blaugra

Out of sight, out of mind

I'm having a pretty good run with that bipolar disorder. I haven't noticed it in a few weeks.

In fact, the bipolar is so hidden now that a couple of times I forgot that I have it. It's a very freeing feeling. Thank you, chemicals!

However, I've relaxed my exercising and nutrition and drinking, especially since Christmas vacation. That's not bright. Just because the drugs are working well doesn't mean I should slack off and feed chocolate and wine to the depression while sitting on the sofa, as lovely as that sounds.

As unappetizing as it is, I have to put the bipolar in my mind, so I remember to take care of myself, so symptoms don't flare up again. It's like managing any other chronic illness. Can't do it with just drugs.

But I hope to find a balance. Don't we all?

In the past, I've read bpMagazine hoping for info on bipolar disorder. I just started looking at it again, and their blog. Here it is.

I want to be successful with bipolar disorder.

I desperately want to be successful at something. At everything. I know realistically we can't succeed all of the time. But I crave approval along with that feeling of personal success.

So I've been trying to ace bipolar disorder 2 during the past couple of months.

My first step, of late, because this is ongoing,  is answering my psych doctor's question: "Are you comfortable with your diagnosis? Do you think you really have bipolar 2?"

The first reaction was "WTF! You are the guy who diagnosed me and drugged me for it 8 years ago, how am I supposed to know?"

The second was to follow my therapist's advice and get Bipolar Disorder for Dummies. [excellent cheat sheet at that link.] This is the first book I am reading in well over a year. 

That's right. WELL OVER A YEAR.

I'm convinced, and my therapist is very sure, that the diagnosis has been correct, that I'm on the right types of drugs, and that I'm feeling all the side effects as predicted, following the typical path. My therapist is now working with my psych doctor. I feel like I have a solid team in place, for the first time ever.

Now to use my obsessiveness for good! I'm obsessed with food, trying healthy foods, keeping my weight down, despite donut and Halloween Kit Kat incidents. The team said, good play, stay obsessed with that. I'm starting to get obsessed with exercise again. The team is totally jazzed. Exercise is one of the best remedies for depression. Everyone knows that. The other remedy is a reasonable amount of sleep, which I am totally obsessed with. I pretty much excel at sleep. Win.

I'm no longer obsessed with TV or movies or music or shoes or drinking or makeup or children or writing and I somewhat sadly do not miss these. Except music. 

What I'm learning and learning and learning is that bipolar disorder is not a mental thing, or my favorite phrase that's used now, "mental health issue."  It's a physical illness played out by the chemistry of your brain. No doubt. It is physical. It's not an "issue."

I've gone from being down on the floor with suicidal ideations all over again, to feeling almost in control of managing the illness, in a matter of a few months.  I feel like I can handle the oncoming winter darkness. Bring it on.

I write about it publicly because it helps. #Sorrynotsorry that I haven't shared funny stories or Dancing With The Stars quips (Snooki was robbed!) in a while.  But I'm busy trying to be successful with bipolar disorder.

As always, I'd love to know what your deal is so share in the comments.

Look Back in Love Not in Anger

The thing is, though, I don't feel love when I look back to a year or so ago. I'm pissed off at losing a chunk of lifetime to a bad brain.

I'm trying to move forward.

It heartens me when I compare myself to a year ago, though. I no longer cry in the shower. I don't cry when I put on a little mascara -- which was rather counter-productive anyway. I don't have anxiety attacks from getting in my car to drive to work...two miles away, and I don't have to sit in the parking lot at work wiping the tears off my face. I don't come home from work on a brilliantly sunny day and curl up on the couch with the blinds drawn to watch a crappy episode of Friends and end up in bed by 8:00 before the lightning bugs are even done.

Now I just have what I call regular anxiety and a little depression. It's livable. I know there will be times when the depression will dip a bit lower.

I got so used to the very low, though. You'd think I'd be totally rejoicing now, and yeah, part of me is. The other part is confused about how it all changed.

The other day, in my ongoing efforts to conquer the driving phobia, I drove 20 miles, on a highway, by myself. I merged into a line of trucks and even passed some of them. That was a big deal. I couldn't stop thinking of high school driver's ed. I think Mr. Llewellyn drove with me on that same road. I cheered when I arrived at my destination. Dork.

I ended up at a woodsy state park along a pretty creek. My therapist told me that I would benefit from being more in nature, which, yeah, duh, I know that. Oh, and here's your forty bucks. Thanks. No, no, no, I'm kidding, she does much more than that. So I made a concerted effort to walk on unpaved trails during the weekend. On the walks, I kept admonishing myself to let go of the icky past and look forward.

But, I realized today, on another walk, that letting go might be impossible. I think the key is to look back in love not in anger. If I can learn to look back and not feel shame, disbelief, confusion, fear and self-loathing and instead accept my bipolar-disorder-gone-bad experience as just another laughable part of me -- like my frizzy hair, or my little toes, or my bad vision -- if I could learn to laugh about it more, that would be another big step.

Of course I have a song for this. It was playing in my head during my quiet walk today. I heard it on the CD "DIY Teenage Kicks U.K. Pop 1976-1979" and it's probably one of my least favourite (note the U.K. spelling) songs on the joint. But here it is:

Happy Effects

TODAY I AM HAPPY.

Whaaaaat?

I'm happy my drug cocktail is working.

I'm happy that it's a perfectly gorgeous June day.

I'm happy I'm not passing out at 6:30 each night, because June is the best month.

I'm happy I'm not crumbling under life's pressures.

I'm happy that I'm not suicidal.

For about a year, I've used this space mostly to chronicle the path of my bipolar disorder 2 storm. Maybe longer, I don't remember.

I've said that it's weird to feel a drug start to work in the brain, in little sparks. With this newest drug, however, it's been a smoother transition.  More a gradual change that I barely noticed as it was happening over the past few months.

But, of course, there are those nasty side effects that I still weigh against the positive primary effects.

This new drug has compromised my vision. It's blurry. I can feel it blurring. I wear glasses, so I thought I'd just go to the eye doctor and get a new prescription. But the psychiatrist advised not to change anything, because the blurriness will keep evolving. It might get better, might get worse. Well THAT sounds fun. I'm going to seek another opinion from the eye doctor.  Bummer, she says, straining to read the screen.

New drug also causes memory impairment. It's pretty fucking scary when you can't remember shit. Like, I woke up this morning and I had no idea what day it was, even after thinking about it for a while. Yesterday was Saturday, right? Am I taking mom and dad to the airport today or did that already happen? I had to check the calendar on my phone. Oh, Tuesday. I guess I should get up and go to work. I thought that only happened to old people in the nursing home. So I write down almost everything now.

Despite those side effects, among others, I'm happy.

I honestly believe this, and don't ask me to logically explain it because it's not logical: I believe the universe or a higher power is leading me to be healthier now because it's my turn to help people in my life. They've helped me, and they might need me soon, so I have to get completely well.  I refuse to feel useless. This is my truth. It's driving me and it's good to have drive again.

It's scary, but I think I can cope.

TODAY I AM HAPPY.

And this is my favorite pop sensation guilty pleasure song right now, even though Xtina needs a deep conditioning treatment (that's OK girl, I do too.)

 

The Vanishing Self

What do you like to do?

Nothing.

What do you want to do?

I don't know. Nothing.

That's how a regular conversation goes between me and my therapist. She keeps trying, but I have nothing.

What do your friends and family say you're good at?

I don't know. I don't believe them anyway.

You don't believe them when they compliment you?

No. There can't possibly be truth there.

For months, this is how I felt. It's the cruelty of Bipolar Disorder, and perhaps the medication used to treat it.  I tried to explain it, how I'd lost myself. I didn't know where my self went. Where were my interests and passions, my desire to be with people, my drive? Where had it gone?

I just saw this article from this weekend's NY Times Magazine. It's painful and touching and heartbreaking and triumphant. And as of this writing it has 351 painful, touching, heartbreaking and triumphant comments.  I'm comforted by not feeling alone.

In the article, the writer, who has suffered Bipolar Disorder 2, talks about her treatment and her doctors' lack of addressing her "vanishing self" in the process. What some of her meds did to dull her brain. Yet it's not all gloomy.

As my treatments are starting to really settle in, I'm getting what I keep calling glimmers. These glimmers are momentary flashes of things I've done or want to return to or new things I want to try. The glimmers make me think not of death and nothingness but living. It's like the scene in Back to the Future where Marty's family starts to reappear in that photograph and Marty is able to play guitar again at Enchantment Under the Sea. 

I often forget these glimmers because they happen when I'm on the move. I have to remember to stop and write them down.  I think they're a key to bringing back the self.

Psychiatrists and Meteorologists

I get the sense that neither meteorology nor psychiatry is an exact science. Both fields have raised an equal number of questions over the past months. Similar questions.

"What's with all this precipitation that was not in the forecast?"

"Why is it so cold?"

"Where's the storm you said was gonna hit?"

"When will the sun come out again?"

Either professional says Hey, sometimes we're wrong. Sometimes it's hard to tell. Even with all this science behind them. It seems like a guessing game.  Doesn't inspire confidence.

The psychiatrist can't tell you how you're going to react to a drug. He can tell you what he'd like to see happen, but that isn't up to him. So you're stuck feeling too cold or too hot or crying too much or sitting like a catatonic blob or whatever side effects or symptoms you have, and he can just shrug it off, make a note, and recommend something different.

It's been about a year of bad, from what I can remember, shenanigans messing around with drugs, and I finally got more active and challenged the psychiatrist more. During times of breakdowns, when it was really hard because I just wanted relief.

After about a year, we're still futzing around with meds. Still. I know, I know. This is all a normal experience for someone taking any kinds of medication. I know. Salty D. keeps telling me this.

I've been impatient. But a ray of sun stretched into my doctor's office when we realized together that one drug was finally doing its job, and another drug that has been problematic could be phased out.

That's huge. We were on the same page. I smiled on the drive home. I am fighting the urge to put a deadline on when this girl will be rebalanced. I don't want to be wrong.

More of Me

Over the past month's hiatus, I've lost the 11 readers I had.  Yet I've decided to come back.

I was asked to be a guest on a radio show.

I know, exciting, right?

The discussion topic would have to do with "arts funding," particularly government funding, and I know a little something about that but not enough to be considered an expert by any means.

When approached, I said yes.

Why? Whyyyyy?

I was kind of talked into it at what I considered the last minute and I wanted to help out. And, lately I'd been thinking about getting back out in the community, coming out of my coccoon, but I wasn't sure if I was ready yet.

I said I would need a script so I could prepare answers beforehand. The challege then would be to make the script sound like a live and lively conversation on this NPR station broadcasting local programming during drive time.  Eeek. I'd never done live radio.

Even a year ago, I would have jumped eagerly at the chance to promote something, and myself. A few years ago I did some pre-recorded radio stuff when I was manic and excited about projects but nothing since.

Over the past year, I've just been so anxious, and full of self-doubt. Feeling not ready no matter how prepared. Not able to remember stuff I know that I know. I was so scared of stuttering or slurring as I'd been doing lately, from the meds. So scared of being asked a question and responding with dead air while I tried to put thoughts together.

As it turned out, I didn't slur or stutter. I spoke slowly. I read from my script with some expression. Some of the questions, I know I didn't answer well, but I was getting through it.

Then, the host went off-script.

She asked me a question and halfway through her talking, I knew I didn't want to answer her. I knew I wanted to get out of that studio as fast as I could. I looked at her with big eyes and shook my head vigorously "NO!" She saved the moment and answered her own question. AWKward.

We were faced with needing to fill up the time in the half-hour program, so she freestyled some more with conversational banter and I attempted to answer questions but really felt like a buffoon.

I love radio, and I'm bummed that I kind of screwed up.

Still, I didn't cry afterwards like I would have a few months ago. I wasn't entirely shaky and jittery. Just a little.

I leaned on the friends and family support system beforehand and they all encouraged and said things to make me feel more confident. That really helped.

This was about more than a radio program that I hoped no one would listen to.  This was about getting involved, opening up, stretching and talking and getting out of my comfort zone.

I've decided I'm not quite ready to get back out there yet. I think it was good to test the waters though.

Less of Me

I'm taking a break from counting Weight Watchers points to write here.  I joined up just after January 1 in a fit of resolve even though I said I wasn't going to make any resolutions. I think it was smart to not make a resolution but to just sign up. I'm now lighter! So far I've lost 8 pounds.

For now, all this new kind of menu planning is fun. In the winter, especially, it's easy with soups and stews and chilis. Mushed all together, vegetables taste good to me.  I've even been eating squash and kale. What's happening to me?

I read the side effects to the newest bipolar medication I've been prescribed and every source said "Weight gain. Instant weight gain." FREAK OUT.  So I decided to meet that effect head on. The thing is, the medication hasn't kicked in yet -- this one takes a while -- so this weight loss may just be a pre-emptive strike.  This may also be another fad for me, as I tend to jump from one thing to another. But it's still a good thing.

Three's a charm!

The best of me has been in hibernation for quite a while. Therapy is truly helping, and that, with the new drug I started in August, has brought down my anxiety to a more livable level. But still the depression part of this bipolar is taking everything, all my energy, drive, and any creativity I had.

My fabulous therapist suggested I talk to the doctor at my upcoming appointment about how the drugs could use a boost because I'm barely motivated. I know that sounds wimpy, but it's true. It's not laziness, my mind is very active just not in the right direction. 

I told the doctor, in his oddly appointed office full of general store tchotchke, about my troubles. I tried to articulate. I repeated the observations of the therapist, and also the observations of Salty D., because I can't always tell what's going on in myself, it's hard to monitor your brain when you're using that brain to do it. I had started telling myself I was doing fine but others were telling me differently.

He agreed with the therapist and my husband and my parents. I needed more. After some consideration, he recommended adding a third medication to my bipolar cocktail. I cried.

I've never been on more than two. Three seems like a lot. Three makes me ask, what the hell are the other two doing? Three means more side effects and research into interactions between the drugs and other supplements I'm taking. Three means more coordination of when to take the pills and eat and drink and putting them into the little compartments of my pill case and taking them in public when I go to dinner. This third means being even more careful not to dehydrate and getting blood tests.

I went to therapy and cried again about how I felt like I was failing at life.

That's what therapy is for.

And music.

Ascent

• 2 months without a drink
• 2 drug changes
• 1 night in a hospital
• 24:  the number of times I've said "ZOMG these drugs make me so nauseous"
• 24:  the number of times I've whined about not drinking
• 3:  the number of months I avoided riding in a car on a major interstate highway
• Countless:  tears
• I forgot to count: visits to my psych doctor during the past year
• Weekly: visits to the therapist lately

I wish I had recognized sooner that I would benefit so much from getting the new better therapist. But when you're low, how do you know?

A friend asked me, "Do you lie on a couch with her sitting behind you and you just talk?" Like I'm in a New Yorker cartoon or a Woody Allen movie.

"I don't lie down, although there is a couch in the room," I replied. It's actually a lot of work but with this therapist it goes smoother and she says helpful revelatory things and I take notes so I can remember. And I don't have to rehash childhood memories, thank God.

Some people think that depression is a state of being unhappy. For me, that's not it. I can feel happy while being depressed. I can laugh.

Depression for me is darkness and extreme fear and a real physical pain and downward spiral. And feeling the lowest of lows.

The spiral is starting to move upward. It's a long strange trip.