Digging Deeper Into The Depths That Is My Mind

Vincent van Gogh, The Starry Night. Oil on canvas, 73×92 cm, 28¾×36¼ in. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I just got one of the books I had ordered from one of my favorite used book stores. It is a book of writing prompts, and one of the suggestions for April was to dig deeper into the emotional content of what you are writing about. I have, like many other writer’s, always been afraid of the emotions behind what I am writing about, in this case Manic Depression or Bipolar Disorder. Reading that passage made me realize that I have never really expressed my feeling about having this condition, my suicide attempts, my numerous hospitalizations, and the things I have done to others while either depressed or manic (which has not occurred in many years, either fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it), since I am usually suffering and operating with a low grade depression, I would very much like to experience mania again, but only for a short time, any longer than a couple of days and it gets scary.

So, today, I am going to dig deeper into my feelings and emotional response to this disease. First of all, the diagnosis hits you like a Mack truck, knocking all the wind out of you, and making you feel like life as you have experienced it is over. Well, the truth is, your life as you have known it is over. Because now you have a deep, dark secret that you have to hide from so-called “normal” people, and that is exhausting; trying to pretend you feel fine when you really want to hide under the bed, or you have this need to just talk and talk and talk about anything and everything. It is called “pressured speech” and occurs during a manic episode. Or, you have spent all your money on something and somethings that you really don’t need, and now you cannot pay rent or bills because your next disability check doesn’t come until the next month.

That’s another thing about this disorder; it is classified as a disability and makes you eligible to get Social Security Disability Insurance. I honestly do not know how I feel about living on SSDI. Sometimes I think it is okay, because I really can’t work full time due to stress triggering some type of episode be it manic, depressive, or mixed (manic and depressed at the same time), other times, I think to myself, I am stable. Let someone more deserving and needful of this money get it; and then I’ll have some type of episode that proves to me that I cannot handle full time work.

Or I will try our local Department of Vocational Rehabilitation, and they’ll put me at Goodwill sorting clothes, talk about mind numbing, my mind has to have something active to engage it, to provoke it, to keep it thinking and learning. Sorting clothes is not engaging, thought provoking, problem solving or learning, it is a mind killing activity. I had a major depressive episode while working there primarily because my skill set was not being used at all (I am highly computer literate, know and/or can learn on the fly most software packages, I have worked in Benefits Administration, Payroll Processing, let’s just say I have a lot of different skills acquired over many years), and I was sorting clothes. For the love of everything, I was sorting clothes! I could not believe that this was the only thing they could have me doing. I mean, this was me, highly intelligent, computer literate, highly skilled in  office/administrative personnel. And, they had me sorting clothes! I could not believe it…. I felt so utterly depressed that this was the only work the DVR could find for me, that I became very despondent, and as a result, called in until I just quit. Sorting clothes was, I felt, beneath me. I am highly intelligent, computer literate, Internet savvy, and an expert user of every version of Microsoft Office and Windows. This job was beneath me, but it paid me some money. Not as much as I am worth, but something. It made me angry at the DVR, at Goodwill, and most of all, at this freaking disorder. I was really angry with the fact that I had this disorder. I was in a “why me” state; which inevitably will lead to depression. For some reason, depression in me expresses itself frequently as anger at anything that is unfortunate to cross my path, and I have been this way since I was a teenager.

Speaking of depressive episodes, this disorder frequently presents initially in the mid to late teens, and in females, especially, as a major depressive episode. Mine started when I was 14, and I have never been completely free of them. I remember the summer I turned 16, I was so miserable but did not realize it until I washed a bottle of aspirin down my throat; I had thought about suicide since I was about 10, and that is not normal. It took me 6 years to work up the cowardice to try to take my life. I remember listening to Metallica’s “Fade to Black” over and over again, and finally deciding that since there was nothing else in the house to take, I would swallow a bottle of aspirin; I have since learned first hand that this is a very effective way to take your life, it is called salicylic acid poisoning and it will stop your heart, and you will be dead. Well, I freaked out about what I had done, and began to try to throw the pills up. I couldn’t and I became even more frantic that I get the aspirin out of my system, so I swallowed what little pride I had left, and called my best friend to tell her that I needed to go to the Emergency Room as I had swallowed an entire bottle of aspirin. This was also shortly after I had convinced the shrink my parents sent me to see that I was fine now, thank you, and that I no longer was in need of his services. Apparently, I was wrong. The good folks at the ERshoved a tube up my nose (very painful, kind of like shoving a marble up a nostril) and pumped my stomach, and then filled it with activated charcoal to absorb whatever was left. I am not sure how I feel about what I did that day to my friends and family. Shame possibly. Guilt certainly, and a certain amount of irritation that I couldn’t go through with it.

Bipolar Disorder (Photo credit: SheriW1223)

I proceeded through my 16th year of life, and met a guy a few years older than I was, and started seeing him. He was okay, and he was nice enough. But, I had no idea what was going to happen later in the fall. He assaulted me sometime in late October or early November. My parents’ response was not supportive. They were pissed off that I was late coming home, and that I had lied about being at work. They were so blind they did not notice my disheveled appearance, or anything else about the way I looked (running mascara usually means you’ve been crying). So, I flipped them off and turned down the hall to the bathroom to bathe for hours. It was about 4 in the morning before I got out of the tub. After that little episode in my life, I really didn’t care about anything: school, my family and their rules, I began to self medicate at about age 17, and I just became wild and out of control. I did whatever the hell I felt like doing. If I wanted to hop on the back of a stranger’s Harley, I did it. I began to run with some not so savory people. But, they had the same “devil may care” attitude I had, so it was a perfect fit. I honestly had no shame, guilt, or pride left at that point.  My new boyfriend was 7 years older than I was at the time, homeless, and an ex-con. My folks were thrilled. I continued in that life until I finally went too far with the self medicating, decided to stop cold turkey and had a Grand Mal seizure as a result. 

I entered in patient drug rehab, and was released 11 days later. I was angry at being there. I was angry with myself, the way my parents had reacted some 2 or 3 years earlier, I was ashamed of myself, and felt a horrible crushing guilt over what I had done to my family and friends….again. Those seem to be recurring emotions for me; guilt, shame, anger, and more recently,  frustration and irritability. 

My second suicide attempt came at the age of 21 and involved a bottle of Trazadone and a 40 ouncer of Budweiser. To this day, I do not know  why I did that. I guess I was feeling like nobody cared about or wanted me around, so I figured I would fix that issue for them. Once again, after starting to lose consciousness, I freaked out and told my mother what I had done…..again, and off we went to the ER. The strange thing is I had no feelings about what I was doing at the time. The feelings and emotions only came after I was diagnosed and stabilized. Then, I really came to know shame and guilt. 

I made my last hardcore attempt at ending the mind numbing, bone crushing  pain that was my existence for so many years came when I was about 37. I had finally had it with the doctor’s appointments, the medications and their side effects, how my behavior had affected those I loved and, honestly were the only people who cared for me; for some unknown reason the anger this disorder can produce is most frequently directed at those you really need and depend on, then after a while, they get sick of you, and they leave you. You get used to being left, and in reality, come to expect it, and maybe even try to make people leave you. Anyway, this time I was determined to die. I had really just had it. I was tired, so tired of trying to appear normal in the grips of a severe depressive episode, I was tired of hiding my illness behind pills and therapy, I was just plain tired of dealing with all of it, and trying to do it with a certain modicum of dignity and grace. So, I took my prescription for Wellbutrin and Geodon (both full) and just swallowed them, and waited. I began to feel really strange which led to my typical questioning of what I had done, and the typical call to 911. And the trip to the ER. This time, though, I had really f&^%&$ up. I had taken two medications that when taken together at the prescribed dosages were okay together, but an overdose of either one was potentially lethal, and I had taken both. In the ER, they plugged about 8 IVs into me to flush the medication out. I became paralysed from the neck down, I began to hallucinate and everything turned hot pink (why that color I will never know…..it was pretty atrocious). But the main thing that had me scared was the paralysis. I couldn’t move anything below my neck. I began to pray (and at the time, I was not particularly religious) that if I could just move a toe, I would never do this again. It took me half an hour to move that toe, and I was thrilled. Maybe I was going to be okay. Maybe the IVs were flushing out the medications I had taken. Then I went for another body part, let me move my foot, either one, it didn’t matter. It took everything I had, but I moved a foot, then gradually a hand then an arm. I swore to all the powers of the Universe that this was it. Let me live with no brain damage, and I would never, ever do this again. That was July 17th, 2008. 

While I will always be somewhat suicidal, I came too close to that edge 4 years ago. I know now that I do not want to die no matter how bad the depression gets, no matter how many times I think I just cannot make it another day. I want to live even if it means pain and suffering, bring it on. Now I know how to deal with it. I still really want a new set of diagnoses, I am really tired of bipolar disorder, and the anxiety disorders, but the ADD is fun. They treat that with pharmeceutical grade speed. Yipeee, wheeee! But, seriously, I have to take some pretty heavy duty medications to keep myself stable, and even those fail once in a while. Kind of like I think they are not working effectively right now.

I am depressed, extremely sad about lost things and people, feeling a lot of shame and guilt that this is how I turned out when I seemed so promising in my 20s and early 30s. It has been a decade since the “diagnosis” and all I can think is it the illness, my perception of it, or is it just me taking to the sick role that is keeping me from becoming that person that I was before? Is it my marriage that beats me down, or is it me and my screwed up, paranoid thinking? What is it that keeps me from doing what I used to do so well? It cannot be the illness; there are too many successful manic depressives.  I think it is my lack of a support system. My mother is wonderful, my doctor’s are fantastic especially my psychologist, but my husband seems bent on making me feel like I am not enough of anything and that I am nothing but my illness which causes me to fight back. I AM NOT my illness(es). They are part of me, and sometimes they may make me act strange,but I am not my illness anymore than a diabetic is diabetes. I think my marriage is a lot of my problem right now. I am in what they call a “mixed state” which means I am verging on mania, but I am depressed as all hell. This sucks. It is the worst state to be in. You want to be social, but you can’t seem to manage it. Oh well, this too will pass. 

I think the most common emotion I feel about having Manic Depression is ambivalence. I look at it from a clinical standpoint to keep it from being me, but I have weird mood swings and ideas that are nothing but me. I want a new diagnosis because this one just really isn’t working for me anymore.

I do not know how well I managed to “dig deeper,” but I tried. These are hard feelings to feel let alone write about effectively. It is a very hard thing to portray the despair I feel a lot of the time. I try so hard to see a future, but every day dawns with a new mixture of events and feelings that I have to spend most of my time concentrating on the here and now, and staying “normal” for just one more day when I really feel like just curling up and sleeping or throwing some kind of fit or braking something just to break it. So, yeah, the future is hard to plan for since it is constantly changing. Having Bipolar is like trying to tread water in quicksand.