Bipolar 2 From Inside and Out

Posts tagged ‘bipolar disorder’

A Mother? Me?

Ah, the shrieks of laughter and squeals of delight from playful children! They cut through me like a light saber through Jell-O. I’m hyper-sensitive to loud or high-pitched noises.

A while back, one of my blogging buddies was speculating on whether she wanted to or ought to have a child, despite her disorder. I have no answer or even advice for her, but but here is what I think about motherhood and Bipolar Me.

When we got married, my husband really wanted to be a father some day. To tell the truth, I never gave it much thought really, since I had never expected to be married.

At that time in my life I was barely medicated and had a lot of meltdowns and breakdowns and up-and-down cycles (mostly down) ahead of me.

Looking back, I am glad that I never became a mother. The thought alone overwhelms me.

First of all, I would have been a really bad mother. It would have been unfair to a child to have a mother who would disappear into her room for days at a time, not communicate for weeks at a time, be depressed for months – or years – at a time. Not to mention not being able to enjoy anything. Put that person in charge of a live human child for 18+ years?

I know there must be people who do it, but I don’t even really understand how non-biploar people manage it.

Second – and this is the part that is going to sound selfish to those people she feel that childless-by-choice women are all selfish – but I needed all the resources I had to construct and reconstruct myself. As Gloria Steinem reportedly said, I didn’t give birth to a child because I was giving birth to myself. I still am, after my most recent and most monumental breakdown, still trying to salvage what I can of my psyche, seeing what pieces still fit, and learning to live with the things that are no longer present – or maybe never were.

And I had all kinds of irrational thoughts on the subject of motherhood. The one time I thought about motherhood, it was because my father was dying, and I wanted him to see his grandchild if there was going to be one.

Also, I was terrified of losing myself. My husband had some issues of his own and was, let’s say, way too close to his inner child. I thought he and a child would outnumber me and I would be the mean one, the killjoy, the Other.

As time went on, I grew less and less inclined to even be around babies or small children. And my husband would go into a funk if one of our friends had a baby. Eventually, he decided that if he wasn’t going to be a father, he could be a mentor, a helper, a healer, to other children and former children. Maybe even his inner child.

Now having a child is no longer even a possibility. And I’m good with that.

 

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mental health, Uncategorized

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Cookie Theory

Many of you are probably already familiar with Spoon Theory (and if you’re not, go here and read it: http://www.butyoudontlooksick.com/wpress/articles/written-by-christine/the-spoon-theory/).

In my previous post, I explained my Theory of Misery and Math. This week, inspired by something a friend posted, I will expound on Cookie Theory. Here’s the post:

argument

As I commented then, even an RSVP is optional. This is especially good advice if your FB friends post on controversial topics, as a number of mine do.

On to Cookie Theory. Just as I didn’t invent Spoon Theory, I can’t claim Cookie Theory as my own. My husband shared it with me, on the weekend over 30 years ago when we met.

I was having a difficult time (to say the least) with my boyfriend at the time, whom we’ll call Rex. Among the difficulties was that I was stranded, several hundred miles from home, with no money. I had to borrow money from every single person I knew there, including some, like my future husband, that I had just met, in order to get bus fare. And find someone who would take me to the bus station.

Dan, the aforementioned future husband, was the one who gave me a ride, and as I was waiting for the bus, he shared with me these words of wisdom:

Just because someone hands you shit cookies doesn’t mean you have to eat them.

The more I pondered this metaphor, the more I realized how insightful it was. Rex had generously supplied me with shit cookies over the year and a half I knew him. And I ate them. I was also supposed to pretend they were chocolate chip. And say yum, yum.

And I did.

The bus wasn’t the only thing that stopped for me that day. So did my willingness to eat the cookies.

The first step is training yourself to recognize the difference between shit cookies and chocolate chip. The second is saying no. (Like refusing an invitation to an argument. Just say no and walk away. Or catch a bus.)

I’m not claiming it’s easy. But when someone hands you a put-down, a micro-aggression, a lie, ask yourself, “Is this a chocolate chip cookie?” If not, don’t take it. Don’t eat it.

Then stay on that diet. It’s amazing how much weight it will take off you.

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mental health

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Misery and Math

One day, when I had too much time on my hands, I came up with a theory: The Mathematics of Misery.

Basically, there are two stages of misery – wallowing and getting over it.

In my theory, the wallowing stage is necessary. You need to feel the misery, own the feeling, and try to figure out what (if anything) caused it. If you omit this stage, you won’t learn whatever lesson there is.

Then you move on to the getting over it stage. Ideally, the getting over it should involve eliminating the cause of the misery. (Keeping in mind that there are laws against homicide and you’re probably at that awkward age when you can be tried as an adult. I know I am.)

Now, here comes the mathematics.

According to my theory, the proper proportion should be 20 percent wallowing and 80 percent getting over it. But for me, that’s an unreachable goal (especially before I was medicated). Thirty to 35 percent wallowing is more realistic. It’s when the scale tips over 50 percent wallowing that you definitely need to get help. Preferably professional help. And I’ve been way over that tipping point.

It’s like the stupid scale in the doctor’s office. I just keep trying to slide the weight closer to the getting over it end.

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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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mental health

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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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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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