Crapshoot, Fate and Genetics!

A few months back, I wrote a piece about having children and the genetics of bipolar. I had my children before I fully realized what my ‘illness’ was and how it would affect me, and those around me. I was almost 27 when I was diagnosed, my firstborn son was nine months old. It started as postpartum depression that just never went away. I have to say I am lucky (if you can put bipolar and luck in the same sentence and not hysterically laugh), but I am lucky that I was diagnosed quickly. I didn’t have to wait years for a definitive answer; I didn’t have to flounder my way from doctor to doctor or specialist to specialist either. I didn’t go through the torment of broken relationships, self imposed and/or inflicted isolation from friends and family, hospital admissions and misdiagnoses galore. I went to my family GP, who sent me to a specialist who diagnosed a ‘rapidly cycling bipolar disorder’ as soon as our first session was over. The fact that he was head of the main Psychiatric Hospital in Dublin at the time probably helped – that and the fact I had a healthy medical insurance plan! It was however, to be a further five years before I actually had a psychiatrist I trusted. (Just because someone is recommended doesn’t mean you have to stay with them. I finally learned this and sought a referral to another psychiatrist from my family GP and have been with the same Psych ever since.)

There is a long and somewhat ‘dark’ history of mental illness on the maternal side of my family. It’s all a bit deep and mysterious! For sure schizophrenia is in there, for sure so is depression. As I am sure happened the world over, bygone members of my family were locked away in what was then termed ‘lunatic’ asylums, (a more offensive name than lunatic would have been difficult to come up with) to while away their sorry existence doped up to their eyeballs. This at the time was cutting edge treatment. So mental instability is inherent in my genes. I didn’t quite comprehend all this before my own diagnosis. The subject never really ‘came up’ and my uncles’ illnesses were spoken of in hushed tones. I certainly didn’t understand the gravity of my own diagnosis – not for years really.

So I had three children. Three wonderful, relatively well adjusted children. And all was well in our household.

But last year, wasn’t the best of years, not for me and not for my eldest, who turns 21 this year. At the tail end of last year, my son came to me and told me he was in trouble. What comes to mind when a son says that to his mother is all sorts of random things; pregnancy, drugs, problems with girlfriends (or boyfriends) or pals, anything but mental illness. He went on to explain that for the past few months he had considered jumping off a bridge he has to cross every day. (He both crosses the bridge every day, and every day he thought of jumping off.) The fact that he came to me and admitted he needed help was a minor miracle all its own. He tends to internalize things, like most young men do, but over the years I have talked to them all about my ‘condition’ and made them promise if they felt they needed help they would ask. And he did.

It’s very hard to explain how I felt when he opened up to me. There was a part of me that was extremely grateful that he had come to me and not done something stupid, that goes without saying. There was another, a much bigger part of me that was filled with pure white terror. Of course Mammy mode went into overdrive, so I arranged an appointment with the family doctor, sent him there (because he’s an adult and no matter how much I would have wanted to bring him I couldn’t) made him tell me word for word what the doctor said and then phoned the doctor afterwards (yep – that mammy thing again) because a referral to a specialist was necessary. I think this is as much to do with my family history as anything else. So I arranged for my son to attend the clinic of my psychiatrist. I trust her therefore he gets the best. Luckily, luckily, my son is only depressed. (That almost makes me laugh to write that!!) What I mean by that is he is not bipolar!

Terror = fear, horror, dread, fright, shock, panic

I don’t know how I would have felt if he was diagnosed as bipolar? Its genetic, therefore it would have been my fault. I would have been responsible for this person, who I love more than life itself, having to take a much more difficult path through life. I suppose my own experience could have helped him, but I know that ultimately, you are alone with your head and in your own head a lot of the time. While others can support you, they can’t really help you.

Fate = providence, destiny.

Don’t tempt fate = believing that events are predetermined and can be changed/altered negatively by the mere mention of them.

It hasn’t altered my opinion of whether to have children or not. It’s all a crap-shoot in the end, the odds are just slightly more weighted. But I don’t think I would have been as blasé about that decision as I think I was, if it even factored at all.

Living in Hope

There are times I would feel quite at home putting up a poster with these words “Help wanted to find missing person”. Of course that missing person would be me, or at least the part of me that is, at that time, gone. During depressive episodes I feel the real ‘me’ the part of me that enjoys and embraces life is literally just gone, lost and forlorn. We all know the state, its where all hope has departed, where instead of positivity we have the other demons on our shoulders, hopelessness, desolation, anxiety, profound sadness and all their lovely cousins…
It’s a grim state, the depressive element of bipolar. I’m not entirely sure which part of being bipolar I hate the most; the highs or the lows. Each has their own fascinating and treacherous ‘side-effects’! I say fascinating because despite all our medical discoveries, we are no closer to a ‘cure’ now than we were a few hundred years ago. We have made breakthroughs and invented drugs to keep the symptoms of mental illness at bay, but a cure? – Nah! Not yet!

It is however fascinating to realize there is nothing more resilient than the human psyche. I have come back from the deep and come down from the pinnacle and while I can’t and won’t say ‘unscathed’, I have survived. The consequences of my illness mean I’ve lost friends, I’ve alienated those I love, I’ve done many things I wouldn’t even begin to write about. At the same time, I have an unquenchable desire to understand my actions, to comprehend my emotions, to recognize the pits and pendulums so that I can do better, be better.

Nowadays the medical profession prefer to use the term ‘mind’ instead of psyche. Mind, psyche, cognizance, perception they are pretty much the same when dealing with a ‘sick’ psyche (sorry -mind)!! My perception of things is askew because of an imbalance in hormones somewhere within my brain. It could even be a teeny tiny imbalance, the medical profession doesn’t quite know for sure yet! In the past, I’ve been vocal about the lack of understanding, research and treatment for people with mental illness irrespective of the category. But the treatments that have been available up to just quite recently (as cutting edge medicine!!!) were barbaric.

Mental illness was once mistaken as demonic possession. In an effort to ‘cure’ the infected, holes were cut in their heads to force the demon out! This was called trepanning or trepanation. What’s weird (or weirder perhaps) is that practice is alive and well today, I kid you not….

Trepanation is the practice of making a hole in the skull in order to improve the brain pulsations and hence the overall well being. A trepan is the instrument used for making a hole in the skull bone. It is sometimes spelled trephine. The idea is to pump up the brainbloodvolume. It’s known that one’s level of consciousness is directly related to the volume of blood in one’s brain. As a result, trepanners say, one feels happier and more energetic.

For more on this wonderful technique see http://www.trepanationguide.com

Hydrotherapy was also another wonderful treatment thought to ‘cure’ mental illness. Some patients were mummified in towels and soaked in freezing cold water for hours on end. Other patients were strapped into freezing cold baths (sometimes for days on end) and only allowed out to the toilet. If that wasn’t bad enough, patients who didn’t respond were subjected to hosing from high-powered jets! Needless to say, this type of treatment was discredited for lack of tangible results.

In the early 1900’s the purposeful infection of a patient with Malaria to induce a high fever to cure their illness was first used. The procedure was hypothesized and carried out by Austrian physician Julius Wagner von Jauregg (who incidentally was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1927).
After that came along came a young Polish neurophysiologist and neuropsychiatrist named Manfred J. Sakel. While an internist in the Lichterfelde Hospital for Mental Diseases, in Berlin, Germany, he provoked a superficial coma in a morphine-addicted woman, using an injection of insulin, and obtained a remarkable recovery of her mental faculties. He then embarked on a coma inducing rampage treating patients with this technique for years. Despite claims of a greater than 60% success rate, controlled studies showed that a long-term cure was not achieved and that improvements were many times temporary. But, since Sakel’s method was the gentler and less harmful of all somatic (affecting the body as opposed to the mind) techniques, it was still in use in many countries until recently.

Up next comes a Hungarian pathologist named Ladislas von Meduna who in 1933 reasoned that, because schizophrenia was rare in epileptics and because epileptics seemed much happier after seizures he hypothesised inducing seizures in schizophrenic patients with the use of drugs would make them calmer. So the drug Metrazol was pumped into patients at varying levels. Of course, inducing a seizure had side-effects including fractured bones and memory loss, so doctors soon turned away from this treatment.

And of course, lets not forget the Lobotomy! Destroying a persons’ frontal lobe is to me a bit like throwing out the baby with the bathwater!! According to Wikipaedia:

“The procedure, controversial from its inception, was a mainstream procedure for more than two decades (prescribed for psychiatric and occasionally other conditions) despite general recognition of frequent and serious side effects. Whilst some patients experienced symptomatic improvement with the operation, this was achieved at the cost of creating other impairments, and this balance between benefits and risks contributed to the controversial nature of the procedure. The originator of the procedure, António Egas Moniz, shared the Nobel Prize for Physiology or Medicine of 1949 for the “discovery of the therapeutic value of leucotomy in certain psychoses”, although the awarding of the prize has been subject to controversy. The use of the procedure increased dramatically in some countries from the early 1940s and into the 1950s; by 1951, almost 20,000 lobotomies had been performed in the United States. Following the introduction of antipsychotic medications in the mid-1950s, lobotomies underwent a gradual but definite decline.
Lucky us huh!!

So, along with probably hundreds of other ‘treatments’ (I use that term flippantly) tried out on us mental patients over the last three hundred years or so, the above gives a glimpse of what our predecessors had to endure for a cure. There is no doubt that casting a glance backward and seeing how modern treatments were developed, it makes me feel extremely lucky to be alive at this time. Medicine is not perfect, but it’s better than the above. Necessity is the mother of invention. With so many of us struggling with all sorts of ailments, some environmental, some psychological, some physiological, perhaps now the ‘necessity’ for something more lasting and complete than medication will finally come along. One can always live in hope……

Stress then swing, or swing then stress??

Stress and Bi-polar; is there a way to avoid swings?

Okay, so I am writing this for myself; To clarify everything I have read in the last few days about ‘de-stressing’ my life and learning to cope with the swings, paying particular attention to my ‘stressors’.

But the truth is, even after 20 years, I only know a few of them. Stress is one of them. I know the stress of my job nearly killed me. I worked in a wonderful office environment, where we had great fun as work colleagues, but the stress of the ‘actual work’ was horrendous. I didn’t cope well at all. Luckily, I worked alongside himself so when I was having a reaaaaallly bad day, I’d get up from my desk, put on my coat and leave with no explanation necessary. I was really lucky. But when the stress of the job got so much I considered sending the car under a truck just so I wouldn’t have to go to work, I knew I was in big trouble.

So yes, work was a huge stressor for me. But I’ve not been working for the past eight months and I still find myself rapidly swinging between depression and mania. Granted it’s not as bad as it was back a few months ago, but I have no work stress now?

I read an article on this very subject and it said that people with bi-polar disorder are seven or eight times more likely to develop a ‘decompensation’ (wonderful description!!) in response to a stressful life event.

It went on to list the life events I am familiar with; family rows, marriage problems, the birth of a baby, the death of a close relative or friend, job loss, financial worries and so on.   But I have to ask the question; are some of these situations caused by the bipolar or are they a stressor; what comes first?

Obviously the usual suspects of a death or a birth are understandable, a death can bring tremendous grief and a birth while a glorious event can be followed by post partum depression as was my trigger.

But rows in our house are because of my stress levels and not a resulting factor of them. (Mind you, they are not as prevalent as they were years ago, but I do still cause a lot.) I know it takes two to tango, but himself is a long suffering spouse of an eternal pessimist, not because of who I am, but because of what bi-polar has turned me into. I spend half my life weighing up options and always coming up with the ‘yes but what if….’

I don’t do change well. I find it hard to cope with new situations and while I AM not a shy person, I find it hard to meet new people. Completely contradictory I know, but there you have it!!

As one of my fellow bloggers recently said in her blog; what comes first; the chicken or the egg; so what comes first; an episode then stress or stress then an episode!

I suppose it is all about trying real hard to identify my triggers and either avoiding them or negating them. But what if you have no triggers, or none that you can identify. Sometimes I just AM depressed, or I just AM manic. Sometimes there is no rhyme or reason to them. Sometimes they catch me completely unawares.

Yes a good diet and exercise are important and can help, but when I don’t have the energy some days to even get up out of bed, that’s exercise gone out the window for a while.

And what happens when I go on a major binge because of a craving for carbohydrates? There have been times when I physically can’t stop myself eating. Yes, I try not to buy crap and have it in the house in the first place, but I just find something else to eat. Compulsion is a powerful thing!

Now with more time on my hands, I find I am doing a lot more research on bi-polar than I have done for many years. And quite honestly it’s depressing! (no pun intended here!!!!). So perhaps it’s time to just get on with living my life instead of trying to fix myself. Just roll with each day and see what it will bring. I am all for self help, but when there appears to be so little still known about bi-polar it really pisses me off!!

To conceive or not to conceive – Is that really a valid question?

Let me be clear from the off…… This is not ‘sound medical advice’, this may not even be sound – or advice!

It just happens to have been on my thoughts a lot lately and I had to get it out there.  So had others, because I’ve been reading what seems like a lot of posts about pregnancy and bi-polar and the risks of passing this genetic illness on to children conceived. (Either there is more of them, or for some reason I am particularly drawn to those posts these days.)

I have to say the genetics of bi-polar depression was not something that entered my head when hubby and I were contemplating having a second and third child.

My bi-polar was triggered by postpartum depression, which just didn’t go, following the birth of my first son! For months, we thought I was struggling with this ‘common ailment’ associated with pregnancy and childbirth, but when I started to really act out, himself knew long before I knew that I kinda had a “major” problem.

I was twenty six years old.

There is mental illness in my family. That should have been the first clue perhaps! But mental illness was not discussed when I was growing up at all. My uncle had been hospitalized many times during my childhood and it was talked about in very hushed voices, only sometimes, when my mothers’ family all got together. Back then the stigma of mental illness was enormous. As a result however, us kids – (my ma’s kids I mean), six of us in all, never had a clue that we could have this time-bomb ticking inside, waiting to explode and turn our lives upside down and inside out.

Then there were great aunts, and great uncles who were consigned to ‘asylums’ when my mother was a child and this was seen as such a dishonor and humiliation to any family, that it was not talked about. Relatives just ‘disappeared’ from family circle in those days. But that’s Ireland for you. If you don’t admit the problem exists, then the problem doesn’t exist.

I suppose my mothers reticence to accept my illness came from those days when having a mental illness meant you were put in an institution and left there.

Treatments like I have now, did not exist in those days (I’m talking about 50 or 60 years ago), and if they did, they were rudimentary and severe. That was unfortunately the limit of our knowledge of the brain at that time, so I am delighted that I live in these times. That’s the history lesson…..

So  I was diagnosed with bi-polar when my son was eight months old and I had no clue that I could have passed this illness on to my baby. I was only about six months on treatment when I became pregnant again and once I found out, decided to come off my meds. I didn’t want to do anything to endanger my baby. It was against medical advice, but I felt that any possible risk to my growing baby was far greater than my risk of having manic or depressive episodes. As it happened, I was pretty balanced during the seven months that remained, but once my daughter was born, I went straight back on the meds, to avoid the swings.

It wasn’t until years later when I changed docs and really began to understand my condition that I realized my children have an increased risk for developing bi-polar. But then again, they could develop anything; cancer, lupus, arthritis or a whole other array of chronic or not so chronic illnesses.

My third child came along as a wonderful joyous surprise, and again, we as parents never questioned the genetic chances we were risking.   It’s only since the mid 90’s that the internet really took off, and the internet was where I did most of my research years after my diagnosis. Through the years, I did discuss with himself the gamble we had taken, but in knowing that, we have watched our kids for the warning signs, the little triggers, anything that could be amiss.

Had I known before I had my children what I know now about the genetic component of mental illness would I have chosen to conceive? How can I answer that question? Every day I thank God for my kids. For a long spell in my life they kept me grounded and temporarily sane (or at least less insane than in the past and perhaps now).

They make me laugh almost every day.

They make me proud every moment of every day.

I could not imagine what my life would have been like without my kids. Probably a deep, darker place than it can be at times, because they enrich my life in ways I just can’t explain.

Do I feel guilty that I could have given them a higher risk of illness? They breathe don’t they! Life is risk, living is not easy; it’s easier for some than others, I just happen to be mentally challenged. But if any of my kids develop some sort of illness (mental or not!!) I will be here to help them find their way. As a parent that is all I can do.

Would I do it all again, knowing now what I didn’t know then? – without one iota, one shadow, one miniscule moment of doubt – Yes!

Is that selfish? – Perhaps, but then nobody said I was perfect!

Without the struggle I wouldn’t realise how strong I am

At my last session I told my doc I had an online blog. I’d been pretty pissed off that one of my friends from the ‘outside world’ had been reading it without ‘permission’ and told her so. Doc thought this was a bit funny considering I am writing extremely personal stuff on the blogosphere, which is after all on the internet for everyone to see – forever!   She asked why I didn’t use a pen and paper and put my thoughts down that way if I didn’t want ‘unwanted visitors’? I didn’t have to think long for the answer. I am among fellow strugglers here and there is something to be said for the knowledge that I can be understood without having to explain, that I can ‘walk the walk’ and know that others walked that very same path and came out the other side; or are still on it, not quite with me, but aware of some of the pitfalls along the way.

For me there is also a great sense of kinship among those of us who choose to chronicle our struggles in this way, in such an honest fashion – on such an open forum. Yes, what I write is personal, but it is also very cathartic to get it down and out of my head. I can chronicle my swings in a fashion that I perhaps would not do otherwise because it is raw truth as I see it, at that point in time. I can’t hide from myself this way. I can’t hide from my illness or its consequences to my family, my friends and those who interact with me. I’ve often thought of exactly what is the cost of this illness on those around me?   How do they actually view who it is that I am, when confronted with the changing faces of bi-polar in all its’ glory? (Pun intended here!!!)

I can be pretty intense sometimes. I’m not sure if that was my nature before my first ever swing or whether I do things intensely in periods of wellness now whereas before I didn’t. I’ve been medicated for over 20 years, so I can’t really remember what life was like pre-bipolar. My son is 20, and he was eight months old when I was diagnosed. That was when I was ‘forced’ to see a doctor or risk himself walking out with my new baby son! That put the frightners up me I can tell you, but looking back, I spent nine years with a doctor I didn’t trust, had no rapport with and whose only interest was whether the meds were working or not! But I knew no better. I was only young and it wasn’t like I had any yardstick to use to measure this kind of stuff. So I stayed with him for nine years, desperately unhappy with him, swinging and self-medicating with alcohol. And staying silent in our sessions other than to say ‘yeah the tablets are working – everything is fine’ even if my world was actually falling apart!

So yes, I blog. Yes I write down my innermost thoughts and feelings because I need to express them to feel better. The old saying “A problem shared is a problem halved” comes to mind and while I don’t really believe it has merit in this instance, I understand and believe the principle of it. I feel better when I write, not all the time but sometimes. It’s a way of bringing clarity to my head, a way of getting what’s really annoying me out on virtual paper and looking at it and sometimes seeing how utterly foolish it is. But it is a process that works for me at the moment. We all have our own issues here. We all have our own illnesses, our own difficulties, but I do believe that the battle is the same. It’s a fight with an illness or condition that stops us reaching our full potential or living a ‘normal life’; for some of us, it may even be life-threatening.   But the struggle is the same. It is tough. One of my favourite quotes is “It’s okay to have a meltdown – just don’t unpack and stay there.” I just love that! It’s the getting up that defines me.

And while it can be extremely difficult to realize it, every time I get back up, I get a tiny bit stronger.

No man is an island…. but sometimes!!

For my school exams in my final year, I had to write an essay on the novel Silas Marner, titled ‘No man is an island’; discuss…

I had read the book inside and out, upside and down and felt at the mere age of 18 I knew everything; that I was a champion of the world, that at 18, I knew all there was to know and pretty much acted that way.  Gosh, when I look back now, I realize how absurd that confidence was, given how little I knew of life and the curveballs it can throw at you.

That essay however has stuck with me during good and bad times, because what I did know even then (though only in some small way) is that none of us are alone; no matter how much we may think otherwise.

Our lives impact the people around us in ways we cannot comprehend when we are that young and the older we get, the more of an impact our presence or absence can have on those around us.  (Philosophical lesson over!)

I have a friend, (I love her to bits) who has seen me through my fair share of dark days and endless weeks, when I have felt nothing but emptiness.  She has given to me without a thought of receiving anything back.  Through some of her darkest days though, I have been there to wipe away her tears, to hold her and assure her everything would be okay, even though I hadn’t a clue if that was actually the truth.

But!

(And there’s always a ‘but’ isn’t there:  otherwise life would just be boring!!)

At this point in her life she is happy.  However, some time back when times weren’t as good, she underwent cognitive therapy and thinks it is the best thing since sliced bread.   It doesn’t work for me!   But she espouses the virtue of this each time I mention a dark day or moment, or fleeting thought.  I have talked to her about things I’ve not spoken to most other people about; but when I ask for advice, what has happened before all gets spewed back at me as if it was some kind of viscous vomit.  Her intention is not to hurt, and I know that, but having a constant reminder of how things ‘were’ instead of how things ‘now are’ is not very soothing for my spirit.

The problem, the big ‘But’ in the room is I have told her this, and yet…. And yet….  my past experiences continue to become a ‘present day’ incident in her mind, irrespective of the now!  She wants to be my balm.  So what happens when you don’t need consolation and yet it is thrust upon you?  This is my dilemma.  For the most part I hold my own, for the most part I love her company, for the most part I can tell her most things with the complete confidence it goes no further.

But!

I also don’t want to be reminded of those times when life wasn’t good.

Imagine a champion jockey constantly being reminded of the races he lost, or a fighter being reminded of the times he was knocked out, irrespective of the times they have won –or their present circumstances?  No man is an island!  Where would we be without friends?  But sometimes, I want to be on an island, or at least have my present cheerfulness celebrated as much as my past miseries.

Do You have to Love Your Family?

I came across a blog recently while surfing, by lauraauthor.com titled ‘Family’ (check it out people…).  The blog about her family and what it means to her was interesting.  I can’t say I agree with her sentiments, because I don’t – actually not in the slightest.  Her assertion that she needed to prove herself constantly to her parents and sibling was alien to me.   Here’s her final comment, just in case you don’t have the time to check the whole blog out, (which would be a pity however):

To me, this is family. Family is about proving myself. Not proving that I am one of us but rather proving that I am a capable independent and don’t “need” them. Perhaps that sounds harsh. But it’s how I’ve been raised and learned to think. Toughen up–or you won’t make it in this cold world.

For me, family is ‘about’ lots of things.  It is a shared background, a shared upbringing that means I don’t have to explain my opinions or myself.  It is about a deep sense of belonging to something bigger than myself, of me being part of a whole and that ‘whole’ is my family unit.  It’s also about responsibility towards others; my siblings and my parents, to be the best person I can be, not only for me, but for our unit also.  Yes, I want to be independent and capable of standing on my own, yes it’s important to be an independent thinker and accomplished in this life as I do agree it is a tough world out there.  But I view it from a different perspective; I feel that I don’t ‘have’ to do it alone because I am not alone.  My family offers me unconditional love and support.  My sisters and brothers want to spend time with me when they can.  I am not a person they ‘put up with’, or see because it is expected and we’re family and vice versa.  My relationship with my siblings and my parents is borne from actually liking each other and wanting to spend time getting to know the adult individual when we’ve known and grown up with the ‘child’ sibling for so long.  Even in saying that, I am twelve years younger than my oldest brother and his experiences of our family and my parents is vastly different to mine.   It is that shared history, yet shared ‘difference’ that is exciting and challenging and in our case bonding.   And for that I am truly grateful.

It’s funny that I found this particular blog after just returning from Australia where I have spent the last few weeks visiting my sister and two of my three brothers.  This always makes me very introspective because I only get to see them once a year.  Even in that, I am extremely lucky! I miss them terribly throughout the year but especially after I’ve just come home because I know it’ll be at least a year before I see them again.   In the past, festive holidays used to be spent crammed around my parents table where I and all my siblings and their spouses or partners and children would spend the day lapping up each others company and usually playing card or board games into the wee hours of the night.   Now however, with only one sister still in Ireland, we don’t quite ‘rattle’ around my parents’ table but we’re not far off.

Having said all that, distance is a great motivator too.  It means for three weeks of the year, I get to see the best of my siblings; there are no fights, no issues, just harmony and cohesion.  Its amazing what I learn each time I visit them.  As each of them heads what seems ever faster towards middle age, I see them in a light I may not have were they still here in Ireland.  We may all have taken each other for granted, we may have seen each other only rarely, but I don’t ever envisage us not getting along.  We are one of those families where each child stays part of the family; mind you we are far from children now.  Do we all seem similar? – Yes.  Are we boring? Oh, far from it.  In her blog, Laura said that when it comes to family, if someone uses the word love, is it because of the blood relation and innocent memories? To me, family is something to be grateful for but it is also an exchange.  For Laura the exchange was about ensuring they knew she could stand on her own two feet.  For me, family is knowing I can stand on my own two feet but because I am part of a family, it is also the very gratifying knowledge that I don’t have to!

Sticks and Stones – or more than that?

There comes a time in a parents life when reason and understanding simply go out the window.  In fact that can happen multiple times if you have more than one child.  I refer of course to a time when someone really upsets your child or teenager.  I don’t mean a little fight or exchanging of words among friends that will be mended quicker than the fight lasts and are not worth worrying about.  I mean when another adult or peer upsets your child to the point of tears.  That’s not so easy to shake off, no matter what you say to convince your little person that the words or actions are only that: “Sticks and stones may break your bones but names can never hurt you”, that was a phrase my mother repeated to me a lot when I was young and would come to her crying over some slight or insult offered up to me by my pals on the road where I lived.  Looking back, of course it did me no lasting harm and was long forgotten before I went to bed at night.

But what happens when someone really hurts your child or teenager, by their words or actions.  What happens when you have a fully grown adult who verbally attacks your child or teenager?  What do you do?  I know what I want to do!  I want to punch their face in, no doubt about it.  I want to scream and yell and hurt them as much as they’ve hurt my child, but being an adult I can’t really do that either!   So what’s left open to me then, especially if this is someone that mixes somewhat in my circles.  Do I trade pleasantries while at the back of my head the thought of just throwing one good punch keeps popping up? Do I ask for an explanation and then let it go?  Do I avoid them at all costs in case I do something I will regret because I just wouldn’t like to stoop to their level of childishness?  Or do I just ignore it?  That is the least favoured option:  I’m not that kind of person, I’d rather get things out in the open and sorted and move on afresh from there.  But that applies to me, if someone hurt or upset me or I did them, I like to resolve issues.  But when its your child, I don’t know, this primal instinct just takes over; this willingness to inflict actual bodily harm to someone else, the source of their pain.

One of my teenagers is quite fragile.  They come across as very independent and sure of themselves but underneath they have had their fare share of problems.  They’ve faced bullies at their school and we had to take her out and change schools.  In fact that bullying lasted for years, without us parents realising how bad it actually was and how badly she was being affected by it.  All sorts of issues resulted from that and while she is now a year later back on track, her confidence is actually still fragile.  As her mother, I know that, as her mother, I can read her like a book, like no-one else on this planet can.  Perhaps because I have my own issues with confidence it makes me more susceptible to seeing her issues.  I can see past the facade she puts up, because I am used to placing up my own.  I don’t know, it could just be I am a mother; her mother!  I loved her before she was born, I’ll love her till I take my last breath and every day in between.

There are times when sticks and stone are not the only thing that can wound.  I often wonder which is the worst wound: the physical or emotional kind.  I often wonder too what is it that drives one adult to fight with or belittle another adult?  I have no doubt that when the source of their ire is a child or teenager there is only one word that fits then: Bully!  And I don’t like bullies!!!!

My soul sours, but only for a time,

 

 

My soul sours, but only for a time,

Happiness and contentment is never mine

For long; I never know when depression will come

And my soul withers with songs unsung.

 

How is it that those of us who suffer from bi-polar can know what it is that is wrong with us and how it affects us, but are so hopelessly inadequate in realising when we are not well until things are really bad.  For the past week, I have been so down, I can’t remember the last time I felt this bad.  I have used all my energies to tell people I am well, ‘wonderful’, ‘yeah life is great’; except at home where I can hide away!  I can let how I feel seep out of my very pores.   I have no energy to hide any more at home.  I have no strength left after a working day to keep up the pretence at home.  And at home, I don’t need to hide.  Truth be told, I don’t really hide that well in work either…  Everyone I work with is aware I have bi-polar.  It makes my swings easier to handle for them.  It makes them realise that when my office door is closed, perhaps it’s not the best idea to open it.  But that’s not fair; to them or to me.  I work with a great bunch of people but when I swing, I don’t think they are great.  Every little foible of their personality becomes a source of huge annoyance to me when I am manic.  I have this anger barely contained beneath the surface and one wrong phrase will set me off.  By the same token, when I feel depressed like I do now, I feel isolated, apart, separated from that which normally roots me to the reality of my life.  I feel unwanted, unloved, unworthy of any sort of positive human interaction. I feel dejected and really really sad.  At times I have thought about what the world would be like if I wasn’t here anymore.  I have imagined my own funeral more than a few times.  I’ve often wondered would anyone turn up, would those in my life be suitably upset or would my passing be marked only by a handful of people attending a cold church and a cold ceremony?  It’s almost like wallowing in self-pity, but it’s also not!  I can’t control how I feel.  I try to shake off these feelings but they’re pervasive, persistent, damaging and distressing.  Distressing to my family, to those around me and to me!    I know that when I am this wretched, I isolate myself; I close the door on people, both metaphorically and literally.  I have to shut people out.  I don’t want them to see the depths of my depression.  I don’t acknowledge it myself until I just want to stay in bed and not do anything.  I don’t want to talk, I don’t want to get out, I don’t want to work, I don’t want to be with anyone;  I just want to be on my own.  On my own, I can just feel what I’m feeling and not feel bad about it.  Putting up a front is exhausting and it takes a huge toll on my psyche.

I often wonder would it be better not to work at all.  I often wonder how much of the day to day stress I feel is created and sustained by my work.  I often wonder would I be better in myself for longer periods if I didn’t have the added pressure of my working environment.  I’d find things to do if I didn’t have work to go to, but it would be what I want to do, not something I had to do to bring in the money to help with the household.  At times I feel very resentful that this is the case.  I get angry when I think that life is so short and that so much of my time is time away from my children (mind you they are half reared at this point) time away from things I want to do, things I want to achieve have to be put on hold and then when I get home from work, I’m too mentally exhausted to do any of those things. I often fantasise about winning the lottery and have often said I’d give up work in a heartbeat, to which my other half is aghast.  He is a workaholic and couldn’t imagine doing anything different.  I just can’t match his intensity at the best of times, never mind when I’m not well.  He is normally very compassionate, very understanding and since he is the boss of where I work, it is a blessing in disguise that he feels this way.  If I’m having a really bad day, I can leave…  But I want to leave all the time!  I want to just disengage myself from anything that causes stress and tension and my job is a huge factor in that.  My soul is not soaring at the moment.  It has plummeted to the very depths of a place I don’t want to be and all I want to do is scream…….

There’s a knot in the pit of my stomach.

 

There’s a knot in the pit of my stomach.

Another overcast Summer day in Ireland dawns and as I look out expecting to see bright sunshine, I am greeted by a cloud of oppressive grey, dampening not only the whole country, but my mood too…  Dreary days like this do something to the psyche, leaving you foggy and heavy before the day even starts.  At least that’s how I feel.  All the plans I had in my head for what I wanted to do today start to evaporate in a cloud of apathy and all I want to do is nothing; worse than nothing, just crawl back to bed and put my head under the covers staying there until the sun comes out.  Were I to do that, it would just be giving in.   Life is all about facing challenges head on, but who said it had to be huge challenges every time.  For some people just getting up in the morning is a trial; a battle of wills but against your very self.  I’ve struggled with bi-polar over half my life and there are days, sometimes weeks on end when I’d rather not engage with the world at all.  I want to stay in my own bubble of misery and sadness because it’s just too hard to appear ‘normal’. Its not about ‘giving in’ to those feelings as has often been suggested, because for me I do not have that type of control over how I feel.  If I had a euro for the amount of times I’ve been told to ‘pull myself together and snap out of it,’ I’d be a rich woman.  But it’s not as simple as that.  When you suffer from depression, there is no magic switch that can be thrown so that those around you don’t have to ‘put up’ with your misery. It’s not like waking up, as some of us do from time to time, on the ‘wrong side of the bed’ as my mother used to say.  Some of us just get up in a bad mood for some reason and that bad mood can pervade the rest of your day.  When I am in a depressive cycle, I am, most of the time, not even aware of how bad things are, how bad I am until I’ve started to come out the other side.  Depression affects every corner of your life; it changes your view of not only your life, but of the lives of those nearest to you.  Everything becomes dark, miserable and hopeless.  Your self-esteem bombs and for me I feel undeserving of everything in my life.

 

It is extensive, omnipresent and persistent. 

 

If it had an actual physical characteristic, I would call it a malevolent body snatcher; that somehow it had crawled inside my body and taken over my very personality and all I could do from the inside is watch as this ‘entity’ destroyed everything and everyone around me while I stood there silently screaming but completely helpless.

The flipside of the depression of course is the elation.  There are times I actually think this is the more dangerous and damaging side of bi-polar.  For me, I can be very happy for a while, but that almost blissfulness, that ‘I can do anything’ arrogance escalates to pure anger, becoming a blistering white ball of destruction that flattens everyone in its path but especially me.  I’ve never been physical or violent, just enraged, out of control verbally, seething!

 

When that anger will bubble to the surface, I never know; for me that’s the true danger and destruction of bi-polar. 

 

The past few days have not been good.  I don’t do stress well….  In fact I don’t do stress at all.  The first psychiatrist I had said that with each episode brought on by stress, each new episode can be brought on by less stress than the last.  Its almost like the brains’ resistance to stress gets less and less, therefore it takes less and less to trigger an episode.  Medication helps of course, but for me, I never feel quite ‘normal’.  In fact I’ve been ill so long, I don’t even know what normal is.  I do know that for the last few weeks I’ve not been feeling like myself.  My motivation is seeping out of me, my ability to work hard is disappearing as I simply shuffle papers from one side of my desk to the other. And yesterday, I exploded after a colleague made a simple comment to which I responded like a volcano erupting and spitting fire; reigning destruction downwards.  Luckily for me, this person knows I’m bi-polar and while they were not too understanding yesterday, today they are forgiving – after my tearful apology!  I’ve read blogs about how difficult it is to live with someone struggling with bi-polar.  Believe me its nothing compared to how you feel if you suffer from it.  Today I can’t eat… except cigarettes and I’m on my second pack of the day so far.  I’m confused, hurt angry very upset and for the life of me I don’t really know why; well that’s not true; I’m bi-polar, there’s no other reason needed! I’ve gone through half a box of tissues wiping away the tears that just keep coming despite my efforts to stop them.  If you live with someone who has bi-polar, when you leave their presence, you get a break from it:  we don’t!  I’m not being callous, unthinking or trying to be cruel here, but this illness is with me every moment of every day.  There is no cure, just management, but even that leaves me open to swings albeit of a shallower nature than if I was not medicated at all, but life with bi-polar is no bed of roses; on that you can be sure!  Today is not a good day!!