RealMental

I was driving home tonight, about 15 minutes ago actually, and it occurred to me that I can’t remember not adding an imaginary caveat to the question; “how are you doing?”. When good friends ask how I am, I usually say “pretty good” or even the daring “okay”, but in my head I am adding things. Like I am ok, but last night I thought about how good it would feel to not exist, or I am fine, but I secretly scratch the back of my legs until they bleed. Sometimes I feel propelled to tell the truth, but I feel that such circumstances are not a time for honesty. I think that most people who suffer from some sort of mental illness get very good at faking normal or ok, or even funny! and nice! and chatty! I guess I should say, that I am pretty good at appearing to be a high functioning, dare I saw somewhat awesome, person.

I wanted to post a quick history here on RealMental, since that is the first-ish thing I want to know about people.

p.s. HUGE shout out to LeahPeah for wrangling this and involving me.

I am 37 now, so the where and when and hows might occasionally be fuzzy, but for now, this is how I got here.

I started with a diagnosed panic disorder at 18, while in university. I had suffered from it since I was 13, not being able to sleep away from home, not being able to go out to do social activities after dark, only watching tv shows that were set somewhere sunny. Seriously. I spent 4 months at an outpatient at the university hospital, 4 hours a day, 5 days a week. Turned out to be very interesting, but not so effective. Ultimately proper medication helped. I ended up going more than halfway across the country to finish school. Not without bumps, but so so so much better. I often felt depressed, but figured those feelings were just me, part of me, who I was. Not good enough, thin enough, smart enough.

I was off of my medication (Nardil, total old skool med), for a few years before I went back on for more general anxiety with panic attacks. Wee! I ended up going back on during a very stressful time in my life, first serious (but good) relationship, I had just met my biological mom (i am adopted), and I was getting married in a year or so, and lets face it, my brain is buggered, so it was time to go back on. My general physician was taking care of my meds, but she ultimately sent me to a psychiatrist to help. I went back on the Nardil and felt better. She also gave me ativan (for emergencies) and a few sleeping pills if I remember. Read more »

So I heard they took you in. Don’t worry. It happens.

Not trying to spread gossip, but in case Perez Hilton is right about why you’re there…well, that happens, too. Mental illness happens. And when it happens you work the program and get off suicide watch and get fresh-air break, and eventually you get your shoelaces back and can go home and start over, which is the closest thing this life offers to a miracle.

I can see you as the intense and possibly troubled middle brother. You’re the Dignan.

Plus side: Your family obviously loves you–I met your brothers doing press for The Wendell Baker Story–and I absolutely guarantee you that women find troubled geniuses fascinating, especially if they’re Scorpios with big noses and publicly-documented buttlicking fetishes. I’d hit that.

The drugs are initially constipating, but sometimes straining to excrete is better than wandering around in the wilderness like Margot Kidder. Also watch out for dry mouth. Get some flavored lube for the buttlicking stuff. I can’t lick a stamp anymore. My husband is sad, but at least I’m not a greasy stain under the Highway 183 flyover.

So there you have my advice to you, or to anyone else reading.

The second time i tried to commit suicide i was 24 years old.

I had spent the nine years in between my first and second suicide attempt barely getting by, Sometimes i had good moments, even months.

When i was sixteen i began a ten year struggle with self-harm, addictive behaviours and engaging in activities that were dangerous to my mind and body.

I discovered the agonizing pleasure and pain that came with sexuality and throwing your body to strange men in the hope for love, or freedom from self-hate, but resulted in personal lows that were so immobilizing that the only cure was more sex. A cycle that continued for years. More drugs, more alcohol, more sex, more hate, the lowest self-esteem and debilitating depression coupled with days on end of uncontrolled mania.

I had never been told that my depression was something that could be helped. I spent my days thinking that the way i felt was how my life was going to be. That i would always hate myself and, in turn, let others hate me and abuse me.

I was molested as a child. I learned that sex was a way to hurt, be hurt, and control.

I fell in love when i was 21 and spent three years struggling with my desire for my boyfriend. I loved him and sex was, for the first time, mutual and enjoyable. But, i would spend my hours late at night, when i was alone, confused by my feelings. Wanting to destroy the love i had before it crushed me.

I wanted him to leave me. I wanted him to hate me. I wanted him to love me forever.

I wanted to die. I wanted to die rather than deal with all the fucked up thoughts in my head. I wanted to die rather than let myself be loved and eventually destroy him.

I had started on the road to seeking help. I was diagnosed as manic depressive (bi-polar nowadays). I was given ativan and lithium. I was sent to psychiatrists who diagnosed me ninety-nine different ways depending on my mood that day and how i answered questions. Thus beginning my hatred of therapy and the mental-medical profession in general.

I hated the way i felt on lithium. The out-of-body feeling. Looking in on myself, but too drugged to scream at my screwed up self. I stopped taking the medication, but continued filling the prescriptions until i had my little stockpile. My arsenal.

I overdosed quietly and went to bed. I lived.

Yesterday I went on a crying spree that lasted off and on all day. I cried about everything- my dysfunctional family, my imperfect house, my swollen feet, the passing of my grandmother. Each time I cried it was catastrophic, my heart crushed in equal proportion regardless of the catalyst.

Whenever my sorrow over incomplete baseboards hurts me as deeply as a deceased relative, I’m engaging in what I like to call “La Fiesta Loco”. I’d love to blame it on hormones, but the fact is that I suffer from these little episodes more often than I’d like to admit. Everything hurts. The mental anguish is unbearable. I’m unable to put anything into perspective or engage in rational thought.

My experience has been that with my medication these wonderfully attractive episodes are not a daily or even weekly event. I am more able to tell myself that I’ve ventured into Crazyville and I’ll find my way home soon enough. Most importantly, I usually don’t feel any burning hatred towards myself for having a defective brain or the need to harm myself as a result.

(On a side note, have you noticed how when you go to your doctor or therapist and they ask if you’ve been feeling suicidal and you say “yes”, their next question is “do you have a plan?”? What kind of question is that? No dude, I was just sitting around watching Saved By the Bell reruns and it suddenly occurred to me to end it all but then Slater’s ex showed up in town and Jessie was all pissed and I forgot all about decorating the wall with my frontal lobe. No biggie.)

I am the self-pity queen. That’s not to say that when I have a day like yesterday my feelings aren’t valid or important, it’s just that when I start feeling some clarity it’s vitally important that I put things in perspective. Is my house lacking baseboards because God hates me and I’m doomed to a lifetime of misery and suffering or have I neglected to call the baseboards guy because I enjoy putting things off until the last conceivable minute? Did my grandmother die just to break my heart or because she was 82 years old, sick, and ready to go? Are my feet swollen because I’m the most unsexy human alive or because I’ve been blessed enough to to have a little baby growing inside me?

My life is amazing even when my brain is unable to process this fact and it’s so important for me to assume a position of humility as soon as I’m able. Perspective. It rules.

Kindergarten starts on Monday, so between now and then I am white-knuckling the days. I veer between “I’m not ready!” and “Fucking hell, can I get a village?” Sometimes I get schmoopy. Sometimes I get anguished. Sometimes I have the trots. Sometimes I think I’m going to run away to Montana and wait tables and have sex with cowboys. Sometimes I think it’s been about fifteen minutes since he was a baby. Sometimes it feels like he must be driving the car and shaving by now.

We got the official class letter from his teacher yesterday, and I couldn’t get through it without sniffling and plotzing.

“You cry so much,” my son said. “I’m going to help you.”

Of course my moods are not his responsibility, but under his own steam he came up with a plan: scaring me. I guess he reasoned that having the shit scared out of me will distract me from my tearful emotions. I have to say that he’s right–it does work, at least temporarily, when he jumps out from behind the door as I’m leaving the bathroom and yells, “ATTACK!” I forget all about our rite of passage and nearly soil myself instead. Babies are like cats with bells, but the five-year-old can be stealthy enough to give you a legitimate shock.

Helps with the hiccups, too.

By Dad Gone Mad

One of the great things about recovering from a mental illness is the semi-regular opportunity one has to sit in the psychiatrist’s waiting room and try to deduce whether the other patients are more or less batshit than you are.

It’s fun because it’s simply not the kind of game people with other illnesses and ailments play. Would a man waiting to see his cardiologist scan the waiting room, wondering if perhaps the old guy across the room reading the four-month-old issue of Auto Upholstery Weekly has a more life-threatening aortal blockage than his? Do women waiting for their electrolysis appointment try to see if the other ladies in the room have fuller moustaches? Of course not. It’s just not done. But when you’re a looney, it’s somehow a comfort to know (or at least believe) that there are others in the room who are worse off that you (sort of the opposite of penis envy).

The first time I ever walked into to a psychiatrist’s office, I expected to find people banging their heads against the drywall or drooling all over the pages of Highlights For Children or quoting Jack Nicholson to the receptionist: “PUT YOUR HAND IN THE AIR, CHIEF! DON’T YOU WANT TO WATCH THE GAME, CHIEF?” But it wasn’t like that at all, and part of me was disappointed. In fact, the only real crazy person I saw that day was the psychiatrist himself — a balding, sweater-wearing old man with a thousand-mile stare who talked in barely audible whispers and appeared to be simultaneously under the influence of a valium, Milk of Magnesia and Grey Goose. Needless to say, I found a new psychiatrist.

The new guy is of Middle Eastern descent and his receptionist has gargantuan breasts. She speaks to me very nicely, in a practiced, polished, professional tone that seems to say, “If you’re severely disturbed and homicidal, I hope that my sexy voice and this up-close view of my enormous cans will convince you to walk away and kill someone other than me.” The waiting room is bright and spacious and loaded with pamphlets about antidepressants that contain happy, supportive phrases like “not feeling yourself lately” and “get back to being you.” This doctor, whom we’ll call Dr. Dingleheimer, seems to attract a more affluent mix of crazies, and in the half-dozen times I’ve been there over the years I always have a good time deconstructing the white-collar psychos and projecting various ailments and lifestyles onto them. It makes me feel better about myself to imagine that they are, in fact, certifiably wacko.

There’s a woman sitting next to the magazine rack. See her? She’s here seeking treatment for a unique kind of behavioral disorder — the kind where anytime someone says the word “chicken,” she stands up, tucks her hands under her armpits like wings and begins to cluck. “Buh-kawk! Buk-buk-buh-kawk!” Such a sad, misunderstood chick. Dr. Dingleheimer’s Prescription: 95,000 mg. of Wellbutrin before bedtime (may be taken with or without food) and for God’s sake, stay away from all KFC locations.

Oh, and see that man over there by the window? He’s here because he has trouble with childhood memories of his father, the kind of man most would describe as an overzealous Little League dad. He was pushed so relentlessly by his father to excel at baseball that he came to believe this was the only way he could earn his dad’s love. The man is in his late 40s now. His father died over a decade ago but the man still walks around wearing a batting helmet. He had thick black lines tattooed under his eyes. And whenever he gets nervous, he begins to chant “Hey, batter, batter, batter. Hey, batter, batter, batter. Swing!” over and over again. Naturally, these issues have had decidedly negative affect on the man’s love life and his work as a librarian. Dr. Dingleheimer’s Prescription: 600 mg. of Zoloft eight times a day and start rooting for the Chicago Cubs (which would break just about any baseball fan’s enthusiasm for the game in no time flat).

And then there’s the man who is in with Dr. Dingleheimer right now, a man who likes to curse and make funny noises so much that he pretends to have Tourette’s Syndrome just so he has an excuse. Before he went in to see the doctor, he was sitting here looking for nudity in the January issue of Cosmopolitan, going, “Woop! Fuck it! Click. Click. You’re an asshole. ASSHOLE! Wooooooop! Fuck it!” It’s a nice show, but it gets a little old after 15 minutes. So now he’s in there with the doctor and I can hear his antics through the door. Dr. Dingleheimer’s Prescription: For starters, SHUT THE FUCK UP!

See? I’m not so crazy after all.

I have begun behavior modification therapy. Which, as far as i can tell, involves looking into my brain and finding all the ways it’s broken.We are looking at my “Core Beliefs” and “*Filters.”

* “A filter is an extremely stable and enduring pattern of thinking that develops during childhood and is elaborated throughout an individual’s life. We view the world through filters.” (Young, 1999)

Not surprisingly i scored very high on many filters that are bad. BAD. Highest on the list were self-sacrifice, vulnerability to harm and illness, emotional deprivation, and defectiveness/social undesirability.

Of course i am pessimistic, at best, about all this hocus-pocus and nobody wants to know how screwed up they are. Do they? I know i’m supposed to be learning from this. Looking at these “filters” and understanding why i feel the way i do. All i see is that i am socially undesirable and vulnerable all wrapped up in an emotional straightjacket.

Lots of homework. Mood logs to fill out. I just have so much trouble being honest. Seeing the benefit in all of this when it leaves me swirling in a muddy pit of despair.

I think the biggest misunderstanding about depression is that a person has control over it.

That i should be grateful for what i have – just get over myself. Believe me i am grateful and i would give every penny i have to just get over it.

Since being in the hospital, which is such a humbling and embarrassing situation to be in, and changing medications my sadness has changed. It’s not right there on the surface anymore. I no longer well up with tears at the thought of any mildly sad thought. It’s deeper now. It’s more all consuming. I just can’t brush it off. I can ignore it, but happiness and laughter completely elude me now.

I am working harder than ever at keeping it all together. Keeping the house clean, doing laundry, taking the kids on adventures. Ensuring that everything around me is not falling apart.

My children are happy. They frolic about in the yard, enjoying the sun that has finally appeared, making up games. Being kids. Oblivious to the giant, often frightening world around them. They have everything they need, including plenty of love from me.

I’m not sure why i feel this need to defend myself, or more aptly my mothering skills. But, when i open myself up to this giant world of therapy it is difficult not to focus on all the ways i am broken. There is little to no thought about the things i have done right.