A Surprisingly Sane Blog

It seems like everyone I know is harboring some kind of painful secret or truth or otherwise devastating/shocking news. Such is life, I guess, but it’s been bad lately. I don’t always have a whole lot of insight into ways to ease pain for most problems, but one thing I know a little too well is mental illness.

I live every day with a severe mental illness that has nearly killed me a multitude of times. I will be on medication and in therapy until I take my last breath to keep the Bipolar Illness tidal wave from knocking me out prematurely and to make functioning in a relationship with my husband, kids, friends, family, etc., healthy and possible. The therapy that I do is exhausting, frustrating, sometimes maddening, and half the time I leave secretly swearing to myself that I’m never going to go back. Mental health is a daily piece of work, much like cleaning the dishes and folding that massive stack of laundry in the utility room, which I admittedly kind of suck at… so thank goodness I’m much better about taking care of my own wellbeing.

To be mentally well, the medication and therapy simply don’t do the work alone. I have to actively take part in being well. I have to make sure I go to bed at a decent time every night because lack of sleep causes me to panic and fall apart. I have to regulate how much work I’m actually doing, and I have to balance that with making sure I have enough time with my husband and my kids. If I don’t actively make a point to convince myself to leave the house, I’d be home all day long, never see the sunlight, and become a hermit. Not because I don’t want to be social or exercise, but because doing that sort of thing requires mental convincing and preparation. Did you ever meet me in “real life”? Did you ever notice that sometimes I’m shivering and worse, sometimes my teeth are chattering? I say I’m cold if I’m worried you will notice, but it’s rarely the weather. It’s the anxiety I get just from being in a social situation, and it calms down only when I realize, inevitably, that I really am “safe”. Frequently, because of my illness, I can’t tell that I’m hungry, or I start panicking that my fit size 6 ass is much too fat and I start thinking I should starve myself. No matter how irrational that sounds, I have to overcome those issues, and I have to remind myself that it isn’t me talking, but the illness. As a result, I have to consciously make a point to eat healthy and enough, and I have to diligently pay attention to that every day. To a healthy person, this sounds idiotic. To an unwell person, this is just a part of daily life.

This kind of life probably sounds like hell to someone who doesn’t live it. I’m not going to lie, it hasn’t been easy these last few years. When my illness hit full speed and manifested into a nasty case of postpartum depression, I thought there was no way in hell I was going to live to see today. Yet, here I am. The medication, the therapy, the months and years of having a loving partner to help me up when I’ve fallen, that’s made it possible. Really, my life is damn good now. I’ve never known “normal”. Or I did before I turned nine years old, but I’ve never known a normal teenage life or adulthood. But the fact that I can live a healthy life now- well, that’s the closest to “normal” that I can imagine, and I have to say that it’s bliss in comparison to what I’ve dealt with up until this point.

And with that very brief synopsis of my own personal experiences living with a bonafide mental disorder, I just want to say this: if you or a loved one is in a bad mental spot, that does NOT mean life is over, that you should give up, or that submitting to mental health care will give you a bad name. For some reason, mental illnesses and the care that goes with them have such a horrible stigma. Why is this? Do you realize that from what I’ve read, the most creative and brilliant people of all time suffered from one form of insanity or another? And on that note, I also want to add that though I feared people would look at me differently once I publicly admitted to being ill, I have noticed more respect and support than sideways glances by a long shot. But back to the point: if you’re going through this either personally or because someone close is, don’t think for a second that life isn’t going to get better or that the treatment is going to be this “bad” thing. It’s going to make things much, much better, and before you know it, you’ll be much better off than you were before.

Simply put: yes, my life can be difficult with this illness, but it hasn’t been a curse, and in many ways, it has been a blessing. It’s been tough for my family, yes, but on the flip side, it has brought us closer, made us wiser, and forced us to be stronger. I can’t change my diagnosis and the way my head is wired, but I certainly have control on whether I choose to submit to it or fight it.

Current Mood: Cool

A couple years ago, when I started blogging, I assumed no one would ever read the depressed words of a pregnant woman who was struggling with the thought of becoming a mom for the second time. My blog was available to the public, but it was just a teeny nook in the vast universe of cyberspace, and who the hell would ever want to read the agonizing words of some random person who modeled nude when she was about to pop, or who cried over the fear that she wouldn’t like her newborn when it made his/her way into the world?

Because to my knowledge maybe only one real-life friend was keeping track of my feeble blogging attempts, I felt safe to pour my heart out onto the virtual paper of my computer screen as I began experiencing the turbulent ride into postpartum depression. I wrote about my horror and disgust when I saw my flabby, stretch-marked postpartum body, and went into embarrassing detail of the muscle damage and multiple organ prolapse and horrible post-partum sexual experiences that fed my severe-depression-turning-psychosis.

And that’s when I received an email/comment from a friend who was concerned for my well-being, and I freaked out. My so-called private-feeling blog was, indeed, popular amongst more than just that friend. Here all along I thought I was writing to a non-existent audience, and suddenly, I was slapped with a wake-up call. People were reading about my vagina. The horror.

Angry, I blocked my blog for a short time, but then the couple emails I received from women saying “Thank You” for being so open about my experiences convinced me that perhaps it actually was okay that they were reading about my hoo-haw and the fact that I’d wake up with milk spurting from the gigantic boulders on my chest. I opened it back up and felt brave to venture into the scary world of obscene postpartum depression/anxiety/OCD in front of anyone who would listen, and I opened my own website dedicated to these experiences, Surprisingly Sane.

I was not, however, “sane” in the least. The months following the birth of my second little stinky were horrific. The suicidal demon, the unfeeling, the explosive anger, the extreme hate and disgust for myself and my postpartum body, my lack of ability to understand that somehow, James found me beautiful and sexy and attractive, the inability to dig out of that hole, the blade at my wrist on the cold bathroom floor accompanied by zero emotion, and finally, the night that James took me to the mental health crisis center because we knew that I was not going to survive if I didn’t receive immediate intervention.

All of that, I posted for the world to see. And by that time, my readership had reached numbers that I never expected. Women who found me through various articles I’d written, search engines, friends of friends, people who followed the URL through my signature on message boards. Somewhere in the midst of that, it dawned on me that I had enough of a following that I could probably make money off my blog.

I didn’t though, something stopped me. I didn’t want to become a slave to my website. I never wanted it to become a chore or a job or something that I dreaded writing in. First and foremost, blogging is part of my therapy, and I do it for enjoyment. And second, I never wanted my readers to get the inkling that I wasn’t writing to be read, but because I was trying to make money… which is something that I frequently run into when I read some of the bigger, well-known blogs. It’s a business for them, and while there is nothing wrong with that, it wasn’t the path that I wanted to take. My readership began to grow, but then, so did my mental health issues as I weaned April from breastfeeding at one year, moved to Seattle, and hit my second sanity crises in a year: devastating postpartum depression/psychosis morphed into Prozac-driven extreme dysphoric-mixed-with-moments-of-euphoric mania, complete with psychotic breakdowns and episodes.

And finally, when my illness because so critical that I was truly planning to check myself into a hospital, I found an amazing psychiatric nurse practitioner who was able to recognize the illness that doctors were missing: a proper diagnosis of rapid-cycling Bipolar Disorder I. A death sentence in 1/3 of cases if left untreated, though commonly fairly simple to treat with an element naturally found in the earth: a salt known as Lithium Carbonate.

Shortly after starting a high dose of Lithium, my life and my brain settled into something rational and logical for the first time in ages. And shortly after that happened, I password-protected my blog, much to a lot of my readers’ horror.

There were two reasons for that: 1) I went through a short spurt where I was job-hunting, and 2) there was a toxic person that had been cut from my life that I did not want to allow access into my private world. This person had a tendency to literally push psychotic triggers in me, and it became evident that if I was going to live a healthy life, they could no longer be a part of my surrounding universe. I could not avoid that person in public places, but I could keep my life safe from his/her manipulation and passive aggressive ways of handling conflict.

My life has been much, much safer and a lot more quiet since I blocked my blog in June. I spent the summer months going to therapy, working on healthy communication within my (fabulous) marriage, fell madly in love with the man I married, decided on a career path in Law, studied my ass off for the LSAT, taught half a million dance lesson, and spent time with friends in the dance world that make me laugh, listen to my bitching, and who support me when I’m having a tough time.

I’ve been doing so well, in fact, that not only did I attend an out-of-town convention with my family and enjoy the hell out of it without any Bipolar Episodes, but I also decided a short time ago that I could re-open my blog.

You see, I not longer feel like my sanity is threatened, and I also know that I came out on top of my mental situation because I was that girl that was strong enough to do it. There’s nothing like having the knowledge that you really do have a chunk of control when you had none before to make you feel good about yourself.

Current Mood: Happy

I got pissed off at Dr. T this morning during therapy. He wouldn’t allow me to discuss a concern I had, and instead, only let me express the end result that I wanted. That doesn’t work for me because it seemed inappropriate to suggest a solution without naming the problem first. Guess what I do when that sort of frustration builds? I shut down then explode later.

It’s the first time I’ve felt angry and worse leaving a therapy appointment than I did walking into one.

Luckily, James agreed that this approach was harsh and asked me what it was I wanted to say. I told him, and we talked about it over breakfast afterward. We kind of laughed off what had happened in therapy and said Dr. T was a bit “off” this morning, and perhaps that was why he was less patient and forgiving than usual.

That got me kind of thinking: Being a psychologist/therapist/etc. must really suck. You listen to wacko people talk about impossible-to-solve problems every single day, then you go home to your own relationships, which are equally as fucked up and try to solve your own problems.

Ouch. So glad that as a dance teacher, improvement is easy to see and merely an enjoyable hobby, not detrimental to my students’ lives.

Current Mood: Alarmed

Yesterday and today I’ve been struggling.

I couldn’t take it anymore last night. After James got home from work and we did dinner with the monsters, I told him I needed to go somewhere and do something alone. It was nice. I drove down to Southcenter Mall in Tukwila and shopped at stores I’ve never been to for a dance competition this weekend while trying to figure out why I was feeling so uneasy and frazzled. I stayed until the mall pretty much kicked me out and drove home slowly.

It was late when I got home, and the girls were in bed. James was planning on going dancing, and I was relieved for the peace and quiet. Almost immediately, I was ready for bed, took my meds, and reached for my LSAT prep book, but after half an hour of frustration, I put it down. Instead, I opened my Kindle to continue “The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo” and thought I might have a moment of relaxed body and mind. Except for the fact that there was nothing relaxing about putting up with a 4-year-old who suddenly pees in her top bunk bed in the middle of the night for the second night in a row. “Peace and Quiet” the mom’s way was destroyed in a stampede of pissy sheets and a half-comatose kid whining because she’d wet the bed.

FML.

When I finally got to bed, I kind of wanted to cry myself to sleep. Retail therapy all by my lonesome plus attempted relaxation hadn’t done a damn thing to pull me out of my funk. I even got a super adorable black and white polka dot bra and matching thong and I wasn’t that excited [cheesy obligatory girly moment *cough*]. Sad. I fell asleep wondering if the depressed end of my bipolar disorder was paying me a full-force visit, and I nearly had a panic attack stressing about the possibility.

This morning I got up at a comical hour and made the 45-minute drive with James to Dr. T’s office. And therapy today, well, I feel like we made more headway on some serious issues than we ever had in a number of ways, which I’ll save for a different post. But anyhow, about 20 minutes into this intense face-to-face mediated discussion with James, I suddenly felt the blood drain from my upper body and this horrible sharp pain stabbing out from abdomen like some kind of alien attack making its way from my bowel. I pretended it wasn’t there, and I practically heard applause from 20 selves watching this happen in the background.

We kept going, and it happened again. And again. And I pretended it didn’t exist because for some reason, I just didn’t feel right telling them I thought my insides were erupting.

And suddenly, Dr. T said something so fucking bizarre I swear I heard a record scratch in the distance, “And the good little Catholic girl in Tamra doesn’t like to tell you when she’s SICK or needs help because…”.

James looked at me nodding at this psycho-analyzation, so I blurted out something about how yeah, I’ll go for days with a fever and never tell James and I could never figure out why I do that because it seems ridiculous to me, and yet I STILL DO IT.

Says the hypocrite, who’s sitting in that chair pretending that WWIII is not on its fourth major intestinal-wrecking explosion deep in my gut. I’m hearing some of this, but it’s so quiet that they both totally missed the battle, and my symphony of exiled selves in the back of my head are shaking their head in disappointment at me. You fail, again.

I ran into the bathroom after our session ended, made my way to the car after my trip to the potty white as a ghost, and the second that the doors were closed, I told James, “I’m really sick. I think my guts are trying to escape out my ass”. There. I admitted it. And he was great about it. He’s a guy. Of course he enjoys talking about shit, and it’s not like we don’t talk about it regularly, so why do I deny that I’m sick?

And so, the mystery of the funk was solved. I have gotten so good at suppressing some of my  own needs and state of being that sometimes I can’t even tell when I’m not feeling well. I thought my “funk” and feelings of being overwhelmed were some horrible sign that I was on my way for a bipolar swing, but all it meant was that I’m not feeling well.

And after realizing that, I’m a little embarrassed to admit I feel no sense of that funk any longer and how surprising this is to me. I just feel fatigued, sick, headachy, and I have a slight fear that the antichrist is going to burst through my bellybutton at any moment. And that’d be a shame because my navel ring would probably get ripped out, and I love that thing.

So world, I am sick. I feel overwhelmed because my job as mom doesn’t allow sick days, and my kitchen is a never-ending stack of dirty dishes and sticky toddler hand prints. I wish I could be in my pajamas asleep on my fabulous latex mattress, and I wish the weight that seems to be seeping out of my pores and falling off of me would stay away when this sickness is over. But instead, I’m sitting on the couch with my girls and Lucy while Chicken Little babysits. All while planning the best escape-to-the-potty route for the next unforgiving and inevitable moment that my intestines attempt to rupture.

It’s a comical life. At least its sans funk again.

Current Mood: Alarmed & Sickly

I’ve been spending the last few weeks in a state of almost grasping potential happiness, but watching slip by before I can leap high enough to catch it.

THIS HAS SERIOUSLY GOT TO FUCKING STOP.

I am far too much of a smartass, badass, intelligent human being to be continuously victimizing myself to depression and to all the bullshit that happened during my most recent several-month manic episode. Yes, I made HORRIBLE judgment calls and choices. Yes, I slept about as much as a crack addict. I hadn’t done a damn thing to decorate the interior of my house since last year, and I’d pretty much forgotten about the fact that I once loved doing things and making a life with my husband and girls.

I told Dr. T that I’ve been struggling with moving on this morning, and his insight was so helpful.

Anything that happened months ago during my state of clinically unsound and manically altered state of awareness and sense of self is done, gone, and in the past. With the Lithium, which controls manic symptoms better than just about any drug out there, I don’t need to live in fear or yearning anticipation that the mania will happen again. It’s not going to.

Mania is not a real world, and the crap that happened during it- both good and bad- did indeed happen, but my actions and reactions to everything are nothing more than part of the illness. When an illness is cured, you may be left with scars, battle wounds, and plenty of emotions that need to be worked through. It’s the same with the manic and severe depressive episodes I survive. Except those battles wounds are internal, and I can’t just turn out the lights to ignore the scars.

Dr. T has been working with me on how to not see myself as a victim or anything- be it people or my illness- and understanding that I don’t have to look at a horrible situation and see it for what my first reaction is has been helpful.

For instance, my first reaction when I think of The Manipulator is: Gosh, I was so stupid to let him befriend me. I’m a horrible judge of character. He made me feel so awful and uncomfortable, and I just don’t know how I can move on. But see, Dr. T told me to look at it from this perspective: I’m SAFE. I am an adult and can choose my friends. Someone cannot make me feel uncomfortable, however I can allow them to make me feel uncomfortable. Keeping this in mind, it makes my reaction of The Manipulator take on a very different path: That guy may be manipulative and controlling, but he has nothing over me. I am safe, I have made the right choice to cut off communication with him. I understand that I can easily allow him to be a damaging person in my life, however he is not a part of my life and, therefore, he cannot hurt me.

There. The control over how I feel is back to being mine. Manipulative and controlling people feed off of weak people and persons with mental illnesses because not only are we easy to victimize, but we don’t know any better and we allow ourselves to be victimized. We don’t realize we’re leaving ourselves wide open for it.

I’m not going to lie to you: this is not easy. At all. And seriously, the whole meditation thing Dr. T prescribed for me to work on is a bit out of my comfort zone and has never been my style.

Well, except in Jujitsu. While practicing and working out and competing, etc., meditation was a part of the state of being. For me, it was the movement and the act of being aware of everything around me. And the physical exhaustion that accompanied that intense of a martial art. I haven’t been able to reach that state in years; having kids has made the probability that my body could handle that sort of art again pretty slim.

But if I could somehow achieve that state of self-awareness again, them maybe Dr. T’s task would be easier. Perhaps I should become Buddhist. Those doodes really know how to focus.

And hopefully, hopefully with this new understanding, I can stop letting this depression consume my life. I kind of miss my spunky humor and quick sarcasm. You probably do, too.