between the broken places

Posts Tagged ‘bipolar disorder’

Unlocking the Last Closed Door

Happy New Year!  May 2010 be even better than 2009.

I am once again stepping onto the path towards the last locked door.  I will travel through the maze of my mental illness, pushing beyond the boundaries of my bipolar disorder and defying the depths of my depression; you are welcome to accompany me if you wish (rafts and life preservers will be furnished upon request).  I had hoped to delve into this journey today, January 1, 2010 but I didn’t…or maybe I did and just didn’t realize it.  I want to share my experiences not just as a diary of daily doings but as a witness to the functioning and non-functioning parts of me with the hopes that some of my solutions for my own life will be of some service or bring some light into someone else’s life.  It’s later than I had hoped to start (10:32 pm – well into my medicated sleep pattern) but I didn’t want to miss starting on the first, so here I am.  As for my diary of daily doings…see below:

I spent the day with my husband and that was nice though by the end of the day he was not feeling well…should I take that personally???

I did not speak to anyone on the phone today, which I’m okay with.  I wished a few Happy New Year wishes to a few loved ones but otherwise didn’t go out of my way.  The way has been blocked since Christmas when a large gathering at my house was both enjoyed and endured until my very nerve endings pulsated in over stimulation.  I’ve needed sleep and silence but have not been afforded much of either.  No one’s fault except my own; I have not asked for the quiet that I long for, thus I have not received it.  Perhaps tomorrow.

This evenings promise to me:  To find purposeful silence tomorrow.

Lesson still needing to be learned and put into action:  Ask for what I want (so much harder than it seems).

Good Night for now.  More tomorrow.

Bipolar Chick

Just Not My Season

How is it that my aloneness can turn a regular day into a cold, murky place where it rains with no wind and I can’t put a coherent thought together?  I’m uncomfortable in my own skin so much so that I had to talk myself into the shower today.  I’m a water person so when I don’t want to shower it’s an issue.  I recognize this, so I jumped in quickly thus assuring myself that it was not really an issue.  Uh huh.

My below the surface, well-hidden stress has my face broken out like a chocoholic fifteen-year old.  I’ve been here before – 30 years ago – breaking out wasn’t pleasant the first time and much less so in my 40’s.  I’ve been eating crap lately – a difficult and painful task after gastric bypass.  Seems all I want to eat is French fries.  That’s some healthy stuff there.  (Think I’ll go turn on the oven)

My dreams have been really vivid lately, an additional sign of lurking issues.  The dreams make no sense but seem very real.  I sleep a lot lately; also not a good sign but a fertile ground for those vivid dreams.  I’ve told my husband that a wave was heading for the shore; not much he can do but pay attention and hope I don’t drown or pull us both under.  Unfortunately, he’s away right now and my daughter’s at school or work so there is no one around to know that I have to shove myself out the front door to get to the life boat.

But where to go once I’m out of the house?  I want to go shopping but that’s a slippery slope.  I’ve been decorating for Christmas and that keeps me busy but isn’t keeping me happy – a strange and unusual experience.  I love this time of year and it rarely brings on depression, if anything I tend to get manic with all of the hustle and bustle.   Not this year, sadness is swirling through my bloodstream, splashing on the shores of my soul and dampening my holiday spirit.  The worst part; I don’t know why.  I don’t always know why but it’s usually not so random.  I don’t do random well.  I’m on a need to know basis with my episodes and right now, I need to know.  But no one’s talking; my brain is providing no clues or maybe I’m just not listening.

The oven just beeped – French fries are ready.  Gotta go.

Eradicating Shame, Blame and Toxic Niceness

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.

Having a Game Plan to Manage Chronic Illness and Mixed Episodes

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.

My Jackson Pollock Mind

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…

Out of Context – Life of a Bipolar Chick

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.

Yes, Bipolar Chick, Bipolar Disorder does Exist!

My version of “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus”
I was awake, what else was I going to do? Enjoy…

DEAR DOCTOR: I am 44 years old.
“Some of my ‘normal’ friends say there is no Bipolar Disorder.
“Mom says, ‘If you have a 296-DSM code it must be so.’
“Please tell me the truth; does Bipolar Disorder exist?

Bipolar Chick – Eradicating Shame, Blame and Toxic Niceness
North Carolina

Dear Bipolar Chick, your friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age or struck blind by the stigma surrounding mental illness. They do not believe except [what] they see or feel. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, BC (May I call you BC?), whether an adult’s or child’s, are little. In this great universe of ours we are a mere speck as compared with the boundless world about us, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, BC, Bipolar Disorder does exist. It exists as certainly as the wild spending of ever-increasing credit card debt and thoughts of grandiosity and sleepless nights exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest of highs and lowest of lows. Alas! How dreary would be the world if there were no Bipolar Disorder. It would be as dreary as if there were no Bipolar Chicks. There would be no need for the 296 DSM codes, no poetry of depression, no romantic manic memories to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light and darkness with which Bipolar Disorder fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Bipolar Disorder! You might as well not believe in cigarette addiction! You might get your friends to watch you everyday waiting for a mood swing, but even if they did not witness a mood swing, what would that prove? Not everyone would recognize a mood swing, but that is no sign that there is no Bipolar Disorder. The most real things in the world are those that people can not see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn (not during an manic episode)? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders that are unseen and unseeable in the world.

No Bipolar Disorder! Thank the Gods! It exists (it explains so many things), and so does treatment. In the not too distant future, Bipolar Chick, you and others like you will come together to fight this good fight. You will rally the troops, march on Capital Hill and demand the world take notice and you will be triumphant.

The world will begin to understand, to sympathize (in a non-condescending, toxic niceness manner) and they will see that Bipolar Disorder is no stranger than Diabetes or Cancer and they will forget their fear and fight for more research and medical intervention.

And someday, Bipolar Chick, you may no longer have to fight to eradicate shame, blame and toxic niceness…someday, we (working together) may eradicate the stigma of mental illness all together.