What my Facebook Status Update Doesn’t Say…

The question with an ever-changing answer: What can I reveal? What’s safe and what’s too much? Who will judge and who will not? Am I over-sharing?

I think you could describe my approach as “selectively open.” I wouldn’t speak up in a room full of colleagues, but with a select few, I’m honest, and it’s not uncommon for me to explain an applicable question with, “I’m bipolar.” Or to share when I am cycling with someone I trust. In some of my social circles, where the culture allows openness, I assume that everyone knows by now. By nature, every one of us talks.

I sometimes feel guilty, as if I should be secretive about having a mental disorder – it’s a social taboo in some ways. But other times it’s comforting to know that because I tell, my behavior can be understood, especially when I’m cycling.

Work is a difficult decision. When to tell. Twice, it was involuntary, as I had to be hospitalized and it was imperative that my boss know my condition so that I could have adequate time to deal with the cycle I was in. My current employer is incredibly supportive, one supervisor going so far as to educate herself on Bipolar Disorder so that she could respond appropriately. The supportive nature of that action moved me.

Dating, I no longer have to deal with. I am happily married to an understanding man. But I feel for the unattached out there. There is a thin line between “too early” and “too late” when sharing your disorder. When I was still single, I dated two men in a row who, before I even would consider sharing my own experience, told me about their “Manic Depressive” parent and described how it scarred them for life. By the second one, I considered this my cue to drain my wine glass and end the evening, with a phone call later to explain “It’s just not working”, because I would not allow myself be that man’s next scar. There were those who did understand, and tried to help, sometimes to their own detriment – it’s hard to keep your sanity when the person you care about has lost hers. I married the one who trusted me to do the work I needed to do, to stay healthy, and helped when needed.

My immediate family obviously knows, but I do not know if my extended family does. I would like the opportunity to tell my cousins, largely because my curiosity about whether the diagnosis exists on their side of the family, is HUGE. I put much thought into when and how I would tell my future mother-in-law about my diagnosis; I think I did it at the right time. Someday I will explain it to my niece and nephew – too young to need to know about or understand it right now – and have worked out a “script” in my head to explain it as part of me, but not me. When that day comes, I hope I convey it as normal.

Normal is a good word. I guess my conundrum is this: I don’t wish to be others’ introduction to mental illness. But I’d like people to know that a diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder doesn’t mean I’m not normal. I’m still the person who shares an office with them, plays at the community theater with them, volunteers with them.

I’m still me.

Life Without Chemicals

Everything is funny. Everyone is relatable. And every thought that enters my mind must be shared…

I am hypomanic, which means that my “up” periods are more controlled and less – well, manic – than mania. It’s mini-mania. My thoughts race with creativity, ideas. I am untouchable and energized. I need less sleep, my performance at work is exemplary, I am charming but controlled. And I am heading for a complete and total crash. Hypomania for me is always the precursor to a depressive episode.

I have only once in my life been full-blown, out-of-control manic. I was fortunate that it was in a safe hospital environment; I was taken off all of my medications and allowed to function free and wild. And wild I was.

Let me pause a moment to say that I recently caught myself saying to my husband, “I wish I knew what it felt like to function without chemicals running through my body and side effects controlling my health.”  And then I remember that I have experienced it. And I hated it, even as I laughed and joked with visitors. I read often that people with bipolar disorder enjoy their manic periods – I can’t relate. To that I will draw the comparison of a Manic Tigger, (everyone else) and a Manic  Eeyore (that would be me). I am sure I am revealing too much about my personal issues to say that the most troublesome part of mania, to me, is lack of control over what I am doing. Because when I was full-blown manic I was out of control.

Everything was funny. Everyone I met, I instantly knew, was relatable and I wanted to share my darkest secrets with them. And every thought that entered my mind had to be shared – ”listen to me, this is of the utmost importance!”

This is the oddest of phenomenon of my disorder. When I was fully manic, I experienced what my Psychiatrist calls “forced speech.” Simply put, I could not shut up, no matter how much I wanted to. My poor father experienced the bulk of this when I was manic, on the drive from a local hospital to a Psychiatric one nearby, where I was to be nicely medicated again. I’m not sure he wanted to know everything I told him, but since I was physically incapable of shutting up, every single thought that entered my head came spilling out of my mouth. My breath came in frantic gulps between sentences because I was not allowing myself a pause to breathe. I was vomiting words.  I finally stopped when I vomited for real. (But because my mouth was sharing all of my thoughts and experiences, we had plenty of time to pull over to side of the road and not mess up the car, thank you very much. That was a bonus, I suppose.)

I remember having so much energy that I was bouncing, in a seated position, on my bed at the hospital (while talking to someone, natch.) I got yelled at by a nurse. I was dressed down by another nurse because I wouldn’t stop asking her for a razor to shave my legs – an item that was not going to be given to me in my present state. I remember singing childhood songs at night when others were trying to sleep. My hands shook violently and I could not use a pencil to write. My father had to fill out and sign my name on release papers.

I really, really disliked myself.  Even as I was acting out, I knew it was unacceptable behavior, and wanted to stop, but I couldn’t. I was relieved to reach the Psychiatric hospital and be handed medication, ready to stop the madness. I would take anything they gave me.

So the next time I complain about medication side effects, especially the sluggish ones, I’ll force myself to take a pause and remember what it was like without the medication. I’ll remember the lack of control, and be grateful that with meds I can create a different outcome.

 I’ll take the chemicals, thank you.

Musings, Take 1

I live (!) with bipolar disorder. I was diagnosed 13 years ago, and accepted and rejected this diagnosis repeatedly over the years; a few times to great personal detriment. I allowed my diagnosis to define me and to control me. In 2006, I finally decided to take control of it.

I shudder a little at the idea of a blog. Shame on me if it were to become an outlet for whining and moping. But I think I'm past the whining and moping days, and have graduated to the live-with-it days. I am not "a little" bipolar. Bipolar disorder significantly affects my life, my personal relationships, my career, and my overall health. But I understand that - like it or not - it's not going away. I will live with it the rest of my life, so why not do everything I can to dictate what my life looks like, in spite of what my diagnosis tries to tell me otherwise.

I am currently riding what I like to call the "Medication Merry-Go-Round." It's the asinine process of searching for psychiatric medications that will ease the symptoms of bipolar disorder. I call it asinine because, as the brain is truly the only uncharted territory of the human body, there is no sound formula that tells a Psychiatrist what meds will increase a patient's quality of life. Certainly a Psychiatrist knows what has worked for other patients, and that can create a nice starting point, but from there it's a little like throwing darts at a dartboard. I have, over the years, tried a myriad of meds that I can barely keep track of, it's so extensive, and always in different combinations (so it's difficult to know which of the three medications I'm on is working, and which isn't.) I seem to be somewhat atypical - my Psychiatrist has said many times when writing out a new prescription for me that what works in others, doesn't work in me, and what's generally considered ineffective seems to make a positive difference.

I do believe that medications have the ability to improve my quality of life. And I am open to holistic methods as an aid to medications. But for me, a wholly natural and holistic approach to managing my health is not realistic. So save your "exercise works" mantra for someone else. I do my part to supplement my medication with healthy living, and I follow my doctor's suggestions like they are law - with the occassional slip-up (I want my glass of wine, dammit!)

But because I believe medications can help me, I am often thrown onto the Medication Merry-Go-Round for another spin when something stops working: we try yet another pill, or a different dosage, and wait the two weeks or one month for it to take effect to see if it works. If it doesn't, I go for another ride. This time, a month-long depression was my ticket onto the Merry Go Round. We're trying, again. Maybe this combination will work.

The process is crazier than I am.