Why Can't You Just Act Like You Don't Have It?

Yesterday, I allowed my kids to have McDonalds for lunch.  It's not too very often they get to have it.  When we're out running errands and they've been exceptionally good, I will indulge them.  Problem is, they always want to go in and eat in the restaurant and then play on the playground they have there.  I do not want to go inside and be around other people, I definitely do not want to be around other people's children.  Yesterday, we faced this problem.

My oldest son was griping that we were going through the drive-thru yet again.  I got the "You're mean, Mom." whine.  I said "Your Mom is not mean, she's bipolar."  He knows that I am bipolar, and a little of what it means, but obviously at 7 years old does not entirely grasp the concept.  He asked if being bipolar meant I didn't like public places.  I said that was correct to some extent.  He went on to say how it wasn't fair and that it was getting in the way of his happiness.  I told him that I understood and told him that it got in the way of my happiness, as well.  He kept at it, telling me it was affecting his joy.  Again, I showed empathy and told him it did the same to me.  Normally, he would have stopped there, but he called me killjoy a couple of times, and I got meanie a time or two, I think.  Something to that effect.  He asked me why I didn't want to be around people; if bipolar was contagious.  I explained that it wasn't.  He asked when I would stop being bipolar.  I tried to explain that I would never be cured.  He asked how I got it, etc. When it became apparent that the answers to his questions weren't going to produce anything he would like, he said to me, "Why can't you just act like you don't have it?"

What do you say to that?  It was a knife through my heart.  My son is entitled to feel the way he does.  Bipolar affects his life almost as much as it affects mine.  He is entitled to a happy childhood and I am not able to do things that he should be allowed to do...like play at the stupid little playground or have lunch inside a fast food restaurant sometimes.  Why can't I just pretend I don't have it?

My aunt thought he was being cruel hammering at me with his questions.  I didn't see it that way.  He had legitimate questions and a legitimate beef.  He had a right to express how he felt and I wouldn't want him to hold that inside in favor of sparing my feelings.  The kid swallows his feelings enough already.  He is an incredibly compassionate child and if he could understand more about my illness, he would deny himself anything and everything if it meant helping me.  I don't want that for him.  My aunt feels that at 7 years old, he has achieved the age of accountability and should be taught that he was being cruel.  At the very most it was insensitive, but even with that I can't agree.  He has a legitimate point.  Plus, he is a child and he doesn't know the line between appropriate and excessive yet, and I am a patient enough an adult to teach him.  It doesn't have to be taught in one day.  I felt letting him have his say (and all that came with it) was more important yesterday than teaching him that lesson.  I cried over how my illness affects him, yes.  I didn't cry because of what he was saying to me.  My aunt doesn't understand the difference.  She still sees it as him being cruel.

What sticks with me is the notion of 'acting like I don't have it'.  I wonder if that might help.  I used to do something like that when I had nerves over public speaking.  I would just pretend to be a person who was comfortable with speaking to a crowd.  I'd adopt the persona of a confident person--in short, I'd pretend to be someone else.  Can I do that with bipolar?  Can I fool my illness?  Has my son come up with something that might work?  I would do anything for my kids, so maybe I should give it a try.  The hard part would be if it didn't work I'd be faced with being at the restaurant with them and having to tell them we needed to leave.  Then I'd really be a killjoy.  I'd be committed to staying there until they had enough time to play.  I have to find a way to take the method for a test-drive first.  Otherwise, if it doesn't work I'm in for a painful, perhaps disastrous, experience.

Sometimes Good Things Happen

Things had gotten pretty lean over here because the State has not sent me a disability payment since October.  Not a great thing to happen right before Christmas.  I've had a disability application pending with the Social Security Administration since August.  For anyone who doesn't know, it is a very slow process, that usually involves two denials, two appeals hearings and legal representation before one is approved for benefits.  I filled out all the appropriate initial paperwork and had a brief telephone interview right after I applied.  Later I was sent a questionnaire asking how my ability to work was impaired by my illness.  I had to fill this out, along with another person who knows me and could fully answer the same questions.  After that, I've heard nothing.

Yesterday, a large amount of money was deposited into our checking account by the SSA.  I haven't received a letter of approval, denial or even requesting more information.  No request to see one of their physicians.  I do know they sent letters to both my psychiatrist and my therapist.  My therapist was kind enough to give me a synopsis of his response.  At any rate, it appears I'm approved.  I just would like to have a letter explaining what my rate is, what period the payment covers, etc. etc.  I have to let the State know they don't have to pay me anymore, and I have to alert my LTD plan that I am going to be paid SSDI so they can recalculate the rate that they pay me and what, if any, overpayment has occurred.  (They get to take credit for any overlap between their benefits and SSDI).  But there is nothing in the mail from the SSA. I'm sure I'll get something soon, I just don't want to be in a situation where we come up short on money to be paid back to either the State, LTD, or both.

It certainly was nice to be able to go out and do more Christmas shopping.  We had expected it to be a very spare holiday, and it suddenly seemed like it was going to be a bonanza!  The kids will be happy this year, they aren't getting any clothes for Christmas, it's all toys. 

As for me, my best Christmas present is just being approved for SSDI without having to go through the whole denial and appeals process.  Almost everyone is denied the first time.  It's not uncommon to be denied a second time, too.  How in the world did I get so lucky that it didn't happen to me?  Is it because I was hospitalized before?  Is it because of my three ER visits in 3 days during my psychotic break?  Who knows? 

I'm relieved that I don't have to wait and worry that I'm too close to my benefits running out while they take their time.  We have a set income to count on until our children start reaching the age of 18, since benefits are paid to them as well as to me.  They will stop being paid when they reach the age of majority.  My portion of the benefit will be paid until I die, or until SSA goes bankrupt; whichever comes first.  It's a big weight off my mind.  For now, our take home is almost as much as it was when I worked, so we should be able to live and save quite comfortably. 

Peace of mind.  What a great Christmas gift.  It may not be as good as Peace on Earth, but I'll take it.

Maybe I Should Just Shut Up and Wait Sometimes

After yesterday's installment of my ongoing pity-party regarding my medication, I woke up this morning feeling really good.  I do have a tendency to be impatient, and it hasn't quite been 30 days since my doctor increased my dosage of Wellbutrin.  Now, does this mean I will feel this way from here on out, or even all day long?  Not necessarily.  It does make me feel the need cut myself a nice slice of humble pie, however.  The skeptic in me whispers "It could just be that Christmas is two days away and you're looking forward to it...".  I'm my own worst enemy.

I really do hope this new-found buoyancy is the result of the medication doing it's job.  It sure would be nice to start the New Year on a better note.  2009 was probably the worst year of my life.  Let's hope it is the worst year I ever have.  I don't think I'd want to live through anything worse than that.  It's kind of goofy, but I am feeling that sentimental 'clean slate' feeling people get when they are faced with the beginning of a new year.  It's compounded by the fact we are beginning a new decade.  My oldest son will be 18 and off to college (at least he better be) at the end of this next decade.  For all intents and purposes, he will be a man.  (Not in my eyes, but will he ever be anything but my baby in my eyes???)  My daughter and youngest son will be in high school.   There is so much life to be lived in the next 10 years, so there is a lot riding on me being stable.  I don't want to miss a minute of it, or not be able to enjoy all of it because of my stupid illness.  I don't want to overshadow any of the many milestones they will achieve, or eclipse them in any way at all by getting sick.  Maybe that's unrealistic.  I can hope.  My therapist is Bipolar, and he has been episode free for 25 years.  Why can't I be, too?

I am getting way ahead of myself.  I just woke up feeling really good about 3 hours ago and I've already gone through all these mental gymnastics.  If I wasn't inclined to thinking all the time, I'd worry I was manic.  Fortunately, I haven't raced through these thoughts.  If I were manic, I'd have written this in 10 minutes, and I've been at it for an hour now.  Doesn't hurt that I'm watching CNN at the same time.  Wait a minute...that's more of an argument for mania than not!  Scratch that.  LOL.  Seriously though...

It comes down to this:  I am desperate to have a normal life.  I always have been.  Before I knew anything was wrong with me, when I suffered from depression for no apparent reason on a regular basis, I knew it wasn't normal.  I wanted to be like other people.  I wanted to be happy with what I had, but never was (unless I was manic, of course--but that was happy to me).  My desire to marry and have children was part of that desire for normalcy.  That is not to diminish my love and want for my family now; I am speaking in the abstract.  It was a goal, a target if you will, for me to achieve when I was a single woman.   Until I was 27, unless I was manic I was looking for someone with whom I could have a solid relationship, one with potential to become permanent.  After that, I had pretty much given up.  I digress.  I just want a normal life.  Now that I have what I always wanted, I need to be able to enjoy it for all it's worth.  I don't want to miss a thing and I'll be damned if I let this wretched illness rob me of it.  Moreso, I refuse to let it rob my children of a happy childhood.  I need to make that happen somehow and don't know how to be patient in the meantime.

I am still ahead of myself, but I want to be optimistic that these feelings are the beginning of long term relief from the depression I've been fighting.  A return to stability that has long been lost.  I hope, I hope, I hope.

Medication Blues Part 9000

I still have issues with my many meds.  Which I just realized I haven't taken today.  I better go do that.  Ok, I'm back.  I find I have been doing that a lot lately...forgetting to take them at my normal time, which is usually somewhere around 6:30a, but no later than 7:30a.  Right now, it's 9:03a.  The other day, it was 11:30a when I realized I hadn't taken them, and I didn't even have that dizzy, heavy headed feeling I get when I haven't taken them.  I wonder if this is some sort of subconscious, passive-aggressive form of protest on my part.  As you know, I've been struggling with the temptation of going off my meds because I'm tired of having to take so many, tired of the side effects, and tired of not seeing the maximum benefit of the intended result. 

Consciously, I have no desire to risk my stability in favor of being free of the side effects that are negatively impacting my life.  I have a responsibility to my family that I take very seriously.  That does make me feel somewhat like a prisoner though, which frustrates and depresses me.  I'm not in control of my life, and not able to make my own decisions.  Yes, I know this is all horseshit, but we're talking emotions here.  They don't have to be sensical. 

I have a good friend who also happens to be BP 1.  She is going through a tough time right now, trying to scratch her way out of a depression and is also having similar feelings about her meds.  All this shit we take only to feel...not sad.  Yes, we lived on a roller coaster before, but at least we felt things.  We reminisce about the days when we were roommates.  Her dominant pole is manic, so much of the time we lived together we were both manic.  (Mania is contagious, for those of you who don't know).  We had the times of our lives.  We did some pretty wild, sometimes embarrassing things, but God we were unstoppable.  Fortunately, we never did anything to get ourselves into trouble but we probably could have blown over the legal limit a time or two.  She and I and another friend of ours drove to Lake Havasu to celebrate the friend's going away even though we had no idea how to get there, nor had any of us used a map in our lives; we took off for Vegas in the middle of the night one time; I had to put ice on her nipples while she posed nude for a coworker/photographer while we were both horrifically hungover from the night before.  The usual.  There were other, far more outlandish shenanigans, but they are not suitable for this blog, even if I do have a warning before entering the site. 

Those days are over because of our age, anyway.  We would just be ridiculous barflies if we did it now.  Unmedicated though, it doesn't mean we wouldn't still.  There's that whole lack of good judgment thing.  It's not that thrill of manic elation that tempts me, even if my memories are funny and thrilling.  It's the desire to feel something more.  To be free of the side effects that make my mouth dry, that make me so sleepy I can barely keep my eyes open but still too awake to nap or fall asleep at night without Ambien.  My lack of libido.  The buzz in my brain.  My dry eyes because I don't blink often enough.  Two anti-depressants in high doses yet I still the best I can do is want to fix my hair a little and put on some eyeliner and mascara.  (I used to wear a full face and do my hair quite nicely).  It's discouraging.  It's not hard to feel like tossing the dice would bear the same risk.  The stakes may be higher, but if I win, then I don't have to deal with the side effects.  I know it's denial.  Stability would only last for so long.  Medication isn't a magic pill you can take only during a flare.  I'm just so fucking frustrated.

I just don't feel good on all these medications.  Period.  Between the side effects and just feeling almost I'm completely composed of chemicals now, I just feel like shit, physically speaking.  I have responsibilities, and there are expectations from my family, my husband and I just don't seem to be able to meet them like I think I should.  That makes me feel bad, makes me feel terribly guilty.  What do I do?  It just adds to my frustration.  I don't know how to express it, and I feel like I let everyone down.  The bipolar controls my life, and affects everyone else negatively.  It's all about me and my illness, and that's just not right.

People wonder why we get so sick of ourselves that we become suicidal.

Bipolar Hates My Friends

I have plans to meet a good friend of mine for coffee today.  I haven't seen her since about April or May.  We talk through IM or Facebook here and there, but nothing more than the quick hello or how are you.  That pretty much sums up my interaction with all my friends. 

When you're a parent of young children, you have very limited time to spend on friendships as it is.  However, going through the things I've been through this year has put a big wall between me and the outside world.  In fact, my own world is so small, I don't have much to talk about.  I've never been one to talk about my kids ad nauseum.  I don't watch much TV other than West Wing re-runs.  I don't have the ability to read uninterrupted these days, so I don't read much.  I don't work anymore, so there are no interesting tales to tell about what happened at the office. I don't go anywhere other than to take my kids to school, so really what could I possibly contribute to a telephone conversation or a casual meeting?  Not a hell of a lot I'm afraid.  I'm certainly damned tired of talking about Bipolar.  My friends are compassionate enough and want to know and try to understand what I am going through, but I am not the needy type.  I simply don't NEED to talk about it.  I NEED to forget about it and feel normal.

I'm going to have to talk about it some today, I'm sure.  It's part of the response to the question "How are you?" that will be expected.  What do I say?  I can say I'm fine, and that's entirely true.  Will I get away with saying that little?  Probably not.

It's easy to see why I don't seek out more contact with my friends.  They are good people who love and care about me, and that annoys me.  Just kidding.  Seriously though, it does make it hard sometimes to just...be.  I have another friend who has been wanting to get together with her daughter and one of my kids who is the same age.  I have agreed, but just not followed through.  I'm sure we'd all have a good time, but again I don't want to go through the "How are you?" part. 

See, I can't just say I'm fine and brush anything else off.  I feel obligated to give some kind of explanation or further details.  It's the concern or expectation in their eyes when they ask.  I feel like I'm being rude or icy if I just skim over the question with a breezy response.  I know it's my issue, but that's one of my issues.

I am looking forward to seeing this friend.  Once we get past talking about me, (and that will take some time, she tends to have lots of questions) she will have enough to say for both of us.  She is a great conversationalist and is extremely funny.  I am sure the time will pass far too quickly.  As much trepidation as I have ahead of time, I know I will be sad when it's over.   Maybe I'm Bipolar or something.  (I know, bad stigmatizing joke, but I couldn't help myself).

Bipolar Parent

As I've mentioned before, I have three young children.  My oldest is in second grade, my middle child is in Kindergarten, and my youngest will be 4 this month.  They are all so special in different ways, as you would expect any proud mother to say.  I will say all the typical things, they are very beautiful, extremely smart, and more amazing than any other children on the planet.  What separates my children from the others is that I am totally unbiased and these statements are 100% true.  What can I say, they emerged from a tremendous gene pool.

Seriously though, I do have smart and beautiful children.  For the most part, they are well mannered, well behaved and kind.  They do normal kid things, whine, talk back sometimes, cry, stomp around when they don't get their way, but not as much as some children I have seen.  What impresses me most, is how good they are to each other.  Don't get me wrong, they do fight with each other, with the occasional slug thrown in here and there for good measure (usually between my middle child and my youngest).  More often than not, however, they treat each other quite well.  They are usually all together when they are home, no one is left out.  They like being together.

From the very beginning, my husband and I made it a special point to emphasize that we are a team.  We do tell them that family is very important, but fostering the team concept has made an even bigger difference in how they view our family, I believe.  I can't explain how satisfying that is to me, since my relationships with my mom and sister are fractured, as is my husband's relationship with his mom.  Both of our fathers are dead, so there really isn't an extended family in the picture here.  I have one aunt who is very involved and is their honorary grandmother.  That's it.  I don't want that for their future.  I want them to have an extended family once they begin their own families. 

My youngest child is my clown.  He says and does the funniest things.  You never know what is going to come out of his mouth.  My favorite thing he said recently happened at the dinner table.  We were all talking and he was trying to say something but was having difficulty gaining attention.  He piped up loudly and said "Hello!!  Will somebody pay attention to the little dude down here???"  He is also inclined to say things about his "pee-pee" in very public places, which has been mortifying several times.  It's in places like waiting rooms at the doctor's office where it's very quiet...

My daughter is something of a princess in her own mind.  She has certain expectations of the way things should be, and she is happy to let us all know when they are not up to her standards.  Which is fairly often.  She's not quite six and already loves fashion and loves to shop.  (Oy!) She is my devious one, the one who convinces her brothers to do things like ride the top of a storage tub down the stairs like a sled, but keeps her own hands clean.  She will maintain her innocence even when she is caught red-handed.  She has even proclaimed innocence AFTER she has admitted her guilt to me.  She'll tell me she never said it, right after she has confessed to the crime.  It's kinda scary really.  She is also the one who is most attached to me.  She is the most loving and angelic child when she is not up to mischief.  I love to cuddle with her and talk about her day, the future, all things girly.  She is as much of a dream as she is an imp.  She is my little doll and I wouldn't have her any other way.  Even if she will make me completely gray by the time she turns 15.

My oldest son is like no other child I have ever met.  He's 7, but at times seems so much older than that.  He is a great big brother.  He and my daughter are unbelievably close, they always have been.  From the time she was born, it was like magic.  They have such a strong bond.  He is also the wise older brother to my other son.  He is good at looking out for him, showing him how to do things.  He always let his little brother climb and crawl all over him; it never bothered him at all.  He is very kind-hearted, always thinking of others.  He shows very good character already.  I think he expects a little too much from himself sometimes, so I'm trying to figure out a way to help him with that.  He knows that Mom is Bipolar, and probably understands more about what that means than most kids his age would, assuming they had someone who is Bipolar in their life.  He accepts it for what it is, and has no confusion about it.  He asks questions as the occur to him, but he's too young to be aware of any stigma associated with mental illness.

I'm obviously proud of them.  I know that who and how they are as has something to do with nature as well as with nurture.  I wonder what that ratio is?  Ha ha ha.  If only there were a way to accurately measure how well you are doing.  I know they have to have been affected by my illness.  I have had periods where I was very sick.  They have seen me leave in the ambulance more than once.  They saw the police come into the house and talk to their Dad.  They've heard me scream and yell like a crazy person.  I've been withdrawn and completely disengaged for long periods of time.  There is no way they were not affected.  From all outward appearances, they seem oddly well-adjusted though.  I look for behaviors, I look for signs, but I find none.

Being a parent is hard enough.  Being Bipolar is hard enough.  Being a Bipolar Parent...well...that's hard as #$%@!!  You have a distorted perception to begin with.  A brain that betrays you at times.  So here you are, trying to keep it together, yourself and your own well being such a big part of your own life, yet you are trying to raise three wonderful little human beings at the same time.  The natural inclination is to put their well being before your own.  However, in order to preserve their well being, I have to keep myself well first.  It's a very delicate balance, and against my own natural instinct.  I'm glad I don't have to do this alone.  In fact, for a few months earlier this year, I sort of was.  I happened to be very sick at the time and it was just a disastrous moment in my parenthood history.  I am hoping it was brief enough to not have caused any lasting ill-effects. 

Suffice it to say, this has been a tumultuous year as a Bipolar Parent.  Bipolar has affected my parenting skills in a big way and has overshadowed my children at times.  It angers me--they didn't ask for this.  They didn't get to make the choice to live with this illness.  No, I didn't either, but I did choose to have children.  I know I didn't know I was Bipolar at the time, but ignorance is no defense.  This is why, if I have to live with "not sad" being the best level of recovery I can achieve, I will live with it.  This is why, despite my frustration and struggles with taking my medication right now, I will not stop taking it.  They deserve more from me.  They need my stability.  I don't HAVE to be happy for any other reason than they are happy.  I can be satisfied with that.

On A Scale of 1-10...

Every time I see my psychiatrist, she asks me to rate how I've been feeling on a scale of one to ten, with ten being the best I can possibly feel (without being manic, I assume).  I've been giving myself a seven normally, since I've been doing better and not crying all the time or not interacting with my children like before.  Like I mentioned in my last post, I don't feel sad.  When I told her I felt "not sad" all the time, she told me that wasn't a seven.  When I told my husband about the conversation, he was surprised that I'd been saying seven, too.  He said that I've always been a four or five; never over a six.

Anything under a six sounds so low to me, as if one should be crying much of the time.  Six still sounds kinda low to me.  I don't feel tremendous pain anymore.  I'd like to feel happy, but if I did I'd be a ten then.  So, is that really all that far from seven?  My husband educated me.  If I feel not happy, not sad, then that's middle of the road and pretty much a five.  I never thought about it like that.

See, I'm not the histrionic type.  I have a high pain threshold, which I guess includes emotional pain as well as physical pain.  I've never been able to answer the pain chart question for physical pain, either.  It confuses me.  After I had my kids, each time my doctor would come in surprised that I wasn't asking for pain meds.  Sure, I didn't feel like I could run a marathon or anything, but the pain wasn't so bad that I needed even a Tylenol.  She forced a prescription for Darvocet on me all three times I went home with a new bundle.  I never filled the first prescription.  I did the other two, because after a bout with meningitis, I found out how handy a bottle of Darvocet can be.  At any rate, I never took pain meds for post-natal pain (and I had good size kids).  I don't whine about being in pain.  I will say something about it, but I don't moan or writhe about, etc. etc.

I guess it's the same with my current state.  I'm just glad that I'm not as low as I was before and that translates to a pretty good score to me.  I guess I need clarification on that scale thingy so I can give more reliable information.  Who knows, I might be able to feel better than I imagine I can.

I am still having issues taking all these meds though.  The other night it was very frustrating to me.  The side effects have been tempting me to just stop taking them.  I'm tired of having no coordination in my left hand, being uber-sleepy every afternoon after 4pm, having a diminished libido, having dry mouth, grinding my teeth, and not being able to sleep without an Ambien.  I'm also just tired of gobbling a handful of pills every morning, trying not to take the wrong amount of certain pills (which I have done a couple times).  They make me feel blunted, it seems, and I'm quite tired of that too.  I want to feel like me again.  I said to my husband that maybe that me isn't so great of a person, but at least I know who she is and what she feels like. 

Obviously there are greater concerns about me going off my meds than me just being unstable and subject to being manic or depressed again.  There's the whole possibility of another psychotic break now.  As I've said before, I won't stop taking my meds ever.  I have a firm commitment to my family that I will not break.  It just gets tough sometimes, and I get tempted.  Besides, I wouldn't have the first idea as to how to wean myself off all this crap safely, and it would probably take too long for my taste if I even tried.  Yes, I've thought about it, but that's just part of the frustrated feeling.  I haven't given up on feeling better than this yet.  Talk to me in about six months though.  This could get harder if nothing changes.  I will have to find some deeper inner strength to get through that, because there are certain medications that I flat-out refuse to take.  (Any of the medications that cause weight gain).  That is the only way I will become a difficult or non-compliant patient.  For now, I'll just keep the faith I have.  Everything has worked so far.  If I ultimately have to settle for not sad, then I may have to do just that.

How Long Until My Brain Explodes?

I saw Dr. Tween yesterday for my monthly follow-up.  I had experienced no appreciable difference with the addition of the Wellbutrin last month, so we are doubling the dose this month.  I'm wondering with all these medications and the levels (I'm pretty much at the maximum doses of all of them) at what point will my brain actually explode?  Seriously, this just can't be good for me, physically speaking.

Don't get me wrong, I realize the implications of a life without my medication.  I am also really tired of taking all these damned pills.  Yes, I've achieved a level of stability.  I had commented to both my husband and my doctor that I never feel happy.  I don't feel sad or depressed, I just feel...not sad.  Is this the best I can hope for?  I'm not looking for the elation of mania, I just want to feel the contented sort of happy.  I don't feel that.  I can't even conjure up the feeling from a happy memory. 

So I get tempted to stop taking my meds.  It's not a strong temptation, but it's there.  It's normal.  I hate gobbling a large handful in the morning and a small handful at night.  I hate having to eat something again if I forget to take my nighttime pills right after dinner.  I hate that I can't sleep without a sleeping pill now.  (Although the quality of my sleep is awesome with it!)  I miss having strong emotions.  I don't really miss having the negative ones of course, but I miss just feeling things.  I'm happy to be calmer and definitely more patient.  I definitely don't miss how my behavior affects everyone else, I just miss the experience of feeling the strength of emotion.

I would eventually tire of those feelings, too.  It's a hell living in a bipolar mind.  Maddening, exhausting, confusing, painful.  From a purely selfish standpoint, the calm and the peace I now have are what make the trade off worth it.  From a broader perspective, and the reason I will never go off my meds is my commitment to my family.  There's also my fear of another psychotic episode and being hospitalized, etc. etc., but I have a responsibility and love for my family that supercedes any desire or issue I might have.  Their best interests outweigh any of my interests, period.  If I have to go the rest of my life feeling just not sad, then that's what I will do.  I really hope I don't have to, though.  I also hope my brain doesn't explode before my time, too.

The Holidays

The holidays are officially here.  Thanksgiving is actually my favorite holiday, but this year I am not so festive.  I am a little down because we are not in our house anymore.  Gone are our private traditions, my way of doing things, my own personal touches.  I find that I have to yield to someone else, which has never been my strong suit.  I suppose it should be a compromise, but since it is not my house and since this person is not someone who is inclined to doing things any way other than her own, I feel resigned to letting it be. 

I feel like I am forced to return to certain traditions of my childhood, which I intentionally shook off as an adult.  I was eager to do things my way when I had my own family, so unpleasant were my experiences during the holidays with my family.  I haven't wanted to cook this year, in fact have imagined not doing a single thing in my head, because I cannot cook the meal the way I do it.  My aunt seems to have these grandiose plans for the meal, which she speaks like she is going to cook herself.  She can't possibly considering she is disabled for the most part. 

Christmas will be different too.  The one thing I get to insist on keeping is that we open presents on Christmas morning.  When I was a kid we always did it on Christmas Eve.  Needless to say, we never really were allowed to believe in Santa as a result.  The presents were stacked under the tree days or weeks ahead of Christmas. We were done opening presents by 9pm the night before, so there was no glee at waking up to the motherload on Christmas morning for us.  It was all practicality--no one wanted to have to clean up the mess from the presents AND cook on the same day.  My kids will believe in Santa as long as I can get away with it.

I realized last night that a big part of my sadness and bitterness has to do with not being in our house.  I feel a sense of loss and that is not easy to manage in the condition I am.  I am better by leaps and bounds than I was, but I see that there is still a good ways to go.  I know I'm having a natural reaction to the situation, I'm just not coping as well as I could or should.  Today is going to be difficult because I am depressed and don't want to do anything.  I think I'm going to be expected to do stuff anyway, and that's not going to be a fun situation if I'm not coping well.  I hope I can hold my tongue and muster up the energy to do it.  It makes me nervous because I always got in trouble during the holidays when I was a kid.  I always did something that pissed someone off and I ended up getting my face slapped.  Consequently, I feel like this and am afraid that there will be a disagreement that turns into something bigger than it should be.   I certainly don't think I'm going to get my face slapped, but I don't want to have a shouting match, either.  I have felt close to losing my temper lately.  Maybe some hypomania seeping around the edges.  I don't know.

At any rate, I am hoping to just get through the day.  I don't have any delusions of a warm and fun afternoon with my family.  I don't think I have that in me.  I am probably going to need Ativan to make it through it.  That makes me even sadder.  Thanksgiving really is my favorite holiday.

Unexpected Results

Last week, I was unable to bear the waiting game I was playing.  I ended up sending another email to my friend, as my husband had suggested.  I said everything that I felt about her walking away from me, from what she didn't know about what happened, to my confusion, to my sorrow.  At the time I wrote it, it was just to get my feelings off my chest, a way of purging the feelings that were flowing through me at the time.  I hadn't "intended" to send it.  I put in her address with the intention of "thinking it over" before sending it or not, but I pressed enter after I finished typing the address and off it went.  So, whether or not it was actually an accident that I sent it is something worthy of debate.

My email actually elicited a response.  An unexpected response.  She told me that I was and had always been her best friend and sister and she didn't want our friendship to end.  She admitted to having been afraid and not knowing what to do, which is why she ran off that day.  She just wanted to put everything behind us and move forward. 

Of course I'm willing to put everything behind us, but I also kind of have a WTF??? response.  7 months and I've been thinking she doesn't love me because she turned her back on me, and she responds as if she's just been waiting for me to call or write?  I don't quite understand.  I'm sure we'll cover this in a conversation someday, but for now I'm not sure how I feel.  I'm happy to have my friend back, but...I'm confused. 

Maybe she's just regretted her actions all this time.  She did say she has thought about me and the kids everyday since.    Maybe she didn't know how to reconnect after she did what she did.  I just don't know and can't begin to think for her.  I already did that over the last 7 months and it caused me a lot of grief.  I probably shouldn't start doing that again.

We spent some time texting on Saturday, just catching up.  It was nice, but lacking the ease and humor we used to have.  I guess that is to be expected.  It's hard to catch up through text messaging.  One thing I have felt over the last two days though, is that I now have a lack of emotion.  I thought I'd be over the moon if she responded positively.  While I was really happy to read her email, afterward, it was kind of like it didn't matter anymore.  I don't know what I think about that.  Good thing I see my therapist tonight.

So that's the update on the subject.  I'm sure there will be more to say as everything unfolds in the future.  For now, I'm glad to have my friend back.  I am indeed a lucky girl--Bipolar hasn't taken everything from me.  In fact, I can now say that it hasn't taken much of anything from me.  It's hurt me and the people around me, but the love of the people in my life is stronger than it is.  I guess I can say there is actually an upside to being Bipolar for me...it has shown me how loved I am.  I probably would have taken it for granted under less dramatic circumstances.     

New Day, Same Song

I'm sort of stuck on the same theme right now.  It's kind of hard to think about much else, at least in terms of what I am compelled to write about.  I'm not obsessing during my day, fortunately. 

I spoke with my therapist about this last night.  He thought I might be premature in coming to the conclusion that I won't hear back from her after only four days.  He said she might be feeling conflicted after all this time.  I told him I'd rather grieve now and get it over with and be happily surprised if she responds later.  I really don't think she will respond, though.

I am not sure what part of this is harder.  The fact that she simply turned her back on me after all these years?  The fact that she did it and never in a million years would I do it to her, not even now, if she needed me?  The fact that I didn't do anything of my own volition to hurt her?  The fact that I am completely powerless to make things right?  The fact that I am completely clueless as to the actual reason why she ran off and decided to end our friendship altogether?  Is any one of these things in particular more painful than the others?  No, the hardest part is just that I lost my best friend.

One thing that did help me last night was something my husband said.  I told him about the realization I had that the people I actually did things to hurt; the ones who have good reason to turn their backs on me, are the ones who are here supporting me, taking care of me and loving me.  He told me that that should tell me something about myself.  The actions of people like my mom and my best friend should tell me something about them, but the fact that the people I have harmed are still here should say something about me and my worth.  Not being someone who has had the greatest self-esteem life-long, comments about my worth have usually glanced off of me as simple niceties.  This is the first comment that ever penetrated.  It really meant the world to me.  After that, the loss of my friend was just a little more bearable.

I think what she is doing is terrible.  It's just wrong.

Waiting...

So it's been 3 days since I sent my email.  I am not sure how long I should wait, hoping for some sort of response.  I know that she doesn't always have time to get on the computer because her kids are frequently on it, and that often her computer(s) are not functional.  Hard part is there is just no way for me to know.  As the days pass though, I obviously begin to feel that there is little hope for some sort of response.  I have to accept that our longtime friendship is truly over and I am dumbfounded that it actually could be.  It makes me contemplate the entirety of our friendship; was any of it real?  Was I the only one who was truly invested in it?  The only real friend in the relationship?  Were we just lucky to not have faced any major trials in 35 years?  If we had, would our relationship have crumbled long before?

She doesn't even know what actually happened.  If she doesn't answer, she never will and that is a shame.

I wish I could remember more than snippets of those last two days she was around.  I only remember the moments I was somewhat lucid, and just before the waves of delusion were about to crash over me.  I do have some memories of the moments I was panicked and needed to run away, but there is also some dissociation from my own mind involved with that; if that makes any sort of sense.  It's like I was not actually part of my mind, but sitting in the recesses of it and being controlled by some other thing.  I have little recollection of my interaction with her.  Well, anyone really.  I was so overcome by my fear of being killed that I was focused on acting normal so that I could make a run for it at my first opportunity.  In my more "rational" moments, I was focused on not being sent to the hospital.  At that point, I was aware that I was having a problem, but didn't want anyone to send me away.  How was I coming across?  Did I really seem that far out of my head and that's why me running to the neighbors was the breaking point for her?  I do remember that most of that day I had stayed in my room.  I had come out once but didn't say anything to her.  That's what I remember anyway.  The day before was scary, yes, but she had no knowledge that she had morphed into one of the conspirators to my murder that second day, did she?  She couldn't.  I hadn't even told my husband.  In fact, the only one who know that I was afraid that someone was trying to kill me was her.  She knew that I was afraid of my husband.  The only ugly thing I said to her was when she tried to talk to me was when I was on the phone with 911.  I told her to get the f*ck away from me.  That is when she left.  I can't believe that would be enough for her to never want to speak to me again.  Unless I said something else that I don't remember.  I suppose that is possible.  I remember thinking her surprised look seemed one of feigned innocence, but I think I just repeated what I had said.  Maybe I said something worse.  I just don't know.

It's ironic; the people that have real cause to turn their backs on me are the ones who are here standing by me, loving me and supporting me through all this.  People like my mom and my best friend, people I haven't really done anything to hurt, have turned their backs on me.  It leaves me feeling incredulous and hurt; yet humbled, grateful and so very fortunate at the same time.  Ultimately, because of the people who truly love me, I'll get beyond those who really don't.  Even for what I have lost, I have real people of infinite value in my life; people I cannot and would not want to live without.  That's really what matters.

I guess I'll give it just a day or two more.  After that, it doesn't really matter anymore.  I gave it a shot.

My Best Friend Part 2

Yesterday was my best friend's birthday.  This is the friend who was with me when my psychotic episode began and she basically took off running.  I haven't had any contact with her since, and it's been 7 months now.  I have long contemplated writing her to try to explain what happened, to let her know that she shouldn't be afraid, that I didn't completely lose my mind.  I never did, for fear of being rejected.  It's been painful enough being abandoned by someone who has been my best friend for 35 years.  I just couldn't put myself out there and take the risk of being crushed again.

I sent her a brief email yesterday.

I only said that although my email was probably unwelcome, I truly hoped she had a great day and that I missed her.  I wanted to keep it short and to the point.  If she opens the door by answering, then we can have a conversation about everything.  If she totally blows it off, then I will know exactly where I stand.  My husband thinks even if she blows it off I should send one follow up email explaining everything just to get it all off my chest.  To me that smacks of begging, so I don't think I will do that.  I don't know.

Now I'm left with a lot of unhappy emotions.  I can't predict what she will do.  I know her better than anyone, but it's hard not to project what I would do in the same situation.  Part of me can't conceive of her not responding.  We have been best friends for so long, have such a strong bond...how can she not?  I know her well enough to understand why she ran--the fear and confusion she must have felt.  I don't hold that against her.  Those are the very reasons I think she might not respond--her tendency to avoid difficult situations. 

I can't for a minute accept that she suddenly stopped loving or caring about me.  We have always been like sisters, so long and so deep is our history.  It's so painful when I think about how she has turned her back on me, even if I understand that she probably doesn't realize that is what she did.  The notion that she may not turn around now that I've "tapped her on the shoulder" brings me to tears.

I wish I could be assured in what to expect in this situation.  I don't want to constantly be checking my email only to hear crickets when I open it up.  It will be torture.  How many days do I let go by without a response before I come to accept that one will not be forthcoming?

I am trying to convince myself that she isn't going to respond, but the hope is so strong I don't know if I will be able to do that.  I'm hoping once I get back into my weekly routine, I'll be busy enough that I won't be so focused on this.  That I will stop praying for her response, because either she is going to, or she isn't.  It's as simple as that.

Blocked Again

I've been absent for awhile.  Another case of Blogger's Block again, I guess.  I just haven't had much to say.  My life has been fairly hum-drum, nothing of note, no real problems nor insights to share.  I'm not one to sit at my computer and relate what kind of sandwich I had with which kind of savory mustard.  I know some people do, but I guess I'm not such a great writer that I can make that sound really interesting.  Then again, I don't really know anyone who can.

I lived through Halloween.  It's always been a source of anxiety for me.  I dread taking my kids out trick or treating the days leading up to it, and even more so the day of.  I managed to get through it without Ativan and only breaking out in a mild sweat.  It wasn't easy, but it could have been much worse.  No matter what, I don't think Halloween will ever be fun for me.

I've definitely seen some improvement in my condition.  I've been doing more things; I was able to go to a birthday party with my daughter.  (Did I already blog about that?)  I managed to spend time talking with a couple parents and didn't vomit or faint.  I've actually become somewhat friendly with one of the mothers.  We chat when we see each other at the school now.  Far from being friends, but at least it's kind of something.  I'm taking my son to karate lessons.  That's a big step for me, sitting in the room with other parents, too.  I do that Ativan-free so far.  I've also done a little bit of marketing, too.  Will wonders never cease?

At the same time, I've been a little down lately.  Not enormously, but just a bit.  This week has been an effort to get out of bed and morning routine with the kids has been a chore to me.  I've also been very, very tired.  I saw Dr. Tween today and she thinks it may have something to do with the change in seasons.  She's adding a low dose of Wellbutrin to my cocktail to see if that helps some.  As I was with the increases in my Zoloft in the past, I'm cautiously agreeable.  She's been a godsend to me, so I have full faith in her professional judgment.  I just proceed with eyes wide open on the anti-depressants.  Especially the Wellbutrin, since that's what I was taking when I had my psychotic episode.  Hopefully the benefits we are shooting for are what we get, because that would be awesome.

Other than this, there's still really nothing to say.  I hate not blogging.  I may have to resort to poetry.  Pray that I come up with some thoughts first.

A Friend's Mania

I've been talking to my friend who is Bipolar.  It's been a good relationship for both of us, sharing our experience and feelings about the illness.  She's been in a state of depression not unlike the one I went through just a short time ago. She's been trapped on the sofa, listening to the clock tick; unable to function. Things have begun to change, however...

She called me just the other day.  She was speaking quite fast and telling me how much she had accomplished.  She had scrubbed her floor on her knees the night before so meticulously that her knees were bruised.  She had made an elaborate chicken soup for her boyfriend who is battling a cold.  The next day, she did laundry (something that has been piling up for a while and has been causing her a great amount of anxiety), drove 40 minutes to her psychiatrist's office for meds that she was about to run out of, which was another source that had been a source of anxiety prior to that.  All throughout the conversation she was swearing like a sailor, using words I'd never heard her use before.  She said she was on her fourth cup of coffee and had been chain smoking.

I spoke to her again yesterday.  She had gotten up at 4:30a, made breakfast for her boyfriend, did Pilates (she's been worried over her weight gain from her meds), did more laundry, and organized her pantry.  It was only 10:00 am when I talked to her and she'd already accomplished all these things.  She wasn't talking quite as fast, but still I was concerned.  I expressed to her that I was afraid she was kicking up into a mania.  She came up with several excuses as to why she thought she wasn't, but wasn't totally closed off to the possibility.  I didn't want to let the air out of her balloon in case she really was just having some good days, but that seems unlikely to be the situation. 

I asked her just how much she had slept the night before.   She had gone to bed about 9:30, but had gotten up at 1:30a because of her cat, and then as I mentioned, she was up at 4:30a. Alone, it's an acceptable amount, although I don't know how long she was up in the middle of the night.  What concerned me was that she takes Temazepam for sleep, which is a hypnotic sleep aid.  I used to take it, and I slept like the dead.  Nothing woke me up.  Maybe that's just me.  Nevertheless, she was wide awake when she got up in the morning and had the same amount of energy that she did when I spoke to her.  Things that make you go Hmmm.

She had a psych appointment that afternoon and I urged her to tell her doctor explicitly all the things she had done over the last few days.  I could be wrong, but felt it was worth mentioning.  I later learned (indirectly) through her Mom that her doctor had increased her Geodon, so maybe she was detailed enough.  Then again, she did call her Mom with a long laundry list of things she wanted her to do to help her develop a structure and take the load off her.  It was so long that her Mom had to stop her in the middle of it.  Too much spontaneous gusto.

My big worry is about her family.  While they are eager to help her and want to be as supportive as they can, I think that they will be so relieved that she feels better they will not recognize her behavior for what it is.  She did drive to her Mom's after she got into a fight with her boyfriend.  Her Mom called my Aunt afterward and stated that she was not "flying high".  They don't realize that mania can doesn't always present itself the same way every time, or that the symptoms aren't always consistent.  It seems to me that she was being dismissive. I also don't think that her family understands that in some ways mania can be more dangerous than depression (suicidal tendencies notwithstanding).  It's not just overly buoyant behavior.  Even my Aunt, who is very supportive of me and has made the effort to become somewhat informed about Bipolar, was smiling at some of the behaviors her Mom was describing.  It's not funny, nor amusing.  I also heard her describing to her Mom that Bipolars can be reeled back in somewhat during mania.  I had to stop her and tell her emphatically and unequivocally, "NO!"  Mania is like a steam engine.  There is a reason you have to call your psychiatrist immediately.  Only treatment will take care of it.  Once it has flared, it will only suck up more oxygen until it is a roaring fire. 

There are so many things that her Mom has said to my aunt that have disheartened me.  I can only be here for her and hope that my support and experience makes a difference.  One thing I do know is that I can't break through a mania.  I'm not that powerful; nothing but medication is.  I can only hope and pray that the increase in her Geodon is strong enough to balance her out.

A Little Bit About Everything

I hate hard days.  Yesterday was especially challenging in a couple different ways.  It didn't help the downward trend I've been experiencing.  Now, on top of feeling sad I'm filled with dread and self-loathing.  It's almost impossible not to be driven to distraction by these feelings when it gets this way.  I'm filled with worry and disgust.  There is nothing I can do, things are what they are and no amount of thinking about it is going to change things, and yet I am drawn to these thoughts like a moth to flame.  Such is the Bipolar mind and life.  At least I have a therapy session tonight.  Maybe I can purge a little of this rotten feeling.

Adding to my rotten feeling, we had to put our family dog down yesterday.  It's really my aunt's dog, but we all loved the little old girl.  She was 13 years old and had gotten very sick.  She had a massive tumor in her stomach and had stopped eating, was having seizures and several other problems caused by it.  My aunt decided it was the humane thing to do since the little dog was suffering so.  My aunt could not bear to go in while the procedure was performed, so I did.  I couldn't stand the idea of her being alone and scared when they did it.  I was surprised that they didn't do it in an examining room.  They had a very nice sitting room with a sofa and pillows, and an arm chair.  It was a very peaceful and comfortable environment.  I was able to hold her in my lap and love her.  She was very relaxed and not scared at all.  The doctor was loving and sweet to her.  She went peacefully in my arms, although she did try to bite the doctor when he first began to administer the injection.  It is a very surreal but painful experience to have a little life--a breathing, living creature--in your arms and then feel it drift away.  With my arm wrapped around and under her, I was able to feel everything relax and slow down, and her breathing slowly stop.  I literally felt her life go out of her.  I'm glad I did it because her life ended with someone loving her, not with a bunch of strangers, but I will remember the experience forever and it hurts.  Rest peacefully, little Rosebud.

On a more positive note, I have been speaking with my friend that I mentioned before--the girl I used to babysit who is Bipolar.  She is in a very depressed state and is not coping well.  I have found that talking to her is also comforting to me.  I am able to relate to her very deeply; I feel very strongly about her situation.  It wasn't but a few months ago that I was in the same situation.  I also find it therapeutic for me to talk to her as well, it reminds me how far I have come from those dark, dark days.  I do my best to relate to her, to let her know she is not alone.  I am trying to help her understand that recovery comes slowly, that she will not wake up one day and suddenly feel better.  I hope it is helping.  I look forward to continuing our conversation and hopefully witnessing small improvements over time.  I really want her to get better.  I know the place she is in, and no one should have to live in that prison.

So, that's pretty much what's going on.  I'm hoping today will be a better day.

Depressive Without a Cause

I haven't been writing a lot lately since I haven't really had much on my mind.  I still don't, really.  Well, that's not entirely true.  I just haven't really explored my thoughts and feelings, so they aren't well organized yet.  I started feeling kind of depressed yesterday, which has carried over to today, and I'm really not sure why.  It's disappointing too, which kind of compounds the problem.  I feel like now that we seem to have hit on a good cocktail of meds, this shouldn't happen.  So, to feel depressed is, in and of itself, depressing. 

I went over the last few days to see if there was anything I could pinpoint as a trigger and could not find anything.  It was my 40th birthday on Thursday, and I had a wonderful day.  I was not upset at turning 40, in fact I had been enthusiastic about it.  My family went out of their way to make the day special.  So, this wasn't something that caused my problem.  I've had something of a cold the last several days and have felt under the weather, but that is only a nuisance at best.  Things are fine with Mr. PolarBabe.  The kids are doing well.  What gives?

I understand that there will always be cycles in my mood, medication or no. Understanding that doesn't actually mean I accept it. I want what I want, and the rest be damned. I hate that empty, aching feeling that runs from my chest to my abdomen; it feels as if my insides are weeping.  I know that there are people who keep mood charts and that helps them see a regular pattern to their moods.  If that works for them, great.  I choose not to do this.  To me, it seems just a little obsessive over the illness.  I suppose it helps some people plan for mood fluctuations, but I don't know what "plans" can be made.  Oh look!  Here comes a happy day!  Yippeee!  Oh shit!  I'm gonna feel like crap tomorrow.  Better take some extra Xanax with me just in case.  I don't know.  Maybe I'm minimizing a useful tool, but I can't even keep track of when my period is due and that's just once a month.  (I know, TMI.  Sorry.)  I still think mood charts are obsessive. 

Back to the matter at hand.  I'm down.  I'm not crying and curled into the fetal position depressed, but I'm sighing, not showered and lethargic depressed.  I have laundry to do today and I'm dreading it.  The thought of getting back into the weekly school routine tomorrow overwhelms me.  I guess that's what the Ativan is for.  I hate relying on so many fucking pills.  I really do.  Whine. Whine. Whiiiiiiiiiinnnnne.

I hope this blows over soon.  I'm kinda sick of me right now.

Stir Crazy?

I've been feeling a little irritable lately.  Maybe even a little on the down side, now that I think about it.  It's not that there is anything wrong, I just don't feel like much is right.  The days have seemed to require a little more effort getting started.  Taking care of the kids has worn on me a little more than usual. I have been feeling very fatigued at about 4pm every afternoon for the last several weeks.  There have been problems to work out, mundane tasks to do, and absolutely nothing to get excited about.

I turn 40 this week.  One might think this would contribute to the problem, but surprisingly it doesn't.  I actually don't mind turning 40.  Turning 39 bugged me, but in my head I've already been 40 for the last year.  I just accepted it when I turned 39 instead.  So that's not it.

So what is this?  Is it just the blahs?  Am I still working my way out of my depression?  Am I falling back into a depressive episode?  What about the irritability?  Am I getting hypomanic or do I really have an axe to grind?  I think I have some legitimate issues, but then again, maybe they just seem like it.  I just don't really know if I'm thinking all that clearly.

Maybe I'm just feeling a little stir crazy being home all day.  Things have become very mundane, and I have nothing to get excited about or to which I can look forward.  I don't know what that could be, but I feel like there should be something.  It's just all kids, TV or computer all the time.  I've needed Ativan a little more often lately.

I am going to have to figure out if there is something I can do and if it will make me feel better, or if there is something chemical at work here. 

The Paralells Between Bipolar and Alcoholism

I didn't want to get into too many details yesterday for the reasons I stated, but in order to blog today, I have to get in a little deeper.  The problem I was trying not to discuss is Alcoholism.  A very close loved one of mine is an alcoholic.  Of late, we have had cause to examine our ailments together. While probably not a groundbreaking discovery, it is remarkable at how similar the symptoms of Alcoholism and Bipolar can be.

We've mainly compared the effects of mania and alcoholism.  First there is the intoxication of it, of course.  The primary difference is that the alcoholic's judgment skills are affected before the intoxicated feeling, ours are affected after the mania sets in.  Their disease sets in and wreaks havoc on their minds, tempting them with all sorts of reasons as to why it's ok, why they should have a drink.

There is the notion of choice.  Conventional wisdom says alcoholics can choose whether or not to have a drink.  People who are Bipolar have no choice whether or not they are going to have an episode.  On it's face it seems to be true, but given that Alcoholism is an actual disease, this isn't exactly fair.  Given the rationalization process I described above, how much of that truly involves a choice?  I know it sounds like I'm the one who is rationalizing now, but I'm not.  I realize that there are millions of people who have successfully achieved sobriety and are successfully able to make that choice.  The point is they have to make that choice every single day.  They are never free of that rationalization process, they have only become skilled at working their way through it.  It takes tremendous effort and practice, and relapse is only a heartbeat away. 

There's no actual beating it, it's forever a fight.  Just like Bipolar, you can be in remission.  You cannot be cured.  In comparing it to a Bipolar episode, it's true that we cannot prevent an episode from setting in on us if we are not medicated or if our medication fails us.  For those of us who are in treatment, being compliant with our treatment regimen is a must to delay or prevent aggravation of our illness.  Additionally, we should all be aware of our warning signs and have informed our loved ones of those signs.  There should be a relapse plan and everyone should know what they need to do should an episode come on.  These are the choices we are able to make.

Intoxication.  Now, I've been drunk before.  I've been manic.  I've been drunk AND manic.  I think I know more than a little about impaired judgment.  This is where it's hard for me not to rationalize my own behavior, hard not to say that Bipolar is far worse than Alcoholism.  Simple truth is that I'm that even though I've been drunk, I'm not an Alcoholic. I can relate, but I don't necessarily understand.   I think about the commonalities: infidelity, gambling, uncontrollable spending, shoplifting, anger management issues, and so on and so forth.  Which behaviors are exclusive to Alcoholism and which are Bipolar?  Uhhhhh...

More...the intoxication of mania is not something that 'wears off' the way high does, or a bender ends.  We are completely at the mercy of the illness, and medications aren't a quick fix.  Our option?  Hospitalization until our illness is sufficiently under control.  Counterpoint is that many Alcoholics also face hospitalization for detox and rehab.  In both cases, the need for hospitalization depends on the severity of the situation.

I can toss this ball back and forth until I go mad.  It seems there are far more similarities than there are differences.  Though Alcoholism has long been called a disease, this recent experience has made me see it truly in this fashion.  By comparing it to my own, I know it now as it truly is.  As much as a non-alcoholic can, I guess.

What does all this do to reconcile my current situation?  Absolutely nothing.  This person's Alcoholism is a trigger for my mania.  My mania and the recollection of my manic episodes are a trigger for this person's alcoholic behavior.  We can talk it to death, we can relate to each other as much as we can, but the problems divide us more than they bring us together.  Maybe it won't always be this way, but the memories may always linger.  Will we always be on edge?  Will there always be a fear of an episode or a break in sobriety?   Stupid Illnesses.

Circular Triggers

I apologize in advance for the ambiguity of this post.  It involves a third party, and I'd like to protect his/her anonymity.  I hope you understand.

I had a situation happen the other day that has left me feeling discouraged, dejected and deflated. I'm heartsick. Without going into details, it is one of the major triggers that has brought about manic episodes in the past. Obviously, I'm concerned. Especially considering I'm taking the Zoloft, and because it was just increased. Crushing depression always immediately follows my manias. So far, my medication seems to be working, as I only feel what I imagine is a healthy response to a bad situation. I function normally, but have this sad feeling. My thoughts are not consumed by what happened, though it is very present in my mind.

Now what do I do? I wouldn't have known what to do before...I would have just had this chemical response with no choice but to surrender to it. Now that it seems I do have a choice, I am at a loss as to how to approach the situation. I've been doing some talking with a supportive person, but to what end? It doesn't allay my fears, it doesn't provide me comfort, it isn't reassuring. Do I just keep talking? Is that the only way to resolve it? I am a proactive person. I cannot rest until I think I am doing something about a problem (although in a manic state my judgment was consistently poor, I still thought I was doing something). Removing myself from this particular problem is not an option.

The circumstances of this problem are a HUGE trigger for me. The irony of the situation is that something I did, albeit innocently, triggered it. Quite the predicament. It's also not something I can prevent from happening again, so far out of my control is the nature of this problem.

This is a time when I really feel Bipolar ruins my life. I feel angry and...I don't know if there is a word for what else I am feeling. Helpless? Hostage? Impotent? All are true, but they don't quite capture the hostility that is intertwined with them. I guess hostile is the right word, now that I think of it. I should clarify that these feelings I describe are not toward this issue, but the illness itself. Even if I am stable, it is still affecting me in a negative way. It still has the power to impact my life and do harm to me and the people around me. It limits how much I can say, how much I can share, how much I can reveal about it's effects on me. It hurts the people I love. As much as they might love me back, and feel for what I go through, they have their own feelings about it.  At times must protect themselves from me. Bipolar still alienates me, even if it is in remission. These are the battles Bipolar always wins. I do not have an effective defense.

So in short, someone else's trigger triggered my manias a few times. Recalling those manias recently ignited the trigger that had triggered my past manias. Now I'm worried about it triggering the mania again, all the while worrying about that initial trigger that sparked my manic episodes and the harm that it is doing to the person involved. It's this circle that I'm afraid can't be broken. I'm afraid I will break in some way instead.

There has to be a way through this, out of this. I refuse to let this battle be lost.

The Thrill and The Fear of Mania

Recently, I saw my psychiatrist for my monthly medication management visit. She increased my Zoloft by 50mg due to some lingering issues I have. Of course, I'm always wary of the potential for a manic episode due to such a change. So far, I haven't noticed too much of a change, but something caught my attention the other day.

My last post, although having nothing to do with Bipolar Disorder, detailed an endeavor that I had attempted several times over the last year and a half. This time, I approached it with a singular determination I have not had with my prior attempts. It was not like I steeled myself to do it, or had made a firm plan to do it. I just decided in the middle of the day I was going to give it a shot, and then was determined that he was not going to outlast me. While someone might not find this odd, for me it can be disconcerting. I just did it. There was no thinking about it, nor planning, not even a decision involved.

A phenomenon that used to puzzle me was that sometimes I was able to just pull this amazing self discipline out of nowhere. For example, if I had put on some weight, I'd make half hearted attempts to take it off, but was just too lazy to stick with anything. Then somewhere, out of the clear blue sky, I had it. There was no thought put into it. It's like I was on auto pilot. I'd be at the grocery store and just buy the right things to go on a diet. I'd get up the next morning and go to the gym. Suddenly I was off...and in the space of 2-3 months, I'd have lost 15-20 lbs., or however much I wanted to lose. One time, I got really heavy. It happened and I lost 50 lbs. within 3 months.

When I get hypomanic, it sets in differently. I want to make things beautiful and am likely to start a home improvement project. All the while, I will feel resentful that I'm the one doing it, that I can't rely on anyone else to get anything done. I'll be grumpy and spiteful, downright angry that no one would even bother to help. Funny thing is if anyone tried to help, I'd be even more pissed off. As if they didn't think I was fully capable of doing it on my own, or that they were trying to horn in and destroy my vision.

Once I learned I was Bipolar and began looking back and examining my behavior in the past, I realized this was the first sign of the onset of mania for me. I don't start with pressured speech. In fact, I don't have that much at all. I have flight of ideas, but that's mostly at night. I have competing thoughts all the time, manic or not, so that's not much of an indicator. For me, full blown mania involves the sense of a constant thrill, a heady, intoxicated feeling. My skin tingles. I smile a lot. I become the quintessential party girl. Anything to pump up that intoxication, make it go higher and higher. I feel grandiose, and for once I feel like I truly love myself. I also feel like everyone else should too. When I'm not manic, I feel very embarrassed about it, because I know I was so over the top it must have seemed weird or tiresome to everyone else. I must seem very conceited.

I don't feel any of those things now, but it does take some time from the onset of discipline to the elation. My worry then becomes "Will I say anything about it?" Will I secretly hope no one notices? Will I hope that they not have the courage to take my happiness away? I admit, these things have already entered my mind. That's how seductive mania is. Then there is the desire to think "Please, just let me feel it a little while before anyone notices. I won't let myself go too far before I say anything." It's like being a junkie. Just let me have one little hit and then I'll go straight, I promise. I even feel ashamed for having these ideas and feelings. It's that much like being an addict.

On the other hand, I'm terrified. What if it turns into a psychotic episode? That scared the shit out of me. It is something I never, ever, ever want to suffer again. It hit out of nowhere and crashed down on me like a tidal wave. To keep manic feelings to myself and then sink into the madness of delusions and hallucinations? Not only is that terrifying, it becomes very dangerous. I'm completely out of control and God knows what could happen. What if I hurt someone this time? Not a risk I'd like to take.

Then the junkie raises her head again. But it's not like that...you're not traumatized by surgery this time. You're not on all those pain meds, antibiotics, anesthesia coursing through your veins. I have already asked my husband to keep a vigilant eye on me, but the sneaky addict thinks she can conceal it, or at best convince him that everything is fine, or guilt him into doing nothing. See, classic junkie behavior. It's sickening and shameful to me.

For now, I'm just keeping an eye on it, and praying for strength. I may be worried for nothing, but I'm watching out for myself.

As a footnote, (and totally irrelevant to this post), I logged a lot of miles on that potty train with my youngest. We had some success this weekend. Unfortunately for me, my oldest son decided to put him on the potty just one time, and reaped the benefits of all my hard work. Sigh. That's irony in action. I'm disappointed I didn't get to have that moment all to myself, but I'm so proud of my oldest. It was such a mature thing to do. I'm also proud of my youngest, it was the harder of the two things to do in potty training. Not that you wanted to know that part. It's just a major breakthrough (as anyone who has ridden the potty train knows).

C'mon Ride the Potty Train

Ok, so this post has absolutely nothing to do with Bipolar. I am making my 900th attempt to toilet train my youngest child. I have been trying for the last year. This child has a stubborn streak larger than the State of Texas and has steadfastly refused to train although all the physical signs of readiness have been present.

I am now determined to win. He remains just as firmly determined that I will not succeed as always. Did I mention his bladder is larger than his stubborn streak? It exceeds the size of the State of Alaska. I missed getting him on the potty first thing this morning, so he filled up--and I really mean filled up--his Pull-Up (we had a nasty stalemate all day yesterday). At present, he is running around nude from the waist down because I know he won't go without his Pull-Up. He has not gone since he woke up this morning. He is also a drinker--well I don't mean that the way it sounded--but he takes in a lot of fluid. Twice as much as my other two, so I'm really pumping them into him today. Yet, he still doesn't go.

I have offered every imaginable bribe to this child. I have withheld dessert. I have turned the faucet on. I have put his hand in warm water. I have poured that warm water on his pee-pee. I have been the encouraging, patient, cheerleading mom. I sang to him. I did the potty dance. I have had my ability to hear high pitches decreased by a few levels, have been hit in a number of areas, had my glasses knocked off my face, had my heart tugged at, have been highly irritated inside, but my will has yet to break.

What the ***bleeeeeeep*** do I do? I refuse to give up, but Christ this child is going to kill me before he will pee on the potty. He says he doesn't want toys, he hates dessert now, and he really, really, really, really hates the potty. He argues that he is not a big boy, he's just a little kid. I tell him the operative word in that sentence is kid, not baby. I think he thinks I'm splitting hairs.

What do you do when they just don't want to do it? I've tried every suggestion that has been given to me. I will try anything short of duct taping him to the toilet (and even that is starting to look enticing to me).

When someone tells you it's much harder to potty train a boy, they aren't kidding. When you are trying to train the youngest boy, it's downright impossible. If he's a Capricorn on top of it, you might as well load up on tranquilizers or tequila. Either would come in handy. I don't recommend both...the combination is too tempting.

When Opportunity Presents Itself

I'm back on the subject of my friend again. Her Step-mother called my Aunt yesterday asking if I could call my friend to talk. As you know, I've been wanting to talk to her to see if I could help; maybe make a difference in what she is going through. I know she feels alone. Now that the opportunity may be here, I'm wondering what I should say.

My primary concern is whether or not she would welcome the call. I was told that it was suggested to her and she jumped at the chance. Later I was told that when it was suggested to her she "seemed receptive" to it. That's a big difference! I have concerns about how she will feel that her condition has been discussed as widely as it has been at all. I know I'd be a little pissed if I had been the focus of conversation independently without my consent, especially with someone I knew 100 years ago, bipolar or not. Then again, I also know my family and on some level am resigned to the fact that I'm going to be the object of discussion, whether I like it or not. I'd still be highly irritated by it.

I would not welcome such a phone call, myself. Maybe this is part of my concern. It's hard not to project yourself onto this kind of a situation. I'd resent someone intruding on my personal business. If I don't directly approach someone, then it's none of their concern. I'm intensely private that way. Maybe she is different. Maybe she needs someone to reach out to her. These are things I have to find out first, but I am also worried about whether or not I'd be given the complete truth. It may be one of those things that is being set up "for her own good." That could be disastrous.

Assuming those concerns are put to rest, then I wonder what I would say. Of course I would let things progress naturally, but I have to wonder what would come up and how I'd handle it. Are her struggles vastly different than mine? Have we experienced some of the same things? We are not all alike. I know there will be much we can relate to, but I don't want to screw anything up, either. I just feel like I might be jumping into the abyss. I like having a handle bar. I'm sure everything would work out fine and I'm working myself up for nothing, but this is how my mind works. How it doesn't work, rather.

I think I put a lot of pressure on myself not only because I want to help so much, but because I am genuinely concerned for her well-being. I know how hard-fought the battle for stability can be, especially when you feel so desperately alone. She has family that would do anything for her, but good intentions aren't enough. I've found that good intentions from loved ones usually lead to feelings of pain and guilt on the part of the Bipolar person more than anything else. Loved ones want so much for you to be well; they simply want to make you feel better. That's all you want too. In the absence of being able to give them that, you just feel guilty and like a failure for letting them down. Then comes the inevitable anger at them for being so damned demanding. How can they not see that you are doing your fucking best here? Just get off my back because you don't know what this is like!!!! Then comes the guilt again, only a thousandfold. If only I could snap out of this...if only I weren't such a phenomenal loser. I am so sick of myself...I am tired of being trapped in this head of mine...and a litany of other self-flagellating thoughts.

I can only hope that I can provide her some comfort and a safe place to express what she's feeling. I don't have a magic cure (as we all know but wish we had) to make it all better. Maybe, just maybe, I can make some small difference. Fingers crossed.

In Treatment

I watched a documentary over the weekend called "Boy Interrupted" on Saturday. It's about a boy who had Bipolar Disorder and took his own life at 15 years of age. It was a fascinating and moving tale. The child began talking about suicide when he was in Kindergarten. He was troubled for a long time, but if I remember correctly, he was stabilized somewhere around 9 years old. I'll get to my reaction at the end in a little while.

I also watched the move "The Soloist" this weekend. While this movie is about a homeless man who is schizophrenic, the scenes where he has episodes of hallucinations hit home very deeply. It reminded me of my own episode with hallucinations and delusions. It was a very realistic portrayal and I related to it on a very visceral level. It didn't mention how he came to be homeless or how it was that he was not receiving treatment, but there was the implication that he had at some point been hospitalized.

These films, combined with my thoughts about my friend that I discussed in my last blog post, got me thinking about treatment. Each of us has our own walk with mental illness, and approaches treatment in a different fashion. I am one of the lucky ones, who accepted her diagnosis immediately. For the most part I am 100% compliant with my treatment regimen. Where I falter and struggle is with my structure. It is a constant challenge to be disciplined in my daily life. Having 3 small children adds to the difficulty. That alone creates it's own brand of chaos. I am much better at creating and complying with structure when I get sick, because all I want is to be well. That is what makes taking my medication and seeing my doctors regularly very easy--the overwhelming desire to do what it takes to be well. It's not that I'm without sympathy for people who struggle with it, but as I have posted before, I do have a hard time understanding self-pity. Compliance is NOT surrender to one's illness. It's quite the opposite, in fact. It is the ultimate resistance. Your treatment plan is your weapon against Bipolar. To follow it to the letter is to launch a full scale war against it. Some battles you win, some you lose, but getting back up and getting right back in there is key. This leads me into my anger at the end of the documentary about the young man who killed himself...

The boy wanted to go off his medication when he was 15. From what I gleaned from the film, he was tired of the side effects of the medication, possibly tired of being different. He and his parents consulted his psychiatrist, who agreed to give it a try. During the weaning process, the boy went to his mother and told him she needed to "keep after him", so she immediately called the doctor and set up an appointment for the following week. Regretfully, the boy did not make it through until then. They interviewed the doctor on camera for the documentary, and he referred to BP as the "cancer" of the mental health community because it kills people. I don't necessarily disagree with that statement. He then went on to say "You can only keep [people with BP] alive for so long" and "they all go off their [meds]...". I was infuriated. The generalization notwithstanding, a medical professional certainly should not give permission to do so. There was no mention that he recommended or tried to convince this young man and his parents to try other medications with lesser or different side effects, or alternative treatments. No reference to a recommendation or counseling as to how very dangerous it could be to do so. It struck me as not only very irresponsible, but downright negligent of this man. How in the world he was not sued and/or reprimanded by the medical board boggles my mind. (Assuming he wasn't).

So, the question begs why is it that people do not accept their diagnosis and/or fail to comply with their treatment regimen? I'm sure that the foregoing is not very common (although I could be quite naive, too) but I do know it's very common for people to simply go off their medication and/or ignore their treatment regimen. It can be denial, it can be the desire not to be tied to a medication, it can be the love of mania, it can even be (regretfully) a financial issue and myriad other reasons.

Then, I started thinking about the big "S" word: STIGMA. Just how many people turn away from their diagnosis out of fear of being stigmatized? Have my opinions about stigma been wrong? For those who haven't been reading my blog all along, I am not one to get hung up on labels, for example. I'll be the first call myself crazy, looney, batshit and various other euphemisms. I've always taken the position that words only have the power we give to them, and desensitization eliminates any negative effect. I have pause to consider otherwise now. Have I inadvertently been contributing to that stigma? Have I been giving permission to others to perpetuate an improper posture toward the mentally ill? Worse yet, have I been so single minded that I've been selfish? While my ideas have worked for me, should I be approaching it differently? Should I be more straight forward and serious? It has begun to plague me. I think just by asking myself the question, I may already have the answer.

The inevitable question follows...What can I do to help? I never fancied myself as a social worker, advocate or activist. Yet, here I am thinking about these types of things. I may not be ready to be wholly involved in something right now, but as I'm taking my baby steps I think this might be a goal worth working toward. I have always lacked a passion for my work, and have never been able to think of anything I might be passionate about. I believe I may have just found one.

Someone Like Me

I sort of know this person who is also BP 1. She is actually a person from my past. I haven't seen her since she was a little girl, but we are connected through family so I hear about her frequently. She is going through a lot right now, and she is constantly in my thoughts and prayers.

I am not entirely certain of the circumstances surrounding her current suffering, but I know her road is very painful and exhausting right now. I long to be able to help her somehow, to be able to make a difference for her. From what I have been able to gather, she sounds very tormented, very alone. There are many people who love her and are trying their best to help, but I don't know if she is at the point where she knows how to receive that help. I understand how that is. I don't know what I could possibly do or say for this woman, but her pain is put upon my heart as sure as my own has been at times.

Wandering through the darkness of this disorder is terrifying. You don't understand what's going on around you, what's going on inside your own head. You can't trust yourself, so you certainly can't trust anyone else. There's no way to reach out because you can't articulate what it is that you need. You pick fights with people you love without knowing why, yet you are unable to help yourself. Everything is so intensely personal and once that fire is lit, every word fans that flame and the next thing you know you are a wildfire burning out of control. You want to pull back, you don't want to hurt anyone, but you are so far gone... To be honest, it actually feels good to set everything and everyone around you on fire, even if the real you inside is horrified at what you are doing. The illness just becomes bigger than you are--it takes over and you quickly shrink back and become a tiny observer to the destruction it causes.

That's the hardest part to understand. We are swallowed up by Bipolar. When we have flares, we are consumed by the illness and our real selves become dormant. We become tiny witnesses to our own lives, while the illness controls us. We are not in charge. We're in there, but helpless to do anything to immediately regain that control. If I could try to make a non-Bipolar understand even a modicum of what we experience, it would be to imagine what it's like to be a hostage. The only flare where we feel a sense of self-possession is during a mania (unless it's a delusional or hallucinatory episode). We feel engaged, vibrant, alive! This is, of course, an illusion. We are just as out of control, if not more so.

My friend, for lack of a better term, may or may not be accepting of her diagnosis. She may or may not be compliant with her treatment plan. These are things on which I am not entirely clear or informed. Something is preventing her stability, and for some reason it affects me deeply. I am sure it is because I identify with that--and I remember her as the little girl she once was. I want to hold her hand and play with her hair like I used to do. I want to go back to a time when life was so much easier for the both of us; when neither of us had to feel this shared pain and agony that has been thrust upon us. Having been her babysitter when we were young, I think I want to take care of her again in a way. To lead her and let her know that things can and will be ok. That it's alright to lay down when she needs to rest, that when she can't keep slogging along, it's ok to sit down for as long as she needs. That when she's ready to try to stand up, she doesn't have to pick up all her burdens at once, but just a little at a time. To slowly build a structure that works for her and to let her know there is enough time in the world to do that. There's no hurry, it's not a race. Yes, it's a fight and some days it will take it all out of her, but the only way to win the fight is to be very well rested and prepared.

I doubt that I will ever have the chance to help, but I will continue to pray for her. She will never be far from my thoughts.

Dear Mom

Almost since I started this blog, I've been trying to write an entry about my mom. It's not an easy thing to do. There's so much there, that it becomes this rambling, epic post that hardly makes sense. I can't say that this post will be any different, but today I have a real need to write about it, so here goes.

The other day, my mother's husband's daughter (I guess that makes her my step-sister. I've never even met the girl, and she's probably 15 or so years younger than me, so it feels really awkward for me to call her that.) asked me to be her friend on Facebook. I had no reason not to accept, and she probably won't even write to me so no issue there. In doing so, I found out my Mom has a Facebook account. All this time, and she'd never invited me to be her friend. I know it sounds silly, but it's my MOM. To be fair, she may not have known I had an account, but in all likelihood she did. I am friends with my niece (who practically lives with her) and I am on my niece's page.

A couple days later, my Mom asked me to be her FB friend. I'm sure she realized that I saw her on my step-sister's page, but then maybe I'm on the psychotic tip a little. Of course I accepted, she's my Mom. Here's the thing: I went to her page and she had listed my sister and my niece as her children. No mention of me. I am suddenly daughter-non grata. You can list anyone you want as your child, they don't have to be on Facebook. So even if she didn't know I had a page, she could have put me there. I can't see any way around this. To her, she still only has two daughters. I am just not one of them. Her granddaughter, (my niece) has somehow become her second daughter.

This may all seem silly and minor to everyone. Compared to everything else she's done to me, it actually is. To me, I think it's just the final acknowledgment that she really doesn't have any special sort of love or even affection for me. I'm just someone to whom she gave birth. A mentally defective person to whom she gave birth.

My Mom has lied to me, manipulated me, stolen money from me, had inappropriate relations with my ex-husband (while he was my husband), accused me of throwing myself at her boyfriend (ewwww), shamed and humiliated me, and so on and so forth. I could sit here for hours describing in detail the times she has deeply wounded me. To what end? To prove that she's Joan Crawford and that I don't deserve what she does to me? I finally have come to the conclusion that things are what they are. I now realize that not only is my Mom a really bad mother, she's kind of a bad person, too.

I was going to use this post as an open letter to my Mom. I can't write to her because there's no point to it. She would tell me that I was crazy and get mad. Then it would become a whole big family thing with my sister and my aunt involved. While I was writing though, I also realized I don't have any anger left in me to say anything to her. She's reduced herself to nearly nothing in my life by being the kind of mother, the kind of person she is. All my life I have forgiven her--no given her PERMISSION--to be the kind of person she is and treat me the way she has. As I grew older and more aware, I pulled away from her because she is toxic. A part of me remained the loving daughter because I always had a tremendous love for my mom. Over time though, she has managed to reduce that love, dismantle it, destroy it. She can say what she likes or think what she likes about me now. If I am not her child anymore, that is ok. I think I stopped being her child in my own eyes a really long time ago, too.