Bipolar 2 From Inside and Out

Posts tagged ‘friends’

Distract Me!

I recently saw a meme that said being happy was different than being distracted from sadness. I couldn’t deny that they are different. But it seemed to me that it was saying that being distracted from sadness was a bad thing. And I don’t believe that, necessarily.

Sure, happiness is better than sadness, and something to aspire to. But it’s not always possible, especially for those of us who struggle with bipolar, depression, and other mood disorders – despite what the positive thinking people say. (I don’t think that “smiling depression” is a good coping mechanism to recommend. It denies reality and doesn’t help someone realize that they should seek out the help they need.)

But when I’m down in the depths, distraction helps. Unless I’m in the total Pit of Despair, it short-circuits my overthinking, relieves (at least for a while) my brooding, and even gives me something I can smile at, if only momentarily.

Where do I find distraction? First, there are other people. There’s my husband. He has the ability to make me laugh at the silliest things. We sometimes toss a soft toy back and forth at each other, exclaiming, “Eeee!” It’s really a stupid game, and not one we play every day, but when you’re not expecting Eeee to fly through the air and bop you, it’s definitely distracting. We giggle like fools.

Another one of my go-to distraction providers is a friend named Tom. He’s a singer-songwriter and improv comedian who has dozens of different songs and jokes I’ve never heard. If I’m too much “in my head” and can’t get out, I can call Tom. Once when I called him, I just flat out said, “I need to be distracted.” “Look at the grouse! Look at the grouse!” he instantly replied. I had no idea it was from a Three Stooges routine, but it was absurd enough to ease me closer to where I needed to be.

That’s an important point, too – the ability to ask for distraction. It’s good to have people around who respond and help. Sometimes a calming voice is all it takes. My Uncle Phil has the most soothing voice, and he has many times centered me by distracting me with stories about anything – using computers for business, tarot cards, religious stories, or whatever. My friend Leslie grounds me by expounding on esoteric subjects – epigenetics, for example – if I ask her to. We’re perpetually told to reach out when we need it. This is just another way to do that. If you don’t want advice or commiseration, reach out for distraction.

Of course, there are other distractions like music, television, movies, and even pursuits like gardening. Doing something you have to concentrate on, like needlepoint, keeps your mind focused, and can be a great distraction if you are able to do it. And there are the cats. They’re so completely unconcerned with whatever’s troubling me that they can’t help but draw my attention away from it too.

I’m not saying that one should distract oneself to the exclusion of working on one’s problems. That way nothing which is necessary gets done. We all know that dealing with our difficulties is the path out of the pit.

And I’m not saying that distractions always work. Dan used to tell me terrible jokes to try to jolly me out of my depressive moods. When that didn’t work, he would tell the same joke again in hopes, I suppose, that I had merely misunderstood it and would think it was funny the second time. At that point in my life and my illness, not even Eeee would have gotten through. I’d have let it bounce off me. Or hidden it so he couldn’t try it again.

I’m hardly going to say that distraction can replace therapy and medication. But as an adjunct, I can’t see the harm in it. If you’re at a point where you’re able to, look at the grouse!

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Mental Health

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Do My Friends Really Like Me?

There have been times in my life when I thought I didn’t have a friend in the world, and my disorder was the cause of it. I was just too weird, too odd – unlovable. I didn’t fit in anywhere, with anyone.

Actually, it started in my childhood. I had the idea that my parents only loved me because they had to – because I was their child. Ergo, if I weren’t their child, they would never love me. This was very untrue and unfair, I now realize, but I lived the early part of my life believing it.

I had very little evidence that I could make friends. I just never seemed to get the hang of it. There were kids in the suburban neighborhood where I lived, but we didn’t form what you would call lasting friendships. As I recall, there were two sisters who tried to humiliate me with a cruel prank involving a Ouija board and tape-recorded “messages” from the beyond.

In third grade, children threw stones at me. I had to have three stitches in my forehead. Another kid chased me around the schoolyard with a hypodermic needle that I hope was imaginary. My “best” friend in junior high school literally kicked me in the ass in front of a group of younger kids, which led to the first major meltdown that I can remember.

Though now, looking back, high school was the time when I began to embrace my oddity. I wasn’t diagnosed yet, so I didn’t know that the depressive and manic episodes were responsible, but I was learning that there were people who would accept me regardless. I had a tight little group of three or four friends, most of whom are still my friends to this day. They taught me that lasting friendship was possible. In college, I acquired another tight little circle of friends – and one disastrous train wreck of a relationship that left me with defective coping mechanisms such as self-harm.

Since my diagnosis, I’ve found more friends. Several have not been able to adjust to my mood disorder and have broken off contact. It hurt badly, of course, but I could see their point. When I was at my lowest point, I was not able to be a good friend to them either.

So, how has bipolar disorder been involved in my friendships (or lack thereof)? First, with all the chaos inside my head and my constant need to deal with it, I didn’t have much energy left to find friends. When I did get close to people, I ended up pushing them away with my erratic behavior. Only a few kindred souls stuck with me.

I suffered from imposter syndrome too. I thought that it might look like I had friends, but they would soon realize how damaged I was and leave. Or I believed that I was faking being a friend and really had no idea how to go about it.

I ghosted people without intending to when I went into a depressive episode. If I met them when I was manicky, I might be the proverbial life of the party, entertaining with my peculiar sense of humor. The next time they saw me, though, I might be an uncommunicative, weepy lump.

Still, there are people who have known me through the whole range of my moods and my disorder, and I am confident that they are my true friends. They really like me (shades of Sally Field!) and some even love me. I have Facebook friends that I keep in touch with regularly. They provide me a link to the outside world. I have IRL friends whom I see occasionally (we tend to live in different states). I even have a few friends nearby.

I love my friends. Because of how hard they’ve been to come by, I value them greatly. They have stood by me. They have invited me to dinner, to their parties, and on their vacations. They have comforted me when I was down, distracted me when I was anxious, and enjoyed my company when I’ve been stable. They’ve cried on my shoulder and I have cried on theirs. They’ve bought my books. Some have even lent me money when I really, really needed it. They have become my family of choice.

I treasure every one of my friends – especially my husband, who is my best friend. I wouldn’t be where I am today without them.

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Of All the Things I’ve Lost…

The quotation from Mark Twain goes, “Of all the things I have lost, I miss my mind the most.” It’s a little annoying, at the least, when people repeat it. Those of us with psychiatric diagnoses don’t actually lose our minds, but we do lose a lot of other things along the way.

Friends

I’ve certainly lost friends because of my bipolar disorder. I can think of two in particular who were very dear friends, but cut off all contact with me when I was at the depths of my depression and they feared I was suicidal. I reached out to them a few times and even sent them a copy of both my books, but got minimal response. I still miss them, though they now live in another state and it’s unlikely that we’ll ever see each other again, even in social settings we all used to frequent.

Jobs

Twice I lost jobs largely because of my bipolar disorder. The first time, I had been isolating a lot, keeping the door to my office closed and barely interacting with any of the other employees. While an open door wasn’t technically a requirement of the job, I was the only editor who habitually hid behind a closed one, and it wasn’t taken well. I’m afraid I got a reputation as being difficult and uncommunicative. Finally, after several incidents where my emotions ran away with me, I was let go.

The second time was at the job I had directly after that job ended. At first, I did all right in the department where I was assigned. Then my boss left and the department was disbanded. I was transferred to another editing group, and there my difficulties began. The people there misunderstood my attempts at humor. My boss didn’t understand bipolar disorder and when she asked, “What does that mean?” I was caught off-guard and made a brief, unhelpful remark to the effect of “Sometimes I have good days and sometimes I have bad days.” I could see her thinking, “What makes you different than anyone else?”

Finally, I was put on probation, the only time in my entire career when that ever happened to me. I decided to leave before they could fire me. Then I went into a period of hypomania about not having to work there anymore and starting a freelance career, which did not turn out as well as I had hoped.

Intellectual abilities

I know a lot of people worry that when they have a disorder such as bipolar, or even when they take medication for it, they will lose some of their brainpower. I never felt that way, but looking back I can see that the disorder also disordered my thinking. Moods of despair and exhilaration interfered with my cognitive functions. In addition to the general dulling of feelings during depression, I also lost the ability to concentrate enough to read, formerly one of my primary and best-loved activities. Even as I mourned the loss of my reading, I was simply unable to pick up a book and follow its contents. I took to watching mindless TV shows instead – really bad ones.

Enjoyment

Just as I no longer found joy in reading, I no longer found other activities enjoyable or interesting as well. I used to love cooking, especially with my husband, but when depressed, I could barely microwave a cup of mac-n-cheese. I loved good conversation with friends, but I barely talked to anyone and ignored friends’ overtures. I enormously enjoyed traveling, but couldn’t summon the energy even for a day trip.

Confidence

I used to be able to do all kinds of things by myself – attend business conventions (and science fiction conventions) and write articles for publication, for example. When I was suffering the most from bipolar disorder, I could do none of these things. When I went to conventions, I needed a bolt hole and spent as much time as I could in my room. At that point, I couldn’t write about my condition or even send emails to friends. One of my friends said, when I was considering ECT, “Write about it! That’s what you do!” But it wasn’t what I did anymore. Putting pen to paper – or words on a screen – was not even a possibility. I asked someone else if she would write about it instead.

Things I haven’t lost

Of course, most of these things came back to me once I was properly diagnosed and medicated. I now read every night, write my blogs every week, travel here and abroad, and make friends that I keep in touch with. I discovered that some of my friends had stuck by me, even when I was in the depths. I still can’t work in an office, but I have found work I can do from home. I enjoy travel again. And if I’m a little slower to get a joke or find a word, it doesn’t bother me so much. I know my brain is just fine, except for occasional glitches.

Losing all those things made me realize just how good my life is now that I am back to being myself. I have my mind back, if it was ever lost at all.

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A Letter From the Future to Bipolar Me

by sosiukin via adobestock.com

Dear Me:

You’re 13 years old now, and there are a few things you should know.

You have bipolar disorder. No one knows this, not even you. But a lot of people notice that you act “weird” at times. You have decided to embrace your weirdness, which is fine, but what you really need is psychological help. And medication.

Don’t pass up any chance to get that help. Your high school will recommend to your parents that you get counseling. When your parents leave the choice up to you, take it. It will not go on your permanent record, and you will still get into a college. A very good college, in fact.

I know that at times you sit alone and cry. Other times you laugh at things no one else finds funny. This is not just “weirdness.” This is a mood disorder, called bipolar disorder, type 2. Your mood swings will make it difficult for you to make and keep friends. Keep trying. The friends you will find are worth it and will stand by you when you really need them. You will not be alone in dealing with this.

Your choice to go to college out of state will be a good one. There you will have a variety of experiences that will make you grow in unexpected ways. Your mood disorder will go to college with you, though. Leaving Ohio will not mean you will leave bipolar disorder behind. You will still feel the mood swings, and most of them will be depression.

It’s a good idea to take that year off between freshman and sophomore year. I know it will feel scary, but at that point you will be in no shape to carry on with academics. Instead, you will get a job which, while not great, will introduce you to more new people and new ways of life. At least one of those people will stick with you till you are old and gray.

Returning to school will be a good decision. Your parents will support you in that decision. They won’t object to your year off, because they know you will go back. It still won’t be easy, but you will have a core group of friends that accept you, even though you are different from them.

Your bipolar disorder will follow you back to college. It will make you miss some opportunities and choose others that will not be good for your mental health. You will be unhappy most of the time, but you will find that music helps you through it.

Try not to self-harm. I know you will feel numb and want to feel something else, but cutting yourself is a bad decision and will not help. You will carry those scars forever.

When you meet Rex, though, you will be encountering a problem too big for you to handle, and the relationship will leave you scarred as well. It would be best if you were to steer clear of him altogether. But then again, you will find some true friends in his circle, and it would be a shame to miss them. Try your best to hold yourself together, remember what I said about self-harm, and don’t give up on who you are. You are not your disorder, and you will get through this, despite everything.

I know you never gave a thought to marrying, but you will meet a man and in a few years you will marry him. This, I assure you, is a good decision. He will stick by you no matter what and help you find help.

Going into the building that says “South Community Mental Health” will be a good decision. Whatever you will be feeling at this point – most likely misery – it’s not mentally healthy. This will be the place where you will start to climb out of the hole you have found yourself in.

At last, a doctor will tell you that you have bipolar disorder – most often depression, but also anxiety. He will work with you to find a combination of medications that will help you. When that happens, you will become reacquainted with your brain and relearn how to function in the world at large. Your brain will function in a new way, one with fewer out-of-control feelings. You will experience life more fully and be glad of your new outlook.

It won’t be quick, and it won’t be easy, but you will have therapists, and friends, and work, and love, all of which will help see you through. You will have bipolar disorder all your life, but it will not be your life, though it seems that way now.

Reach out for help whenever and wherever you find it. Cherish your friends. Keep trying, even when you want to give up. Better times are on the way.

I promise.

Love, me (older and maybe wiser)

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Mental Health

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Mental Health Privilege

Vectorarte / Adobestock.com

These days we hear a lot about privilege – class privilege, white privilege, first-world privilege, male privilege, and, I’m sure, many more. The idea is that people who have privilege don’t have problems that other people deal with every day and. In fact, they don’t usually realize that they have this privilege and benefit from it.

I know that I am privileged in many ways. I am white and heterosexual. I have a house, a husband, and work I can do. I have an Ivy League education and grew up in the suburbs, the child of loving parents who never divorced.

But what I don’t have is mental health privilege. I have bipolar disorder.

When a person has mental health privilege, they don’t have to take multiple medications just to keep their brain functioning in something like a normal manner. You won’t get pill-shamed for the meds you take or have random people suggest your problems will all be solved with prayer, yoga, apple cider vinegar, or acupuncture.

(I do recognize that there are many people who take meds for a variety of disorders, including life-threatening ones. I don’t mean to discount their struggles. Physical health privilege and ableist privilege also exist.)

When you have mental health privilege, you don’t have to question whether or when you should inform a boss, a potential employer, or a friend or romantic partner that you have a mental disorder. You don’t have to fear that that one fact will make it more unlikely that you can achieve a stable work situation (or any work situation) or a stable relationship.

When you have mental health privilege, you don’t have to try to find a therapist who specializes in your problem and can actually help you. You don’t have to repeat your whole psychiatric history every time your therapist gets another job, causing you to start all over with a new therapist. You also don’t have to ask your primary care physician, who may or may not know much about psychotropic meds, to prescribe for you until you find a psychiatrist or when one isn’t even available to you.

When you have mental health privilege, you don’t worry that people will avoid you because you act “peculiar,” miss appointments and dates, or can’t handle crowds or even family gatherings. 

When you have mental health privilege, you don’t have to fear that you may have to stay for a while in a mental ward or have treatments like ECT.

When you have mental health privilege, you won’t get shot by a police officer just because you have a meltdown or a really bad day or a psychotic break.

Of course, the privileges I do have protect me some. Realistically, there is less chance that I will be killed by a police officer than would a person of color. In fact, my race and income make it easier for me to access mental health care.

The Journal of Psychosocial Nursing and Mental Health Services, in its July 3, 2017 editorial, makes clear that mental health privilege affects not only people who have mental disorders, but also the people who care for them.  The piece, written by Mona Shattell, PhD, RN, FAAN and Paula J. Brown, MBA, points out, “More than 70% of all health care providers in the United States are White (U.S. Census Bureau, 2017), and many, if not most, have unconscious (or conscious) biases (Institute of Medicine, 2003).” Their level of privilege may interfere with their treatment of their clients. The authors of the editorial encourage those with privilege to use it to help others.

Racial privilege is particularly problematic when considering mental health providers and their clients. NAMI Illinois “reported studies found that ‘black professionals make up only 2.6% of mental health clinicians in the United States, which is low considering that approximately 20% of black Americans seek mental health specialty treatment within a 12-month period.'” “While access to culturally diverse providers is low, the cost of mental health treatment remains high,” they add, “which serves as an additional impediment to bridging the gap between the onset of symptoms and accessing professional care.”

Education about mental health privilege may or may not help. Many people pooh-pooh the idea of any kind of privilege and bridle at the idea that they themselves have privilege by virtue of their health, sex, economic status, or other attributes. Some people’s eyes can be opened. (My husband didn’t recognize male privilege until I pointed out that no one suggested he change his name when we married or that we were “shacked up” because he didn’t.)

It’s understandable in a way.  People have a hard time envisioning that they themselves might ever be mentally ill or poor or homeless or denied work or discriminated against in any number of ways.

But with mental health privilege, it’s even more difficult to get people to understand. Until a close friend or family member faces mental or emotional difficulties – suffers from PTSD, experiences major depression, develops schizophrenia – people will not usually have the opportunity to realize the mental health privilege they have. And they may not even then.

As with any kind of privilege or stigma, if there is to be any improvement, people need to be educated. It’s not easy to open their eyes. But doing so can make a difference in the lives of people who do not share that privilege.

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Mental Health

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My Mental Illness Is Real

By gustavofrazao via adobestock.com

Five years ago this month, Greg Abbott, the governor of Texas, vetoed a bipartisan mental health bill because he didn’t believe mental illness existed. He was influenced by Scientologists, a group founded by writer/guru L. Ron Hubbard, that opposes psychiatry, among other things. Abbott is still the governor of Texas.

Aside from Scientologists, what leads people to deny the reality of mental illness, when the signs are all around them? After all, one out of every four people will experience a mental disorder at some time in their lives.

I can think of several reasons. Not good reasons, but reasons.

The first is the “boy who cried wolf” syndrome. People who suffer mental illnesses just keep on suffering them, darn it. It’s not like they have one episode and then it’s gone, like a broken arm. After the second uncompleted suicide attempt or the fourth episode of cutting, the observer concludes that the person with mental problems really has none and the symptoms are just “cries for attention.” In other words, the only thing wrong with the person is that they want to be seen as mentally ill, but really isn’t. They are dismissed as “crazy,” but not mentally ill.

Then there is caring burnout. A person may be sympathetic to a friend or family member with depression or PTSD or whatever, may help them through a number of episodes. But at some point, they get tired. They simply can’t continue expending the considerable effort it can take to deal with a mentally ill person. “If she cancels or doesn’t show up to one more coffee date, that’s it!” they think. I have lost friends for this reason.

Another, more complicated reason is the denial of a person’s reality. I may be suffering internally, but it may not show on the surface. Many of us with mental disorders try to hide the symptoms and sometimes, especially among the high-functioning, it even sort of works for a while. The reality is that the illness continues “behind the scenes,” as it were, and is not apparent to others. This is a double whammy. The disorder exists, but is denied by observers – and maybe even the person who has it.

The truth is that my mental illness is real. It is mine to live with and mine to deal with and mine to experience. What you think about it or whether you believe in it does not affect the reality of it at all.

Well, that’s not quite true. Denial of mental illness does cause pain to the person who has one. Not being believed, being discounted, being blamed for various behaviors can be at the least wearying and at the most, soul-crushing. It feels like gaslighting to have someone say, “You’re not really ill. You’re just making it up/a drama queen/overreacting/going through what everyone goes through. Snap out of it!”

Just imagine what those people in Texas felt when they couldn’t get the help they needed because the governor “didn’t believe” in mental illness. The bill would have given “more resources to medical professionals that help residents dealing with mental health problems. The bill in question was widely popular, supported by many large medical associations in the state and both political parties,” reported the Greenville (TX) Gazette.

Far be it from me to wish a mental disorder on anyone, including Abbott or his family, but sometimes the only way a person can truly understand the reality of mental illness is when it strikes close to home – especially to a family member. One of my own relatives didn’t really believe until she saw up close what I was going through. She now at least believes, though she doesn’t really understand.

Real understanding may be too big a leap for some people to take who have not experienced mental illness for themselves. Belief in its existence ought to be much easier. Apparently, it isn’t.

Resource

http://www.greenvillegazette.com/r/texas-governor-vetoes-mental-health-bill-because-he-doesnt-believe-mental-illness-is-real-103158/

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Fear of Offending

By Drobot Dean from Adobestock.com

I have to keep a close watch on what I say in public or post online. I am afraid of offending people. Many times I have lost friends because of things I’ve said or done.

Is losing friends because of my bipolar disorder? In a way, yes. Is being afraid of offending others because of my bipolar disorder? In a way, yes.

I was not very well socialized as a child. The house I grew up in was very insular. My parents made few attempts to mix and mingle with neighbors or other school parents, so I didn’t see much of that as a young person and learn the unwritten rules. (My father did mix and mingle with the local gun club, but there were not many persons of my age and gender there.) I never went to preschool because I had a sister, we were very close in age, and my mother figured we could simply play with each other. (This was in the days before formal “playdates.”)

As I got older and my bipolar disorder began to manifest, I was even more out of sync with what the other kids were doing and saying. My mood swings left me laughing uproariously at things no one else thought were funny, or being gloomy and surly as a self-isolating hermit. I never learned the rules at school, either, of how to negotiate the complex patterns of behavior required as a student. I didn’t even know enough not to show off my intelligence, which didn’t win me many friends.

As I grew older, I got in the habit of tapping my face – symbolic slaps – whenever I said something that I realized I ought not to have said. (This was both puzzling and annoying to my companions.) It was a reminder to me to keep more of what I thought under wraps.

Of course, at the time I didn’t know that I was bipolar. I thought I was just weird. It never occurred to me that my brain was different, that I reacted in peculiar ways because of something I could not, at the time, control. I tried to be quiet and unobtrusive, but the manic humor kept leaking out, usually when no one else thought whatever it was was funny. I garnered a reputation as an oddball, even among the odd people who befriended me.

Later on, in the world of work, I was even more out of my depth. I still didn’t know how to socialize. I couldn’t manage “team-eating,” the mysterious rituals of the groups of workers who lunched together. I consciously practiced my socializing with the few people who would put up with me. I observed social interactions, but I never really internalized them.

I made statements that were meant to be funny, but they came out sarcastic, and I lost friends. I made statements that were meant to be assertive, but they came out bossy and I lost friends. I became more and more afraid to say anything that might be seen as hurtful, but I still did.

All of this made me afraid to offend people, so I began to shut down. I kept my jokes to a minimum. I didn’t even try to join the ladies who lunch. My social life was practically nonexistent.

Then came the internet and, especially, Facebook. Every time I wanted to post something, I had to run the content through the internal filters I’d built. Was it too racy? Too political? Too self-revealing? Too something? Would it offend someone and lose me more friends?

I developed techniques to soften my replies to other people’s posts. I’d agree with any part of a post I could and then add my real opinion, very softly. (I agree with you that there’s a lot wrong with our economic system, but it’s very complex and I think more regulations will be needed to improve it. I agree that most police are protective and well-regulated, but I think training in dealing with mentally ill persons would benefit everyone.) I became wishy-washy.

How does this reflect my bipolar disorder? Losing friends was one of the big traumas I went through as a child and I never wanted it to happen again. My first physical trauma was at the hands of other children, who threw rocks at me. My first bipolar “break” was a result of being humiliated by my best friend. (“Kids can be mean,” my parents said, but I knew deep inside it was all my fault.) Losing friends became one of my major triggers, something I would try anything to avoid. I just wasn’t very good at avoiding it.

Gradually, I am getting better at socializing and at speaking up without the constant fear that my words and actions will drive away people who care about me. I still try not to be confrontational, but if a meme expresses something I care deeply about, well, I will repost it. I still try not to insult the persons closest to me, but sometimes it takes me a while to figure out how to say something with just the right words in just the right tone of voice.

Bipolar? I think my glitchy brain got sidetracked by the illness when I should have been learning the ways most people behave. Now that my illness is mostly under control, I am trying to make up for lost time.

 

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I’m Not Giving Up on You

Not you, Rachel, and not you, Paul.

Rachel, I know that your life has been shitty lately. I know that your health problems are overwhelming you and your depression is dragging you down to the deepest levels. I know your brother’s death by suicide still resonates with you and makes you think that there is an easy way to end your pain.

Paul, I know that your life has been full of drama and trauma lately. I know that the tasks of daily living get the better of you and the future keeps retreating further and further away. I know that you have barely any spoons each day and feel compelled to spend them on others instead of on yourself.

But I won’t give up on either one of you.

Rachel, I will take your calls even when I’m exhausted and listen while you vent. I will support you in every way I know how. I will honor and thank you for your generosity when I know that you could easily focus only on your troubles. I will maintain contact even when I am low on spoons.

Paul, I will keep sending you reminders that I am thinking of you and offering you solace and support. I will willingly accept that you are not able to reply just now. I will not take that as a reason to make a break with you. I will keep trying.

Rachel, you know you can say anything to me, for I have surely been there. You know that your suicidal ideation makes me uncomfortable, but I won’t ask you never to speak of it. I have had those thoughts myself and gotten through them. I know you can too. I see all the things that you do to reach out to others and extend your goodness to them. I empathize with your difficult family situation. I don’t know what to do about it, but I will acknowledge the pain that it gives you.

Paul, you know that I have listened to you in the past and will continue to do so, no matter what it is you have to say. I will not let my own anxiety and depression stand in the way of listening to yours. Please know that I understand what you’re going through more than I can say or have ever said.

Rachel, please know that I celebrate with you even the smallest achievements you make. When you are able to stand up for yourself against City Hall, I applaud you. When you investigate ways to make your living situation better, I will not judge you, though they may seem harsh or unacceptable to others.

Paul, please know that I wish only the best for you, even if I don’t always understand what it is that you need. I admire your continuing strength, even when I feel that it would be good if you could lay your burdens down for just a while. I acknowledge that I am not the person that can help you do this, much as I would like to.

The reason that I say these things is that I want you to know that there is someone who does truly understand and truly care. I have been where you are and have found my way out, at least a little. I remember the people – including you two – who have reached out to me even when I was not able to reach back. The very least I can do is to do the same for you.

When you are relieved of your burdens and can again see the light of day, I will be there to celebrate with you. I will not despair or think that you can never see that light.

I will not give up on you. I will not give up on any of my friends who are burdened with depression, anxiety, or some other difficulty. I will do what I can, because I must. There are people who have never given up on me. I know what that feels like, and I wish that same healing and help and health for you.

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Mental Health

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What Does “Normal” Mean?

When I was young, I wanted like anything to be normal. I didn’t know what normal meant, but I knew I wasn’t it.

I had a lot of the trappings of what passed for normal in that day and age: parents still married, one sister, suburban house in a town with good schools, church down the street, same-age children living within a block, working father, stay-at-home mom, abundant books and toys, and vacations to visit the relatives.

But I knew. There was something different about me. Everyone else knew it too. I wasn’t normal. I was too sensitive, whatever that meant. I was precocious. I didn’t fit in and I didn’t know how to.

As I reached my tween and teen years, I encountered a dilemma. I desperately wanted to be normal. Normal kids had friends, got to hang out with each other, laughed and smiled a lot, wore what was in fashion. They gave off an aura of being normal. I longed for that. I was in love with the idea of normalcy.

But every time I tried, I failed. I was always too weird, too emotional, too smart, too something.

So I began to hate the idea of normalcy. If I didn’t fit in, then by God, I would scorn the idea of fitting in. I would embrace non-normalcy. I would hang with the few other misfits I could find. I would eschew the latest fashions and trends. I didn’t rebel, exactly. I was too timid for that (yet another too).

And I blamed the suburb and the Midwestern state where I lived. Maybe this kind of normal was bland, spiritless, and hum-drum. Maybe I was right not to want to be of it.

So, of course, I tried the geographical cure, going away to college, where I thought the people would be more like me, where there would be enough diversity that I could find others like me and finally fit in. Be normal within a different definition of normal.

And it worked, at least partially. But by that time it was too late for me to ever be normal.

What happened was that bipolar disorder caught up with me. I had probably been struggling with it all the time I was a weird kid who didn’t fit in. Other kids threw rocks at me. My moods were extreme. I cried and laughed at things that were neither sad nor funny. Being betrayed by a friend sent me into a severe meltdown.

By the time I was in college, there was no doubt that I was struggling with a mood disorder, although we didn’t have that term for it at the time. At the time it seemed like major depression and for the most part, it was, or at least that was the only mood I could identify.

Years later, when I got a proper diagnosis and the right medication, it was easier to look back and see my bipolar tendencies slowly building over the years. But I’ll admit something – I still both love and hate the idea of normalcy. I still want to fit in and I’ve found a few groups where I seem to. But I also want to embrace my oddness, celebrate my differences, glory in my assorted varieties of geekiness.

I never want to go back to that lost, lonely, spinning-out-of-control kid who was always too much or not enough. My lifestyle helps since I don’t have to try to fit in at a nine-to-five office job. My husband helps, as I was at least normal enough to find one. And my writing helps, so I can work out some of my conflicting emotions and bipolar moods through this blog and other venues.

Here’s another reason to hope: Matt Norris, a blogger at The Thinking Orc, recently wrote:

Disapproving of people who aren’t “Normal” went from a virtue to vice within my lifetime. The shift in public morals changed the rules on what it took to be seen as a good person. It used to be about not doing anything weird, and looking down on anybody who did. Now it’s about not doing anything cruel, and looking down on anyone who does.

Besides, to quote songwriter Steve Goodman, “I may not be normal, but nobody is.” I know that now. So in that sense, I do at last fit in.

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Mental Health

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Ridding Your Life of Toxic People to Save Your Mental Health

It’s hard to cut toxic people from your life, even if the person is a gaslighter or other abuser. There’s always the temptation to give the person one more chance, believe his or her protestations of love or change, or to feel it is up to you to change the situation or the other person.

But sometimes it’s necessary to end the relationship.

A toxic person is like a psychic vampire who sucks all the confidence and energy and spirit from your life. He or she exhausts you emotionally and adds nothing to your life but annoyance, pain, and trouble.

Once or twice I’ve even been that toxic person when I was in the grips of the depressive phase of my bipolar disorder. Several people cut me out of their lives and I can’t say that they were wrong to do so. I gave nothing, only took. I was the psychic vampire. And I deeply regret that, even though my hurtful actions were manifestations of my disorder. It lasted so long, with no apparent signs of letting up, that it simply wasn’t worth it to them to continue to associate with me.

Once or twice I’ve been on the other side of the equation, though. I can think of two times in particular. One was when I got out of the relationship with the person who turned out to be gaslighting me, which I have written about before. I learned something from the experience (though I still maintain that the lesson wasn’t worth the price I paid).

What I discovered is that it is better to make the break definitive. If you’re going to cut a toxic person out of your life, do it cleanly. Don’t leave that door open for continued contact. In my case, I felt I owed the person some money and sent him a little every month. An acquaintance called me on this and pointed out that even if I did owe money (which he doubted), it was better just to send a single, final payment and end it there.

So that’s what I did. I scraped together some money, wrote a check, and released myself from the ties that still bound me.

It’s somehow different when the toxic person is a family member, though. I won’t write much about the actual situation because I want to leave the person their privacy. But it was a toxic relationship that sucked time and energy from me and also from another person that I loved. It was concern for this other person that led me eventually to make the break, though I was growing weary of dealing with the person’s dramas, helplessness, vindictiveness, and general mean-spirited relations with me and others in the family.

I haven’t looked back. Some people have judged me harshly for taking that step because the person was, after all, family. Many people believe that family is more important than anything. But I chose my own mental health and refused to keep forgiving the damage done to both me and others. It took a lot of years until I was able to make the break, but I am never tempted to go back on my decision.

It’s easy to say that one should cut toxic people from one’s life, but it’s often a very hard thing to do. You can end up questioning yourself and your own motives. You can be shamed by others outside of the situation. You may regret your decision and wish you could mend the relationship.

My experience has taught me that sometimes that just isn’t possible. If the person is unwilling to or incapable of seeing the harm he or she has done, it’s likely to be a mistake to let the person have another chance to inflict more damage.

I plan on reaching out one more time to a person that I have harmed. But if they don’t respond, I’ll understand. I own that I was toxic and it was perfectly understandable that they cut me loose. I’ll always have regret and shame for the way I was, and I won’t try to insert myself back into their lives. I just want it to end on a less bad note if that makes any sense.

But I note that the toxic people whom I have cut from my life show no such inclination. I have to believe that they still believe they did nothing wrong and that they have not become less toxic. I still must protect myself and my mental health by not letting them back into my life.

And if that includes family, so be it.

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Mental Health

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