I’ve been gone from my social network since the middle of May, I’d love to say that I was doing exciting and rewarding things but mostly I’ve been trying to dodge the tornado of pain that has wracked my mind, body and soul – very dramatic stuff, I assure you. Actually any one of the life experiences I’ve had so far this year would not be such a big deal had they occurred one at a time instead of a whirling dervish bent on knocking me over and keeping me on the floor. Sure they would hurt and a couple of them would have been as painful as they were even if they had happened alone but I’ve been stuck in a wind tunnel stuck on high and wild.
Here’s a recap of the first seven months of 2010.
January: My husband is laid off from work for the first time in his life – his depression presents as argumentative, boiling anger and self-loathing – good times. As for me, I was shipped off to an orthopedic doctor with hopes of finding the cause of neck and arm pain that had plagued me since August 2009.
February: Husband’s depression becomes darker as his nerves become more sensitive to everything. Our youngest daughter struggled with choices of college majors – for the umpteenth time – she dropped out of the semester at the end of the month – we lost all of the cost of that semester, not a financial issue I really wanted to have with my unemployed husband. As for me…I found out that I had adjacent disc degeneration with a bulging disc and would need surgery to alleviate my arm and neck pain. I did get to spend a wonderful weekend in snow encased DC to celebrate a friend’s 50th birthday – of course while I was there (in DC) I was called by my doctor’s office to schedule the Anterior Cervical Discectomy with Fusion that I would be having the following Friday – buzz kill. February ended with my surgery.
March: Six weeks of recovery. Boring, stay in bed, take my meds and sleep kind of recovery. I felt really good¬ – something different then the first ACDF that I had in 2005. Feeling good created a problem – I wanted to get up and move but when fusion is involved you can’t lift anything heavier than a gallon of milk and movement should be limited at least for a couple of weeks. I forced myself to stay in bed for seven days and then I went back to life. Unfortunately, my neck and arm pain didn’t seem better – at all.
April: Husband still unemployed and starting to really feel the pressure of financial instability – I still have pain killers so I’m not caught up in the financial reality that would usually have me running to the grocery store to stock the house with food (it’s a weird thing I do when I feel broke). When I went back to the orthopedic surgeon my lack of recovery from pain hurts his pride as he is certain that he did all that his godly hands could do. According to him I should not hurt – sorry to disappoint. The doc schedules a CT Myelogram because now that I have two titanium plates in my neck an MRI won’t show nerve compression – he also schedules an EMG (it involves long needles shoved into my muscles and moved around to register nerve damage – I had it twice before – fun stuff). As all of these tests are being scheduled my uncle succumbs to lung cancer. Approximately 30 hours in the car while wearing a neck brace, several days with way too many family members and just the shear emotional exhaustion of a funeral leaves me teetering at the precipice of depression.
Okay, I don’t know about you dear reader but I’m finding all of this stuff a bit depressing so I’m going to give us all a break and cut it off here for now. I’ll finish in a couple of days and I promise there is more crappy stuff to come – it’s been a helluva year so far.
I’d like to share a coping skill that I use when I feel that depression is sinking into my heart and soul.
I know when it’s coming, the signs may be unseen by others and they are surely quiet and sneaky to me but I’ve learned to see them from a distance; sleeping in the middle of the day (I work from home – so I can take a nap), slowing down in my movement and thinking, and a desire to listen to sad music (I have a play list – it’s a BIG sign). So what can I do to take control of this situation and stave off the oncoming pain? I use music therapy and here is how it goes:
I play my sad song play list – these songs include: “Hurt” by Christina Aguilera, “Little Rock” by Colin Raye (I can’t really explain that one), “Wild Horses” by Charlotte Martin and more.
Once I have adequately driven myself into my pain the music changes to angrier stuff: “Bitch” by Meredith Brooks, “Breaking the Habit” by Linkin Park, “She Hates Me” by Puddle of Mud and “Break Stuff” by Limp Bizkit – this is awesome “get my ass out of bed” music!
Now, once I am significantly annoyed with myself for letting depression in the door, I listen to my empowering and sunshiny music: “Ain’t Nothin Wrong with That” by Robert Randolph, “I Don’t Need a Man” by the Pussycat Dolls, “It’s My Life” by Bon Jovi and “The Prayer of St. Francis” by Sarah McLachlan.
And now my day can continue, I have taken control, allowed myself some time to wallow and then moved on to angry and finally and most importantly I become empowered to take back my day. This may not work for anyone else and I would suggest if you wish to try it that you put all the music on one CD as you may not know when to move to the angry stuff. Let me also suggest that you create your CD when you are in a good, stable mood – it allows you to monitor the music you choose, falling off the cliff is not permitted.
So here is my thought for the day – Bipolar Disorder doesn’t mean I’m broken ~ it means I’m AMPLIFIED (and so is my music)
Oh, one last note: when my husband hears the sad music, he knows what’s happening and he is on alert to make sure the angry music shows up- he’s a great guy!
So, I was going to bitch about several issues that have been brewing in that steel cauldron known as my mind but I found something much more important to share. Never fear, I’ll return to the bitchfest shortly but for now I want to tell you about a woman I recently met through a yahoo email group.
Her name is Diane Moore and she runs a nonprofit organization called, Striving 4 More. Diane founded this organization to honor her 8 year old daughter, Colleen, who lost her battle with cancer and to help those children who will follow. Diane’s purpose is to provide emotional support to children with cancer – something that can prove sorely lacking amidst the frenetic war that is waged to save the child from the physical illness. As Diane states, “the pain of childhood cancer isn’t just physical.”
Diane envisions of a community where all children with cancer and their families can receive emotional and spiritual support. While reading her website – www.striving4more.org – I was reminded of my own time as a mother of a child with cancer. In the telling of my experiences, I realized that I had been very lucky because I was bipolar and having bipolar disorder provided a perspective for me not easily viewed by other parents. I have been so moved by Diane’s story and my own memories that I’m in the process of adding my sponsorship to a local fundraiser for Striving 4 More. Please stop by Diane’s site, read about her beautiful daughter and her valiant mission, and if you feel the desire – please donate to this wonderful cause.
And now my Chicklets, gather ‘round as I share my own story, entitled: “How My Bipolar Disorder Saved Mother’s Day”. It’s a long one – settle in. 2001 was not an easy year for my family. My husband, JC, was in the United Arab Emirates on a year-long deployment with the Air Force. My youngest daughter, Kate, was having trouble in school and had come to live with me while I was living with my mother. And my three dogs had not taken well to the move from DC and began fighting violently –leaving me no choice but to send the one dog that we were fostering back to the rescue league, she had become my husband’s dog and he was not happy with me for sending her back. And this was just in the first six months.
As summer arrived life seemed to get better; JC had returned home, Kate was progressing and we had moved out of my mom’s house and into the base housing. Unexpectedly, a week after JC returned home I was laid off; two weeks later September 11th happened and everyone’s world seemed to crash. JC was off to Afghanistan within a couple of weeks and I was home alone, stranded on an Air Force base that was too close to New York City.
Again, life continued and my moods stabilized. I found a new job and my husband was coming home by New Years Eve and then Kate got out of the car and hit her arm. Her cry of pain seemed out of context for a bump on the car door – I went to investigate. What I found when I reached her was a gumball size, purple and black lump. I immediately called my mother. She suggested the doctor and off we went. (Side note, my ex-husband had just served me papers to increase the child support that I was paying.)
The very first thing the doctor said to me was, “Don’t worry, it’s not cancer.”
“Oh, well, geez, that’s good,” was all I could manage because honestly, it had never occurred to me that it was cancer.
Kate had her first surgery – a routine biopsy – in January 2002. Two weeks later a different doctor was telling me that my 11 year old daughter had Dermatofibrosarcoma Protuberans, a rare cancer that was even more rarely found in children. We were sent to Children’s Hospital in Philadelphia (affectionately known as CHOP) and the process began. Oddly, being a stabile bipolar had prepared me for this crisis that easily could have triggered a deep depression. Instead of a relapse I went into Momma Tiger mode and held off my own emotions to take care of my baby.
Onward we went to fight the cancer. When Kate was being prepped for her second surgery the surgeon found a spot under her left arm that he wanted to remove. This “skin tag” had always been in her underarm and her pediatricians had never thought anything of it – two weeks later we found out that it was also DFSP and a third surgery was scheduled.
Kate endured a great deal of pain and embarrassment. The cancer had been found in her left arm and of course she is left-handed, she was mortified when she realized I would have to bathe her – no 11 year old should have to suffer that! She moved in permanently with JC and me as she went through the experience. Once we had been given the word that she had good margins and was cancer free the Air Force transferred us to Texas.
As die hard Jersey girls, Kate and I had a tough adjustment period in Texas. Kate was so desperate to separate herself from being “the girl with cancer” that she began to use her middle name – Leigh. She also went completely into her tomboy stage by keeping her hair almost in a buzz cut and only wearing boy’s clothes. I was frequently asked about my son. As time went on Kate slowly moved to her Goth stage. And this is when the brutal teasing began at school. A deeply Christian small town, Kate’s goth attire fueled the nastiness of middle school kids. When Kate proclaimed affiliation to any church, the kids threw tiny bibles and perfume to baptize her. We went to the school and complained – to no avail. Kate slowly dipped into depression and this is where my bipolar disorder saved the day – I recognized the symptoms that were all too familiar. I knew I had to get her to a therapist and because she knew I was seeing one she did not resist going.
It was at the first appointment when I was stunned by the revelation that my now 12 year old Goth kid was using broken glass to cut herself. Again, this was a situation that could have been a big trigger for me but staying constant in my own therapy helped me avoid relapse. I can’t say this time was easy but JC and I knew – because of my struggles – that we needed to allow a certain amount of freedom of expression for our troubled daughter. We found out that she chose to cut herself so that she would not hurt someone who was tormenting her. I’ll be honest here – we told her to hit the other kid instead of cutting – she never did but I think it gave her a bit of freedom knowing that she wouldn’t get in trouble if she did.
We also allowed the Goth stage, though we had specific rules – no dark/depressing music after 6 pm – she didn’t need to fall asleep feeding her sadness. Because she enjoyed classical music we found soft music to lull her to sleep – music therapy has always worked for my mood shifts. The dark clothes were allowed but no piercings or tattoos – she actually hates needles so this part wasn’t hard for her to comply with. We created a “suicide agreement” in which she agreed to call her step-father if she ever felt like hurting herself. We explained that cutters can accidentally kill themselves by cutting too deeply and not seeking help – we showed her how to avoid this – yes, I know a hard task to imagine. We needed her to know that we could talk about anything she was feeling just as I always spoke openly about my bipolar disorder. She held her emotions in, so she was given permission to “flip out” on her parents if that was what she needed to do – corrective actions would be discussed at a later date.
This exercise in patience and tolerance was possible because of our experiences with bipolar disorder. We understood the chaos the depression and manic anger could produce because we had already gone through it with me. We knew that dealing with and managing a relationship with someone who was not able to control their emotions was a difficult task but again dealing with my mental illness had laid the foundation for compassion and a game plan of support. Life began to settle for each of us as Kate opened up to her new therapist. The gentle songs of music therapy slowly replaced the dark, angry Goth music. And Kate learned to let her pain out on paper instead of cutting. In 2003 she wrote me the following poem for Mother’s Day.
Dear Mom,
In all these short years that I’ve lived, we’ve gone through many things.
Things we may not speak of, things we did enjoy.
Days when we both thought we’d break, bright memories that we share.
All those times I cried, you were always there.
No one can replace you, no one can come close.
All the help you’ve given me…I treasure you the most.
Happy Mother’s Day!
Love, Katie
So there it …understanding Bipolar Disorder gave me the tools to reach my own recovery and helped my daughter learn how to save herself. Kate and I are different in many ways but we recognize each other through our pain and that has created a very deep bond.
I suffered a relapse in 2009 and it was Kate along with JC who helped me find my way out. We laugh about our “craziness” a lot.
Kate is now 19, cancer free and studying to be a Pastry Chef. I could not be prouder of her.
In response to a recent Healthy Place newsletter story titled, “Are you your psychological disorder”, I say YES – I am.
I am Bipolar, just as I am a redhead, I am Irish and Native American, I am diabetic. None of these descriptive phrases cause me shame or bring stigma into my life. I recognize that this in not true for everyone and I do agree that people don’t refer to themselves as, “cancer” or “heart disease”. However, many do state that they are, “diabetic, lactose intolerant, overweight”. Stating that, “I am bipolar” is empowering to me. The phrase gives me ownership of a chronic condition (unlike my red hair which is showing way too much gray!). For me it shows that I have accepted my illness, which allows me to control it better. Saying, “I have bipolar disorder” has a victim mentality to me and I am no victim. I speak freely and honestly about my disorder and saying, “I’m bipolar” -which I say with pride- works for me.
This is not a condemnation on those who state, “I have bipolar disorder”. This is a very personal statement that some people can’t say at all. The phrase is a matter of individual preference and however you choose to state your relationship to your disorder is your choice.
My uncle, Robert Edward Kennedy, lost his valiant fight against cancer on Friday, April 22, 2010. This is the last picture taken of him on the day he died.
My uncle is dying. Early last summer we found out that cancer had once again infiltrated our family. I called him when I heard the news, he was surprised – I hadn’t spoken to him over the phone in over 10 years – I had seen him in that time. He told me his diagnosis and he remained positive but I already knew what stage 3b lung cancer meant and I knew in my heart that he would not survive the onslaught he was about to go through. I wasn’t trying to be negative – it was just something that I knew; I did not share that news with anyone but my husband.
My uncle’s impending battle arrived on the heels of my mother’s 12 month battle to keep her partner and my grandmother and grandfather alive or at least comfortable. Joe, mom’s partner of 22 years passes in January 2009; my grandfather passed the following May. My grandmother, a tough old broad, is hanging in – though I can’t imagine what it must be like to watch her youngest slowly precede her in death. I have stayed mostly out of the fray of emotions during my uncle’s illness. I live too far away to “run up” to visit and several surgeries of my own have kept me never straying too far from my bed.
A prolonged illness and imminent death is not easy for most people. Unfortunately, for me it is also a trigger for depression, so I stay as removed from it as possible – especially when cancer is involved. My step-father died after losing his battle with lymphoma. My relationship with him is the stuff of many more posts – suffice it to say that his death laid the path to my eventual diagnosis of bipolar disorder.
Since that time, I have lost others – all the while maintaining my distance. Honestly, the closest I’ve been to death was 19 months ago when my beloved dog, Fox, had to be helped on his way to the otherside – he had bone and lung cancer. I sobbed, my husband sobbed, I sobbed harder – that pain was pure and uncomplicated by years of a less than perfect relationship. When Fox died, with my hands on his face and his eyes locked on mine, my heart stopped beating for a while as my pain and sadness flowed freely.
When a family member dies it’s never uncomplicated and that’s the part that sets off my triggers. In my head there is some weird struggle over who is more hurt by the loss – it’s embarrassing to even admit. Because I knew my uncle would not survive his illness, I tried to be there instead for my cousins, my mom and my grandmother. I send him cards to let him know that I’m thinking of him but I don’t call – I don’t want to be in the way. I pray that he crosses over quickly each time I’m given a report of his terrible pain. I search for things to say as I listen to my mother cry over the phone. I discuss travel arrangements for the funeral that is to come and I send facebook messages of love to family and friends – all the while keeping my distance.
My mother bridged the distance today with on brief comment and now I can’t sleep as I try to reel in the complicated years of relationships that revolve around my mother. She called me to tell of her weekend with my sister at my uncle’s house in Connecticut. She told of his physical pain, his wife’s physical and emotional pain and the sheer exhaustion of his oldest son who has taken leave to help out. I asked her if she had told her brother that it was okay to go – she said she had and started to cry. And then I asked her if she understood why I was not having the hard time that she was having – stupid, door opening question.
She said she knew that he and I weren’t that close. I reminded her that as the eldest niece, I’d actually known and loved him 15 years longer than his own kids.
Well, she knew that I had been angry with him. Yes, when I was in my late teens he admonished my mother (his big sister) for letting her kids be out of control- so; yes, I had been angry with him almost 30 years ago because he’d hurt her feelings. Oh, yeah there was that comment he made when he and I were both going through a divorce and he eluded to the fact that I was not a good mother – just like his soon to be ex-wife (and my favorite aunt) – that had been 16 years ago.
Mom went on to say a few other things and we finally just said goodbye.
What I wanted to remind her was that my beloved Uncle Bob is only 17 years older than me – hardly old enough to be my parent. That during the first year of my life, she and I lived with my grandparents while my uncle who was a senior in high school. I wanted to say that he is the only family member that I resemble, that he and Aunt Pat made me their first child’s godmother, that they were my sponsors at Confirmation and that I was the first of my generation to love him and that losing him will hurt me in ways that no one else will understand.
Of course as I write this I realize that my brain is twisting my thoughts, creating anger where there is only sorrow and a distinct need to not feel it. My Uncle Bob’s death will touch many people including four generations of our family. With any luck my twisty brain will stay home and only my heart will show up to comfort and be comforted when his time has come to pass.
Historically, this time period was once considered an accurate representation of a significant amount of time. In England, the period was the amount of time a married couple had to be married before a spouse had any claim to a share of inheritable property. In medieval Europe, a runaway serf became free after a year and a day. In the US, when a legal judgment has been reversed a fresh action may be lodged within a year and a day, regardless of the statute of limitations. In neo-paganism, a handfasting (marriage) is considered binding after a year and a day, until that time either party may freely leave the marriage. Many groups require a year and a day of study and practice before one is considered knowledgeable and committed. “A year and a day” has held a special meaning to me for many reasons.
So, imagine my surprise when I realized that today was a very significant “year and a day” for me.
It has been one year and one day since I found myself sitting in a mental institution. It has been one year and one day since I officially stopped working in Corporate America. And it has been one year and one day since my feet landed, not so firmly, on the path that has led me out of the woods and back to myself.
I had forgotten “me” during the Corporate America years; I had become a co-worker, staff member, associate, manager, boss and as my ex-husband once put it, “a brief case carrying, Honda driving, bitch of a business woman” – one small piece of the puzzle explains the “ex” before husband.
I had forgotten the girl who wanted to be a famous author (pen name – Whitney Chabot – I was 11, don’t laugh), own a toy store (The Teddy Bear Express), own a book store (Into The Mystic), be a lawyer, be a princess, be a super hero! I let my dream self go in increments: I wrote off and on and created wild scenarios for fantastical books (there’s the one about 7 guardians in a magical world, with 7 magical pendants, the betrayal of family and the love of soul mates – ahhh). I managed a toy store in the mall for a while and I still collect stuffed animals and the occasional Barbie – most are now in a closet. I’ve never worked in a book store but I own enough books to start one. As for the law degree – I became a legal assistant – less school, faster gratification. Princess – I act like one, does that count? And Super Hero – now that one, I’ve done. As many of you know my alter-ego is Bipolar Chick, the Bipolar Manager!
As Bipolar Chick, I stomp the stigma towards mental illness, I speak loudly and proudly – sometimes from tall buildings – about my experiences with bipolar disorder, I disarm blame and shame with wit and humor, and I am faster than a speeding ignorant remark when it comes to fighting toxic niceness. I AM Bipolar Chick, the Bipolar Manager – I’ve got it and I manage it – it’s the only way for me to get out of bed EVERY day. Okay – I don’t get out of bed EVERY day – but when I stay there it is a conscious choice.
Bipolar Chick’s evolution over the last year and a day has been the stuff of wild mythology. As a nickname that I gave to myself, Bipolar Chick seemed a perfect name for my Super Hero. Bipolar Chick’s super powers began to take shape during a mind numbing relapse that was ten years in the making. It took many months but eventually my super hero self was strong enough to save me from – well – me.
My new found super strength led me to creating a website singing the praises of Bipolar Chick and her mission to “Eradicate the shame, blame and toxic niceness surrounding mental illness”. Super self-confidence has solidified my vision of a world that accepts my illness as if it were any other illness – such as diabetes. Having a super hero alter ego has also made me stronger in my everyday life as just me – Deb – wife, mother, friend and all around awesome chick.
During the last year and a day I have found stabilization, peace and purpose. I have made new friends and reconnected with old ones. I have written the first draft of my first book and have jumped into blogging and poetry. During the last year and a day I have studied and become a Certified Life and Wellness Coach, I have become a business owner and I have remembered many of my long lost dreams.
Now is the time for me to share what I have learned. I offer coaching to all who have a problem to solve, a goal to reach, a dream to make reality. I work with others suffering from bipolar disorder as they climb the ladder towards Bipolar Management. I love being a mentor, coach, problem solver and muse. I want to work with you, to help you reconnect with your Super Hero self. I want to be on your Bipolar Management Team.
Here’s to a wonderful new year and a day – come join me.
I’ve been waiting for “Someday” – But I wait no more because TODAY is my “Someday” and it’s time to get started!
I’ve ignored blogging lately. It’s not that I haven’t been thinking about blogging, but I’ve been so busy with surgery, recovery and other family and business stuff that blogging has become an ongoing, terse conversation between my writer voice and my business voice. In the background the 5 year old me dances alone the creative corner of my mind waiting for the grown up me to show up. So the conversation in my head continues as my dance of indecision becomes a whirling dervish of ideas without actions. It sort of reminds me of my dog chasing her tail; round and round she goes, never catching up, frustrated until she just gives up.
I spend a lot of time THINKING about what to post each day. Random ideas and conversations swirl in my brain, begging for my attention – still I don’t write. I busy myself with reading other peoples blogs while ignoring mine. It’s hard for me to even understand my stand offishness because I love blogging – it is one of my favorite creative outlets.
Then as if hit in the head with my Fairy Godmother’s wand (of course, I have a Fairy Godmother) – I realized!
This is why I’ve become a Life Coach – I am not the only one stuck dancing in my head.
The fact is, the reason I haven’t been dipping into my creative mojo is because it simply isn’t my priority right now. I want it to be. I’ve asked myself, “Why am I keeping all this information and these witty comments to myself?” I’m a Life Coach, these are the questions I should be posing to my clients but instead my coach is asking me what I’m afraid of.
“What if I blog out all I have to say? What will I put in my book?”
My coach, Bonnie, looks at me from across the room one eyebrow raised, “Really, you think you could blog away everything you know?”
“Of course not but…”
“Oy with the buts! Take a good look at your actions. You’re simply not doing it. You’ve made other things a priority and left out your favorite activity. Back to writing, Cinderella – it’s what you do.”
She’s right and I know it, so once AgAiN I am promising myself that I will write a pithy blog at least 3 times a week. I’ve got lots to say – especially now that I’m a Coach.
So, I respectfully request the honor of your presence as we board the bus to Bipolarland ~ pack a lunch, this could be a long ride.
Did you know that over 50% of Depression suffers will NOT seek treatment because of the stigma surrounding mental illness? During any given year there are 5.7 million people suffering from Bipolar Disorder. You do the math ~ that’s a lot of people who won’t even go the doctor for treatment ~ makes you wonder who they are talking to. Of course, that could give you a glimpse into why over 45% of people with Bipolar Disorder will attempt suicide.
Now that I’ve enlightened you with such uplifting information, I’ll get to the reason for this post.
Most of you know that I suffered a severe depression last year that lead to months of suicidal thoughts and a great deal of physical pain. By the time the episode had retreated I no longer had a job (not a bad thing, really). It is my firm belief that if we (the world at large) spoke openly about Mental Illness and treated it with the same compassion that we treat other illnesses, my relapse would have been avoided. Sadly, stigma about Mental Illness remains strong.
That’s why I am fighting to Eradicate the Shame, Blame and Toxic Niceness surrounding Mental Illness. I am working with the local chapter of the National Alliance for Mental Illness (NAMI) to help educate the world. Here is where I need your help.
NAMI is hosting their 6th annual Walk and I’m writing to ask you to sponsor me or join me if you can.
I have always been very open about my Bipolar Disorder but most people are not as Loud and Proud as I am and that is a shame.
Thanks for your time.
And remember, when life becomes a rollercoaster, sit in the front seat, throw your hands in the air and enjoy the ride.
