My dear bipolars,
I recently moved from working at home to a job in the wide, wide world. In the week leading up to my first day, I experienced tremendous anxiety. Once I showed up for the job, a manager delivered a speech outlining all the ways we could be fired. After training, I proceeded to make numerous mistakes. My supervisor kept calling me over to point them out. I knew I was going to get canned, and I spent time imagining the humiliation.
That night I started the water for my bath. I could hear a radio show playing next to my ear. Women were talking. I knew there was no radio and that I was experiencing an auditory shadow. Upsetting to me was the knowledge shadows appear only when there's extreme stress. It's the brain's way of giving a shout out to the bipolar: "Calm down, why don't you?" I wanted to quit. Nothing was worth this kind of psychic pain.
The second day I settled in. Surrounded by other adults, I fed off the attention I got making jokes. Anxiety retreated. Hypomania--the belle of many a ball--blossomed. My focus on my work is slippery as I daydream of ways to entertain my coworkers. I've yet to master one consistent mental state, but perhaps that's human.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Monday, March 9, 2009
I Can't Hear You, I'm So Sick
My dear bipolar friends,
In another life, I was a teacher for six years. The last year I was an art teacher. People low on the seniority list got moved around a lot. I loved art and going to museums, but had no talent. My students smelled my ineptitude rather quickly.
One day I was doing a Van Gogh project and I began reading a biography I'd only previously skimmed. The further I got into the book, the more I started to put the pieces together. Alcoholic, check. Violent rants balanced by deep depressive episodes. Check and check. In a musty classroom, second graders spread at my feet, I realized Vincent Van Gogh was my brother in mental illness.
I approached teaching the way I did motherhood--with an honesty that would make some adults uncomfortable. How many children went home to mentally ill parents? aunts and uncles? Who explained the strange behavior? This was an opportunity I'd never had with my job: I could surreptiously explain my biochemical tendencies while illuminating the life of Mr. Van Gogh.
The kids wanted to know how someone could get so sad that they'd kill themselves. They failed to understand someone could get to a place so dark they wouldn't want to come back to the sun, trees, and a McDonald's Happy Meal. They have a point, don't they?
In another life, I was a teacher for six years. The last year I was an art teacher. People low on the seniority list got moved around a lot. I loved art and going to museums, but had no talent. My students smelled my ineptitude rather quickly.
One day I was doing a Van Gogh project and I began reading a biography I'd only previously skimmed. The further I got into the book, the more I started to put the pieces together. Alcoholic, check. Violent rants balanced by deep depressive episodes. Check and check. In a musty classroom, second graders spread at my feet, I realized Vincent Van Gogh was my brother in mental illness.
I approached teaching the way I did motherhood--with an honesty that would make some adults uncomfortable. How many children went home to mentally ill parents? aunts and uncles? Who explained the strange behavior? This was an opportunity I'd never had with my job: I could surreptiously explain my biochemical tendencies while illuminating the life of Mr. Van Gogh.
The kids wanted to know how someone could get so sad that they'd kill themselves. They failed to understand someone could get to a place so dark they wouldn't want to come back to the sun, trees, and a McDonald's Happy Meal. They have a point, don't they?
Friday, March 6, 2009
Will You Be My Friend?
My dear bipolars,
Recently I was at a dinner party when the conversation turned to mental illness. One of the people there talked about opening up with coworkers about having wrestled with depression. "Did you ever feel like you were all of a sudden part of a secret group?" the person asked. Sad to say, I've been a party of one for two decades. What I wouldn't do for a high functioning bipolar friend.
Someone who gets shadow hallucinations--either visual or auditory--and knows it's just a sign of stress. Someone who has funny war stories. Someone who enjoys hypomania for the Superman feeling it gives them in a crowd.
I don't need my bipolar friend to constantly talk about our shared disorder. It'd just be nice to have someone who's been there, whose eyes don't get wide when you tell them you're manic depressive, who knows your disorder is a vital part of your personality.
So for now, I'll tell myself it's society that has something to learn. Not me.
Recently I was at a dinner party when the conversation turned to mental illness. One of the people there talked about opening up with coworkers about having wrestled with depression. "Did you ever feel like you were all of a sudden part of a secret group?" the person asked. Sad to say, I've been a party of one for two decades. What I wouldn't do for a high functioning bipolar friend.
Someone who gets shadow hallucinations--either visual or auditory--and knows it's just a sign of stress. Someone who has funny war stories. Someone who enjoys hypomania for the Superman feeling it gives them in a crowd.
I don't need my bipolar friend to constantly talk about our shared disorder. It'd just be nice to have someone who's been there, whose eyes don't get wide when you tell them you're manic depressive, who knows your disorder is a vital part of your personality.
So for now, I'll tell myself it's society that has something to learn. Not me.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Family Dynamics
My dear bipolar friends,
We all know that once we are well, some members of our families are looking for signs of a relapse. Even if we have been healthy for years.
My husband's family gathers frequently. They have seen me laughing, debating, listening. That old ghost, Psychotic Lisa, has long been in the distant past. On one hot summer day, my sister-in-law asked if we would take her youngest two kids in the event she and her husband died. As I was about to answer, she jumped in with, "So, you haven't had any--you know." I'd been going on walks with her forever. I've listened to her problems, giving heartfelt, wise advise. How could she think I might be dancing with the nut cases (of which I was admittedly once a group member)? She had no evidence.
As I nursed my hurt feelings, I told her nothing had happened. Later, I realized she was contemplating her own death, the pain of imagining her children with a mother who wouldn't know how to love her babies in the special way only she could. It wasn't about me being bipolar, it was about her trying to find a mother who appeared to be good enough.
My brother has struggled with having a sister who'd been diagnosed manic depressive. The genetic aspect of the illness is quite scary to him. He admitted to me about his fear of "catching" the disorder. The urge to make a sarcastic comment was strong. Instead, I made some understanding remarks, but the moment stayed with me. It felt like a betrayal. I hadn't hurt anyone when I'd been sick; I simply acted oddly in a highly original manner. My brother's thoughts originate in fear, and perhaps a part of me worries I'll get sick again. No one wants a mental illness. Can you see yourself praying for an onslaught of delusion, destructive sex, blind spending?
I've even had an incident with my own children who are old enough to know better. My son and daughter were too young to remember any of my antics. I've told them plenty of true stories, prompting my son to urge me to write it down. We laugh about the past. They also grew up being told tall tales. My daughter, just on the cusp of discerning Mommy's bull from the truth, had to figure out whether or not I was her nanny.
I was in DC visiting my sister. We went to a museum where my sister read every single plaque. In order to maintain my sanity, I texted my kids that I'd licked a painting and a chip came off on my tongue. As I waited for their response, I laughed and laughed. My son texted back that I needed to rinse my mouth, avoid the guard, and get the heck out of the building. They believed me! I had taken them to numerous museums when they were young. Never had I attempted to put my mouth near a display.
But no. In their mind is a picture of Sick Mommy, the mommy they can only recall through stories, not experiences.
Perhaps I will be snapshot in the minds of my family, a polaroid where I am walking the streets at night, trying to catch Republicans in the campus library. But for me, I will carry a digital image of me laughing, enjoying my own Lisa Preston brand of humor. I'll let the rest of them figure out who I really am.
We all know that once we are well, some members of our families are looking for signs of a relapse. Even if we have been healthy for years.
My husband's family gathers frequently. They have seen me laughing, debating, listening. That old ghost, Psychotic Lisa, has long been in the distant past. On one hot summer day, my sister-in-law asked if we would take her youngest two kids in the event she and her husband died. As I was about to answer, she jumped in with, "So, you haven't had any--you know." I'd been going on walks with her forever. I've listened to her problems, giving heartfelt, wise advise. How could she think I might be dancing with the nut cases (of which I was admittedly once a group member)? She had no evidence.
As I nursed my hurt feelings, I told her nothing had happened. Later, I realized she was contemplating her own death, the pain of imagining her children with a mother who wouldn't know how to love her babies in the special way only she could. It wasn't about me being bipolar, it was about her trying to find a mother who appeared to be good enough.
My brother has struggled with having a sister who'd been diagnosed manic depressive. The genetic aspect of the illness is quite scary to him. He admitted to me about his fear of "catching" the disorder. The urge to make a sarcastic comment was strong. Instead, I made some understanding remarks, but the moment stayed with me. It felt like a betrayal. I hadn't hurt anyone when I'd been sick; I simply acted oddly in a highly original manner. My brother's thoughts originate in fear, and perhaps a part of me worries I'll get sick again. No one wants a mental illness. Can you see yourself praying for an onslaught of delusion, destructive sex, blind spending?
I've even had an incident with my own children who are old enough to know better. My son and daughter were too young to remember any of my antics. I've told them plenty of true stories, prompting my son to urge me to write it down. We laugh about the past. They also grew up being told tall tales. My daughter, just on the cusp of discerning Mommy's bull from the truth, had to figure out whether or not I was her nanny.
I was in DC visiting my sister. We went to a museum where my sister read every single plaque. In order to maintain my sanity, I texted my kids that I'd licked a painting and a chip came off on my tongue. As I waited for their response, I laughed and laughed. My son texted back that I needed to rinse my mouth, avoid the guard, and get the heck out of the building. They believed me! I had taken them to numerous museums when they were young. Never had I attempted to put my mouth near a display.
But no. In their mind is a picture of Sick Mommy, the mommy they can only recall through stories, not experiences.
Perhaps I will be snapshot in the minds of my family, a polaroid where I am walking the streets at night, trying to catch Republicans in the campus library. But for me, I will carry a digital image of me laughing, enjoying my own Lisa Preston brand of humor. I'll let the rest of them figure out who I really am.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Overcoming the Drugs
My dear fellow bipolars,
Did you wake up this morning a little groggy? A little resentful of the day? Or did you leap from your bed with utter joy, throw on your clothes and say, "Umm hmm. Am I hot! I wish everyone could see me look this good" (and you're not thinking that because you're manic. No, you really are the best).
Since I entered perimenopause, my sleep has gotten really sketchy. I never sleep through the night, and sometimes after that lithium-induced bathroom break, I can't get back to sleep. Now I don't know about you, my Bipolar Friends, but I have to have some shut eye of the purest sort. Not the type city bus drivers need so they don't roll their long vehicles. No, I talking about the kind of sleep that keeps me from thinking I'm going to be the next Vice President of the United States. THAT kind of sleep.
So last night, as I struggled to return to Dreamland, I caved into taking a klonapin. I hate the stuff, but it does give me some quality pillow time. The problem is that if I end up taking two pills during the night, I awake depressed. Depression is worse than thinking you've got a job at the White House. Luckily, some experiences are more like a passing episode of the blues. I can usually dig myself out of the klonapin haze by morning or early afternoon. It's when the effects of the drug have evaporated and I'm still stuck in the muck of despair that I know I'm going to need to do some emotional excavating.
Back in the good ol' days when I was sane and the world was crazy, my psychiatrist prescibed lithium and stelazine. The ensuing meltdown of precious neurons was criminal. Of course a woman would toss her pills. Not once, but twice. I missed the hallucinations that told me I was destined for great things. I missed the power of my mind quickly firing. Nothing in my life boosted my self esteem like mania did.
Enter my husband and two small children. The mists of fog parted as I saw what I would lose if I kept going into the hospital. In time, the stelazine went by the wayside, and other pills joined the line up. I don't even remember what it feels like to have white-hot intellect. The rest of me is whole, ever vigilant, chasing happiness of the most moderate kind.
Did you wake up this morning a little groggy? A little resentful of the day? Or did you leap from your bed with utter joy, throw on your clothes and say, "Umm hmm. Am I hot! I wish everyone could see me look this good" (and you're not thinking that because you're manic. No, you really are the best).
Since I entered perimenopause, my sleep has gotten really sketchy. I never sleep through the night, and sometimes after that lithium-induced bathroom break, I can't get back to sleep. Now I don't know about you, my Bipolar Friends, but I have to have some shut eye of the purest sort. Not the type city bus drivers need so they don't roll their long vehicles. No, I talking about the kind of sleep that keeps me from thinking I'm going to be the next Vice President of the United States. THAT kind of sleep.
So last night, as I struggled to return to Dreamland, I caved into taking a klonapin. I hate the stuff, but it does give me some quality pillow time. The problem is that if I end up taking two pills during the night, I awake depressed. Depression is worse than thinking you've got a job at the White House. Luckily, some experiences are more like a passing episode of the blues. I can usually dig myself out of the klonapin haze by morning or early afternoon. It's when the effects of the drug have evaporated and I'm still stuck in the muck of despair that I know I'm going to need to do some emotional excavating.
Back in the good ol' days when I was sane and the world was crazy, my psychiatrist prescibed lithium and stelazine. The ensuing meltdown of precious neurons was criminal. Of course a woman would toss her pills. Not once, but twice. I missed the hallucinations that told me I was destined for great things. I missed the power of my mind quickly firing. Nothing in my life boosted my self esteem like mania did.
Enter my husband and two small children. The mists of fog parted as I saw what I would lose if I kept going into the hospital. In time, the stelazine went by the wayside, and other pills joined the line up. I don't even remember what it feels like to have white-hot intellect. The rest of me is whole, ever vigilant, chasing happiness of the most moderate kind.
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