Your Nearest Exit May Be Behind You

A friend of mine just recently moved to Italy. Anyone else as jealous as I am? Talk about an awesome experience. The same day that she was boarding her flight with her family my psychiatrist changed the dosage on my medications again and told me that the next week, when I saw him for my appointment, he was going to change them altogether. Again. I felt a little frustrated. Here we go again. What is this one going to be like and how will it affect my functionality?

Then while I was thinking about my friend on her airplane, the flight attendant routine started playing in my mind and I heard the phrase, "Keep in mind, your nearest exit may be behind you." It was silly, but this phrase resonated with me. And I thought to myself, in regards to my medication changes which I was viewing as a setback, maybe this isn't a setback at all. Clearly what I'm on isn't working. So maybe it's completely worth it to head out the door (metaphorically) and move on to something else. Maybe turning around to find my exit isn't really taking a step backward, but just a circumvent way of moving forward. I decided then to change my perspective a little bit. I mean, yes, I have to go backward, but all so I can hopefully move forward. I see my doc in two days and we will figure out our new plan and I'm trying to go into it feeling hopeful and positive. Maybe this will be the change I've been waiting for. Fingers crossed.

A Solid Support System

One thing I have learned on this journey, or more like something that was confirmed because I realized this a long time ago, is that I have some of the greatest friends and family in the world. When I got my diagnosis in October, 2014, I told very few people. I felt ashamed of what I was. I had never given that much thought to BP before then, but what I did know about it was far more negative than positive. Years ago, in high school I read about Nick Traina (His Bright Light) and that was probably the most exposure I'd ever had to the illness. Most of what I thought was that BP was a scary and unpredictable illness. So when it was me that got the diagnosis, I really wrestled with who to tell. I still haven't fully come out of the closet with it either. Which is partially why I post this blog with a pen-name.

But of the few people who do know, I've been overwhelmed by their grace and understanding. I remember my sister was more relieved than anything else, simply to have a possible answer. She didn't care about what it was, just that we then had a name to put to it so that we could start treating it. I live about 1300 miles away from my family. So the friends my husband and I have where we live have become like family to us. And they really banded together for me in my time of need. Many of them went out of their way to educate themselves on my illness as to better equip themselves to help me. My mom, who has had a fierce love for running and has been since forced to give it up, still registered for a race that raises awareness for mental health. She said she'd walk the route just in my honor. Wow. One of my dear friends moved to Italy and even from across the ocean, she is still giving me bits of advice that have gone a long way. I know when I get to the point when I come out and this becomes public knowledge that I will probably lose people that I thought were friends. I'm sure this is inevitable. But the reality is that when I am actually ready to come out with my illness, there will be more people who just don't care. Not in a heartless matter, but in a this doesn't change much for me kind of way. Which is how I will prefer it. And when I lose some friends over this, well, then I guess they really didn't matter in the long haul anyway. It's those that have stuck by me that have made all the difference for me. And I am eternally grateful for their love and support for me. Especially being so far away from those who are my actual family.

Having this support system has been so crucial for me. On days when I'm weak and exhausted and so emotionally overwhelmed, they are here to help me. They lend an ear and often a spot on their couch for me. They help me with my kids when I have appointments or just need some time for myself. Some I have even asked to help point out to me the warning signs in me when I'm about to have an episode, hypo-manic or depressive. They help me identify the signs even before I can sometimes see them. And they always pick up the phone when things are really bad.

In November I went through a long bout with terribly frequent suicidal thoughts. There were a few times when things got quite grim and it was my friends that helped save me. I was balled into the fetal position on my bathroom floor one day with only the worst thoughts raging through me when one of these friends showed up. I was embarrassed for her to see me like that. But she got a call from another friend of mine who I had been talking to but wasn't close enough to intervene in a fast enough manner. So there my friend stood, with me on the floor and tears streaming down my swollen face, and she very calmly told me to come home with her. She took me and my kids in until my husband could get home and I am eternally grateful for this act of generosity and love. I don't know if I would have gone through with or tried any of the awful things I had been contemplating, but she saved me from myself that day. And that was when I really learned how amazing my friends are. I haven't shared that story with many people. It was one of my darkest days and I hate to even admit that I was ever that low. Yet I cannot fully acknowledge my appreciation for my friends without telling that story.

I can only hope that everyone who goes through something like this has at least one person. I am beyond lucky to have many, but one is all we really need. One person's love for us can take us to places we can never go on our own. It has been love that my friends and family have shown me, not judgement. And it makes it easier for me to love myself rather than judge myself for what I am.

The Bipolar Treadmill

After my last two rants, I thought I would be feeling much better than I am. But I'm quickly learning how deep-seated my anger really is. Tonight when I was Skyping with my sister, I started to fall apart all over again. Thankfully I had nothing to hide or be embarrassed about doing that in front of her. Everything that came out of my mind was aggressive and mad and that's when I decided to take another look at my anger. What am I angry about? I'm not entirely sure. Sure, there's the actual illness itself to be mad at. And believe me when I tell you I'm aware that I'm pretty pissed about it. But also I feel like stewing in my anger over it isn't going to get me anywhere. I mean, what's it going to change? Nothing.

So what else is making me so mad? Honestly, I think it's my meds. I've been on aggressive medications for almost 6 month now and I feel like I've been spinning my wheels; like I'm no better off than I was 6 months ago when I first parked myself on my psychiatrist's couch. It's like for 6 months now I've been running the bipolar II medication treadmill. Running my ass off and going absolutely no where. And I'm no skinnier either, despite all that running. So what is the point of this then? Like I said previously, I have to believe that people can go on to be successful, high-functioning people who manage their bipolar. And in this case, their bipolar II. And I am hell bent on being one of those people. Hence I'm still on that damn treadmill. Because I have to believe that eventually there will be a point to it. That these last 6 months have actually been taking me somewhere down the road. Even though, like I said, it feels less like a road and more like a revolving track.

My younger, very wise sister, reminded me that despite how things look, I have indeed made some strides. And that as much as I feel like I've gotten nowhere in the last 6 months, I really am not that same person who first sat down on my psych's couch. What have I accomplished? Well, not much, But some. Firstly there has been the diagnosis itself. Which changed the entire game up until that point. Until I was actually diagnosed I may as well have been playing baseball in shoulder pads and a helmut, looking for the goal post. Kind of pointless. So yes, we made a large stride with my diagnosis. Then there are the medications. We know that Seroquel. at a certain dose, just made me feel all funky and my muscles seriously hurt. And at a higher dose we learned that I wanted to kill myself. And at an even higher dose, we learned that I was actually starting to stabilize only to also gain about 15 pounds in 1 month. Yikes! Really no results from that treadmill. Oh wait, that was just a metaphor. So then we tried Abilify. Again, it helped maintain my mood stability and I only had one hypo-manic state while on it, but the dang medication made me vomit almost daily. And so I subsequently lost the 15 pounds, but... vomiting is no bueno for the teeth, and I'm totally a teeth person. Then we moved to Geodon. It was just okay at the dose they started me on. I didn't have any more hypo-manic episodes (not saying one couldn't have happened) but I did feel myself slipping a little more and more back into my depression. And then all this anger came about. I found out that I was really snippy and easily lost my cool. The solution for the next month? A higher dose. Now we are at the present and I've learned that Geodon at the higher dose makes me so fricken tired! So tired that I feel my eyes go crossed-eyed and then roll into the back of my head because my body is literally checking out. Not cool. I've got a life I need to live and I can't just check out whenever the hell I want to. Or when my body thinks is a good time. So now I'm trying my hardest to take it a little earlier each night, as to hopefully not have the lingering side-effects in the morning while I need to be getting my kids out the door and myself to work. Oh, and in there somewhere I also discovered that I can't take the Geodon with my lunch. I'll be passed out by dinnertime if I do that. So yes, my sister was right, I have accomplished some things. And to be honest, listing them does help. It shows me what I'm not feeling so much. It puts in front of me in black and white the real progress. If only it were progress that I felt. Because right now I still feel a lot like I'm on that treadmill, just hoping to catch a break.

Maybe what I'm mad at is really the lack of progress. I mean, after fighting and trying so hard for 6 months, I guess I was kind of hoping I'd be in a better place. Boy was I only kidding myself. But at least right now I have a better idea of what is making me angry. And to be honest, I kind of feel like I have a right to be. And sometimes knowing it's okay to simply be angry is half the battle. Yes, I have been busting my ass for 6 months so that I can be in a better place in my life, and you know what? I'm still not there yet. So yes, it's okay to be mad about that. Just so long as I don't let my anger hold me back from progress. It's about learning to keep on taking those punches all while being ticked. And sometimes, I find, that anger can be part of the driving force behind those punches. Now I realize that I have little control over the momentum of those punches when it comes to whether or not my meds work, but at the same time, I can control my attitude and my openness. And those two things can go a long way in terms of progress. So here's to letting myself be pissed but still holding my head high!

Grieving the loss of..... well.... me.

Why today, of all days in the last 5 months, did I choose to start writing? Well, to be frank, today kind of sucked. My kids were either at each others' throats all day, or they were arguing with me, or simply ignoring anything I had to say.

"Please put your shoes in the bench."
Nothing.
"Please don't frog jump inside the car."
Frog jump. Tears because of a bonked head.
"No more snacks."
Find Miss S with a string cheese in her hands 60 seconds later.
The list goes on.

And then I saw it hanging in a frame on my wall- a photo of me from nearly 6 years ago, holding baby boy C and smiling. I remember that day. And despite my postpartum and my colicy newborn, I was a happy person on that day. Today, not so much. I suddenly envied the woman in that photo. At the time I knew my baby would outgrow his colic and I just had postpartum. Moms recovered from that. And there were medications with minimal to no side-effects for the meantime. I had all these hopes for my new family that was suddenly 3 people and no longer 2. I had a huge passion for writing and art and music. Today, sitting on the couch and looking at that photo I felt like I was a different person. Instead of struggling with an illness that had an end, I'm facing a lifelong one. One that will require constant management and attention. I no longer feel this burning passion to stay up all night and write because something brilliant, or what I think to be brilliant, comes to mind. The idea of staying up past 10 is exhausting. I'm also very much struggling with the side-effects of my medications. Fatigue and constant drowsiness plague me every minute of the day. I mean, do I really have to go all the way upstairs to put this in the laundry room? That's so far away! I just want to lie down here on the spot and go to sleep. Only to wake up and still be sleepy. And not sleepy in a I didn't get enough sleep last night kind of way but rather a sleepy because I have just been given anesthesia kind of way.

Yeah, I am grieving. Grieving the loss of who I used to be, or thought I was when I was buried in ignorance. I miss that person. I miss the energy I had and passion that burned in me. And all I can really do is hope that it will come back. With all of my heart I believe there has to be a medication, either in combination with others or on its own, that will help me find my way back to that person. Or at least, a more knowledgeable version of that person.

Since my diagnosis, my faith has been shaky. And many times I just want to turn upward and yell WTF?! Why me? But then this little voice inside of me tells me I will find my way back and I will be that person again. The one with the genuine smile on her face, and that gleam of fervor in her eye. I know that God has put me on this journey for a reason. And although I happen to think it's an awful journey, it is my faith that tells me there is a silver lining. And it's up to me to find it. How do I do that? By keeping on trucking on. Yup, that's right. By forging ahead. By throwing myself my pity party today so that I can get up, all cried out, and tackle another day tomorrow. I have to believe that there are ways to be a successfully high-functioning person with BP. And I am hell bent on being one of those people. Because I want that smile back and I want that gleam in my eye again.

I just have to remind myself that it's okay to grieve the loss of my old life. And that like any time you lose something, there is a new way of life, without whatever it is that was lost, to be lived. And that living that life will eventually be fulfilling for me. I just need to find my new norm. If only I could reach out into obscurity and pluck it to suddenly have here for myself. But that's the thing about "normal", it takes a while to be made. Because normal is simply constructed of a whole lot of consistency. And consistency is simply day after day of the same or similar things. So here's to pity parties and finding new normals.

I have Bipolar

Since this is my very first post, let's give you a little background into my life and how I came to this moment right now where I'm writing about my Bipolar Disorder.

I was born some few decades ago in a small town in central Minnesota. And despite the unfathomably cold (to those who live elsewhere) winters there, my childhood and young adult life was pretty spectacular. It was when I was in junior high that the first signs of depression started to rear its head. There were a few larger incidents that happened at the time- my depression coupled with my angsty teenage dramatic life caused me to slit my wrist open once with a screwdriver, and in college I took way too many pills a few time but other than that, my depression seemed rather, well, normal. As far as depression went.

It wasn't until after the birth of my first child that things got seriously ugly. And then I was treated for postpartum depression. Too bad I didn't know about my BP at the time and how pregnancy can sometimes launch into full swing. So there I was, a new mom, and trying my hardest just to get out of bed every day. But after a while it became more manageable and I was onto my next child. While I was pregnant with my daughter I had chosen to come off of my medication. I was certain that I would be able to better manage anything emotionally that came my way while not being treated than I would be able to manage if I had induced any kind of teratogenic complications with my child. Let me just say that this was my choice and not something recommended for everyone in that position.

Baby girl S is now 3 years old and it was only a few month before that 3rd birthday that the suggestion of BP had come up for the first time in my life. Via my counselor. I honestly thought that she was instead the crazy one. But, in the nature of actually treating what I have, I made an appointment with my PCP and took the first step in discovering my true diagnosis.

My PCP had been seeing me for years. He was the very person treating me for my depression, which was completely out of hand by this point, and my postpartum for all those years. Even he thought the idea that I was BP was a little out there. But he is good at what he does and good at recognizing his own limitations so he passed me along to a Psychiatrist. It was this third doc who said to me that it was pretty clear to him that I did in fact have Bipolar II.

Say WHAT?! Talk about a curveball that I even saw coming!

So here I am, 5 months later and still struggling. Yes, I said I'm still struggling. And it takes a lot for me to acknowledge that. I'm completely the type of person who carries the weight of the world on my shoulders and doesn't share the burden simply because I think, "I've got this." I'm learning, in a smack me upside the head, yet slow way, that I do not, in fact, have this.

I'm on my 3 medication in 5 months. And I have completely lost track of dose adjustments. And as I sit here, barricaded in my closet because for some reason this feels like a good safe space for me, I know I am looking down the barrel of another medication change. Did you just hear me sigh? Because I did.

So what prompted me to start this blog? Well, for starters, it seemed like a natural place to let off some steam. Especially because I think I'm a writer. I haven't actually verified this idea yet, hence the I think part. And well, reaching out to the community while I try to reach out to myself seemed like a good idea. So I'm laying my story out here on the digital line and seeing what comes of it. Maybe no one will ever read anything I write on here. But if that's the case, well, journalling has proven as an effective form of treatment, so here's to self therapy!