RealMental

Today was the first day of school. Over the past few weeks, my kids went shopping for new clothes, for backpacks and pencils and other supplies. They filled out all their paperwork and went to orientation and got nervous and met all their new teachers. And this morning, they got up, went to their classes, reconnected with all their friends and then came home and decompressed, sharing what happened and turning in lists of supplies that they didn’t even know they needed. And all of that was done without me.

I feel like I’m dying inside. Every time I know that something is happening and there is no place for me, I shrivel a little more. Yes, I know they are just at this age. And yes, I know it’s totally normal for them to be separating from their parents. But in the small amount of time they are willing to share, I am not included.

This hurts more than anything I can recall. And I gotta tell you, I’ve been through some pretty rough things. I know that someday, things are going to work out and there will be some place for me in their lives. My job is to be patient until that happens. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

My goal is to prepare like they have for school. I need to prepare to have a life without them in it the way I imagined. I need to find a full-time job, get busy and not sit around waiting and wishing they would want to come over and spend time with me. I need to get passionate about something that earns money and makes me feel like I’m doing something worthwhile. But mostly, I think I need to put some distance between me and them, which is so ironic after all I’ve done to get this close.

They know I’m sitting over here, thinking about them over there, and wishing they would come over. How icky is that? To feel guilty that your mom wishes you’d come over to her house but you don’t want to? I think if I can think of them how people think of their kids when they move away to college, that would be more healthy. Only, I need to be the one to move away, physically at first and them maybe just emotionally. Not love them less, just with less strings attached.

This is one of those things that will get figured out in time. Now, we just need the time.

Every once in a while, you run across something that makes it easier to explain yourself. I belong to a huge support group for the loved ones of people with bipolar disorder.  I share and receive information from lots of other people who are in similar situations.  I read just about every study that gets published, and every opinion piece that I see on bipolar disorder, its treatments, its ramifications, etc., because I have learned, since my husband’s diagnosis, that some cliches (“knowledge is power” and “forewarned is forearmed” both come to mind) are borne of truth. But it was a passage from a pop novel last year that crystallized some of my own feelings about loving someone with a mental illness–a Stephen King novel, at that: Lisey’s Story.

“There’s a period of time–two weeks, maybe–when she goes on trying to believe that things are getting better. Later she’ll ask herself how she could be so stupid, so willfully blind, how she could mistake his frantic struggle to hold onto the world (and her!) for any kind of improvement, but of course when straws are all you have, you grasp them.”

“…when straws are all you have, you grasp them.”  I read that passage over and over, tears flowing, because it GOT me.  Right in the heart.  My husband, the man that I love more than my own life, is saddled with a heavy variety of the mental illness that is bipolar disorder, and like the writer character in this book, he is highly conscientious in his dealing with what is basically one of life’s “unfair” afflictions, and he does what he can to shield his loved ones from the worst of it, sometimes to his own detriment. Read more »

This story is re-tooled from a post on my personal blog, and illustrates the importance of finding the right therapist. Unfortunately, sometimes that requires some trial-and-error. You’ll have to excuse the overuse of CAPITAL LETTERS in this post–it was right before my hysterectomy, and aside from the emotional/mental turmoil in our lives at that time, I was hormonal, in pain, and frightened to death about what was to come. Just setting the context.

Today, Alex and I saw our new “potential” therapist, for about the third time. And we frightened the living wampus out of him. I kid you NOT. He is not our new “potential” therapist any more, though he is not yet aware of that.

We have been with a psychologist that we both like VERY much for over three years. He’s local, accessible, “gets” us, KNOWS OUR RIDICULOUSLY INTENSIVE “HISTORY”– much of which you would not believe in a million years even if I decided to tell every bit of it to you, which I most certainly ain’t gonna–and most importantly of all, we always leave his office feeling better, like a weight’s been lifted off our shoulders, than we did when we went in. He’s not an M.D., but he is a doctor, and he practices the type of therapy that is said to be most effective with bipolar patients (those who, like Alex, are stable enough for therapy to be helpful–never ask me how much therapy money we tossed down the proverbial rat-hole without FIRST achieving chemical stability–ever), and he seems to keep up with peer-reviewed studies and texts that are current in the profession. He sees us both as a couple and individually, depending on whatever that session’s circumstances seem to dictate, and he’s quite intuitive as to what issue most needs attention at any given time, and then getting to the meat of it, and helping us work it out. Read more »

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.

In early February, after several years of trying to no avail, I found out that I was pregnant.

My initial reaction was very mixed, I was happy but I was also horrified. I kept thinking of how screwed up I had felt for most of my life, of how unpredictable my depression could be, and worst of all was the question that kept me up nights in the beginning: What if I pass my disease on to my baby?

Also, through a delightful cocktail of Lexapro, Adderall, and various sleep aids I found myself in the most peaceful and genuinely functional state of mind and I was scared to death to start the long walk, retracing the path back to uncertainty and despair, back into the bowels of my illness. I stopped the Adderall and sleep medication immediately crossing my fingers that doing so would not send me into a tailspin.

My husband and I had discussed the possibilities of my remaining on my anti-depressant during my pregnancy many times in the past. What we had to weigh was the unknown effects of the drug on the baby vs. my ability to survive being pregnant for nine months. How far would I regress in that amount of time? Point A in this journey, before I found an anti-depressant that worked for me and before I was diagnosed with severe ADD, (minus the “H”. Hyperactive I ain’t.) was a place I didn’t care to return to. My days back then consisted of paralyzing panic attacks, confusion, insomnia, terror, deep sorrow and a daily urge to put myself out of my misery.

When I called the doctor’s office to schedule my initial prenatal visit I was informed that my primary care physician had transferred to another city and that I’d need to establish another one. At the visit with the replacement doctor I was sternly scolded for even considering the possibility of remaining on my anti- depressant during my pregnancy. The doctor refused to refill my prescription for Lexapro saying that there just wasn’t enough evidence about it’s effects on fetal development for him to feel comfortable with it.

Mercifully, a few days later I had my first visit with my OBGYN who said that there was no evidence that Lexapro, in therapeutic doses, would have any ill effect whatsoever on the baby. She confirmed my fear that tossing the anti-depressant could be not only dangerous for me, but unhealthy for the fetus. She was kind and supportive and understanding and honestly I don’t know what I’d have done had it not been for her. I think I might have stopped my medication altogether.

Seven months later I have no doubt that I made the right choice. (that is to say, the right decision for me. this is a highly personal decision and I don’t believe there’s a definitive “right” or “wrong”) I have been experiencing symptoms of depression for months now- insomnia, mild panic, racing thoughts, etc., but thanks to the anti-depressant I have been able to cope with them. I know that they will pass. They have not become my reality. For the most part I am calm and centered. I feel at peace. I know my baby experiences my emotions and I’m so relieved that what she has experienced during her time in my body has been mostly positive. Mostly comforting. Mostly sane.

Finding The Immediate Possibilities, Letting Go Of The Fear

It may seem obvious, but if you are completely immobile because you are afraid you’ll make a mistake, you can’t move forward and get through the problem. I have a suspicion that most of my depression comes from that place. I wake up feeling so scared that I’ve already failed, that there is no reason to do anything, because I’m just going to make things so incredibly worse than the hell it already is.

One way to help myself through this is to make a list of things I can do. And I mean writing it down as an actual list, because if I’m just saying it in my head, it isn’t real enough. I need to put it down on paper. There have been times when the list contains only one item, but one is still more than the none I had before I started.

Here is an actual list from 2003:

yoga
take a walk
draw
work on book

Here is an actual list from 1999:

breathe

Meditate sometimes makes the list but it depends a lot on where my level of depression is at the moment. If I’m too low, trying to meditate turns into sitting really still and telling myself I’m doing it all wrong, all wrong, all wrong. Not very helpful. Things that require less brain power are better.

It works the best when I only put things on the list that I know for sure I can actually do right at that moment. If I put exercise on the list with the intention of doing it later because right now seems too hard but I’m almost sure I’ll be able to do it later that afternoon, I’ve already set myself up to fail. It would be different if I felt ready to exercise right at that moment.

Once I make the list, I take a moment to do a little positive thinking on my own behalf. I look at my fine list and congratulate myself, with the absolute most sincerity that I can muster, on making a list of things I can do successfully. I cannot fail if I stick to my list. Nice job, me. I’ve been known to say these things aloud, which makes it more real, if I’m feeling brave.

And once I do one or two things on my list, I congratulate myself again. With each success it becomes more real. And I become less afraid. I suppose to someone who doesn’t suffer from depression, this might seem silly. But, to the people that do, it can be a lifesaver.

By Dad Gone Mad

Tonight I saw a man wandering aimlessly through a busy intersection. He was wearing filthy gray sweatpants and a weathered t-shirt, no shoes, and the thousand-mile stare of someone in severe psychological and emotional peril. He had nowhere to go, no idea where he was going and presumably no one to go to.

There was a time, not long ago, when I would have scowled at such a pathetic character, sneering him off as a nuisance impeding the flow of traffic and getting in the way of my very, very important life. I had no time for compassion; I would have forgotten him by the time I’d reached the next intersection and never thought of him again. But that’s no longer the case.

Almost six years ago, the advertising agency for which I worked succumbed to the dot-bomb. I had an infant son, a mortgage and suddenly a very fragile belief in myself. I spent the better part of 2000 trying to find gainful employment again, but to no avail. Eventually, the stress and pressure swallowed me up and I was diagnosed with clinical depression. There is no greater blow to one’s ego, no faster ride to the bottom than the moment someone tells you you have a mental health problem and hands you a prescription for Zoloft.

I remember the fear. I had no idea what depression meant. I assumed I was a pussy, that I was somehow deficient or unprepared. I was mortified, and I held my diagnosis close to my vest. I didn’t need the judgmental people I knew holding this against me, believing (as I did) that depression was merely a window into a deeper, more compromising imperfection in my brain or my character or my ability to function in the real world. Would the pitfalls and disappointments of everyday life present challenges I was no longer fit to confront? Would I freak out? Could people see it on my face?

There were times during my depression when I genuinely feared that I would spend the rest of my days in a psych ward (although I have never seen the inside of one and according to virtually every analysis I heard, my case was mild). I feared that I wouldn’t be able to watch my child grow up. I feared that my wife would be relegated to raising our child by herself. And I feared that I would end up like the man I saw hobbling through the intersection tonight — alone, adrift, oblivious. Those feelings and nightmares were worse than any physical symptom.

But I was fortunate. I had health insurance. I had a home. I had money to pay for the drugs I needed. I had a child who gave me reason to persevere through the sadness and lethargy and the lowest lows I have ever known. I had a wife who gracefully juggled the very ominous trifecta of raising an infant son, bringing-in money to pay the bills and nursing me back to quote-health-unquote. I don’t know how she did it and I have never found the words to adequately articulate my gratitude to her for that. I don’t know that I ever will.

I ultimately found my way back to normal (whatever that means), got a job and started rebuilding myself brick by brick. Then at about this time last year, it happened again. And again I found the same motivations to chug through the exhausting task of recovery — my wife and my children and, to a certain extent, the weak-bladdered dog who inspires me to go to work each day so I can afford to replace the shag carpet she stains with her caustic piss.

Tonight, not two hours after I saw the man in the intersection, I saw my wife holding our baby daughter in her arms, singing her a lullaby. I watched my daughter’s eyes grow heavy as she fought sleep. It was the kind of moment that affirms one’s decision to persevere through the hard times. It was the kind of moment that erases from memory the dirty diapers and the vomit that looks and smells like blueberry yogurt and watching the same Barney video so many times that you find yourself humming “Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun, Please Shine Down On Me” to yourself in the shower.

Still, I believe there is not such a drastic difference between the man in the intersection and the man at this keyboard. A lucky break here and there perhaps.