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.

The Face of Wellness.

After my diagnosis a few years ago, I felt both enlightened and deeply confused. Part of me said "At last! I understand why I'm different and why so much of life has been so difficult and painful." But the rest of me only had questions:

• At what points in my life have I been sick?
• What does mania look like for me?
• What choices of mine were illness-driven-and for which choices can I forgive myself?

But though I had many questions about illness, I had even more about wellness:

• Am I capable of wellness if I do everything right? And am I capable of doing everything right?
• What does wellness look like for me?
• When have I been well in the past?
• What's me, and what's illness--and to what degree are these the same? Who will I be when I am well?

I know these are difficult questions. But I'm trying to identify symptoms, this time, of wellness.

• Low anxiety about ordinary actions like driving or checking out with a cashier.
• Engaged, happy reading.
• Moderate energy.
• Remembering to take my pills.
• Occasional, special shopping without compulsion.
• No desperate sorrow or exhausting happiness.
• Appropriate crying.
• Connecting with Oliver.
• Fluid thought.
• Fluid story telling.
• Regular writing.
• Smoother handwriting.
• Seeking laughter.

Wild.

I love the word wild. I think that started when I was little-ish and watched a movie or show in which a guy sang "Wild Thing" to a girl. I think being wild must be pretty awesome.

As I've grown up, I've embodied the word in many ways. When I was 16 I was wild with creative energy. I wrote wildly whenever I could. I practically ate books. I think this was one of my first rounds of mania though of course I wouldn't get a diagnosis for over a decade. This was a sparkling mania--a great joy and wild belief in my uniqueness and worth, probably grandiosity. I still think of it as one of the best periods of my life.

I was wild at 17 too, but this mania was like metal, shining but dangerous. I made terrible choices. And after that, I went wild trying to escape my life (and probably myself).

I've been wild about water and swimming. My eye makeup is often wild (a sign I'm feeling well or working toward wellness). I've loved people wildly. Sometimes, my teaching was probably wild, with wild expectations. I feel wild when I see a show that stuns me.

Some wildness is good, and I hope I will keep some of it. It's not just the disease; it's also me.

Wet But Thirsty.

No rain is in the forecast. The earth looks wet but thirsty. How often have I been that way? I may be knee-deep in blessings but unable to absorb any of them, soaked with love but unable to feel it. Depression does this. Someone can say, "So and so loves you," and "So and so needs you." A depressed person may well know this intellectually, but it doesn't penetrate the love-proof walls depression puts up.

I was deeply depressed for about three weeks. One of he worst parts was that I couldn't read (I'm still struggling). I was surrounded by good books but couldn't read them. I was surrounded by evidence of my personality (every last fairy art print!), but I couldn't gasp any sense of identity. I was wet but painfully thirsty.

I don't know the answer. I just hope that someone reading this feels less alone.