Working Low Paying Jobs to Avoid Disability: The value of work

Because of the problems associated with having bi-polar disorder, it may not be possible to take a job at the skill level you would be capable of were you not ill. Working at all, at whatever you can do is better than going on disability.

Without work, people lose their sense of purpose. Work gives you a reason to get up in the morning and a feeling of accomplishment at the end of the day. I would work at anything if it were possible. But, I can't guarantee I'll be able to show up for anything so simple as being a dog walker. It's not reasonable to expect special consideration from your employer just because you are ill. If you truly can't do anything, you will be forced into accepting disability payments and living within the financial constraints of what is often little more than half poverty level.

It is easy if you are not working to fall into bad habits. People end up watching television all day long, or sleeping through the day. These things are very bad for you and your self esteem. I am fortunate (as I have always been) to have my writing to give me something to do. It is not the kind of work that would translate into the outside world, but it is rewarding for me.

Because you may be capable for far more than the skills required for a minimum wage job, you may find mindless work and repetition difficult to handle. But, mindless work allows time for thinking. Stimulate your intellect with what you do at home when your day is done. Even in school, I often had to do outside reading to avoid becoming bored. Do what ever you have to do to make your life rich and full no matter your circumstances.

A Personal Note From Smffy to You

I just wanted to thank you for taking the to read this. I do enjoy knowing someone thought it was worthwhile. Thank you for your comments and emails as well. It's come to the point where I feel responsible to you.

As always I wish you the best in what you're doing. Most of all I want you to know you're never alone in this.

Love

Smffy

Fear of the Mentally Ill: What the media has done to us

The most the general public knows about mental illness (unless their own personal lives have been touched by it) is what they hear on the news and read in the newspapers. I have often wondered why the media doesn't say "A sane man did this," when a man shoots his wife carrying his unborn baby.

But, it is reported on the local news when a mentally ill person has a run on with police on the public transportation system. What kind of news story is that? All these misperceptions only further stigmatize us. It is well known we are more likely to be the victims of violence, not the perpetrators.

I hope they never make me disclose on my driver's licence what I have to have a medical release for. The way things are with profiling and prejudice, I only realize more and more each day how much farther we have to go.

Your Day In Court: Self representation of a lawyer?

There has been some controversy in the Supreme Court about the viability of the mentally ill who chose to represent themselves rather than accept a lawyer's assistance.

It was judged a mentally ill person is capable of defending themselves if they can speak and write rationally at all. This is a disservice to people whose judgment may be severely impaired.

Even advice from a lawyer must be weighed and considered. I've had three instances of ending up in court as a result of my mental illness. In the second case, the public defendant didn't confer with me, or explain to me what the charges were or the ramification of any defense he might choose to take. That ended up in a plea bargain (unbeknown, st to me) which was not altogether in my best interest. I didn't even know they were plea bargaining.

The first time I ended up in court, it was for a false charge of disturbing the peace. For some reason I don't understand to this day, the public defendants all declared they had a conflict of interest and couldn't represent me. I don't know how that was possible since I was thousands of miles away from where I resided. So the judge asked me if I could represent myself and I told him I thought I could. When he asked if I wanted a trial by judge or by jury, I said trial by jury and the case was immediately dropped.

The last time I was in court, I was fully informed by my lawyer and he let me use my own judgement about what we should do. The charges were extremely serious and the stakes were very high. However, I ended up with no charges, no record, no nothing because of the competence of my lawyer and I.

My strong opinion is that a mentally ill person's trial should be delayed until they are stabilized and medicated. They should be in the hospital until that happens. Then a lawyer with a background in understanding the problems of the mentally ill should be enlisted and everything should be thoroughly discussed with the client.

I'm quite sure, if the public defendant had actually defended me, there would have been no plea bargain, no charges. He presumed to know what was best for me and shouldn't have.

Who You Really Are: Brilliant sanity and silly putty

The fundamental principle of Contemplative Principle (see link) is that there is in all of us a "brilliant" sanity. This brilliance comes from knowing,or learning what's what about you and the world you live in. It has nothing to do with the common sense of ego - an inflated idea of who you are and your effect on the world. It does have something to do with a rock solid sense of who you are. That can keep you intact when no one else knows.

The development expert Lecke, developed a theory he calls the "silly putty theory." The principle of that is, no matter how it is stenched by experience or true knowledge, most people will do anything to get their sense of self back to where it was at it's inception.

Children who are constantly told they are "special" without reason for that, often develop egocentric personalities. They assume every thing they do is worthy of praise by right of their "specialness." Praise should only be offered based on real life accomplishment, not as a false identity.

If you have fallen victim to this kind of upbringing, or acquired it on the way, you will have to be brutally honest with yourself and others, take responsibility for your mistakes and own them. Sometimes our mistakes are all we really own. If you find yourself in that position, try to rectify yourself. Be different from who you have been in the past and remember "it's never over until it's over."

Repect "no" for an answer. Don't foist yourself and your fantasies about who you are on other people. This will involve some disillusionment about yourself, but that is good for you. There is no sense in walking around all deluded about yourself.

Don't rely on other people's opinion of who you are and what you do. Hardly anything is so undependable. If you make a mistake, they will forget everything you have ever been in the past. They will discount your future. People only see what they want to see. They can see nothing else.

Don't try to justify yourself to unwarranted critics. Some people make themselves feel important by belittling others. Let them have at it. When people criticize you and judge you, they are telling more about themselves than they are about you. Listen to them. You will discover soon who is your friend and who is your enemy.

If you never have an enemy, you are missing out on one of the best things in life. Enemies only make you stronger. They should be avoided however for their sake as well as your own. You're not doing anybody any favors if you treat them like friends knowing full well they aren't. Don't be a people pleaser. No everyone has to like you for you to be a worthwhile person. If everybody likes you, you are probably following the crowd (a very bad practice).

My father used to say, "If everyone agrees with you, you are probably wrong." Most things require a healthy debate and an airing of differences. Always know people have a right to their own opinions and you should leave them to it. Don't try to get approval where you're not going to get any ever. Approval is also something you can do without.

Don't ask anyone for permission to do what you think is right in your life. Don't let anyone else tell you what to do unless they are right about something. Be open to good advice and reject back advice immediately. There are lots of stupid people running around offering unsolicited advice. (I'm only offering mine here because you're still reading. You can take it or leave it.) By the same token, don't be a giver of advice. You don't want to be responsible for other people's mistakes.

Be aware of yourself, your surroundings and other people. There is such a thing as spiritual warriors. Be willing to go to war for what you believe.

Well Known Friends: Great achievers in history and bipolar disorder

I know I've already written about this before, but I just happened on another long list of brilliant minds who were, or are thought to be bipolar.

In history, Alexander The Great, Napoleon, and the horrifyingly evil Adolph Hitler were bipolar. Aristotle, who is considered to be the father of science and Sir Issac Newton were bipolar.

Among the great artists you already know were bi-polar, you can also include Jackson Pollock and Pablo Picasso.

If you're all knocked out by money, you have Ted Turner for a hero.

Where ever you are, what ever you are doing, it is good to know you are hardly a loser because you have bipolar disorder. Many of us know how useful a manic state can be for getting things done. I know of many of you who are high achievers in your chosen professions.

If it had not been for my mania, I might not have made it through, what I made into, a grueling educational process. Had I not been manic, I couldn't have handled everything on my plate as a wife and mother. Were it not for my manic depression, I wouldn't have known how strong I can be.

I have concluded being bipolar is not even a "mixed blessing." It's far from a curse. I think I was born with genes that made me likely to develop this disorder because I wanted it that way. I think I signed up for it. I truly do.

Bipolar Disorder Is Not An Excuse For Everything: The insanity defense

Recently, a well known political figure was arrested and charged for groping women. Although he had done very bad things in politics prior to his arrest, he was never charged with anything.

Now, because bipolar disorder can cause sexual urges, he is using that as a defense for what he's done. I do think there are times, insanity can be used as a defense, this is not one of them. Sexual urges can be controlled. If you have trouble with that, tell your psychiatrist or your therapist. I don't think he had a doctor of any kind until he was arrested and it was convenient for him to have a mental illness.

Once a thought a crippled, mentally retarded boy was my son. His care taker was dragging him around, trying to get him to his next class. Instead of thinking it through, I took him away from her by putting my arm firmly around him and walking him across the street to my house.

I was trying to decide who to call and what to do, when I saw him looking out the window at the school and the crowd that had gathered there. He said he did, so I told him to go and be careful. By then, I knew he wasn't my son.

Soon afterward, the police showed up. They were very gentle with me and took me to the police station. I was put in the room with two female officers. Evidently they decided I was nuts because the original police officers took me to the hospital. I didn't know where we were going, but I had nothing else to do, so I didn't ask questions.

I waited patiently while they decided what to do with me. They checked me into the psychiatric ward where I belonged. After about a week, I was released because the psychiatrist said he was just "warehousing" me. By then, I had been charged. I didn't know what I had been charged with, but they told me I was in serious trouble. My significant other hired a lawyer.

So, when I went to court there was someone to defend me who was more than a public defender. They charged me with three things. I don't remember what all of them were, but the worst thing was felony kidnapping.

My lawyer conferred with the police and the district attorney, and told me they were willing to drop that charge, if I would plead guilty to something else. I told him either I was guilty of all of it or nothing. He said, "All we need is one man on the jury to decide he doesn't care what you did."

Although I thought my looks had nothing to do with it, at that moment, I was grateful I wasn't unattractive. They dropped the charges completely and drafted a diversion agreement, which meant if I didn't do anything someone would call the police about, there would be nothing on my record. Of course, nothing happened.

When I see a mistreated child now, I still feel like doing something, but I don't do anything, not even say anything. The only time I violated that rule was when I called child protective services on a woman I knew to be abusing her children. She lost custody of them soon after and I was greatly relieved.

If you feel like doing anything violent or immoral, go see your therapist at once, or check yourself into the hospital. Men like this politician help create the stigma we have been fighting against so long.

Adivce and Warning About Telling Anyone

There is no link to this blog because I can't find anything useful to this conversation. All of us have had to consider carefully who to trust enough to talk about our illness. I have encouraged you to come out of the closet. But, that doesn't mean for just anyone.

Your life is still private. You have a right to your privacy and it should be carefully guarded. It would be self destructive to go around announcing to everyone you are bipolar. You already know how deeply you will be misunderstood, even judged.

Even though I am a firm believer in telling the truth all the time, I will tell little white lies sometimes. There's no reason to tell anyone their tie is ugly. There is no reason to intentionally hurt someone. Neither is it necessary to hurt yourself.

I am on disability, but when someone asks me what I do when being introduced, I tell them I'm retired. I am retired. I'm retired from every job I struggled to hold onto throughout the course of my illness. I'm retired from associating with just anybody. I'm retired from the pain and misery my life used to be. Of course, I say nothing about what I used to do. It's totally irrelevant now.

If you have "glory days" keep them to yourself. Everyone is only as good as what they did last year. Success must be achieved every day of your life on what ever level is available to you.

So, when you are considering sharing anything about your life with anyone, think carefully before you do it. Trust your own judgement. You will rarely be wrong.

Defying Normalization: Labels and names

As often as you're told you have bipolar disorder, it's hard not to make it your identity. However it's important to remember you are a person first and "normal" isn't normal if you ask me. The way other people live is insane as far as I can tell, so is society.

Very few have values; very few have their priorities straight; very few know what they want out of life. Being bipolar means you've had to face the truth, about your illness, about yourself in therapy. I don't think that hurts.

Our priorities are considered. We put our mental health first. There are plenty of "normal" people who have mental illness and are undiagnosed. Because they're still functional, because they get by, they never get treatment, they seldom know why they behave the way they do.

I don't want to be normalized. I don't want to be like other people. The very idea is appalling to me. Yes, we are different - different in a good way. It's nuts to want anything different from who you are.

Although I live a very mainstreamed life and that is important for me. It is unnecessary for us all to hang out. We actually know each other even if we are strangers. I have friends, I've never met. There are other people I wish I hadn't. None of those I would rather not know are bipolar.

Abusive people have mood swings too. They move from affection to rage within minutes. Many of them can't accept no for an answer and are like babies when they don't get what they want.

Some of the time, you would be willing to do anything to get out of the pain and depression. The thing about that is, it won't last forever. "Normal" people in pain never get out.

I have come to the conclusion we are fortunate. Be wise enough to recognize that.

Dear, Dear, Depression: The price and treatment of depressants

Depression is the most common form of mental illness. It is most difficult to treat in those who have bipolar disorder or schizophrenia. There are treatments resistant to forms of depression. In other words, it can't be cured by medication.

It is my experience depression can be physical. I'm thinking happy thoughts, but my body is depressed. I have almost no energy, or I am depressed and manic. It can cause aches, or real pain. These too are biological. Depression triggers the same chemicals the body uses to use pain as a warning sign of injury. It keeps people safe from not noticing they have cut themselves or been burned, etc.

Too, emotional pain can signal the fact you have been hurt emotionally. That too is a signal to remove yourself from people and things that hurt. Sometimes it can't be avoided. When that happens, do what you can to console yourself.

Take a long relaxing bath, light candles, treat yourself to something you have denied yourself before. If you feel like it, seek the company of people you truly enjoy. Personally, in times of deep depression, I would rather be alone. No one can understand it anyway, and I'd rather deal with it myself.

For me, writing is good therapy. Write about your pain. It's not a good idea to share everything you write with others. Most of the time they won't understand what you're writing about, or they will think something is really, really wrong or that you're "overly sensitive." It is true you can be empathetic to other people's pain. You won't just be "sympathetic". You will understand it. Sometimes, I actually feel someone else's pain. If you are willing to be with someone who is in pain, you may be able help them. Sometimes my children have been reluctant to tell me about their own pain for fear I will really be hurt by it. They have learned I actually truly want to know. It is very important to me they will never be alone when they are hurt of in sorrow. Pain can be a gift.

Some people are masochist. They are addicted to pain and believe it is "good for them." I call it having a Christ Complex. There is no reason to needlessly suffer. Most of the time, there is no way to avoid it. Some things hurt. The truth hurts. Don't go around telling some people the truth about some things. They can't handle it. You can.

I am grateful for my pain. It has informed me. Pain is a lesson, is a teacher. You have the strength to endure it since you have had to so many times. Be strong in your pain. Don't complain about it. There is such a thing as sacred sorrow. The Greeks believed melancholy was the most reasonable response to the way things really are. There are plenty of things wrong in the world. Have sense enough to know what they are. Think about it. There are few things worse than an ill considered life.

Political Activism and Bipolar disorder

Because so much of what the government does affects us directly, because some of the mentally ill can't speak for themselves, it is important for those who can speak up.

Someone said to me the government needs to cut medicaid so they will pare down the bureaucracy. She doesn't know how things really work. The bureaucracy will see to its own survival. So many jobs depend on it.

Every time they make cuts, we pay for it. Medicaid used to pay for glasses. They don't anymore because of budget cuts. I will have to save up for a long time to buy any. I'll need to do that before it's time to renew my drivers license. In the meantime, I use reading glasses. Contact lenses will never be available. That much doesn't matter. Glasses make me look smarter than I am.

Again, go to NAMI. See the action page. There you can keep abreast of the proposed changes and email your representatives. Do it until they know your name. If enough of us do it, we will have an influence. Encourage those you know to do the same. If they don't know about the issues, educate them. Few things you can do beyond disability and poverty are as important.

Social Support Systems and Bipolar Disorder: Know people who have been through the same thing

I apologize I couldn't find any link to this. There's just nothing much written on this subject except for scholarly articles I don't have access to. But, I know from experience it is necessary and helpful to be in touch with other people who have bipolar disorder. Nobody who hasn't been through it is really going to understand how it is for you. You can try to explain it to "normal" people; they'll try to tell you they understand, but they can't. Don't expect them to.

My sister went to the pharmacy one day when I was too ill with my illness to get there. The pharmacist asked where I was and how I was doing. My sister said she couldn't explain it and I couldn't either. I had just explained it. My sister just can't get it. Nobody "normal" can.

You don't need everybody to understand. It's enough if they accept it. Don't ask for things someone can't give. But, finding understanding and support, finding someone you can identify with is very important.

Visit NAMI. I know I've recommended it before, but I can't recommend it enough. There are support groups and discussions for any kind of mental illness. Seek it out. Learn about the lives of writers, artists and composers who have had this illness. You will understand them in a way nobody else can. They will comfort you and you need comforting. I hope I have in some way.

They Always Ask Me If Other's Complain About The Way I Smell: Mental health and body odor, cleaning and keeping a house.

I couldn't figure out at first, why on the mental health evaluation they always ask if others complain about the way I smell. I always answer never because I bathe. However, I learned some people when they are depressed, quit caring about bodily hygiene. Take pride in yourself and never quit caring. Wash your clothes when they are dirty. Filthy clothes smell awful. If you smoke, don't do it in the house. Your clothes will stink and there is nothing worse than the smell of stale tobacco.

Sweat is the primary cause of body odor. In itself, it is odorless. But, when it comes in contact with bacteria, an unpleasant odor is emitted. If you're too depressed and exhausted to take a shower, don't go anywhere. Just stay in your pajamas and wait it out. The only exception to this rule is, go to see your therapist and psychiatrist no matter what.

Rubbing alcohol applied to the armpits will help to stop the odor. Of course, so will deodorant. Use it. Hardly anything feels worse than being all grody. My father used to say, even when I was very sick with the flu or something, "Get up and get the stink off you." It wasn't that I wouldn't. He just wanted to remind me it actually would make me feel better.

If that's all you can do for the day, congratulate yourself. Being weak and depressed doesn't mean you can't try. I admire triers. I have no patience for those who won't. If you're a woman and wear make-up, put it on even if nobody is going to see you. That will make you feel better too. Don't try to cover up a dirty smell with cologne or after shave. You'll only smell worse. Clean people have a nice smell of their own. Sometimes people think I smell especially nice even if I'm not wearing any cologne or perfume. Soap has a nice smell.

Even during Word War II and during the great depression, women bought lipstick. Even a barn looks better with a little paint. If you are an all natural woman all the time, then good for you. But, some of us enjoy it. Feeling attractive improves everybody's self image. Go to Dollar Cuts or Great Clips and get your hair done. You don't have the money for expensive salons. Beauty schools are a good place to go as well. Ask for somebody that is about to graduate.

Some medications used for treating mental illness make the matter worse. I don't know what they are. The intake of caffeine or alcohol doesn't help either. Any one of these things can compound a problem you already have.

I really don't understand why some people let themselves go. If you've ever been in the hospital you know, that's one thing they require. It helps to have a daily routine. Sometimes I wait until I'm done cleaning the house. I think everybody feels dirty after cleaning the bathroom.

If you don't know how to clean and keep your house organized, read How to Clean Your House and Everything in it. There are lots of books about organizing. You can get great boxes at the liquor store. If you can't afford much of anything, cover them with brown paper, or even news paper. Paint them. Throw things away or donate anything you haven't used in a year. Some people who are mentally ill are hoarders. If you are, get help. Ask a friend to help you if you can't do it yourself. Don't buy things you don't really need. Be patient. You can't get everything you want right away. These things take time. Know your priorities. Besides, imagining and atticipation are half the fun.

Keep your house clean too. If you can't afford a lot of cleaning supplies, buy ammonia. It works on almost everything and is best for cleaning windows. A dirty environment is depressing. Do what you can to make your home attractive. Most people with bipolar disorder are quite creative. I sewed some very attractive curtains out of designer sheets. They are nicer than anything I could have bought. Paint your apartment. Some places don't allow that, but it's better to beg for forgiveness than ask permission. Besides, you can always paint it white again (even if it looks worse and they want it that way) before you move. Then you won't have to pay them to do it. I painted my living room to look like Venetian plaster. If you don't know how to decorate, buy a magazine or check them out of the library. Do these things when you're manic. You might as well take advantage of your own illness.

Save up for flea market finds. They may not be antiques or be in good condition, but you can always paint them with acrylics that cost about ninety nine cents a bottle. You can buy them at a crafts store. Look for furniture other people leave out on the street, or accept furniture other people don't want what they have anymore. Lots of people always want new things. Go to yard sales. It will give you something to do when you can't afford much of anything. Make do or do without. Most people with bipolar disorder go on shopping sprees. If you do that, just go places you can afford. Save up money so that you can afford to indulge your urge to shop. Do these things even if you are a man. That way you won't have to depend on a woman.

One time, when the police came to my house to check on me because my husband was trying to get me committed (I wasn't crazy yet, but soon afterward I was), they said, "Most mentally ill people don't . . ." I knew he meant decorate the house or keep it clean. Those things cheer me up and I do it even if I'm having a hard time. Make your life enjoyable. When you can't get out of bed, it feels better to be some place clean and attractive. Don't depress yourself.

It's Not A Brain Disease: Myths of mental illness

One of the persistent myths about mental illness, once bad character, or weakness have been excluded, is mental illness is a brain disease. There is no medical evidence near that.

As well all know, brain chemistry is a major factor. Even that is complicated by personal, and social issues. Personality plays a role. Those who are extremely driven to a goal are more likely to trigger their own predisposition to mentally illness. Stress is a key factor. Interpersonal relationships are a factor. Abuse (emotional, psychological, or physical) is also part of the equation.

In the case of bipolar disorder, it can be particularly confusing when a young child is afflicted by this illness. The fact this happens, confuses me. Most of us know, or can become aware in therapy, what triggered the illness. In some cases there are many causes. In my own case, I was surprised there was any wonder I lost it. I was not particularly surprised when it all started.

However, in the continuing struggle to cope with the illness, it is reassuring to know, there are chemicals involved. This isn't a hopeless illness. There are dozens of anti depressants available to your physician. It may take quite a bit of time to determine what works best.

I saw a stone box in a gift shop with the message "Never, Never, Never Give Up" carved on the top. I thought I might buy one for one of my children. Than I remembered, they already knew that, so I didn't. If I had known you, I might have bought one for you.

Knowing Mental Illness: Learning about the struggle of others

Once you know and understand about bipolar disorder, it's a good idea to learn about other forms of mental illness. I used to think schizophrenia meant split personality. I was as ignorant as most "normal" people. I have recently learned about many other illnesses, about their problems, about their struggle with mental illness. Why know anything? We have some symptoms in common. Where there is nothing the same, we all battle against stigma.

When I first started going to public mental illness clinics, I wanted to think I was different from the people who were there. I wanted to think I wasn't as sick as they are. The truth is, I am sick. My illness may not be as hard to cope with as others are. I may not have to take the same medication or be as heavily medicated, but all of us have an illness. Most of us are poor. We all are alike.

I have a neighbor who has schizophrenia. He is one of the kindest people I have ever met. Most mornings he smiles and waves at me from his fire escape to mine. Some days he is too heavily medicated to smile and wave. I worry about him. I miss his smile. I started to learn about schizophrenia so I could understand about his problems. I don't feel sorry for him. Almost no one wants that. I admire his bravery. I am glad he has so many friends. He loves my cat. He is fascinated by my grandchildren. Sometimes he helps me with my groceries. We don't really talk to each other. It is enough to smile and wave.

I always talk to the people who go outside to smoke. We have something in common there and smokers are always friendly. I compliment them when I can about something. I empathize when they tell me they are having a bad day. I try to cheer them up. It is so important for all of us to stick together as much as we can. I don't have any friends who are mentally ill, but I would if we had enough common interests. I don't have much patience with people who always want to cry on my shoulder. I like people who try and do the best they can considering.

Find out where your prejudice and ignorance is. Again, the best place to go is NAMI. If you have time to read this, you have time for that.

Mental Illness and Trust Issues: Trust in yourself and others

Most everyone has trust issues. I've been wrong so many times; my trust in others has been violated so many times; other's have evaluated or misunderstood me so many times - for a long time I didn't trust much of anybody. After psychotic episodes, I didn't trust myself. But, basic trust has to be established in someone or you end up with no relationship whatsoever. I learned to trust others until I had a reason not to anymore.

I've read so many articles about trusting others to understand about mental illness it isn't even funny. Given the misinformation, misunderstanding, ignorance and stigma attached to being mentally ill, you have to decide who to tell and when, who to trust at all. You have to establish a trust relationship with your therapist and psychiatrist first and foremost. Without that, no real progress can be made in therapy. I always say, "don't lie to your accountant, your lawyer, or your therapist." It is a good practice not to lie to anybody. I have only three rules to follow: Work hard. Tell the truth. And try not to hurt anybody. These rules are not so easy to follow as one might think. The only ones I know who actually follow these rules are my children, most of my relatives, my therapist, and my psychiatrist. Although I've explained these rules to many people, few seem to be able to do it. For awhile, I thought most people were "morons."

I worked for a brief time as a cocktail waitress in Reno, Nevada. I tried that because somebody I respected and liked told me they made a hundred dollars an hour. Even though I knew little about mixed drinks (or alcohol at all for that matter), I figured I could learn. When I started working there, another waitress told me not to trust anybody there. I said I had to trust somebody, so I was going to begin with her. She accepted that. I quit for many reasons, but part of the reason was what she said was true. I learned quit a bit about how stupid men can be, but I already knew quite a bit about that. None of the money was worth it.

Before you can trust anybody else, you have to trust yourself. Trust your feelings, your intuition, trust you are your own best friend and trust what little you may know. I can be pretty stupid sometimes myself. I had to learn not to say that to myself. Telling yourself you are stupid, stupid, stupid doesn't help any. Learn from your mistakes. Try not to make the same on twice. Of course some difficult things to understand have to be learned the hard way. Don't feel bad about that.
Learning anything worthwhile is hard.

If you have serious problems with trust, talk to your therapist about it. Be careful about who you tell you are bi-polar, but don't hide it. There will always be stigma if those of us who have it don't come out of the closet. A professor once said, "There's nothing wrong with your mind." I knew there had been some gossip. I knew who the gossip came from. Just because you are mentally ill doesn't mean you can't be logical. It doesn't mean you're stupid.

Because trust is so important, work very hard at it. As I've already said, being bipolar is hard work. If you don't like the way things are, or how you are,

do

something about it.

The Importance of Peers: Find support and information anywhere you can

I am writing this blog in the hope that the information and shared experience will be helpful. I have already suggested you visit the NAMI website as a forum for that. I recently found another source. Please see the link above.

Metaphysics or Psychosis: Spritual experiences may not be a symptom of your illness

This is a very advanced post and does not pertain to very many people who have bipolar disorder. So, unless something very strange has happened to you that doesn't pertain to your illness or any kind of psychology, skip this one.

In the book Men Who Hate Women and The Women Who Love Them, a very brief and unexplainable consept is presented. After many years of giving without expectation of return for effort - after years of trying to understand and forgive without recipricity, "Something metaphysical happens." I had such an experience myself. I will not share it here becuase it is a very private matter I have not shared with almost anyone. However, there were witneses to the event, and the changes in me that happened after that. I was not the same person with the old capabilities I once had. I was changed at the cellular level. One psychiatrist defined it as "a shaman" experience. I had two such experiences. I had to be satisfied with that because there was no other explanation. I did not hallucinate, or hear voices, but something happend. This was in no way a "religious" experience. I am not "special" in any way whatsoever. It is just what happened.

It was a spiritual experience, but I didn't know that at the time and decided I was going crazy. I had not actually done that yet. I was not yet psychotic, though it happened soon after that. (See Hitchhiking Adventure) If anything happens to you similarly, consider yourself to be fortunate. You may not get an explanation from anyone for years afterward, but do not suppose it is the same thing as being psychotic. Your ego, your sense of who you are, will be completely destroyed, and a new sense of self will develop over time. If you can understand the information provided in the link above, it will help. I cannot find anything more simple and as explanation and I apologize for that. There is nothing I can do about it. The point of this post is, not everything strange that happens to you is always psychosis, you will not become delutional, or irrational (though others may percieve you to be if you talk about it to anyone who is not psychiatrist, and not all of them will know what happened).

I only write this for the very few this will happen to by way of sympathy, understanding and possibly explanation.

What Happened To My Face?: Tardive Dyskinesia

Suddenly my mouth drooped on one side. I looked like something serious was wrong with me. I would have gone to see my family physician, but my med check came first. When my prescriber looked at me, she was dismayed. "You have Tardive Dyskinesia," she said. It sounded very serious to me. She explained it was a side effect of the medication I had been taking. Evidently, other doctors had left me on Haldol for too long. She changed the medication I was currently prescribed and told me the damage was likely to be permanent. I was resigned to the idea.

In the hospital I had seen patients who made involuntary faces, chewed their tongues and made sucking motions. Now I knew those were all evidence of Tardive Dyskinesia. I felt sorry for us all. Now, when I am concentrating, I tend to grimace (this is also considered an effect of medication). I try to notice when I'm doing that and consciously relax my muscles, or try to smile instead; sometimes I just don't care.

Lucky for me, the droop went away. My face went back to normal. I was lucky. Later, my prescribers usually check for signs of it - not because they knew I had a history of problems with it, because it is common. They check to see if I can touch my finger to my nose and other similar simple things. I have been lucky. People taking anti-psychotics (as many, if not most of us are) are subject to this problem.

I suggest you inform yourself on this subject and look for any sign of it yourself. Discuss Tardive Dyskinesia with your prescriber. Above all, do not stop taking your medication because it might lead to this symptom. I have had no signs of it for the last ten years. I do not expect to. However, in the highly unlikely event Haldol was ever suggested to me again, I would strongly object to taking it. That is unlikely for me because, at the time I was taking it, I had been misdiagnosed (See "What the Hell is Wrong With Me?" this blog)

The Fear of Being Labeled "Mommy Dearest": Motherhood and mental illness

After a year long struggle to keep my children emotionally healthy after a disastrous divorce and managing an impossible financial situation, it finally became obvious to my family and others I was mentally ill. My family made numerous attempts to have me committed to a psychiatric facility. I understand that now, but at the time it was extremely stressful. A psychiatrist told me they couldn't do it anymore if I gave up custody of my children. I already knew it was impossible for me to support my children given that I had no skills and had been a stay at home mom since they were born.

So, I gave finally gave up legal custody to their father (something I had already done although not legally) I hoped it would be temporary until I could get on my feet. Still, I resisted medication or possible hospitalization because of fear I wouldn't get visitation rights if I was mentally ill. As it was, it actually happened in fact, though not part of the custody agreement. He moved away to another state and I only saw them once or twice a year and I talked to them only as I could afford to call.

I was living in a dumpy one room apartment and working as a waitress. He told me I could see the children, so I drove there as often as I could, sometimes unannounced because I was afraid he would think of something else for them to do other than see me. All I had to eat for quite awhile while I was living there was left over biscuits from the restaurant. And, I think the children were afraid of me because of my illness and wounded deeply because I had left them. Only my oldest daughter wanted to come to see me. I saved up for weeks to have the money to fix her something to eat.

Studies show mothers may place "priority on their children's needs and put their own needs last" (title link). They may not go to the hospital or take their medication out of fear of loss of custody or impaired ability to work. Often they have no services or community to help them. As with me, visits may be sporadic and there is a terrible struggle to stay in contact. I did it by sending paper back books, trinkets (like pony tail fasteners or things I had made myself and letters). When I was living in a chronic therapy unit because I had nowhere else to go, I learned to crochet. The product was an afghan I gave to my youngest daughter. She kept it, sleeping with it every night for many years.

She and I kept in touch by imagining each other when we looked at the moon at night, knowing we were both under the same moon - the same night sky. She wrote me regularly as none of the other children did. Those letters and cards kept me going and broke my heart over and over again. "The termination of parental rights may have a lifelong effect." One women described it "My heart is in chains. It never gets easy, not for any mother; that pain never completely goes away." One case manager concluded that even mothers who lost their children ten or twenty years ago, are still dealing with that loss and will likely do so for the rest of their lives.

Children can also be a powerful motive to seek help. I was convinced if I got better, it would be better for my children. I decided that losing me to mental illness would have the same effect on them as death. And so, I worked very hard to become as functional as possible, even completing my bachelor and master degrees. I wanted to be a good example of perseverance against all odds. Still many cannot put their whole heart even into therapy because they are so worried about their children. Trying to work two jobs and go to school while in therapy was very stressful for me. Mentally ill people often feel they have to "prove themselves." I felt I had to prove myself some things.

When children act out in their teens, women believe it is their fault rather than a normal teenage behavior. I had this experience as well. When my oldest son made very bad choices I blamed myself for the divorce, for the way I raised him (he stayed with me when the rest of the children left. Later, my oldest daughter came to live with us. By then, my son had become destructive to himself and to our little family. I told him if he couldn't follow the rules, he would have to live somewhere else. I was hoping he would go live with his father where he would experience a stronger voice than mine. But, he chose to live with friends. In the end, he made a good choice that time. The household had a very strong no nonsense father figure.

In fact,although abuse is expected by others of mentally ill mothers, women find it hard to discipline their children. The stigma attahced is hard for both mothers and their children to manage. I believe the findings show mentally ill women have a difficult time disciplining their children. It not the case for me, only because by the time I got custody of my two oldest children, I had learned something of survival and what it takes to do that. I was determined my children know that too. I was not authoritarian, however, there were rules and expectations. Significantly, most women with mental illness participate actively in raising at least one of their children.

There is often no real support from families and state resources are rare. I know when I was hospitalized there were women there whose children had been placed in foster care. Not knowing where their children were or how they were doing contributed to the illness. I suggested something be done about that in my evaluation of the care I had received at that hospital. At least I knew where my children were and with whom. At the time, and always after, I didn't know what they were doing, except for what they told me. I didn't know when parent-teacher conferences were, nor did I dare to ask. I was petrified of their father. The probllems women face are unique to them. Gender based research is still in its infancy.

We Travel In The Best Company: Well known artists

It is well known many artists, writers, and composers were bipolar. Although many of their lives were complicated by drugs and alcohol, the features of this mood disorder were manifested before these problems began. That is probably why I have found so much poetry, so many blogs that serve as journals and expression. We do not all of us end up as great artists, but the need to create is there.

There are many gifts given because of this illness. Although my personal experience since the onset of this illness has been stressful, traumatic, and even life threatening, I truly wouldn't trade my life as it is now for a "normal" life. It has been filled with more passion, adventure, and creative expression than it ever could have if I were "normal" or normalized. Normalization should not be the goal of therapy.

Should medication and therapy be effective in allowing a person to work and function in the outside world, then that should be the goal. However, I do not believe any of us will ever be "normal." Mania may produce increased productivity or slightly diminished function, but it is not necessarily disableing. Many people with bipolar disorder are in fact high functioning.

What ever the outcome is of this illness, managed properly, it can prove to be a rich and rewarding life. Even disability is not the end of the world. There is more time allowed for pursuit of the passion many of us feel. There can be increased spirituality, insight, and long period of restorative rest.

Alcohol and drug abuse do not have to follow on set of the illness. Although the risk for suicide is high, this illness does not have to end in death. As Adrienne Rich said, "We don't need any more dead poets."

I'm Totally Out of Balance: Routine helps stabilize bipolar disorder

It is very late, or very early. I am so off schedule it's hard to say. I do know twelve hours after I got up, I am still in my pajamas. I have been reading and writing all day. This out of balance thing started during my last manic depressive episode. I couldn't sleep, so I just went on working until I was physically depleted to the point of not being able to walk. After I came out of it my sleeping schedule should have been re-established right away. But, I am a morning person and a night time person as well.

I like looking at the moon, the stars and the city lights as much as I love sunrise. I enjoy afternoons on the fire scape too. So, I've taken turns being both to the point of confusing my body completely. I'm eating at different times of the day. The only meal I eat on time is dinner, and that's only because my night time medication has to be taken with food.

But, I know balance is very difficult to achieve. It is emphasized in Chinese philosophy and can take a lifetime to learn. However daily routine is more important to people with bipolar disorder than it is to other people,

There is evidence that time between episodes can be increased by 72% when subjects maintained regular sleeping and eating time. That's incentive enough to be religious about sticking to the plan. However, I just learned that, and previously I thought I had lee way. After all, I've kept up with my household tasks, walked most days, and been up and dressed almost all the time.

People on disability are particularly susceptible to living unscheduled lives. I know it's difficult to stay motivated when there are few things essential to survival. It would be so easy to just exist. Most people want more from life than that. A schedule is a good place to start.

When You're Not Just Sleepy: Sleep deprivation and bipolar disorder

Sleep deprivation has side effects that affect even the most healthy people. However someone with bipolar disorder cannot afford to risk it.

Severe sleep deprived people in general are subject to hallucinations; impaired judgement; memory loss; increased irritability, high blood pressure; stroke; damage to the immune system; heart disease and weight gain. That may be the reason those with bipolar disorder often suffer from affects common to the illness in bipolar disorder anyway. Bipolar disorder often affects judgement; short term memory loss; irritability; and weight gain.

But combined with a sleep disorder, the affect of deprived sleep may only be increased. During manic episodes it is common not to be able to sleep. Mania is often present during the highs and deepest depression. Keeping to a sleep schedule as much as possible, getting at least eight hours of sleep every night and increasing sleep after a manic event is restorative.

It is not possible to make up for lack of sleep in just one night. Anyone who has gone for long periods of little or no sleep has to have several nights of sleep to recover. If you can't go to sleep, tell your psychiatrist. Although they will probably not prescribing sleeping pills for obvious reasons, I have learned not even a sleeping pill can help. Often medication must be adjusted to control of mania. I have found increasing my moood stabilizer brings me out of both manic depressive and manic episodes.

Sometimes psychiatrists will stop or reduce mania. I am convinced that does not help depressive manic states. However, the mania of being high - elation, even euphoria can be precipitated by anti-depressants. It is up to you and your psychiatrist to determine what works best for you.

What The Hell Is Wrong With Me?: Dangers of Misdiagnosis

At the onset of my illness, and for six or more years afterward, I was misdiagnosed. I was diagnosed as having sever depression (unipolar disorder); schizophrenia, as schizo-typical; having an adjustment disorder; a character disorder; it was even suggested I might have hysteria.

The problem with misdiagnosis is it can be fatal. Treating bipolar disorder without medication is about the same as "treating an infection with Tylenol." The suicide rate increases, and the chance for psychotic episodes is high. Even though I told my psychiatrist I was fighting suicide every day for two years (actually, it had been longer, but I only saw him for two years), I was never given an anti-depressant. And my therapist, since my psychiatrist was a Freudian, was told to "understand the mood."

During this time, I was only taking Haldol. To control the "schizo-typal" symptoms. Because psychotic breaks are very much like schizophrenia, that was all I was given. Without a mood stabilizer, my cycles of manic depression and mania were almost unbearable. In the absence of medication I drank to control the mood swings. And since alcohol is a depressant, my drive to commit suicide was worse.

As a result, I was diagnosed as having clinical depression and advised to stop drinking. Even so, I was not prescribed an anti-depressant until I asked for one. When they diagnosed me as having a character disorder (someone who keeps doing the same thing over and over again with the expectation of different results) I was treated with therapy alone. My character flaw was that I stuck to my principles no matter the consequences. Something was wrong with that.

Hysteria, also a Freudian concept, is hysterical upset over not being able to bear children anymore or having a hysterectomy. They only changed the diagnosis to adjustment disorder because I knew what hysteria was and told them I had my tubes tied.

I could go on and on about the disastrous results, but I'm sure it is apparent by now how much suffering I endured because of it. My illness is worse than it would have been had I not had so many psychotic episodes and been hospitalized so many times. I finally told a psychiatrist I didn't care what they called it; I just wanted it fixed.

Previous to that time, I had been diagnosed as bipolar, but it was decided it wasn't that because lithium didn't work. Since I don't cycle every day, when I was under observation I didn't display evidence of being bipolar. My therapist once told me it could take a hundred years before the field had a name for what I have.

I only had hope once I was diagnosed and improved with medication. I believe in the twenty odd years since my first serious outbreak occurred, much progress has been made in diagnostic technique and pharmacological treatment. I don't know if it was bad luck, or advances in therapy responsible for improving that too. If you are discouraged by the time it takes it get your medication right, please know your correct diagnosis offers the best hope for recovery.

Crazy Making: Psychological abuse and mental illness

Crazy Making, sometimes called the Gaslight Technique are ways an abuser can cause serious psychological damage in their victim. Verbal abuse often follows a pattern of belittling, demoralizing, or confusing statements that often leave the victim with a total feeling of worthlessness and confusion. "The only reason anyone likes you is because you're with me." This "they" reference implies other people do not like you, something you may regard as new and true information. "Your writing is shit and I'm the only one who loves you enough to tell you that," instills the sense that others are misleading or lying to you. After all, doesn't someone you are married to know you the best and have your best interest at heart?

The technique may go so far as to make you question your own eyes and ears. "You didn't see me do that; I never did that; I never said that" - any denial of what is true can lead to a sense that you are going crazy, actually losing your mind. Further, the abuser may try to damage your reputation, telling others you are on drugs, not a heterosexual, promiscuous, lazy, crazy, stupid and on and on.

The end result, if you don't leave, can be physical violence. This technique is most effective in relationships where the victim is isolated, with few friends or contacts in the outside world. Housewives are the easiest to victimize as is anyone who is very dependent on the abuser's love or financial support.

Although we know mental illness is a chemical disorder, it is psycho-social events that trigger it. Someone with a predisposition to mental illness is very likely to have that tendency flare into full blown illness after exposure to abuse. It is even more confusing when the perpetrator has a good reputation among others. The abused is likely not believed or dismissed if they say anything to anyone. To break down in tears, or be afraid can be viewed by others as crazy before the real "crazy" ever begins.

If you are a victim of a relationship like this get out fast. Money or social standing are nothing compared to your own mental health.

Recovering From A Manic Depressive Episode

I have spent much of the day writing - good therapy for me,and as I see how many people have visited my profile, I hope I have helped someone, somewhere. It is eight o'clock and I am just making dinner. Of the five things left on my to do list I have only managed to do two. I am still a bit tired after all the nights without sleep. I have had sleep for two nights, but it will take longer to feel fully rested.

I turn on the tiny lamp that lights the kitchen. I hate bright lights from the over head. There is a dinner already made from the freezer against such a day - when I have little energy or desire to cook. I'm only eating because the Geodon is only half as effective if not taken with a meal.

I have been reading Snowflower and The Secret Fan. I like novels about Chinese women because I too was raised to be a wife and mother. I tried to please both my husbands. It proved impossible. I have been sitting on the fire escape to read. Sunshine is good for me. I'm nurturing myself. I have tried to teach my daughters to do the same thing. Busy with children, work, and the household work leaves little time for themselves. A long tub, a walk, a little bit of reading or shopping on the Internet is good for them as my writing is for me.

I used to get angry with myself for not being able to do more, but I don't anymore. Guilt and shame are not good for anybody unless it's deserved. I can't help this. And being mentally ill requires that I take good care of myself health and otherwise.
It's times like this I am most grateful to live alone with no one else to take care of. I'll never be in any shape to be in a relationship and I know that now. Who would have the understanding or the patience to deal with this. Besides, there's a snowball's chance in hell I'd ever meet anyone with anything in common with my interests. I have learned commonality is vital to any relationship.

There was once a time I had to recover in a chronic care facility, a group home. It wasn't easy for me there. Cooking and cleaning were hard for me. I was lonely and afraid. I didn't bond with anyone except a man who had abused his children. He taught me how to crochet (a skill I forgot once it was unecessary to relieve that much boredom). They let me use the computer just once to write a letter to a journal that wanted to publish two of my poems. I hadn't submitted them. Someone in the Sociology Department who had been to my poetry reading at the university took them to New York for a conference of Women in Social work. I don't submit my poetry for publication. There just isn't enough time or energy for that. Besides, you get paid in copies which does you no good at the grocery store. I never wanted to be famous and who reads poetry anyway?

I'm letting my dinner cool off a bit, so I have time to reflect on today. I am so much better than I was two days ago. It's like day and night - hard to believe I could have been at rock bottom, just trying to hang on. Even though I know, it happens, I'm sometimes surprised at the range of mood swings I am capable of.

This is just another day in the life. But, it's a better day, and I have enjoyed myself. When I was younger, I used to wonder what "real living' meant. Now I know.

You Can Be Cured of This Much: PTSD complicated by bipolar disorder

The Novel

All winter you went to bed drugging yourself on War and
Peace.

Prince Andrei's cold eyes taking in the sky from the battlefield
were your eyes, you went walking wrapped in his wound
like a padded coat against the wind from two rivers
You went walking in the streets as if you were ordinary
as if you hadn't been pulling with your raw mittened hand
blown like an old stocking from a wire
on the wind between two rivers.

All winter you asked nothing . . .

Time's Power


Adrienne Rich - 1986


Bipolar disorder is challenge enough, however it can be complicated by other disorders. The one I know about; the one I have is post traumatic stress disorder. It has changed over the years. At first, it was about "my hitch hiking adventure" - the times I was beaten, the attempted rapes. It made it very difficult to be around men, even those I once trusted very much. Those memories, as though I was living through it again, were replaced with repeated nightmares about my ex-husband. Most recently, the episodes have been about losing my mind and the fear of hospitalization.

Veterans of war (recently, the well published account of the large number of returned veterans of the war in Iraq, also less discussed, the Viet Nam war) experience PTSD. It can be debilitating and is a major cause of suicide amongst these veterans.

Some experience flashbacks, the strong emotions associated with these events occur again as though the event was taking place right now - with all the terror and fear associated with the original experience. Sometimes it is dreadful nightmares. It can cause hyper-vigilance - the attempt to over protect yourself from anything associated with the cause of the PTSD. That is not altogether a bad thing.

Trying not to think about the original experience helps too. Talking about it with a therapist helps as well. I remind myself "I am here; this is now; I am safe." That helps the outbreak shorter and improves recovery from each episode.

I have been symptom free from flashbacks for about nine months now. I have the sense that these things will not return. The nightmares may take longer. Therapy is absolutely necessary for recovery. It is not possible to just "get over it." And talking to friends and family is often very difficult to do.

Time, distance from the events is healing as well. Although some never recover. I trust in time's power and I know from experience it is possible to heal.

I'm Not Coming Back Until . . . : Irritablility and Bipolar Disorder

About a year ago, and a few times before that I became so irritable that small things would just set me off. It was unreasonable irritation.

Very soon after my first daughter had her second baby and my third daughter was in town visiting her I lost it. Daughter number one was reapeating over and over and over again how wonderful her children were. I agreed, but I was going nuts hearing about it (something I don't generally feel). What else was she supposed to do? She was overjoyed with her baby and her toddler.

Daughter number three was studying for an exam she had to take when she went back home. I felt irritated by her innatention to her sister and I. She had a test to take. What else was she supposed to do?

I called daughter number one and said, "I'm not coming back until there are activities and decent conversation." She was hurt and angry and had to hang up quickly so she wouldn't say something she would regret.

Now it's a joke between us. Anytime the conversation lags or becomes repetitive, she says, "What's the matter mom, isn't this enough decent conversation? You want some activities?" It makes us both laugh. I'm lucky my children have such good humor. I glad we crack jokes. Heaven knows, I give them enough material and they are the funniest people I know.

However, feeling irritable is no joke. It can make you into a person you don't want to be, and wouldn't be if everything was alright with you. It can cause stress from trying to control it and escallate into anger.

I've learned to recognize unreasonable irritability as a warning sign. I seek help.

Vets, Kids, The Population at Large and Stigma: "Walking the talk"

Untold numbers do not seek help with their symptoms of mental illness. Returning Vets from the Iraq war are especially at risk for PTSD. Thousands (some say over 4,000) have taken their own lives. Why isn't this added to the official death toll? We know so many of them are not seeking help because of the stigma associated with mental illness.

Why can't people accept the fact that something is wrong with the brain, just another organ? The number of suicides is unacceptably high in unipolar depressives and among those with bipolar disorder as well.

It is said mental health awareness is increasing, but where is walking the talk? Where is putting your money where your mouth is for veterans. The treatment the military has provided so far is shameful. I know there are military and government leaders who want to change that. There is a bill before the Senate right now that would improve access to veterans who live in rural areas (as well as other issues affecting the mentally ill).

Mental health care and the cost of its destruction is in the billions. Usually people pay attention to money if not the suffering of millions of people. Mental illness is increasing dramatically. One in four families will be touched by a member who is mentally ill.

It is time we "walked the talk," making mental illness no shame. It is time for education about this epidemic. The mentally ill, their families, friends, and employers deserve understanding.

In Many Ways I Don't Mind: Genetics and Bipolar Disorder

XV


It's an oldfashioned, an outrageous thing
to believe one has a "destiny"

-a thought often peculiar to those
who possess privilege-

But there is something else: the faith
of those despised and endangered

that they are not merely the sum
of damages done to them:

have kept beyond violence the knowledge
arranged in patterns like kente-cloth

unexpected as in batik
recurrent as bitter herbs and unleavened bread

of being a connective link
in a long continuous way

of ordering hunger, weather, death, desire
and the nearness of chaos.

Adrienne Rich


Two of my aunts were mentally ill. No one talked about it much. I knew when they were hospitalized and where. I knew one of them had taken off her clothes at the airport and declared "Come naked before the Lord." No one seemed particularly ashamed, just worried. My mother used to tell me to stop writing poetry or I'd end up like my aunt (who was a well known poet). What I didn't know is it can be inherited.

I think it best if someone in my family had to inherit bipolar disorder, it was better it be me. Protected as they are, I don't know if any of the rest of them could handle it (maybe my brother could). They are all strong and have troubles of their own to overcome and they've handled it admirably, but this one is very, very hard. I think, perhaps wrongly they would have crumbled.

Because there have been gifts associated with my illness, I don't think it's all bad news. Even as a child I didn't want to be like everyone else. I didn't mind not fitting in. I was pretty much a loner, although I dated a lot and was (I learned later) considered popular and well liked. I didn't have many real friends.

However, I've always been a writer, not a great writer, but a writer all the same. I started writing poetry when I was only seven. When I showed one of my powems to my fifth grade teacher she accused me of copying it out of a book. So it must have been okay writing. It was good enough to be a well recieved Masters' Thesis. Mostly, it's been good therapy for me.

Today, one of my daughters asked for all rights to it so she could have it published, maybe after I die. She wants that in writing in case there is a family dispute over it. I promised her I would, and I was happy she wanted it. She is trying to write a book about being the child of a "mad" mother. If she gets it finished (right now, she too busy to possibly work on it) the book would help the millions affected by family members of someone who is bipolar. So, I hope she does.

I think my family gave me a gift, a mixed blessing. Most everything is a double edged sword. I've already written about my gratitude for the many things this illness has given me: increased wisdom, passion about ideas and people, increased compassion,and on and on. I would not have read as deeply and widely as I have. I wouldn't have been so driven to get my education. I wouldn't have been so driven - period.

The suffering it has caused me has made me strong. My daughter calls me "locker room tough." I would have preferred not to be so strong, but I am grateful that I am. Otherwise I would have given into suicide. I'd be dead by now. There is a reason so many poets are writers are suicides.

It would have been nice if I hadn't had to be this strong. No one is born that way. Life has to demand it of you. You must give in to the demand. I wish my aunts were still alive so I could tell them I understand. I wish they were still here so I could be a support to them, the kind of support only someone who has a mental illness can be.

So, I have my regrets and thankfulness for my genetics. It is a family thing, something we pretty much keep personal. I don't think my family could take much more exposure and sometimes embarassment on my account. I don't want them to have to. Although it may be genetic, at least it's not catching.

A Heavy Burden This: Grief and bipolar disorder

Loss is difficult for anyone. The loss of a loved one, the loss of a job, many other losses can cause depression. I have endured many, many losses. One of the greatest loss of all, worse than the death of both my parents and other loved ones have been easier to bear than the death of my former and future self. My own death needs to be mourned - the death of my past and future self.

The onset of bipolar is difficult. Real grief may accompany it. I've suffered so many losses, I can't cry anymore. The last time I did cry was four years ago when I thought I had lost my relationship with one of my daughters. She was tired of being my main, almost only support. Tired of hearing about my upsets and depression. She truly couldn't take it anymore and she was very angry about it.

Fifteen years ago a psychiatrist told me she hoped one day I could cry for myself. I can tear up, get close to it, but I can't break down and cry. Intellectually, I know a good cry is good for you. It releases chemicals in your brain as endorphins are released when there is strenuous physical activity. Runners often experience this phenomenon. Just when they reach what seems like the limits of physical endurance, something kicks in. The something is endorphins - a physical rush. When adrenalin is released, people experience increased strength, even mental clarity. Laughter does the same thing. Fortunately I laugh a lot.

As with these chemicals, crying releases grief and sorrow. There is no crying left in me. There are psychological reasons for this. As a child I was taught not to cry. My parents always said, "Quit crying or I'll give you something to cry about." So I learned to control it, the control got stronger. As an adult, I tell myself crying won't do any good; just do something about it. The doing something about it helps. But, unrelieved grief, even if you are not consciously aware of it, takes it's toll.

I barely realized I have grief issues. I didn't cry when my parents died. I didn't cry after I gave my children up, or after I was unbearably depressed about the need to. I didn't cry when I was exhausted, stressed way beyond what should be physical and mental endurance. I didn't cry when I lost my mind. I didn't cry about most anything that truly grieved me.

Some therapists have explained that people, after enduring many losses are afraid if they start crying, it will never end. I have few things I can control and so what is possible to control I do.

My therapist and I are going to work on that now. I envy someone who weeps. Everyone has had something to cry about: not just, I broke a finger nail; not just I flunked my test; not just I didn't get what I wanted. Though crying about those things isn't normal, being unable to cry at all about deep and painful losses is far from normal.

I hope that long ago psychiatrist gets her wish. I hope I do. My current therapist suggested watching a sad movie. I know that will work. Twenty-four years ago, I cried because on Little House and the Prairie, Laura's horse died. And I can cry for joy sometimes.

I cried long and hard when my boyfriend bought a car for me. I couldn't believe someone would be so kind and generous. Many people have done many kind things for me since, and I haven't shed a tear.

If you are crying sometimes, be grateful. It is a gift. If you are crying over nothing, figure out why. It can be a sign of serious depression. Crying without cause isn't healthy either. Those who can read sad stories or watch sad movies are lucky. I wish everyone a good cry every now and then.

What Did I Just Do? Sex and Bipolar Disorder

Sexuality and bipolar disorder have a strong link. In manic phases, people will have sexual relationships with anyone. Often engage in promiscuity - even sexual addiction.

I was fortunate, depressive almost all the time. It is difficult to want sex when you are depressed, even exhausted because of it. I only had a very few relationships also because of my experience, I was afraid of men. And, because I am hopelessly heterosexual, I didn't (as some do) enter into sexual encounters with other women. I also had a strong moral code that forbid indescriminate sex. For those who belong to a religion, it can lead to the sense of being damned to hell.

But, when I was in relationship with men I felt "safe" with, or was married to, I was hypersexual. They didn't mind. Although restrained by my depression and fear, I also was pretty disciplined. Just because you are strongly attracted to someone doesn't mean you absolutely have to act on it. However, I walked around almost unbearably "turned on" many a time with no respite acceptable to me.

I thought it was just my nature. I thought it was it was easy for men to be atracted, even "fall in love" with me. Now I know it was just a biological sympton of bipolar disorder.

I channeled my sexual drive, as some men do, (see

Think and Grow Rich

)into my intellectual pursuits. I channel it into my writing (though I don't write about sex). It's been so long since I've been sexually active, it doesn't bother me at all anymore.

However, I can imagine how painful and disasterous it can be for a bipolar person. There are serious sexually transmitted diseases to consider. Indescriminat sex puts you at high risk of catching something. It can lead to a loss of self worth and a sense of having no character. It can take a toll on relationships.

Despite the myth that "men always want it," just like women, there are times they don't. The demand for constant performance can give them a feeling of inadequacy, the sense they are not truly a real man. It could even threaten your job where sex, even dating among co-workers is forbidden. Even "normal" people have been fired for that.

Sex Annonymous is one organization I know of that offers help for those who are sexually addicted. Counselling can help. Even some medications reduce the sex drive. You may be lucky enough to need one of those. If that is a side effect your psychiatrist is worried about, let them know you wouldn't mind that. Unlike the disorder itself, this is one thing you can use will power to overcome the effects of your disorder.

See Test For Addiction vs Normal Behavior

The "Gift" That Keeps On Giving: Emotional and psychological abuse

Emotional and psychological abuse leave scars that may never heal. I have all but given up hope that mine will. I have reached the point of forgiveness, but the pain when I think of what happened is real. I have kept my life full and full of newer memories I hope will shove out the memories of before. To a great extent, it has helped me. Time, distance are friends to me. It has been twenty years since the most abusive relationship ended.

He can't abuse me anymore. Because he was father of my children, I can't ever escape him completely. When he is civil, doesn't express anger or condescension, it doesn't hurt me again. But, any memory of him triggers depression and pain. I blame myself for getting into that relationship. There were warning signs I ignored -pushed out of my mind.

My second marriage, though emotionally, not psychologically abusive, didn't cause me much pain once I left. I knew with the way he was raised and his drinking could hardly help himself. I was angry, very angry, but it didn't compare to the anger and pain I experienced in and after my first marriage. I even carried on a friendship of sorts with him for a time after we were divorced. But after a time, he began being abusive again. He is that way with everyone, not just me, so I don't feel singled out as I did the first time.

I will call my first husband Will so you won't get confused about which one I'm talking about here. Will was a green Beret and I think his training didn't help him overcome the traits he already had. I knew his old girlfriend was afraid of him when he first came back. She had reason to be afraid.

We went to one marriage counsellor after we were separated. After the first session she gave me a book called Men Who Hate Women and The Women Who Love Them. From that book I learned he had abusive in every way possible. I never went back to that therapist for counseling. I determined it was better for me to face the repercussions of a terrible divorce. I wanted my freedom enough to sacrifice anything for it.

The stress was enough to trigger the genetic bipolar tendency to be bipolar that was already there. I developed PTSD. I used to have nightmares about him. I have not had a flashback or a nightmare about him for years. Now I can see his good qualities. I am grateful for everything he has done for our children, grateful for his new wife and that he has changed since we were married. We have both come a long way.

I blame myself for stressing out that far. I shouldn't have tried to do so much. I should have left him sooner than I did. I should have called the police. I should have gone to see a therapist much sooner than I did. I should have done a better job of getting a divorce. I should have picked a better lawyer. I should have stood up to him more often. I really should have.

But, being subject to abuse is very different from being the abuser. He still denies some of it ever happened. The children, old enough to remember, know better. They love him anyway. I am happy for that. I have daughters. Girls who have a poor relationship with their fathers are likely to marry abusive men. The two that have married have good relationships with their husbands. I got out in time for them not to accept abuse as normal.

Getting over it is my challenge. I don't know that I ever will completely. I don't know if I will ever stop being angry sometimes. I don't think the hurt will go away ever. I blame him. Unlike my second husband, he could have changed. I asked him to see a marriage counselor, but he wouldn't consider it. He threatened me with divorce if I ever did it on my own.

I did anyway. I saw a therapist just awhile before I left him. She said there was nothing more she could do for me if he wouldn't seek counseling. By that time the abuse had become physical. When I was young, I vowed if anyone ever hit me again I would leave, and leave I did.

My last depressive episode taught me I have grief issues. I haven't been able able to cry about what happened. It has been twenty years. I broke down twice before I left him. I know crying is therapeutic. My therapist and I are going to work on my grief issues now. I have hope one day this will be over with.

S.O.S.: Know enough to make a distress call

I know enough now to call for help when I really need it. I expect by now my healthcare providers know me well enough to realize things have to be very bad for me to ask for emergency help. I usually can weather it out until my scheduled appointment. This time is different.

I am in great physical pain. I know now how that works biologically, so I'm not worried about my physical health. I see my primary care physcician often and do my best to make healthy choices.

My startle reflex is turned on high. The smallest sudden sound hurts me physically and causes me to jump or flinch. I am irritable. My verbal communication skills have deteriorated. Thank God for writing. I feel I may have to hand my therapist and psychiatrist notes because I have a hard time even talking.

Trying to be in the moment, not letting myself project into the future wondering how long this will last helps. I try to separate myself from the pain, feelings of hopelessness and loss that would otherwise take over completely. I observe how my feelings like an interested second party to the fact. Doing that isn't easy, but this is good practice.

I have been guilty of over optimism recently. When I was doing better, I believed this was finally managed enough to give me some control over what was happening to me. I had grandious ideas about my future. I even kidded myself about getting well someday. Hope runs eternal and sometimes exceeds reality.

I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy, but sometimes I wish my caregivers could really understand and empathize with me. I can't tolerate pity, and sympathy only goes so far. Of course everyone who knows me wishes it wasn't so hard for me. I wish I hadn't had to learn to be so strong.

If it was up to me, I would double my mood stabilizer and anti depressant. I have to let go of control and let my psychiatrist decide what to try next. I am a tryer. At this point, I'd try anything.

Gift From the Sea: Omega 3 and fish oil for bipolar disorder

The brain is primarily made of fat and needs Omega 3 fatty acids to function properly. Like a gift from the sea for people who do not eat or like fish much, it is available in capsules.

You need to make sure to take enough and not too little. Like any vitamin or medication it is not effective if taken in too small quantities, and can cause complications if too much is ingested.

It has been proven to help stabilize the mood disorders of bipolar illness. It can also be helpful in treating ADD, diabetes, allergies and other maladies. More and more doctors are aware of the positive results gained from taking fish oil, and some may even prescribe it.

I have been taking it for awhile, but I just learned I'm not taking nearly enough to make a difference. Once a day cannot accomplish what a three times a day dosage can.
Beneficially, the toxins found in fish are removed during processing of the oil. So fears about mercury and other poisons are unnecessary.

I'm going to get up and take a capusule of this magic stuff. I hope to be able to tell a difference soon. Regardless, fish oil is brain food and along with multi-vitamins is just another healthy choice to make.

Beyond Overwhelmed: Coping with Stress

There's not much more to learn than I already know about stress: pare down what I do to to a bare minimum, practice deep breathing, meditate, listen to soothing music, try to distract myself from what's stressing me and so on.

But, my cycles are too extreme and happening too fast for me to cope with. I've been up and down in a matter of days. Up - manic, frantically doing things, driven, not sleeping. Down - immobilized, can't go anywhere or do hardly anything, can't even get in the shower, hard to prepare a meal, can't sleep. Writing and reading as much as I can to distract myself and stay sane.

I'm going to call my psychiatrist and tell her what is going on. Hopefully, she can fit me in for an appointment. I can't think of anything else to do. I'm praying I can even get there. My main support system is going out of town. The only thing that could be worse is being suicidal or psychotic.

I tell myself I'm not going to lose it. I tell myself it's just a little longer and everything will be okay. I put messages on the mental health group discussions asking if anyone else has been helped with medication for this problem. But, I know only my psychiatrist really knows enough to tell me (and she can only experiment at this point in my treatment).

I am weary of "try this, try that." I am weary of trying so hard. I am just plain weary. Thank God for my faith. After all I've been through, I know enough to trust in the universe to help me after I've done all I can do. I've been subject to divine intervention many times.

I don't dare tell my family. Their worry and wishing to help would just stress me out all the more. I'm irritable. Sympathy would anger me. I can't worry about anybody else but me right now. Sometimes it's a virtue to be self-interested.

This is what it's like to have bipolar illness. It's just a day in the life, really.

Around Since Forever: Treatment and perception of disorder since 1583

Bipolar disorder has been around since before explanation. Mania was recognized as something different or wrong from time immemorial to now. The American Indians and others considered the mad holy. From English History we know the mentally ill were once imprisoned in conditions that were barbaric. With nothing but straw or hay to sleep on, and foul food to eat, the mentally ill were subject to torture and illnesses such as the plague.

In modern times they were imprisoned by the Nazis and gassed with the Jews. The most modern facilities "treated" us with ice baths; beating and rape were common. In the novel, Jane Eyre, we read of the "madwoman" locked up in the house. It wasn't until the 1950's lithium was used to treat bipolar disorder. Prior to that, and even afterward, the mentally ill were institutionalized, locked up for indefinite periods of time.

Only relatively recently has there been a wide range of drugs to treat bipolar disorder. When I became ill, twenty years ago, I was misdiagnosed, given ineffective medication as a result and suffered for it. It has only been the last nine years my illness has been controlled (and by then I was disabled). Early treatment offers the best chance of recovery.

We have reason to be grateful for the progress made by medical science and psychiatry. From that perspective, the stigma that still exits is nothing. Because of the progress, we have the happy chance (disabled or not) at living relatively stable and meaningful lives.

What Nobody Ever Told Me: Things your psychiatist or therapist either may not know or talk about about

In all the years I've been in therapy, I never had one therapist refer me to any kind of source for information about my condition. I asked them to recommend a book, an article - something to help me understand what was happening - but no one knew of any.

There were briefly written brochures about some of the symtoms and affects of bipolar disorder in the waiting rooms of the clinics I went to, but I was going through what they described. I already knew about that. In depth information and suggestions for coping with the symptoms was what I was looking for, and none of the brochures offered that.

I only found out about NAMI from a flyer posted on the waiting room bulletin board. I read some self-help books, useful for anyone who wants to improve themselves, but they weren't specific to my illness. I found out most of them are utterly useless to anyone. Some offer little more than platitudes, or affirmations. I wanted hard core help.

Works by seminole researchers and leaders in the field were useful: Jung, Freud, Behavioral Therapy, Rational Emotive Therapy, Writing Therapy, Women and Madness, etc. offered real understanding. I found The Power of Now, A New Earth, books and courses in meditation and Eastern thought were most helpful. The psychology of "being" is gaining rapid popularity among therapists. But, none of this was enough.

It wasn't until I had access to the internet that I became truly informed. There is more for me to learn. Every day, advances are being made. There is information about medication, research studies, and alternative therapies available to anyone.

If this sounds daunting, it's because it takes a years to read this much. But, being seriously ill is motivation enough for me to undertake this task. Regular therapy helps, but there is limited time. It takes so long just to deal with the past. Daily challenges need to be talked about. I need to tell someone about my ups and downs. I don't want to bore the people I know to death or tax their support.

There are helpful discussion groups going on all the time on the internet, a type of group therapy. Group therapy is not available where I get my mental healthcare. Connecting with others with the same challenges helps "normalize" what is an abnormal situation. It is support only someone else with the same problems can give.

NAMI is the best place to start and the information there is probably enough for most people. It is difficult to focus sometimes enough to read. However, reading is therapy. It helps improve focus with practice as my psychiatrist said it would be.

Even fiction provides insight or distraction from what is wrong. It doesn't help much to focus all the time on yourself and your own problems. Sometimes I need a break from myself.

I strongly suggest NAMI as the most helpful place to go. Anything else you can read just helps be a better adjusted person overall.

The Truth - My Best Friend: Facing up to reality

As soon as the clinic opens, I'm calling my psychiatrist. It's been another night without sleep. I took two sleeping pills; they calmed me down some. But, I just lay still, eyes closed on the bed all night. The pain in my chest is pretty much gone. I guess I'm gone and done with grieving. I still feel depressed - or is that from being tired? Tired doesn't describe it, I'm wiped out.

I'm going to have to drag myself to the dentist's somehow. I don't feel I've got the strength to even try. Having said that, I have to. The county dental health plan is very punitive to people who don't show up. I'm sure there is reason for that, but when I feel the way I do now, it seems unreasonable to expect me to be there. They have so many patients, so little time or money - it's a miracle there's even any dental care at all. They keep cutting medicaid and food stamps. I don't know. I just don't know.

The most important thing I can do is be honest with her. I hate reporting that I'm not doing so well ever. I don't want to sound like I'm catastrophising, but I really can't go on this way much longer. Maybe I'll print up the description I wrote about how I feel, when all this started, and how it compares to other cycles. I could highlight the parts I want to remember to say and keep my failing focus on my speech.

When I'm in these states, verbal communication is very difficult. This writing thing has really saved my life. I can keep myself together and rational on paper. If I talk, the words seem to trip over each other and I forget what I was going to say. I used to think I was organized. The challenges of keeping a home, organizing research, planning menus, class work, and writing syllabi's were nothing next to uncluttering my head.

I hope she can take it - the God's honest truth about me. There's no need for either one of us to feel like failures. What am I worried about? Her ego and identity are just fine.

A Room of One's Own: The theraputic value of solitude

I am grateful today, even in my pain and depression, for the luxury of living alone. I used to depend on men for my economic survival. In the long run, that was the most they had to offer me (with one notable exception and he had no money). It wasn't their fault. It wasn't mine. I loved them anyway . A woman would be hard for me to live with. I just barely learned to enjoy more than one of them at a time. I don't have the time or energy for either one. Earl, my cat and I, are the perfect couple. I need space and time for two things.

The first is to heal. Being bipolar means constant healing from the viscisitudes of being ill. During depression, I need uninterrupted rest. At all times, I need uninterrupted time to write and accomplish whatever else I can. During manic times, I need to do things with a vengence. Very few things can stop me from whatever I want to do (however sporadic it might be).

I will never be a "writer." But the mental excercise and therapy of the process are essential to my well being. As Virginia Wolf said, to do that one needs "A Room of One's Own," a place to just be. My family and friends (I only have time for one or two) are the only things worth interrupting either process. I do believe happiness lies not in a multitude of friends, but a few well chosen. I've never been out to win a popularity contest.

I write on and on to relieve my symptoms some, to improve focus, discipline and skill. I wish I had a community of writers so I could improve my writing skills. Without feed back it's impossible to know completely where you've gone wrong. I can't sustain the writing process long enough to complete a significant project. I don't have the imagination to concieve of one anyway. I've never been one for writing fiction because the truth is more interesting to me.

Gratitude helps alieviate the pain and depression to a degree. I know there's nothing to be done about it. Medication can only do so much for me. I can only hope for medical advances and keep writing in my own room.

Higher Education: Education as Therapy

My education was therapy for me. It taught me mental discipline: to support my point of view with facts and sources; to evaluate sources; to write (and writing is very good therapy; to read widely from conflicting points of view on the same subject; to moderate my tone; the importance of understatement; and the value of intellectual courage and honesty.

I have applied all those things to my daily life and those lessons have helped me stabilize to a great extent what is an unstable condition. Because I have no access to professional research and journals, I have only found one source to corroborate my theory.http://www.palgrave.com/products/title.aspx?PID=271245 * I miss access to a university library.

The price of my education was very high. I am not talking about money here. Because I was already very ill, I had several psychotic breaks during the course of my academic experience. Stress triggers those things in me. I was hospitalized each of those times, and that alone is very stressful. I was taking Haldol during my graduate studies, a drug that dulls the mind. Therefore, I had to work much harder than I would have if I had not been ill.

I was suicidal through most of my graduate years. I had lost my children and the pain of that lost was almost unbearable. I was frightened for my sanity. I drank to ease all those symptoms and worked all night frequently, falling asleep in the morning for an hour or so in my clothes, getting up and doing it all over again.

By the time I finished my masters degree I was so burned out and exhausted, I knew I could never complete a PhD. program. I became even more depressed and discouraged. I couldn't do much of anything except play Super Tetrus all summer. I couldn't write anymore. I couldn't read. I drank and got into an unhealthy relationship.

If I hadn't nearly destroyed myself, my illness wouldn't be as bad as it is today. However, I'm sure with more time and support than I had it could be done. Bipolar people are sometimes far above average intelligence. Abraham Lincoln suffered from severe depression. Bipolar writers include many of the greats: F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, Johnathan Swift, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Sylvia Plath and many others were all bipolar.

It is not necessary to be as gifted to "deserve" an education. Mine will never translate into a contributing roll in society. However, despite the price, I am grateful and better off in many ways for having it.

*I apologize for not linking this site. It is not accepted by this program.

"That which does not kill me . . .": The real pain of a broken heart

My heart hurts. It's not a heart attack. My blood pressure is fine and a had an Angio-gram a short time ago. The doctor thought I might have acid reflux or something wrong with my lungs. But, the pain goes away for very long periods of time. The medication makes no difference when I am in pain. It doesn't matter what I eat. None of that triggers pain. This happens to me off and on when I am in a depressive state. I hang onto the words of Goethe, "That which does not kill me, only makes me stronger." It hurts enough, but I know I won't die of it.

Science has proved the same part of the brain that is stimulated by injury or disease is triggered by depression. The pain is real. But, no pain killer will take it away. I've tried that. My physician prescribed Oxycontin once. I took it only twice and when it didn't work, I didn't take it again. I knew it can be addicting. There was no reason for me to take it.

It feels like my heart is broken - as the songs and poems say it is. No figure of speech, it can cause suffering. There are things I can do that will help. I write poetry. For a poem to be any good, the writer must go "to the bone." It involves a dreadful honesty that is painful in and of itself. Strangely, it helps lessen my pain to put it on paper.

I have been accused of over-sensitivity. My feelings don't hurt when I am criticised. I am not bothered over much about personal attacks (though I try to avoid them). However, beautiful literature, mustic, art, another person's suffering can cause me to be moved. When I listen to other people's problems, I feel their pain with them.

On the other side of the coin comes great joy. It doesn't take much to make me feel happy. Not zippidy-do-dah happy, the happy that comes from a geranium in bloom, sunrise, a good conversation, the company of someone I love. Those things please me beyond words. It is not just a matter of "simple pleasures." It is real joy.

I don't mind being sensitive.

But, the heart break sometimes associated with my depressed states is hard to bear. It started when my therapist told me I would make an excellent therapist. It was a compliment and I was pleased to hear it, but that statement started a grieving over what might have been were I not mentally ill. I was getting close. It would only take two years to become a therapist.

Intellectually, I know how much I have to be grateful for. Intellectually, I think of those things. However, my emotional body feels the loss. It is a grief, a mourning as though someone had died. In truth, who I might have been did die with the onset of the illness. The children and friends I lost were really lost to me (at least for a time). And so I battle with my mind and and my pain body. I try to be in the now, the present moment with the person I am - a person I am truly glad to be.

Sister, sister: Family support and mental illness

Family support and understanding are crucial to recovery and/or coping with mental illness. Just like cancer, or any other serious medical condition, there are symptoms, sometimes actual physical limitations that must be dealt with.

Today I had to cancel my trip to the grocery store with my sister. She takes me there once a month to do my shopping. This saves me the time and physical effort of pushing my little cart many times up the hill to get my groceries. I often do that a few times, to buy fresh items such as milk, bread and produce, but the bulk of my shopping is done once a month.

I really can't go anywhere today. I just don't have the energy to get dressed or the strength to walk through the store. There is a prescription I need at the pharmacy, and without me asking my sister offered to go get it for me. I was grateful. Asking for help is hard to do. I don't want to be a burden.

Having a large support network helps spread my need for support around to many people so it's not too much for anybody. I don't know what the seriously mentally ill do without that support. I trust in the universe enough to know help would come from somewhere if sometime she couldn't help me. And I am very aware she has her own life. I want her to live it to the fullest. I want that for myself.

I was insensitive to their emotions: loss, grief, and confusion when all this first started. Once when I almost died from taking a medication that wasn't mine, she seemed so stoic, so indifferent to my life (at least to me), I concluded she didn't love me. She told me long afterward it would have been easier if I had died. I didn't understand the degree of grief, anger, and the burden of worry my mental illness caused. After all, I thought, it wasn't happening to them.

How wrong I was. Mental illness happens to the whole family. There isn't as much stigma attached as there once was. It used to be families were blamed for the illness. There was no support for them. There was no support for my family, except perhaps their faith in God and the members of their church who knew.

My psychiatrists and therapists never advised them about the support they could have received from many organizations or suggested they see a therapist to help them deal with the emotions they were feeling. I wish it had been different for them. I realize it is not my fault it was so hard for them. I was sick and confused by what was happening to me as they were. And I was so angry about most everything.

My anger served a purpose. It kept me alive. Staying alive was my revenge against my ex-husband. I was sure what happened in the divorce was evidence of how much he hated me and wanted me dead. I wanted revenge. Living was the worst "punishment" for him I could think of. How much easier it would have been for him if I had died -if he would not have to deal with me, as the mother of his children, the rest of his life.

We are civil with each other. I think he gives me credit for what I have accomplished even though I am not well. I'm sure, in his heart of hearts, he appreciates what I have done for my children. Against all odds I did complete my education. Educated mothers are the best predictors for educated children. They know I love them above all else. But it was very difficult for him not to think I had "done" something to the kids when I left them to his care. I'm also sure it was for their best good. I knew that at the time I did it the only way I knew how.

It is difficult for friends to understand or deal with mental illness too. I lost friends. Only one of my friends from my former life is still my friend. She too has been an enormous support. I owe them all a debt of gratitude I can never repay. The only thing I can do for them is do the best I can, not need too much and love them deeply.

Without support for themselves, my family and friend have done very well. They are strong people. So am I. We are equals in that way and that way only. I support them emotionally whenever I can. My illness has made me more compassionate for others than I ever could have been. I can empathize with all kinds of sorrow, anger, loss and challenges. For that, I am grateful for my illness.

I strongly urge family and close friends to become educated and seek support for themselves. My family have gone on with their own lives. They have learned, as I have learned, they can trust me to take care of myself. We all believe in divine intervention and faith. Sometimes that has been anything we had to hold onto. I know so many angels incarnate.

My Familiar. My Cat: Pets as therapy and companions

My cat, Earl, is my roomate. It is only possible for him to live with me in my apartment because I have a letter on file from my physician stating that a pet would be good therapy for me. He was talking about a companion animal to help with my high blood pressure, but my cat has been better for my mental illness.

Today, for instance, I am depressed and "in the basement" in energy and focus. Only the demand of the cursor keeps me on track to write. Even with that, I have to stop frequently to recover my train of thought and remember what it was I meant to write. I am trying to write anyway because 'in the moment' is the best time to discuss with meaning anything that really pertains to me.

The television is on, but I can't follow a story,and so it is tuned into something mindless. I can't listen to music because it would take too much energy to get up and change C.D.'s. I can't read right now; I lose my place, fail to comprehend and end up giving up.

But Earl, sensitive to my moods, is attentive to me. He curls up next to me and pats my face every now and then as though to check and see if I'm okay. When I'm manic he pays almost no attention to me and is very skittish and jumpy. I think he picks up on my energy as any familiar would do.

A familiar is defined as "n one well or long acquainted; a spirit or demon supposed to attend a person at call." Earl acts as my familiar - his spirit in tune with mine. In some traditions witches and holy persons had familiars. The definition of witch used here is someone knowledgeable about herbs and plants used in healing (for which they were burned at the stake). A witch is someone capable of moving between the metaphorical world and reality without getting the two confused, (even poetry was considered by the Celts to be white magic). The familiar often acted as go between between the spiritual world and this. And. He comes when I call him.

He serves as a companion as no human could: quiet always, never a sound to listen to aside from his purring. He is comforting when I am stressed,anxious, or depressed - playful when I am feeling good.

More research is being done to understand the widely known improvement in people with mental and other illness. But, I need no research to know.

Elavator Going Down: Headed toward the bottom

I just came home from breakfast with my son. My children and one friend are the only people I really see socially. That's all the energy and time I have for being with other people. I know studies show people do better, live longer if they belong to a group. It's just not something I can possibly do. Even my extended family, the people I love very dearly are usually too much for me. It's not their fault. It's not mine. I stay in touch; I try, but it's too hard.

Now, I know I am heading for a period of depression, a lack of energy, and the need for more sleep. Knowing it will stop sometime helps me cope with it. It will be a challenge not to feel sorry for myself. I'd rather not be this way. It reminds me forcefully of all the things I cannot do that I still wish I could. I try practicing acceptance of the way things are. It's still not easy for me.

At times like this I withdraw. I don't want anyone to know. I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me or mourn, as I do, for my lost potential. I feel close to tears, but I cannot cry. I fear if I start, I'll never stop.

The hours spent with my son were so good. He had no idea how I was feeling. I am a great pretending. But, it was more than time to go home. I barely had the strength to walk home. I couldn't smile back at the people who smiled at me. I wanted to, but I just couldn't. Because I have spent so many years like this without relief, my face is drawn into a perpetual frown. I practice smiling, but often it looks more like a grimace. My face tells a subtle story about my life.

I take an antidepresant. It is working very well. I haven't been suicidal for quite awhile. I am grateful I don't have to put body and soul into fighting that urge anymore.

A few times I confided in someone the fact I couldn't understand why my life had to be so hard. I used to wonder what I had done to deserve this. There was a time people thought I had made such seriously wrong choices I deserved to pay for them. I know it's not true. The same person told me "everyone has problems." But, I know one person's hangnail seems like another person's broken leg. I am absolutely sure her challenges don't compare to mine. It isn't her fault she doesn't understand. How could anyone really know about another person's pain and loss unless they too have experienced it.

I am going to get my pajamas on and go to bed. It is four o'clock in the afternoon and I am exhausted to the bone. I wouldn't have missed that time with my son for all the money in the world. Truly. I summon up the gratitude to be thankful I didn't have to cancel, for the will to go and do with him despite how I feel. However, my will is all used up now. And I am helpless against what is happening to me.

Tomorrow my sister and I are supposed to go to the grocery store. I am out of most things, but I want to cancel. I wish I had the courage to ask her to pick up my prescription. I don't want her to worry. I don't want her to feel sorry for me. Maybe tomorrow, if I sleep long enough, I'll have enough strength to do something. I recall, as I have so many times, the words of Scarlet O'Hara - "Tommorah is anothah day." It has become my mantra.

Tragedies Go Unreported: The only news you'll ever hear is about violence

The tragic outcomes of bipolar disorder are numerous: death by suicide, homelessness, drug and alcohol addiction, and lost potential are but a few. Unfortunately, these things are not reported, not by news sources, your therapist may not even tell you.

Depression, mania, impaired judgement, and predisposition to substance abuse are some of the underlying causes of these tragedies. Why don't therapists warn us we are possibly subject to these kinds of outcomes? Why don't they tell us our errors are psychologically caused?

I can only make up reasons. I don't know what they are. I plan to ask my therapist why in all the years I've had and suffered from the consequences of my disorder, no therapist has ever told me anything except that I had been psychotic during some of the most extreme times of tragedy. The little ones went unexplained.

The Hole That Goes on Getting Deeper: Substance abuse and bipolar disorder

For several years, I abused alcohol to slow down my thought process, help me sleep, ease my emotional pain, and "go numb" to my reality. Although I wasn't an alcoholic, I could have become one very easily if I had not stopped. Substance abuse occurs in up to sixty percent of patients with bipolar disorder and is more likely to coexist with bipolar illness than with any other psychiatric disorder.

What makes those with bipolar disorder turn to alcohol or unprescribed drugs? It is believed that a biological or physiological cause may be at the root. There is an underlying vulnerability of the individual that predisposes those with the disorder to both mental illness and substance abuse.

These individuals have a difficult struggle with bipolar disorder. On top of that, they are predisposed to try drugs or alcohol in the first place. Unfortunately these users are slower to recover or improve, and more lifetime hospitalizations occur. If used in adolescents, there is an earlier onset of the illness.

To further complicate the matter, treatment may be denied because of substance abuse, or substance abuse counselling may be denied because of the disorder. It is not uncommon for substance abusers who have a drug or alcohol dependency to be told, "I can't do anything for you until you're off the drugs/alcohol" (patients who are not addicted are less likely to hear that).

The terrible truth is, relief from symptoms through self-medication is short lived. The more the substance is used the worse symptoms become, and sufferers end up digging a hole that is very difficult to get out of. Mental health services are not well prepared to deal with patients having both afflictions (Hatfield 1966). The patient may be bounced back and forth between services for mental illness and mental illness.

Substance abuse can be very damaging to self esteem. "I went through years of drinking and using illegal drugs. When I would get so disgusted with myself, I'd try to stop. At that time I'd be interested in seeing a therapist and pdoc. With the meds I'm on now, I have no desire to get so loaded I can't breath. . . ." (from Askrop).

I know of people who think their substance abuse is perfectly understandable. They assume little responsibility, justifying the abuse as necessary to "change the way the feel." Often, they are in denial about being substance abusers at all and do not seek treatment for that because they only use it sometimes.

Although it is difficult, it is important to be honest with your therapist about drug and alcohol abuse, both because it is necessary to get help and support to quit, and because they can cause your symptoms to be worse.

What little relief abusing substances gives, when all is said and done, you have the same problems, you are the same person you were before you abused. You are not getting better, you are getting worse.

Mindfulness: Becoming Steady With An Un-Steady Condition

Sleep horns of a snail protruding, retracting

What we chose to know


or not know


all these years


sleepwalking


next to death


"Sleepwalking Next to Death"
Time's PowerAdrienne Rich
(form altered to accomodate publication)


Mindfulness is the art of being awake to the present moment, living in the now. The past is gone, the future unknown. Now is all we have. Yet many, especially those who are dissatisfied with the present, those who live in anger and resentment of past "wrongs" done to them, and those who want a future somehow different from today's reality, live in the past or future. They are not "present" to witness the power of their own real life.

This is not to say there should not be goals, far from it. It is about setting the goal to be "here" - to be aware of ourselves, others who are actually with us, and our environment.

To be present means to walk and notice where we are, to see the trees and grass, the alleyways, and cracked sidewalks. To be aware of the energy of all living things. I have been guilty most all of my life of being lost - lost in thought, lost in dreaming - distracted from what is. I learned to be awake to the power of now, to be in the moment that is, in truth, all we really have.

I learned to do this through meditation. I have been a meditator for twenty years. But it needn't take that long. Anyone can learn to wake up right now. I strongly suggest The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle. In his insightful way, he describes how being present can be attained immediately.

It takes time and practice to stay present at all times. But, as a person with a roller coast predisposition, I can tell you this practice has contributed the most of anything I have learned in therapy or anywhere else toward steadying myself. Despite my energy and emotional cycles, I do now consider myself a steady person - steady in where I am and steady in purpose.

What did I think of a minute ago and other things I forgot: Short term memory loss and bipolar disorder

I often forget essential every day things: What I have to do today, whether I forgot to take my medication or not; what I meant to buy at the grocery store, what others have told me; what I was thinking or planning to do just a minute ago. It is a feature of bipolar disorder.

Some medications, Xanex is just one of them, that contribute to or worsen short term memory loss. Some of this is experienced by people who are "normal";it happens with people who have too much to do and are stressed. But in bipolar people, it happens often. It is not always due to out side contributors. It can be a persistent problem.

Forgetting important things to do, where you put essential things can affect the ability to function and create more fear that you are deteriorating or more ill than you are. There are things you can do to help yourself.

Put keys, glasses, your purse, your medication in the same place at all times. Make it a habit. It is as important as it is to a blind person who cannot look for things very easily. When you can find what you need, it is more likely you will be on time and make your appointments.

Make lists. Most people make a grocery list. Keep it on-going. When you notice you are running low or out of something, write it down then and there. It will save you repeated trips to the grocery store, saving time and energy you need for other things. Make a list of things to do every day - no more than seven things to keep it manageable. Make lists of things to talk to your therapist, psychiatrist and PCP about. Schedule everything on a big calendar. Label boxes. Organize everything. All this will help you to remember and save you trouble when you can't.

After that, what you do forget is probably not all that important. If you repeat yourself in conversation, someone will remind you. If you forget why you went into a room, you can always check your list to see what you are trying to get done. Be kind to yourself and patient.

"Crazy" In The ICU

"You look like you're fighting something," my sister said. She didn't know, and I didn't have the words to tell her. I couldn't use my strength to try. Everything I had was going into holding myself together. I was in the ICU.

I knew there was nothing life threatening about my condition. I went into the emergency room with really high blood pressure. I expected they would give me some medication and send me home. Instead, I wound up in the Intensive Care Unit. The doctor told me I was only going there because I needed to be monitored by equipment they didn't have anywhere else. I understood. They were being cautious, wanting to make sure I wasn't having a heart attack.

I didn't know about ICU psychosis and what would happen to me psychologically. It can be caused by sensory deprivation, lack of sleep, and certain medical conditions. I couldn't really see the window (mine was the only curtained room that had a window), but I kept the television on. I felt I had to concentrate on something, or I would lose my mind.

The constant beeping of the machines, interruptions by hospital staff to check me and ask the same questions over and over again, the discomfort of the IV's, pain in my chest and a splitting headache all wrecked havoc on my mind. I could feel the stress and anxiety building.

"You're twitching," they informed me - as if I didn't know my body was jerking erratically. I said nothing. They didn't either, so I trusted it was nothing to be concerned about. Besides, it seemed a normal physical expression of the way my body felt - stressed to the max.

I tried being still, letting my mind rest, breathing deeply. It didn't help much. I told them I needed something for my headache. After nothing else worked, they gave me morphine. It helped. They said it would assist me in falling asleep. It did not.

Because it was a teaching hospital, med students and interns came in every half hour or so (I estimate here, it seemed more frequent) to ask me a long list of questions, over and over again, give me a complete physical several times a day, or empty the portable potty by my bedside (the bathroom didn't work). On top of the usual noise, the machines beeped loudly every time my blood pressure reached a certain point.

It took a few days to discover my eletrolytes were very out of balance due to the medication I had been taking. This imbalance can be a cause of ICU Psychosis. I didn't become delusional or halucinate. I 'm sure that was only because of the Geodon I was taking.

Three days into it, they took me off Geodon because in rare cases it can cause high blood pressure. That really made me edgey. Once I was off the HCTZ (the medication that caused my electrolytes to be off in the first place), my body chemistry began to normalize. I was desperate to go home. I hadn't slept at all the entire time I was there and I was manic.

I thought I was acting like a wimp. I was upset with myself for being so stressed. (You know the vicious cycle.) But, I learned much later, the symptoms I was experiencing were "normal." There is a name for it.

If I ever have to be hospitalized again, I will make sure it's not at a teaching hospital, or one as environmentally depressing as the one I was in. Thankfully, my sisters kept me company the whole time I was there. I don't know what would have happened without their presence in the room.

All is well with my heart. I opted for an angiogram to determine the condition of my heart. The results will be considered conclusive for three years. I'm taking good care of my health. I'm off the culprit medication. And now I know.

Head to Head - Toe to Toe and OK: Conflict resolution

I used to be terrible at resolving conflict in relationships. As a teenager, rather than try to talk things out with my parents, I just did what I wanted to and took the punishment for my behavior. I might have saved myself a few mistakes and some serious grounding time if I had been better at resolving differences. Conflict resolutions skills have to be learned and many people are not taught how to do it.

My marriages were abysmal failures because I couldn't deal with conflict. Rather than risk anger, resentment, and punishment I just went along and kept quiet about what I wanted and what my feelings were for the most part. When I did speak up, I was not assertive. I didn't want to be seen as an "aggressive" or "nagging woman". (Both stereotypical negatives)

Interestingly enough, I managed to teach most of my children how to resolve conflict in constructive ways, and we have been successful at working out our emotional and behavioral issues.

Since I know I'm not good at it with men, I just gave up on them. Since I am good at communicating with my children and others, those relationships are honest and enriching. Our skills limit and define our experience.

Those who don't learn these skills often find it difficult to move forward in their careers, have successful relationships, or interact with the public at large. What do you do when someone crowds in front of you in line? Are you abrasive, antagonistic, or firm and assertive? Oscar Wilde said, "Manners are all that keep us from tearing each other's throats out." Sometimes just being polite saves a lot of trouble.

Being a good listener is first and foremost in resolving conflicts. It's important to know where the other party is coming from: what are their issues and concerns? - where are they coming from?

Then, stick to what you think and how you feel. Don't label, accuse, or blame the other person. It's very difficult to communicate with someone who has been put on the defensive. Avoid saying things like "don't kid yourself" (implies self deception), "I've heard that before" (suggests repeated lies), or any other phrase that is insulting, condescending, or negative.

Provide feedback to the other person showing they have been heard. "I'm hearing that you . . . (feel - , think - , or want - )" lets the other person know they haven't been beating their heads against a brick wall. It validates them as worth listening to and creates trust.

Give the other person the benefit of the doubt. Intentiionality can't be known. Don't assume the other person means to hurt your feelings, lie to you, control you, or attribute some other bad intention to the exchange. If you really believe it is unshakably true, it may be better to excuse yourself from the relationship or situation.

Be clear and concise. There's no point in beating a dead horse, or repeating yourself over and over again. Repetition doesn't make you right - it makes you boring. Choose you words carefully. Don't exaggerate or say things you can't support with fact. No one can argue with how you feel. Your feelings and the feelings of others are always valid. Express and accept emotion in yourself and the others in your life.

Sometimes the only outcome there can be is to "agree to disagree." If after full discussion and thoughtful exchange, there is still a difference between the two parties, then a mutually respectful difference must be acknowledged. Everyone does have a right to their own opinion.

The "Adventure" of Delusions: A trip I'll always remember

I remember very well the delusions I have had. They were brought about when my bipolar disorder (a biological condition) by extreme, prolonged stress (the trigger mechanism that activated my preconditioned tendency), and lasted for long periods of time (up to a month or longer) before they became obvious.

I believed with certainty my ex-husband wanted to kill me, other people were actively plotting against me (members of my church, my husband's boss - in concert with him, and one family member or another - they took turns). The delusions were inflated realities. Big or small events and off hand remarks created elaborate plots of a drama that seemed very real.

Delusions of a religious nature are very common as are ideations of being followed (paranoia), the sense of being plotted against by one person or groups of people. Fifty percent of delusional people can be helped with medication. Many never seek help because their belief in the delusion is so strong.

The delusions I experienced were brought about situationally and by psychological and physical abuse in my marriage, a very nasty divorce, being denyed my request to have my name removed from the records of the church I belonged to, off hand remarks by someone who claimed to know what I was doing in - what I thought - was private.

They escalated into believing I was being poisoned, censored, and persecuted. They precipitated the biggest adventure of my life: I ran away to escape what I thought was happening. I call it my Hitch hiking adventure. I was usually unsure if what I thought was happening really was, so I tried to act on both the level other people were living on and the bizarre world my mind had invented.

The strange thing about these adventures is that they affected me as though they had actually happened. That is, the adventure of hitch hiking and the real things that happened plus the delusional conclusions I came to affected me as though what I believed was happening really did happen. I developed PTSD because of it.

I can only imagine how frightening it was for those who knew me to listen to my bizarre comments and behaviors. I caused them untold worry and stress. Tyring to get me committed was near impossible because at those times, I acted on their reality not mine and it could not be concluded that I was a danger to myself and others.

Besides, the delusions - real fact informed many of the major decisions I made at that time. In reality, after the divorce I faced the truth I could not support my children. Child support had been based on an undervalued estimation of my husband's income. I only received a lump sum alimony that paid for my mortgage (which I was responsible for, for three months). I had no real skills, no advanced education. And I couldn't (according to my sense of what was good for my children) leave them alone or let them be latch key kids. I knew my husband would provide for them if they were in his custody because he had sought custody during the divorce.

I had requested my name be withdrawn from the records of the church because of real philosophical disagreement. The people in the church who used to be friendly were suddenly not friendly any more. Helpful neighbors stopped being helpful and I was the subject of much gossip.

The part time jobs I could get paid minimum wage, I received one dollar more a month than the eligibility requirements for welfare or food stamps and others were saying my writing was anti-religion (not my intention). Therefore, I thought my writing was more important than it was (grandiousity). As well, a relative told me to stop writing because it was "getting out." I didn't even try to publish.

I believed my husband's boss had helped him hide his assets. I believed the church as well as my ex-husband wanted to kill me or have me declared insane. I was afraid for my children. I knew enough to know I was incapable of caring for them. I was terrified.

During all this, I tried to pretend I didn't know about it. I associated with people I thought were my enemies because it would be better if they "didn't know I knew." I never talked about what I believed was going on to a mental health professional because I thought they would deny knowledge of any such thing and I didn't want to be "locked up."

Needless to say the stress was traumatic. Given all that, I made the best decisions I could. My children were better off with their father. I needed to keep my integrity intact by not presenting myself or being treated as though I was a member of a church I strongly disagreed with (even disapproved of).

I did all those things regardless of what the consequences would be for me. It is part of my character to be like that. I am still that way.

Thankfully, I was committed, medicated and eventually, (with medication, therapy, disability income, and a second divorce) free of these psychotic episodes. There came a point in time when I would rather die than go through another round of psychosis. The price I paid was very high.

I had to start from scratch after the first one. All I had was the clothes on my back. With some help from my family (and some additional trouble that contributed to my subsequent delusions), Pell Grants and student loans, I got my masters degree and was able to teach at a University.

I had several episodes after that because my situation remained very precarious financially. Because teaching as an adjunct professor pays almost nothing, I had to work two jobs. The grief and anger about giving up my children could only be alleviated after years of therapy. And, I had to accept the fact that although I could be very logical and successful in school and in my life choices, I was sick. That was very difficult for me despite all the evidence. I kept telling myself anyone would crack up under the stress I had been through. I kept thinking I could "mind over matter it."

I was irrational during the periods preceding my episodes. I couldn't think clearly enough to plan an exit strategy for any of my relationships. I made very poor choices in men. For a time, I drank to ease the pain and that only made things worse.

It is near impossible to communicate about the psychosis when you're in it, or afterward for that matter. It is humiliating, even devastating. Because of the choices made during these periods I had to start over again several times, mend broken fences and earn respect from others all over again.

I'm not sure even mental health care professionals understand the ramifications of even one episode. Repeated episodes create the real fear that you will never "get well," be independent, respected, or even loved. It takes a long time to trust in yourself and others.

It takes a "gut check" to make sure you can go on, left foot - right foot for a long time. It takes guts to face up to the person - a person whose mind has betrayed them - in the mirror. At least I learned what I am made of. At least I know I am worthy of respect and I respect myself. I don't expect total understanding. I am glad no one I love can fully understand it. You have to experience such a thing to truly empathise.

Self Talk and Bipolar Disorder: The difference between joy and misery

I have been reading the diaries of many people with bipolar disorder (with permission). Some of the diary entries come from people I don't know, people who choose to stay anonymous (understandably), and I have talked to people I know who have the disorder.

Most people, at any given time, are doing the best they can. Sometimes it is discouraging to be bipolar. It is hard to get the medication right. I think prescribing is experiemental. It's a "try this, try that" process. We've all experienced the failures, and the limitations of what the medications available now can do.

As someone who has been in treatment for two decades, I know how much what can be done has improved. There was a time, lithium was supposed to be the answer to everything. I take many medications now. I could take more (for anxiety), but I don't because I don't want to feel sedated. I feel "weird" (sometimes I have felt as though there was a steel plate in my head - that's gone now, I have felt drugged, that's gone now, I now feel like there are elastic bands around my head) enough already. The anxiety, I hope, can be managed with therapy and my own practice at relieving stress both situational, and from my symptoms.

One thing that has proven most succesful for me is improving my self-talk - the story I tell myself about me. Rather than reiterate the story of my symptoms, I think about what can be done about them.

When I can't get out of bed, I think "okay smffy, let's go snuggle down in the covers and watch old movies." I try to enjoy myself, to allow myself to sleep through it, knowing this too shall pass. When I am manic, I try to get as much done as is necessary.

If I can't focus, I go from one thing to another until I have finished what I wanted to do. This blog has been helpful because I can leave it, come back to it, work on it for just minutes at a time (a luxury a real job wouldn't allow me). But, it gives me a measure of satisfaction I used to get from working or going to school. I feel I am accomplishing something. When I notice people have read it, I have the feeling I might be useful to some people. I'm doing what I can.

Barack Obama has given me the same opportunity. He has set up his campaign so I can do many things from home in that same sporadic way from home. I don't know when I'll be functional; I'm only functional for periods of time; there are days I can do a lot, and days when I can do nothings. But I feel like I'm participating. I'm not excluded.

I journal about my symptoms only sometimes. Repeating what is wrong over and over again, day in and day out only contributes to reinforce my sense of being very ill. I reinforces the knowing there is something wrong with me. It is better for me to read about other people's struggle with the same things. That "normalizes" what is not a "normal" condition. I now don't feel all alone in this, and because I am atypical in some ways, group therapy has never been helpful to me.

Most of all, not focusing on what is "wrong" with me keeps me from making my illness my identity. I am not bipolar. I am not a bipolar person. I am a person first, and bipolar fifth or sixth. Being a mother, a grandmother (Oma), a life-long learner, a poet, are things I put first. And although my illness affects the way I do everything I do, I refuse to think of it first and foremost.

I don't think of my past. The price of my illness has been high. I save talking about it, even thinking about it for my therapy sessions. I don't share it much with anybody. I dont want to be perceived as, or feel like a victim.

Every day I succeed at anything, I tell myself I have succeeded. Some days my biggest accomplishment is getting in the shower. It's not much, but it's all I can do sometimes. I keep a book of "gratitudes." I remember every day what I have to be thankful for: my family, the progress I have made in dealing with being bipolar, my therapist, my psychiatrist, a place to live, food to eat, friends, (the list gets very long because I look for things to be grateful for).

My daughter says I use the word "grateful" too often. There are many things most people take for granted, things I can't take for granted. I am grateful just to be alive. It would have been so easy to commit suicide, and I almost did.

There are many people (or so I have come to discover) who feel grateful for being bipolar. There are reasons for that. Some take drugs: LSD, speed, downers to have the same experiences or feel the same way I do naturally. My psychotic episodes and suicidal years have made me a very spiritual person.

I am not a member of any organized church. My relationship with the universe (God, whatever you want to call it) is personal. There were times that was all I had to hold onto. It kept me alive, protected me from others and myself, and helped me (I believe) with many things necessary for my survival. I feel more connected to my spiritual self and relationship with something much bigger than I am. I am most grateful for that.

I am even grateful for myself. I have been my best friend and worst enemy. The friend in me is winning out. So, I cheer myself on. There aren't many cheerleaders in our world. Few people know enough to say, "good job smffy," Therefore, I do it for myself.

Positivity is a virtue. It makes life not only bearable, but a joy. I wasn't born with it; I don't think anybody is. Being positive is something you have to learn to do, something you can teach yourself. I don't rely on my therapist for everything. There is only so much time, only so much she can do for me. Doing for myself makes me feel independent.

I look for the best qualities in others. That makes everyone more valuable to me than they would be if I looked for their faults. I don't blame them for anything that has gone "wrong" in my life. Who I am today is a product of my experience. And as Church Lady would say, "I like myself."

Runaways and Psychosis: My hitch hiking "adventure"

Big Vern


Big Vern was a good man.
He told me so when I asked.
I rode in his rig that smelled of sex.
It was hard not to vomit.

He told me he had a gun under the seat.

I just chattered away about the scenery,
until he got too tired to drive.
I was too frightened to sleep, too scared to fake it.
So I escaped him while he slept.

I hiked over the mountain pass
determined to walk until I died of the heat,
or someone killed me.

Let's put it this way,
I was that sure, and no good at being rescued.
I know a set-up when I see one.
I was a waitress you know.

I was honest as hell in Montana.
Too frightened to sleep, and feet
blistered by the walking, and scorched by the heat,
I decided to confess:

"I'm a meglomaniac who's mad a Ronald Raegan,
and a dangerous woman to boot.

They wouldn't arrest me, so I had no place to go.
I got a ride somewhere else.


smffy 1986


I was not prepared for the journey. I had five dollars in my purse. It was mostly full of poetry. Silver sandals on my feet, I wasn't even dressed for what I did. I didn't have a change of clothing, no cell phone, no I.D. (I got rid of it so I could be annonymous). I only had a vague plan of finding a woman's shelter like I'd read about in the magazines.

The urgency to leave, and my complete ignorance about how to stay safe left me more vulnerable than you're average hitch hiker. Besides, it was long past the days when you could trust people. I just believed the universe would take care of me. I was sure God would intervene if anything went wrong. I turned out to be so. I had been on the road for several weeks when I found a friendly, empty church:

Mass of One

One Sunday morning, alone for too long,
I walked an empty town looking for the Lord
(the one that died for me).

I was lonely for his comfort,
crying for his murder,
familiar with his pain.
There was nobody home at "His House."

I sat on the back row and sang the songs I knew
best as I could through the crying.
What did you do so wrong they had to kill you?

The candles were electric and I turned them all on.
Then I wept at your feet.
I have loved you for so long, and still remember'
your name in a world that has forgotten.

Please, remember me too for one more day.


smffy 1986

During psychotic episodes, people often have delusions and feelings of paranoia and persecution. I had plenty of that. There was a bit of truth in all I was afraid of, but it was exagerated and mytholgized out of proportion. The smallest thing someone would say to me that seemed odd, I would take to heart and carry it to its extreme conclusion. My mind had created a complex plot against me and so the real problems were exagerated way beyond reality.

I wrote these poems as soon as I came home. I wanted to remember every detail. I didn't ever want to forget. The more episodes I had, the more holes in my memory there were. But, this one was crystal clear. It took me years to untangle what happened and tie it to something understandable.

After this "adventure" I developed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and a new set of problems to work through presented themselves.

I could hardly go anywhere I was so afraid. I tried to work as a waitress. I became pretty good at it because it was a frantic job. But, it was hard for me to focus, hard to drag myself around when I went "down." When something triggered a PTSD episode, I became completely useless for awhile. I never talked about this to my family. They were concerned because I didn't seem to be able to stick to anything. I changed jobs a couple of times trying to find a work situation that would be less stressful for me, but I ended up in the hospital again.

On the outside, I was cheery and fine. On the inside, I was a wreck. The aftermath of psychosis is worse than the psychosis itself. It always took me a very long time to come out of it and often, I would have another episode before I had recovered from the time before.

I haven't had an episode since I quit trying to work. When I can just let what it is for me be, it's fairly manageable. With any outside stress, it is not.

At least the hitchiking adventure inspired me to write a whole diary of poems. I hid them away for years. Even now, only a handful of people have read them. It is ultimate trust that I have posted them here and on Madonna Overdrive Poetry. It is s real sign of progress I can visit them again.

Bipolar Disorder and Writing: Good company & personal therapy

I was sitting in an English class ready to take notes, when the professor said, "There is something wrong with writers' minds. They have a quarrel with the world." My writing was starting to come together, and I did have some quarrel with the world. I thought no reasonable person wouldn't be upset about some things that happen in the world. I was especially upset because I felt he had insulted my mind, or so I thought. I was soon to find out it was not an insult at all.

I didn't know I had a genetic disposition toward bi-polar disorder at the time. I must have been in the early stages of it because I was getting by on very little sleep and doing way too much. But, it would take a year before it erupted full force. I also didn't know that many writers had bipolar disorder. It's probably common knowledge among people affected by the illness, but most ordinary people don't know.

My writing was one of the first things my doctor told me about when he broke the news that was what was wrong with me. He named a few famous writers, but I found out the list is very long (and it only includes dead writers). I found many of my favorites are listed: Hans Christian Anderson; William Faulkner; F.Scott Fitzgerald; Earnest Hemingway; Henry James; Charles Lamb; Henry James; Mark Twain; Joseph Conrad; Charles Dickens; Ralph Waldo Emerson; Herman Melville; Eugine O'Neil; John Rushkin: and Mary Shelly all had bipolar disorder.

It was a consolation, maybe even an encouragement. I'm sure he wanted me to know I wasn't inferior to "normal" people, I was just ill. At the time, I found it hard to believe. Some of my professors had said my papers were "brilliant." I wasn't all that pleased with what I'd done, but they were. All the same, they encouraged me to write. I'll never know if I could have lived up to their rosy assessment of my future as a writer. But, writing gives me pleasure and a way to sort through my thoughts.

I use my writing as therapy and to enhance my creativity. Many times, therapists have asked me to write my life story. It was useful as an exercise. It gave me insight into the events of my life and how they had affected my current condition. In my everyday life, I keep a journal, write poetry, and blog. Even list making is a writing process (one that is useful in overcoming short term memory loss).

Since even great writers were bipolar, I don't feel defective. Who knows if my mind would have expanded as much as it has if I had not, in psychotic episodes, transcended reality? Creativity and bipolar illness are linked.

I used to say I wouldn't have had children if I had known it was a genetic illness. In my case, two of my aunts had mental health problems and were hospitalized. Although I observe my children's behavior, wondering off and on if they show any early signs. But, since writing has made my life worthwhile again, I am not afraid for them anymore.

All of us are in good company. I didn't list the artists and composers who were also bipolar. I don't know how they went on to greatness despite their illness and what little treatment was available in their lifetimes. However, it is good to know we are linked by a common bond,

Mental Illnes: A silent war

A Voice You Never Heard Before

Some people are intelligent in knowing themselves but stupid
in knowing their opponents and others the other way round;
neither kind can solve the problem of learning and applying
the laws of war.

- Mao Tse-tung


If you're lucky,
someday everything
you've ever been afraid of
will walk up to
oily eyed,
iridescent, and threatening,

grab you by the throat
put something sharp at your ribs,

and demand all of it.

Your spine will shiver into splinters
your stomach will roil,
and in a voice you never used before
you'll speak something to be ashamed of,
emptying your pockets
cringing like a child.

And when it finally lets you go,
when you start breathing again,
when you find your way home,

your own shattered eyes
looking out from the mirror
will drive you to your knees,
having told you what no one knew to say.

And if you rise up again whole,
you will answer to another name,
and speak in a new tongue.

We Cary Our Houses On Our Backs
smffy

No one I know can imagine losing everything. It's not just the usual natural disaster wiping out your home and all your possessions (though that happened to me). It is losing for a time (if you're lucky - just a time) everyone you ever loved: children, close family, and friends. It can happen in a war torn country. It can happen in a natural disaster of Biblical proportions, but it happens to hardly anyone. It is a quiet, personal war zone.

Losing your mind is even worse than the physical losses. The all consuming question becomes who am I now? Who am I to you? Pity is the hardest thing to take. Sometimes family and friends are not pitying, they're angry as though you had done something to them on purpose. When you start to get your mind back (if you do at all), when you realize what happened and what the cost was, and will be it is terrifying.

From then on begins a war without an army against prejudice,a war to get control of your own life back. It's a war of survival. So "if you rise up whole," you are never the same person as before. It is a drastic life changing experience. I can never be again the person I once was. I have a new identity. If it was possible for me to get away with it, I would choose a new name apropos to who I am now. I might as well really be "smffy" if it was a stronger name. Like Cher, I do not need a last name. But the confusion it would cause is not worth making that statement. The people I have always known are only dimly aware of my war. They take comfort in having me back - functioning, relating, seeming "same" again.

I have problems with the language. There is no word to describe this experience. Some have said it is a "nightmare." I don't see it that way. As catastrophic as it was, I have learned more than ever I might have if I'd gone on with my life as it had been scripted. I know myself to the core. I know others well enough to know who my enemies are. People who would coddle me, people who treat me as a non person, ignorance - in all its forms - intolerance. All these things I am at war with.

My war has no army. I am not represented by the government, by feminists, by the health care profession. I cannot be a member of an army that doesn't exist. There are politically active forces for people with physical disabilities, for women,for people of color, for immigrants, for business and more. However, the disabled by accident of mental illness have no political group. Because of fear and shame, only a few of us even talk about it. There a few things that make people more uncomfortable.

I consider myself lucky to have done more than go through it and survive. Just existing is no kind of a gift. I am pleased the physically disabled the small considerations society gives them. But their efforts to not include the mentally disabled. Apart from minimal substance and medical care, there is no consideration for us. There are still things I can do, but there is no equal access to the workforce. It is required to show up everyday, or at least on schedule. It is required to be stable. In fact stability is the new virtue. I cannot do any one of those things all the time.

If you are on disability, you are denied access to education. After all, if it's likely you can never contribute to society, why educate us at all? I wanted a PhD so much I could taste it. That wanting hasn't gone away. But the terms of disability include prohibitions against any kind of education. The irrational assumption is the belief that if you can learn, you can work. As a society we value education as a means to an end, not an end unto itself. And so the one thing that made me feel very worthwhile isn't something I can ever hope for. A future filled with dreams is another luxury I can't afford.

For the most part society would rather we went away. People are afraid of us. The nightly news reports every criminal act perpetrated by the mentally ill as though it was illness alone that was responsible. That is not always the case. So, in some minds we are potential criminals, the ones with "entitlements" society doesn't want to pay for.

I know myself and my enemies well. Chairman Mao, I am fit to learn the laws of war. And in my own way I feel lucky I have been tested to the limit. How else would I know anything I so wanted to know?

Tossing Coins: The I Ching and therapy

I sit at the red kitchen table and toss three copper coins six times. Each combination of three coins, heads and tails, yields one line of six. They are either solid lines or broken lines. Once there are six lines, I have a hexagram. It will answer the question I have asked the oracle. Today's question was: How will writing about the use of the I Ching in therapy be received?

The first hexagram is T'ai Peace. It tells me "The Receptive,which moved downward, stands above; the Creative which moves upward, is below. Hence their influences meet and are in harmony, so that all living things bloom and prosper. This hexagram belongs to the first month (February-March), at which time the forces of nature prepare the new spring."

THE JUDGEMENT

Peace. The small departs,
The great approaches.
Good fortune. Success. . . .

Then the hexagram reverses. The second hexagram is P'i/Standstill [Stagnation]

THE JUDGEMENT

STANDSTILL. Evil people do not further.
The perseverance of the superior man.
The great departs; the small approaches. . . .

I do not include the full explanation of the hexagram or what the lines portend. You will have to read the book to find out.

However, I come to understand this entry will cause some people confusion. They will depart. More people will understand and be enlightened by the I Ching than not, and since my motives are pure, and I do not seek "revenue," all will be well with me if I persevere.

The I Ching has been friend and therapist to me. Used by Carl Jung, Freud's former student, it has been a useful tool for some in psychology for a very long time. However, with the emerging enthusiasm for Buddhist teaching (the psychology of "being"- see link) I would imagine more and more therapists will embrace this approach.

So much depends on asking the right question. It is not fortune telling, there are no yes or no answers. No point asking where your watch is, or if you will find your soul mate in the near future. In therapy, the question is an opportunity for exploration. What is the question before the patient now? Most times (not in this example) the question demands a knowing of yourself.

It is up to you to know whether you are an "inferior man" or if you are "superior." The answer is subjective and the definition depends on motive and right action. In bad times, it may be that I am the inferior man. I am the questioner who is in the dark, who has lost touch with the inner self.

At other times, I may be the superior man, sure of myself and my intentions, determined to proceed with right action.

Because questions are answered with metaphor, it requires the questioner to be analytical, to understand or learn symbolics. Water, wind, and fire inform the answers. Obstacles are represented by hedges and walls. It is not too difficult to learn if you are not used to thinking metaphorically.

In answer to frivolous or repetitive questions, the I Ching often tells me I am "worrying the tiger." My foolishness is exposed and I retreat from the line of questioning. There is no point in asking the same question over and over again to get a preferred answer. Though the hexagrams may change, the answer always remains the same.

It may be synchronicity that the answers always fit. There are no accidents in the universe.

The I Ching or Book of Changes I use was translated by Weilhelm/Baynes and published by Princeton University Press, "forward by Carl Jung. There are other versions of the I Ching available, such as The I Ching of the Goddess. They are more simple and do not offer the lines in explanation. I trust this pure version to help me think about my choices.

This book differs from the oracles of the ancient Mediteranian and other ancient cultures. Oracles were usually persons or Gods addressed through a priest or a priestess. The I Ching is secular, not an appeal to Gods and Goddesses. It is accessible to anyone. You needn't travel to a distant place to seek an answer.

As my therapist said today, "Most people want specific answers, a yes or no." But the truth about life is there are very few things that lend themselves to that kind of answer. Depending on the choice, there are a variety of consequences. The most thoughtful answers provoke more thought. The 'Ching has helped me think deeply about my life, my choices, and to understand others as well.

It has taught me something about the universe. I go so far as to think of it as most people think of the Bible. It is, to me, a Chinese scripture. There are commentaries included. It can be studied as literature or philosophy. Wise as its thousands year history, it has been a very significant part of my independent therapy.

If uou meet Budha on the road, kill him:And for my health I still meditate

I began meditating over twenty years ago. There have been times when I abandoned it. Sometimes it was because I had no privacy, no peaceful place to go and be uninterrupted for a while. That was only when I had a husband. My five children were repsectful of mom's meditation time. There have been times I couldn't sit still long enough, or quiet my mind as it raced without purpose or control. Meditation takes a certain dedication. In recent years I have dedicated each moment spent in pure consciousness as an investment in my health, as well as my soul.

My interest in meditation started after I went to Hawaii. The rain was soft and warm as bath water. The ocean blue and clear enough to see the bottom where the parrot and angel fish swam. Even though I can't swim, I went out there without a life jacket. I wanted to be part of the ocean, I wanted to be one of the fish. Walking among the trees along the jagged cliffs of Kuauii, I watched the surf pound the shore and thought what a gentle cycle it was. Water raging against the rocks that turn to sand in time. Cycle after cycle of evolution.

I had never felt so peaceful in my life. Compared to the lightness of being I felt there, home was an oppressive place. It was the off season and over twenty years ago; there were very few tourists and no big hotels. Little beach houses and a few small condos dotted the beach here and there. It was the "undiscovered island" of Hawaii. If it hadn't been for my children, I would have stayed there. I had no desire to return to the stress and heaviness I realized I'd been under once it was gone. It had been weighing on me as though I had been carrying someone heavy on my back.

When I returned, I thought peace can't be about a place. Peace must be a place you carve out for your own. And so I started transcendental meditation. It granted me the same peace I had known thousands of miles away. My circumstances hadn't changed, my life was very stressful. I was opperating full throttle through what should have been a school zone. I was trying to do more than it was humanly possible to do. And like everything else I try, I wanted to do it well.

But there is no such thing as "good" or "bad" meditation. It's not even like golf, where you're playing against yourself and the course. It is about feeling the peace of stillness. "Peace be still." It was so against the stormy waters of Gallilee, it was so for my heart and mind and soul. It changed my out look on everything: what's important, what and who are not. And I experienced a liberating freedom. I wrote about it in a poem lest I forget:

1983

In the place where I really live
in the curl of the river,
snuggled close against the strong back
of blue mountains,

Sleeping in a hush of gold leaves
and clean wind,
burning insence and hours,
being who I am. Being quiet
becomes more and more

Reality.

This house of brick and mortor
every day
more the lie.

In my meditation I came in touch with myself. Not the self who was so busy and had so many roles to fill. Not the wife who tried to be a good wife. Not the daughter her mother someday would be proud of. I simply was.

It was a peace I can't explain. However, the traumatic viscisitudes of life were still capable of grabbing my full attention. Peace surrendered to fear and desperation. In meditation there is nothing to be afraid of. It's like being held in the arms of God. It is the universe welcoming you to the one-ness of us all. No one better or worse, but it didn't last.

My old patterns and mis-beleifs kept intruding on my strength. Like the rocks I felt myself crumbling into sand. There was something so terrible about that first divorce, I didn't think I would ever be able to live with it, let alone forgive and be at peace again.

So there followed a long sabatical. I spent much of that time totally adrift. I forgot to take a look inside myself. I forgot to let myself sense the benevolence of the universe. I determined this world was a very bad no good place. I trusted no one to help or support me. I didn't suppose for a minute they would. I was not entirely disappointed, I take some pleasure in being right about things.

But, once I left my second husband, I had a place to myself again. It is very small, but it's perfect for me. Strangers who come here without fail remark about how peaceful it is here. And I know it is because someone meditates in this place. There are a few who can't feel it. They are not at a point in their lives where they would do almost anything to get it.

Eckhardt Tolle describes the meditation process very well. The physical and mental benefits are outlined in the book, Coming to Our Senses. The author says it will be necessary to our survival as a species to connect to that stillness, the power within and without you.

I was reading A New Earth, by Tolle, as I was wating for my therapy appointment. She noticed what I was reading and said she meant to read it too. "Everyone here just swears by it," she said. And it has done sso much for my acceptance process, so much for my mental and spiritual well being. Even when I'm manic, I try to sit down for just five minutes or so, and heal myself of anything negative that might have tip toed in.

Many therapists across the country are using it. I think it's easier to understand and practice if you've ever been through any kind of truly negative, hurtful sitation. I would buy them by the case load to give away, but I yhink we are all better off investing in our own mental health. So, be still from time to time and be totally awake to everything around you. It is amazing how much more beautiful the world is that way.

A note of caution. If you meet Budhah on the road . . . is an explanation of the dangers of letting anyone become your guru. When you open yourself up to having the opportunity to tell you what you should think about your own experience, or direct your activities over much, you give up your very identity and free will. Tolle has no desire to be a leader of a spiritual or theraputic movement. He only shares that portion of understanding he knows

Medication and Mania: Maybe I need a degree in management for this

If this bipolar business was a business, I could probably do very well at it. I know something about writing a business plan, a mission statement, organizing staff (I have five children), delegating and more. Some of this is useful. I have proceeded about the business of manageing my illness with a very clear mission statement:

I will employ any and all resources available to function at the highest possible level; reduce stress by healthy lifestyle choices, a balanced budget, and as much information concerning the illness as possible.

Consultants will be empowered to prescribe medications and theraputic behavioral methods to treat and control the mania and depression to the fullest extent.

No other person will be burdened unnecessarily by the symptoms of the disorder or asked to solve the resulting problems.

So, the only part of the mission statement that surrenders control to someone else is the medication and therapy part. Even there, I expect we will act in consultation with each other. I expect to find out as much as I can about the medications that are available so we can discuss my options together. And there must be feedback from me to my psychiatrist about how the medication is working. A by-law ought to be passed that says the CEO won't prescribe for herself.



In spite of this "management" effort, my mania is back already. I had four or five days of feeling okay, being able to sleep pretty much and now I feel wild eyed and strung like a tightwire. I didn't sleep last night at all. I slept two hours the night before. And the frenzy has returned.

There's nothing left to do but call my doctor tomorrow and tell her about how things are. I would like to stay on the Geodon; it has worked better than several other medications. I will see what she thinks about increasing the dosage before we switch to something else. I feel like my body has had to adjust to, too many med changes lately. It's a bit hard on me.

One more thing. I will have to call my sister and tell her I can't come to her house for dinner today. I truly don't want to do that. I was looking forwrd to spending time with the family. But, I don't want to inflict this electrically charged S.O.S. pad on anybody and I'm really too spaced out to talk. I have no idea why I can write when I'm like this. I can't seem to think clearly without the cursor to prompt me to the next byte of thought. It's just more Madonna Overdrive and it's baaa . .aack.

Adventures With My Therapist

I walk to the first bus stop, just on the cornor by my house. It is in front of a charming restaurant and a bagle shop. The day is pleasantly warm, the trees have just leafed green and there are flowers blooming. I settle myself on the bench and wait. It should be ten or fifteen minutes before the bus arrives, it is usually late, so I have to be early enough to catch the one just before the one I really need. Actually, there's no way to tell when this bus is coming. It doesn't matter. The breeze is blowing softly. I tell myself there is plenty of time. I'm on my way to see my therapist.

The next bus stop is just a bit more than a mile away, on a busy downtown street. It will take ten minutes for this bus to get here, ten minutes tops. It's almost always on time. I rummage in my purse for my wallet where I put my transfer and clutch it in my hand. Then it will take fifteen or so minutes to get to my final stop, depending on how many stops we make and how many wheelchairs board. It takes a minute or two to help them safety belt their chairs. I expect to walk from the bus stop to the health clinic in time to be ten or fifteen minutes early.

I have to plan my trip there this way because if the bus is late, I will be late and the last time I wasn't there when someone came down to get me, I was listed as a no show. No one told me that, so I waited patiently for almost an hour. Sometimes I miss having a car - especially in the winter time when the sidewalks are icy and the wind burns your face with cold.

It's worth it. Even when nothing great is accomplished (it would be unreasonable to expect great of anything all the time), it helps to have someone listen for fifty minutes of undivided attention. This therapist and I trust each other. And trust takes some time. I know the pay is not great here. I hope she won't leave.

The budget doesn't allow for Beverly Hills "feel good" therapists, though I have had therapists who were affable enough, but not particularly useful. In twenty years, I've had many therapists. There were two who really helped my progress. That's more than I really expect from anyone working at a county run clinic. The pay is dismal considering what they have to do. The workload can be taxing. The turn over is fairly high.

I've had mental health care in four counties of the same state. I live in Utah. I would rate Salt Lake County the highest, Cache County second, Davis third, and Weber last. The care recieved is directly related to the county budget and the number of clients seeking care. It seems to me, Weber county is the least funded for as many clients as they have. I'm lucky to live where I do.

My most productive therapy was probably a combination of need for good results and serendipity. Just when I was struggling with several philosophical issues that directly affected my health, my assigned therapist was very intellectual. He taught me cognitive skills to help refine my decision making processes and ways to allow my anger to be expressed. We also had enlightening discussions. Those long talks about religion, sociology, feminism (he wasn't a fan), and my past as well, helped me bring my identity back together after a series of psychological traumas.

I always knew what my principles were and what I valued, but my thoughts about life were all tangled up. I don't like an untidy mind anymore than my therapist did. (Though I do try to leave a little room for messes lest I stagnate.) He was a wonderful support to me while I went through my master's program. I had little confidence I could make it through (given what bad shape I was in and the drugs I had to take). But with his help, I made it.

My second time of need was right after my second attempted suicide and separation from my second husband. I had moved to a new city, with no idea how I would survive. I had new skills to learn (just riding public transportation was difficult in and of itself). I had to adjust. He was also a cognative behaviorist. We did not have philosophical discussions. I knew what I thought by then, I just had no idea how to take care of myself many levels.

It was very, very lucky these two men were there with their particular expertise at that particular time. Had I been seeing one of those affable and chatty therapists, I would have been lost. There were also one or two who were quite destructive. I learned I did not respond well or agree with Freudian therapy. I didn't do well with confrontational therapists. I didn't do well with therapists who mostly treated housewives who were discontent with their role. I learned to ask questions about what their approach to therapy was. When I heard the word "ecclectic," I figured we stood a good chance of forming a good relationship.

Once you have agreed to be treated, it is possible to request a new therapist if you are disatisfied, or no trust relationship develops. It is not a good idea to therapist shop just because you don't like what you're hearing. I tried to keep an open mind and entertain the notion what I was hearing might be for my best good. Sometimes what was in my best interest was just not possible to translate into action.

I was often advised to consider my relationship at the time and whether or not it was constructive. Even though I knew I was not in a situation that supported my mental health, I would have been in greater jeopardy if I chose to leave before I improved a bit more, until I had a support network. Even therapists can get hooked on idea and have a hard time letting go of it.

The good thing about seeing so many therapists is I was on the recieving end of many points of view. No two people see the everything in exactly the same way. What I didn't learn from one, I learned from another. And although I was discouraged at starting all over again from the beginning every time I had to see a new one, repeating my history over and over again helped. With each telling came new insight. I glossed past the things I had already put to rest, and worked on what was left. We worked on what is happening now the most.

Wherever I've been, whatever I've experienced has made me who I am today. There is no point in feeling victimized by any of it. Some things were indeed miserable and painful, but that's over now. As my daughter said,"You have to know when it's over, mom." Healing comes from many sources.

It is not possible to laugh and cry over your life, to take it apart and examine it like a specimen under the microscope without personal growth. And so because something happened this week, I'm going back again. My friends and family should be grateful. I feel no need to bore them half to death.

Hazarding Recovery: The mental health care system

It is not exactly the steadiest ground a person with a mental illness stands on. Even if their condition is managed, the onset of illness can ruin marriages as well as other relationships; damage or destroy careers (even the ability to work may be lost); sabotage economic stability (through the poverty of disability income or the burden of health care costs); and render the mentally ill person with a life very difficult to manage well.

I am constantly amazed by the success stories I hear as I come in contact with more and more people in this particular community. Against odds stacked against them in so many ways, they not only survive, but thrive. Yes. There are many who don't. There is a high suicide rate. Some succumb to drug and alchol abuse, promiscuity, and never escape the darkness of their illness. But, the availability of new and better medications, treatment, and increased awareness of the problems they face, the prognosis is better than it ever has been. However, recovery is not without its hazards.

NAMI, in a recently released state by state report card on mental health care,rates most of the nation near failure (see title link)

Navigating the mental health care system successfully is a major accomplishment in and of itself. My experience has been quite varied. I have been hospitalized almost ten times. Each time, it was traumatic because of the symptoms precipitating the hospitalization in the first place. However, the hospitalization sometimes made things worse in the long run.

The first time I landed in the hospital, I was only nineteen and scared to death to be in a "mental institution." Many of the other patients frightened me. It was the first time I had any exposure to seriously ill patients. I was an attempted suicide. Some of them were quite debillitated by their illness and, ignorant as I was, I didn't understand what had gone wrong with them. There was nothing to do there except watch television.

My psychiatrist was confrontational. I was so passive, he tried many times to provoke me to anger by taking something that was mine without permission, or belittling me. My equally uninformed parents acted horrified by my condition. To make things worse, my roommate was a prostitute who didn't hesitate to talk about her occupation in graphic terms. Then, an intern invited me to meet him outside the hospital and then tried to seduce me. Things got worse when a boy about my age who had tried to befriend me killed himself.

I ran away from the hospital that time. Since I wasn't committed, no one could force me back there. My parents were relieved I was home again. I walked away from that experience frightened and confused. I tried my best not to think about it and go on. My solution, to what seemed to be a life worse than it was before I had tried to kill myself, was to get married to the first person who asked me. Although the marriage lasted sixteen years, many of them were quite tumultuous and it finally ended when he became abusive.

Could my life have been very different if my care had been more than a failure? I think it would. It took me almost thirty years to brave another encounter with the mental health care system.

The second hospitalization was light years better than the first. It was another hospital, in another town. I entered the hospital willingly, of my own accord. I had successfully evaded family members' attempts to have me committed. I felt betrayed by their well intentioned effort. But, as my conditioned worsend, even I could tell something was wrong with me. I decided to seek help without being forced.

I did not have a roommate that time. The privacy was comforting. There were group therapy sessions and the patients were not as seriously ill. They came from all different age groups and social strata. There were self-help books to buy and read. We took "field trips" to walk in the nearby canyon and to an art show. I stayed a week and was helped greatly by what I had read, the other patients, and an understanding therapist.

In all, I was a patient in four different hospitals. Each time, the atmosphere, the theraputic methods (group, individual, or both) were different. Sometimes there was only one health care provider assigned to my case. In other settings, there were teams composed of a psychiatrist, interns, social workers, and psychiatric nurses. The activities available to patients were also very different. Most hospitals did not provide for experiences outside the hospital. There were usually only Reader's Digest versions of books to read.

The best facility I knew was the Wyoming State Hospital. I was very frightened when I was transfered from a private hospital where I had no interaction with anyone except a psychiatrist who started speaking French to me. I don't know what his intent was, but fortunately, I spoke some French as well. He shook his head, and then, without a word of explanation I was whisked off to the state hospital. By then, I was used to being treated like a non-being from time to time.

It is usual in all psychiatric hospitals not to tell the patient what will come next. The patient is moved, committed, or released with hardly a moment's notice and no explanation. I've made up theories about why this is standard opperating proceedure, but I really don't know why. It only added to my significant feelings of helplessness and fear.

Once at the Wyoming hospital, I was assigned to a room with a very, very old woman. She was very disoriented and had a difficult time getting out of bed to attend group. I never saw her walking the halls, or in the community room. She had intenstinal difficulties and I couldn't breathe in the same room with her, so the staff let me sleep on the sofa in the big room.

There was group and two individual conferences with a psychiatrist - one for admitting and one for an aftercare planning session in collaboration with a social worker. Patients were expected to take care of their own laundry, a helpful protocol toward giving us a sense of control over something. There were rules for qualifying for different levels of activities, a real library and interaction with patients who were not necessarally mentally ill, but dibilitated by some physical impairment they were trying to adjust to. Those who were recovering from physical injury and mentally ill patients soon to be released could walk the grounds.

There was a means of submitting complaints or petitions, a committe that acted like a legislative body composed of representatives from different wards of the hospital, and a huge cafeteria style place to eat. The food was not at all what one would think of as hospital food.

The facillity is very old. It had been used in the early years of Wyoming statehood, but it had been renovated and although institutional, it was comfortable. There was also a commisary where patients could buy things like shampoo and other grooming items, candy, soft drinks, paper and pens, etc. I bought a beautiful, though inexpensive, pen to keep as a souvenier of a good experience. There were also dormatories for transitioning patients to stay in until suitable aftercare arrangements could be made.

The differences between the state run hospital and the private hospitals I had been in was remarkable. In the least helpful hospital I stayed in (it was the first and last of my long experience with these things), things didn't change much in the twenty some odd years between visits. If I had to be hospitalized again, and I had any kind of control over the matter, I would go back to Wyoming.

I am not sure why it is possible for a large institution with hundreds of patients requiring many differing levels of care can be more progessive and human than a relatively small hospital. I don't know why private hospitals in my experience (including the one I did not discuss here) are less progressive, but it is my hope health care for the mentally ill will be improved. And although NAMI rates most states with a "C" or lower (there were a few "B's"), they should not be considered overly critical of the health care available today. (Click on title link)