Quiet and sneaky you crawled out of my heart
At times I can’t tell where I end and you start
When I am strong – you are weak, hard to see
But when you take over I cease to be me
No one’s sure what to call you – disease, illness, disorder
To me you are just a non-rent paying boarder
You bounce through my life from the wild to lazy
They think that it’s me but you bring the crazy
The pills help me keep you contained in a box
But when you leak out it’s my life that rocks
The friends and the loved ones you have not scared away
They no longer demand they just hope day to day
Once surrounded by scorn, fear, shame and blame
I now understand and can call you by name
No longer a victim of your evil steam roller
I shout from the rooftop – That’s Right, I’m Bipolar
When I scream do you listen or do you just hear
Do you know that it’s panic, anxiety, fear
When depression attacks, leaves me deep in the well
Do you know that I’m lost; I’ve been dropped into hell
I try to escape; I long for salvation
But no exit is near on bipolar vacation
When your pain is my pain and my pain is yours
The windows slam shut and so do the doors
Thrown into the darkness, though never alone
We each gasp for breath as we each search for home
Sinking then drowning – what else can we do?
Would I have come here had it not been for you?
The last couple of weeks have been very busy for me. I’ve taken care of stuff around the house that had been ignored while I was recovering from the tonsilectomy. I signed up for my local chapters of NAMI and DBSA. I went to NAMI’s conference and went to two writing classes. I’ve seen my doctor and my Life Coach. I’ve worked on my website, continued to work on my book, done tons of research and gotten out of the house to meet new people. I even found my calendar so that I could keep all of these things straight. I still got the vet appointment wrong and let me tell you how hairy it can be taking 3 Chow Chow’s to the vet on my own.
So now I’m exhausted, not interested in much of anything today…that alone can be the beginning of a bad trend. I was writing last night and I was just out of gas, nothing was coming out of me — at least not the way I was hoping for it to spill out of my brain. I tried to watch tv, I love Glee but couldn’t even get into it. I know, such a Geek.
I just want to sleep today, is that ok? I’m not sleeping well at night, up at all weird hours and unable to go back to sleep. It sucks. I’m supposed to go to a support group tonight and I don’t have the energy. Lame excuse. I hate new gatherings. I’m not good at them. I’m always trying to hide. When I feel this way, I just don’t want to be seen. I’d rather hide in my room — so reminiscent of my teen-age years. Sometimes, I feel like such a coward.
And I want to publish a book and become a public advocate for Bipolar Disorder…on days like today it seems hard to imagine.
Back to bed with covers over my head.
If you’ve never walked into a Psychiatric Hospital in a full blown Bipolar Mixed Mood, it is very hard to understand what it feels or looks like. So to promote understanding, I’m sharing with you the day I went to the psych ward in April 2009.
“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places.”
-Ernest Hemingway A Farewell to Arms
“No matter what happens, don’t let them keep me here.” I waited until the counselor left the room and with the heavy thud of the door I turned to look at my husband, “seriously, I’ve seen The Snake Pit, don’t let them lock me up.”
“Relax, I won’t let them keep you,” he said, opening the book he brought to pass the time.
Anticipating the need for an escape, my eyes darted around the tiny box of a room…wall, wall, door, wall…trapped. “Big mouth,” I muttered to myself, “had to tell them you were trying to crash your car…Everyday…FOR THE LAST THREE WEEKS. No wonder they think you’re crazy.”
“Not crazy, just…” James, my husband of thirteen years, searched for a word less frightening than the truth.
“Suicidal. Yes, I know and that’s so much better than crazy.” I sank back into the chair, eyeing the door while my legs began the dance of the impatient; up and down, side to side, crossed to the left, crossed to the right, bounce, bounce, bounce. Not looking up from his book, James gently placed his hand on my left knee attempting to stop the inferno being stoked inside me. When the counselor returned my entire body went still.
“Ok,” she began talking to my husband, in a too happy sing songy voice, “I’ve spoken with the Doctor and we’d really like to admit her.” Why isn’t she looking at me or for that matter talking to me? She thinks I’m too out of it, too lost, too…broken to understand.
“Hey, I’m not…” I started as James casually pressed his palm firmly into my thigh.
“Is there any other option?” he asked.
“Well, I can see if we can get her into see a Psychiatrist as quickly as possible but it would be better if we could start her on the medication tonight.”
“I’m not staying,” I blurted, “so find me a Shrink and I’m outta here.” James gave me a look that clearly said – “Way to sound in control, crazy girl.”
“It’s not quite that easy. I’ll have to locate someone who takes your insurance and has an opening within a day or so.” Obviously this plan of action required too much work on her part but since I wasn’t staying she needed to get moving on those calls. I stared her down with my best ‘I am perfectly sane and in charge’ glare. She surrendered.
“Wait here.”
“Wait here?” I bolted up, “really? Where else would we go?” I shouted at the closed door, arms waiving in the air. “I’m sure we’re locked in.” I went for the door knob, not locked, hmmm. “Well, did you see the guard at the front door?” I was becoming hysterical, “I’m sure he’s not letting anyone out of here without a fight. Does North Carolina have a 5150?” I continued rambling off questions at an incomprehensible speed. Fortunately, James has known me long enough to decipher my rantings from actual questions and only answered the important one.
“I think if they had a 5150 the Counselor would have told us you were staying, no options.”
“Yeah, but….”
“Hey, breathe. It’ll be fine. They’ll find a Psychiatrist, you’ll get an appointment, we’ll go home and you’ll get a good night’s sleep.”
“But…”
“Sorry, no buts just breathe.”
So we sat and I took long, deep, three part breaths, thank God for Yoga. As the air in the room began to decompress so did I. When the counselor finally returned, forty-five minutes later, I did in fact have an appointment with a Psychiatrist within the required forty-eight hours. I was released into my husband’s care with his signed promise that if I got worse he would return me to the hospital. I stated that I would not kill myself before I saw the doctor. Fair enough…just let me go.
Once I was safe at home, curled in my bed, my twisted brain began to roam…how the hell did I get to this point? My thoughts went back to the end of February, the morning of the lay-offs and the day that eventually brought me to this fresh new hell. Ugh, there’s nothing like rehashing the past and trying to make sense of things that never made sense in the first place.
Eradicating Shame, Blame and Toxic Niceness: What am I talking about?
Shame is what we feel when we think something inside of us is inherently wrong.
Eradicating Shame is done by learning that it’s OK to be who we are…illness and all.
Blame is finding fault with…ourselves, our parents, our illness, heck everything and everyone.
Eradicating Blame is done by taking responsibility for our lives through knowledge and understanding of ourselves and our illness. It’s also about forgiving.
Toxic Niceness is the chronic urge to please or placate others avoiding conflict at all costs.
Eradicating the Toxic Niceness of our Bipolar selves requires learning how to say no, asking for help when it’s needed and taking care of ourselves and our illness.
Eradicating the Toxic Niceness of those who do not have Bipolar Disorder is done through talking about our illness thus educating the public at large and helping to destroy the stigma attached to all mental illness.
I get sick, sometimes a lot during a single year. I go to the doctor – eventually. Usually, I’m so sick I can barely stand up but when it comes to a sore throat I waste no time – I call the doctor immediately. Over reactive? Hypochondriac? Sometimes yes, but also chronic tonsillitis sufferer. In fact,doctors have been telling me for years that they were going to take my tonsils out if I got sick one more time that year – I never did, until this June.
When I woke up with the beginnings of a scratchy throat several days before a scheduled trip, I did what I have done for years; I got a flash light and checked out my tonsils. Red? Check. Bumpy? Check. White spots? Not yet. Call the Doctor? Check. This might seem a bit early for the doc, but I wasn’t taking any chances . I know that ignoring a sore throat can bring on some very nasty days of antibiotics and feeling crappy. So, I’ve learned to be proactive in getting treatment before I get too sick.
To the doctor I went. He agreed that something seemed to be brewing and due to my history of tonsillitis he hooked me up with a mild antibiotic. Now I have to mention here that I cannot take pills, I had gastric bypass in 2008 which left me thinner but also suffering from malabsorption. What that means is because my stomach is so small and some of my intestines have been removed most pills have no time to be absorbed into my system; therefore, I have to take liquid meds. Children’s Motrin-here I come. With meds in hand I went about the business of getting a great tan during my two week trip to the beaches of South Carolina, New Jersey, Maryland and Virginia. I took my meds and enjoyed myself though my sore throat never really went away. As the infection seeped deeper into my blood stream I found myself desperate for a daily nap. Thank goodness that naps are a given when spending your day on the beach or at the pool…all that sun and water.
By the time I returned home I was well into the habit of taking naps and sucking down anything that would deal with the throat pain – for at least a little while. I called the doctor again and was put on a new antibiotic, within days I was sicker, now spending entire days curled up in bed, desperate for relief. A new antibiotic was ordered as were blood tests, pain killers and an appointment with an Ear, Nose and Throat Doc just to get a better idea of what was going on.
I met with the ENT and after a thorough exam he proclaimed that it was time for the tonsils to finally go. I wasn’t surprised but I was a bit nervous as I’d heard that a tonsillectomy is especially painful for adults. I did consider the fact that I’d had several major surgeries; gastric bypass, a cervical discectomy (part of my neck was replaced with a cadaver bone and titanium plate) as well as a burst gallbladder; surely I could manage the removal of a couple of little tonsils. Uh huh, well my hopes were in the right place.
The first issue became the date of the surgery; I was going to have to wait almost three weeks before he could take them out. This might not have been such a big problem but the infection had rendered me exhausted. I spent most of my time in bed and when I did venture out of the house I returned diminished and in need of sleep. I began making meals between the hours of 7am and noon just so everyone else would have something to eat for dinner. This plan allowed me to take afternoon naps, wake up in time to eat and go right back to bed.
Initially, the whole sleeping away the day thing felt indulgent and relaxing but eventually it began to take on the characteristics of the sleep of the depressed. I recognized this fact pretty quickly and in the mornings when I felt the best I would try to work out, nothing too heavy but since it’s a fact that working out can stave off depression, that’s what I intended to do. Unfortunately, working out became too much within a couple of days – back to bed I went.
As the pain grew worse, my sleeping became more erratic – another bad sign for the Bipolar Chick. I became irritable as sleep deprivation took over. I started staying in bed just to spare everyone my wildly inappropriate wrath.
The eighteen days until surgery felt like months but the day finally arrived. When I woke up I was groggy and my throat hurt but the meds and anesthesia were still in effect so I was eating popsicles and moving around so that I could go home. I was doing great that first day- an illusion created by the lingering anesthesia. I kept up with my pain medications and for the first time in weeks, I spent the day hanging out with my family in our living room. The doctor had suggested that I might want to spend the first couple of nights sleeping upright, our couch has recliners so there I stayed expecting a deep sleep. It was not to be. I couldn’t get comfortable and the pain was beginning to be very uncomfortable. And then there was the swallowing. I had no idea how often I needed to swallow just to swallow…Oh Good God…this was horrible.
I couldn’t sleep for more than a couple hours at a time and when I woke up my throat would be so dry and painful that most of the time I could simply gurgle out, “ow” while JC poured my pain meds. Even though the meds liquid, taking them felt like swallowing knives. I would let them sort of just slide down my throat hoping to not have to help it get down. It hurt like hell but the meds did kick in pretty quickly allowing me to relax until I fell asleep again. My husband slept in the guest room for over a week, partially because he snores and didn’t want to keep me awake and partially because I wasn’t really sleeping and I didn’t want to keep him awake. It was not fun.
As anyone who has had a tonsillectomy knows this is one of those recoveries that actually feels worse before it gets better. I was not prepared for that. I had done so well the first couple of days despite the sleep issue that when day three arrived and I wanted to jump off a bridge to ease the pain, I was caught a bit off guard. The ENT’s nurse called and spoke with my husband. She told him yes, in fact, the pain would get worse for about a week and then start the upward battle towards feeling better. Had anyone warned me about this? I don’t think so! And thus the depression slowly began to wrap it’s icing fingers around my brain.
I was in constant pain and getting no more than a few hours of sleep at a time – it’s a recipe for disaster. Even worse, I started to forget to take my regular meds – antidepressant and mood stabilizer. My husband didn’t want to wake me to give them to me and I was too out of it to remember. (sigh). I was slipping into the nether world. I still couldn’t speak. I didn’t get out of bed and was always trying to sleep between pain meds. This seemed like the natural course of recovery and it was – but it couldn’t be for me.
I was being worn down as thoughts of suicide began murmuring empty assurances of pain relief. My therapists have told me for years that I am very self-aware so I knew what to do when this started – call my therapist, hell call anyone. Uh oh, I can’t talk!!! Now what? I didn’t have a plan for this, it had never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to speak clearly or without pain. I literally suffered in silence…never good.
While the depression clawed in for a long stay, I stopped taking my Bipolar medications. Further down the rabbit hole. I had worked out a plan with my husband to have him help me remember my meds but he felt bad waking me up when I slept so little so he would also forget. Just an aside here; he was trying to work from home while I was recuping and I’m sure work got the best of him on most days. Once we realized I wasn’t taking the meds we got back on track. Of course the depression that had set in refused to go quite so easily because I was still stuck in bed all day and if nothing else, that’s just boring -also never good. By day seven, I asked JC (my husband) to take me to the grocery store. I looked like hell but it was wonderful to get out of the house. We walked around – slowly, picked up easy to swallow, soft foods (yuk) and headed home and back to my bed.
Aside from the lack of sleep issue, eating was miserable. As I mentioned, I had gastric bypass almost a year and a half before the tonsillectomy; I no longer ate ice cream very often and not without some pain. Now all I was able to only eat was soft, cold food…ice cream, popsicles, jello and the like. Yes, there are sugar free versions of all of these items – that was not the problem, the lack of protein was the problem. I was stir crazy for a steak but I could barely chew, so meat was out of the question.
Food issues are one of my triggers where my Bipolar Disorder is concerned so I struggled to make peace with what I could and couldn’t eat but depression snuggled in tightly under the covers with me. As I was able to wait longer periods between pain meds and began sleeping for longer amounts of time the shroud of depression began to lift only to make room for the cabin fever that was taking over.
I needed desperately to get out of bed for more than a few minutes. I wanted to take care of myself, get what I needed when I needed it so that is what I started to do. And as lots of people do, I over exerted myself…but God it felt good. I would go outside to get the mail or take out the trash…mmmmm…sunlight. I started doing laundry again and picking up around the house. On post surgery day eleven, I had my first foray into the outdoors for more than just a few minutes – of course this was to walk around the neighborhood frantically searching for my dog, Sam, who had managed to get out while no one was watching.
I spent about an hour walking the streets, yelling (as best I could) for Sam to come home. It was many tears and several hours before we found him and I was once again beaten into the earth in pain. Off to bed, I went. On day twelve, JC had a friend coming over for football and a cookout. I had no part in the adventure but wanted to help out – hey, I was feeling better. So, help I did. I was excited to know that I could eat real food by this point and took part in some of the snacks. I also enjoyed a glass or two of wine, which promptly went to my head and sent me…where? To bed, again. I did get some sleep and felt better when I woke up – one nice part about malabsorption, alcohol doesn’t stay with you long.
On day thirteen, I awoke with a headache and dizziness…hung over? From two glasses of wine? I guess, maybe. I suffered through the day with a miserable headache and the inability to stand up without wanting to fall over. I felt like crap. As the chills crept in I checked my temperature and found that I was running a fever. My body began to ache all over and sleep was near impossible. Day fourteen proved even worse. The ear pain that the ENT had told me about had set in, the dizziness and headache were unbearable and the body aches continued to get worse. I called the doctor and after a brief conference he determined that I was dehydrated with low electrolytes. A diet of lots of fluids, especially Gator Aid, and bananas was in order. I sucked down as much as I could stand and by the next day I did feel better.
Within a few days I was ready for a trip to the store with my daughter. I jumped into her car and let her drive me to Kohl’s and the grocery store – whooo hooo. The weather was beautiful and I was excited to be out with the windows down and the radio blasting. I bought lots of food that I still wasn’t able to eat but hey, wishful thinking. I even bought a new handbag which just made me happy. The next day was spent recovering from that little outing – but one day at a time. One more day and I found myself home alone for the next four days as both my husband and daughter went out of town. Feeling much better, I hopped in my car and went for a drive…this is when the mania began to rear it’s little over spending head. I got a manicure, had a sudden desire to return to my red hair (so I colored it), then I wanted a hair cut – so I went. I even treated myself to a couple of new books and lunch at my favorite salad place. I stopped at Target and did a little more shopping – cute skirt! On and on it went until I returned home and collapsed amidst my purchases, new nails and hair. Ahhhh…sweet hypomania.
I repeated the overspending adventure the next day with a massage, lunch, a visit to my life coach and take-out for dinner. I could feel the adrenaline rush as the wind whipped through the open car windows while the music pounded. I felt better and I deserved it! The next day I was back in bed, so wiped out that I couldn’t keep my eyes open to watch tv. The headache and body pain returned as if to tell me – not so fast. I have stayed close to home since and take naps when I need them. I recognize the depression and hypomania as being triggered from the chronic pain, sleep deprivation and the sheer excitement of finally getting out of the house. It sucks when this happens but I was not surprised by the mood swings, they would have made sense for anyone without Bipolar Disorder. But I do have Bipolar Disorder which makes me more susceptible to the extreme version of these feelings. Here is where self-awareness and education becomes so important for anyone with mental illness. No matter what the chronic pain is from it has the potential to drop kick you into an episode. Honestly, I hadn’t been as prepared as I’should have been.
What would I have done differently? Talked more with the doctors about the medications, the level of pain involved and I would have helped my ENT, who is not an expert with Bipolar Disorder, understand the unique problems facing someone in my situation. I would have worked out a plan with my husband to make sure I took my regular medications on time. I would have ventured out of bed more often, even just for a few minutes just to ward off some of the cabin fever. Woulda, Coulda, Shoula…Live and Learn.
So take care and stay healthy and make a game plan just in case you find yourself in my shoes.
I promise to start blogging again very soon. I got sick in June with a minor illness but it persisted for months and it resulted in having my tonsils removed. Ouch! I’m in recovery now…just had surgery 3 days ago. I’ll be back – full speed – in a week or so. Don’t leave me (very desperate!) I’ll be back. And just remember: It’s me…not you!
My Jackson Pollock Mind
For me, one of the hardest parts of having Bipolar Disorder is trying to hold on to the unrelenting chaos that thrashes about wildly, frantic to escape my head during an episode. Desperate to come forth are thoughts and reasonings that have been mangled beyond recognition: a secret that should remain unspoken (symptom: attention gathering); an allegation of an imagined betrayal (paranoia); an elaborate explanation when simplicity would have served (a loss of self-control). Little of this makes sense to me much less to anyone with whom I struggle to share the experience-akin to explaining a Jackson Pollock painting-you either “get” it or you don’t (If you are unfamiliar with Pollock’s work – Google it and share the adventure). My thoughts and the processes used to arrive at them can prove no less intangible then the Master Abstract Expressionist’s life’s work.
In my world, thoughts and dreams are a synthesis of colors laden with feelings of urgency (I think it; therefore I say it…out loud). Similar to Pollock’s “All-Over” style of painting, my thinking alters points of emphasis or avoids identifiable parts of the whole. In other words, my thoughts and feelings, at times, share no relationship to an actual event-especially when paranoia creeps in. I can mangle an innocent moment into an argument resulting in accusations of infidelity and lies (my poor husband). Low self-esteem doesn’t help the situation yet sadly seems to be par for the course of Bipolar Disorder. Lucky Me!
Pollock’s surreal “drip and splash” method can certainly be used to illustrate my erratic thinking. I’ll demonstrate: a random comment (to me, not to me…doesn’t always matter) is spoken and a select portion of it “drips” into the cauldron of my subconscious. As the words begin to swirl and bubble, imaginary ideas are sprinkled in for flavor, intensifying meaning and misconception. At the moment the fires would normally be lowered to a simmer allowing cooler heads to prevail a little voice in the back of my head begins whispering for me to be quiet, begging me to reconsider the direction I have wandered towards, or to simply pause and reflect. Alas, my brain and mouth come together on a shared mission and “splash” (or perhaps that should be spew) the molten lava that has erupted inside of me. No one within a 100 yard radius is safe. Seriously, even I have to wonder WTF?
In my teens and twenties I was unusually incapable of hitting the brakes on my mouth, especially if alcohol was involved. And since alcohol was/is the self-medication of choice for many people, particularly those with a mood disorder, it was almost always involved. In the land of Ultra Rapid Cycling Mania I could tell little truth, extravagant stories were woven with precision for all to revel in, if not quite believe. Once banished to the depths of Depression no secret was safe as I tried to save the world with the honesty, friendship and love I could not show myself. This crap got me into a great deal of trouble as I tried to tell everyone my version of the error of their ways; or explained how a girlfriend really felt about the guy who liked her (yes, I was telling the guy) or telling one friend what another friend had meant when they told me the secret I was revealing (Oy). Worst of all was when I tried to explain myself…one shouldn’t try to teach what one has yet to learn. Needless to say, life without a filter between mind and mouth creates a dangerous liaison.
There is a saying in Maine, referring to directions from one small town to another: “You can’t get there from here”. Most people would believe the same to be true about a logical thought process (i.e. a conversation between a coworker and our boss does not equal an attempt to exclude me/an attempt to get rid of me/actually anything to do with me). Unfortunately, my train of thought has a GPS and it can locate any place it desires no matter how convoluted the trip.
Maybe it’s time to turn off the GPS and jump the tracks…
Per Dictionary.com the word Context means the following:
con⋅text (noun)
1. the parts of a written or spoken statement that precede or follow a specific word or passage, usually influencing its meaning or effect: You have misinterpreted my remark because you took it out of context.
2. the set of circumstances or facts that surround a particular event, situation, etc.
Bipolar Disorder is an Out of Context mental illness. It takes normal, everyday events or comments and knocks them out of context, sending them back to my brain jumbled, with a trigger attached no longer allowing me to make sense of the situation, much less react in an appropriate manner. This has the ability to leave me paranoid, irrational, confused and suicidal, among other things.
The worst part about thinking out of context, is when those around you realize that’s how your brain works and they use it to their advantage. My ex-husband once told me during an argument that he could love me more if I were prettier. Yes, his exact words; “I could love you more if you were prettier.” There were no surrounding sentences to place this comment into some wacked out context; it was a random thought thrown towards my head with the speed of a flying dinner plate. He tried to play it off, told me I had misunderstood…again. That I was always picking individual comments and holding people accountable for my “out of context” interpretation.
To this I say: HEY! Speak in context…say what you mean and mean what you say. I’ve got enough trouble trying to sort out all your crap on a daily basis. I don’t want to have to decipher your comments as if they were Di Vinci’s Code. Yes, my brain twists the truth and tells me lies…I don’t need any help from idiots who think it’s funny to watch me react badly to something and then try to wrestle myself out of the cage I’ve locked myself into.
When I am living “Out of Context”, I am forever apologizing for not understanding what someone was trying to say, for taking something to heart that wasn’t meant to go there or for reacting to someone else’s action as if it were meant only to hurt me. This is why I have had to learn about my “triggers”.
Triggers are unhappy, sad or even joyful events that can make depression or mania more likely to occur. The baseline trigger is generally something that happened in the past which caused an extreme reaction and now some new event twists the Bipolar brain into a visceral response because of some familiarity to the initial situation. With the exception of the originating moment, the new reaction is an “out of context” moment caused by Bipolar Disorder. This is why we have to learn our triggers, understand how they played out in the first place and put the whole situation back into context to help avoid new and exacerbated reactions.
