RealMental

From Heather O.

Some days I wake up and the sun is shining. As soon as my feet touch the floor, I know it’s going to be a great day. I have a bowl of cereal, enjoy the morning sun shining through the front windows and smile to myself. Happy. Content. Comfortable.

I haven’t had a day like that but maybe once or twice in my life.

Most days, the bear gets me.

I go to bed, curl up on rumbled sheets and stare at the blackness for hours, willing myself to sleep. I cry until my insides ache and finally fall asleep two hours before the children come to wake me up for breakfast. I stumble out of bed, rest my head on the half-painted bathroom wall and try to psyche myself into getting through the day. I wash bowls and fix cereal with bleary eyes, pour the milk with shaking hands and fall into my chair to stare at the wall. I put a movie on for the kids and put my forehead on the desk.

I wish I could shut my mind up for just a few moments but I never can and the walls are closing in again.

Rent is due in 3 days, no money coming in despite my best attempts at sales and marketing, power due, phone due, need groceries, $7 to my name, thinking about spending it on a pizza for the kids for lunch but I know I can’t go into the pizza place without having a panic attack, need to go buy bobbin thread so I can sew, hyperventilating thinking about going in to buy thread, kids want to go to the park and I can’t, what if there are lots of kids there and I lose one of mine in the crowd and can’t find them or some kid’s parent wants to talk to me, just a casual “hi how are you?” that I cannot handle.

Think about Andy, about Chris, about Colin, about Mama and how I have no idea where we’re even going to live if I can’t come up with the rent but I don’t want to live with Mama again and she doesn’t want us there either, know they love me but can’t cope with “where are you going, when will you be back, how much gas have you used, aren’t you due for an oil change, how many pairs of shoes have you made today, how’s the job hunt going, are you taking your medicine”, think I suck as a parent but when everyone can hear every thing I say it makes it ring twice as loud in my head, can’t give up the last shreds of independence that are mine.

I need to get a job, third shift, leave the kids with Mama all night and try to sleep in the mornings after I bring them home while they rot their brains watching TV all day, how can I get a job when I can’t even say the word “job” without shaking, going to throw up during the interview, if I can even get to the interview, terrified just thinking about going to a job and dealing with people I don’t know who don’t know me, what will they think of me, will they think I’m crazy. Am I crazy?

Turn on the sewing machine but can’t sew without thread, can’t buy thread without driving to the store, can’t drive to the store until the kids are dressed and presentable because if they go in the store with unbrushed hair then everyone will know I’m falling apart and they probably already noticed that I can’t breathe and my hands are shaking so bad that I just dropped the thread on the counter, what an idiot, how could I be so stupid, those people all wonder what the fuck is wrong with me.

Have to get orders finished but can’t concentrate, don’t care, not many left anyway since no one wants what I’ve got so I can put these off another day or three, packages stacked here that need to go out but have to wait until after 5 to go into the post office to weigh them so no one is there and don’t have to see or talk to anyone, back home to print postage out, drive back to the post office to drop them off in the privacy of my own car with the music on loud, loud enough that I can drown out the nagging voices in the back of my head for just a little while. Loser. Fat girl.

My kids think I’m okay and for them I am. They are all that I have and I summon every ounce of sanity I have to take them places and let them live a happy life. They hug me and tell me they love me and they are the only ones I believe. They aren’t old enough to hate me for my inadequacies yet. Give them time, give them time.

3 weeks until my appointment at mental health and god knows what they are going to think of me. It’s their job and they see lots of crazies so maybe I’m really quite normal, who knows? Haven’t talked to anyone who isn’t related to me in weeks, lost my only friend because I couldn’t shut up, nothing but online friends left and they’ve got to be sick of hearing me by now, supposed to hold it together online because otherwise my business could be damaged but really not much left there to damage so might as well fall apart everywhere.

I walk around every day and my family thinks I’m doing so much better, holding it together so well, oh she’s on the upward swing. Lie. Bullshit. Inside my head I’m screaming weeping hurting dying and maybe if I could cut the pain out it wouldn’t hurt so bad but I don’t think anything will help.

Can’t believe I’m going to post this on the internet where everyone can see it but maybe I’ve not been honest enough because I’m so afraid of what my mother-brother-in-law will think and maybe they just don’t matter and will think badly of me no matter how good I try to be and how much I tried to care and how much I loved Andy so what difference does it make what they think. Never tried to be my friend, never gave one bit of caring or understanding. Money isn’t love, isn’t caring, isn’t understanding, doesn’t make a house a home, doesn’t make someone love you who just doesn’t even though that would be nice. Never believed me and still won’t when I say that I did want to be a part of their family, I wanted them to think of me like a daughter, wanted them to care about me. Doesn’t matter now, doesn’t matter at all. Your son is free of me, free to wash his own dishes and play computer games all day if he wants and yell at my kids on his only day with them and be glad to be rid of my abrasive insanity that only wanted us to be happy and love each other. Wasted years.

Doesn’t do any good to love because who wants to kiss a crazy girl, give me vodka but don’t come by to talk to me even when I plead, let me bare my soul and then walk away, ignore me for years, treat me like the laundry-girl but now even less than that, not worthy for your affection, who is, who wants it, do you treat everyone like this or just the crazy girls who bug the shit out of you.

“For as long as our love shall endure” was the vow, not enduring, never had a chance, escape clause built in from the beginning, “I don’t love you” to absolve from the responsibility of a marriage, stand back and watch me crash and burn.

And it’s better this way, better this way.

Originally posted here.

(Written June 27, 2006)

From mysadalterego

Today I saw a patient for a pre-operative evaluation. This is a consultation for a patient that needs surgery, but who has other medical problems that make the surgeon nervous, and the surgeon basically wants someone like me to sign that I evaluated the person so that I can be blamed if something goes wrong. At least that’s my semi-cynical version of it. My fully-cynical version of it is that surgeons make relatively little money seeing a patient in clinic (though a lot more than a family doc or internist does), and they don’t want to waste time evaluating a patient when they could be operating and billing for the real benjamins.

Of course, I’m messing with the details of the story, but it went something like this: this woman was elderly, but under 80, and had the usual medical problems that go with that age, but not more – mild diabetes, mild high blood pressure, a few other things like that, but no history of smoking, no lung disease and no significant heart disease.

I think that over time I’ve collected a few doctor readers, so I’ll add this list of meds, more or less: some vitamins, a beta blocker, metformin, maybe there was an ACE inhibitor in there, can’t remember, a statin, a laxative, a bisphosphonate and some ranitidine, and a few other drugs, which I will get to in a minute.

She also had a recently discovered cancer, which was the occasion for the operation. The operation is a large one, but not “heroic” or the kind of thing they call people to come sit in the balcony to observe. It’s not a Whipple or anything close, but it’s not a lumpectomy either. It probably will not lead to a cure, but will almost certainly lengthen her life considerably, and will definitely prevent at least some of the uglier complications in the future. It is the standard of care.

Now, the rub: one of her diagnoses was “Depression.” No further explanation. In addition to the above, she also receives lithium at a healthy dose as well as paroxetine. This was the first time I saw her and she is an immigrant who does not speak any language I speak, so we had to speak through her son translating. But she was perfectly pleasant, totally coherent (able to give full medical and surgical history since childhood) as far as I could tell without speaking her language. To my shame, I didn’t ask what her profession had been. (I just didn’t think to while trying to sort out a complicated medical history.) I had never seen her before, and she came with almost no written medical information other than the recent imaging and investigations that were directly related to this cancer. I have no idea how her depression presented, why lithium was added, how long she had been stable or ill, or anything about that particular illness other than what I saw. To be fair, I also had no information about the history and control of her diabetes or blood pressure, though all three issues were controlled during my examination – blood pressure was good, sugars fine as well as HBA1C.

And then this: among all of her documents, I come across a paper that is a statement by a consultant psychiatrist that she is competent and able to both consent to and undergo the operation.

The surgeon and anesthesiologist had both refused to treat her without this evaluation. The surgeon’s referral put the demand for a full psychiatric evaluation (at the family’s expense) above cardiac, geriatric, oncologic, or functional evaluation, and refused to proceed or even make a tentative statement on her suitability for operation without this.

The surgeon, for that matter, does not speak her language either. But I assume he saw a similar patient to the one I did, as he had seen her less than 3 weeks before.

Just the fact that she came in taking certain medications, with a psychiatric diagnosis, one that, for that matter, has no bearing on her ability to decide how to live her life or to comprehend information, could have caused life-prolonging, standard-of-care treatment for cancer to have been withheld, to have been considered “inappropriate” or “unnecessary” or “unsuitable.”

In her case, fortunately, the psychiatrist did not write a full three page summary of her personal flaws (as I have seen sometimes in these types of evaluations), but rather summed it up with a line something like, “Patient understands implications of illness and treatment options and is competent to make any and all judgments blah blah blah.” But how many of these cases never make it that far? How many times, when surgery is an option, do surgeons see a diagnosis like that, or a drug like lithium and decide that the patient simply isn’t a candidate for surgery, or decide not to present all of the options?

I also wonder, if it had been an older man with “depression,” whether he would have been put through this humiliating evaluation, or whether only hysterical women need to be qualified as competent. Or if it had only been the paroxetine and not the lithium? What was it that pushed her into questionable incompetence? Does the referring doctor understand the implications of demanding an evaluation like that – that they are essentially calling into question a person’s sovereignty over their own body? I am hard-pressed to think of any kind of mental disability, including those conditions that include intellectual disability, in which a person cannot be presented with options in a manner fitting their understanding.

I don’t know whether to be angry, or to want to cry, or what. But I think mostly I’m afraid that someday I will be that little old lady with an ugly diagnosis on my chart, whose life is seen as only questionably worth saving.

Previously published here.

From Dodo

I was diagnosed schizophrenic about nine months ago, and had moved into a new world with antidepressant and antipsychotic medication since then. It was a slow and frighteningly revealing journey. I found out I was pregnant after we took a long vacation in the States over December. My psychiatrist advised me to quit all meds over two days, which I did. Then a week or so ago I miscarried. But the hospital wasn’t sure I had. I had to go in every day for four days for bloods, scans, examinations, internal scans and, eventually, ‘the talk.’ The one where they say that there’s nothing you could have done differently. Being off the meds made me feel different about the prospect of having another baby. Made me feel different about the strength of my relationship with S. We had a very difficult year last year. While we were away, the idea of new year, new start, new baby, new house seemed natural. Obvious. Now I don’t know. I don’t feel any particular connection to the baby I lost. Or to him.

“small and still and undisturbed. its what i want. and what i’m afraid of. wanting because of the absolution that’s bound to it. turn down the lights, muffle invading sounds. be still. and inside. and quiet. trying to find a way to let go without letting go. to be able to achieve distance from the outside for the hours i have to myself. lose the time that’s mine to lose. now that i’ve walked away from my job i have three whole days to indulge myself. with solitude. not solitude. a kind of comforting vacuum.

but the show must go on. P has to be taken to nursery. Adult conversations must be had. dinner made. dog walked. How much of the outside function can i maintain while secretly willing myself further and further away.
the longer i leave it, the harder it is to get back. one day without brushing my teeth, two days without washing my hair. deliberately not taking the meds in case they strengthen my fingernail grip. stop me from disappearing. but not committing, medicating intermittently. enough for ” and how was your day?” and putting on clothes. enough to take P to the park with a neighbour. enough to take the cat and talk to the vet. joke even. enough to give S a plausible account of a productive day. so he doesn’t despise my sloth. seek pastures greener. again.
outside is jagged edges and piercing sounds. clumsy intrusions. it’s too bright, too loud. too personal. abrasive. other. too much.

so few tools to challenge myself to consider the inevitable conclusion. yet here i am. what would happen if i disappeared completely. i’ve backspaced over that line twice. can’t answer my own question. except I can. i know i’ve felt this way before. i know i’ve lived through it. i remember this feeling – that S is a great father and that there’s lots of people who love P. that the clouds would soon pass. how ridiculous. how indulgent i sound. such melodrama. how pathetic.”

Previously posted here.

From Carla

I felt like I went through today with glass eyes, barely participating in anything. I even laid down on my futon and slept there in my clothes for two hours without moving. Clouds came by but never got around to raining, and I went on my bicycle down the street only for a few minutes. I’m not sure how comfortable I am talking like this but I think I’m feeling like this – listless, walled-in spectator – because of my anti-anxiety medication. I take it so rarely now that I forget what it feels like. Granted, I was able to function, lead, laugh and coach instead of being a quivering mass of nerves like last week. But at what cost does this functionality bring. It isn’t that I don’t feel like me, its that I don’t feel like I’m here. I’m not sure I feel like writing either, but I’m doing it just the same. I think you can tell that my brain isn’t working the same way. The imagery is missing, my sentences are shorter. Everything comes out so literally. I am fortunate not to need these meds often, because I feel I would never be able to get through the rest of my life if I did.

From David

In 1979, when I was 18, my mind had what I colorfully like to call a “come-apart”. I didn’t realize it or even know what it was, but deep clinical depression was growing in me like some toxic black mold. I had no idea what was wrong and I became so sick so fast I lost all ability to even articulate what was happening inside of me. Rapidly I skidded down the slickery slope to psychotic, suicidal hell. Weeeeeeee!!!

My mind soon began to shut down. The simplest tasks took extraordinary effort to complete. Ask me my name and I’d have looked at you as if you’d just said to me, “Tell me what 137 to the 27th power is or I’ll stab you in the neck.” I wouldn’t have been able to answer you. I’d have stared at you with panic and confusion on my face and would have weeped uncontrollably. All because you asked me my name.

I was exhausted constantly. All I ever wanted to do was lie down and sleep, preferably forever and ever. And ever. And ever. But night would come and my brain wouldn’t shut off the internal noise and sleep would elude me. At some point I realized I was going mad. What could possibly be more frightening than being aware you’re losing your mind, losing control of your own self, your own thoughts, and not knowing what to do about it? Relentless suicidal and self-destructive ideas were bombarding and tormenting me. I am, and always have been, a peaceful person yet suddenly my mind was roaring with violent, vicious, grizzly thoughts all directed at me.

I felt as if I had split in two. The old part of me: timid, sweet, funny, generous. The new part of me: dark, powerful, the devil. The thoughts in my head soon became external and loud, and they took on a different voice. A deep, loud, growling voice telling me to “kill yourself” or “worthless piece of crap” or “idiot” or “people hate you”. Then one day the voice said “cut” so I did. I don’t know why I did or why I listened, but I did. I cut in places no one could see, but I cut. I cut my arms, my chest, my stomach, my thighs. I still look at the scars and wonder why I cut myself, but in some way those scars are my friends and I’m fond of them.

During that time, the early 1980s, I was in and out of hospitals. Diagnosed as manic/depressive, then with borderline personality disorder, then borderline paranoid schizophrenic, then this and then that. Ah, the inexact science of psychiatric medicine in the 1980s. Tell me, is it any more exact today? Eventually someone hung the label “acute psychotic major depressive disorder” on me and it stuck. But with differing diagnoses comes differing pharmaceuticals. Artane, Navane, Elavil, Mellaril, Thorazine, Stellazine, Ritalin, lithium, Nardil, and probably a dozen others I can’t recall. You think the dry mouth or limp noodle side effects from Paxil is bad? You take Thorazine and then come talk to me. All the while, though, the voice kept talking to me, telling me to “cut”, “kill”, telling me I’m “worthless”.

Many doses of ECT offered no relief either. ECT kills one’s short term memories and yet I still vividly remember the zombie-like feeling following a round of having an electrical current fired through my noggin. Feeling neither happy nor sad. Quite literally devoid of any feeling. An electrically induced temporary lobotomy.

Yet still the voice screamed at me. “Cut yourself.” “You’re worthless, shoot yourself. Now!” Nothing could make the voice stop. Oftentimes the voice was crude and quite vivid in the gruesome plans it wanted me to carry out on myself, but due to decorum I’ll omit those here. If a voice you hear, but nobody else does, telling you awful things to do to yourself doesn’t drive you over the edge then probably nothing will.

After the 7,112,976th time of the voice telling me to “kill yourself” I decided to listen to it. I worked at a hospital and had access to all sorts of festively colored pills and capsules, just ripe for the picking. I swallowed several bottles of anything I could get my grubby hands on. Heart medication, blood pressure medication, migraine pills, tranquilizers, the prescriptions I was currently taking, even a huge bottle of Tylenol. Obviously I was discovered, I’m not writing this from the grave, and they pumped my tummy clean and revived me and then, as punishment for my crime, I was sent for a stay at the lovely and oh so inviting “Timberlawn Sanitarium”, it actually had that name etched in stone over one of the old original buildings that is used as administrative/admissions offices now, in Dallas, Texas for a period of approximately 11 months.

The Timberlawn Psychiatric Hospital facility was incredibly secure. With heavy metal screens over all windows, plexiglass on all the bay windows, doors that lock automatically when shut, etc. You’ll pardon me, I hope, if when I speak of Timberlawn Psychiatric Hospital I speak of it as a prison and of my stay there as a prison sentence. I will refer to the nurses and staff as guards and my psychiatrist as the warden.

Upon induction into Timberlawn, thankfully there was no full body cavity search and no delousing, I was swiftly removed of my shoelaces, my belt, my razor, my nail clippers, and anything else I had which was shiny or sharp. Meals would be served to me by the guards on my cell block until such time as I had earned the trust from the guards and the warden that I wouldn’t try to escape or hurt myself. Then, and only then, would I be allowed to take my meals across campus, the prison yard, and eat in in the dining hall proper. Welcome to your new home, inmate.

When asked to “please release me, let me go” I was told if I didn’t stay voluntarily I would be committed. The frustration of that was immense so I shut down. Refused to talk or take my meds or participate in anything. I wasn’t totally lacking in rational thought, and it quickly dawned on me, after being threatened with restraints and IVs and suppositories, that if I wanted to get out of there any time soon I needed to play the game, follow the rules, and go with the flow. Having my meds forced up my backside just didn’t sound like much of a bargain to me, then or now.

So I settled down and got with the program and within a couple of months I was allowed to go to the gym and go do crafts and walk, under escort by a couple of the guards, to the dining hall for my meals. I also got just crazy good at ping-pong. Every evening after supper it was ping-pong-a-palooza for those of us on the unit who had high enough privileges to walk down the hall to the ping-pong room. And then if you really behave and contribute to group therapy and show you’re serious about your treatment, maybe in six months if you’re lucky, they might let you out, with a guard of course, to go see a movie. Well I hated it. Can you tell? Every blessed moment of it, I hated it. Finally I was discharged, paroled, my illness cured. Yeah right.

Twenty years pass and I’ve fought this nightmare countless times off and on ever since, but for the most part keeping it to myself. I feared if I told anyone I’m hearing the voice again or that I’m incessantly thinking of suicide I’ll be locked away again. Within the past year the voice and my dreadful thoughts have become overwhelming. Over the years it seemed that if I just weathered the storm, waited it out and not acted on the self-destructive thoughts, it would ease up on it’s own and I’d come out of this hellish pit on my own. But this time, for nearly a year, I can’t get out. I can’t control my own thoughts and everyday I wake up contemplating suicide. It’s devouring me. I’m losing the battle. I want to walk into a field and sit down in the cold rain and just let it dissolve me into a puddle.

Once again I find myself frightened of myself. “I hate myself”. “I don’t belong here”. “I am a misfit”. “A freak”. “I want to die”. “My core is rotting”. These are the thoughts that consume me again, each and every day. My brain is being destroyed by the horrible thoughts which I can’t control.

I recently sought help. I am now on the second week of medication consisting of Paxil and Trazodone, but will they work? The best meds of the 70s and 80s did no good. Multiple rounds of shock treatments bought little lasting relief. Long term hospitalization made me angry at and scared of the psychiatric profession. Some may say, “But Dave, you’re alive.” Yes I’m alive, but that’s a small victory if you ask me. A very hollow victory indeed. Almost 30 years since this nightmare began and I can’t wake up from it to escape it.

The darkness decided to come for a visit.  That same cold and lonely darkness that I’m so familiar with, it’s that unwanted family member.  My first thought is if I’ve remembered to take the Effexor and Thyroid Medicine. Yes, I have. The thyroid medicine is not a synthetic drug but makes me very sick if I forget to take it.

The day is spent wondering why about everything.  Why did that man just look at me like that? What does that phone call “really” mean? Why haven’t I been able to solve this problem? Why does it hurt sometimes so much that I can barely breath?

Why, why, why, why?

Due to this being a familiar experience, I regrettably have to note that there is some small amount of comfort in this unwelcome visitor.

Chemically, I’ve done my part with the medicine. Spiritually I’ve done my part. I am not hungry, angry, lonely or tired. Well, maybe I am actually tired. Yes, my sleep patterns have been off and I’m having a very hard time establishing a healthier routine.

A healthier routine is the answer for a lot of things, and I know without any doubt that when I am actively participating in a healthy routine I FEEL GOOD. Not “too” good, just balanced and healthy. Yet, as a human I’m apt to jump off that wheel and ruin all that feel good stuff.

Do other people that do not have mental issues and addictions have to work so hard at staying in the middle of the road? I always wonder about people that don’t suffer from the “crazy”.  Do they question why getting up, taking a shower and feeding ourselves is considered a victory for us on some days?

Some days it just comes. It isn’t because I am bad, wrong, stupid, overweight and ugly.

Some days it just comes.

Maybe if I don’t feed it or clothe it, like I’ve done in the past, it won’t stay too long.

Yeah, hi.  That’s me.  I know I’ve been away for a while, but what better occasion for a return than to tell the world just how horrible a person I am?

My bipolar husband, despite doing all the right things, has been deep, deep, deep in an atypical (for him) depressive cycle for at least the last six months.  It’s actually probably lasted longer, but that’s about how long it’s been debilitating to the point that he can’t work or maintain normal function.  I won’t go into details about everything that’s been tried for him so far, but let’s just say it’s been a LOT.  And that he has cooperated whole-heartedly with every treatment, regardless of how horrible the side-effects may be, because he wants his life back.  Badly.

You know, depression has never been the bugaboo for us.  It’s always been the threat of a manic episode that loomed nearby, and kept us ever-vigilant for the slightest symptoms and early-warning signs.  It’s mania that has scared the stuffing out of us both, because we both know that a good, strong florid mania is capable of ruining our marriage and our family, despite whatever good intentions we may have.  Mania has always been, for us, the Other in our marriage–a beast to fight and fear.  I even used to joke, “Where is the other pole in this bipolar disorder?  I think we could use a swing toward depression right now!”

Ha, ha.  It’s not funny any more.  I am so sorry, but I really had no idea.  I thought I did, which now is very nearly hilarious–I thought I “got it.”  I didn’t.

I did not anticipate, in my wildest dreams, the depth, the blackness, the despair of this depression.  That it could affect my brilliant spouse’s cognitive abilities and physical coordination.  It’s like a malicious, transient form of brain damage, really, and stunning in its power.

And my response to it has been, well…less than stellar, at least lately.  I have been so wrapped up, in the years since the diagnosis, in watching for and combating the manic side of the spectrum, that the depression caught me completely flat-footed.  My troops were all amassed at the Hypomanic Border, and the few straggling sentries and scouts who brought reports from Depressive Kingdom were brushed off as insignificant, or addled.  If only I’d known.

Who knew–turns out that my moods cycle, too.  And that cycle, in regard to my mentally ill spouse, appears to go something like this: Patience, understanding, patience, kindness, patience, concern, patience, frustration, worry, frustration, resentment, impatience, fear, deep frustration, RIP YOUR HEAD OFF AND DISEMBOWEL YOU WITH UNKIND WORDS.  Nice, huh?  I honestly, and truly suck.

That’s right–when a loved one is down lower than you can even imagine being, why not give him a good swift kick, you know, as long as he’s down there?  Go ahead, vent your spleen–after all, you have feelings, too, right?  And you’ve bottled this up for so long, why save it for therapy?  I’m sure that the person who is clinging to you like the only life-raft in a raging sea of misery won’t mind ONE BIT.  Let him know just how displeased you are with this whole depression thing, because almost certainly he’s been doing it ON PURPOSE, and just needs to feel your wrath, resentment, and maybe even a smidgen of contempt, to snap right on out of it, get back to work, smile, and be happy!  RIGHT?

I feel about two inches tall, and I’m so, so sorry.  I wish that what I’d done was to recognize and appreciate the things that he is amazingly ABLE to do right now, even through a thick black fog.  That is true courage, and I DO see it.

Going back to my best attempt at being positive (which is where I should’ve stayed all along, more’s the pity), we’ve pushed the doctors to make some fairly radical (for us) and frightening  (for us) changes in medication regimen, and I can’t help but think that something’s going to happen soon.  It may be too much, but at this point, anything different will be welcome, at least at first.

One of two mood stabilizers has been removed entirely, as has the benzodiazepine.  This will be the first time since diagnosis without Depakote and Klonopin.  This is terrifying.  To exponentially enhance our trepidation, factor in a huge increase in anti-depressant dosage.  Now, realize that this is exactly the time of year when the “ramping up” usually begins, and you have a real “YIKES” element going.

Of course, this is all pretty much what we asked for.  Much the same way ECT jolts the brain out of a repetitive, destructive pattern, we’re hoping to shake up the med cocktail SO much, while at the same time hopefully harnessing some of that very manic energy that we normally fear so greatly every spring, that my dear husband’s brain will HAVE to let go, and emerge from the depths.  I’m just hoping that we have time, once the climb begins in earnest, to get the lid on before it’s too late.

I’m also hoping to be less of a jerk about the whole thing.