Bipolar 2 From Inside and Out

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Blog for Mental Health

“I pledge my commitment to the Blog for Mental Health 2014 Project. I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others. By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health. I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma.”

For those of you interested in this campaign, find more information at http://acanvasoftheminds.com/2014/01/07/blog-for-mental-health-2014/

As you know, my blog is all about mental health, so I am delighted to join with other bloggers to promote our experiences and interests.

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Isn’t It Romantic?

Here is the Valentine’s card my husband gave me.

outside

And here’s what it said inside.

inside

Truer words were never … well, mass-produced.

(He doesn’t have bipolar disorder (any type), but has had a couple of depressive episodes, enough to know what the experience is like. Even took Prozac for a while.)

 

 

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Drugs vs. Drugs

I’ve been vastly depressed lately – Pit of Despair depressed. And let’s not forget anxiety; there’s plenty of that too.

I’m sure that the Vicodin I’m taking for my bulging disk/pinched nerve isn’t helping any with my moods.

So, physical misery or emotional misery? Which do I choose?

Either way, it’s hard to get any work done.

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By the way, the combo that the Vicodin is fighting is Zoloft, Ativan, Ambien, Inderal, and Lamictal. But more on that later.

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Brain Hamsters, Stomach Badger

I’m sure you all are way too familiar with the brain hamsters – those little buggers who spin your wheels whenever you try to fall asleep. It’s not a new phenomenon, a new concept, or even a new name for it.

But now the brain hamsters have their very own song. My friend Leslie and I, plagued by the little rodents, used to end our phone conversations, “Death to hamsters!” This inspired our friend Tom to write a dotty little ditty on the subject. It has become a popular sing-along in certain circles – just imagine a room full of people all chorusing, “Death to hamsters!” It’s positively inspiring.

There is, however, another inner animal that has plagued me.

My last full-time job caused me a great deal of anxiety. Monumentally so. My boss left, and I felt I should tell my new boss about my depression (not diagnosed as bipolar yet). She said, “What does that mean?” Uh-oh. My stomach sank, and the badger moved in.

I missed a lot of time at work dealing with my mother’s failing health and finances, in addition to my own. She was blown over by a gust of wind, fell like a plank, and landed on her face. A neighbor sent her kid over: “Go see if she’s alive.” I had to have the you-can’t-live-alone talk with her. Find a nursing home. Figure out how to pay for it. Et cetera.

I could feel the stress in my stomach. A nasty badger, red in tooth and claw, growing daily, snarling more loudly, and threatening to claw its way out. Like that scene in Aliens, except an angry anxiety badger instead of a nameless whatever-that-was.

There was one good thing about the badger. Its presence alerted me that it was time to get the hell out. So I quit my job to go freelance. And it worked. For a while. I remember feeling happy, feeling free, as I drove on my errands and worked at my own pace and on my own schedule.

Of course it couldn’t last. The badger was only lying low, waiting for another round of minor and major disasters to resurrect it. And they came. My, how they came.

Then the badger won. My brain broke. I’ve been trying to piece it back together ever since. Thanks to my support system, my doctors and my medications, I am slowly doing so.

But the badger is waiting. I can feel it stirring, even now.

Death to badgers!

 

 

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Those Who Will Not See

Yesterday I shared a post on Facebook that I thought was awesome. Here it is, so you can contemplate it too: http://momastery.com/blog/2014/01/30/share-schools/

The comments I got on it were things like “Wow! Brilliant!” and “This would have changed my life.”

A friend posted exactly the same essay, and here are some of the responses he got, interspersed with comments I made.

COMMENT: Wow, a math teacher that does not understand how game theory works. That is kind of sad.

COMMENT: It should be noted that the premiss [sic] of revenge is that 1+1=0.

 ME: Why are you debating game theory? This is about the human heart.

COMMENT: If she’s optimizing to prevent a low probability event, she’s making the same mistake add the TSA.

ME: Summarize in no more than three words what this essay is about. Kids. Loneliness. Ostracism. Help the hurting. Pay attention, gang. The point is zooming by somewhere overhead. The TSA is irrelevant to this.

COMMENT: I think that people who think that by mining a lot of data and then look for correlations they can detect who’s being abusive are…naive at best, dangerous at worst.

ME: I’ll take naive over uncaring any day. A teacher that cares is way more important than the TSA, NSA, and all those TLA* people. I’m leaving now before I say something that will get me banned. [The poster blocks or bans anyone who engages in ad hominem or other abusive attacks.]

COMMENT: This is a single teacher data mining, yes. The NSA at least has some experience in doing it correctly…

Of course, there were other people who responded to what the post was really about, but I was appalled at the number who skipped right past the topic in favor of showing off their erudition instead of compassion.

Admittedly, I’m a professional nitpicker, and I have sometimes been guilty of the same thing – ignoring the content of a post to go after incorrect usage of “literally,” for example. But my God, the relentless refusal to address the topic, even when it was pointed out repeatedly, and not just by me, that they were discussing Something Else Entirely. With rants so long they were essays themselves, and links to articles on the NSA and how to avoid being arrested. (The thread included comments on profiling as well.)

I have been a victim of bullying, etc. So have many of the people who commented when I shared the essay, and when they passed it along. So have many people who tried to get my friend’s comment thread back on topic.

And so, too, I suspect, were at least some of the people who nattered on about statistical analysis and all the other extraneous matters. I cannot imagine them going through school without getting taunted, threatened, or beaten up for being a “smarty-pants,” “brainiac,” or “know-it-all,” or some words less polite. And I suspect that those people are in MASSIVE denial, still trying to build themselves a shield of words and facts and statistics and analysis and theories and showy buzzwords.

I would tell them (if they would listen, which they likely wouldn’t) that this strategy Won’t Work. I know. I’ve tried it. Again and again. And yet again.

What is that definition of mental illness? Oh yes. Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

So what’s the point? The topic, as it were? I may be crazy. But by that definition, so are they. And I’m getting treatment for it, not reinforcing myself with a feedback loop. Oops. Did I just get pedantic and jargon-y? I’ll stop now and apologize.

*TLA = Three-Letter Acronym

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Mission Accomplished

I have survived the business meeting. With the help of my husband and a hell of a lot of spoons.

(If you haven’t heard of “Spoon Theory,” go here and read this. It is a metaphor that helps people understand what life is like for people with “invisible disorders,” including mental illness. http://www.butyoudontlooksick.com/wpress/articles/written-by-christine/the-spoon-theory/

My Competent Business Woman Disguise was augmented with hair color (requiring spoons), mix-and-match options from the thrift store (more spoons), trying to remember everything I might need and put it in my good purse (still more spoons), prepare a small supply of assorted drugs just in case (you guessed it), finding boots and wrestling them on (borrowed husband’s spoons), eating a hot breakfast (again, husband’s spoons), checking out restaurant menu online (reminder: don’t order soup because of hand tremors and literal spoons) and so many other details that I used to take for granted. And that was before I even got to the meeting.

I know I borrowed from today’s spoons as well. And quite likely tomorrow’s too. I may not get more spoons until the weekend. In the meantime, I guess my husband will need to spoon-feed me.

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A Closet of Disguises

I have a business meeting to go to this week, and as it nears, my anxiety is building.

This used to be a thing I did all the time. I used to go to business conventions and work the booth and have business lunches and dinners and meet and greet and travel and wear suits and hose and give speeches.

But that was quite a few years ago. Before my brain broke (this last time). Since then I have worked at home when I’m able to, in front of my computer, in my pajamas. Now I have to remember how to do the other thing.

It’s not even what I would call a really intimidating function. 45-minute drive. Four hours long. Biz cazh. (I think. I hope.) Billable. Free lunch, maybe someplace nice.

However. I want to look and act sane and articulate and relatively social skillful. That could be an uphill climb. And it’s been icy lately. (Literally as well as figuratively.)

A long time back I heard of a technique of imagining you had a closet of disguises for all the things you needed to be. When you needed them, you could reach into the closet and take out your Respectable Married Lady disguise or your Sophisticated World Traveler disguise or your Competent Business Woman disguise and put it on. (Sometimes literally as well as figuratively.)

But I fear the Competent Business Woman outfit is in tatters, eaten by moths, and hopelessly outdated. I’m not sure it will even fit.

So I have to do the best I can in cobbling together a literal disguise, in hopes that it will trigger the figurative one. I will get my hair done (even though I can’t afford it). I will try to pull together a decent casual outfit (nice jeans and a nice sweater and ballet flats?) instead of my usual look, which I invented and call Vintage Boho Hobo. I will see if I still have a coat that fits that isn’t someone’s cast-off army jacket. I will borrow my husband’s car because mine had a flat and is still making do with the rubber doughnut spare. I will renew my driver’s license (after I get my hair done). I will put some Ativan in my purse (do I still have one that isn’t shaped like an armadillo?). Probably some Lomotil or Immodium too, in case  I need to placate my irritable bowel. And several kinds of breath mints. Perhaps I should take my cane so my balance problems don’t make me look like a first-time ice skater or land me on my ass or all fours. And OMG, what can I do about make-up?  I always stab myself in the eye with a mascara wand, so that’s out. I’m sure that any make-up I have has expired and I really don’t want to spend the money on new after the hair expense.

All this to get through four hours out in public meeting people other than teens behind the drive-through window. I don’t even want to look glamourous. Just not hopeless. Or homeless.

I would really rather Skype, since then I would just have to the hair and the top half of an outfit.

I’m afraid that by the time I pull myself together, I’ll be too tired to go.

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And Then I Read…

This seems to be my day for recommending other blog posts. Here’s another one I really like:

on a long run, on a long run

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Strange and beautiful.

If you don’t already know about The Bloggess, well, you should. And here’s your chance. I especially like the advice about seeing a shrink. Remember: You are hiring the therapist. You can look for another one if needed. I had one that said I had PTSD because of some non-standard sexual experiences. And a couples therapist who shredded me and left me worse than when I came in. I learned to interview therapists before I made the first appointment. Do you deal with women’s issues, mood disorders, grief counseling? (Good.) Are you a Freudian, a cognitive behavioral therapist, a religious counselor, easily offended? (For me, at least, not so good.) And do you have a sense of humor? Then I give it a couple of visits to do the Reader’s Digest condensed version of my screwed-up life. By then I can usually tell if we are right for each other. And if we’re not, I MOVE ON. And keep looking. I need a professional therapist in my support system, but not just anyone will do.

Automattic Special Projects's avatarThe Bloggess

I don’t know if it’s the planets or the meds or the darkness of winter, but this week I’ve been a bit down in the hole and I suspect I’m not the only one.  Then I heard this song that I’ve loved and forgotten and it saved me a little bit.  Little things save me from myself all the time.  Sometimes it’s music, and sometimes it’s words from writers who’ve been dead for years, and sometimes it’s you.

If you’re sad or lonely or feeling like you’re one of the misfit toys, know that you are part of us.  And remember that those misfit toys were always far more interesting than the normal ones.

Tell someone that you love them, or that they’re important.  And tell yourself.  Because it’s true.

PS. I wrote this last night but I was too mentally exhausted to publish it, and this morning I looked…

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A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Nutjob

I was depressed even as a child. I may have been manicky too, but I don’t remember that. Unless you count the anxiety. (I had weird fears – for example, that someone might toss a lit cigarette out of a car window just as another car with a leaky gas tank went by and there would be a huge explosion and fire. Stuff like that.)

I won’t say that bullying caused my mental condition, because I now know that brain chemistry is the more likely culprit. But bullying certainly made it worse.

In addition to the usual taunts about “cooties,” my appearance, and my complete cluelessness about social skills, I was singled out because I was smart and liked school and didn’t hide it.

As I look back on it, some of the bullying now seems extreme.

There was the boy who chased me around the playground, threatening me with what he claimed was a hypodermic needle.

There were the kids at the bus stop who threw rocks at me while I tried to pretend it was a game of dodge-rock. Never being good at sports, I came out of that episode with three stitches in my forehead. I don’t know which upset me more, but by the end of it all, I was hysterical. And not the good, funny kind.

And there was my best friend and the birthday party. The party was for her younger sister and all the attendees were about that same age. My BFF and I were supposed to be supervising, I guess. But while I was blindfolded, demonstrating Pin the Tail on the Donkey, she kicked me in the ass. Literally. In front of all those younger kids.

This resulted in what I now realize was my first breakdown (meltdown, freak-out, whatever you call it). Naturally I ran home sobbing, and spent nearly a week curled in a fetal position, alternately crying my eyes out and going numb. I stayed like that until I saw my mother crying. Then I got up, went down the street and yelled at the (by now former) BFF for indirectly making my mother cry.

It’s a wonder I’m not a spree killer today. But we’ll go into that some other time.

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