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.

Sweet dreams

Sleeping is a dark place when you are depressed. You crave it and sleep way too much during the day, but nights can be torture. I consider it an accomplishment that the last three or four nights I've had about 7 hours of broken sleep with only one drug (lorazepam) at the beginning of the night! (I'm not counting all the other meds I have to take at bedtime - that's another post). It used to take me two or three sleeping-focused meds to get a few hours and then another in the middle of the night. (Of course there were days when I could sleep for hours, just not at night.) As you can see, I have improved.

But what no one tells you is how often you go to sleep hoping you don't wake up. It would solve so much.

Sweet dreams.

Side bar - frustration

I'll get back on track shortly - you know, the whole getting to know you stuff - but as a side bar - what is it with the frustration that depression can cause. Even the simplest tasks - things that you used to be able to do without any trouble - now when you can't it becomes the most frustrating thing. It's like climbing a mountain when it used to be a little hill.

I want to break something I get so frustrated. And it doesn't help that everyone around me gets the same way.

I'd give a lot for a little patience. It would go a long way, as they say. Just one of the things that really sucks about depression.

Day 1 - Why I'm here

I was lying in bed today - a common thing around here - wondering for the umpteenth time why none of the books on depression really explain the suffering that occurs. Just once I'd like to find a book that start out, "Depression sucks. It hurts all the time. You can't get away from it." I am tired of reading about diet and exercise, about cognitive restructuring. I am tired of the cheery talk - sounding so upbeat describing such a terrible thing. I said someone needed to write "A Girlfriend's Guide to Depression" - like the one about motherhood. Something that really tells it like it is. My husband, who at that point was falling asleep (apparently bored enough with my latest breakdown), remarked that I should write one. Thus, the blog was born. Isn't this the nature of the Internet? It's the new vanity press!

So, I'm here to share my journey and hopefully to let one person know they are not alone in their suffering.

And let me get one thing out on the table. I'm not going to advocate suicide, or even condone it. If you are suicidal, by all means get help (see here for a good place to start http://suicidehotlines.com/). But also I hope you will read this and know you are not alone. That others are out there in the same pain, just struggling to get by. Lord knows, I've been there - almost on a daily basis for months now. I fully anticipate being there again.

So, in the coming days I'll tell a little about myself, my journey, and how God awful it is to be depressed. Telling it like it is from the bottom.