Bipolar 2 From Inside and Out

Posts tagged ‘anxiety’

Control/No Control

When I was a kid, my family used to go to visit relatives in Campton and Beattyville, Kentucky. It was always a good time. There were barns to play in and fishing, berrying, eggs to gather, and so forth. To get there, we took what was then a toll road called the Mountain Parkway. I loved dropping change in the bucket as we passed through the toll stations.

The road wound and twisted up into the mountains. There were steep dropoffs along the sides. I don’t remember railings, though I suppose there were some. We visited there about once a year during summer vacation. My Dad drove.

I have a number of things on my List of Things I’ll Never Be Able to Do Again, and going to Campton is one of them. For one thing, I have no relatives left there anymore—most were quite aged back then and their children have scattered. But the more important reason is that I could not handle the drive.

When I was in Ireland with my husband, we rented a car and drove around the country. The GPS that came with the car was sketchy at best. It took us on one-lane roads that meandered through the hills. On the larger roads, there were many rotaries, which we hadn’t driven before. Eventually, we started relying on my phone and Google Maps, which didn’t get us lost as often or run us off into ditches. We still ended up going on twisty back roads.

But I was terrified the entire time we were driving. Dan had to drive since I couldn’t adjust to driving on the left (I tried once and gave up). My nerves couldn’t handle it. The entire time we were driving, I had my hand braced against the roof of the car. When it was particularly frightening, I made a peculiar humming noise that Dan had to learn to ignore. He’d remind me that I had anti-anxiety meds I could take, too. I did, but they didn’t stop my symptoms.

Fast forward a couple of years. We were in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, driving around looking for where we stayed and where we were going. Again, we used Google Maps on my phone. Again, we were traveling on twisty back roads with sudden hills and no shoulders to speak of. Again I clung to the Oh Shit handle and made the weird humming noise as we navigated the convoluted routes. Again I took anti-anxiety meds.

Then I had a revelation: I could never go to Campton again, even if Dan was driving. The bends in the road and the steep drop-offs would prove too daunting. I don’t want to put myself through that again if I don’t have to. And I don’t want to have to.

I don’t have trouble driving on surface streets or highways, even alone. Those I can handle—even for four- or five-hour drives.

When I’m driving, I feel in control of the vehicle and don’t have the massive anxiety. That is, unless the circumstances involve something that makes me feel out of control, like left-side driving or narrow roads with switchbacks and doglegs. Even if Dan drives and I navigate, I still do the clutching and humming thing. It’s exhausting. If I were driving, I would have to go 20 mph and mightily piss off the cars behind me.

The bottom line? I can drive myself places, but only under certain conditions when I feel in control. If there’s a factor—or more than one—that makes me feel out of control, I can’t do it.

I like to think that I’m not a control freak under other circumstances. There’s just something about a machine that weighs that much going at a speed that feels unsafe in terrain that strikes me as difficult. This still leaves me a lot of places I can go, even without Dan. But not everywhere. And that makes me feel sad and incompetent, two feelings that I don’t like and that there’s no medication for.

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I’m Sorry

The other day, my husband was putting together a magnifying lamp that I had bought to help me repair some jewelry. I was trying to adjust the lamp to a height where it would be usable and comfortable. The lamp was a cheap piece of shit and it broke.

Instantly, I apologized. The clamp broke. I apologized again. It turned out that the pin holding the clamp together broke. I apologized again. My husband determined that it was not fixable as it was. Guess what I did? That’s right — said, “I’m sorry.” I said I was sorry for ordering the cheap thing. I said I was sorry for wasting money. I was sorry for wasting my husband’s time. I was sorry for everything.

The week before, I wanted to go to an art house in a nearby town to see the documentary about Joan Baez. The whole way there, I was nervous — about the route we were taking, whether we would find parking near enough to the theater, whether we should eat dinner before or after the movie. And especially whether Dan would like the film. On the way home, I kept asking him, “Was that okay? Did you like it? Is it okay that I chose the movie? Is it okay that I chose that movie?”

On the way home, he reassured me. He liked the movie. He learned things he hadn’t known about Joan Baez. We were lucky to find the parking place so near the theater. It was a nice evening for a drive.

Then he said, “Where’s all this coming from?”

“I chose the movie and the time and bought the tickets and decided which theater to see it at. If anything went wrong, it was all my fault.”

“Ah. Old tapes.”

In these recent cases, things went right. Dan figured out a way to fix the magnifying lamp by cannibalizing another lamp. We got to the movie on time and got good seats. We found a handicapped parking spot open right across from the theater. The movie was great. I felt better after we got home.

Dan was right, though. The excessive apologies started in my past — not with Dan — further back in time than that. If something was my choice, and it didn’t turn out great, it was wrecked. I realize this is all-or-nothing thinking, which is counterproductive.

Even before the old tapes, though, I had a habit of feeling sorry for everything and saying so. I apologized for everything. And I punished myself. If I said something “wrong” or even a tiny bit off-color, I tapped my cheek with an open hand, symbolically slapping myself for doing something bad. (I think it’s important to note that my parents never slapped me as a child, so I don’t know where that came from.)

And I apologized endlessly. For everything. My friends noticed. They asked why I did it. They let me know that it was annoying. I tried consciously to stop. And after a while, after having friends who stuck with me, after practice, I did stop. For a while.

Then I got in a relationship with a gaslighter and again felt guilty for everything. He blamed me for things I did and things I didn’t do. Once, he even claimed that when I did something wrong in front of company, I had offended his honor. And of course, if I selected anything — where we went, what we ate, what music we listened to, I was at fault. I was at fault for liking mayo on my sandwiches and for not offering him a bite of my sandwich. I was seriously wrong not to wait for him even though he was past the time for a meet-up with friends. Wrong to hook up with a friend while he was hooking up with one of mine in the next room. Eventually, I shut down, afraid to do anything.

Years later, I got past the apologizing, for the most part. The past two weeks, I’ve been backsliding. I think it may be because money has been extra tight, which makes me extremely nervous, and I’ve had to tell Dan he can’t make some purchases now. That feels treacherous, even though he doesn’t complain or blame or shame me. But it puts me back into the mindset of blaming myself before someone else can. It’s not comfortable for either of us. It’s all I can do not to apologize for feeling this way, for my disorder having this effect.

I’m hoping that writing about it will help me work out how I feel. And maybe make the apologies back off. At least for a while.

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Time Out From Life

I was stuck during my first year in college. I was a linguistics major and couldn’t see my way clear to a career in the field. I thought about changing my major to random ones like landscape architecture and hotel management. I had no passion for either one, but I figured at least I could get a job.

I was also suffering from a major depressive swing. I missed classes, though I managed to pass them. I couldn’t sleep. I spent hours in the middle of the night sitting in the hallway, staring at an ornate coloring poster on the opposite wall, hypnotized by its intricate black outlines.

I decided to take a year off. I was incapacitated and couldn’t go on at that time. I figured I could reassess my choice of majors while I pulled my head together. I always had the intention of going back at the end of that time out.

I also needed money for that next year of college, so I got a job as a cashier and waitress on the second shift at a local Frisch’s restaurant. I was a good cashier and a lousy waitress, and I spent quite a bit of time in the bathroom, crying into the roller towel. I learned how to swear. My coworkers noticed that I was either worried and anxious or numb and sad. (One manager asked me, “What does a girl your age have to worry about except am I pregnant?” The other told me to smile more. Needless to say, this was not helpful.)

That time out from college was important to me psychologically. It didn’t solve my problems, and I was still undiagnosed and unmedicated. I began to realize that my problems went further than what my major was. And I made friends at work and learned a lot about self-reliance. I had time and space to think. My parents and my high school friends formed my support system.

I did go back to college the next year. I changed my major to English, which was more satisfying and more in line with my interests (though not really better on career possibilities). I continued through the next three years without taking more time off. As you may have guessed, the anxiety and depression didn’t leave. I had a fling with a musician – my first – and when it ended, I didn’t know how to handle it. Then I had a totally disastrous relationship, fraught with gaslighting. Again, I had trouble sleeping. I lost weight. I drank too much. The swings between hypomania and depression were noticeable.

When I graduated, I went back to working at the restaurant, then got a job at an advertising agency as an assistant to the treasurer. I moved into my own apartment and began a long-distance relationship with my eventual husband. I considered going back to school for an M.A., again in English, which I eventually did. I was still untethered, but I went into treatment for depression. (It wasn’t until many years later that I learned that my diagnosis was really bipolar.)

A depressive swing also caused me to take a time out from work later in life. This was the one that lasted two years and had me applying for disability. (I didn’t get it.) It was only psychologically important in that it graphically demonstrated how badly I needed help. At least the time I missed from college was something I chose to do rather than something that blindsided me.

The takeaway from all this, I think, is that the ups and downs of bipolar disorder mean that my life was destined not to go smoothly. While I am pretty high-functioning – I was able to earn college degrees and hold various jobs, at least for a while – there have been times when my illness has overwhelmed me and I need time out from my “normal life.” And those occasions come on me unpredictably, as is the way of bipolar mood swings. While I haven’t needed to, or been forced to, take a time out lately, I know it could still happen. That’s just the nature of the disorder. I hope my medication and therapy will make the possibility less likely, though.

If you’ve taken a time out too, I’d encourage you not to think of it as a permanent thing. It could be something that you needed to do, and something that may have relevant significance for you as you look back on it, as was true for me. Most of all, I hope you get help and support to get through it.

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Bipolar Robbed Me of Reading

I don’t remember a time when I couldn’t read.

Except when bipolar disorder took it away from me.

I was what they call a “natural reader” – someone who learns to read without being taught. Someone who just picks it up out of the air. And for me, reading was like breathing. It kept me going, kept me alive. Reading was part and parcel of my identity. I was never without a book within reach. I read while eating, walking down the hall, going to sleep, riding in a car. (Fortunately, I didn’t get carsick.)

Throughout my undiagnosed childhood years, reading was a way for me and my brain to play nicely together. If I was depressed, I could lose myself in escapist fantasy. If I was hypomanic, I could soar on adventures. And during the in-between times, I had access to unlimited worlds – places, people, situations, ideas, conversations – both familiar and strangely new. Reading was my joy and my solace.

For many years, reading was therapeutic. I could not only lose myself and escape the unpleasantness of my disorder for a time, I could learn more about depression and bipolar disorder, compare my experiences with those of others who struggled with mental illness, discover how medicine and law and psychology and sociology could shine a light on my experiences. I could even (God help me!) read self-help books, which were popular at the time, and learn all sorts of theories and techniques that didn’t improve what was wrong with me.

Books and words were my life. I got degrees in English language and literature. I read for work and for fun. I edited magazines, wrote articles and (occasionally) children’s stories, and worked on textbooks.

Then my brain broke and reading went away.

I had a major depressive episode, which lasted literally years, and during that time I found it nearly impossible to read.

Why? My old companions, depression and hypomania.

Depression made me dull. I didn’t care about anything and found no happiness even in the books that had always been my refuge. I remember picking up a book that I more than loved and had returned to dozens of times, that had shaped my life in many ways, thinking that the familiar words would touch something still buried inside me. But this time there was no magic. Not even interest. The words were flat and dull, mere ink on the page or pixels on the screen. Reading – engaging with an author’s ideas, imagining characters, following plots and dialogue, discovering facts – was beyond me.

And hypomania? My version, instead of bringing euphoria, brought anxiety – an overwhelming twitchiness and fear of the unknown, jumping not just at shadows, but at the idea of shadows, things that had never happened. My attention span shrank to nearly nothing. I could barely read a few pages, not even a chapter, and when I was finally able to get back to a book, I was lost, disconnected.

Now that I have recovered from that episode, I am glad to say, I can read again. I read myself to sleep at night once again instead of crying myself to sleep. I devour entire chapters, keep at least two books going at once (one fiction, one nonfiction), delight in revisiting old favorites and seeking out new authors and genres (YA fiction and steampunk, recently) and topics. I’ve even picked up that beloved fantasy trilogy again and been swept away once more.

Not everything I read is uplifting. At the moment I’m deep into Cult Trip, a horrendous true account of an abusive sex cult in New Zealand. But I can tell when it’s getting too deep and frightening and switch over to Jasper Fforde’s Thursday Next literary fantasy Lost in a Good Book before the awful realities can drag me down.

And I can tell you this: It’s better to be lost in a good book than lost in your own broken brain.

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I Want to Go Home to Bed With My Kitties

Kittens. Jumping. I want to go home to bed with my kitties. These are my mantras. Or something. I repeat these phrases, under my breath if anyone is around who doesn’t know I do this. At least I think it’s under my breath. I have at times walked out of a restroom stall to see people looking at me strangely. My husband says they are “grounding statements,” though I understand proper grounding statements are usually more like affirmations – “I am safe.” “I can handle this.” “I am a good person.” How I ended up with mine I don’t quite know. I do know that I mutter or say them when I am anxious. “Kittens” indicates a general level of anxiety, while “jumping” is reserved for increased levels. “I want to go home to bed with my kitties” is an all-encompassing statement of stress or dissatisfaction and the only one that I can say nearly out loud around people with only mild looks of incomprehension. A very few people who know me well are used to this phenomenon and even have responses. When I say, “kittens,” my friend Leslie says, “puppies,” and my husband says, “Do you like them?” When I say, “jumping,” he says, “up and down?” and my friend Robbin said, “You must really be nervous.” My husband occasionally joins me in a chorus of “I want to go home to bed with my kitties.” (The extended version is “I want to go home. I want to go to bed. I want my kitties.” The short form is “Home. Bed. Kitties.”) I know that I use these vocalizations a lot when I have anticipatory anxiety or after a protracted spell of having to be competent, social, and appropriate. I say them a lot in my car or after coming home from braving the outside world. In a crowded, noisy space like a restaurant, I say them in a very matter-of-fact manner, as if I’m having a conversation with my husband. I assume the background noise covers them up. The National Mental Health Association says, “People with obsessive-compulsive disorder try to cope with anxiety by repeating words or phrases.” Fair enough. I do have a few OCD-like traits, though no diagnosis. (That’s all I need – another diagnosis!) But to me, the grounding statements explanation makes the most sense. I would argue that for me, home, bed, and kitties are all things that remind me of safety and bring me comfort. How jumping fits in, I’m not sure, except that I have hyperactive nerves and do a fair amount of it. But it certainly isn’t associated with safety or comfort. Quite the opposite, in fact. The New York Times called it “kitten therapy” in a personal story of how a kitten helped lessen a man’s depression. I can testify to that effect. Cats or kittens have stayed up with me through bouts of insomnia, snuggled when I needed touch, purred gently when I needed quiet, demanded attention when I needed distraction, and yes, even jumped on me when I needed amusement. Home is a touchstone for me. My parents’ house was home to me, but after I moved out, nothing ever seemed like home again. Not the dorm, of course. Not the sorority house. Not the basement apartment. Not the house I shared. Not the apartment. Not the second floor. Not the half-double. Not even the rent-to-own house. (That one came close.) But the house that I found, looking like it grew up out of the ground, has felt like home, has been home. Even when it was destroyed by a tornado and had to be rebuilt, it was home. While we moved among motel, hotel, rented home, and crummy apartment, home was just waiting around the temporal corner for us to come back to. Bed is wonderful. I can stay in it all day – and have, when depression hits hard. It’s sturdy Amish furniture that made it through the tornado. In fact, I was lying on it when the tornado took the roof off and all I could do was put a pillow over my head and hope for the best. I love its solidity. I love the cozy quilts that I can wrap myself up in like a burrito. And yes, I love it especially when the kitties come and join me. Is it any wonder that “home, bed, kitties” is my mantra?

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Emotional Numbers

What’s the relationship between mood and emotions? How is the mind involved? Is it even possible to sort them out?

These days, people talk a lot about one’s Emotional Quotient, or EQ, also known as emotional intelligence, or EI. EQ is defined as “the capacity to be aware of, control, and express one’s emotions, and to handle interpersonal relationships judiciously and empathetically.” Emotions are “a natural instinctive state of mind deriving from one’s circumstances, mood, or relationships with others.” Mood is “a temporary state of mind or feeling.” Obviously, the definitions overlap somewhat.

All of these terms are used by the general public. EQ is the currently popular term. You can find any number of “tests” online that claim to determine your EQ. Often these are phrased in terms of your “personality” and may refer to enneagrams or other psychological theories. Other searches revert back to showing you your IQ, even if you were looking for EQ tests. Many of them charge money to show you the results. I’m not interested enough in my EQ to spend the money, though I took one of the tests. I might ask my therapist if she has a handle on what my EQ might be. I’d be happy with a subjective evaluation such as Excellent, Good, Average, Poor, or Terrible. Anything more, like a circular chart with bright-colored segments, I believe I’ll pass.

How do EQ and IQ tests compare? Healthline says, “IQ tests measure your ability to solve problems, use logic, and grasp or communicate complex ideas. EQ tests measure your ability to recognize emotion in yourself and others, and to use that awareness to guide your decisions.” So, completely different things. A person with a high IQ could have a low EQ and vice versa.

So, what else do the experts say about the difference between moods and emotions? “Moods can last for hours while emotions last anywhere from seconds to minutes, at most.”

There I would disagree.

At least, I have an opinion. An emotion is something I feel for a defined amount of time, usually a short one. My husband and I disagree and I feel an emotion of annoyance. But it seldom lasts for mere seconds. It can dissipate within a minute or last for several hours, depending on when we talk it out.

A mood lasts longer than that. Now that I’m relatively stable, my moods may last longer than a week, but less than years. Right now, I’m having a mood of anxiety, which has lasted for nearly a month, which doesn’t show much sign of pulling back, and which I’ve had to discuss with my therapist and my psychiatrist.

Moods certainly can last for more than seconds or minutes – hours, days, weeks, or longer – but emotions can last a long time too. Have you ever held a grudge? It’s not a fleeting emotion. It’s not a mood, but it can last for potentially years – even the rest of your life. What’s left? A state of mind? A personality trait? A decision?

In my research, I did come across a piece about EQ and various disorders. It was on a site that promotes a treatment center for drug abuse, so I don’t know how accurate it is. But it said that empathy, being a major component of EQ, will change in a person with depression. They may feel more empathy for a person who is also suffering, but less for a person who isn’t. This leads to numbness, they say, which may further impair one’s mental health.

In cases of ADHD, the center says, people may have trouble reacting to emotional stimuli and engage in “inappropriate behavior” for a situation. Without treatment and EQ, they may still feel internal restlessness.

Anxiety and EQ, they say, are complicated. Low EQ may mean detachment from things that threaten safety and self-esteem. On the other hand, people with anxiety and high EQ may have a tendency to be so empathetic that they overthink and lack the ability to self-regulate.

The treatment center says it can improve EQ and thereby improve self-awareness, self-regulation, motivation, empathy, and social skills, all in the context of addiction recovery. Whether this is true – whether raising EQ is possible and promotes benefits in understanding and behavior – is, as far as I can see, far from settled. It’s also unclear to me in which order this would happen. Would treating the mental condition raise the EQ, or would raising the EQ help treat the mental condition?

I also encountered a study that said high EQ is positively associated with good general physical health. Yet another investigated the correlation among EQ, a sense of belonging, and mental health among college students. Rejection in particular was associated with poor mental health outcomes.

I’d like to see more on the subject.

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A Haunting From 40 Years Ago

I was chatting with a potential customer the other day. She was interested in having me write a book on gaslighting – a fictionalized account of the experience she had with her soon-to-be ex.

I told her that I sympathized and that I had some experience with the topic, too. I was once in a relationship fraught with emotional abuse and gaslighting. “It was years ago,” I told her, “but the scars are still there.”

Suddenly, I stopped to think. That relationship took place over 40 years ago. For going on 41 years, I’ve been married to a man I met the weekend that everything blew up between Rex and me. But I had been truthful. The scars are still with me.

Oh, they’ve faded since then. I no longer have aversions to the things I associate with him, like cobalt blue glassware and blue spruce trees. I don’t cringe and close up whenever anyone in the room is angry. I don’t put myself down before someone else has the chance to. I allow myself to feel anger when it’s called for. I listen to the kind of music I like, at high volume if I want, and don’t apologize for it. In fact, there’s lots I don’t apologize for anymore.

But the memories still affect me, all these years later. I still have flashbacks when someone uses one of his pet phrases, like “fish or cut bait.” I dream we’re in the same town and I’m afraid to run into him. I flash on his insistence that it be called “Eighth of January” whenever I hear the tune “Battle of New Orleans.” And now and then, the obscene song he wrote about me – supposedly as a compliment – pops into my head randomly. It’s doing it now as I write about it, of course.

I was at a formative stage in my life when all this – and more – happened. I was exploring newly discovered independence, dealing with the stresses of college, navigating my first serious relationship. I’m sure my lack of experience helped to make the situation particularly searing for me. At the time, no one ever spoke of gaslighting, and physical abuse was the only kind I had ever heard of.

When I was still just coming out of the fog of the relationship, my startle reflex was unnaturally sensitive. I’d react with alarm if my husband dropped a knife in the kitchen. I didn’t even have to see it. The sound was enough to make me flinch and cry out. (I don’t remember any specific incidents from the bad times that seem to be related to this, but there you have it.) For years, I was a jumpy little thing. My husband learned to let me know if he was about to make a loud noise so I could be prepared for it. I have only a little bit of that left – now I jump only when something very sudden or very loud happens.

It’s been suggested that I have some form of PTSD from the experience. I don’t know if that’s true, though I certainly have some of the symptoms. I was told once by a therapist that I do have it, but at the time it seemed wholly incomprehensible. Now that I look back on it, she may have been right, only I wasn’t ready to hear it. And my future therapists moved on to my problems with depression and bipolar disorder. Self-diagnosing is seldom legitimate, so I won’t say that I definitely have PTSD. But this all puts me in great sympathy with those who do.

PTSD or not, I can still see the lingering effects of that relationship even after 40 years. They say time heals all wounds, but in my experience, the wounds don’t heal so much as scar over. The effects are still there and visible, but they no longer bleed like they did.

Of course, defining the trauma is less important than recognizing it and its effects. And healing from it, which I am still doing 40 years later. It’s a work in progress – and so am I.

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My Emotional Protection Animals

I have what I refer to as emotional support animals – principally my husband. He goes with me to places and into situations that upset me, like a dentist appointment or a class reunion. He puts a comforting hand on my shoulder and encourages me.

My cats provide emotional support as well. They ground me when I’m upset and help me calm down. They give me something to focus my attention on instead of the turmoil in my head. They soothe me with their purring and distract me with their antics.

You would think that the animals I identify with most would be cats. I do believe that if I could be any animal, I would choose to be a cat – as long as I could be one of my own cats and not an unwanted, feral stray.

But the animals I identify most with are bunnies and armadillos. Here’s why.

There’s an expression among chefs – when they’re absolutely slammed with work, falling further behind with each passing minute, they describe the situation as being “in the weeds.” I use the phrase a little differently. I was experiencing a mixture of anxiety and depression, totally overwhelmed, though not necessarily with work. Every day brought new challenges that terrified me. Every day I found myself immobilized. And every day I found myself retreating. I felt like a little bunny hiding in the weeds.

That became the shorthand my husband and I used to describe the feelings. He would ask me how I was feeling, and I would reply, “I’m hiding in the weeds.” When I couldn’t express what I was feeling, he would say, “Are you hiding in the weeds?” and I would nod. That’s how I felt – like I had to hide from the flood of feelings and problems that beset me. Like I needed a screen of weeds to offer me what little protection they could. Like I had to be ready to jump at any minute the next time I sensed a threat.

I moved past this phase. After years of therapy and medication, I no longer need the weeds. I have stronger forms of protection that come from inside now. (My husband does calls me “Bunny” as a term of endearment, though.)

Armadillos are another story. Again, though, my fascination with them was in relation to another form of protection, seemingly more solid than weeds.

Armadillos are covered, of course, with bands of scales that protect them from most dangers. They can also roll up in a ball to protect their soft underbellies. I tried to develop hard scales that would prevent trauma from invading my fragile emotional makeup. At times I even rolled up into a ball (or at least a fetal position) when I had a meltdown.

Eventually, I did learn that if you wall off your feelings, it’s hard to get back in touch with them. And the good emotions get blocked off as well as the bad ones. The armadillo armor was not a viable solution for the long term.

I also learned that the armadillo has another defense mechanism. It jumps straight up about two feet into the air, presumably to escape from or startle any predators. Unfortunately for the armadillo, their main predator is the automobile. The little critter’s jump puts it at just the right height to be smashed by the car’s bumper. As a defense mechanism goes, it’s not really what you’d call successful.

That’s when I realized that neither were mine. When I got jumpy – when my anxiety was out of control – I was often smashed by onrushing difficulties, the very ones I was trying to escape.

So, bunnies are out. Armadillos are out. Where can I find an animal to identify with in terms of protection? We’re back to cats, I guess. They at least have claws that they can choose to extend or sheathe. I like the idea of bringing out a defense mechanism only when I really need it.

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When I Need to Feel Normal

A lot of the time, I live with sort of a low-grade dread, kind of like coming down with a fever. I’m well-known for overthinking and catastrophizing. The combination is exhausting.

When anything alarming happens, I ratchet up into an agitated state. It could be anything – a relationship problem, a looming financial disaster, a health scare. I respond with racing thoughts, trembling hands, and sleep disturbances. I find myself at 2:00 a.m., wide awake though a little bit foggy, with no real idea what I should do. Most of the time, there isn’t really anything I can do.

This happened a lot when I was in college. My life was complicated then – well, it always has been and still is. I wasn’t particularly worried about my grades or about graduating. No, it was other things that occupied my troubled mind. A difficult relationship was ending in great turmoil. I had lost a lot of weight and didn’t look or feel healthy. I had to pack, move, and find a job. My parents were coming for the graduation ceremony and I didn’t want them to see me in such distress. It was all overwhelming.

I had insomnia that summer. I would find myself lying on the sofa, wide awake, my brain on overdrive, with only a large black cat to keep me company while everyone else in the house slept. That cat kept me anchored in a way. He distracted me with his solidity and his insistent purring. He was a soothing presence that helped me not feel totally alone, without putting any demands on me.

It was that summer when I learned a technique I could use when everything seemed to be spinning out of control. I found that I could ground myself and stop all the whirling thoughts, at least for a while, by doing something small and totally normal. Making myself a cup of tea was my go-to. The familiar actions of finding a mug and a teabag, heating the water, and steeping the tea gave me something physical to do that would get me out of my head and back into my body. No matter how distraught I was, I could always manage to make a cup of tea. It’s not a demanding task. I could do it practically by rote. But it was so familiar – so completely normal – that it was a form of reassurance.

It turns out that the feeling of normalcy can soothe other people too. Once that summer, my uncle Phil was also having a hard time sleeping. Like me, he was afflicted by personal problems and feeling out of touch with his body and tangled up in his head. I busied myself making him a can of soup. It kept me from getting swept up in his turmoil, and it helped him become calmer as he watched me puttering around the kitchen. Again, it was all so normal that it soothed us both.

Now, when I have racing thoughts and distress, I try to find something manageable and entirely normal to do – something I can do automatically, without expending any thought. Putting out fresh food for the cats. Making lists. Watering a plant. Anything that I can do with little expense of energy or thought. In a way, it’s kind of a mindfulness exercise, paying attention to the steps involved and experiencing every movement as I go about accomplishing my normal little task.

This technique doesn’t work for me if I’m having a full-blown panic attack, but maybe it at least helps me stave one off if I catch it creeping up on me. It’s one of my more effective – and non-counterproductive – coping mechanisms.

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The Year Past, The Year to Come

There are two things associated with the new year – looking backward and looking forward. Looking backward is easier for me, so I’ll start there.

The year 2022 has presented both challenges and joys for me. There was our trip to Ireland, which was a joy but provoked overthinking and anxiety. An over-ambitious schedule and over-packing made the journey less successful than it could have been. Miscalculations on our part meant difficulty with flights and panic over finances when we had to extend our hotel stays and spend more money than we had budgeted. Driving on the “wrong” side of the road made me unable to do any of the driving and panicky whenever we negotiated a corner, encountered a curve, or parallel parked. I spent a lot of the car rides holding on to the “oh, shit” handle and pressing my hand to the roof of the small rental car. I was relieved to have remembered to take my anti-anxiety meds with me, and my husband helped by suggesting when my behavior might necessitate taking some.

Then there was our experience with COVID. My husband was diagnosed. I never was, but I had all the same symptoms, so I assume that I also had it. I remember being concerned, but not unduly anxious. We had (relatively) mild cases, so we sheltered in place and took over-the-counter remedies to combat our symptoms. We had groceries delivered and slept a lot, so I guess I would have to say we coped. When the immediate danger was over, I had COVID anxiety regarding my husband’s job, which includes lots of contact with the public. We both knew it could have been a lot worse and were grateful that it wasn’t.

I kept up with my therapy appointments via WebEx. We both liked the process so well that we have continued meeting that way even though the danger of COVID has lessened. My med appointments were somewhat more problematic. These I had to attend in person, braving the masked world four times during the year. My psychiatrist is less tech-savvy than my therapist, but he did learn how to send my scripts to the pharmacy electronically, so the process was easier for me.

When my typing job slowed way down and was in danger of disappearing, I was able to find a new gig ghostwriting, which added a steady supplement to our income and lessened my perpetual anxiety and preoccupation with financial matters. Now that the typing is almost nil, ghostwriting has proved to be not only a financial boon but a boost to my self-esteem. After a rocky beginning with my first couple of assignments, I’ve had much better success and now feel both competent and confident.

All in all, the past year has been pretty good, I would say. Despite the anxiety I suffered, it never proved crippling. And I didn’t notice any real depression. Relative stability, which is what I felt, is a good thing.

It’s also a harbinger for the coming year, or at least I hope so. I don’t make New Year’s resolutions per se, but my goal for the year is to keep on keepin’ on. I will continue to take all my meds as prescribed. I will continue seeking ghostwriting assignments and doing my best to fulfill them. I will try to rein in my anxiety when we go to Gatlinburg for a few days this spring. I will keep a close eye on our finances but try to avoid major anxiety about them. I will also try to keep a lid on my overspending when I get hypomanic.

I have developed a new sleep-wake cycle in order to be with my husband in the mornings when he gets ready to go to work. I now go to bed at around 8:00 and get up around 6:00, or even 4:30 when Dan has an earlier workday. On those days, we both take a nap in the late afternoon, which sometimes makes our meal times more irregular. Generally speaking, it all works out, for the most part, and I see no reason to change it during the coming year.

Taking my meds faithfully and keeping up with my therapist and psychiatrist appointments are givens. I know that they are the linchpins of my stability. But I will keep on the lookout for depression, anxiety, and hypomania and try to deal with them as soon as I notice the symptoms.

In other words, if I can be said to have plans or goals for the coming year, I intend to continue as I have been and hope that my bipolar disorder doesn’t shake up those plans or goals. As always, it’s a crapshoot.

I see a lot of recommendations that you live not in the past or the future but in the now or in the moment. I have a hard time doing that. I look back on the past – not merely for one year, but for my whole life. I look forward to the future – the idea that there are still good things to come. I look back at how far I’ve come. I look forward to how far I can go.

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