Bipolar 2 From Inside and Out

Posts tagged ‘psychotropic drugs’

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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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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And Then I Read…

This seems to be my day for recommending other blog posts. Here’s another one I really like:

on a long run, on a long run

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Strange and beautiful.

If you don’t already know about The Bloggess, well, you should. And here’s your chance. I especially like the advice about seeing a shrink. Remember: You are hiring the therapist. You can look for another one if needed. I had one that said I had PTSD because of some non-standard sexual experiences. And a couples therapist who shredded me and left me worse than when I came in. I learned to interview therapists before I made the first appointment. Do you deal with women’s issues, mood disorders, grief counseling? (Good.) Are you a Freudian, a cognitive behavioral therapist, a religious counselor, easily offended? (For me, at least, not so good.) And do you have a sense of humor? Then I give it a couple of visits to do the Reader’s Digest condensed version of my screwed-up life. By then I can usually tell if we are right for each other. And if we’re not, I MOVE ON. And keep looking. I need a professional therapist in my support system, but not just anyone will do.

Automattic Special Projects's avatarThe Bloggess

I don’t know if it’s the planets or the meds or the darkness of winter, but this week I’ve been a bit down in the hole and I suspect I’m not the only one.  Then I heard this song that I’ve loved and forgotten and it saved me a little bit.  Little things save me from myself all the time.  Sometimes it’s music, and sometimes it’s words from writers who’ve been dead for years, and sometimes it’s you.

If you’re sad or lonely or feeling like you’re one of the misfit toys, know that you are part of us.  And remember that those misfit toys were always far more interesting than the normal ones.

Tell someone that you love them, or that they’re important.  And tell yourself.  Because it’s true.

PS. I wrote this last night but I was too mentally exhausted to publish it, and this morning I looked…

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Just the Facts

Or anyway, the facts as I remember them. (Truth is a three-edged sword, and my memory is like Swiss cheese, because of a couple of factors I will discuss later. In fact, the alternate title for this post is/should be “To be discussed later.”)

I have been depressed since I was a child. I was diagnosed with depression (with anxiety) in my 20s. I am now in my 50s and my diagnosis is now bipolar disorder, type 2. I think it fits me better.

I live in Ohio with my husband of 30+ years, three cats, and a dog.

I have a psychiatrist (Dr. R) and a psychotherapist (Dr. B). I like to think of them as Drs. R&B.

Over the years, I have taken various prescribed psychotropic drugs and still do. I once narrowly avoided electroshock treatment. I have never been hospitalized for my mental problems.

I have had a number of “mental breakdowns” (or whatever they’re called now). I just call them “the times my brain broke.”

I can still do paid work from home as a freelancer.

Oh, and I have no insurance.

Since you’ve read this far, I’ll give you a little tidbit to tide you over until I can get back to those various topics (and more).

I’ll freely admit that my social skills are not the best. Small talk, introductions, and remembering people’s names and faces have never come easy to me. I used to go to lunch with an unthreatening coworker just to practice innocuous conversation. (Well, and eat lunch, too.) I never told her that was what I was doing, but I suspected that she suspected.

So I can totally sympathize with others who have difficulties in these areas. But over the years I’ve learned that some people have social skills even less developed than mine.

One time outside a pharmacy, a woman came up to me and asked, “Do you have mental problems?” Honestly, I had do say, “Yes, I guess I do.,” but all the while I was wondering, “Does it show? Is it written on my forehead? Do I give off tin-foil-hat vibrations?” (No, I was not wearing a tin foil hat.)
It turned out that she recognized me from the waiting room at my therapist’s office. I didn’t recognize her at all, thus proving my social skills still needed work. But I think I would have started with “You look familiar” or “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” or “By any chance do you go to Dr. L.? I think I’ve seen you in his waiting room” and gone on from there.

Another time I was at a function at my mother-in-law’s church. It was my in-laws’ anniversary, and I was nominally the hostess (and the caterer). I had to introduce myself to a number of people and explain what I was doing there. Most of this was fairly simple. “Hi, I’m Matilda and Herman’s daughter-in-law. I’m married to their youngest son. Please help yourself to refreshments.” I thought I had the routine down pat.

Then an older gentleman came up to me and I automatically put out my hand to shake. The first words out of his mouth were, “Are you the one there’s something wrong with?” Again, my first thought was “Does it show?” Then I rapidly dismissed any number of possible replies: “Yes, [shaking hands vigorously] I’m the one with leprosy” or (if I could burst into tears spontaneously, which I can’t) “Yes, but it’s too painful to talk about.” Or “Harriet wasn’t supposed to tell anyone” or “You’ll have to be more specific. There’s lots wrong with me.” Or “I married into this family, didn’t I?” Or even “No. Are you?”

Fortunately, my brain caught up with the conversation and I was able to explain that no, it was the other son’s wife who had a serious and largely untreatable condition.

I was proud of myself for figuring out what he meant and explaining the situation to him with a fair amount of tact. But to this day, I wish I had tried the leprosy line. Take that, social skills!

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