Bipolar 2 From Inside and Out

Posts tagged ‘mental health’

Reaching the End of My Cope

Helpless Woman Holding RopeAnymore, I don’t very often have days when I can’t get out of bed, but this week I had one. It doesn’t matter now what caused it, but I am feeling the lingering aftereffects. Today I had no choice but to get out of bed, and I thought as long as I’m up, I might as well blog.

(Actually I can blog in bed too, since my tablet will take dictation, but it’s not optimal.)

I had been headed for bed-bound all week – the slowly creeping whelms; the feeling of being nibbled to death by mice; the recent trauma of two pets’ deaths; a game I couldn’t win, couldn’t break even, and couldn’t get out of. Expected relief came three days too late.

Aside from not eating, not getting out of bed meets many of my needs – quiet, rest, naps, not having to fight off the numbness and care about anything. And yes, there’s some feeling sorry for myself in there too. I won’t try to deny it. Staying in bed is a big messy wad of self-pity, anhedonia, lack of energy, trying to stave off thoughts, and generally not being able to give a shit about anything. It is more than sadness. It is as J.K. Rowling described the Dementors: You feel as if you will never be happy again. In other words, there’s nothing worth getting out of bed for.

When I was searching for images to go with this post, I entered “end of rope.” I guess I expected to see cute kittens dangling and inspirational quotes like “Hang on Baby, Friday’s Coming!”

Instead, what I found were endless images of nooses. Nooses by themselves or with people in them. Overturned chairs under nooses. Photos, illustrations, every conceivable image of nooses. According to the visual imagination of illustrators and photographers, “end of one’s rope” means suicide. There were some images of frayed or broken ropes, but the nooses were in the lead by at least four to one. (There were also a few nautical pictures with coiled ropes, but they weren’t statistically significant.)

That’s not what I mean by “end of my rope” – not dangling kittens OR nooses. Staying in bed all day, being unable to function, is a long, long way from suicide. Indeed, I find it a mechanism that staves off thoughts of nooses. Staying in bed admits of the possibility that tomorrow, or maybe the next day, I will have the wherewithal to drag myself out of that bed. Or that something will force me out of the bed and I will have to respond, as it happened today.

Hence the title of this piece. I have not reached the end of my rope – certainly not to find a dangling noose at the end of it. I have not reached the end of my hope, because I believe that some day (I hope soon) I will be out of the bed (at least as far as the sofa, and then who knows?). But when I stay in bed all day, I have reached the end of my cope.

This is not exactly the same as reaching the end of my spoons, because I don’t use up any spoons by lying in bed. And I don’t really know, or perhaps don’t believe, that I will have a new supply the next day.

I expect that some people will beat me up for being so useless as to give up for even a day, to be unable even to try. I know I’m beating myself up over it too. But today I am out of bed, for at least part of the day, and I am writing. That means there’s at least an inch of rope left. An inch of cope.

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mental health

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The Comfort That Remains

Here I am, caught between reactive depression and clinical depression.

If you’ve been reading my last several posts, you know that I’ve been having a rough month. Several months. It’s been a real challenge to my hard-won quasi-stability.

3ff82b43-7ccd-4bde-8219-be5598c73452Last week, my 20+ year old cat, Louise died. The week before that, my husband’s 17+ year old cat died. So now I am trying to deal with those reactive feelings of grief and loss, without losing myself in the eternally waiting Pit of Despair that is clinical depression.

In doing that, I am trying to find things that remain to take comfort in.

I take comfort that my husband was here with me, to help me through.

That Louise had a good, long life spent in our loving care since she was a tiny kitten.

That she died peacefully, at home, in my lap, with me petting her.

That I had a chance to say goodbye to her.

That I know she loved me as much as I loved her.

That her presence and her purr helped calm me and helped me when nothing else could.

That she gave me a constant presence through a third of my life, and all of hers.

We have two cats now – Dushenka and Toby. They are young and healthy, but of course our time with them is not guaranteed. I know that, just by having them and loving them, we are inviting future grief into our lives, along with the joy. That’s just how it is.

I’ve been reflecting a lot lately on animals, humans, and what we share with each other. I know this is likely to happen again, and soon, for our dog is also aged and nearly ready to go. It’s hard. Is it harder when your brain doesn’t work right and tries to tell you that sorrow doesn’t end?

I don’t know.There’s no scale by which to compare pain, and loss, and despair, and grief. We each go through it the only way we can.

I hope that soon, at least a few of the clouds will part and I can feel something besides sorrow, express something other than pain. Maybe next week’s blog will be about healing, or coping, or sharing strengths.

Those are all things I need to be doing – that we all need to be doing.

Someone remarked this week that a recent post (http://wp.me/p4e9Hv-k8) was not about healing. It reflected, the commenter said, all the privileges I have – money (or those who can lend it to me), drugs I can take to help me through a crisis (too many, according to the commenter), a supportive husband. And that’s all true. I have these privileges and more besides – a home, work that I can do without leaving the house, insurance, a psychiatrist and a psychotherapist. Some of these come to me because of circumstances I don’t control, and some I have had to work very hard for, as I have worked hard for the ability to heal, a little bit at a time.

There are still things I cannot do – leave the house more than twice a month or so, shop for groceries, see the dentist without massive panic, stop taking the psychotropic meds that allow me to think, have a healthy sexual relationship. I expect that some of these will get better and others won’t.

But, no matter our symptoms or their severity, we as people with bipolar disorder are all in this together – or as the Bloggess would say, alone together. Maybe I have an easier time of it, but that’s far from saying it’s easy for me.

I still experience grief and sorrow, depression and anxiety, irrationality and immobilization, pain and despair, relief and help, struggle and hard work, love and loneliness.

And always, I look for the comfort that comes when I need it most, or expect it least, or believe I’ll never feel again. We all do.

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mental health

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Work Hacks

Yay me! I just finished a big project (or at least the first phase of it) for which I will be paid actual money!

I am very fortunate/grateful that I am able to do freelance work at home, on my own schedule (mostly), using my education and skills, in my pajamas. Telecommuting is so way cool!

I can’t work an eight-hour day in an office any more (and likely won’t again). I can only concentrate for a max of three hours at a time, and some days not even that. Occasionally, if there’s a tight deadline, I can manage two sessions, or one and a half.Just Get Through It message on a dry erase board encouraging you to stick with your project or challenge during a stressful time in your work or life

Of course motivation is a factor. Deadlines and money are two really good ones. But sometimes I have to force myself – or trick myself – into doing actual work. This was true even when I did work in an office.

Anyway, here are some of my techniques – work hacks, as I guess they’re now called.

Taking breaks. Now of course, I can take breaks whenever I want, from a quick game of Candy Crush to an actual nap. My brain and body let me know when it’s time. They just crap out.

When I worked at the office, I tried taking crossword puzzle breaks at my desk. But apparently smoking was the only permissible break activity. Hiding in the bathroom didn’t work. People were known to track me down and ask questions anyway. (“Do you mind if I wipe and flush first?” Sarcasm seemed called for.)

When I got twitchy, I walked around the third floor or even more than one floor until I calmed down. The trick is to carry a clipboard or a few manila folders and walk sort of briskly so it looks like you’re going somewhere and doing something. It works best if the office has more than one room.

Pretending to work. I developed this technique at the office, but it can also be used at home. I would say to myself, “I don’t know how to get started. I’ll just write one sentence, so if someone walks by my cube, it looks like I’m working.” It was surprising to find that once the first sentence was on the screen, I knew what the second one should be – or that the first one was horrible and I could revise it, which also looked like work. Once I built some momentum this way, I was rolling. I don’t have anyone looking over my shoulder now, but the idea is the same – one sentence is the minimum, then see what happens.

Bribery and rewards. These are actually more or less the same. If I do X amount of work, I can check my email or eat a cookie or call a friend. I get to feel virtuous for working and satisfied by the little treat.

Forcing myself. If I’ve got a really tight deadline, I have to apply some internal pressure, especially if it’s one of those I-don’t-think-I-can-get-out-of-bed-days. Everyone in this house likes to eat. (The cats insist on it.) My pay will cover the mortgage, so we won’t be living under the Third St. bridge next month. This is dangerous, because I am a great catastrophizer, but sometimes it’s the only thing that works.

Artificial goals and lying to myself. If I can just do five more pages I can quit for the day. I know I can make it to the end of this section (that would be the lying part).

Stupid work. There are a lot of fairly pointless tasks that must be done anyway, but can be done by rote – adding headers and footers and page numbers, alphabetizing, running spell-check (or typing-check, as I prefer to think of it), that sort of thing. To me, that counts as actual work, and some days it’s all I can manage.

Unfortunately, none of these are effective for housework. No one pays me for that.

 

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mental health

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Looking Back – But How Far?

Silver pocket clock in wooden box isolated on white“Look at where you are now compared to where you were when we started. Look how far you’ve come.” This is what my therapist frequently tells me. And she’s right.

When I first came to see her I was a total mess. It is a measure of my progress that I no longer refer to myself as “pathetic.” it has been months – years –since I have used that word to describe myself.

And she is right to point out my progress. Not only am I no longer the despondent, distraught, weeping mess that came to her, I am now a person who has acquired coping skills – at least a few – that I can use in everyday life without much prompting from her.

But when I look back at how far I’ve come, how far back should I look?

Do I look back to my childhood, when there was something wrong with me that I didn’t understand? Do I look back to the everyday traumas that a typical person would have dealt with, if not easily, then at least adequately, that often left me a crumpled figure in the corner weeping copiously and, yes, pathetic.

Since those days, I’ve learned what my disorder is, and have learned to anticipate and deal with some of those everyday traumas.

Do I look back to my teenage years, when I had little clue how to make and keep friends? When I was an outcast for my oddities?

Since then I have rediscovered old friends and made new ones that love and support me, many of whom are just as odd as I am.

Do I look back to my college days, when the bright promise of my intellect was dulled by my inner turmoil, when I missed out on opportunities because I was not capable of reaching out to grasp them?

Since then I have tried to make the most of opportunities that come my way, and to use my talents as best I can.

Do I look back to my first significant other and how that relationship shredded what I had managed to accumulate of self-esteem and confidence?

Since then I have been trying to recover as much as I can of what I lost. And I now have a stable, supportive, long-term relationship.

Do I look back to the days when I first lived independently, teetering on the edge of financial disaster? The days when I could barely function in the world of work and living, when the loss of a job put me deep in the Pit of Despair?

Since then, I have learned to accept help from others and to know that the Pit of Despair is not my permanent home.

Do I reflect on the job that sustained me for many years, until my emotional state became so fragile that I was no longer reliable enough to do it?

Since then I have gotten work that I can do reliably and found a niche for myself in the world of work.

Do I look back to that dreadful time when my brain broke, I became unable to work at all, unable to take care of myself, unable to function in anything like normalcy?

Since then, I have been rebuilding my life – not as good as new, but the best I can.

Admittedly, the distance I’ve come since then has been vast. I can’t take the credit for it, however. Medications, therapy, a support system, a supportive husband, lots of reading about depression and anxiety and feminist issues and bipolar disorder have helped me survive and helped me grow.

Like many people with bipolar disorder I often have the sense that all along I was faking it, that during the periods when I seemed to be functioning best, I was actually pretending. Sometimes I think that’s what I’m doing now.

What’s that they say? Fake it till you make it?

But how do you know when you’ve made it?

I guess it’s when you look back and remember, but no longer viscerally feel, what you went through. I still have unanswered questions, unresolved conflicts, and unanswered puzzles from all those former times.

I no longer think that I will get answers to all of them. I suppose their purpose now is simply to be mile markers, measuring the distance I have come. I can look back if I choose to, or not. I can look back at who and what I was, or as my therapist says, how far I’ve come. But I’m not pathetic anymore.

So this is how far I’ve come. Can I look back without fear? Without despair? Sometimes I can. And that’s not something I’ve always been able to say. It’s progress.

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mental health

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Managing My Anger

Many people need to control their anger by learning not to let it out. They can take anger management courses.

My anger problem is keeping it all in. I never know when it’s safe to let some of it out. And I don’t think they have courses for that.

Why do I need to let my anger out? Wouldn’t I be happier and life be easier if I were pleasant and agreeable all the time?

No. There are reasons I need my anger, and need to express it.A LOADING Illustration with Black Background - Anger

I need to vent. I was at the office once and a coworker had done some crazy thing or other. I went to my boss and spouted off. Wisely, he just tsk-tsked about it and didn’t try to fix anything. He knew that it was just a frustrating situation and I needed to express my feelings.

Stuffing your feelings is unhealthy. It’s especially bad if you push the feelings of anger down and then try to smother them with food or alcohol. A character on Dharma and Greg once said, “If you’re going to bottle up your feelings, you might as well pickle them first.” Taking advice from sitcoms is usually not the best idea.

Swallowed feelings don’t go away. They stay inside you and fester. Sooner or later you may explode and cause real damage – the kind you can’t fix. Better to let off a little anger at times than to save it all for later.

Sometimes, anger is justified. Anger at injustice or when you’ve been wronged is appropriate. If you don’t express it, the injustice or wrongful behavior will simply continue.

Having bipolar disorder makes dealing with my feelings of anger even trickier. I’ve spent too many years not recognizing that I even have anger and that it’s sometimes an appropriate feeling. That leads to being a doormat, which I also have years of experience with.

Dealing with my bipolar issues has meant dealing with anger as well. Here are a few things I’ve learned.

There are people I can vent to. One of them is my therapist; some of my male and female friends provide good outlets too. These are not people I am angry at, at least not at the time I vent. As with my former boss, I just need someone to hear and acknowledge my feelings of anger. I have separate categories – a friend to discuss my husband with, another one for work issues, and so forth – so no one has to listen to too much of my anger spillover.

I need to pick my battles. Living with anyone causes friction, which can lead to anger. Just this week I was mad at my husband. I wanted to shout at him, “If you had done your errands yesterday instead of watching movies, you wouldn’t be jammed up today and laying them off on me!” But really, how would that have helped? Could he go back to yesterday and do the errands himself? Would it have helped to refuse to do the errands and then sulked all day? Was there any real reason I couldn’t help out? Best to let this one go.

I have to measure my words. Perhaps I do this too much, but some amount is necessary. What was helpful this week was to say to my husband (after I had run the errands), “I need to tell you that I’m frustrated that you left all these errands until today and I had to take over some of them. There were other things I needed to be doing today.” (My things could be postponed; his couldn’t.) By that time I had cooled off enough that “frustrated” was more accurate than “angry,” and less likely to trigger a major shouting match. (Also notice the “I” statements that psychologists recommend.)

If I am angry and I do express it, it’s survivable. My husband and I have gotten through some very bad spells when both of us have been extremely angry. Some of them have required couples therapy, while others have been solved through time and negotiation. Other parts of my life have not turned out as well. I had to cut ties with a toxic relative for whom I had an unhealthy level of anger, with no hope of either of us changing.But I survived – and was the better for it, mentally and emotionally. Sometimes that’s necessary, for either your own or the other person’s mental health and safety.

It helps to have a good emotional vocabulary. Seriously. I don’t have to jump straight to anger when something upsets me. Maybe I really am just frustrated. Or disturbed. Or annoyed. Inconvenienced. Irritated. Miffed. Insulted. Disappointed. Cranky. Those feelings are easy to mistake for anger. It may be better for me to step back and ask, “Do I really feel angry?”

It helps to have a repertoire of behaviors. Not all anger has to be dealt with the same way. I could lash out and say something hurtful. But I could also walk away until I calm down, or have a good cry. I could say, “I’m too angry to discuss this now.” I could release my anger in a physical activity (actually, my husband is much more likely to do this). I could write a “never-send” letter (or a “to-be-sent” one).

But the first step to all of these is recognizing that I do indeed feel anger, and have a right to own my anger and express it. Anger may be harmful, but denying it is harmful too.

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Out of the House – At Last

Brandywine Falls

Brandywine Falls

If everything goes according to plan (which we all know it never does), this post will be publishing itself while I am at or on my way to this scenic location, Brandywine Falls in Cuyahoga National Park.

I was attracted to this particular location when I read on the Internet that, in addition to access via a 1.75-mile hiking trail, the falls could also be reached using a wooden boardwalk from a nearby parking lot.

This easy access appeals to me because I have balance problems and sometimes use a cane, as well as because I seldom leave the house and have difficulty walking any distance. My husband encourages me to get out and walk, reminding me that exercise is good for depressive episodes, but just getting out of the house for doctors’ appointments and a few errands leaves me with no spoons for recreational walking. It’s a pretty dreary life, though there is a nice window in my study, through which I can see shrubs and trees, the occasional hummingbird or squirrel, or that stupid bird that sometimes flies straight into the glass and bonks itself silly.

There were actually tears in my eyes when I mentioned the expedition to Dan.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Would you drive a long way with me to do something that requires very little time to do?”

“What do you want to do?”

“See this waterfall,” I said, pointing at the screen. I explained about the parking lot and the boardwalk.

“How far is it?”

“Near Cleveland. About three hours. Each way.”

It sounded ridiculous even as I said it. A six-hour drive to walk a very short distance and look at a waterfall.

“We could stop along the way to get something to eat. Or we could pack a picnic. You could bring your camera and take nature photos.”

I needn’t have worked so hard to make it sound attractive. Getting out of the house to go see something scenic and outdoors is something my husband has been longing for us to share.

Naturally, as soon as we agreed to go, my brain went into overdrive, doing my usual job of trying to anticipate everything. We would need to GoogleMap directions, of course. We would need some kind of waterproof bag with cold packs and bottles of water. Bandanas to moisten and wipe our sweaty brows (the temperature will likely be in the 80s and I don’t do well in heat). Bug spray. My cane and maybe a walking stick for him. At times like this, I tend to plan the Normandy Invasion.

This is a ridiculous idea/plan. After the last month and a half I’ve had, it’s a wonder that I’m not just crouched in a corner going beeble-beeble-beeble. But if it works, we may make the same drive in a few weeks to go to a horticultural center and canopy walk, if only so I can make the old, bad joke (You can lead a horticulture, but you can’t make her think) and we can meet up with some Cleveland-area friends we haven’t seen in far too long.

So. Getting out. Exercise. Nature. Relaxation. Fresh air. No computer access. Potential socializing. I don’t know whether these things will have any actual positive effects, but I like to think that my therapist will be proud of me.

Never mind that there are plenty of places nearer – even locally – to walk short distances and see nature. Never mind that my therapist often recommends that I take baby steps. This is a baby step. For God’s sake, I used to be able to hike in the Adirondacks. To travel. To Europe. By myself.

I don’t know why I was able to do that then, but can’t now. Bipolar disorder didn’t strike me suddenly, after I had done all those things. Maybe back then I was better at functioning. Maybe life and bipolar had not yet overwhelmed my ability to cope. Maybe I was in remission (or whatever they call it). Maybe I was hypomanic. It’s a mystery to me.

But maybe, just maybe, I can take this baby step toward reclaiming some of the things that used to bring me pleasure. It’s about damn time.

 

 

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How a Cat Helped Me Stay Sane

Queen LouiseAny pet can help with mental health, really. But in my case, it was a cat.

I was living alone after a bad breakup that had shattered me, mind and spirit. After moving twice, once from another state and once from an apartment complex after I lost the job that paid for it.

I was damaged, and I was alone, in the upstairs of a small house in a small town. I asked my landlady if I could have a cat. She was dubious, but said yes.

I found a cat at a shelter. She was an adult tortoiseshell calico named Bijou. She was small and shy and quiet. The first night I took her home, she slept across my throat.

We needed each other. I needed someone to care about, to focus my attention outward on. She needed someone  to draw her out of her shell, to care for and about her.

We took it slowly. At first she didn’t like to be held. When I got home from work she would meet me at the door. I would pick her up, give her a quick kiss on the head, and set her right back down. Soon she learned that being held wasn’t such a bad thing.

Since then I have never been without a cat.

And they have improved my mental health. Pets do.

Pets entertain when we need distraction.  They can make us smile and even laugh.

Petting them brings tactile comfort and purring offers a soothing sound.

Caring for a pet makes us feel – be – needed. Even when we have a hard time caring for ourselves, a pet becomes a responsibility bigger than we are.

Losing a pet teaches us about the process of necessary grieving. Then getting another pet teaches us about the process of loving someone new, opening our hearts again.

Pets listen. They don’t judge.

Pets communicate with us, and teach us their personal language.

Pets are now being used as therapy animals and comfort animals for the anxious, the aged, prisoners – and psychiatric patients. The laws and policies regarding “assistance animals” are only just beginning to be enacted. They are far from catching up with the need.

Even visits with farm animals – lambs and chickens and ponies – are fulfilling vital roles in people’s lives.

I’ve written about “crazy cat ladies” before and even identified myself as one (http://wp.me/p4e9Hv-bI). There is a stigma that goes along with the label – yet another kind of stigma that we would be better off without. Admittedly, we can become obsessed with our companion animals, even to an extent that is unhealthy. They can be burdens, and annoyances, and expenses.

There are some people – perhaps people with rage issues, for example – who should not own pets. Having pets is a choice that should only be made if they and you fit together well. We’ve all read the stories and seen the pictures online of people who abuse pets horribly. Now those are the ones that I consider crazy.

Pets may not me be the right choice for other reasons. A person who travels a lot, or has extended hospital stays, may not be able to make the commitment. Germophobes and emetophobes may not be able to handle the inevitable messes that come with pets. Even pet fish need their bowls cleaned.

Personally, I would avoid fish, unless the care of, say, tropical fish fascinates you. And their placid swimming can be calming. But for most of us, a pet that interacts with us is preferable. Birds aren’t very cuddly, but they make agreeable (to some) sounds. Reptiles have their own fascination and aficionados. Me, I want something I can pet.

The picture that accompanies this post is of Louise (aka The Queen of Everything). She is 20 years old and, although she is hanging in there, I will be devastated when she goes. My husband’s 17-year-old cat, Garcia, has some health problems, though again, not terrible ones considering his age. Then there are our youngsters, Dushenka and Toby.

I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to say that they are as much a part of my support system as I am theirs.

 

 

 

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How I Learned a Few Social Skills

I thought my social skills were bad until I encountered a woman who asked me, “Do you have mental problems?” (She recognized me from our mutual psychiatrist’s waiting room, but still….)

expression

With practice, however, I have been able to improve my casual conversation skills, at least enough to get by in some situations, as long as they don’t last more than an hour. Here are my secrets. They do take practice. I have been fortunate to have had people to practice with – friends, coworkers, and of course my husband.

Introductions. Actually, I taught this one to my husband. Often when we met someone that he knew, he would fail to introduce me, leaving me standing there like the proverbial bump on a log. He claimed that the problem was that usually he couldn’t remember the person’s name. “Just point to me and say, ‘This is my wife, Janet.'” Then I will stick out my hand to shake and say, “And you are?” That way we both learn the person’s name. It works like a charm, every time.

Very Brief Conversations. Conversation with strangers – just a sentence or two – is also relatively easy to learn. The trick is the innocuous comment and there are two ways to go about it. The first is to make the comment yourself – “Those are great shoes! They make your feet look really small.” “What a lovely handbag. My mother had one that was similar.” Make an observation and then a related remark, usually complimentary. They don’t even have to be true technically. If you can’t think of anything else to say, a comment on the color of an outfit is usually good. There’s hardly any way someone can take offense at “That’s a great shade of blue on you.”

The other side of the equation is to get someone else to make a comment to you. This requires a prop most of the time. I used to carry a purse shaped like an armadillo, and that proved a great conversation starter. I memorized several responses that I could use when the other person said, “Oh, what an unusual purse!” I could say, “My mother gave it to me for Christmas one year” or “A friend found it in some catalog.” The purse went over  big, especially if there were children present.

Longer Conversations. These require more practice. Luckily at one of the jobs I had, there were a couple of people that I could invite out to lunch and practice conversation with. (I suspect that they knew what I was doing, but they never mentioned it. In effect, they played along.) Mary, for example, had two adopted children, and questions about them we’re always good for a few minutes of interesting listening. They also had a cat and a snake. Pets and children make good topics.

Sometimes it’s best to steer clear of work-related subjects, but if the person is really understanding, you may be able to vent. You should also be able to listen to the other person too. The secret to that is not to try to fix the problem. Simply listen and validate the person’s feelings. “That sounds awful! Does she do that all the time?”

Formal Settings. Mary also provided me with the opportunity to learn about a sometimes-necessary but difficult situation – funerals. Mary and a few other people invited me to go with them to the viewing of a person that I knew only slightly in a work context, so the stakes were low. From watching Mary and her friends, I learned that the proper procedure is to stand briefly at the coffin looking solemn, then go to the bereaved, shake hands or hug (depending on whether they proffer a hand or two arms), and say, “I’m sorry for your loss” or “My deepest sympathy” and at least one remark about the departed. It can be as simple as “He was a pleasure to work with” or “Everyone at work is going to miss her.”

Not Melting Down. Another important social skill is not having a major meltdown in front of other people. When I first visited my husband’s family, I became very uncomfortable quite often because everyone seemed to be yelling at each other. Loud, angry voices tend to upset me, especially if they continue for any length of time. The technique I developed was to go into the other room and make a cup of tea. Making tea is socially acceptable. (If you’re in the kitchen, go to the bathroom or step outside for fresh air.)

Much later I learned that my husband didn’t realize that his family reacted to even minor questions with argumentative responses in loud voices. To him, and to them, this was simply the normal style of conversation. It wasn’t what was normal in my family, and it triggered my aversion to confrontation. I guess whatever you grow with grow up with seems normal to you.

One other piece of advice: Don’t attempt flirting unless you have a coach. It’s really tricky and possibly dangerous. Not for the novice (especially not the kind of novice who wears a habit).

 

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mental health, Uncategorized

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A Bipolar Child

I suppose I was a bipolar child. I don’t really know, but I assume I was, because now I’m a bipolar adult.

I think I was more of a depressed child, which actually makes sense, since I have bipolar 2, with depressive episodes far outnumbering hypomanic ones. There were some times, though, when I would laugh loudly and inappropriately in class, triggered by a word that reminded me of something funny I’d read. There were times I’d walk around with a village-idiot grin because of some minor accomplishment like winning a live goldfish at a school fair.

Depressed child with toyBut mostly I remember misery. Tears. Loneliness. Hysterics. Confusion. Isolation. Hurt. Despair.

I’m fairly sure my depression wasn’t reactive, mostly, although parts of it surely were. The bullying, betrayals by friends, not understanding social conventions – all these were things that could easily make a person depressed, regardless of brain biochemistry.

But by and large my life was what would be considered pretty damned idyllic. I had stable, loving parents, a comfortable home in the suburbs with good schools, all the food I wanted, and as many toys as I could play with. I had a sister and a neighborhood full of children my age, but I remember being perpetually lonely. I had a good education, but looking back I realize that my illness prevented me from getting the most from it. There was no sexual or physical abuse or neglect. No one close to me died or suffered major trauma, at least until I was in high school and my parents suffered illnesses. Even then, they did a good job of keeping life as normal as possible. At the time we never felt it was a tragedy. It was just something we got through together.

That just leaves endogenous depression. Or at least the depression half of bipolar disorder. I remember one day walking home from elementary school and thinking, “All these houses look so pretty, but the people in them aren’t all happy.” It was somewhat of a revelation to me.  I had several major meltdowns, which I’ve written about before, and hundreds of smaller depressive episodes (http://wp.me/p4e9Hv-6J). I had nervous twitches and tics, and was prescribed Valium for them.

During my high school years, it was suggested that perhaps I ought to go to the school district’s psychologist. (This was probably during the episodes of inappropriate laughter in class.) My parents, who were not really familiar with mental illness and psychiatry, asked me if I wanted to go. I didn’t. I probably should have, although back then – the seventies – it’s fairly unlikely that I would have been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, of any type. I might have gotten some help for the depression, though. They might have taken me off the Valium.

Like most lonely and misunderstood kids, and perhaps most depressive children, I found my salvation in books. They were friends, distractions, instruction manuals on how to survive, food for my emptiness, a place to lose myself when the world was too much with me. By and large it worked, at least as well as anything could – a self-prescribed and self-regulated form of instinctual bibliotherapy.

These were not books on how to make friends, or ones that promised to teach a child how to cope with emotions. They were for the most part pure escapism. Fantasy and science fiction, mysteries and adventures, literature and bestsellers – a complete mishmash of classics and trash. Those were my doctors, my therapists, my Prozac, my mood stabilizers.

I look back now on myself as a child – mentally disordered, undiagnosed, untreated – and wonder how I survived  as much as I did.

If I were a child these days, would I get the help that I needed then? Would my parents recognize that I was not just odd and unhappy, but mentally ill? Would I have been diagnosed properly? Medicated properly? Counseled properly?

With all that needs to go right and all that can go wrong during the process, it feels like getting help for a bipolar child certainly was – and perhaps still is –pretty much of a crapshoot. I made it through, but I hope it’s easier for a kid like me these days.

 

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mental health

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The Week of Living Alone

Sometimes, when I get tired of my complicated life, I imagine what it would be like to start over someplace new, or what it might have been like if I had made different choices. I envision myself, living alone (well, with one cat), in a small town like Benson, AZ. I would have a small used book store or secondhand shop and live in a small apartment over it or behind it. I would have a couple of friends I met in my shop and go out to lunch or dinner once in a while, but mostly spend my free time listening to music, watching TV, or on the Internet.

Sounds simple and peaceful, doesn’t it?

Portrait of a young woman drowning, shark fin on the backgroundThis past week has convinced me that even such a stripped-down existence would not be possible for me. My husband was out of town for nine days, and I could barely manage.

Those of you who follow this blog know that my husband is my rock and my support. I often say I could not get through without him, and my recent experiences only reinforce that.

I didn’t begrudge his leaving, though I wish he had not been gone quite that long. His mother needed him to help her get ready to sell her house and move, and nine days was barely enough time to start on all that needed to be done. There are times she needs him as much as I do.

But coping on my own was difficult. I have paid work I have to do. It matches perfectly with my skill-set and I’m grateful to have it, but sometimes it’s just plain hard to do and hard to make myself do. And I have two blogs (the other is at janetcobur.wordpress.com) that I have made a commitment to posting in once a week, each. Plus, I have started writing a novel.

We have four cats, two of them ancient, and one dog, also ancient. I was afraid that one of them might die while my husband was away. (None did.)

As scary as the idea of coping with a dying or dead animal on my own was, just caring for them was difficult. They keep demanding food several times a day, you see, and they have no thumbs to open cans with. Then there’s the water bowls and the litter boxes. I used to live alone with one cat and manage okay, but that was many years and many meltdowns ago.

Then there was feeding me. Dan had stocked up on things I like before he left, but after the French bread pizzas were gone, I lived largely on salami sandwiches, cheese and crackers, and cereal. (I did eat vegetables. I had a small tray of sliced veggies and dip.) Once I made a couple of baked (frozen) fish sandwiches early in the week, but later I had devolved to the extent that my evening meal was peanut butter on a bagel. Another night I had mashed potatoes and a glass of red wine. Other meals I simply skipped.

Then there was Dealing With Stuff. Life Stuff. You know. The Stuff that happens to everyone sometimes piled up on me. I had to talk to (argue with) the utility company and the IRS. I had to pay bills. Life stuff leaves me exhausted.

Plus, I kept having to Go Out. Deposit my check. See the doctor. Pick up prescriptions. Buy cat food when I ran out. I wore pants more days last week than I had in the previous month. (Dan wanted me to water his butterfly garden daily, but it rained every day or night, so I didn’t have to put on pants and go out for that.) I treated myself to lunch twice when I had to go out to do those errands, but it was nearly impossible to decide where to eat.

Now Dan is back. I had to put on pants again so we could return his rental car.

But you see what I’m getting at here.

My fantasy of retreating to a simpler life is not feasible. It simply wouldn’t work. The everyday tasks and trials of managing a shop, caring for myself and a pet, negotiating all the stuff of life would overwhelm me. Oh, when I’m hypomanic and can sometimes focus, I might do all right for a while, but life – even a very basic one – would eventually overwhelm me. There are so many things I can no longer do, at least not without serious amounts of help and support.

I can muddle through for a while mostly on my own. I am getting better. But not better enough to live independently, at least not right now.

 

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mental health

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