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?