Bipolar 2 From Inside and Out

Posts tagged ‘mental health’

A Little Bit of This, A Little Bit of That

I’ve noticed that a lot of my friends who have psychiatric diagnoses display at least minor symptoms of other conditions as well. Depression with a side of Tourette’s. Bipolar with a soupçon of OCD. OCD with a smidge of anxiety disorder. PTSD with all of the above.

The symptoms of the secondary problem are usually not severe enough to warrant a second diagnosis and a separate treatment regimen. Most likely the add-ons are noticeable only to the person who has them, or possibly to very close friends (largely those who know about the main condition).

I don’t exclude myself. I have little rituals that help get me through the day, a certain order I do things in. I have a couple of words or phrases I mutter under my breath to keep me centered when I am stressed. (“Kittens” for mild stress and “jumping” for more than that. I suppose that if I ever get into kinky sex, I could use those as my “safe words.”)

Do these mini-disorders ever grow into major ones? I don’t know. They could be coping mechanisms or side effects of medication or fairly routine habits or personality traits.

Mostly I think one should ignore them – until or unless they start causing problems with one’s life. My husband, formerly a certified addiction counselor, says that’s how to tell when drinking or drugs have become a problem – when they start causing problems (in finances, work, relationships, legal matters, etc.)

For now, they’re  just little quirks – reminders that my brain has an alternative wiring scheme.

(See the disclaimer. These are my opinions only, not professional medical or psychiatric advice. YMMV.)

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We Don’t Do That Any More, Do We?

Here’s a story that caught my eye recently.

http://www.cnn.com/2014/03/08/us/mississippi-unmarked-graves/index.html?hpt=hp_bn1

It’s long, but worth reading. But for you busy people, I’ll summarize.

Two thousand unmarked graves were found on the grounds of an old hospital. Whose could they be? Civil war dead? Victims of an epidemic?

No. That section of the old hospital was an asylum, and the bodies were those of inmates. The insane. The developmentally delayed. The rebellious. Anyone the family wanted to hide and forget.

Of course, we don’t do that any more. No more locked, back wards. No more Snake Pits. No more Cuckoo’s Nests.

No, the asylums (pardon me, behavioral health residential facilities) have largely been closed and the inmates (pardon me, clients or residents or patients) released.

After their 30 days of insurance coverage run out.

To a group home that has a waiting list longer than the Mississippi.

To outpatient centers that hand out meds that may or may not have an effect or even be taken.

To the streets.

To a society that hates and fears them, lumps them all together as eyesores and NIMBYs, panhandlers, homeless and jobless, and spree killers.

Of course there are mentally ill people who are able to function in society on some level or another. They’re the ones who have likely never been in a locked ward. Those with understanding families, good insurance, nearby therapists, and a support system of friends. People who can hold a job. The ones who hardly ever shoot other people. People like me.

Still, the functional mental patients, your coworkers and neighbors and even family members are afraid to “come out” as needing help or getting help. They won’t even admit to taking Prozac, despite it’s being one of the most prescribed drugs in America.

Why is that? Because even if the asylums are gone, largely closed by lack of funding rather than obsolescence, the stigma remains. As a society, we have the impression that all people with mental disorders are psychotics or schizophrenics, lurking nearby just waiting for the chance to get their names in the papers and on TV.

We don’t lock up mental patients much any more. Now we’re humane. We give them apathy, invisibility, fear, and maybe a few drugs.

And the same old stigma.

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Saving Face, or You Can Die From That?

Once when my psychiatrist was changing my medication (again), he warned me about the possible side effects. I know that doctors don’t often do this, because they are afraid that the patient will imagine that all the side effects have indeed appeared. So when he wanted to talk about side effects, I perked up my little ears and listened.

“If you notice a rash starting, stop the drug immediately,” Dr. R. said. “It could be fatal.”

I had never heard of a fatal skin rash before. I had no idea that a skin rash could be fatal.

“Don’t look at pictures on the Internet,” he said. “It’s really gross.”

Terrific. I might be getting a really gross, possibly fatal skin rash. I probably should have asked for an increased dosage on the anxiety meds.

Of course I looked it up as soon as I got home. (I did try to avoid pictures, though, even though they might help me tell the difference between heat rash and the deadly one.)

The condition is called Stevens-Johnson Syndrome and apparently the rash is just the beginning. It’s possible for your skin to fall off, starting with your face. That’s probably the fatal part, as I imagine you’d be prone to infections, plus your insides would now be your outsides. And yes, that would be really gross.

I enlisted my husband’s help. “If you notice my skin starting to shred, or see a big piece of it lying on the floor, do let me know,” I requested. “Maybe pick it up and save it.” Then we debated the merits of duct tape vs. Gorilla Glue for reattaching it.

That was a few years ago. I am still taking the medication and I still have an adequate supply of skin. Now there are commercials on TV for various drugs, and they list the side effects. (I’m sure you’ve noticed that they are often worse than the condition they’re prescribed for.) I always get a little nostalgic when they list “fatal skin rash” among the possibilities. And just a teensy bit smug because I know what they mean.

The commercials could be fatal too, though. I might die laughing if the next ad was one for Gorilla Glue.

P.S. I apologize sincerely to anyone reading this who has, or knows someone who has, Stevens-Johnson Syndrome and does not appreciate my attitude.

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Mental Health

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Risky Business

It’s always a risk when you admit publicly to having a mental disorder. But I am thinking of doing just that.

I have not had uniform success when I have revealed to others that I have bipolar disorder (or chronic depression, either). There have been a lot of “me too’s” and “so’s my brother/sister/mother/friend/etc.” and then we compare diagnoses and symptoms and meds and war stories and have a jolly time.

Other times, well… My mother hoped my problems would go away after I got a “good, steady job.” My father said he didn’t mind if I went to a therapist “as long as he didn’t have to go too.” My mother-in-law “doesn’t believe in mental illness.” My rotten-ex-boyfriend “jokingly” suggested that if we went to couples counseling, he and the therapist could agree that I was a danger to self and others and have me put away. (I knew that wasn’t true and told him so. We went. It didn’t help.)

Recently I have started two blogs, this one for mental health issues and a more general one called Et Cetera, etc. (which you’re welcome to visit if you like). I have linked Et Cetera to my Facebook account, but so far I haven’t linked this one.

Starting these blogs feels like a risk to me, especially since I’ve set WordPress to remind me to post at least once a week. Making a commitment that I will pull myself together four times a month (eight if you count the other blog) and write is something I’m not completely sure I can do. I have good days and bad days, and sometimes those bad days pile up in a bunch.

But I have also taken a bigger risk. Creative Nonfiction magazine requested submissions to be considered for its Mental Health Anthology. So I submitted one. If it gets chosen, I will be “coming out” as bipolar and a mental patient. When (if) that happens, I will likely do the “big reveal” on Facebook. A fair number of my close friends already know, but they constitute only a small segment of my FB friends.

(Creative Nonfiction accepts only manuscripts that have not been published elsewhere. If they don’t accept mine, you can bet it’s going up on this blog the next day.)

So, having thoroughly terrified myself, I will anxiously await the results. And in the meantime, I’ll try to keep up the regular blogging.

Wish me luck.

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Mental Health

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Blog for Mental Health

“I pledge my commitment to the Blog for Mental Health 2014 Project. I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others. By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health. I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma.”

For those of you interested in this campaign, find more information at http://acanvasoftheminds.com/2014/01/07/blog-for-mental-health-2014/

As you know, my blog is all about mental health, so I am delighted to join with other bloggers to promote our experiences and interests.

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Isn’t It Romantic?

Here is the Valentine’s card my husband gave me.

outside

And here’s what it said inside.

inside

Truer words were never … well, mass-produced.

(He doesn’t have bipolar disorder (any type), but has had a couple of depressive episodes, enough to know what the experience is like. Even took Prozac for a while.)

 

 

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Drugs vs. Drugs

I’ve been vastly depressed lately – Pit of Despair depressed. And let’s not forget anxiety; there’s plenty of that too.

I’m sure that the Vicodin I’m taking for my bulging disk/pinched nerve isn’t helping any with my moods.

So, physical misery or emotional misery? Which do I choose?

Either way, it’s hard to get any work done.

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By the way, the combo that the Vicodin is fighting is Zoloft, Ativan, Ambien, Inderal, and Lamictal. But more on that later.

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Brain Hamsters, Stomach Badger

I’m sure you all are way too familiar with the brain hamsters – those little buggers who spin your wheels whenever you try to fall asleep. It’s not a new phenomenon, a new concept, or even a new name for it.

But now the brain hamsters have their very own song. My friend Leslie and I, plagued by the little rodents, used to end our phone conversations, “Death to hamsters!” This inspired our friend Tom to write a dotty little ditty on the subject. It has become a popular sing-along in certain circles – just imagine a room full of people all chorusing, “Death to hamsters!” It’s positively inspiring.

There is, however, another inner animal that has plagued me.

My last full-time job caused me a great deal of anxiety. Monumentally so. My boss left, and I felt I should tell my new boss about my depression (not diagnosed as bipolar yet). She said, “What does that mean?” Uh-oh. My stomach sank, and the badger moved in.

I missed a lot of time at work dealing with my mother’s failing health and finances, in addition to my own. She was blown over by a gust of wind, fell like a plank, and landed on her face. A neighbor sent her kid over: “Go see if she’s alive.” I had to have the you-can’t-live-alone talk with her. Find a nursing home. Figure out how to pay for it. Et cetera.

I could feel the stress in my stomach. A nasty badger, red in tooth and claw, growing daily, snarling more loudly, and threatening to claw its way out. Like that scene in Aliens, except an angry anxiety badger instead of a nameless whatever-that-was.

There was one good thing about the badger. Its presence alerted me that it was time to get the hell out. So I quit my job to go freelance. And it worked. For a while. I remember feeling happy, feeling free, as I drove on my errands and worked at my own pace and on my own schedule.

Of course it couldn’t last. The badger was only lying low, waiting for another round of minor and major disasters to resurrect it. And they came. My, how they came.

Then the badger won. My brain broke. I’ve been trying to piece it back together ever since. Thanks to my support system, my doctors and my medications, I am slowly doing so.

But the badger is waiting. I can feel it stirring, even now.

Death to badgers!

 

 

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A Closet of Disguises

I have a business meeting to go to this week, and as it nears, my anxiety is building.

This used to be a thing I did all the time. I used to go to business conventions and work the booth and have business lunches and dinners and meet and greet and travel and wear suits and hose and give speeches.

But that was quite a few years ago. Before my brain broke (this last time). Since then I have worked at home when I’m able to, in front of my computer, in my pajamas. Now I have to remember how to do the other thing.

It’s not even what I would call a really intimidating function. 45-minute drive. Four hours long. Biz cazh. (I think. I hope.) Billable. Free lunch, maybe someplace nice.

However. I want to look and act sane and articulate and relatively social skillful. That could be an uphill climb. And it’s been icy lately. (Literally as well as figuratively.)

A long time back I heard of a technique of imagining you had a closet of disguises for all the things you needed to be. When you needed them, you could reach into the closet and take out your Respectable Married Lady disguise or your Sophisticated World Traveler disguise or your Competent Business Woman disguise and put it on. (Sometimes literally as well as figuratively.)

But I fear the Competent Business Woman outfit is in tatters, eaten by moths, and hopelessly outdated. I’m not sure it will even fit.

So I have to do the best I can in cobbling together a literal disguise, in hopes that it will trigger the figurative one. I will get my hair done (even though I can’t afford it). I will try to pull together a decent casual outfit (nice jeans and a nice sweater and ballet flats?) instead of my usual look, which I invented and call Vintage Boho Hobo. I will see if I still have a coat that fits that isn’t someone’s cast-off army jacket. I will borrow my husband’s car because mine had a flat and is still making do with the rubber doughnut spare. I will renew my driver’s license (after I get my hair done). I will put some Ativan in my purse (do I still have one that isn’t shaped like an armadillo?). Probably some Lomotil or Immodium too, in case  I need to placate my irritable bowel. And several kinds of breath mints. Perhaps I should take my cane so my balance problems don’t make me look like a first-time ice skater or land me on my ass or all fours. And OMG, what can I do about make-up?  I always stab myself in the eye with a mascara wand, so that’s out. I’m sure that any make-up I have has expired and I really don’t want to spend the money on new after the hair expense.

All this to get through four hours out in public meeting people other than teens behind the drive-through window. I don’t even want to look glamourous. Just not hopeless. Or homeless.

I would really rather Skype, since then I would just have to the hair and the top half of an outfit.

I’m afraid that by the time I pull myself together, I’ll be too tired to go.

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