Spending sprees are a hallmark of mania. Trust me, I know this. I am intimately familiar with this. When I am manic, consequences go away. Can I afford $400 in clothes? No, but we have overdraft protection on our bank accounts, so it'll just go negative balance and charge $100 in fees to pay next time around. My Bipolar mind shrugs it off and thrills in watching each article of clothing pass over the scanner at the check out. Beep. Beep. Beep.
My spending sprees are not always on myself, mind you. Bipolar people in mania are frequently quite generous in their spending sprees, buying things for people around them. It's almost like a gambling high, spending when you're manic. You become almost frenzied in watching the cashier pack the plastic bags full of goodies.
So, can you manage finances when you're bipolar?
Yes.
It's tricky, but it can be done.
The first thing you need to do is have someone else around in your life that can help you with your finances. This can be someone at your bank, a friend, a relative, a spouse/partner...anyone that can objectively view your finances and tell you when you're careening off into unwise territory.
Here are some detailed steps on how I manage finances while Bipolar (I currently manage my family's finances, and do well with the following steps):
1. Enlist the support of your bank. This may not be possible as some banks are rude are don't give a shit about their customers. Skip this step if this is you. My bank is super helpful and friendly (they've gotten tons of overdraft fees from us when I've been on manic spending binges...keeping them in their Mercedes I guess). I told them I have Bipolar disorder and tend to go to on wild shopping sprees, which they said they had noticed on my account. I asked that large purchases be phoned into my husband before they go through. It's embarrassing at the check out line for me if a purchase is placed on hold or denied, but it keeps me from spending hundreds of dollars.
2. When you're feeling Mania come on, even hypomania, turn in all credit and debit cards and checkbooks to your safe person. My safe person is my husband. When I am feeling spendy, or he notices I am spending more than usual on random things, I turn over my access to our bank accounts. My husband will dispense cash to me as I need it for necessary items like food, gas, etc. You can also do this using the envelope system by having your safe person withdraw X amount of dollars to put in an envelope for you to use that week. Once the money is out, it's out. When you're past the manic phase and feeling more normal, you receive back your cards and checkbooks and continue on. You can also use a prepaid card in much the same way. Once X amount of dollars is loaded on the card, that's what you've got for the rest of the week.
3. Avoiding big sale events in your favorite stores. Even if I am not feeling manic at the moment, big sale events at my favorite stores like Target can trigger a manic state in me. Bright lights, cheerful music, and tons and tons of wonderful things all laid out like a spending feast. I can enter feeling relatively calm, but the atmosphere makes me excitable and reckless. Even thought I love sales and getting a good bargain, I typically stay away from big sales. They trigger something in me that quickly becomes overwhelming.
4. Take a safe person with you if you feel manic but need to do some shopping. I will typically take my husband. He is low-key, but will speak up if I am getting too caught up in the moment.
5. Make a list and stick to it, no matter what. If you don't have a safe person to help you with your finances and you are feeling manic, make a list. Make it very specific. For example, if you need to buy socks, don't just write "socks." Write "1 package of ten-count white socks." If you need laundry detergent, write "1 bottle of Tide laundry detergent." Write all over your list "DO NOT BUY ANYTHING BUT THESE THINGS." Avoid sections where you do not need to go. Do not browse. Go directly to the things on your list. Takes cash with you to cover expenses so you are less likely to buy extra things.
These five steps have helped me reduce my manic spending sprees and lessen the financial impact on my family. I am currently in charge of my family's finances and am in charge of paying bills, making sure money is in the correct accounts, doing the grocery shopping, etc. I have bumps along the road. I spent way to much on makeup this month, which we did not need to do. I am currently in a hypomanic state, but I have some safeguards in place which include taking cash for groceries and leaving my debit card at home, or using my safe person (husband). But, all in all, I have been successfully managing my family's finances for about 6 months, and we have done well. So managing finances while you're Bipolar is definitely possible. You just need to have a plan set in place for different possibilities,
Tuesday, December 13, 2016
Monday, December 12, 2016
Working, Jobs and Bipolar Disorder
I can't hold a normal job.
I spent nearly ten years in retail/restaurant, working shift work. I became ill nearly every single time. I didn't have an education, and therefore a regular 9-5 job was difficult to come by. After my most severe manic episode in 2014 where I lost my well-paying salaried job (but was also shift work), I have stayed at home. I pet sit from time to time for people. It's not a real job. It's a gig a junior-higher would have. But it's all I can manage at this time. My husband works hard to support us.
I decided earlier this year to go back to school and get a degree. Shift work is no longer an option for me (unless "you want to see the ward nurses several times a year", as my psychiatrist put it). Therefore, I need an education of some kind to get a job with normal hours.
I had finished most of my 4 year degree, and I have about one year left after this semester is over next week. Then I get my shiny diploma and...
Then what?
The "then what" terrifies me. My student loans were on hold due to a bankruptcy (I describe my manic episode that led to this here), and they will remain on hold until 6 months after I graduate to give me time to find a job. I am already working on getting my substitute teaching packet together. The way sub teaching works in my state is you are put into a pool of workers, and when they need a fill-in teacher the first one to get back to them gets the job. I can go for jobs I want to work, and ignore ones I don't. I figure I can manage that one day a week right now, and may be gradually work my way up to a few days a week. The pay isn't bad and the flexibility is there.
My next option would be to find a 9-5 office job with my new degree. It would have to be close to my house as I don't like commuting. It makes me very anxious. It would have to be boring and low-stress. There are not many of those jobs where I live, in a mainly suburban area mixed with manufacturing and farming. Not a whole lot of office environments.
My third option is to find something outside of the box. I have written a novel (but haven't submitted it because I think it's shit), and am working on a second one (that I think is a tad less shit). My goal is to have at least one novel submitted to a publisher within the next 6 months. The chances of that working are slim, but this idea would be amazing.
My anxious brain is terrified that neither of these 3 options will work out. I will have to consistently be earning a full-time salary by the time the student loan payments come due. I could always postpone the loan repayments with medical leave, but they accrue nasty interest rates (student loans could be a whole other post). I don't want to postpone my life because of Bipolar disorder anymore. I am a doer, an active person. I take charge of situations and become a leader.
So, I have basically a year and half to get well while I am getting my degree. I will have to accept the fact that there will be times I will have to be off work on medical leave (hopefully few, brief, and far between). The future is pressing in on me, though. It's like I'm watching a bad SciFi movie take place: Functionality vs. Bipolar. The past 5 years have been a huge recovering from my untreated early adulthood. I finally feel at nearly 32 that I've gained some wisdom and perspective on living with Bipolar.
Ah, just to put that wisdom into action.
The first step is making an employment contract with myself, my doctor, and my family. These are things that I agree to do in looking for employment in order to minimize my risk of relapsing.
Contract Agreement #1: No Shift-Work Jobs
I will not take a job that involves shift work. I will not take a job that advertises frequent overtime needed. I will only look at jobs with regular hours (even if the the pay is low).
Contract Agreement #2: Commute
I will only consider jobs within a 15 minute commute from my home. This reduces stress involved in taking daughter to and from after-school care. Commuting makes me stressed out. Must. reduce. stress.
Contract Agreement #3: I must say "No" to my hypothetical bosses.
My family and therapist agree I say "yes" far too often. I crave reassurance and praise. I take on too much work, which makes me ill. I cannot do this in my future job. I will say "No" more often, especially if I am not feeling up to it.
Contract Agreement #4: Taking all medicaitons as prescribed
For some of you, this is #1. I don't have a problem with this. I am very aware of my Bipolar Disorder, and am very aware of the symptoms of when I don't take my medications. Therefore, this is lower on the priority list, but still on it.
Contract Agreement #5: Attending regular CBT (2x/month if finances allow)
I agree to regularly attend CBT. I have a tendency to make it when I can make it. If finances don't allow for it, tough shit. I won't go. But if we can make it work financially (and have so far with my psych and therapist in the same office and flexible with payments plans), then I will go regularly.
Contract Agreement #6: I will not ignore "minor" symptoms.
I have a tendency to think "eh, my sleep is shit, I dyed my hair purple overnight and I've a sudden urge to take acting classes and I can't keep a thought in my brain, but it'll pass." It most definitely does not pass. It turns into spending sprees (I will write a post on managing finances when you have Bipolar like me) and even psychosis if untreated. Alas, I will notify my family and therapist/psych when I have symptoms I see as no big deal.
That's it. That's my grand plan. That and I may start smoking again. I've a terrible urge to smoke. I haven't smoked in over a year. That's a different post as well.
Hope everyone is having as low-stress a holiday as they can.
I spent nearly ten years in retail/restaurant, working shift work. I became ill nearly every single time. I didn't have an education, and therefore a regular 9-5 job was difficult to come by. After my most severe manic episode in 2014 where I lost my well-paying salaried job (but was also shift work), I have stayed at home. I pet sit from time to time for people. It's not a real job. It's a gig a junior-higher would have. But it's all I can manage at this time. My husband works hard to support us.
I decided earlier this year to go back to school and get a degree. Shift work is no longer an option for me (unless "you want to see the ward nurses several times a year", as my psychiatrist put it). Therefore, I need an education of some kind to get a job with normal hours.
I had finished most of my 4 year degree, and I have about one year left after this semester is over next week. Then I get my shiny diploma and...
Then what?
The "then what" terrifies me. My student loans were on hold due to a bankruptcy (I describe my manic episode that led to this here), and they will remain on hold until 6 months after I graduate to give me time to find a job. I am already working on getting my substitute teaching packet together. The way sub teaching works in my state is you are put into a pool of workers, and when they need a fill-in teacher the first one to get back to them gets the job. I can go for jobs I want to work, and ignore ones I don't. I figure I can manage that one day a week right now, and may be gradually work my way up to a few days a week. The pay isn't bad and the flexibility is there.
My next option would be to find a 9-5 office job with my new degree. It would have to be close to my house as I don't like commuting. It makes me very anxious. It would have to be boring and low-stress. There are not many of those jobs where I live, in a mainly suburban area mixed with manufacturing and farming. Not a whole lot of office environments.
My third option is to find something outside of the box. I have written a novel (but haven't submitted it because I think it's shit), and am working on a second one (that I think is a tad less shit). My goal is to have at least one novel submitted to a publisher within the next 6 months. The chances of that working are slim, but this idea would be amazing.
My anxious brain is terrified that neither of these 3 options will work out. I will have to consistently be earning a full-time salary by the time the student loan payments come due. I could always postpone the loan repayments with medical leave, but they accrue nasty interest rates (student loans could be a whole other post). I don't want to postpone my life because of Bipolar disorder anymore. I am a doer, an active person. I take charge of situations and become a leader.
So, I have basically a year and half to get well while I am getting my degree. I will have to accept the fact that there will be times I will have to be off work on medical leave (hopefully few, brief, and far between). The future is pressing in on me, though. It's like I'm watching a bad SciFi movie take place: Functionality vs. Bipolar. The past 5 years have been a huge recovering from my untreated early adulthood. I finally feel at nearly 32 that I've gained some wisdom and perspective on living with Bipolar.
Ah, just to put that wisdom into action.
The first step is making an employment contract with myself, my doctor, and my family. These are things that I agree to do in looking for employment in order to minimize my risk of relapsing.
Contract Agreement #1: No Shift-Work Jobs
I will not take a job that involves shift work. I will not take a job that advertises frequent overtime needed. I will only look at jobs with regular hours (even if the the pay is low).
Contract Agreement #2: Commute
I will only consider jobs within a 15 minute commute from my home. This reduces stress involved in taking daughter to and from after-school care. Commuting makes me stressed out. Must. reduce. stress.
Contract Agreement #3: I must say "No" to my hypothetical bosses.
My family and therapist agree I say "yes" far too often. I crave reassurance and praise. I take on too much work, which makes me ill. I cannot do this in my future job. I will say "No" more often, especially if I am not feeling up to it.
Contract Agreement #4: Taking all medicaitons as prescribed
For some of you, this is #1. I don't have a problem with this. I am very aware of my Bipolar Disorder, and am very aware of the symptoms of when I don't take my medications. Therefore, this is lower on the priority list, but still on it.
Contract Agreement #5: Attending regular CBT (2x/month if finances allow)
I agree to regularly attend CBT. I have a tendency to make it when I can make it. If finances don't allow for it, tough shit. I won't go. But if we can make it work financially (and have so far with my psych and therapist in the same office and flexible with payments plans), then I will go regularly.
Contract Agreement #6: I will not ignore "minor" symptoms.
I have a tendency to think "eh, my sleep is shit, I dyed my hair purple overnight and I've a sudden urge to take acting classes and I can't keep a thought in my brain, but it'll pass." It most definitely does not pass. It turns into spending sprees (I will write a post on managing finances when you have Bipolar like me) and even psychosis if untreated. Alas, I will notify my family and therapist/psych when I have symptoms I see as no big deal.
That's it. That's my grand plan. That and I may start smoking again. I've a terrible urge to smoke. I haven't smoked in over a year. That's a different post as well.
Hope everyone is having as low-stress a holiday as they can.
What's It Like Having Bipolar Disorder?
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.
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.
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.
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