Mental Health Gratitude.

Mental illness is miserable. But I do find reasons to be grateful.

I'm grateful

• for my diagnoses. They were (and are) scary, but they shed some light on some frightening darkness. I have a clue now about what I'm facing.
• for having a way to explain myself to others. Before my diagnoses, I had no defense against encouragement to pretend I was fine or to get over myself. Now, I have terms. I have documentation. I can teach or point others to more information.
• for unexpected support. I decided to make this blog open after I sent a letter to family. I have not had a single unkind or inappropriate response.
• that I can understand some relatives a little more (bipolar disorder runs wild in my family), and see what we share.
• that though our disorders may be different, I am sometimes uniquely able to empathize with Oliver.
• that medication is available to help me, and I have a psychiatrist who is willing to change and tweak my medication to, as he says, stabilize me.
• that I've had two great therapists who somehow seem to bring out the best of my personality. The sessions are really story-based. I tell a story from my life (a trauma, usually, but sometimes something hilarious that happened in between and even during tragic events), and she asks questions that take us somewhere.
• that after a lot of effort, I've gotten assistance, and I don't have to work out in the world. I believe that a job would be dangerous for me.
• that my close family and friends believe me and take me seriously. 
• that Mom, Josh, and Bruce have all read books about bipolar disorder to better understand and love me.
• for my new, fledgling spirit of forgiveness for myself. Most of my life, I've done my best. 

What I Know about Myself.

• I try hard.
• I'm obsessive.
• I could be better.
• My expectations are often too high.
• I have bipolar disorder.
• I have panic disorder.
• I'm a terrible test taker.
• I usually seek undivided attention from those closest to me.
• I can live without soda, but I don't want to.
• I have a shopping problem when I'm manic.
• I'm smart, even if the tests disagree.
• I have a sweet name even though it has some bad associations.
• I'll be on medication for the rest of my life.
• I'll probably be in therapy for the rest of my life.
• I'm somehow both nicer and meaner (maybe fiercer is better) than I was ten years ago.
• I'm quite introverted. 
• I'm extremely passionate and need safe, healthy outlets.
• I became a pretty good dresser.
• At many points, I was a great teacher.
• I'm a picky eater.
• [Yet] I'm overweight.
• I may never again be as thin as I was before I started taking lithium.
• I have too much fear inside me.
• I'm much healthier as the stay-home mother and advocate than I would be if I had a job out in the world.
• I'm a makeup lover.
• I rarely expect products (conditioners, lip balms, acne treatments) to work.
• Glitter lights me up.
• I'm a believer, even though I don't go to church.
• I do most things to excess or not at all.
• Gifts are my love language.
• I can be a good gift-giver.
• I can be a good storyteller.
• I am full of stories.

What Makes Me Anxious.

I have panic disorder in addition to bipolar disorder, and I want to tell you some of the situations that, sadly and absurdly, can make me panic.

• Waiting for a table. I don't know what to do with myself.
• Ordering a meal--what if I break or stutter? Worse, what do I do if the order is wrong?
• Talking to a cashier. Often, if I only see one item I want, I'll just leave it. Only 2+ items are worth the studied friendliness and ease.
• Going to the post office. I hate having to ring a bell to pick up a package. Sometimes, one of the employees busts me for being in the wrong place.
• Ordering coffee or whatever. Will I get it all right? I try to appear competent. 
• Most books--getting started is a little stressful, even if I 'm excited to read the book. I see myself as a weak reader. I try to work through that with my "Bold Reader" posts on my other blog.
• Anything related to a car. Josh kindly makes sure I don't have to get gas on my own. Driving still stresses me, and I do it as little as possible.
• Taking Oliver out with no one else. Will he run from me? Will he melt down? How will I handle that in public?
• Getting distressed when Josh seems unwell. He's not very forthcoming, and I don't know what to do.
• Being a guest. I often feel like a nuissance, always in the wrong place, having no clue how to help or seamlessly enter a conversation. The discomfort can be so major that I sneak off to take a short nap or just lie down in a dark room. This recharges me enough to try a little harder.
• The possiblity of running into people I know (though that's sometimes good). What do I say? How to I explian where I am in life?
• Large dogs. I try to stay clear.
• Product writing. Am I at all capable? Will my ideas work? Can I focus?

These are some moments that can make me panic. I'll work on learning how to approach them in better ways. I have come a long way since childhood.

"We Write to Escape Our Prisons." Alice W. Flaherty

This is from Flaherty's book Midnight Disease. The book explores neurological connections to hypergraphia and to writer's block.

This was one of the first quotations I marked. What are our prisons? For me, some are

• Grief over terrible events several years ago. Unprocessed grief.
• Crippling anxiety with our without cause.
• Trouble reading.
• Trouble speaking--speed, the wrong words...
• Chronic pain

I can also see this applying to addiction and to literal prisons. Writing allows one to unearth shame, guilt, and fear and pour them into the paper container (or the blog, etc.) where it loses power over one even as the vessel stays warm in case one can make creative use of the mess someday.

The more I write, the freer I feel. I need that anytime outlet.

A Changed Body.

Since I began taking lithium, I have gained about 60 pounds. I've not been able to lose more than 10 pounds. I weigh well over what I weighed at full-term pregnancy. This is mortifying. I've never had significant trouble with my weight.

My body is different. I'm soft where I used to be lean. I have angry new stretch marks. Often, I feel fairly at peace with my body. I've even enjoyed buying some new clothes for my new shape. But sometimes, I feel ashamed. I used to be proud of my flat stomach. It's unrecognizable now. Two people have asked if I were pregnant.

Other changes have come with my meds. I tremble. I can't handle any major cold or hot temperatures. My appetite is unpredictable--sometimes I can't eat at all--and some familiar tastes have become too intense for me. I often throw up at night. One of the major changes is extreme thirst. For years now, I've needed several liters of water a day. If I don't have water with me, I feel panicked.

But with all this, I know that my medications help keep me sane and probably help keep me alive. So I guess I'll make a daily choice to risk my physical health to save my mental health. Still, I'm going to work harder to stay physically healthy.

A Bit of What I Hate Most about Bipolar Disorder.

• The inability to remember much of what I read, both while I'm reading and after I finish a piece. Some of my GoodReads records are unfamiliar to me.
• Pressured speech, especially at a bad time. I'll be bubbling and foaming with ideas, doubts, memories, and whims while Josh is trying to go to sleep. It's happened in the middle of the night too.
• Hallucinations, especially if they are scary. I go into this drowsy, opened-minded place, and I feel my stomach and my brain tugging at each other. I come out of it exhausted. And even when I know a hallucination is not real, it can still be scary, both as itself and as a demonstration of my illness.
• I may have passed it to my child.
• It seems to contribute to a massive loneliness I sometimes feel even when I'm not alone.
• I get paranoid about getting into trouble for something I didn't do purposely.
• I sometimes withdraw--not good for relationships.
• Sometimes, I fiercely analyze my relationships, often in a paranoid or possessive way.
• I lose objects several times a day. A book, keys, a pen cap...
• Simple tasks require extreme motivation.
• Tin Man: I can't move for several minutes.
• I doubt my abilities.
• As Mom tells me, I have an inaccurate view of myself.
• Sometimes, I can't read or write.
• I'm not good at managing friendships.
• Some days, all I want to do is sleep. Escape, rest, relief.
• Understanding what I say can be difficult for others. I may speak too quickly, and I take detours.
• I struggle with sitting down and reading for a sustained period.
• I often hurt everywhere.
• I can become very insecure; then, I can become clingy. I doubt the love of others, and I doubt that I am interesting enough to be a desirable friend, partner, close family member, and so on.
• Getting ready and self-care are terribly difficult.
• I get overwhelmed easily, and I don't want to ask for help.
• I dissociate, which is frightening. Imposters show up in our family photos, posing as me or others.
• It lies. You are unworthy, you have nothing to offer, people just tolerate you, you should just give up in a million ways for a million reasons.

How to Flourish.

Isn't flourish a lovely word? I wonder how much difference I could find between existing and living, between surviving and flourishing. I suspect that the distance is shorter than it seems, and that though large changes may be necessary, tiny changes can have a major impact. Here are a few ways I've learned to help close the gap.

• Don't just think kind thoughts; speak them! I've been working on this. Gratitude and compliments flow from me more easily. It probably does more good to me than to the listener.
• Don't just read the minimum. Read a little extra--say, a few poems. It's like dessert.
• Don't just read poetry (or fiction, or a sacred text, or anything!) aloud; perform it! I've been trying to read poems more expressively, and I think it helps with my moods.
• Put ice in water. It takes a few seconds, and I think water tastes better cold.
• Dress to express or to shift moods. I know how I feel with certain clothes, colors, and accessories. I can show how I feel or try to influence my mood--green and glitter on a blah day make a difference.
• Take time to touch. Josh and I try to touch often: just something like a hand on a shoulder as we pass each other at home. It's soothing and keeps us close when life is hectic.

Traveling with Bipolar Disorder.

I travelled a great deal as a child. Planes didn't bother me. Airports were fine. Hotels were no big deal. But as I've gotten older, travel has become more difficult. I don't know what's common to people with BSD or panic disorder, but I'm going to share a couple of ideas.

• Visualization. I don't mean imagining I'm on a beach. I mean visualizing my travels. If any of the places or experiences are already familiar, this will be easier. I focus on the baggage, the security checks, the sounds of the airplane. I think about the people I will see and the bed I'll sleep in. Even if it's not all accurate, it helps
• Packing list. I recently got ready for a trip and felt overwhelmed--did I have the right kinds of clothes, enough clothes, clothes that make me feel good about myself? I made a plan, writing down what I'd wear each day all the way to shoes, jewelry, and makeup. I also listed items I might forget to pack like pens, a robe, and a swimsuit just in case. But how would I keep my suitcase organized?
• Outfit pods. I rolled up each outfit and put it in a grocery bag along with jewelry in a Ziplock. No stress about clothes.

Do you have any tips?

Taking Suicide off the Table.

Suicide is like an airborne poison. The mere mention of it, the references in film and TV, often spread the illness, even if it lies dormant. Worse is when someone close to you, a friend or family member or even a coworker or neighbor attempts suicide. Something terrible and terrifying can happen: suicide can become a possibility, even an option.

So when loneliness strips you bare, anxiety electrocutes you, and guilt breaks you bone by bone, one comfort remains: you have the ability to make it all stop.

For many people, suicide is a distant topic, a taboo, something shudder-worthy, an unpardonable sin. But once it enters your once-safe circle, suicide becomes a day and night nightmare. Every pill bottle, tree branch, exhaust pipe, and belt can seem like a weapon for the ultimate self-destruction. And you try to shut it all out when everything is screaming...or simply waiting patiently for you to give up entirely. If they gave up, so can you.

So how do we take suicide off the table? I wish I knew. I think it needs to start with family and friends healing those close circles. A few people need to know your weakness, and you need to make use of each other's strengths. Plans, both for chronic illness and crises, need to be in place. We need options. We need to commit to refusing suicide as a solution.

I will not commit suicide.
I will not self-mutilate.
I will not self-medicate with drugs or alcohol.

But here is what I can do:

• Call_____ and express my emotions.
• Call a suicide hotline.
• Take a dose of prescribed anxiety medication.
• Go for a slow walk.
• Take a nap.
• Eat a favorite food.
• Ask for help: I don't have to know what I need exactly.
• Slowly read a poem.
• Read inspirational quotations I've written down in the past.
• Watch a favorite movie.
• Ask for a serious hug.
• Make a list of what makes me special or unique.
• Doodle, draw, or color in a coloring book.
• Set up a council of about three people I trust (mine is Josh, Mom, and Bruce). Ask for their help when I need to make a decision, or when I'm feeling sick or self-destructive.
• Tell a doctor or therapist everything.
• Call 911. When the sickness is burning me and taking everything away from me, I must scream for help somehow. I don't have to know what should happen next; I just have to ask for help.

What do you do to keep suicide off the table?

Changeling.

I'll try to appreciate my life until it's no longer my life.

I feel like a changeling, like someone made a terrible exchange. And eventually, I'll shed this life, this body, and rise as one bright white as light. I'll travel as the otherworld, and my other can return to pick up her, our, life again. She may be a better mother, wife, daughter and sister than I. She will belong, perhaps, in ways I never have.

The Cage That Soars; The Cage That Sinks.

An image of a black cube of a cage came to mind as I was thinking of ways to describe bipolar disorder. I'll mix my metaphors at bit.

Mania is a cage that soars. The wind blows between the bars. The sunlight is blinding. The air is thin. But the prisoner can touch the clouds.

The person cannot escape what comes hours or months later: the drop. All the organs rise and fight for release. The beautiful landscape is coming too quickly.

And eventually, the cage is in the water. Maybe one fights at first, kicking and biting to escape. Or maybe one is just so tired from the flight. The slow descent shows iridescent and indifferent fish, like other people who are neurotypical and just don't know. The light fades. The bubble stop rushing. This is depression. There is no escape unless someone or something lifts the cage.

Medication can cushion and revive. The truth I'm learning is that medication puts me right on the dock, where I can peer at the sky or the ocean, where I can get sunburned or splashed. It's a parachute; it's CPR.

But I'm still in the cage.

Electric Darkness: The Mixed State.

The new DSM doesn't use the term "mixed state." Instead, it names that state mania or depression and adds "with mixed features." This seems to complicate the situation further, so I'll continue to use the term "mixed state" or "mixed episode."

I think I have spent a great portion of my illness in a mixed state. Maybe all I want to do is sleep, but I'm also bursting with everything I need to say. I might hate myself and have furious, ecstatic hypergraphia. I might believe I'm brilliant and capable of anything, yet I'm paranoid that I'm going to lose everything, which leaves me a weepy mess. I might be on fire with new ideas yet too miserable to speak.

A mixed state is like being in total darkness while the very air issues thousands of tiny, stinging shocks.

It's like standing at the edge of a tar moat that is somehow so smooth that it looks like glass. So I try to step onto that black ice, and I sink. Calling for help doesn't help. Swimming doesn't work. And the sun is blinding.

Mixed episodes may be most dangerous because depression gives one hopelessness, and mania gives one the energy (and, for lack of a better word, creativity) to self-destruct.

I wish I had some advice. But recognizing a mixed episode may help both the person and his or her caregivers. Empathy is first.

A Changed Mind.

As a child, I could memorize easily. I learned every word to my favorite Broadway shows and my favorite movies.

As I grew up, little seemed beyond me. If I could manage my anxiety, I did fine in school. Math, chemistry, and geography challenged me. But when I put in the work, I still got A's and B's.

I rarely lost objects. I didn't forget assignments. I could bask in the glow of a crush without major academic setbacks.

When I underwent psychological testing a few years ago, the puzzles seemed foggy. According to my results, I was a person of average intelligence. What was I supposed to do with that?

Appointments began to disappear from my mind. Reading became slow and difficult. I lost things. I forgot important information. Hours and days disappeared from my memory. And my brain began showing me things that weren't real.

I could no longer trust my mind. It wasn't there to catch me anymore. I don't know what comes from bipolar disorder and what comes from medication. But I miss my sharper, stronger mind.

Fighting Indifference.

Apathy at least has something behind it, some rage, usually. But indifference has no substance. It's like powder tossed in the wind; it's nothing until it chokes you or stings your eyes. To me, indifference is dangerous. When I look at a stack of books and feel nothing, I know I have to get back to reading somehow. I was there for most of last year, and getting this far back in the right direction has taken determination, patience, and practice.

Sometimes, I feel indifferent about food, and I eat less and less. Sometimes, I feel indifferent about the way I look, and I don't put on makeup (I also can't engage in the fun of it). Any time indifference stretches its shadow over me, I know I have to do something, to escape.

With bipolar disorder, I often feel extreme, obsessive interest (mania) or apathy and despair (depression). So when my mood cycles reach a slump, indifference settles in. It's probably a way for me to rest between extremes, but it's not healthy either. I prefer the obsessions as long as the objects are books, writing, musical theatre, or something fairly healthy and actually me. 

I will fight indifference every day. I want to be engaged.

Days of the Week Mats.

Many years ago, I made long daily visits to the hospital. I noticed that large mats in the elevators had the day of the week on them. At first, I found this silly and weird. But as days passed, those mats became an anchor, an offering of normalcy--simply knowing the day of the week calmed me when nothing made sense, and times seemed like dust on a breeze.

Here are some of my current mats:

• Stickers. Tiny bits of beauty, color, and glimmer are scattered in my journals and are sparks that remind me who I am.
• Josh's big smile. I remember whom I love and who loves me.
• Oliver's calling me Mama still catches me by surprise and gives me a sense of purpose.
• Massages or tickles from Josh. These always make me pause and come out of my fevered mind.
• The Phantom of the Opera music. It reminds me that I can tap into relatively healthy obsessions and find healing.
• My mom's voice. On the phone with her, I either calm down considerably, or everything that needs to come out comes out.
• Reading. It settles me. Pain cannot reign where stories dwell.

Wanting to Live.

What keeps us alive and keeps us wanting life seemingly ought to be the big concepts: faith, love, family, friendship, and such. But I've found that, especially when I'm ill, I can't process anything so large. Instead, small bits hold me to life. Here are some of those:

• Oliver's dancing
• My mother's voice
• Josh's touch
• A nearly-full bottle of ink
• Dancing with James and Mom
• The Touchdown Squirrel 
• Dad's playing the piano
• Bruce's laugh
• Glittery pens
• Glitter in general
• Shane's crazy-long hair
• Michelle's Stitch (her dog) voice and character
• A Facebook comment from Keely
• An E-mail from Melissa
• The funny Jigsaw video
• Double-ended markers
• Sierra Boggess
• Button's (Mom's small rabbit) cleaning her stick-up ears
• Pink glitter makeup
• Organization by color
• Making Dad laugh
• Oliver's love of books
• Shane's worst-case reassurances
• Fresh sheets
• Hot baths
• Love notes
• Popcorn with Bruce
• Singing showtunes with James
• Mom's being excited to see me
• Something coming in the mail
• Dr. Pepper
• Sonic's cherry Sprite
• Musicals
• Josh's big, laughing smile
• A new or upcoming Francesca Lia Block book--one on writing comes out May 1...preordered!
• Pouches full of pens
• Cozy pants
• Wild violets springing through dead leaves at the park
• Mom's crafts
• Testing pens at a store
• Oliver's finishing a puzzle
• Writing a poem
• Kissing

The Cost of Functioning.

At many points in my life, I think I have been both high-symptom and high-functioning. In my experience, this is a terrible combination. Most people assume that a high-functioning person needs little or no help.

As my illness becomes more and more apparent a few years ago, I was still going to work and trying to appear competent and present. I was well-groomed, fairly articulate, and mostly cheerful in appearance. I was functioning (according to others), but I was crumbling. Dissociation and hallucinations started. I started writing and saying things that made no sense, including grading comments to my students.

A few days ago, I chaperoned a field trip for Oliver's class. Driving to another city, parking, finding our way around, dealing with Oliver's mini meltdowns--it all felt completely beyond me. I did it, more or less, but the cost was great. I'm still feeling it.

Some days, even basic survival seems nearly impossible. I want people to know that though I show up and may appear well in a situation, it's possible and even likely that I'm sacrificing my sense of safety and my sanity for it.

Protecting My Peace.

This thought came from a Darling magazine article by Andrea Corp. What is peace? What threatens it? How can I protect it?

I think of peace as a cool, calm sensation in my chest and an absence of the singeing sludge of dread. Peace allows me to move through the world easily. It comes when I complete a major task (such as filing my SSDI appeal), when I pray hard for peace, when someone I trust is with me, and when I have nothing to worry about for a while.

So stress and dread are the main impediments to my peace. These arise in me easily, often without good reason. Taking care of a child with autism is highly stressful. Even the thought of driving stresses me out. I often dread interactions with people, even cashiers. Money stresses me out. Sometimes, reading makes me anxious because it's difficult, and I want to read so many books. I get anxious when Josh is anxious or upset.

To combat all this, I need faith and hope. Hope leads to peace. I need a peace that is not dependent on other people or outside circumstances. This is not easy, and I probably can't actually attain it, but I can work toward it. I can feel more secure by trusting others, forgiving others, and forgiving myself. Even small failures (saying the wrong thing, revealing my ignorance...) haunt me. I have to find a way to let those go. I need to find the roots of my fears. Panic disorder distorts reality.

I need to acknowledge the good in my life and in myself.  Life is hard, but I am not alone. I need to keep learning about autism and about my own disorders to combat the fear of the unknown. I need to practice courage. Peace is attainable.

Lies My Brain Tells Me.

One day, I was sick and discouraged. My mom told me on the phone, "You're my brain is lying to you." That was frightening and encouraging. I know now that I can't always trust my brain. Sometimes, it tells me,

• I'm not a good mother.
• It's my fault that Oliver has autism.
• I failed at giving birth, and that traumatized my baby.
• I'm a burden on all my family.
• I'm not pretty; people find looking at me unpleasant.
• I don't deserve love; I've made too many mistakes.
• I'll never be enough.
• Josh isn't attracted to me.
• I'll never be well.
• I'm not good at anything.
• I'm not safe and secure; betrayal looms.
• I'm generally incompetent.
• I have no joy in my future.
• I can't be disciplined. 
• My flaws are so obvious and memorable.
• I can't admit how I feel. It's risky, and no one wants to know.
• My mental health team cannot really help me.
• I'm useless.
• I will end up alone.

Sensory Distractions.

Two nights ago, I broke down. Oliver challenged me beyond my coping ability, and I started to cry and think dark thoughts about myself. Perhaps the scariest part was that the dark thoughts weren't scary--they were soothing. Josh got home from an errand, and I told him I might need to go to a hospital. Bruce was on standby too. Josh found information for the local crisis center.

Hoping to get stable on my own, I decided to try sensory distraction. Back rubs or tickles from Josh almost always help me, so I experimented. Josh had brought home a root beer, so I drank that while taking a bath with Epsom salts. Then, I read poems aloud. I didn't exactly feel better, but I felt sane. Bruce also wrote me an E-mail that reminded me that in many ways, I am who I want to be.

The next day, I kept up the sensory distraction. I saw my therapist and talked about my word of the year. I got a cherry Sprite from Sonic. I was driving a lot, so when I had a one-hour gap before I could pick up Josh, I stopped at Michaels. I pulled in the colors to paint my darkened mind. I looked at planner stickers and pretty boxes. The night was too cold for walking, so Bruce and I went to Barnes. I spent a long time in the journals and in the children's area. I liked that Barnes had a shelf just for Newbery Award winners. I flipped through Seventeen to look at articles on makeup. I looked at Victoria magazine (which I couldn't reach. Luckily, Bruce is 6 ft. tall). I sort of bathed in comforts and in reminders of my self.

I have to make good choices for my well-being. I need ways to combat the disease when it reaches to choke me. Bits of strength can change everything.