Over the last 9 years, my daughter and I have had to work especially hard to find ways to connect when I’m completely disconnected. In any relationship, taking the time to bond with one another is obviously critical, but when you deal with chronic depression, you often can’t even find the motivation to get out of bed, let alone do something with someone else. We thought it might be nice to share what we’ve discovered to see if it helps anyone else! Read More
Quick little off-day post here. Yesterday marked the one year anniversary of my concussion. For those that don’t know, I was cuddling with my daughter in her room when I managed to snap my head back into the windowsill. I was completely stunned for five minutes, unable to speak. Ten minutes later, I was sobbing uncontrollably. Ten minutes after that, I was slurring my words and unable to stand.
One ER visit later, I was sent home with a clean brain scan and the comment that I’d probably given myself a “mild” concussion.
I basically woke up 3 days later. Read More
Well, I did it. I made it through my first day back at work after over a month away. In some ways, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d expected, but in some ways, it was a little worse. Everyone seemed to be pretty happy to have me back, which definitely made my heart soar. Obviously, after a month, there were some questions to answer, though.
First and foremost: “Are you feeling all better?” (Or the alternative statement of “glad to see you’re all better.”) This question is always closely followed with “Where have you been?” or “What was wrong?” If I hadn’t spent the last week or so rehearsing my answer, those two questions alone would be enough to make a giant pot of anxiety soup. As it was, it was still a little nerve-wracking to have to shoot them down at the first question and explain why the thought of “all better” is all wrong. Follow that up with explaining where I’d been and suffice to say, it was a long half day.
Why is “all better” all wrong?
Well, when you’re dealing with a chronic illness (mental or physical) the reality is there may never be an “all better.” You can be better than you were. You can even on some days be decent, or good. But there might never be an all better. The nature of a chronic illness is just that, that it’s chronic. Persistent, recurring, possibly never-ending. And when someone someone suggests that it has just vanished, that creates a very strong misconception.
Today, I spent a lot of my time explaining that while I feel better, I am not fixed. Bipolar doesn’t have a cure, and while I might be lucky enough to never have a depressive episode like that again, even that would be because of constant vigilance and medication. Maintenance is a life-long task when it comes to illnesses like this. I have to eat properly, sleep enough, pay very close attention to my moods (and notify appropriate medical peoples if that changes), and ALWAYS take my medication. Even if I feel “all better.”
It’s hard to have to share this with well-meaning well-wishers. I understand the sentiment behind it: that they’re glad I’m back and they want to express concern over my health. For some, maybe even many, people, it would be sufficient to leave it at that. I would never blame a person for saying “yup, thanks for asking!” and moving on with the day. But I worry that if we fall on that ideal too often, we risk creating unrealistic expectations from those around us. Heaven forbid I relapse tomorrow and all they can say is “But you said you were better!”
When I answer honestly, though, it opens up a new conversation about Bipolar disorder and what it means for my day to day life. We begin to talk about hypomania and manic depression, and what it means to have your brain work so hard against you that you choose to be locked away for over a week.
So, where have you been?
There are a lot of ailments that send a person to the hospital. And an awful lot of them are the sort you just don’t want to talk about in polite company (colonoscopy, anyone?). But few have the stigma associated with a psychiatric stay at the hospital. Many seem to think mental patients only stay in a hospital by force, and those are “dangerous lunatics” or “addicts” or some other kind of horribly labeled human. Seemingly “normal” folks don’t need to be locked up, and certainly not of their own choice. Right?
Wrong. In fact, of the people I met while an inpatient, many of them were there because they chose to be. Were some forced? Sure. Were some dangerous? Yeah, they could be. Were they all there because they were ill? Yes. Every. Single. One. And the hospital offered them a safe place to figure it out. There they were kept safe from outside influences and toxic relationships, and from themselves. They had a place to learn a bit about what was going on (because many came in with no real idea why they were sick), and a team of medical professionals to care for them while they figured it out. Of the people who showed up involuntarily, many of them chose to stay and work on getting better.
Because of that, I am honest. When people ask where I’ve been, I talk about the 9 days in the hospital. I talk about the 12 days as a partial hospitalization patient. I talk about all the times in between, too, and how it all worked together to help me get to a better place. If they stick around and want to know, I talk about what it feels like to have your brain rebel against you and tell you things that you logically know aren’t true. I talk about how hard it was to decide to go into the hospital, and how my daughter cried while I was away. I talk about any of it that they ask about because they need to know.
Healing is a process and there is no shame in getting the help you need. I had a weekend of extreme depression, two medical visits with all of my family on watch, and three missed days of work before I believed I should get that help. Damned if I’m going to waste it.
The psych floor of the hospital. Healing. Getting to a better place than I was. Yes, it took a long time. No, I’m not fixed. Yes, it will probably get worse a few times before it gets better again.
But most of all, yes, I’m very glad to be back.
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Lets take a moment to acknowledge the wacky little elephant in the room. There’s obviously a stigma surrounding mental illness. We all know it. Anyone that grows up with mental illness, or has a kid suffering from it, or even a friend, knows that stigma is real. Frankly, given how many people suffer from some form of mental health problem in our world, it’s surprising that we still shy away from the subject. And yet, we sure do. Read More
I’m only a short distance into my blogging adventure and I’m realizing something very quickly… I don’t fit in here. Parenting blogs exist to show you how to succeed. They’re shiny, pretty, organized… they are filled with mothers just like us…doing their best. They deal with messy kids, hungry families, work, relationships, moves, all that stuff, and yet, somehow they manage to succeed. Mommy blogs exist on the hopes that we can learn from the masters and bring some of that stability into our lives.
And you know what? Sometimes it works! Jeez, you never know unless you try, and there’s a really good chance that your veggie hating kid will love that cauliflower mac and cheese.
That said, my parenting life is a bit different. Read More
Here’s the deal. I’ve been in and out of therapy for years. When you’ve got a mom that’s crazy (as much as I love her, she and I will both own that title), and then you start showing signs of the same disorder, you end up straight into the therapist.
Actually, to be fair, I ended up at the therapist because my parents were divorced and they were pretty sure we kids were gonna be scarred, but that’s neither here nor there.
In my time in therapy, I learned a lot of different coping skills. Most of those have gone out the window now, as science is always evolving as we learn new things. Some of them are tried and true, though. For instance, when you’re angry, you’ve probably heard that you can punch a pillow. That one’s been a standard for a really long time, and I’ll admit it, I’ve used it way more than once. Or, another anger fighter is to shred a piece of paper into the tiniest pieces you can manage. To start with, you’re burning rage, but by the end you end up so focused on the task that most of the anger has drained away. Bonus: you’ve now got confetti (which will likely make your mom angry when you throw it….heads up).
My favorite by far, however, was a love/hate list. Read More
Jim Butcher is relatively well known for his long-lived series, The Dresden Files, but he has written many other books along the way. Top of that list: The Codex Alera.
What? You say that’s a series and not a book? You’re right! Read More
I’m going to share something with you today that I didn’t learn until I was a teenager:
My mom has bipolar disorder.
I never knew it, but I lived my whole childhood under the canvas of a mental illness that I have since learned can make things hard on the good days and impossible on the bad. Now, many years later, I’m a parent myself living with the same issues and certain moments begin to make sense. Read More
There’s really no nice way to say it…it just sucks. Even when things are good (and it does happen), there’s always the knowledge that it’s only for so long. Eventually, you’ll hit the top of the hill and come rocketing down the other side. Personally, I always try to do the best I can when I’m up, using that time to get all the jobs I’ve been putting off, finished. Truth is, it rarely happens. The joys of hypomania: I want to do all the things, so I start all the things but rarely finish any of them.
For the last couple of months, I was apparently in a hypomanic state. I’ll admit, I never noticed it. For me, it can be hard to tell because it feels like what I imagine “normal” is like. I was engaged with my family, keeping up on housework, enjoying hobbies and finding new ones. In fact, no one noticed what was going on…until I crashed down on the other side of the roller coaster. And boy…what a crash. Read More
The weekend of my major breakdown, I got a new ESA. I had had pet rats for emotional support animals before, but my last one passed away around a year ago. Given my mood, when a breeder contacted me out of the blue saying she had a lone little boy, I jumped at the chance. Meet Franklin. He’s incredibly adorable and my new ESA. He’s a special friend and an added responsibility, but for me he can also bring an amount of comfort. We learned a few years ago that I am one of those that gains strength from having an ESA, and I’m particularly fond of rats.