I've been asked this question a lot by non-bipolar people, namely at the last job I had where I disclosed my mental illness as I went on extended medical leave.
The most concise way I have found to explain it is to relate it metaphorically to something else. I used the rollercoaster analogy (creative, I know). You're on a rollercoaster, which is supposed to be a normal, fun activity that people do. People can get off once the ride is done and go about their normal lives.
Not us. We afflicted with Bipolar have the seat restraint permanently clamped down; we cannot disembark no matter how hard we try. The roller coaster starts again, and we get frustrated or angry. Sometimes the coaster speeds up terrifyingly fast and it's over and we are sick with the frenzied motion. Other times, it goes the pace of snail, and we get suck upside down and our faces turn purple. Over time, we might recognize cues that show us how the ride is going to be, and we can prepare for it. Sometimes there is no warning. It's uncomfortable a lot of the time, sometimes exhilarating, sometimes exhausting. Screaming does nothing, fighting it does nothing, you are just stuck there over and over and over.
Perhaps that is why suicide is so prevalent among people with bipolar. There is no way off the coaster. We are stuck and cannot get out on this earthly plane. The best we can do is take advantage of medicine, live as healthily as we can, and go on, day by day.
Monday, December 12, 2016
Sunday, December 11, 2016
Bipolar and Relationships
Can you have healthy, quality relationships when you have bipolar disorder?
The short answer is yes.
The long answer goes into the variables than can affect whether or not you have (or even want) relationships with other people.
Being bipolar means that you have episodes of mania or hypomania, and some of the characteristics of being manic/hypomanic is being overly social, inappropriate, overly sexual, flirtatious, outgoing, and so on. Naturally, you are going to attract certain people to you in these states. People may be drawn to your energy, your magnetism and your vibe. You may be the funniest, most outgoing person at the office party, and everyone notices you.
Being bipolar also means you suffer through depressive episodes, where you are the exact opposite of outgoing and bubbly, eccentric and high-energy. You may be unwashed, wear no makeup, and appear unkempt. You may find it difficult to feed yourself, much less make an effort at a reasonable appearance.
I am sure that you have experienced changes in relationships, loss of relationships and all of the things that go along with those.
People do find that drastic change shocking, in my experience. They tend to fall back for the most part when someone changes from one way to another.
I have typically had a tough time keeping friends. I am the life of the party for 2-6 weeks, and then I look like death warmed over for two months.
However, I have a wonderful husband who is perfectly and entirely SANE. When we first started dating, I told him I had something to tell him about myself.
"I'm really messed up," I said, tapping on my temple with my index finger. "I have a lot going on in here."
"Like what?" he asked.
"I'm bipolar." I waited for running and screaming.
"You seem ok to me."
"I won't seem ok at times."
Nearly 7 years later, here we are. He has forcibly wrestled credit cards from me when I was in a manic state, he has picked me up and carried me out of bed to the couch when I was depressed. He has helped me wash my hair in the bathtub when I didn't care enough to do it myself. He has negotiated visits to my psychiatrist with me. He has slept in the hospital parking lot while I was on a 72 hour hold. He has been the primary breadwinner as I get jobs, get ill, and then lose them. He is strong, physically and mentally, and quiet.
Not everyone is like that. I have one failed marriage under my belt, and plenty of failed friendships. You may have experienced never-ending strings of failed relationships, due in partly to your bipolar disorder. But that doesn't mean it's your fault.
It's hard to be married to, a partner to, a family member of, or a friend to someone with bipolar disorder. Our hallmark episodes take them for just as much of a ride as bipolar takes us. People around may feel unwary, confused, shocked, angry or any combination of emotions when they see us switching from state to state.
But that doesn't mean that you are defective. It doesn't mean that you aren't worth it. When you find that person or persons (romantically or in a friend sense) that stick with you through you ups and downs, you will know you've found someone who sees past your illness and sees you.
Categories of Friends/Relationships
It my own limited experience, I have found that a lot of people with Bipolar Disorder are lonely. Their friends in "mania" aren't interested in them when they are depressed. These are the people that you go clubbing with, people that you party with, people that you take risks with. They aren't into "downers." They want the fun, outgoing, impulsive you.
On the opposite ends of the spectrum, bipolar folks have friends who are there in "depression" but aren't interested in them when they are manic. These are the low-key, nurturing friends who may bring you a cup of chicken noodle soup when you're low, or listen to your sobbing phone calls and encourage you. They aren't interested in wild parties and impulsive decisions. You may scare them in your manic states.
Then there are a special breed of people who see both sides of you, and are able to be friends to both. Someone who can have a good time with you, but notice when you're manic and be a stabilizing influence. Someone who sees you depressed, and supports you and listens to you and is not scared away by the darkness following you around.
Those are the types of people you need around you. Not many people I know fit those categories. Most of my "friends" fall into one of the two categories. My husband and one or two other people fall into the third category: seeing both sides of my bipolar disorder and being able to handle both equally.
If you are feeling lonely, I suggest you read blogs of people with bipolar disorder, or join online support groups (ones that are positive in nature, not one where it's always complaining about XYZ). For me, joining Twitter has been enormously helpful as I am able to see all the people like me out there from all over the world, with similar thoughts and feelings.
I hope that each one of you reading this has a friend or loved one who is able to weather the storms of bipolar with you. And if not, I am sure there will be someone at some point in the future.
The short answer is yes.
The long answer goes into the variables than can affect whether or not you have (or even want) relationships with other people.
Being bipolar means that you have episodes of mania or hypomania, and some of the characteristics of being manic/hypomanic is being overly social, inappropriate, overly sexual, flirtatious, outgoing, and so on. Naturally, you are going to attract certain people to you in these states. People may be drawn to your energy, your magnetism and your vibe. You may be the funniest, most outgoing person at the office party, and everyone notices you.
Being bipolar also means you suffer through depressive episodes, where you are the exact opposite of outgoing and bubbly, eccentric and high-energy. You may be unwashed, wear no makeup, and appear unkempt. You may find it difficult to feed yourself, much less make an effort at a reasonable appearance.
I am sure that you have experienced changes in relationships, loss of relationships and all of the things that go along with those.
People do find that drastic change shocking, in my experience. They tend to fall back for the most part when someone changes from one way to another.
I have typically had a tough time keeping friends. I am the life of the party for 2-6 weeks, and then I look like death warmed over for two months.
However, I have a wonderful husband who is perfectly and entirely SANE. When we first started dating, I told him I had something to tell him about myself.
"I'm really messed up," I said, tapping on my temple with my index finger. "I have a lot going on in here."
"Like what?" he asked.
"I'm bipolar." I waited for running and screaming.
"You seem ok to me."
"I won't seem ok at times."
Nearly 7 years later, here we are. He has forcibly wrestled credit cards from me when I was in a manic state, he has picked me up and carried me out of bed to the couch when I was depressed. He has helped me wash my hair in the bathtub when I didn't care enough to do it myself. He has negotiated visits to my psychiatrist with me. He has slept in the hospital parking lot while I was on a 72 hour hold. He has been the primary breadwinner as I get jobs, get ill, and then lose them. He is strong, physically and mentally, and quiet.
Not everyone is like that. I have one failed marriage under my belt, and plenty of failed friendships. You may have experienced never-ending strings of failed relationships, due in partly to your bipolar disorder. But that doesn't mean it's your fault.
It's hard to be married to, a partner to, a family member of, or a friend to someone with bipolar disorder. Our hallmark episodes take them for just as much of a ride as bipolar takes us. People around may feel unwary, confused, shocked, angry or any combination of emotions when they see us switching from state to state.
But that doesn't mean that you are defective. It doesn't mean that you aren't worth it. When you find that person or persons (romantically or in a friend sense) that stick with you through you ups and downs, you will know you've found someone who sees past your illness and sees you.
Categories of Friends/Relationships
It my own limited experience, I have found that a lot of people with Bipolar Disorder are lonely. Their friends in "mania" aren't interested in them when they are depressed. These are the people that you go clubbing with, people that you party with, people that you take risks with. They aren't into "downers." They want the fun, outgoing, impulsive you.
On the opposite ends of the spectrum, bipolar folks have friends who are there in "depression" but aren't interested in them when they are manic. These are the low-key, nurturing friends who may bring you a cup of chicken noodle soup when you're low, or listen to your sobbing phone calls and encourage you. They aren't interested in wild parties and impulsive decisions. You may scare them in your manic states.
Then there are a special breed of people who see both sides of you, and are able to be friends to both. Someone who can have a good time with you, but notice when you're manic and be a stabilizing influence. Someone who sees you depressed, and supports you and listens to you and is not scared away by the darkness following you around.
Those are the types of people you need around you. Not many people I know fit those categories. Most of my "friends" fall into one of the two categories. My husband and one or two other people fall into the third category: seeing both sides of my bipolar disorder and being able to handle both equally.
If you are feeling lonely, I suggest you read blogs of people with bipolar disorder, or join online support groups (ones that are positive in nature, not one where it's always complaining about XYZ). For me, joining Twitter has been enormously helpful as I am able to see all the people like me out there from all over the world, with similar thoughts and feelings.
I hope that each one of you reading this has a friend or loved one who is able to weather the storms of bipolar with you. And if not, I am sure there will be someone at some point in the future.
Tuesday, December 6, 2016
When Your Dad Has Schizophrenia and OCD
This is a hard bit to write. I did not know my dad suffered so severely until after he died, when we got into his apartment where he had been living.
It was horrifying to discover that he was a hoarder. We had no idea.
My mom and dad's marriage was exceptionally brief, of which I was a product. When I was one, my mom took me and we left California and my dad behind and went to stay with my grandmother in Indiana. My mom was terrified of my dad. She said he had started doing drugs because he would talk to people that weren't there, and have breaks with reality. My dad denied doing drugs.
Stalemate.
After about a year in Indiana, my dad promised profusely that he was fine, and my mom seemed to think it was safe to return to California. We did.
They divorced anyways, and visitation was split up. I saw him every other weekend, and then during the week as he picked me up from school. My parents had me late in life, and my dad had already been given an early retirement from his job, which allowed me afternoons with him. He would always take me to an ice cream shop, and he would order mint chip ice cream and chocolate chip ice cream, large, in a cup. I would get the same thing as my dad because my dad was awesome.
As I got older, I sensed that there was something amiss with my dad. He would occasionally blank out, and get fidgety. He would mutter to himself. I was also dealing with my own mental health that I write about here, but I could still tell something was off with him.
My dad was an odd one. He would suddenly disappear for months on end, with no one able to reach him. Then he would phone my mom in the middle of the night, warning her that the government was after him, and that we should be careful. When those things happened, my mom told him to stop picking me up from school, and she started taking off of work to take me home as my private school did not have buses. She figured he was back to drinking and drugs.
Then one day, he would show up on our doorstep, bathed, dressed and completely in his right mind, acting like nothing ever happened. He would help my mom move something here or kill a spider. He would be charming and laugh and tell jokes. He was a funny guy with twinkling green eyes. My mom would allow him to start picking me up from school. The cycle would repeat. Each time, he disappeared for longer and longer periods of time, until I hardly saw him. I didn't really know what to think.
One day, my dad had picked me up from sixth grade. He had just re-appeared in my life again, and I was happy to see him, although he seemed agitated in the car on the way home. I was doing my homework in the kitchen. I heard someone talking. I figured it was the TV.
After a few minutes, the voice rose, and I could clearly tell it was my dad's voice, and not the television. Perhaps he was watching a movie or sports, and was yelling for his team or something.
My dad didn't really like sports.
He was on the phone, then. I went back to finishing my homework. He continued to argue, and I heard profanity coming louder from the living room. I looked at the phone receiver.
We only had one house phone, and it was in the kitchen. The handset was still on the charger, and cell phones were not yet a thing. Only wealthy people had cell phones. That meant that my dad could not be talking on a phone.
Curious, I walked across the kitchen and peered around the wall, where I saw my dad flailing punches towards an unseen enemy, his eyes were glittering and unfocused, and he ducked and dodged and jabbed, right then left. He yelled profanities at someone unseen, and answered questions that only he could hear.
I was glued to the spot. My survival instinct told me not to make a sound, not to intervene in any way. My options were to grab the handset and risk my dad seeing me, or run outside in my bare feet to a neighbor, who I didn't know.
I risked the handset. I waited until my dad had his back turned to me, screaming things like "I'm going to kill you, you motherfucker!" as he would fight and kick and punch the air.
I grabbed it. I didn't know what to do, so I called my mom at work. I told her my dad was yelling at nothing, having a fight with an imaginary person. She told me to hide outside and wait for her.
I slipped out the side door and waited in the front yard, shaking, hearing my dad's deluded screams from inside.
My mom worked just down the road, and she was there within two minutes. I told her what was going on and she took the phone from me. She cautiously went inside, and called my dad's name a few times. The screaming stopped.
She took a few steps inside, calling again. He answered normally, as if nothing had happened. She asked him if he was ok. He said he was fine, why?
She said that a neighbor had called her, hearing shouts coming from inside. He said he didn't know what she was talking about. She told him he could go home now, that she was off work early. He asked why she didn't call, and how I got outside. I fibbed and said I was playing in the front yard. He admonished me not to do that without telling him in the future.
Somehow, at 11, I know there would not be a future time. My mom explained to me later that day that she had left my dad when I was a baby due to episodes like these, and she thought he was on drugs. She asked me if I wanted to see my dad again, and I said no. I had been so terrified that he would hurt me. I know now that he was having some sort of psychotic episode, and I feel guilty for abandoning him.
Two weeks later, my mom applied for and accepted a position across the country. She had a telephone conversation with my dad, telling him he was not well, and that this would be the best thing for me. He signed over his visitation rights, and it was submitted to a judge. 3 weeks later, we packed. The day before we left, my dad brought me flowers and gave me a hug, telling me to listen to my mom and that getting out of the city would probably be a good thing. He fidgeted and then left.
That was the second-to-last in-person interaction I had with my before he died, 16 years later.
I occasionally received the odd birthday card, or a phone call. Sometimes he didn't make sense and he would babble on and on. Other times, I wouldn't hear from him for two or three years. His phone would be disconnected, and move without giving a forwarding address. Then he would pop up. One year, he called me on New Year's eve to warn me that the government was after me, too. I sadly hung up after telling him I loved him.
One day, I got a call from a distant relative in California. They said my dad was in the hospital, and it was not looking good. They said I should talk to the doctors. The doctors told me my dad was admitted to the hospital, ranting and raving and rail thin. His bloodwork was abnormal, and it turned out he had terminal stomach cancer. The doctor couldn't understand why my dad had not sought help, as this cancer is highly treatable and the symptoms severe. The doctor also asked me if my dad had a mental illness, as he had some mental episodes in the hospital. He mentioned schizophrenia.
I told him I didn't know exactly, since I had not been around my dad much, and he tended to disappear for years at a time. I mentioned that he was known to be a drinker, and my mom thought he did drugs. The doctor said his drug and alcohol screen was negative. So his hallucinations weren't from substance abuse.
I bought a plane ticket. My extended relatives in California offered me a room to stay as long as I needed. I made plans to stay for two weeks, to process what was going on and what was going to happen.
The last time I had seen my dad was when I was 11, and he had always been fit. The man I looked at now looked a hundred years old, and weighed about 120 pounds, much too thin for a 6 foot man. He cried when he saw me walk into his hospice room, and held out his thin arms that were peppered with bruises and IV lines.
I cried, because it was sad. He hadn't been a drug addict. He had been mentally ill all those years, with no one to help him. When asked why he didn't go see a doctor when he had started vomiting blood a year earlier, he said he thought the doctors would report his ill health to the government, and that he wouldn't get the spy job he was in line for. That made me cry, too. He was so happy in his delusion. His delusion killed him, although it was technically cancer.
I visited him every day the next 2 weeks, and signed him out from the hospice. He was so weak that he couldn't overpower me if he tried to escape. On the first day, he told me his caregivers at the hospice were spies, and I needed to help him escape. He wanted me to take him to the airport, and give him $20 so he could buy a plane ticket and fly to another country. He congenially offered that I could come with him, if I wanted to. He then wanted me to buy him a plane ticket tomorrow so he could visit me and see how I was living. I quickly realized that trying to tell him he was hallucinating made him agitated and angry, so I changed tactics, acting as if his derangement was plausiable.
I told him I could do those things, but I needed some time to get supplies. He would nod, as if that was an explanation. He would then move onto another topic, talking about how he wasn't really ill, he just had some stomach problems. He would then stare off into space for a long while, and then he would turn his faded green eyes on me and bring up a childhood memory as clear as a bell, laughing and joking with me as if his mind were clear and sharp as ever.
My dad loved Christmas-time, and it was December when I visited. I took him to a mall in Southern California notorious for their over-the-top Santa's village and huge tree. He was entranced by it, and just wanted to sit and watch everything from above. He told me he wanted tea, and I ordered it for him. He then pushed it away, saying it could be poisoned. I told him I had watched the barista make it all the way through, and that it wasn't poisoned. I took a sip. He watched me warily for a few minutes, and decided I must be right. He drank the tea, and asked for another, also making me promise to watch it being made.
The two weeks went by fast. He drifted from sanity to delusional, like a balloon drifting in the wind. It was hard to keep up with him sometimes. He frequently asked me to help him escape to a safe house, where his spy boss would pick him up. I would sit in my rental car after taking him back to the hospice and cry.
My relatives showed me pictures they had taken of my dad's apartment. They had gone there after the hospital had called them about my dad being brought in weeks earlier. His apartment was a hoarding nightmare, with soiled clothes, rotten food and papers stacked up to the ceiling. There were small rabbit trails that led from room to room. He had stopped bathing and packed his shower and bathtub with anything that could fit. I knew from my own OCD diagnosis that hoarding is an OCD illness. I looked at those shocking pictures and learned then that I had inherited it from my father.
My dad's mental health story haunts me to this day. If my dad had mental health intervention and care, he would still be alive today. I may have had a better relationship with him. He could have been less delusional, and sought help. He might be around to hold his granddaughter.
In the end, the hospice doctor and nurses agreed it was likely schizophrenia that caused the delusions. His hoarding was due to OCD.
He never got help, and it killed him, although cancer was the agent.
They divorced anyways, and visitation was split up. I saw him every other weekend, and then during the week as he picked me up from school. My parents had me late in life, and my dad had already been given an early retirement from his job, which allowed me afternoons with him. He would always take me to an ice cream shop, and he would order mint chip ice cream and chocolate chip ice cream, large, in a cup. I would get the same thing as my dad because my dad was awesome.
As I got older, I sensed that there was something amiss with my dad. He would occasionally blank out, and get fidgety. He would mutter to himself. I was also dealing with my own mental health that I write about here, but I could still tell something was off with him.
My dad was an odd one. He would suddenly disappear for months on end, with no one able to reach him. Then he would phone my mom in the middle of the night, warning her that the government was after him, and that we should be careful. When those things happened, my mom told him to stop picking me up from school, and she started taking off of work to take me home as my private school did not have buses. She figured he was back to drinking and drugs.
Then one day, he would show up on our doorstep, bathed, dressed and completely in his right mind, acting like nothing ever happened. He would help my mom move something here or kill a spider. He would be charming and laugh and tell jokes. He was a funny guy with twinkling green eyes. My mom would allow him to start picking me up from school. The cycle would repeat. Each time, he disappeared for longer and longer periods of time, until I hardly saw him. I didn't really know what to think.
One day, my dad had picked me up from sixth grade. He had just re-appeared in my life again, and I was happy to see him, although he seemed agitated in the car on the way home. I was doing my homework in the kitchen. I heard someone talking. I figured it was the TV.
After a few minutes, the voice rose, and I could clearly tell it was my dad's voice, and not the television. Perhaps he was watching a movie or sports, and was yelling for his team or something.
My dad didn't really like sports.
He was on the phone, then. I went back to finishing my homework. He continued to argue, and I heard profanity coming louder from the living room. I looked at the phone receiver.
We only had one house phone, and it was in the kitchen. The handset was still on the charger, and cell phones were not yet a thing. Only wealthy people had cell phones. That meant that my dad could not be talking on a phone.
Curious, I walked across the kitchen and peered around the wall, where I saw my dad flailing punches towards an unseen enemy, his eyes were glittering and unfocused, and he ducked and dodged and jabbed, right then left. He yelled profanities at someone unseen, and answered questions that only he could hear.
I was glued to the spot. My survival instinct told me not to make a sound, not to intervene in any way. My options were to grab the handset and risk my dad seeing me, or run outside in my bare feet to a neighbor, who I didn't know.
I risked the handset. I waited until my dad had his back turned to me, screaming things like "I'm going to kill you, you motherfucker!" as he would fight and kick and punch the air.
I grabbed it. I didn't know what to do, so I called my mom at work. I told her my dad was yelling at nothing, having a fight with an imaginary person. She told me to hide outside and wait for her.
I slipped out the side door and waited in the front yard, shaking, hearing my dad's deluded screams from inside.
My mom worked just down the road, and she was there within two minutes. I told her what was going on and she took the phone from me. She cautiously went inside, and called my dad's name a few times. The screaming stopped.
She took a few steps inside, calling again. He answered normally, as if nothing had happened. She asked him if he was ok. He said he was fine, why?
She said that a neighbor had called her, hearing shouts coming from inside. He said he didn't know what she was talking about. She told him he could go home now, that she was off work early. He asked why she didn't call, and how I got outside. I fibbed and said I was playing in the front yard. He admonished me not to do that without telling him in the future.
Somehow, at 11, I know there would not be a future time. My mom explained to me later that day that she had left my dad when I was a baby due to episodes like these, and she thought he was on drugs. She asked me if I wanted to see my dad again, and I said no. I had been so terrified that he would hurt me. I know now that he was having some sort of psychotic episode, and I feel guilty for abandoning him.
Two weeks later, my mom applied for and accepted a position across the country. She had a telephone conversation with my dad, telling him he was not well, and that this would be the best thing for me. He signed over his visitation rights, and it was submitted to a judge. 3 weeks later, we packed. The day before we left, my dad brought me flowers and gave me a hug, telling me to listen to my mom and that getting out of the city would probably be a good thing. He fidgeted and then left.
That was the second-to-last in-person interaction I had with my before he died, 16 years later.
I occasionally received the odd birthday card, or a phone call. Sometimes he didn't make sense and he would babble on and on. Other times, I wouldn't hear from him for two or three years. His phone would be disconnected, and move without giving a forwarding address. Then he would pop up. One year, he called me on New Year's eve to warn me that the government was after me, too. I sadly hung up after telling him I loved him.
One day, I got a call from a distant relative in California. They said my dad was in the hospital, and it was not looking good. They said I should talk to the doctors. The doctors told me my dad was admitted to the hospital, ranting and raving and rail thin. His bloodwork was abnormal, and it turned out he had terminal stomach cancer. The doctor couldn't understand why my dad had not sought help, as this cancer is highly treatable and the symptoms severe. The doctor also asked me if my dad had a mental illness, as he had some mental episodes in the hospital. He mentioned schizophrenia.
I told him I didn't know exactly, since I had not been around my dad much, and he tended to disappear for years at a time. I mentioned that he was known to be a drinker, and my mom thought he did drugs. The doctor said his drug and alcohol screen was negative. So his hallucinations weren't from substance abuse.
I bought a plane ticket. My extended relatives in California offered me a room to stay as long as I needed. I made plans to stay for two weeks, to process what was going on and what was going to happen.
The last time I had seen my dad was when I was 11, and he had always been fit. The man I looked at now looked a hundred years old, and weighed about 120 pounds, much too thin for a 6 foot man. He cried when he saw me walk into his hospice room, and held out his thin arms that were peppered with bruises and IV lines.
I cried, because it was sad. He hadn't been a drug addict. He had been mentally ill all those years, with no one to help him. When asked why he didn't go see a doctor when he had started vomiting blood a year earlier, he said he thought the doctors would report his ill health to the government, and that he wouldn't get the spy job he was in line for. That made me cry, too. He was so happy in his delusion. His delusion killed him, although it was technically cancer.
I visited him every day the next 2 weeks, and signed him out from the hospice. He was so weak that he couldn't overpower me if he tried to escape. On the first day, he told me his caregivers at the hospice were spies, and I needed to help him escape. He wanted me to take him to the airport, and give him $20 so he could buy a plane ticket and fly to another country. He congenially offered that I could come with him, if I wanted to. He then wanted me to buy him a plane ticket tomorrow so he could visit me and see how I was living. I quickly realized that trying to tell him he was hallucinating made him agitated and angry, so I changed tactics, acting as if his derangement was plausiable.
I told him I could do those things, but I needed some time to get supplies. He would nod, as if that was an explanation. He would then move onto another topic, talking about how he wasn't really ill, he just had some stomach problems. He would then stare off into space for a long while, and then he would turn his faded green eyes on me and bring up a childhood memory as clear as a bell, laughing and joking with me as if his mind were clear and sharp as ever.
My dad loved Christmas-time, and it was December when I visited. I took him to a mall in Southern California notorious for their over-the-top Santa's village and huge tree. He was entranced by it, and just wanted to sit and watch everything from above. He told me he wanted tea, and I ordered it for him. He then pushed it away, saying it could be poisoned. I told him I had watched the barista make it all the way through, and that it wasn't poisoned. I took a sip. He watched me warily for a few minutes, and decided I must be right. He drank the tea, and asked for another, also making me promise to watch it being made.
The two weeks went by fast. He drifted from sanity to delusional, like a balloon drifting in the wind. It was hard to keep up with him sometimes. He frequently asked me to help him escape to a safe house, where his spy boss would pick him up. I would sit in my rental car after taking him back to the hospice and cry.
My relatives showed me pictures they had taken of my dad's apartment. They had gone there after the hospital had called them about my dad being brought in weeks earlier. His apartment was a hoarding nightmare, with soiled clothes, rotten food and papers stacked up to the ceiling. There were small rabbit trails that led from room to room. He had stopped bathing and packed his shower and bathtub with anything that could fit. I knew from my own OCD diagnosis that hoarding is an OCD illness. I looked at those shocking pictures and learned then that I had inherited it from my father.
My dad's mental health story haunts me to this day. If my dad had mental health intervention and care, he would still be alive today. I may have had a better relationship with him. He could have been less delusional, and sought help. He might be around to hold his granddaughter.
In the end, the hospice doctor and nurses agreed it was likely schizophrenia that caused the delusions. His hoarding was due to OCD.
He never got help, and it killed him, although cancer was the agent.
Saturday, December 3, 2016
On OCD
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder
While this blog mainly chronicles my challenges with Bipolar Disorder, I will sometimes write on other co-morbid mental conditions I have. OCD is a mental illness that is heavily misunderstood. I can't tell you how many times I've heard statements like, "The Christmas ornaments aren't level, I'm so OCD" or "I need to have my roots done at the salon, I'm so OCD."
No, no you're not.
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder is very distressing to the sufferer. It combines obsessive, sometimes intrusive thoughts and in order to relieve the distress, the sufferer starts doing some type of ritual activity to relieve their distress. I will use myself as an example.
The earliest battle with mental illness that I had was with OCD. I remember being about age 8. Obviously, I didn't know I had OCD at 8 years of age. All I knew was that I had really scary thoughts that I didn't want to think about, and it caused me shame and anxiety. I thought that by performing certain tasks, I could make up for the bad thoughts.
So, for example, if my dad said, "I love you," I would say, "I love you, too." But then the scary thoughts popped into my head. What if I didn't really love my dad? That means that I just said a lie. God hates liars. Therefore, I have to confess to my dad that I sinned, or else I would go to hell. So then, I would whisper under my breath, "I might not really love you," and then I would whisper a prayer to God for forgiveness. My dad would looked at me weirdly, and ask, "What did you just say?" I would say, "nothing," and then the process would repeat.
Another example would be if my mom asked me if I did all of my homework. I would automatically say "yes" if I had done it, because I knew I had finished it. But the scary thoughts popped into my head. What if I had missed a question on the back page of my homework? That means I had just lied to my mom. So I would go double-check my homework, and confess to my mom that I had to "make sure." Now, my mom was not a particularly understanding mother (more on that later), and would get angry when I did these things, compounding my distress. I started picking at my skin.
Around this time, I was about 9, and I began having very scary, intrusive thoughts about killing myself, or about harming my mom or other people. This was traumatic to me, and when I told my mom of these things, she freaked out and told me I had a demon possessing me. Note that this is absolutely the wrong approach if your child reaches out to your for mental help. I was terrified, and my OCD worsened.
I began checking rooms compulsively for intruders. I was convinced there would be a burglar or something waiting for me at our house when I got home from school. I would spend 30 minutes checking closets, windows, door locks, etc. I would pick at my skin until I started bleeding, mostly on my face. I started checking for appliances being plugged in, lights left on that could catch fire, and so on.
My OCD would worsen at times, and sometimes it would get better. I didn't have it as much in junior high school because I was too invested in homework and trying not to feel like an outcast.
In high school, though, my OCD came back with a vengeance. I would get up three hours early for school to get through my rituals. I would shower and wash my hair in a certain way, and if it wasn't done correctly, I had to re-do it, otherwise, something bad might happen. I would then dress and spend thirty minutes checking and re-checking my backpack and homework assignments to make sure they were all there. I would then go to my car (at this point, I was 16). I would have to go inside three times to make sure I had turned off all the faucets in the bathroom, and turned off the lights in my bedroom. I would have to make sure my computer was off so it wouldn't catch fire. Then I would check under my bed and around my room to ensure nothing was left behind.
Once I got in my car, I would lock the front door (mother having already left for work earlier). I would then have to re-check it, sometimes driving home from school between classes to check. Once I made it in my car, I had to say a prayer a certain way three times, are something awful would happen.
Then I would spend the next sixty minutes driving a half-mile to school. Yes, you read that right: It would take me an hour to drive 0.5 miles to school (I had to drive, there were no sidewalks to walk on and the bus did not come to our neighborhood due to a weird restriction, and we have bad weather 5 months out of the year which made walking impossible). I would drive to school, and I would become convinced that I had run over an animal or a child, and I would have to go back and re-check to make sure that I had not hurt something by accident.
Once I made it to school, about an hour before it started, I would begin again compulsively checking my backpack to make sure I wasn't missing anything. I would make sure every pencil was sharpened just so. I would go the restroom and check and double-check that my appearance was OK. I would become convinced that I had sat in something that would leave a mark on my pants on my rear-end, and that I would be mocked for it. So I would spend the next thirty minutes checking and re-checking myself in the girls' bathroom to make sure my clothing was ok.
Once I made it to class, I would set everything out and begin re-checking my backpack for things I may have missed.
And so on.
I began restricting the types of shows I watched on TV. Anything violent was a no-go, because I could go crazy at any moment and hurt someone, somehow driven by the show. This lasted into my early twenties. I remember watching a TV police-themed show, and I turned it off because I was scared I would commit the crimes on the show.
Around this point in time, I had begun seeing a psychiatrist for anxiety and depression. The anti-depressants helped a lot, and I began to see my OCD symptoms go into remission. As I dealt with my next diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder, OCD took a backseat.
Currently, all of the psychiatric medications I take dulls the urge to perform the rituals. OCD is still there; I still pick at myself which drives my family crazy, and I still check things sometimes. But I know that there is a cause of the intrusive thoughts. I cried when I was diagnosed with OCD and read the symptoms. It was like someone looked inside my head and wrote about it. The intrusive thoughts weren't because I was crazy or evil, the urge to check things was explainable in a medical fashion.
I want other people to read about people suffering with misunderstood illnesses. If my mother had gotten me to a doctor, my life may have turned out differently. Maybe it wouldn't have made a difference since I ended up with Bipolar Disorder. But OCD is such a weird, strange phenomenon. It caused me so much distress during my childhood, I wouldn't wish it on anyone.
Treatment is possible for OCD. Anti-depressants and CBT are used. I have found Self-help books enormously helpful since I can't take anti-depressants due to Bipolar Disorder. The best book I have read is Freedom from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder by Dr. Jonathan Grayson. A lot of books just give you surveys and rating scales for whatever disorder you are reading about. This book, however, really shows an understanding of OCD. He calls OCD the "Doubting Disease," and says that OCD sufferers may even doubt their diagnosis. (I have no affiliation with the author or the book).
Here is site with some generic facts about OCD and symptoms.
Each disease is different for everybody. I don't compulsively wash my hands, but I know a lot of OCD sufferers do, and it really fucks up their hands. I do compulsively skin pick to this day, but not as severely as some of the cases I have read about.
OCD is so very weird and disturbing that I think people don't seek treatment for it. After all, who wants to walk into a psychiatrist's office and say, "Hullo. I have gruesome images of stabbing my family to death, and have had my spouse hide knives from me so I don't do it," or "Sorry I'm late, I thought I had run over three dogs on the way over and had to be sure I didn't. It's hard to tell disturbing thoughts to someone.
Here is the link to the International OCD Foundation.
I write these posts with personal details in the effort that someone reading them will realize they are not beyond help and that lots of other people deal with these types of disorders. I think that our government needs a department focused on mental health and be screening teenagers for these disorders so as to prevent unnecessary suffering.
While this blog mainly chronicles my challenges with Bipolar Disorder, I will sometimes write on other co-morbid mental conditions I have. OCD is a mental illness that is heavily misunderstood. I can't tell you how many times I've heard statements like, "The Christmas ornaments aren't level, I'm so OCD" or "I need to have my roots done at the salon, I'm so OCD."
No, no you're not.
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder is very distressing to the sufferer. It combines obsessive, sometimes intrusive thoughts and in order to relieve the distress, the sufferer starts doing some type of ritual activity to relieve their distress. I will use myself as an example.
The earliest battle with mental illness that I had was with OCD. I remember being about age 8. Obviously, I didn't know I had OCD at 8 years of age. All I knew was that I had really scary thoughts that I didn't want to think about, and it caused me shame and anxiety. I thought that by performing certain tasks, I could make up for the bad thoughts.
So, for example, if my dad said, "I love you," I would say, "I love you, too." But then the scary thoughts popped into my head. What if I didn't really love my dad? That means that I just said a lie. God hates liars. Therefore, I have to confess to my dad that I sinned, or else I would go to hell. So then, I would whisper under my breath, "I might not really love you," and then I would whisper a prayer to God for forgiveness. My dad would looked at me weirdly, and ask, "What did you just say?" I would say, "nothing," and then the process would repeat.
Another example would be if my mom asked me if I did all of my homework. I would automatically say "yes" if I had done it, because I knew I had finished it. But the scary thoughts popped into my head. What if I had missed a question on the back page of my homework? That means I had just lied to my mom. So I would go double-check my homework, and confess to my mom that I had to "make sure." Now, my mom was not a particularly understanding mother (more on that later), and would get angry when I did these things, compounding my distress. I started picking at my skin.
Around this time, I was about 9, and I began having very scary, intrusive thoughts about killing myself, or about harming my mom or other people. This was traumatic to me, and when I told my mom of these things, she freaked out and told me I had a demon possessing me. Note that this is absolutely the wrong approach if your child reaches out to your for mental help. I was terrified, and my OCD worsened.
I began checking rooms compulsively for intruders. I was convinced there would be a burglar or something waiting for me at our house when I got home from school. I would spend 30 minutes checking closets, windows, door locks, etc. I would pick at my skin until I started bleeding, mostly on my face. I started checking for appliances being plugged in, lights left on that could catch fire, and so on.
My OCD would worsen at times, and sometimes it would get better. I didn't have it as much in junior high school because I was too invested in homework and trying not to feel like an outcast.
In high school, though, my OCD came back with a vengeance. I would get up three hours early for school to get through my rituals. I would shower and wash my hair in a certain way, and if it wasn't done correctly, I had to re-do it, otherwise, something bad might happen. I would then dress and spend thirty minutes checking and re-checking my backpack and homework assignments to make sure they were all there. I would then go to my car (at this point, I was 16). I would have to go inside three times to make sure I had turned off all the faucets in the bathroom, and turned off the lights in my bedroom. I would have to make sure my computer was off so it wouldn't catch fire. Then I would check under my bed and around my room to ensure nothing was left behind.
Once I got in my car, I would lock the front door (mother having already left for work earlier). I would then have to re-check it, sometimes driving home from school between classes to check. Once I made it in my car, I had to say a prayer a certain way three times, are something awful would happen.
Then I would spend the next sixty minutes driving a half-mile to school. Yes, you read that right: It would take me an hour to drive 0.5 miles to school (I had to drive, there were no sidewalks to walk on and the bus did not come to our neighborhood due to a weird restriction, and we have bad weather 5 months out of the year which made walking impossible). I would drive to school, and I would become convinced that I had run over an animal or a child, and I would have to go back and re-check to make sure that I had not hurt something by accident.
Once I made it to school, about an hour before it started, I would begin again compulsively checking my backpack to make sure I wasn't missing anything. I would make sure every pencil was sharpened just so. I would go the restroom and check and double-check that my appearance was OK. I would become convinced that I had sat in something that would leave a mark on my pants on my rear-end, and that I would be mocked for it. So I would spend the next thirty minutes checking and re-checking myself in the girls' bathroom to make sure my clothing was ok.
Once I made it to class, I would set everything out and begin re-checking my backpack for things I may have missed.
And so on.
I began restricting the types of shows I watched on TV. Anything violent was a no-go, because I could go crazy at any moment and hurt someone, somehow driven by the show. This lasted into my early twenties. I remember watching a TV police-themed show, and I turned it off because I was scared I would commit the crimes on the show.
Around this point in time, I had begun seeing a psychiatrist for anxiety and depression. The anti-depressants helped a lot, and I began to see my OCD symptoms go into remission. As I dealt with my next diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder, OCD took a backseat.
Currently, all of the psychiatric medications I take dulls the urge to perform the rituals. OCD is still there; I still pick at myself which drives my family crazy, and I still check things sometimes. But I know that there is a cause of the intrusive thoughts. I cried when I was diagnosed with OCD and read the symptoms. It was like someone looked inside my head and wrote about it. The intrusive thoughts weren't because I was crazy or evil, the urge to check things was explainable in a medical fashion.
I want other people to read about people suffering with misunderstood illnesses. If my mother had gotten me to a doctor, my life may have turned out differently. Maybe it wouldn't have made a difference since I ended up with Bipolar Disorder. But OCD is such a weird, strange phenomenon. It caused me so much distress during my childhood, I wouldn't wish it on anyone.
Treatment is possible for OCD. Anti-depressants and CBT are used. I have found Self-help books enormously helpful since I can't take anti-depressants due to Bipolar Disorder. The best book I have read is Freedom from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder by Dr. Jonathan Grayson. A lot of books just give you surveys and rating scales for whatever disorder you are reading about. This book, however, really shows an understanding of OCD. He calls OCD the "Doubting Disease," and says that OCD sufferers may even doubt their diagnosis. (I have no affiliation with the author or the book).
Here is site with some generic facts about OCD and symptoms.
Each disease is different for everybody. I don't compulsively wash my hands, but I know a lot of OCD sufferers do, and it really fucks up their hands. I do compulsively skin pick to this day, but not as severely as some of the cases I have read about.
OCD is so very weird and disturbing that I think people don't seek treatment for it. After all, who wants to walk into a psychiatrist's office and say, "Hullo. I have gruesome images of stabbing my family to death, and have had my spouse hide knives from me so I don't do it," or "Sorry I'm late, I thought I had run over three dogs on the way over and had to be sure I didn't. It's hard to tell disturbing thoughts to someone.
Here is the link to the International OCD Foundation.
I write these posts with personal details in the effort that someone reading them will realize they are not beyond help and that lots of other people deal with these types of disorders. I think that our government needs a department focused on mental health and be screening teenagers for these disorders so as to prevent unnecessary suffering.
Friday, December 2, 2016
Depressive Episodes Part 1
Depression Part 1 (if you are sensitive to suicide, please don't read)
Unless you've experienced the big D, it's pretty difficult to describe it. There are plenty of trite descriptions of Depression on medical websites. It's not just words on a screen to me; it's a living, breathing animal.
To me, Depression is the penultimate struggle of wills: your evolutionary will to survive vs. your desire to lessen your suffering. Sometimes, you'll be watching a movie with friends where someone dies a gruesome, slow death. You think, Man, I'd never want to die like that. I'd rather just go immediately, like from a heart attack, in my sleep, or in a car accident. Never ever in a slow, painful way where you're acutely aware of your own suffering.
That's more like what Depression is like.
Depressive Episodes
With my Bipolar 1 diagnosis, unlike Mania which I have previously written about, I usually cannot tell when I am about to enter a Depressive phase. It tends to sneak up on me quickly, and hit me hard.
The only time I have been hospitalized was for a depressive episode in 2011, which I wrote about here.
While I can clearly see Manic episodes in my life, I really can't see Depression as clearly without consulting my past journals for suicide letters. I tend to get a cathartic experience from writing suicide letters. I can never get them just right, and sometimes in a Depressive state, that is nearly all that keeps me from taking my own life. I write it out, sometimes sobbing, sometimes stone motionless, like a robot. I explain in my letter to my various family members why I did what I did and that I'm very sorry. I usually end up scribbling things out and re-writing it, and then just giving up because I can't articulate my own suicide very well.
I give up, and file it away for a later date. I am not sure why I save them; if anyone were to discover them, I am not sure how I'd explain my morbid little collection. I view them dispassionately, sometimes I throw them away.
You can browse lots of various blogs and sites and you'll see common things about Depression, such as sleep changes, weight changes, disinterest in life, etc. Those descriptions, while true, are so sterile to describe something than can rage like a frozen ice storm through your veins.
People hear "depression," and they think you're sad, or maybe bored and lazy. It's a stereotype that must change. True depression is an anaconda, slowly squeezing you the harder you fight.
Treatment for Depression
The bright side of it is that it is totally treatable. It may be a long while with trying different medications, but Depression is something that can be beat back with proper medical care. I don't recommend trying to beat chronic Depression on your own without any support or medicine. (I am not a doctor or any medical professional, so please consult someone qualified if you think you have Depression).
For me, Depressive phases come and go. Autumn is usually hard as the days get shorter. Other than that, I can't really discern triggers for Depression like I can with Mania. When I am sobby and weepy, I contact my psychiatrist and/or counselor. I have to try and avoid antidepressants because they tend to slingshot me into mania. If the depressive episode is severe, we risk the mania and go with low doses of antidepressants combined with heavier mood stabilizers and anti-psychotics. In the instances where I have taken anti-depressants, my depression as lifted after a few weeks on the meds. Medication (in general), for me, as been a life-changer.
When Depression is Not Taken Seriously by Others
If you have been diagnosed with Depression, you've probably heard a smattering of stale advice from counselors and doctors such as: get more sunlight, each healthier, exercise, get sleep, practice being grateful, take hot baths, etc. I know I have, and it's incredibly frustrating. While these are all helpful components of any lifestyle, they can make the Depressed patient feel as if no one will understand them and the severity of their situation. If Depression were as easy to cure as 15 minutes in the sunlight, or a lavender-scented bath, we wouldn't have the national crises on Depression that we have right now. Suicide rates are climbing in the United States, becoming the 10th leading cause of death.
When someone is at the point of seeking medical treatment for Depression, they are probably feeling at their wit's end. Being there in the doctor's office, ready to spill the ugly thoughts in your head, and being told they can be helped by getting eight hours' rest each night is just about enough to make the most patient person cry.
It is going to be up to you to find a doctor that takes you seriously, or insist on more thorough treatments. You are your best advocate. You must communicate the seriousness of your Depression to your doctor, and not let them write you off.
Family members may not take Depression seriously, either. Our parents' generations didn't talk at all about mental illness. Older generations may think you are ungrateful, lazy, selfish, etc. This is completely untrue and dangerous. If you are a young person and have reached out to your family about your Depression, and they are not taking it seriously, go to a hospital. Call one of the Suicide help lines (some are listed below at the end of this post). Tell a minister or a family friend that you are struggling with your Depression. Don't give up.
Friends are tricky. Some of your friends may be compassionate, and stick with you through your illness. Others will leave immediately. Some may stay at first, but then drift away. It's normal; it's happened to me. You must not take it personally. I have lost most of my friends because when I am depressed, I don't really talk to anyone. They take this as I don't care. That's not true; I am just so overwhelmed with caring for myself that I don't have any leftover energy for others. And you know what? That's ok.
When you're depressed, you feel alone and worthless, and like things will never get better. The best advice I can give you is that depression is a phase. It will get better. You'll have ups and downs. The condition itself is highly treatable. It's just part of your brain lying to you. That three pound mass in your head is a weird being. It sometimes takes on a life of its own, it seems. Depression is one of those instances. Get treated for it, and realize things will improve.
In the US, if you are depressed and considering suicide, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. You can even chat with them online.
Links to Suicide Help in the UK.
Unless you've experienced the big D, it's pretty difficult to describe it. There are plenty of trite descriptions of Depression on medical websites. It's not just words on a screen to me; it's a living, breathing animal.
To me, Depression is the penultimate struggle of wills: your evolutionary will to survive vs. your desire to lessen your suffering. Sometimes, you'll be watching a movie with friends where someone dies a gruesome, slow death. You think, Man, I'd never want to die like that. I'd rather just go immediately, like from a heart attack, in my sleep, or in a car accident. Never ever in a slow, painful way where you're acutely aware of your own suffering.
That's more like what Depression is like.
Depressive Episodes
With my Bipolar 1 diagnosis, unlike Mania which I have previously written about, I usually cannot tell when I am about to enter a Depressive phase. It tends to sneak up on me quickly, and hit me hard.
The only time I have been hospitalized was for a depressive episode in 2011, which I wrote about here.
While I can clearly see Manic episodes in my life, I really can't see Depression as clearly without consulting my past journals for suicide letters. I tend to get a cathartic experience from writing suicide letters. I can never get them just right, and sometimes in a Depressive state, that is nearly all that keeps me from taking my own life. I write it out, sometimes sobbing, sometimes stone motionless, like a robot. I explain in my letter to my various family members why I did what I did and that I'm very sorry. I usually end up scribbling things out and re-writing it, and then just giving up because I can't articulate my own suicide very well.
I give up, and file it away for a later date. I am not sure why I save them; if anyone were to discover them, I am not sure how I'd explain my morbid little collection. I view them dispassionately, sometimes I throw them away.
You can browse lots of various blogs and sites and you'll see common things about Depression, such as sleep changes, weight changes, disinterest in life, etc. Those descriptions, while true, are so sterile to describe something than can rage like a frozen ice storm through your veins.
People hear "depression," and they think you're sad, or maybe bored and lazy. It's a stereotype that must change. True depression is an anaconda, slowly squeezing you the harder you fight.
Treatment for Depression
The bright side of it is that it is totally treatable. It may be a long while with trying different medications, but Depression is something that can be beat back with proper medical care. I don't recommend trying to beat chronic Depression on your own without any support or medicine. (I am not a doctor or any medical professional, so please consult someone qualified if you think you have Depression).
For me, Depressive phases come and go. Autumn is usually hard as the days get shorter. Other than that, I can't really discern triggers for Depression like I can with Mania. When I am sobby and weepy, I contact my psychiatrist and/or counselor. I have to try and avoid antidepressants because they tend to slingshot me into mania. If the depressive episode is severe, we risk the mania and go with low doses of antidepressants combined with heavier mood stabilizers and anti-psychotics. In the instances where I have taken anti-depressants, my depression as lifted after a few weeks on the meds. Medication (in general), for me, as been a life-changer.
When Depression is Not Taken Seriously by Others
If you have been diagnosed with Depression, you've probably heard a smattering of stale advice from counselors and doctors such as: get more sunlight, each healthier, exercise, get sleep, practice being grateful, take hot baths, etc. I know I have, and it's incredibly frustrating. While these are all helpful components of any lifestyle, they can make the Depressed patient feel as if no one will understand them and the severity of their situation. If Depression were as easy to cure as 15 minutes in the sunlight, or a lavender-scented bath, we wouldn't have the national crises on Depression that we have right now. Suicide rates are climbing in the United States, becoming the 10th leading cause of death.
When someone is at the point of seeking medical treatment for Depression, they are probably feeling at their wit's end. Being there in the doctor's office, ready to spill the ugly thoughts in your head, and being told they can be helped by getting eight hours' rest each night is just about enough to make the most patient person cry.
It is going to be up to you to find a doctor that takes you seriously, or insist on more thorough treatments. You are your best advocate. You must communicate the seriousness of your Depression to your doctor, and not let them write you off.
Family members may not take Depression seriously, either. Our parents' generations didn't talk at all about mental illness. Older generations may think you are ungrateful, lazy, selfish, etc. This is completely untrue and dangerous. If you are a young person and have reached out to your family about your Depression, and they are not taking it seriously, go to a hospital. Call one of the Suicide help lines (some are listed below at the end of this post). Tell a minister or a family friend that you are struggling with your Depression. Don't give up.
Friends are tricky. Some of your friends may be compassionate, and stick with you through your illness. Others will leave immediately. Some may stay at first, but then drift away. It's normal; it's happened to me. You must not take it personally. I have lost most of my friends because when I am depressed, I don't really talk to anyone. They take this as I don't care. That's not true; I am just so overwhelmed with caring for myself that I don't have any leftover energy for others. And you know what? That's ok.
When you're depressed, you feel alone and worthless, and like things will never get better. The best advice I can give you is that depression is a phase. It will get better. You'll have ups and downs. The condition itself is highly treatable. It's just part of your brain lying to you. That three pound mass in your head is a weird being. It sometimes takes on a life of its own, it seems. Depression is one of those instances. Get treated for it, and realize things will improve.
In the US, if you are depressed and considering suicide, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. You can even chat with them online.
Links to Suicide Help in the UK.
Tuesday, November 29, 2016
Hospitalization
I don't think Depression is nearly as interesting as Mania, at least in my experience. It is the most painful of the two ends of the spectrum for me, but it has been less destructive in an overt sense than mania has been in my life.
While mania usually announces itself to me before it completely takes over, Depression does not. I will be happy, or fine, or flossing my teeth and suddenly I get bowled over by soul-consuming Depression. Then, I stand there in shock for a few moments, wondering what in the world set off the big D in my brain. Usually I can't find an explanation for being Depressed, other than it usually follows a Manic episode.
Depression kind of scares the people who meet me while I am Manic, and vice versa. I can easily go through photographs of my self over the years, and point to one and think: "Yep, I was Manic/Depressed in this one," just on the way I looked. In Mania, I am trim and wear fake eyelashes everywhere with full makeup. In Depression, I am lucky if I wash my hair regularly, I am overweight, and I am typically found in sweat pants from a thrift store. People tend to not recognize me if they have only seen me in one episode or that other.
Hospitalization - 2011
The one and only time I was hospitalized was at the end of the holidays in 2011. I went voluntarily, yet on the advice of my doctor, mostly due to feeling suicidal and having intrusive thoughts (later diagnosed as OCD).
I also went to the hospital because it was the holidays and my psychiatrist's office was closed for several days, and the emergency line was not going to be active.
It was a horrible experience. Not that going into a psych ward is supposed to be a luxury hotel or a spa day experience...but this was atrociously bad.
One of the nurses looked at me smugly and said, "You don't look like you have it that bad. Maybe this will give you some perspective." I almost yelled "Fuck you, bitch!" but I didn't. In all reality, going to the hospital made me worse, not better. That experience made me saddened because how many people who do have it worse off than me don't seek treatment when they need it because a) it's an awful experience, and b) it is ridiculously expensive (3 days for $2000 with insurance!).
The only solutions they could offer me were ECT or a visit with a psychiatrist, which is supposed to happen within 12 hours of admittance. I did not see a psychiatrist for 70 hours, despite repeated requests and then demands. When I did see him, he prescribed some Klonopin and told me to go home and follow up with my regular doctor.
I was enraged. Sedatives?! Really?! I had plenty of those already at home. I didn't self-admit to acquire some god-damned sedatives. I self-admitted because I was a hair away from blowing my brains out with a gun, and pre-occupied with ways I could kill myself. He offered me sedatives.
I did follow up with my lovely regular psychiatrist, who became visibly upset when I described my experience. He apologized that it was so rank and dark. Even though there have been a few instances where I should have been hospitalized since then, I avoid it at all costs. I'd rather deal with my symptoms in the comfort of my own home than go through what I went through in the hospital.
That brings up the issue of quality mental health care, and what that looks like. All I know is that what I experienced was not quality mental health care. What I wanted was a doctor to see me immediately (within the 12 hour time frame, which was part of the patient contract), and for me to have a time out of sorts to regain my balance. Did I need to adjust my Seroquel? Did I need to start a new medication? Those were all questions I had, and I had no way of answering them except in a hospital.
I was originally going to make this post about Depression, but it turned more into my hospital story. I'll leave it at that. Depression can take up a topic another day.
While mania usually announces itself to me before it completely takes over, Depression does not. I will be happy, or fine, or flossing my teeth and suddenly I get bowled over by soul-consuming Depression. Then, I stand there in shock for a few moments, wondering what in the world set off the big D in my brain. Usually I can't find an explanation for being Depressed, other than it usually follows a Manic episode.
Depression kind of scares the people who meet me while I am Manic, and vice versa. I can easily go through photographs of my self over the years, and point to one and think: "Yep, I was Manic/Depressed in this one," just on the way I looked. In Mania, I am trim and wear fake eyelashes everywhere with full makeup. In Depression, I am lucky if I wash my hair regularly, I am overweight, and I am typically found in sweat pants from a thrift store. People tend to not recognize me if they have only seen me in one episode or that other.
Hospitalization - 2011
The one and only time I was hospitalized was at the end of the holidays in 2011. I went voluntarily, yet on the advice of my doctor, mostly due to feeling suicidal and having intrusive thoughts (later diagnosed as OCD).
I also went to the hospital because it was the holidays and my psychiatrist's office was closed for several days, and the emergency line was not going to be active.
It was a horrible experience. Not that going into a psych ward is supposed to be a luxury hotel or a spa day experience...but this was atrociously bad.
One of the nurses looked at me smugly and said, "You don't look like you have it that bad. Maybe this will give you some perspective." I almost yelled "Fuck you, bitch!" but I didn't. In all reality, going to the hospital made me worse, not better. That experience made me saddened because how many people who do have it worse off than me don't seek treatment when they need it because a) it's an awful experience, and b) it is ridiculously expensive (3 days for $2000 with insurance!).
The only solutions they could offer me were ECT or a visit with a psychiatrist, which is supposed to happen within 12 hours of admittance. I did not see a psychiatrist for 70 hours, despite repeated requests and then demands. When I did see him, he prescribed some Klonopin and told me to go home and follow up with my regular doctor.
I was enraged. Sedatives?! Really?! I had plenty of those already at home. I didn't self-admit to acquire some god-damned sedatives. I self-admitted because I was a hair away from blowing my brains out with a gun, and pre-occupied with ways I could kill myself. He offered me sedatives.
I did follow up with my lovely regular psychiatrist, who became visibly upset when I described my experience. He apologized that it was so rank and dark. Even though there have been a few instances where I should have been hospitalized since then, I avoid it at all costs. I'd rather deal with my symptoms in the comfort of my own home than go through what I went through in the hospital.
That brings up the issue of quality mental health care, and what that looks like. All I know is that what I experienced was not quality mental health care. What I wanted was a doctor to see me immediately (within the 12 hour time frame, which was part of the patient contract), and for me to have a time out of sorts to regain my balance. Did I need to adjust my Seroquel? Did I need to start a new medication? Those were all questions I had, and I had no way of answering them except in a hospital.
I was originally going to make this post about Depression, but it turned more into my hospital story. I'll leave it at that. Depression can take up a topic another day.
Sunday, November 27, 2016
Classic Manic Depressive Part 1: Mania
Mania
I could bore you with a lot of links to various sterile health websites that define "Mania," but I'm not going to do that. Go google mania. I am going to describe Mania from my own experiences.
I wasn't diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder until I was about 25, but I can clearly see the manic episodes throughout my life, beginning in High School. Here are the major ones I can clearly see looking backwards from the time I was 18 up until the age of about 26.
First Manic Episode, 2003
I believe my first episode of mania began my senior year of high school, in 2002-2003. I was a shy, maladjusted child who never dated, and suddenly I was sneaking out of the house and dating boys left and right. My mom chalked it up to teen rebellion. What she didn't realize was that I wasn't sleeping and I was full of energy, bouncing from one thing to the other. I began to sell my belongings and announced to everyone that I was moving to L.A., with no job, no college, and nowhere to live. My mother became a tad bit worried at this point, and decided to move with me. She had a job that transferred well, so she could move.
In our senior year, we all had to meet with guidance counselors who would show us how to apply to colleges, and what colleges to apply to. I thought I was a brilliant genius, so I applied to top-rated universities with nonsensical, incomplete applications and just shrugged when my counselor asked about my mediocre grades. I got rejection letter after rejection letter, and I got angry because clearly, these schools were going to miss out on the next Einstein. I burned the rejection letters in anger.
Senior Prom approached, and as I mentioned above, I had been shy and quiet, never bothering with dances, never getting asked to dances. I had a ton of courage at this point, and I strolled up to a popular guy who had just broken up with someone if he'd like to go with me. I think he was a bit surprised, but he assented. My girlfriends and I had agreed to go to Prom together as a group of wallflowers, and I bailed on them without a thought.
Later that night, I was entirely sober, but giving guys lapdances. One of my friends pulled me aside and asked me if I was on drugs, or drunk or if I had gotten a spiked drink because I was behaving embarrassingly. I became angry at her for her lack of enlightenment.
I lost all my friends that night.
I began to feel that everyone was out to get me, that I was just too smart and they were all trying to hold me down. I stopped talking to everyone in my familiar circle. When my mom suggested counseling with one of our churches' pastors, I was belligerent and loud, surprising him and everyone else because I was always a quiet, well-behaved child. Again, I stress the fact that I was entirely sober, having never drank alcohol, done drugs (legal or illegal) and not taking any prescription medicine.
The move to L.A.
Right after I graduated high school, my mom and I moved to Los Angeles, where I had been born and spent most of my childhood. I still applied to top notch schools with ignorance, but I eventually decided that a community college would let me in, and then I could WOW THEM with my dazzling intellect. I attended school full time, until a professor dared give me a "C" on a paper I thought was fabulous (even though it was rambling and not on topic with a fucked reference list). I began crying and yelling and he ordered me outside of the class to calm down. I immediately marched to the school office and tried to file a complaint. The counselor suggested I withdraw the course, and take some time to make a plan for next semester. I did.
During this time, the high of the mania was peaking. I thought that by moving across the country to a big city, my amazing abilities would be recognized by someone, and that I would be famous by now. Instead, I was muddling my way through a community college, with no friends.
At about this time, my mom suffered a a major heart attack, and left her in the hospital for 6 weeks. She could not work, and did not have insurance. The bills bankrupted us. I immediately grabbed a job at the mall full-time and quit school. We moved to progressively worse apartments. Eventually, she did start working again, but it was at a much lower-paying job.
My manic energy sustained me for several months with little sleep, grabbing up as many work hours as I could. But I eventually crashed into a severe depression, where I could not work very much. I wondered if my whole life was a lie and what it would be like to be dead. I began to think of killing myself, which I would have done if my mom hadn't needed me to care for her 24/7 after yet another heart attack. I began to have severe panic attacks, which I went to the ER twice for. I couldn't sleep, I lost so much weight people began asking me if I had an eating disorder.
Second Manic Episode, 2004
After several months of stress with my mom requiring care and having no money and relying on the kindness of a church group, I slingshotted back into mania. At this point, I was grateful for the superhuman energy. It meant I could work as many hours as I wanted whenever I wanted and I wouldn't have to waste time sleeping. I began dating a guy even though I didn't like him very much, then I dumped him and moved on, and so on. I got into a confrontation with my boss at an employee meeting and I am still surprised she didn't fire me. I quit the next day, feeling paranoid. I took another job at the mall, and lasted 3 weeks before I quit again. I took another job and lasted three months, quitting because I was certain there was a co-worker who was planning to poison my food. Job after job after job, boyfriend after boyfriend after boyfriend. I saw no problem with this; it was everyone else's problem, not mine.
When I'm manic, I am charming and magnetic. My latest boyfriend of 2 months was enthralled with me, and asked me to marry him immediately. I thought that was so absurd and off the wall, I loved it. We got married two months later, against the advice of my mom and his family.
Depression came back right around the wedding, and I'll write about that later. In short, that marriage was a very bad idea, and neither of us were prepared for it.
In an attempt to save our relationship, my husband took a less stressful job in a different state where there was plenty of nature and farmlands, a quieter lifestyle. The move occupied both of us for awhile, and we got along marginally better.
Third Manic Episode with Psychotic Features, 2007
This is a chronicle of the major episodes I can clearly see in the past. There may have been minor cycling through 2004-2007, but I don't remember mania in those years as much. I had started seeing a psychiatrist for Depression and Anxiety and was given anti-depressants, but I would stop taking those when I felt better, and that would propel me into a manic phase.
This is one of the episodes I remember the most because it was very traumatic to me. After a round of anti-depressants and after moving to a new state, I shot up sky high into mania again. However, the energy didn't last months like it had in the past. Instead, after a week or two of not sleeping and feeling great, I became paranoid. I thought there were listening devices planted in the appliances and smoke alarms. My then-husband thought I was funny and told me to stop being silly. I thought houses (the actual buildings) were watching me as I walked down the sidewalk or drove somewhere. The windows were eyes, and the doors were mouths. This lasted for about three weeks. I was terrified to go anywhere because the houses were watching my every move. I thought my own house was evil and was out to get me. I began to think ghosts lived there, and I would sit in my car in the driveway, not wanting to go inside. I would only go inside if I took my dog with me. If Monty went inside with no hesitation, it would probably be safe for me because I figured animals can sense threats. I took Monty everywhere with me in the car; he was my safety net until he passed in 2015.
I avoided driving anywhere at night because I would see lights in the windows of houses, and I thought it was signals they were sending each other about me driving down the road. It was a terrifying, excruciating experience. My husband didn't take any of the this seriously. He would laugh at me and pat my hand.
I didn't know what was wrong with me at this point. I visited my psychiatrist, and did not tell him about the house issue because even I knew it sounded crazy. I just told him I had anxiety. He prescribed some anti-anxiety pills. Those helped. I started sleeping more regularly, and it helped me calm down. As time went on, the feeling that the houses were watching me faded.
Misc Manic Episode, 2008-2009
These manic episodes were short-lived. I was relatively stable at the end of '07, but feeling more anxious and depressed. In 2008, I got into fights with friends and acquaintances over silly things. I was aggressive and belligerent to everyone. I impulsively decided to have a baby with my then-husband. He thought that was I sign was I was getting better, but it wasn't. The marriage was deteriorating rapidly as my husband lost patience with me, I resented him.
Pregnancy was good to me. I took a mild anti-depressant, but I was stable for the pregnancy. After the pregnancy, I had the most severe depression of my life at that moment. I was back in the psychiatrist's office. He prescribed anti-depressants and sedatives, which helped with the depression. It also sent me back into mania.
As my daughter grew, I had trouble with erratic spending and regulating my sleep cycles since babies tend to be loud at night. My husband and I fought more rather than less.
In 2009, after coming out of yet another depressive streak, I thought about planning to leave my husband. The marriage was failing and was unsalvagable. In 2010, I did.
Manic Episode, 2010
In 2010, I left my husband and took our daughter to stay with a friend. I thought that perhaps things would calm down and perhaps the marriage could be saved, but my ex-husband filed separation papers on me. Divorce proceedings followed. I did become manic, but that honestly ended up a good thing. I lost a bunch of weight, and became magnetic and charming again, which helped me get interviews and find a job. My boundless energy sustained me through the divorce. After it was over, however, I embarked on a destructive spree of excessive spending which eventually required I file for bankruptcy a year later. One day, I dropped my daughter off with my ex-husband for his weekend with her, and I saw an ad about Southwest Airlines having one-way fairs for $69. I used a credit card and purchased a one-way ticket to Phoenix, Arizona, which left a mere two hours later. I took nothing but my purse.
So, in the course of one Friday afternoon, I purchased a ticket and flew two hours to Phoenix. I thought I was being adventurous. I walked around the city near dusk by myself with no knowledge of the neighborhoods or where I would stay. I found some cool museums and ate at a Chinese restaurant. I hired a cab to take me to a hotel near the airport.
Once I got into my room, it occurred to me that I did not have any money left to get back home. My mom was frantic with worry about me when she called and learned what I had done. Of course, in my own mind, I was acting entirely rationally. No one had the funds to buy me a fare back home as the ticket sale with Southwest was one day only. It didn't really seem to bother me. I called my credit card company and asked for an extension of credit, lying about a relative that just died. That allowed me to purchase fare back home.
Once I got home, my family (including my new boyfriend) expressed some concern about my behavior, especially the trip to Phoenix. To me I was being indomitable and adventurous; to others I was behaving recklessly and dangerously.
Around this time, as I mentioned above, I started working. That occupied my time, and I threw myself into my job, winning all sorts of rewards for my mania-induced, frenzied efforts. I would show up an hour early at work at 6am, and work frantically until 3pm. Then I'd go to the gym and run 4 miles on the treadmill, then pick my daughter up from daycare. I still spent excessively, believing that I could become a professional model. I drank and smoked and changed my hair from brown to blond to black to red to blonde again.
I began getting in trouble at my job for my erratic behavior, which led me back to my psychiatrist's office. He was the first to mention "Bipolar Disorder" at this point. He put me on Seroquel. A few weeks later, I was hospitalized for Depression, which is another post.
After I was on Seroquel for about two months, my moods began evening out. I was given sleeping pills to ensure I slept each night, and sedatives for anxiety. This led to me becoming relatively stable for the next 4 years.
I know this reads like medical file sterility, but it is the bulk of my manic episodes. I have a few more I'll put in in Part 2. I don't really have the energy after all of that to comment any more on Mania or my experiences with it, except to say that it feels like you are drawing closer to a flame, getting warmer and happier until you are so close you burn and burn til it hurts and all that's left are ugly, black scars.
I could bore you with a lot of links to various sterile health websites that define "Mania," but I'm not going to do that. Go google mania. I am going to describe Mania from my own experiences.
I wasn't diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder until I was about 25, but I can clearly see the manic episodes throughout my life, beginning in High School. Here are the major ones I can clearly see looking backwards from the time I was 18 up until the age of about 26.
First Manic Episode, 2003
I believe my first episode of mania began my senior year of high school, in 2002-2003. I was a shy, maladjusted child who never dated, and suddenly I was sneaking out of the house and dating boys left and right. My mom chalked it up to teen rebellion. What she didn't realize was that I wasn't sleeping and I was full of energy, bouncing from one thing to the other. I began to sell my belongings and announced to everyone that I was moving to L.A., with no job, no college, and nowhere to live. My mother became a tad bit worried at this point, and decided to move with me. She had a job that transferred well, so she could move.
In our senior year, we all had to meet with guidance counselors who would show us how to apply to colleges, and what colleges to apply to. I thought I was a brilliant genius, so I applied to top-rated universities with nonsensical, incomplete applications and just shrugged when my counselor asked about my mediocre grades. I got rejection letter after rejection letter, and I got angry because clearly, these schools were going to miss out on the next Einstein. I burned the rejection letters in anger.
Senior Prom approached, and as I mentioned above, I had been shy and quiet, never bothering with dances, never getting asked to dances. I had a ton of courage at this point, and I strolled up to a popular guy who had just broken up with someone if he'd like to go with me. I think he was a bit surprised, but he assented. My girlfriends and I had agreed to go to Prom together as a group of wallflowers, and I bailed on them without a thought.
Later that night, I was entirely sober, but giving guys lapdances. One of my friends pulled me aside and asked me if I was on drugs, or drunk or if I had gotten a spiked drink because I was behaving embarrassingly. I became angry at her for her lack of enlightenment.
I lost all my friends that night.
I began to feel that everyone was out to get me, that I was just too smart and they were all trying to hold me down. I stopped talking to everyone in my familiar circle. When my mom suggested counseling with one of our churches' pastors, I was belligerent and loud, surprising him and everyone else because I was always a quiet, well-behaved child. Again, I stress the fact that I was entirely sober, having never drank alcohol, done drugs (legal or illegal) and not taking any prescription medicine.
The move to L.A.
Right after I graduated high school, my mom and I moved to Los Angeles, where I had been born and spent most of my childhood. I still applied to top notch schools with ignorance, but I eventually decided that a community college would let me in, and then I could WOW THEM with my dazzling intellect. I attended school full time, until a professor dared give me a "C" on a paper I thought was fabulous (even though it was rambling and not on topic with a fucked reference list). I began crying and yelling and he ordered me outside of the class to calm down. I immediately marched to the school office and tried to file a complaint. The counselor suggested I withdraw the course, and take some time to make a plan for next semester. I did.
During this time, the high of the mania was peaking. I thought that by moving across the country to a big city, my amazing abilities would be recognized by someone, and that I would be famous by now. Instead, I was muddling my way through a community college, with no friends.
At about this time, my mom suffered a a major heart attack, and left her in the hospital for 6 weeks. She could not work, and did not have insurance. The bills bankrupted us. I immediately grabbed a job at the mall full-time and quit school. We moved to progressively worse apartments. Eventually, she did start working again, but it was at a much lower-paying job.
My manic energy sustained me for several months with little sleep, grabbing up as many work hours as I could. But I eventually crashed into a severe depression, where I could not work very much. I wondered if my whole life was a lie and what it would be like to be dead. I began to think of killing myself, which I would have done if my mom hadn't needed me to care for her 24/7 after yet another heart attack. I began to have severe panic attacks, which I went to the ER twice for. I couldn't sleep, I lost so much weight people began asking me if I had an eating disorder.
Second Manic Episode, 2004
After several months of stress with my mom requiring care and having no money and relying on the kindness of a church group, I slingshotted back into mania. At this point, I was grateful for the superhuman energy. It meant I could work as many hours as I wanted whenever I wanted and I wouldn't have to waste time sleeping. I began dating a guy even though I didn't like him very much, then I dumped him and moved on, and so on. I got into a confrontation with my boss at an employee meeting and I am still surprised she didn't fire me. I quit the next day, feeling paranoid. I took another job at the mall, and lasted 3 weeks before I quit again. I took another job and lasted three months, quitting because I was certain there was a co-worker who was planning to poison my food. Job after job after job, boyfriend after boyfriend after boyfriend. I saw no problem with this; it was everyone else's problem, not mine.
When I'm manic, I am charming and magnetic. My latest boyfriend of 2 months was enthralled with me, and asked me to marry him immediately. I thought that was so absurd and off the wall, I loved it. We got married two months later, against the advice of my mom and his family.
Depression came back right around the wedding, and I'll write about that later. In short, that marriage was a very bad idea, and neither of us were prepared for it.
In an attempt to save our relationship, my husband took a less stressful job in a different state where there was plenty of nature and farmlands, a quieter lifestyle. The move occupied both of us for awhile, and we got along marginally better.
Third Manic Episode with Psychotic Features, 2007
This is a chronicle of the major episodes I can clearly see in the past. There may have been minor cycling through 2004-2007, but I don't remember mania in those years as much. I had started seeing a psychiatrist for Depression and Anxiety and was given anti-depressants, but I would stop taking those when I felt better, and that would propel me into a manic phase.
This is one of the episodes I remember the most because it was very traumatic to me. After a round of anti-depressants and after moving to a new state, I shot up sky high into mania again. However, the energy didn't last months like it had in the past. Instead, after a week or two of not sleeping and feeling great, I became paranoid. I thought there were listening devices planted in the appliances and smoke alarms. My then-husband thought I was funny and told me to stop being silly. I thought houses (the actual buildings) were watching me as I walked down the sidewalk or drove somewhere. The windows were eyes, and the doors were mouths. This lasted for about three weeks. I was terrified to go anywhere because the houses were watching my every move. I thought my own house was evil and was out to get me. I began to think ghosts lived there, and I would sit in my car in the driveway, not wanting to go inside. I would only go inside if I took my dog with me. If Monty went inside with no hesitation, it would probably be safe for me because I figured animals can sense threats. I took Monty everywhere with me in the car; he was my safety net until he passed in 2015.
I avoided driving anywhere at night because I would see lights in the windows of houses, and I thought it was signals they were sending each other about me driving down the road. It was a terrifying, excruciating experience. My husband didn't take any of the this seriously. He would laugh at me and pat my hand.
I didn't know what was wrong with me at this point. I visited my psychiatrist, and did not tell him about the house issue because even I knew it sounded crazy. I just told him I had anxiety. He prescribed some anti-anxiety pills. Those helped. I started sleeping more regularly, and it helped me calm down. As time went on, the feeling that the houses were watching me faded.
Misc Manic Episode, 2008-2009
These manic episodes were short-lived. I was relatively stable at the end of '07, but feeling more anxious and depressed. In 2008, I got into fights with friends and acquaintances over silly things. I was aggressive and belligerent to everyone. I impulsively decided to have a baby with my then-husband. He thought that was I sign was I was getting better, but it wasn't. The marriage was deteriorating rapidly as my husband lost patience with me, I resented him.
Pregnancy was good to me. I took a mild anti-depressant, but I was stable for the pregnancy. After the pregnancy, I had the most severe depression of my life at that moment. I was back in the psychiatrist's office. He prescribed anti-depressants and sedatives, which helped with the depression. It also sent me back into mania.
As my daughter grew, I had trouble with erratic spending and regulating my sleep cycles since babies tend to be loud at night. My husband and I fought more rather than less.
In 2009, after coming out of yet another depressive streak, I thought about planning to leave my husband. The marriage was failing and was unsalvagable. In 2010, I did.
Manic Episode, 2010
In 2010, I left my husband and took our daughter to stay with a friend. I thought that perhaps things would calm down and perhaps the marriage could be saved, but my ex-husband filed separation papers on me. Divorce proceedings followed. I did become manic, but that honestly ended up a good thing. I lost a bunch of weight, and became magnetic and charming again, which helped me get interviews and find a job. My boundless energy sustained me through the divorce. After it was over, however, I embarked on a destructive spree of excessive spending which eventually required I file for bankruptcy a year later. One day, I dropped my daughter off with my ex-husband for his weekend with her, and I saw an ad about Southwest Airlines having one-way fairs for $69. I used a credit card and purchased a one-way ticket to Phoenix, Arizona, which left a mere two hours later. I took nothing but my purse.
So, in the course of one Friday afternoon, I purchased a ticket and flew two hours to Phoenix. I thought I was being adventurous. I walked around the city near dusk by myself with no knowledge of the neighborhoods or where I would stay. I found some cool museums and ate at a Chinese restaurant. I hired a cab to take me to a hotel near the airport.
Once I got into my room, it occurred to me that I did not have any money left to get back home. My mom was frantic with worry about me when she called and learned what I had done. Of course, in my own mind, I was acting entirely rationally. No one had the funds to buy me a fare back home as the ticket sale with Southwest was one day only. It didn't really seem to bother me. I called my credit card company and asked for an extension of credit, lying about a relative that just died. That allowed me to purchase fare back home.
Once I got home, my family (including my new boyfriend) expressed some concern about my behavior, especially the trip to Phoenix. To me I was being indomitable and adventurous; to others I was behaving recklessly and dangerously.
Around this time, as I mentioned above, I started working. That occupied my time, and I threw myself into my job, winning all sorts of rewards for my mania-induced, frenzied efforts. I would show up an hour early at work at 6am, and work frantically until 3pm. Then I'd go to the gym and run 4 miles on the treadmill, then pick my daughter up from daycare. I still spent excessively, believing that I could become a professional model. I drank and smoked and changed my hair from brown to blond to black to red to blonde again.
I began getting in trouble at my job for my erratic behavior, which led me back to my psychiatrist's office. He was the first to mention "Bipolar Disorder" at this point. He put me on Seroquel. A few weeks later, I was hospitalized for Depression, which is another post.
After I was on Seroquel for about two months, my moods began evening out. I was given sleeping pills to ensure I slept each night, and sedatives for anxiety. This led to me becoming relatively stable for the next 4 years.
I know this reads like medical file sterility, but it is the bulk of my manic episodes. I have a few more I'll put in in Part 2. I don't really have the energy after all of that to comment any more on Mania or my experiences with it, except to say that it feels like you are drawing closer to a flame, getting warmer and happier until you are so close you burn and burn til it hurts and all that's left are ugly, black scars.
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