RealMental

If you knew me you would know that from the outside i used to seem like i had it all together.

If you know me now you know that in the past year i look like a disheveled mess. That my life has fallen apart over and over again. That i nearly died. That i lost my marriage. That i nearly lost everything.

And now.

And now i am slowly crawling my way back to a real life.

This week i started going off my medication. I have been unhappy and medicated for a long time. Now? Now i have all my ducks in a row to try and be normal. Happy and sad. I just want to know who i am in an un-pressured situation.

I have that now. A home to myself. No husband breathing down my back. Wanting everything to be fine. When fine was not possible.

I am scared. I am woobly in my head. My body is rejecting me. Stomach pain. Intestinal distress. But i am eager to know me again. Happy. Sedated. Unmedicated.

It drives my husband nuts when we’re out driving, and the empty tank warning noise comes on.  “Why do you do that?  It’s so easy to fill it earlier!” he fumes.  The short answer would be that in my brain, it’s not time to fill it yet– it’s not yet necessary.  Our definitions of when refueling needs to to happen are just different.  He’s worried I’ll run out of gas– I think that I’ve managed it fine so far, and that I have some emergency gas in the back anyway.

But now I’m at an emotionally empty point, and I realize that the way I treat my car is the way I’ve been treating myself.  I push myself to the very limit before stopping to refuel– and why?  I’d readily agree my car needs gas to run.  I wouldn’t argue that running out of gas is mightily inconvenient, and potentially dangerous, especially if I run out someplace deserted, or unlit, or in the middle of a snowstorm.  Of course, in the abstract, I think I’d know enough to fuel up before such a trip, but there’s a difference between life and a road trip.  Road trips are usually planned– you have some idea of where you’re going, and how long it will take.  Life?  Not so predictable– you can’t always tell when you’ll run out of gas in the middle of the wilderness.

I haven’t been maintaining myself well. I don’t know when I last did yoga, despite the fact that it contributes mightily to my emotional equanimity, and makes me feel less like a pretzel.  I haven’t been reaching out to friends in hard times, and taking comfort from the love they’re more than willing to give me.  I haven’t been saying no to too much work, because I want to prove myself capable– even though once taken on, I have no one below me to delegate other work to.  I haven’t been telling people when they’ve crossed the line, emotionally or professionally, and have been allowing myself to be walked all over– except when I have a temper tantrum after things have gone too far, and that’s not effective boundary-creation– kind of like shooting the unwanted house guest after leaving the doors and windows open.

I almost found myself stranded in the wilderness at work this month.  It’s a close call, and I don’t know yet what I am going to do next– but I am currently taking some time off to try to recharge.  I mostly have lots of sleeping, reading, and taking baths on the agenda, but I am also planning on doing some yoga and walking, and trying to restore myself mentally and physically.  Hopefully I will find myself in the process, and internalize the lesson of regular refueling.

(…continued from “Why I Saw My First Psychiatrist, Part One“)

I left off in Part One of this story with my arrival at my boyfriend’s house after hallucinations of dead bodies slumped over the steering wheels of cars on my way home from a friend’s house. At the time, I lied to him about why I was out of breath, and I feel that I should backtrack in order to explain why I did so.

Although such full-blown hallucinations as the bodies in the cars were new to me, the sudden excessive paranoia and scattered thoughts were not. When I sat down on my boyfriend’s couch after fleeing my nightmare of a walk home, the only thing I could think about was when I was in grades ten and eleven in high school. During those two years, I went through greater and lesser phases of paranoia that involved, at times, keeping my back to walls at all times when alone so as not to be sneaked up on, checking the houseplants for video cameras and microphones, worrying that I was being drugged through my food, hearing distant music coming through the hot-air vents at home, believing that I was waiting for a sign to take my position as the new prophet, assuming that all men were rapists in waiting, and on and on. There were periods during which I was less fearful, but for the most part, I believed that I was under surveillance at all times, and I learned to keep my anxiety to myself accordingly. I would not allow a suspicious look or word out into the public eye lest They find out what I knew: I knew that They were watching, and They knew that I was direct threat to their hegemony.

I hated being fifteen. It was far more complicated than I had bargained for.

Aside from my parents asking me if I wanted to “see someone” once and an English teacher sending me to the guidance counselor over a dark piece of poetry, I managed to keep my behaviour well enough in check to remain unnoticed, and then, with no real effort on my part and for no apparent reason, the cloud of erratic thinking began to ease up. I was no longer a future prophet, They receded into a muddy memory of fanciful thinking, and the houseplants were no longer blinds for spy technology. And yet, the reversion to my old self terrified me.

What was I now without what I had believed I was becoming? Prior to my delusions, I had always lived with depression, and that is where I found myself again. I wanted neither state. Knowing how to behave as a functioning person had saved me from what I saw as unnecessary intervention at the time, and my plan was to continue that way, even though I was deeply unhappy. I wanted no one to know where I had been, because if it came back, and I had been correct, my secret still needed to be kept. As difficult as it had been to suffer so much paranoia and anxiety, I still harboured a desire for it. The possibility of the assurance of my own universal importance was intoxicating.

And then, the next four or five years passed without much incident. I graduated from high school and I moved out on my own. I was unable to hold down a job due to depression and anxiety, but I passed that off as simply being ill-suited to customer service. I was well relative to how things had been, and I wanted to believe that I could remain that way. I saw myself as having dominion over my own mind. I would overcome, and that was that. And then, slowly and quietly, I began to slip away from myself again.

This time, though, I no longer believed that I was a burgeoning prophet or that I was being continually surveilled. The world I grew in my mind to inhabit this time was a wasteland. There were dead bodies in cars. It snowed softly all through long June evenings and nights, as though the weather did not know its own mind, either. My tastebuds went numb, but my ability to perceive colour skyrocketed. I liked to sit well back from riverside paths as a lonely, forgotten thing in the trees and watch the passersby. I had one foot in reality and the other in a place that was never quite there, and I was frightened by my secrets.

So I did not tell my boyfriend when the paranoia returned with such suddenness. I did not want to be told that I was wrong. I did not want to be locked up in an institution for seeing and thinking differently. As scary as it was to have my world shifting out of range, I wanted it to be real. If it was not real, I was lost, and if I was lost, I had nowhere to go. The other me was interminably sad. In the end, I was too scared to be able to keep up the ruse of normalcy as I had before. I knew how far my fear could go.

That June or July, I made an appointment with my doctor so that I could get a referral to a psychiatrist. Part of me worried that They might be real, that I was basically turning myself in to Them. Another part of me knew that the snow I saw falling and settling on spring’s new leaves was seen only by me. I simply wanted to stop, get off somewhere soft, and sleep.

Some time later, I found myself seated in an office building watching impossibly large, six-inch aphids grazing along Dr. Ragu’s hanging plants while I tried to decipher english through his thick, East Indian accent. He asked if they were green, and I said Of course they are. Finally, I felt I had an ally.

“If you want something badly enough, you can make it happen.” It’s not true, at least when it comes to memory. There’s always some inconvenient truth-teller, correcting the re-written version of the past that you’ve authored. I’ve wondered often if you’re in denial, or if you really believe it. Are you that insecure? That fragile? That crazy? Re-framing is one thing, but painting over the canvas doesn’t change what’s underneath.

You tell us we are lying, that it was never like we say. You tell us that we are ungrateful. And it’s not true. We are grateful, because despite all the rest, we made it out of childhood as OK as anyone can reasonably expect. And we know that you believed that you loved us. Intent counts for something, even if what it’s always been about is your narcissism and self-absorption, your need to be seen as a “good person”.

But you’re the one who’s lying. You’re lying to yourself because you don’t want to know that you should have done more, tried harder, stopped looking inward and acted to do what you could for us, rather than spent all the years feeling sorry for yourself. And telling us it’s the truth won’t work. And now you’re lying about other things, because you like the mania, and you feel every bit of the self you imagine yourself to be. You’re denying that your behavior is manic, because if you admit that you are, then the feeling of worth isn’t real, and you have to re-paint the canvas again.

I feel sorry for you in some ways, because it must be exhausting, needing to re-write everything to define yourself in your favored purple prose. I feel sorry for you for not being able to admit your mistakes, much less learn from them. But you can’t make me admit that what happened didn’t, and you can’t make me tell you lies that will make you feel better. My canvas is worn in places, scarred in others, but the entire work is there for me to understand, and the total picture teaches me something new every time I look at it.

(Sunday morning, East Coast Time)

As I traded phone calls back and forth with my brother (here), my aunt (there), and my mother (there), I reflected on the fact that this is just too damned hard right now. And, that maybe I precipitated her mania? by not just keeping my damned mouth shut during her visit. By the time I talked to her this past Thursday, she was excitedly complaining to me about the internal inconsistencies in The Golden Compass series, which I’d lent her to read on the plane flight home. Something about how Lyra already knew how to do her hair in the first book, so why was she learning all over again in the second? Hoo-whee.

When I talked to her on Friday night, she was excited to tell me about how she’d finally been able to get out some thoughts about a theology based on the Holy Spirit, and not on God the Father or Christ the Son. From a lecture she gave 30 years ago, back when she was teaching at divinity school. “And I was considered quite one of the more brilliant up-and-coming feminist theologians.” Nah, obsession with the past and inflated ego are not signs of mania.

“Why is it, that whenever I finally have a breakthrough in the creative process, you people think I am crazy?” Well, let’s see, the giggling every minute or so might have tipped me off. And . . . “whenever?” This is only her second manic episode. She was very irritable with me during the three phone calls we had, and was refusing to go to the hospital over the weekend. She was sure she wasn’t manic. “This is different.” Telling her that sure, creativity and happiness are nice, but these were precursors to delusion and confusion, like last time, and that you have to stop it before it starts, or it’s longer and worse, wasn’t getting me anywhere. So the third time I spoke with her, after she told me “I did NOT agree to go tomorrow, I will NOT go anywhere until MONDAY, when the doctor’s office is open again,” I just started sobbing, and begging her to please go to the hospital on Saturday, because I am three thousand miles away, and as angry as I am at her, I want her to be OK, and I just can’t handle her breaking down right now, in the middle of my own issues.

Well, when I put it that way, and appealed to her self-image as a caring mother, it was a different story. She went, the doctor and she and my aunt met, the doctor told her he thought that she was on the verge again, she grumpily accepted the ‘scrip, and then she and my aunt went out for Thai, according to my aunt, who called from the restaurant while Mom was in the bathroom. I’ve got to call her in a few hours to try and convince her to fill the prescription, and take it before she goes to see the shrink tomorrow, so that he can “prove to you that I am fine.”

(Later Sunday afternoon)
Well, that didn’t go well. She told me the doctor gave her the medications “just in case,” got increasingly more agitated, and then hung up on me after telling me that she didn’t understand why we all hate her. She then called my aunt, told her that she hated her for telling me “lies” about what had happened with the doctor, and hung up on her.

I then spoke with the covering psychiatrist, who seems a saint. I told him what’d happened and he agreed with my take, and told me he and the shrink at the hospital yesterday had rx’d Abilify, but we’re at that point where she’s not yet hospitalizable, so there’s not a lot I can do from Boston.

I don’t want to go to California. My brother’s going to try to call her in an hour and see how she’s doing.

(Early Sunday evening)
She’s been calling my aunt, yelling at her, and hanging up. My brother then called her, talked her down, and got her to agree she’s going to see the shrink tomorrow. (I’d told him the covering’d told me they were open tomorrow and she could come in whenever.)

She then called me to tell me she was sorry she’d yelled at me, but that she was still mad at my aunt, and that we were all still wrong. I said, “Good, I hope I am. Give Dr. X my cell number so he can call me and tell me so while you’re there.” “That’s a good idea!” she says.

I don’t want to go to California. I don’t want to look for documents to establish our relationship, so that I can start guardianship or commitment or representative payee proceedings. I want her absence to make my heart grow fonder.

I am tired. More tired than I have ever been, excepting my wild and woolly phase during the early 90’s when I may or may not have taken mass quantities of mind altering substances and stayed up for ridiculous periods of time. I don’t really count those days as particularly trying or difficult. Self induced recreational fatigue with the occasional baby pterodactyl sighting hardly compares to my current situation. Although my child, when hungry, sounds exactly like a baby pterodactyl.

Maggie, my new baby, doesn’t sleep at night. She doesn’t sleep during the day either. She likes to party, all the time, especially at 4 am when her mother would chew off her own leg just to get a few minutes of rest. 4 am seems to be the magic hour when she comes to life and I just can’t take any more. This is the hour when I start the weeping and the whining and the pleading.

I don’t know if I’m suffering from postpartum depression. I’m sure as shit suffering from a severe case of the grumpies. I’m generally irritated with everybody, all of the time. I’m an old pro and internalizing, so luckily I haven’t called anybody a twat, just yet, but there are times when I can’t help expressing my disappointment in the behavior of my loved ones.

Like my husband. He has to work all day long so he keeps getting sleep at night. It’s really starting to piss me off.

And why does everyone who visits want the baby to be awake? I just got her to go to sleep. Stop poking the baby or I will stab you.

There are so many amazing things happening right now that it’s hard for me to tell how I feel overall. I’ll be in the process of grumping my way through the dirty dishes and I’ll take a break to peek into Maggie’s crib and she will see me and smile this huge, gummy smile and it melts all of my angst away. Or I’ll be in the midst of a medium sized breakdown because she’s hungry again and then when I stick a boob in her mouth she’ll go, “Num, num, num. NUM! NUM! NUM! NUM!”, like man, that boob is the best boob that ever happened. She’s so damn awesome that it’s hard for me to be upset for any length of time.

I’m hoping that the negative feelings I’m experiencing are just my normal everyday depression mixed with fatigue. I think it’s fairly normal to be a wee bit grouchy under the circumstances. I’m trying to pay attention to my mood and thought processes so that if I get too crazy I can deal with it. I’ve found that paying attention to myself is exceedingly difficult these days and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

Right now, it’s 2:30 am. My kid is lying in her crib staring at the ceiling and talking to herself. I am so tired and so worn out. But I am so happy.

When in one single year you are hospitalized twice and attempt suicide once it is difficult for most people to maintain a friendship with you. It is difficult for your husband to maintain a relationship with you. You become a social pariah. It’s not that people don’t care, or don’t want to help. They just don’t know how.

They just don’t get it.

Not that there is much to get. I have been ill. I have not been well.  I know that by not being well in such an uncomfortable way i have made it difficult to be friends with me. I find it hard to be friends with myself sometimes. It’s hard to not be angry.

Why did i have to do that? Why do i have to be this way? Why can’t i be a better person. Why do i let everything bother me?

And now. And now it’s been almost five months. I am separated from my husband. I have my own home for the first time ever. I am getting a little better all the time. I’ve even considered lowering the dosage on my medication. I won’t. It’s too soon. I know that. But, the fact that i can even think about that is surely a sign that things are getting a little better.