Ever Feel Like Something May Be Too Good…..

I had the oddest dream last night. i had spent the night at my boyfriend’s in an attempt to 1) see him, and 2) to escape my neighbor ( she doesn’t understand that I need a fair amount of people-free time). Anyway, the dream. It was third person and first person so it felt  like I was watching and participating. I do not like that feeling for reasons I will perhaps explain later.

But, this dream was so real, I woke up thinking I was in the dream. I dreamt that I was watching my boyfriend with his former love interest, but at the same time, I was also present. While I know he is a loyal man, and that he loves me, I still have these stupid (okay, I know they are not stupid,;they just feel that way) insecurities and beliefs that have carried over from my marriage.

I was emotionally and verbally abused by my Internet porn-addicted ex-husband. He would watch porn when he knew I was there, and could see it. He also knew I felt it was very disrespectful of me for him to participate in that behavior. He did it any way. Like he didn’t care about me at all.. He never once told me I was beautiful or even pretty, and since he spent 16 to 18 hours a day doing this, I came to believe that I was worthless, ugly, not feminine enough, you name it, I am sure I felt it.

I made a determination at the start of this relationship that I would bring no baggage from my very destructive marriage. It would appear that my subconscious mind has brought the baggage with it. I have always felt a little like the second prize compared to girl #1. Which I do not understand. There is nothing wrong with me, except the Bipolar problem. What I can’t quite work my mind around is whether these thoughts and dreams are a carryover from my marriage, or if my gut is trying to tell me something. I didn’t listen last time, and bad things happened. Hmmmm……..

It's Late, And I Need To Write

I have no idea what to write about, but I can feel the words and the tears welling up in my mind and my heart. I do not know where these things, the words, so often accompanied by tears of joy and sadness, come from.

I turned 44 yesterday. Birthdays are not something I have particularly enjoyed since I was about 16. That was a very bad year for me. That was the year I claimed PTSD as my own. Later, undiagnosed Bipolar disorder would emerge like a caterpillar becoming a twisted version of a butterfly. I lost myself that year, and the few years following are fuzzy with drugs and alcohol as I attempted to blot out feeling. I never did succeed in blotting out feeling. All I felt was anger; rage at a world that could allow this to happen to a child. I still rage at the world that allows children to become a victim first, and then, slowly, a survivor, if that is what you want to call it.

I finally have a date for my disability hearing. Two weeks after my birthday, one year after the medical review of my disability began, seven months after the “official” declaration of my medical improvement. I do not feel new and improved. I still feel like my life has been steamrolled like newly poured asphalt. It is just in Technicolor these days due to medication designed to make me stable and mad all at the same time. I do not think these bureaucrats have any idea what it is like to be up and down at the same time. That’s the stability I have achieved; I am manic and depressed at the same time. Does that mean that my symptoms are “managed” or does it represent the only balance I am going to find? 

As I sit here and listen to my Soundgarden Pandora station that plays everything I like from blues to what is now playing (The Red Hot Chili Peppers), I contemplate everything I have not accomplished with my life. Everything had seemed promising a few years ago, weird as my life is, but promising nonetheless. Now, I find myself wondering how to pay the rent next month. I find myself going up against new college graduates trying to find a job. The only thing I have on them is a few years experience. They have MBA’s, degrees in Accounting, Economics, Engineering. I have a degree in Sociology and Psychology. Interesting subjects but just not all that useful when one has worked in financial services for the past ten or so years. 

I have hit that strange place where I am so stressed out that I have achieved a sense of unshakable calm. It is not a pleasant calm. It is an acceptance of the inevitable. I just do not think I am going to be terribly convincing as a severely depressed Bipolar. I hide my illnesses from myself and others so that I may live a semblance of a normal life.This “skill” is not going to serve me well with a committee designed to find the flaws in my argument.

My heart is heavy and weary, and I feel a powerful need to cry. However, the tears refuse to come to my eyes and overflow down my cheeks. So, I remain stoic overflowing with feelings I cannot name, but like a teacup with a crack, they will come out as a trickle at first, and a flood next when the teacup breaks under too much pressure.

Yesterday At The Bus Stop

Negative Self-Talk

Yesterday, I was feeling very down when I woke up at 3:45 in the morning. That feeling of depression lingered throughout the morning despite the fact that I had to do something about my hair and makeup as I had to go out into that feared realm: the public. And, I do mean the Public as I have no car and rely on my feet, legs and the bus to get around town. So, there I am at the bus stop waiting for the bus so I could get to my therapist’s office which is some distance from where I live. Fortunately, my abode is centrally located next to the bus stops going North and South as well as the office of my psychiatrist which is a five minute walk across the street (so is the ER, just in case I go mad, well madder than I already am).

There were several people already at the bus stop which was a little unusual for that time of day. It was about 1:30 pm, and the general malaise had yet to lift although it was quietly being joined by mania. There we go off into mixed episode world, again. I swear I never get depressed and I never get manic, I just stay stuck and somehow balanced in the weird middle ground. Anyway, the people at the bus stop were comprised of an older gentleman named Charlie who had an impressive white beard, his wife, Stephanie, and I am assuming her son as they both spoke with accents, and Charlie did not. Charlie was also Caucasian, and I am not sure where Stephanie and her son had come from originally. As it turned out, her son had just been released from the mental hospital where I go for psych appointments and used to be a “frequent flyer” in the locked wards. The man, Charlie, spoke to me right off even though I was lost in 80’s metal land. There was something pretty nasty beneath the bench; I will not speculate on what it might have been. Charlie pointed it out, so I took out my ear buds to respond. 

My Brain Is Bouncing

Stephanie’s son picked up on the fact that I had these little ear buds, and made a point of showing me his head phones which he pointed out were much bigger than mine. As her son and I talked (I cannot for the life of me remember his name), it became clear to me that he was mentally “different” (the term illness has been talked to death over the past week). As it turned out, he suffered from Schizophrenia, Bipolar Disorder, Asperger’s (?) Syndrome, was also somewhere on the Autistic spectrum, some features of Borderline Personality, and ADHD, in other words, he had a multitude of mental “differences” that rendered him quite interesting and somewhat difficult to talk to (it helped that I have ADD, and Bipolar disorder that was slowly becoming manic) so I was sort of able to follow his train of thought.

This kid/adult was so excited to have someone to talk to, he could barely contain himself. And, not just someone to talk to, but someone who understood most of what he was thinking. He told me he sees and hears things that he knows are not there but he sees them anyway. I replied that I do not see things that are not real, but I hear things I know are not real. This young man was so hyper, I almost couldn’t take it, and I was becoming manic (and have ADD). I am naturally hyper, but this young guy had me beat. As he was also on the Autistic spectrum and had Asperger’s, he became fairly fixated on two things: his headphones being bigger than mine, and his dislike of his meds which he had apparently been off of for several months. It was obvious. I told him that I take medicine too to help me feel better, but that even when I feel okay, I still take my medicine because that is what is making me feel better. I gently told him that going off your medication just because you feel better is not a good idea, because after a month or two, you will feel worse and you are back to square one and the medicine has to build up in your body to make you feel better again. Charlie quietly agreed with me, and I told him the various anti-psychotics I had tried, and that a combination of Abilify and Seroquel had finally put me in the weird middle ground that is the true nature of manic-depression (you are one and the other at the same time).

I mentioned Zyprexa and Resperdal as being some alternatives if Abilify doesn’t work and Seroquel puts you to sleep which makes it a night time medication. Charlie agreed, and asked the young man if the Abilify had worked. The answer was an emphatic no, it had not worked. I am sure that his mother and stepfather accompany him to his therapy appointments. I suggested that maybe they could see what the doc thinks about trying another atypical anti-psychotic. He had apparently been on Haldol and Thorazine for some time. Which in retrospect explains his complaining that the meds made him sleep. I have taken Haldol, and been prescribed it for aggression (when I get overstimulated, I can get aggressive), and yes, it will calm you right down, but the next thing it does is make you sleepy. Add Thorazine to that, and yes, you will sleep most of the day. 

American Homeless

What was even more curious was the man who came by stating that he knew bus stops were a good place to get spare change. I live on disability. I do not even make minimum wage for a 40 hour week. I have no “spare” change. To me, that’s currency, and I need all of it to get by. Charlie and his wife, Stephanie, replied they had no money and were about to lose their storage if they could not come up with the rent that day. They were homeless, and all of their possessions were in that storage locker. Charlie told the man that he was looking for money to save their stuff.

All of a sudden, my life shifted about 10 paradigms to the right. Here was this family with both parents using walkers and not terribly well themselves, and their mentally “different” son whose mother had cared for all of his life, and I was depressed about what exactly. The fact that my brain is chemically messed up and I have no real control over my feelings be them manic or depressive. I have a place that I can call my own. Granted, it takes more than half my monthly income to pay the rent. But, I have the knowledge that when I am done with my therapy appointment, I do not have to look for a place to sleep. My mother picked me up so I could buy some groceries; more than I could conceivably take on the bus or carry as I often do. What I do not know is where were these folks going to find food. They were truly the faces of the homeless. Not the homeless as our society thinks of the homeless as worthless drunks and addicts that are to be stepped over on the sidewalk or crossing the street when one sees a person coming and they can’t be bothered to say that they have no change, or if one does have change, to give it to the homeless person. Many times they are trying to get enough money to pay for one night in a flea-bag motel so they can sleep in a bed, and take a shower. There are those who have become homeless because of addiction, but there are also those who have become addicts because o
f their homelessness. But these people were clean, clothing intact (probably from a thrift store, but that’s where I shop), hair clean and combed. Even the ever so excited young man was clean with clean clothes, hair brushed. They were clearly not society’s picture of the homeless, but they do represent a good portion of people who have found themselves losing their jobs, then their savings, then their homes. 

Homeless Women and Children

“Oddly” enough, my mood shifted. I no longer felt sorry for myself but rather hope that this family could save their storage locker, and hang onto their stuff for another month. Who knows, they may have been living there. That locker could have been “home” as there are a number of rescue missions that provide showers and other types of personal care. I have a friend whose dad (now deceased, too bad because he was a character) lived in his RV which he parked every night at his storage locker.

It is amazing how a random encounter with three people when you are feeling low and socially stunted can transform your day and your world. I am a practitioner of Nichiren Buddhism and we hold that all people are deserving of compassion,

Buddha

respect and fundamental dignity. We believe that all people no matter what walk of life they may come from all have the heart of the Buddha (we just forgot, and have to find it again), therefore when speaking with people, you try to tap your own inner Buddha so that your heart meets theirs, and a dialogue between Buddhas occurs whether the other party knows it or not. I generally wear my ear buds with my music cranked up loud so I can ignore the over-stimulation that can be public transit, but something about this family really made me tap that inner Buddha. It is not that we had anything truly in common except that both their son and I struggle with mental issues. They just seemed like good people in a bad circumstance, and doing what they could to make the best of it and care for the young man (who is going to need life-long mental care). The bus arrived before any of us realized it. I do not believe in random encounters. I was meant to be on that bus, that day, at that time so I could meet these people so they could help heal me in a small way, and I could help heal them in a small way.

On Whether Manic Depression Is A Blessing Or A Curse Or Both

So, this is a question I struggle with periodically. Is Manic Depression a blessing, curse or both? There is no denying that my life has changed immensely both for the good and the bad since being diagnosed in the early 2000’s. But, is my life really worse than it was before? Was I truly happy, or was it a semblance of happiness? Would my life have taken the same path regardless?

Now that I have been practicing Nichiren Buddhism for about 5.5 years, I can honestly say I really do not know. One goal of Nichiren Buddhism is to become indestructibly happy to the core of your being so that you can face the obstacles and struggles that are inherent in life with the knowledge that whatever life is throwing at you you can handle it with maybe not, joy, but not anger or blame either. Which brings me to the question of whether I was happy before the diagnosis, or was I operating under an illusion that I was happy?

Having thought about this quite a bit, I really do not think that I was a happy person before the diagnosis. I had moments of extreme happiness and joy which I do miss primarily because those moments involve someone I miss a great deal. However, in general, I do not think I was what I would call a happy person, and never really had been. I was not a popular student, although I was certainly a very dedicated student throughout Middle School and High School, but I had no close friends or a person that I could take my problems to. I buried them, and not very successfully either. I got better at that, though. Probably not a good thing, but a necessary defense mechanism. I was “odd” in some way, shape or form that kept the other students from wanting to be my friend.

This was my reality until I went to college, and discovered an entirely new world of people my age, older than myself, and all with different life experiences. I was truly happy in college. My therapist thinks I first presented with Bipolar in college (I had already been diagnosed with PTSD), and looking at my transcript, I can see some signs that there may have been a problem with my moods. I dropped in and out a lot, couldn’t decide on a major, and drifted a lot. I dropped out for two years when I was 19 to “sow” my wild oats because I had not had that experience in High School. I got myself in trouble; some of it serious. But, with the help of rehab, and outpatient therapy, I pulled myself back together and went back with a strong determination to find my major and to earn my degree. I met my ex-fiance, and he rekindled my love of bicycling as he was an avid cyclist, and I had always enjoyed cycling. So, yes, I think I was happy in college. I “fit”.

After graduating, I set out to my find my first real job (the kind that pays more than minimum wage, or relies on tips). I landed the second job I applied for with a salary of about $28,000 per year. Although I thoroughly enjoyed what I did for a living, I was not happy with my environment, my boss, and the way I was treated by some of the other employees. To clarify, I was the Payroll Benefits Coordinator for a 200+ employee hospital, and was frequently blamed for people’s paycheck errors. That’s what the time clock is for. To keep track of your hours; if I don’t know if you worked, I cannot pay you. Pretty simple stuff, and most people did it once because I did not go out of my way to get them special checks to cover their mistakes. However, my boss was a micro-manager and I do not function well under constant scrutiny. So, I was very unhappy with that aspect. Then, I was asked to resign after I made a mistake that in retrospect was a pretty big one. They kept me on to train my replacement. That was my first go around with almost unbearable anxiety, and prescriptions for Xanax. Fortunately, I found a position at the University doing the same type of job for about the same salary. I was over the moon! I was back at my beloved University. It was during my tenure at the University that I had the breakdown that led me to seek out a therapist.

Our whole office was under extreme stress for reasons that are too complicated to explain. I found myself doing the job of two people, and working 12 to 14 hours per day. It was here that I met the individual that was probably as close to a soul mate as I have ever found. He made me happy, and therefore the environment was bearable. Then I melted down, and after about 6 months of weekly therapy, I was diagnosed with Bipolar Type II disorder, and then bipolar Type I with Psychotic tendencies. My world came to a screeching halt. I was once again fired, and this time was very different because now I was clinically mentally ill. I became very unhappy, and became a “frequent flyer” at the mental health unit of a local hospital. I was up, i was down, I was drinking…..heavily. My whole world turned on its head again.

At this time, I would say that Manic Depression was most definitely a curse. The doctors were trying to stabilize me, and onto the med-go-round I hopped. Most of what I can remember about that time is very fuzzy as the doctors tried one medication after another attempting to return my moods to something resembling normal. I was very depressed, frequently drunk, and just as frequently, suicidal. I just could not see any way out of the hole I had fallen into. My whole life revolved around doctor’s appointments, medications that didn’t work or caused unacceptable side effects. I was miserable. I was most definitely caught in the “Why me?” trap. So, yes, I would say the first 4 to 5 years were a curse. And, then I reached the point I call stable madness. I was still a danger to myself, and now I had the means, and I used them. Then one evening, I took a full prescription for Geodon (an anti-psychotic) and one of Welbutrin (an anti-depressant), and I waited. Then the drugs started to kick in, and I got very frightened because I could feel in my gut that I had gotten it right (or wrong) this time. I called 911, and told the dispatcher what I had taken and how much, and the paramedics were there in about 5 minutes. I was taken to the nearest emergency room where they put about 8 IV’s in me trying to flush the now digested medications. I almost died that night. I made a pact that evening that if the Universe and everything in it that was divine that if it allowed me to live through this with no ill effects, I would never do it again. The 6 year anniversary of that pact is approaching in July. I have been suicidal since, but you do not break pacts made with the Universe so I have never tried again regardless of how much I wanted to. My whole view on life changed during the time I was hospitalized following the successful revival of my life.

Not long after I made this pact, I was introduced to Nichiren Buddhism. At first, I thought the practice was weird, and the tenets difficult to understand. But, I kept at it sensing that something greater than myself was at work. I have never been religious, but I have always been spiritual. As I gradually learned more and more, and began to be able to say the prayers more easily, I started to feel better. This was entirely foreign to me. Something was working. I was becoming grounded, I was becoming more stable. I began to ride again. I wanted to see and meet people. I was beginning to think that perhaps life was worth living if only to practice and study Buddhism. I began to see that my previous trials and difficulties had left me with a gift; I was becoming appreciative and grateful for things and people I had taken for granted. I was having more good days than bad. And, the most peculiar of all, my ability to sense when another person was hurting or struggling in their life was becoming heightened. I began to think of others ahead of myself. I still had to vigilantly monitor my moods, but I was becoming less restless and dissatisfied. I became the Vice Women’s Division leader for a group of fellow Buddhists, and then the Women’s Division leader. Things were becoming okay. I was beginning to accept my illness, and think of it less as an illness but as something medically treatable.

It was about 2 years into my practice that I began to understand the practice as being essential to my life, and to my satisfaction with the cards I had been dealt. This is about the time I began to wonder if Manic Depression was a blessing, a curse, or both. Today, and the reason I wrote this, is that I realized that it is both. It is a blessing in that I have learned to appreciate and be grateful for the things and people in my life who make my life worth living. It is a blessing in that I have learned that I am not nearly as bad off as others I have met. And, it is a blessing that I have realized that I truly enjoy helping relieve others of their pain even if it is just a little bit and for a short time. It is a curse in that my moods still fluctuate though not nearly as badly as they once did, that I will be on medication for the rest of my life, and that I will still experience bone crushing depressions from time to time and that I will still have a desire to end my life at those times. So, I have finally answered my question: yes, I am a happy person today. I am alive. No, I am not always surfing the perfect sine wave, but that is okay because the sine wave always comes back. Sometimes, it just hangs out off shore for a while.

2013 ~ A Year In Retrospect

Opening a blog post is akin to writing that all-important thesis statement for your next “brilliant” essay. As I look back on 2013, I realize this has been a rough year for me and the people who care about me and that I care about. I have had to come to terms with the fact that the man I thought I married was not a man in the true sense after all, but rather, a fairly selfish individual who did not really love or care about me. He gave it great lip service though with Birthday cards, Anniversary cards, and Christmas cards all exclaiming undying love and devotion and signed with “Love you madly” or “Yours always”. He got the madly part right, except it is my madness that we are talking about.

Romantic Heart from Love Seeds (Photo credit: epSos.de)

He said the vows; the promise to love and honor in good times and bad, in sickness and in health, but somewhere in there, he realized he really had not signed on for that when it came to me. That my one and only marriage failed in such a blaze of glory is a lesson in learning to be myself again. I had become a person I did not like, let alone, love, trying to make him love me. I now realize that we married too soon, and while I knew of some of his proclivities, I did not realize the ramifications they would have on my self-worth, my self-esteem, my mental health, and my ability to love someone. I also now realize that I do not think he knows how to love; that love means sometimes you agree to disagree, that sometimes you will hate each other, that arguments happen and are not a reason to hold a grudge or use it as an excuse to hurt, that it is important to spend time with one another, that you put up with each other’s annoying habits without getting irritated (or trying not to), and that, above all, love means you accept without question the other for who and what they are, and who and what they may become. And, you still love them. I do not think that kind of accepting love ever really goes away. It just changes into a different form.

So, one month to the day of our fourth anniversary after the “deal breaker” fight, I filed for divorce, and became a free woman about 2.5 months later. I am not at all slightly nonplussed to say that I was not particularly sad on the day I opened the mailbox to find a thick, white envelope from the District Court. I must have read and re-read the word “dissolved” over 50 times. It was an unreal experience to realize that I could learn how to be myself again, that I would not have to fuss over make-up that wasn’t me,  trying to do something with my hair that wasn’t me, or wearing clothes I felt uncomfortable wearing. I tried so hard to make that union work that I lost my self in the process. Not a good thing to lose. 

Father & Daughter (Photo credit: Enigma Photos)

2013 was the year that I think I finally came to terms with the fact that my father is never going to be my dad again. He is a father and nothing more or less, but he is not a dad. That man left my life a long time ago, and I have been in mourning ever since. I keep a black and white photograph of him when he was about 29 years old by my bed because that goofy, smiling, long haired, bearded and happy man was my dad. For many years, I have grieved the loss of my dad. For many years, I have thought that he left because I am the way that I am, because he could not cope with what I have. Now, I am beginning to realize and accept that the problem is not me; it is him. It still didn’t prevent me from compulsively checking the mail like a five year old waiting for a present except I was waiting for the Birthday card that never came, the Christmas card that never came. I was sure he sent one; it was just late or lost in the mail. I did not want to acknowledge the truth that he had not sent one; I simply couldn’t believe that he would forget. The truth was he didn’t forget, he just didn’t send one either out of oversight or having to much to do or being out of town. I will never know why he left, or if I could have done something different, or if it just isn’t in him to deal with the real difficulties of life. It is so much easier to leave a person that one has come to view as a situation just waiting to happen. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so difficult to just dismiss him if every time I looked in the mirror I didn’t see him; I look just like him right down to the now reddening strawberry blonde hair and freckles. Maybe if I had not kept that photograph of him as a younger, happier man with one toddler, and a baby on the way. Maybe if……..

Those were my two greatest challenges and two greatest learning experiences in 2013. I am slowly returning to my self, and realizing that I have not yet finished contributing to this world. I feel very strongly that I have a great deal to teach other people (hopefully young people) and to learn from other people. I am slowly but surely returning to the girl who loved to walk and use public transit (annoying as it may be in my city) because one sees things differently and meet very different people leading very different lives when one has to slow down. I feel much stronger for having learned these things about both myself and about the others written about in this post; I feel stronger for surviving the train wreck that was my marriage, and for coming to terms with the reality that my dad is gone and has been replaced by someone I do not really know, but I would like the chance to get to know him as he is now. And, I would like the chance to have him know me as I am now; not the person he remembers from a few years ago. I am older and much wiser than I was then. I have hit rock bottom since then, and clawed my way back up fighting my mind’s whims everyday. 

2014 is shaping into a challenging year, but I am sure that it will just provide me with new opportunities to learn and grow……..

An Interesting Sort Of New Study Looks At Employment Of The Mentally Ill

I am only going to post the link to the article because it is three pages long….

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/10/23/health/23lives.html?_r=1&ref=health

Just Finished a New Book About How To Manage Bipolar Symptoms

BiPolar – What’s Up? – Dunno, I’m kinda Down (Photo credit: Creativity+ Timothy K Hamilton)

I am sure that most people in the Bipolar world have heard of Julie Fast. She has been living with Ultra Rapid Cycling Bipolar II with psychotic features for about 15 + years. It’s not that far away from my own diagnosis of Bipolar I with psychotic features except i am usually in a mixed state which is just the worst. You are the most motivated depressed person and the least motivated manic person. They sort of bleed into one another.

Anyway, the book is Bipolar Happens! and it has a very unique outlook on managing Bipolar symptoms such as anxiety (I knew there was a connection), depression, mania, paranoia, and other subtle symptoms of Bipolar.

She starts the book with that familiar saying and complaint: “I just want to be normal.” She states that people are often taken aback by that statement. People often ask “What is normal?” or “is anyone really normal?” which personally I would find somewhat offensive because there is such a thing as “not normal.” She states it is not normal to not be able to hold a job for more than two years (hmmm, been there), or taking 8 years to finish college (hmmm, been there too). She says it is not normal to hear voices that tell you that you are worthless and you should just die.

She states in return to these statements that everyone is abnormal to some degree, but there are normal people out there. She knows that because she knows what it means to be NOT normal as I suspect many people with mental interestingness would attest to. She points out that “normal” people think about one or two thoughts at a time, not twenty (flight of ideas) whirling around inside your brain. Ms. Fast writes that it is not normal to break down every behaviour looking for the negative meaning. It isn’t about hearing voices that tell you that you’ll never amount to anything so why bother trying (I have experienced those voices for many, many years, and I would dare say that most people with Bipolar have also to some degree). 

One thing that really resonated with me is her writing that normal people live day-to-day while Bipolar people have a tendency to live in the past and feel that there is no hope for the future. I am guilty of that. Especially of reliving my childhood where I was a weird kid, but not a Bipolar person, yet.

She writes a great deal on depression and how to combat it in the book (maybe because women are more likely than men to have depressive episodes). One thing that she talks about that I had already discovered on my own is how truly beautiful this world is. Instead of walking with your head down looking at all the garbage this world produces, look at the sky, the bees collecting nectar, the unsual arrangement of pots that make up a planter; of course it helps if you don’t have a car, but I have seen more beautiful things that I would have missed had I been driving. I have met some very interesting people as well.

She asks the question: are you looking up and seeing the beauty of the world and feeling better, or are you looking down and letting depression get you? I know it is hard when you are in the throes of depression to see any beauty in anything, however I have found that getting outside and walking can be very spirit lifting. Basically, she says you have to tell the depression NO! and fight it like an enemy. She suggests writing down the symptoms of your depression so you will know it is the illness talking and not something else. Basically, you have to learn your behaviours so well that you can feel them coming, and you can take action to stop them.

Another topic she writes on, which I think is terribly important, is for your friends and family to be educated about the illness so they can see when you are ill, and take steps to help you rather than as one person I know put it when I asked them to take me to the hospital, “I am so sick and tired of all of your drama and chaos!” That wasn’t what I needed to hear from that person. If a Bipolar is asking to go to the hospital, just take them. They know what condition their condition is in, and they are asking for help not being screamed at. At the time of the above occurrence, I had all my meds lined up in a row an the counter in the bathroom, and I was wondering if I had enough to kill myself. So, yes, I think it is extremely important for those who care about you and whom you care about to be educated about this sometimes fatal illness. 

She writes on how to recognize the early stages of a manic episode and how to stop them. Of course, this is very personal in how the mania manifests itself. The are a myriad of ways that mania can insidiously crawl into your life. And, it can be a very destructive force in relationships, financial matters, work place etiquette, etc. It is important to know what triggers your manic episodes. 

Basically, this is a fast read, and many of the techniques she describes are ones I have tried and been successful with. If you had asked me 5 + years ago how I was doing, I would have had to lie, and say fine. And, since I am really good at hiding my illness from others, people believe me, and are then rather shocked when I become so depressed I can’t get dressed or bathe. However, I find that sticking to a regular sleep cycle, always taking my meds, trying to eat right and exercise, and doing things I enjoy seem to help. All are mentioned in her book. I guess when you have been an untreated bipolar for 15 years and treated for 11 years, you sort of work out your own “health” plan. I do, however, recommend this book. It is short, simple and to the point. And, it makes a lot of sense. She does not claim to be “cured” just very well managed.

This Is Actually Tibetan Buddhism, But The Dalai Lama Explains The Main Tenets Well

I am also a Buddhist as well as many other things, and although this explanation is particular to Tibetan Buddhist chant and prayer (I am a believer in the Nichiren sect of Buddhism), The Dalai Lama explains the main precepts of Buddhism quite well. So, I thought I would post it for anyone interested in Buddhism, in general. Buddhism is very peaceful and, for me, calming.

On Spirituality And Mental Health ~ My Perspective

I have been inspired today by several other blog posts I have read to think about the nature of spirituality and it’s healing and restorative properties. While I think it is important for anyone to have some sort of spiritual faith be it Christian, Catholic, Buddhist or Wiccan, I have no prejudices concerning people’s choice of spirituality; whatever works is what you should do.

I happen to follow a sect of Buddhism (there are literally thousands of sects) known as Nichiren Buddhism which emphasizes that you and you alone are the source of the struggle or hurdle that you are facing, and only you can come up with a solution through chanting “Nam Myoho Renge Kyo” which loosely translated means Devotion to the Mystic Law of the Universe and the simultaneity of cause and effect (“Renge” means lotus blossom which seeds and blooms at the same time) through the vibration of sound. It tends to become very meditative if you chant for a while which is not dissimilar to Zen Buddhism that teaches that one must clear one’s mind and life of earthly desires to achieve enlightenment although Nichiren Buddhism does not state that you must give up earthly desires in order to reach enlightenment.

The whole goal of Nichiren Buddhism is to reach a state of “Buddhahood” in which one understands the nature of all things, and is indestructibly happy no matter what gets thrown your way. In fact, if you are practicing correctly and are following the correct path, then obstacles will get in your way to test your faith. Nichiren Buddhism views these trial and tribulations as a means of growing spiritually, and are to be greeted with joy as opposed to sadness or despair. 

Nichiren Buddhism is an inherently humanistic “life philosophy.” It teaches that you practice for yourself and for others (others being the rest of the world), and that everyone regardless of their station in life is worthy, and deserve respect and compassion. When you put these ideas into practice, your environment changes around you. As you become closer to being “enlightened” and you develop a character that cannot be brought down, your reaction to the things that occur just because you are a human become less severe, and more understanding of other people’s inherent rights to be treated with dignity. You become less judgmental, and more accepting of people in general. It is hard to explain. But, it works for me, and about 200 million people practicing in 192 countries. Another idea that is very important and is essential is known as “Dependent Origination.” In other words, we are all interconnected in one way or another with other people and the Universe that nourishes us. It is really hard to explain why this philosophy works for me, but I know I have become happier, more resilient and the episodes of mania and depression have lessened.

It does not matter what faith you follow. It is the act of engaging in spiritual activities on a regular basis is what I believe is important. Being a member of a spiritual group be it Buddhist, Christian, Catholic, Judaic, or Taoist can provide you with a sense of feeling grounded, it also provides social contact, it can provide a social support network (if you feel that you can trust people to not judge you for your struggles); some of my best friends are members of the SGI (Soka Gakkai International ~ means “Value Creating”.)

People of faith tend to be supportive of one another, and if they practice true to the values of their chosen faith, they are respectful and compassionate towards all people. The only real difference between the “People of the Book” and Buddhism is that Buddhists are taught to follow the teachings not the teacher, and that Buddhahood is within you, you just have to find it, whereas the “People of the Book” have an external sense of the divine. Buddhism is all you, your causes and your effects, your obstacles and your method of overcoming them, and Christians have God and Jesus’ teachings to follow, but believe in an external higher being. In Buddhism, you are the “higher power,” you just have to find it. No matter what works for you, I have found that many people with mental issues who are also deeply spiritual seem to have better outcomes, and a more positive way of managing whatever their life or their mental issue throws their way.

Buddhism is part of my three pronged attack on my mental health problems: Buddhist practice, a psychiatrist who is extremely good with medication and is not heavy handed with it, and a therapist who has become a lifeline. These three things keep me relatively sane. They also keep others around me relatively sane as well.

So, I highly recommend that people who suffer with mental issues find a spiritual belief system that works for them. It will keep you grounded, enable you to weather the storms when they happen, provide social contact, and provide a network of people you trust to help support you when things aren’t quite kosher. But, that is only my experience and perspective. It is not written in stone or any medical journal that I know of 🙂

The Long Road To A Correct Diagnosis ~ Why Rapid Cycling Is Hard To Identify Part Two

Universe (Photo credit: Loulair Harton)

I just could not stomach the idea that this was a life-long illness that has no cure. It is only treatable; sometimes successfully, other times, not so much. It can be managed through medication, therapy (long-term, in most cases), and in my opinion, some sort of spiritual faith that keeps you grounded (it also provides a social circle, and, in some cases, wonderful people who lift you back up if you stumble). But, it is, in my opinion and experience never “under control”. It is simply well managed.

One of my last two trips to the psych ward involved a heavy duty overdose of two completely full prescriptions for Geodon (an atypical anti-psychotic) and Wellbutrin (a popular anti-depressant for Bipolars). I think I swallowed about 27 Geodon and about 25 Wellbutrin tablets, then sat back to wait. I was determined that this time I was going to get it right. I would not under any circumstances call 911, I would not call my mother or my best friend; this time I was all-in. Until the consequences of my actions began to take hold. I began to question whether I was really all-in or not, because the fact of the matter was that I was dying. This time I had really f*&^%ed up, and had taken lethal doses of both medications. I don’t remember a whole lot of what followed, but I have to assume I called 911 and told the operator what I had taken. Seriously rapid response time for the paramedics. I had never seen them get anywhere that fast. Of course, the police came. I was coherent enough to remember a female officer asking about a knife that I used as a letter opener, and whether I had ever cut myself. I told her no. I do not like pain of any kind. That’s why I swallow pills. However, my will to live is too strong.

This particular attempt scared any desire to attempt suicide ever again no matter how dark the tunnel I was in seemed to be right out of me. Initially, I was relatively coherent, and responsive. They quickly hooked me up to 8 separate IV‘s to flush the drugs I had taken, and by now were in my blood stream (which meant they were cycling through my brain). Very slowly, total paralysis from the neck down began to set in. Oh, and the entire emergency room and all the people in it turned a fucshia pink. Neither of those symptoms were okay with me. I couldn’t move at all, and I was becoming psychotic at the same time, and I knew it. It is the weirdest feeling I have experienced on this “ride.” I was totally psychotic, broken from reality, but I knew that I was psychotic and nothing I saw or heard could be trusted. I mean, honestly, fuschia? Being psychotic is fine, but let’s leave out the color changes; they are too weird for me. So, all these hot pink people were doing everything in their power to save my life, and I do mean that. I was so close to dead that if I had called 911 any later, I probably would have succeeded. 

So, no s*&^, there I was completely unable to move any part of my body except my head, hooked up to at least 8 IV’s and having to pee every 5 to 10 minutes. The extremely nice hot pink nurse’s aides would do their best to get me up to the small portable toilet they had near my bed, and this went on for what seemed like hours. I lay there fully aware of my psychosis, and pleading with the powers that be to allow me to just wiggle a toe. It didn’t seem like a whole lot to ask. I spent 30 minutes just trying to wiggle my big toe, and then the miraculous happened! My toe wiggled and I was the one sending the electrical impulses from my brain. All was not lost after all. Slowly, I began to move other parts of my body. I was going to be okay, at least physically. I had no idea what I had done to my brain functioning. All I knew was that hot pink people were not normal.

I was transferred by ambulance to the psych ward of the same group of hospitals. During the ride there, I made a vow with myself and the Universe that if I were lucky enough to come out of this with no lasting effects, I would never try again. That was five years ago, and while I have had suicidal thoughts up to the point of lining the pill bottles up to see what was left and if a cocktail might do the job, I will never break that vow. Something very bad will happen if you break vows with the Universe as a whole. No one really knows what’s out there, and I am not willing to find out. 

After being shuttled through the psych emergency room, I was placed on the ward as a suicide risk. They locked the door to my room if I wasn’t in it, and even worse, they locked the door to the bathroom both night and day. The meds I was on were extremely dehydrating so I drank a lot of fluids, and the door to the bathroom was locked. That, at the time, was high on my irritant Richter scale. I was on “suicide watch” for about 3 days.

In the meantime, I watched the walls swirl and warp into pretty patterns, and asked the psychiatrist if she saw ants marching in formation on the floor. She said no, but I could plainly see them. As far as I was concerned they were real, but here’s the caveat, I knew at the same time that they were not real. It is real strange to know you are psychotic. You are not supposed to know that your reality is different from other people’s. But, I did know. Some part of my brain was still functioning normally while the majority took a little trip. Yea!

I am happy to say with a great deal of gratitude and indebtedness that I have only been back to the hospital once in these past 5 years. Apparently, the Universe heard me, and has held me to what I promised. I still cycle far more often than I would like, but at least now I understand more about what signals the onslaught of an “episode.” Depressive episodes are usually precluded by a great deal of agitation, restlessness, and bouncing from activity to activity with none of them holding my interest for very long. So, knowing that, I can head it off at the pass by having my psychiatrist renew my anti-depressants or up something or lower something. The manic spells I just don’t really have them much. However, the same agitation and restlessness are there but it is accompanied by a great deal of highly focused activity usually writing. So, this blog is fueled by rapidly changing highs and lows. Manic-Depression is……well it is what it is and it is different for everyone. There is no typical mentally “interesting” person. And, I find that makes the world an even more wondrous place even if it is filtered through a now stable madness.