I have been coping with chronic pain for some time now and it has left me with a low level pervasive depression.  I think I would rather have full blown depression – this nagging, lethargic feeling sucks!  I saw my Psychiatrist a week and a half ago and we upped some of my meds, in hopes of lifting this wet, wool coat thrown over my head feeling.  It may be starting to work but I can’t be sure yet.  There are good signs – I did not take a nap on Saturday; I tried to take a nap on Sunday but didn’t fall asleep – so I got up and cleaned a little; I woke up this morning – courtesy of Finn (the Chow Chow) – at 3:45 and when I didn’t fall back to sleep I got up and cleaned some more – and I’m not tired.  So maybe I’m starting to feel better.

Ooohhh…another sign – I’m writing this.  Ever since I heard Jackie Chan tell Jaden Smith, “Your focus needs more focus” I’ve been itching to use the phrase – so here it is.  And I’m not using it lightly – my focus does need more focus – so that’s what I’m doing (eyes closed) – focus, ommmmm (deep cleansing breath); more focus, ommmmmm (deep cleansing breath)…maybe Fox News shouldn’t be on in the background…focus, ommmmmm (deep cleansing breath).

So, in an effort to give my focus more focus I will (like Alice in Wonderland), ‘believe in six impossible things before breakfast.’

1.       Brushing my teeth and showering before 8am

2.       Decide what is for dinner for the next week and create grocery list

3.       Will go to the grocery store

4.       Lunch with a girlfriend

5.       Gym – maybe, but definitely working out today

6.       Write and write some more

I’m off to deal with #1.  I hope that you have a wonderful day and that you too can believe in six impossible things before breakfast.

BPC

19^th Century French Poet Charles Baudelaire once said,

“There are moments of existence when time and space are more profound, and the awareness of existence is immensely heightened.”

11 years ago, the universe and bipolar disorder converged in such a way that awareness of my illness was unavoidable.  The rapid cycle of depression, mania and depression again took place very publicly at work.  It’s hard to dismiss hiding under my desk and banging my head against the wall as just another typical bad day.  I worked in the accounting department of a large company in Alexandria, Virginia.  I managed the corporate credit cards of 4 offices – that’s a lot of people trusting me to pay their expense reports.  Ultimately this meant that almost everyone witnessed my meltdown.

But here’s the thing – once I was diagnosed it never occurred to me to keep the information private.  People asked and I answered, truthfully.  It seems being surrounded by the creative energy of authors, artists and musicians was to my benefit – they simply saw bipolar disorder as par for the creative course. Where I had once been known at work as Research Girl, I was forever researching their purchases – I had become known affectionately as Bipolar Chick.

The awareness and acceptance of my friends and co-workers made my recovery an easier task because I didn’t go through it alone.  I spoke openly and frequently about my illness – with anyone who would listen, especially my young daughters.

My family’s openness and many questions expanded not only their awareness of mental illness but also my own.  I quickly became an expert in my triggers, my needs and my maintained recovery.

When my then 12 year-old daughter became depressed and began cutting after being treated for cancer, her knowledge of the hereditary nature of mental illness gave her the courage to ask for help.  Managing my illness provided my husband and me the skills to assist her doctor’s in her recovery.  It also equipped us with the awareness of when I needed to step away for self preservation.

There is no doubt that my mental illness affected our children.

In 2009 our middle daughter, Jackie, graduated with a bachelor’s in Psychology – apparently I had proven an interesting case study.  Now 23 she volunteers with NAMI in her home state of NJ.

I’m proud to say that Kate, our brave cancer survivor is now 20 and healthy both physically and mentally.  She’s a junior in college pursuing a degree in culinary arts. She specializes in baking and pastries.

Over the years I’ve helped many friends seek the mental health assistance that they needed, some were diagnosed with a mental illness – some had situational issues to manage but all were comfortable coming to me for my thoughts and information.

In 2009, I have left the corporate world of finance and became a certified life and wellness coach.  I work with many people, some who suffer with mental illness some who do not.  I share my experiences and the tools that I have learned in an effort to help them find their own path towards awareness and recovery.

Helen Keller once said, “Walking in the dark with a friend, is better than walking alone in the light.”

As for my nickname, Bipolar Chick has evolved into my way of owning my illness. It makes me feel strong and not a victim of heredity or circumstance.  It has become no different than calling myself a red head or a writer or an advocate.  I wear the name proudly.

In closing, I’d like to share a poem written by my daughter Kate when she was 13.

Dear Mom:

In all these short years I’ve lived – We’ve gone through many things

Things we many not speak of – Things we did enjoy

Days when we both thought we’d break – Bright memories that we share

All those time I cried – You were always there

No one can replace you – No one can come close

All the help you’ve given me – I treasure you the most.

I’d like to share a coping skill that I use when I feel that depression is sinking into my heart and soul.

I know when it’s coming, the signs may be unseen by others and they are surely quiet and sneaky to me but I’ve learned to see them from a distance; sleeping in the middle of the day (I work from home – so I can take a nap), slowing down in my movement and thinking, and a desire to listen to sad music (I have a play list – it’s a BIG sign). So what can I do to take control of this situation and stave off the oncoming pain? I use music therapy and here is how it goes:

I play my sad song play list – these songs include: “Hurt” by Christina Aguilera, “Little Rock” by Colin Raye (I can’t really explain that one), “Wild Horses” by Charlotte Martin and more.

Once I have adequately driven myself into my pain the music changes to angrier stuff: “Bitch” by Meredith Brooks, “Breaking the Habit” by Linkin Park, “She Hates Me” by Puddle of Mud and “Break Stuff” by Limp Bizkit – this is awesome “get my ass out of bed” music!

Now, once I am significantly annoyed with myself for letting depression in the door, I listen to my empowering and sunshiny music: “Ain’t Nothin Wrong with That” by Robert Randolph, “I Don’t Need a Man” by the Pussycat Dolls, “It’s My Life” by Bon Jovi and “The Prayer of St. Francis” by Sarah McLachlan.

And now my day can continue, I have taken control, allowed myself some time to wallow and then moved on to angry and finally and most importantly I become empowered to take back my day. This may not work for anyone else and I would suggest if you wish to try it that you put all the music on one CD as you may not know when to move to the angry stuff. Let me also suggest that you create your CD when you are in a good, stable mood – it allows you to monitor the music you choose, falling off the cliff is not permitted.

So here is my thought for the day – Bipolar Disorder doesn’t mean I’m broken ~ it means I’m AMPLIFIED (and so is my music)

Oh, one last note: when my husband hears the sad music, he knows what’s happening and he is on alert to make sure the angry music shows up- he’s a great guy!

Happy New Year!  May 2010 be even better than 2009.

I am once again stepping onto the path towards the last locked door.  I will travel through the maze of my mental illness, pushing beyond the boundaries of my bipolar disorder and defying the depths of my depression; you are welcome to accompany me if you wish (rafts and life preservers will be furnished upon request).  I had hoped to delve into this journey today, January 1, 2010 but I didn’t…or maybe I did and just didn’t realize it.  I want to share my experiences not just as a diary of daily doings but as a witness to the functioning and non-functioning parts of me with the hopes that some of my solutions for my own life will be of some service or bring some light into someone else’s life.  It’s later than I had hoped to start (10:32 pm – well into my medicated sleep pattern) but I didn’t want to miss starting on the first, so here I am.  As for my diary of daily doings…see below:

I spent the day with my husband and that was nice though by the end of the day he was not feeling well…should I take that personally???

I did not speak to anyone on the phone today, which I’m okay with.  I wished a few Happy New Year wishes to a few loved ones but otherwise didn’t go out of my way.  The way has been blocked since Christmas when a large gathering at my house was both enjoyed and endured until my very nerve endings pulsated in over stimulation.  I’ve needed sleep and silence but have not been afforded much of either.  No one’s fault except my own; I have not asked for the quiet that I long for, thus I have not received it.  Perhaps tomorrow.

This evenings promise to me:  To find purposeful silence tomorrow.

Lesson still needing to be learned and put into action:  Ask for what I want (so much harder than it seems).

Good Night for now.  More tomorrow.

Bipolar Chick

How is it that my aloneness can turn a regular day into a cold, murky place where it rains with no wind and I can’t put a coherent thought together?  I’m uncomfortable in my own skin so much so that I had to talk myself into the shower today.  I’m a water person so when I don’t want to shower it’s an issue.  I recognize this, so I jumped in quickly thus assuring myself that it was not really an issue.  Uh huh.

My below the surface, well-hidden stress has my face broken out like a chocoholic fifteen-year old.  I’ve been here before – 30 years ago – breaking out wasn’t pleasant the first time and much less so in my 40’s.  I’ve been eating crap lately – a difficult and painful task after gastric bypass.  Seems all I want to eat is French fries.  That’s some healthy stuff there.  (Think I’ll go turn on the oven)

My dreams have been really vivid lately, an additional sign of lurking issues.  The dreams make no sense but seem very real.  I sleep a lot lately; also not a good sign but a fertile ground for those vivid dreams.  I’ve told my husband that a wave was heading for the shore; not much he can do but pay attention and hope I don’t drown or pull us both under.  Unfortunately, he’s away right now and my daughter’s at school or work so there is no one around to know that I have to shove myself out the front door to get to the life boat.

But where to go once I’m out of the house?  I want to go shopping but that’s a slippery slope.  I’ve been decorating for Christmas and that keeps me busy but isn’t keeping me happy – a strange and unusual experience.  I love this time of year and it rarely brings on depression, if anything I tend to get manic with all of the hustle and bustle.   Not this year, sadness is swirling through my bloodstream, splashing on the shores of my soul and dampening my holiday spirit.  The worst part; I don’t know why.  I don’t always know why but it’s usually not so random.  I don’t do random well.  I’m on a need to know basis with my episodes and right now, I need to know.  But no one’s talking; my brain is providing no clues or maybe I’m just not listening.

The oven just beeped – French fries are ready.  Gotta go.

(I don’t know why I wrote this – it just sort of wrote itself)

The snake pit of shame is where I retreat after my manic brain releases me from its clutches.  Most certainly, I have screwed up again; said or done something I should not have, surrendered when I should have been strong.  As the anxiety becomes overwhelming I spot the hidden door.  My self-hatred conceals the secret password until I am too far beyond resistance.  And with the mere thought of that loathing, the door opens and the pit sucks me into its deep, black belly.

The dead weight of me slams onto the cold, concrete of the circular room.  A whirling dervish of confusion, I am uncertain where to go in the room filled with so many doors.  So many options, so little time before someone notices I’m gone.  My eyes scan the room for a place to rest but one does not exist; this is not a place of comfort.

I crouch on the floor as winter’s wild breath whips through the cracks of the room.  My bones have turned to icicles, my heart temporarily to stone; I will break more easily now – all the better.  A vague thought whispers the promise of torment. I creep forward in the dark, not certain which misdeed has brought me to this hell.  Slinking towards a door an evil scream cackles out the name of some past transgression – bad mother, bad lover, bad me.

I do not have to force myself to reach for a doorknob; I recognize the need to feel this pain.  There will be no escape until punishment has been served.  It is shame and depression and I am to blame.  I have lost control; slowly given in, thrown in the towel and now I must make restitution in full.  I wallow in the snake pit as long as I can.  Lying to those around me; I’m fine just a little blue; I’ll get out of bed soon – if only they knew.  But understanding completely is lost on those who do not suffer mental illness.  Their imagination cannot find the road to this dank well and for that I am content.  I journey on alone; eventually finding the way out and sometimes no one is the wiser.  Secrets are important to my survival, what others don’t know can’t hurt me – much.

It’s not just a relapse, it’s déjà vu

Suicidal again, too dark to be blue

Dreams jumbled in nightmares,

or no sleep at all

Standing right on the edge,

trying hard to not fall

Unable to run, there’s nowhere to hide

Better hang on tight, just enjoy the ride

Quiet and sneaky you crawled out of my heart

At times I can’t tell where I end and you start

When I am strong – you are weak, hard to see

But when you take over I cease to be me

No one’s sure what to call you – disease, illness, disorder

To me you are just a non-rent paying boarder

You bounce through my life from the wild to lazy

They think that it’s me but you bring the crazy

The pills help me keep you contained in a box

But when you leak out it’s my life that rocks

The friends and the loved ones you have not scared away

They no longer demand they just hope day to day

Once surrounded by scorn, fear, shame and blame

I now understand and can call you by name

No longer a victim of your evil steam roller

I shout from the rooftop – That’s Right, I’m Bipolar

When I scream do you listen or do you just hear

Do you know that it’s panic, anxiety, fear

When depression attacks, leaves me deep in the well

Do you know that I’m lost; I’ve been dropped into hell

I try to escape; I long for salvation

But no exit is near on bipolar vacation

I get sick, sometimes a lot during a single year.  I go to the doctor – eventually.  Usually, I’m so sick I can barely stand up but when it comes to a sore throat I waste no time – I call the doctor immediately.  Over reactive? Hypochondriac? Sometimes yes, but also chronic tonsillitis sufferer. In fact,doctors have been telling me for years that they were going to take my tonsils out if I got sick one more time that year – I never did, until this June.

When I woke up with the beginnings of a scratchy throat several days before a scheduled trip, I did what I have done for years; I got a flash light and checked out my tonsils.  Red?  Check.  Bumpy?  Check.  White spots?  Not yet.  Call the Doctor?  Check. This might seem a bit early for the doc,  but I wasn’t taking any chances . I know that ignoring a sore throat can bring on some very nasty days of antibiotics and feeling crappy. So, I’ve learned to be proactive in getting treatment before I get too sick.

To the doctor I went.  He agreed that something seemed to be brewing and due to my history of tonsillitis he hooked me up with a mild antibiotic.  Now I have to mention here that I cannot take pills, I had gastric bypass in 2008 which left me thinner but also suffering from malabsorption.  What that means is because my stomach is so small and some of my intestines have been removed most pills have no time to be absorbed into my system; therefore, I have to take liquid meds.  Children’s Motrin-here I come.  With meds in hand I went about the business of getting a great tan during my two week trip to the beaches of South Carolina, New Jersey, Maryland and Virginia.  I took my meds and enjoyed myself though my sore throat never really went away.  As the infection seeped deeper into my blood stream I found myself desperate for a daily nap.  Thank goodness that naps are  a given when spending your day on the beach or at the pool…all that sun and water.

By the time I returned home I was well into the habit of taking naps and sucking down anything that would deal with the throat pain – for at least a little while.  I called the doctor again and was put on a new antibiotic, within days I was sicker, now spending entire days curled up in bed, desperate for relief.  A new antibiotic was ordered as were blood tests, pain killers and an appointment with an Ear, Nose and Throat Doc just to get a better idea of what was going on.

I met with the ENT and after a thorough exam he proclaimed that it was time for the tonsils to finally go.  I wasn’t surprised but I was a bit nervous as I’d heard that a tonsillectomy is especially painful for adults.  I did consider the fact that I’d had several major surgeries; gastric bypass, a cervical discectomy (part of my neck was replaced with a cadaver bone and titanium plate) as well as a burst gallbladder; surely I could manage the removal of a couple of little tonsils.  Uh huh, well my hopes were in the right place.

The first issue became the date of the surgery; I was going to have to wait almost three weeks before he could take them out.  This might not have been such a big problem but the infection had rendered me exhausted.  I spent most of my time in bed and when I did venture out of the house I returned diminished and in need of sleep.  I began making meals between the hours of 7am and noon just so everyone else would have something to eat for dinner.  This plan allowed me to take afternoon naps, wake up in time to eat and go right back to bed.

Initially, the whole sleeping away the day thing felt indulgent and relaxing but eventually it began to take on the characteristics of the sleep of the depressed.  I recognized this fact pretty quickly and in the mornings when I felt the best I would try to work out, nothing too heavy but  since it’s a fact that working out can stave off depression, that’s what I intended to do. Unfortunately, working out became too much within a couple of  days – back to bed I went.

As the pain grew worse, my sleeping became more erratic – another bad sign for the Bipolar Chick. I became irritable as sleep deprivation took over.  I started staying in bed just to spare everyone my wildly inappropriate wrath.

The eighteen days until surgery felt like months but the day finally arrived.   When I woke up I was groggy and my throat hurt but the meds and anesthesia were still in effect so I was eating popsicles and moving around so that I could go home.  I was doing great that first day- an illusion created by the lingering anesthesia.  I kept up with my pain medications and for the first time in weeks, I spent the day hanging out with my family in our living room.  The doctor had suggested that I might want to spend the first couple of nights sleeping upright, our couch has recliners so there I stayed expecting a deep sleep.  It was not to be.  I couldn’t get comfortable and the pain was beginning to be very uncomfortable.  And then there was the swallowing.  I had no idea how often I needed to swallow just to swallow…Oh Good God…this was horrible.

I couldn’t sleep for more than a couple hours at a time and when I woke up my throat would be so dry and painful that most of the time I could simply gurgle out, “ow” while JC poured my pain meds. Even though the meds liquid, taking them felt like  swallowing knives.  I would let them sort of just slide down my throat hoping to not have to help it get down.  It hurt like hell but the meds did kick in pretty quickly allowing me to relax until I fell asleep again.  My husband slept in the guest room for over a week, partially because he snores and didn’t want to keep me awake and partially because I wasn’t really sleeping and I didn’t want to keep him awake.  It was not fun.

As anyone who has had a tonsillectomy knows this is one of those recoveries that actually feels worse before it gets better.  I was not prepared for that.  I had done so well the first couple of days despite the sleep issue that when day three arrived and I wanted to jump off a bridge to ease the pain, I was caught a bit off guard.  The ENT’s nurse called and spoke with my husband.  She told him yes, in fact, the pain would get worse for about a week and then start the upward battle towards feeling better.  Had anyone warned me about this?  I don’t think so!  And thus  the depression slowly began to wrap it’s icing fingers around my brain.

I was in constant pain and getting no more than a few hours of sleep at a time – it’s a recipe for disaster.  Even worse, I started to forget to take my regular meds – antidepressant and mood stabilizer.  My husband didn’t want to wake me to give them to me and I was too out of it to remember.  (sigh).  I was slipping into the nether world.  I still couldn’t speak.  I didn’t get out of bed and was always trying to sleep between pain meds.  This seemed like the natural course of recovery and it was – but it couldn’t be for me.

I was being worn down as thoughts of suicide began murmuring empty assurances of pain relief. My therapists have told me for years that I am very self-aware so I knew what to do when this started – call my therapist, hell call anyone.  Uh oh, I can’t talk!!!  Now what?  I didn’t have a plan for this, it had never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to speak clearly or without pain. I literally suffered in silence…never good.

While the depression clawed in for a long stay, I stopped taking my Bipolar medications. Further down the rabbit hole.  I had worked out a plan with my husband to have him help me remember my meds but he felt bad waking me up when I slept so little so he would also forget.  Just an aside here; he was trying to work from home while I was recuping and I’m sure work got the best of him on most days.  Once we realized I wasn’t taking the meds we got back on track.  Of course the depression that had set in refused to go quite so easily because I was still stuck in bed all day and if nothing else, that’s just boring -also never good.  By day seven, I asked JC (my husband) to take me to the grocery store.  I looked like hell but it was wonderful to get out of the house.  We walked around – slowly, picked up easy to swallow, soft foods (yuk) and headed home and back to my bed.

Aside from the lack of sleep issue, eating was miserable.  As I mentioned, I had gastric bypass almost a year and a half before the tonsillectomy; I no longer ate ice cream very often and not without some pain.  Now all I was able to only eat was soft, cold food…ice cream, popsicles, jello and the like.  Yes, there are sugar free versions of all of these items – that was not the problem, the lack of protein was the problem.  I was stir crazy for a steak but I could barely chew, so meat was out of the question.

Food issues are one of my triggers where my Bipolar Disorder is concerned so I struggled to make peace with what I could and couldn’t eat but depression snuggled in tightly under the covers with me.  As I was able to wait longer periods between pain meds and began sleeping for longer amounts of time the shroud of depression began to lift  only to make room for the cabin fever that was taking over.

I needed desperately to get out of bed for more than a few minutes.  I wanted to take care of myself, get what I needed when I needed it so that is what I started to do.  And as lots of people do, I over exerted myself…but God it felt good.   I would go outside to get the mail or take out the trash…mmmmm…sunlight.  I started doing laundry again and picking up around the house.  On post surgery day eleven, I had my first foray into the outdoors for more than just a few minutes – of course this was to walk around the neighborhood frantically searching for my dog, Sam, who had managed to get out while no one was watching.

I spent about an hour walking the streets, yelling (as best I could) for Sam to come home.  It was many tears and several hours before we found him and I was once again beaten into the earth in pain.  Off to bed, I went.  On day twelve, JC had a friend coming over for football and a cookout.  I had no part in the adventure but wanted to help out – hey, I was feeling better.  So, help I did.  I was excited to know that I could eat real food by this point and took part in some of the snacks.  I also enjoyed a glass or two of wine, which promptly went to my head and sent me…where? To bed, again.  I did get some sleep and felt better when I woke up – one nice part about malabsorption, alcohol doesn’t stay with you long.

On day thirteen, I awoke with a headache and dizziness…hung over?  From two glasses of wine?  I guess, maybe.  I suffered through the day with a miserable headache and the inability to stand up without wanting to fall over.  I felt like crap.  As the chills crept in I checked my temperature and found that I was running a fever.  My body began to ache all over and sleep was near impossible.  Day fourteen proved even worse.  The ear pain that the ENT had told me about had set in, the dizziness and headache were unbearable and the body aches continued to get worse.  I called the doctor and after a brief conference he determined that I was dehydrated with low electrolytes.  A diet of lots of fluids, especially Gator Aid, and bananas was in order.  I sucked down as much as I could stand and by the next day  I did feel better.

Within a few days I was ready for  a trip to the store with my daughter.  I jumped into her car and let her drive me to Kohl’s and the grocery store – whooo hooo.  The weather was beautiful and I was excited to be out with the windows down and the radio blasting.  I bought lots of food that I still wasn’t able to eat but hey, wishful thinking.  I even bought a new handbag which just made me happy.  The next day was spent recovering from that little outing – but one day at a time.  One more day and I found myself  home alone for the next four days as both my husband and daughter went out of town.  Feeling much better, I hopped in my car and went for a drive…this is when the mania began to rear it’s little over spending head.  I got a manicure, had a sudden desire to return to my red hair (so I colored it), then I wanted a hair cut – so I went.  I even treated myself to a couple of new books and lunch at my favorite salad place.  I stopped at Target and did a little more shopping – cute skirt!  On and on it went until I returned home and collapsed amidst my purchases, new nails and hair.  Ahhhh…sweet hypomania.

I repeated the overspending adventure the next day with a massage, lunch, a visit to my life coach and take-out for dinner.  I could feel the adrenaline rush as the wind whipped through the open car windows while the music pounded.  I felt better and I deserved it!  The next day I was back in bed, so wiped out that I couldn’t keep my eyes open to watch tv.  The headache and body pain returned as if to tell me – not so fast.  I have stayed close to home since and take naps when I need them.  I recognize the depression and hypomania as being triggered from the chronic pain, sleep deprivation and the sheer excitement of finally getting out of the house.  It sucks when this happens but I was not surprised by the mood swings, they would have made sense for anyone without Bipolar Disorder.  But I do have Bipolar Disorder which makes me more susceptible to the extreme version of these feelings. Here is where self-awareness and education becomes so important for anyone with mental illness.  No matter what the chronic pain is from it has the potential to drop kick you into an episode.  Honestly, I hadn’t been as prepared as I’should have been.

What would I have done differently?  Talked more with the doctors about the medications, the level of pain involved and I would have helped my ENT, who is not an expert with Bipolar Disorder, understand the unique problems facing someone in my situation.  I would have worked out a plan with my husband to make sure I took my regular medications on time.  I would have ventured out of bed more often, even just for a few minutes just to ward off some of the cabin fever.  Woulda, Coulda, Shoula…Live and Learn.

So take care and stay healthy and make a game plan just in case you find yourself in my shoes.