Bipolar 2 From Inside and Out

Posts tagged ‘my experiences’

A Bad Decision? Or Something Else?

I’ve been beating myself up for years. Feeling blame and shame. Not just for years, really—literally for decades. That’s a long time to carry the weight of those feelings.

I was in college, when many people make bad decisions as a function of venturing into a less restricted, more adult life. I certainly made my share of bad decisions.

I wrote papers the night before they were due and didn’t make a second draft. I skipped reading Moby Dick, even though it was on the syllabus for the course. I took Russian instead of Japanese simply because it was offered later in the morning, and I wanted to sleep in.

I switched from being a linguistics major because I thought there were no jobs in it, despite not researching the field or asking my advisor. I floundered, considering hotel management and landscape architecture for no particular reason.

Then there was the worst decision I ever made, the one that has haunted me all these years. I met a man—we’ll call him Steve—and went home with him that same night. A few months later, I moved in with him. This led to a year of gaslighting, depression, and more bad decisions about prescription drugs.

So, how can I explain my bad decisions? Some were simply the kind of decisions that a person out on their own for the first time makes. These don’t affect me the way the relationship with Steve did. Steve told my parents about our relationship instead of letting me do it in my own time, in my own way. That soured my interactions with them for quite a while.

Why did I behave the way I did? An avowed feminist, I let this man take over my life. I put up with emotional abuse for almost a year. I denied that I was mad at him for all I’d been through. I put all the burden of blame and shame on myself. And there it sat for decades. I had flashbacks and bad dreams. I had difficulty with further relationships.

Then, recently, a new idea came to me. At the time when all this happened, I knew I was depressed. I had never heard of bipolar disorder, much less been diagnosed with it. Now that I do know and have been diagnosed (and seen therapists and been properly medicated), my disorder has still leaned largely toward the depressive side. I do remember having hypomanic jags in which I spent too much, and a larger one when I got wrapped up in writing and tried to market a novel to 100 agents and publishers.

But the one aspect of bipolar disorder I never considered was hypersexuality. The idea that could be the reason I dove into the relationship with Steve so quickly and so deeply was a revelation to me. I hadn’t had any lightning-quick sexual encounters until then. I hadn’t thrown myself into them so wholly and so destructively.

Of course, I can’t blame hypersexuality for the whole situation. I did what I did, and I chose to do it at the time. That’s on me.

But the decades of shame and blame? Now that I know what hypersexuality is and what it feels like, I don’t have to carry that burden with confusion, devastated by what happened, and wondering why it all happened. I can see that I have carried those feelings with me for too long. I can perhaps lay down that burden, understand why it might have happened, and move on.

I have made plenty of bad decisions, but I don’t have to cling to one of them and beat myself up for it. Perhaps, with this new insight, I can at last move on, chalking it up to a bad decision under the influence of hypomania rather than a lifelong journey of guilt.

Perhaps, now that I understand how hypersexuality may have played a part, I can forgive myself.

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I’m Not Fragile

TW: Suicidal Ideation

When my husband and I were looking for a new house, we checked out various options. I found a house I liked, but it was too far from the businesses and services we used. Besides, it had a water tower in the backyard (which I was hoping Dan wouldn’t notice).

Then Dan found a beyond-fixer-upper that was crumbling into pieces. He looked at it as a challenge. I told him that if I had to live in it for more than a month, I would be compelled to commit suicide. To this day, I’m not sure whether I was serious.

At last, we found just the right house. Three bedrooms, two of which would be turned into studies. Over an acre of ground with many trees. It was a little more than we could afford, but we decided that this was our dream home.

It also had a small creek running through the property—more like a run-off, really. Dan’s mom tried to talk us out of buying the house. She had been through a flood many years earlier and feared that the tiny creek could possibly get out of control and destroy our house as hers had been.

“Besides,” she said, “Think of Janet. She’s fragile.”

By “fragile,” it was clear she meant my mental health was sometimes shaky, or beyond shaky.

I had made no secret of my bipolar disorder. At first, Mom Reily didn’t “believe” in mental illness, but eventually she admitted that there was something wrong with my brain. But it pissed me off that she used my mental condition to try to influence our choice of houses. However fragile I might be, there was no way that a tiny creek could break me.

I was not that fragile.

Nor was I fragile when our dream home was taken out by a tornado. I survived it, though I was on the upper story when the roof came off. I dealt with the insurance company, the motels, the rental property, our finances, and many of the other details.

I wasn’t fragile then.

Of course, there were times when my mental condition was fragile. There was the time when I was overwhelmed by three full years of a depressive episode, unable to do anything, from self-care to reading. And there was the times when suicide crossed my mind. Sometimes, it was idly wondering the plane I was on might crash (passive suicidal ideation) or if a fall from the balcony I was on would kill me.

Then there was the time I had active suicidal ideation. I had made a plan and everything. But I dithered so long over how, when, and where that the feeling passed, and I didn’t follow through. I didn’t tell anyone for decades, but then I told Dan.

So, have I been fragile? Yes.

But those were all times when there was something wrong inside my head. Flooding and tornados didn’t break me. The times I was fragile were all things that happened because of SMI, not purely physical circumstances.

Now—I’m not broken. I’m not even fragile. Years of therapy, years of meds, years of not experiencing floods and tornados, and years of supportive love from Dan have made me not fragile, but strong at the broken places.

I don’t fear the future. I’m not fragile anymore.

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My Two Diagnoses

For all my childhood, I assumed I had depression, though I didn’t know that it was a psychiatric diagnosis. I was always a moody child, given to bursting into tears at the slightest provocation.

My first really major depressive meltdown came when I was humiliated by another child at a birthday party. I ran home, curled up in a beanbag chair, and sobbed for days. The only thing that snapped me out of it was the fact that my mother was being hurt by it too. She was crying too and had no idea what to do about my emotional implosion. At that point, I went down the street and yelled at the girl who had instigated the incident. (I suppose this could have been bipolar rage. I was pretty incoherent.)

I still remember this event as clearly as when it happened.

Another time, some friends were making fun of the way I laughed. Without saying a word, I got in my car and drove home, removing myself from what was distressing me. They followed me home and apologized. Then, I practiced laughing until I came up with something more acceptable. I think I accomplished it, though who really knows?

In my college years, I spiraled further. I was prescribed benzos for a TMJ problem, and I was in such a bad emotional place that I supplemented them with wine. There was some risky sexual behavior, too. It was the first time I recognized that I had a hypomanic episode. After I got out of the situation, I stopped relying on the benzos. (Actually, I had first experienced benzos in my junior high school years, when they were prescribed for an uncontrollable tic.)

Eventually, I went into therapy where I was diagnosed, as I expected, with depression. I continued that way for years, being prescribed various medications but still having symptoms.

Finally, I went to a new psychiatrist who, after some time, said he thought I had bipolar disorder. Eventually, we found a drug regimen that worked to alleviate my symptoms to an acceptable point.

I was still having symptoms, though, before the right cocktail was achieved. I was unable to work, get out of bed, or do much of anything, unhappy all the time. I applied for disability—and didn’t get it. When I got my file from Dr. R., I saw that my diagnosis was actually both bipolar and anxiety.

That threw me for a while. But looking backward and forward, I realize that he was right. I had anxiety episodes when I was a kid, usually regarding finding and keeping friends. I was terrified when my high school counselor suggested therapy. (I declined.) I panicked when it looked like I would have to go to community college instead of a four-year school, which I had always assumed was in my future. When I did get to that college, I had a mixture of the depression and anxiety, and took a year off to work and reset my brain.

Now, years later, my bipolar disorder is largely under control. But the anxiety haunts me to this day. I am anxious about family finances (which I am in charge of). Many nights my brain won’t shut up and I can’t sleep. (Sometimes it won’t shut up about the unfortunate episodes in my past.) I had massive anxiety recently regarding a trip to Florida.

So, I think Dr. R. was right when he diagnosed me with bipolar and anxiety. One has been tamed, but the other lingers. I am now working with Dr. G. to help me alleviate the anxiety without letting the bipolar kick up again. It’s a delicate balance.

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We Don’t Talk About It

When I was first diagnosed with depression (later bipolar disorder), my family was somewhat less than understanding. My father was concerned that he might have to go to family counseling, with the implication that it would involve analyzing or blaming him. My mother informed me that Prozac, which I was prescribed, was “a ticking time bomb” and later said that she thought that if I got a better job, I wouldn’t be depressed anymore. And my sister was dismissive about paying someone a lot of money just so I could talk.

I admit that I did not handle this terribly well. I missed the opportunity to educate my family about these psychological conditions. (I did tell my sister that I was going to a community mental health service that had a sliding scale for payment.) In my defense, I was new to the concepts too, and had barely begun to educate myself about them. I did gradually learn more, but their initial reactions kept me from saying much about it to my family.

As stigma goes, this was pretty mild. They didn’t try to tell me there was nothing wrong with me. They didn’t blame or shame me for reaching out for therapy (other than my sister). But because of this, I didn’t receive much support from my family which would have made my journey easier. That only happened when I married a man who knew something about psychology and learned what would help and what wouldn’t.

Stigma can be a familial problem, but it also happens at a societal level. But mental health concerns are very low on the list of many legislators’ concerns and priorities. Some have denied that mental illness even exists or responded to it by clearing away the unhoused or creating sober houses. Mental illness is seen as a consequence of PTSD, which is talked about mostly in the context of veterans, seldom about other causes like abuse. Also, most of the fundraising for veterans seems to concentrate on limb loss and traumatic brain injury. If funds are going to specific mental disorders other than PTSD, it isn’t emphasized, despite the need.

A lot of what we hear about mental illness is about SMI or serious mental illness. And that often gets conflated with the problems of homelessness, addiction, and violence. But what about all the people with Major Depressive Disorder, Bipolar Disorder, Anxiety Disorders, Personality Disorders, and even Schizophrenia who live in homes and families, who have families of their own, and who have jobs? They’re very rarely talked about. They don’t get emergency funding. They don’t require street psychiatry, emergency housing, forced commitment, and other services that are needed for the most severely ill. They’re not high-profile.

They’re called “high-functioning” and then largely ignored, left to deal with their disorders on their own. Many of them miss out on the therapy, meds, and lifestyle changes that might help them, either because they don’t know where to go or don’t have the funds to access them. Insurance pays for quick fixes of 6-8 weeks, which are the merest band-aid on their problems. Supportive families, biological or chosen, can help them maintain their relationships, living situations, and jobs, but public attention isn’t focused on them in any meaningful way. There are ad campaigns that say “It’s okay not to be okay” and encourage friends to reach out, but they’re vague and short on what to do when you realize you need help. Hotlines focus on suicide and self-harm. They’re certainly needed, but so are resources for the day-to-day, less dramatic disorders.

Stigma, confusion, lack of education, ignorance, and even hostility keep us from the conversations that might lead to actual, useful change. Let’s open up those conversations with our families, friends, coworkers, the press, local and national government, and anyone else who’ll listen. Blogging and maintaining a Facebook group (Hope for Troubled Minds) are among my contributions to the effort.

I’ll keep trying if you will.

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What Was I Feeling?

It wasn’t supposed to be journaling. I thought I was writing a blog post to be called “On Happiness.” It was about the fact that, even though my bipolar disorder is well controlled, something was sucking the joy out of what should have been joyful times—our dream trip to Ireland, for example, or the fact that I just got a work assignment after a long drought. Not even a mid-winter trip to Florida lifted my spirits.

It didn’t feel like depression, though. That’s a creature I know well, and this wasn’t it. Oh, the lack of joy was the same, but there were no unexplained fits of crying or immobility. In fact, I was experiencing a flurry of activity getting ready for the Florida trip. Putting money away from every paycheck. Making sure we had enough meds for the week. Arranging boarding for the cat. Downloading directions to Google Maps. Checking the flight reservations at least twice a week. Planning what goes in the carry-ons. Juicing up my e-readers and my laptop so I could work on my new assignment and my blogs while we were away.

No, this wasn’t depression.

What it was, was anxiety. Where was this coming from?

Suddenly, I remembered. I had gotten a copy of my file when Dr. Ramirez had to prepare it for my disability application (which failed, of course). On it I read, bipolar disorder, type II, which was expected. But it also said anxiety disorder. And I forgot about that.

All these years, I’ve been concentrating on the bipolar diagnosis—keeping my moods level through a combination of meds and therapy, readjusting levels and times as needed.

But I had been ignoring my anxiety. I was taking one small dose of an anti-anxiety med, with permission to take an extra one as needed. Mostly, I just took the one at night to help me sleep. Unless I was under severe, immediate stress, I ignored the ability to take a second one. That only happened in Ireland, when we were driving on the unfamiliar side of unfamiliar roads with the first roundabouts I had ever encountered. After that, it was back to one a day at bedtime.

But then, as I was trying to write my blog post about how bad I was feeling, it occurred to me (duh) that what I was feeling was not depression, but massive anxiety. All my planning for the trip, all my worrying about our budgets and my work, were clear signs of it, even if I had somehow missed them.

By now, everything for the trip is planned, a few days early even, and my blogs are prepared to post while I’m away. I could relax. But you know I won’t, and I know it, too.

What I will do, though, is to start taking that extra anti-anxiety pill as part of my morning regimen. Unloading some of the remaining tasks like packing on my husband. And trying to distract myself by losing myself in a book.

And, of course, remembering all this for when we return and I have another appointment with my psychiatrist. Who knows? Maybe the twice-a-day pill regimen will have made a difference by then. And if it hasn’t, we can discuss it and see what else might help. (I know, I know. Breathing. Meditation. Mindfulness. Exercise. All of which are difficult for me to practice regularly. I haven’t been able to turn them into consistent habits.)

My husband helps me with my moods. I check with him when I start feeling manicky. He gives me loving attention when I start sliding into depression. He has proven that he can recognize extreme anxiety in certain unusual situations and recommend that I take that second anti-anxiety pill. What I plan to do, at least until my next med check, is not wait for that extreme anxiety to hit and work the second pill into my routine to see if it helps. And ask Dan for help in remembering to do that.

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Overeating and Bipolar Disorder

When you think about co-occurring disorders associated with bipolar disorder, you generally think of drug or alcohol abuse. But there’s another one you should consider: eating disorders.

For example, binge eating is a problem that many people with bipolar experience. Both conditions typically begin at a fairly young age. Both are experienced in cyclical patterns. And both are associated with changes in energy levels and eating patterns.

There’s scientific evidence that the two conditions are related. For example, research has shown that 30% of people with bipolar disorder also have problems with binge eating, Binge Eating Disorder (BED), or bulimia, and more than 9% of people with BED also have bipolar disorder.

The two disorders are intertwined, affecting each other. Someone experiencing a manic episode may be likely to overeat or binge, probably because of impaired impulse control. Depression, on the other hand, may lead to decreased appetite and low energy that makes it difficult to prepare food.

That’s not always true, though. The revved-up feeling of mania can lead someone to skip meals. Depression can lead a person to eat more “comfort foods,” which are often laden with carbs and sugar, as a coping mechanism, however maladaptive. These foods may increase serotonin and so make the person feel better temporarily. Either way, the over/undereating can cause stress while shopping or preparing food, or result in dissatisfaction with body image.

Medication for bipolar disorder can also have an effect on eating behaviors. We all know that certain drugs cause weight gain as a side effect. Antipsychotics, for instance, may contribute to increased eating because of changes in the brain’s reward system and a decreased ability to tell when you are full. And weight gain may lead to cycles of bingeing and purging.

Research has also shown that people with co-occurring bipolar and an eating disorder also may have PTSD, indicating a possible link between the conditions. It’s thought that people who have experienced trauma may use eating as a control mechanism.

At any rate, the combination of the two disorders is complex, and it’s likely that a person with both conditions may need help from a team or a holistic approach to treatment, both psychological and medical. It’s been suggested that topiramate (Topamax) or lamotrigine (Lamictal) can be considered, as these mood stabilizers don’t appear to result in weight gain.

Personally, I had a combination of the comfort food eating/skipping meals cycle. When I was in college, my weight fluctuated from roughly normal to too thin. Since then, thinness has not been a problem, possibly because of the medication I take. I certainly have a desire for comfort foods like mashed potatoes, pasta, and large amounts of cheese. One of my crazier comfort foods has been ridged potato chips with cream cheese, topped with M&Ms. My husband knows that when I want those particular ingredients, I’m sliding into depression. Lately, I’ve been swinging between comfort foods and skipping meals. On the other hand, I’ve lost 18 pounds since the spring. (My doctor asked me how I did it and I replied, “Eating less” rather than “skipping meals.” He thought I meant portion control, which I do try to do.) My bipolar disorder, while mostly stable, is still a cause of (less extreme) mood swings. My eating habits are likely just that—habits that I need to break. And I need to increase my activity, which should be easier once I get my knees replaced.

At any rate, I’ll try to keep an eye on my consumption and ask my husband to help me when it comes to eating better. Now that the holidays are almost over, it’s time to get back on track. Losing another 18 pounds sure wouldn’t do me any harm.

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Hello, Post-Traumatic Growth

I’ve had my share of trauma in my life. There was trauma in my childhood starting with relentless bullying, including children throwing rocks at me. I still remember crying into my mitten, my tears mixing with the blood. There was trauma in my young adulthood from self-harm to the gaslighting and implosion of my first serious relationship. There’s been trauma of various kinds since I’ve become an adult, when many of my traumas became lumped into the effects of my newly diagnosed bipolar disorder. When my psychiatrist said that I needed ECT, that was traumatic, too.

But I’ve recovered from all those traumas. (At least I think I have.) In fact, I may have experienced what’s called post-traumatic growth (PTG).

Post-traumatic growth is when you come out the other side of a trauma and experience positive changes in five spheres of your life. These are often listed as: appreciation of your life, relationships, personal strength, new possibilities, and spiritual change. PTG is usually discussed in connection with PTSD, sexual violence, and near-death experiences. By those measures, I guess what I experienced was really resilience, the ability to bounce back from hardship. Only one therapist has ever suggested that I had PTSD from the emotional abuse I suffered and, at the time, I dismissed it as unlikely. Now I wonder.

I do appreciate my life more now. My relationships are stronger and more stable. My personal strength is vastly improved. I have responded when new possibilities entered my life. My spirituality has evolved. I feel like a new person, a stronger feminist, a better person, better able to make and develop new relationships.

This is not to denigrate the experiences of anyone who has experienced PTSD, a near-death experience, or sexual violence. I understand that my experiences are nowhere near those traumas. But I’m not here to compare traumas. I’m here to talk about the aftermath.

Some people may experience PTG in the immediate aftermath of a life-altering experience, but I think that’s rare. It can take years or never happen at all. Therapy is likely to be a part of achieving PTG.

There are circumstances where PTG is assumed to be instantaneous, or nearly so. Cancer is a life-changing diagnosis that can take you through the five stages of grief. But, in the case of breast cancer, some people are expected to demonstrate PTG almost immediately. Barbara Ehrenreich has written about her own breast cancer diagnosis. She pointed out the number of people who, quite soon after their diagnosis say that it was the best thing that ever happened to them or that “cancer is a gift.” Ehrenreich noted all the pink ribbons and cheerful positivity that ensued. It was as if people with that diagnosis were not allowed to feel frightened, angry, or bitter.

But for most people, it takes time. The five stages of grief don’t occur according to anyone’s timeline. It’s personal. No one can tell a sufferer what they should feel or when they should feel it. In fact, those diagnosed aren’t even supposed to think of themselves as suffering from cancer. They call themselves survivors rather than victims. Acceptable reactions are strictly limited. How different is that from when people with psychiatric diagnoses are told to simply get over it?

Both resilience and post-traumatic growth are good things. I wonder if they’re related—if people who have resilience are more likely to experience PTG, or if people who demonstrate PTG then become more resilient. And I don’t know if we’ll ever find an answer to that.

But whether either explanation proves to be true, I’m just thankful they both exist. And I feel deeply for those who fight trauma without either one. They need help in any way they can get it, but likely through professional help. I know that whether I am resilient or have PTG, professionals have helped me. And so have non-experts who have supported me on my journey. I thank them all and wish the same for others.

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Mania, Overthinking, and Costa Rica

I’ve had a bad spell of overthinking lately. It’s related to a bad hypomanic episode that I had lately. I had it in my head that my husband and I needed to move to Costa Rica. Of that I was sure. (Why Costa Rica? Of that I wasn’t sure.) What I couldn’t decide was whether we needed to go to Costa Rica for a week or two to scope out arrangements before we took the proverbial plunge.

At first, I had been exploring whether there was any real estate for rent at a reasonable price in or near the town of Grecia, which I had somehow fixated on. (Why Grecia? Again, not a clue. That’s about the last thing I’d need to decide and arrange for if we were to move.) I was researching the cost of living, the health care system, and the cuisine. I was practicing in my head the Spanish that remained from my high school days, supplemented by “essential phrases” that were listed online. I looked up what papers were needed and how long you could stay on a temporary visa. I checked on whether we could bring our cat.

It kept me awake at night. After I take my nighttime meds, I usually read for about a half hour before I shut down my brain and try to sleep at night. But I had no such luck. The arrangements, the language, and the travel all occupied my thoughts. I would give up on sleeping, try reading for another half hour. Then the cycle would start all over. For the first time in a long time, I need sleeping pills—the 10 mg. ones. Even then, sleep didn’t come easy.

My husband pointed out that maybe it would be better if we went to Costa Rica for a week or two to see how we liked it before we made the move. Instantly, my mania switched in a different direction. I began working with a travel consultant on what cities or attractions (in addition to Grecia) we might like to see. Anticipating a chunk of money coming in (another manic fantasy), I researched flights, even selecting flight times and layovers as well as costs. I selected dates, then revised them based on seasonal prices. Again, I couldn’t sleep for running over the arrangements in my head.

At last the mania and the planning eased off. The fantasy funding fell through, as I should have realized it would. Along with it, my mania retreated and my overthinking stopped—at least for the time being. My overthinking backed off too, at least on the subject of Costa Rica. Now, what I have to overthink is my writing assignments, which seem to have multiplied while I wasn’t looking. I’ll make money, but not enough to get me to Costa Rica.

At any rate, I’m happy to say that I’m back to where I was before the mania and the overthinking—back to sleeping without sleeping pills, anyway. Now all I have to overthink, besides the writing, is our upcoming trip to Florida, which provides plenty of fodder. I’ve prearranged everything I can think of, but I’m sure there’s something that I’ve forgotten or that is completely out of my control. And I hate that feeling. It leads to other things that are out of control, like thinking and mania.

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Completing Therapy

In a sense, there’s no such thing as completing therapy, and in another sense, it’s necessary. Right now, I’m trying to balance between the two poles of that spectrum.

I know that, barring any unlikely miracle cures (which I don’t anticipate), my bipolar disorder is something I’ll be dealing with for the rest of my life. On the other hand, I have on occasion achieved periods of stability in which therapy was no longer a necessity.

Sometimes it’s been my therapist who has encouraged me to leave treatment because they didn’t feel that I had symptoms severe enough to require further therapy at that time. I was, if not cured, stable enough to function well without weekly or biweekly boosts of psychological or psychiatric tune-ups. (Once, when I left therapy this way, Dr. L. told me solemnly, “I hope you don’t think I’m rejecting you.” I didn’t, but I thought it was nice of him to bring up the subject.)

Once I quit therapy because it was supremely unhelpful. It was couples therapy, and it wasn’t achieving its goals. The therapist sided with my husband and shredded me. After a few sessions, I refused to go back.

Sometimes, my therapy has quit me. I had a very good relationship with Dr. R., my psychiatrist, who retired and moved across the country. I knew I still needed the services of a psychiatrist as well as a therapist, so I began the long search for another practitioner who could help me, had an opening, and would take my insurance. It’s a process much like interviewing candidates for a job. You need to find a good fit (i.e., one who won’t shred you). At the time I mostly needed someone who could supervise my meds, as I was seeing a therapist for my ongoing psychological issues.

I stayed with that therapist for years. It began to become clear that perhaps I should leave therapy when I needed therapy less often—once every other week instead of every week, then once every three weeks, and eventually every month. Even when we still had sessions, they ran short because I didn’t have immediate issues that needed to be addressed. And her advice consisted of “Look how far you’ve come” and “Keep doing what you’re doing.” When she moved to a new practice, I had one or two more sessions, then ended therapy. I kept her number, though. You never know.

Right now, I am considering leaving therapy with my psychiatrist for purely practical reasons. Dr. G. only sees people on Thursdays and Saturdays till early afternoon. At the moment, my husband works both those days and hours and we have only one working car. I see Dr. G. four times a year for med check, but it’s becoming increasingly problematic for Dan to get time off work to take me to appointments. I suppose I could take a Lyft, but it’s another expense I can’t afford. Perhaps I should look around for another provider closer to me with better hours. If I can find one that doesn’t have a years-long waiting list, I mean. (I’m told that I need to get a referral from my PCP to get one in-network.) Or someone else in Dr. G.’s practice who would be willing to take me on. (I have to go to the office and fill out a form to accomplish that.) Either way, no guarantees.

There have been times in my life when I felt stable enough to go without a therapist or psychiatrist. Right now, though, I’m having issues with anxiety, hypomania, and insomnia, so I need someone at the very least to prescribe or tweak my dosages.

Most of all, though, I hate the process of finding a new psychiatrist—interviewing them to see if we’re a good fit, telling them the Reader’s Digest version of my screwed-up life, getting my records transferred, and the rest of the tap dance involved.

Wish me luck.

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Finding Intimacy

What do you think of when you hear the word “intimacy”? Sex, right?

That’s a part of intimacy, but it appears nowhere in the American Psychological Association’s definition. There, it says, intimacy is “an interpersonal state of extreme emotional closeness such that each party’s personal space can be entered by any of the other parties without causing discomfort to that person. Intimacy characterizes close, familiar, and usually affectionate or loving personal relationships and requires the parties to have a detailed knowledge or deep understanding of each other.”

Let’s take a look at that definition. “Extreme emotional closeness” is pretty understandable. But note the word “extreme.” It implies that intimacy is more than ordinary closeness. We have friends whom we are close to, but not intimately close to. They may be friends we can talk to about our troubles, share our stories with, be close to, but still not share that extreme emotional closeness. You’re not necessarily intimate with a best friend, though of course it’s possible.

The next part of the definition is more troubling to some. That part about “personal space” being entered by “any of the other parties.” It implies that there can be intimacy among more than two parties. To some people, that sounds like cheating or polyamory. But that’s when intimacy implies only sex.

Personally, I have a number of intimate friends, both male and female. That’s not to say that I’m promiscuous, bisexual, polygamous, or polyandrous. What I mean is that, as the APA definition states, we “have a detailed knowledge or deep understanding of each other.”

What does it take to get that detailed knowledge and deep understanding?

What are the qualities that foster intimacy?

Time. I’d say that, for non-sexual intimacy anyway, time is required. I can’t say how long that is exactly, but I do know that it isn’t instantaneous. You may feel an instant connection with someone you meet, but that’s not intimacy. I felt an instant connection with someone I helped through a public breakdown, but our intimacy had to grow over the years. Now I do count him as an intimate friend.

Sharing. You don’t have to share everything, but some sharing is essential. It may be seemingly superficial things like a love of country songs or a television show, but that’s only part of it. The intimacy kind of sharing involves actual sharing of thoughts, ideas, and experiences. You don’t have to agree on everything, though there are usually some non-negotiables. But for intimacy, you shouldn’t be afraid or embarrassed to share the truths about and inside you.

Laughter. Nothing bonds two (or more) people like laughter. Intimacy can be enhanced by laughing at the same things. A good belly laugh, the kind where you can’t stop and can’t breathe, is what I’m talking about. Or the snickers that you both have to suppress because you know you’re in a place where you can’t express it until you’re alone.

Help. For true intimacy, this is probably the most important quality of all. Someone you feel intimacy with is someone you can turn to when you’re at your lowest. Someone who understands or even if they don’t, will hold you closely in their heart or spirit. Physical help or financial help is good, but it isn’t required.

For those of us with SMI, it can be hard to feel intimacy. We may even fear intimacy because we’ve been betrayed by someone we’ve felt intimacy for. It’s difficult—or sometimes impossible—to get past that, but if you can, and you can open yourself to that extreme emotional closeness once again, intimacy with someone new is possible. Looking for someone to share intimacy with may not work. Sometimes intimacy has to find you.

Be open to it if it does.

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Mental Health

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