Bipolar 2 From Inside and Out

Posts tagged ‘bipolar disorder’

Structure in My Bipolar Days

I used to be a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of gal. Work provided the only structure to my days, back when I was able to work in an office. It wasn’t always the same structure, depending on the job, of course. I have worked various shifts over the course of my checkered career—first, second, and third. I adjusted to them fairly well (except when I was working third shift and going to grad school in the mornings).

That all changed when I quit my last office job. I remember feeling so free. I basked in the ability to do freelance work whenever, run errands whenever, go to sleep and wake up whenever. Of course, I was hypomanic at the time, which I should have recognized because of the golden glow that seemed to envelop my days. Naturally, the crash came, along with the absence of freelance work to do. Then, when I fell into a deep depression, anything resembling a schedule fell apart. I didn’t have a specific time for going to bed or waking up, for eating, reading, errands including bill paying, and even showering. Without that structure, I had trouble finding a reason to get out of bed.

Now I’m stable on medication and therapy, and my days have fallen into more of a pattern. I still work at home, but for a company that gives me ghostwriting work. It has a built-in rhythm to it. Most of my assignments are 30,000 words long and due in 21 days. They want us writers to average 1,500 words a day. I divide that up into 750 words in the morning and 750 in the afternoon. I work weekends at this pace, too.

Fortunately, I find 1,500 words a day eminently doable. My daily schedule consists of mornings spent breakfasting, paying bills, keeping track of appointments, or making necessary phone calls (which is my usual role in running the household).

Then, mid-morning, my husband calls on his break from work. Part of the reason is to make sure I’m okay, but most of the time I’m fine and we simply talk, often about what I’ve scheduled for the rest of the week. (I keep track of his appointments and phone calls too. Sometimes I feel like I have a second job as Dan’s secretary.) After we talk, I begin my first stint of writing for the day, my first 750. I’m generally done in time to have lunch around 12:00. Dan calls again in the early afternoon, and I begin my second 750 afterward. When he gets home, we spend time together and have dinner around 7:00.

Those are my daily schedules, which I don’t really need a planner for. When it comes to weekly schedules, I do use a computer app. Our “weekend” is Sunday and Monday because of Dan’s work, but I work on my writing anyway. My calendar is filled with bills to pay by a certain date, appointments we each have to go to (which I remind Dan about), and notes indicating when my 30,000 words are due. I also make note of which weeks are for recycling. (The day before trash day, there’s frantic cleaning.) I have this and another blog that I post in on Sundays. I have a weekly internal schedule for that, too. I start writing them on Tuesdays, have them at least mostly finished on Fridays, tweak and tag them on Saturdays, and publish on Sunday mornings at 10:00.

Having these systems in place keeps me on an even keel which, after all, is my goal as a person with bipolar disorder. My days are predictable, but not boring because I don’t find writing boring, even if it’s on someone else’s topic. Does it seem too regimented? All I know is, it works for me.

This past week, I went on vacation, so for one week, my schedule was largely out the window. I looked forward to staying up late, sleeping late, having meals whenever we felt like it, spending time reading or shopping or sightseeing or watching movies whenever we wanted. Because, as much as I like my structure, I need a break from it at times. Sometimes I take a few days off between book assignments to work on other projects like organizing my jewelry armoire or my desk.

It’s a balancing act, really. Enough structure to keep me focused, but not so much that it becomes a rut. Dan’s phone calls help. Having time in the mornings and evenings before and after I write helps. And my most important routine, of course—taking my meds in the morning and at night. That’s a part of my day’s structure I never want to neglect.

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Bipolar Poetry

I used to write poetry, since I was in second grade. I continued through high school and college. I stopped because they kept turning into prose. So I wrote prose. I knew I could never make a living writing poetry anyway.

Recently, though, I decided to try poetry again. I thought that instead of the free verse that wanted to turn into prose, I would try my hand at more structured poetry—villanelles and sonnets. And my subject: bipolar disorder, of course. Here’s what I came up with.

Villanelle

We understand there is both loss and gain
and much besides we cannot think to know
In trying to control the cycling brain

as we daily live with depths of pain
and wait to grasp the high amidst the low
We understand there is both loss and gain

and minds that bend and crack beneath the strain
or falter, limping, halting, slow.
In trying to control the cycling brain

we snatch the fleeting highs and yet retain
the memory of how we’ve suffered so.
We understand there is both loss and gain

in swing from scorching sun to drowning rain
and have our deepest feelings put on show
in trying to control the cycling brain.

A search for level ground remains the main
unfinished task that asks for yes or no.
We understand there is both loss and gain
In trying to control the cycling brain.

Sonnets

1.

Where is the light that once so brilliant blazed?
Turned now to dim and gray before the night,
it creeps in shadows hungry for the sight
yet dreads the time when shades are sudden raised.

And I am past the daylight, stunned and dazed
by darkened air that smothers, clinging tight
till breath itself turns faint and pulse is slight,
but when the dawn returns I am amazed.

The rings the sun runs round the endless dark
bring distant hints of what there yet may be
whenever night fades as it must or will,

when color blooms in contrast hot and stark;
my eyes ajar that I may briefly see
the world whirl past my prison’s windowsill.

2.

The air is still and blankets all my sense.
I’m muffled, muzzled in the sheltering dark
but dare not pray for fire, with bright, intense,
loud flames that rend the silence with a spark.

I breathe, or not? It’s sometimes hard to tell
when swathed in clinging, stifling, musty scent
that fills my nostrils and my brain as well;
which cannot will the veil be shredded, rent

to save from suffocation. How shall I
withstand this cycle till the day appears
and breezes blow the dust away from my
stopped ears and eyes and lungs, plugged full with fears?

Pull off the cover and let free the soul.
Take broken breath and heal it into whole.

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How I Treat My Bipolar Disorder

There are many treatments for bipolar disorder, from SSRIs to EMDR and more. I must admit that I haven’t tried all of them, but I have encountered a few over the years. Some worked well, others not so much. But I’m doing well now, so I thought I’d share what works for me—my roadmap to stability.

Note that I said, “How I Treat My Bipolar Disorder.” That’s because my treatment is up to me. My psychiatrist or therapist can recommend a certain treatment, but whether I take that drug, undergo that procedure, or engage in therapy is ultimately my choice. I look at my providers as people who recommend treatments and help me implement them. But they don’t make the decisions. I do. Most of the time, I take their suggestions—they know more than I do about medications, for example. But I feel free to make suggestions, too, if the medication isn’t working like it’s supposed to or is having side effects I can’t deal with.

Meds

My med journey started (approximately 30 years ago) with the then-ubiquitous SSRI, Prozac. It worked well for me, relieving my depressive tendencies (I hadn’t been diagnosed with bipolar yet). Until it didn’t. That’s when my doctors started throwing drugs against the wall, hoping they would stick. Over the years, I’ve been on at least three different SSRIs, two NDRIs, two SNRIs, and a sedative-hypnotic. Probably other ones, too, that I don’t remember. (One of the side effects for one of them was memory loss.)

My previous psychiatrist experimented with a variety of meds until we hit on a cocktail that worked: an SSRI, a broad-spectrum anti-seizure drug, an atypical antipsychotic, and a benzo. My current psychiatrist mostly tweaks the dosages up or down when I need it. I’ve quit the sedative-hypnotic altogether and only take the benzo as needed. Recently, when I told him that I thought I was having mixed states, he upped the dosage of the atypical antipsychotic. (I don’t like to give the names of the drugs I’m taking because what works for me doesn’t necessarily work for others.)

I see the psychiatrist four times a year for med checks, though I can call if I have any adverse reactions or increased symptoms.

(When I was looking for illustrations to go with this post, I was astounded at the number of images of mushrooms that I saw. I guess it’s trendy now, but I’ve never tried them. There were also pictures of marijuana plants. There’s a medical dispensary in my area, but I’ve never pursued getting a prescription. I have taken CBD gummies, but the only effect they had was to make me foggy and dizzy, which I didn’t like. They did nothing for my moods. They didn’t even relax me; I was too nervous about my balance and the potential of falling.)

Therapy

Individual talk therapy is my go-to form of therapy, though I recently felt I could stop. (I keep the number handy in case I ever need it again.) I guess you could say I weaned myself off therapy. When I started I was going once a week; later, once every other week. When it got to three or four weeks between appointments, I decided it was time to fly on my own. I don’t know what particular kind of therapy I had—CBT or DBT, for example. She never said and I never asked.

I went to group therapy when I was still undiagnosed, but it wasn’t helpful. Once, when my therapist was out of town, I went to a therapy group she recommended but had an adverse reaction to it. Another group just seemed to have a weird format and a book they used like a “bible,” and I didn’t get anything out of that, either. A few times, my husband and I went to couples therapy, and it seemed to help. Another time, we went to a few sessions with a different therapist and I felt shredded. She seemed to think that I was the “sick one” and my husband was the “normal one.”

Treatments

Most of the modern treatments I haven’t tried because medication and talk therapy work so well for me. I had a close brush with ECT, which frankly frightened me, when I went through multiple drugs for several years and nothing seemed to work. My psychiatrist gave me the information and gave me time to think it over and make my own decision. I was almost ready to try it when, miraculously, a different drug brought my mental function under control. But when it comes to TMS, ketamine, EMDR, et cet., I have no experience with them. I don’t believe in reflexology and won’t try herbal remedies because they might interact badly with my meds. Basically, because what I’m already doing works for me, I see no need to explore alternatives.

Self-Care

It’s hard for me to keep up with self-care. I do stick to a sleep schedule and get 8-9 hours a night, with occasional daytime naps. I don’t exercise. It’s hard enough just to walk with my arthritic knees and bad back.

My husband helps me enormously with self-care. He works at a store with a grocery section, and he makes sure I have a variety of food and beverages on hand—fruits and juices, fizzy water, bread, and cheeses, for example—and fixes meals with protein, starch, and vegetables. Left to myself, I would probably subsist mostly on peanut butter sandwiches and breakfast cereal. Back in the day, he used to drive me to my therapy appointments when I was too nervous or depressed to drive myself. Now he picks up my scripts at the pharmacy department in his store.

What’s the takeaway here? I’m not telling you that I have the answer for how you should treat your bipolar disorder. I know what’s worked for me, but you have to find a path that’s right for you. I merely offer my experiences for what they are—mine. You can create your own roadmap, too.

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Running Out of Meds

Isolated Empty Pill BottlesRunning out of your medications is scary.

I know. It’s happened to me several times.

Sometimes it was a matter of supply. My usual pharmacy ran out of a sleep aid and wasn’t going to get any more until after the weekend. Fortunately, they recommended a mom-and-pop pharmacy (yes, such things do still exist) just down the street and helped me transfer my prescription there.

Another time the problem was the prescription. I ran out of an anti-anxiety med, but when I called in for a refill, I was told that it wasn’t time for one. When I looked at the bottle more closely, I discovered that they had given me 60 pills, as if I were taking two a day, instead of the three a day actually prescribed. (I was changing doctors about that time and there was miscommunication.)

Yet another time, it was money. I ran out of an antipsychotic and was told that even with insurance, it would cost me $800 for a month’s supply because of the out-of-pocket required minimum. I spent a couple of days arguing with the insurance company, researching solutions online, and making sure a local pharmacy would take the coupon I found, which lowered the price to under $200. That was still a hefty chunk of our budget, but we managed to scrape it together until the drug went generic a couple of months later. (I also had to stand in line while the pharmacy called the coupon people and the insurance company to see how to enter it all in their system.)

And of course there are the everyday screw-ups. My husband forgot to pick up my scrips (one time he remembered to pick them up but left the bag in the car and drove 500 miles away), or he forgot which pharmacy they were at, or he didn’t hear me say that I was completely out, or the pharmacy didn’t open until 10:00, or they had my pills in two different bags and only gave us one. There are lots of ways it can happen.

Once I even took my entire supply on a weekend getaway and left them in a drawer at the bed-and-breakfast. I know. Stupid.

Most of the time running out of drugs isn’t a crisis. It just feels like one.

Of course, there are exceptions. It is a crisis if you run out of certain anti-anxiety drugs and you don’t get any for several days. You can have withdrawal – actual, physical as well as psychological withdrawal. I’ve heard that benzo withdrawal can be as bad as opiates. That’s one reason it’s important to replace your meds as soon as possible.

A lot of psychotropic medications build up to a therapeutic level in your bloodstream, so a day or two without them probably won’t even be noticeable. When you start taking them again, your levels will even out.

But even if the med you run out of is one that you can easily tolerate a day or two without, you may have some psychological effects. When I run out of a prescription, even for a short time, I become twitchy and agitated – my hypomania kicks in and comes out as anxiety, the way it usually does for me. I fear crashing back into that deadly unmedicated space where all is misery and despair. Intellectually, I know that likely won’t happen. But it sure feels like it will. This is one way my none-too-stable mind plays tricks on me.

It’s like the opposite of the placebo effect – believing that a sugar pill will help you and experiencing gains until you learn that the pill is fake. In my version, I believe that not taking the pill will cause relapse, even though it actually won’t.

Whatever else you feel or do, DO NOT use missing a couple of pills as an opportunity to go off your meds entirely. This is another lie your brain can tell you: “You’re doing fine without it. Why keep taking it?” It may not in the short term, but you will feel the effects of not taking your meds, and then there you are, back in the Pit of Despair or rocketing to the skies. It won’t be pretty.

For me and a lot of others like me, the key to effective medication is consistency. Once you find the right “cocktail,” stick with it. But if you run out, don’t panic. Keep Calm & Get a Refill.

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Christmas, Bipolar Style

This post will go live on Christmas Eve, and the holiday has been much on my mind of late. My reactions to the holiday aren’t necessarily what you will experience, but as a bipolar person, I wanted to share what depression and hypomania do to me during the holiday season.

Hypomania

I’ve tried the traditional giving of gifts on Christmas Day, but this year our gifts are all either pre- or post-holiday. Last year, I was hypomanic and overspent. I was disappointed, though, when my selections for my husband didn’t garner the response I thought they would. He still hasn’t used the camera I got him last year on the grounds that he didn’t have the time to figure it how to use it. (I’m going to suggest that one of his gifts to me will be to learn its workings.)

This year, I’m slightly less hypomanic. We got a present for both of us, a little early. We got matching heart, lock, and key tattoos. Since the tattoo shop is closed on Christmas and the tattoo artist is much in demand, we booked the appointment early and have already had these done. I’ve bought Dan another item or two on sale—oven mitts and a bathrobe—that I’m telling myself aren’t really presents, just things he needs, so he doesn’t have to get more presents for me. I honestly don’t mind if he doesn’t get me anything else. He gives me little gifts all year long—just things he finds at the store he works at that he thinks I’ll like.

This year I’m working at home, and I plan to work on Christmas Day, at least for a few hours. Realistically, I could take the day off and not risk missing my deadline, but the routine of working helps keep me centered. I have been exploring what local restaurants are open on Christmas Day so we don’t have to cook. For New Year’s Eve and Day, we actually have a tradition—champagne and appetizers on the Eve and Chinese Buffet on the Day. We often ask friends to join us for that.

Depression

I don’t think I’ll be too depressed to go out New Year’s Day, but then again, who knows? Dan has invited friends from work, so there will be people there I don’t know, as well as two that I do. I don’t really feel up to small talk these days, so Dan can handle that with his work friends.

I’ve given up trying to get into the “Christmas spirit” by dressing for the occasion. It never works for me. I’ve had Christmas earrings. One year I had a Grinch t-shirt. I once worked at a place where everyone wore holiday sweaters and sweatshirts. I didn’t have any and felt left out, but I didn’t want to pay the prices for the sweaters. After the holiday, I bought a couple on sale for the next year’s festivities, but I lost the job before I had an opportunity to use them. Oh, well.

My Lack of Advice

I know there are a lot of articles this time of year giving advice on how to deal with the holidays while in a shaky mental state. I’m not going to do that, because you already know all the standard advice—self-care—and I have nothing really insightful to add to it.

Except that it’s okay to have your own traditions or to ignore the holidays altogether if they’re just too much for you. If you’re alone, you could be subject to depression or just feeling numb, but that’s a natural reaction if you’re like me. Scale down your celebrations to suit yourself. If you’re experiencing anxiety, you can skip big celebrations and have your own small—or private—one. If you’re hypomanic, you may be up to some festivities, but you don’t have to be the life of the party at every one. And keep track of your spending. Most people prefer to get only one or two thoughtful presents rather than a flood of random ones.

I don’t wish you Happy Holidays, just survivable ones.

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Saved From My Manicky Self

My usual mania symptom is overspending. This time, it was overextending.

It went down like this.

My side gig is as a ghostwriter. It doesn’t pay a lot, but it supplements my Social Security and, as my friend Robbin and I used to say, keeps me from stealing hubcaps.

Usually, I write self-help books. Ways to declutter your house. How to write in plain English (that one was fun). Advice for older teens nearing adulthood. How to end burnout. Grieving the death of a pet. They’re popular topics, but not very interesting to write about. (Occasionally, I get a more challenging and interesting topic, like pandemic preparedness or flesh-eating diseases.)

But, even though I took the fiction writer’s test and passed, I’ve only written one fiction book. It was pure smut. I have no moral or philosophical objection to pornography (or erotica, or whatever you wish to call it). I did the assignment and the customer was happy with it.

But I’ve been so booked up with self-help that I haven’t had the opportunity or the time to seek out a fiction assignment.

Until recently. I was contacted about writing a plot outline for a piece of fiction with the likelihood of getting to write the book after the customer approved the outline. It would be a 100,000-word paranormal fantasy romance, which sounded like a treat after self-help and smut. I was on the shortlist for the assignment.

And I really wanted it. I heard about the prospect just before the weekend and figured I wouldn’t hear a decision about it until Monday at least. I spent the weekend rolling it over and over in my mind—developing lead character, love interest, and villains; thinking up places in the multiverse where scenes could take place.

In other words, I got manicky. Realistically, I should have simply turned down the project. I’m already working on a project that will keep me busy through the end of January, and I write 1,500 words a day on it. If I took on the fantasy book, that expected word count would double. At least until February, I would be writing 3,000 words a day.

Theoretically, that’s not impossible. But I have a writing routine that allows me to get my 1,500 words done every day and leave time for self-care, interaction with my husband, meals, etc. It fits in well with how I work around my bipolar disorder and my strategies for coping with the symptoms.

And if I had made it from the shortlist to the one-list, I would have tried to do it. That was the manicky part of myself talking. It said I could do it, and do it well.

But I didn’t get the assignment. My disappointment was mingled with relief. Realistically, it was doubtful that I could have done it. The chance that I would do poorly on one assignment or the other, or both, was high. The possibility of working myself to frustration or exhaustion was real. It really would have been a bad idea.

So I dodged a proverbial bullet. My manic tendencies were short-circuited, and I was saved from acting on the feeling that I could do it all.

I’ll try to remember that, the next time I’m tempted to overextend myself. I’ll still be on the lookout for fiction assignments, but I won’t take one unless my schedule is clear.

The bad news is that I’m still manicky and back to overspending.

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Grippy Socks and Sour Candy

My husband is a great help when I write my blogs. He keeps an eye out for news stories that deal with mental health in some fashion. So when he saw an article on new words related to the topic, he made sure I saw it. Then he asked me how I felt about it.

The story was about new language that young people were using to describe various mental health concepts.

First and foremost among them was “grippy socks vacay”—a reference to the footwear issued to people who have been committed, voluntarily or otherwise, to psych wards. But “vacay” is short for “vacation.” I can just picture a conversation using it: “Where’s Janet been?” “Oh, she’s been on a grippy socks vacay.” Or “I’m stressed. It’s time I went on a grippy socks vacay.” It seems unlikely that the people who say these things are always referring to an actual stay in a psych ward.

I was more than slightly appalled. It’s true that grippy socks evoke the image of a hospital stay. But grippy socks are a part of any stay in any department of a hospital, not just psych wards. And such a stay is hardly a vacation. It’s likely, I think, that people use this to mean something like “relaxing getaway” or “time to clear my head.” An actual stay in a psych ward, however, is not a relaxing getaway. It’s intense. It’s not supposed to be relaxing. And while it does provide time to clear one’s head, that’s still far from accurate. Medication, group therapy, and individual therapy may eventually clear one’s head or at least change one’s perspective, but it’s hardly just a time away from work and day-to-day stresses.

The article went on to discuss whether the phrase increased or decreased stigma. Some said one, some the other. I think it perpetuates stigma. It implies that someone who is in a psych ward is there to have a good time. “Grippy socks vacay” is demeaning when the hard work that mental patients must accomplish is considered.

If it’s used as a euphemism for an actual psych ward stay, it’s insensitive at the least. If it just means time off from daily cares, it’s still inaccurate and discounts the real experience. Those things can’t be good for reducing stigma.

Now, my friends and I have been known to use irreverent language to refer to our conditions. Robbin and I used to say on occasion that we needed a “check-up from the neck up.” We used it just between the two of us (well, I’ve also used it with my husband) to indicate that we needed to see our therapists. But I don’t see it as being demeaning, especially since we never used it in the context of anything but our own disorders, not a general description of someone the general populace would slangily describe as “crazy.” If we had said of any popular figure that they needed a check-up from the neck up, that would have been something else. But we didn’t.

Of course, you may disagree with this and I’d love to hear from you regarding your opinion.

The other article my husband shared with me was one that indicated that it was a trend on TikTok to use sour candy to ward off anxiety. The article even said that experts backed up the theory.

The idea is that the intense sensation of sourness distracts the brain from the cause of the anxiety. It’s a distraction technique, like snapping a rubber band on your wrist to take your mind away from unwanted thoughts. One expert interviewed for the article said, “Panic ensues when our amygdala triggers the flight or fight response. One way to dampen our amygdala’s response and mitigate panic is by turning our attention to the present moment through our senses: taste, smell, touch, sight, and hearing.” Mindfulness through candy, I guess, would be a way to describe it. The experts also advise grounding yourself with other sensations such as the scent of essential oils.

Other experts noted that sour candy is a kind of crutch and not a long-term solution. One called it “maladaptive.” Sensory distractions, they said, were most effective in conjunction with acceptance rather than avoidance.

What’s the takeaway from this? Aside from the potential boost in sales for Jolly Ranchers, I mean. I think it’s a good reminder that there are ways to short-circuit anxiety and panic. And for people who only experience occasional, momentary anxiety, it’s probably a good thing. But for someone with an actual anxiety or panic disorder, it’s likely to be only one tool they use — and a minor one, at that.

What have you been reading recently about mental health trends? I’d love for you to share that, too.

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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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Am I Neurodivergent?

Last week I wrote about language that has been lost from technical meaning to become popular usage. This week I want to explore a term that may or may not apply to me—neurodivergent.

The dictionary definition I looked up said that neurodivergent means “differing in mental or neurological function from what is considered typical or normal.” It added that the term is “frequently used with reference to autistic spectrum disorders.” The alternate definition given is “not neurotypical,” which is no help at all.

I’m not on the autism spectrum, so I don’t “qualify” as neurodivergent that way. And I don’t have any of the other disorders, like ADHD, that typically are associated with neurodiversity. So where does that leave me?

Another definition: “Neurodiversity describes the idea that people experience and interact with the world around them in many different ways; there is no one ‘right’ way of thinking, learning, and behaving, and differences are not viewed as deficits.”

I like that better. It leaves room for a lot of varieties of neurodivergence.

A medical website explained it this way: “Neurodivergent is a nonmedical term that describes people whose brains develop or work differently for some reason. This means the person has different strengths and struggles from people whose brains develop or work more typically. While some people who are neurodivergent have medical conditions, it also happens to people where a medical condition or diagnosis hasn’t been identified.”

Wikipedia also notes, “Some neurodiversity advocates and researchers argue that the neurodiversity paradigm is the middle ground between strong medical model and strong social model.”

It’s true that my bipolar disorder means my brain and my behavior are not typical. I feel neurodivergent, even though I know that’s hardly a criterion. I’ve accepted that my bipolar is somewhere in the middle ground between the medical model and the social model. For a long time, I believed in the medical model absolutely. To me, my bipolar disorder was brought on by bad brain chemistry. I couldn’t see any glaring social problems such as abuse in my family. Mine was very much the traditional social model—working father, stay-at-home mother, one sister. I never suffered domestic violence or sexual abuse.

What I didn’t see was that there are other kinds of traumatic events, some of which I did experience as a child. Some of them were so painful that I remember having meltdowns because of them. Young adulthood brought more trauma. Since then, a combination of medication and therapy has helped. Perhaps the medication helped with the part of my disorder that was caused by my brain, while therapy helped the social trauma part.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the idea of a spectrum. Although autism is often considered using the convenient concept of a spectrum, I know that “being on the autism spectrum” is not accepted by all. High-functioning or low-functioning, people are at base autistic or non-autistic, not “a little bit autistic,” as the spectrum seems to imply. Other people find the spectrum idea useful.

I’ve also thought about the introvert/extrovert spectrum. It makes sense to me that no one is truly at either end of that spectrum—all introvert or all extrovert. Nor is anyone pure ambivert, evenly poised between the two ends of the spectrum. We’re all various degrees of ambivert, leaning toward one side or the other, but sharing some of the characteristics of each.

My brain has developed differently or works differently for some reason. But according to the spectrum philosophy, no one is totally neurotypical or totally neurodivergent. We’re all jumbled somewhere in the middle. A little to one side and we’re considered one or the other. So, I see myself as on the neurodiversity spectrum—neither one nor the other and not evenly balanced between the two. Somewhere in the relative middle, to one side or the other. Part neurodivergent and part neurotypical.

Whatever I am, I’m not 100% neurotypical or 100% neurodivergent. But I’m at least partly neurodivergent. And I’m comfortable with that.

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Mental Health

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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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Mental Health

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