Sliding Doors

One of my favourite movies is Sliding Doors- the concept of what would happen if one little thing in your life changed is fascinating.

I wonder what my life would be like if I had been diagnosed as bipolar at an earlier age.

I would have been more confident in high school... or would I? The people who seemed really confident are the ones that I run into in Wal-Mart with three kids when I return home.

I would have been more balanced whilst at University...how would that have affected my college sweetheart and I? There was one period of time after we had been dating for a year where he wanted to date other people but chickened out on breaking up with me (I found this out years later) for more than a week or so. I was an emotional mess, catapulted into depression, which (I think) guilted him into re-starting our relationship. He was the man I married. Then Divorced.

If I had been on meds earlier I would have remained in my marriage. IMAGINE! I simply cannot. No London? NO A----? No way!

To get remarried in the UK I have to prove that I am divorced so I've been searching for my divorce papers. This has led to an online search for my ex as I may have to contact him. I found out some very interesting things:

Whilst we separated in November of 2002, the divorce was final in January of 2004...

He remarried in 2005.
His wife graduated from University in 2007.
(Most people graduate at the age of 22).
Sidenote: He and I graduated in 1999.
Hmmm.
He and his wife teach a Sunday School class for young adults.
He is teaching history at a middle school
(What happened to his dream of pursuing law? Even when we were separating he was saying he still wanted to escape teaching. )

What I found really interesting about this is the parallels to when he and I were together:
We worked with the young people at church.
He taught history at a middle school.

So, four years after our divorce, it appears as if his life is pretty much the same. My life has changed dramatically. I have changed dramatically and for the better!

Thank God the door of Bipolar opened when it did.

I know I took my meds so why is this happening?

When I was diagnosed with having bipolar disorder, the doctor reassured me about taking medicine by using the diabetes angle..."It's just as if you had diabetes. You would take insulin, wouldn't you?" I confess I've used the comparison to reassure family members.

What the dr didn't clarify was that the medicine doesn't make it go away or relieve all of the symptoms.

I'm a bit manic today- about an 8. I felt its onset this morning as I felt very shaky (you could see my hands shaking) but I thought it was because I hadn't had coffee yet or breakfast. But after a trip to the gym and running some errands, I felt worse. I had the shakes from head to toe- not visible ones, but inside ones. Worse than that though was that the airplanes were back.

Having manic thoughts is like this: Imagine standing in a room with four white walls and no windows. A paper airplane flies in and you reach up to catch it. Just as you are unfolding it to read the message written on the inside it flies off and begins circling around your head before flying off to the unknown. Whilst it is circling another airplane flies in and the process is repeated. At any moment in time you may have 5-10 airplanes in the room.

I was trying to explain what I was thinking to A and I couldn't speak fast enough. Bless him. He just came upstairs with me and held me like the anchor he is.

One method of coping is sleep so that's what I've done for the last few hours. The thoughts have calmed (there's no way I could type this if they hadn't) but I'm still a bit shaky.

What I have to fight off the hardest are the feelings of inadequacy. Because I was feeling like this today I could not attend a BBQ that I had planned on going to with A. I'm disappointed and frustrated that I don't have a "normal" brain like everyone else. But, I is who I is.

Our first fight

Today A and I had our first fight. I won't go into what it was about because it was something so minor it's embarrassing. At any rate, I was so upset afterwards that I ruined a perfectly good afternoon with my friends and I just feel stupid. I drank too much which means I felt like passing out and all my bipolar "quirks" became magnified....like the people were too much and the noise was too much and I just had to go home. I am very disappointed in myself and hope they forgive me.

Low

There is no logical reason.

But I feel low today. I've taken my medicine. I have a loving fiance, family and friends. I like my job. Yet I feel low.

A's mum has been over today and it's been a stretch. I ended up taking a rest upstairs just because I don't feel social. I hate feeling like this and I hate that my brain is simply misfiring a bit today. I'm very lucky in that A's mum is a retired nurse...she even worked with psychiatric patients so she's very understanding (as is her son).

This happens every once in a while and I thought it might be healthy to write it down.

Low.

How could you?

I'm in pain. In the grand scheme of things, like earthquakes in China and the deaths of thousands, it doesn't even register on the Richter scale. Today I experienced one of the things I've been wanting for a long time...teeth whitening. Completely happy with the results, but really thinking that the dentist's warning that my teeth might feel a "bit sensitive" was an understatement. The experience has reminded me of very low pain threshold. Of course, I'm only guessing that it is a low threshold...no one has experienced it for me and told me so! To conclude, I think the other dream of body image improvement- a boob job- will not be happening! I've grown accustomed to my "discreet" chest...as my friend so politely referred to it.

Now. On to the title of this blog and to a much more important and serious topic.

Yesterday after school and the weekly briefing I turned on my phone. I had a message from A asking me to call him. A's mum had called to let him know that his brother's wife discovered her father had killed himself.

How could you kill yourself?
How could you hang yourself?
In your family home?
When you knew a family member would find you?
Did you think that your daughter would be the one to cut you down?

I've dealt with suicidal tendencies since my teens. I've self-harmed. I've written out wills and goodbye letters. I've researched suicide methods. And I've made a plan.

And then I remembered my mom. She would not recover from her daughter committing suicide. Mom is the only thing that has kept me alive on several occasions.

Why didn't S's dad remember his wife?
His daughter?
His grandson? Age 2. Who has now lost both of his grandfathers in less that nine months.

I don't know the details. A said that he was on medication. I don't know for what. I never even met the man. I've experienced the lows so I am not "judging" him.

After coming out of a suicidal fugue, I could see how my thoughts were not logical. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel...however dim it may be. But I could also remember how I felt and how my brain led me down that dark path.

Never did I consider hanging myself. It seems like such a deliberate "fuck off". For his family's sake I hope that he was not in his right mind. To consider otherwise....

Tragic.

The Scale

How are you?

A question that is asked more often in the USA than here in the UK. You can't progress through a checkout line at a grocery store, Wal-Mart or most other stores in the States without being asked to comment on your well being. Of course it's not usually a genuine question, but I still miss the custom.

"Good, thanks."
"Fine."
"Okay."
Smiles uncomfortably and nods.

All possible answers to the question...except if you're me. I say I'm okay when I'm not. I don't mean to lie- sometimes I don't know how to explain how I am.

After I left the hospital having received my diagnosis, Mom had a difficult time figuring out how I was really feeling. She was a four hour plane ride away but even farther away in understanding the intricacies of mental illness. Aunt C was the one who provided the solution.

Conveniently, my Aunt's best friend is bipolar. I mean conveniently for me, having an aunt who understands...not convenient for her best friend! At any rate, Aunt C shared with me a method that she uses to ask Ann how she's doing...a simple scale using numbers. I've adopted the system and use it mostly with Mom or with other people that are too far away to actually see how I am.

My scale is dependent on understanding that a normal "Whoever knew she was bipolar!" rating is 5-6. The remainder of the scale breaks down like this:
1 Needs to be in hospital
2 Depressed...do not leave alone for long amounts of time
3 Sad but can be trusted to be alone
4 A little low but okay
5-6 Happy days are here again!
7 Woo! Feeling a bit hyper, but under control (recognises that she feels hyper)
8 Woohoo! Hands may be a little shaky, has a difficult time concentrating ...should not go shopping! Let's organize a closet instead.
9 Awesome! Incredible! I'm the Queen of the World (and Monsoon/Gap/Waterstones here I come!) Alternatively...I'm an angry, annoyed woman who is highly sensitive to noise and light.
10 Puppy dog moments

My most manic moment that I don't mind sharing took place just a few days after returning home from the hospital. My cousin had flown down to North Carolina to visit me in the hospital and take me home. After she left, it all hit...and I felt so alone. Determined to not sink into the depths of depression, I swung the other direction. I remember sitting in my apartment looking out at a blue sky and thinking "I wish I had a dog to keep me company." And...I was out the door! Within an hour I had a two year old from the local shelter and was walking around the local pet superstore buying loads of stuff for Frasier.

Well, Frasier was a Jack Terrier. Jack Terriers are MANIC! Having decided Frasier needed a bath, I put him in my bathtub ( I know, I know...but I don't think logically when I'm manic) and he went crazy- running in circles, barking and I simply started crying. Soon he was running around the living room and I didn't know what to do except load up Frasier and all of his new belongings, drive them back to the shelter and answer the puzzled volunteer's question, "I'm sorry!!!! I'm bipolar." whilst shoving little Frasier back in her arms. I cried all the way home.

That's a puppy dog moment.

How you doing? Today I'm a strong 6.

Brains

Have you thanked your brain today?

I realized, again, that I take too much for granted, including my brain.

And that's being thankful for a brain that isn't "normal."

But at least there are meds and books and advice out there for people who have bipolar.

My best friend recently found out that her sister has a mass the size of a ping pong ball on the frontal lobe of her brain. She had a MRI last year and it wasn't there, so this is especially frightening. I've spent the last couple of days with Ang to help distract her whilst she's waiting for news. Back home now and tired, I've had a moment to pause and think...

Thank you, brain.

Guilt

I've always been conflicted with guilt. When I was younger and mom asked me if I wanted to go on a walk with her and I declined, I would feel guilty for hours later.

Where does this guilt come from? I think a huge reason for it is my Christian upbringing. Taught to put Christ first, others second and self third any action that focused on myself first brought guilt.

Over the last five years or so, I've been struggling with defining what healthy guilt is. Not going to the gym when I told myself I would go is an example of what I would declare healthy guilt. On a more serious level, feeling guilty over a bad decision is also healthy.

One symptom of depression is, of course, sadness. Feeling guilty, for me, often results in sadness. The sadness doesn't always lead to depression, but I have to be aware of my triggers.

How does one take care of oneself and not feel selfish? That's the balance that I strive for.

One of my reactions to being signed off of work due to stress has been an overwhelming sense of guilt. Guilt for: not working, for sleeping in, for relaxing, for not saying goodbye to my students properly, for not being there to plan effective, enjoyable lessons. I've about come to terms with this guilt; as I become healthier my mind clears and I can see that I was headed for a breakdown.

Then there is today. Easter Sunday. The original plan was for A and I to have lunch with A's mum. We awoke to snow (!) and this reinforced my desire to stay home. I had been thinking last night about how I really wished I could stay home; I wasn't in the mood or frame of mind to be very good company. However, I am trying to support A and his mum as they both continue grieving for his father who died nine months ago. Before seeing the snow, I hadn't mentioned any of this to A and fully planned on going along. Upon viewing the white stuff, I learned that A didn't want me to drive us the 45 minutes it would take and that instead he would be taking public transport. Frankly, the idea made my head spin. The journey would involve trains, buses, walking and it was snowing. And cold! Luckily, my fiance knows me quite well and told me he knew I wouldn't be going along.

Two hours after A departs, the phone rings.
"What's the weather like?"
"Well, mum has really made an effort, there's a huge turkey."
"Do you think you could take a cab over?"

I agree and hang up. Next comes five minutes of laying on the couch and listening to a fierce internal debate.
"I don't WANT to go."
"But you should go. A hardly ever asks you to do things. You owe him this."
"But I'll be terribly company."
...and so forth.

The phone rings.

Still on the couch, I hear A saying that he feels guilty! Ha! What?? He feels guilty because he knows that I would rather stay at home and now he's asked me to do something that I don't want to do. (I should insert here that A is a recovering Catholic...guilt is inherent.)

The result is that I stayed home. The consequences of which, I hope, are a relaxed and cheerful self and a good visit for A with his mum.

I hope.

O sleep! O gentle sleep!

I've always needed copious amounts of sleep. Mom says that when I was little she would tell my younger brother and I it was time for our naps and I would practically run to my room! As an adult, my best days come after a solid 8 hours of sleep. Give me less than six and I feel physically ill.

Autumn 2002. At one in the afternoon, my body would tell me it was time to go to sleep. I would fight my way through the rest of the school day, probably being a bit hyper in my teaching to overcompensate, and go to bed as soon as I arrived home from work. At the latest I would say goodnight to S and go to sleep at 5pm. The alarm and our black Labrador would wake me 13 hours later; yet, at 1 in the afternoon, I was again ready to go to sleep. This period of my life lasted for about three months until my dear friend, C, said something to me about thyroid problems.

Until C mentioned it, I didn't know I even had a thyroid let alone what one did. I won't bore you with the details, but it turns out that I had an under-active thyroid and it was the cause of my sleepiness. I also complained to the doctor about feeling sad. She said that depression and thyroid problems often go hand in hand, but she referred me to a counselor anyway. Since the doctor recommended it, my ex seemed more supportive of the concept (perhaps God had made me with a thyroid problem).

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body’s work’s expir’d:
For then my thoughts—from far where I abide—
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul’s imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself no quiet find.

- William Shakespeare's Sonnet 27

Let's start at the very beginning...

I am not a doctor. I am an English teacher. Thus, my medical knowledge is limited to what I know and to what I think I've read (see post below about memory). However, I think this is how I became bipolar.

When I was 12 I started having headaches. REALLY bad headaches. Migraines the doctors called them. They attributed them to puberty. I would stay home from school (as I was about 5% I would tell my dad) and was assured that I would grow out of them. Well, I did. But from that point on I was an emotional rollercoaster. I wasn't riding one...I was one. My mom says that she's always loved me, except for seventh grade (she says she was joking.) Now, I was told that this was normal, that it was puberty, etc. Except...I hadn't experienced the other telling factors of puberty (I'm still waiting on the breasts...but that's a different issue. Damn that genetic pool). And...the emotional rollercoaster has never stopped.

They say that being bipolar is due to a chemical imbalance. I think this imbalance occurred when I was 12.

I enjoyed high school, for the most part and had what I would think is a pretty typical American high school experience. Some studying, some clubs, some proms, some partying, some dating,some breakups. The difference between me and the other girls who had their hearts broken was this: when I was upset I was suicidal. My biggest heartache in high school was the breakup of my relationship with Rich. We were prom prince and princess, all was good, then suddenly we weren't. I was devastated. One of my dear friends, C, stayed with me at night because I had told her that the night before I had slept with a knife beside me. The only thing keeping me alive was my Christian guilt (but that's for another post).

So I was always up and down, up and down. My college sweetheart and ex-husband just loved me in spite of it. He thought it was normal, because that's the only way he knew me. I talked about getting counseling and his reaction was a simple blase "Why? It's just the way God made you."

It took being hospitalized and being diagnosed for me to understand myself. What a relief that was.

As I was saying...what was it I was saying?

My memory is crap. I think I've always been like this but (pun aside) I don't remember. Part of me is scared that it's a side effect of the medications that I am on, but I think I've always had a bit of a memory problem. It's difficult to explain. I remember birthdays, people's names and faces, and major events. It's the minor details that my brain doesn't have room for. Like remembering if I told a friend a certain story or not. I guess we all do that, but I get quite frustrated with my memory.

I say all that to say this...I'll try to be as exacting and succint as possible on this blog, but feel free to question its validity! If it doesn't seem to all match up, it's not because I've done so deliberately.

The Doctor's note

When I was little and got sick I didn't always stay home. My dad would come in my bedroom and ask for a percentage. If I was feeling less than 50% myself, I might get to stay home. I remember very clearly him giving me the "you don't always feel your best but you go in anyway" speech. Of course, this was for physical symptoms.

Dad was also my soccer coach. I was the young player who concentrated more on picking flowers and doing cartwheels rather than protecting the goalie. But when I did concentrate and got hurt in the process, dad's answer was a gentle punch on the arm and "walk it off."

Imagine my dad's response, 20 some years later, if I told him the truth...that I've been signed off work by my GP for four weeks due to stress. Nope. Although he wouldn't give me the speech or the gentle punch on the arm, he'd be thinking it.

I love my parents very much. They've tried, mom especially, to understand what it means to have a daughter who has been diagnosed as bipolar. But I don't think they get it, really.