RealMental

I do not have the slightest clue how those of you with children out there manage. I have two rambunctious male cats, and one of them finds himself locked up in a cat carrier at least once a week so that I can keep my hands from choking his fuzzy, little neck. Unlike your average housecat, a child can outgrow a cat carrier within the first year, and after that, when they gain the power of spoken word, you are kind of screwed, because if they breathe one word about life in a cat kennel from that cute face of theirs, and the neighbours would have child protective service busting down your door.

So, I am quite happy that my cats cannot talk and that my neighbour is too allergic to go near them.

The other day, in the midst of this ongoing contagion I caught whilst working in the cubicle farm, I lay in bed, examining myself both physically and psychologically for as many flaws as I could mentally hold in a list at one time, because this is what the common cold does to me. It liberates all my self-loathing that I can normally quash down and lets it run amok. Thankfully, colds also make me stupid, so my list kept losing its stability at about point number five; otherwise, I could have driven myself into a truly messy unraveling. I chose to stick with the four or five things I could remember that were truly and awfully wrong with me (one of which was the ugliness of my belly button, I kid you not) and quietly lamented my fate as a has-been who never was.

And then, a pair of hind cat paws viciously interrupted my eeyore-ing. They dug into my still hysterectomy-tender belly flesh as they propelled the attached cat onto a second cat further down the bed, which was followed by thumping and galumphing and yowled pleas for mercy as the two of them tore through every room in the apartment, ripping out chunks of each other’s fur as they went. Of course, my bed happened to be the focal point of said circuit. My yowled pleas for mercy each time they hurled themselves across and at me while I cowered under the blankets were obviously incorrectly pronounced, because neither of them appeared to recognize my plight. Cats don’t give a whit for human tears or whimpers.

Normally, I can laugh at their behaviour, but that day I was too sensitive for it. Every crease in the sheets, every book out of place, each hair on my head: it was all too much with me, and the extra feline chaos was driving me mad. I abruptly sat up and pinned the larger cat to the bed with a flat palm. The smaller one stopped on the floor and stared up at me in surprise.

Cats, I said, my voice wet with new tears, I cannot handle this today. I love you. You are beautiful. But, I am crazy. I am lying here and going crazy. I”M CRAZY. Do you hear me? I am terrible and ugly and not very nice, and I can’t leave the house, because I can’t handle seeing everything out there today. So, be still, just for a little while. Please. Be still, and maybe cuddle me a bit or something, because I don’t want to have to kill you or lock you up. None of us wants that. I know that you don’t want that.

I sniffed. They stared at me with big, round eyes. Even their walnut-sized brains grasped the gravity of the situation. I could tell by the way they stayed put and bobbed their noses around to better sniff my derangement in the air.

I probably even smell crazy to you, right now. And I am LOSING IT. Do you hear me? LOSING IT. Oh, gawd, I need to lie down and for you to be quiet, quiet, quiet. Do you think you can do that? If the universe is not an entirely cruel place, and if you are a part of this universe, then you will know to stop what you are doing. Because I love you. And killing you is too crazy. Oh, I love you cats. I would never kill you. Really.

I lifted the palm I was using to flatten the larger cat, and he gave me a wary look. He did not get up. The smaller cat continued to stare. I realized that I was in the middle of a scene not entirely unlike one I remembered from the movie “Overboard” with Goldie Hahn and Kurt Russell, in which Hahn’s character, Joanna, loses her mind and goes catatonic while three boys masquerading as her sons try to throw grapes into her mouth to get her to eat, except that my boys are both under fifteen pounds, cannot speak, and do not even have opposable thumbs. If they did, lord help me.

Which memory, by the by, brings me back in a roundabout way to my original thought: I applaude those of you with children for having the fortitude not to completely lose your shit on a regular basis, because this person right here, this one typing these words, stoops to shameless speechifying in front of two cats when faced with little more than the common cold and a mild depression. When you find yourself being stared at like you are gonzo by two not-so-intelligent housepets, you know it is time to either get over that cold or alter your medication.

Republished from January 2007.

Please allow me to introduce myself…

Leah was generous enough to let me come and play. Here’s a slightly revised version of one of my first posts as the blogger BipolarLawyerCook. Without revealing any names (to protect the innocent and not-so-innocent), here’s a hopefully somewhat concise description of my learning that I had Bipolar II, and the beginning of a new chapter in my short life.

I’d been depressed since November of 2005, with no particularly good reason. Work was going well– I enjoyed working with my clients and colleagues, even if my cases weren’t always what I would want, either for facts or for sheer excitement. My marriage was going well, as my Better Half was finally employed again after a long period of unemployment, and the money situation was starting to be stable again. And there were no particular Larger Family Issues, since my family and the BH’s family were doing well. My depression and energy levels continued to sag– I gave up yoga, stopped cooking, was exhausted when I came home from work, and I became more anxious about tasks at work that normally wouldn’t have bothered me. I began wasting more time at work, taking longer than I’d like to do routine work, and avoiding doing tasks I did not want to do but which were necessary steps to moving my cases along. One case in particular began to gnaw at me; the facts were stupid, and my client simply wasn’t liable, in my opinion. But opposing counsel was the most stubborn, obstinate, WRONG lawyer I’d ever come up against. I began to doubt that I was seeing the case aright, at which time I started to fall apart, and let the entire case go straight to hell.

At the same time, I was having other health problems, none in and of themselves ultimately life-threatening. Each one contributed to my distress, distraction, and physical and mental discomfort. I couldn’t sleep at night for waking up in a cold sweat thinking about The Problem Case, and yet I was utterly paralyzed from doing anything about it when I got to work.

On the outside, I still put up a pretty good show to my colleagues, who were occupied with their own worries and some pretty large cases our office was handling. This all continued through April 2006, when the prozac my PCP had prescribed stopped working after 6 weeks and I was feeling Worse Than Ever. I made an appointment with Massachusetts’ Lawyers Concerned for Lawyers (www.lclma.org), and after an intake session with a sympathetic but unsentimental social worker, I got a referral to a therapist, who ended our first session with these life-saving words– “You know, I think you might be Bipolar.” Read more »

By Dad Gone Mad

I’ve been reticent to post anything on this site, but that’s nothing new. Reticence is the soundtrack of my life.

“Be careful, Danny. Better safe than sorry. Better to make a joke out of everything than to risk getting hurt by exposing something raw or real or controversial. Stay funny. Funny is safe. Safe is good.”

Safe can kiss my skinny Jewish ass.

I lived safely for 37 years. Never took risks. Never pushed it. Never let myself be exposed to anything brash or unconventional. Never really EARNED anything. Worked in a cubicle. Always wore an undershirt. Was content with my reliable paycheck and good benefits even though the job was empty and boring and spirit-crushing.

Here’s what that lifestyle got me (in chronological order): Zoloft, Lexapro, Cymbalta, Zoloft again, Prozac (for two days), Zoloft again and Wellbutrin.

Quite a prize, no?

I once wrote this about myself:

“I had done my best to hide my depression from view. I was embarrassed by it and scared of dropping several notches in the eyes of those who do not understand. But the incessant game of hide-and-seek becomes exhausting and stressful, and it only serves to fuel the self-doubt. Whenever I told people that I have this disease, I would watch as they wondered what it means. Perhaps I’m a threat or untrustworthy or liable to do something they’d rather not have their children see because they wouldn’t be able to explain it away with a roll of their eyes. I’ve wondered those same things myself.”

When I read that back now, I’m appalled by how pitiful it sounds. Fortunately, it’s not me anymore. I murdered safe. Killed its accomplice, fear, too. The murder weapon was the revelation that there is a difference between safe and responsible. There is a difference between risk and endangerment. I had no idea.

We’re big Dave Mathews Band fans at our house, and I’ve chosen one of their songs as my personal anthem. I like it because it challenges me. It teases me for having been who I was. And it reminds me to keep going.

If you close your eyes,
Cause the house is on fire.
And think you couldn’t move,
Until the fire dies.
The things you never did,
Oh, cause you might die trying,
Cause you might die trying.
You’d be as good as dead,
Cause you might die trying,
Cause you might die trying.

Well, Dave, I tried, and I didn’t die.

In fact, I feel very much alive

I’m working on dissecting a pattern. My head is still pretty wrapped up in it, so please excuse my circle talking.

It goes like this:
1) something is difficult
2) I start thinking about it a lot
3) I start trying to problem solve it
4) I notice that Joe and I aren’t talking much
5) I start to feel like he’s mad at me
6) I feel alone
7) I can’t talk about it because it’s too hard
8) I stop thinking about it because it’s too hard
9) I get angry and feel hurt and unsupported and hole up in my head
fast forward a few days
10) I feel like the only answer is to get a divorce
11) I tell Joe
12) within 48 hours, I’m back to being able to see how to cope and would never EVER think of seperating or divorcing.

Joe’s reaction at step 11 is to allow me to be in this crazy place and keep telling me he supports me and loves me. But I know it leaves some lasting effects. It has to.

The last two times this has happened, I’ve seen my self leading up to step 10 and comparing it to how I felt the last time. Both times I felt totally justified in thinking divorcing was the only answer, that this time was different, that there was no other way. And both times, within 48 hours, I’m totally back to ‘normal’, whatever that is, and can’t believe I thought that.

This happens about every 3 months or so. I don’t know if it’s something I can cope my way out of, given that I’ve been trying to get a clear scope on it and I get so completely turned around and in too deep while still feeling like I’m thinking clearly. But, it’s hard to see how some kind of medication would be helpful since it happens so infrequently, compared to symptoms in my past that came at me daily, weekly or hourly.

Knowing rationally what I do about co-dependency, I think there is something going on that I don’t know about yet. I create an environment of dis-ease because I need him to express his commitment to me? It’s depression on a cycle that hits a low I’m not used to? I need to feel unattached in order to feel strong enough to pull myself out of the funk?

All this and more tonight at 11.

Republished from A Woman Scorned, July 2007.

Bittersweet.

That’s the taste in my mouth as I realize the long-term effect of personal transparency.

In my first ministry I saw the sins of omission and lies nearly collapse an entire church. I thought that the only thing that can bring you down is the secrets you keep. When I left there and came to my current employer, I vowed to speak the truth and be as transparent as one can be.

So I have practiced my beliefs and never hid anything about my mental illness from my employer, co-workers, family and friends. Throughout my entire life I have battled depression. My first serious episode was when I was 9. My last serious episode was over 10 years ago. Of course, there have been smaller episodes throughout my life, but they are managed by counseling, medication and occasionally taking a mental health day. I make no secret of it and often joke about it. Sometimes, when I am overly emotional, I know that my depression has contributed to me being emotional, angry, loud or hurt. The only thing I can do is apologize and try to compensate or minimize the impact. I thought I had earned the respect of my co-workers, family and friends by the way I manage my illness.

I was wrong. I recently discovered that the opposite is true. Some of these people have judged me based on the abnormal behaviors observed and discounted the normal behaviors completely boxing me in to a ‘crazy lady’ status. This isn’t totally surprising but it is disappointing.

Did you know that until 1994, employers were allowed to ask about treatment for mental illness on an job application but not about other physical illnesses? Until 1999, the California insurance companies weren’t required to cover the expenses for mental illness because they weren’t considered physiological illnesses. Now we all know better, right? Although the cause of mental illness can come from a variety of sources (biological, psychological, or environmental), the treatment is often pharmaceutical in combination with therapy.

People with mental illnesses have made significant and profound contributions to our world; a few of the well known are: *Paula Abdul, John Quincy Adams, Lionel Aldridge, Buzz Aldrin, Drew Barrymore, Kim Basinger, Justine Bateman, Ned Beatty, Irving Berlin, Leonard Bernstein, Ludwig von Beethoven, Steve Blass, Robert Boorstin, Art Buchwald, .. (100’s more in the C through U headings) .. Jean-Claude Van Damme, Vincent van Gogh, Ben Vereen, Queen Victoria, Kurt Vonnegut, Mike Wallace, Damon Wayans, Ricky Williams, Robin Williams, Tennessee Williams, Brian Wilson, Frank Lloyd Wright, Tammy Wynette, Boris Yeltzin and Robert Young.

Now that I know that some discounted me because of my illness, it makes me question the value of transparency. Should I have kept it secret so that it couldn’t be held against me? Is my reputation and contribution worthless because of my transparency?

And knowing I am being judged: Will it only be after my death that my contributions will be appreciated or respected (no, I am not assuming that I of the caliber of those on the list above)? Do I succumb to the devil in the disease that says, “They will never trust you. They will never believe you are capable. They will always discount you because of your mental illness”?

The answer is ..and pardon my choice of words.. no f**king way! I am a child of God. Unique and wonderfully made. My life has purpose and meaning with or without your approval. By being transparent I have lived out my values and honestly, have no regrets for it.

One thing will change – those who wish to continue to box me in know this: it is not acceptable. I may not be Abraham Lincoln, Winston Churchill or Robin Williams (and neither are you), but I am a contributing member of society (just like you).

For those of you feeling like you might be one of “those” people in my life – you probably aren’t. The ones who are “those” people won’t have their eyes opened by this rant. Thanks for listening.

Wendy Johnson
San Diego, CA

Republished from A Woman Scorned, July 2007.

(Republished from Milkmoney Or Not, Here I Come)

There were good days just recently, I swear. Until three days ago, there was a whole string of good days. I was getting my medication schedule back on track; I was looking forward to return to a life that was cancer-free; normal was around the corner. I could feel it.

The above is a half-truthed (mostly) lie.

This is how I look back after a few bad days, because when in the midst of bad, it is easy to reinterpret previous situations as better. If I am honest, though, the entire week before these three bad days was not so good, either.

There are little lies I allow in order to sell myself on the notion that I have barometer with which to gauge normal. Usually the lie takes this form: how I am feeling and thinking now is not this so-called normal, but that time then when I was doing and saying those normal things? I was normal then.

Until recent years, I had not realized how obsessed I am with this concept of normalcy. Having felt greater and lesser degrees of depression and anxiety since the age of two, I have never had this sense of normal I talk about, and yet I look outward and try to staple it down where I think it must be. I tell myself that normal was that time when I was fourteen and my cousin and I went swimming with a couple of boys we had met; normal was when I learned how to knit at the church girls’ club; normal was grieving the deaths of the Palinode‘s and my first pets. Normal is what, on the surface, other people seem to be and do. I have been envious for years.

I know that normal is an ideal I have created out of the barrage of messages about what it is to be someone born female, white, and middle class. I should be a very specific kind of attractive, have a university degree, and two children. I should want a car and a yard. I should suffer mild lapses of happiness, but only because I am privileged enough to lament how hard it is to afford a larger house or a second car or a chin lift.

Even I can see that when I describe normal, I am describing a world of paper dolls with interchangeable, tabbed accessories. It is a much less normal and more a stiff version of the new 1950s suburbia. The normal to which I tend to refer, in my efforts to describe certain spans of my life as such, has evolved into a more or less static state with little emotional fluctuation. Normal is a cardboard cut-out diorama.

And suddenly, upon writing that last sentence, I cock my head to the side and press my lips together with the realization that the perception of normal I have been carrying with me is not even something I desire. I would want it if I did not mind feeling like bland, animated oatmeal, but thankfully, that is not the case.

(This realization, by the way, happens several times a year. That is the nature of realizations. They spark up from your consciousness and snuff out as soon as the next shiny thing happens by.)

This is by no means a justification for the my life’s dramatic downward swings, no. What this realization does is show that the normal I perceive is not an achievable state to which I aspire but my dream of a state of emotional lack. When the chain of varying degrees of bad days string further and further out behind me, the idea of being bland yet animated oatmeal for a while starts to look pretty good.

As I grow older, though, I am less and less driven to reinterpret past events as normal or not normal, especially now that I see it as a gauge by which I measure a generalized, suburban mediocrity and not a unique individual’s experience of the world. It is safe to pinpoint moments when I was not on the brink as proofs of my relative stability. The difficulty lies in letting go of the dream of a life for myself that does not involve my whole complicated, depressed, anxious, paranoid, insomniac history. This life I have doesn’t fit there; it is too large and loud and bold.

Perhaps, losing normal will stretch me forward from the present rather than backward into a past that already gave up.

It was easier when I was a child. My abuser was an upstanding member of the community, popular, respected. Nobody would have believed me. Nobody noticed the signs, the bruises, the stiff and sore muscles, the withdrawal, the fear. If they did they never said anything to me about it. I learned to distrust other humans at a very early age, especially grown-ups. Grown-ups were cowards.

But it was easier to pretend it wasn’t real when I was a child. I was able to create a world in which I could make it all disappear whenever I wanted. My teachers said I lacked focus. They said I didn’t apply myself to my work and that I spent most of my time staring out of the classroom window. I hated my teachers. They wanted to take from me my only refuge, my only way to survive. They wanted to take my imagination. It cost me everything, but they never got it.

It’s so easy to pretend that everything is ok when you’re a child. It’s what you’re supposed to do. Be quiet. Don’t talk back. Don’t make trouble. Do what you’re told. Easy.

It gets harder when the years roll away and you are left eye to eye with your abuser and the mess that’s been made of you. You find that if you’re to survive in this new adult world, you’re going to have to clean up the mess. It’s like being stabbed in the heart and then handed a needle and sutures. It’s a lot fucking easier to just lie down and bleed.

Suddenly everyone wants to know what’s wrong with you. You’re an adult now, no excuses, buck up, get over it, be normal. Be NORMAL NOW.

And you want to but you don’t know how. You ask for help and slowly you start to find yourself, your own voice. You realize that except for all of the remembering, you are safe. You learn that you have taken the place of your abuser. You learn to be more kind.

But it never goes away completely. It’s cliché, but there is scar tissue that you have to chisel through on a daily basis. There is anger, fear, confusion. There are days when you can’t do it anymore.

As an adult, it feels infinitely more difficult to protect your abuser. It’s not a matter of screaming their name from some rooftop. You learned long ago that there is nothing that will make things “even Steven”, and you no longer want your abuser to hurt like you do. What you want is to be free of them. What you want is the freedom to speak. The freedom to expose every side of yourself in whatever way you see fit. The freedom to answer questions honestly. Every day that you have to lie, cover up, shrug your shoulders, or just not speak feels like the equivalent of another day of abuse.

I find myself in a dangerous and terrifying place now, where I am bringing a new life into the world. There will come a time when my abuser will stand before me, believing that I will not speak as I place my child in their arms.

But inside, right now, I am screaming.