Not to Sound Ungrateful, But...

I’m tired of not being happy with my life. I have a good life. I have a great job with great benefits. I have good friends that I genuinely love and care about. I have great family that I get support and love from constantly. I have arguably the best partner I could ever ask for. I have great pets that make me smile. I have nice things. I have minimal debt that I’m close to paying off. I have everything.

Including this stupid disorder. Bipolar disorder completely ruins my ability to enjoy the wonderful things I have going in my life. I feel so completely ungrateful because I constantly read about people with bipolar disorder who have it so much worse off than I do and I can’t make myself feel better about my situation. Instead of thinking, “I’m so lucky” I think “I hate this and I don’t want this to be my life anymore.”

When can I finally stop whining? When can I stop complaining about poor, sad, bipolar me and start to relish in the wonderful good things I have going for me in my life. Consciously, I know how good I have it. But that doesn’t stop the rampant feelings of hatred that I feel for my life. That’s the bipolar disorder unchecked having its way with me.

Being bipolar is so stupid. It causes the worst things, and I don’t mean just for me. It causes me to be such an unbelievable pill for everyone else to deal with. I can have a perfectly lovely day that leaves me lethargic and mopey because “something feels wrong.” I feel off, like something isn’t right. Don’t know what it is, don’t know how I fix it. My brain is just telling my body that something is off and until it figures it out it’s going to make me anxious but sluggish and slow of thought.

I’m having a hard time writing something that flows smoothly and gets across a point I haven’t driven home a thousand times before. I feel like so much of my blog is repetition and I don’t know if that’s just because I think the same thoughts constantly so it feels repetitious to me or because I’m actually saying the same things I’ve already said. Ugh! This stupid bipolar brain is so fogged up and confused right now. I’m not even 100% sure what I’m saying anymore.

I know that I started this to say that I know I’m not unlucky. I know that I have every possible advantage on my side and I am grateful for those things. I am grateful for the thousands of ways my life is so much better than it could be. My life is filled with, for lack of a more secular word, blessings that I am thankful for everyday.

And yet I hate my life. I hate everything. I hate the sun in the sky and the grass underfoot. I hate everything that lives and breathes, I hate everything that is bereft of life. I hate colors and sounds and sensations. I hate it all. I should love everything and I hate it all so much it makes me want to scream. I see a smiling baby and I hate it so much I could spit. A cute dog trots past me and it makes my insides squirm with loathing. I hate. I should love everything and I hate it all.

That’s what I feel today. That’s what my life is. My privileged, first-world, first-rate life that so many people would give their left arms for and I hate it. Not every day, but today I do. Today I hate and I feel ashamed. I loathe with all my being and and it shames me to my core because there’s no reason. No reason except my stupid, crazy brain that needs to just shut up already.

Let me end by saying that this is because of my unchecked bipolar disorder while I wait for my medications to get to levels of full efficacy. I can hope for things to get much better within the next five to six weeks.

Ah, Mania - My Old Friend

I hate transitioning between drugs. The Latuda had to be stopped after just a day because it made me feel foggy and a little feverish. Instead, I am on lithium 600mg to go with the Lamictal 25 mg. Unfortunately, those are both very small doses of their respective medications so my bipolar disorder is essentially like a dog on a very thin leash. It can hold on tentatively but if something excites the puppy named "bipolar disorder" it's going to break the lead and run rampant through the streets of my brain. That metaphor got weird...

Anyway, I was feeling anxious but thanks to Klonopin 0.5 mg I am feeling calmer, if not entirely well. I feel sleepy, which is an unfortunate side effect of the Klonopin. I mostly feel...bleh. Is that a feeling? If it's not currently one, I would like to nominate it for "feelinghood."

I feel like I'm rambling. I don't have the clearest thoughts right now. I'm not even sure what I want to say except that I want to be able to say "fine" when people ask how I am. I want to be fine. I want to be okay. I don't need to be great, I don't need to be awesome. I just want to be fine - mid-line would work just great right now.

But aside from wanting to be fine, I want to say I'm fine because I want to stop feeling like I'm whining all the time. Yes, I know I have a legitimate reason to feel bad, yes I know people understand that and believe me, I've received such overwhelming support. The support I've been shown, and from places I would never have expected, has kept me going when times are tough and really make life that much more liveable. I couldn't ask for a better support system.

However, I feel that, at some point, people get tired of it. Not that anyone has shown that - please don't get me wrong, people have been nothing but wonderful. But I think,it’s got to get annoying, tiresome. It’s tiresome to me!

I’m having a really hard time concentrating because the bipolar puppy has gone off the leash and is rampaging across the land. I feel twitchy, fluttery. It’s this nervous energy that makes my thoughts flit by too fast and my brain too slow to catch them. My fingers want to type words I haven’t even thought out yet. It’s a surreal feeling.

I should probably take a Klonopin again (it’s been several hours since I started writing this, ergo several hours since my last Klonopin) but I hate having to take it. I hate being reliant on a benzo, the “scary” meds. Those are the medications that can really mess you up if you let them. And I’m determined to not let them. My psychiatrist tells me to it’s okay to take it and I’m not going to become an addict and I try to listen to him. I’m not trying to be thick-skulled, it’s just this gut reaction. Taking the Klonopin feels like cheating, somehow.

So, I tried coloring.That worked for all of ten minutes. I tried watching a movie and that went okay but I was still under the influence of the earlier Klonopin. I’m trying to blog and I think it’s turning out to be a mess. What am I even talking about? This blog has no point, no purpose! I’m just free thinking because my brain is running at 100 miles per hour and I can’t get it to stop.

Okay, think. What was all this about? Does it matter? My brain is a thunderstorm and my legs are shaking like I’ve had thirteen cups of coffee. Does it matter than I spell out the numbers instead of use the numerals? I remember from English that for numbers less than ten you’re supposed to spell them but you can use the numerals over ten. But I tend to type them. Why is that important? It’s not, it’s possibly the least relevant thing ever - but that’s all I can think to say.

Woah, I think I should stop this post because if it turns into a free thinking marathon while I’m like this the rabbit hole is going to get twisted and weird really quick.

A Hard Decision

Today I am making one of the hardest decisions I've ever had to make by deciding to wait to have a baby until I can get well. It seems like a no brainer, it seems like something that shouldn't even be a question. But for me, who wants a baby so bad it sends me into a depression every time I see a pregnant woman, it is incredibly hard to put this on hold.

My solution is to get tested for my fertility (because I believe that I have fertility issues as we've been trying for months with no luck and my menstrual cycles are irregular) so that I am equipped with that information for when I am ready to have a baby. I will not go back on birth control (as that can take some time to wear off and I don't want to lose precious months), instead we'll use condoms. That way, as soon as my medications are stable and I'm ready to have a child, everything will be in place.

It's not the ideal solution, it's not a solution I love, but I think it's what is going to be best for me and my future child. I can't be a good mom like this. I can’t be nurturing and loving and caring when I can barely stand to be in my own skin. I want my child to feel like he or she is the most loved being in existence and I can’t do that without medication help.

So, I went to a fertility specialist today and we’re going to do some tests (some which I can’t even do until next month) and find out if I’m going to be able to have a baby naturally or if help will be needed. That way, if we need help we know to get it right away because once my medications are stable and I’m ready for children, we’ll have to stop the medications cold turkey because they’re the kind of medications that are very harmful to a developing fetus. Then, once I have given birth I can go back on my (known to be helpful) medication regimen.

Ryan came with me to my psychiatrist appointment so we could discuss our options and my psychiatrist is behind the decision 100%, which helps make it feel like the better option. I think I knew all along when my sister and mother were telling me I should wait that it was the right option and I hated hearing it all the more for that. I don’t want to wait. I want a baby.

But I can’t think just about what I want, I have to think about what is good for Ryan and for future baby and even for me. It’s hard to see it now but having to deal with an infant while trying to figure out bipolar medications would probably send me over the edge - I’m probably saving myself a huge hassle. So, that’s what I’m focusing on. Focusing on doing it to be a better mom and a better partner.

I’ve been started on Lamictal 25 mg today. My psychiatrist has wanted to put me on this medication for a long time but couldn’t because of the negative effects it would have on a fetus. I have high hopes for this medications because in bipolar forums people seem to do well with it. The only downside is that it is a very slow titration process. I have to be on 25 mg for two weeks, then I go up to 50 mg for two weeks, then 100 mg for two weeks until I finally end up with 200 mg as my daily dose. Apparently, there’s a very serious rash (that can turn into a trip to the hospital) that has to be avoided by very slowly introducing the medication into the body.

So, I will take the Lamictal with Latuda 20 mg (because the small dose of Lamictal will not be enough to ward off my bipolar symptoms) and hope that things start to turn around soon. This has been a rough, rocky road and I would really love to get to some stable ground.

What I Like About Me

My therapist has me making a list of ten things I like about myself. Who knew therapy came with homework? And such difficult homework.

Don't get me wrong, I like things about myself. I don't live in the world of self-hate that I was in as a child - I'm past all that. But to actually make a list to say "These are the things I love about me!" feels very odd. I feel narcissistic when I try to make my list because to say I'm good at something implies to me that I'm saying I'm better than someone else. I don't know if that happens to other people when they try to think of things they like about themselves, but it plagues me to no end.

My therapist loves to say "We should be our own biggest supporters instead of our worst critics." That sounds like a pretty good idea so I'm willing to work on the list, I'm willing to do the homework so I can become a better person. I am overly harsh on myself and I could give you pages of things I don't like about myself so maybe it's time I look at it another way. So, that begs the question: what do I like about me?

I have compassion towards my fellow man. I donate money every month to make sure a little girl in India has everything she needs in life: food, shelter, medication, schooling. I give loans on Kiva to help people better their lives without them feeling like they're just taking a handout. I genuinely care about the people in my life and their concerns and joys. I will do whatever I possibly can to ease someone's pain when life has been hard on them. I like to give random compliments on the street to people because it makes my day if someone tells me how much they like something about me and I want to spread that feeling around. I also love to buy the food of people behind me in drive-thrus; it's never happened to me but I think if I was having a rough day and I get to the window and some stranger already bought my food that it would really help erase my problems just a bit. I try, whenever possible, to avoid buying items that are not fair trade. I'd rather spend $15 on a single pair of underwear that was made by workers getting a real wage and working in good conditions than pay $15 for five pairs of underwear made by virtual slavery.

I have compassion towards animals and all living things. I don't like when people kill bugs and spiders that get into the house; I'll grab a piece of paper and scoop the little friends up and place them outside so they can live in peace, away from humans that want to squish them. I won't buy meat that isn't humane certified. I would rather pay several dollars extra knowing that the animal I'm about to consume got to live a good life than save a buck and know the animal was possibly driven insane by its terrible living conditions. I will take in any animal in danger and even if I can't keep it I will keep it safe and warm until I can find it a shelter or permanent home. I love my own pets and I take great care of them.

I have very strong opinions and ideals and I live up to them. I don't compromise my beliefs to make life easier for myself or others. The man I've chosen to spend my life with will always be my partner, never a husband. I don't care if I have to explain it every time I meet someone new and watch them realize I'm a little crazy - it's something that is important to me and I stick by it. A husband is the head of the household, a wife is subservient to her husband. Partners are equal. I know it's just a name to most people and I know many don't believe in the definitions of those words but I think that words have power and I want to know what words I am using.

I feel like such an idiot writing this. I don't like to flaunt my virtues and I don't like to put them out there for people to scoff at - not that I think people are that unkind, generally, it's just a fear I can't shake. But it's part of my journey so I'll do it. Just know that I was more comfortable writing about suicide than I am about this.

I am a good friend. I will always be there when a friend is in need and I will do whatever is within my power to help them through their tough times. I love being a good friend, actually. I get a kind of high from being able to really help someone (hence one of the main reasons for this blog: the chance to help someone). If a friend is sick I will bring them soup. I may not always make the soup, but I'll heat up a can of Cambells or pick something up from a local restaurant. If you're depressed or just feeling run down I will do whatever I can to help pick you back up. I never get tired of friends that need help, I don't feel overburdened by "needy" friends because I know I'm needy, too.

That brings me to my next one pretty nicely: I'm not a hypocrite. Or, I try very hard not to be a hypocrite and I think I've done a pretty decent job. I don't get mad at other people for things I do myself (or if I do get a burst of uncontrolled anger, I tamp it down right quick). I really try to live by the motto "treat others as you want to be treated." It's why I buy fair trade and humane certified items. I let people cut in front of me during traffic without making a fuss because maybe they didn't realize they were in the wrong lane or maybe they have someplace to be. If I catch myself doing something I find irritating when others do it, I stop. I'm not perfect at it, but it's a high priority in my life and I like that about myself.

I don't let anger hold on to me anymore. As a kid I had a lot of anger and held grudges as tightly as a drowning man holds a lifeline. But I realized when I was angry I was letting the people who made me mad have power over me. My mom taught me that. When you let your anger at someone else's actions dictate how you feel then you give that person so much power. I didn't enjoy being angry, it's a terrible, sickening feeling. Why would I want to let someone do that to me? So, when someone cuts me off in traffic I get upset but I tell myself to let it go and move on. Or if someone is rude or mean to me I let it roll off my shoulders and I try not to engage. If it's someone I have to deal with on a regular basis, or someone I care about, I will try and talk out the issue. Don't get me wrong, sometimes I do get mad - one of the common symptoms of bipolar disorder is flash rages that I have no control over. But I swallow my pride and apologize after I've shrugged off the anger. I will apologize even if part of me thinks I wasn't wrong because, well, angry is almost always the wrong response.

I am having some serious anxiety trying to write this. My arms and hands actually feel shaky because I hate doing this so much. How many do I have now? Six? I wonder if six is enough...I'm not sure how this is supposed to help because it's making me absolutely miserable. But I'm supposed to learn to be my biggest supporter, go me! Except I'm much better at criticizing than I am at supporting. I'm trying to think of it like I'm talking to a friend who needs some an uplifting chat. What would I say to me if I wanted to point out my good qualities?

Having taken a few days break from this post I think I can come back and finish it up with one last thing I like about me, something I’m rather proud of: I’m doing what it takes to get better. I see my psychiatrist and therapist weekly, I write about my feelings, I do moderate exercise to help ease anxiety, I talk with friends and family, leaning on them for support. I write about the things I like about me even though I hate it. Does it make me a better supporter of myself? I’m not sure but I do know I feel pretty proud that I managed to write an entire blog post that’s mostly things I like about me. For how hard that is for me, I’m very proud that I managed to get so much in.

True, I didn’t go the full ten but that’s more because I don’t want this post to be even longer than it already is. Maybe I’ll share the remaining items I like next time. For now, I’ll sign off knowing I conquered the dreaded list and feel good about myself for it.

Trying to Cope

My body really does not like Abilify. I’m currently on 5 mg of Abilify once daily down from 7.5 mg down from 10 mg and I’m still experiencing mild akathisia. I still take Cogentin 1 mg twice daily (which is supposed to prevent the akathisia - HA!) and lithium 300 mg has been added. The lithium is a very small dose but my psychiatrist wanted to try just a little to see if it would help with the breakthrough symptoms I’ve been having while on the Abilify. However, since I’m still getting the akathisia (mild though it may be), I might have to push to be on another medication.

I think my next option is to add an anti-depressant with a low dose of one of the anti-psychotics I’ve already tried. I have hopes for that because I know anti-depressants don’t cause the same terrible effects that the anti-psychotic drugs do. Because I’m getting really tired of the side effects of these medications.

I feel like a broken record when I say all this. I know my friends and family want me to look at the bright side of things and not focus on the negative but the problem is that the very nature of these side effects take away my ability to do that. If it was as easy as staying positive and keeping my thoughts full of hope then my life would be a cakewalk and everything would be dandelions and daisies. But my mind can’t get there because my body is fighting me every step of the way. When I say I’m depressed I don’t just mean emotionally - I mean my body’s central nervous system is physically depressed and limiting my ability to act like a normal human being. When I say I’m anxious it’s not just a case of the butterflies, it’s my central nervous system going into overdrive. That “fight or flight” mode can get vicious if left unchecked, which mine is right now.

I’ve been coloring mandalas the past two days and that does seem to calm me down and put me in a more “zen” state of mind. The problem is that it only lasts as long as I can color and my hand starts cramping after more than about 30 minutes. So, I’ve been trying to spread it out and color here and there when I feel particularly lost and restless. I’ve also been knitting a bit but that tends to make me anxious because I get overwhelmed by all the options of things I can knit or crochet and I end up having to give up about 10 minutes in. I’ve also been going on walks with Ryan or even just on the treadmill since that’s supposed to be helpful, too. Haven’t been to yoga in a while because the last time I went to yoga I had a panic attack and had to leave and I’ve been afraid of going back ever since. Leaving in the middle of yoga is embarrassing.

So, I’ve been doing the stuff that my therapist recommends. I’ve been making every effort, I really have. It’s just that with these medications my efforts seem to amount to less than zero. I’m completely at the mercy of my medications and they have not been nice to me so far. I want to be better, I really do. And I’m willing to do what it takes to get healthy except for the one thing that will actually work: stop trying to have a baby and get on medications that will actually help me.

More and more I’m leaning towards putting off having a baby, at least until we can get my medications under control. But I want to wait to talk it over with my psychiatrist and also I want to go to my fertility specialist to see what she has to say about my chances for having a kid. I have to weigh all the options because it’s not an easy decision to make. I want a baby so bad it hurts but I also want to be healthy and happy for my baby. I mean, sure, as soon as I have the baby I can start being treated and should find something that fits me within a few months, but that can be a long time with an infant.

Ugh! There are no easy answers! I get that life is never about the easy answers but things do get complicated when babies and mental illness both come into play.

To baby or not to baby?

What do you do when live seem overwhelming? When the sheer weight of the responsibilities of your day weigh you down like a ton of bricks? When the thought of surviving through the day is almost more than you can bear? What do you do when life is just too much?

I feel like those are questions I’ve asked a lot lately and I still haven’t quite figured it out. Medication helps, well the Klonopin helps with the chest-crushing anxiety but that’s a short term solution. If they don’t figure out my medications within the next few months the Klonopin will start to lose its effectiveness and I’ll need more and more for the same effect. Next thing you know, I’m a junkie for benzos and that is not the road I want to wind up on.

I’m in the weirdest loop of awfulness. Every week my doctor tries to see what he can give me that won’t hurt a growing fetus (should one ever inhabit my womb) and won’t damage my fertility (which is already struggling as is) and every week he has fewer and fewer choices. The kind of drugs that would help me are terrible for people trying to get pregnant. And I just had to want to get pregnant right around the time I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.

I don’t want to stop getting treated for the bipolar disorder because that lets the full crazy of my brain out of the bag and no one wants that. But I also don’t want to give up trying to have a kid because it’s going to be difficult for me and I need as much time as possible to make sure I give my body a chance to do that thing that so many other women do without thinking about. Not to mention, I’m supposed to feel relief from my symptoms while pregnant and wouldn’t that be a lovely change of pace?

I have also found that small amounts of alcohol erase many of my symptoms and make me feel just lovely. However, I’m afraid of that road because “one drink a night” can turn into more so very quickly. But at the same time I don’t want to sneer at something that legitimately makes me feel better. Having one drink a night will not make me an alcoholic - or so the professionals keep telling me - but I have such fears of developing dependencies. Especially because I’m using it, basically, to self-medicate and that’s never a phrase with positive connotations.

So what do I do? Well, I should get back into exercising and yoga but the Klonopin makes me very tired. I’ve started knitting again but my hands cramp up and I lose interest. I’ve ordered an adult coloring book and some colored pencils, we’ll see if that does anything to help. Because when I’m in the grips of anxiety everything seems impossible. Writing this blog has been beyond me for days and days and only now, after taking a Klonopin, have I been able to write anything. And even still, I feel like I’m writing this underwater - I feel like my fingers aren’t moving fast enough or precisely enough. I feel like my thoughts are coming to me through a crummy phone line with static and an echo. I feel drugged up and it’s not enjoyable.

My disorder is starting to show its toll on my relationship with Ryan, mostly because he can’t stand to see my like this day in and day out. It leaves him feeling powerless and inadequate. We’re going to see a couple’s counselor next week to address some of these issues before they can become real problems. Our relationship is fine and we don't fight often but it seems smart to get counseling before real problems start to arise. But it sucks that the most stable and sure part of my life is starting to show cracks because I’m nuttier than a squirrel’s outhouse. I hate being crazy. I hate being anxious or depressed or angry or sullen. Why can’t I just be a normal person already?

And the kicker is we could probably get me set up on meds that would make me feel like a real person much, much easier if I just gave up on having children any time soon. It’s becoming a more and more tantalizing choice but I see a fertility doctor next month so we’ll see what she has to say. In the meantime I’m stuck on inadequate medications that leave me with crippling anxiety and bogs me down with depression. I would give anything to just be pregnant already because that would mean I’m finally, really on the road to recovery and treating this stupid illness.

I just don’t know how much longer I can handle the ups and the downs. On my current medications my bipolar disorder is barely in check and that means I’m running up and down the spectrum of human emotion. I get anxiety that has my throat pulsing and my stomach churning and then something sets me off and I’ve got depression so bad I can barely move or speak. This back and forth is torture, especially because I never seem to land in the middle. I’m only ever anxious or depressed - there is no medium. And my brain keeps whispering that this could all go away if I just  gave up my dream of having a baby, while another part of me whispers that if I can just hold out until I do get pregnant things will get so much better.

How do I choose between a baby and not feeling insane anymore? Seriously, I’m asking. Is it worth giving up a shot to have a child and maybe just hope adoption will be something Ryan and I can afford so that I can be normal and healthy? Or is it worth the months of misery for the bright, cute little ball of light at the end of the tunnel?

It's Not Easy

Having bipolar disorder is pretty awful. That sounds like a given, maybe, but it wasn't to me. Being bipolar just sounded like being depressed or being anxious - isn't being bipolar just about being depressed AND anxious? I had been depressed a lot in my life. My childhood was shitty, depression just comes with that. And who isn't anxious, from time to time? So being bipolar is just jumping around from depression and anxiety - I can handle that.

Also, like OCD, I feel that our culture has started to use the term “bipolar” with such flippancy that it has diluted its true meaning. We often think of it more as a person who is quick to anger or strong emotions. I feel I’ve heard the term with such frequency that it stopped being some scary illness people can get and just another term to toss around when venting about someone that gets on our nerves.

Except being bipolar is so much more. Being bipolar means your frontal lobe goes through hyper- and hypoactive periods (according to my psychiatrist). That affects so much more than just being anxious or just being depressed. Sure, I got anxious and I got depressed but I also had irrational fits of anger that have caused me to do some very unpleasant, shameful things. It’s easy to say I should have known better, but when those fits hit my ability to maintain control is impaired. I literally can’t help it. Which is not how I want to be around my future children; it doesn’t matter how sorry I am after, I can’t take back hitting them or screaming at them. I need this to be fixed before kids come along because I need to not be that kind of mother.

I used to work at a psych hospital and it was my job to go to patients in the emergency department that were being admitted to the hospital and get medication histories. I used to scorn the repeat patients (most of whom were addicted to drugs) and I couldn’t understand why they didn’t just take their medication and get better. But now, going through the treatments myself I can see how incredibly difficult it is to handle being treated. I can see why people might give up rather than try a seemingly-endless barrage of medications that not only don’t work but make you feel actively terrible. I can see why these people would turn to street drugs to numb their pain. It’s easier. Not better, not healthier, but easier.

And I could see myself taking that road. The release that all those drugs offer sounds heavenly. Sure, you’ll get addicted and be unable to function in your daily life and end up losing your job and your home and everything else - but that happens later. What happens right now is the blissful release. I can see being so desperate that I sacrificed my future to be happy in the present.

I’m fortunate enough, however, to have a very strong support system. I have a job that offers good insurance and pays me well enough that I can see a psychiatrist and a therapist once a week. I have friends and family and the world’s most amazing partner to turn to when things get bleak and the side effects of my medications are overwhelming.

That is so much more than others have and even with those advantages I still can see the appeal to mind-numbing drugs. I can’t imagine being unable to afford frequent visits to the psychiatrist for constant medication tweaking or see my therapist to have a professional tell me everything is going to be okay. 

I can't imagine being without the friends or family I can call or text any time of the day or night and know that someone will answer. Whenever I speak to a friend or family member the first words out of their mouths are "How are you feeling?" And they're sincerely interested. They aren't just paying lip service to seem like a good person - they genuinely care about my well being and all the minutia of what I'm going through. They won't just nod and try to change the subject, they listen attentively and offer words of support and encouragement and advice.

I could certainly never do this without Ryan. Ryan, who is patient with my wildly changing moods and my inability to help out around the house. Ryan, who is on the front lines of dealing with whatever new side effects I am suffering through this week. He was the first to know that my akathisia was coming back even with the Cogentin and he made sure I talked to my psychiatrist right away rather than waiting it out. He reminds me to seek the help I need and that's so incredibly important, even if it seems so obvious.

So, I don’t judge anymore when I see the homeless that litter the streets of Chicago, because 1 in 3 of those people are mentally ill*. Being mentally ill affects your whole life - if you can’t afford to treat it, or can’t bear to live through the seemingly endless process of finding medications that work but don’t make you worse off than the disease, then you can’t function. You can’t keep a job to pay the bills and keep a roof over your head. I worry constantly about my own ability to keep my job and keep my roof over my head and I have every advantage available.

I don’t know that healthy people can ever really understand what it means to be mentally ill but hopefully reading my blog can give you some idea. And if you are mentally ill, hopefully it will offer comfort in solidarity.

*http://www.usmayors.org/pressreleases/uploads/2014/1211-report-hh.pdf

I'm Bored Because I'm Boring

I’m worried I’m always going to feel this way. This half existence. Not really happy, not really sad, just...existing. And I think that’s a miserable way to live.

I’m back on the Abilify 10 mg but now with a medication called Cogentin that I take twice daily to avoid getting the akathisia again. And I have less anxiety than I have had on other medications, I’m less depressed than other medications. But I feel like the exciting parts of me, the interesting parts of me, are gone. I feel boring. I can’t even begin to describe how uninteresting I feel.

I used to have conversations with Ryan via text messaging and we’d keep conversations going all day, talking about nothing. Now I barely manage to express three whole thoughts in a given day and chances are that at least two of them are some version of “I feel awful” or “I hate today.” I have other friends that I used to chat with via text messaging throughout the day and I feel that more and more my side of the conversation is waning. I have nothing interesting to say.

Nothing is going on in my life except the bipolar disorder. Having the disorder and treating it are all I am anymore. It’s talking to people about how I feel, complaining about medications, talking about how tired I am. And talking about how I don’t feel like me. It’s not like on the Latuda where I felt like my “me” was wrapped in thirteen layers of bubble wrap. No, it’s more I feel like me but without anything interesting. I have much smaller highs and lows, which is a good thing, in a way. That’s the goal, to level out my moods. But it also makes everything about me that was fun and gregarious and “Dani” go away.

Tonight I went to a small party at Danielle’s (best friend) workplace. Normally, I can chat up just anyone about anything. Tonight I barely said five words to anyone and most of those words were speaking to Danielle’s boyfriend, Jake, who I already count as a close friend. But strangers? Her coworkers, the random people I’ve never met? Nothing. I had no witty repartee, no questions to spark up a conversation. I sat quietly on a stool and tried to at least pretend to be engaging when someone thought to talk to me.

It was awful. I don’t do that - I don’t have trouble talking to strangers. But tonight I just had no energy for anyone. It was so hard to smile, my face felt weighted down. I was in a building full of people passionate about dogs and I - the consummate dog lover - had nothing to talk about with anyone. And that is just not me.

The Dani I know talks to strangers on the bus. She makes friends with the manager of a favorite restaurant. She picks people in class or at work to be her buddy and she strikes up friendships out of thin air. She’s can converse for hours about nothing at all because she always has something to say. Some new question to pose or joke to make. She doesn’t even know the meaning of awkward pauses.

But me? Me on medications, me of the bipolar disorder trying to find my cure? Well, I’m about as interesting as toast. I don’t know if I’ve lost my confidence or if I’m just lacking in energy to strike up a conversation or if I’m just so preoccupied with my disorder and my medications that I can’t think of anything else to talk about. And I don’t want to be that person that never shuts up about one topic (in this case, being bipolar) so I don’t like to talk about it unless someone specifically asks me about it. Besides, I feel like a real Debbie Downer to talk all about how I don’t feel like me and when I imagine living my entire life this way it makes me feel just a touch suicidal.

Because this isn’t living. This isn’t what I signed up for. I can’t go off the medications because that’s worse. The crippling anxiety and the depression that sapped the life from me for hours on end are not something I can go back to. But when my psychiatrist promised me we could treat my disorder and I’d be normal I thought it would be like my euthymic moods before medication: not anxious, not depressed, but happy and normal.

Instead, I feel like a clay version of myself. I don’t have the ups and downs but I don’t have the middle either. I just have this Play Doh version of me that doesn’t have anything to offer the world. What is my contribution when I can’t even hold a simple conversation with a coworker? I stare at my phone trying to think of something to say to someone, anyone. Who can I text and actually have something to say beyond “How are you?”

I feel terrible for Ryan. What kind of partnership are we that he has to carry the weight of everything. I’m never up to doing anything more than watching a few episodes of Friends or maybe going for a short walk. But our conversations are few and far between and I feel like it’s all on him to keep us going. And I have no energy to help take care of our animals so he ends up doing all the upkeep with the pets. He ends up doing most of the little chores because I can’t motivate myself to get up off the couch.

I want to be fun again. I want to not get vaguely anxious at the thought of doing anything other than sitting in my apartment. I want to be able to add to conversations. I want to be able to be around people and seem like someone that people would want to know. I want to find my magical combination of medications that will let me be who I know I am capable of being. Unfortunately, I’m quickly running out of medications that I can take while trying to get pregnant so I may have to settle for “just okay” until I can manage to have a baby. And it scares me that I won’t have a medication regimen worked out before the hypothetical baby comes. It means that I’ll have to start fiddling around with all new medications while I have an infant to care for.

I hate being boring. I hate that to have the simplest of conversations I have to exert so much energy that I feel drained from a 15 minute conversation. For anyone that knows me, that’s not me. I want so badly to be myself. My psychiatrist keeps assuring me we’ll get there but I’m not sure where the “there” we’re supposed to get to is. I’m much less anxious on this medication, much less depressed on this medication - doesn’t that mean it’s working?

I can’t even think of an interesting way to end this post. I have no clever wrap up, nothing smart to say that will make you think. So, I’ll just stick with a classic:

THE END

What's Fair, Anyway?

Being bipolar just isn't fair. What a useless thing to say, I know, but it's what's been rattling around in my mind for days and days now. It's just such an obvious statement - who deserves bipolar disorder? However, it does feel particularly unfair that I've got to deal with this disease for the rest of my life when I'm supposed to be living my happily ever after.

I had a shitty childhood. Not as bad as a lot of folks, I'm sure, but we all work on our spectrum, right? And on my spectrum, my childhood was pretty bad. My mom had a lot of issues - her secrets aren't mine to divulge, but let's just say she had a hard life. I can tell you that her life was worse than mine and yet she managed to spare me the worst of the worst that happened to her.

So, don't get me wrong, as an adult I'm very grateful to my mother. She did surprisingly well by me and my sister compared to the shitstorm her life was. But kids? Kids don't have that understanding. Kids lack the empathy to understand that kind of stuff. Besides, remember what I said about our own personal spectrum? Well, it's even harder for kids to see outside their own spectrum so I wasn't comforted by "mom had it worse and it could be worse."

Anyway, my mom might have been bipolar, too. She certainly had a lot of the symptoms, most notably that she was generally one of two different people. There was the caring, loving mother who taught me so much and shared so much with me. Then there was The Beast. The scary, mean creature who didn't love, only hated. Who was never happy, only so, so angry. The loving mother offered hugs and praise, The Beast destroyed objects that meant anything to me to punish me for breaking a bowl of hers by accident (I was 6 or 7 at the time). The mother wanted to allay my fears, The Beast caused them.

It wasn't so much physical abuse (there was some of that, but I think on the whole it was fairly minimal - I wasn't beaten every day; I was only hit out of anger about a dozen or so times in my life), it was emotional. While the mother loved me and cherished me, the Beast told me again and again how much she hated me, how much she wished she'd followed through with the abortion she'd almost had, how I was a pig, a slob, a disappointment. I remember all of those words so much because they were branded into my memory with the flames of hurt and betrayal. Except, I didn’t blame The Beast because it was still just my mom and it wasn’t her fault that she changed. It was mine.

I had a lot of self-hatred as a child. I self-mutilated because I felt I needed to be punished for being such a bad child. I spent a lot of nights with an ache eating my gut because of how much I hated myself for being so bad, so terrible that I turned the mother into The Beast. I was so confused because no matter how hard I tried it was never enough. I always managed, somehow, to bring back the monster. And so I hated myself for driving away the mother, hating myself for being so despisable. I still believed in the Christian God at this point and I prayed every night to make me be better. Or, on the darker nights, I prayed for hours, fiercely, to please just let me die. Let me die and go to heaven so I could stop being the slob, the pig, the mistake, the disappointment. Just please let me die, please God, please oh please if You love me at all you'll just, please oh please oh please, just please let me die.

In a few especially dark moments I would hold a knife to my chest and just beg God for the courage to push it in. Just stab myself in the heart and it's all over. I remember standing in the kitchen in the dark, only moonlight coming through the windows, weeping silently - weeping loudly could alert the Beast and it did not like crying. Or worse, the weeping could alert the mother and she'd be so sad because she had made me feel this way and I couldn't hurt her, not after all the wrong I'd done.

My dad was my safe haven. He would often try to protect us from the worst of my mother's rages. But as time went on and The Beast's anger was turned on him more and more he became angry, too. Or he'd avoid the situation entirely and hide in his basement. I imagine he wondered if he wasn't to blame for her rages, too. I think we all, my sister, dad and me, thought we were responsible in our own ways. Because the mother was so good - how could she become something so terrible? It had to be someone's fault and I'm guessing we all just blamed ourselves. Over time, my dad turned more of his frustration and anger towards us kids, trying to keep us in line so that we didn't awaken The Beast. He started to use words like "pig" and "slob" with less discrimination. He was broken.

My sister played her part, unknowingly, as well. I think I was just a fragile child with a damaged ego (not helped by my school mates generally disliking me - I wasn't an easy child to know, probably not an easy adult to know now) and when my big sister, my protector, told me how annoying I was and how she couldn't stand me, I took it much more to heart than I think a younger sibling normally would. But it was my sister, Brandy, who taught me that the mother and the Beast were not the same person. It was my sister who understood, long before I did, that something was wrong with our mom and it turned her into something she couldn't control. It was my sister who explained to me that she still loved me, she just couldn't show it. Hearing it didn't make it true for me right away, but it did set the groundwork for the self hate to stop festering and let me turn my rage outwards, instead. As sad as it might be to hate your mother, it's probably more healthy than hating yourself.

My mom’s dual personality haunted much of my childhood, with varying influences from my broken father and my sister (who was going through all of these horrors as well - it's only natural she lashed out at me from time to time). It wasn't all bad, don't get me wrong. I had a handful of close friends and I don't think they can ever truly realize what a vital part they played in keeping me going. To have someone to turn to when The Beast was rampaging and my dad was beaten down and preferred to hide and my sister, who I had a healthy dose of hero-worship for, was calling me "pee sack" - to have someone I could call and who cared and told me nice things and distracted me...well, it's not out of the realm of possibility to say they saved my life. Ashley and Katie are two names I will always hold dear to my heart. I may not see them anymore and we talk too rarely but a lifetime could go by and I would still consider them close friends because I owe them so much.

But one of the biggest things that kept me going during my darkest hours was the knowledge that it had to end some day. Some day I would be 18 and able to leave the home that held so little love for me and then everything would be better. I would survive my childhood to go off and become someone grand and important and find the love of my life and everything would be perfect. It was worth living through hell to get to the happily ever after that God must surely have in store for me. And once I stopped believing in God, I still believed that things would get better because I would make them better and it would all have been worth it.

When I found Ryan, I knew I had been right. All of that childhood trauma nonsense, that seems so trivial now with years to gloss over the scarier bits, was all worth it because I had found my fairy tale ending with Ryan. I can't express to you how much I love Ryan without abusing a million cliches so I'll only say he is the culmination of every childhood fantasy I ever escaped into to help myself through the rough patches. He is everything. And so I thought I had found my happily ever after and while life would never be perfect, it would be good.

And now I'm bipolar. And it's just...not fair. On Latuda I couldn’t even enjoy Ryan because it took any vestiges of joy and warmth out of my life. Or I was so miserable with akathisia that I couldn't enjoy anything, Ryan or otherwise. I found my happily ever after prince and I can't even appreciate him. Thank every god that humans have ever dreamt up for his understanding and patience and constant, unflickering love because a lesser man might decide this is all too much and leave. Ryan only holds on tighter as I spiral and teeter-totter and loop-the-loop emotionally, dealing with one medication after the next. Ryan and I should be able to have our babies and live a blissful, simple life but now our lives may never be simple because I'm bipolar. And that is just so unfair.

Being bipolar is never fair - I get that. Life isn't fair - I get that. Consciously. But I can't quiet that little voice in the back of my head that says, "It's just not fair! Why me? Why not someone with a happy childhood? Why not someone with an easier life?" Useless, pointless and a little mean to be wishing it on anyone else, but there it is. Being bipolar isn't fair.

Zyprexa Strikes Out

Zyprexa is the next medication in the parade and I had hopes for it but it doesn’t seem to be working out. I’ve gained weight, been incredibly over tired and feeling depressed most of the time. I was holding out hope that the third time would be the charm but it doesn’t look like that’s going to be the case.

I've gained almost seven pounds in less than a week because of Zyprexa. When I was on Latuda and had no appetite I barely lost two pounds. I'm on Zyprexa for five days and I've gone from 170 and change to 177 and change. My body really sucks that way - so achingly hard for me to lose weight and so damned easy to gain it.

I'm tired all the time. Over the weekend, when I could sleep as much as my body felt like sleeping, I slept for 12 hours overnight and then needed a three hour nap in the afternoon just to feel like I wasn't falling asleep the rest of the day. And I'm depressed—thinking destructive, useless thoughts.

The weight gain wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't so much; I wouldn't mind putting on 10 pounds if that's where it stayed. I'm terrified, however, that it will just be continuous weight gain until I'm well beyond what is healthy for me (I'm already obese according to my body fat percentage). It's frustrating because I want to be able to control myself and not eat until I feel physically ill. I want to not start snacking when my stomach is still bloated from my last meal. But I think about food constantly. I daydream about various snacks and goodies and I can't stop. It's not a matter willpower avoid the temptation of a snack once in a while; it's a battle every minute to not shove food into my stupid, fat face. Every 15 minutes that I go without eating something is a tremendous triumph of my will over my stomach.

Ryan suggested buying healthy food to snack on but that's not what my mind craves. My mind thinks of nothing but salty, fatty foods or rich sweets. I'd almost wonder if I was pregnant with cravings like this but the tests keep coming back negative. Also, I'd been warned that the Zyprexa could cause weight gain, so it pretty much adds up that the culprit is the medication and not some womb-based cause.

The tiredness is something I can't even really wrap my head around. I take my medication earlier in the evening than I originally started to (I was told to take it right at bedtime, now I take it around 7 pm) in the hopes that the sleepiness will wear off by the time I have to go to work, but to no avail. My eyelids are dragging until I manage to get some caffeine in me and even then I'm still tired, just less so.

The depression is probably the worst, though. It makes the gaining weight worse because it makes me hate my body and myself for not having the willpower to do better. It makes me want to curl into bed and indulge my exhaustion because it’s tired of the world and wants me to sleep already. It makes me wonder if I should really be allowed to have children - should someone this unstable really be in charge of a life?

Should I have a child when I'll probably need fertility medications to even be able to have one? Isn't that evolution trying to say that my body is a wreck and I don't need to be passing on my DNA to anyone? Isn't the fact that I'm constantly broke no matter how much money Ryan and I make show that I can't afford to raise a child? Am I responsible enough to bring a life into the world?

These are the kinds of doubts that plague me when I'm depressed. Doubting the very fabric of my life. Am I good enough? Am I strong enough? Am I doing the right thing? Or am I making a disaster of my life, again? And having these thoughts is a very heavy load on the shoulders that no one can lighten because it's not something that empathy can cure. Logic doesn't touch it. Love and sympathy mean nothing. Depression drapes over my head and blocks out anything that might try to help.

That won't stop people from trying, of course. People that love and care about you will still try to help because they can't see you depressed and not try. But it doesn't amount to much, at least not while the depression is there. Later you can look back and remember the people that tried to help and thank them but it's useless when depression has its claws sunk into you. People helping just makes it angry, causes you to lash out to try and drive the friends and family away, protecting itself. Depression has a very good self preservation instinct.

I've been on the other side, trying to cheer up someone that is depressed. You try using simple logic, try to explain that the world is not, in fact, ending but is going along quite as usual. That rarely, if ever, works. Depression scoffs at logic and bats it away like a kitten tossing around a ball of string, keeping it from permeating into the brain of the affected person. Cold hard facts may seem irrefutable to a person in a normal state of mind, but they are meaningless to a person steeped in depression.

Then you might try sympathy, commiserating with what the person is going through and how terrible it must be. When you use this tactic on me it causes me to feel guilty for how I'm feeling because I know, consciously, that my life isn't that bad. I'll start getting mad at myself for being such a whiner and an attention whore. I hate feeling like I’m fishing for pity and a part of me knows it’s not really me, it’s the depression. That part is unfortunately very small and weak and the depression looms large and ominous.

Whatever methods you might try to help someone that is depressed are going to be largely fruitless until the depression gets bored and leaves on its own. See, depression saps away the will to care about finding solutions or getting better. When you’re truly depressed it’s almost addicting, the misery. You consciously don’t want to be depressed and miserable but deep down you want to stay miserable. That’s what so dangerous about depression: how hard it is to make yourself want to get rid of it.

I actually started this post a week ago and have been trying to finish it since then with little success up until now (back on Abilify which doesn’t cause depression). Depression leaves you with very little motivation or gumption to get things done. Unlike the manic side of bipolar disorder, which makes me a very busy beaver, depression makes me listless and dull. I’ve felt so boring the past week because I can’t seem to think of anything witty to say or do. I’m worried this post is going to be rather subpar because I’m having such a hard time finding the right words to say. Depression steals my creativity.

I’m back on the Abilify for now so the depression has been lifting a little (just started back on it three days ago). My psychiatrist put me on a slightly lower dose than what caused the akathisia and also prescribed me Cogentin, a medication that is commonly given with anti-psychotics to prevent things like tremors or akathisia. Hopefully it works because at the first sign of uncontrollable restlessness I’m going to stop taking the Abilify and we’ll have to figure something else out.

I’m trying to remain positive about the medication hunt but the depression that is still lingering from the Zyprexa makes that difficult. I think it will be easier to find the right medication combination once I manage to have a child and don’t have to worry about medicines that can’t be taken while pregnant or medicines that decrease fertility. Of course, I have to get pregnant first. One thing at a time, I suppose...