RealMental

The countdown at casa de Miriam is on in full force.  We have the paper strips cut and ready for glitter glue, stamps and taping into chains to hang and confuse visitors.  There is the Hanukkah chain.  December 11.  The Christmas chain.  December 25.  Wee Girl’s 4th Birthday!!! December 31.  New Year’s Eve.  December 31.

There is no chain to count the heart wrenching marking of days that began sometime in the last few weeks and surprised me with its “still crazy after all these years” presence.  My daughter’s birthday is, oddly enough, also the anniversary  of her birth and thusly of what is one of the worst days of my life in spite of the amazing ten fingered, ten toed little beauty that came with it.  New Year’s Eve 2005 marked the beginning of years of a new sort of distress that my brain wasn’t used to regardless of the years of training in mental dysfunction I had.  Post-partum depression and a fresh batch of PTSD.   I hid it mostly, for the first year but by her first birthday I was shocked to wake up in a sweat.  Not long after that I was waking up very differently and without my little girl beside me.

I have worked so blessed hard to get better from this, let alone the mental and physical scars from days gone by.  But each year as December rolls in my chest tightens and breathing gets that much harder to manage.  The spirit of celebration is masked by fatigue, flashbacks and restlessness.  Fear and anticipation of The Day’s arrival choke me and leave me feeling split in two with a cleaver, as though anybody could see the wretched ache inside me.  Anybody could prey on it.

Yet this is my precious little one’s birthday and I should be struggling with pink streamers, glittery balloons and foolish party hats- not symptom control.  I know though that I need a second by second plan for that day from the moment I wake up to when I take an extra sleeping pill to fall asleep.  Without a round the clock plan there is too much room for emotional disaster.  4 years after my baby was taken from me so easily while I cried out until I was helped to calm down by a syringe and an anesthesiologist who turned blurry in seconds- and I am still stuck.  The distance is still there in little places throughout the year but on what should be her day and her day alone I am still having to distance myself from the moments, the day, from HER.

I would like to say that I will return this topic and release more.  Not just for myself but because somewhere inside me I know I must not be the only one.  And I DO believe that I am not the only with anniversaries of pain and mental paper chains to count down.  However, I am still not through the paper links.  There are still rings for children to argue over ripping before the arrival of that day of days.  The day when the whole world celebrates a fresh start, my daughter is showered with “my haven’t you growns” and I pray for a knock out pill that will keep me standing but get me through the day without feeling the sharp sting of tears or pulling of scars.  So I can’t really say that I’ll get back to this soon because I don’t want the pressure and I don’t want to rope myself into failure right now.  When the time is right I will share more and as always I welcome (very nearly plead with) you to share with me, on site or via email.

My daughter is nearly 4 years old.  Not a baby anymore and oh so bright and beautiful.  She is my love and my light and I hate and fear that one day she will read my words.  I never want her to blame herself for my swollen eyed, frantic Decembers and stumbling Happy Birthdays.  I never want her to feel the depth of my depths and feel like she dug the pits herself.

I hope that she will teach me to love December 31st for what it is- her birthday and New Year’s Eve.  I hope that one year I stop calling it the anniversary of her birth and my mental countdown will disappear.  I will only hope to be able to stay awake long enough to watch the ball drop with her and the rest of my family beside me.  She was born on a day of worldwide celebration.  There will always be a party on her birthday (god save me on her 21st!) even if I can’t throw it.  Her bounce, her giggle and her clarity of vision has fueled my breaths, my heartbeats and my kisses for 4 difficult years that I would never trade.

Not to get all Blood, Sweat and Tears on ya with the title, but we all know that what goes up must come down, yeah?  Maybe I should go Harry Chapin instead- “all my life’s a circle, sun up and sundown.  The moon rolls through the nighttime ’til the daybreak comes around…”

When I was in middle school or so, we all passed around this book about a girl with bipolar disorder (or “manic depressive” or whatever they were calling it in the early 80s) called “Lisa, Bright and Dark.”  If memory serves me correctly, the chapters had black or white circles as headings, to indicate whether Lisa’s mood was going to be up or down.

Hoss doesn’t come with easy-to-spot headings.  Truth be told, I can’t say for sure he’s bipolar (the latest documentation said “mood disorder NOS”) but he’s certainly got some pretty clear up times and down times.   He’s not nearly so extreme at either end as he used to be (thank you, risperidone!) but his moods do swing a bit more broadly than most people’s do.  All of Hoss’ trusted adults (and he has a myriad- Hubby and myself and grandparents and his aunt and uncles on the home front, teachers and administrators and school psychologists and counselors and special educators and before/aftercare staff in the school building, a panel of mental health professionals…) have learned to recognize the subtle indications.  He gets a bit of a wrinkly forehead when darker moments start to emerge, and a tendency toward cocooning into his hoodie sweatshirt.   We give him his space then, and watch carefully from a comfortable distance.   The corner of his mouth hints at a smirk and starts most of his sentences with “hey, guess what…” when he’s about at risk of getting too hyped up.  Most days fall somewhere in the middle.  More days fall in the middle than they did a year ago, and certainly more than those scary weeks last spring, and for that I am more thankful than I know how to say.

Nights are harder to judge or react to.  Some nights (and mornings), he sleeps so soundly, so deeply, that no amount of the dog barking or bright lights or tickling him causes much of a twitch.  Other times, the dreams that he can’t articulate shake him to the core.  Sometimes I check on him before I turn in, and the bedsheets are twisted tighter than a pretzel from his tossing and turning.  I fix them as best I can, and tuck him back in as comfortably as I can manage.  I was watching the late news one night last week, when I heard a breathy, high pitched moan.  Before I could even move to investigate, Hoss had scurried down the hall and launched himself into my lap, face buried in my shoulder.  Talking made his tearless sobs and breathing more agitated, so I just held on.   He doesn’t always remember the dreams later on, and if he’s anything like his Mama, sometimes he won’t remember the dreams even in the moment.  

 I guess that’s all I can do when the nights get rough- hold on to Hoss and try to smooth things out.  Come to think of it, that’s pretty much what we have to do every day, too.

These last few weeks I have been spending a lot of time alone with my almost 4 year-old daughter.  As summer counted down and my son’s first day of kindergarten drew nearer I started to get very nervous about all this upcoming alone time.  You would think I would have been looking forward to it- excited and eager for the opportunity to have all the “Mommy and Me” time I had one on one with my son repeated or matched up with my daughter.  I wish that I could lie and say I have waited for this for years.  I have actually been terrified of it for a long time.

After my son was born we had mommy and baby playgroups, developmental activities, hours giving Good Night Moon and Kerouac equal reading time, coloring outside the lines, giggling at the walls- the list goes on.  When I became pregnant around his first birthday there was no need to stop any of this.  Well, at least not until I was too huge and tired to make complete sentences.  Then I threw all promises of saintliness aside and taught my son how to use the remote.   Okay- not exactly- he could never figure out the right combination of buttons to get to PBS… but I did give in to the TV and settle into the couch.  Until playgroup or Kindermusik or a well-timed trip to the park.

The delivery of my daughter was so traumatic as to bring on a new recurrence of my previously undiagnosed but obviously there PTSD. The severe post-partum depression was just a fun bonus.  I was connected to the baby in all the “right” ways.  We nursed and co-slept, stayed abreast of developmental stages and her relationship with my son.   I made sure she was happy.  We had a new playgroup too.  One for the town, one from when my son had come along.  Mommies had their second babies.  I spoke wisely and joked about all the silly things and was the sarcastic one but pleasant as always.

I was also a super-mom.  Cloth-diapers- some sewn by myself, homemade clothes, no chemical cleaners EVER, organics, the best play date table spread you could imagine.  Theme days, crafts galore, organization of organizing tools, the continued ability to run my handmade goods business and do weekend fairs even with a new baby.  I was also lying to the world.  I was not super anything unless super crazy counted.  I hid my symptoms all day and let the night hold them for me.  It was during that time that I lay in bed and wrote the following piece.

Today seems interminable

Sleep refuses to revive me or release me

or open its arms widely enough to hold me

Daggers and ripping in my belly like cold fire

Heavy lids and skipping heart teasing me

When darkness goes on forever and

daylight is no sweet relief or proof of God

each minute is like a notch on failure’s belt

A bitter reminder of all the ghosts

that hold open your eyes and gorge on your dwindling faith

The tears and the terror that lurk on the

edges of my dreams, my terrible dreams,

make me wish for a few more moments of

wakefulness in spite of my worn down body

During these hours I dabble in forgiveness

I almost allow myself to breathe deeply

as though unburdened by responsibility

I almost let my heart empty itself of its

terrible weights and measures

I almost sleep

Three beautiful bodies rest next to me

chests rising and falling with whispers of peace

A rhythm of hopefulness and prayer

that guides me through nightmares and sadness to

a beautiful dawn and one more chance

at forgiveness and sleep.

-May 03, 2006 (my daughter was just 4 months old, my son 2 years old)

I still have nights like this and I still have bouts with insomnia.  I still have all of those feelings at one point or another, but a miracle of sorts is taking place.  I was so afraid of being alone with my daughter when she was small because I didn’t want to stare my agony in the face and try to love it unconditionally while managing nightmares and laundry.  Now years later- I was afraid of being alone with her as my son started school because I never really had been and I certainly hadn’t done it regularly as a healing person.  Spending mornings and lunches and drives to school with my daughter in her big girl body has forced me to realize that my life kept going when I thought it wouldn’t.  I didn’t die from hidden misery, the push of frantic, imaginary perfection or even the breakdown that eventually came.

My daughter helps me see with clarity so much that once was obscured. I am sure this year will be one of great growth for both of us.  I am still looking for chances to forgive both myself and others and I hope that I find more.  I am still looking for sleep but now I am not always fearful of it or conversely trying to escape within it- most of the time it is just a need for sleep.  After dropping my wonderful son at school I can enjoy looking at my daughter and seeing her beauty, grace, intelligence and humor- not a terrible delivery, medical professionals who failed me or someone to whom I owe a debt for years lost because of mommy’s craziness and failure.  I can look and see a reflection of myself that is not the terrible one I spent so long wrestling with when she was so tiny.  During our time together, Mommy and sweet girl on our own, we are teaching each other.  I get a new way of moving towards forgiveness and restful nights.  She wrote the word “fairy” all on her own just yesterday.  She dreams of fairies and I am happy just to dream.

I’m so tired. I am very tired.  I have always been tired (unless clinically opposite of tired) at least as far back as fourth grade.  I vividly remember telling my best friend at the time that I had bags under my eyes so big that I could carry groceries in them.  Oddly enough she didn’t really get what I was saying.  But she had a bedtime that she kept to and didn’t know who David Letterman was.  What could I really expect?  She also hadn’t seen Bachelor Party or Prom Night on cable- not even Three’s Company in syndication!  I was pretty sure all 9 year olds had the same unsupervised TV habits I did.  I was shocked every time I found someone without a working knowledge of HBO and Cinemax.

As for the present- the non-mid-80’s time, well, right now I am experiencing more than my usual brand of tired.  I haven’t stopped functioning and I hope that doesn’t come to be.  But I can’t stay awake through morning snack, let alone dinner.  My body is moaning this awful old-lady moan all the time. If my head even tilts at the same time that I blink then I will fall asleep.  Or at least wish I would, could.  Still I find myself searching the channels at 3:30 in the morning because I have pushed tired too far and am worried I will never not be tired and that it is too late to wake up not tired so why sleep anyway?

This last week has been big for the wee ones I grew and who now seem to be growing on their own.  My son started kindergarten and my daughter and I are hanging out together alone all day regularly for the first time.  I could go into detail on any of 901 topics related to the kiddaloos, changes, time, playground tears and you-were-thiiiis-bigs, but I won’t.  I think that is for another place or time even though pieces of all of those have relevancy and I may come back to one or another.  I mention that it has been a big week because I want to clarify my current state of being.  And maybe give wee little mad props to my son for not combusting on impact with the elementary school.  He and my daughter rock in different ways that are cool and perfect in the exact right ways for each of them.  And don’t worry; I know I am old for trying to fit “mad props” into my writing- or anything for that matter.

Back to the sleepiness.  Just the sleepiness- we haven’t even gotten into the good reasons not to sleep like nightmares, flashbacks, panic and missing something potentially fun.

I am fairly confident that most medications for mental illnesses come with the warning of a possible side effect of fatigue. I am also fairly confident that quite a few of the illnesses those medications are provided for come with a possible symptom of fatigue.  Even with mania you must eventually come down and when you do you are, yes, fatigued.  Add in the fact that most of us are humans with some degree of responsibility for something or emotional accountability to or for someone and quell suprise… there is a possibility of fatigue entering the picture.  And yes, we are an overworked, overstressed and poorly rested group of adults running around this country, sane or not.

So hey, guess what- I am so damn tired that I am starting to be close enough to the other side of it as to be wide awake again.  There is not enough coffee in the world and even if there was, drinking it would only upset the tiredness long enough to push me into overload and make me miss my window for good sleep.  I can’t clear my head enough to make sense of any of it and I am losing track of what is symptom and what is side effect or just plain life.  If I seem disjointed, please remember the topic at hand.

So when do I stop my vigil?  Do you have a stakeout routine for over-tiredness?  When do I stop watching for the side effect, warning sign, and symptom, what have you- of being very, very, very tired?  When is sleepiness worthy of a medication overhaul and not just a cup of coffee?  When is it something you start hiding instead of complaining about openly?  Having been like this so long should I have been at a sleep clinic instead of sleep-away camp?  Okay so that is a lot of questions just to say I am tired and you may be too and it sucks.

I spent a long time working with a woman who whenever someone would say they were depressed she would say “What is the difference between depressed and sad?”  The answer she waited for each time was “2 weeks.”  Apparently a symptom only becomes a symptom when it persists for 2 weeks.  What does that mean for me and my bloodshot eyes?  I think if I started feeling tired at age 9 than my 23 year run would technically qualify as a symptom.   But with my medicine collection that would bring a tear to the eye of any soulful pharmacist, I can always blame modern medicine.

Modern medicine, cable TV, self-awareness, pharmacy inserts, the PDR and my DVR- I blame all of you for this total immersion into fatigue.  Maybe things will start to cycle anew if I start tomorrow with four shots of espresso instead of three…

From Andrew

I had nightmares every night as far back as I can remember. I didn’t sleep through the night until I was 8. When I was younger, it was about monsters, and giants, and being separated from my family. When I went through middle school, it was all about my body, being raped, being abused. In highschool, they were all about my mother, her dying, her disowning me, her finding out my most secret secrets.

All this anxiety at night didn’t seem to fade much during the day. My mind was constantly running, “what if they see me”, “what if I look stupid”, “why are they laughing? are they laughing at me?”.

When I came to college, it started to wane. I’d only have nightmares every couple of weeks, and the rest of the time was dreamless as far as my waking mind was aware. My anxiety didn’t wane much, but it did start to. And now, as a sophomore, I rarely have nightmares at all.

My anxiety is getting worse, however, and they’re starting to come back. More and more I’m seeing images of shadowmen laughing, or stealing my family, and as much as DreamMe wants to fight, and as I much as I tell it to, it just curls in the corner and cries.

They feed into each other I think.