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.