Walking is very quickly becoming Little One's primary mode of locomotion. Which is magical and wonderful and exciting and he even has shoes now with pandas on them.
He's engaging with so much more now. Watching Sesame Street with me, reading books together, putting objects inside other objects, and really listening to what I say. I am starting to feel like we can communicate with each other. He's not the only one becoming more engaged. I recently started seeing a new psychiatrist and she switched me to a new medication, Latuda. The first few days after the change were a depressive hell. But then it started to lift. And the difference is striking. It's not that the meds make me happy. It's that they make me not depressed and not manic. And that means I have energy and motivation and sensible mind to do things again. Energy to do things that make me happy. Things that make me feel better. Because medication is only part of my treatment plan. I like to think of it as the sort of foundation on which the rest of my treatment sits, because without it, its so much harder to tackle the other parts. (I know, because I tried for years) My 6 Part Mad-woman Treatment Plan Part 1 - Medication Management & Therapy. To help me stay "not depressed" as much as possible and prevent dangerous manic episodes. Therapy helps me quiet my 'always-on' brain by talking things out in a safe space. It helps me become aware of the patterns my mind uses, how they can trick me, and how I can change them. Part 2 - Cover the Basics. Holding myself to a certain standard of living and responsibility. E.g. basic hygiene and self-care, walking to the mailbox, being a 'good enough' mum, and following through on commitments as much as possible. This is the answer to the question "What is the least energy-consuming amount that I can do at my lowest so that I don't feel worse about myself?" Its the first step in undoing the spiral. It's saying 'I may feel like crap but at least I can cover these basics, so I can't be all bad'. Part 3 - A joyful tidy home. I am a big believer in the KonMari method and believe that tidiness is the key to keeping a home that makes you happy. So I have worked hard to declutter and ensure that everything has a place and can easily be cleaned up, making it easy to keep in a state that brings joy instead of stress. Undoing that spiral just a little more. Part 4 - Compassionate Yoga Practice. Yoga tends to my body and to my mind. When I feel well enough to practice, I know it will do me a world of good. Yoga with Adriene is my queen and savior. She and the kula have had my back for a long time and I am immensely grateful to them. If that sounds like gibberish to you, then you're not in the club. But don't think I'm excluding you - check it out here Part 5 - Playful Art Practice. It is immensely hard for me to make art when I am feeling awful and I think that is why it is so important that I make time for it when I am feeling well. Because without it, I start to feel lost and unsure of myself. My art is a way for me to express things that I can't say in words, and I need that tool to feel heard and alive. Part 6 - Exploration. This is about having adventures when I feel good. Breaking the mold. Doing things that get me (and Little One) out of the house and out of my comfort zone. Doing things that make me feel vibrant and interesting and passionate. To feel the metaphorical wind in my hair.
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I did some drawing today and I thought it would be nice to share it with you. Her name is Eithne, which according to some translations is roughly Gaelic for "little fire" She will be getting the full treatment soon. Definitely a larger polished drawing if not eventually a painting. I love her tousled hair and the stretched crease in her neck and the way her hands are fidgeting and the way in one glance she is desperately pleading, in the next she is hopeful, and in the next she is strong and powerful. Little fire. This is how women fight. With our souls and our hearts and our faces to the wind. This is how we dare to dream. This is how we endure. I won't show you the reference photo I used for her posture because I don't want to confuse the image. But I do find it fascinating how fast and how dramatically she changed from the model as I drew. I love the creative process. I have been re-reading the Dragonriders of Pern by Anne McCaffrey recently and listening to music like Yanni and Enya. Here is some for you too. Happy Halloween!
Elliot is going as Max, king of the wild things. He is so stinking cute. I have just started with a new psychiatrist (Thank goodness!) and we are trying out a new medication, which, if it works like its supposed to and we get the dose right, should help with the bipolar depression. Something I would be immensely happy about because I really don't like myself when I'm depressed. Okay, reality check. 80% of that dislike is probably just the depression talking (because it loves to be an ass) but the other 20% comes from my charming modus operandi whenever I feel down: checking out. Also known as decision paralysis. Also known as disappearing, ghosting, going MIA, being unresponsive, and generally being downright unreliable. I have lost friends this way. I have failed to make new friends this way. I've lost business. I've missed out on things that I might have really enjoyed. I've let a lot of people down. And I'm still carrying around the shame for that. It's fucking heavy! It's even stopped me from making art. e.g. The longer I go without making art the more guilty I feel and the more afraid that I won't be able to just pick it back up again, and this guilt and stress acts as a barrier to action that just keeps getting bigger and bigger. Its immensely frustrating and probably more frustrating because I know that ultimately it is my own doing. I can't just say "Sorry, I was depressed" because even if someone can sympathize, that still doesn't explain why I wasn't able to just pick up the phone and say "Hey, sorry, I can't make it tonight" Because the full truth is something more like this: "Hey, I really wanted to go to your party but as it got closer, I got anxious about going and just feeling awkward the whole time and its an unfamiliar environment and that stresses me out, so I put off making a decision about it and only on the day of did I panic and back out, and I meant to text you to let you know but felt really guilty so I put that off too and then it was too late. And the next day I wanted to reach out but was afraid of your reaction so I didn't. And every day after that it just got harder and now its been months and I still think about you all the time but I'm too afraid to reach out" But that sounds completely neurotic and insane right? Not exactly a friendly casual text. And it is neurotic. It's the sort of thought patterns that you develop from dealing with depression and anxiety all the time, and its one of the reasons that therapy is so helpful and important for people with mental illnesses. To try and break these patterns. And rewire yourself. And this is what I'm working on right now: Swallow the big frogs first. It's about reconnecting with people. Following through on commitments. Even ones that are past their due dates. Tying up loose ends. It's about holding myself to a certain standard of accountability. Doing what is hard even when it is hard. And treating myself with compassion when I make a misstep. Taking action, even if that action is imperfect or late or incomplete. Something is better than nothing. Showing up is better than hiding. It's about getting up in the morning, drinking a cup of coffee, and saying "Hey world, I'm still alive over here! I may feel like crap but I am still kicking!" Watch out there's clouds on the horizon Watch out there's coffee in your cup Watch out it seems you're heading down now Watch out we'll make it through somehow Wake up, wake up, wake up You're a little faster now You're a little stronger than you were You're a little braver than before Wake up, wake up, wake up It doesn't have to be this hard Swallow the big frogs first Try before its never too late Anyway, if the thought of swallowing big slimy frogs doesn't get you in the mood for Halloween, then I don't know what will. Trick or treat! Okay. Fine. #metoo Why am I so reluctant to share this? Shame maybe, or feelings that my experiences are not valid enough to be part of the conversation. I still finding myself taking the responsibility for all of it. It's difficult too I think, because I have been promiscuous and socially reckless at times, something I now know to be more or less a common symptom of mania and hypomania. Is that an excuse? I'm really not sure. I'm honestly in this gray area of how to define the narrative of my own life. There's a few key incidents that stand out for me. As a freshman in highschool, I was in the theater program. There was, suffice to say, a lot of flirtation, in the dark wings and backrooms off stage. There was an older boy who gave me attention that I enjoyed. Once he took my hand and ever so gently placed it inside his hoodie onto his erection. I pulled my hand away and he put it back. I was confused. I didn't know what to do. Later he kissed me and tried to touch me. I pulled away and withdrew. He didn't talk to me much after that. But I broke up with my then boyfriend who was my best friend and the sweetest guy, just because I felt so ashamed and dirty. I was dating a girl in school and she was also dating a guy. Let's just pretend its the 60's and everything is one big love, okay? So we decided to meet at his apartment next to the school for some alone time. The deal was, we would get the bedroom and he would just wait outside. He changed his mind about 5 minutes in. He forced us both to do things we didn't want to. This is something I really never talk about. I still feel like it was my fault. A teacher grabbed my ass once. In college, there was a boy who tried to coerce me into leaving my boyfriend to date him instead. He liked sending me detailed descriptions of his dirty dreams involving me. I probably egged him on. An old classmate once messaged me to say that I was hot because I'm the perfect height for blow-jobs. That doesn't even make sense when you think about it, but let's not go there. My first boss in the real world was very fond of making inappropriate comments around and about me. My favorite of which was when he complemented me on my 'sexy schoolgirl outfit' (a white shirt, black sweater, and pants??) and instructed me to use my "whip and heels" to keep the developers on track. Charming. The man had issues. There are a couple of instances involving hard liquor, sex, and mania that may or may not deserve to be on this list. Anyway, me too. And I really hope it all stops. I have a confession to to make (as if last week's little story wasn't enough)... here goes. I really enjoy dorky sappy pop music. Hope you weren't expecting something juicier. That's all I've got. Pop music. Consider though, that this is coming from someone who thinks of herself as and surrounds herself with music aficionados. Let's play pretend for a sec that I'm not terribly adept at shaming myself for things that no one needs to be shamed for, and let me say, as loudly as I can, that nobody needs to justify or excuse the things they draw enjoyment from. There should be no such thing as a guilty pleasure. I essentially run off of music instead of gasoline, and use it to navigate my thoughts, feelings, and cycling moods. If my doctor really wanted an in depth analysis of my moods, I would tell them to look at my Spotify history. So I thought it might be a nice exercise to include a song for you with each post. And they probably won't all be sappy pop songs, but I can't make any promises. Today's song is about this blog. About what it means to be writing again, and sharing my thoughts publicly. About what it means to really be honest and unrestricted. To do something that no pamphlet or website or medical professional or family member or friend has 'suggested for my benefit'. One of the group workshops they had in the psych ward was 'defining what recovery looks like to you'. And although there is no "getting better" with bipolar, there is definitely a recovery process. One that has to happen after every episode, swing, and blip. One that hopefully gets a little easier each time. One that marks the massive difference between managed and un-managed illness. And one that looks different for everyone. Recovery feels like tidying up the debris after a storm. It feels like sifting through the wreckage and finding the valuable things that can still be salvaged. Taking inventory. It feels like super-gluing the handle back on your favorite coffee mug and praying it will hold. It feels like building new defenses to protect against the next storm. It feels like looking in the mirror and not being entirely certain who is looking back at you. It is a stubborn and indignant rebuilding. A humble reclamation of power. I want to thank the many people who reached out to me about my last post. Your comments meant the world to me. Many of you thanked me for sharing my story. Stories are much better told, don't you think? My story isn't quite over yet, and I hope not for a while. So I'd like to keep sharing, if you'd like to keep reading. It probably started when I was pregnant to be honest, but pregnancy has this way of swallowing everything else into itself, so as far as I or anyone else knew I was just pregnant. And pregnancy makes you tired and irritable and erratic, right?
Anyway, if I'm really being honest, it actually started way before I got was pregnant, probably as early as childhood, and maybe one day I'll tell you all about that. But this particular... we can call it an episode. Let's call it an episode. This particular episode started when Little One made his grand and glorious entry into the world. Birth must be a terribly traumatic experience for a baby, if their little undeveloped nervous systems are even equipped to process trauma at that point. I would say his birth was traumatic for me, but frankly I don't think the events themselves are horrific enough to earn that moniker, especially compared to other stories I have heard from mothers. Maybe it was, and maybe it wasn't. But I will spare you the birth story. It ended in a c-section. Little One had antibiotics for a few days. And we all went home healthy. Now listen, I am really not the right person to be telling you this story, because I really wasn't "present" for most of it and I actually find it quite difficult to remember. You'd be better off asking my poor husband, but he's not the one who wanted to write a blog, so I'll have to do my best. I remember him crying, crying all the time. I remember the horrible nightmares I would wake up from sweating and crying. I remember desperately trying to get him to eat. To sleep. When my mother left. When husband went back to work. I remember being absolutely petrified that I would drop him, hurt him somehow. Terrified that harm would come to him. I remember the feeling that I was losing grip on myself and on reality. The more I tried to keep a lid on it, the worse it got, and the more I hated myself. I was a terrible mother. I stopped sleeping, even when I had the opportunity. I stopped eating. Every time I closed my eyes I saw horrible things. Bugs writhing. Bodies decaying. Once I looked at him in the crib and for a moment imagined him drowning in vomit. Another time I was frustrated trying to calm his crying and vividly pictured myself throwing him against the wall. Intrusive Thought - an unwelcome involuntary thought, image, or unpleasant idea that may become an obsession, is upsetting or distressing, and can feel difficult to manage or eliminate. I went into the bathroom one day and the walls started moving. Warping and stretching in towards me. And then I started hearing crying when he was asleep, or not with me. At some point in this timeline, before things got really bad and while I was still desperately trying to hide things, I managed to get myself to see my therapist, who told me to see my doctor. And I managed to make an appointment with the nurse, and my husband persuaded me to go. And I managed to fill out a checklist of symptoms to show the nurse. And somehow, I managed to tell her what was happening to me. This is when, as I found out later, my husband got the phone call from the nurse instructing him to take me straight to the emergency room whether I wanted to or not. Which is what he did. And so I spent some time in the Behavioral Health Unit at St. Joseph's Hospital (this is another story) as I recovered from what I now know was a bipolar episode of dysphoric mania with psychosis brought on by the drastic hormone shifts, sleeplessness, and extreme stress of the postpartum period. It is much easier to tell people I had postpartum depression, and sometimes I still do, to keep the conversation short and relatable. But no, bipolar it is. Six months later, here I am, still processing a diagnosis that has left me reeling and struggling to put my identity and self worth back together. A chronic, lifelong, mental illness that demands constant attention and care. One that quite seriously threatens my life, and threatens the well-being of my family if not properly managed. One that continues to exist in a serious stigma. And one that so frustratingly explains so much of my life. But on the upside (because despite what my depression seems to think, I am an unbending optimist), I have a treatment plan, I have understanding, I have support. Had I somehow gone on hiding, ignoring, and denying my illness, trying to 'keep a lid on it', it would have only gotten worse. That is a hard fact. Life without bipolar simply doesn't exist for me, as much as I might wish it could. There is either treated or untreated, managed or unmanaged, surviving or not. It turns out it is actually much brighter on the other side of the nightmare. And, according to many studies linking the bipolar brain with creativity, I may have it to thank for my artistic abilities. So... thanks? |
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