Pushing through life. Effort. It takes so much effort to get through the day lately. I'm exhausted. I'm sad. Really sad. I don't feel well physically. I think I've made a more-than-reasonable attempt to clean up my life, but I'm still not getting my return on investment.
A while back, I got a pedicure and the nail tech was gonzo Jesus-happy. She had just read the latest Oprah-endorsed inspiration fest, The Secret. She insisted that if I would just accept Jesus into my life (sorry, not taking any deity applications right now) and focus on what I want to bring into my life, it would happen. If I just click my heels together three times and understand that I have the power, all will be right in my world! Norman Vincent Peale was right!
Um, it's not working. Despite the doctors, the therapist, and the ungodly amounts of medication, I still have bipolar disorder. I keep visualizing my brain being free of this defect, this burden, but I must be doing something wrong because my hard work and eager anticipation of positive results has yielded nothing so far. Nothing. OK, minor improvments, but not enough to declare the effort a success.
I'm tired. I'm sad. I'm so fucking busy, I can't seem to come up for air. How many people have said to me, "just keep busy. Don't think about yourself so much. Find something worthwhile to do." I believe I fit the definition of busy. I'm sure I'm doing things that are worthwhile to someone. I'm still sad, though. Still exhausted. Still finding it hard to connect with the world.
I went to the doctor a few days ago. I've had a sore throat for three months, but last week it was so bad, I could barely swallow. I felt like I was being poked in the neck with a sharp stick. I felt that perhaps it was just going to go away, but when it didn't I finally admitted it was time to see my family practice guy.
Here's what happened. He told me I'm not sick, but I am fat. He checked my neck and said it wasn't swollen, it was just fat. The doctor told me to exercise. I told him I'm too exhausted to exercise. He told me I'm not exhausted, I'm depressed. And fat. He was really focused on the fat thing. I pointed out a weird and uncomfortable skin eruption covering my throat and part of my chest. The doctor checked it out and said it was a fungal infection that I got because I'm fat and that if I weren't fat, my skin would stay cooler and not be so prone to rashes.
The doctor went on to tell me that I need to exercise. Not just exercise, but put in an hour a day of "heavy, sweaty intense aerobic exercise." This is equivalent to telling me I should make the trip up Mount Everset on a daily basis. I explained to the doctor that he had given me the same advice about four years ago. At that time, I joined the YMCA and literally tried to work my ass off. Instead of just envisioning a better me, I worked. I put in 45 minutes on the elliptical trainer every day. Every once in a while, I cooled off by putting in another 30 minutes on the rowing machine. Four days a week, I grunted my way through Body Pump classes. When, after 18 months, it appeared that my new body wasn't emerging, I sought the services of a succession of personal trainers, but to no avail. Eventually I realized my body wasn't going to change, plus I had to accept that I had been soundly defeated by my moods, and I commenced a life on anti-depressants and mood stabilizers.
I have no empirical evidence that vigorous exercise, positive thinking, or psychotropic medications will change my body for the better. Could my diet be better? Yes, but in my own defense, my diet is better than that of most Americans. I eat too much fat and sugar but I believe I would feel even worse without these things. I don't eat fried food, snack foods, meat, most dairy products that contain fat, donuts, bagels, chips, fast food, or much crap at all. I do, however, hear the siren's song of chocolate, peanut butter, cheese, cookies, and low-fat ice cream. These things bring me comfort.
I hate exercise. I don't enjoy it and never have, no matter how positive an attitude I've tried to maintain, no matter what activity I've tried. In my opinion, exercise ranks just one notch above algebra and eating portobello mushrooms. I have been known to just burst into tears in the middle of a workout because I was that miserable.
The cherry on top of this mess is that I am homely. I'm not plain, I'm not just unattractive, nor are my looks unique or a little off. I...am..ugly. Fat, ugly, really bad hair, little eyes, huge forhead, acne, little chin, and a weird shape. On top of that, I am depressed, prone to irrational mood swings, a compulsive talker, and often a flaky idiot.
I have tried to pursue a life of self-improvement, but age just makes me even worse every year. So, can somebody else please fix this for me? Take these burdens and make them go away. Knock me out and wake me up when I am no longer fat, ugly, awkward, or afflicted. I can't do it any more, even if it is against medical advice to give up.
Giving up is looking pretty appealing right now.
Showing posts with label bipolar disorder. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bipolar disorder. Show all posts
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Say what?
We humans are an interesting lot. We form opinions about things, and even if we think we don't express our beliefs, they come through when we're not paying attention. It happens to everybody.
This afternoon I had a one-on-one meeting with a colleague. We got into a discussion about adults with learning disabilities and special needs. I mentioned a student who had endured gran mal seizures as a child and teen and had incurred brain damage as a result. She has made remarkable progress at school, and although she was almost unresponsive to us a year ago, she's perfroming better than the other students in her class now.
My colleague mentioned that her class tutor has Asperger's Syndrome, a form of autism. She said he's learning a new job at the supermarket where he works and as long he stays on his medication (for what, I don't know) and lives with a lot of structure, he's "highly functional."
She went to say, "Treatment and therapy can really do wonders. My sister-in-law is bipolar and she's working as a cashier now. She started as a grocery bagger, but she's been able to handle the new job very well."
I kept my mouth shut, but I thought, "A cashier? Is this all that people with bipolar disorder are believed to be capable of? Cashiering as an accomplishment?"
I was tempted to blurt out that I had bipolar disorder and I had left cashiering for even harder things more than 25 years ago. It's really amazing what we bipolars are capable of. Must be the drugs.
This afternoon I had a one-on-one meeting with a colleague. We got into a discussion about adults with learning disabilities and special needs. I mentioned a student who had endured gran mal seizures as a child and teen and had incurred brain damage as a result. She has made remarkable progress at school, and although she was almost unresponsive to us a year ago, she's perfroming better than the other students in her class now.
My colleague mentioned that her class tutor has Asperger's Syndrome, a form of autism. She said he's learning a new job at the supermarket where he works and as long he stays on his medication (for what, I don't know) and lives with a lot of structure, he's "highly functional."
She went to say, "Treatment and therapy can really do wonders. My sister-in-law is bipolar and she's working as a cashier now. She started as a grocery bagger, but she's been able to handle the new job very well."
I kept my mouth shut, but I thought, "A cashier? Is this all that people with bipolar disorder are believed to be capable of? Cashiering as an accomplishment?"
I was tempted to blurt out that I had bipolar disorder and I had left cashiering for even harder things more than 25 years ago. It's really amazing what we bipolars are capable of. Must be the drugs.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
But it’s not all in my head
How many ways do you know to say that someone is mentally ill? Crazy. Whacko. Nuts. Nut job. Loony. Bonkers. Batty. Cracked. Cuckoo. Demented. Deranged. Insane. Mental. Unbalanced. Mad. Psycho. Unhinged. To name a few.
How many ways do you say that someone has diabetes? How about to say that someone has epilepsy? Lupus? Arthritis? Cerebral palsy? Psoriasis? Asthma?
I detest the term mental illness. It is filled not only with stigma, but with the implication that no matter what a person’s symptoms, the MI diagnosis immediately negates any credibility of the person having an actual illness. Why have we semantically and culturally separated illness into two classes, one containing conditions of so-called legitimate health and the other being a collection of maladies considered to be shameful, willful, and self-induced?
Most mental illness is very much biological in nature; a clear genetic link also exists in many cases. Yet, if you say that diabetes runs in your family, you are likely to be met with a response that embodies sympathy and concern. Try the same approach with schizophrenia or bipolar disorder, and the recipient of that news is more likely to be horrified than anything else. It is a type of cultural cooties best kept to ourselves.
If you tell someone you are very sick with a neurological disorder, as I often do, you will probably have the opportunity to answer plenty of questions about brain function and malfunction, medications, lifestyle implications, and more. If you change it up and say you are very ill with a brain malfunction and then continue on and say you have bipolar disorder, get ready for the eye roll and shrug accompanied by, “Oh, is that all? I thought you were actually sick.”
Comedian Richard Jeni died recently. It was no secret that he committed suicide as his family was very frank about releasing this fact to the public. His parents wanted people to know that their son had suffered terribly and that they were not ashamed of his death. Instead, they saw it as the tragic result of treatment that didn’t work—at least, not fast enough. This week, for whatever reason, the coroner’s report came out. Jeni blew half his head off with a gun. The cause of death seemed pretty obvious. Still, the report was made public, and on CNN’s Website, the headline read simply, “Jeni had severe mental illness.” As if that just explains everything. That’s all you need to know. He was mentally ill, so he killed himself.
What if they had said, “Jeni suffered from chronic illness and could no longer tolerate the symptoms and depression it caused.” No such semantic finesse happened anywhere in the press in this case. There is no drama in illness, but the underlying implications of mental illness are fraught with sordidness. We mentally ill are sordid people.
We are second-class citizens in the health world. Insurance companies don’t feel they need to treat us (lack of mental health care parity is just an extra slap in the face). Employers have no impetus to cut us any slack or make accommodation. Culturally, it is perfectly OK to mock us. Mental illness is the stuff of sitcoms and stand-up routines, shocking news reports, and Law and Order-type dramas.
Why are those of us who have “mental” illness held to a different level of behavioral accountability than someone who, for example, suffers from an insulin reaction that causes erratic behavior? A couple of weeks ago, a man was kicked off of an Amtrak train in a rural area. He was disoriented and talking to himself. The conductors concluded he must be drunk or on drugs, and they removed him from the train. The outcry was swift when the story hit the press. “That poor man! He is diabetic! How could you?”
I wonder if the compassionate reaction would have been the same had the man had bipolar disorder or schizophrenia as his diagnosis instead.
I am not crazy, whacko, nuts, a nut job, loony, bonkers, batty, cracked, cuckoo, demented, deranged, insane, mental, unbalanced, mad, psycho, or unhinged. I am ill and I did nothing to cause my condition.
I can’t control the short circuits and chemical mix-ups in my brain, desperately as I wish I could. I didn’t ask to have BP, and I’ve certainly learned firsthand how awful and insidious an illness it is. It is doubly cruel in that it affects me with both physical limitations and cognitive/behavioral ones, as well.
I propose that we eradicate the term “mental illness” from all languages. I have an illness, plain and simple. It requires medication and lifestyle changes if it is to be managed. It is not a defect of thinking; it is a malfunction of the brain.
I vote for Neurobehavioral Illness.
How many ways do you say that someone has diabetes? How about to say that someone has epilepsy? Lupus? Arthritis? Cerebral palsy? Psoriasis? Asthma?
I detest the term mental illness. It is filled not only with stigma, but with the implication that no matter what a person’s symptoms, the MI diagnosis immediately negates any credibility of the person having an actual illness. Why have we semantically and culturally separated illness into two classes, one containing conditions of so-called legitimate health and the other being a collection of maladies considered to be shameful, willful, and self-induced?
Most mental illness is very much biological in nature; a clear genetic link also exists in many cases. Yet, if you say that diabetes runs in your family, you are likely to be met with a response that embodies sympathy and concern. Try the same approach with schizophrenia or bipolar disorder, and the recipient of that news is more likely to be horrified than anything else. It is a type of cultural cooties best kept to ourselves.
If you tell someone you are very sick with a neurological disorder, as I often do, you will probably have the opportunity to answer plenty of questions about brain function and malfunction, medications, lifestyle implications, and more. If you change it up and say you are very ill with a brain malfunction and then continue on and say you have bipolar disorder, get ready for the eye roll and shrug accompanied by, “Oh, is that all? I thought you were actually sick.”
Comedian Richard Jeni died recently. It was no secret that he committed suicide as his family was very frank about releasing this fact to the public. His parents wanted people to know that their son had suffered terribly and that they were not ashamed of his death. Instead, they saw it as the tragic result of treatment that didn’t work—at least, not fast enough. This week, for whatever reason, the coroner’s report came out. Jeni blew half his head off with a gun. The cause of death seemed pretty obvious. Still, the report was made public, and on CNN’s Website, the headline read simply, “Jeni had severe mental illness.” As if that just explains everything. That’s all you need to know. He was mentally ill, so he killed himself.
What if they had said, “Jeni suffered from chronic illness and could no longer tolerate the symptoms and depression it caused.” No such semantic finesse happened anywhere in the press in this case. There is no drama in illness, but the underlying implications of mental illness are fraught with sordidness. We mentally ill are sordid people.
We are second-class citizens in the health world. Insurance companies don’t feel they need to treat us (lack of mental health care parity is just an extra slap in the face). Employers have no impetus to cut us any slack or make accommodation. Culturally, it is perfectly OK to mock us. Mental illness is the stuff of sitcoms and stand-up routines, shocking news reports, and Law and Order-type dramas.
Why are those of us who have “mental” illness held to a different level of behavioral accountability than someone who, for example, suffers from an insulin reaction that causes erratic behavior? A couple of weeks ago, a man was kicked off of an Amtrak train in a rural area. He was disoriented and talking to himself. The conductors concluded he must be drunk or on drugs, and they removed him from the train. The outcry was swift when the story hit the press. “That poor man! He is diabetic! How could you?”
I wonder if the compassionate reaction would have been the same had the man had bipolar disorder or schizophrenia as his diagnosis instead.
I am not crazy, whacko, nuts, a nut job, loony, bonkers, batty, cracked, cuckoo, demented, deranged, insane, mental, unbalanced, mad, psycho, or unhinged. I am ill and I did nothing to cause my condition.
I can’t control the short circuits and chemical mix-ups in my brain, desperately as I wish I could. I didn’t ask to have BP, and I’ve certainly learned firsthand how awful and insidious an illness it is. It is doubly cruel in that it affects me with both physical limitations and cognitive/behavioral ones, as well.
I propose that we eradicate the term “mental illness” from all languages. I have an illness, plain and simple. It requires medication and lifestyle changes if it is to be managed. It is not a defect of thinking; it is a malfunction of the brain.
I vote for Neurobehavioral Illness.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
The Meds Go 'Round
In an earlier post, I started to talk about the cost of stability. Unfortunately, I got distracted, which is a pretty common occurrence for people on lithium. Some days, I'm flakier than a heavy snowstorm.
Getting stable was a long and arduous ordeal. The thing about BP meds is that the same medications do not work for everyone, and often work differently on different people. There's no way to predict how a patient will respond to a particular medication. The only way to find out is to try it. In a world full of miraculous medical advances, treating BP is really just a matter of throwing darts. If that's not enough to make you lose your faith in modern medicine, then I'm not sure what is.
I read somewhere that researchers have only accounted for 20% of the brain's secrets. That means that they have no idea what's going on--or why--in the other 80%. That is not an encouraging statistic for those of us who are having a bit of brain trouble. Advances such as the functional MRI allow us to see brain activity in real time, but it's like watching a foreign movie without subtitles--you can get a general idea of what's happening on screen, but there are bound to be gaps. Big gaps. The brain is akin to an Almodovar film, which means without subtitles you're pretty much at the mercy of speculation.
Much of what is known about the bipolar brain has come about via autopsy data, often post-suicide. Much of that information is fascinating, if not disconcerting. Dr. Kay Redfield Jamison, a Bipolar's Bipolar, explains the research findings in her books, An Unquiet Mind and Night Falls Fast. I took comfort in Jamison's reassurances that my condition is a physical problem, chemical in nature. It just happens to manifest though my thinking and behavior, and that makes it hard for "normal" people to grasp let alone sympathize with my suffering. That includes a bit of neglect from the medical world in general.
Lithium has been the most interesting drug among those in my arsenal. While it has done a stellar job of regulating my mood swings, it has also bestowed upon me a lifetime of dizziness, diarrhea, loss of mental acuity, and dry mouth. I will probably fry my kidneys at a young age, and thyroid failure is almost guaranteed. The most dramatic and noticeable change, though, is that lithium initiated a 50-pound weight gain that came on with alarming speed and didn't slow down and stabilize for almost three years. I look like crap, but...I'm a lot more tolerable to be around.
EMSAM lifted me out of a seemingly incurable depression. It has done what no other medication was able to do, and as a bonus, after worrying my way through a flurry of questions, I found out firsthand that the people at Bristol Myers Squibb are quite lovely (not in keeping with my deepest-held beliefs about big pharma and the people who keep it running).
Lamictal is the epilepsy drug that seems to broker unity among my other medications. There are conflicting reports about whether this is really an effective drug for treating BP, but for many of us who take it, there is no doubt. Lamictal makes everything else work together.
I have insurance. I am extremely fortunate. I have spoken with many bipolar patients who do not have access to the medications they need because the cost of BP treatment is astronomical. It's appalling. For several months out of each year, I am, for all intents and purposes, uninsured while I whittle away at my very large deductible. It is painful. My pharmaceutical bill alone hovers around $600 a month. At least the lithium comes in a generic at the bargain price of about $6. That leaves $594 for four other medications. Per month. And people wonder how the mentally ill end up homeless and hoping for hospitalization.
For a long time, I resented the hell out of the money I spent on my Bipolar Disorder. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't wonder if maybe--just maybe--I could get by au naturel, no meds at all. Actually I tried that, and the results were nearly tragic.
Elizabeth Kubler Ross nailed it when she articulated the stages of loss and grief. Recent studies show that Ross's model, although correct in its content, is not linear. Ask anyone with a chronic illness, and they'll tell you what I already know: It's more of a two-steps-forward-one-step-back process of getting to acceptance. Today I am accepting, yesterday I was bargaining, next week I could be in a bit of denial, I continue to revisit anger, and although I think I'm done with depression, it's just a fact that this one can smack me around at any time. This cycle doesn't stop just because you've visited each station. It's not a progressive dinner; it's a complex negotiation with a most unpleasant reality.
Was mich nicht umbringt macht mich starker.
If someone had told me three years ago that getting treatment was only the first step, the easy part, I would have shrugged off the thought with unbridled hubris. I think there is a reason we can't see our future. We can only hope and speculate, and believe we have a reasonable idea of how things will unfold, but not being able to see affords a protection we seldom appreciate. Had I known what was ahead of me, I would have quit before I got started. I never would have thought I had the courage to face the pain, the frustration, the devastation and the astounding loss that were yet to come. Had I seen the whole picture in an advance screening, I would have opted for jumping off of the bridge instead of crossing it.
If you haven't been there, you can't possibly imagine. There are still a few more bridges to cross, and it's probably to my benefit that I have no idea what the tolls will be. I don't need to know. Not yet.
Getting stable was a long and arduous ordeal. The thing about BP meds is that the same medications do not work for everyone, and often work differently on different people. There's no way to predict how a patient will respond to a particular medication. The only way to find out is to try it. In a world full of miraculous medical advances, treating BP is really just a matter of throwing darts. If that's not enough to make you lose your faith in modern medicine, then I'm not sure what is.
I read somewhere that researchers have only accounted for 20% of the brain's secrets. That means that they have no idea what's going on--or why--in the other 80%. That is not an encouraging statistic for those of us who are having a bit of brain trouble. Advances such as the functional MRI allow us to see brain activity in real time, but it's like watching a foreign movie without subtitles--you can get a general idea of what's happening on screen, but there are bound to be gaps. Big gaps. The brain is akin to an Almodovar film, which means without subtitles you're pretty much at the mercy of speculation.
Much of what is known about the bipolar brain has come about via autopsy data, often post-suicide. Much of that information is fascinating, if not disconcerting. Dr. Kay Redfield Jamison, a Bipolar's Bipolar, explains the research findings in her books, An Unquiet Mind and Night Falls Fast. I took comfort in Jamison's reassurances that my condition is a physical problem, chemical in nature. It just happens to manifest though my thinking and behavior, and that makes it hard for "normal" people to grasp let alone sympathize with my suffering. That includes a bit of neglect from the medical world in general.
Lithium has been the most interesting drug among those in my arsenal. While it has done a stellar job of regulating my mood swings, it has also bestowed upon me a lifetime of dizziness, diarrhea, loss of mental acuity, and dry mouth. I will probably fry my kidneys at a young age, and thyroid failure is almost guaranteed. The most dramatic and noticeable change, though, is that lithium initiated a 50-pound weight gain that came on with alarming speed and didn't slow down and stabilize for almost three years. I look like crap, but...I'm a lot more tolerable to be around.
EMSAM lifted me out of a seemingly incurable depression. It has done what no other medication was able to do, and as a bonus, after worrying my way through a flurry of questions, I found out firsthand that the people at Bristol Myers Squibb are quite lovely (not in keeping with my deepest-held beliefs about big pharma and the people who keep it running).
Lamictal is the epilepsy drug that seems to broker unity among my other medications. There are conflicting reports about whether this is really an effective drug for treating BP, but for many of us who take it, there is no doubt. Lamictal makes everything else work together.
I have insurance. I am extremely fortunate. I have spoken with many bipolar patients who do not have access to the medications they need because the cost of BP treatment is astronomical. It's appalling. For several months out of each year, I am, for all intents and purposes, uninsured while I whittle away at my very large deductible. It is painful. My pharmaceutical bill alone hovers around $600 a month. At least the lithium comes in a generic at the bargain price of about $6. That leaves $594 for four other medications. Per month. And people wonder how the mentally ill end up homeless and hoping for hospitalization.
For a long time, I resented the hell out of the money I spent on my Bipolar Disorder. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't wonder if maybe--just maybe--I could get by au naturel, no meds at all. Actually I tried that, and the results were nearly tragic.
Elizabeth Kubler Ross nailed it when she articulated the stages of loss and grief. Recent studies show that Ross's model, although correct in its content, is not linear. Ask anyone with a chronic illness, and they'll tell you what I already know: It's more of a two-steps-forward-one-step-back process of getting to acceptance. Today I am accepting, yesterday I was bargaining, next week I could be in a bit of denial, I continue to revisit anger, and although I think I'm done with depression, it's just a fact that this one can smack me around at any time. This cycle doesn't stop just because you've visited each station. It's not a progressive dinner; it's a complex negotiation with a most unpleasant reality.
Was mich nicht umbringt macht mich starker.
If someone had told me three years ago that getting treatment was only the first step, the easy part, I would have shrugged off the thought with unbridled hubris. I think there is a reason we can't see our future. We can only hope and speculate, and believe we have a reasonable idea of how things will unfold, but not being able to see affords a protection we seldom appreciate. Had I known what was ahead of me, I would have quit before I got started. I never would have thought I had the courage to face the pain, the frustration, the devastation and the astounding loss that were yet to come. Had I seen the whole picture in an advance screening, I would have opted for jumping off of the bridge instead of crossing it.
If you haven't been there, you can't possibly imagine. There are still a few more bridges to cross, and it's probably to my benefit that I have no idea what the tolls will be. I don't need to know. Not yet.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
The Cost of Stability
What comes to your mind when someone says Bipolar Disorder? Do you think of a wild-eyed, ranting mess of a person burning down the house in a fit of rage? Do you think of someone who laughs one minute and cries the next? Do you think of someone who is so mentally unstable nothing that he or she says can or should be taken seriously?
If you answered "yes" to any of these questions, then you've just nailed the reason why I don't tell anyone about my condition. It's a conundrum. If I tell, then I risk be written off as a mentally ill wacko who has no credibility--the disorder itself gets pegged as the excuse for any behavior that anyone else might not particularly like. On the other hand, by never 'fessing up, I leave myself open to the brazen speculation of others who talk behind my back trying to identify the source of my erratic moods and words. I've decided to let them wonder.
The truth is, if you didn't know me within three years of my diagnosis, then you probably wouldn't have any idea that something had gone so seriously wrong in my brain. I go to work every day. I work not one, but two challenging jobs and I do them well. I pay my bills, I iron my clothes, I work in my garden, and I lead a productive life. This is why I bristle every time I hear that someone has made news because of their outrageous and unconscionable behavior and then chalked it up to Bipolar Disorder. I hate these people and the damage they cause to those of us who are trying to prove how fucking normal we are.
OK, I'm not completely normal, but I try very, very hard to maintain that illusion. Here's what happens when the medications fail:
Bipolar depression is like the worst depression you can possibly imagine, but on steroids. It is one of the most difficult forms of depression to treat, and for many sufferers, it will always remain stubbornly treatment-resistant. There is a reason why one in five people with BP commits suicide. You really have to experience this kind of depression to even begin to comprehend how bad it is. This soul-gutting depression really does make death seem like a reasonable alternative. Why? Because it hurts. A lot.
A year ago this month, my doctor decided to take the bold step of putting me on a new medication. I don't mean it was new for me; it was on the market only about six weeks when I started on it. To understand why this matters, you should know this: When I was first diagnosed with BP, I read that it takes about three years to get the meds worked out. I felt so bad at the time, I decided that if I couldn't find relief within three years, I would kill myself.
Enter EMSAM. Before I could start EMSAM, I had to get off of several other medications I was taking. That in and of itself made me want to put a plastic bag over my head. During the withdrawal, my brain started having some kind of auto-electroshock therapy. Every few seconds, my brain emitted what felt like electrical shocks throughout my body, ending at my fingers and toes. Every few seconds for weeks. Zap! Zap! Zap! Zap! Zap! It was exhausting.
Then there was the nausea and the vertigo. For some reason nobody has been able to explain, my sense of smell became hypersensitive, and it made the nausea even worse. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't speak right, and I didn't want to even try to be socially integrated. Work was overwhelming, and my memory was like Swiss cheese. I think I missed an entire month's schedule of staff meetings simply because I forgot to go.
EMSAM took forever to kick in, but once it did, my mood improved dramatically. My moods became more stable in general. Who would have thought that a micro-thin, two-inch square of adhesive plastic would be the thing protecting me from death?
EMSAM isn't perfect, but it's close. It exacerbates my insomnia and causes its own special strain of irritability. That's OK because there are treatments for those side effects, and those side effects are a walk in the park compared to the alternative.
More on EMSAM, suicidal tendencies, and insomnia next time.
May
If you answered "yes" to any of these questions, then you've just nailed the reason why I don't tell anyone about my condition. It's a conundrum. If I tell, then I risk be written off as a mentally ill wacko who has no credibility--the disorder itself gets pegged as the excuse for any behavior that anyone else might not particularly like. On the other hand, by never 'fessing up, I leave myself open to the brazen speculation of others who talk behind my back trying to identify the source of my erratic moods and words. I've decided to let them wonder.
The truth is, if you didn't know me within three years of my diagnosis, then you probably wouldn't have any idea that something had gone so seriously wrong in my brain. I go to work every day. I work not one, but two challenging jobs and I do them well. I pay my bills, I iron my clothes, I work in my garden, and I lead a productive life. This is why I bristle every time I hear that someone has made news because of their outrageous and unconscionable behavior and then chalked it up to Bipolar Disorder. I hate these people and the damage they cause to those of us who are trying to prove how fucking normal we are.
OK, I'm not completely normal, but I try very, very hard to maintain that illusion. Here's what happens when the medications fail:
- I am mean. I am a bitch. I say terrible things to people that are the verbal equivalent of being poked (hard) with a sharp stick.
- I do not sleep.
- While I'm not sleeping, my brain processes thoughts at about quadruple normal speed--at least. Trying to focus is akin to trying to catch minnows with your bare hands, fingers splayed. And it's just as frustrating.
- I spend money like I have the bank account of a lottery winner, just one of several self-damaging behaviors endemic to BP.
- I get depressed. When I say depressed, what I really mean is that I want nothing more out of life than to be finished with it and to die. die.die. Obviously, I haven't killed myself, but I must admit, I remain ambivalent about that.
- When I am depressed, I can do only two things: I can go to work, and I can lie on the couch watching TV. I can also drive while crying--sobbing in fact--without missing a turn or running a stop sign.
Bipolar depression is like the worst depression you can possibly imagine, but on steroids. It is one of the most difficult forms of depression to treat, and for many sufferers, it will always remain stubbornly treatment-resistant. There is a reason why one in five people with BP commits suicide. You really have to experience this kind of depression to even begin to comprehend how bad it is. This soul-gutting depression really does make death seem like a reasonable alternative. Why? Because it hurts. A lot.
A year ago this month, my doctor decided to take the bold step of putting me on a new medication. I don't mean it was new for me; it was on the market only about six weeks when I started on it. To understand why this matters, you should know this: When I was first diagnosed with BP, I read that it takes about three years to get the meds worked out. I felt so bad at the time, I decided that if I couldn't find relief within three years, I would kill myself.
Enter EMSAM. Before I could start EMSAM, I had to get off of several other medications I was taking. That in and of itself made me want to put a plastic bag over my head. During the withdrawal, my brain started having some kind of auto-electroshock therapy. Every few seconds, my brain emitted what felt like electrical shocks throughout my body, ending at my fingers and toes. Every few seconds for weeks. Zap! Zap! Zap! Zap! Zap! It was exhausting.
Then there was the nausea and the vertigo. For some reason nobody has been able to explain, my sense of smell became hypersensitive, and it made the nausea even worse. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't speak right, and I didn't want to even try to be socially integrated. Work was overwhelming, and my memory was like Swiss cheese. I think I missed an entire month's schedule of staff meetings simply because I forgot to go.
EMSAM took forever to kick in, but once it did, my mood improved dramatically. My moods became more stable in general. Who would have thought that a micro-thin, two-inch square of adhesive plastic would be the thing protecting me from death?
EMSAM isn't perfect, but it's close. It exacerbates my insomnia and causes its own special strain of irritability. That's OK because there are treatments for those side effects, and those side effects are a walk in the park compared to the alternative.
More on EMSAM, suicidal tendencies, and insomnia next time.
May
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