Rerun:How I Stayed Alive While My Brain Was Trying To Kill Me

(I am working on two writing projects, and going through a blue patch. So I thought it would be time to repost an oldie but a goodie. This is an older piece, I am at present, sleeping seven hours a night, and not in the black place. This was originally written in January 2010)

I am currently on two anti-depressants with black box warnings. And for the last three days, all I can think about is suicide. Namely, just crawling into bed, and stop breathing. Just not existing anymore. Yes, I know some how there might actually be people who will give a damn if I go-like my parents, but I just don't care, my brain is teasing me like the Sirens sang to Homer until he chained himself to the mast so he couldn't hear them.

The last time I actually got any sleep was Wednesday night/ Thursday morning, since then, I have been averaging about two hours a night. Not good. Mild hallucinations, both visual and audible. I begged the pdoc for something to make me sleep. Nothing doing, he doubled one of the anti-depressants. I told him the anti-depressants are making me manic. I don't know what to do. If this continues, I am scared to death I will go to the hospital.

It's a pretty hospital from the outside. It's just not nice from the inside, I cannot have my panda bear, my clothes I want...

a picture of my girl, a radio, my ipod, my cell phone. nothing......the only time I will be allowed outside after a one or two day hold- will be to smoke..... they will confiscate any shampoo, conditioners, sanitary napkins, or tampons, hairbrushes, toothbrushes, toothpastes, makeup, soap, the whole thing is ridiculous. It's like going to jail, not a hospital.  No watches. No jewelry allowed cept a wedding band. I couldn't even have a scrunchie the last time I was in there, and my hair fell all over my face and into my food.

Speaking of food, since Monday til Friday I lost 6 pounds cause I cannot eat. I am living on Gatorade, I just cannot eat. I am not complaining about the weight loss, but that's a lot of weight to loose in five days,

The idea of being separated from Holly is too much to bear. She sleeps with me. When I write she lies next to me, on my right side or my left side, purring softly. When I look up, I see her. She knows I am depressed, when I take a bath to sooth me, she goes in the tub with me, balancing as like an Olympic gymnast as she puts her tail in the bath water. Right now I am on the couch watching "Cops" and she is by my side, half awake, no doubt thinking 'how stupid humans are".

We have been on the couch all afternoon, watching a marathon of one of my favorite sitcoms, "Arrested Development". Normally the show would have me laughing out loud, but I cannot. I had the San Diego Panda Cam open so I could watch baby Son of Cloud and his mom frolic, and it wasn't cheering me. The thoughts of death- my death, keep going through my head, and the only thing stopping me is, NO ONE, not even the people I would leave Holly to, would love her and care for her as much as I do. I have to buck it up, and get better for the striped one. For my readers. For my family, my friends. And for the most helpless, she who needs me to open the tuna.

So I keep breathing, deep breathing. I think of "Everybody Hurts", the good version, the one by R.E.M. Just think there are people worse off then you, and it's the voices in your head making you think this way. Breathe, keep breathing, relax, chillax, and as long as you keep breathing, you aren't dead. And as long as you keep breathing, you cannot go into the hospital. And you can get better.

It's an uphill climb. But you've done it so many times before. By now it should be second nature.

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.

schadenfreude? Rewritten. Revised

I was driving home from my parent's house and turned on the radio to get the weather report. Instead I got a minute of a talk show , the host on a rave about big pharma destroying our souls with their pills.

I've always thought this guy was a jerk, but every now and then someone, anyone gets it. Even a radio personality who I have never agreed with can shoot a fish in a barrel once in his lifetime.

Since I am almost off meds, just on 150 mg of Lithium, I can tell you honestly I am sleeping a bit better. 5 hours of sleep a night average. One night this week was nine hours and I thought I had died and gone to heaven. The humidity dropped a bit but it's still almost too hot to sleep. I want to get out of Dodge and move to Alaska, where it's cold and I might actually be able to catch some Z's.

My skin keeps acting like it's moulting. But it's not moulting, or even shedding. It itches constantly, and it's all on my back and neck. I can reach my neck, but I cannot reach the spot on my back. I've tried a back scratcher, I've rubbed up against walls, all to no avail. I've even put baby powder on it, which brings some relief until it wears off. Same with cold showers, and an exfoliating bath wash with my loofah.

What kills me now is the concept of schadenfreude. I never felt it personally until yesterday. I take referral calls from both my local mental health support group, and the state one. Usually they are pretty tame, when is the next meeting, how do I get there, where in NJ are the meetings, etc etc. I usually can answer the calls, or I refer them to NAMI. It's all good, NAMI refers their callers to me. Sometimes I get social workers and pdocs who are looking to get more help for their clients, and think a peer run group sounds great. Often the social workers will ask me about the types of training it takes to run a meeting, and again, I state that too.

But the woman I spoke to yesterday was different. I've spoken to many like her in the four years I have been doing this. A mother of a son in his twenties who was just diagnosed. Just started taking meds in February. He was having a hard time with side effects and developed ed. His girlfriend/fiance left him because of ed. He moved back home to his parents house, he was mopey, still grieving over the loss of what might have been and the fact that the meds were not only putting on weight, they had taken away his sexuality.

She asks if this is normal. I tell her I've seen my weight go up 50 lbs from different med cocktails since I was diagnosed back in 86. I am only 5 feet tall, so 50 lbs on me looks like 75 lbs on someone taller. I have had relationships end because of the illness. Either because I (and I am being candid here and I realize this may upset people and say you COULDN"T have been like that). I lost one boyfriend because I was hypersexual and wore him out. Yeah, it's true. I know most guys would love that , just as they wish for the four hour erections advertised on Viagra or Cialis. I've almost been engaged to someone who, finding out I was bipolar and it could be hereditary, dropped me, citing, he couldn't be responsible for a bipolar child. I've written here he said he could continue to fuck me, but marriage and relationship was off.

I can tell you it was the first time my heart was broken, and the pain hurt for months.

I can also tell you that my bipolar cost me my marriage. I don't like to talk about this in public, because I really don't believe in airring your dirty laundry in public. It takes two people to make a marriage, it should take two to end it. In my case, it didn't. While he accepted the fact I was a fellow Beeper, and embraced it!, he never could cope with it. My pdoc at the time sat down with him and told him I was one of the "sickest" bipolars he ever saw, and he didn't ever think I would be able to get off my meds and I would always suffer from things that didn't effect him ever, the hypersexuality, the suicidal ideation. He only took Depakote. I was on a med cocktail at that time of at least 4 or 5 different drugs.

I was a hero to my husband, i was working in a newsroom, doing all the grunt work for the reporters, and making a very good living at it. I was making a nice bit on the side by entertainment blogging, at one time I was considered one of the five best entertainment bloggers in the country. I was working on my third novel. He thought I would be able to keep my job, support him totally and we would live happily ever after. And at first, for the first 3 months it was fine. Every day we would ask each other if we had taken our meds. But then I started fllipping into mania, and it depressed him. Seeing him depressed depressed me, and I floated back to depression, mine worse than his because I would get suicidal ideation on top of it.

It wasn't anyone's fault, but it was a deal breaker. He could understand in theory what it was like to be bipolar, but living with one was not something he liked. He wouldn't go for marital counseling, he just felt I needed to try harder. Some days I couldn't get out of bed I was so blue, and he would get upset with me and not understand. Yet when he couldn't get out of bed, couldn't make his own writing deadlines, I would ghost write things for him, try to help him get out of the depression.

We grew apart as people do. Perhaps it was for the best, the marriage was concieved in mania and it was too fragile to last. The ironic part was when we met he was more in love with me than I him. I grew to love him more as his love for me faded. When he left I thought my world would end because at that time I loved him more than he did me.

Back to this lady. She asked how many meds I have been on and I replied I stopped counting at 30. She said she couldn't go through that with her son, is this normal? I told her I have met quite a number of people who have been on as many meds as me or more. I told her honestly, I had been in the hospital 4 times in 20 years, and have tried almost every type of therapy imaginable, Freudian, Jungian, Ericksonian, CBT,DBT, you name it I've tried it.

I've even tried ECT in a feeble attempt of living a semi normal and productive life.

"What a strong woman you are". She said. She got off the phone saying she would be there next Tuesday and could I talk to her son.

I've been hearing that a lot lately. I don't feel strong. I have done what needed to be done, but never thought it was anything remarkable. I had to learn to re use my muscles because I didn't want to wind up in a nursing home, hooked up to a catherter and unable to eat or dress myself at the ripe old age of 45. It wasn't anything wonderful or brave, it just WAS.

I take lithium because I don't want the kind of mood swings I would get if I didn't take it. It's not perfect but I would be rapid cycling and that's not livable.

I've dealt with crippling depression and suicide attempts, the last one came very close to succeeding. I am lucky. But what choice do I have? I can view my bipolar as either a blessing, a curse, or both. I don't feel extraordinary. I feel human. But I do feel like a fraud for someone to think I am inspirational, extraordinary. Maybe it's the depression talking.

All I know is last night, I couldn't sleep. I was upset about some things going on in my personal life, and kept dreaming the same dream, I was hanging from a tree, birds pecking out my eyes. I know why I was dreaming this, my last attempt, in November of 2002 was a hang, and as I lost Consciousness the rope broke. Had it not broke, I would not be here right now writing this. I know someone who has a gun, and I called him to see if I could borrow it. The old black dog had me by the short and curlies, saying he was boss of me.

I got so far as in my car to collect the gun, and tried to figure out if I would do the deed on my bed, or the couch. Would it look like a scene in Pulp Fiction? Could I really put gray matter and blood on my two favorite pictures? Over the couch hangs a framed print of Wheatfield with Crows by Van Gogh. The irony alone in that statement made me decide against it.

The painting over my bed is the famous Red Poppy print by Georgia O'Keefe, that they were selling right and left at the Met when her show was there. I always liked that print, even if it does look like a giant c**t.

I calmed down when I felt the air conditioning on my face and told myself my brain is playing tricks on me. Ignore the voices and you won't drown. You don't want to be like Prufrock, you want to be alive.

I went back to bed. Sleep did not come easy, but at least, as I counted each breath, I was grateful I didn't listen to the mermaids sing. Not this time.

Maybe I am stronger than I give myself credit for. Who knew?

How I Am Staying Alive While My Brain Is Trying To Kill Me

I am currently on two anti-depressants with black box warnings. And for the last three days, all I can think about is suicide. Namely, just crawling into bed, and stop breathing. Just not existing anymore. Yes, I know some how there might actually be people who will give a damn if I go-like my parents, but I just don't care, my brain is teasing me like the Sirens sang to Homer until he chained himself to the mast so he couldn't hear them.

The last time I actually got any sleep was Wednesday night/ Thursday morning, since then, I have been averaging about two hours a night. Not good. Mild hallucinations, both visual and audible. I begged the pdoc for something to make me sleep. Nothing doing, he doubled one of the anti-depressants. I told him the anti-depressants are making me manic. I don't know what to do. If this continues, I am scared to death I will go to the hospital.

It's a pretty hospital from the outside. It's just not nice from the inside, I cannot have my panda bear, my clothes I want...
a picture of my girl, a radio, my ipod, my cell phone. nothing......the only time I will be allowed outside after a one or two day hold- will be to smoke..... they will confiscate any shampoo, conditioners, sanitary napkins, or tampons, hairbrushes, toothbrushes, toothpastes, makeup, soap, the whole thing is ridiculous. It's like going to jail, not a hospital. No watches. No jewelry allowed cept a wedding band. I couldn't even have a scrunchie the last time I was in there, and my hair fell all over my face and into my food.

Speaking of food, since Monday til Friday I lost 6 pounds cause I cannot eat. I am living on Gatorade, I just cannot eat. I am not complaining about the weight loss, but that's a lot of weight to loose in five days,

The idea of being separated from Holly is too much to bear. She sleeps with me. When I write she lies next to me, on my right side or my left side, purring softly. When I look up, I see her. She knows I am depressed, when I take a bath to sooth me, she goes in the tub with me, balancing as like an Olympic gymnast as she puts her tail in the bath water. Right now I am on the couch watching "Cops" and she is by my side, half awake, no doubt thinking 'how stupid humans are".

We have been on the couch all afternoon, watching a marathon of one of my favorite sitcoms, "Arrested Development". Normally the show would have me laughing out loud, but I cannot. I had the San Diego Panda Cam open so I could watch baby Son of Cloud and his mom frolic, and it wasn't cheering me. The thoughts of death- my death, keep going through my head, and the only thing stopping me is, NO ONE, not even the people I would leave Holly to, would love her and care for her as much as I do. I have to buck it up, and get better for the striped one. For my readers. For my family, my friends. And for the most helpless, she who needs me to open the tuna.

So I keep breathing, deep breathing. I think of "Everybody Hurts", the good version, the one by R.E.M. Just think there are people worse off then you, and it's the voices in your head making you think this way. Breathe, keep breathing, relax, chillax, and as long as you keep breathing, you aren't dead. And as long as you keep breathing, you cannot go into the hospital. And you can get better.

It's an uphill climb. But you've done it so many times before. By now it should be second nature.