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.
Showing posts with label Hospitalization. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hospitalization. Show all posts
Stress
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
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.
Severe Manic Phase
I've been hospitalized for mania three times in the past ten years, the last time in 2010. This post is an account of a mania that occurred in 2002. I chose to write about this manic phase because I happened to have my camera with me a lot, and I took pictures that may help you to understand what I was going through. In this picture, I'm standing on a beach of Lake Michigan in Chicago. I had recently started a new job and was hanging out with my ex-boyfriend a lot (didn't make much sense). Anyway, he was gearing up for a really busy time at work and wanted to visit Chicago before he became swamped.
We decided to go to Chicago for the day and drive back late at night. It was a ten hour drive round trip. I know that lack of sleep can trigger mania in me, so I always try to make sleep a priority. For this reason, I was afraid to make the trip since it seemed unlikely that I'd get enough sleep, but my ex-boyfriend said, "Don't worry, you can sleep in the car on the way back," and I stupidly agreed to go. This picture was taken shortly after we got to Chicago, and I was feeling very happy and even-keeled.
I ended up staying up all night in Chicago and didn't sleep as my ex-boyfriend drove back to Louisville. When I got home, instead of sleeping, I decided to drive to my favorite part of town, park, and wander around. I didn't have any plans to go anywhere specific or meet anyone. I just walked around talking to strangers and taking pictures.
The people below are a very nice couple I met and chatted with at a coffee shop. I'm a friendly person, and I often make eye contact and smile at strangers, and even exchange pleasantries when appropriate. This was beyond that. I was engaging people in long conversations. I'm not sure what they thought. I'm lucky that people in Louisville are polite compared to many of the other places I've been.
After I left the coffee shop, I hopped on a trolley where I spoke with these young men.
When I got off the trolley, I met this man on the sidewalk.
I had quite a long conversation with these two guys, although I don't remember what we were talking about. The one with the beret asked me out for ribs. I got in his camouflage truck and he drove me about 30 miles from my parked car. We had fun eating ribs and drinking beer - by then I was fully manic and didn't take the "no drinking" advice from my doctor seriously. I don't recall any wild drinking, but I remember having a couple of strong microbrews.
After the ribs and beer, he invited me to his apartment and off we drove. When we got there, he put on some 80's music and started dancing. As I was taking everything in, I noticed he had a lot of knives on display. All of a sudden, I felt uncomfortable and realized that I wanted to leave. I asked him to take me back to my car and he did. I'm really lucky that he was a nice guy.
You may notice that, in this picture, I'm still wearing the outfit that I was wearing in Chicago. I tend to wear the same clothes for days when I'm manic.
I thought this young girl selling candy was really cute.
The next day, I returned to the same neighborhood for more roaming. I was having some religious delusions that I can't remember very well anymore. For reasons that made sense at the time, I decided to walk into my church. The door was open and I found a few friends there and had this picture taken with one of them. I was wearing a t-shirt that says, "City of Louisville - 1778." I remember that it meant something special to me at the time, besides it being the year that Louisville was founded. It seems like everything becomes an important symbol when I'm manic.
After I left the church, I walked to a park with a large fountain. I left my purse on the ground and jumped into the water, completely immersing myself and imagining some kind of self baptism. I got out sopping wet and wandered over to a picnic area where I started talking to random people and families.
The family below was really nice. Reflecting on the situation now, I'm sure they assumed that I was mentally ill, homeless, or both. They were really soft spoken and gentle and offered me food and drinks. I stayed with them for a while.
I don't remember how I landed in the hospital, but I did. I was in for a week. I almost lost my job, since I had just started a few weeks earlier, but I talked them into giving me a chance to work, and I ended up working there for two years until I completed my master's degree and began teaching.
I asked my mother if she could remember how I ended up in the hospital in 2002. She said, "No, it all runs together for me." Hearing her say that made me realize, yet again, how hard it can be for family members to deal with the instability that bipolar disorder can bring, and gives me another, in a long list of reasons, to keep my commitment to staying well.
Although I don't remember how I ended up in the hospital, I can tell you that most of my manias have degenerated into hallucinations, delusions, paranoia, irritability, and uncharacteristically aggressive behavior. For an account of that, see Relationships. I'm sure the lack of sleep and drinking alcohol contributed to this mania, and I'm sure I missed some doses of medication during the days I've described.
Sleep
Even though I chose not to sleep between those restricting hours, our talk about sleep did make me think of the importance of sleep, but I didn't change my sleep habits much. It wasn't unusual for me to go for weeks just sleeping 3 or 4 hours a night. I would often go to sleep around 2 a.m. and wake up at 6 a.m.
As a college student, I was hospitalized for one serious psychotic break. There were a few days when I thought I was going to another planet. I was making preparations and going through elaborate rituals in order to hasten the time that I would go to The Great Unknown, as I was calling it. I also did a few things I don't remember, like walking around the neighborhood naked, knocking on neighbors' doors, also while undressed, and trying to jump off of my friend's deck.
Although they lived in another city, my parents sensed that something strange was going on, so they took out a mental inquest warrant and the police came for me and took me to the hospital, where I was locked in a room by myself for three weeks, and given major doses of multiple medications. When I finally came to my senses, and was released from solitary confinement, I couldn't believe the extent to which I had lost control. I got back to normal, but I was haunted by the memory of having completely, but temporarily, lost my mind.
Near the end of my college years, I found a psychiatrist who specializes in treating athletes and musicians. She is one of the rare psychiatrists who prescribes medication as well as providing talk therapy. I told her that I was afraid for my future. I wanted to know how I could ever trust myself not to break down like that again. We thoroughly discussed the details of my breakdown and she asked me if I could see a connection between my lack of sleep and my psychosis. I couldn't really. I told her that I thought that lack of sleep would just make someone tired and irritable, but not psychotic. She then explained that I had been seriously sleep deprived. She told me that, in their training, Navy SEALS are kept awake for 36 hours and made to complete strenuous missions. She said that many of them experience hallucinations and delusions, and that is expected, and considered to be part of the training. That information provided a moment of clarity for me. Instantly, I realized that I could have more control over my bipolar disorder, and I was no longer afraid of having a psychotic break at any moment. That story gave me a lot of hope.
After I graduated from college, and began working, I realized that I needed more structure in my life than I had provided for myself as a student. I worked as a student, but only in restaurants and other casual settings. Professional environments are much different. In the real world, I realized that I would have to work regular hours and be consistently dependable and polite. It was at this point that I decided to start taking my medication as prescribed. And since I knew that sleep was so important, my medication included sleeping pills. I took Restoril for many years. An older pharmacist once smiled and winked at me and said, "Restoril is great, and it's cheap. I've been taking it for 30 years." One day though, my psychiatrist said, "There's a new sleeping pill I want you to try. It's called Ambien. It works really well." I asked him why I couldn't continue to take Restoril and he said that he was concerned that it could be habit forming. So I started taking Ambien. It put me to sleep, but it didn't give me the pleasant feeling that Restoril had. I took it every night, just as I had done with Restoril.
For the past year, I have been seeing a psychiatrist with a different perspective on sleep. She doesn't prescribe any sleeping pills. She believes that if you're not sleeping well, your other medication needs to be adjusted, or you need to change your lifestyle. I was worried after she told me that she wouldn't be prescribing sleeping pills. As it turned out, I was hospitalized for mania last fall, and was then depressed for about three months, but, since then, I have been sleeping well. I have cut down on my caffeine, am getting regular exercise, and keep regular sleeping hours. On weeknights, I am always in bed by midnight and, on weekends, I am always in by 2 a.m. This sleep routine is working out well for me. It has taken 20 years, but I have finally learned how to sleep!
Vocational Rehabilitation
Next, she asked me about my recent work experience. Currently, I am working part-time as the Director of Administration for a small chain of restaurants. I would like to work full-time, as I love my job, but the company is not growing as quickly as was expected, so it may be a long time before I will be able to work full-time. I have interviewed for two other positions this summer. I didn't get the first job I applied for, and I am waiting to hear on the second job. The second job would be a six-month contract job, in which I would write a training manual for a chemical company--possibly very interesting, but not a full-time job.
I briefly went over my resume, which includes my entire work history, with the counselor. She advised me to only list my last three positions: Director of Administration, Business Consultant, and Teacher, and then describe them in detail. When I told her that I want to disclose my disability so that I can ask for some accommodations at work, she said that I don't need to tell potential employers about my diagnosis. Instead, after the job offer, I should say that I will have some ongoing medical appointments, and let the employer know that I will have to miss an hour or two a few times a month. If they retract their offer for that reason, they will be breaking the law. They could come up with another reason not to hire me, but that is the risk I will have to take. Then she promised to get some information about the Americans with Disabilities Act together for me, by our next meeting, so I will be better informed of my rights as a worker with a disability.
Trying to squeeze in appointments with my psychiatrist and therapist on holidays, as I did in the past, is stressful, and really doesn't help me to manage my bipolar disorder very well. I have finally concluded that I need to be able to go to my psychiatrist and therapist as needed, and I shouldn't worry about asking to miss work in order to take care of myself. When I reflect on my life, I think that part of the reason it has been difficult for me to maintain my mental health, at times, is that I always tried to hide the fact that I have health issues. There were many years that I wasn't keeping regular appointments, because I was afraid of asking for too much time off from work, when I think the appointments really would have helped to prevent disabling breakdowns.
In the Aftermath of My Diagnosis
I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder I in July of 1989, after a suicide attempt. During a short hospitalization, I began taking the mood stabilizer, Lithium, and moved back into my college dorm, for my sophomore year, in August. Because of my suicide attempt, I wasn't allowed to have a roommate, so I moved into a single dorm in the same complex I had lived in my freshman year. Everyone in my new building had their own room.
Since I was on the soccer team, I moved into my dorm earlier than everyone else, because soccer practices started two weeks before classes began. No other soccer players lived in my dorm. That meant that I was living in the dorm by myself and going to soccer practice. Soccer practice was a disaster. I had been playing soccer since the age of 5, but it was like I had completely forgotten how to play soccer in the space of two months. I could barely run, dribble, pass, and shoot. I had always done all of those things effortlessly, and they had suddenly become impossible. I felt really clumsy and disoriented on the field.
My life seemed to make no sense and, in my isolation, it was easy to slip into depression. I thought of my suicide attempt and the resulting shame. I wondered if I could just do something natural that could cause my death. I came up with headstands. I thought maybe if I did them for long enough, I might have a stroke. So, after soccer practice, I started doing headstands for longer and longer periods of time.
After about a week of soccer practice and headstands, I was feeling really desperate. I bought some razor blades and considered slitting my wrists. I thought I would do it in a hotel. I drove around and checked in and out of two or three hotels. Then I started thinking about killing myself somewhere in the wilderness where, hopefully, a wild animal would then eat me, so no one would have to find me.
It finally became clear to me that driving around, while dwelling on all of those thoughts, was dangerous, that I didn't really want to kill myself, and that I needed help. I called my mother and tried to explain everything as well as I could. She drove over an hour to pick me up and she said, "I want you to talk to someone about this." She ended up taking me to a hospital in my hometown and, in a short time, after speaking to a psychiatrist, I ended up in a psychiatric unit for a second time. I was angry and felt that my mother had tricked me into going to the hospital, but now, looking back on things, I don't know what else she should have done.
This second hospitalization lasted for about 6 weeks. Each day seemed almost the same as the last. Meals, groups, passes to go outside, killing time playing cards and hanging out in the smoking room, even though I didn't smoke, because the smokers laughed and told stories while the people in the non-smoking areas mostly stared into space and watched television. My experiences with hospitalization have shown me that the point is to get you stabilized on your medication and the therapeutic activities like art therapy and assertiveness training are secondary, and do more to help pass the time than actually improve your life.
When I got out of the hospital, I decided to live with some friends in my hometown, as it was too late in the semester to return to school. I shared an apartment with two of my best friends, a couple of guys I had gone to high school with, and one of their girlfriends. There were four of us living in a two-room apartment and rent was only $85 a month each. The entrance to the second floor apartment was off of an alley, and the stairs outside led to the kitchen. If you were cooking on the gas stove and someone came in from outside, the stove would often blow out. I got a job as a cashier at a grocery store and joined the YMCA. I was making enough money to get by, and I was still taking my Lithium. For those few months, I remember spending all of my time working, working out, and goofing off with my roommates.
I returned to my university the second semester of my sophomore year, and it wasn't hard to get back into the swing of things, as I had feared it would be, although I quit playing soccer, because I couldn't move as well while taking Lithium. I just gave it up and focused on my journalism and biology classes. I thought that someday I would become a science writer.
Since I was on the soccer team, I moved into my dorm earlier than everyone else, because soccer practices started two weeks before classes began. No other soccer players lived in my dorm. That meant that I was living in the dorm by myself and going to soccer practice. Soccer practice was a disaster. I had been playing soccer since the age of 5, but it was like I had completely forgotten how to play soccer in the space of two months. I could barely run, dribble, pass, and shoot. I had always done all of those things effortlessly, and they had suddenly become impossible. I felt really clumsy and disoriented on the field.
My life seemed to make no sense and, in my isolation, it was easy to slip into depression. I thought of my suicide attempt and the resulting shame. I wondered if I could just do something natural that could cause my death. I came up with headstands. I thought maybe if I did them for long enough, I might have a stroke. So, after soccer practice, I started doing headstands for longer and longer periods of time.
After about a week of soccer practice and headstands, I was feeling really desperate. I bought some razor blades and considered slitting my wrists. I thought I would do it in a hotel. I drove around and checked in and out of two or three hotels. Then I started thinking about killing myself somewhere in the wilderness where, hopefully, a wild animal would then eat me, so no one would have to find me.
It finally became clear to me that driving around, while dwelling on all of those thoughts, was dangerous, that I didn't really want to kill myself, and that I needed help. I called my mother and tried to explain everything as well as I could. She drove over an hour to pick me up and she said, "I want you to talk to someone about this." She ended up taking me to a hospital in my hometown and, in a short time, after speaking to a psychiatrist, I ended up in a psychiatric unit for a second time. I was angry and felt that my mother had tricked me into going to the hospital, but now, looking back on things, I don't know what else she should have done.
This second hospitalization lasted for about 6 weeks. Each day seemed almost the same as the last. Meals, groups, passes to go outside, killing time playing cards and hanging out in the smoking room, even though I didn't smoke, because the smokers laughed and told stories while the people in the non-smoking areas mostly stared into space and watched television. My experiences with hospitalization have shown me that the point is to get you stabilized on your medication and the therapeutic activities like art therapy and assertiveness training are secondary, and do more to help pass the time than actually improve your life.
When I got out of the hospital, I decided to live with some friends in my hometown, as it was too late in the semester to return to school. I shared an apartment with two of my best friends, a couple of guys I had gone to high school with, and one of their girlfriends. There were four of us living in a two-room apartment and rent was only $85 a month each. The entrance to the second floor apartment was off of an alley, and the stairs outside led to the kitchen. If you were cooking on the gas stove and someone came in from outside, the stove would often blow out. I got a job as a cashier at a grocery store and joined the YMCA. I was making enough money to get by, and I was still taking my Lithium. For those few months, I remember spending all of my time working, working out, and goofing off with my roommates.
I returned to my university the second semester of my sophomore year, and it wasn't hard to get back into the swing of things, as I had feared it would be, although I quit playing soccer, because I couldn't move as well while taking Lithium. I just gave it up and focused on my journalism and biology classes. I thought that someday I would become a science writer.
Diagnosis: Bipolar I
I had been to a therapist my senior year in high school, because I had been depressed. I only remember going once, though I could have had a few visits. I didn't really understand therapy at the time, and I don't really think it helped, but my depression eventually subsided. I had a good summer after graduating from high school, working, spending time with friends, and spending a lot of time at the pool.
By the time I was ready to start college, I was relaxed, ready, and very excited. I lived in a beautiful Gothic limestone dorm, and was surrounded by creative and intelligent people. I enjoyed meeting people, and eagerly attended my classes. I also played soccer with the women's soccer team and spent a lot of time practicing and traveling to games.
During the winter, I slowed down and felt disconnected and disoriented at times, but I didn't really have a full-blown depression. I kept going, and by February it had subsided. My mood gradually escalated and I began sleeping only about 3 or 4 hours a night and I felt really restless. I had experienced this kind of shift while living at home, and had also stayed up late at night, but I would stay up late reading alone in my room. In college, I was free to leave my room whenever I wanted, so I started going out at night and staying out until the early morning with friends from my dorm, going to parties and hanging out in 24 hour diners, but I was still waking up at 6:00 in the morning, going to classes, and going to soccer practice.
I felt like I was exhausting myself, but I also felt like I couldn't slow down. I went to the student health center and asked to speak with someone about my overabundance of energy, and I ended up speaking to a therapist who advised me to meditate and eat yogurt, because, as she explained, yogurt was a calming food. I tried those things, and they didn't work, but I didn't go back to the health center, because I felt that I really hadn't been taken seriously. So, I just kept going.
That summer, I decided to live in my college town and work and take classes. Around July, I became extremely depressed. In fact, I started to feel like a ghost and I wasn't sure if I were dead or alive. I quit talking to people, so they quit talking to me. I remember sitting in a class one day and feeling invisible. No one looked at me or spoke to me, and when I walked back to my apartment, I also felt as if I weren't really alive. I spoke to my roommates, but not much. Everyone seemed preoccupied and busy, and our unairconditioned apartment was unbearably hot.
I started keeping a serrated knife on the table next to my bed, and at night, I would try to cut my wrists, but I could never bring myself to press down hard enough to draw blood. I did this for several weeks until I decided to buy some sleeping pills and chase them down with vodka, as a less painful way of ending my life. I went to different stores buying sleeping pills until I had what seemed like enough to kill myself. I really had no idea. This was before the era of the world wide web, and it was harder to find this kind of information.
One night, I took the pills and the vodka and fell asleep. Instead of dying, I woke up and started hallucinating. I had an out of body experience. I rose out of my body and looked down at myself and saw a disgusting cockroach lying in bed, dying from poison. I knew that I must get up. I stumbled into my roommate's bedroom and woke her up in the very early morning. I told her what I had done. She told me to eat bread to soak up the poison and then she called the ambulance.
When the paramedics came, they took my pulse and it was around 40. They asked me if I worked out a lot and I said I did. I guess then they worried less about my low pulse. They asked me why I had done this, and I said, "Because I want to die." They took me to the hospital where nurses worked a tube down my throat and into my stomach which they filled with activated carbon to absorb the poison. Then they told me I had to stay in the psychiatric unit of the hospital because I had attempted suicide.
I stayed in bed for a couple of days, recovering from my suicide attempt and the activated carbon antidote. A psychiatrist came to talk to me and determined that I was depressed and then he prescribed Prozac. Within a few days, I became hypomanic. I was out of my bed and all over the unit. I was talking to the other patients, pacing the halls, playing ping pong, and doing whatever I could do in the hospital, which wasn't much. But the switch in my mood and activity level was extreme enough that my psychiatrist took me off of Prozac, which should not be prescribed to people with a history of mania, and started me on lithium, and after talking to him and telling him more about my life, I was diagnosed with Bipolar I, which I didn't really understand at the time, but I now have no doubt is the correct diagnosis. If you are unfamiliar with Bipolar I, here is an article from Web MD that explains its symptoms and treatments: Bipolar I Disorder .
By the time I was ready to start college, I was relaxed, ready, and very excited. I lived in a beautiful Gothic limestone dorm, and was surrounded by creative and intelligent people. I enjoyed meeting people, and eagerly attended my classes. I also played soccer with the women's soccer team and spent a lot of time practicing and traveling to games.
During the winter, I slowed down and felt disconnected and disoriented at times, but I didn't really have a full-blown depression. I kept going, and by February it had subsided. My mood gradually escalated and I began sleeping only about 3 or 4 hours a night and I felt really restless. I had experienced this kind of shift while living at home, and had also stayed up late at night, but I would stay up late reading alone in my room. In college, I was free to leave my room whenever I wanted, so I started going out at night and staying out until the early morning with friends from my dorm, going to parties and hanging out in 24 hour diners, but I was still waking up at 6:00 in the morning, going to classes, and going to soccer practice.
I felt like I was exhausting myself, but I also felt like I couldn't slow down. I went to the student health center and asked to speak with someone about my overabundance of energy, and I ended up speaking to a therapist who advised me to meditate and eat yogurt, because, as she explained, yogurt was a calming food. I tried those things, and they didn't work, but I didn't go back to the health center, because I felt that I really hadn't been taken seriously. So, I just kept going.
That summer, I decided to live in my college town and work and take classes. Around July, I became extremely depressed. In fact, I started to feel like a ghost and I wasn't sure if I were dead or alive. I quit talking to people, so they quit talking to me. I remember sitting in a class one day and feeling invisible. No one looked at me or spoke to me, and when I walked back to my apartment, I also felt as if I weren't really alive. I spoke to my roommates, but not much. Everyone seemed preoccupied and busy, and our unairconditioned apartment was unbearably hot.
I started keeping a serrated knife on the table next to my bed, and at night, I would try to cut my wrists, but I could never bring myself to press down hard enough to draw blood. I did this for several weeks until I decided to buy some sleeping pills and chase them down with vodka, as a less painful way of ending my life. I went to different stores buying sleeping pills until I had what seemed like enough to kill myself. I really had no idea. This was before the era of the world wide web, and it was harder to find this kind of information.
One night, I took the pills and the vodka and fell asleep. Instead of dying, I woke up and started hallucinating. I had an out of body experience. I rose out of my body and looked down at myself and saw a disgusting cockroach lying in bed, dying from poison. I knew that I must get up. I stumbled into my roommate's bedroom and woke her up in the very early morning. I told her what I had done. She told me to eat bread to soak up the poison and then she called the ambulance.
When the paramedics came, they took my pulse and it was around 40. They asked me if I worked out a lot and I said I did. I guess then they worried less about my low pulse. They asked me why I had done this, and I said, "Because I want to die." They took me to the hospital where nurses worked a tube down my throat and into my stomach which they filled with activated carbon to absorb the poison. Then they told me I had to stay in the psychiatric unit of the hospital because I had attempted suicide.
I stayed in bed for a couple of days, recovering from my suicide attempt and the activated carbon antidote. A psychiatrist came to talk to me and determined that I was depressed and then he prescribed Prozac. Within a few days, I became hypomanic. I was out of my bed and all over the unit. I was talking to the other patients, pacing the halls, playing ping pong, and doing whatever I could do in the hospital, which wasn't much. But the switch in my mood and activity level was extreme enough that my psychiatrist took me off of Prozac, which should not be prescribed to people with a history of mania, and started me on lithium, and after talking to him and telling him more about my life, I was diagnosed with Bipolar I, which I didn't really understand at the time, but I now have no doubt is the correct diagnosis. If you are unfamiliar with Bipolar I, here is an article from Web MD that explains its symptoms and treatments: Bipolar I Disorder .
Shame
When I have read of others' experiences with bipolar disorder, I have often thought that they have not revealed much about their worst moments, and I have thought that if I decided to write about my experiences, I would be more forthright, so that others would know that they are not alone in feeling shame from their own strange and out-of-character behavior. However, now that I am writing about my experiences, I realize that I have the need to protect my privacy, but I will say that there are many things I have thought, said, and done, during both mania and depression, that have brought me shame, and I will share some of them.
Thankfully, I have never been arrested, but I have acted impulsively and aggressively, and I know that I have scared people with my unpredictable behavior when I have been manic. I have made scenes, thrown tantrums, thrown things, and have had hallucinations and delusions. Once, when I was depressed, I attempted suicide. Some people have compassion for someone who feels that desperate, but others believe taking one's own life, or attempting to do so, is one of the worst things a person can do.
Once, when I was manic, I was locked in a hospital room by myself for about three weeks, and I have been put in restraints more times than I care to remember--mostly for attempting to run through open doors. When I think about these times, the person I remember, doesn't even seem like me. Everyone always tells me how kind and dependable I am. When I have told people that I have bipolar disorder, they have often reacted with disbelief. They say that I am one of the most normal people they know, but the people who see me daily know that there are times when I have behaved like a different person.
There are shameful moments I will always want to keep to myself. Although everyone experiences shame, I think that if you have a disorder that affects your behavior, you are probably much more familiar with this feeling than the average person. A positive result of shame, is that it has motivated me to stick with my treatments. I have realized that I would rather battle side effects than constantly deal with the repercussions of mania and depression. Shame can be painful, but at least it fades over time.
Thankfully, I have never been arrested, but I have acted impulsively and aggressively, and I know that I have scared people with my unpredictable behavior when I have been manic. I have made scenes, thrown tantrums, thrown things, and have had hallucinations and delusions. Once, when I was depressed, I attempted suicide. Some people have compassion for someone who feels that desperate, but others believe taking one's own life, or attempting to do so, is one of the worst things a person can do.
Once, when I was manic, I was locked in a hospital room by myself for about three weeks, and I have been put in restraints more times than I care to remember--mostly for attempting to run through open doors. When I think about these times, the person I remember, doesn't even seem like me. Everyone always tells me how kind and dependable I am. When I have told people that I have bipolar disorder, they have often reacted with disbelief. They say that I am one of the most normal people they know, but the people who see me daily know that there are times when I have behaved like a different person.
There are shameful moments I will always want to keep to myself. Although everyone experiences shame, I think that if you have a disorder that affects your behavior, you are probably much more familiar with this feeling than the average person. A positive result of shame, is that it has motivated me to stick with my treatments. I have realized that I would rather battle side effects than constantly deal with the repercussions of mania and depression. Shame can be painful, but at least it fades over time.
Hypomania
Lithium prevents mania, but does nothing for depression (at least not for me), which is why I also took Lamictal (and still do), a mood stabilizer that is more effective for depression than for mania. The two seemed to balance me out for a while, but I developed health problems from taking lithium and had to try (and am still trying) new medications. I consider my treatment for bipolar disorder to be a work in progress. As new medications are developed, I might try them if my current medication is not working well.
In this picture, I was hypomanic, meaning I was in the early stages of mania -- when it is more fun than scary.
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