RealMental

I am tired. More tired than I have ever been, excepting my wild and woolly phase during the early 90’s when I may or may not have taken mass quantities of mind altering substances and stayed up for ridiculous periods of time. I don’t really count those days as particularly trying or difficult. Self induced recreational fatigue with the occasional baby pterodactyl sighting hardly compares to my current situation. Although my child, when hungry, sounds exactly like a baby pterodactyl.

Maggie, my new baby, doesn’t sleep at night. She doesn’t sleep during the day either. She likes to party, all the time, especially at 4 am when her mother would chew off her own leg just to get a few minutes of rest. 4 am seems to be the magic hour when she comes to life and I just can’t take any more. This is the hour when I start the weeping and the whining and the pleading.

I don’t know if I’m suffering from postpartum depression. I’m sure as shit suffering from a severe case of the grumpies. I’m generally irritated with everybody, all of the time. I’m an old pro and internalizing, so luckily I haven’t called anybody a twat, just yet, but there are times when I can’t help expressing my disappointment in the behavior of my loved ones.

Like my husband. He has to work all day long so he keeps getting sleep at night. It’s really starting to piss me off.

And why does everyone who visits want the baby to be awake? I just got her to go to sleep. Stop poking the baby or I will stab you.

There are so many amazing things happening right now that it’s hard for me to tell how I feel overall. I’ll be in the process of grumping my way through the dirty dishes and I’ll take a break to peek into Maggie’s crib and she will see me and smile this huge, gummy smile and it melts all of my angst away. Or I’ll be in the midst of a medium sized breakdown because she’s hungry again and then when I stick a boob in her mouth she’ll go, “Num, num, num. NUM! NUM! NUM! NUM!”, like man, that boob is the best boob that ever happened. She’s so damn awesome that it’s hard for me to be upset for any length of time.

I’m hoping that the negative feelings I’m experiencing are just my normal everyday depression mixed with fatigue. I think it’s fairly normal to be a wee bit grouchy under the circumstances. I’m trying to pay attention to my mood and thought processes so that if I get too crazy I can deal with it. I’ve found that paying attention to myself is exceedingly difficult these days and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

Right now, it’s 2:30 am. My kid is lying in her crib staring at the ceiling and talking to herself. I am so tired and so worn out. But I am so happy.

The good news is that I have my new new official theme song. “Because I’m Awesome” by The Dollyrots. That’s my new motherfucking theme song: You’re stronger, faster and can spell. Yes, thanks, but I would use a serial comma after that penultimate item. And that sentence isn’t parallel. But whatever. It’s rock.

Anyhow, I especially like the little bratty spoken part at the end, which sounds exactly like me when I’m unmedicated. And hey guess what? Not medicated. And guess what? Not enjoying this. I called the doctor and discovered–here’s more good news–that I had an appointment today. I thought it was last week and I missed it. Then I realized that I had no fucking idea what day it was today.

I seriously had the following exchange at the office:

OTHER GUY: Hey, were you here on Friday?

ME: I have no idea.

The weekend was like trying to stand up in a squall, topped off by the unexpected arrival of a totally random four-year-old who came over and stayed for six hours on Saturday. He was with his dad, who was doing some work for my neighbor, next door. And I guess he needed some kind of supervision and it takes a village and all that, but sometimes the kids in the village need to stay out of the hut of the Crazy Lady until she gets her Depakote.

Incredibly, I found in the doctor’s waiting room a woman who was more fucked up than I was. She was having some difficulty affording her mental health care, and it was a really bad scene. The receptionist had her on the phone with some kind of agency. The doctor wanted her to come back in three weeks (anything above monthly is a big deal in our practice), but she couldn’t afford to. That’s how people slip through and get lost.

I stopped her as she was leaving. I told her I didn’t want to get up in her business, but I gave her a $20 because that’s what I had. Use it for whatever. She took it and looked at it like she was going to have to figure out what it was. Then she gave it back.

I go back in two weeks.

Originally published at Baldo.

The first time I was depressed The first time I was depressed and anyone noticed was when I was 24 years old. I was working at a flaky job in a flaky workplace with an even flakier boss and not being paid nearly enough to scrape by. I had been dragging myself into work absolutely miserable for months when the flaky boss and a flaky coworker confronted me and told me I was depressed.

Now, you’d think that an intervention on your mental health would be a compassionate thing, right? Not so much. Here’s how it went down:

Flaky Boss: You’re depressed.
Savia: I know. I am.
Flaky Boss: What kind of exercise have you been doing?
Savia: None.
Flaky Boss: Not even walking?
Savia: No.
Flaky Boss: Why not?
Savia: I’m exhausted. It’s hard to do anything.
Flaky Coworker: Have you been eating right – lots of organic vegetables and fruits?
Savia: No.
Flaky Coworker: Why not?
Savia: I don’t know.

They then proceeded to tell me it was my own fault that I was depressed because I wasn’t taking care of myself. If I had been eating right and exercising, I wouldn’t be in this position. Flaky Boss recounted some time when she was depressed for three months but then snapped out of it, proving that “she knew what it’s like.” They told me I wasn’t allowed to come to work anymore because, as Flaky Boss said, “You have no idea the effect that your energy has on other people in the workplace.”

I left and never went back.

I do believe that physical health and mental health are connected. However, what “healthy” people don’t understand is that when you’re severely depressed, you can’t take care of yourself. You know there are things you could be doing to make yourself feel better, but you simply…can’t…do…them.

Every day that you get out of bed in the morning and make it to work is a great accomplishment. When your entire body hurts and you feel exhausted and heavy, you’re not going to go to the gym. You’re not going to go for a walk. You’re going to curl up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around you like a cocoon while you eat chips and watch TV.

You’re not going to take the time and effort to go grocery shopping and prepare something healthy. You’re going to order take-out. Something greasy, something that will slide down nice and easy. And you’re going to feel proud of the fact that you’re eating at all, because mustering up the energy to dial that phone, answer the door, and lift the food to your mouth is no small feat.

Thus is the nature of the disease. You’re depressed, so you don’t take care of yourself, so you get more depressed because you feel like a failure for not being able to do the simple, rational things that you know will help make you feel at least a little bit better.

This is something I’m struggling with right now. I know I eat crap. I know I’m inactive. But I’m not at the point where I can do anything about either of those things. Yet I know that if I just made some little changes, they’d make a world of difference.

I did make a small step, though. Last week, I had an appointment with a naturopath. We talked for two hours about my medical history and the depression I’m currently dealing with. Then, she gave me an elimination diet to follow. I looked at the sheet and I looked at her and said, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” This piece of paper said that I wasn’t allowed to eat dairy, meat, gluten, shellfish, eggs, corn, tomatoes, sugar, chocolate, soy, peanuts, salt, caffeine, alcohol, and the list went on. What the hell was left?

“You don’t understand,” I said. “I can barely get out of bed in the morning. I’m just now starting to cook and eat borderline healthy meals after months of take-out and eating chips for supper. There is no way I’ll be able to handle doing this.”

“Just try it. Even if you’re just taking this powdered vitamin and protein supplement every morning and trying to avoid some of these foods, it will make a difference,” she said.

I looked at her skeptically, took the sheet and supplement and made it home before I burst into tears. The entire weekend, I stared at the sheet, told myself there was no way I could do this for three weeks and cried my head off. I felt that by taking the sheet, by telling her I’d try, I had set myself up for failure.

And then, something weird happened. After three days of crying, it felt like a switch went off in my head. I just stopped. Stopped crying. Stopped beating myself up. Stopped making excuses for why I couldn’t do anything. For the first time in months, I felt…normal.

I don’t know what happened. If the Wellbutrin finally kicked in. If three days of eating fruits and vegetables and the protein/vitamin supplement had given me the nutrients I had been sorely lacking. If the very act of going to that naturopath appointment made me feel empowered and in charge of my health. Or a combination of all of those things. I don’t know why; I just know that I’m feeling better. I’m finally feeling like I’m starting to claw my way out of that dark, dank hole.

And that’s all that matters.

By StormyBluez

I don’t feel good.

I went to my psychiatric App. 1st in 10 years – it was horrible, I felt worst than before I went in yesterday, He was so rushy – he said – 1 on 1 – on an on going basis was not what they offered – tops is 6 sessions solo.

Everything else is in groups, I know myself- I’m shy enough as it is and so insecure – I KNOW its not my cup of tea.

Every fucking book on the man’s self was … THIS BOYS Life – A MAN’S MIND – MALE EROGENOUS – MEN AND SEX – MY Father’s father – MEN & Psychosis>>>> uUuHHHgggGHH!!!!!- I asked to be referred to a women – the bastard never followed up! –

I got in my car and started to cry- I already wanted to give up after 17 min of being in there- but today I woke up and didn’t give up.. because its about ME not them right?….

I went to the the other guy who gives you the Meds- he was OK he’s selection of books was a bit more vast but most important of all I felt like he LISTENED___ even if he only had 10 min for me because I was late he saw me for longer and genuinely asked and observed me. He put me on Lexapro 10 mg and Trazodone 50mg, I took the Lexapro – 40 min later i felt extremely dizzy, i wanted to vomit – high anxiety, very irritating sounds, SICK u know- I called the doc he said it was the first side effects to split it in half next time.

Now I’m just questioning were I am . Why I’m thinking i need these meds? and why am I crossing these Male ego-ed Bastards….. Do I even belong here!!!.

I’m scared and confused I don’t want to feel FLAT but that’s how all Anti D’s make you feel right?
Because at least I know what I’m gonna feel when I’m sad….. It’s familiar.
But thinking about how I’m gonna feel on medication frightens me.

I’m so lost…

All I know is that I am not very nice to myself when I am in that familiar place, I am exhausted of feeling like shit. & I don’t want to feel like a vegetable either. ..maybe I just started off bad. (like every aspect of my life)….

In September, one day before my daughter was born, I turned 34 years old.

For a long time I’d questioned whether or not having children would be a wise choice for me. What kind of mother would I be? What would I do on the days when I was unable to convince myself that everything was going to be ok? Would I suffer from postpartum depression as well and if so how would I survive it? What would I do when my child needed me and I couldn’t even manage brushing my own teeth?

My worst fear of all was the possibility that I might pass this disease on to my child. On my birthday I always reflect on the fact that I have survived another year, that my depression did not beat me. I applaud the fact that I bobbed and weaved my way through the tears, the mental anguish, and the fear. I cradled myself on those days when my insides were screaming. I got through it.

The prospect of passing depression on to another human being was always more than I cared to deal with.

Then a very wonderful and surprising thing happened. I got pregnant.

After Maggie was born my thinking changed a bit. I started looking at my life again, specifically at my past, but in a different light. I can’t say with any certainty whether my depression is something I was born with or something that was sort of given to me by some very angry and lost individuals throughout my life. What I do know for sure is that I am a much more emotionally evolved human than those folks, and that my child’s life will be one of relative peace.

Still, she may inherit depression from me.

Some of my fear about it is selfish. It’s so easy for me to be angry at the people who hurt me, especially when my illness is kicking my ass. What will she do during those times? I wonder if she will hate me for bringing her into the world with the knowledge that she might have to live with depression. I’m not sure that all of the medication and therapy visits in the world could ever make up for that.

I’ve asked myself what I will do if Maggie does get sick. I’ve come up with some answers. I will always listen. I will always be there to remind her that everything is going to be ok. I will never shame or ridicule her for her feelings or her need to just be left alone. I will see that she has the best medical care available. I will teach her to keep putting one foot in front of the other, to not get mired in self-pity or despair. I will be there when she is confused and lost and angry. Even when she is angry with me.

Most importantly I will treat my own illness. I will try to lead by example. I will do for her what was not done for me. I will do my very best to make sure that when she looks back on her life, the good times out number the bad.

I went to a different type of recovery meeting tonight. It is for sober members that are depressed and/or have other types of mental illness.

(The meeting is kept highly confidential lest the others discover us that have to take meds to help with our derelictions other than alcoholism.)

In some (emphasis on some, not all) circles of recovery, it is frowned upon to take antidepressants, or pain medications even for surgery.

If you are unaware of recovery meetings, I ask you not to get the wrong idea about recovery, and the possibility that it is a terrible place in which people tell you how to live your life.

Recovery rooms are very much like real life, they include the general population that many of us avoid. You can find total acceptance and unconditional love in recovery rooms, you can take what you want and leave the rest.

Again, the rooms are inhabited by mere humans. The main object is for you to find a power greater than you are and whatever that power may be; you get to decide exclusively for yourself.

This meeting is a little different from most I attend. In that, you can safely discuss other mental health issues without losing sight of being an alcoholic.

I was impressed with the content of the meeting and the acknowledgement of mental illness being a worse stigma than being an addict/alcoholic. I knew this in my head but it wasn’t in perspective.

It is an alarming suggestion to me that mental illness is in fact, a bigger shortcoming than alcoholism. As if, our derelictions are in competition with one another.

People that are not educated; think that mental illness is something people can just shake off, or that they can just pull themselves up by their boot straps and stop whining already. That certainly sounds easy enough. If it were that easy, I am guessing that no one would ever commit suicide ever again.

Even larger is that mental illness and addictions have haunted humans for centuries. One would think in all of that time and with all of the lives lost, acceptance and education would have had a bigger saturation impact.

People with mental illness desire permission to speak their truth, to be accepted, and loved. We will get better. Once we begin to get better, we can pass it on. Passing it on will help ease the shame of those that will come after us.

By passing it on, someone will realize they do not have to live another day in bondage of shame and sorrow, and seek the help they need. We won’t have to hide in top secret locations or to write anonymously lest we be found out.

Our big secret is simply that we are trying to manage our mental illness with medications and other human support so we can get better.

My mother’s coming to visit.  I’m very mixed in my feelings about it.  On the one hand, I’m hoping to confirm what our phone calls are telling me– that she’s worlds better than she’s been for decades, since this spring’s bipolar diagnosis.  On the other hand, I’ve got years of pent-up resentment and anger waiting to be triggered by the slightest irritation, and my struggle to keep it in check.  I usually do keep it in check– prior to the bipolar diagnosis, she had no insight on how she affects me, and it’s like kicking a puppy.  Sure, the damned thing just pissed on your brand new virgin cashmere kilim (or whatever), but it just couldn’t help itself.

Now?  I wonder about telling her how angry I am, how mixed up I am, how mixed up I may always be.  Because she allowed herself to stay depressed for thirty years.  Because unlike my dad, she didn’t use any of her rock bottom points as the impetus to change things.  Because she seemed to enjoy playing the victim of cold and critical parents, and the ex-wife of an (undiagnosed bipolar) alcoholic.  Because she didn’t want to work, and I grew up with the stigma of a fat, lazy mother, section 8 housing, food stamps and free lunch.  Because her refusal to do anything about her weight made me bulimic as a teen (even worse?  she never noticed, despite my losing 30 lbs.), and in possession of a fine set of food and weight phobias for the rest of my life.  Because, because, because.  I’ve a world of reasons for anger, for shame, for grudges.

Now I wonder if she has the insight now?  ever? to understand these things.  Or whether she’s been so long in her self-centered groove that she’ll never have the perspective.   Or maybe that she is, under all the new meds, still self-centered?

And I wonder if it’s worth it, in any event.  Would I feel satisfied?  Relieved?  Healed? to tell her all these things?  There’s nothing she can do about it at this point.  And is my anger even justified, if she’s been bipolar all these years?  Can I hold it against her?  I want to.  Or do I have to forgive her?  I don’t want to.  I had enough insight, and enough concern for the effect of my behavior on others, to seek help and get the diagnosis that has been such a blessing to me.  My dad had enough strength after his first drunk driving arrest to kick the alcohol.  Is it fair for me to believe that someone who’s smart enough to write a Ph.D. at Harvard and become an ordained minister should be smart enough to get some clearly-needed help?  Or does it come back to emotional maturity, a lack of self-centeredness, an inherent personality flaw, instead?  If that’s the case, then I’d just be banging my head on a brick wall, which gives me a headache, and leaves blood on the wall.

Plus, if she didn’t get it, then again, there’s the kicking a puppy thing.  She would be sad, noncomprehending, and hurt because I’d shattered her self-image as a caring person.  But here’s the deal– she’s “caring” because she wants to be thought of as caring.  At least that’s what my therapist and I think.  But at the same time, there’s no doubt that she did want to listen to the things I had to say as a teen, and that she did want us to succeed.  And in a way, I have.

I don’t want to forget, and I am not ready or able to let go yet.  Forgetting would mean that none of this stuff was important, negative as it is.  And it’s who I am, this stuff.  I can’t, I won’t forget it.

Right now, I’m leaning towards just keeping my mouth shut, except for the bare minimum inquiries to make sure she’s taking her meds, starting talk therapy, and working well with her new shrink.  I’ll have a horrible stress migraine after she’s gone, probably get a cold, and fall exhausted into bed every night that she’s here by, like, 7:00 pm, but the self-inflicted harm at this degree is still better than staving in that poor puppy’s ribcage, so hard is my urge to kick right now.

Here’s to hoping I can let go at some future point.