Rerun and update: Susan an Introduction

I apologize if I haven't been writing. The mind is willing, the flesh is weak. I found a piece I wanted to share again, and just add a few updates. It was originally written in  2002. I re wrote it again for the blog in 2009. In 2003 I went back on meds after being off them for most of 2002,due to a hospitalization and family pressure. I stayed on them until November 2010.  Since then, I have become med free, because of the kidney failure. Still and all it's one of my most favorite pieces and it gives insight to who I am.

I could feel my blue eyes opening, and the light was harsh. I shielded them with my palm, trying to wake. I gradually accustomed myself, and noticed, this was a twin size bed I was in, not my normal full size. My beloved cat was not nestling besides me, nor did I have the teddy that served as a sentinel since I was four. I thought for a moment, I was back in time, back in Graduate School, where life was good, and I shared a house in my state’s capital with four other young women. But as I tried to move, I noticed I couldn’t move. There was an IV attached to my arm, and one of those heart monitors like you would see on ER. And I was strapped down to the bed. It was the present, 1994, and I had been out of school for seven years. I could hear the doctors and nurses running by me, ignoring me. I had no idea where I was, I figured it was in the emergency room of Princeton Hospital. I asked the nurse what day it was as she ran by me. It was a Sunday morning, at four or five in the morning, and I wondered what the heck had I done again, since I took all those pills on Friday night? and why in Heaven’s name, couldn’t I succeed in killing myself?

I am a manic-depressive. I was one of those people, first misdiagnosed in my early twenties as depressive, then a month later diagnosed as bipolar. But this hospitalization in my early thirties, would evaluate me as bipolar, with a difference, I was an ultra rapid cycler with schizoaffective features. 

This was not my first suicide attempt. This was one of many, starting with all the sturm und drang of adolescence. This would be my second to last serious attempt. I cannot begin to count all the times I have wanted to "shuffle off this mortal coil", as Hamlet said. I have tried pills, more times waking up to be Exorcist sick. I tried to use a hose to my car’s exhaust, not realizing I had a catalytic converter, which went on before I could fall asleep. I have thought of throwing myself off the Empire State Building, but I am deathly afraid of heights and have vertigo. And I have tried to slit my wrists, but could not get the razor blade out of that pink plastic Gillette razor. (Curse you Gillette!)

And I have been blessed with the mania, suffering for three years straight without crashing to anything other than mild depression. I was gifted then, doing two masters degrees and holding down three part time jobs. I had poems professionally published. Looking back they were nothing but masterful Sylvia Plath imitations. I was the belle of the English department, their golden girl about to go on for a PhD. And I was correct for the longest time. And then, just like the all time perfect day, it ended. It had to. A person cannot be manic for three years without illegal drugs, one has to crash eventually.

Continues here 

For World Mental Health Day, On Finding Acceptance and Serenity

When I first started blogging, I didn't have a clue what I was doing. I knew I had a story to tell, but then, doesn't everyone? I was frustrated and mad at the system, confused about diagnosis, and labels. I was trying to build my life back, one step at a time, one word at a time.

I knew the following: I was diagnosed as "Manic Depressive" (later Bipolar) when I was 23. I never believed it. I refused to believe it, despite the fact I saw psychiatrists and took psychiatric medication. I had a total of nine psychology courses in my life, three as an undergraduate, six as a graduate student. I knew about these things, what to look for, symptoms, how to apply therapy. I had various therapists and tried such therapies as CBT, Jungian, Freudian, Eriksonian, Gesalt, Group therapy, Women's only Group therapy, Art, Music, Dance and Writing therapy. I've done Primal Screams. I've been hypnotised. I've spent hours on the couch, analyzing everything from my first memory, my dreams, even my orgasms. I've taken close to 50 different psych meds, and endured ECT all to try to "get well". And in the end, after almost 27 years of this, I've realized one thing. I cannot change until I want to.

It's like the old joke, "How many Psychiatrists does it take to change a lightbulb?"
The answer is telling- "None. The lightbulb has to want to change."

I stopped drinking when I was tired of being sick and tired all the time. Tired of my head hurting, my mouth feeling like it was enveloped in cotton. Tired of sneaking drinks, drinking to oblivion on weekends. I realized I had to stop when I was taking eye openers, and shaking so hard I could not hold my morning cup of coffee. Once I made up my mind to stop, the rest was relatively easy; at least on paper. I stopped drinking and worked the steps. That WAS hard. The first year was incredibly hard. I craved it. But I was afraid where my last drink took me, and on this September 26 I collected my 15 year coin. What got me through? Substituting Diet Peach Snapple, for every time I wanted to drink, and hanging out at the local 24 Club.

My 24 Club has long been shut a few years ago due to the economy, and I've never been able to find a home group since. But I stayed sober. I wanted it. Freedom from depression and bipolar has been more tenuous, more allusive.

One of the things I've noticed, is there doesn't seem to be the stigma with Alcoholism as there is with Mental Health issues. Maybe some of it is due to shows like A & E's wonderful "Intervention." People who abuse alcohol and illegal drugs are tangible to people. When you get clean and sober, your life changes. To this day, I can recall how wonderful my first glass of orange juice tasted without vodka in it. It was the greatest thing I ever drank.

But knowing there is something wrong with your brain-that's a hard thing to deal with and accept. You can change a bad behavior, but when your behavior is caused by something you cannot control- your brain- that is enough to make anyone scared worse than a Halloween story. Having a brain not working scares people. To know that things we cannot understand, Serotonin levels, DNA, can cause such things, can destroy you. A parent may not accept that their child isn't perfect. A spouse can't understand a mood swing, and know it's something they can't control, that they weren't responsible for. The person experiencing these mood swings is also scared and frustrated by their feelings. Knowing it's something wrong with your brain, can make you feel helpless. If you have a problem with your eyes, you see a doctor and get a pair of glasses. If you have problems with your teeth, you see a dentist. If you have problems with your brain, who do you see? Is this failing your fault, or is it something that is not in your control?

In my case, I felt it was my fault, something I felt I could just keep trying to work on and eventually I would win. I didn't tell anyone I had this, never put it down on any job applications, never discussed it with my friends. When I was diagnosed, my doctor told my parents I would never lead a successful life, and he urged them to place me in a state institution, because "there was no cure." I wouldn't be able to hold down anything but the most menial job. I would never marry, never have children. With one broad stroke of the pen, he destroyed my dreams of finishing a PhD, and doomed me for many years of self imposed celibacy, or me dating men who would abuse me because I didn't think I deserved a guy who would actually love me. I felt less than human.

Then I met someone who instead of being ashamed of the Bipolar word, was thrilled he had it. He would introduce himself to everyone with his name, and say "I'm bipolar" after that. It shocked me. How can you be proud of something that will eat you up and spit you out as a shell of what you once were? How can you be happy you were given a living death sentence?

He didn't see it like that. He saw it as something to be proud of. To him, being diagnosed was like his Eureka! moment, he came out openly, and was proud. He told me, I was in the closet, I needed to first, admit I was bipolar, and then-tell people I was. If I had no problem going into an AA meeting and saying "Hi, my name is Susan, and I'm an alcoholic", shouldn't I do the same with "Hi, I'm Susan, and I'm Bipolar?"

I couldn't do it. To me, it was a badge of shame, a Scarlet B I wore on my chest. After this person and I were no longer friends, I did realize something, as I started to write to heal from that relationship. My brain was not my fault. After all it's a bunch of gray matter and if the wiring was different, it wasn't anything I did. I had to work around it. I started to be proactive in this recovery, just like I had done all those years ago when I stopped drinking. I started questioning every script, researching every med on the internet. Did I need this med? Did I need such a huge dose? Another thing I noticed as I began to read other people's blogs, is how different people were than me. I read so many blogs by people in their twenties and thirties who weren't struggling. They accepted the diagnosis, what they were struggling with were meds and therapy. They were at a place in their life, where I wasn't at yet. It made me happy, gave me hope. People getting married, raising children, all who had the same label as me. People who were living bits and pieces of the life I wanted to have. I gathered strength from them, and decided I would write about my life, so people would understand what it's like to be in my head, but also to spare anyone the heart ache, the anguish, and physical problems I've had in my journey to wellness.

Wellness. We all take different roads to get there, but hopefully we all get there in the end. I think I've gotten there. Maybe I would have gotten there quicker, had we had social media back in the 80s and 90s. In the long run, it doesn't really matter.  I've gotten to Serenity, something I never thought I would get to in my lifetime. I still haven't gotten to Acceptance. Some days I can accept this diagnosis, other days, I question it, still struggling. I take every day one day at a time. I may have bad days, and stumble, but all in all, I'm getting better. To me, that is the most important thing.   One day at a time, I am getting better.

Teenage Nuts Is The New Cool

I didn't write this, instead it's from Mind Freedom Virginia's blog, Lunatic Fringe.  What strikes me as amazing, is why would anyone want to be be Bipolar? Because the media romanticizes it.  Because this famous celebrity has it. If you want to see the unromantic, un glamorous side of bipolar, check out those who have it on my blogroll. It's not romantic, it's not glamorous, it destroys lives, destroys our health and can cripple our relationships with our friends and families.

There are also some pretty scary things in it about teenage behaviors, such as self harm and bulimia, which should be addressed because that can lead to a lifetime of pain and hurt.

A study of 1,192 youths in the UK aged 12-17 was conducted by www.mentaline.com to find out about their opinions on mental health matters. Just over 1 in 10 young people, or 11%, in the UK think of “mental illness” as trendy according to this study. A press release in PRLog tells it all, 1 in 10 teens think mental illness is ‘fashionable’.

Regarding these youngsters who thought “mental illness” the thing:

34 % lied about having a “mental illness” in the past

32 % stated they knew somebody with a “real” mental health issue

49 % thought “mental illness” made you unique

16 % said celebrity sufferers gave “mental illness” it’s chic appeal

25 % just thought “mental illness” was cool

07 % thought they had a “mental illness”

61 % thought mental health should be taken very seriously

The 34% that admitted to pretending to have some kind of mental health problem in the past were asked to specify what the issue was. The top five problems were as follows:

1. Eating disorders – 22%

2. Self-harming – 17%

3. Addiction – 13%

4. Depression – 12%

5. Bipolar Disorder– 9%

And the winner is…Eating disorders by a length.

I cannot help but wonder if this is the way teens think in the UK, can the US be far behind? 

Lemons, Luck and Lemonade

I wish I had written this, but I didn't. It was written by friend of mine, Sean, a fellow journalist and writer in Tacoma, Washington

Many of the bpers I've met seem to fall into a few categories.

Some:

1) embrace their illness and try to find the positive in it (turning lemons into lemonade)

2) try their best to live with it, despite the challenges (striving to turn lemons into lemonade, sometimes more successfully than at other times)

3) are simply resigned to it (knowing they've got lemons, but believing there is nothing they can do about it

4) fight it (wishing the lemons weren't there, but since they are, hoping the lemons will turn themselves into lemonade)

5) deny it ("What lemons?")

I realize this is a gross oversimplification and doesn't take into account financial circumstance, trust in pdocs, mixed dxes, level of functioning, severity of episodes and so forth. But when I look at that list, I can't help but wonder if the primary distinction between each of the items is a bper's attitude toward his or her illness. If it is, there's good news: Attitude is the result of a choice that we are free to make.

I had a professor who survived a concentration camp, where he was subjected over an extended period to the most painful medical experiments imaginable. During one of the most excruciating experiments, he found he had suddenly stopped caring about the pain.

The pain didn't go away, obviously, but it became more bearable because it taught him that there was a part of his character that the Nazis could never reach: his attitude toward his treatment, and that was fully in his control. He later described that realization as the most liberating moment in his life. Despite barbed wire, attack dogs, crematorium and armed guards, he never felt more free in his life.

My epiphany in this regard came in a far more benign environment -- at work. I was never a morning person, so I didn't especially like getting up and going to work each day. I also have a limited theshold for idiocy not of my own making, and hated stupid obstacles created by others and got easily frustrated.

One day, the business' head honcho asked me how I could possibly go through life with such an outlook. The way he looked at things, we get a finite number of days in our lives, and he couldn't understand how a person could stand to waste a single one. (I think his attitude was shaped in part by the fact that he'd lost several siblings when they were young.) He said he couldn't wait for the alarm to go off every morning so that he could get to work and tackle the challenges.

Scott Carson

He didn't see problems the way most of us do. I remember early one morning, when I could tell by the tension in his jaw that he'd just been on the receiving end of a particularly unpleasant telephone call with a corporate honcho. I said something like "Well, it doesn't look like your day is off to a great start!"

He looked to me as if I was nuts. From his perspective, that phone call brought him an unexpected problem that would require him to use intelligence, creativity and working with others to solve. That was NOT the attitude I brought to my work and my life, but over the course of the four years I worked with him his attitude rubbed off on me and others around him.

Realizing that we control our attitudes can give us a whole new way of looking at ourselves and the world. It changes EVERYTHING. Because of that change in perspective, I found myself feeling downright LUCKY when I was dxed with bp.

Lucky that there was now an explanation for my chronic depressions, my manic antics and my abusive behavior.

Lucky that bp was treatable, and that I lived in a time when medications could bring it under control.

Lucky that it brought me in contact with other bpers, both here and IRL.

Lucky that, because of bp, I had to face and learn to overcome challenges that other people would never know.

Once I thought of myself as lucky for such a dx, I became free to feel a sense of pride in achieving even the simplest everyday task during a depressive episode. Sometimes just crawling out of bed requires a good deal of willpower, when all my body wants to do is sleep, and knowing that I really won't feel like doing any of the things I need to do once I get up. So getting up can be a significant achievement.

I feel lucky to have such supportive friends here on MG who gave me such encouragement when I was on the downslope recently, and who show appreciation on those occasions when I can contribute something of value to them. I would never have had such friends except for bp, and my life would be so much the poorer.

It takes courage to be a bper. It takes resilience. But it needn't require resignation. I like to believe it is possible for many of us to embrace our illness, appreciating the advantages it's given us and looking for ways to mitigate the disadvantages. If we've been given a lot of lemons, we may not be able to make a lemon-chiffon pie, but lemonade may be within our reach.

We don't get to choose bper-hood. But as my professor observed, we are free to choose the attitude we wish to bring to any situation, no matter how terrible. And that, in his view, is the very definition of freedom. Our attitude is within our control, and we can make a tremendous difference in our lives if we exercise that choice.

Musings on Bipolar and Gastronomy from a Writer in South Africa

I love Mary, who blogs at Letting Go, and writes about life in South Africa. I missed this gem last week, but it's worth reprinting for two reasons. First she writes about a meal she had at La Bulli, which was for years rated the best restaurant in the world. Then she muses on a book by David Healy that starts with the untimely death of Rebecca Riley, and wonders, which came first, the condition or the drug?  I will let this one speak for itself.  Mary doesn't usually write about this topic but when she does, she has an interesting perspective from a country not to many people write from. Like Mary, it's a keeper.

The village encased in blank walls of heavy mist, a cow mooing somewhere out of sight. A friend has shared bunches of fresh fenugreek and handfuls of broad beans with me, so I am cooking up a storm.

And I am reading reviews of Colman Andrews’ biography of the molecular gastronomc chemistry schoolboy aka chef Ferran Adria. Years ago I ate at La Bulli in between rereading Cervantes’ Don Quixote and revisting battle sites of the Spanish Civil War. Aside from the haughtiness and inscrutability of uncommunicative macho waiters, I was astonished by a seagreen foam of  what had once been plump ripe olives and perhaps a crust of Parmesan. It tasted  delicious, but I was left with the impression of having eaten nothing at all. After a ravishing and improbable meal of six minute, invented dishes (including a gritty spoonful of frozen foie gras dust) I went out in my trim little bullfighter’s cape of scarlet and black and  gobbled up tapas of manchego cheese, coddled eggs and chorizo, grilled anchovies, a creamy almond soup spiked with garlic. Spanish food is very more-ish.

The secret to Ferran Adria’s success? “His tongue is bigger than ours. He literally has a larger tongue than normal, with more papillae.” That may be so, but my appetite is much bigger than Ferran’s.

So good to be online again, my busy real life has gone into hiatus. Big Pharma watch from the London Review of Books, a hard look at the contested and unreliable history of bipolar disorder and the increasingly drastic  treatments:

One now speaks of a ‘bipolar spectrum’, which includes, along with bipolar disorders I and II, cyclothymia (a mild form of bipolar II) and bipolar disorder ‘not otherwise specified’ (an all-purpose category in which practically any affective instability can be placed). The spectrum also includes bipolar disorders II1⁄2, III, III1⁄2, IV, V, VI, and even a very accommodating ‘subthreshold bipolar disorder’.

The category has expanded so much that it would be difficult to find anyone who couldn’t be described as ‘bipolar’, especially now that the diagnosis is liberally applied to people of all ages. Conventional wisdom once had it that manic depression burns out with age, but geriatric bipolar disorder is now the talk of psychiatric congresses. Elderly people who are depressed or agitated find themselves diagnosed with bipolar disorder for the first time in their lives and are prescribed antipsychotics or anticonvulsants that have the potential to drastically shorten their life expectancy: according to David Graham, an expert from the Food and Drug Administration, these psycho-tropic medications are responsible for the deaths of some 15,000 elderly people each year in the United States.

Scary stuff! Time to give the Internet a break and do some gardening before the sun burns off the mist and it becomes too hot outdoors. The thing about sobriety is that we get to choose what happens each day and how we respond. Something else to be grateful for –

Thank you Mary, as always.

Guest Post: Understanding Through Reading 3 Must-Read Memoirs on Biopolar

As anyone who has suffered bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, or other related disorders knows, it's more difficult to live with than other illnesses because it affects you and everyone you know. While chronic physical disorders don't necessarily change your behavior, chemical imbalances in the brain make it a daily struggle to maintain healthy relationships because behavior is unpredictable.   Your friends and family, try though they might, just don't understand. And this lack of understanding is precisely what causes these strains in interpersonal relationships in the first place.

Reading about those who have struggled with bipolar disorder is a helpful way of gaining a new understanding and perspective. Everyone has different ways of dealing with the disease, and it can be inspirational to find others who understand, and who can articulate their personal stories. Here are a few memoirs that are particularly noteworthy:

1. An Unquiet Mind: Memoirs of Moods and Madness by Kay Jameson

Kay Jameson is probably the leading researcher on bipolar disorder. As both a psychiatrist and a sufferer of bipolar disorder herself, Jameson offers insight into the illness that both personal and professional. Jameson, although critical of big pharma, does demonstrate how a combination of lowered medication and personal support saved her life. Best of all, Jameson clues us in on the latest advances in neuroscience that can offer new hope for an illness that has been misunderstood and misdiagnosed for centuries.

2. Just Like Someone Without Mental Illness Only More So: A Memoir by Mark Vonnegut

We all know Kurt Vonnegut, the eminent writer who gave us such classics as Cat's Cradle and Slaughter House Five. But what many don't know is that his son, Mark, struggled under his father's shadow with a debilitating bout of decades-long psychosis that was first diagnosed as schizophrenia but what he now considers bipolar disorder. In his latest volume, released this year, Vonnegut offers fascinating insight into his own struggles, as well as giving readers a more expansive perspective on mental illness in general.  With panache and humility, Vonnegut is adept at both writing humorously and inspirationally. In one of my favorite segments, Vonnegut states:

"None of us are entirely well, and none of us are irrevocably sick. At my best I have islands of being sick entirely. At my worst I had islands of being well. Except for a reluctance to give up on myself there isn't anything I can claim credit for that helped me recover from my breaks. Even that doesn't count. You either have or don't have a reluctance to give up on yourself. It helps a lot if others don't give up on you."

3. Manic: A Memoir by Terri Cheney

While Jameson's book is told from the perspective of a clinician, and Vonnegut's is told from both the perspective of a doctor and the son of a famous writer, Manic is written by a former entertainment lawyer. The most interesting part about Manic is that Cheney writes her book in short episodic segments that very accurately describe what it's like to cycle from the rapid highs to the soul-wrenching lows that characterize bipolar disorder. Cheney's account is not necessarily an uplifting one, but it's certainly describes the bipolar life with a candor that is hard to match.

These are just a few memoirs out there about individuals who have learned with varying degrees of success to live in the rollercoaster existence of bipolar. Even if they don't offer hope per se, they at least offer solace. Knowing you are not alone in your suffering can sometimes be more uplifting than anything. 

By-line:

This guest post is contributed by Kitty Holman, who writes on the topics of nursing schools.  She welcomes your comments at her email Id: kitty.holman20@gmail.com.

***This is a guest post. The views and ideas expressed in this post are not necessarily the same as the author of this site. Please direct any comments or questions to the author of the post at kitty.holman20.gmail.com.

Milestones And My Dad

Something amazing happened over the last few days. When I first set up the blog, back in October 2007 I didn't know about stat counters and what so when I finally put one in  four months later, I lost a lot of hits. Math was my worst subject in school, I still have nightmares about Alegebra!; but I realized allowing for this four month stat- I hit a magical number last week.   To that I am grateful and humble.

I've spent some time over the last two weeks or so re doing the blog roll- it's gotten bigger. I took off several blogs who's bloggers stopped blogging. And added a few blogs that I thought were wonderful.  I also added a one or two to the funny blogs list.  What amazes me is how many new people are coming into the world of blogging and how talented they are. So many of them are in their late teens and twenties and so full of hope with the diagnosis. How things have changed in the twenty or so years since I was told by my p-doc that I was "Manic- depressive"  then several months later "Bipolar type 1" and I would never be able to live a normal life and my parents should think of placing me in a state hospital or nursing home. We have a long way to go to banish stigma, but look how far we've come in twenty some years!

Lastly, blogging will be spotty for the next few days, and there is a very good possibility it may stop for a week or so. I also apologize if I won't be visiting any blogs.  A very beloved family member was rushed again to the hospital last night and the prognosis does not look good. I am praying he has, like my cat, nine lives, and still has one or two left in him. But alas, I fear, this may not be too much longer.  Get well dad. You have to see the Yanks win one more World Series before you get to Heaven.

(I like this photo. It really does look like me when I was a little girl, and my dad... doing the thing he loved the most in life... baseball and being a dad and a husband).

When I Was First Diagnosed-Repost/Rewrite

I was almost 23. I just finished school and was supposed to start a PhD program in the fall. My life was spinning out of control, I was completely in the thrall of full blown mania. I had over 70 graduate credits under my belt and for the last three years all I had been doing is working on two Master's degrees at the same time, while being a teacher's assistant, tutoring writing and history in the learning lab, cleaning houses and teaching sunday school. In the summer I took classes, lived on campus as a Residence assistant, and taught and tutored SAT prep off campus. I was treated as a peer in my department, and if they saw anything suspect, which some of them did, they just wrote it off to me being ultra creative and one of the budding geniuses they ever saw. Several professors were mentoring me as a protege, and all of them saw me finishing the PhD by the time I was 25, landing a job at some college or university and writing and publishing and teaching. And that was what I wanted for my future too. I had just finished my first novel, and was happy. A major publishing house wanted to publish it.  Looking back, the only time in my life that I was ever happy, truly happy was when I was in school. Only one professor, said to me "You're the next Sylvia Plath. You will be a suicide too by the time you are 33".

Yeah, right, I told him. Right along with Anne Sexton and John Berryman.

Then, that April my life started spinning out of control. By the end of the semester, I threw down my dissertation on the English Chair's desk and went back to the apartment I shared off campus with a female roomate and her fiance. And slept for several days straight, waking only to use the toilet. I hadn't been depressed before, never like this. Maybe it was residual from the rape the month before. Though I had thought about suicide before, I never attempted. Not really. At least I hadn't thought so at the time. 

I had Tylenol, 50 pills, downing it with a bottle of ice cold vodka and OJ. Gagged a lot, and semi regurgitated, but kept going until the entire bottle was finshed. I washed the glass I had used, put it on the drain board, and tucked myself into bed, with my teddy bear. And fell asleep.

Woke up in the Emergency room of the hospital. The guy I was semi- dating at the time found me, unconscious and unresponsive. Apparently he called an ambulance and I had my stomach pumped. He stayed with me the entire time, but when the admitting doctor told me I *HAD* to go to the psychiatric hospital, he stared down in my blue eyes and told me he could no longer date me, now that I was about to be labeled "crazy" and going to the "nut house", I could keep f***ing him, but we were finished as a couple. This was the first but not the last of the boyfriends I lost because of my illness.

The first doctor in the hospital diagnosed me as unipolar- he was just dealing with the suicide attempt. He put me on Prozac, which had to be stopped after a few days because I literally felt I was crawling out of my skin.

The second doc I saw actually spent time with me and asked the right questions. And then I heard it. Manic Depression. He sugar coated it by calling it Van Gogh's disease. Maybe this would help amielorate the blow must of thought, knowing how much I adore Van Gogh. I don't know. Eventually Manic Depression was out and Bipolar was in. Now I was Bipolar 1.

I never accepted it, though I knew in my heart I was, my brain didn't want to accept it. I took my lithium like a good girl, and did the mandatory blood work required by the doc. And I went through all the other meds I went on, not questioning, just taking because part of me thought if I took these meds it would go away and I would be normal. I would have a normal life and live happy. if I just took the meds and ignored the diagnosis, I would be normal, and my life would be normal. I was the perfect consumer. I didn't question the pills, didn't investigate them, and even though most of them gave me terrible side effects I kept taking them because I just wanted to be normal and thought this would let me lead the life I was meant to live.

My family didn't accept it either, my father telling me to buck up, and try harder. My mother just told me to take the meds, go to the shrink and go to work, and in my spare time date. I got to be quite good at dating, mastering the art of the blind date. But I just didn't feel normal. The meds left me weak, gave me the runs constantly. They never told anyone else there was anything "wrong" with me, and I know this caused a rift in their marriage, my mother believing the meds and hospital stays and much later,  ECT would cure me, my father saying there was nothing wrong with me that hard work couldn't cure and I didn't need meds.

And it didn't work that way. All the meds, all the different shrinks, other stays at the hospital, even ECT trying to bring me back to normal. I've lost jobs, lost countless relationships. It's always been the same. Good enough to F**K, never good enough to have children with, should they wind up like me. I tried to ease the hole in my heart and soul by food, but that didn't work. Alcohol made me comfortably numb like nothing else could, but it's been almost 14 years since my last drink.

So here I am struggling. The last year I've had to go a complete overhaul with the med cocktail and at one time I was on 9 different meds in my cocktail at the same time. This past two years alone, I've gone through two psychiatric hospitalizations, one regular hospitalization and one rehabilitation hospitalization from this illness. It's cost me the last year of my life.

All I have is my writing and my cat. I know I will never have a family of my own, or children from my body. I can deal with that, and I am accepting it, but I get so lonely sometimes. Some nights it is so unbearable I just lie in bed with the thought I need to hold and be held so bad I don't think I will make it til the dawn. I don't think I will ever have a relationship with a man again, I have friends who are men, but to have one that I can live with and grow old with, I think that will escape me, much to my chagrin and heart ache.

This illness may have robbed me of a life, but it won't rob me of ME. It won't destroy my soul. I came into this world half dead, backwards, kicking and screaming. That's how I want to leave it. Kicking and screaming, putting up a good fight.

Angel In Blue- Repost

Ideally, you should feel safe in cyberspace. I know from watching too many episodes of Law and Order that this is not true.

You take precautions.

I admit the Myers Briggs had me down as an introvert. From a family of mostly extroverts. I admit my idea of a perfect Saturday afternoon would be to sit in front of a roaring fire, listing to music and reading, the cat at my feet asleep.

That would be hell to most of my family who like to move and stay active.

I know I isolate too much.

I know my writing habits are strange. I've been hearing that since my first creative writing course as a Freshman in College.

My ex, and almost every other writer I know, professional and amateur, set a time of day to write and that is when they write.

I cannot do that. I have to wait for the bolt of lightning to strike, and then I write. And write and write and write, for days on end straight, til my fingers bleed. And I write. Then I rest, go back to what I write and edit.

Consider me both Eliot and Pound.

My ex, would always tell people I was the better writer. But at home, in private he would yell at me I wasn't writing enough. Because I was sinking down into depression and with depression the darker it gets, the more vast the waste land it is, and I cannot write.

When I cannot write for more than a day or two, look out. Send the men with the white jackets.

When I first set up this blog, I was urged to do so by two of my dearest friends in the cybersphere. The email address that goes out to people is in my cat's name. No one knows my surname. Less than 5 people in cyberspace know who I am in real life.

It was supposed to serve as therapy, a kind of letting my soul go, a safe place for me. It isn't anymore.

The whole goal of this blog was to help other people understand what the hell goes on in a bipolar's mind.

My ex, a published and respected writer in the field himself, once told me, :"No one can get inside the bipolar mind like you do. What you write is difficult to read, impossible to put down and brilliant."

That seems to be the opinion of another friend of mine in real life who said almost the same thing on his blog back in January.

I write, I write. I don't know how to do much else. I am not that good with people. I would rather be alone than in a group. I feel uncomfortable with them, I feel like I have to be "on".

I know this also was a deal breaker in my marriage, the ex would tell me I am too much of a homebody. Like I said, when the lightning strikes......that is the way I am.

I wish I was disciplined. I'm not, much to the wrath of my Creative Writing teachers and other writers I have met and befriended.

"I would suffer like Van Gogh to paint like Van Gogh. I would not suffer like Van Gogh, however, to paint like Gaugin." said Kurt Vonnegut in a New York Times interview.

I believed that. I wrote like Van Gogh painted at the end, painting after painting in the last few days of his life alive, before he put the gun to his chest and pulled the trigger.

Much to the detriment of my family who loves me. Because I don't answer the phone when I am on a roll. I don't get dressed. I stop every hour or so to put fresh ice in my water, or use the toilet.

I don't want to be disturbed. I just want to write, damn it. Leave me alone. The world can go to hell, I will write and write and write. And when I am done, then and only then will I make time for you.

It may be selfish. It probably is, considering I quoted Ayn Rand yesterday and her views on selfishness as a virtue.

It might be selfish to wish I was able to live my life without meds. I know in my heart that 23 years of over 40 different psychiatric meds must have done a number to my brain. How could it not have? It would be ridiculous to assume any thing else.

Besides, As Neil Simon said in the play "The Odd Couple", "When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me".

I went back on an antidepressant around noon yesterday. This morning I woke up with a splitting headache, nausea and diarrhea. I cannot sleep, my brain is going too fast. But I am depressed at the same time. I never had mixed states until this year. I try to write, the ideas are flowing but the hands won't type. I have my notebook out to jot down ideas, and a tape recorder if I cannot hand write fast enough to keep the words flowing.

My brain feels like it's covered with cotton balls. I lay in bed last night , listening to the air conditioner spit out a cold blast every now and then, and tried to sleep. And the thoughts raced, even with a Klonepin. At 2 am I can barely hear the traffic there are no cars on the highway.

I tried to work on my novel but my brain is too tired. Instead, I vegged out on the couch, watching daytime TV, and making trips to the toilet.

I feel this in my heart right now.

"And the song that I was writing
is left undone
I don't know why I spend my time
Writing songs I can't believe
With words that tear and strain to rhyme"
(Paul Simon).

if my brain becomes lethargic, it won't write. I will try to discipline myself in the future, set aside a block of say , six hours a day and leave that to write. And if I only write a couple of sentences that day it's Ok. I have read enough books on the craft to know that is a verity with writers.

What do you do to a dream that is deferred? Let it die like a raisin in the sun???

What do you do if you cannot dream anymore? You don't feel safe anymore?


And she never had dreams
So they never came true
My fade away angel
Angel in blue
(J. Geils Band, 1981)

Lovely song. Dust off your vinyl records and listen to it. Really listen to it. It was supposed to be written about Faye Dunnaway, but it is so much like me it's scary.

'Despair' gene linked to bipolar disorder, depression and schizophrenia

An interesting article from The Big News Network. Com.

Washington, Nov 14 : A gene, touted as the "despair" gene, which earlier had no relation with mood disorders, has now been found to have a link with bipolar disorder, depression, and schizophrenic conditions, according to pharmacy scientists at the University of Maryland, Baltimore (UMB).

The researchers have identified antidepressant and anti-anxiety behaviours in tests of mice lacking the gene.

The story continues,

"The knockout mice [without the gene] displayed behaviours indicative of changes in mood function, such as increased perseverance and reduced anxiety in open spaces," said Wang.

"We don't yet know why the deletion of the gene altered the mood status of the mice," she added.

Probably a lot more research needs to be done on this.... it seems to be a study in it's infancy, but I am just putting it out there as food for thought, in case this gene does turn out to be a legitimate thing. It might help figure out is being bipolar environmental or biological?

I hope I can know the answer to this in my lifetime.

Bless You Andrew Sullivan

This is one of the most beautiful essays on bipolar I have ever read, and it's almost like I wrote this- it practically echoes my life in my twenties- only I didn't crash and burn until I was 23, lucky enough to get through school through mania interspersed with mild bouts of depression. It comes from today's blog by Andrew Sullivan.

When I'm off my medications, I will alternate spells of tearful anxiety fits with depressive episodes of 14 hours of sleep, the inability to concentrate, and near-constant suicidal thoughts. When I was kicked out of college (the first time) for bad grades, I was turned down by several private insurers for my pre-existing condition. And when my dad changed jobs, I was left in the lurch again. I've seen close to 12 doctors about it in the past four years, and believe me, as hard as it is to find a primary care physician, it is even more difficult to find a therapist that you like, trust, can afford, and who can treat your condition. And when you have a mental illness, you often have to switch prescriptions, dosage, and cocktails until you find a mixture that works for you. Sometimes, pills will stop working for no good reason, and it takes a quality professional to realize it and pull you out of a tailspin that you thought was being treated. And I'm sure your readers can tell even more stories about being turned down for jobs, being denied coverage, being hospitalized, and struggling for decades through the red tape, secrecy, and shame.

The author is lucky to have a good doc and realize that meds can poop out. I've never been able to find one and I've seen over 27 docs since my diagnosis.

The rest of the article is here.

I'm bipolar, what are you???

I just took this quiz. i guess that settles that.......... what are you?

You Are 100% Bipolar

You have some serious ups and downs, maybe to the point of endangering your own life. Consult a doctor to see if you may truly have bipolar disorder.

Are You Bipolar?

Slow Suicide or Chemical Hairshirt

When I set out writing this blog, I like many didn't have a clue what I was doing. I just new some how, I was going to do something different. I wouldn't rail against the drug companies, there are bloggers out there who do it and do that brilliantly. I wouldn't write about recovery- steps needed to get well, there are others who write blogs about that and do that brilliantly. My niche would be something different. What goes on in your head during the thoughts of a broken brain crying out to the heavens to be heard when it is in it's madness. Sort of like Pepys and his diaries, only without the verbiage of kissing dead Queens of England.


So I write about brief periods of madness, the down and dirty about manic depression and mania. And a couple of cute fixes or pictures of my cat, because what are the joys of sharing your life with a pet if you cannot post their pictures on the Internet?

So it should come as no surprise to those who read this blog, that last Friday I went to a conference to man a booth there, for an organization I belong to at the State level. I had a nice lunch, and enjoyed the company of some real nice, wonderful people. About 1 pm I was feeling so tired, a side effect from Leukocytosis, I think, I drove home, and crashed. But on the way, stopped at the supermarket and bought some food, and some supplies for that time of the month.

Sometime between Friday night late, and Saturday morning, the black dog came. Maybe it was from a weekend of so many deaths- famous people, who seemed to go in threes, Natasha Richardson, Jade Goody, Nick Hughes, and and those not famous but still die by their own hand.

My brain is rebelling. I don't know how I am going to get though that weekend. I have no desire to write, I am too depressed to write. Something that has never happened before. I have always been able to write even from the deepest depths of hell. But my Mac mocks me. I cannot even bother to turn it on, despairing at the emails I need to write and the thought of blogging or working on my novel- it's too much. It's too much to even stroke the cat. That is a huge warning sign. When she is not Queen of my Universe, and most Exalted Feline, you know I am depressed.

It seems life has passed me by. No children. No marriage. My wedding dress hangs visible in the closet mocking me. Despite everything, that was the best day in my life. I should get rid of it, but somehow, just cannot though it torments me. I feel so empty right now- I need to be held so bad. If "The Devil and Daniel Webster" was possible- I am certain I would sell my internal soul for ten minutes to be held and to hold someone. I am also incredibly horny- it's been two and a half years now- but that's neither here nor there. Yeah, I am feeling hyper sexual. Maybe that is adding to the mix. I don't know. I just know, I cannot see myself being past this weekend. I don't want to get past it. I want to sleep. And it's been several days since I have slept. So I have bought a bottle of Advil PM, 50 pills, a bottle of Sominex, a bottle of CVS blue capsules. I have my prescription Motrin and my lithium and Cymbalta. And sometime over the weekend, I try to lie down to go to sleep sleep for an hour and go into the kitchen , pour a glass of milk and take some pills. Anything to sleep. And crawl back to bed, and sleep for another hour or two but I cannot get more of two hours at the most, and long for sleep, for blessed unconsciousness. And it's not coming. Back to the kitchen and more pills, more milk. Lie back in bed, turn on the radio, and listen to the sound of some DJ droning as I hear my heart beat like it's coming out of my chest like a Tex Avery cartoon. But still, no sleep. I just want to sleep.

Sunday night the vomiting starts. Monday morning I wake and see I have emptied all the sleeping pills bought- all in the effect of trying to sleep. And from Monday to Friday I cannot keep anything down. It is on Friday I realize it's from the pills. I basically overdosed without knowledge of over dosing- 50 Advils, 5 Motrins, 25 Sominex, 8 blue capusules. Was it intentional? I don't know. I can recall my last attempt in November 02 where I tried to hang myself and the rope broke. I can recall taking a kitchen chair outside with me, making the noose, looking at the moon, and kicking the chair away. I recall what it was like to start dying. But this- this wasn't to die. This was just to sleep, to find sleep, and maybe never wake up again, but maybe not.

A lovely friend came by one night to baby sit- I was still vomiting, and shaking. I tried to lie down and rest, and lay, sweating and trying to breathe, trying to cough to bring up phlegm, crying but not able to make tears. I look terrible. My apartment is a wreck. I haven't cleaned in a week or so, there are dust bunnies and cat vomit on the hard wood floors. I just stopped caring. I just can't deal with it right now. He stayed with me, fed me, held me and listened to me. I don't deserve such people in my life.

And right now, I feel like I am being punished. It's not "Wait til your Father gets home", it's something more visceral. Did I try to suicide- could my brain have worked that way this time? No note, I've never not had a note. I've always planned the few times I have attempted. This wasn't planned. It just-was.


And maybe that is why I did not die though now, talking to the doc, I realize I should have. Maybe it just wasn't meant to be this time. Maybe it wasn't supposed to happen. It was a fevered brain trying to cope as best as it can trying to hang on, to live.

I just know I am still shaking, still sweating, cannot stop crying. Weak as a new born calf. Anxious when I never get anxiety. And maybe I need to feel this too, as some type of divine punishment for my sin(s) this past week. My own chemical hairshirt. I don't know. I just don't know. I just know that I am not suicidal right now, which is a blessing. I have a lot of learning to do this weekend, unlike last.

So you are bipolar? Don't fret, so is SpongeBob!

Sometimes being bipolar makes me think no one understands me, and I am alone in the universe. I am alone no longer, SpongeBob Square Pants is also bipolar! Or at least, this is what his creator, Stephen Hillenberg said about the sponge back in 2003.

"Spongebob spends a lot of time laughing and crying. He’s a total bipolar character. Always the extremes. There’s no in between with Spongebob. He’s either completely giddy and ecstatic or so far down in the dumps."

In Cyberspace, no one can hear your scream

I thought I heard everything last year when a man in the UK committed suicide online. But apparently it just happened again, this time in the state of Florida, and it was a teenager.

I don't want the internet to turn into a nanny state, but on the other hand, if you scream in cyberspace, someone should hear it and act accordingly.



From the Associated Press News Wire:

Florida teen commits suicide in front of webcam
November 21, 2008 1:16 PM EST
MIAMI, Florida - A Florida teenager died of a lethal drug overdose in front of a live online webcam audience 12 hours after he started blogging about his plan to commit suicide, an investigator said Friday.

Abraham Biggs, 19, died Wednesday from a toxic combination of opiates and benzodiazepine, a drug used to treat insomnia and depression, said Wendy Crane, an investigator with the Broward County medical examiner's office. At least one of the drugs was prescribed to him, but it was unclear how he got the others, Crane said.

Some of those watching encouraged Biggs, others tried to talk him out of it, and a few were debating whether the dose he took was lethal, Crane said. It's unclear how many people were watching.

Biggs stated his intentions on a forum at bodybuilding.com, where some users said they did not take him seriously because he had made previous statements about killing himself, Crane said. Biggs posted a link from there to Justin.tv, a site that allows users to broadcast live videos from their webcams.

Someone finally notified the moderator of the body building site's forum, who traced the teen's location to Pembroke Pines and called police, Crane said. Biggs was dead by the time they got to his house in midafternoon on Wednesday, Crane said. He had started blogging about 12 hours earlier.

"He was just seen laying on the bed at that point," she said.

Condolences poured into his MySpace page, where the mostly unsmiling teen is seen posing in a series of pictures with various young women.

A woman who answered the phone at Biggs' home and identified herself as his sister said the family was still dealing with his death and declined immediate comment.

Biggs' father, Abraham Biggs Sr., told ABCNews.com that he was not home when his son died. He said his son struggled with depression and had been prescribed benzodiazepine to treat bipolar disorder.

Biggs had been "doing better," his father said. "He was a good kid."

The elder Biggs said he was upset that Justin.tv streamed his son's suicide live.

"There seems to be a lack of control as to what people put out on the Internet," the elder Biggs said. "There's a lot of garbage out there that should not be, and unfortunately this was allowed to happen."

In a statement, Justin.tv CEO Michael Seibel said: "We regret that this has occurred and want to respect the privacy of the broadcaster and his family during this time."

Messages left with the body building Web site were not immediately returned Friday. A spokesman said Pembroke Pines police are investigating but declined further comment.

Crane said she knows of at least one other case in which a South Florida man shot himself in the head in front of an online audience, although she didn't know how much viewers saw.

In Britain last year, a man hung himself while chatting online.

Angel in Blue

Ideally, you should feel safe in cyberspace. I know from watching too many episodes of Law and Order that this is not true.

You take precautions.


I admit the Myers Briggs had me down as an introvert. From a family of mostly extroverts. I admit my idea of a perfect Saturday afternoon would be to sit in front of a roaring fire, listing to music and reading, the cat at my feet asleep.

That would be hell to most of my family who like to move and stay active.

I know I isolate too much.

I know my writing habits are strange. I've been hearing that since my first creative writing course as a Freshman in College.

My ex, and almost every other writer I know, professional and amateur, set a time of day to write and that is when they write.

I cannot do that. I have to wait for the bolt of lightning to strike, and then I write. And write and write and write, for days on end straight, til my fingers bleed. And I write. Then I rest, go back to what I write and edit.



Consider me both Eliot and Pound.

My ex, would always tell people I was the better writer. But at home, in private he would yell at me I wasn't writing enough. Because I was sinking down into depression and with depression the darker it gets, the more vast the waste land it is, and I cannot write.

When I cannot write for more than a day or two, look out. Send the men with the white jackets.


When I first set up this blog, I was urged to do so by two of my dearest friends in the cybersphere. The email address that goes out to people is in my cat's name. No one knows my surname. Less than 5 people in cyberspace know who I am in real life.

It was supposed to serve as therapy, a kind of letting my soul go, a safe place for me. It isn't anymore.

The whole goal of this blog was to help other people understand what the hell goes on in a bipolar's mind.

My ex, a published and respected writer in the field himself, once told me, :"No one can get inside the bipolar mind like you do. What you write is difficult to read, impossible to put down and brilliant."


That seems to be the opinion of another friend of mine in real life who said almost the same thing on his blog back in January.

I write, I write. I don't know how to do much else. I am not that good with people. I would rather be alone than in a group. I feel uncomfortable with them, I feel like I have to be "on".

I know this also was a deal breaker in my marriage, the ex would tell me I am too much of a homebody. Like I said, when the lightning strikes......that is the way I am.

I wish I was disciplined. I'm not, much to the wrath of my Creative Writing teachers and other writers I have met and befriended.

"I would suffer like Van Gogh to paint like Van Gogh. I would not suffer like Van Gogh, however, to paint like Gaugin." said Kurt Vonnegut in a New York Times interview.

I believed that. I wrote like Van Gogh painted at the end, painting after painting in the last few days of his life alive, before he put the gun to his chest and pulled the trigger.


Much to the detriment of my family who loves me. Because I don't answer the phone when I am on a roll. I don't get dressed. I stop every hour or so to put fresh ice in my water, or use the toilet.

I don't want to be disturbed. I just want to write, damn it. Leave me alone. The world can go to hell, I will write and write and write. And when I am done, then and only then will I make time for you.

It may be selfish. It probably is, considering I quoted Ayn Rand yesterday and her views on selfishness as a virtue.

It might be selfish to wish I was able to live my life without meds. I know in my heart that 23 years of over 30 different psychiatric meds must have done a number to my brain. How could it not have? It would be ridiculous to assume any thing else.

Besides, As Neil Simon said in the play "The Odd Couple", "When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me".

I went back on an antidepressant around noon yesterday. This morning I woke up with a splitting headache, nausea and diarrhea. I cannot sleep, my brain is going too fast. But I am depressed at the same time. I never had mixed states until this year. I try to write, the ideas are flowing but the hands won't type. I have my notebook out to jot down ideas, and a tape recorder if I cannot hand write fast enough to keep the words flowing.

My brain feels like it's covered with cotton balls. I lay in bed last night , listening to the air conditioner spit out a cold blast every now and then, and tried to sleep. And the thoughts raced, even with a Klonepin. At 2 am I can barely hear the traffic there are no cars on the highway.


I tried to work on my novel but my brain is too tired. Instead, I vegged out on the couch, watching daytime TV, and making trips to the toilet.

I feel this in my heart right now.

"And the song that I was writing/is left undone/I don't know why I spend my time/Writing songs I can't believe/With words that tear and strain to rhyme" (Paul Simon).

if my brain becomes lethargic, it won't write. I will try to discipline myself in the future, set aside a block of say , six hours a day and leave that to write. And if I only write a couple of sentences that day it's Ok. I have read enough books on the craft to know that is a verity with writers.

What do you do to a dream that is deferred? Let it die like a raisin in the sun???

What do you do if you cannot dream anymore? You don't feel safe anymore?


And she never had dreams
So they never came true
My fade away angel
Angel in blue
(J. Geils Band, 1981)

Lovely song. Dust off your vinyl records and listen to it. Really listen to it. It was supposed to be written about Faye Dunnaway, but it is so much like me it's scary.

When I was first diagnosed

I've been trying to catch up with my favorite bloggers and their blogs that I missed during my illness. I was reading Stephany's blog,

http://bipolarsoupkitchen-stephany.blogspot.com/

when I came across a piece about the time you were first diagnosed. Strange that I can remember this like yesterday, it's one of the few things I can recall as vivid as what I was doing an hour ago and hasn't been blasted out of my brain by ECT.

I was 23. I just finished school and was supposed to start a PhD program in the fall. My life was spinning out of control, I had over 70 graduate credits under my belt and for the last 3 years all I had been doing is working on two Master's degrees at the same time, while being a teacher's assistant, tutored writing and history in the learning lab, cleaning houses and teaching sunday school. In the summer I took classes, lived on campus as a Residence assistant, and taught and tutored SAT prep off campus. I was treated as a peer in my department, and if they saw anything suspect, which some of them did, they just wrote it off to me being ultra creative and one of the budding geniuses they ever saw. Several professors were mentoring me as a protege, and all of them saw me finishing the PhD by the time I was 25, landing a job at some college or university and writing and publishing and teaching. And that was what I wanted for my future too. I had just finished my first novel, and was happy. The only time in my life that I was ever happy, truly happy was when I was in school. Only one professor, said to me "You're the next Sylvia Plath. You will be a suicide too by the time you are 33".

Yeah, right, I told him. Right along with Anne Sexton and John Berryman.

Then, that April my life started spinning out of control. By the end of the semester, I threw down my dissertation on the English Chair's desk and went back to the apartment I shared off campus with a female roomate and her fiance. And slept for several days straight, waking only to use the toilet. I hadn't been depressed before, never like this. Maybe it was residual from the rape the month before. Though I had thought about suicide before, I never attempted.

I had a bottle of Tylenol, 50 pills, downing it down with ice cold vodka and OJ. Gagged a lot, and semi regurgitated, but kept going until the entire bottle was finshed. I washed the glass I had used, put it on the drain board, and tucked myself into bed. And fell asleep.

Woke up in the Emergency room of the hospital. The guy I was dating at the time found me, unconscious and unresponsive. Apparently he called an ambulance and I had my stomach pumped. He stayed with me the entire time, but when the admitting doctor told me I *HAD* to go to the psychiatric hospital, he stared down in my blue eyes and told me he could no longer date me, now that I was about to be labeled "crazy" and going to the "nut house", I could keep f***ing him, but we were finished as a couple. This was the first but not the last of the boyfriends I lost because of my illness.

The first doctor in the hospital diagnosed me as unipolar- he was just dealing with the suicide attempt. He put me on Prozac, which had to be stopped after a few days because I literally felt I was crawling out of my skin.

The second doc I saw actually spent time with me and asked the right questions. And then I heard it. Manic Depression. He sugar coated it by calling it Van Gogh's disease. Maybe this would help amielorate the blow must of thought, knowing how much I adore Van Gogh. I don't know. Eventually Manic Depression was out and Bipolar was in. Now I was Bipolar 1.

I never accepted it, though I knew in my heart I was, my brain didn't want to accept it. I took my lithium like a good girl, and did the mandatory blood work required by the doc. And I went through all the other meds I went on, not questioning, just taking because part of me thought if I took these meds it would go away and I would be normal. I would have a normal life and live happy. if I just took the meds and ignored the diagnosis, I would be normal, and my life would be normal. I was the perfect consumer. I didn't question the pills, didn't investigate them, and even though most of them gave me terrible side effects I kept taking them because I just wanted to be normal and thought this would let me lead the life I was meant to live.

My family didn't accept it either, my father telling me to buck up, and try harder. My mother just told me to take the meds, go to the shrink and go to work, and in my spare time date. I got to be quite good at dating, mastering the art of the blind date. But I just didn't feel normal. The meds left me weak, gave me the runs constantly. They never told anyone else there was anything "wrong" with me, and I know this caused a rift in their marriage, my mother believing the meds and hospital stays and ECT would cure me, my father saying there was nothing wrong with me that hard work couldn't cure and I didn't need meds.

And it didn't work that way. All the meds, all the different shrinks, other stays at the hospital, even ECT trying to bring me back to normal. I've lost jobs, lost countless relationships. It's always been the same. Good enough to f**K, never good enough to have children with, should they wind up like me. I tried to ease the hole in my heart and soul by food, but that didn't work. Alcohol made me comfortably numb like nothing else could, but it's been almost 13 years since my last drink.

So here I am struggling. The last year I've had to go a complete overhaul with the med cocktail and at one time I was on 9 different meds in my cocktail at the same time. This year alone, I've gone through two psychiatric hospitalizations, one regular hospitalization and one rehabilitation hospitalization from this illness. It's cost me the last year of my life.

All I have is my writing and my cat. I know I will never have a family of my own, or children from my body. I can deal with that, and I am accepting it, but I get so lonely sometimes. Some nights it is so unbearable I just lie in bed with the thought I need to hold and be held so bad I don't think I will make it til the dawn. I don't think I will ever have a relationship with a man again, I have friends who are men, but to have one that I can live with and grow old with, I think that will escape me, much to my chagrin and heart ache.

This illness may have robbed me of a life, but it won't rob me of ME. It won't destroy my soul. I came into this world half dead, backwards, kicking and screaming. That's how I want to leave it. Kicking and screaming, putting up a good fight.

Cut off from Cymbalta, cold turkey

It's now entering the fourth night since I have slept. Weatherman says it will be another 2 days of this oppressive heat. 4 days running and four hours total.

I took a Klonepin about noon, after I got back from the gym. I was so tired but couldn't sleep. I had done 10 miles on the treadmill, 20 miles on the bike and climbed over 10,000 steps on the stair climber. Came home, showered, popped a Klonepin and fell asleep shortly thereafter.

Woke up 40 minutes later, The grass outside the apartment was being mowed and the noise was deafining. No use. I couldn't go back to sleep, and I was covered head to toe in sweat. Another shower, remade the bed with clean sheets. And changed clothes again, and went back to the gym. I couldn't sit still.

The p-doc called at 9am and told me to quit Cymbalta immediately. She thought maybe the Cymbalta was making me manic. I don't know. I said I was on 60 mg of Cymbalta, shouldn't we taper it down to 40 and then 20 and go slow?

No, she said, immediately stop.

So now it's the start of day four without sleep, approx 4 hours and ten minutes of sleep in the last four days. I can only blame the East Coast heat wave so much for my trouble. The other symptoms, well , I don't know if the exess sweating is from sitting here in an apartment who's thermostat is over 90 degrees, or it's from the Cymbalta. My skin feels like it's moulting. I feel like I am made of light and pure energy. This must be how a Superhero feels.

And yet I know I cannot read. I cannot listen to music because my brain is going to fast to absorb it. I am writing quicker than I can type and I type 60 wpm. I;m rapid cycling and mixed states at the same time.

And to top everything off, just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, I get a visit from Auntie Flo.

After everything I have been through in the last few months, it's enough to make me wonder if I am the reincarnation of Job.


Time to take another pill, hopefully sleep will come, and the mania will cease.

What Happened To Me-Going Through Hell

Hi all. It's been a while, yes, I know. Here is the Cliff Notes version of what happened to me.

I went in the hospital on Easter Sunday with Pneumonia,and 105 degree temperature. spent 10 days there. Went home to my parents house because I was too weak to climb the stairs to get into my apartment.


About a week and a half after I had been at their home, I woke up one night in the middle of the night like I usually do to empty my bladder. Only I couldn't rise from the bed, it felt like all my muscles had turned to jelly. I finally managed to get out of bed and promptly fell down. I was on the floor for about 3 hours. When my father woke up about 6 am he heard me shout and he and my mom tried to get me up. They had to practically carry me back to the bed. Of course I wet the carpet.

My mother called the p-doc and she said to go straight to the emergency room. I was examined, x rayed and sent up stairs to the hospital. I stayed there for four days, and got almost every test available, CAT scans (no, not a feline thing), MRI's, X rays. So much blood work I felt like my hands were sponges. I couldn't move the muscles in my mouth to eat, so I was hooked up to an IV. I couldn't move the muscles around my bladder, so I had a catherter. I spent four days in the hospital, and then they sent me to a rehabilitation hospital. I was moved in a wheelchair, in a special ambulance, because I could not walk, and could not move. I still had the catheter attached to me.

I spent 3 weeks in the Rehabilitation hospital. I had to learn how to walk again, how to move my arms again. I couldn't do anything for myself when I got there, I couldn't dress myself, put my hair up in a scunchie, hold a toothbrush, write my name (when I was admitted), and the worst (oh the ignomy) couldn't wash my self or go to the bathroom by myself. In fact, I went 10 days without making a bowel movement because the muscles down there refused to move. I cannot begin to describe that pain. I also threw out my back at the same time, as well.

I cannot tell you how much it makes you appreciate the small stuff. Taking your first steps in a walker. Being able to walk without falling down. Being able to stetch your arms so you can finally dress yourself. The delight in finding out you lost 43 lbs and none of your clothes fit anymore. The first time I was able to stand for a minute and take a quick shower, even with a walker was a big deal. And going to the bathroom by myself, oh that was heaven. Of course, need I forget, use my eyes (I was unable to see for a couple of weeks it was like I was legally blind), and speak. I could just reply in monosylabic words.

I left the hospital and spent 3 weeks at my mother's house where I was getting physical therapy every day and occupational therapy where I learned how to write again, (Use a pen) and move my hands to do simple things like brush my teeth.

When I was finally able to walk up the 17 stairs to get to my apartment, it was bliss. I hadn't seen Holly, my cat, in over 3 months It was sheer heaven to sleep in my bed, and after a couple of days I was able to sleep on my side! (I"ve always been a side sleeper).

I didn't have the dexterity to type for another 2 weeks, even though I was getting physical therapy for two and a half hours, five days a week. I also had problems with my eyes. It wasn't until last week where I was finally able to start reading. (A bookworm without reading is a terrible thing). I still do not have the upper body strength to take a bath- I cannot rise out of the tub. I still have problems washing my hair and taking showers, I can only stand for about one minute, without falling. Hence, my long hair was cut six inches, despite tears.

Well, I am back on line now and this whole experience has humbled me. It's brought me closer to my family and extended family (one uncle left and various cousins), who admire me for going through this. It's made me appreciate my friends more as well. Of course there is a lot more to tell, and I hope to do so later in this blog, but I said this would be the Cliff Notes version.

And what brought all this on? A reaction to an anti psych drug, Haldol, that I was taking because my new p-doc was trying to find something to work along with my Lithium. I am currently on Lithium and Cymbalta and everything is fine now. I'm in the best shape of my life since my twenties, and happier then I have ever been since then as well.

The things we do to stay well and deal with this illness.