RealMental

When I was integrated in 2002, I knew it would be for forever. I’d worked so hard and sacrificed so much to get there, in that office, with the right doctor, to be integrated. There was just no way that I’d ever be split again. I knew it with every fiber of my being. And I was so grateful, thankful. Felt so blessed.

And then I felt SO STRONG. Holy shit, I was a newly ‘whole’ person with super powers. I could do anything and I did do anything it took to create a life worth living. Always working towards the goal of living so close to my kids that they could live with me half of the time. That goal was everything to me.

Through a comedy of errors, there were a few really bad weeks a couple of years ago that almost put me back in the mental hospital under surveillance. The disappointment of my kids not wanting to live with me was the worst pain I’d ever been in and I didn’t want to live. But, I didn’t have to go in hospital and I got on some heavy medication instead because I could feel my mind beginning some separation and it scared the shit out of me. I was so scared I barely could speak it out loud because what did that mean? That my mind was splitting? How could that happen? I was integrated and always would be. Right? Right??

The Invega put me in a mental coma. I couldn’t feel or emote. I certainly wasn’t splitting any further but I wasn’t doing much of anything else, either, which was just what the psychiatrist was hoping for. I was stable. And I couldn’t wait to get off Invega because I had lost my self. The bad and the good and the scary and the great. I had an echo in my skull.

I was scared to get off but I thought about it almost every moment I was awake. With every appointment to the doc, I took a little speech I had prepared to say to her – to allow me to prove to her that I didn’t need it anymore, even if it came with the consequence of the mind splitting being there forever. I had to have myself back.

In December 2007, I went to see friends and while we were driving down the snowy road, popping into thrift stores, I said it out loud to her that Claire was back and maybe she had never left and I didn’t realize it, but I had been lonely for her. And she just said, ‘Ok. Is that ok?’ And I told her I didn’t know for sure, but I thought so. And then we talked about her daughter and my kids and wondered when the snow would end and I felt relieved that I had said it to someone and nothing bad had happened.

In May of last year, I told my doc that I was going to try and get pregnant, so I could no longer take an anti-psychotic drug. She was VERY skeptical, but I persevered and with shaking hands and legs, I walked out of her office with so much relief I could barely make it to the car before weeping. And I slowly found myself again over the next few months after the jaw clenching stopped. I had bad days and some good days but I was always hopeful because I was having days and feelings and I could laugh again and my kids recognized me.

The huge emotions of the past year were slowly being processed. And with every therapy session, I almost talked about how my mind had not just split a little, but actually, Claire was there with every bit of her self as ever. But, I didn’t. I didn’t say the words because I was still scared about what that might mean. If Claire and I were so close together in my mind that we shared all moments with each other and all feelings, desires with each other, there was really nothing to disclose, right? I told myself that a lot. And I thought about what my kids would feel like if they knew. Would they pull even farther away from me? If I spoke the words out loud, would it make it a truth that could never be undone? And that would mean I failed. Because if I wasn’t ‘well’ and ‘integrated,’ then everything I went through and everything I put my kids through was for nothing.

I told my husband. And he asked if there was anything he could do to help my apparent sadness over the truth of it. And I told him no, but thanks for being so loving, kind and understanding. And I assured him that nothing would change between us because having Claire being her self with me didn’t change anything between he and I. Or us and him. And I believed it.

I started looking online and in books to find out if what was going on in my mind was something that had happened to any other integrated person. And I found out, yes. It did happen. And maybe more often than people knew. I felt a little angry that no one had told me. Or if they did, I hadn’t listened. So I was mad at myself. Because now it felt like such a failure when maybe it could have felt like just something that happens sometimes when an integrated dissociative goes through something stressful. But I still didn’t want anyone to know. And I felt like a fake.

For a year, every day, Claire and I would do everything together. And I did nothing and said nothing to anyone else that would alert them to that fact that I had become a We again. Suddenly, I needed a teddy bear. My old teddy bear. Molly. I needed Molly. And I searched through boxes in the garage that had been taped shut for years. I felt silly, searching for a teddy bear. I found Molly in a chest and put her under my pillow so no one would see. But, Joe saw. His eyebrows went up when Molly made her way to my chest before I went to sleep and I saw him wondering what it meant. I lied and said I was using a teddy bear to support my bad arm during the night. My arm did need support, so it was only kind of a lie, right? Partly true? I couldn’t go to sleep if Molly wasn’t tucked in my arms but I didn’t want to think very hard about why I needed her there. So, I didn’t. But in that space between being awake and being asleep, I saw a four year old girl who tucked Molly in her arm, put her thumb in her mouth and curled up for sleep.

We moved. Again. For the second time in a year. And I relied heavily on Claire to help us get boxes packed and things organized. It was too overwhelming to think about for me. So, Claire did it. Things went fine. And I didn’t think very hard about why I was allowing myself to fall back a little bit and why she moved forward a little bit and what that might mean. I just survived the way that my brain knew how to do.

We had Thanksgiving and Christmas and I didn’t write about anything on my blog because I didn’t know what to say. I felt guilty. Claire would do many things instead of me and I worried about what that might mean but I didn’t want to think very hard about it and every time I went to see my psychiatrist, I would lie and tell her that my mind was fit as a fiddle, there was no splitting going on and everything was great. She believed that having more than one personality was the end of the world for me and I disagreed and I just didn’t want to talk about it with her. She would try and make me get back on the Invega and I didn’t want to be a zombie again. And I didn’t mind Claire being around and she liked being back around. So.

In January, Tara started on Showtime, and I felt like a fake because I was split but everyone thought I was still a mono-mind and I felt so guilty. I thought about talking about it on my blog. Telling people the truth. But, I realized that almost everyone in my life now has either met me when I was first integrated and only knows me that way, or depends on my ‘wellness’ and integration to keep their relationship with me safe, namely, my kids and family. And I didn’t know what to do so I did nothing. And I realized that my mantra of always being honest with myself and others, no matter the cost, was a sad, old, worn out lie that I didn’t deserve to say anymore, in my head or to anyone else.

And every episode I watched of Tara reminded me that I was a liar. I loved the show. I loved watching Toni Collette. I was so proud to be a part of it. And then I would remember that I was a liar and a fake and I would go to sleep, knowing that I didn’t deserve anyone’s praise for anything. I stopped answering emails from people congratulating me or asking me for help. I didn’t know what to say anymore. And I’m sorry if you are one of the people I ignored.

A friend of a friend wanted to fly in and interview me for her dissertation. She wanted to talk about how trauma that causes dissociation might be similar to near death experiences. I was nervous. I wasn’t sure what to say or how to talk about it. And my mind just wouldn’t work. I couldn’t follow her questions. They were all about how and where Claire came from the first time when I was four and how Claire felt about spirituality and about her role as the connection to the Universe and all things good. I fumbled for the answers. I could hear Claire telling me what to say, but it didn’t make sense. I asked everyone to repeat what they had said and I tried to get a handle on the conversation because I really wanted to help this friend of a friend. And then suddenly it was just like old times. I felt myself moving back, back and the audio going softer. My eyes got a little fuzzy and I thought, yes. I remember this. This is how things used to be and I guess this is how they are going to be again. And I heard Claire talking with such emotion and inflection and she sounded so smart and she knew all the answers to the questions. Things I didn’t know how to explain and things I didn’t even know in the first place, even though we had been integrated for six years. I felt her voice in our throat and felt how much fun she was having being out after so long. Our arms felt like hers. Our legs felt like hers. And we adjusted a little and our body went into a sitting position that was more Claire and less Leah.

The interview was a great success. She was very pleased to have been able to talk to Claire and Claire was very pleased to have been able to talk to her. A few hours later, the friend and her friend left and we were left in the house with ourselves. I asked Claire if she wanted to stay out and she said, yes, if you don’t mind. And I guessed I didn’t. Devon walked into the kitchen and Claire was happy to see him with our eyes, being in front. And Devon knew, immediately, that it was Claire and not Leah in the kitchen. His eyes went a little sharp and he took in a breath a little too quick. And he simply asked, ‘Is there any problem between you and my mom?’ And Claire told him no, there wasn’t. Everything was cool and if he wanted her to go and have Leah come back out front, she would switch right away. But, she hoped he would say no, it was fine. Which he did say. And Leah wondered if it was because he was really alright with it or he could see in our eyes that Claire was hoping he’d say so.

Joe came home a few hours later. He came in, said hello and swept in for his kiss. And he felt like something was just not right. He thought our voice sounded weird and he looked uncomfortable. So, Claire told him it was her. And assured him that she loved him, too, just as much as me, and, trying to make sure he really got the message, she asked him if he wanted to go to the bedroom with her. Leah was fine with that, because intellectually, she knew that it was all her, Claire was her. But Joe was hesitant and said to us that maybe it would be better if he just got to know Claire a little more before jumping in the sack with her. And that was fine. But Claire and Leah both felt bad for Joe because he looked so uncomfortable, so Claire went back and Leah came forward.

My eyes got clearer. The noise in my ears got sharper. And my hands felt like mine and I touched Joe’s face and told him I loved him. He said he loved me, too, but man, that was a little weird. And I felt guilty. But Claire didn’t. And for the first time since she had been back, we had a different feeling at the same time.

I find myself telling you this long tale and wonder why I’m doing it. It’s going to make things complicated. Claire and I have continued to share space and time. We sometimes have different thoughts and different feelings than each other. But we make an effort to always do the thing that is for the greater good. I think she’s here to stay. Maybe I’m glad she is. I can no longer deny what I am. I’m tired of feeling guilty and like a fake. I know some people will not be able to accept this. I worry about my relationships with my kids, if things will change. I worry that my ability to help support our family will get harder because less people will believe I am stable enough to do good work. I worry that people who have been my friend will pull away because it’s too weird. I worry that my family will look at me as a failure.

But more than all those things I’m worried about, the need to get right with myself has become overwhelming. I want to be able to say that I face the truth no matter how hard and have it be true again. I want to say that I’m honest clear down to my inner core. That honesty with myself and others is still as important to me as it used to be. I want to tell people that having a split mind is by no means the worst thing in the world and it feels natural to me. I want to say that nothing has changed, except everything has changed, but I’m still the same person. We are the same person. Maybe things have gone back to normal. That I’m flawed but authentic.

In any case, welcome back Claire. And hello little girl who needs Molly. I’ll keep her on the bed for you for as long as you want.

Guest post by JB

My mental illness added a lot of memorable dates to my Mental Rolodex:

January 2, 2007—the end of the engagement
March 16, 2007—diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder, Type II. The beginning of The Fire This Time.
March 22, 2007—prescription for Lamictal, the day we started dating again.

They don’t make anything to commemorate diagnoses of mental illnesses. There are no “Happy Anniversary!” cards, no party hats or banners or streamers. No happy horseshit, humorously deprecating cake inscriptions.

Nonetheless, I still “celebrate”it—mark the date in my head, take time out in the day [as if I could help it] to think about everything that led to that point, and—more importantly—all the things that proceeded out of it. My closest friends know, even, about the day. My best friend in medical school is especially good at keeping track of these things, with a certain flair for understanding what this day must mean to me. He indicates the note in the calendar of his Treo [“Jenny’s BP Anniversary”] and remarks, at lunch, “Let me be the first, and last, to wish you a Happy Anniversary.”

I smile, my new-ish this-is-my-smile smile. Whereas my old smile was wide and bright, fake, this one is new, almost a smirk. The left side of my lip pulls back and slightly up—a smile, to be sure, but sometimes only if you’re careful to look. I have a new dimple in my chin on that side from too much of this smile. See—I smile a lot, and for real. I laugh too. Even in these days, these two years of “I have a mental illness, but it doesn’t have me,” these almost-two years of “pop-a-pill and get some fucking sleep,” these two years of “are you sure you took your meds last night?” and “where do we go from here?”

I am fighting the urge to email my testing psychiatrist. “Remember how you told me I would succeed in medical school?” I want to write. “Remember how you told me bipolar disorder is the most treatable illness?” “Remember how you said I would be ok?”

“You were so right.”

So, on this day, I laugh about it and I cry about it, because I have to. Because you have to do both. As has been expounded by other bloggers in much more eloquent tones, the bitter and the sweet are foils for each other—each brings out the taste of the other. Like measuring kosher salt into the caramel I make in my kitchen, my tears bring out the pureness of my laughter and my half-there smirking-until-I-carve-dimples-in-my-face smile. The moments when we yell at each other or are too stunned by pain to speak, the moments when the hurt is suddenly sharp [like hitting your hand on the oven rack when you pull something out] only serve to enhance the beauty of the following moments—when we forgive or resolve; when in the middle of the night, his arms shoot out and draw me in, his lips at the nape of my neck; when he sends a text message the day after a fight that says, “I love you, ok?” [a code phrase, for us—a combination of” I love you, I’m sorry, I’m an asshole and sometimes so are you.”]

The Fire This Time, I call it, a nod toward James Baldwin [a man who knew a whole world of hurt] and his book “The Fire Next Time.” Because the Next Time isn’t enough, and never will be. Turning a corner around March 16th, 2007, I knew this was it. That The Fire This Time is all I get—that this life with these hues are all I have to work with. So it had better be good, and it had better be passionate. The Fire This Time is in everything: how I work, how I play, how I love. It’s the bitter, the sour, the sweet, the salty, the savory—it’s everything it can be and everything is has to be. It’s the love of a boy who stayed through the hurt; the laughter of the friends who are celebrating it with me; the concern of a parent who still can’t quite understand what bipolar disorder is and what it has to mean to me. The reassurance of one testing psychiatrist who said it would be ok, and my tearing-up half-cocked smile [the bitter and the sweet] when I remember his kindness toward me.

It will never be said, of this life, of The Fire This Time, that “everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.” But that’s the point, I think. That’s it.

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.

Dear Me,

I know you’ve spent many years perfecting your sick and crazy-making thinking patterns. I know you come by it honestly and that it’s hard for you to stop and think things through sometimes. I get it.

But, maybe now is a good time to talk about some things currently happening that you might be fooled into thinking are about you. For example –

1. When your husband comes home, tired and a little cranky, it is because he had a really long day at work and then a two hour commute in traffic. It’s not because you didn’t fold his Tshirts the ‘right’ way or do the dishes by five or because you look ugly. It’s not about you.

2. When you run out of milk over night and there is none for cereal in the morning, it’s because PEOPLE DRINK IT and then it goes away. See how that works? It’s not because you are a terrible wife/mother. Also? Other people are perfectly able to purchase milk and bring it home. You are not the only one that has, you know, arms and legs.

3. When you hear that friends in another state got together and you weren’t invited, it’s probably because you don’t live on the east coast in the same city as them. It’s not because you suck and they hate you and think you’re ugly and stupid. Seriously. It’s not about you. Feel free to make your own friend get-togethers where you live.

4. When someone you are very close to, that you love immensely, that you would die for, tells you something about a horrifying experience that happened a few years ago, they are upset because of what happened to them. They are not mad at you. They are not telling you it is your fault. They aren’t even asking you to fix it. Seriously, can you think of anything more self-centered than taking someone’s hellish situation and making it all about you? No, you can’t. So, sit there and listen and empathize and bear witness to the horror and love them as much as you can. Don’t turn it on yourself make it an excuse to self-medicate or self-harm. Be smart and strong. It’s not about you.

5. When the weather turns ugly and it rains and stays cloudy for days, it is not because the entire universe is conspiring to keep you down. It’s because that is WHAT WEATHER DOES sometimes. So, throw on a sweater and your comfy slippers with a good cup of coffee and try to enjoy a little snuggle time.

I hope this has been helpful and that you keep it close by in case you need an easy reference sheet for upcoming situations. I have faith in you. I believe you can do it.

Lots of love,
Me

PS. You aren’t ugly and stupid. Next time we’ll discuss how negative thinking can influence your day.

Cross posted from Leahpeah.com/blog

Some time over the holidays, I unlocked another box in my psyche. I like to think this process helps me move forward.

Holidays are usually a big mess for a lot of people from an emotional perspective.  I was relieved when i realized that others suffered with the holiday blues like I’d done for many years.  A problem shared is easier to process then a problem kept in solitaire.

A situation came up that involved travel plans, one that would change the dates of visitors from out of town.  I was not pleased especially with the short notice.  I struggled with it, making my partner aware of my displeasure in the most diplomatic way that I could.

Having a few days to process, I tried to figure out why this was a problem for me.  I phoned a friend who suggested that I just suck it up and ride it out.  I responded to her that I was so tired of sucking it up and riding it out, REALLY tired of that.  I wasn’t angry with her about it, and I did call her because she has personal insight into the situation and she doesn’t sugar coat stuff.

Shortly after that call, it dawned on me what my opposition was really about.

There are so many situations in my life right now that I have absolutely zero control over (beyond typical issues).  I realized that I am trying to grasp for something I can actually control however small it is.  As a recovering person, I learned that I am powerless over most situations, which isn’t to say that I do nothing with my problems.  We do what we can, but sometimes there is no action to take.  And, worrying about it over and over only serves to enslave us to the problem.  It’s no easy feet, this acceptance for what is and taking my hands off the wheel.   I have to tell you that this actually works pretty well, when I am able to pick it up and use it.

I know I am not alone in this desire to have some form of control in *some* way.  People  do the craziest things in order to cling to some sliver of control.  This is why people develop eating disorders, addiction, compulsive gambling, self harm, and in many cases behaving like the child within that most emulates the loss of power at any particular time in the formative years.

I guess the key to receiving an insight, is what I actually do with it.  My aim is to try and find the balance.  Don’t go too far to the left or too far to the right, try and find the just right spot for it.

Mental Illness Awareness Week in Canada was this week. I received an email from Sarah who writes:

What Can You Do To Help?

We invite you to visit the website – letsfacethis.ca – and post a photo and message on the “Tree of Support”. With each new photo added, the “tree” will grow, symbolizing growing awareness, education, fundraising and hope for those suffering from mental illness.

Let’s Face This reminds us that mental illnesses, like depression and anxiety, are not the result of personality flaws or character weakness, but, like other illnesses, are biological in nature. And like other
medical conditions, respond to treatment and care.

I invite you to join me and countless others confront the stigma of mental illness.

Let’s Face This together and confront the stigma of mental illness.

Also, take a look at the Canadian Mental Heath Association’s website.

Finding the stopping point in some situations has always eluded me. Either I go on too far, or I stop early and miss the opportunity.

How does anyone know they are officially at the end? When they are screaming and shouting to whomever is within closest range? I know it doesn’t have to come to that, but isn’t that a stopping point for many of us?

It would be nice if I could just pull out my favorite purple crayon and draw a line across my day, my life and announce to all involved, “this is the end”.

Am I really any better off from all the worrying, the second guessing, and years of digging around in the graveyard of my life? If I look back into the written archives here, I can see that I’ve had times in which I would shout from the rooftop of the mental health building telling all who would listen, therapy will save your life!

Therapy is worth all the tears, all the self actualization, all of the broken that brought you to the door in the first place. And then, some days it’s icky. Like the honey jar that no one ever wipes clean, leaving a trail of sticky wherever the honey pot goes.

It’s dark, and sad, and you question everything in your life and despise yourself for always asking why, or what can I do to make this better?

Sometimes, when I am looking for a reason for all of this hashing laid out for all to see, I will kid myself. I will say that the reason that I do this is because I am a thinker. A reacher, a digger, an archaeologist of the mind and I am this way for no other reason than this is who I am.

Often, I wonder if other people have the right idea. Just keep your head down, nose to the grindstone and block it all out. How many people do I actually know that do this and they are free from their demons?

None. Not a one person, despite their claims of being happy or peaceful and FINE with the way things are.

They are big fat liars, those people are.

I know it, you know it, and most of all THEY know it.

But what can you do?

Nothing.

If I am having a problem dealing with a person, or struggling with their actions, my therapist drills home the “accept them for who they are” concept. My job, if I am to be a content person, is to accept them for who they are. The biggest piece of this, is accepting myself for who I am. The better equipped I am for that, the better equipped I am with accepting you for who you are.

I must tell you, I have found that this actually works. Me, accepting people for who they are and not who I want them to be. It really works.

Most days, my simplest choice to pick up the tools that lay at my feet and use them as I embark into the world. Some days, I refuse to pick them up.

Arguing with myself about the tools. “They are too heavy today”, or “I’m SICK to death of picking them up”, “Why do I have to do it when no one else is doing it”.

Look at those other lazy fuckers just walking around with their noses to the grindstone, not looking, not telling, and pretending not to know. They seem fine to me!

And then the voice, that comes from deep inside, the one that speaks logic.

It says to me, in a loving voice that I can trust, “but you are not them”.