R&D

It's become increasingly difficult to sit and write a blog entry on the typical subject matter due to the fact that things have been going well.  I imagine this is why we see so much drama on the nightly news.  Not only does it sell (and I'm not comparing my little piece of Internet real estate to the news in that regard), it's so much easier to compose.

"Tonight, on I-93, traffic is flowing well!  8 minute drive time.  And... um... now what?"

"Major delays on I-93 this evening!  We have a roll-over 3 miles before the Braintree split that's backing traffic into Boston.  At least one vehicle is on fire and crews are working frantically to contain the scene.  In addition, we have on-looker traffic delaying commuters in the opposite direction and blah blah blah..."

Obviously, it's in everyone's interest to have a smooth ride, but it doesn't make for news.  I feel the same way about writing here.  I've been doing very well since autumn - the new medication seems to be moderating me extremely well - leaving me with a wicked case of writer's block.  No drama!  As always, I say that with a bit of trepidation.  One-third of a year is quite an accomplishment, but I'm also in the middle of winter with a fair amount of large stressors weighing down upon me and none can be complete without taking care of another.  'A' needs to resolve prior to 'B' leading to 'C', but 'X' and 'Y' may delay 'A' or skew 'A' leading to 'B1'... stupid math.  But everyone has stress, so take a breath and things will work out eventually.  This highway that I jack-hammered isn't going to be rebuilt in a day.

In the meantime, I figured I'd use a couple hours at night to do something a little different - creative writing.  I started a fairly meaningless and very green movie blog, wondering if the mere act of writing would possibly spark the flow and prompt a renewed interest in this site.  And, sure enough, it did.  That and the death of actor Philip Seymour Hoffman.

Actually, it was less the death of this very talented actor and more the comment that was made in social media regarding his death being the 'research' that will keep other addicts from the same tragic outcome.  "He did the research so you don't have to."

Flame me all you want, I hate this kind of comment with a passion.  You won't hear this cliche outside 12-step ranks and it was an NA member that said it to set me off.  It's the kind of statement that, first of all, entirely trivializes what happened to the man - be it an actor, a doctor, a postal worker, a police officer.  Calling it "research" instead of what it is - an overdose - is language substitution that absolutely has no place here.  Don't reduce the fact that he shot heroin and shut his own lungs down.

Second, and the second part of the statement, "so you don't have to" - that's not how addiction works.  I'm even a little upset at Aaron Sorkin, Hollywood big-shot (and I don't mean that sarcastically), who wrote a tribute to his friend saying that Seymour's death probably saved ten others.  That's a pipe dream.  If you're on the right track and you hear that someone overdosed on drugs or alcohol, you're no more likely to leave an AA or NA meeting and go pick up your drug of choice and overdose yourself.  It's all about your exposure to your triggers.  Conversely, if you're on the wrong track, hearing that someone overdosed is not going to scare you straight.  I can hear the lynch mob coming up the street.  Of course, there are exceptions.  Of course.  But I think these exceptions happen with people who are already on their way through the Stages of Change and need a push one way or the other.  I can't see this being a ten-to-one ratio, I just can't.  Maybe I'm wrong.  In which case, I'll open the door and welcome the lynch mob (reluctantly, but I will).

We have to be smarter than this.  Addiction is raking us over the coals and the best we have to offer is, "(so and so) did the research so you don't have to"?  There were two obituaries in the local papers in the past week due, directly or indirectly, to addiction and I read this morning about a broadcaster who, for years, struggled with alcoholism and lost her fight, as well.  If I grab an active drinker and force them to read these columns, I can't magically expect them to put a day of recovery under their belt.  How many kids participated in those old "Scared Straight" jail programs who are now in prison, I wonder?  We need action, not worthless cliches...

- more beds in longer term treatment centers
- face-to-face follow-up care programs
- cognitive behavioral program options rather than the same old 12-step meetings
- sponsor-to-sponsee matching through actual psychiatric facilities

On and on.  But these all cost money and a cliche is free.  Nevermind that the more we spend while an addict is IN a well formed program, the less we'll have to spend once the addict returns FROM that program.  It makes me wonder how long Hoffman spent in rehab last year - was he in it for the long haul or was it just a spin-dry?  I'm sure I could look it up, but it really doesn't matter at this point.

I'm off my soapbox.  Tear me apart if you'd like to.  There's definitely plenty of fodder and I haven't proofed much, so it's also sure to be scattered.  My bottom line is that statements like the one I'm complaining about seem to reduce the gravity of the situation and that's not right.  It's part of a Fantasy Land and we need to come back to the real world to make a difference in this fight.

All done.

Honest Choices

Some background:

http://www.slate.com/articles/life/family/2013/11/families_dealing_with_mental_illness_need_support_too.html

I have discussed previously the matter of choice for those suffering their way through the nasty web of substance abuse.  A friend of mine (I truly hope I can consider her such, though I didn't help matters by my own past actions) read the article and said that no one chooses to get cancer, while an addict is making a conscious choice by driving to the store to buy liquor.  She wasn't trying to trivialize the addiction, but there was a clear distinction in her mind and I can appreciate that, along with her candor.  She's right - it's not exactly worthy of neighborly generosity.

Having been in and out of psych wards myself, I believe that most (not all) addictive behavior is linked to various underlying causes and those causes can go untreated or misdiagnosed for years.  Yes, the person suffering the mental health disorder is making a choice to hit the 'packy', but it's not nearly as black and white as outsiders tend to think.  The comorbidity rates between bipolar disorder and substance abuse, for example, are staggering.  And doctors and social workers tend to treat what's obvious - the substance abuse.  They place band-aids over the wounds without treating the actual affliction.  Unfortunately, so do the patients.  When treatment is unsuccessful, they tend to cope by turning toward self-medication, whether to quiet the mental sledgehammers or calm the mania, etc.  I'm not condoning it, though I suppose I am empathizing.

So, it got me thinking about my own recent experiences - what happens to decision making and the old coping strategies when a diagnosis is made and the patient is lucky enough to be treated?  And I don't just mean treated... I mean treated well.  I *think* I may fall, finally, into this category.  I've been fortunate to have been prescribed a medication recently (Clozapine) that is working like a champ.  My moods have been far more balanced, my compulsions are manageable, urges are easily brushed away, sleep is no longer elusive... it's hard to believe.  There are some fairly severe side-effects, which is why it wasn't prescribed to me in the past, but the pros are far outweighing the cons.  This "stubborn" case, as my favorite doctor called me, doesn't have to live miserably anymore.

But again, what happens now?  My excuses are gone.  I've been using self-medication to cope with the bipolar disorder for years, but I don't feel like I'm free falling anymore.  However small it may be, I feel like I have a grip.  It was my Hail Mary pass... 

Now that I'm on it, my friend is 100% correct - if I hit the liquor store, it is my choice.  There's no gray area anymore.  Black and white.  I'm responsible for taking the necessary defensive steps to ensure that I stay on the beaten path.  And I'm not sure what it was about her comments that hit me, but I questioned myself - am I doing everything in my power to ensure that my past behavior wouldn't creep up and bite me in the ass?  The answer was No, specifically again with medication.

I had a medication trifecta in my daily routine, which took care of the majority of cravings and urges that bothered me throughout the day, but there was one additional med that I'd been hesitant to take because of its very powerful side-effects (seems like the best drugs always have the worst consequences, right?).  I don't need to make this part of my routine, but taking this drug, choosing to take this drug, gives me the ultimate quadfecta (wiki says it's a word... I'm not so sure).  There is absolutely no way, NO WAY, I can relapse without incredibly serious risks.  And so... I took it.  And I'll continue to take it until I am absolutely confident that my bipolar disorder is finally under control.  It doesn't mean there won't be difficulties along the way, but this medication cocktail will give me the opportunity to seek help and correct them when they happen.

Why omit this in the past?  Was it due to the side-effects or was it a way to leave the door open to a future relapse?  How very selfish that seems.  If I have the option to go the extra mile, then shouldn't I take it?  It's amazing the lengths that I've traveled to avoid making positive choices.  Hopefully, I can work on reversing that.

Hope Bloats

I certainly have taken a long hiatus, although there's been plenty going on.  I haven't had the willingness to share like I used to.  You can blame the depressive episodes, which far outweighed the mania.  But this meant, on the surface, my "good" behavior exceeded my "bad" behavior (seems like it would be the other way around, doesn't it?).  This is due to the increase in self-harm urges, as we'll call them, happening during the aggravating and pounding hypomanic states, rather than the down-swings.  Unfortunately, it's the bad behavior that people notice.

And that's okay.  For every bad episode, I have the opportunity to learn something about myself or grow.  In the most recent episode, I learned how to assert myself with my insurance company, how to play the game, and how to receive the appropriate care for my particular needs.  I never pictured myself willingly spending as much time as I did working with providers to tweak what needed to be tweaked.

In this case, it was my medication again.  I'm very happy to say that, knock on wood, I have something that *might* work better than anything I've been prescribed in the past (I still say Lithium was the best, setting aside its harsh side effects).  I was given Clozaril, or Clozapine, which is an atypical anti-psychotic usually prescribed for schizophrenia.  Off-label and at low doses, it can be highly effective in the treatment of bipolar disorder.  Woot!  So far, it's been incredible!  I might go so far as to call it a miracle drug. /boggle!

So why not prescribe this last summer when I started my trials with new mood stabilizers?  Again, like Lithium, side effects.  Clozaril packs a punch and can dramatically lower a patient's white blood count and, therefore, immune system.  That means weekly blood draws are required for the first six months of taking the drug, every other week thereafter, and every month after that.  As long as you're on Clozaril, you're getting poked.  Let's face the facts - it's hard enough to get us to take our medication at times, let alone get lab work done on a regular basis.

The rest of the side effects are annoying, but can't outweigh the benefits of taking the drug.  I hypersalivate, believe it or not.  I cough painfully.  And, ugh, I EAT!  See-food diet, just like being on Depakote.  The urge to carbo-load is overwhelming.  I craaaave salt and feel PMSish bloated.  Unless I'm completely preoccupied, I've got food in my hands.  The doctors have put me on a counter-drug, which is nice, but it doesn't completely negate the Clozaril.  Time to get off my ass and exercise, even though winter is approaching.

I actually feel confident with the Clozaril under my belt.  It's working to stabilize my mood, OCD, substance compulsions, sleep... I mean, you just can't beat it.  If it means getting a blood test every week so I can finally make it through the holidays in one piece, then so friggin' be it.

Even Steven.  I love it.  Slowly, I'm gaining a little confidence back.  Let's see how long it lasts.

A Star Returns

So, an incredible thing happened to me today.  And since incredible things have been in short supply lately, I'm especially cherishing this.

Once upon a time, there was this girl.  Woman, not girl.  I met this woman in, for me, a very odd way.  In a rather pathetic attempt to connect with my (ex) wife, I took dance lessons.  Me, no kidding.  Stop laughing.  My wife was a dancer, wanted me to learn, and, well, I tried to learn.  I had no idea that I was going to enjoy it, but most of that enjoyment centered around connecting with this new star.

I don't use the word 'star' lightly (get it?  Lightly?).  She shone.  I have never in my life met a woman as sincere, honest, kind, and completely non-judgmental as she was.  She was selfless, sometimes to a fault.  She cared so much for others that there were no walls around her, making her easy to hurt, but I don't think she would ever change that.  She empathized, not just sympathized, totally.  In one word, she was absorbing.  I could laugh with her or cry on her shoulder, and both were perfectly okay.

Don't think these people exist in the world?  They're out there and they are rare.  No matter how hard you search, you won't find them on your own.  They appear in the strangest places and it's really up to us to grab them when we can.  I have a few women in my life that I consider gems, but this one made a huge impression in a short amount of time.  She's probably the closest person to epitomize THIS.  There may be one other, but that's another secret for another time.

However, life is funny.  She was putting a family together while mine crumbled.  I had to move and circumstances took us apart.  It's been eight years since I've seen her and I still miss her and the talks that we used to have.  Believe it or not, I miss dancing because of her.  She made it fun.

There must've been something aligned right today.  I had a therapy session that brought me to complete and unexpected tears (sobbing, nose running, tears... awful.  I don't know why women like to do that.).  My therapist asked a rather simple question, but I found its weight crushing.  While the tears were cathartic, it left me wanting for positivity.  But I don't have someone within proximity to listen and pick me up the way I used to.

I said life is funny.  Drifting in my digital world was a new message and if you had given me twenty guesses as to the sender, I would've been wrong each time.  She found me again and it feels like God just gave me my childhood friend back.  Not many things catch me by surprise anymore... but this one seriously got me.

There is so much to share and be said, I want to jump into it all.  I think it's because I know, no matter what's struck in the past few years, that I'll find those empathetic shoulders again.  And she'll have mine, always.  But there will be plenty of time.  If Fate wants something to happen, then it'll happen.  I'm not a typical subscriber of Fate's and certainly not her biggest fan of late... but tonight she has my most sincere, "Thank you."

A Broken Heart

I'm not sure how to start this one. I had a bit of a 'life scare' recently regarding my health that, for once, didn't relate to rehab or a psych ward (though... nevermind).  I couldn't sleep about a week ago and, mid-night, started to feel a little off.  It started in my back, like small spasms.  That's nothing new, as I've had chronic back problems for years.   But then it floated around to my shoulder... then my jaw... then my chest.  To be honest, it was all pretty subtle and my man-instinct told me to let it go, try to sleep and, "Eh, it'll be gone in the morning."

But, hey, I couldn't sleep anyway, so why not bother the EMTs, once again (they know me by name, which is embarrassing).  By the time I put on a shirt and shoes and walked down a flight of stairs, it felt like The Rock was giving me a bear hug.  15 minutes later, I was in the ER.  2 hours later, I was transported to another hospital's ER.  2 hours later, I was admitted.

Turns out, it was nothing serious - I think.  No one could ever tell me specifically what was wrong (something about my pericardium being all sacky and inflamey, probably due to a viral infection).  But a very sadistic nurse told me on Day One that my enzymies were high and I had a heart attack.   I said, "How high? High or Very High?"  And she said with a grave, you're going to die, voice, "Real High."

I wasn't really bothered by it.   Two thoughts went through my head - 1) I wanted to make sure my mom was informed and 2) I wanted one more hug and a kiss from my son.  Sadly, except for those two things, I didn't really care.  I think I may have said "This is scary" a couple of times, but that was it.

Really, I was thinking about my familial lines, what risk factors the people around me might have, what I'm passing to my son.   I was more interested in the tests they were performing on me than what they actually meant to me.  With all that I know must be special about life, I didn't much care.  I'll even go so far as to say that I was disappointed when the tests came back IN my favor.  I was hoping for some defect to be detected, forcing me to stay in the hospital.  Isn't that disgusting?

God, I hope this changes one day.  I hope that medication doesn't make me "flat" or depressed or angry or a host of other negative feelings.  Depression sucks every ounce of wind from your sails and nothing, absolutely nothing, brings enjoyment.   To the point where you don't care whether or not you just had a heart attack.  Except for that final kiss from my little guy, I didn't care how things turned out.

And that's why you can't tell someone suffering from depression to snap out of it.  The odds just aren't in your favor.  And with the mortality rate so high for people with mental illness, a heart attack looks pretty inviting, minus the pain.  Wishing for a heart attack is really no different than having suicidal ideations.  It's just letting nature pull the trigger for you.  I'm guessing that's ideal for a good chunk of people.

We drink, drug, eat, cut, slice, and even wish for illness.  To the extreme, we overdose, jump, hang, shoot... Therapy will never cure it, nor will medication.  It's intense, it's real, and the chances are good that any one of your friends has it, but hides it.  We're everywhere.   It's everywhere.  And it has so many faces, all with curled, sinister lips. It loves you and makes you hate yourself.

Boiled down, it feels like a broken heart.  But don't get me wrong - my family and friends were certainly concerned.  I received phone calls and visits and that showed me just how special relationships can be.  I truly love you all.

Also, a very big thanks to the nurses and doctors who made my hospital stay... hospitable!

Best Unsent

I trust we all have moments in our lives that we wish hadn't happened or that we'd gladly take back.  It might be that I trust this only to lessen the burden of my own wrongdoings.  I know I can be hard on myself, but I do often feel that things are my fault for not doing them differently.

Unfortunately, in the past few years, there have been many other incidents that certainly were my fault.  Although my bipolar disorder and substance abuse can be fairly linked, one cannot be used as an excuse for the other.  True, it's pretty clear that drinking eased in my mind the fluctuations of my moods, which ranged from 'fun-loving' to 'total asshole'.  That's how I viewed it.  In reality, the alcohol was enhancing these moods, leaving me rapid cycling between hypomania and depression - screaming, laughing, crying, and recently near suicidal, all at the same time.  And woe were you if you had to deal with me at those extreme moments.

One such incident occurred five years ago and left a scar on myself and, I know, others, all to different degrees.  It's especially unfortunate that this occurred at a time when things could have gone very 'right' for several lives.  My anger, agitation, irritability, and depression all culminated into the worst emotion of all - fear.  I let fear control me.

This incident has affected every aspect of my life and I feel my heart sinking and the tears welling even as I write.  I'm jobless and penniless, soon without a home, and at a loss for half of, what could have been, a family.  This family had actually been friends of mine for years and I felt as though my integration was seamless.  But in one fell swoop, I betrayed their trust and earned disdain.  I'll carry this always.

And so, I wrote a letter.  In it, I say much of what I wrote above, but I do not ask for forgiveness, nor do I expect it.  That would be selfish.  Given this, I'm wondering if the letter is worth sending.  Would the letter only make matters worse?  I don't believe so, but I don't want to reopen old wounds.  Would it really bring any closure?

Parts of me are so self-hating that I don't even think I want to be forgiven. This self-hatred results in depression and anger, two emotions that are all I've known for a very long time.  I try to smile through them, but drop the act when I'm alone.  As my dad says, he and I are good at wearing masks.

My therapist said there are some letters that are best unsent and this may be one of them (I have others).  Deep in my heart, I'd like to take a shot at amending this.  I might miss the mark, but at least I can say I tried.  I mistreated good people and I'd like to say, "I'm sorry."

Dude!! You're Sick!

I've been having a harder time again reconciling that I do have a mental health disorder.  Some days I don't even blink at the thought, while other days I pretend that I'm perfectly 'normal'.  I take quite a bit of medication, so the doctors must be prescribing it for a reason.  Overall, I still feel the same 'normal'.  So am I really sick?  Do I have a defect?

I have several favorite scenes in Silver Linings Playbook, one of them being Pat and Tiffany's Raisin Bran date at the diner.  Tiffany accuses Pat, rightly, of thinking she's crazier than he is... and he doesn't deny it.  In fact, he shrugs at her like it's a simple matter of fact.  And if you plopped me back in a mental health unit right now, a mere three months since my last visit, I'd shrug and tell you the same thing.  I'm not crazy - you are!

Insulting, totally.  I'm just having a rough time with it.  In my own space, I only know that I feel a) not quite right, but b) that's normal.  And to have other people tell me, nicely, that I have a something wrong with me is kind of hurtful.  Yet, all the signs of problem living are around me - injured health, no finances, substance abuse, broken relationships, anti-social tendencies, pure stubbornness about almost everything... none of which is in any particular order.

So, I suppose this is good and bad.  The bad is pretty obvious.  If I don't listen to my counselors, deny that I'm an "unstable" bipolar (one who has yet to be treated appropriately, as I was recently told), and push away assistance, then I'm going to continue to have everything I listed above.  Nothing is going to change and I'll be swept under even quicker than I thought I was sinking before.

The good is that it can be treated, but it's going to take a lot of trust on my part.  I need to let go and trust that, when five doctors tell me that I have a disorder, I have a freakin' disorder.  'Normies' don't have to take their Lithium, Depakote and Geodon before bedtime (among other things) or track their weeks by how many therapy appointments they have.  When they're having a meltdown, I bet their first thoughts aren't of packing a bag so they have it if the ambulance arrives to take them back to the hospital.  Normie meltdowns pass and are usually harmless.  I'm not trivializing them, but they are different.  My meltdowns are Dangerous.

Everything happens for a reason, but I contest that the reason is not always good.  Regardless, if the reason is true, then I can't stop taking my meds and I can't pretend that the doctors are wrong, as much as I'd like to.  And when I have days where I feel like it's all in my head, I should know that I'm right.  All the more reason to continue treatment.

I tell you what... I wouldn't want to be one you Normies reading this because we in Bipolar-land are ridiculously difficult to figure out.  Sheesh.
 

Zero to Sixty

I can't seem to do anything moderately.  I feel like a broken appliance - you have to stick a paperclip in just the right place in order to activate a happy medium.  It's frustrating and it makes disposing the appliance more tempting than fixing it at times.  I'm being melodramatic.

When I initially tried to get my life back on track, I felt like I had suggestions coming at me from all directions.  "You need to go to AA."  "You need to make new friends."  "You need therapy."  And the message being projected was that I had to take all of these suggestions.  Some people might tell me that's incorrect, but that's what the majority of people I encountered were telling me.  My first instinct when told I have to do anything is to put up my fists, cry bullshit, and tell you why you're wrong.  I put my mind in Low and I failed.

When I tried again, I heard the same thing. "You have to take the suggestions."  Since I failed in Low, I decided to try High.  I jumped into them with both feet and did everything that I was told to do.  In a matter of months, I was going on AA commitments, studying to volunteer, reading all of the self-help literature...  I was overwhelmed, way out of my comfort zone, and I failed.

Then I heard, "Take what you need and leave the rest."  This defied the idea that I should pick and choose only the elements that were right for me.  You're made to feel selfish sometimes if you take this path, but I also can't get behind what makes me feel wrong inside.  I don't want to change my life with religion.  That's not how my God works.  I don't want to do 12-steps.  Why?  If I'm living life the way that I morally feel is correct, then I shouldn't have to work out resentments or make amends.  Life takes effort, but shouldn't be about effort.  Live, laugh, love - with yourself and others.  And when I do these things, I become content... peaceful... level.  There's no pressure.  I'm making progress, but I'm not moving quickly enough to trip over my own feet.  A nice Medium setting.

Maybe this is coming from new medication changes and my brain is trying to find a happy medium of activity.  I'm doing my best to concentrate on the 'little' things that I can work on, like simply healing.  For example, because of my medication, I've gained a substantial amount of weight in a very short amount of time.  So, today, I did twenty minutes of exercise.  An hour was impractical because of an injury and the heat, but I also didn't let those reasons stop me completely.  Physically, I won't see that effort for quite some time.  Mentally, I feel better today and just today.

So, I'll try to stick to small accomplishments and be genuinely happy with the results.  If I don't set the bar as damned high as I usually do, maybe I won't be completely crippled.

Fly Away

Two steps forward and three steps back.  It feels like I've been struggling really hard for the past six months.  Every time I pick myself up, I fall flat on my face.  "Ask for help," I'm told.  Ask for help from whom?  The people rolling their eyes because I stumbled yet again?  That doesn't exactly seem safe.  Neither does asking for help from people who caused me to build the four foot steel cage that I cherish around me.  "Break down your walls!"  No.  No, thank you.  I built these walls to protect myself from people like you for thirty-plus years.  They aren't coming down anytime soon.  And, seriously, telling me point-blank that the "cycle continues" is a) uninformative and b) completely unhelpful.

For those who have read this blog in the past, you must be able to tell how up and down things have been for a year.  One blog might be upbeat, two blogs might be rambling messes.  I'm finally starting to understand the chemical components to this disorder and I try not to beat myself up for the way that I behave.  But don't misconstrue that - I beat myself more in a day than any of you could do in a lifetime.  My words are harsher and the scars I leave are deeper than you could ever dream.  The next time you want to roll your eyes at me, save yourself the energy.

 I have such a fondness for the song "Hate Me" by Blue October.  I honestly wish that I had the capacity to do something so hurtful that people walked away, never to look back.  There would be no more frustration, no more tears, no more sadness... just hate me today so I'll stop dragging you down.

But the song that's in my head tonight is "Fly Away" by Poe...

Fly away, sweet bird of prey

Fly, fly away

I won't stand in your way

Sweet bird, if you knew the words

I know that you'd say: fly, fly away

 I suppose it doesn't matter any more.  "Did you hear?  He's in the hospital again."  "Yeah, figures."  People will always be waiting for the other shoe to drop and I can't change that.  Though, if ignoring those comments and those people means I'll keep my head on straight, then I guess the choice is pretty easy.  Sad, but easy.

 

Phoenix Rising

Permit me to be overly dramatic.  The subject has come up several times in the past few days (coincidence?) ...

Everyone knows the tale of the phoenix.  It's simple, yet powerful, and the imagery is often enough to spark the motivation for change.  The mythology weaves through a variety of cultures, from Greek to Roman, Egyptian to Japanese.  Early Christianity used it extensively, often to symbolize the resurrection of Christ.

The phoenix was an ancient bird with brilliant red and purple plumage, with regenerative and restorative powers, depending on the tale you're reading.  It lived for hundreds of years.  At the end of its lifespan, it would build a nest - some say of cinnamon twigs, others say with fragrant berries - which it would then ignite in a fearsome blaze.  The phoenix would burn alive, taking with it everything around, until only fire and ash remained.  And from that fire and ash, a phoenix would rise, beginning new life from old.  A fresh start.

For me, the symbol of the phoenix is one of strength and hope.  In a shattered sea of chaos, we can climb out, begin anew, changed and tempered.  But...

The phoenix incinerates its old self, including its nest.  Only the phoenix can escape its own destruction.  Its resurrection comes at a steep price and reminds me of the heartache that we face as we struggle to change, sometimes leaving what and who we knew behind.  As we with mental health issues work to become better human beings, risen from the shells that we were trapped in, we sometimes have to make sacrifices that are extremely painful.  We're changing, starting over, but this doesn't mean that those around us are willing to do the same.  We burn our homes, our securities, our relationships, all our bridges...  it hurts so deeply that it feels like there's no escaping the flames.  Everyone seems to suffer.  Everything seems to disappear.

But eventually we rise, hopefully with fresh eyes and a wizened perspective.  It's certainly scary, losing it all and being born again.  That's why it's important for us to look around for a fellow phoenix.  Only a phoenix can know how another is feeling emotionally and understand how it felt to burn.  Intense connections can form in a matter of days, hours, or even minutes.  We empathize, not just sympathize, and can lean on each other as we build new lives.  Again - build new lives, NOT rebuild.  Our old lives are gone and I wouldn't want to rebuild mine anyway.

And so, I dedicate this to my fellow phoenix who have been lifted from their own hurt to start life again.  You've provided me with support, understanding, and (most of all) a non-judgmental shoulder to rest my head upon.  Because of you, I'll keep rising.

And a Happy New Year

2012 was less than stellar.

Easily, the past year was one of the hardest I've ever had to face.  I saw the loss of my license due to seizures, legal problems because of the former, the loss of a wonderful job, numerous (and I mean NUMEROUS) hospital stays, my first surgery, psych wards, and a difficult to face mental health diagnosis that brought with it a roller coaster ride of medications.  Top it all off with hurt feelings, disappointment and heartache and you have a major suck-pill of a year.  So when people tell me not to dwell on the negative, it's hard not to tell them to shove it in inappropriate, naughty places.

But I'm still standing.  Within all that negativity, there was some shining positivity...

• I AM still standing.  To be honest, I'm surprised that I am upright.  After countless hospitalizations and mental health wards, I'm here and ready to tackle 2013;
• I was finally diagnosed correctly.  Years of unspecific diagnoses and incorrect medication and I finally met a few doctors who got it right.  Now that I know what I'm up against, I can make a game plan to tackle it;
• If not for one seizure, snowballing into job loss, I wouldn't have found out that I have bipolar disorder.  The job was incredible, but I'm useless if I don't get healthy first;
• New friends and old!  I met some truly amazing, strong people in 2012.  I have people in my life that understand, truly understand, what I'm going through.  Whether it be by phone, text, or e-mail, I ended the year with a team of friends that will listen to me and give me the kind of true support that I need.  Better still, I love being an ear when they need help, too.  One in particular texts me on a regular basis, just to check in, and it makes me smile every time I hear that message chime; and
• Kinship with my family... who I know I've hurt more than once.  When I look back on the previous year, the first thing that comes to mind isn't the bad.  It's the nighttime bonfire, the fun cookouts, going to the movies with my sister, the breakfasts, and walking that long walk into school with my son's hand in mine.  I couldn't ask for more.

What's next?  I have absolutely no idea and it scares me a bit.  Maybe school to find new direction?  Possibly some volunteer work to let others know that they're not alone in this mess either?  I'm not sure.  What I do know is that, if I'm to survive this, there will need to be a lot of change and pride swallowing in the upcoming 365 days.

With that, I wish everyone a very Happy New Year and I thank you for all of your support.  May you and your families find health and wonderful happiness in 2013.

Have a Little Faith

Faith is believing in something when there's absolutely no proof that you should.  It's putting your "better" judgment aside and surrendering yourself to the idea that the icon of your belief is really there.  Everyone knows what it means in the religious sense, but God (or whoever) is not the only entity in which we can have faith.

Recently, it was suggested to me by a counselor that I need to start looking beyond myself for help in dealing with my disorder(s).  He is a deeply religious man and his biblical quotes were slightly off-putting, but something he said struck me.  He told me that I needed to have faith in my family.  Often, I am the last to see the changes occurring in my own body chemistry.  My parents, especially, notice these changes right away.  I may be more agitated than usual; snippier, cynical, aggressive.  On the other hand, I also may be calmer and more at ease.  I'm active and can tolerate social situations that normally tend to send me running.  My moods may be affected by my medications or they simply may be due to the chemicals flowing incorrectly in my head.  Whatever is causing them, they seem 'normal' to me.  My brain, my world, making it difficult for me to catch or notice.  Therefore, I need to rely on others' assessments of my attitude and seek help when that attitude is faulty.  I need to have faith that their criticisms are correct.

And that's the problem - criticism.  No one wants to be criticized, even if that criticism is constructive.  I have a huge problem taking criticism, more than most, because I've always done things solo.  I had to!  Whether it be at school or work, people relied that I could and would handle things by myself.  I never knew what kind of response I would receive if I asked for help and, well, I didn't bother.  And so, being criticized meant the onus fell completely on my shoulders.  There was no one else involved to share the blame.

But times have changed.  The problems I've faced have grown far beyond what I can handle.  When I do try to handle them, I'm finding that I fail miserably.  I never believed that there would be something that I couldn't face alone.  Who wants to admit that their brain is short-circuiting physically?  Who wants to admit they can't tackle the horror show of addiction?  And who wants to admit that they're scared?  I've made great strides, but it feels like there's still a long way to go.

I don't feel that God is watching over me or that He'll get me through these troubles.  Strictly my opinion, I feel that, if there is truly a God that put us here on Earth, then He gave us strengths and limitations and said, "Go to it."  Therefore, my trust needs to be in my family and friends.  When I'm criticized, I need to take a breath and remind myself that they're only telling me these things because they care and want the best for me.  As the year comes to a close, faith becomes a priority on my resolution list.

Amen.

Extremely Split

I'm dedicating this entry to the clarification of a couple things - hypomania and depression.  Recently, I've had discussions with a few peers regarding how difficult it can be to explain to others, those without mental disorders, how damaging these can be and how little control we have over them.  "Normal" people simply don't understand and will never understand how physically and mentally debilitating it can be to experience mania or depression.  Compared to psychosis, they're more treatable, but I'd like to leave psychosis and the more ravaging mental disorders out of the conversation for now.  Very often, I look to the sky and give a silent Thanks for having been dealt the bipolar hand.

This is the best definition that I could find for hypomania, from Mosby's Medical Dictionary.

Hypomania:  a  milder degree of mania characterized by optimism; excitability; energetic, productive behavior; marked hyperactivity and talkativeness; heightened sexual interest; quick anger and irritability; and a decreased need for sleep. It may be observed before a full-blown manic episode.

I'll also add that this is seen in Type II bipolar, whereas Type I is full-on mania.  The reason I chose this definition is because it's the only definition I could find that gave both sides of hypomania - the good and the bad.  Being hypomanic is one of the best feelings in the world, I won't lie.  It's on par with a sexual climax, hands down.  While being around me during these episodes might be trying, I feel really damn good!  I don't stop talking, I interrupt constantly (and spend a lot of time apologizing for it), I could clean a mansion twice-over in a day, I don't need sleep, and activities are suddenly incredibly fun.  I'll play the guitar until my fingers bleed and then keep going.  Unfortunately, the downside is no fun at all.  If my energy is up and someone asks me to do something that wasn't on my agenda, my anger and irritability soars screamingly high.  I'm snide, sarcastic, and cynical.  If you aren't doing something my way, then you're doing it wrong.  WRONG, ALL WRONG!!  Worse, hypomania wants instant gratification, which is why people with bipolar disorder binge.  I overeat, I overspend, and I most definitely overindulge in alcohol.  It's not a thought - it's a feeling.  My body wants MORE and will do anything to get it.  One way or another, it's going to happen.  Also, if your energy shoots up and you don't do something to expend it quickly enough, then it can trigger terrible anxiety episodes that will mimic depression, below.  Essentially, you have so much stored energy that it disables your kinetics and you end up watching Netflix for twelve hours straight with two half gallons of ice cream and a bottle of cheap vodka on your lap.  It's no joke and no amount of willpower is going to get your ass moving again.  Seriously.

Depression:  a psychiatric disorder characterized by an inability to concentrate, insomnia, loss of appetite, anhedonia, feelings of extreme sadness, guilt, helplessness and hopelessness, and thoughts of death.

Of course, this is only one definition, found in the American Heritage Medical Dictionary.  Often times, people who are experiencing sadness or grief, feeling "low", say that they're depressed and they are absolutely right.  They are depressed!  The problem, in my opinion, is that it's so overused.  Yes, you're depressed, but are you crippled by it?  Are you lying in bed, unable to move, crying for no reason, wondering which knife in your kitchen drawer would make the best cut?  It's in this state that others are most likely to tell you to get up and get your act together, not knowing that it isn't physically possible to do so.  Depression doesn't just affect your mind.  It gets you all over, paralyzing your muscles.  You might think I'm exaggerating and, if you do, you're wrong (all wrong!!).  I consider myself very lucky to have only experienced a handful of major depressive episodes in my life, most of which were triggered by meds.  But I can tell you from firsthand experience that it's awful, wretched, and all-around sucky.

I suppose I wrote this as an analysis to myself, to see it in front of me and work out a few swirls in my head.  I must must must continue on the path that I'm currently on, take my meds without fail or modification, and be patient with myself should I stumble.  Medication will never cure the disorder, but it will prevent the extremes from occurring... meds soften the blows, so to speak.  Because it's so dynamic, though, it could take a year just to find the right combination.  And that's not to say that combination will be right for me the next year!  Thankfully, one of the biggest benefits of medication is that my awareness of these states is heightened, giving me momentary clarity in the worst of times that they're happening.  Finally, I can see it and my automatic thinking (basically, thinking without thinking) can be interrupted.  Sometimes it's 'too little, too late', but practice practice practice.  One day, I'll get it.  I know I'm rehashing a lot of this, but I have to.  I must.

Final note: if anyone knows Allie from Hyperbole and a Half (click the link, you'll love it), she wrote a humorous, yet very real, blog about her own depression.  Allie, you'll never read this, but I hope you're getting better...

Jon the Reevaluator

Ten bucks to the first person who gets that remarkably loose reference.  I think I have a monopoly board somewhere, though it might be the Star Wars version.  I hope Imperial dollars will suffice.

This is something that I had never really considered and was hesitant to do, but I realize now that it's important and healthy for me to reevaluate my friends and relationships specifically, not just life in its big picture.  Who has been sticking by my side through the years?  Who is willing to continue throughout my rebuilding?  Who seems to be around only when the times are good?  Who vents, but then never stands by when I need to do the same?  The list of questions to ask is extensive.  Actually, I feel badly about the latter example, because I'm guilty of violating it.  One thing I've never been accused of being, however, is a poor listener.  That is, if you can reach me.  If you can't, I'm having problems and probably in the hospital....... not something I'm proud of, but necessary.  Not only that, I might call or e-mail you twenty times in a week if I'm hypomanic, then zero times for a month if I'm depressed.  Sigh.

Back to friends and relationships (and I include family in this), some incredibly caring people reached out to me when they found out what was going on.  Others bit me in the ass, one in particular.  The ones who cared did so in ways that may seem minor to them, but are huge to me.  Whether it be a text message, Facebook e-mail, comment on a post... they all had the same underlying conveyance - I'm here for ya, buddy.  I was surprised with a couple of visitors while on MHU, as well.  When I heard that I had my first visitor, I almost broke my nose tripping over a chair trying to get to him.  These are things they didn't have to do.... they just did and it made a world of difference to my anxiety level on those days.  And for you friends who have sent me Facebook shout-outs over the last, astoundingly difficult year - THANK YOU.  I may not always respond or I might be quick, but please know that you're part of the reason I keep finding the strength to get back up.

Like I said, others have bitten me in the ass, and not in the "Ooooooo... naughty!" kind of way.  As mentioned in my last entry, where I went to mentally and emotionally, I don't wish upon the worst of my enemies (not that I have any... phew).  I saw a way out - not the way I wanted.  If I had awoken the next morning, gotten up and said, "AH!  All better!", then I might understand a few raised eyebrows.  But I didn't.  I was stuck down in that hole and I needed some serious professional assistance to climb out.  Now, if you're disappointed with that, then I can understand.  It must be so tiring for my family, especially, to deal with my absences over and over again.  But if you're a friend who's taking it as a personal affront that I landed in a psych ward and won't stand by me through that, then... well... you aren't a friend.  Not only are you not a friend, I don't WANT you as my friend.  You have nothing to offer me and I can't give you what you're after.

I'm tired, too, folks.  I don't know how much gas I have left in the tanks.  And if I don't have the stamina for MY drama, then I certainly don't have the stamina to be dragged into YOUR drama.  I look into the mirror and I see a guy who is now too old and too worn out for junior high antics.  I won't participate in them anymore.

Priorities change.  My energy needs to be spent on those willing to spend the same on me.  To those who have reached out or would reach out, you are truly in my heart.

The Importance of Being Earnest

When it comes to mental health, you need support.  Now you say, "Thank you, Mr. Obvious."  More importantly, you need to click with that support.  If you don't, then it's also your responsibility to seek additional resources.  I did not do that.  No, I gave my psychiatrist another chance because he has a good reputation and I felt badly about dumping him.  And that landed me in another mental health ward.

Several months ago, I was prescribed a medication regimen that finally worked.  Woot!  A month and a half ago, this man prescribed medication on top of the original cocktail that did not work.  Toow?  It was as if two worlds collided and formed a black hole.  Rather than help, it tanked my brain and sent me to a very, very dark place and I would strongly prefer not to revisit.  It was a place I never thought I'd see and it was shocking... SHOCKING.  Like, 'lock me up in this ward please' shocking.

Unfortunately, these things happen and it's one of the reasons Type 2 Bipolar has a 20% mortality rate.  20% sounds unbelievably large, and it is, but that's just one statistic and it factors in all sorts of things, including substance abuse and overdose.  Regardless, figure that one in five people with BP might be going out the hard way.  All it takes is a small tweak of medication and you're done.  For me, who is already sensitive to prescriptions, it was dumping a third mood stabilizer on top of two others and, rather than stabilize my mood, it tore it to pieces.  I'm not blaming that completely on the medication.  I think I was still adjusting to feeling good... which must sound odd.  It's alien to me.  Every time I start to feel really, really good, I do something really, really stupid.  And the additional stabilizer was like that first domino.  Tip.  Tip tip.  TIP TIP TIP TIP TIP TIP TIP.

I won't be seeing this psychiatrist anymore.  You can't prescribe medication in my case and say, "See you in a month and a half."  Bipolar (and many MH disorders) is dynamic... what's working one week may not work the next.  You need to be incredibly aggressive in its treatment, especially with people who are rapid cycling.  It's also up to me to learn how to recognize the subtleties in my own body chemistry and catch them before they become huge problems.  It's DIFFICULT.  Hell, sometimes it just feels like gas.  It scares me that I may have to go through this over and over again before I catch these things.  But I'm still standing, so far.

Finally, I learned more about intentions.  My intentions, as they've been for years, were pure.  Truly.  But my intentions are so skewed with this disorder.  I intended to take my meds everyday.  Hmm... though something was off.  So I intended to make good and not take my meds.  Oof.  But that's not right either.  So I intended to double my meds the next day, because that should fix things.  Ugh, now I'm on my floor crying.  What the @#%?!  Should I triple them now?  Or not take them for two days and then quadruple the fourth?

Phbbt.  How do you catch a feeling or a thought when it's yours and your light-switch-brain only has two settings?  My brain is either On or Off, when most brains have a dimmer.  I'm still working on it and my intention today is to continue.

Maybe I should write this on a card and stick it to my forehead.

My Two Dads?

Note: this is about the most influential men in my life and the only two people who, more than likely, won't read this...

Before I post my entry about my first, large bipolar 'low' since starting new medication, I'd like to share this.  It's going to be easier to write and it's been a long time coming.  It was prompted due to a recent, vivid dream... the kind that you have when you're withdrawing from a chemical.  They're sometimes scary, but always poignant and intense.

Six people were sitting in a fairly ordinary living room - me, my mother, my sister, my step-father, my real father, and his new, rather young son.

The conversation was terse and tense, with many pauses, and the specifics aren't necessary.  My father, who I haven't seen since my wedding thirteen years ago (one week will mark it), returned to the area from god-knows-where, to introduce his boy to the family.  In that aloof manner of his, perhaps he'd forgotten that we hadn't spoken in thirteen years or that he came to my graduation, but not my sister's.  Maybe he thought that his three failed marriages had no effect on his first-born children.  I'm sure the fact that he left my family when I was three and my sister had just been born had no bearing on the situation.  He certainly hasn't been around for my psych issues.  And, most important to me, he has yet to meet my son, his natural grandson.  No, he was there to introduce his other son - real in my dream, but I'm sure imaginary.

Again, the conversation specifics aren't important.  I pointed out the above and mostly slammed the man for abandoning my family and especially neglecting my sister.  Maybe he didn't know how to relate to her, but, damn it, you try.  While I seemed to be the star of my dream-show, I think the person who shined was my step-father.

Here's a man who's had a hard life, with parents that hated each other, living in a community that seems rather strange to me.  He drank early and had a tough run.  Picking up the pieces of a family that were left by another, he entered it as an alien and coped very poorly.  Frankly, he hurt us with those coping skills and they left scars, visible even today.  As I said, though, you try.  And try he did.  He worked years at a tireless, mundane job to support us.  He also supported us as his wife was sick.  All the while, attempting to fix his own past and similar mental health problems that plague me today.  He had good attempts and very, very bad attempts.  Those bad attempts were terrible for the family.  But he tried and we got through it.

The climax of this dream was when my step-father stepped forward and tore into my father, feeling that my own message wasn't enough.  He even went as far as kicking my father out and things got very heated.  I hit my step-father to stop him because I knew that my father was already leaving, hurt and confused.

I have been struggling for years with both a substantial mental health issue and alcohol abuse.  I've needed guidance and support.  Most of my family has given that support and I thank them immensely.  I'm trying my damnedest, for me and my own little boy.  I don't want him to go through what I have or see what I've seen.  It's a dark and horrible road to travel alone, and I need him to have a strong Figure behind him should, god forbid, he suffer similar problems.  I need him to have Dad.  Through everything, the one person that's struggled in support of me, seemingly, is my step-father.  Even though he's gone through it all, years ago, when I slip or make poor decisions, he takes it personally.  Sometimes he doesn't talk to me for a while, but he usually comes around.  Bottom line, he tries.  He's not always successful, but he's got the one, true quality that I've asked for in a father - he's present, for better or worse.

Today, when I say Dad, there's only one man I'm referencing.