My heart broke when the truth revealed itself to me.  I tried to hide from it, bury it deeply inside of my body, I didn’t want anyone to see it.

That was successful for a long time.  I tried to blame you, the reasons were all turned around and put back into my court and I couldn’t deny this was a truth I could not hide.

Looking for things that were wrong for so long until I found them, then I looked for ways to put them up high so no one could find them.

We’re in too deep, it has to remain as it is until one of us dies.  It will hurt too much, I can’t take much more hurt.  It will bury me eight feet under next to my Dad.  What have I done wrong?

I dotted my i’s and crossed my t’s, I checked and rechecked, went to the Doctor and went to God.

To stay in the condition would mean choosing you instead of me.  I thought that choice was the answer for me and I forgot who I was, what strengths I had, the hurdles I’d climbed before, and that I can overcome adversity no matter what’s on the table.

I sat, I cried, I wrote, I lied to myself.

I thought of him and how he did the same, exchanging his life for another.  It made him happy to do so, or it was what he wanted us all to believe.

A message from somewhere deep, rose up to greet, whispering in my ear, “don’t do that”.  “Right or wrong, it’s been so long, don’t walk the same road you saw me on”.

I love you, my heart would burst to prove to you if it could.  It’s time for me to sever that tie and find myself and I don’t even know why.

The beyond this will be beautiful, the beyond will be better than any of us could have hoped for.  I hate to be the one to change the tracks, it was the last choice, and when everything turned to black, I knew then it was only choice to bring my life back.

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You want my time, they want my time, I love you.

All of you.

Sometimes I want to be left alone, maybe for an hour, a day, a week or a month.

I’ll come back to you, I always do.

I just need time to collect myself, my thoughts, my emotions.

To shake them off, disperse the intensity, to just be me.

There’s a lot that I share freely, and then there’s a lot that I do not share freely.

You think you know me, and you do.

But not all of me.

I always keep some for myself.  I have to, or I’ll fall down

in a heap of empty and nothing.

And you won’t have anything to greet you when you are invited back.

Never forget that I love you, and I love them,

but sometimes I need

to

just

love

me.

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For someone like me who already struggles with chronic depression and anxiety, circumstances like these can easily trigger an episode of sadness or severe anxiety.  Self-care, and care from friends and family during this time are absolutely imperative.  The truth is that difficult times can be navigated with a little bit of extra help, without falling into a well of sadness.

Self-care tips:

• Take good physical care of yourself.  Any crisis is easier with enough sleep.  Exercise, get outside, eat well, and don’t overdose on caffeine or alcohol.  Avoid drug use.  Keep meds regular—avoid adding new medication or getting off of medication during stressful time.
• Talk about it.  Keep talk therapy appointments, and ask a few friends or family members who you know you can trust to support you.  Remember, no matter what’s going on, you’re not alone—ask for help.
• Know thyself.  If you feel yourself getting anxious, sad or depressed, take action before it gets to a point of danger.  Call your therapist, psychiatrist, closest friend or all three.
• Get into a routine.  Get up for work, meet up with friends, include time alone.  Staying on a regular schedule, complete with things to look forward to, will help the craziness of life seem much more manageable.
• Take the long view.  This too shall pass, and no matter how terrible the circumstances, it’s not worth harming yourself.

Tips for caring for a friend or family member:

• ASK.  Don’t avoid talking about what’s going on.  Ask good questions, and above all, LISTEN to the answers.
• Show up.  Try not to cancel plans unless it’s an emergency, and don’t be afraid to just be there.  Hang out, invite them out and try to be available as much as possible.
• Be aware.  If you notice your friend or family member showing telltale signs of concern, such as isolating, giving away valuable possessions, a new calm after weeks of crying or anxiousness, than be aware that they may be preparing to harm themselves.  Don’t be afraid to ask for help in supporting them.

No matter how tough the circumstances, things will be okay.  Take care of yourself, and remember to take care of those you know who may be struggling the best you can.

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What was I doing Thursday, I think quickly?  What was I doing, what was I doing?  Then I remember: Joey got dizzy at work.  Joey hadn’t been eating because he was sick.  Joey hit a car on his way home.  I put him to bed and went out to get him Ensure, Mucinex and a milkshake.  Ate dinner in bed with him and fell asleep—intending to get up later.  But I never did.  And it never occurred to me that I hadn’t taken the pills.  Two nights gone, no pills.

***

You know, it wouldn’t be such a big deal if it wasn’t such a big deal.  So what?  Just take a pill.  It’ll be ok.

Except it’s not.  Except this drug, in particular, is carefully titrated.  Except it will take me four weeks to get back to my dose.  The first two weeks, I cut my pills into quarters, swallow ¼ of what I should be taking.  The next two weeks, I cut them into halves on a cutting board in the kitchen.  Swallow them there, exposed by the subtle blinking of the fluorescent lights.

***

It’s fine, I tell everyone.  I’m fine.  I’m fine.  I’m fine.  I repeat the words over and over again.  I’m fine.  My best friend, my psychiatrist, my mother.  I’m fine.

And I am, honestly.  That is the simple answer, the short answer, a true answer.

The longer answer is: I’m fine, and I’m working mighty fucking hard to be that way.

The challenges of my every-day life are magnified by the absence of my chemical crutch.  There are late-night papers to be written, for the first time since I was last crazy [and God, that doesn’t feel like a coincidence].  My car breaks down for what I declare is the last goddamn time.  Buying a new one takes time, and I sometimes feel trapped in my house.  I am flailing, sometimes, before wrapping myself up in a blanket or a book or a bath.  He doesn’t know it, but I am mentally flailing, until I turn on my left side and push myself back into him.  Wrap yourself here, I want to tell him, and it’ll stop.  Just trust me, I know it will.

But sometimes, the pleasures are magnified too.  I fall hard for a new friend, the rare girl in my life.  Sitting next to each other in the lab, we giggle in fits and talk shit in lowered, hushed voices.  When we aren’t together, we send text messages and our inside jokes accumulate like snow on something rolled down a hill.  Food is suddenly spicier, and my eyes water and my unmyelinated nerves scream and I choke down glasses of water and margarita until I have the slightest buzz.  Then saunter off, wobbly, smiling, laughing.  Sex is faster, and I ask for more dangerous things.  I am light-headed, or held down and fighting, falling halfway off the bed and upside-down.  I try to follow the lines of control—who is in power now?  Me?  Him?  Both or neither?  The answer is always best when it’s unclear.

***

This, of course, comes to the heart of the matter.  At times, when I am most vulnerable and open, when I talk about the past, I have to analyze what happened then.  What went wrong and how can I stop it?  Can I ever say with 100% certainty that it will never happen again?

In the midst of this aching vulnerability, I see the truth: that I could have stopped it.  That is, and will always be, my burden.  Bipolar disorder may have lowered my threshold, but I still crossed it.  There were a million outs, and I could have taken any one of them.  Sometimes, I did—ignored a phone call or pulled myself, turning, out of one of their grasps.  But not without turning back, tossing my head over my shoulder, smiling that old smile.  The memories are so seductive because they make me feel like I was good at something, once.  These days, sometimes, I feel like I can’t win.  But back then, dammit—I was good at something.  But I was very bad at maintaining control.

These days, I’m much better, but I still feel the tugging, the desire to spin out of my own control.  I’ve long theorized that these desires came from a lifetime that required control—oldest child, high school valedictorian, successful woman on the path to being something people dream about, something people would kill for.  My professional life, and everything it has taken to get this far, has required tremendous control.  I’m not surprised I want to lose that sense of power in other places.  I’m not surprised that I want to find myself swept away by whim, by emotion, by anything that I don’t choose.

So I am sitting, filled with want.  I want to kiss someone on the collarbone.  I want to reach out my pinky and wrap it around someone else’s.  I want to be able to pull someone’s hand and go somewhere dark.  At least, that’s what my wild mind tells me.

But I step back, smiling, and walk away.  No, I say.  What you want is to find yourself not knowing where you are.  You want 60 seconds of confusion, you want 15 seconds where you don’t know what is going to happen next.  You want the tiniest flicker that something unexpected will happen.

***

Which, unexpectedly, happens.  We’re sitting around, watching TV with friends.  One of them offers to roll me a pure tobacco cigarette.  I accept, with his promise that I don’t know what I’m in for.  That it will be incredible.

So, we share it back and forth, a simple kind of intimacy that I’ve come to appreciate and relish.  I pull the smoke down into my lungs—I am inexperienced, and bad at it.  I’ve smoked enough times to know what to do, but not nearly enough times to do it without choking or looking very unprofessional.  I feel nothing.

So, he passes it back to me, and says the rest is mine.  I draw in heavy, hold the smoke in my lungs until I’m coughing, suddenly nauseous and very dizzy, disoriented and confused.  I have no idea what will happen next, but I do know that I need to sit down.  Violently, my ass hits the edge of the porch, and I reel back.  The nausea subsides, but the dizziness, the haziness, the brilliant confusion lingers.  I pull Joey in behind me, and I fall backwards into him.  I fit perfectly there, and I remember that love is a choice, and that we have chosen each other—not just once, but many times.  The night is lovely, suddenly.  Everything that was wrong, everything that has happened drains away.  It will come back.  But for a few minutes, I’m out of control.  And I haven’t ruined anything.

I’m fine, I say to myself.  I’m fine.

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I did not just wake up one day and decide, “gee, this is a good day to stop talking to some people”.  It was more of a culmination of items over a period of years that brought me to the decision.  I’d considered over the years.  Not something that I’ve ever done before, never thought I would ever be able to.

It feels weird to me.

Now that I’ve gone and done it.

Stopped communication with a few of my family members.

At first, I could not believe how good I felt not being tethered to the legacy of unhealthy behavior that I’d convinced myself for all too long, that was “just how we are”.

Since the official “event”, I’ve happily reported to my therapist that I feel really good.  REALLY GOOD.  And, very free.

A very important thing to remember is that this is something I did for myself.  Not to punish anyone else, not because they are bad and evil.  It’s a road that I simply had to travel down in order to achieve some separation I so badly needed.

My history has been one of carrying other people’s anxiety.  No one asked me to do this, it’s just how I’m made.  Having spent many years going in the wrong direction for other people, I am learning how to go in my own direction.

This is something I’ve learned recently, by taking this action.  I can be influenced easily by others if I trust them.  This isn’t unusual -  it’s a common human behavior -  to be influenced by those we love and trust.  The key is to not forget who we are, and what our own story is.

Over the past few years I’ve had some almost insurmountable obstacles in my life, emotional pain that brought me to my knees and made me question everything that I thought I knew.

I could easily write about the huge injustices that have been “done” to me over the years, how unfairly I’ve been treated.  Sure, I could do that.  But what would it prove?  What would it solve?  What good could come of it?  Not any good, that’s how much.  I know this because I did spend too much time lamenting in that batch of unhealthy.

I suppose that was a necessary part of the process, until I realized that it wasn’t improving my quality of life in any way after my initial screams.

What IS important is how I process the events that happen in my own life.  What is important is what I DO with the events.  What is important is that I take responsibility for myself and my part in said events.

I love my family, I miss them.  I miss the good stuff, I miss the fact that they know me better sometimes than I know myself.  I hope they understand this, I hope they understand my need for solitude in order to find my way through this chapter.

I’m learning a lot, I’m gaining insight that previously eluded me, getting closer to the center, closer to knowing more.

About myself.

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I’ve put together a page on realmental, realmental.org/affirmations site to provide you with random affirmations that may be of use. Click to view another affirmations. I hope you will get as much value from them as I have.

Thank you for reading.

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We spoke on the phone the other day, it’s been a very long time since I’ve spoken with you and it was great to hear your voice.

You reached out for some help and I was honored that you chose me, and that I was available to speak to you. There were a lot of things that I wasn’t able to tell you, as our call was cut short unexpectedly. The things we discussed are things that I have experience with, things that I’ve tried very hard to make better in my own life.

More than anything, I hope you will be able to muster up the strength it will take to remove yourself from your situation and begin rebuilding your life. It is very important for you to know that it IS possible for you to move on and rebuild your life. It won’t be easy, it will be really really hard. You’ll have to process through a lot of bullshit, there are layers that you cannot even see right now.

The emotional pain will be unbearable, you may even think that dying is a viable option. It isn’t. You will grieve your situation as you would grieve a loved one dying. In a way, a part of you will die. A chapter in your life will die, and grieving is something you’ll have to do in order to walk through this whole terrible thing.

Prepare yourself for the fact that you will consider staying with your current situation, because it will be so very hard to make the change. Your life will be a living nightmare.

The positive side to this will be that it will pass, you can walk through it. Once you get past the initial pain, you WILL begin to feel good again. You will begin to see your worth, you will begin to heal, you will rediscover the person you were before this situation consumed you.

I know that you are unable to be objective about yourself and your situation right now. Please try to believe that you are a good person, you are worthy, you are smart, you are beautiful, you are a fantastic mother, you are capable of making your dreams come true and miracles are possible. If I had not seen this happen to many people over the years, I would not believe it to be true. Honestly, I’ve seen people rebuild their lives having lost everything they had.

Right now, these compliments probably don’t mean a lot to you or you may even have a hard time believing they are true. Believe that I believe. Not just me, but your family and friends that you’ve reached out to over the years. You have done nothing to deserve such a painful life. None of us “deserve” to be mistreated. Look at yourself through the eyes of your children, treat yourself with the same love and respect that you look at your children.

No matter what action you take (or don’t take), I want you to know that asking for help is not a character flaw, it is an act of courage.

With love,

Moonflower

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If I’m really paying attention, then I hear it when my assistant says “Aren’t you Miss Polly Productive” when I leave him an enormous pile of dictation tapes, written motion and discovery work, and all the other legal detritus. If I look at my time sheet, I can see that I’ve billed a week’s worth of work in three days, though there’s no need to—I’m just blowing through everything, double time. It’s good work, too. Productive, concise, and necessary. The air’s clearer, the brain’s faster, and I feel more creative—am more creative. I write really well, and a lot, because I sure as hell only need about three hours of sleep.

If I miss that sign, then the next one is this. I’m still Polly Productive—except I’m now Misanthrope Polly Productive. I hate everyone—they’re all out to get in my way, talk with their whiny, annoying voices, bother me with inconsequentials. Every Little Thing They Do Is Enraging. I have road rage. I hate every cashier in every store everywhere who doesn’t blow through the things on the belt with superhuman speed. My critical voice snarks on each person’s shoes, haircuts, grocery selections, each one more worthy of hate than the last. My family and my husband bug the crap out of me, and I can’t understand Why Won’t They Leave Me Alone. There’s no objective perspective on why I’m so irritated.

The physical sensations start as I’m just about to crest from Misanthropic Polly Productive to Downward Spiraling Deirdre Depressed. The strange crown-like feeling on my forehead. That pushing sensation under my sternum. And the sweat. This is weird—but after three or four of these post-diagnosis, post medication episodes, I’ve realized something. When I’m in a high mixed state, and just about to start the long, long slide to the bottom? I sweat. Profusely. And it smells strongly. And my feet stink to high heaven.

Yes, that’s more about me than you want to know, really. But it’s a sensory sign—one that’s so weird that I notice it, even as I’m in the process of that catatonic withdrawal into my head, when the extreme productivity, the crazy irritability, slide by. Crazy has a smell for me, a clear, last-ditch signal. I might not be able to follow my mind all the time, but I can follow my nose. I wouldn’t have noticed it, maybe, if I hadn’t been serious about writing EVERYTHING down in my symptom notebook, but after talking it over with my shrink when I had my lithium toxicity episode, she said… tell me more about the sweating thing. Would I recognize that as a physical sign, even if I’m ignoring the emotional and mental ones? Turns out, I can.

Animals can smell fear. I suppose it’s not as weird as it could be that crazy has a smell that can wake up my animal brain, can trigger that self-preservation instinct that crazy makes it so easy to otherwise ignore. That smell says hey, put the brakes on this thing, slow this roller coaster car down– right now. I should be looking and listening and feeling for signs—but I’ll take the smell if that’s what it takes.

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What Can You Do To Help?

We invite you to visit the website – letsfacethis.ca – and post a photo and message on the “Tree of Support”. With each new photo added, the “tree” will grow, symbolizing growing awareness, education, fundraising and hope for those suffering from mental illness.

Let’s Face This reminds us that mental illnesses, like depression and anxiety, are not the result of personality flaws or character weakness, but, like other illnesses, are biological in nature. And like other
medical conditions, respond to treatment and care.

I invite you to join me and countless others confront the stigma of mental illness.

Let’s Face This together and confront the stigma of mental illness.

Also, take a look at the Canadian Mental Heath Association’s website.

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It was nice to have others recognize how horrible this situation was. Unfortunately, it didn’t really change my situation.

After that first appointment, I vowed I would never go back to psycho psychiatrist again. I went to my family doctor and told her what happened, (she was horrified and said, “Maybe she was hypomanic that day!”) and she agreed to refer me to another psychiatrist.

The problem is this is a small city with a limited number of psychiatrists, and the majority of them work in the same clinic downtown. I made sure that she referred me to a psychiatrist who had a private clinic so there wouldn’t be any problems.

A few weeks later, I got a call back from my doctor’s office saying that the psychiatrist’s office had rejected my referral, stating that it’s his policy not to accept any patients who have already been seen by another psychiatrist in the city.

My doctor tried to refer me to another psychiatrist, again in a private clinic, and his office also rejected my referral, based on a “conflict of interest” because I had already seen another psychiatrist.

[And may I also mention that before I even went to psycho psychiatrist, I tried to get in with my mom's psychiatrist, and he also refused to see me because he felt it was a "conflict of interest" to see two members of the same family.]

So, not only is it really difficult to get in with a psychiatrist in the first place, once you get in, you’re stuck with her no matter what, because everyone else will refuse to see you because they don’t want to get involved in any drama that may be going on between other psychiatrists and their patients.

Aaaaaaaaaaghhhh!

I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice, because I strongly felt I needed a psychiatrist to monitor me because of my family history. Unless I wanted to try and get referred to a psychiatrist in one of the neighbouring cities, wait another six months to get in with him/her and then take time off work to drive a few hours to my appointments, I was stuck.

So, I did what any semi-sane person would do: I went back.

But I went back armed with six months of mood charts, a list of supplements and drugs I’m taking and a very guarded attitude.

It was six months after the first appointment. And the weirdest thing happened.

She was nice.

She smiled, she laughed, she was friendly and helpful.

It was like she had switched personalities since the last time I saw her. This was the woman my doctor had described when she first referred me to a psychiatrist. This is the woman I wish I had had during my first psych appointment when I was scared and vulnerable.

Maybe she has some kind of personality disorder?

I think I’ve also learned how to deal with her. One of the first things I did was hand her a piece of paper with all my supplements and drugs listed, along with the doses. She exclaimed, “Oh, I wish all my patients did this. This is so helpful!”

I then said things like, “I took your advice and started taking fish oil supplements, and I noticed a real difference.”

“I took your advice and went off the Wellbutrin, and I’m really glad I did because I don’t think it was a good drug for me. I feel much better now just on the Celexa, as you suggested.”

“I took your advice and kept a daily mood log, and I’ve brought a graph of all my moods for the past six months here with me for you to look at.”

She was really pleased. “You’re doing everything right! You’re doing so well!”

Of course I was: I had followed all her advice and made sure she knew it.

We looked at my mood graph together and she agreed that there was no hypomania there. I reminded her that the only time in my life that I’ve ever felt hypomanic was when the Effexor made me wonky and again with a high dose of Wellbutrin.

She hasn’t deviated from the initial diagnosis as far as I can tell, but she was much better to deal with this time, and didn’t push any additional drugs on me. She just said we’d monitor it and only respond if something changes. She didn’t try to get me to go off the Celexa either.

So, while the situation isn’t ideal, I think I can work with this woman, particularly if I only have to see her once every six months.

I don’t think I can ever fully trust her, though, because I will never forget the things she said/did during the first appointment and the horrible way she made me feel.

The main problem with this psychiatrist, as far as I can tell, is that she needs to be the authority figure. She doesn’t know what to do with an educated, intelligent women who has done her research and who knows her mind/body/mood well.

During my first appointment, my psychiatrist was very defensive and aggressive, and it seemed as though she was threatened by me asserting myself and not agreeing with everything she said. If I had to guess, it was that dynamic that led to the weird behaviour/accusations on her part.

I was able to diffuse that dynamic by appeasing her in the second appointment, but I did notice that anytime I spoke too much, inserted my opinion, or let my guard down and tried to crack a joke, she would cut me off and dismiss me.

So, it’s all about walking that fine line with her. Acting the part of the patient and choosing my battles in order to get the care that I need in the very weird system we’ve got going on here.

My next appointment is in December. Hopefully, I’ll get her nice personality again. Wish me luck.

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