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...
Thursday, September 6, 2007
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...
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...
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
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...
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...
Sunday, September 2, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
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?
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?
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