Bipolar 2 From Inside and Out

Posts tagged ‘anxiety’

Surviving High School (and Reunions)

I’ve only ever gone to one of my high school reunions – the 25th. Now the 40th is nearly here.

I was terrified then. This time is not as bad. I don’t have the energy or the attention span to get all worked up about it. Will I go? Probably not. It’s like the Tower of Terror at DisneyWorld – I did it once and I’m glad I did, but I have no desire to do it again.

My difficulties with the reunion even made the local paper. I went to a high school friend, Mary, for advice. She was quite helpful. She also, with my permission, wrote about my panic in her newspaper column.

Here’s what I told her: “Over the last quarter century I’ve confronted and dealt with a number of pieces of my past and tried to make my peace with them. High school, however, is not one of those things. I’m afraid I’ll have flashbacks.”

Mary did note that “Janet had more reason than most to be apprehensive. While I had been actively ignored, she had been, at times, actively picked on – one of those kids too brainy, too head-in-the-clouds, to comprehend how to navigate the social firmament.”

Pretty close. Except that I wouldn’t have called it “actively picked on.” High school was merely another part of the continuum of bullying and harassment that I experienced from childhood on. In high school no one threw literal rocks at me, but by then they didn’t have to. I was conditioned to cringe.

The head-in-the-clouds part was also not entirely accurate. As I walked through the halls between classes, my head was down and my nose was in a book. I was trying to perfect my “invisible” act and practice that advice that the bullied always get – “just ignore them.”

And I wouldn’t call the social milieu in high school “the firmament.” Just sayin’.

I did go to the reunion, though. I got my hair done for the event and told my stylist to make me look “successful and sane.” She replied, “Oh, no, here comes the wish list.” “At least I didn’t ask for young and thin,” I pointed out.

I went, taking along my husband and telling him not to leave my side. I’m sure the husband came as a surprise to most people there, proof that I had at least managed to navigate that particular social firmament. And if my hairstyle did proclaim some degree of sanity, that was likely a surprise as well.

I survived. My big insight: “Not everyone hated me.” I should have known that already, since I had friends like Mary and a few others I’m still in touch with. But old fears die hard.

Mary was much more philosophical: “In adolescence our images are refracted through so many distorted lights – the way we see ourselves, the way everyone else sees us, the way we fancy everyone else sees us. What mattered was that we could all talk face to face, as adults, as equals, as friends.”

She may have been right, though “Not everyone hated me” was, in its way, a major alteration in my outlook and pretty much as far as I’d gotten by then in my continuing struggle to come to grips with my life.

Things have changed a lot since then and so have I. Now I realize I have nothing to prove, and no need to try.

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My Brain, My Books

It used to be that I could never be found without a book within arm’s reach. I had a purse book, a nightstand book, a bathroom book, and a car book at the very least. (I kept them straight by having a different genre in each location.)

Now that I have a Nook e-reader, I have hundreds of books with me everywhere I go. But I’m doing a lot less reading.

I think it’s a function of my lack of concentration, but whether that’s the disorder or the meds, I couldn’t say.

I do know that when I was in the depths of my most recent breakdown, I barely read at all. I watched moronic reality shows like Trading Spouses, on the theory that these people’s lives were bigger train-wrecks than mine. And I watched cooking shows, because they were calming. (This was before cooking game shows really got going.)

During an earlier meltdown, I tried to watch sitcoms, but the relentlessly upbeat theme songs made me weep.

Now I have to hoard my concentration like I hoard my spoons. I am fortunate enough to be able to work freelance from home. But it’s the kind of work that sometimes has deadlines. On days when I can force myself to work, I can concentrate for about 2-1/2 to three hours at a spell. Some days I have to do two sessions like that with a nap in between, if a deadline is approaching too rapidly.

But when it comes to non-work activities, I can usually only concentrate for an hour at the most. Sometimes I try really hard so that I can watch a movie, but mostly I stick to half-hour or hour-long shows.

But reading takes concentration too, especially if the book has a plot (which I recommend) or is information-rich nonfiction. I do a lot of my reading in bed at night. (Yes, I know you’re not supposed to do that because it keeps you from falling asleep. But it’s a life-long habit.)

My mind flitters, the hamsters and sometimes the badgers stir, and I find myself several pages along with no idea what happened. At that point my need for distraction and my attention span collide and I have to find something moderately absorbing but short-term to do. It’s a good thing I have some games on my reader so I can play a hand of rummy or work a sudoku puzzle.

Reading has been one of the great joys of my life, since I was four, and it bothers me that I no longer have the ability to immerse myself in it the way I used to.

But, like so many other things, it’s something I’m having to learn to live with.

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Mental Health

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Posting Weakly

Today I don’t feel like writing at all. It’s been a tough week.

Although I usually try to say something about mental health in general, bipolar disorder specifically, something relevant that caught my eye in the news, or a piece of my past that might be interesting or informative, today I can’t.

I’m very depressed. Or feeling sorry for myself. Sometimes I can’t tell the difference.

There’s a convention in July that I would really, REALLY like to go to. I could see many friends, including one I haven’t seen in literally years and have been fearing I may not have the chance to again (maybe irrational thinking, maybe not). I would have intellectual stimulation, friend, parties, laughs, all sorts of fun available to me.

And I can’t go.

Some of the reasons are practical. We can’t afford it. My husband has to work. Driving that far and carrying luggage would trigger back pain and the walking required would rapidly exhaust me. If I went, I might well spend much of my time flat on my back in a hotel room, wiped out or communing with Vicodin.

The other reasons I can’t go have to do with my mental disorders. I barely leave the house as it is, except for doctor and therapist appointments. A day with a few simple errands uses up every spoon I have and sometimes the next day’s as well.

But mostly, it’s my over-sensitivity to the crowds and the noise. I can’t tolerate either one for more than a few minutes without a panic attack or a meltdown. Neither of which is pretty and neither of which would add to my enjoyment of the convention, or anyone else’s, for that matter.

I’m now thinking about all the things I can no longer do for physical or mental reasons. My therapist would tell me to look at how far I’ve come – all the things I can do now that I couldn’t do a few years ago, like write a blog and maintain a goal of posting weekly.

She’s right, of course, but for now I just need to go back to bed, and try again to accomplish something after a nap.

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Mental Health

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A Little Bit of This, A Little Bit of That

I’ve noticed that a lot of my friends who have psychiatric diagnoses display at least minor symptoms of other conditions as well. Depression with a side of Tourette’s. Bipolar with a soupçon of OCD. OCD with a smidge of anxiety disorder. PTSD with all of the above.

The symptoms of the secondary problem are usually not severe enough to warrant a second diagnosis and a separate treatment regimen. Most likely the add-ons are noticeable only to the person who has them, or possibly to very close friends (largely those who know about the main condition).

I don’t exclude myself. I have little rituals that help get me through the day, a certain order I do things in. I have a couple of words or phrases I mutter under my breath to keep me centered when I am stressed. (“Kittens” for mild stress and “jumping” for more than that. I suppose that if I ever get into kinky sex, I could use those as my “safe words.”)

Do these mini-disorders ever grow into major ones? I don’t know. They could be coping mechanisms or side effects of medication or fairly routine habits or personality traits.

Mostly I think one should ignore them – until or unless they start causing problems with one’s life. My husband, formerly a certified addiction counselor, says that’s how to tell when drinking or drugs have become a problem – when they start causing problems (in finances, work, relationships, legal matters, etc.)

For now, they’re  just little quirks – reminders that my brain has an alternative wiring scheme.

(See the disclaimer. These are my opinions only, not professional medical or psychiatric advice. YMMV.)

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Saving Face, or You Can Die From That?

Once when my psychiatrist was changing my medication (again), he warned me about the possible side effects. I know that doctors don’t often do this, because they are afraid that the patient will imagine that all the side effects have indeed appeared. So when he wanted to talk about side effects, I perked up my little ears and listened.

“If you notice a rash starting, stop the drug immediately,” Dr. R. said. “It could be fatal.”

I had never heard of a fatal skin rash before. I had no idea that a skin rash could be fatal.

“Don’t look at pictures on the Internet,” he said. “It’s really gross.”

Terrific. I might be getting a really gross, possibly fatal skin rash. I probably should have asked for an increased dosage on the anxiety meds.

Of course I looked it up as soon as I got home. (I did try to avoid pictures, though, even though they might help me tell the difference between heat rash and the deadly one.)

The condition is called Stevens-Johnson Syndrome and apparently the rash is just the beginning. It’s possible for your skin to fall off, starting with your face. That’s probably the fatal part, as I imagine you’d be prone to infections, plus your insides would now be your outsides. And yes, that would be really gross.

I enlisted my husband’s help. “If you notice my skin starting to shred, or see a big piece of it lying on the floor, do let me know,” I requested. “Maybe pick it up and save it.” Then we debated the merits of duct tape vs. Gorilla Glue for reattaching it.

That was a few years ago. I am still taking the medication and I still have an adequate supply of skin. Now there are commercials on TV for various drugs, and they list the side effects. (I’m sure you’ve noticed that they are often worse than the condition they’re prescribed for.) I always get a little nostalgic when they list “fatal skin rash” among the possibilities. And just a teensy bit smug because I know what they mean.

The commercials could be fatal too, though. I might die laughing if the next ad was one for Gorilla Glue.

P.S. I apologize sincerely to anyone reading this who has, or knows someone who has, Stevens-Johnson Syndrome and does not appreciate my attitude.

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Mental Health

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Risky Business

It’s always a risk when you admit publicly to having a mental disorder. But I am thinking of doing just that.

I have not had uniform success when I have revealed to others that I have bipolar disorder (or chronic depression, either). There have been a lot of “me too’s” and “so’s my brother/sister/mother/friend/etc.” and then we compare diagnoses and symptoms and meds and war stories and have a jolly time.

Other times, well… My mother hoped my problems would go away after I got a “good, steady job.” My father said he didn’t mind if I went to a therapist “as long as he didn’t have to go too.” My mother-in-law “doesn’t believe in mental illness.” My rotten-ex-boyfriend “jokingly” suggested that if we went to couples counseling, he and the therapist could agree that I was a danger to self and others and have me put away. (I knew that wasn’t true and told him so. We went. It didn’t help.)

Recently I have started two blogs, this one for mental health issues and a more general one called Et Cetera, etc. (which you’re welcome to visit if you like). I have linked Et Cetera to my Facebook account, but so far I haven’t linked this one.

Starting these blogs feels like a risk to me, especially since I’ve set WordPress to remind me to post at least once a week. Making a commitment that I will pull myself together four times a month (eight if you count the other blog) and write is something I’m not completely sure I can do. I have good days and bad days, and sometimes those bad days pile up in a bunch.

But I have also taken a bigger risk. Creative Nonfiction magazine requested submissions to be considered for its Mental Health Anthology. So I submitted one. If it gets chosen, I will be “coming out” as bipolar and a mental patient. When (if) that happens, I will likely do the “big reveal” on Facebook. A fair number of my close friends already know, but they constitute only a small segment of my FB friends.

(Creative Nonfiction accepts only manuscripts that have not been published elsewhere. If they don’t accept mine, you can bet it’s going up on this blog the next day.)

So, having thoroughly terrified myself, I will anxiously await the results. And in the meantime, I’ll try to keep up the regular blogging.

Wish me luck.

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Mental Health

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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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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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