A Day in the Mind of the Depressed

I knew it would catch up to me. The newness of writing a blog has worn off, so now I have to work three times as hard to think of a subject, write it down in a coherent way, and publish it.

It doesn’t help, either, that I’ve started a depressive episode. This may be because I’ve changed medication, which always screws with your cycle. Or, maybe it’s just my cycle. I’ve been told that depressive episodes are more common in the Springtime- weird- you’d think it would be the other way around, but last Spring was when I was hospitalized, and this Spring just seems to be following the pattern.

I thought I’d talk a little about the thought patterns of a depressed person. I can tell I’m not THAT depressed yet because I’m still able to do simple things like get up in the morning and have a shower and brush my teeth. These things become incredibly difficult for the very depressed. I’m hoping I won’t get that depressed because I am still on Lithium, and working with other medications, too.

Unfortunately, there are things happening, and thoughts passing that still verify my depressed state. Let me tell you a little about what my brain thinks about during these times.

First of all, everything requires so much more energy than it normally would. Getting lunch for my 6 year old is hard- changing diapers is almost impossible. I still get irritated at little things. Hearing the constant crying from my 15 month olds makes me scream. And boy, I really wish it didn’t.

The biggest thing about depression is our distorted thinking. We have constant negative thoughts that seem to spiral out of control. What I’ve been thinking about lately is the length of time I have to deal with bipolar. This is a lifelong disorder. There is no cure- even with the best medications. And I can’t help but get jealous and full of hate when I think of all you people who get to just enjoy your lives and do whatever they want- with an occasional trial. While here I am, cursed with a constant annoyance that screws with my life choices and messes with everyone close to me. It’s not fair! Yes, I know that sounds juvenile- but it’s how I feel. Why did I get to be so cursed? What did I do wrong to deserve this? All the time? No breaks?

And then I start thinking about everyone around me. No wonder I don’t have any friends that want to hang out with me. And my poor, poor family. What a burden I am on their lives- they’ve done nothing to deserve my problems, either. They didn’t choose this. (I had already been married to my husband for 5 or 6 years when I was diagnosed- bless his heart for sticking around- but I wouldn’t blame him if he wanted to leave.) I have frequent conversations with my 6 year old, trying to explain to him that when I yell at him, it’s not his fault, it’s just mommy’s brain being stupid again. I start to feel that I’m totally screwing up his life.

Then, I feel so bad about the things that I do and say that hurt everyone, including myself, that I start down the path of suicide. It doesn’t start with “I’m going to kill myself”. It starts smaller “My family would be better off without me”, “I wish I could just disappear”, “Maybe my family should just leave”, “Maybe I should run away”. The scary part is when these thoughts are the ones that make the most sense in my life. I still try, and for the most part, do okay, at reasoning with myself. “don’t take a mother away from your children- they need a mother, however flawed”, “Your husband has told you many times that he loves you no matter what struggles you have to suffer”, “leaving your family won’t solve the problem, it’ll only create more pain”.

I know all my thought patterns are distorted, so just telling me that it’s wrong thinking won’t help. In fact, telling me I’m wrong just adds to the feelings of hopelessness. I start feeling disconnected from everyone and everything. I find no pleasure in doing my crafting or listening to music or taking a bath, so there’s not even a temporary escape from the feelings of depression, other than sleep, so I end up sleeping a lot when depressed. I can bring myself down a little from the mania, but I don’t know how I can bring myself up from the depression.

I know deep down in my head and in my heart that depression will pass, but I never know how long it will take. (However long will seem like forever, anyway.) It’s just a matter of endurance, and grasping onto whatever help I can find. If you come across someone who is depressed, don’t try to fix it. Just love us. Talk to us. Just be there. Maybe when the depression passes, we’ll be able to thank you properly for being there.

Family

Oops. It's been a whole week without a post- I apologize.

And I was thinking; maybe I should start from the beginning and tell you everything about me in order instead of jumping around from idea to idea. I'm sure there will be tidbits of me left out that I'll go back to, but overall, I'd like to take you on the journey of me.

I was born in Tacoma, Washington in May 1981. My parents didn't have insurance at the time, so my parents didn't stay at the hospital very long. I think I needed to stay a bit longer because I had low blood sugar and was a bit of a preemie. My mom tells me she was very worried about leaving me there and didn't think she would sleep well... but come on, she just gave birth- she slept like a baby. I joke around sometimes in saying that these were my roots to having an independent spirit. I just revisited the hospital where I was born a couple years ago, thanks to some of my husband's friends who lived close. That's all I really know about when I was born.

When I was brought home, my older sister immediately accepted me as part of the family. No jealousy issues with her- and there never were. We were completely opposites in our personalities, and sometimes that took it's toll on our relationship, but she always took care of me- even when I didn't want her to. I remember one incident when I was in about 3rd grade or so, and my older sister was left in charge of all us kids. We got in a fight, as was routine for us, and I started throwing some clothes into a suitcase because I was going to run away. I offered to take my little sister along, but she was too scared and didn't know what to do. My older sister was blocking the door, so I opened the window and pushed out the screen. Next thing I knew I was marching down the street- not knowing what was going to come next, and scared out of my mind. My older sister came running after me. She had every right to just let me go- I wasn't very nice to her. But she persuaded me to come home. I was so grateful she did because I didn't know what I was going to do. Our relationship continued like this- volatile at times, always opposite, but always coming back to how much she really cared. Still- to this day.

One of my earliest memories was when I was about 4. I had my older sister and my younger sister. My mom sat all of us girls around her to tell us she was going to have another baby, and she asked if we wanted a girl or a boy. Both my sisters answered immediately that they wanted another girl. I waited, took a minute to think, and said that I wanted a boy- I wanted a brother. I got my brother, and from the very beginning felt responsible for him. After all, it was because of my wish that he was here (such is the thought process of a very young child), so it was up to me to look out for him. I probably could have done a better job during his teenage years, but I guess I got too involved in my own life. I still feel a connection to him, though- even though he's grown up, married, and has a child of his own.

My little sister and I were close. We had a lot more in common than anyone else in the family. We both liked to dance, and go to Young Women's activities at our church. We both had The Little Mermaid memorized word for word. I think she was a bit quieter than me- I was definitely the loudest in my family. But we were always writing notes to each other about how we admired each other and cared for each other. We did some musical theater together, and some marching band, more on those to come.

My relationship with my parents was an interesting one. My mom was perfect, so she couldn't do anything wrong. My dad, however, was a different story. I was very sensitive and took everything personally (which is still an issue I have to frequently work through), and my dad was very sarcastic. Those two traits did not mesh together very well, so growing up, I never had a good relationship with my dad.

It is interesting to see how relationships can change, and how they stay the same over many years. My older sister still watches out for me in amazing and intimate ways. I have learned to appreciate our differences, and find our unique similarities. My brother and I have drifted apart. Maybe the years of growing up with 4 moms took its toll on him, and he just wants to be left alone. My little sister and I aren't as close as we used to be, but we still get together frequently to hang out. I have written before of my ah-ha moment in discovering my mom's imperfections, but I am grateful to finally see her humanity- I believe it makes her more real. And I've also been able to see my dad as a real human being. I recognize the value in his perspectives, and even turn to him for advice at times. I think my family still sees me as the loud one, and expects me to be the over the top dramatic child that I used to be. Unfortunately, I see myself differently. I feel I have grown up in a lot of ways.

I'm not going to say I had the best family in all of creation, because I don't want to oversell it. My family is not perfect- and I'm not going to pretend that they are- but that's not a bad thing. Some believe that it's either all or nothing: either the best family, or the worst. But this is not the case. I find a richer, more meaningful reality in the one that has both negatives and positives. Character is found in the struggles and imperfections of life. Being placed with
my imperfect family has helped make me the person I am today. Without them, I don't think I would have discovered my own ability to thrive, even under unfavorable circumstances.

Hospitalization

I think it’s time I tell you something about myself: I’ve been hospitalized in a neuropsychiatric hospital. This isn’t easy to say because I know there will be some who will

judge me for this, but I feel that some may benefit from my experience. So, I take a stand, asking in the meantime for your understanding and compassion, and maybe even empathy. This experience was fairly recent for me. Hospitalization requires a lot out of a person, and I’ve come to the conclusion that you get out of it what you put into it.

So, let me tell you the story. Back in May of 2013, I was beginning to question whether or not my medications were working, or whether I needed a dose adjustment. Up until this point, I was just using a family practitioner to find my bipolar medications. We had just moved 2 months earlier, and I needed to find a new doctor. My husband had visited a family practitioner in the area and really like her, so I resolved to go to her.

I was in her office and she asked what was going on. I told her the usual run-down, that I’m bipolar, I’ve been really tired, and feel that my medication is not doing as well as I would like, and could she please give me another prescription. Then, as an afterthought, I told her of some thoughts that I had been having. As I was saying them out loud, it became apparent how not okay these thoughts were, and that maybe I needed more help than I thought. I watched as my new doctor’s jaw sort of dropped to the floor. She explained to me that there was 1 of 3 categories I fell into. There were suicidal thoughts, suicidal plans, and suicidal intentions. Apparently, without realizing it, I was making suicidal plans. I honestly didn’t realize the seriousness of these thoughts until I was saying them out loud.

With much love and understanding, the doctor explained to me that in order to get me stabilized the quickest, I should probably go to UNI (University of Utah Neuropsychiatric Institute); and be hospitalized there. They would keep a close eye on me to assure that I stayed safe as they messed with my medications and found the right balance for me.

I immediately felt guilty for the thoughts that I was having, since they meant I was to leave my family for a while to become stable. I apologized countless times to my husband as I made arrangements to go. He also assured me I was doing the right thing- especially as this was the first he had heard of my thought processes- and though it meant a little extra work for him, he was glad to do it, as long as I worked to become well. I packed a small bag, that didn’t have anything sharp or long drawstrings, or anything else that could be used to hurt myself.

Going to a Neuropsychiatric Institute felt strange. It was a new experience for me, and I was scared. Mostly, I was scared about being judged. People made sure I knew it was a choice for me- that I would benefit from staying there, but that I didn’t have to. Ultimately, I chose to stay. I wanted to get better. I wanted to be the best mom I could be… and I couldn’t do that if I was wondering what it would feel like to overdose, or pass out from car fumes in the closed garage. Yes, these thoughts felt completely normal… and that’s what makes them dangerous.

They took my bag, and told me I could check certain items out for short periods of time. I really felt odd- like I really wasn’t bad enough to be there, but resolved to make the most of it, and work through my feelings of deep embarrassment.

The workers there were great. Everyone was really understanding- and even told us, the patients, that they admired us for the steps we were trying to take in becoming well. At first, I felt it was all an act- that it was something they had to do, but as I interacted with them, I saw the love in their faces. I was able to work on myself without feeling quite as embarrassed on top of everything else. Their compassion made the stay bearable, and even enjoyable at times.

There were units throughout the building. We were placed in units according to our needs. Our unit would get together every day to discuss daily goals, personal successes, and highlights of our day. We had schedules to work from. There were lots of different group therapy sessions going on throughout the day: art, music, pet, talk therapy, etc.

Each one of us would meet with our own team of professionals: Psychiatrist, psycologist, social worker, and sometimes students to work on goals to get us well. Though I didn’t meet any other team, I’m told I had the best psychiatrist- and I believe it. It was my psychiatrist who pinpointed what was really going on. Not only did she verify my diagnosis of having bipolar (my original diagnosis was by a family practitioner, not a psychiatrist), but she acknowledged my recent giving birth to twins. She said having bipolar can make you more susceptible to having other mental breakdowns, like post-partum depression, and that’s exactly what I was experiencing. She put me on the Lithium, explaining the long-standing success of Lithium on Bipolar, and started taking me slowly off the other medications I was using.

I was feeling a little better one day while I was there, and decided to do a cartwheel outside of the cafeteria. Bad idea. I landed wrong, and completely twisted my wrist. By the time I got back up to our unit, it was swollen and hurt pretty bad. The first question people started asking me was- “are you manic?” they really knew their stuff there at the hospital. They gave me a leave of absence to go get it x-rayed. It turns out it was just a sprain.

I worked every day to understand what I was going through, and to let the experience be a good one. This is another time in my life that I believe attitude changes everything. If I wasn’t willing to work, and looked down on the experience, I very much doubt I would have gotten better. It’s not all about the medication.

My team also started putting a plan into place for when I left the hospital. My social worker found me a psychiatrist and psychologist that I could visit after I left the hospital. My husband and I had requested she find a psychologist who was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints- that I may share that basic belief system- and she did.

And all the time while I was at the hospital, my local Relief Society president took care of my family. She knew what was going on, but no one else did… and she kept it that way. I thank her for keeping it a secret. And I thank the members who brought dinners, and otherwise cared for my family for doing so without question. The world has some decent human beings in it- and many of them live in my ward.

I recognize that not everyone will share my experience. But, I believe that much of it has to do with your outlook. If you try to get something good out of a bad experience, you will. If you’re questioning whether or not to be hospitalized, I say give it a try. You never know what kinds of angels might be there to help rescue you, as there were for me. Good luck.

Another Check-In

Time for another check-in blog.

I have been going from doctor to doctor to figure out these symptoms I’ve been having: hot flashes, followed by chills, light-headedness, some dizziness. Finally, one doctor mentioned the time frame. Apparently, I’ve been having them just as long I’ve been taking Geodon. Duh! Why didn’t I see that connection? I looked it up, and found the common side effects of Geodon; light-headedness and dizziness were there, but nothing about the extreme temperature changes.

So, I finally talked to my pharmacist- I figured he might know something. It turns out less than 1% of people taking Geodon experience fevers and chills. Oh, yeah. Did I mention I’ve been running a low-grade fever for 4 months? Needless to say, I’ll be talking to my psychiatrist about changing this medication. Sad. Overall, it was keeping me pretty stable. The pharmacist did say there were other drugs a lot like Geodon that might be worth a try.

On a related note, I’ve been slacking on my maintenance management techniques. I haven’t done a meditation in about a week, and it’s really taking its toll on me. Yesterday, I totally snapped at my husband- out of nowhere- for no reason at all. Twice. It humbled me. I guess I can’t get too comfortable. I can’t let my guard down or the people I love suffer for it.

I wish I could just be okay. It sucks to have to constantly be aware of my inadequacies- but I guess that’s just not in the cards for my life. Those with diabetes need to constantly watch what they eat, and take their insulin… I’m slightly different, but the idea is the same. I need to constantly watch where my moods are, take my medication, and do my management techniques, or I get sick, and everyone else pays for it. That’s not fair to them. I’ve got to step it up.