written about dreams before, but bear with me.  Last night I had two vivid sequences:  a long and involved nightmare and a gorgeous, happy, lovely dream.  The happy dream came right before I woke up.  I was happy, really happy, not just not depressed.  For a moment when I woke up it lingered.  It was nice.

The reality set in.  And I started to worry about my mood, and sure enough, as the morning went on it got worse.  And my worrying got worse along with it.  I am very very anxious today.

I had a lousy day yesterday - the worst in over a week.  Intellectually I know that recovery can be a two steps forward, one step back kind of deal.  But emotionally it is so hard to get back on that horse.  

Wouldn't it be nice if I could believe that my dreams came from a higher power?  Or even my subconscious?  Giving me the strength to get back on the horse?  Of course, how would we explain the nightmare that came first then.

Pain, pain and more pain

I hate this.  I hate pain.  I hate depression.  I hate being bipolar.  I hate my life, myself.  I am so far from who I used to be and so very far from whom I want to be.

I can't really express with words how awful this is.  I know I've tried here over and over again. But I can't get it right.  It is intense, sharp and dull at the same time.  Frantic and lethargic. Angry and resigned.  Wanting company and wanting solitude.  And hopeless.  Always hopeless. It's a part of you - intertwined with your thoughts.  It's not something separate.  You can't turn it off, when it's really going you can't even distract from it.  You second guess everything.  What you do, who you are with, past, present and future.  They are all fodder for your brain.

It makes me feel like I want to yank out all my hair just to feel something outside like what I feel on the inside.  I want to break things.  I want to curl up in a fetal position in bed and never leave.  I want to cut myself.  I drive over bridges and think about jumping.  I am desperate.   Simply desperate.  I want it gone.  I need it gone.  I don't know how much longer I can wait before I take some kind of action to make it gone.  I don't know what that is or will be, but I can only sit passively for so long.

I hate this.

Fight or Flight

In the charts listing out symptoms of depression, there is usually a line that talks about the thoughts of running away.  I don't recall off the top of my head how they put it - but I understand it all too well.  

When the pain hits hard, it's all you can do not to get on a bus, exit stage right, go on the lamb, get out of dodge, hit the road.  It can be in many forms.  You can think/fantasize about moving away, going into a shell and never coming out, or dying - either intentionally or otherwise.  I've contemplated all of these at one time or another.  Why - to push away the pain of course.  It is so intense, with no relief, that you need to fantasize about it in order to help bear the pain.  If you really felt like there were no choices, no options, but to endure, I think you'd go a little madder than we already are.  The fantasizing about going away is in some weird way protecting ourselves from the pain and despair.

Last week at camp, one of the campers went AWOL for the day.  Didn't tell anyone, just escaped.  OK, he scared everyone silly, and his family was sick with worry.  But me?  I was so jealous.  Why can't I run away?  Why can't I push the pain away - even if just for a little while? Why couldn't I go somewhere where I wasn't sick?  Where no one knows who I am?  Why can't I push the pain away, even if for a couple hours?  I can't take flight, so I stay and fight.  But I can still dream about a little house on the coast, somewhere away from it all, and here's the key part - where this is no pain.

Mindfulness and Depression

One thing we are working on in my camp is the concept of mindfulness.  I even ran out and bought the book about depression and mindfulness.  Really good concepts in theory.   (But for those of you that have read this book or ones in the same vein - I never want to eat a raisin again.)

In practice, I haven't found it - well - I'm embarrassed to say this - helpful.  I'm just not sure how being mindful can occur when I'm being hit on the head with a 2x4.  Seriously.  It doesn't thrill me to think about being mindful of my suffering, being mindful of the pain I'm in, mindful of the hurt I feel, mindful of the knife in my back and the dodge ball in my stomach.  Mindful of the destruction about me that is my life.

I want it to be better.  I really do.  I'll keep practicing and taking my meds.  But nothing seems to make a difference in the long run.  And I'm mindful of that.

Blind-sided

Have you ever had the wind knocked out of you?   Had the sudden and unexpected instantly deflate you?  Make it so that breathing is hard and painful?  Feel like you can't breathe, can't move?

Sometimes that's the way the pain comes.  Nothing gradual about it.  No warning.  Just a bright red dodge ball caught in the stomach during gym class.  Whipping your head so fast you don't know what hit you. One minute you are good and the next - BAM.  And, as I've said before, you'd do just about anything to get rid of it.

Pain, that jack of all trades, is pretty darn good at blind-siding it's victims.  

Battle scars

Today someone asked me how old I am.  I had no hesitation in saying 40.  I'm proud to be 40. I have grey hair starting to crop up.  I'm content with it.  I like being a "woman of a certain age."

Mostly, it seems totally irrelevant to my self esteem or self worth.  I had a harder time with these transitions before I was diagnosed BP.  Now, I'm more interested in what I'm going through.  I am walking through fire.  As one of my fellow campers puts it - we may be in hell, but we know where all the roads are. 

Who really cares about a random age or a few gray hairs.  I want to be one of those women who embrace their age, not run away from it or try to mask it.  Because I've been given a perspective that many haven't.  

I am battle scared and road weary.  And it ain't over yet.

Avoiding Simple Sugars

The books all tell you that a proper/healthy diet is one key componant in your recovery. Specifically, you should avoid simple sugars.

I'm guessing that gooey brownie I had for breakfast - washed down with some hot chocolate wasn't what they were talking about.

It's hard enough when everything else feels lousy to remember to eat some days, let alone eat "right." After all I did loose over 15 pounds this year, although now I'm almost back to normal weight. I find it just one more thing to feel guilty and upset about. And you know what - chocolate is a mood enhancer.

So there.

Medication management (or I used to be pill phobic)

Medication management has become part of my life.  Before I was diagnosed with BP, I was pill phobic.   I wouldn't even take an advil if my head was throbbing.  I had a serious problem with taking pills.  We can all have different hypotheses as to why - control issues, anxiety issues, etc. We'd probably all be a little right.  

Then BP came into my life.  Now I pop those suckers day and night.  I've gotten so that I don't even take many of them with water.  Just down the hatch.  Right now I 'm on three medications for BP, plus I'm taking Omega 3, calcium and a B complex vitamin.  Today that will mean about 15 pills.  Lovely.  

And as I've mentioned before, my meds change on a regular basis.  I can't keep up and finally made a chart that I posted in my kitchen.  I try to write down when I take something, but sometimes I'm sure I've forgotten and taken twice the amount, or not enough.  With the memory issues, I really need to write stuff down.

And let's not forget the side effects part of medication.  I was bumped up on two of the three meds yesterday and today I'm so lightheaded and dizzy it's hard to stand.  

When I think about the medication management needed for BP, I keep thinking about the phrase - the cure is worse than the disease.  I don't think that's true, since I really can't imagine anything wore than the disease.  But it certainly doesn't help.

Suspicious minds

The word for today, folks, is precarious.  I felt very precarious today.  Sometimes I leaned one way (into the dark hopeless pit with suicidal thoughts) and sometimes the other (thinking maybe, just maybe, there is a bit of improvement.)  I ranged quite broadly today.  Just when I thought that I might be feeling a bit better, BAM, yanked back.

This process has happened time and time again.  It's gotten to the point where I don't trust any improvement.  I'm suspicious that it will stay or take hold.  I live on the edge just waiting for the crash.  Cringing the whole time.  Not wanting to say anything about any kind of small improvements because they will just be taken away again.  And they have every single time. Usually followed by more darkness and a deeper pit.

It reminds me of someone dangling a toy mouse in front of a cat, always yanking it away when the mouse was about to snatch it.  Eventually the cat stops reaching for it.  The cat knows that it is not going to get the prize.

The cat is suspicious.

Am I bipolar or is bipolar me?

We talked today about whether or not it is correct to say "I am bipolar."  Those who advocate against it say you would never say "I'm cancer."  However, others of us feel that being bipolar/having bipolar disorder does change who you are, informs who you are, and is a part of you.  Others see it as separate from themselves.  Something that happens to them, as opposed to being them.

There is no right answer.  For me, I am bipolar.  It describes so much of who I am and what my life is about right now.  And it's not a fun place to play.  It's probably healthier to say "I am suffering from bipolar disorder, "  and maybe someday I'll get there.  For now I am the disease and the disease is me.

As you may see, I've added a poll to the blog to see how folks are affected by bipolar disorder.  (Or are bipolar. . .)   Why?  Why not.  I got to play with the "add a poll" function on the blog.  And I so rarely get to play with anything.  Because I'm bipolar.

The Passage of Time (more cognitive issues with depression)

I realized this morning that I don't really have a good grasp on the passage of time anymore. Somethings in my past seem like yesterday, while yesterday I can't actually remember.  This past year has been a blur, and I feel like time folded - kind of like in the book Wrinkle in Time.

My brain is so confused, so overwhelmed, so overtaxed, that asking it to remember stuff that complicated is too much at this point.

So I feel very adrift.  Don't really know where I've been, aren't really sure where I am, and have absolutely no clue where I'm going.  It's very disconcerting.

What if?

What if I am just not able to be happy anymore?

What if I am never happy again?

What if the best times have already happened?

What if they aren't able to find medicines that work for me?

What will that look like?

What will that feel like?

What will be left of me if this takes much longer?

Who will still be standing at that point?

Who will be left in my cheering section?

Who will I be?

How will this change me?

How has this changed me?

How can this not change me?

How will I cope without a memory?

How will I handle the ongoing pain?

How am I going to handle the pain tomorrow, next week, next month?

What if?

The Queen of Despair

I was at camp again today.  Still love camp.  And the head counselor - whom I am crazy about - had a session with me and my husband.  She remarked on the fact that I have been treated for severe depression for seven months now.  That's right.  Seven months.  She said she hadn't seen anyone in a long time that had to endure it that long.

She said I was a Queen of Despair.

One of the reasons I am tickled with this woman is her ability to retain a healthy sense of humor in the midst of all this sadness.  But it really did make me think about how severe this is for me.  How much longer I have struggled than most.  How much it has taken out of me, taken from me, taken out of and from the ones I love.  How much pain and how long I've been doing this.

Then I talked to my other doc today.  Usually he calls and the illness goes hiding.  Not today. He got the full meal deal.   When I croaked out how tired I am, and how hard it is to believe that any medicine will make a difference at this point.  He said "It's been a nightmare."

Two well-respected seasoned professionals confirming that this sucks.

I am tired.

I am so very bone weary tired.  Came home and collapsed and cried and cried tired.  Can't seem to find a way to stop crying tired. 

I'm supposed to report when I have a normal mood.  I don't even know what that looks like anymore.  I'm beginning to believe that I never will.  

One of my fellow campers went AWOL for a while today, and everyone was scared.  However, in addition to being scared, I thought - why does he get to run away.  I want to be able to run away but I stay.  How come he gets to do so - even if for a day?  I know he scared his family half silly, and affected lots of folks at camp too.  But I do have my fantasy of running away from it all.

I know I could have a lot of fun with the Queen of Despair/nightmare part.  Something like the Elvira of mental illness comes to mind.  But I'm too tired.  I don't want to come out and play today.  This illness is awful.  It stinks.  It's just a terrible thing.

Denial - not just a river in Egypt

I've had a hard time accepting the fact that I have an illness.  Despite blithely calling myself bipolar, I have spent many hours trying to figure out whether I'm sick or whether I'm just feeling down.  Or this is just my friggin' life.  

All of the bipolar books talk about acceptance and how hard it is.  But that didn't apply to me - because I wasn't sick, see.  That only applied to sick people.  I wasn't sick, so I didn't have anything to accept.  OK, it might not be normal to cry for hours on end in fetal position for months, but then again, it could be normal.  Given the right set of circumstances.  And every week that went by without getting better proved my point.  If I was sick, medicine would make it better. Since medicine wasn't making it better, I wasn't sick.  Totally logical.

Then yesterday one of my fellow campers had a bit of a melt down, poor thing.  And the way they described how they were feeling was exactly how I had been feeling (OK - without the ruminations,  I appear to be unique in that area).  But the overwhelming sadness, the constant thoughts of death, the hopelessness, the deep and vast pit that exists within you - all the same.  I started to think how could someone so vastly different than me, different lifestyles, different gender, different problems, different job, different everything, have the exact same thoughts I did.  OK, maybe its because the thoughts are symptoms of the same illness.  Maybe.

Not sure yet.  But maybe.

Seasons and Old wounds

Have you ever thought about the fact that we are so molded by events and people that came before we knew how to ride a bike.  Seriously, a lot of how we are emotionally programmed happened so early in life.  And it's a lottery - get a good set of parents and  you are set.  But, get one that's not so good, well my dear, therapy is in your future.  And what surprises me is the extent to which, really, everyone has a "bad" one.  We are all so broken, that there are many ways to pass along undesired beliefs, feeling and traits.  Everyone gives their child some unwanted legacy.  

And while we are all figuring out what that is, we are passing something along to our children.

I think we probably did better when we had to worry about hunting and gathering and making sure the fire didn't go out.

And at some point most of us have to face the music and examine what caused that old wound. For those of us suffering from mental illness, it is both more pressing and nearly impossible to do.  How is that wound affecting us today?  Where does it rear its ugly head in our life?  And hardest of all - how do we change?  How do we fix something that has been broken for so long we can't remember when it wasn't?  How do we parent ourselves?  And - "Isn't it really easier not to change?"

So - this verse kept running through my head today as I try and call out my own demons.  I think it fits, and it's one of my favorites.  I just wish someone would tell me what time it is for me.

"For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:

a time to be born, and a time to die;

a time to plant, and a time to be planted;

a time to kill and a time to heal;

a time to break down, and a time to build up;

a time to weep and a time to laugh;

a time to mourn and a time to dance;

a time to throw away stones and a time to gather stones together;

a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

a time to seek , and a time to lose;

a time to keep, and a time to throw away;

a time to tear, and a time to sew;

a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

a time for love, and a time to hate;

a time for war, and a time for peace."

Ecclesiastes, 3:1-8

Peace everyone.

Music, despair and hope

I know I've been a little prolific today, but bear with me.  It's been a really tough one.

Those of you who know me and are reading this know what a big part music has played in my life. Those who have known me the longest know that it's been a part of me as long as I can remember.  I sing, and have sung in choirs and other groups.  I have played many instruments. And I always had a tape player, CD player, and/or radio going.  And I admit it, I had an 8-track when I was little.  I remember playing "Muskrat Love" on it.  My life had a soundtrack and music reflected my moods, my feelings, my station in life.  I would greet the day with music. There has always been music.

Until I became depressed.  And I could no longer listen to music.  It was a trigger and would send my brain places I didn't want to go.  My husband, I know, has been waiting for me to turn it on again.  But it won't come.  For whatever reason the things that have brought me the most joy in life - music, reading, are all denied to me now.  This is perhaps the cruelest thing.  

But today I wanted to hear one song.  It made me cry, but I played it loud.  If you've got it at home, play it.  It's much more powerful than seeing it on paper.  Divine inspiration or desperation?  Only time will tell.

There Will Come a Day

Faith Hill

It's not easy trying to understand

How the world can be so cruel

Stealing the souls of man

Cloudy skies rain down over all your dreams

You wrestle with the fear and doubts

Sometimes it's hard, but you gotta believe

(Chorus)

There's a better place

Where our Father waits

And every tear He'll wipe away

The darkness will be gone

The weak shall be strong

Hold on to your faith

There will come a day

Wars are raging

Lives are scattered

Innocence is lost

And hopes are shattered

The old are forgotten

The children are forsaken

In this world we're living in

Is there anything sacred

(Chorus)

The song will ring out

Down those golden streets

The voices of Earth and the angels will sing

(Hallelujah)

Every knee will bow

Sin will have no trace

In the glory of His amazing grace

There will come a day

There will come a day

Oh, there will come a day

There will come a day

I know there's coming a day, coming a day

Fatal thoughts

Fatal.  Means causing death.

The Camp Counselor at bipolar day camp made this statement the other day:  "Your feelings are not fatal unless you act upon them."  OK - all you "normal" people out there are shrugging your shoulders saying, "yeah, so what."  But for me and my brain, this was a revolutionary thought. This counselor was the most brilliant woman I had ever met.  She was handing me the scrolls with the laws of nature on them.  The skies opened up, birds sang, and the theme music played.

Seriously.

And I'm not the only one in that room that felt that way.  We all wrote it down with reverence in our notebooks.  To be studied and chewed over at home.  Over and over.

Because my thoughts and feelings feel like they will kill me.  It's that simple.  If you've never experienced this, I can't really explain it.  Just think sci-fi or some super magical fantasy.  It really feels like I will keel over and expire.  Right there, right then.  And the pain is so intense, you really aren't sure if it wouldn't be a good thing.  'Cause it would end the pain.  And the pain just seems endless at that point.  Always existing, and always will exist.  I really believe it is going to kill me.

But now I mutter to myself under my breath, "my feelings are not fatal unless I act, my feelings are not fatal unless I act."  Because, my friends, I need the reminder.

Waiting

James Taylor wrote - the secret of life is enjoying the passage of time.  Not so much, says the bipolar girl.  It's a noble thought, but not one grounded in my reality.

No, for me, the secret is passing time quickly while waiting.  Waiting for what?  Well, waiting for the meds to work, waiting for this episode to pass, waiting until the pain seems farther away, waiting until this particular mood passes, waiting for a sedative to kick in.  Waiting for someone to come, waiting for someone to go.  Waiting until I can take more pills.  Waiting for the doctor to call.  Waiting until I have a clue.

Waiting.  Always waiting.  Feel like I'm never arriving.  Just always waiting.

The Never Ending Story (and depression)

I saw "The Neverending Story" with my kids this weekend.  I thought - wow, this is about depression.  The author must have struggled with it.  It fits so well.

I researched it on the Internet, and sure enough, I found plenty of folks who say that this was an allegory for depression.

Is it ever.

Basically the story is that the world of Fantastica is being consumed by the Nothing.  A hero goes out to save it, and has to fight such places as the Swamp of Sadness.  He even needs to be painfully poisoned in order to go somewhere far away that he needs to visit in order to complete his quest.  Eventually, it is revealed that the only way to save it is to give the Child-like Empress a new name.  Ok, I could write a whole thesis on how this applies to depression. I'm sure somewhere someone has.  

How do you keep from being consumed by the Nothing?  Do you need to be reborn - have a new name?  How much poison do I have to consume?  I've certainly struggled with what I will look like when this is all over.  An in my group session at camp the other day I likened it to giving birth.  It's long and it's painful (and in my case may take 9 months).  But I don't know what I'm giving birth too.  Where is my hero to tell me what my new name is?

Out of the Mouth of Babes (or How to talk to your children about bipolar disorder)

I've been pretty open and candid with my children about my illness.  It started pretty simply, talking about my brain and how it is different.  Talking about the symptoms of the illness. Have I mentioned my children are brilliant?  

Anyway,  this morning we were all hanging out in our pjs, and my youngest wanted to talk about bipolar disorder.  So I had this great conversation with her about bipolarity.  She paused and said, "Oh, it's like a black diamond run when we ski."  My girls cross country ski, and the black diamond run is very very hilly.  I smiled and said yes.  So, she took it further and talked about how the medicine can try and make it a blue run or a green run.  Have I mentioned . . .

Anyway . . .

When we were getting out of bed she then looked at me and said - today is not a polar bear day (our name for when the bipolar symptoms are running rampant.)  I borrowed the term from a great post on one of the internet support groups, and my children love it.  I was able to hug her, and even laugh a bit.

Honey, it wasn't a polar bear day this morning.  But this is a black diamond run, so the bear needs to growl again.

Witness my life, my love (or depression and relationships)

I realized today that my blog has a certain dark tone to it.  Hmmmm.  Oh, that's right - I'm depressed!  I thought I would try to the lighter side today.

Have I said how much I love camp?

So, at bipolar camp today we talked about relationships.  Not a strong point today, but as so often is the case, I needed to hear it.  One of the things we talked about was a need for the relationships in your life to be there to observe your life.  I've always told my husband that I want to be there when he dies.  I want to hold his hand and tell him his life did not go unnoticed.  I want him to know he's not alone.  I want to witness his life.

Those of us that are sick, who are suffering,  need the ones around us to hold our hand, to tell us they love us, and to witness our life.  Here's the trick - the loved one in your life, if they are bipolar, depressed, or otherwise nuts (said in the most respectful tone), may not be able to tell you what they need.

But what they need is someone to witness their life.

So, dear husband, today I want to say thanks for witnessing my life.  I know it's not easy.  I know it takes a chunk out of both of us.  But, thanks.

You know I've always loved you.

Dreams and depression

I started to write this post about dreaming, and realized there are two kinds of dreams: daytime and nighttime.  Both, for me, have been altered by my illness.

My dreams at night are a slave to the meds and my insomnia.  When your sleep pattern changes, so does your REM sleep and your dream cycle.  I have experienced some of my most vivid dreams while I've been depressed.

Which is so very ironic, given the lack of day time dreams.  Life dreams.  Goals.  Aspirations. This came up today at camp (so love the camp thing - see below)  I asked one of the others whether they had dreams - and found that I'm not the only one who has trouble looking forward.

When life is so bleak, so empty.  When all you feel inside is dark and haunting.  When you can't imagine surviving this pain.  When you can't believe that there is a future that is different from today.  

There isn't any room for dreams.

Peter and Repeat were in a boat . . .

Sometimes you need to hear things over and over and over.  I went to bipolar camp today (otherwise known as partial hospitalization or a day program).  You hang around with a group of folks who are going through the same thing you are.  That's worth the money alone.   Good folks too. (Run, don't walk, if you can find a program near you.)

But the group leader also went over some material on coping with your emotions that I've heard a thousand times before.  But you know, I think it helped.   I'm not fixed, I'm not cured.  I haven't magically become stable.  I've had my moments today.  And today ain't over.  But I had a better day.  And I feel like I have different tools in my tool box, even though I've plowed this ground before.

Some things bear repeating.

They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha Haaa

Ok, my husband didn't get the pop culture reference.  Too old I guess (sorry, honey).  Dr. Demento?  Anyone? 70s?

Anyway, this blog is in part supposed informative.  Telling you things you won't find elsewhere. Here's a new one.  Partial hospitalization.  You get to be a hospital patient, but go home at night.  Also called Day Programs.  I like to think of it as Bipolar Day Camp.  And I'm off to try it.

And I'm as nervous as a school kid on the first day of school, when you don't know the teachers, the other kids, where the bathroom is, etc.  But after yesterday everyone agrees, I need to try something different.  I can't take another day curled up on the floor.

So, I didn't read about this in any books, found out through my docs and the wonderful internet.  There are options between inpatient and nothing.

Folks at work, my office is going to be dark for a while.  I'm off to camp.

I don't know what to do.

My husband has heard this phrase so often it drives him nuts.

I don't know what to do.

When you are depressed, sometimes (OK, a lot) it is hard to figure out what you are supposed to be doing.  Am I supposed to be going to work? To the hospital?  Playing WoW?  Cleaning the house?  Taking a nap?  Surfing the Internet?  Cleaning the closet?  OK, decisions like this are really really hard to make.  You can' t even imagine.  You just want someone to tell you what to do.  Give me a handbook with a schedule.

I don't know what to do.

Of course, it runs even deeper than that.  I don't know how I'm supposed to live my life.  I don't know how to shake the ruminations.  I don't know how to forgive and forget.  I don't know how to heal the wounds inside of me.  I don't know how to make it better.  I don't know if I ever will get better.  I don't know how to be a wife, a mother, a daughter any more.  I don't know who I am.  I don't know what to say.  I don't know where to go.  I don't know how or where to live.  I don't know how to make a living anymore.  I don't know if I can live with this.  I don't know if I can live without.  I don't know if I need to be hospitalized.  I don't know if I really want to kill myself.  I don't know if I really want to live.  I don't know how or what to think.  I don't know how I am supposed to last another hour, another day, another minute with this shit in my head.

I don't know what the fuck to do.

Putting on the gloves.

Ok, we're going to be a bit philosophical this morning (at least until the big honking pill that my pdoc told me to take this morning kicks in.  That's the sleepy pill, so I may drop as I write this.)

Anyway . . .

Have you ever leaned back from your life and wondered what's worth fighting for?  Is it a relationship?  Your children?  Your dogs?(ok Mom, had to throw that one in)  Your job?  Your possessions?  Your house?  Your sanity?  Your faith?  Yourself?  Have you ever wondered what you would stick it out to the bitter end for.  What you would risk your sanity for?

As the commercial says, what would you put on your pedestal?

Depression, or really I think any serious illness, makes you ask this question on a daily basis. Because you are fighting.  Fighting to get well, certainly.  But fighting for other things as well. Fighting to have a certain kind of life.  Fighting to fend off the darkness.  Fighting to figure out what the hell is going on and what it is you are supposed to be doing in your life.  Hard, if not down right impossible, to do when your tank is on empty.  But important.  The books do get one thing right - they talk about discovering what you live for, as a way to hold off the seduction of suicide.

But I think it's a good question for everyone now and again.  What would you fight for today?

Depression and cognitive abilities

Big words for a not so simple topic.

Depression affects your cognition.  Everyone says so, so it must be so.  Depressed folks, whether unipolar or bipolar, think differently.  Process differently.  The doctors, the books, all say that when I am well, I won't feel or think the way I do now.  I asked my doctor last week, would I feel differently when I was not depressed.  He said, "Yes, and think differently too."

What does that mean?

Will I still be myself?  Will I care about the same things?  What will that look like?  Does that mean what I think and feel now aren't me?  How do I tell?  How do I keep from making decisions based on something that is not me?  How do I know if decisions I've made up to now are right for me?

I can't imagine anyone going through this thing and not being different.

But thinking differently?  I don't even know how to tell you about that.  It's the way I think.  It's the way my brain works.  It's what walks with me all day every day.  It's going to change?  Hard to believe.  

I know I'm repeating myself here, but this is a tough one for me.  Anyone out there who reads this - feel free to let me know.  Are my thoughts, my way of thinking, really going to change?

Sometimes you feel like a nut . . .

Cycling. Not the kind with two wheels, but the kind that us bipolar folks deal with. After charting my moods for a couple weeks, it appears that most of the time I'm on a 24 hour cycle right now. Yes, that would be ultra-rapid cycling. But I'm proof that it exists.

One day up, one day down, one day up, one day down.

Yesterday was a relatively up day. Guess what today is?

The uneven. The unpredictable.

One of the killers of this disease (oh - do I see a theme in this blog?), is that you don't know from one moment to the next what's going to happen. You can't tell if it's going to be a day that you can make it through in public, or whether it is going to be a fetal position on the floor kind of day. Most days have some of both, but generally more down lately than up.

So, you have to make different choices. Can I go to a restaurant? A movie? Can I drive my daughter to her soccer game that is three hours away? (ok - answer on that one was no, but then again, her Dad didn't want to take her either. She carpooled.) Can I start playing WoW tonight? (Umm, tried that. Had a really hard time.)

What seem like logical, normal everyday things become complicated. You are literally trapped by it. Usually I'm pretty good about dragging my butt out of the house and trying to move faster than the disease.

But it always catches up to you in the end. At some point you wonder why you keep trying.

What comes up, must come down

Pain.

Unrelenting. Intense.  Sharp.  All-consuming.  Never ending.  Defeating.  Exhausting. Overwhelming.  Sad.  Hopeless.  Painful.  Lonely.  

It just never seems to end or let up.  I'm so sick of being sick.  I'm so sick of this awful disease. I'm sick of my life and its problems.  I'm sick of the pain.  I'm tired of being the way I am.

I have no hope left.  No humor.  Just trying to figure out how to stay out of bed.  How to keep walking when I want to sit in the middle of the road and say "No more.  I'm done."

Side Effects

One of the inevitabilities of anti-depressants and other psycho-tropic drugs is side effects.  They all have them, and I don't know of anyone who hasn't escaped them.  I've suffered many of them, from the more mundane, like headaches and terrible insomnia, to the more unusual, like tingling of hands, feet and mouth.   One of the many reasons that depression stinks. Sometimes, the cure is worse than the disease.  At the very least, it doesn't make experiencing the disease any easier, particularly when the drugs aren't working and there is only down side.

On my current mix I'm experiencing headaches, dizziness, a drop in blood pressure when I stand up (you know that feeling - like you are going to black out), abdominal pains, dry mouth, vivid dreams, sometimes nightmares and when I let my lithium level get too high because I don't drink enough water, diarrhea.  Generally, an OK mix, if not a bit unpleasant.

Last night, I experienced a new side effect of one of my new drugs, Seroquel (a new class for me - atypical antipsychotics.  I just get to try new things all the time.)  

Sleep.

No joke.  I haven't really slept since my world starting turning upside down a year ago.  I can count on one hand the number of times that I've slept through the night.  My average over the year has been 6 hours a night.  When I was stable (before the crash) I was a 7-8 hour kind of gal.

Last night I slept 10 hours.  I don't think I've done that since college.  I woke up once to relieve myself (side effect), but other than that slept and slept and slept.  I had read that Seroquel made people sleep 10-12 hours a night, but I didn't think that would apply to me.

And I dreamed mostly lovely dreams.  Heartbreaking to wake up dreams.  I played with my niece on the floor for hours, I took my daughter to Disneyland, and my husband sang a heart-breakingly beautiful song to me (and he looked surprisingly like Richard Gere).

This is a side effect I can live with.

I remember a tv show, I think Ally McBeal, where there was a terminally ill woman who wanted to be put to sleep (and not in the way animals are) because her dreams were better than her reality.  

I get it.

Progress?

Today I drove to the grocery store.  By myself.  Without talking on the phone.  (Driving is a trigger for me.  I'll talk in a different blog about triggers.  Mine include music, driving, and pictures, among others.  They stink.)  

I shopped for groceries using a list I had prepared ahead of time.

I drove home.  By myself.  Without talking on the phone.

I put the groceries away.  I threw dinner in the slow cooker (so love the slow cooker,  see blog below).

I didn't cry the whole time.  Amazing.

Of course, I'm exhausted now.  And the ruminations/obsessive thoughts are worse and I'm feeling way more on the edge.

And according to the assessment I had today,  I'm doing amazingly well for someone in my condition.

What a God-awful disease this is.

Alone

It takes a village.

But we've scattered.  Isolated.  In our cars, our high rises, our jobs.  Our sprawling lawns.  Our distance.

We're alone.  Separate.

Where's my village?

Where are the casseroles, the cleaning crew, the ladies who sit and knit with me.  Who bear witness to my pain.  Who watch and wait.  The community that holds me up.  That holds us up.

We've substituted electronics, doctors, institutions.  Modern life.

We've lost so much.

But I have my pills.

Too tired, too empty

Can't find my own words right now. Here's a poem that made me cry today.

Void

by Michael Anderson

Void, canceled, simply annulled. Endlessly aching, unconsoled. Life without you, cause without reason. Touch without sense, time without season. I face life now facing a cancerous sore, A sordid parasite that eats at my core. All that makes me whole, all I hold deep within, Leaving me lifeless, or at least not livin'. A shallow face, anguished and marred. An empty space, scaled and scarred. Sweetly abiding to a cynical charade. Secretly hiding 'hind a fictitious facade. Still, lost within this heart of glass, This fragile and yet unfeeling mass. Lies the remains of a love that glowed, The gift to you I once bestowed. But honor and pride now bereaved- By your love for me so misconceived, Ripped from my inner depths, impeding- Mind and body and spirit, bleeding; Now's crushed to sand from thy ruthless hand, A cold stare I just can't understand. I feel that somehow, somehow I'm dying, At least my soul and all that's underlying. A simple void, is that what I've become? The hollowed sphere on a pendulum. Swinging back and forth, emotion to emotion, Never once stopping, nor slowing the motion. No reason, no answer, no justification. The creation of a sterile imagination. Just passing through time as time passes me. Merely a nothing- nothing, merely, left to be. Sightless and soundless, unseen and unheard. Mindless and boundless, obscure and absurd. All empathy lying ungraced, unemployed, I live my life dying, unembraced, a void.

Normal

It's amazing how much we've all been programmed to act a certain way. I know when to smile, when to laugh at a joke, how to sit in meetings, how to talk in person, how to talk on the phone, what to say to small talk, how to make dinner, talk to my kids about their day, how to make it look "normal." We've all been so socialized for such a long time that even on most of my really bad days I can look like nothing is going on. I can make it so that (almost) no one can see what's really going on. (Ok - assuming I can control the crying, which is a give away, I admit. But I'm making a point here.)

But don't assume I'm fine.

Don't look at the man behind the curtain.

Who am I?

I think one hard thing about this illness (I was going to say one of the hardest, but that's a hard call to make, so to say) is not being able to distinguish between the symptoms of the illness and you.  The books for "loved ones" of bipolar talk about their need to tell the difference.  To understand "who's talking" to them at any given time.  I think that's a tough enough task, although my loved ones say my voice is different, so it helps them I suppose.

However, it's virtually impossible to tell when it's you.  It looks, acts, feels and talks like you.  So it must be you.  These feelings you have must all be real and you really must be this awful, confused, inept person.  I don't have a clue as to where to start telling the difference.  So, most of the time it doesn't feel at all like I'm sick.  I'm just having the worst few months in history.  I've always had bad luck, this is just the worst luck.  And I'm not strong enough to deal with it or pull myself out of it.  It comes from some fundamental personality flaw.  This I truly believe way more often than not.  I, and I bet others like me, keep asking - are you sure I have an illness?  I can't be sick because I feel the same inside.  Just hurt and sad and scared.  How can medicine fix that?  It hasn't so far, so how can it going forward?

And the more medicines we try without success, the more this feeling grows.  I'm not sick.  This is just me and nothing is going to make it better.  As they say on NPR, this I believe.

Nevertheless, we keep taking the meds, because we are told to.  Because if we didn't the ones around us would be upset.  You might as well take them, they don't seem to do anything.

And today I try yet another new one.  And increase the dosage of another, and drop another that I just increased on Monday and yesterday.  As you can see, with all this movement, it's hard to believe anything will make a difference. 

How can it?  I'm not sick.  Just messed up.

How World of Warcraft saved my life (and maybe my marriage)

I've been meaning to write this up for a while. For those who wonder about how "World of Warcraft" got into my profile along with all the mental illness. Back in the beginning, before the crash, my then boyfriend (now husband) introduced me to his passion - online gaming. Not realizing that I had an addictive streak, he didn't know what he was getting into. I quickly became enamored of World of Warcraft. And we happily started playing our characters together (for those coming from the WoW link - I play a druid, a hunter and a warlock primarily. Druid is my main. Alliance side. Currently level 61)

Then the crash, and my inability to do anything I used to do. Particularly to read. You see, many folks can't read when they are depressed. I would look at the same page over and over again and not be able to make out what it said. This was so painful for a lifelong reader. I had used books as my escape for my entire life. I lost the best and most well-loved coping mechanism I had.

But most of the time, I could play.

And so I played. And played and played. When I couldn't do anything else, when I couldn't work, I played. As long as I could get out of bed, or off the floor (which admittedly wasn't all that often in the beginning.) And when I play, sometimes, it's the closest thing I have to escape. Sometimes I can get lost in it. It's rare, but it happens. And in the game, I have goals that I can actually meet. I can complete things. I can be strong and powerful. I can progress and gain experience. I can grow as a player and make progress. I can learn new things. I can die and come back again. I can survive.

None of which I can go in real life anymore.

And for my marriage? Let's admit any illness like this is tough on a marriage - particularly a new one, particularly when the source of the ruminations comes between the two. World of Warcraft is something we can do that doesn't involve my illness. It's a way to collaborate without talking about the hurt. I think it allows my husband the chance to relax and enjoy time with me, when it's usually so painful. He gets to see me competent, even if only for a short while.

And it gives us something to talk about, to plan for.

So, what should you give your bipolar loved ones for Christmas? A slow cooker (see below) and a subscription to World of Warcraft.

Hope (or lack there of)

The word desperate in Webster's is defined:

1.	reckless or dangerous because of despair or urgency: a desperate killer.

2.	having an urgent need, desire, etc.: desperate for attention.

3.	leaving little or no hope; very serious or dangerous: a desperate illness.

4.	extremely bad; intolerable or shocking: clothes in desperate taste.

5.	extreme or excessive.

6.	making a final, ultimate effort; giving all: a desperate attempt to save a life.

7.	actuated by a feeling of hopelessness.

8.	having no hope; giving in to despair.

–noun

9.	Obsolete. a desperado.

It fits.

I (don't ) feel pretty or depression and self esteem

Again, faced with a morning where I wake up and the ruminations and crying start right away, I thought I'd get up and opine instead.

So, depression wrecks your self-esteem.  Known fact.  Here's one way.  I used to enjoy being girly.  I used to feel pretty and strong and powerful when I would paint my toenails and put together a cute outfit.  I liked being "matchy" and putting thought and energy into it.  I enjoyed the feeling.  I enjoyed the admiration of my husband.

Now every outfit I pull together seems to have something wrong with it.  I can't ever quite get the shoes to go.  The pants don't really fit (OK - the weight roller coaster is another topic altogether.)  I can't seem to remember to buy tights that don't have runs or holes in them.  My hair never seems to be quite right.  And I can't get up the energy to paint my nails.  And then when I do I don't have the energy to take the polish off, so it peels and looks awful.  And none of it seems to matter anymore.

Yes, I believe my husband still makes admiring comments.  But it feels so vastly different being depressed.  Or maybe it's the heartbreak.  But I really miss the feeling.

Depression stinks.

Why it's not a marathon

Endurance. Learning to wait it out. Handling the pain. It's a marathon, not a sprint. It's almost unbearable.

These are all things said after months and months of unrelenting pain. OK, it's not a marathon. Here's why. You get to train for a marathon so you'll be ready. You get your body and mind into shape so you can endure. You get to practice. (OK - I can't help but adding, it's also voluntary and you know when it starts). This is like throwing the overweight, out of shape, couch potato into the New York marathon and telling him he doesn't have a choice but finish. He's not going to do well.

Also in a marathon you get a cool t-shirt and the satisfaction of knowing how long you have left. You can count down the miles and know when you are half-way, when you are almost home. And people cheering at the waiting line. And you get to relax and have a moment of let down. The satisfaction of meeting a worked for goal. And then you can go have a drink.

Maybe I'll get to that finish line. But I have no idea how long until I get there. I've had no training for this and man, am I out of breath. It's hard to keep going when you don't know how long you have to run and you've been running for so long.

And with all the meds, no drink for me at the finish line.

The pain is intense and unrelenting today.

I love my therapist

Everyone should have a therapist. They are great. I want to be one when I grow up. Nothing like an outside force to help you make some sense of the mush your brain has become.

Do I feel in any less pain? No. (Of course not.) But I feel a little more ordered. Which should allow me to get through some stuff I need to do until I collapse again. An hour with her is like a big sedative. But, alas, it will wear off.

This is my brain on drugs

This morning they doubled the amount of stimulant I take in the morning. Well, it got me out of bed. But I feel like I've had way too much coffee. I feel jumpy and jittery. Like my skin crawling. Which feels a lot like anxiety. But hey, it got me to the office so far.

But it doesn't make the pain go away. Or make the crying stop.

The medicine roller coaster continues. I'm so very tired.

Personal hygiene

OK, one more thought for the night.  The depression materials do tell you that depressed individuals can suffer from a loss of personal hygiene.  I admit this perplexed me at first.  Then I didn't wash my face for four months.  That's right.  Four months.  Oh, I took showers and splashed water on it.  But no soap.  Four months.  Why?  It seemed like too much work.  It's that simple.  Then recently I actually looked at my face.  What did I see?  Dirt.  Blackheads.  Acne (OK - that's actually a side effect of one of my drugs, and a whole other reason to post).  Not a clean shining face.  Why did it take me four months to notice?  Because, I'm depressed.  

I didn't really bother to floss my teeth in the same time period.  Again, that's a lot of work.  Until I got a tooth ache.  That went away when I started to floss again.  Amazing.  

Say it with me people.  Another reason depression stinks.

Another dark and stormy night - Bonus suffering

Second night in a row.  Second sedative of the night.  The first sedative got me off the bathroom floor.  That was good.  But a couple hours later, still awake, felt a good crying jag and intense obsessive thoughts coming on and decided to get up instead. 

It's pretty sad that I don't even bother to take my pills with water anymore.  Just down they go.  Oh, pdoc did call.  More med changes in store for me.  That means more side effects.  Which means lots of good material for blogging.  But more on that later.

I thought I'd mention one thing folks don't necessarily think about when they think about depression.  Your body still keeps going and falling apart at its regular rate.  So, in addition to the depression, in the past few months I've had to deal with lice, a bladder infection, a yeast infection, a bad head cold, and the stomach flu.  Twice.  And a couple other problems too embarrassing to post.   Imagine how tough it is to deal with.  And I can't take Advil (interferes with the lithium) and I can't take Sudafed (too stimulating).  

My theme again - none of the books mention that you might continue to be physically falling apart and depressed at the same time.  And deprived of some of your regular remedies.  So, I decided to call this "bonus suffering."  Another reason depression stinks. 

Why I live

To say it's been a rough day would be an understatement.  So, while I wait for my pdoc to call back (to discuss, yet again,  the potential for hospitalization or more med changes), I thought it would be helpful to set forth some reasons for staying on this planet.  The other choice is to sit on my bed and cry and give into the God-awful ruminations that I'm dealing with today.  So, we'll try this instead and if it doesn't help anyone else, perhaps it will help me.

So, why I don't just off and kill myself.  Really there is only one reason.  My children.  I could try and come up with a longer list, and sorry Mom, hubby and other friends and family, but the real reason is my two girls.  I don't feel like I'm much of a Mom at the moment - I'm frequently either a crying mess or a screaming banshee.  But a broken Mom is still a Mom they can see, touch and hear.

So, as a friend once said, you do the best you can and let them pay for their own therapy.  No question my children will need it.  Poor souls.

So - my common theme - the books on depression talk so much about how to repair relationships that are harmed by depression, or how to keep from harming them.  What they don't talk about it how hard it is to just get by.  Anything else seems like a luxury.  I'm simply not able at the moment to employ any complicated relationship building.  So what have I done for my children today?  Stayed alive.

Darkness decends

What is one to do when the darkness comes crashing down?  When your very soul hurts.  When any thought is painful.  When nothing seems good or right.  When there is no hope.  No chance.  When all choices are painful and bad.  When even breathing is too much work.  When you feel betrayed by the world, by God, by the ones you love.  When it feels like there is no way out.  Nothing.  This is what I haven't found in any of the books.

The one thing every depressed person needs (or why I love my sister)

A slow cooker.  No kidding.  This is the depressed person's best friend.  Run out and buy one.  My sister gave me one for Christmas.  Now I can make dinner when I can make dinner - which usually isn't dinner time, when I'm often in bed.  No, it's in the morning after my little blue pill.  Depression stinks because you find it so hard to get through a day and then worry about feeding everyone when you are so tired from keeping it together all day.  My family was eating a lot of scrambled egg sandwiches lovingly prepared by my husband as I lay in bed unable to get up.  Tonight we're having beef stew.  And it's already finished.  I tell you, if you don't have one, depressed or not, these things are a gift from God.

Morning glory

When one finally gets to sleep - even with the frequent wakings - there is a moment in the morning when you wake up, really wake up.  And sometimes it's a very brief moment where you almost forget about your life as it stands.  Then it hits you like a ton of bricks.  It's like picking up a really heavy load that you had almost forgotten you had.  You remember your depression and everything that goes along with it.  The pain comes rushing back in an intense wave.

Does this make getting out of bed hard?  You bet it does.  But if I don't get out of bed I can't take my meds.  And my Adderall is supposed to give me a jump start to my day so I don't stay in bed.  It works, but I'm still one of the walking wounded.  Just another reason why depression stinks.

My story

Well, the last post jinxed me.  So, while I wait for the second sedative to kick in so I can get some sleep, I thought I'd fill folks in on my story.  The brief version, since I assume most reading this are friends and family (hi folks).  

I've had a turbulent year.  To make a really long complicated story really short, I divorced and remarried in the same calendar year.  With lots of junk in between, including a move and guiding my two children through the whole thing.  I was shaky the whole time, and I've battled depression in the past - starting when I was 15, again after graduating from law school and again after the birth of my first child.  Little blips other than that I'm sure.  I was also the poster child for anxiety.  Then in July I received some news that was a dagger straight to the heart.  I plunged into a intense, severe, fetal position on the floor kind of depression.  After 4 1/2 months of battling that with three drug trials, they changed my diagnosis to "soft spectrum" bipolar disorder/bipolar II.  That means my depression is also punctuated by bouts of intense anxiety, anger and irritability.  (Like today, for example, when I flew off the handle at noise.  That tends to be a trigger when I'm bad).  That's my hypomanic side.  I read somewhere that it's a disease no one wishes on anyone.

What does it mean?  I now take four medications a day - lithium, lamictal, adderall and lorezapam.  I see both a psychiatrist (my "pdoc") and a therapist (my "tdoc").  And at month six I'm am only slightly improved.  What does that mean?  Well, when I get really bad now I make it to the bed most of the time instead of being on the floor.  And I don't cry in public quite so much (OK, I did today, but generally I'm better).   And my cognitive functioning has improved so I can work (sometimes) and do things like this blog.  But I've got to tell you, just because they have made me walk and talk better doesn't mean it doesn't hurt like hell most of the time.  I still ruminate intensely about the news I received in July.  Every hour, every waking hour, it stays with me and brings me pain.  I've just gotten better at covering it up.  In fact now that's I'm more aware generally, I'm more aware of the pain, and it might even hurt more.  But, hey. that's improvement.