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.
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