Last year I was at the opthamologist. Getting my eyes checked. I was left in the exam room alone, with that crazy giant apparatus with the lenses that we peer through, and tell the opthamologist which is better...1...or 2. Click Click. 1 or 2. Click. Twist and flip. 1 or 2?
I have been fascinated with this thing since I started wearing glasses at the age of 10. I've mostly been a "good girl" following all rules and boundaries my whole life. So even though I would have loved to flip and click those little lenses, I have always left it alone.
But sitting there, in the exam room, no one to be seen. Should I? Of course not. I'm an adult. I can control myself.
I look at the clock. I look at my watch. They are taking too long. I've been in here alone for at least 30 minutes. They have surely forgotten about me. The door is closed, after all.
I reach out and flip the lens, just once. It certainly won't harm anything.
No one walks in.
So I threw caution to the wind (much unlike me when my meds are under control) and start twisting and clicking, flipping the lenses. I was like a child. It was the most fun.
No one walked in, I was not caught...a 30 year old something playing with this contraption. Such a minor thing....but if you knew me (Ms. keep my hands folded in my lap, very conscious of social etiquette) you would have been surprised. This is certainly only the very tip of the iceberg of the embarrassing things I've done. It was so very simple, yet gratifying. I guess even Jane-wannabes have to live it up some times.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
de·fec·tive
Mirriam-Webster Dictionary:
defective. adj. 1a: an imperfect in form or function b: falling below the norm in
structure or in mental or physical function.
-----------------------------------------------------
I wonder sometimes if I really am defective. In some ways, yes. In some ways, no. I am certainly imperfect and psychologically flawed. And there are times when I am literally crippled by what is going on in my head, which is when definition b (above) applies.
I think most people are flawed in some way. But when does being flawed actually cross over into being defective? Is it when those personality and behavioral "quirks" reach a critical mass? Is it when you actually fit into a neat catagory of the DSM-IV? Is it when you don't respond to the standard medication cocktails, and the rollercoaster just never ends?
My life has changed in so many ways. Most things I have come to grips with. Some I have not. Particularly those things that make me less than "normal" and more "defective."
How will I ever be able to have children? The moral dilemma about potentially passing on this illness, and the more practical dilemma of the toxicity of the drugs. I have spent probably a total of 6 months unmedicated out of the 10+ years since my diagnosis. And that was early on in my treatment. Things are this bad on drugs....I can't ever imagine surviving long off drugs. I know there's the good ol' option of electroconvulsive therapy (shock treatments). I had even talked to my doctor about trying this last year during a very deep and unrelenting depressive cycle that was not responding to meds. He thought at best the effects would be short term for me, so we tried other drugs instead.
I'm too defective to work right now, too defective to be in a relationship, too defective to ever have children. Those were the 3 gospels I was raised with. Have a career, meet Mr. Right, have a family. And in the past year, all hopes of any one of these ever happening has just disappeared. Options I just assumed I would have. I guess the assumption itself was also defective.
defective. adj. 1a: an imperfect in form or function b: falling below the norm in
structure or in mental or physical function.
-----------------------------------------------------
I wonder sometimes if I really am defective. In some ways, yes. In some ways, no. I am certainly imperfect and psychologically flawed. And there are times when I am literally crippled by what is going on in my head, which is when definition b (above) applies.
I think most people are flawed in some way. But when does being flawed actually cross over into being defective? Is it when those personality and behavioral "quirks" reach a critical mass? Is it when you actually fit into a neat catagory of the DSM-IV? Is it when you don't respond to the standard medication cocktails, and the rollercoaster just never ends?
My life has changed in so many ways. Most things I have come to grips with. Some I have not. Particularly those things that make me less than "normal" and more "defective."
How will I ever be able to have children? The moral dilemma about potentially passing on this illness, and the more practical dilemma of the toxicity of the drugs. I have spent probably a total of 6 months unmedicated out of the 10+ years since my diagnosis. And that was early on in my treatment. Things are this bad on drugs....I can't ever imagine surviving long off drugs. I know there's the good ol' option of electroconvulsive therapy (shock treatments). I had even talked to my doctor about trying this last year during a very deep and unrelenting depressive cycle that was not responding to meds. He thought at best the effects would be short term for me, so we tried other drugs instead.
I'm too defective to work right now, too defective to be in a relationship, too defective to ever have children. Those were the 3 gospels I was raised with. Have a career, meet Mr. Right, have a family. And in the past year, all hopes of any one of these ever happening has just disappeared. Options I just assumed I would have. I guess the assumption itself was also defective.
Monday, January 8, 2007
On the upswing
You would think after 10+ years I would be an old hand at this bipolar thing. Even though cognitively I know that I'm getting ready to ride out the next swing, whether up or down, internally I'm always kinda surprised. What do you mean, I'm on the upswing? Shocked. Like it had never happened before. Even though this must be the hundred-thousandth time... or something like that.
Don't get me wrong, I used to love the upswing. So extremely productive at school or work, I could multi-task (at least in my mind) about 50 different things with ease. But then I become a little too happy, a little too aggressive, a little too much to deal with. And the eventual crash, well, it's just not that pretty. Trust me.
Standard warning signs. Not sleeping. If I am sleeping it's only for short stints with a lot of waking and tossing and turning. Agitation and irritation going up a few notches. I get to this fun stage where it literally feels like I have bugs crawling all over my back under the skin. (I don't really believe there are bugs under my skin, it's just the sensation I get.) But I get so many things done, at least initially. The things that have been put off during the big depressive swings. I certainly get a lot of cleaning done. And what better evaluation of a woman than a sparkling bathroom?
Middle ground would be nice. I know I could learn to be content with some middle ground. Nice, plain, boring, brown, middle ground. I could even love it. The things we long for. Some people want more excitement, more spontaneity...I would just like some stability, trusting that when I wake up the day will be a similar to the day before. Not wondering if I get to fight with being a ray of sunshine who seems to be on LSD, or rip-roaring bitch, or a puddle of nothing on the floor.
Yep. Plain would be great. I would happily change my name to Jane.
Don't get me wrong, I used to love the upswing. So extremely productive at school or work, I could multi-task (at least in my mind) about 50 different things with ease. But then I become a little too happy, a little too aggressive, a little too much to deal with. And the eventual crash, well, it's just not that pretty. Trust me.
Standard warning signs. Not sleeping. If I am sleeping it's only for short stints with a lot of waking and tossing and turning. Agitation and irritation going up a few notches. I get to this fun stage where it literally feels like I have bugs crawling all over my back under the skin. (I don't really believe there are bugs under my skin, it's just the sensation I get.) But I get so many things done, at least initially. The things that have been put off during the big depressive swings. I certainly get a lot of cleaning done. And what better evaluation of a woman than a sparkling bathroom?
Middle ground would be nice. I know I could learn to be content with some middle ground. Nice, plain, boring, brown, middle ground. I could even love it. The things we long for. Some people want more excitement, more spontaneity...I would just like some stability, trusting that when I wake up the day will be a similar to the day before. Not wondering if I get to fight with being a ray of sunshine who seems to be on LSD, or rip-roaring bitch, or a puddle of nothing on the floor.
Yep. Plain would be great. I would happily change my name to Jane.
Quicksand
I'm a little surprised, a lot confused. I thought this journey was much more hopeful than it ever in actuality was. How many times can you crash and burn, and pick yourself up again? How many times? Dusting yourself off, trying the newest "cocktails" again and again, in order to even attempt to function?
It must be my ego, thinking that there are a few things in life that I have a "right" to. The right to feel like a human being. The right to be functional enough that I can contribute to society and support myself. The right to just be...without constant torment.Instead of being stubborn, I guess it was actually my ego that kept me trying, kept nudging me forward when I couldn't take another step.
10 years of doing what I'm supposed to...taking my medications, going to a therapist, staying completely away from alcohol and drugs, avoiding caffeine. Exercising regularly, trying to maintain a normal pattern of sleep, knowing what some of my triggers are, knowing what the early signs are for the next roller coaster ride. Learning what acts as a floatation device in my life, and grabbing on to it when needed.
This is pretty hilarious, if you think about it. The first year after being diagnosed bipolar, I struggled with the fact my brain was no longer on my side..if it ever had been. I adapted, I learned to live with it. I didn't whine a lot, at least to anyone besides my therapist. I just did what I had been raised to do...pulled up those proverbial bootstraps and kept slogging through the manure the best I could. And that's how I've lived the last 10 years. Trying to blend in and appear as normal as possible to my family, my friends and co-workers. When inside, I felt "as crazy as a sh*t-house rat" as my father would say.
And whenever an extra helping of crisis was thrown in, or an additional dump truck full of self-loathing, I exchanged the boots for hip-waders and I went on my merry way....with as little impact on others as possible. But I have learned recently that boots aren't of much use when you are up to your neck in quicksand. The more you struggle, the deeper you sink. I've been struggling long and hard over the past year and I'm exhausted. I'm treading quicksand, laughing at how strangely life can work and trying to decide what to do.
It must be my ego, thinking that there are a few things in life that I have a "right" to. The right to feel like a human being. The right to be functional enough that I can contribute to society and support myself. The right to just be...without constant torment.Instead of being stubborn, I guess it was actually my ego that kept me trying, kept nudging me forward when I couldn't take another step.
10 years of doing what I'm supposed to...taking my medications, going to a therapist, staying completely away from alcohol and drugs, avoiding caffeine. Exercising regularly, trying to maintain a normal pattern of sleep, knowing what some of my triggers are, knowing what the early signs are for the next roller coaster ride. Learning what acts as a floatation device in my life, and grabbing on to it when needed.
This is pretty hilarious, if you think about it. The first year after being diagnosed bipolar, I struggled with the fact my brain was no longer on my side..if it ever had been. I adapted, I learned to live with it. I didn't whine a lot, at least to anyone besides my therapist. I just did what I had been raised to do...pulled up those proverbial bootstraps and kept slogging through the manure the best I could. And that's how I've lived the last 10 years. Trying to blend in and appear as normal as possible to my family, my friends and co-workers. When inside, I felt "as crazy as a sh*t-house rat" as my father would say.
And whenever an extra helping of crisis was thrown in, or an additional dump truck full of self-loathing, I exchanged the boots for hip-waders and I went on my merry way....with as little impact on others as possible. But I have learned recently that boots aren't of much use when you are up to your neck in quicksand. The more you struggle, the deeper you sink. I've been struggling long and hard over the past year and I'm exhausted. I'm treading quicksand, laughing at how strangely life can work and trying to decide what to do.
A bit of background
You might be wondering why I decided to write a blog about such a personal subject. I was wondering, too. Then I realized that nearly all of the people in my life pretend that this issue does not exist for me at all. Instead I'm just a little bit "odd" or "quirky" and "troubled" but I most certainly am not bipolar. Like many blogs, this is a way for me to talk about my experiences to a faceless stranger...maybe so someone can learn a little, or maybe to validate that this really *is* a part of my daily life.
I was diagnosed bipolar II about 10 years ago, after being treated for episodes of depression for about 6 years. I tend to have bottomless depression with periods of rapid cycling hypomania, and episodes of "mixed states" - severe depression accompanied by high levels of anxiety and agitation. To add some extra fun to the mix, there is definitely a seasonal component involved. Unmedicated, I rapid cycle with a strong emphasis on hypomania during the summer. I remember as a small child wondering if I had been a sun worshipper...summers were always the best of times for me. I felt smarter, faster, happier...even if I was pretty anxious.
Even as a 6 yr old, I knew there was something different about me. I was an avid reader and tended to get swept away in stories and had a very rich imagination...a little too rich. As my responsibilities and stress levels increased, I started to swing more toward depressive episodes. Crying at a drop of a hat. Feeling overwhelmingly responsible for everything. The first time I tried to take my own life I was 12. I knew that radiator fluid killed dogs, so I went into the garage and poured myself a nice big cup of it. My parents weren't supposed to be home for another hour. As I was getting ready to drink it, my dad's car pulled up in the driveway. I put down the cup and ran. He later found it, but didn't say anything. I guess he figured my younger brother had been playing in it.
Fast forward through high school and my B.S. in college. Severe bouts of depression caused me to miss a lot of class, but I pulled good grades. My symptoms continued escalate exponentially. During grad school, when I was formally diagnosed with bipolar, things were spinning out of control. I could barely keep up with anything and was in way over my head...trying to manage pretty severe symptoms and a very stressful, round the clock work load. Sprinkle in a few serious suicide attempts (overdoses) with resulting ER visits and a short stay in a psychiatric ward where I thought I would get help...but honest to god was asked to do macaroni art, and you can guess what happened to my master's program. It disappeared. I was unable to finish.
I worked in a laboratory for over 5 years. Was diagnosed with a non life-threatening, but severely painful syndrome (intracranial hypertension). When combined with bipolar, resulted in me becoming disabled.
"Gee, Mom. Can I grow up and become disabled?" I never remember asking that question. It was never a goal in my life. But here it is. And here I am.
I was diagnosed bipolar II about 10 years ago, after being treated for episodes of depression for about 6 years. I tend to have bottomless depression with periods of rapid cycling hypomania, and episodes of "mixed states" - severe depression accompanied by high levels of anxiety and agitation. To add some extra fun to the mix, there is definitely a seasonal component involved. Unmedicated, I rapid cycle with a strong emphasis on hypomania during the summer. I remember as a small child wondering if I had been a sun worshipper...summers were always the best of times for me. I felt smarter, faster, happier...even if I was pretty anxious.
Even as a 6 yr old, I knew there was something different about me. I was an avid reader and tended to get swept away in stories and had a very rich imagination...a little too rich. As my responsibilities and stress levels increased, I started to swing more toward depressive episodes. Crying at a drop of a hat. Feeling overwhelmingly responsible for everything. The first time I tried to take my own life I was 12. I knew that radiator fluid killed dogs, so I went into the garage and poured myself a nice big cup of it. My parents weren't supposed to be home for another hour. As I was getting ready to drink it, my dad's car pulled up in the driveway. I put down the cup and ran. He later found it, but didn't say anything. I guess he figured my younger brother had been playing in it.
Fast forward through high school and my B.S. in college. Severe bouts of depression caused me to miss a lot of class, but I pulled good grades. My symptoms continued escalate exponentially. During grad school, when I was formally diagnosed with bipolar, things were spinning out of control. I could barely keep up with anything and was in way over my head...trying to manage pretty severe symptoms and a very stressful, round the clock work load. Sprinkle in a few serious suicide attempts (overdoses) with resulting ER visits and a short stay in a psychiatric ward where I thought I would get help...but honest to god was asked to do macaroni art, and you can guess what happened to my master's program. It disappeared. I was unable to finish.
I worked in a laboratory for over 5 years. Was diagnosed with a non life-threatening, but severely painful syndrome (intracranial hypertension). When combined with bipolar, resulted in me becoming disabled.
"Gee, Mom. Can I grow up and become disabled?" I never remember asking that question. It was never a goal in my life. But here it is. And here I am.
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