today was an emotional day. i am emotionally worn down. dealing with bea's inconsolable temper tantrum behavior on the one hand, and oliver's cognitive communication delays on the other, i was stretched thin and exhausted.
i had a friend over today. we are very close, and she has twin girls bea's age. she just had a baby girl last month and they are enjoying her so much. she deserves it; her PPD after her twins, and her twins difficult newborn personalities and sleep schedule were incredibly difficult, and it makes me so happy that she is having such a wonderful experience with her second birth and third baby. they've bonded very quickly and she has a very calming presence as a baby.
we talked about how bonding with each baby is different, and how.
i've noticed a theme with a lot of my friends, and just a lot of moms in general, that their second baby is easier than their first. that subsequent children are a peaceful addition to their families. that it's easier for them the second time around.
i'm so happy for those people and glad their experiences have been so positive.
but it leaves me feeling very sad on the inside. my relationship with oliver after his birth was strained.
he was a much harder baby than my first. he was always angry and he cried a lot. he didn't snuggle or hold still. his cry was screechy and angry sounding. the guilt i felt at not instantly loving him and even kind of resenting him ate away at me and grew inside me like a cancer. emotionally, i was a wreck, with extreme depression that nagged at me constantly to end my life. it was hell. i went through hell.
the dip in my emotions today wasn't just fatigue from my crazy day of kid issues and tantrums.
it was grief. i often feel it when i reflect on the months immediately following oliver's birth, and i am reminded of it whenever i see friends with new babies.
it took a very long time to get better after he was born. and eventually i fell in love with him (and how could i not? he is wonderful) but i thought to myself, would i do that again?
i've asked myself this before and each time, immediately, i shout in my mind "NO." and i mean it. i would never. do that again. i will never do that again.
and then i thought about it some more. i thought to myself, am i the only avenue by which oliver could come into the world? was there any other way?
i let that sink in.
i wondered, theoretically, would i ever have oliver over again, if i had the choice? i blinked away tears, remembering so vividly the hell i lived through, and then my mind went to eve, in the garden. she was thoughtful too. she came to the realization that she was the only avenue by which the children of god would make it here, just like i was the only way for oliver. she knew, she knew it would be just as awful and hard and dark as it would be joyful if she made that choice. she asked herself, in tears, like me, bracing herself: "is there no other way?"
there wasn't. she knew there wasn't. so she made a choice. an unselfish choice, that paved the path for salvation for all of us.
it is such a huge responsibility we carry as women to bring our people here. it's hard. and if there was another way for my people to get here, i would choose it. the mental and emotional pain i suffer after my births is something i wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. but today, i asked myself, "is there no other way?" would oliver be here if i didn't make that choice? the answer is no. there is no other way. so would i do it again, if it meant oliver would get here? yes. yes i would. i've been blessed with the knowledge that my work in that sphere is done for the time being, so i don't have to do it again and i am so grateful for the rest and the peace it brings me. but knowing that i made the right choice, i brought them here, because there was no other way, fills me with power and resolve. if making it through hell and back was worth bringing my people here, then being with them and growing with them must be pretty important.
after i sorted through my feelings, and realized that my emotional exhaustion wasn't just from wiping noses and time outs and temper tantrums, i let the grief sink in, and then wash away. that part is over. i don't have to do it again. i need to let it go. i need to bundle up the energy that was spent on mourning my first few months as a mother of 2, and the grief and guilt surrounding oliver's birth, and use it on building my children up and showing them how much i love them.
and putting a lock on bea's door so i can ignore her temper tantrums ;)
Friday, February 3, 2017
Friday, October 9, 2015
bad day #3049802394852398754
i had so many good days this week you guys. i've started a new project with some friends, i did fun things with bea, i had some time to myself, i had some alone time with each of my kids, i've felt happy for a bit. i met with a new doctor yesterday to replace the first psych i saw here who i really didn't care for and this one seems like the real deal and that he wants to get to the bottom of what's wrong. he seems concerned that i've been on a certain dose of something for so long and haven't seen any changes and have had so many unpleasant side effects so he switched my prescription. i don't know if that's relevant but today was awful. small triggers that normally would have just been annoying (i.e bea having an accident, ollie throwing up more than usual, etc) sent me over the edge either into a rage or a suicidal depression. i felt like dying after getting mad at bea for having an accident. i literally wished i was dead.
that's not normal
or healthy.
it's dangerous.
i want so badly to stop feeling this way. these small things that are all a part of motherhood really shouldn't bother me much at all. they should be annoying, not earth shattering. i'm exhausted. i'm tired. i just want to be normally keeled. it's been a long 3 months and i'm just so done. i'm hoping it's just the jolt of a new prescription and that i will feel better tomorrow.
the nice thing about bipolar rapid cycling is that i can wake up tomorrow and feel 100% different than the day before. so even though i spent most of today crying, i could wake up tomorrow with a wide, albeit puffy-eyed, smile. i'm hoping for that. i really don't want another day like today.
that's not normal
or healthy.
it's dangerous.
i want so badly to stop feeling this way. these small things that are all a part of motherhood really shouldn't bother me much at all. they should be annoying, not earth shattering. i'm exhausted. i'm tired. i just want to be normally keeled. it's been a long 3 months and i'm just so done. i'm hoping it's just the jolt of a new prescription and that i will feel better tomorrow.
the nice thing about bipolar rapid cycling is that i can wake up tomorrow and feel 100% different than the day before. so even though i spent most of today crying, i could wake up tomorrow with a wide, albeit puffy-eyed, smile. i'm hoping for that. i really don't want another day like today.
Monday, October 5, 2015
where it began
i was diagnosed with bipolar when i was 19 years old, shortly after i got engaged. truth be told though, i had been manifesting symptoms for years before that. my junior and senior year of high school i was on a manic spree in which i took several standardized tests, homeschooled half my senior year, applied to college early, and left halfway through my senior year. my moods fluctuated rapidly my freshman year of college from depressed to manic, sometimes sleeping so much i skipped class and other times going days and days with little to no sleep. i spent a lot of my sophomore year depressed and came home for the spring and summer because of it. i got right back on a manic swing the fall of my junior year, was incredibly creative, hardly slept, over-scheduled my classes, got straight As, worked 2 jobs, couldn't hold still, was dangerously outgoing, dated a TON, and ultimately found an eternal companion in my best friend bradley. we got engaged in january and that's kind of when the shiz hit the fan. the wedding planning started and my behavior got very strange. i wasn't acting like myself, i was extremely irritable and belligerent, starting fights with almost anyone who would talk to me, i would break down in tears at the drop of a hat, i started having delusions and auditory hallucinations that my bridesmaids were all talking about me behind my back, didn't want me to get married, and secretly hated me. i wasn't sleeping, i fought with bradley and my mom constantly, and continuously doubted my decision to get married when it had previously been made abundantly clear that it was the right decision. we decided that i needed to get help. something was very wrong and we couldn't right it on our own. we met with a therapist who referred me to the most amazing psychiatrist on the planet and we got me started on what would be a long, hard, painful journey in becoming myself again with the help of medication and therapy. i finally "came to" i guess you could say, maybe a year/year and a half later. and then after that we decided to turn it all upside down again to have our first child. i cycled twice after she was born, and was finally better by the time she turned one, and then a few months later it was time to shake things up again with our second (and last) child. we are donezo with the kiddos now and i am still working to piece together the person i was before. i guess we'll see when it happens. hopefully it does.
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
here's the thing
so you guys. here's the thing.
if you stalk me on facebook or are my friend or read my blog (all 4 of you), you may or may not have read my big reveal about how i've been struggling with ppd (which, by the way, WHY do we NEED to have big reveals for that?! why do we all feel we have to hide it? why!?)
i received so many kind and positive comments that it gave me the courage (almost, who knows how long this will sit around before i actually post this) to spill my guts.
so, a few of you probably have thought "wow she doesn't seem depressed! she hides it so well! i never would have guessed!" (or maybe you haven't, in which case, i apologize for being such a downer.)
but you guys here's the THING.
my depression isn't just "post-partum depression". and it isn't just clinical depression. i'm the "b" word. (not THAT b word!).
i'm bipolar, ya'll. *gasp!*
i've been bipolar my whole life (duh that's how these things work) but i was only diagnosed 6-ish years ago (which you can read about {here}) and have been treating (or trying to treat) it ever since.
so what IS bipolar? i know, i know you think you know, buttttt you're probably wrong. SO i'll enlighten you. or, rather, i'll let wikipedia enlighten you:
"Bipolar disorder, also known as bipolar affective disorder and manic-depressive illness, is a mental disorder characterized by periods of elevated mood and periods of depression. The elevated mood is significant and is known as mania or hypomania depending on the severity or whether there is psychosis. During mania an individual feels or acts abnormally happy, energetic, or irritable. They often make poorly thought out decisions with little regard to the consequences. The need for sleep is usually reduced. During periods of depression there may be crying, poor eye contact with others, and a negative outlook on life. The risk of suicide among those with the disorder is high at greater than 6% over 20 years."
i experience these symptoms almost on a daily basis right now since i'm not back to my balanced state yet since having the baby. but when my medication is right, and i'm not under enormous amounts of stress, my moods still fluctuate but i only have milder versions of these feelings and i'm much more functional.
so, if you've been skeptical about the nature of my depression (which, actually why would you be? no one is feeling that way, caity.) you'd probably be right because like every other day (or rather every other hour) i feel differently. so some days i'm cheery, giggly and productive, and others i'm debilitatingly sad. because i am not your average bipolar, no no! i am a SPECIAL one! i am a rapid-cycling bipolar. what is THAT?! well wikipedia will tell you. most "episodes" (periods of mania/hypomania or depression, or a mix, called a "mixed episode") last for a week, minimum to a year or so. BUT if you're special like me and you rapid cycle, you go through these much, much faster.
wikipedia again:
"Most people who meet criteria for bipolar disorder experience a number of episodes, on average 0.4 to 0.7 per year, lasting three to six months. Rapid cycling, however, is a course specifier that may be applied to any of the above subtypes. It is defined as having four or more mood disturbance episodes within a one-year span and is found in a significant proportion of individuals with bipolar disorder. These episodes are separated from each other by a remission (partial or full) for at least two months or a switch in mood polarity (i.e., from a depressive episode to a manic episode or vice versa). The definition of rapid cycling most frequently cited in the literature (including the DSM) is that of Dunner and Fieve: at least four major depressive, manic, hypomanic or mixed episodes are required to have occurred during a 12-month period. Ultra-rapid (days) and ultra-ultra rapid or ultradian (within a day) cycling have also been described. The literature examining the pharmacological treatment of rapid cycling is sparse and there is no clear consensus with respect to its optimal pharmacological management."
when i'm not doing well, or under a lot of stress (good or bad!), or not properly medicated, i have ultra-rapid and/or ultradian cycling. on the really bad, ultra-ultra rapid days, i will literally be sitting there crying, feeling the most complete and utter despair, wanting to die, and the next minute be laughing like a maniac at something that isn't even funny. like a speck on the wall. it's a scary, out of control type feeling and it's not happy or sad but just scary and awful. not good.
but mostly it's a couple days down, and a couple days up. or sometimes every other day. and it's more than just having a good day and a bad day. the "good day" is an out of control, can't hold still, can't focus, must be multi-tasking, wake-up at 4:40 am to clean your whole house and organize all your closets, exercise, go on shopping sprees, decorate the rooms in your house, make a million lists, get extremely irritated and enraged at the smallest provocation, have thoughts racing so quickly that you can't grab one for more than a millisecond, and start too many projects that will never be finished. and the bad days, i can't get out of bed, can't stop crying, am convinced i don't deserve to live, and literally think of ways i should die.
sound horrible and exhausting? yes, yes it does.
when i'm doing well, properly medicated, and under less stress, this is very different. i still alternate days or even weeks. the good days, i get laundry done, do dishes, take the kids out, keep the house clean, do a project or two, write blog posts, and cook a decent dinner. i'm very productive. more productive than normal. on the bad days, i cry a bit, want to watch a sad movie, feel a little down on myself, and feel a little nostalgic for other times in my life where i was happier. NORMAL PEOPLE THINGS. it's good to be in this place. i haven't been in that place for a lonnnnng time.
in order to get pregnant, i chose to wean completely off medication to avoid any risks to my babies. so i did this with bea, was coincidentally in an "up-swing" my whole pregnancy and first 4 months post-partum, and then took a nose dive into a depressive episode that lasted 7 months. i leveled out the following january (2014), spent 4 months in a really good place surrounded by really good people, and then felt impressed that it was time to add baby #2 to the mix. time to go off the meds again. knowing the effects of this from experience made this a very scary decision, but we knew it was time so we got me started on the weaning process. and then we moved. which, yay. (not. moving is bad.) i was on the lower end of normal for several months, and a lot of my pregnancy, and then, again, we moved. (why do we keep doing this to ourselves?! jk they have all been good decisions in the long run.) that's when things got BAD. bad bad bad. we had a month of instability living with family leading up to oliver's birth and waiting for our moving truck to get here, and then he was born, i had a burst of adrenaline with some hypomanic days in the hospital, and then took the big ol' dive the day we got home. a new home i had never been to except when we viewed it a month before. and i wasn't on my meds yet because i was nursing. and i had no psychiatrist yet because no one would see me until the end of july because for SOME reason, finding psychiatrists in a timely manner IS NEXT TO IMPOSSIBLE! (don't get me started. really.)
so yeah you could say conditions were greeeaaaaattttt.
things just were going to be bad. i mean, we knew it, but i guess we forgot how bad "bad" is. it's bad.
it takes a while to work up to full doses of meds, it's been 3 months and i only just got up to full throttle a week ago. so now we just need to wait it out for a bit and see if we need to do some more tweaking.
i've slowly been having more good days (today was a good one, hence the blog post and furniture project), but i have a lot of bad ones. really bad ones. not good when you're trying to care for a newborn and wildly smart and active toddler. but i'm trying. and i have a lot of help. i am so blessed to live so close to family now (not entirely a coincidence. the big old b word is one of the reasons we looked for work out here. more on that another day.)
it's hard to remember on the bad days, but things will get better. it takes a while and it's a wildly painful process, but they always do. and i knew it going into it that this is what it would take to bring oliver into the world, but he is totally worth it. he is the most perfect little boy, i'm tearing up just thinking about the miracle he is. so while i've had to go to hell and (hopefully!) back, i'm trying to keep my chin up about it, because if i had chosen the easy route and just stayed stable i wouldn't have my perfect boy and that would just not do. we needed him in our lives and i'm eternally grateful i could bring him here. i'll be stable again, i mean, that's the nature of the disease. (hooray for finding the silver linings!)
so anyway. there you have it. and if that explains any of my sometimes strange behavior to you, then yippee! and if it's just something i had to share because WHY IS IT SO TABOO IN THE FIRST PLACE?! (don't even get me started on mental illness stigma in life and esp in the workplace. donnnn't even.) then yippee for that too. i've been debating on whether or not i should share this for a while (years.) and each time i get a little closer i shrink back a bit. but the warm reception i got from my ppd post may have just been the boost i needed to get this out there. i'm bipolar and it's gonna be a-ok.
if you stalk me on facebook or are my friend or read my blog (all 4 of you), you may or may not have read my big reveal about how i've been struggling with ppd (which, by the way, WHY do we NEED to have big reveals for that?! why do we all feel we have to hide it? why!?)
i received so many kind and positive comments that it gave me the courage (almost, who knows how long this will sit around before i actually post this) to spill my guts.
so, a few of you probably have thought "wow she doesn't seem depressed! she hides it so well! i never would have guessed!" (or maybe you haven't, in which case, i apologize for being such a downer.)
but you guys here's the THING.
my depression isn't just "post-partum depression". and it isn't just clinical depression. i'm the "b" word. (not THAT b word!).
i'm bipolar, ya'll. *gasp!*
i've been bipolar my whole life (duh that's how these things work) but i was only diagnosed 6-ish years ago (which you can read about {here}) and have been treating (or trying to treat) it ever since.
so what IS bipolar? i know, i know you think you know, buttttt you're probably wrong. SO i'll enlighten you. or, rather, i'll let wikipedia enlighten you:
"Bipolar disorder, also known as bipolar affective disorder and manic-depressive illness, is a mental disorder characterized by periods of elevated mood and periods of depression. The elevated mood is significant and is known as mania or hypomania depending on the severity or whether there is psychosis. During mania an individual feels or acts abnormally happy, energetic, or irritable. They often make poorly thought out decisions with little regard to the consequences. The need for sleep is usually reduced. During periods of depression there may be crying, poor eye contact with others, and a negative outlook on life. The risk of suicide among those with the disorder is high at greater than 6% over 20 years."
i experience these symptoms almost on a daily basis right now since i'm not back to my balanced state yet since having the baby. but when my medication is right, and i'm not under enormous amounts of stress, my moods still fluctuate but i only have milder versions of these feelings and i'm much more functional.
so, if you've been skeptical about the nature of my depression (which, actually why would you be? no one is feeling that way, caity.) you'd probably be right because like every other day (or rather every other hour) i feel differently. so some days i'm cheery, giggly and productive, and others i'm debilitatingly sad. because i am not your average bipolar, no no! i am a SPECIAL one! i am a rapid-cycling bipolar. what is THAT?! well wikipedia will tell you. most "episodes" (periods of mania/hypomania or depression, or a mix, called a "mixed episode") last for a week, minimum to a year or so. BUT if you're special like me and you rapid cycle, you go through these much, much faster.
wikipedia again:
"Most people who meet criteria for bipolar disorder experience a number of episodes, on average 0.4 to 0.7 per year, lasting three to six months. Rapid cycling, however, is a course specifier that may be applied to any of the above subtypes. It is defined as having four or more mood disturbance episodes within a one-year span and is found in a significant proportion of individuals with bipolar disorder. These episodes are separated from each other by a remission (partial or full) for at least two months or a switch in mood polarity (i.e., from a depressive episode to a manic episode or vice versa). The definition of rapid cycling most frequently cited in the literature (including the DSM) is that of Dunner and Fieve: at least four major depressive, manic, hypomanic or mixed episodes are required to have occurred during a 12-month period. Ultra-rapid (days) and ultra-ultra rapid or ultradian (within a day) cycling have also been described. The literature examining the pharmacological treatment of rapid cycling is sparse and there is no clear consensus with respect to its optimal pharmacological management."
when i'm not doing well, or under a lot of stress (good or bad!), or not properly medicated, i have ultra-rapid and/or ultradian cycling. on the really bad, ultra-ultra rapid days, i will literally be sitting there crying, feeling the most complete and utter despair, wanting to die, and the next minute be laughing like a maniac at something that isn't even funny. like a speck on the wall. it's a scary, out of control type feeling and it's not happy or sad but just scary and awful. not good.
but mostly it's a couple days down, and a couple days up. or sometimes every other day. and it's more than just having a good day and a bad day. the "good day" is an out of control, can't hold still, can't focus, must be multi-tasking, wake-up at 4:40 am to clean your whole house and organize all your closets, exercise, go on shopping sprees, decorate the rooms in your house, make a million lists, get extremely irritated and enraged at the smallest provocation, have thoughts racing so quickly that you can't grab one for more than a millisecond, and start too many projects that will never be finished. and the bad days, i can't get out of bed, can't stop crying, am convinced i don't deserve to live, and literally think of ways i should die.
sound horrible and exhausting? yes, yes it does.
when i'm doing well, properly medicated, and under less stress, this is very different. i still alternate days or even weeks. the good days, i get laundry done, do dishes, take the kids out, keep the house clean, do a project or two, write blog posts, and cook a decent dinner. i'm very productive. more productive than normal. on the bad days, i cry a bit, want to watch a sad movie, feel a little down on myself, and feel a little nostalgic for other times in my life where i was happier. NORMAL PEOPLE THINGS. it's good to be in this place. i haven't been in that place for a lonnnnng time.
in order to get pregnant, i chose to wean completely off medication to avoid any risks to my babies. so i did this with bea, was coincidentally in an "up-swing" my whole pregnancy and first 4 months post-partum, and then took a nose dive into a depressive episode that lasted 7 months. i leveled out the following january (2014), spent 4 months in a really good place surrounded by really good people, and then felt impressed that it was time to add baby #2 to the mix. time to go off the meds again. knowing the effects of this from experience made this a very scary decision, but we knew it was time so we got me started on the weaning process. and then we moved. which, yay. (not. moving is bad.) i was on the lower end of normal for several months, and a lot of my pregnancy, and then, again, we moved. (why do we keep doing this to ourselves?! jk they have all been good decisions in the long run.) that's when things got BAD. bad bad bad. we had a month of instability living with family leading up to oliver's birth and waiting for our moving truck to get here, and then he was born, i had a burst of adrenaline with some hypomanic days in the hospital, and then took the big ol' dive the day we got home. a new home i had never been to except when we viewed it a month before. and i wasn't on my meds yet because i was nursing. and i had no psychiatrist yet because no one would see me until the end of july because for SOME reason, finding psychiatrists in a timely manner IS NEXT TO IMPOSSIBLE! (don't get me started. really.)
so yeah you could say conditions were greeeaaaaattttt.
things just were going to be bad. i mean, we knew it, but i guess we forgot how bad "bad" is. it's bad.
it takes a while to work up to full doses of meds, it's been 3 months and i only just got up to full throttle a week ago. so now we just need to wait it out for a bit and see if we need to do some more tweaking.
i've slowly been having more good days (today was a good one, hence the blog post and furniture project), but i have a lot of bad ones. really bad ones. not good when you're trying to care for a newborn and wildly smart and active toddler. but i'm trying. and i have a lot of help. i am so blessed to live so close to family now (not entirely a coincidence. the big old b word is one of the reasons we looked for work out here. more on that another day.)
it's hard to remember on the bad days, but things will get better. it takes a while and it's a wildly painful process, but they always do. and i knew it going into it that this is what it would take to bring oliver into the world, but he is totally worth it. he is the most perfect little boy, i'm tearing up just thinking about the miracle he is. so while i've had to go to hell and (hopefully!) back, i'm trying to keep my chin up about it, because if i had chosen the easy route and just stayed stable i wouldn't have my perfect boy and that would just not do. we needed him in our lives and i'm eternally grateful i could bring him here. i'll be stable again, i mean, that's the nature of the disease. (hooray for finding the silver linings!)
so anyway. there you have it. and if that explains any of my sometimes strange behavior to you, then yippee! and if it's just something i had to share because WHY IS IT SO TABOO IN THE FIRST PLACE?! (don't even get me started on mental illness stigma in life and esp in the workplace. donnnn't even.) then yippee for that too. i've been debating on whether or not i should share this for a while (years.) and each time i get a little closer i shrink back a bit. but the warm reception i got from my ppd post may have just been the boost i needed to get this out there. i'm bipolar and it's gonna be a-ok.
Sunday, August 16, 2015
swing low
I have been avoiding this blog like the plague for a long, long while. Maybe it's because I called it "Depression and Mania in Pennsylvania" and then I moved to Connecticut and the name no longer fit and everything seemed so rosy that I didn't feel like writing anymore. Maybe it's because I was finally stable for so, so long (which for me is 9 months). I really can't say why. I was wrapped up in the joy of being a mom and couldn't be bothered to drag myself down to thinking about my illness, let alone writing about it. I had gotten into such a beautiful groove as a mom and really, I didn't need anything bringing me down. I slowly started to wean of my medicine from April to September of 2014 and must have been on a hypomanic high the whole time under the guise of feeling completely normal. I managed a job change with my husband, and inter-state move, a new ward, a new apartment, and being a mom while still living far from family all with style and flair. I was doing so well with so little meds I honestly felt like I wasn't sick anymore. No need for an illness blog when you're cured, right?
Even the whole time I was pregnant and feeling completely miserable, I chalked up every bad feeling to the pregnancy and put the illness out my mind, subconsciously knowing it was waiting for me once my baby was here. And it was chomping at the bit the second he arrived.
My pregnancy with Beatrice was effortless and joyful, as were the first several months after her birth. My timing with her must have been fabulous because I was on a manic high the first four months of her life, needing virtually no sleep and feeling absolutely euphoric a majority of the time. Feeling like one should after bringing a life into this world. Again, instead of considering this could be a result of fortuitous timing, I chalked this up to pregnancy serenity hormones. The fact that I plummeted the week my menstrual cycles started up again seemed to confirm this theory. I spent April-December of 2013 spinning in and out of suicidal depression, numbness, and minimal functioning when I was finally stabilized in January of 2014. Of course, 2 months later, we were impressed that it was the time to start preparing for another child. Time for round two. Our final round.
My pregnancy with my sweet Oliver was, in a word, awful. I experienced horrible symptoms, was tired, unhappy, and uncomfortable the whole time, and as soon as 3 days after he was born, felt so low that I was making plans to end my life. It's been 8 weeks now and I still struggle with suicidal feelings several times a week. My meds have been tuned and tweaked several times but it seems like nothing will ever get me back to normal ever again, though deep down I know that it's possible because we've done it. Multiple times.
But there are days where I look down at Oliver and the only thing I feel is guilt. Guilt that I've brought yet another child into the world who has to rely on someone as sick as me to be their mother. Guilt that I will spend days at a time unhappy with nothing anyone can do to help. Guilt that I may one day not be able to bear the exhaustion of my illness anymore and leave this world forever. The thoughts are so dark and horrible that I just hold my babies and cry. I spend more time like this than I care to admit. I lay awake at night weeping that I will just never be enough for these sweet children and that I've done them a horrible wrong by bringing them into this world. I'm sorry for being their mom. I wish I could die and that Bradley would find someone else, someone healthy, someone normal, someone happy, to step in and be their mom. He could have more than just the 2 children I could meagerly offer and grow a family with someone new. Someone better. Some nights I wish this so hard that I think of ways to set that plan in motion by eliminating myself.
I just had a series of very normal, wonderful days of being myself. Those days are so precious I can't even begin to describe. I like that person. I love that person. I miss that person. She is here so rarely anymore that when she is here, I constantly have this tugging in the back of my mind that she will be gone all too soon, in a flash, and I will be powerless, unable to bring her back, until she decides to randomly pop in again for a short while. Those periods have been so short since Oliver was born. I'm doing everything I can to prolong them but I am at the will and whims of the illness. The illness makes those decisions. Every day is a mystery. Will I wake up Caity? Old Caity, good Caity, happy, silly Caity whom I love? Will I be Super-Caity, who doesn't need to eat or sleep but can literally do anything that the world asks of her and more? Or will I be this empty shell of a person who is so separated and removed from that former person, that all she can do is grieve her loss? Not knowing is a crippling fear that is sometimes too much to bear. I sat yesterday, soaking in the joy of my children, my husband, my family, the beautiful weather and scenery, my beautiful life, in complete contentment, when suddenly I stopped and wondered, how much time do I have? Days? Hours? Minutes? When will I disappear again? How far? And for how long? This thought creeps into my mind every time I'm enjoying life's sweetest moments. It's unavoidable. And it's not going away. It's the fear that anyone without this ailment will never know, understand, or appreciate. I live at the will of this illness and at times, it paralyzes me with fear. No matter how good the good days get, or better yet, how normal the normal days get, I know the darkness awaits, following me and latching on and forcing me out when I least expect it. I tried my best to soak in these past few days, the sweet ones, but they're gone now, I've been forced out, I'm the shell again, and I'm waiting for me to come back and be me again. And it's all I can do to stay alive until then.
Thursday, September 4, 2014
plummet
January 5, 2014
Well, that happened faster than I thought. I thought I might at least have another day or two before paying for the good days.
After the valium kicked in last night I fell asleep easily enough. I don't remember dreaming anything. The baby woke up for her morning feeding around 5:30, Bradley is still sick but I still let him take care of it, even though I shouldn't have. I guess you could say I felt impending doom and that I needed sleep to take preemptive measures, so to speak. I feel like I need to keep reminding myself that I am just as sick as he is and need to take care of myself just as much. It doesn't make me feel any less guilty though. We stayed home from church today so that Bradley could rest and I could take care of him and the baby (and also rest. I didn't tell Bradley, but I sensed something was coming. I felt like the best thing I could to to prevent a breakdown would be to rest or sleep as much as possible) but I had to duck out for an hour to help out in Primary. Around 9, I got ready to go, gave Bea a bottle and put her back to bed. Bradley thought I was going to take her, though I don't know why. I was supposed to be leading music in Primary. I couldn't very well do that while taking care of an infant. I don't know what he was imagining I would do, but he acted like he was doing me a huge favor in letting me leave her home, asleep in her crib.
I'm not expecting him to read my mind. I know it's not obvious to anyone but me when I'm starting to feel things in my head are getting soupy. But I do, unrealistically I suppose, expect him to always be mindful of the fact that I have an illness, and often need help or at the very least reassurance that I can do the everyday tasks that need to be done. Instead, he slept. It shouldn't bother me. He's sick. But so am I. It was very difficult for me to get out of bed this morning. It was even more difficult to face Bea on a day when I didn't feel up to it. It was difficult for me to look presentable enough to go out in public. It was difficult for me to leave her in her room with a video playing in hopes that she'd fall asleep and not disturb Bradley while I was gone. It was difficult to get out the door. It's difficult to explain why all those things are difficult. I suppose the irrationality of it all is part of why it's an illness. It's my brain refusing to accept normal things as normal and instead turning them into things that cause me immense pain and anguish. Most often it manifests itself at night, when I think of when, in the morning, I have to face Beatrice when she wakes up. Instead of feeling excited to see her, as I would on a good day, I feel grief and often terror. Grief that she's been cursed with a mother who can't be happy when it's time to say "Good morning" and terror that I'll never be enough for her. That's how I feel right now.
It had rained in the night last night and had frozen over this morning so everything, including our car, was covered in a thick, icy film when it was time for me to go to the church. On my way to the car, my boot slipped on a stair off my porch and I slid down the entire set of steps. Up until that moment this morning I was managing. I was on the edge, but I was managing. Falling down those steps, something inside me snapped. I'd given up. I was done. I almost turned around and walked right back inside to crawl back into bed, but I felt too bad for our understaffed ward to do so. I picked myself up out of the snow, pried open the car, which had frozen shut, and scraped and scraped and scraped until enough ice had chipped away to allow me some visibility out of the windshield. I remained stable throughout my time in Primary and came straight home. Bradley was in bed, and Bea was crying in her crib. He hadn't fed her any breakfast.
I'd always applauded Bradley in the past for never getting the "man cold". He usually plows through sickness without a complaint. I don't know why he chose this one time, this one crucial time when everything was so fragile, to become "too sick to function". I would have felt more sorry for him had I not had the exact same bug last week. I spent one and a half days in bed. He's spent three. Maybe that's why I'm resentful. I need help. Returning home from a vacation for a bipolar person is like an infection to a wound. It must be attended to immediately and delicately and with lots of patience. I don't think anyone without the illness will ever understand how important this is. I used to think Bradley understood, but the longer we're married, the more I realize there are things about my illness he just doesn't, and may not ever understand.
I can't return home and get back into a routine like a normal person. My body senses a shift and my brain reacts improperly. My brain catches a bug. When that happens, it's a lot like what would happen if a circuit shorted in a robot or something. It either crashes immediately and shuts down completely, or it malfunctions and malfunctions and malfunctions rapidly and then shuts down. Rather than recognize a shift in routine, my illness acts as a bug. And in this case, I've malfunctioned through hypomania two days in a row, teetered between normalcy and darkness throughout today, and tonight, I crashed.
After I got Bea out of her crib, fed her some breakfast, and put her back down for a proper nap, I finally cleaned out the closet. I couldn't handle it any longer. But instead of cleaning it with manic zeal, I did so tiredly and begrudgingly, resenting my compulsion rather than reveling in it. I did the dishes. I sat down to catch my breath. And Bea woke up. Something snapped again. Or splintered I guess.
I have more to say about all this but my Valium at long last is kicking in and I need to sleep or tomorrow will be worse than today. I'll pick up where I left off but it may be difficult, as I often suffer from "bipolar amnesia" where I can't remember exactly how bad things were once the wave subsides. Unfortunately, the reverse is also true but we can talk about that another time as well.
-edit- September 2, 2014-
While skimming my blogs today I realized I had never posted this post so I went back to read it. I have nothing to add because the next day, I woke up fine. I didn't plummet again, and haven't yet since we switched my doses right before our Christmas trip. The only thing I remember from that day is sadness and frustration, slipping on the ice, and apologizing to Adrianna for being late for primary. Everything else is gone. Bipolar amnesia strikes again. I'll always be grateful for the blessing it is to forget.
Well, that happened faster than I thought. I thought I might at least have another day or two before paying for the good days.
After the valium kicked in last night I fell asleep easily enough. I don't remember dreaming anything. The baby woke up for her morning feeding around 5:30, Bradley is still sick but I still let him take care of it, even though I shouldn't have. I guess you could say I felt impending doom and that I needed sleep to take preemptive measures, so to speak. I feel like I need to keep reminding myself that I am just as sick as he is and need to take care of myself just as much. It doesn't make me feel any less guilty though. We stayed home from church today so that Bradley could rest and I could take care of him and the baby (and also rest. I didn't tell Bradley, but I sensed something was coming. I felt like the best thing I could to to prevent a breakdown would be to rest or sleep as much as possible) but I had to duck out for an hour to help out in Primary. Around 9, I got ready to go, gave Bea a bottle and put her back to bed. Bradley thought I was going to take her, though I don't know why. I was supposed to be leading music in Primary. I couldn't very well do that while taking care of an infant. I don't know what he was imagining I would do, but he acted like he was doing me a huge favor in letting me leave her home, asleep in her crib.
I'm not expecting him to read my mind. I know it's not obvious to anyone but me when I'm starting to feel things in my head are getting soupy. But I do, unrealistically I suppose, expect him to always be mindful of the fact that I have an illness, and often need help or at the very least reassurance that I can do the everyday tasks that need to be done. Instead, he slept. It shouldn't bother me. He's sick. But so am I. It was very difficult for me to get out of bed this morning. It was even more difficult to face Bea on a day when I didn't feel up to it. It was difficult for me to look presentable enough to go out in public. It was difficult for me to leave her in her room with a video playing in hopes that she'd fall asleep and not disturb Bradley while I was gone. It was difficult to get out the door. It's difficult to explain why all those things are difficult. I suppose the irrationality of it all is part of why it's an illness. It's my brain refusing to accept normal things as normal and instead turning them into things that cause me immense pain and anguish. Most often it manifests itself at night, when I think of when, in the morning, I have to face Beatrice when she wakes up. Instead of feeling excited to see her, as I would on a good day, I feel grief and often terror. Grief that she's been cursed with a mother who can't be happy when it's time to say "Good morning" and terror that I'll never be enough for her. That's how I feel right now.
It had rained in the night last night and had frozen over this morning so everything, including our car, was covered in a thick, icy film when it was time for me to go to the church. On my way to the car, my boot slipped on a stair off my porch and I slid down the entire set of steps. Up until that moment this morning I was managing. I was on the edge, but I was managing. Falling down those steps, something inside me snapped. I'd given up. I was done. I almost turned around and walked right back inside to crawl back into bed, but I felt too bad for our understaffed ward to do so. I picked myself up out of the snow, pried open the car, which had frozen shut, and scraped and scraped and scraped until enough ice had chipped away to allow me some visibility out of the windshield. I remained stable throughout my time in Primary and came straight home. Bradley was in bed, and Bea was crying in her crib. He hadn't fed her any breakfast.
I'd always applauded Bradley in the past for never getting the "man cold". He usually plows through sickness without a complaint. I don't know why he chose this one time, this one crucial time when everything was so fragile, to become "too sick to function". I would have felt more sorry for him had I not had the exact same bug last week. I spent one and a half days in bed. He's spent three. Maybe that's why I'm resentful. I need help. Returning home from a vacation for a bipolar person is like an infection to a wound. It must be attended to immediately and delicately and with lots of patience. I don't think anyone without the illness will ever understand how important this is. I used to think Bradley understood, but the longer we're married, the more I realize there are things about my illness he just doesn't, and may not ever understand.
I can't return home and get back into a routine like a normal person. My body senses a shift and my brain reacts improperly. My brain catches a bug. When that happens, it's a lot like what would happen if a circuit shorted in a robot or something. It either crashes immediately and shuts down completely, or it malfunctions and malfunctions and malfunctions rapidly and then shuts down. Rather than recognize a shift in routine, my illness acts as a bug. And in this case, I've malfunctioned through hypomania two days in a row, teetered between normalcy and darkness throughout today, and tonight, I crashed.
After I got Bea out of her crib, fed her some breakfast, and put her back down for a proper nap, I finally cleaned out the closet. I couldn't handle it any longer. But instead of cleaning it with manic zeal, I did so tiredly and begrudgingly, resenting my compulsion rather than reveling in it. I did the dishes. I sat down to catch my breath. And Bea woke up. Something snapped again. Or splintered I guess.
I have more to say about all this but my Valium at long last is kicking in and I need to sleep or tomorrow will be worse than today. I'll pick up where I left off but it may be difficult, as I often suffer from "bipolar amnesia" where I can't remember exactly how bad things were once the wave subsides. Unfortunately, the reverse is also true but we can talk about that another time as well.
-edit- September 2, 2014-
While skimming my blogs today I realized I had never posted this post so I went back to read it. I have nothing to add because the next day, I woke up fine. I didn't plummet again, and haven't yet since we switched my doses right before our Christmas trip. The only thing I remember from that day is sadness and frustration, slipping on the ice, and apologizing to Adrianna for being late for primary. Everything else is gone. Bipolar amnesia strikes again. I'll always be grateful for the blessing it is to forget.
Friday, February 21, 2014
mom
my mom is the best mom. she cooks better than anyone else, she can do a million things at once, her house is always clean (maybe not always tidy, but ALWAYS clean), she's funny, she's compassionate, everyone wants to be around her, she never judges her children, and she doesn't pick favorites. she's always busy doing something for someone else. i don't think i've ever seen her take a full day for herself in all the time i've know her. she gets stressed but you'd never know it, she just pushes through any trials that come her way. she is fiercely independent. i always wanted to be just like her when i became a mom. it was a lot to live up to and i was scared i would never be able to be as good as her. i was always a tiny bit scared to have kids because i knew i would never be as good of a mom to them as she is to me.
i got sick right before i got married. the fiery energy that propelled me through life was suddenly gone and i'd almost completely forgotten who i was. it took years of therapy and different cocktails of medicines to bring it back out. and right as i was coming back to consciousness, i knew it was time for bradley and i to finally start a family. that fear i'd always had that i wouldn't be as good as my mom came back tenfold. not only was i going to be not as good as she was, but i'd be sick. i'm a sick mom. and that sickness is never going to go away. i'm never going to be like my mom. but the deeper i get into motherhood, and the more time i spend with my little one, i realize that i don't have to be exactly like my mom to be a good mom. i don't have to be 100% well to be a good mom. i just have to do my best. and some days, my best is just holding my baby girl close while i cry. some days my best is snuggling up with her on the couch for hours at a time while i mentally prepare myself to stand up, because sometimes, that's all i can do for the day.
i think all it takes to be a good mom is loving your children the best you can. i may not have a perfectly clean house, i may not be able to go weeks at a time without calling my mom for advice, i may not be able to cook a five star meal every night, i may not even be able to get off the couch for days except for to change a diaper and feed my baby, but she knows i love her. i can tell. and if that's all i can give her, i think somehow that will be enough.
i got sick right before i got married. the fiery energy that propelled me through life was suddenly gone and i'd almost completely forgotten who i was. it took years of therapy and different cocktails of medicines to bring it back out. and right as i was coming back to consciousness, i knew it was time for bradley and i to finally start a family. that fear i'd always had that i wouldn't be as good as my mom came back tenfold. not only was i going to be not as good as she was, but i'd be sick. i'm a sick mom. and that sickness is never going to go away. i'm never going to be like my mom. but the deeper i get into motherhood, and the more time i spend with my little one, i realize that i don't have to be exactly like my mom to be a good mom. i don't have to be 100% well to be a good mom. i just have to do my best. and some days, my best is just holding my baby girl close while i cry. some days my best is snuggling up with her on the couch for hours at a time while i mentally prepare myself to stand up, because sometimes, that's all i can do for the day.
i think all it takes to be a good mom is loving your children the best you can. i may not have a perfectly clean house, i may not be able to go weeks at a time without calling my mom for advice, i may not be able to cook a five star meal every night, i may not even be able to get off the couch for days except for to change a diaper and feed my baby, but she knows i love her. i can tell. and if that's all i can give her, i think somehow that will be enough.
Friday, January 10, 2014
philadelphia
I wanted to like Philadelphia. I really did. I tried. But then we got here and everything was just so awful on so many levels. Exhibit A: we got sued the first week we lived here. We accidentally opened our car door too close to a biker at a red light and he scraped his elbow, so he sued us. How's that for the city of brotherly love? I feel like Philadelphia is this food that everyone else likes and no matter how many times I try it, I still don't like it. Like eggnog. Everyone in my family loves eggnog. And every Christmas, I give it a taste, because maybe this time, I'll see what everyone else is talking about and I'll magically like eggnog, but it never happens. I still don't like eggnog. And I still don't like Philadelphia.
I don't know if it's because my expectations were too high, or if I was expecting it to be something it's not, but everything about it just completely rubs me the wrong way. Aside from being surrounded by angry people who want to sue you all the time, there's the bad drivers, the ubiquitous and absolute filth and garbage that is literally everywhere, the negligence of every single public employee in the entire city, lack of things to do, the horrible weather, the inconvenience and eyesore that is "urban sprawl", or the fact that everyone who is from here LOVES it and thinks I'm an idiot for not feeling the same way. The list goes on and on. I'm just not drinking the kool-aid.
I don't know how much longer we'll be here and I'm no neuroscientist, but I have a feeling hating where I live may have a little something to do with my roller-coaster moods.
I have a doctor here who only sort of knows what he's doing. My last doctor was one of the best in the field at a premiere mental hospital. I had the same shrink as Catherine Zeta-Jones. I had it really good. Every time something felt off, I went to his office and he knew what was wrong and how to fix it within five minutes. My new doctor is constantly asking how I'm feeling and what paths I think I should take to fix it. I'm not a doctor. I have no idea. That's your job, pal. Putting the pressure on me is just another stressor I just don't need. And having a doctor who is unsure of himself is definitely unsettling. But, apparently, according to Psychology Today, he's one of Philadelphia's best. Which I have learned, is not saying much. There's a saying Bradley and I have: Welcome to Philadelphia; lower your expectations. It almost always hold true. I'm not a negative person. I give Philadelphia so many chances each day to prove itself to me, and it has failed, time and time again. I just can't like it. No matter how many times I drink the eggnog with positive expectations, it's still eggnog, and I still don't like it.
I don't know if it's because my expectations were too high, or if I was expecting it to be something it's not, but everything about it just completely rubs me the wrong way. Aside from being surrounded by angry people who want to sue you all the time, there's the bad drivers, the ubiquitous and absolute filth and garbage that is literally everywhere, the negligence of every single public employee in the entire city, lack of things to do, the horrible weather, the inconvenience and eyesore that is "urban sprawl", or the fact that everyone who is from here LOVES it and thinks I'm an idiot for not feeling the same way. The list goes on and on. I'm just not drinking the kool-aid.
I don't know how much longer we'll be here and I'm no neuroscientist, but I have a feeling hating where I live may have a little something to do with my roller-coaster moods.
I have a doctor here who only sort of knows what he's doing. My last doctor was one of the best in the field at a premiere mental hospital. I had the same shrink as Catherine Zeta-Jones. I had it really good. Every time something felt off, I went to his office and he knew what was wrong and how to fix it within five minutes. My new doctor is constantly asking how I'm feeling and what paths I think I should take to fix it. I'm not a doctor. I have no idea. That's your job, pal. Putting the pressure on me is just another stressor I just don't need. And having a doctor who is unsure of himself is definitely unsettling. But, apparently, according to Psychology Today, he's one of Philadelphia's best. Which I have learned, is not saying much. There's a saying Bradley and I have: Welcome to Philadelphia; lower your expectations. It almost always hold true. I'm not a negative person. I give Philadelphia so many chances each day to prove itself to me, and it has failed, time and time again. I just can't like it. No matter how many times I drink the eggnog with positive expectations, it's still eggnog, and I still don't like it.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
intro
it's snowing. i don't like snow. i wish i liked snow as much as everybody else seems to like snow in december but i just can't get into it. apparently, philadelphia hasn't seen this much snow in several years. i wouldn't know; we just moved here in june. but i suppose everyone is jumping up and down about the snow because they haven't seen it in a while, which i can understand, but having come from connecticut where snow is more than abundant, i am underwhelmed---nay--less than underwhelmed. i am de-whelmed. anti-whelmed. the opposite of whelmed. whatever. i just don't like it. anyway. i'm avoiding the point here. i'm writing for a reason. my mother wants me to write a memoir. i suppose she thinks it will be good "therapy" or whatever. let me see if i can find the text message she sent me....right ok:
Mom: Do you keep a journal?
Me: sometimes, why?
Mom: you should start keeping one consistently. you could compile it into a memoir. you're just such a good writer, you should really be writing your thoughts down more often.
i can only assume she wants me to write a memoir about my mental illness. nothing else about my life is specifically unique, and she hasn't asked either of my brothers or my sister to write one, so it's not a run of the mill "my kid is just so talented" idea. so that leaves the mental illness thing.
it's not a bad idea really, i do like to write, and i'm sure it would be great therapy but there's that thing about writing where sometimes people actually READ what you write and i'm not all over that...! feelings make me all kinds of uncomfortable, and writing about mental illness involves lots of feels. and sharing feelings like that kinnnnndof freaks me out. so here's what we're gonna do. i'm just going to pretend no one will ever read this. that should do it. and if someone ever DOES happen to read it i'm sure there's a nice rock somewhere i can go live under for the rest of my life.
Mom: Do you keep a journal?
Me: sometimes, why?
Mom: you should start keeping one consistently. you could compile it into a memoir. you're just such a good writer, you should really be writing your thoughts down more often.
i can only assume she wants me to write a memoir about my mental illness. nothing else about my life is specifically unique, and she hasn't asked either of my brothers or my sister to write one, so it's not a run of the mill "my kid is just so talented" idea. so that leaves the mental illness thing.
it's not a bad idea really, i do like to write, and i'm sure it would be great therapy but there's that thing about writing where sometimes people actually READ what you write and i'm not all over that...! feelings make me all kinds of uncomfortable, and writing about mental illness involves lots of feels. and sharing feelings like that kinnnnndof freaks me out. so here's what we're gonna do. i'm just going to pretend no one will ever read this. that should do it. and if someone ever DOES happen to read it i'm sure there's a nice rock somewhere i can go live under for the rest of my life.
I want to clean out my closet in the middle of the night
It's 12:30 am. I am lying wide awake in my bed; despite taking two doses of valium, one dose of lamictal and one dose of risperal over an hour ago, I am lying (well, now sitting and typing) but nonetheless wide awake in my bed with a pervasive urge to clean out my hall closet.
Bradley is sick, so I forced him to take some NyQuil, else he would be snatching the computer away from me and forcing me to sleep. Or, rather ordering me to lay down and stare at the ceiling in the dark for several hours before eventually lulling into a likely fitful sleep. Sleep is never restful when you are experiencing mania. But, alas, he is snoring away, and not likely to budge even if a tornado came through the house.
I am completely aware that the urge to clean my closet in the middle of the night is a sign of mania settling in, but that doesn't lessen the temptation. It is taking every ounce of self control I have not to go clean and organize it. I don't know why I've decided to write about it instead of doing it, but here we are. I suppose this option seemed more productive. How good of a job can one do with cleaning a closet in the middle of the night, anyway? This seems a more appropriate and acceptable outlet of manic energy. At least it seems so to me.
We just returned from Christmas vacation at my parents' home 2 days ago. The weeks leading up to said vacation were absolutely horrible. I was lower than I'd been in months, suicidal several times over the course of 2 weeks, and so depressed I couldn't muster the energy to get off the couch without bursting into tears of premature exhaustion. But then we left for my mother's house, and what I'd expected to be a very stressful 10 days, turned out to be just what the doctor ordered. 10 days of absolute relaxation with the people I enjoy most, doing the things I love most. We were a little more booked and over-scheduled than I'd hoped, but I, surprisingly, given my previous state, took it in stride and thoroughly enjoyed my vacation. (With the exception of one breakdown on Christmas Eve. I always have an episode on Christmas Eve, I can't say why, but there you are. Positive stress wears me out just as much as negative stress, I suppose.) I wasn't ready to leave, and was prepared for a complete and absolute breakdown upon our return. 2 weeks of joy often means 2 subsequent weeks of misery for people with my condition. We pay an enormous price for each of our good days.
When we arrived home Thursday night, we put the baby to bed, then went to bed ourselves and I burst into tears. I couldn't face the next day knowing it would be as bad as the days before we left. I wasn't ready for another depressive episode, not so soon. Not after I'd been doing so well for 10 (9) straight days.
Surprisingly though, I awoke the next morning with copious amounts of energy. I threw all of it into shoveling a foot of snow from around our car to make way for an extensively complicated couponing trip (which involved going to 3 separate stores), a trip to the bank, a lunch outing, a thorough house cleaning, several lightbulb changes, and another quick outing for some storage supplies. Before I knew it, it was time for bed.
Chalking up my energy burst and complete disinterest in turning in for the night to the time zone change, I decided to do the smart thing and take a sleeping pill instead of valium for the night, to get myself back on a proper schedule.
I slept in til 11 am.
Luckily today is Saturday, so Bradley was around to take care of the baby until I awoke. It is an unspoken rule in our house that I am not to be awoken whilst asleep unless it is 100% necessary. I suppose the attitude is that sleep is part of my medical treatment, and to deny me it in any way would be an offense equivalent to withholding me my medications.
I had almost the same amount of energy today as I did yesterday. I funneled today's mania into overcleaning our bathroom. I cleaned the tub twice and the floors twice. Since Bradley was sick I insisted we stay inside the whole day rather than brave the snow and 10 degree weather in pursuit of errands and a computer repair that still needs to be attended to. (Bradley talks in his sleep more when he takes NyQuil, by the way. My typing keeps being interjected with mid-sentence nonsense from the other side of the bed.) While we may have stayed home and, technically, done nothing today, it was a manic day, nonetheless. Aside from the obsessive bathroom incident, our day was spent indulging other obsessive behaviors. We watched an entire season and a half of Downton Abbey while I constantly fidgeted, wandered the apartment, perused craigslist for new desk setups that will more properly accommodate my coupon printing, and obsessively searched for coupons on my laptop.
I get it. Obsessive behavior=the beginnings of a manic episode.
But I still hate it when my mother and Bradley tell me my new couponing habit/hobby/what-have-you is obsessive behavior. I almost always have it under control (with the exception of today) and I only shop for the things I need. I feel like it is a perfectly reasonable thing to do and it is benefitting our family greatly. I save 35-50% on groceries every week from couponing. It's incredibly irritating to have every new interest of mine immediately questioned and chalked up to the "obsessive behavior" of the mentally ill. It almost makes me not want to ever try anything new, in order to avoid scrutiny and speculation on its influence from my illness. It also makes me worry that, if in fact it is an obsessive interest developed from my illness, that, once my mood changes, I will lose interest in it almost immediately and it won't be of use to me anymore. Which is especially relevant in this case because this particular interest is of such use to our family.
But of course, they're right. The whole reason I want to clean out my closet at 1 am in the first place is because I want to make room for a proper stockpile. It's already accumulating and I'm running out of space to store things, and so much of that closet as it is currently is wasted space. I figured if I wrote about it long enough, the urge would subside and my medicine would kick in and I'd finally be able to sleep. It's working. The valium is finally kicking in, I can feel it. It feels like warm, relaxing syrup slowly drizzling in a viscous drizzle from the top of my head and sliding down to my toes. That's when I know I will finally stop thinking of things to do instead of sleep, and think of how nice it will feel to sleep.
So here's to hoping that all of this manic energy will last, and that, with the help of my medications, I can harness it into something useful. And pray that I don't pay for it so dearly as I payed for my last burst. I know it's a long shot. The incredible ups are almost always followed by their equal opposite. Bipolar lives are mirrored by physics. Each action has an equal and opposite reaction. Or rather, each mood is followed by its equal and opposite mood. I will ride this wave until it subsides, and after that the darkness will envelop me again and I'll suffer immensely, as I did last time. It sounds defeatist, and earlier on in my illness, I would have scolded myself for such cynical thinking, but I've learned that I simply can't deny the inevitable. I can only take it one day at a time and hope to God that I don't give up when the going gets tough, as I know it will. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that I have to try my very best to live in the moment. It's become imperative to embrace the days that I feel are worth living even though I know the opposite days are on their way. Because if I don't, it will become so that none of my days will seem worth living. And that's no way to live.
Bradley is sick, so I forced him to take some NyQuil, else he would be snatching the computer away from me and forcing me to sleep. Or, rather ordering me to lay down and stare at the ceiling in the dark for several hours before eventually lulling into a likely fitful sleep. Sleep is never restful when you are experiencing mania. But, alas, he is snoring away, and not likely to budge even if a tornado came through the house.
I am completely aware that the urge to clean my closet in the middle of the night is a sign of mania settling in, but that doesn't lessen the temptation. It is taking every ounce of self control I have not to go clean and organize it. I don't know why I've decided to write about it instead of doing it, but here we are. I suppose this option seemed more productive. How good of a job can one do with cleaning a closet in the middle of the night, anyway? This seems a more appropriate and acceptable outlet of manic energy. At least it seems so to me.
We just returned from Christmas vacation at my parents' home 2 days ago. The weeks leading up to said vacation were absolutely horrible. I was lower than I'd been in months, suicidal several times over the course of 2 weeks, and so depressed I couldn't muster the energy to get off the couch without bursting into tears of premature exhaustion. But then we left for my mother's house, and what I'd expected to be a very stressful 10 days, turned out to be just what the doctor ordered. 10 days of absolute relaxation with the people I enjoy most, doing the things I love most. We were a little more booked and over-scheduled than I'd hoped, but I, surprisingly, given my previous state, took it in stride and thoroughly enjoyed my vacation. (With the exception of one breakdown on Christmas Eve. I always have an episode on Christmas Eve, I can't say why, but there you are. Positive stress wears me out just as much as negative stress, I suppose.) I wasn't ready to leave, and was prepared for a complete and absolute breakdown upon our return. 2 weeks of joy often means 2 subsequent weeks of misery for people with my condition. We pay an enormous price for each of our good days.
When we arrived home Thursday night, we put the baby to bed, then went to bed ourselves and I burst into tears. I couldn't face the next day knowing it would be as bad as the days before we left. I wasn't ready for another depressive episode, not so soon. Not after I'd been doing so well for 10 (9) straight days.
Surprisingly though, I awoke the next morning with copious amounts of energy. I threw all of it into shoveling a foot of snow from around our car to make way for an extensively complicated couponing trip (which involved going to 3 separate stores), a trip to the bank, a lunch outing, a thorough house cleaning, several lightbulb changes, and another quick outing for some storage supplies. Before I knew it, it was time for bed.
Chalking up my energy burst and complete disinterest in turning in for the night to the time zone change, I decided to do the smart thing and take a sleeping pill instead of valium for the night, to get myself back on a proper schedule.
I slept in til 11 am.
Luckily today is Saturday, so Bradley was around to take care of the baby until I awoke. It is an unspoken rule in our house that I am not to be awoken whilst asleep unless it is 100% necessary. I suppose the attitude is that sleep is part of my medical treatment, and to deny me it in any way would be an offense equivalent to withholding me my medications.
I had almost the same amount of energy today as I did yesterday. I funneled today's mania into overcleaning our bathroom. I cleaned the tub twice and the floors twice. Since Bradley was sick I insisted we stay inside the whole day rather than brave the snow and 10 degree weather in pursuit of errands and a computer repair that still needs to be attended to. (Bradley talks in his sleep more when he takes NyQuil, by the way. My typing keeps being interjected with mid-sentence nonsense from the other side of the bed.) While we may have stayed home and, technically, done nothing today, it was a manic day, nonetheless. Aside from the obsessive bathroom incident, our day was spent indulging other obsessive behaviors. We watched an entire season and a half of Downton Abbey while I constantly fidgeted, wandered the apartment, perused craigslist for new desk setups that will more properly accommodate my coupon printing, and obsessively searched for coupons on my laptop.
I get it. Obsessive behavior=the beginnings of a manic episode.
But I still hate it when my mother and Bradley tell me my new couponing habit/hobby/what-have-you is obsessive behavior. I almost always have it under control (with the exception of today) and I only shop for the things I need. I feel like it is a perfectly reasonable thing to do and it is benefitting our family greatly. I save 35-50% on groceries every week from couponing. It's incredibly irritating to have every new interest of mine immediately questioned and chalked up to the "obsessive behavior" of the mentally ill. It almost makes me not want to ever try anything new, in order to avoid scrutiny and speculation on its influence from my illness. It also makes me worry that, if in fact it is an obsessive interest developed from my illness, that, once my mood changes, I will lose interest in it almost immediately and it won't be of use to me anymore. Which is especially relevant in this case because this particular interest is of such use to our family.
But of course, they're right. The whole reason I want to clean out my closet at 1 am in the first place is because I want to make room for a proper stockpile. It's already accumulating and I'm running out of space to store things, and so much of that closet as it is currently is wasted space. I figured if I wrote about it long enough, the urge would subside and my medicine would kick in and I'd finally be able to sleep. It's working. The valium is finally kicking in, I can feel it. It feels like warm, relaxing syrup slowly drizzling in a viscous drizzle from the top of my head and sliding down to my toes. That's when I know I will finally stop thinking of things to do instead of sleep, and think of how nice it will feel to sleep.
So here's to hoping that all of this manic energy will last, and that, with the help of my medications, I can harness it into something useful. And pray that I don't pay for it so dearly as I payed for my last burst. I know it's a long shot. The incredible ups are almost always followed by their equal opposite. Bipolar lives are mirrored by physics. Each action has an equal and opposite reaction. Or rather, each mood is followed by its equal and opposite mood. I will ride this wave until it subsides, and after that the darkness will envelop me again and I'll suffer immensely, as I did last time. It sounds defeatist, and earlier on in my illness, I would have scolded myself for such cynical thinking, but I've learned that I simply can't deny the inevitable. I can only take it one day at a time and hope to God that I don't give up when the going gets tough, as I know it will. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that I have to try my very best to live in the moment. It's become imperative to embrace the days that I feel are worth living even though I know the opposite days are on their way. Because if I don't, it will become so that none of my days will seem worth living. And that's no way to live.
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