Bipolar Christmas

Bipolar people celebrate Christmas, too. The question becomes, what does one get a bipolar person for Christmas?

The first thing that comes to mind is a good scale. We bipolar people are constantly battling our weight. I can think of nothing more useful than a good scale.

On the flip side, I'd get the bipolar person a lot of chocolate. Chocolate creates a nice mood in a person. And we're surely looking for a good mood.

Colorful clothing. When one is depressed, one looks grey and washed out. What a better thing than a hot, pink long-sleeved tee. Or a bright orange pair of pajamas.

Hat, scarves and gloves. With this illness, exercise is recommended. It's cold out there. You'll need these.

The boxed-set of Curb Your Enthusiasm. If it exists. Laughter is great medicine.

A pill box. This is self-explanatory.

Other than that, bipolar people want and need the same thing non-bipolar people want and need for Christmas. Remember, we're not that different. Just a little more happy and sad.

On a different note, BP Magazine took another story! It's due out in April of 2008. Stay tuned. hope the writer's block is over...

I have nothing to say

I have nothing to say.

But stick with me. I'm sure it's just temporary.

In Front of a Bus

I once had a student, a girl, who tried to kill herself by throwing herself in front of a bus. She actually tried to kill herself three times.

She was one of the most passionate, interesting people I've ever met.

I told her not to kill herself.

She never hurt anyone. She was only 17. Her struggle had been so difficult. I hope she's better now. I hope to see her again.

It's just very sad that we get to that point. We must boost each other up. We must take care of each other.

Here's to caring for the other!

History Lesson

I am not interested in my ancestors. I don't care who married whom or who gave birth to whom. I'm not concerned with their travels and migrations. What they did for a living, their quirks, their lives.

This puzzles me because I'm a writer, and all writers want to know their family stories, right?

Not me. I never sat at the feet of my elders, asking them to reveal the secrets of the past. Sure, if I picked up a few family facts, here and there, well, fine, but I didn't set out to produce a family tree or history.

My husband explains this total lack of interest in my family past as a fear that if I dig too deeply into my history, I'll find it riddled with crazies.

This may be.

I think the real reason is that I like to make up the stories. I'm more interested in the fiction of our lives.

And I'm not interested in life NOW. I'm not a fan of history. I believe in living in the moment.

It just didn't interest me.

So, I may have 16 absolutely crazy uncles or 7 schizophrenic cousins, but I'll never know.

I'm living for today.

Oh, I know they're back there. My crazy relatives. This is a family thing, you see. This "bipolar" life.

So if I know they're there, I already have an affinity for them. Actually, I know them very well.

I don't need to delve into the past. It's just more of the same. Isn't it?

A break in the routine

I don't know about you, but I'm dying from this holiday break in the routine. My body and psyche doesn't know what to do with itself. I want to go back to the normal non-holiday days and weeks.

This is not to say that Thanksgiving wasn't nice, but come on...how much relaxing does one need?

And to make matters worse, it's only going to continue because next month is Christmas. This brings lots of time off for me. I've got to find a way to spend my spare time.

How did you survive the holidays? Any moodiness? Depression? Mania? I could go for a little mania right now. I came down with a bad cold, to top it off.

Now, I know what they mean when they say the holidays are stressful. You're all couped up in the house on top of each other. and you eat a lot. I haven't exercised in months.

But finally, I found a pair of snow boots for my little boy.

I hope you survived this big holiday. Let's gear up for the next one...

One of the Secrets of Life

One of the secrets of life is knowing when to say yes and when to say no.

Think about it. If one had absolute clarity, one would always make the right decision. How many times have I said no and regretted it?

Or said yes, and regretted it.

Let us pray for clarity.

Happy Thanksgiving, Everyone

I'm so grateful because I'm going to be teaching high school students next semester.

I'm so grateful because i'm sharing a meal with my family and friends.

I'm so grateful because i have a few minutes to write while my son is asleep.

I'm so grateful for pie.

My husband is away. He went to Rhode Island to see his family. So it's just me and dog and toddler.

The house looks decent.

turns out, i had to crack my prozac bottle. are any of you depressed like I am? thank God for prozac.

i'm running low on ideas. what do you'all want to read about? i told myself that this blog would be about bipolar illness. so far i've stuck to my guns. i don't want it to be about my general comings and goings.

my heart goes out to those who are depressed this holiday. pamper yourself. take a hot bath. watch some good t.v.

my heart goes out to those of you who are alone. if so, put some Christmas music on and try to stay focused.

be good,

laura

Suicide

Yesterday, we were sitting around at my brother's 50th birthday party, talking about suicide. Someone said he thought suicide could be noble. Another person said that suicide was cowardly. I said nothing because I thought neither were true.

For me, suicide can be the result of a deep depression. The illness makes you want to take your life. You feel dead; what's taking it one step further?

Our friend's father committed suicide. He was 85, and he was just beginning to fail. He was supposedly in good mental health, but he just didn't want a long drawn out illness to take him out of this life. While he was still relatively healthy, he shot himself.

Suicidal feelings often come with bipolar illness. Most of you reading this post have probably felt suicidal at one point or another.

So what keeps us from doing it?

I like to remind myself that feelings aren't permanent. They come and go. I also think of my family when I feel that way. I think of abandoning my son, and I don't want to do it.

Everyone should write him/herself a letter when he/she feels extremely healthy. In it, he should write to his depressed self and give himself a pep talk; the letter should talk the person out of wanting to commit suicide.

A list of all the things that make life worthwhile.

What would be on my list?

My best friend's face. Greek olives. My husband's laughter. My mother's advice. My son's little voice. My brother's teasing. My other brother's cruises. Fall leaves, bargain shopping, Christmas lights, homemade cookies, clean sheets, a warm dog, getting dressed up, cooking, fresh tulips...

What's on your list?

My able-bodied, extremely wealthy friend who has everything

What does one get the person who literally has it all? To top it off, I'm on a limited budget.

any suggestions?

Cat Fight

I have two disabled friends with whom I'd like to do things. You know, hang out with them. The problems is that the one disabled friend looks down on the other. I wish we could all get together and hang out.

Do you ever notice a hierarchy to your disabled friends? Some people are just higher on the pecking scale. The ones who work seem to sit a little higher than the ones who don't. The ones who are independently wealthy are high on the scale.

Can't we all get along?

Why can't these two women and I enjoy each other? Being disabled does not mean that you're automatically enlightened about the disabled. This isn't coming out right. Being disabled has broadened my spectrum of with whom I want to associate. I don't mind associating with people with "problems." But disabled people are all different. Some are even more close-minded than able-bodied people.

It makes sense that some disabled people really don't like disabled people. Maybe these people remind them of their problems.

I'm going to try to get these two women together. I'll keep you posted.

If you could have been born w/o bipolar illness

I'm not sure I'd rather be normal. If I were normal, I might not be able to write. If I were normal, I wouldn't know the extremes of the human brain. If I were "normal," I wouldn't be me. I might have different problems.

I wouldn't change anything if I could. Except I'd do away with the acne and the weight gain.

Would you change your bipolar status if you could?

People say they'd keep their problems over someone else's. It's not greener on the other side of the fence.

Lithium Acne

My biggest complaint with being "crazy" right now is Lithium Acne. My face is covered with huge cysts. Not just little pimples, but big cystic acne.

I used to be beautiful.

I put makeup on to cover them up, but it just looks worse. Does anyone know anything that works on Lithium acne?

I've tried everything and nothing works.

I tried that Proactive, and antibiotics both oral and topical, simple clearasil, Avon acne products, numerous prescription creams and lotions...

Quite frankly, the thing that works the best is the cheapest remedy--good, ole Clearasil.

I'm having my brown hair streaked professionally to offset my ugly pimples. I just bought some new jeans that hang low at my waist to try to show off my BOD. Anything to take away from my Lithium face.

I would love to hear how you guys deal with this. And I can't go off Lithium. I've tried Lamictal and seizure meds, but I can't tolerate them. so i'm stuck on the big Lithium nightmare.

Does anyone have any advice?

Running out of Meds

Last night, I looked at my bottle of Lithium and discovered that I had only one pill left. Not even enough for the next day.

You know how this goes. You scurry to your medicine cabinet, throw the door open, dig around for some old bottle of Lithium you've forgotten about. Well, lo and behold, I found a spare bottle of this precious drug. I had enough to last me until my mail order drugs came in a few days.

Don't you hate to bother your shrink for a drug refill on weekends? I've heard that shrinks like the low-key, nonbothersome patients the best. So I didn't want to call his answering service and have him paged. God only knows what he'd be doing. I just didn't want to interrupt.

I should be a better planner with my meds. I should never run out. Do pharmacies give you meds in an emergency w/o a prescription?

The PHFBP

The Professional, High-Functioning, Bipolar Patient

There exists what I’d like to call the PHFBP, or the professional, high-functioning bipolar patient.
When looking at the PHFBP, it would appear that he faces few problems. He is compliant in his treatment. He is successful in his job; he may be married and have children; he has friends, and in essence, he is happy. For the therapist, this patient might be called "the model patient." In reality, although this patient is seen as a "model" patient, he still must cope with several, important life issues. I know because I’m a PHFBP and have been one for several years.
The issues are as follows:
1. Do I really need to take my meds?
Medication is a sticky subject. It’s usually visible, either sitting out or in a cabinet. Just sitting there for any nosey guest to come along. Medication also can put on the pounds. Like around 50 pounds. It’s a hassle to take it every day. A nuisance. Life would be much easier without it. Wouldn’t it?
2. Should I "come out" in my family, the neighborhood or at work?
I really want to tell people, but I’m afraid of the after effects. Will they lose trust in me? I feel like an imposter, like I can’t truly be myself. Who am I, really?
3. Can I take (normal and not-so-normal) risks?
I know that if I go to New York city, it might set me off. But I love New York city. There’s no other city like it. Should I go?
4. How do I cope if I start to get ill?
Who will watch my child? Can I work if I’m delusional? I’m in remission now, but there’s no cure to this thing. What will happen if I get sick?
5. Should I marry?
Who would want to marry me? I don’t trust my own brother. How can I trust a total stranger?
6. Should I have/raise children?
Will I pass the illness to my child? Will children be too much stress? Will anyone let me adopt?
7. How much responsibility can I handle at work?
I love what I’m doing, but I feel like I’m on a tightrope, like I might fall off at any minute. Should I ask for a promotion or stay where I am? Does more work make me sick?
8. How does my illness relate to my spirituality?
I once thought I was Jesus. Does this make me closer or farther from God? If I can’t get out of bed to go to church, will I be pardoned?
9. Will I become seriously ill again?
I can’t go back in the hospital. Someone will find out. I hate how in the hospital you can’t lock your door. Will I survive another hospitalization?
10. Should I be proud of myself?
Does my sickness make me stronger than the average person? If I show the world how well I am, will the sickness come back and bite me in the butt?

Yes, I know what you’re saying. "Life isn’t perfect." This is true. And this is my message for today. Life isn’t perfect. You can be a model (i.e. perfect) patient, but you can still live precariously amidst numerous difficult issues.

All we can do is our best with what we are given.

I'm a PHFBP. Are you?

Necessities for Surviving Mental Illness

"Mr. Jones, what we're dealing with here is bipolar illness..."

"Mr. Smith, you're suffering from acute schizophrenia."

"Mrs. Morris, have you ever heard of obsessive compulsive disorder?"

Learning that you have a major mental illness is a huge blow. You mourn your old, illness-free life. You may get depressed at the diagnosis. Your body might be adjusting to the new medication. You may feel isolated. In short, the first few months after learning that you're mentally ill aren't very fun.

But as time goes on, you become resigned to the fact that you have mental illness. And you look for ways to cope.

I've been bipolar since 1991. Below are some of my crucial necessities for surviving mental illness:

A good friend. My friend is Mary. Her father suffers from depression, and she from OCD. So she’s in the biz. The show biz called "mental illness." Sometimes, just talking to her on the phone shrinks my head. It’s her compassion.

A good bipolar cocktail. Medication is a must, I think. I myself am on four meds. Something for mania; something for anxiety; something for depression and something for a touch of obsessive compulsive disorder.

A good television show, something you can lose yourself in. For me, this is "Sex and the City." I never miss it on Tuesday nights on TBS. Those gorgeous shots of New York and those gorgeous women and gorgeous clothes.

A good psychiatrist. Let’s face it. Your doctor is your best friend. It helps if he or she is cute.

A good form of exercise. For me, it’s walking the dog and the baby. Around the block. Sometimes twice a day. Best done with a walking partner.

A good, supportive spouse. If you don’t have one, get one.

A good favorite dessert. Mine is the seven layer cookie bar. Melt butter; add crushed graham crackers; add walnuts, chocolate chips, coconut and sweetened condensed milk. Bake. Eat.

For women, good make-up. Lots of it. When I was in the hospital, there was a doctor there who thought that if a woman wore make-up, it was a sign that she was sane. This has rubbed off on me, and consequently, I always wear make-up. I’m a Clinique woman, myself.

A good car. People judge you by your car. If you drive a junker, they look down on you. Then, if they find out you’re mentally ill, the really shy away from you.

Good, nice clothes. Dress nicely. I went through a tee-shirt and shorts stage. No one took me seriously. And they didn’t even know about my mental condition.

A good pet. I have a beagle. He’s very nice to cuddle at the end of the day. I also like the smell of his feet. They smell like earth. Pets keep you happy. You take care of them, and they take care of you.

A good computer. Even if you don’t feel like going outside, with a computer and an internet connection, you can do a lot. Shop. Talk to friends. Research. Watch movies. Order stamps.
Write.

A good, supportive family. Don’t alienate them. I know it’s easy to do when you’re sick. Keep the channels open. They are your main life source.

A good, favorite restaurant. Even sad, depressed or completely high lunatics need food. My favorite restaurant is an Indian one. Raj Mahal.

A good job. This is perhaps the most important thing bipolar people need to survive. Something to do. I used to teach college students how to write. Now, I do freelance writing and teaching. You’ve got to have something to do with your time. If you’re on disability and can’t work, volunteer. Do something.

A good daycare or babysitter. You need time away from your kids.

And there you have it. My list of necessities for survival.

These things don't make life perfect, but they definitely make it easier.

What are your necessities?

bipolar scholarships

Does anyone know if there are any scholarships for bipolar youth?

One thing is for sure, they are certainly deserving. They get good grades, volunteer, participate in extracurricular activities AND battle a brutal disease all at once.

If I had any money, I would set up a scholarship fund for bipolar kids. Anybody out there with money and the desire to do something charitable, this might be your platform.

Think about it. There are scholarships for boy scouts, people of Armenian descent, ballet dancers, football players, children of Lion's Club participants...the list goes on and on. There should be some solid scholarships for bipolar young people.

How would a person qualify? Again, he'd have to be a solid student with a history of acute bipolar disease. He should have a future plan for college and after college. He should be worthy of such an honor.

If you want to set up such a scholarship fund, you might contact NAMI, National Alliance of the Mentally Ill. They might be about to help you.

Think about it. It's such a worthy cause...

Support Groups

I said in my last post that bipolar support groups are good places to find compatible friends.

I think this is true, but I have to be honest about the rest of my feelings about support groups.

I don't like them. For several reasons.

Why I don't like bipolar support groups:

1. They're big downers. Everyone is complaining about something.

When I go to support groups, I get depressed. I have a job, a husband, a house, a child. Many of the people at support groups have nothing. It's brings me down.

2. Everyone is usually very sick.

Since I'm in remission, I don't like to be around sick people. It's funny, but manic people can actually make me manic. I would be interested in hearing if this happens to anyone else. It's like their mania rubs off on me. I generally have to stay away from very sick bipolar people.

3. I don't want to tell my business to strangers.

Ironic, isn't it? Here I am, talking to you, a total stranger, but it's different somehow...

4. There's usually no food.

I like my groups to feature food. All the bipolar groups I've been to have been w/o food...

5. I met an ex at a support group.

The relationship turned out to be very destructive. Support groups are terrible places to meet love interests, in my opinion. They're ok for friends, but not lovers.

So anyway, I really don't like support groups. You may have better luck there.

I think they're great for people who don't have family or friends. As I said, they provide instant "friendship" to those who need it.

Be careful. Don't spill your guts until you're comfortable and know something about to whom you're spilling...

I would love to hear how you feel about bipolar support groups. Leave me a comment...

The people who love you anyway...

Let's hear it for the people who love you anyway!

They don't care if you're bipolar. They just value your common sense. They're the ones who ask you to write recommendations for them. The ones who put your name down first on an invitation list. The ones who invite you to their children's baptisms.

I'm so grateful for these people who see beyond my illness. I have friends that don't think of me as bipolar.

If you don't have friends, get some. Find someone who intrigues you, who delights you. Get your confidence up and call them. Ask them to go to a play at a local theater. Better yet, take a shower, take your meds, put on some cologne and have a party.

Wait until you know someone well to drop the bomb on them. If they abandon you, so be it. Look for another friend.

I used to ask people, "Can I be your friend?" I don't see anything wrong with this approach.

Read their response. If they hem and haw...if they say, "I have enough friends; I don't need any more," just move on.

Sometimes, people are in the right mood. They're looking to take on new friends. Sometimes they're not.

We've all been distanced by people, and we've all distanced people. You've got to look for that perfect person who will just eat you up.

Try going to a bipolar support group. There, you'll find people like you. There you can probably find friends.

Good luck.

I couldn't do this w/o friends. I wish you friends, friend...

Remission

Remission. What a nice word.

When you're in remission, you can't imagine ever being crazy sick again. Maybe a little paranoid, but not full-blown "episode" sick.

You do the laundry, feed the baby, make love to your husband--and you're well. You're lucid. You're in your right mind.

One thing is for sure, there was enough "energy" with my prior episodes to never forget sickness.

In a way, I'm not bipolar any more. I'm "in remission." But the funny thing is, it could come back at any time. Mania doesn't seem to strike any more, but depression does. Depression sinks over me, and then I'm done. I'm ill.

I miss mania. Last year, I really missed it. My life was so predictable. I wanted "the joy of happy mania," not "sad mania." Happy mania is a blast. You feel absolutely fabulous. You can to anything, understand everything. You're literally on top of the world.

I missed that. My remission was completely lack luster.

Maybe I should write a piece called "the drawbacks with remission."

...

Mental Illness Literature (the real stuff)

Bored? Nothing to do? Why not read a mental illness work of fiction or nonfiction? Below are some suggestions:

Try Forrest Gump, Of Mice and Men, Like Normal People and Flowers for Algernon to get a handle on developmental disabilities. For depression, read The Bell Jar; Night, Mother (play), Catcher in the Rye and Darkness Visible (autobiographical memoir). To bone up on bipolar illness, you might try Sights Unseen; Sky Writing: A Life Out of the Blue (Jane Pauley’s discussion of her life, which includes bipolar illness) and Brilliant Madness: Living with Manic Depressive Illness (Patty Duke’s discussion of her bipolar life) as well as An Unquiet Mind: A memoir of Moods and Madness. A good, but dense biography that discusses schizophrenia is A Brilliant Mind. A great book that examines the connection between madness and racism is The Bluest Eye. Finally, for texts that look at mental illnesses in general read One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and/or Girl, Interrupted.

Safety Cages at Ringling Brothers Circus

We went to the circus today in Clevelend. I've never been to a circus, mainly because my mother did not like circuses.

This one was really good, and the best part was the huge safety cage they erected around the tigers. They brought the cage out and set it up, and then they let the tigers loose in it.

I loved how they first set the cage up and then let the dangerous animals in.

Don't you wish life were like that? Wouldn't it be nice if there was a safety cage around all dangerous things?

I'd love it if there were a little cage around the man who was going to cheat on you. You'd see the cage and know he was dangerous, and you'd avoid him.

I'd love it if there were a portable cage around the car that was going to hit you.

What about a cage around the person who was going to torment you and play with your head because you're mentally ill?

Alas, there are no such things as safety cages around the people and things in day to day life. We must face these people and things without the protection of a cage.

Our only salvation is that we get a little better at spotting the unsafe, as we age.

Oh, God. At this point, I can see no disadvantages to all the visitors to my blog. Could keeping this blog be dangerous? Only time will tell.

Danger, it's everywhere.

Stay safe.

Miss Bipolar USA

What if there were a beauty contest for bipolar girls and/or boys?

What would the talent part be like?

Best tantrum? Best medicine swallow w/o water? Longest time spent prone in bed? Most cigarettes smoked in one hour?

Would the contestants have to be beautiful or just have inner beauty?

Would there be a bathing suit portion?

Would they sing "here she is...Miss Bipolar America?

Well, I know if there were a contest like this I would have a great chance of winning.

When they'd ask me a serious quesion to see how articulate I am and how wise, I'd pipe up and deliver a hell of an answer. I'd say, "I operate a blog online, and almost every other day, I deliver fascinating opinions on bipolar illness. I want to post every day, but sometimes life gets in the way, you know how it is, now what was the question?"

I'd at least be third runner up because I'm special, so special, and the judges would see that. I'm not much to look at, but I shine inside...I have been through hell and back, and I could tell you some stories that would curl your toes...

If there were a Miss Bipolar USA contest, would you enter? Would you win? How about a Mr. Bipolar USA?

Taunting

Why is it that when someone finds out that another person is weak in some way, he decides to taunt him?

Bipolar people are taunted all the time.

Life can be pure hell.

Is the trick not to let them know you're ill?

In the secrecy of the internet, I confess that I am ill.

But I know that I am stronger in my weakness. So are you. So are we.

Are bipolar people less quick to taunt. Because we know what it feels like? I would hope so.

Keys to Good Mental Health

When I was 27, I lived in Pennsylvania and taught college. I had this marvelous bathtub in my apartment. The back of the tub sloped down perfectly so that it was comfortable when I lay in it. At that time, I didn't have bipolar illness, but I still did things to maintain good mental health. I loved to take long bubble baths by candlelight. I'd light two dozen tea lights, darken the bathroom and slip into the tub. It was my number one mental health activity.

Yesterday, I did another mental health activity. I attempted to make a new friend. I called this woman out of the blue and started in to talking to her like I'd known her for years. I thought my familiarity would work, but it didn't. When I told her I worked part-time, she didn't inquire where I worked. She was, simply, not interested.

But what is important is I TRIED TO MAKE A FRIEND. I reached out to humanity! What a better mental health activity is there?

I also righted a wrong I had committed about a year ago. I said something bad about someone to an acquaintance. It bothered me that I'd "dissed" this woman to another woman. Well, I got on the internet and wrote her an email and told her that I was wrong about said person. The person who I had believed was a jerk was really O.K.

Righting an old wrong is certainly a positive mental health activity.

What are you doing to perfect your mental health. Sometimes, the simplest, friendly gestures can really brighten your mood.

And now, I'm off to take a bubble bath...

Wired

I work with this person who is what I called "wired."

She will probably never loose her mind.

Life is explainable to her, understandable. She is punctual. She is articulate. She is a team player. She is fair. She is, above all, appropriate.

Do I envy her? Would I want to be her?

Not a chance.

I'm set in my ways. I like the intensity of feeling that comes with bipolar illness.

I guess I would not want to be "wired."

Would you?

The Audience Factor

This blog gives me what every writer, whether sane or not, wants--an audience. I am so grateful for you all who come to this site and read what I have to say.

I am first and foremost a writer. I was a writer before I was crazy. Or bipolar, for those more gentle types. I went to a creative writing college and an even more prestigious creative writing graduate school. I started out writing fiction, and then, evolved into writing nonfiction. I have been very successful writing nonfiction. You readers, you know the truth about me. When I write to mainstream publishing venues, I don't mention the bipolar illness. Why do they have to know? It's like I have a double life.

I'm not going to give this address out to just anyone.

Oh, I'd love it if this web site would take off.

I want to help people by my experience. Even if I'm TALKING about my experience.

I love being high. How about you? You feel that you can do anything! Except sleep.

For years, I was consistently manic. No depression. but finally, the depression caught up with me. after we got our adopted son. i had a real good run of post-adoptive depression. i started to see my psychologist at this time. she's wonderful. she had a building named after her. she's a really great psychologist, and i love her.

so, spaghetti dinner beckons. lots of garlic bread. salad. and meatballs!

Advertising

I looked into Astra Zeneca, the drug company that makes Seroquel, the anti-psychotic, to see if they wanted to advertise on this blog. I spoke with a very nice woman who handles the Seroquel account. She told me that I had to have about 1,000 hits a day before the drug company would be interested in my little blog.

So, tell all your friends. Come and hit my blog. Read what I have to say. I'm a reasonable sort. Oh, that medication issue I was dealing with last night--i think i really need the meds. it's not an issue any more.

it's exciting to know that people come to this blog and read about the adventures of a crazy woman. my husband told me he married me because i had an interesting life that could spice his up.

i would absolutely love it if Astra Zeneca would advertise on this blog. I'm going to start taking Seroquel after my childbearing years, which means sometime soon. Does anyone take this drug? Care to weigh in with a comment?

Should I Be a Hero?

I'm on a higher dose of meds than usual.

I feel like I should go down on my medication.

Like I'm a better person if i can live on less meds.

Where does this come from?

I guess it comes from years of living w/o medication.

Should I be a hero and go down on my medication?

Part of me feels like I shouldn't feel this good. Maybe I should start flogging myself.

Medication is so easy to forget. You take it once a day and forget it. Idon't like to remind myself that I'm medicated.

It's kind of a cheat. All those other people survive w/o meds.

I have some issues with meds.

But I am completely compliant.

Should I be a hero?

Maybe I'll be fine. Maybe I won't.

Should I find out?

My doctor gives me the power to slightly adjust my meds. I am in the driver's seat. Afterall, I'm the one who knows how I feel.

I think it would be easier if there was a guy who said, "Go down." or "go up." I don't necessarily like making the decisions.

What a baby I am.

I'm never happy.

I guess i'll stay where I'm at. Why shouldn't I feel great?

Who in the hell cares if i'm up on my meds?

(i do...)

Pittsburgh

We're in Pittsburgh. We came up for the weekend. We're staying until Monday.

Tonight, we're eating at a sports bar. It's so nice to be able to travel again. I used to get what I call "traveling disease," which is complete disorientation somtimes mixed with delusions.

I don't get it any more.

We took Tommy to the zoo. He loved the fish.

It's nice to get away. Just lying around doing nothing. Napping.

Steve just asked if the sports bar has "cubans." Cuban sandwiches we get in Tampa.

I wanted all of my blog entries to deal specifically with bipolar illness, but this one is kind of breaking the mold. It's kind of a mismash.

Maybe it's because I'm on vacation.

The good thing is: no signs of traveling disease!

New Magazine

The people who produce BP Magazine (bipolar magazine) and the schizophrenia magazine (can't remember name) are coming out with a new magazine. It's targeted toward people with depression and anxiety.

I really recommend these magazines. They're full of up-t0-date information about these illnesses. Reading them puts you into a disability community. If you write, they also offer writing possibilities.

I'm proud to say that BP is featuring one of my articles in this current issue. It's about medicine compliance.

The other (new) article they just accepted is about bipolar issues and marriage.

If I'm not mistaken, these magazines don't come in brown paper, so if you don't want the mailman (or anyone who might wander into the house) to know about your illness, you might rethink the issue...

What do we really have to be afraid of?

Not being taken seriously, being suspect, being feared, being harassed, teased, ignored, passed over

it's a hell of a fight. each day, proving yourself over and over. you are capable. you are cogent. you are capable. you are more creative than the average bear.

let us be thankful for what we have...

sleep tight...

My current, great psychiatrist

My current doctor is tall and skinny. He's extremely smart. He smokes. I remember I loosened up a bit when I learned that he smoked.

My doctor is empathetic.

My doctor likes mentally ill people. He wants to help them.

He's extremely popular.

My doctor is not taking new patients.

The Crazy Doctor

One of the symptoms of my mania in 1991 was extreme fear.

I remember I was hospitalized promptly when I got back from New York. I was in my room shared with a woman who tried to commit suicide after botching up an eyebrow plucking job. I was minding my own business. This doctor, whom I didn't recognize, came in and began to touch me. I think he was feeling my pulse.

He noticed the total fear in my eyes. I remember his hands tightened their grip on my arm. He was squeezing my arm.

I remember the sadistic look in his eye.

He was loving terrifying me.

To this crazy doctor, much more crazier than I, I say "Fuck you."

ps in 1991, I was beautiful, unlike now. the whole game seemed to be a bit sexual.

The Open Suitcase

All the Ohio people know that the weather has finally changed. I'm sitting outside, barefoot, with my new laptop and my baby, who's playing with trains. It is a joy to sit outside and work, with the sounds of birds and blowing wind.

At the height of my illness in the summer of 1991, I was in New York City. So disoriented and delusional. I thought I was Jesus.

I was in LaGuardia Airport, and my suitcase happened to burst open. Clothes and shoes went everywhere. People walked on them, tripped over them. Now, as Jesus, how to pick up the mess? I remember the process was very hard. I remember people watching me, the crazy spectacle, mumbling prayers to myself. Piece by piece, my wardrobe ended up back in the suitcase. Then, I latched it shut.

I will never forget this moment. It was truly one of the most dramatic moments of my life. I knew that people were watching me, and I had more important business to attend to.

When I'd get home, I'd set about saving the world.

Depression is Odd

Depression is odd. You can be feeling fine, and then, something turns inside, and you begin to sink down. Those in-between-days produce a helpless feeling. You know you're going down, and you still feel kind of good, but you're going down and there's nothing you can do about it.

What I hate is the irritability that comes with depression. I could chew off my mother's head.

Prozac is my medicine of choice. It brings me up to a level where I can function, but I still feel rotten. Prozac never makes me tremendously happy. It has its limits.

After we adopted Tommy from Guatemala, I got a kind of post-adoption depression. I wasn't sleeping well. I was overwhelmed. The baby always had to be fed or changed. The laundry. The dark winter. Thank God for prozac.

My father died of depression. He spend literal years in bed. He also had OCD. Oh, the black nights of sadness.

I can write about depression now because I'm not depressed. I'm not high either. I'm not even hypo-manic.

Mrs. Normal.

That's me.

What's depression like for you?

BP magazine

Sold a story to BP Magazine. It's so good that we have our own magazine. We're living in an age of useful media, good drugs, excellent doctors. It's a great time to be crazy.

When my father was sick in the 70s, there were no good OCD medications. I think that's what really got him. Obsessions. Now, there's Anafranil. And other meds like it.

It looks like some people are coming to this blog finally. Welcome, people. Welcome, readers. I'm a 44-year-old Midwestern, Catholic mother/wife/bipolar human.

I hope you enjoy this blog.

Feel free to leave a comment or two...

A Schizophrenic Person Reading My Blog

If I were a schizophrenic person reading my blog, I'd say "I LOOK DOWN ON YOU!"

Image of Insanity from Childhood

When I was little, this drug addict lived above my grandmother. We called him the Goon.

He would bang on the apartment pipes with a wrench all day and night long.

The goon is alive and well. I often see him around town. I think he's kicked drugs.

He had this crazy, goony look.

To this day, if you say "the goon" in my family, everyone knows who he is.

Diversity

I like writing bipolar literature, but I also like writing stuff that has nothing to do with bipolar illness. I'm trying to sell a plain, ole romance novel and three children's novels.

I was well for a long time before I got sick. I know normal. I know it well.

Whom Do Extremely Mentally Ill People Look Down Upon?

When we're having problems, we often say, "well, at least I'm not ___."

As a bipolar person, I sometimes think, "well, at least I'm not schizophrenic." This is awful to say, but it's true.

Whom do schizophrenics look down upon?

Forget About It

I used to have a psychiatrist who gave very good advice. His favorite line was "forget about it."

This is actually a very useful line. I believe that mentally healthy people are very good a forgetting things. Milan Kundera must have felt this too because he wrote on laughter and forgetting, which I haven't read, but should. It's got to be about the healing power of forgettting. And laughter.

So my goal is to forget some portions of my life.

I asked my husband if it bothers him if he doesn't understand everything. He said, "no."

That's another thing healthy people have. They can let a problem go. So they don't understand something? So what?

It's very similar to forgetting.

Letting go.

Crazy Body

When I get a panic attack, I get what I call crazy body. My body feels weightless, and my head feels like a gigantic helium balloon, pulling me upward. Sometimes, my limbs feel like they're floating.

This is crazy body.

My Saving Grace

Even when the pain from my illness was at its peak, I was never suicidal. I remember lying in bed and talking into a little tape recorder--how horrible I felt. I remember thinking that it was strange that I didn't want to kill myself.

I have come to the conclusion that at those times, my dead father was with me.

There is no other way I could have survived those awful moments. He obviously couldn't reach me, couldn't talk to me. He was just there with me, marking time and feeling my pain.

Of course, there is no way to prove this.

He committed suicide. I think that he didn't want me to go there.

Wherever he was.

He didn't want company.

I am not one to believe in ghosts, but when the ghost is your own father, it's a different story.

I just know this. No one has to believe me.

All the time he's been gone, he hasn't been gone.

He is my saving grace.

The Scarf

There was a time when my illness was raging that I was afraid of airports. They made me extremely nervous. So many thousands of people trying to get to thousands of different places. There seemed to be too much energy inside, and it always affected my already precarious mental state.

One time I was traveling, and I had a silk scarf with me. I found it in my pocket. I put the scarf on, and it became a magic scarf. As long as I was wearing it, no harm would come to me. I kept telling this to myself. I wore the scarf everywhere. In the bathroom, while eating a quick burger at Wendy's, while walking to gates. I even had the scarf partially over my eyes, so no one could see me. It was one of those days I just wanted to disappear.

Wouldn't it be great if there were such things as magic scarves that kept us safe?

Bipolar illness brought out my creative streak. I had to find ways to make it through the day.

I once owned a magic scarf.

And I lived to tell about it.

This Thrift Store

There's a thrift store in town that many mentally ill people frequent. The store is run by mellow types who put up with the strangeness of some of the customers. One woman talks to herself constantly. "And then in 1975, they took away my daughter." She tells her whole life story to anyone who will listen.

There's a schizophrenic guy who always looks at the bras.

And then, there's me. A quiet, passing shopper, who finds great deals for her 3-year-old son.

I have friends in high places.

Since I've been ill very few people scare me. It don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing.

It's like my mind has stretched a few feet to allow more people in.

I really like this thrift store. It's a place I can go when I have nowhere else to go.

They're good about that.

Whom I Tell...

My husband and I went to a clam bake. There, I met a woman who has hepatitis C. I told her I was bipolar. It's funny, we're both writing books about our disability.

Steve was a little upset that I told this woman about my illness. He wants it to be a private thing, but it's so much a part of me. I didn't see the harm in telling this woman who told me first about her disability.

I guess I'm not ashamed of bipolar illness. I'm hesitent to tell my students, but other than that, I'm not afraid to tell people. I mean, it is MY illness. I guess I need to speak about it. I can tell who's going to use it against me, and who's not.

This woman and I can help each other, I predict. She's a writer. I'm a writer. We're both disabled. We've both got children. There's the Rhode Island connection. My husband's from Rhodey.

She's an open person. I like her. She's considerably younger, by about 12 years. She's just about my emotional age, because I lost all those years to long periods of insanity.

Her name is Erin.

While They were publishing, I was having a nervous breakdown

So many of my classmates have published numerous books, and I haven't published any.

In my thirties, I was concentrating on my personal life. I was struggling. I found it difficult to go outside.

I guess they didn't have nervous breakdowns.

This is not an excuse. It's just a fact.

Insanity gives you new knowledge. It's not knowledge you welcome, but once it's come, it helps to add dimension to the personality.

So I'm just getting to logical resolutions in my stories. Logic. What's there on the page. Normal resolutions.

Once I wrote a story when I was ill. I went back to read the story when I was lucid, and I had no idea what I was getting at. The story made absolutely no sense at all.

Even though I lost some time while dealing with insanity, I have to think that insanity somehow enriched my life.

Pie in Face, "Can I Come in?" and Common Injury

My three-year-0ld son saw Pat Sayjak throw a whipped cream pie in Vanna's face. Then, Vanna got Pat with a pie.

This strange activity really made him think. He kept saying, "Pie in face, pie in face," in a questioning voice.

I tried to explain to him that it was humorous, that it was a joke. He did not get the cultural significance of throwing a pie in someone's face.

For him, it was a completely alien, if not crazy, action.
____________________________________

Someone's starting a minority mag in Dayton, OH. The magazine intimated that it was for black people. I wrote the person and asked her if she included disabled people in her minority group. She wrote back and said yes.

I've been admitted to her minority.

I'm very happy.

_________________________________

My mentor says that black people have something in common. They suffer from the same injuries--slavery and segregation.

No one says I'm Glamorous

Lithium acne.
Grey hair poking through "Medium Ash Brown."
Off white teeth–no patience for whitening stripes.
50 extra pounds.
Duck walk.
No make-up.
Glasses.
Thrift store clothes.
These things describe my look.
If I let my outward appearance dictate my glamour quotient, I’d be a negative 2.
For me, it’s not what I look like; it’s what I’ve done.
I traveled to Guatemala, a country in Central America, to pick up my baby son. I welcomed him, the tiny one, with open arms. I became a mother in a split second. This was glamorous–the travel, the culture, the smells and tastes of a foreign country. Opening my heart to a small heart in need. And my need. I needed a child. A mother at 41. Glamour is knowledge. Motherhood brings new knowledge. How to regulate one’s touch for such a tiny individual. How to wake up twice a night for months. How to hear the subtlest sigh. How to maneuver his arms into a little shirt. How to love another.
I’ve recovered from bipolar illness. I’ve been to the other side. Insanity. And I’ve come back. More traveling. God is glamorous. I dreamed I was God. But I was awake. It’s called a delusion. I was going to save the world. Instead, someone saved me from my own mind. He’s called a psychiatrist. And I’m back. Couldn’t have done it without the drugs. And lots of mistakes. Insanity is total bankruptcy. You’re broken into a million pieces, and must be glued back together. But you come back stronger. You are super sane. You are a little glamorous, only because of what you now know. Have experienced. Imagined.
I’m a writer. If people don’t think you’re weird, they think you’re glamorous. No one knows me. But I’m here. Observing, tasting, drinking the world. And spitting it back out onto paper. I am so lucky that I can do this. It’s a privilege. The creator said, "I’m going to make you crazy, but I’ll give you time to write." Thanks. I’m not bitter. When I have the slightest taste of bile, I swallow it.
I am a teacher. I’ve seen people literally learn to think. Due to my coaxing. More importantly, I’ve seen children learn to love. Themselves and others. Put themselves in others’ shoes. How glamorous is that?
And then, I’m a wife. I work so hard at loving my husband. I forget myself. More love. So glamorous is love.
I could go on.
This is a message to you.
Don’t judge yourself by your appearance. Judge by what you’ve accomplished. By what you’ve learned and know.
This is what really matters.
No one says I’m glamorous.
What do they know?

near miss

Dewitt Henry thought the voice in "How To Become a Writer" was "irresistable," but he did not "believe its urgency." In short, he ALMOST took the story. This saddens me because the voice is pure me. It's a bipolar illness story, a true one, set at a friend's wedding.

Well, maybe someone else will take it.

I told Dewitt in an email to believe in the urgency of the voice. How more sincere can I be?

Trilafon, Trilafon, Trilafon

This is a great little drug. It's an old one. But it can't do everything. Does not help obsessive compulsive disorder. Can't make a grilled cheese sandwich. Can't answer back.

It's a simple, white pill.

My husband is married to a bottle of Trilafon.

Not really, but it helps.

Ants and Babies

I was at the store today buying diapers and ant traps. As I was coming out of the grocery store, a stranger looked into my cart and said, "Ants and babies." Isn’t that just like life?
What I think she meant is when it rains it pours. The old adage. What else could she have meant?
This relates to bipolar illness.
When one is depressed, even breathing can be difficult. Let alone taking a shower. But for most people, life goes on. A neighbor knocks on the door. A husband wants breakfast. The car needs gas. There are no groceries in the house. Depletion.
When one is manic, you can’t seem to get enough of things. Either you want to buy, buy, buy; talk, talk, talk; have sex, sex, sex. It is pouring on you. Life. And this time, you can’t get enough of it.
Extremes. That’s what bipolar illness is about. Torrential rain. Then, drought.
Better have several essentials to help you survive the downpours and dryness.
Bipolar Essentials
A good friend, someone who will keep you from getting soggy and washing away. My good friend is Mary. Her father suffers from depression, and she from OCD. So she’s in the biz. The show biz called "mental illness." Sometimes, just talking to her on the phone shrinks my head. It’s her compassion.
A good bipolar cocktail. Medication is a must, I think. I myself am on four meds. Something for mania; something for anxiety; something for depression and something for a touch of obsessive compulsive disorder.
A good television show, something you can lose yourself in. For me, this is "Sex and the City." I never miss it on Tuesday nights on TBS. Those gorgeous shots of New York and those gorgeous women and gorgeous clothes.
A good psychiatrist. Let’s face it. Your doctor is your best friend. It helps if he or she is cute.
A good form of exercise. For me, it’s walking the dog and the baby. Around the block. Sometimes twice a day. Best done with a walking partner.
A good, supportive spouse. If you don’t have one, get one.
A good favorite dessert. Mine is the seven layer cookie bar. Melt butter; add crushed graham crackers; add walnuts, chocolate chips, coconut and sweetened condensed milk. Bake. Eat.
For women, good make-up. Lots of it. When I was in the hospital, there was a doctor there who thought that if a woman wore make-up, it was a sign that she was sane. This has rubbed off on me, and consequently, I always wear make-up. I’m a Clinique woman, myself.
A good car. People judge you by your car. If you drive a junker, they look down on you. Then, if they find out you’re mentally ill, the really shy away from you.
Good, nice clothes. Dress nicely. I went through a tee-shirt and shorts stage. No one took me seriously. And they didn’t even know about my mental condition.
A good pet. I have a beagle. He’s very nice to cuddle at the end of the day. I also like the smell of his feet. They smell like earth. Pets keep you happy. You take care of them, and they take care of you.
A good computer. Even if you don’t feel like going outside, with a computer and an internet connection, you can do a lot. Shop. Talk to friends. Research. Watch movies. Order stamps.
Write.
A good, supportive family. Don’t alienate them. I know it’s easy to do when you’re sick. Keep the channels open. They are your main life source.
A good, favorite restaurant. Even sad, depressed or completely high lunatics need food. My favorite restaurant is an Indian one. Raj Mahal.
A good job. This is perhaps the most important thing bipolar people need to survive the torrential rain. Something to do. I used to teach college students how to write. Now, I do freelance writing and teaching. You’ve got to have something to do with your time. If you’re on disability and can’t work, volunteer. Do something.
Boy, do I have a lot to do. I’ve got ants and a baby!
Not to mention bipolar disorder...and corns and shaving nicks and grey roots and bushy eyebrows and dry elbows and...

Can't Talk/No Psychologist Appointment

I've got larengitis. I had a psychology appointment scheduled today, but I couldn't go. Psychology appointments are all about talking. I don't even know how to spell larengitis. It's something like that. Anyway, I felt very lonely today. I like to talk.

Actually, I didn't have much I wanted to talk about with my psychologist. I'm in remission.

I'll see her next week.

No talkie, no shrink...

Where did I go?

I was listed on Google the day before yesterday, but now I can't be found. I was so happy that mental illness literature "came up" on this search engine. If anyone is out there reading this, do you know the finicky nature of Google? Why are you there one day and not there the other?

This predicament is actually the perfect metaphor for mental illness. Sometimes, you're "there," and sometimes, you're "not there." Where does the self go? What does it take to find the self? The old self? Drugs? Conversation? Love? Fresh air? Time?

Maybe I'll be "there," on Google, tomorrow...

The Lithium Myth

In 1991, I was diagnosed with bipolar illness. The illness came upon me dramatically. There were lots of delusions and paranoia. You could say that I lost complete touch with reality.
After I got out of the hospital in my home state–Ohio, I went back to work as an English teacher at a small university in Pennsylvania. It was decided that I would keep seeing the psychiatrist I saw in the hospital. I had a Tuesday/Thursday schedule at school, so on one Thursday night a month I drove back to Ohio to my mother’s home and saw my psychiatrist on Friday. This went on for three years, until my contract at the university wasn’t renewed. At this point, I moved back to Ohio and lived with my mother.
About this time, I met this great guy who was cool with my bipolar illness. I took him in to meet my psychiatrist who told me, "this man will never leave you." To say the least, my psychiatrist was very impressed with Steve, whom I eventually married in 1997.
Then, it was about 1994, my psychiatrist cautioned me about having sex. "Be sure to use protection," he said. "If you get pregnant, you’ll have to go off your Lithium. It’s dangerous to the fetus. It can cause heart birth defects. It’s called Epstein’s Anomaly."
The thought of going off my Lithium was scarey. I didn’t want to go back to that state of delusions and paranoia. Consequently, Steve and I usually used two kinds of birth control, so I wouldn’t get pregnant.
The thought of going off Lithium, although scarey, was intriguing to me. About that time, I wrote "Having Anne," which is the story of a bipolar woman who goes off Lithium during her pregnancy. She subsequently goes crazy. I sold "Having Anne" to the Missouri Review in 1995. It was reprinted in For Women Only, by Gary Null and Barbara Seaman. What can I say–the idea of a pregnant crazy woman caught on.
In 1998, after a year of marriage, we decided to try to get pregnant. As a precautionary measure, we wanted to investigate again what other doctors were saying then about Lithium and pregnancy. We wanted a second opinion. We made an appointment with a doctor at Massachusetts General. (We were then living in Rhode Island.)
Steve took a day off, and we drove to Massachusetts General, where this doctor kindly informed us that I could stay on Lithium for the duration of my pregnancy. They had discovered that Lithium was not as harmful to fetuses as they once thought.
Well, this brought get relief to me. We went home, and that night we had unprotected sex.
Flash to five years later. It’s 2002. We’ve moved back to Ohio. My current psychiatrist is on board with the idea that the risk with Lithium and pregnancy is fairly low and lower than the risk of not taking Lithium. But I can’t get pregnant. We are advised to see a fertility doctor.
We found doctors we liked in Cleveland. It was a little drive, but we clicked with one doctor in particular, the head of the practice. This head doctor met with us and told us his feelings about Lithium and pregnancy. He told us exactly what the doctor in Massachusetts and my current psychiatrist had told us. Lithium was relatively safe for pregnancy.
We were both tested for infertility. They couldn’t find anything wrong with either of us. So they started to do artificial inseminations.
These soon became a pain in the ass. They didn’t work. And they had to be done early in the morning due to our work schedules.
One insemination session was particularly awful. I was seeing one of the partners of the practice.
I literally had my feet in the stirrups, naked from the waist down, and was waiting to be artificially inseminated by the doctor. Well, I guess this guy read my chart and saw I was bipolar and was taking Lithium. He yelled "Stop!" Then he said, "I can't inseminate you. You're on Lithium."
"Wait!" I yelled back. It was all quite melodramatic. "It's OK, " I pleaded, wrapped up in my paper blanket, still naked. "They’ve found that it’s not as dangerous as they thought."
"I'm sorry. You're going to have to leave. I can’t inseminate you."
I was traumatized, to say the least.
The next day, after he checked it out and realized that he'd been wrong, I got a mild apology from the head doctor. He said that his partner only had our best interests at heart, no pun intended. The offending doctor said nothing.
What I learned from this experience is that some doctors have heard that Lithium is now considered relatively safe for pregnancy, and some haven’t.
Ultimately, it didn’t matter to me because I couldn’t get pregnant. We chose not to do in vitro and chose instead to adopt.
We’re now the parents of a gorgeous little boy.
Yes, I still take my Lithium.
This experience taught me to get a second opinion and that some medical news travels slowly.
It’s strange to know more than the doctor.
How many other doctors misinform their patients about Lithium and pregnancy?
The Lithium Myth is alive and well and living in the United States.
Be aware.

On The Sopranos, Nutrasweet and Bloodtests

I'm getting hooked on The Sopranos. We're watching season one. Tony's psychiatrist is extremely generous with her time. He must spend an hour with, her chatting away. Isn't this kind of unusual? Aren't psychiatrists famous for 15 minute sessions? Just to fill a prescription and send you on your way?

In all fairness, my psychiatrist gives me a half hour. We talk.

And another thing--someone sent me some spam about a connection between manic depression and nutrasweet. the document was highly unscientific, but I'm thinking of giving up nutrasweet. I drink so much of it. Frankly, I don't think there's any way to shake this illness.

Finally, I hate getting my blood drawn. That might be one of the worst aspects of manic depression and lithium comsumption. It hurts, and it's a real pain in the ass. I have to set aside a whole morning to get the procedure done. They put this rubber hose around my arm and SQUEEZE. It's so intrusive. My lithium level is always normal.

More later...

Super Hero Dreams

I've been dreaming that I'm a super hero, with super human powers. I've dreamed this twice now.

I think it's because I'm working outside the home at a local college, maintaining a three-bedroom home, keeping a husband happy and taking care of a two-year-old all at the same time (with bipolar illness thrown into the mix.)

Doesn't that qualify me as a super hero?

My needs are last on the list. I need to shave and start a diet. I need to put earrings in my lobe holes. I need to wipe the stain off my shirt. I need a pedicure.

I guess I'm a shoddy super hero.

The Winter Coat Thing

My husband and I were comparing notes. I said that there was this ill guy in Westerly who wore a winter coat in the middle of summer. Steve said that there was a guy in Barberton who wears a winter coat in the summer. I've seen bag ladies and homeless people dressed in winter coats in the summer. What's with these warm garments in the hot summer? Are they so crazy they don't feel the heat?

Suicide Piece

I've never written about my father's suicide. Well, I did write one piece. It's below:

ON ICE CREAM, SUICIDE and MEDIUMS


My father loved ice cream. Or I should say, "frozen custard." In the summer, after swimming at the lake, we’d drive to Stoddard’s, where my father would devour a vanilla cone. This pleased him. Very few things pleased him. He committed suicide when he was 52. Granted, he had been depressed, but he never really liked life. Very few things made him happy. Stoddard’s frozen custard was one of the things that made him smile.
He also liked to go on fishing trips with a bunch of men from work.
Once, I remember strangers buried him in the sand at Virginia Beach. The Edgar Casey people got a hold of him and tried to relax him. I think they actually succeeded.
I think he was a summer person.
He would bite frozen custard. He would bite into it and swallow it whole. He liked iced tea. Once my mother threw a whole pitcher of iced tea on him. They had a tumultuous marriage.
My father just didn’t know how to enjoy himself.
He liked to sit on the front porch and read the paper. He liked to take hot baths. He liked gravy. He liked to sit late at night in the dark and talk to Larry Beam, his friend from work.
He liked our dog, Trixie.
He just had a sour disposition. But he loved frozen custard. Vanilla.
I wish he were here now. If he were here, I’d make him pork chops, gravy and mashed potatoes. I’d let him live with me in our basement.
My husband often asks if certain people could live with us in our basement. It’s his litmus test to see how much I like a person. He asked about the weather man, various people we meet, the tollbooth man. "Would you let him live in our basement?"
If I say yes, my husband knows that I thoroughly like a person. If I say no, he knows that the person gets on my nerves a little.
But my father, he could live in our basement. I would tuck him in at night. I’d buy an ice cream maker and make him vanilla frozen custard. I’d supply his habit.
If he were only here.
I want to have a seance. I want to talk to my dead father, and I want him to answer me. I want to bridge the gap between life and death. I want to be the first woman to take ice cream to the other side.
It’s all a pipe dream. Where would I find a medium, a legitimate medium in Akron, Ohio?
I guess I’m just little girl enough to want to talk to the dead.
I hope I never grow up.
I would like to see his hands just once more. His big, beefy hands.
To smell him. To have him kick me out of the best spot on the couch. I would freely give it to him, no complaints.
They say a lot of factors go into a suicide. The one I understand is fatigue. Plain exhaustion with living.
I don’t love ice cream. I have a healthy respect for it. But I don’t crave it. It’s a shame, really. Most people love ice cream.
If I’m going to eat ice cream, I favor chocolate chip cookie dough or raspberry sherbert.
What are the factors that go into a suicide?
Depression is a big one. He was clinically depressed. He’d lost his job. He was just so sad. Too sad to live.
I’m not going to pretend that I’ve never been there. I have. I’ve been suicidal. But it’s fleeting.
It runs in families.
We should really wipe out suicide.
Maybe if we eat more ice cream.
We have a little cup of ice cream in the refrigerator. It’s Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Chunk. Pardon me now, while I go get some. I’ll eat a little ice cream in honor of my father. Just a spoonful. In honor of Dad. Only he favored frozen custard. There is a difference. Vanilla. Big gulps of it. On a hot mosquito night after a dip in the lake that smelled of mold. The lake water was good for your hair, so the mothers said. And in the morning, our hair would be so soft.
Dad used soap to wash his hair.
Dad, where are you now?

Brilliant new talent in mental illness literature

a guy in my Gotham class wrote an incredible piece about a psychiatric hospital and his friend inside. he talked about the whiteness of the place. his name is alan. he's 29, and he's got it. i told him to send it to Kaleidoscope or BP magazine and use my name. They know me in both places. it's so wonderful to "discover" someone. he's really gifted and well traveled in many ways. i want to stay in touch with him. i offered to edit his pieces. he's a prize...

All the stories and articles on this blog

The articles and stories on this blog, Mental Illness Literature, were all written by Laura Yeager. Some have a byline and some don't.

My Journey Through Bipolar Motherhood

One mom's unconventional route to becoming a parent.by Laura YeagerTHE BEGINNING
I was 37, and I wanted to have a baby. Because I had bipolar illness, we had to make sure that the medications I was on wouldn’t hurt the fetus. All three of my meds -- Trilafon, Anafranal and lithium -- were relatively safe. Yes, I was on lithium, but the current thinking is that lithium is relatively safe for a developing baby. So my husband and I started trying. We made love constantly, until it became a chore. After we had sex, I’d lie with my hips on a pillow. Sex became a real pain. When we weren’t having any luck after six months, my gynecologist suggested that we get infertility counseling. The infertility people put both of us through a lot of tests, and it was determined that nothing was wrong with us so they decided to try artificial insemination. I remember during our first insemination, I had my husband hold my hand. How romantic! They got to be routine after six or seven.
DOMESTIC ADOPTION
After that ordeal, the infertility doctors said we could try in vitro, but I had a feeling that wouldn’t work either. We decided to go with something a little more promising -- adoption.
We went to a domestic adoption agency. There we were interviewed, and it came out that I was bipolar. I didn’t want to lie to them. Nevertheless, we were approved for a home study. The home study began, and so did the questioning. Had I ever had a hallucination?
"Yes, I saw a head of broccoli," I said. I really had just seen a head of broccoli.
My home study social worker didn’t laugh, although it was funny.
The interviews went downhill after that. There was just no way that I could prove to them that I was sane enough to adopt a child. Anyone who was hallucinating a head of broccoli was really bonkers.
They stopped the home study process, saying that no expectant mothers would chose me to be the mother of their child.
INTERNATIONAL ADOPTION
We had nowhere else to turn but to an international adoption agency. Again, I was up front about my medical condition, but this time, the adoption people acted like my bipolar illness didn’t matter very much. They said that I could adopt from Guatemala.
We started another home study, and this time, I decided that I would be more circumspect about the details of my condition. We had to rely on the word of my psychiatrist. It became a difficult waiting game. In his letter to the international adoption people, would he say that I was able to be the mother of a child?
I can’t tell you how hard it was to wait and see if I was sane. Finally, the letter went out to the agency, and I got a copy. "Yes," it said, "she’s fairly stable, and I think she’ll be stable in the future." Hurray! I was sane. I knew I was. I just needed to see it in writing. After that letter went out, it was only a matter of time until we got our referral, and were ready to travel to Guatemala.
Then came the questions. "Don’t you want an American baby?" my neighbor asked. And of course, I couldn’t say that we were forced into international adoption because of my medical condition. "Well," I said, "we want to help a poor orphan from another country."
Someone asked me, "Why Guatemala?" I couldn’t say that Guatemala is one of the few countries that allows people with mental conditions to adopt, so I said, "I love Guatemala. It’s a beautiful county." Finally, after all the BS and red tape, we found out that we were traveling in January to pick up our baby. He was a boy and he liked to eat, sleep and take a bath.
Then came the worry of the trip. Would it destabilize me? Airports had, in the past, been triggers for me. They upset my apple cart, so to speak, triggering bouts of mania. Not only did I have to endure airports, I had to survive international, third world airports, a five-hour flight and five days in country.
The trip to Guatemala was, praise the Lord, uneventful. I was fine. We got to the Marriott in Guatemala City -- it was beautiful there, and no wonder Guatemala is called "the land of eternal spring". We were excited because tomorrow, we were going to get our baby.
The next day, we were the last couple to receive our child. He was absolutely beautiful, bursting out of his 3-6 month outfit. He was three and a half months old, and he was ours.
We took him back to our hotel room and changed him. I put him into clothes I’d brought. But first I gave him a little bath in the sink. I took a big, white, fluffy bath towel and lined the sink with it. He didn’t have a speck of diaper rash. He’d been very well taken care of.
The day before we were ready to leave Guatemala, I was getting off the elevator and I ran into another adoptive family. I said, "I can hardly wait to leave tomorrow." The woman looked me in the face and told me, "You’re not going anywhere."
"Why?" I asked.
"There’s an air traffic control strike, and no planes are flying out of Guatemala."
I literally crumbled. Surely this would spark a manic attack. "But I want to go home," I told my husband back in the room. "These strikes could last for months."
"I’d better go buy diapers," he said. "We’re going to need them."
Luckily the strike lasted only one day.
The trip back was a little harder because we had the baby. But I had no trouble mentally. My condition did not flare up. We had a six-hour layover in Atlanta. It appeared that we wouldn’t get out that night. Another delay. We did have one problem. We didn’t have enough formula for the whole night and the next day. We’d only brought what we thought we’d need. We didn’t plan for emergencies. That was a big mistake. Why hadn’t my husband bought formula when he bought the extra diapers?
Again our luck was with us, and a couple who had been at the hotel with us gave us a can of formula. Once we got on the plane, we knew we’d be home in no time. Finally, we were deplaning in our hometown. As I was coming out of the plane, while stepping down the portable stairs, I hurt my back. It was raining/snowing and the steps were slippery. I almost fell to the ground and dropped the baby! I regained my balance, a metaphor for what the whole trip had been about -- maintaining my balance.
HOME
We got home, and for the first few months, things went like clockwork. I got up at night and fed the baby. I stayed home and took care of him. We were all adjusting. Then, I started to feel empty. The problem was I wasn’t attaching to the baby. I took care of him, but I didn’t feel like he belonged to me. I went to see a psychologist who said it was because of lack of sleep. She told me to wean the baby off late night feedings so that I could get a full night sleep. We did just what she said. We used the "cold turkey" method, starting that night to let him cry when he woke up for his bottle. It took about two nights of crying, and soon he realized that he wasn’t going to get this bottle, so he started sleeping through the night.
Presto! In a week, I felt more bonded to baby. (I had been a little worried if getting up at night would destabilize me, causing me to become manic. But I had nothing to worry about because I was nowhere near becoming manic. God was with me.)
DEPRESSION
But then I got depressed. Stinking, awful, black, grouchy depression. I could barely get out of bed let alone take care of my baby. Oh, God, it was awful. I quickly went to my psychiatrist, who told me he was happy that all that had happened to me was that I got a little depressed. He put me on Prozac. He asked me, "Do you regret your adoption?"
That was a hard question. I had to answer truthfully. "Sometimes."
"Well, that’s honest," he said.
HOW I DID IT
My baby is now 14 months old. He’s healthy, normal and beautiful. People tell me he’s the most beautiful baby they’ve ever seen. And now, I can honestly say that I have no regrets.
It is clear that I got through some very hard times. How did I do it? There were several crucial things that got me through. They include the following:
A supportive husband. My husband is funny and intelligent -- two weapons against bipolar illness. He loves the baby and loves to care for the baby. When I need to get away, he takes him.
My mother. My mother comes over every day and helps me take care of baby. But mostly, she helps stave off the loneliness of staying home.
My jobs. I write wedding speeches for an internet wedding speech company. The wedding speeches are upbeat and happy and full of love and joy. They’re instant uppers. I also have a job teaching on-line fiction writing which keeps my mind occupied while I’m cleaning up poop.
My meds. I must say, I’m very glad I live in 2005. My meds make me normal.
My psychologist and my psychiatrist. Thank God for them. I dearly love both of these wonderful people. They make my condition a little more bearable.
Getting out. There’s nothing like going out for a Coke and going shopping. It’s freeing to waltz through a department store and buy a trinket.
Guatemalan play groups. These have been wonderful. It’s great to exchange stories with fellow parents of Guatemalan kids.
Sleep. When you can’t do it any more, you can at least close your eyes and go to sleep.
Freelance writing. Since I’ve been home with the baby, I’ve been writing stories and articles and I’ve been getting them published! The check’s in the mail.
My child. He’s a great baby. My mother says I’m blessed with a "good" baby. I say he’s great.
CONCLUSION
Since we first started trying to conceive, it’s been five years of heartache and joy. My husband and I now have a child. We’re thinking of going back and getting number two. My bipolar illness seems like a thing of the past.
I can tell you, I’m a lot older and a lot wiser. Raising a baby is totally give, there’s very little take. But I’ve been so blessed in my life, it’s time to give a little. I am giving back one day at a time. I’m learning so much.
But most of all, I’m grateful to be a mother, even though I’m a bipolar one.

Clown Cheeks

I’ll admit it. I’ve been to the psych ward.
The scariest part about the psych ward was that the doors didn’t lock. You’re trapped in with dozens of crazies, and there’s no place to hide. At night, I found myself having trouble falling asleep because I knew my door was wide open. Anyone could have wandered in and woke me up, or worse….
I was particularly afraid of this one guy who was supposedly a drug dealer. It had been rumored that he’d made a bad deal and had been tortured for it with a hot coat hanger. He’d been tortured all right. He scared me. He liked to stare at me.
But most of the people in there was just pathetic. There was one girl who wouldn’t stop giggling. A guy who was always crying.
I can’t believe I made it out.
But what’s even more shocking is the way I got out.
My psychiatrist believed that if a woman was wearing make-up she was psychologically fit.
One day, I was minding my own business, avoiding the smokers who stood together around the picnic table. I had just had a rousing walk around the fenced-in compound, and a fellow inmate told me, “Be sure to put on your make-up. It’s the only way Dr. Sanders will let you out of here.”
“No,” I said.
“Yes. He feels that if a woman has the wherewithal to apply her make-up, she must be sane.”
“But I can think of many sane women who don’t wear make-up.” I made a mental list of these women: my economics professor from Oberlin, the woman who took my money at my favorite gas station, my next door neighbor, the librarian at the Stow Public Library….
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “That’s his litmus test.”
Dr. Sanders seemed much crazier than I.
By the way, I didn’t like Dr. Sanders. He didn’t want to hear what happened to me in New York. I was ready to tell him in detail about how I went crazy, but he wanted to focus on the lithium and how it would help me. He was looking forward, and I wanted to look backward. But apparently, if I just wore makeup, he’d leave me alone.
I applied a fresh coat. I wanted out.
I had been admitted because New York City drove me crazy. I was vacationing in the city, when I began to think I was being followed. I thought I could read minds. I thought God was a pigeon. I thought I saw my reincarnated father in the form of a teenage boy. I thought I was a Holocaust survivor. To put it bluntly, I went crazy, and I blame it on bipolar New York. The lights, the sounds, the people, the smells. One summer in 1991, it was all too much for a girl from Ohio.
It was hard to see in the metal mirror, which was warped and scratched. No glass was allowed on the psych ward. I squinted at my face. I applied foundation, Clinique Balanced Make-up, Porcelain Beige. Blush - Max Factor with the label torn off. Some generic purple eye make-up. Lipstick, Clinique Angel Red.
My eyes couldn’t focus due to the psychotropic drugs; I’d gained 10 pounds from the confinement and the abundance of starchy, hospital food; I was wearing sweat pants, but I’d applied my make-up.
Now, please would you let me out of here?
I felt sorry for the schizophrenic woman next to me. Her hands were shaking from even stronger drugs. She wanted out so that she could take care of her two small children. We all wanted out. And I know she couldn’t see her face. She drew two clown circles in bright pink on her cheeks. They looked ridiculous. Surely one not only had to apply make-up; one had to apply it skillfully.
It showed me how little we knew about insanity.
My face looked better than hers. I was lucky. I was only bipolar.
In two days, I was out of the psych ward.
I never go anywhere without makeup.

Should You Disclose a Hidden Disability

The more one works, the more the question becomes, “Should I, for whatever reason, disclose that I have a hidden disability?” I myself have bipolar disorder. I teach college, and I make it a practice not to disclose any information about my illness. But once, at a West Virginian college, the news accidentally got out, and I got harassed, particularly by students. My life was, frankly, a living hell. At another school where I taught, I didn’t say anything about my mental condition for years, but one day, I finally did. My boss and I had a great relationship and I felt that I could confide in him. I told him, and it must not have mattered in a negative way because shortly afterward, I was promoted.As a rule and as a woman who has taught in American colleges and universities for 20 years, I would say don’t disclose your hidden disability in the job environment or at least be very wary about disclosing. Like anything else, there are pros and cons to disclosing a hidden disability on the job.The ProsDisclosing your disability can empower you. You can gain a feeling of self acceptance, knowing that the disability is not something to be ashamed of or something to hide. You may even feel proud that you have the disability and manage to live with it quite well.Disclosing your disability can help others. You can be a source of inspiration for people, or you can actually help others in the workplace with the same or similarly hidden disability. Disclosing will allow your co-workers to see someone with that disability in living color and may help to overturn prejudices about that disability.Disclosing your disability could be seen as the honest thing to do. For a person who values complete honesty, talking about herself fully and completely might be very personally necessary. Not disclosing this information can make you feel isolated and lonely.Disclosing your disability puts all your cards on the table. If you do this, you won’t have to worry about people finding out your “secret.”The ConsIf your disability has a particularly huge stigma (and even if it doesn’t), such as a mental illness, as mine did, you might open yourself up to a (covert or overt) negative response from an interviewer, a supervisor or a coworker. After all, these people are only human. Be aware that an interviewer cannot legally keep from hiring you solely because you have a disability. That would be discrimination. But your coworkers may not be able to help having their negative feelings toward you. At the worst level, these feelings can turn into harassment. As someone who has been harassed day-to-day for something I have no control over, I can tell you, it’s no fun.People without hidden disabilities like mental illness sometimes see those with them as the disabilities personified. In other words, you become “the bipolar person” and nothing more. You are simply a label, not a person. Again, not fun.In SummaryThere are several pros and cons to revealing your disability status. As I mentioned earlier, I chose not to reveal my hidden disability throughout most of my career because I lived with harassment at one place of employment, and it was very problematic. It was only after years of teaching and establishing myself that I felt free enough to announce the truth to my boss, who was a friend–to be who I truly was.My mottos are “don’t tell—it’s better to be safe than sorry” and “I’d rather err on the side of caution.” After all, your interviewers, supervisors and coworkers don’t need to know this information. No one needs to know.

Attempting to Sell The Prodigal Daughter

No one wants it, the short story collection, at the moment. The book is currently at Jeff Herman Literary Agency. He's had it for six months. It's a collection of fiction and nonfiction about bipolar illness.