Trauma

There is no doubt in my mind that trauma played a part in the development of my bipolar illness. I am not unique in this regard, but families tend to deny that trauma causes and worsens mental illness. And, in our society, we are discouraged from speaking the truth about our families. But, I cannot continue to honestly write about my mental illness without addressing this topic. I have talked about it in therapy for years, and I have come to terms with it, but it will always be something I have to deal with because the unpleasant memories will always be there.

From my earliest memories, I have experienced terror and insecurity in the care of my family. I remember being locked in my room for hours and locked outside "to play" and hosed off before I was allowed inside. My parents always put themselves and their needs first and my sister and I suffered for that. I was never treated with respect although my basic needs were mostly taken care of. If I complained of headaches or cramps, I was told I needed to toughen up. My physical pain was never taken seriously. And I often did not have warm enough clothes for the winter. I was told not to complain.

Because of my father's work, my parents traveled internationally for weeks, and sometimes months, at a time while I was left with relatives I didn't see often or know well, or complete strangers. I did not have many regular caregivers except for my grandparents who I would see several times a year. I was sexually molested by a 16 year-old neighborhood boy who babysat me when I was 6 years old. My family also moved 10 times to different states and Canada before I turned 15. I went to different schools every couple of years and never had time to become part of any community. I went to the same high school for three years.

My father was sexually inappropriate with me. He pinched my nipples and snapped my bra strap starting at age 14. He would "accidentally" walk in on me when I was showering and changing and I found him in my bed at night in his underwear or sitting in a chair across from my bed in his underwear staring at me while masturbating. Once, when on vacation in Hawaii, he demanded that my sister and I change into our swimsuits in front of him while he sat on the bed staring. I refused to do so, but watched in disgust as my sister followed this command. I was 16 and she was 14. I think she was too young to understand how abnormal this was. He also masturbated in bed on all of the vacations we went on as a family. It is hard not to notice such behavior. You can hear the wetness and the yanking. I complained to my mother about all of these things and she said that I was "overreacting and making things up".

Because of all of the discomfort in my home, I could not wait to go to college. I excelled in school as this was promoted as an escape route to a desirable life. It seemed so easy, I just had to do well in school, get a good job, find a good husband, have some children, and have a great life! I knew how I wanted my life to unfold but I didn't realize that I did not learn the skills to make that happen from my family. I didn't realize how much I missed. I was miserable from my earliest memories, but I always had hope that things would get better when I could be in charge of my own life.

I thought I wouldn't have anything to worry about because I excelled in both school and sports, was good-looking, in shape, knew how to eat a healthy diet and cook, and knew how to dress well, be well-groomed, fix my hair, and apply makeup. I enjoyed traveling, going to museums, and I appreciated art, theater, science, photography, reading, and learning. I started working at 14, driving at 16, and felt that I was well-rounded. I was even a National Merit Finalist. I didn't realize how far behind I was socially until I got to college and was surrounded by classmates who had lived in the same communities for their entire lives and had strong and healthy relationships with their friends and families.

When my friends' fathers' hugged me without rubbing their penises in my crotch and pulling me in too closely, I was shocked because that is what I had gotten used to at home--and what I recoiled from. It was also my family's custom for everyone to kiss each other on the lips when greeting and I hated this as I did not know any of my family very well, and they made jokes about how "incest is best", and the men in my family talked about having gone to the same whorehouse together as a family outing.

In college, I observed people who were members of loving and supportive families. They felt comfortable at home and missed living with their parents. It all seemed so foreign to me. I learned how far behind I was because of my upbringing and how much I would need to learn and experience before I could have a normal life. At about the time that all of this was dawning on me, I experienced my first psychotic break at the age of 19. It was a huge disappointment.

My biggest fear had always been "going crazy" but receiving my diagnosis led to years of treatment and therapy and finally to the understanding of mental health recovery and learning how to stay well enough to work full-time and support myself without having a mental breakdown every couple of years. I have had many setbacks in the learning curve of learning to live with my mental illness, but finally, at the age of 48, I feel like I'm where I should be in terms of self-care and independence. Looking back, my delayed growth makes sense because my growth had been stunted by my family circumstances until the age of 18. I am fortunate that I possessed the intelligence and drive to continue to grow even though I missed so much growing up.

Stress

Tonight, while attending my biweekly support group, one of two support groups I attend, everyone spoke of stress more than usual. We all experience relationship stress, work stress, and the stress of having bipolar disorder itself. It's stressful to think about whether or not to disclose the illness to friends, families, and coworkers, and the mania and sleeplessness that occur at times with the illness, along with the with the seemingly endless depressions, are stressful states to be in.

At many times in my life, stress has sent me over the edge into mania and depression, and has caused me to be hospitalized more times than I can remember. As people with bipolar disorder, it is essential that we try to get a handle on our stress levels. For me, medication, diet, exercise, meditation, lifestyle changes, and therapy, have helped me to manage my stress. When stress seems to be getting out of control, I know I need to do something about it. If I can't handle the stress on my own, it's definitely time to call both my psychiatrist and my therapist. Spending time in a serious state of stress often leads to unpleasant outcomes for me: mania and depression. Hospitalization always seems like a huge setback, plus it's time consuming, often at the worst times, and expensive.

The biggest lifestyle change I've made is going on disability. At the time I went on disability, I was mired in a serious depression that I spiraled into after becoming so inert that I couldn't continue to teach. I had chosen to become a special education teacher because I thought that, as a person who had experienced many years of stability, I was ready to handle the stress, and my diagnosis of bipolar disorder would give me the insight and compassion to help students who were struggling with learning and behavior disorders. I did a good job for almost five years. In fact, I earned several awards and a lot of positive feedback from students, parents, and my principal. But the stress eventually got to me and I became almost immobile and was no longer able to gather the energy to teach. In fact, waking up was hard, as was attending to daily tasks such cooking and cleaning, and even getting dressed. I got to the point where I was barely able to care for myself, and I applied for, and was granted disability.

The period before I went on disability was the lowest part of my life. After I received disability, a lot of the stress I had felt was removed. Ironically, I saw disability as a time to focus on my health. I gradually regained my mental and physical strength. For anyone who has experienced long periods of depression, it's obvious that it's physically unhealthy. Too much time spent in bed or sitting causes muscular weakness, and many people who are depressed don't eat enough, or eat the wrong foods, and the poor nutrition causes a deterioration in health.

After a year on disability, I was able to begin working at a part time job, and now I've been working part time for slightly over three years. I'm feeling much better about myself, and people are beginning to wonder why I'm still on disability. The answer is stress. It has been a breaking point for me in the past and I need enough experience with my stable self to prevent stress from harming me again. I feel that I need a longer period of stability behind me before I go off of disability. My therapist and psychiatrist have shared their opinions that I am not ready to go off of disability yet, if at all.

Although I've been on disability for several years, and have reduced my stress, I've still become manic and have had to be hospitalized twice in the past three years. And I've experienced one serious depression where I was unable to work as many hours as usual for a couple of months. I'm hoping that my medication changes and lifestyle changes will continue to work, and I'll improve in my ability to handle stress to the point where I'll be able to handle the stress of working full time. I want nothing more than to deal with my bipolar disorder in a healthy way and to live the most productive life that I possibly can.

Mood Transitions

I was manic in March and April, and then I was hospitalized. When I got out of the hospital, I had been stabilized enough to travel from Connecticut, where I was visiting my sister, to Kentucky, the state I call home.

Now it's early July and, looking back, I realize that I was hypomanic until a few weeks ago even though I was no longer in a crisis situation. I really don't enjoy being manic because my increasingly erratic behavior eventually becomes frightening to myself and others. I also don't like hypomania because it is a step toward both mania and depression for me, but sometimes it's hard to identify. In our society, we are rewarded for high energy and productivity, so sometimes what may seem positive can really be negative.

I was very active after I got out of the hospital, which seemed good since I'm trying to lose weight. It didn't take much to motivate myself to exercise and the things that usually seem hard, like waking up early in the morning, seemed effortless. I broke up with my boyfriend when I was manic, for good reasons, but it didn't really phase me until a few weeks ago, when I closed the storage unit I had opened when we moved in together, and brought everything back home. I felt a sadness and a loss of control as I unpacked and tried to decide where to put everything. I knew that I shouldn't miss him, but I did. At least I missed his companionship.

It struck me that I'm single and may possibly be for the rest of my life. I began to worry about living independently and taking care of myself. Ever since my diagnosis at the age of nineteen, organization, especially of my living space, has proven to be challenging for me. I'm trying to solve this problem by paring down my possessions to the bare minimum. The process of sorting through everything stirs up many memories and mixed feelings and living in a mess, although it is temporary, is disconcerting.

Anxiety had nearly immobilized me for the past few weeks. A couple of good friends helped me realize that my world wasn't ending, I was just overwhelmed. They assured me that I could take care of myself and helped to distract me from my fears by encouraging me to have fun and think about other things. I'm very fortunate to have supportive friends. They have both been through trying times, but have not experienced mental illness. Their insight helped me to understand how a "normal" person would think and pull themselves out of my situation. I quit the negative thinking and started to feel much better.

A few days after I started to feel better, I had an appointment with my therapist and told her about all of the mood changes and the anxiety I had experienced. She helped me to realize that I always feel uncomfortable when I go through mood transitions. Sometimes recognizing a problem is the first step toward overcoming it. Although I don't want it to happen, I can pretty much guarantee, based on my history, that I will become manic sometime in the future. Next time I come down from a mania, I can reflect on the fact that mood transitions are hard for me, and maybe that will help me to push through negative emotions and anxiety more quickly.