How Did I Get So Lucky?

Before delving into the more wacky side of bipolar disorder/depression/generalized anxiety disorder (That’s right, forgot to tell you about the latter, didn’t I? Silly me!), let me take a moment to say how grateful I am for this, that, and the other.  Not for the illness.  No, never for that.  But for other things.

Starting with “this”: I’m grateful for you, my readers.  When I started this blog I had no idea how it would be received.  Face it, a lot of people out there still make wide circles around us “mentally interesting” people.  (Wish I could take credit for the “mentally interesting” comment. Credit fully goes to Jerrod Poole at Crazy Meds.) I’ve had it happen to me at a time when I really needed some support. But overall, I’ve been embraced!  I’ve spoken about my battles at Toastmaster meetings. (Funny thing, social situations ramp up the anxiety probs, but public speaking rocks!)  I’ve been very open on Facebook about the wars I fight and have not had one single negative comment.  Not one!  And as far as I can tell, no one has “unfriended” me, thinking I’m some kind of loony-tune on the verge of creating mayhem.  Heh-heh.  And you…you have given me such support.  Okay, I’m getting teary here, and probably more gushy than you’d like.  I’m so incredibly humbled by your comments and your messages to me.  I’ve discovered there’s a bunch of us mentally interesting people as well as people who don’t ordinarily hack at the demons of a challenged neurotransmitting system, but are having temporary problems.  Whether brought on by environmental causes or physiological issues, it doesn’t matter.  Even brief travels into the world of the demons is harrowing.  So thank you.  Again, I’m humbled and honored.

Next is “that”: my doctors.  I live in a community of 17,000 people in a rural county of 40,000 inhabitants in SE MO.  Get the picture? Small community, poor rural area…not a place where one would expect to find stellar health care.  Yet I have!  I’ll start with my medical doc.  When we moved to our little corner of the world we had no idea who to choose for a primary care physician.  Should we just open the phone book, close our eyes, and point a finger?  Seemed the best way…in fact the only way.  Instead, we actually went to the trouble of asking our neighbors who they saw.  Turns out their doctor was a geriatric doc, but their office steered us to the office of a young doctor.  Doc C.M. is a genius.  Seriously.  For my husband’s neuropathy, a pain specialist in a fancy hospital in the big city of St. Louis told us our doc was treating it just exactly as he would and he wouldn’t change a thing.  Doc C.M. is always on the lookout for new treatments, as well.  He’s treated one son’s ADHD beautifully and another’s anxiety perfectly, in addition to the myriad other health issues we call on him to solve.  He’s actually cared enough about me to “yell” at me that I need to accept that I have a medically recognized ailment.  And yelled at me when I discovered the extent of my anemia.  He didn’t know a nurse practitioner who worked with him at the time had seen the test results but only mentioned that my iron was a little low and I might want to consider taking supplements.  I hope you know he doesn’t actually raise his voice, but it’s possible to yell without actually doing so.  We do it to our kids when they act up in public.  Anyway, he’s great.

Now, I’m even more blessed with my pdoc (psychiatrist).  Do you know how difficult it is to find a good pdoc?  Hmmm?  I went through two at a fancy hospital in a big city (recurring theme here).  The first ditched me when he no longer accepted our insurance.  I fired the second when he said there was no possible way I could have a certain side effect from a particular drug.  Bullhockey.  I was quite easily able to find that side effect online in the drug’s information sheet.  Geez!  I was in tears and, quite frankly suicidal, when I went to see a nurse practitioner who shares office space with my MD.  She’s great.  She made a phone call to a friend who’s a psychiatric nurse practitioner and I had an appointment less than a week later.  

My depression is apparently quite difficult to treat and she wasn’t really getting anywhere, so she referred me to my pdoc, whose office is next door to hers  I loved him immediately.  I was so low I could barely respond to his questions, but I appreciated how he didn’t just go over a checklist as my former pdocs did.  He listened.  He paraphrased.  He genuinely wanted to know what I was experiencing.  Then he explained how the various neurotransmitters work with regards to mood.  Wow!  I was getting therapy, a pdoc’s expertise, AND an education all in one meeting.  It was fabulous.  And rather than throwing the baby out with the bathtub as my former docs did, he suggested tweaking the mood stabilizer I was on.  And at later appointments, as I described how and what I was feeling, he explained what he wanted to do and why…which neurotransmitter a particular drug would effect and why he wanted to make an adjustment.  He doesn’t like to prescribe medical cocktails, but has found it necessary to place me on four different medications, all very carefully monitored and adjusted.  He admits my case is difficult to treat, partly because I respond atypically to most antidepressants.  In other words, Prozac should send me on a wild rampage when instead it causes me to become one with the couch.

Each time I’ve seen him, he goes back over what I told him before, reviews notes made by my therapist, then carefully listens to what I have to say.  And when I’m doing well he appears to genuinely be happy!  His eyes actually sparkle.  And he seems to enjoy chatting with me about the medical side of drugs, brain cooties, etc.  He also reassures me that in his practice he sees a wide variety of people, including professionals, so I shouldn’t feel inferior.  I could go on and on, but you get the picture.  And here he is, a Pakistani native, living and working in a small rural town in Southeast Missouri.  What a blessing.

My therapist is another blessing.  She listens, she talks with me, she explains the how’s and why’s of what I’m experiencing.  She shares little bits and pieces about her own life.  She never rushes me (neither does my pdoc).  She’s genuine, sincere, professional, approachable, funny, and a great listener, even when I ramble, which, sadly, is often.  J  Kind of a bipolar trait.  She explains well the byproducts of my various brain cooties and why some things are difficult for me, like maintaining order in my house.  Like finishing projects (anyone want to decorate a tree for me?).  Like skipping appointments because I’m just not able to leave the house.  Stuff like that.  And she’s non-judgmental.  Better yet, she’s helped me let go of a lot of baggage.  Very simple suggestions and comments that absolutely ring true.  She’s a true blessing in my life.

Medication.  ‘nuff said. 

My family for patiently and lovingly enduring my ups and downs.

Now for “the other”: my husband.  Oh, my goodness.  I seriously don’t know what I’d do without him.  Two hospitalizations (I know, I’ve only blogged about one.  Part deux will be forthcoming.  Don’t touch that dial!), depression so dark that I couldn’t get out of bed, depression not quite that dark but deep enough that I can barely function, half-finished projects, an inability to keep up with laundry and housekeeping, hypomanic spending (Be honest…you know what I mean.), and more.  He endures patiently, lovingly, and with worry.  When my downs appear to be darker or lasting longer than usual, he begs me to call the doctor. He has no problem with eating grilled cheese sandwiches or frozen pizza (cooked, of course) for dinner.  He’s asked me over and over to not apologize, to the point I had to make a pact.  I’m sick, he says, and he knows what illness does to a person’s ability to carry out responsibilities.  He also understands when I spend “good” feeling days doing something I enjoy rather than something necessary.  Well, except for laundry.  He kind of likes having clean underwear and shirts.  But he gets it.  And when he doesn’t, he tries to understand.  And sometimes I need a reality check which he gives with love and concern.  I could go on and on.

And as awful as it has been, can be, and may be again, maybe I should be grateful for my illness.  It’s taught me to be patient with myself.  Actually, no, that’s a lie.  I’m still not patient with myself.  But I am more patient with others.  I feel I’m more compassionate and I’m learning to accept my God-given gifts for what they are. 

I am, indeed, one lucky woman.

No, it isn't! (Not to be confused with "No, I Don't!"

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No!! It isn’t!”

“Yes! It is.”

Every few weeks I’d have this “discussion” with my hubby who insisted that my mood and energy swings were related to PMS.  To be honest, I was finally starting to see it that way, too, just before being diagnosed as having Bipolar Disorder.  Of course, this was after about 15 years of marriage, so there was plenty of time to have this “discussion”.

And face it, ladies, don’t you hate having any bad mood or angry outburst attributed to being “that time of the month”?  Talk about feeling invalidated!  Like I we can’t be legitimately angry or be in a bad mood.  Since we’re women it’s only because of all these wacky hormones flowing through us.  So, naturally I wasn’t happy having any and all bad moods attributed to PMS.  And as much as I adore my husband (and I did and really, really do…couldn’t get through this without him and his support) I did occasionally actually get angry about something and became even more angry when he felt it was “just my PMS talking”. Besides, there were so many other weird symptoms that went along with the bad moods/depressive states such as sleeping a lot, feeling achy like a bad case of the flu, ear/sinus pain, and just generally feeling sick.  Well, I know now these symptoms aren’t uncommon with the downside of BPD, and even with unipolar depression.

But I did know there was something else going on. I just didn’t know what it could be.  Mental illness never crossed my mind, though I knew I had extended periods of depression.  Still, BPD is portrayed as the wild and crazy BPD I.  Very little is publicly known or publicized about BPD II, or other numbers on the spectrum trail.

So, we “discussed” it periodically.  The thing was, I knew my symptoms didn’t follow a PMS course.  My symptoms were regular, but not on a monthly cycle.  My episodes were much briefer then, as is more typical of BPD.  Short episodes of mania/hypomania and periods of depression intermixed with periods of feeling “normal” (again, whatever that is).  I loved the hypomanic state…calling it my “euphoric” period.  I was brilliant, exciting to be around, charming, creative, energetic.  These periods always followed the down period when I just couldn’t get enough sleep and felt like I was in a fog. 

I remember for our family’s 10^th anniversary planning on going to dinner at a restaurant in a town about 45 minutes away.  At the time, I worked as an on-air personality and news director at a small radio station in my hometown.  After my morning shift that day, I went home and slept until about 10 minutes before my afternoon shift.  (We lived about 5 minutes away from the station.)  I went back in without doing any additional news work, completed my afternoon shift and went back home to sleep until the family came home.  The thought of driving 45 minutes to a restaurant was so tiring…just the thought was tiring.  But we did it.  It turned out to be a not so wonderful experience, but not because of my state of mind.  Just a very expensive dinner for mediocre quality Italian food.  One of those stories we can tell and understand in the family, though.  However, it was my introduction to bruschetta, and for that I am happy. It’s like Italian salsa.  Yummmmm.

I have to wonder how many other women suffer from BPD and are told it’s just hormones.  Is it more prevalent than we think? Would something a little stronger than Midol help more women deal with those energy/mood swings?  Research grant time!

(Warning: This blog post actually makes sense and flows in a decent order.  This may not be the experience on very many of my posts.  J) 

The Great Depression and Stimulus Programs (A History Lesson)

Sorry to disappoint, but this is not a history lesson about the Great Depression in terms of world history, but in terms of my own history.  Me.  The Great Depression of ’06.  Yikes!  Something just occurred to me.  How long did it take the nation to get back on track following the initial stock market crash?  OMGOSH!  I hope it doesn’t take that long for me to become mentally stable.  Seriously, this thought just occurred to me.  All righty, then.  Yeah.  Okay.  Need to take a breather.

Okay.  I’m back.

My crash didn’t quite rival that of the stock market back in 1929, but it sure as heck felt like it to me.  The lithium injected into my system was like a fake market stimulus, one designed to quickly turn the tide, but in the end…ineffective.  No government project works a la President Roosevelt.  Not even a government bailout a la President Obama!  Just a switch to another med. 

Keep in mind, this was back in ’06.  2006.  Though my kids might argue the point, I wasn’t around in 1906.    And when I first started this journey I had no idea I would be one of the lucky ones (yay, me!) who has hard to treat depression.  It’s kinda like my thyroid.  Apparently it and my neurotransmitting (no, it’s not a word but I can pretend) system took off for the Bahamas together.  I do hope they’re having a good time.  Goodness knows they left a mess behind for me and my docs to try to fix.

So, anyway, my mom was the one who was great at keeping notes and keeping track of stuff.  Remember me saying that I actually thrust my purse at my psychiatrist to show him what it looked like, comparing it to the way my brain felt?  Well, my mom was at the other end of the spectrum.  She loved purses with lots of pockets and compartments.  Everything had its place and there was nary (I pulled that word out of my hat.  Pretty cool, huh?) a scrap of stray paper in sight.  She kept track of all of my brothers’ illnesses and that of my sister and me, noting medications that worked and treatments that didn’t.  She kept track of which bills needed to be paid and when.  She was that kind of person.

Now, had I known the journey I would be on with regards to medication I might have at least made an attempt to keep track of medications and side effects.  I’ve been on a bunch over the years, and several combos.  Sadly, my former docs had a tendency to throw the baby out with the bathtub.  “Let’s try something entirely different!” rather than “Let’s tweak this and see if we can make necessary adjustments.”  My current doc does the latter.  I’m crazy about him.  Note I said I’m crazy about the doc, not crazy in general, though a case could be made…

Anyhow, since my crash and hospitalization, I haven’t been stable enough to finish school, let alone be able to work.  I’ve changed my dream from having that teaching career to just having a good idea how I’m going to feel from one day to the next.  And hopefully feeling decent from one day to the next.  My dream is to now have the energy each day to care for my home and family, a dream that, sadly, doesn’t come true more often than it does.  I feel that I fail my loved ones on a regular basis.  Hubby says that’s the depression talking, and anyone who’s suffered from depression knows depression lies.

But enough of the negative stuff.  After several days of sleeping almost nonstop I’m actually awake!  And it’s a glorious feeling.  Youngest son put up Christmas trees and I think I may actually do some decorating today.  Hoooo-ray!!! 

Have a wonderful day.  I’ll meet ya back here soon!

The Quiet Room

So, where was I?  Back a couple of posts or so ago…?  Oh, that’s right!  I crashed and burned.  Yep.  

First, a correction.  This occurred at the end of Block III in the teacher ed program, not Block II.  The next semester would have been the final Block then student teaching before hopefully passing the Praxis test and entering the classroom as a teacher.

Now here I was, three weeks left to spare in Block III, and I was crashing.  I managed to complete the semester.  I had to!  I’d invested too much, and had watched the investment my family had also put into my education, to quit at that point.  And I believed I just needed a little break before hitting the books again in the fall.  I had a whole summer. 

That’s not the way it went, though.  A month later I was sleeping almost non stop.  When I wasn’t sleeping I was crying.  Or that’s the way it seemed to me at the time.  Looking back I recall so very little.  Just that things were very dark. 

John had been attending some of my counseling sessions with me in an effort to better understand my illness.  We made an emergency appointment with *Flo (can you see being in therapy with Flo as the therapist?  J ) and had to make a decision.  Was I able to cope?  Was I in danger of harming myself? Was I able to care for myself and/or my family? Was a more intense effort needed to become stable?

I know John wanted only what was best for me, as did Flo.  I’m also sure he must have been terrified at that point.  We decided that the best course of action would be for me to be briefly hospitalized in order to be stabilized, a decision I’d make again today if necessary. 

I was fortunate in that my then-doctor was affiliated with an amazing hospital in St. Louis.  Fortunate because the psychiatric ward (now THAT’s a shocking term, isn’t it?) there was for those like me…not for those waiting to dry out between drunks or drug highs or those who were criminals.  Just for those of us whose neurotransmitters were taking a hiatus. And I hafta say, except for the whole crying and sleeping thing, and being horribly depressed, it wasn’t half bad.  Staff was amazing, I had no responsibilities except to get better, the food was great (Hey, that’s important!), and there were plenty of snacks on hand.  We were well cared for.  If called to give it a rating, I’d say five stars.

I have to add I was a little antisocial.  Okay, make that a LOT antisocial.  I didn’t want to attend group therapy, or activities, or anything else that involved other people.  I wanted to be left alone with my book and be allowed to read or sleep.  I was there because I was depressed, not to make friends over arts and crafts.

Then came the first night and the discovery that my roommate snored.  Like a truck.  I absolutely could not sleep through that.  I made my way to the nurses’ station and begged to be allowed to sleep in another room.  All the rooms were full, though.  I then begged to be allowed to sleep on the sofa in the common room, or even in a chair!  Against regulations.  The despair I felt made my earlier despair look like joy, and apparently it showed, ‘cause I was informed that there was the “quiet room” and it was unoccupied!  

What??!!  A quiet room??  Why wasn’t I told about this room before?  Quiet!  That was exactly what I wanted! I almost-happily gathered up my blankets and pillow and tip-toed my way to the room. I wanted that room and didn’t want anyone else to claim it!  My precious!  It was adjacent to the nurses’ station with a window between them.  I noticed the mattress was on the ground but, hey, I didn’t care.  There was no one in the room but me!  Quiet time, here I come!

As I snuggled down, I noticed something on the floor at each corner of the bed.  They were kind of like bent over, u-shaped bolts but each side was bolted into the floor. The bed wasn’t bolted down. It was just a mattress.  So what could it be?  Then it dawned on me and I actually laughed out loud.

The room could more appropriately be called a “time out” room and was usually for those who needed to be quieted, not for those needing quiet.  I’m still laughing about this, though my husband and doctor were not too thrilled with it (read: horrified) when they found out.  The u-shaped bolt thingies were in case a patient needed to be restrained.  Oh, my.  I’m so un-violent.  The irony is just too much.  But, hey, I’m just grateful the room was empty while I was there because it meant I got to sleep at night.

I was placed on lithium, which is generally a drug of choice for depression, assuming the patient doesn’t develop a toxicity.  I did, but not for several weeks.  It works quickly and had me pretty much stable by the time my three day stint was over. Actually, I felt pretty darn good at that point.

Blood work conducted at the hospital indicated my iron level was dangerously low and that my thyroid had taken early retirement.  Two more potential causes behind my exhaustion and contributing factors to the depression. 

So, I did gain some answers.  But better yet?  I got to sleep in the quiet room!

Disorganized Chaos

This is the brain:  

This is the brain with bipolar disorder:

Did you see what I did there?  Remember those commercials with the skillet and the fried egg?  “This is your brain.  This is your brain on drugs?”  Yeah…?  No…?  Well, anyway, you get the picture.  Get it?  You get the picture?  ‘cause I used pictures?  HA!  Gotcha twice!!  Sigh.  Okay.  I’ll just dive into the post and quit with the poor attempt at humor.  For now, anyway. 

I thought it might be time to lighten things up a bit and maybe provide a bit of insight into the bipolar brain.  After my initial diagnosis, I was amazed at how much *“Flo” was able to tell me about myself. 

The bipolar brain is hardwired differently from “normal” (whatever that is) brains.  Do you wonder if there’s such a thing as a normal brain?  I have three sons with definite, diagnosed mental illness yet they seem quite normal.  I know what they deal with, but most people are completely unaware. I might even consider the other two to have OCD. Everything has to be in place and major purchases are researched to death.  Yet, they walk around out in society, completely undetected. 

Notice what happened there.  I drifted off into a completely different direction than the one in which I started.  Typical bipolar stuff there, peeps.  Very similar to ADD.  But a little different. 

Okay, okay!  I’ll get to the point!  Keep in mind, I’m not a doctor nor do I play one on TV (though being an actor on TV would be fun!) but I’ve done a lot of research and spent a lot of time in the yellow room at Flo’s office and in the chair at my current therapist’s office.  Need to come up with a name for her.  She’s really pretty and very knowledgeable.  Her office recently underwent a makeover and is much more comfortable.  My psychiatrist’s office is also very comfortable.  The chairs available for patients are amazingly soft and cushy.  They envelope you with comfiness when you sit down.  I’ve never seen the stereotypical psychiatrist’s couch, more’s the pity.

AAAAACCCKKKK!!!!!  I did it again!  Once more totally off track.  I swear I’m not doing this on purpose to make a point.  This is literally a few moments inside the brain of the bipolar person.  Half-finished projects.  Disorganization.  You should see the inside of my purse!  I actually thrust it in the face of my psychiatrist to show him what it looked like and told him it was an extension of my brain.  He said that’s normal for someone with my diagnoses.  Well, thank you very much!  And my crafting area…you don’t wanna see it.  I sit down sometimes to try to make some sense of it and I’m totally overwhelmed. I find myself being sidetracked with something of no real importance just to ease the stress on my brain.  Youngest son was frustrated at one point by the disorganization of the kitchen.  I asked him to organize it for me and he did a great job.

Can you understand the feeling of inferiority this causes?  My desk is currently covered with my medications, a three hole punch (don’t know why it’s there…I didn’t do it), speakers for my computer, a Mannheim Steamroller CD and an Elton John CD, a necklace, a bracelet, a mug, oh…two more bracelets, a computer ink package, a Celtic Woman “Home for Christmas” CD (highly recommended), my favorite Bath and Body Works body spray, a bottle of perfume, an essential oil vial, and a blood pressure cuff. Also, my monitor, keyboard, and mouse.  No cat at this moment, which is unusual.  My desk is 19” wide and 41” long.  I feel like Pigpen from Peanuts…I can clean it and it almost instantly becomes cluttered again!  The same with my purse.  POOF!  And it’s a mess. Sadly, I don’t know what to do about it.

I try taking it one step at a time…as I mentioned in my first blog post, start at the beginning…but then I start doing the sidetracked thing, run out of time and need to cook dinner, or fold laundry (oftentimes it doesn’t fully get put away) and it starts all over again the next day.  That’s assuming I’m even able to do anything.  Remember, I may have bipolar disorder, but the main way it’s exhibiting itself right now is with major depression disorder.

I know it has to be very frustrating for my family but fortunately they’re extremely patient with me. In fact (Oh, left out an item on my desk. I don’t know what it’s doing there but it’s a bottle of leave in conditioner for hair) my husband gets annoyed when I apologize to him.  And I catch myself apologizing a lot.  He’s asked to me quit.  He has his own brain cooties in the form of neuropathy and we’ve promised each other to quit apologizing for the limitations our illnesses place on us, but I insist on feeling guilty and apologizing.  I’m getting better, but it’s difficult.

Sometimes I feel like taking on the world!  And sometimes I feel beat up.  Today is a take on the world day.  Think I may do some laundry.  Maybe even put it away!  Wouldn’t that shake up my family…?

I’ll say it again, I’m so humbled by the love I’ve felt from my readers.  Thank you for having my back.  And please know I’ve got yours. 

*Not her real name

Just Three Weeks

Three weeks.  I only needed three more weeks to complete the semester.  One more semester after that then student teaching.  My original goal was to teach social studies at the high school or junior college level.  My husband said I was crazy (HA!) but I even liked the idea of teaching history at the junior high level!  I wouldn’t just teach out of a book, reading, blah, blah, blah…but we would reenact battles!  Reenact moments that changed the world!  Make videos, interview the great minds of history after researching together…it would be an interactive class.

After moving to Poplar Bluff, in order to obtain the degree needed to teach social studies I would have to attend school at Cape Girardeau.  For those who don’t live in the Bluff (that’s what we locals call it, the Bluff), it’s an hour and a half drive.  I was dealing with depression pretty well at that time, thought I’d kicked it’s butt, but I had a family to consider, and occasional dangerous driving conditions.  So I settled.  The requirements for an elementary teaching degree were taught by two different universities on the campus of the local community college, Three Rivers College.  (Do my Cali peeps see a connection with the whole “Three Rivers” thing?)  I decided to complete my courses with Southeast Missouri University (SEMO).  I could get a cross categorical degree that would allow me to teach elementary education and special education.  Even better, I wouldn’t have to take college algebra.  I’d literally seen adults in tears over that class.  SEMO it was!

Teacher ed courses are taught in blocks and all the classes for a block have to be taken at one time. Block I went well.  I was taking the regular elementary ed classes plus the special education teaching courses and was loving it.  It was a lot of work, but I enjoyed it.  Block II started well, then I began to slip.  I didn’t see it, but it was happening.  I found myself studying into the early morning hours then sleeping late into the day.  I know now it was a survival mechanism.  I just couldn’t deal with everything but had to take care of school.  By adjusting my hours I could avoid the household needs but keep up with the school load.  I pushed myself Monday through Saturday then collapsed Sunday and slept almost all day. 

I’m not proud of this, but anyone who’s ever felt depressed can relate.  “I’m busy, busy, busy so don’t have time for…” whatever it is that needs to be done.  I did cook most nights, or put something in the crock pot on the nights I had class, but it fell to my hubby to take care of the kids, do the laundry, do the housework.  I felt ashamed even as it happened, but didn’t know what to do.  I just didn’t have the strength for it all and had too much invested in school to quit. 

Three weeks left to go.  Just three weeks.  And suddenly I didn’t think I could finish it.  My father had died a few months earlier, other family matters were affecting me, the workload of Block II with the addition of the special ed courses was intense, and there was the worsening depression.  I had become dependent on Darvocet prescribed for my fibromyalgia pain and I began abusing it, needing the relief it brought mentally.  That’s something else I’m definitely not proud of, but anyone with a mental illness can likely relate.  Self-medicating is a common theme.  Whether through alcohol, street drugs, or prescription drugs…anything for a change in outlook.

But I knew how to put on a good public face.  I’m kind of a champ.  My psychiatrist at the time was in St. Louis, a two and a half hour drive.  Oh, that’s right!  I haven’t told you about having a psychiatrist yet, have I?  Well, I had one, and have one, and now you know.  There’s something called “presenting”, a term docs use to describe a patient’s appearance.  For psychiatrists, it’s a clue as to the patient’s well-being.  Only once did I go up there to see him without doing my hair, make up, and dressing nicely and that’s when I had a melt down after the first ice storm I experienced in ’07.  A quick call, need to see him, it’s an emergency, and off I went in sweats with barely combed hair.  We had no electricity for water (we have a well), and I was told to be there in an hour and a half.  I flew up there with ice on the windows an inch thick.  Seriously.  The ice looked like those thick glass blocks.  I felt like I was driving a giant shower.

In that case, I looked like I felt, but usually at least looked like I cared.   And when I went to school I also “presented” like someone who felt well, was full of confidence, and cared about her appearance.  Until those last three weeks.

Somehow I made it through those last three weeks.  Then I crashed and burned.  

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

The bottle was full.  Well, one or two might have been missing but that was all. I sat on the edge of the bed on that late fall day, filtered sunlight coming through the bedroom window, and stared at the bottle.  I’d been on the medication for a couple of months and loved the way it just knocked me out at night.  One minute I was awake and the next I was waking up in the morning, my book nearby and my reading lamp still on.  Blissful.  Near-instant oblivion.  

As I sat there staring at that bottle, I wondered what permanent oblivion would feel like.  For all the darkness, all the psychic and physical pain to be gone forever.  Oblivion.  I remember smiling…not a big “Wow, I’m happy!” smile, but the peaceful smile of someone who just found the answer to every problem in life.  I removed the cap and shook the bottle.  They were beautiful. 

Then I stopped.  What was I doing, for goodness sake?  What was I thinking?  How could I even consider taking my own life?! And what were these pills I was holding? 

Oh, I knew what they were.  Prescription sleeping pills.  My doctor…who is an excellent doctor, by the way…had found a quick and easy answer to my insomnia problem.  And boy, did I sleep!  Oblivion. Nearly instant oblivion.  But permanent oblivion?  Where did that thought come from?  I knew I’d been depressed, but not to that extent.

Because those pills were the only ones I was taking at the time I decided to research them.  Google to the rescue!  I searched the manufacturer’s website, several medical websites, and a few other sources before stumbling across one termed, appropriately enough, “Crazy Meds”.

Remember from blog post 1 how I mentioned the administrator of a site had saved my life without even knowing it?  I, uh, also mentioned a site with some colorful language.  Well, this is the site.  Right on both counts.  The site was poorly organized by someone who described himself and his fiancée as having “brain cooties”.  (And you thought I coined that term!  Sorry.  Stole it.)  But the information was amazing!  And after searching, there it was, the medication I was on, and in itty-bitty print, amongst all the possible but unlikely side effects was “suicidal thoughts”.  Sigh!  I was apparently in an elite group, but I’d rather not have been in it to start with. 

Still, it was nice to know what the problem was and know that the “cure” was to stop taking the medication. That was pretty simple.  I went on a different one and it worked well without putting me into the “slight chance of…” category.  No more elite-ness, which was fine by me.

So, anyway, this is the website.  http://www.crazymeds.us/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/HomePage

It’s undergone changes since my discovery and is much better organized, but some of the language is still a bit colorful.

Enter at your own risk, but be assured there’s a wealth of information put into terms that are understandable.  And not just about mental illness and drugs for mental illness, but information for other “mentally interesting” people.

“Crazy Meds is the site for the obsessed and depressed, the manic and the panicked, the schizophrenic and epileptic, the migraineurs and bipolar, those with GAD, SAD, OCD, PTSD, in pain or have an otherwise non-standard brain.”  Don't you just love that?  I think many of us with "non-standard brains" have to take at least a slightly irreverent look at it.  Oh, I know my ailment is serious but I don't take it seriously.  Does that make sense?  You may have to have a non-standard brain to get it.

Sadly, I just discovered the forums at another site, the Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance (http://www.dbsalliance.org/site/PageServer?pagename=home) are no longer running, but the site does offer an online support group that meets at specific times and days.  Even though it does not have any forums, I do recommend it for all the information that can be gleaned.

That fall morning marked my initial foray in the world of crazy meds.  I realized just how depressed I really was and decided it was time for serious medical help.  This led me to the therapist who reminds of Flo from Progressive Insurance commercials, who led me to the diagnosis of bipolar disorder, and then led me through a zigzagging course of meds and psych doctors. 

You see, I’ve discovered I’m in another elite group, and one I can’t just leave.  Turns out I respond atypically to brain cootie meds.  Hurray for me!  As someone with BP, Prozac and other meds for unipolar depression should cause me to have to be peeled off the ceiling in a full bore manic mode.  Of course, not me.  I get to be “different” on top of being, well, different.  No, Prozac and other similar meds put me into an almost catatonic state, with no desire to do anything but sit and stare at the wall.  Watching TV takes too much effort. 

That wraps up this episode, kiddies.  There’s so much more to talk about, some of it experiences from my own life and some of it information about depression and bipolar disorder.  What should my next posting be about?  Any suggestions?

No, I Don't!

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No! I don’t!”

“Yes! You do!”

This was my exchange with the therapist who first diagnosed me with having bipolar disorder.  You know Flo from the Progressive Insurance commercials?  That’s who she reminded me of even down to her appearance. Except she didn’t dress in white.  I’m talking about physical appearance.  In fact, I’ll call her “Flo”, as I really don’t want to mention anyone by name without his/her consent.

So, anyway, there we were in Flo’s office (the “yellow room” she called it) with me completely denying I have bipolar disorder.  I don’t jump up and down on chairs a la Tom Cruise!  I don’t demolish walls in my home in the middle of the night to remodel.  I don’t stay awake for days on end and do wild and crazy things!  Shoot, 10:00pm is a late night for me, so obviously I couldn’t have bipolar disorder.  I just needed help with the hellish depression I’d been in for months.  Since leaving my home state of California, in fact, and a job and friends I loved.

Au contraire.  Flo went down a checklist and I sat there across from her, nodding my head most of the time, shaking it once in a while, but it soon became apparent she knew what I was about.  Relief?  Fear?  I wasn’t sure what I felt, but I did realize I would be getting an answer to a question I’d long held: Why did I have these “energy swings” and what do they mean?  

Turns out there is not just one type of bipolar disorder, but two.  Lesson one for me.  In fact, since then I’ve learned there are many who believe there’s a bipolar spectrum.  Bipolar I is what we typically think of as bipolar disorder.  The wild and crazy highs intermixed with periods of depression.  Bipolar II is more subtle in some ways.  The “highs” are termed “hypomanic” and oftentimes it’s a feeling of euphoria.  It’s not all rainbows and sunshine, though, but that’s something I’ll address in a whole ‘nother post.  (BTW—I’ve been told ‘nother isn’t a word.  Humor me.)  For me, though, it represented the good phase of my energy swings.  Plenty of energy to work, do the laundry, clean, and even have energy left at the end of the day to play board games with the kids.  Life was good in this state.  A feeling of “Ahhhh…”  But I didn’t recognize some of the down sides of hypomania, like making unnecessary purchases or making plans I couldn’t fulfill.

The flip side of bp II is a deeper depression than that experienced by bp I, and generally longer lasting. I read a report a few years back that the fatality rate of people with bp II is greater than that of all cancer patients combined due to the high suicide rate of those with bp II.  Hmmm…now THAT’s cheerful, isn’t it?  Until I crashed all those many years ago, this was just my low energy cycle.  Couldn’t stay awake and felt as if I had the flu or a bad sinus infection.  Occasionally I’d enter a deep depression, but always came out of it after a few weeks. Not suicidal but deeply depressed.

So after all those years of asking various docs about my energy swings I discovered I was having mood swings.  Lovely.  I was one of “those people”.   But all I needed was a pill to fix it, right?  Right?!

Oh, how naïve I was!  

In the beginning...

Where to begin…where to begin…Well, as my husband says, may as well begin at the beginning.  First, this is my own blog about my own experiences with bipolar disorder.  And major depressive disorder.  And a touch of anxiety issues.  Wow.  Having put it into writing makes it sound like I’m a real nutcase, and nothing could be further from the truth.  I’m quite sane, thank you very much, though I do like to use the insanity clause when my hubby discovers I didn’t do something I was supposed to do.  Or when I go off on one of my hypomanic episodes and am not really, truly responsible for what I do.  Yes, I’m an adult, but unless you’ve experienced it you just can’t understand.  It’s kind of like someone who never, ever swears being pushed past the point of mere anger and yelling, “Damn!”  Not quite the same, but kinda similar. 

I’m inviting my Facebook friends to view my blog with a bit of a catch in my throat. I’ve been pretty open about my illness, but parts of my journey may be a bit more than you want to know.  Learning about all of this may make it difficult to know what to say to me, how to act around me...  Keep in mind, I’m the same person and no more or less fragile than before. I still like to laugh and have fun. I’m still silly and goofy at times. I still cry when I hear the National Anthem.  I still withdraw during periods of darkness. There’s much more to me than my illnesses, just as there’s more to a diabetic than diabetes.  However, maybe this will give you a bit more insight into my kinks (note I said “kinks”, not “kinkiness” this isn’t that kind of blog J  Maybe you’ll learn a little about yourself.  Maybe you’ll learn how to cope with another friend or a family member.  There are a lot of us out there, you know. 

I’m aware that being brutally open and honest may push some away.  I’ve been shunned before for sharing much less than I’ll be discussing here.  Others may feel uncomfortable around me.  It’s a chance I have to take.  A friend almost lost her daughter during a crisis situation recently and I discovered that as much as I hate my “brain cooties”, I felt---and feel---that I’m able to offer something of benefit due to my own experiences.  In any case, I feel I’ve found my mission…a way to put the hell that is bipolar and major depressive disorders to work.  And it is hell.  Read through any forum on the topic and you’ll invariably read about the demons in the dark, dark place.  If I can help one person in any way…whether a sufferer or a supporter, it’s worth it. 

Before I go any further, there may be times I use language or expressions you wouldn’t ordinarily hear from me.  I’m not trying to be shocking or offensive, but sometimes it takes something strong to make a point.  If I offend, I apologize.  There’s a website I may reference from time to time.  Don’t go there unless you really feel you can handle some frank language about mental disorders and the medications used to treat them.  I’ve developed a great deal of respect for the young man who administers the website and can even say he saved my life at one point without even knowing it.  I’ll get into that in another post.  Probably post number two.  Hmmmm…do you find that intriguing?  I hope so.  Anyway, I wish he’d clean up his language, but the information he provides is of tremendous value.

So, I’m putting my own personal journey on the roller coaster to work.  Come along for the ride.  If nothing else, it should be interesting, occasionally thought provoking, and hopefully enlightening.  And don’t be surprised if there are a few chuckles thrown in for good measure. That’s just how I roll.