I wonder if I can get out of bed today.
I wonder if a different drug would help.
I wonder what would happen if I told my friends and coworkers.
I wonder how long this mood swing will last.
I wonder if I have enough spoons for all I need to do today.
I wonder if people can tell that I have a mental disorder.
I wonder if this is the best I will ever get, for the rest of my life.
I have been avoiding the Internet for days (and TV news and commentary as well) because I just can’t handle it right now. Actions, reactions, reactions to the reactions, et endless cetera. I’m depressed enough without all that.
There are plenty of thoughts I have on the Isla Vista shootings, and the media coverage of it, and mental health, and gun regulations. I’m sure most of them have already been said, and probably better than I could, and everything about the subject makes me angry, confused, outraged, despairing, hopeless, helpless, and majorly depressed.
Then there’s everything I’ve read lately about bodily autonomy and male privilege and the “war on women” (why does everything have to be a war?) and politics and climate change and all of those make me angry, confused, outraged, despairing, hopeless, helpless, and majorly depressed too.
But it is TBT, so here is a picture of Maggie, a cat who saw the glowing design on Dan’s forehead that reads “Sucker.” He instantly scooped her up and brought her home. She was thereafter totally devoted to him. He could arouse her to a fever pitch of writhing and seduction with only the use of his voice. I mean, if they had been the same species, I wouldn’t have stood a chance.
Maybe next week I’ll have pulled myself together a bit and can write about something. For now, I’ll just say the best things that have happened to me today are a head-bonk, a nose-touch, and two nose-licks from Dushenka (Little Soul) with the Crazy Eyes.
Yours truly,
A Truly Crazy Crazy Cat Lady
It used to be that I could never be found without a book within arm’s reach. I had a purse book, a nightstand book, a bathroom book, and a car book at the very least. (I kept them straight by having a different genre in each location.)
Now that I have a Nook e-reader, I have hundreds of books with me everywhere I go. But I’m doing a lot less reading.
I think it’s a function of my lack of concentration, but whether that’s the disorder or the meds, I couldn’t say.
I do know that when I was in the depths of my most recent breakdown, I barely read at all. I watched moronic reality shows like Trading Spouses, on the theory that these people’s lives were bigger train-wrecks than mine. And I watched cooking shows, because they were calming. (This was before cooking game shows really got going.)
During an earlier meltdown, I tried to watch sitcoms, but the relentlessly upbeat theme songs made me weep.
Now I have to hoard my concentration like I hoard my spoons. I am fortunate enough to be able to work freelance from home. But it’s the kind of work that sometimes has deadlines. On days when I can force myself to work, I can concentrate for about 2-1/2 to three hours at a spell. Some days I have to do two sessions like that with a nap in between, if a deadline is approaching too rapidly.
But when it comes to non-work activities, I can usually only concentrate for an hour at the most. Sometimes I try really hard so that I can watch a movie, but mostly I stick to half-hour or hour-long shows.
But reading takes concentration too, especially if the book has a plot (which I recommend) or is information-rich nonfiction. I do a lot of my reading in bed at night. (Yes, I know you’re not supposed to do that because it keeps you from falling asleep. But it’s a life-long habit.)
My mind flitters, the hamsters and sometimes the badgers stir, and I find myself several pages along with no idea what happened. At that point my need for distraction and my attention span collide and I have to find something moderately absorbing but short-term to do. It’s a good thing I have some games on my reader so I can play a hand of rummy or work a sudoku puzzle.
Reading has been one of the great joys of my life, since I was four, and it bothers me that I no longer have the ability to immerse myself in it the way I used to.
But, like so many other things, it’s something I’m having to learn to live with.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Here is the Valentine’s card my husband gave me.
And here’s what it said 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.)
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.
__________________________________________________
By the way, the combo that the Vicodin is fighting is Zoloft, Ativan, Ambien, Inderal, and Lamictal. But more on that later.
Janet Coburn
Bipolar Me 
Recent Comments