I have a great deal to be thankful for these days, and also a large number of things that are worrysome. The best of the good things is that my mood seems to be stabilizing, and on the first medication I've tried (Lamictal). I've been taking it for three weeks now, and my grossly out-of-control irritability is pretty much gone. I still have mood swings, but instead of switching daily or several times a day, for now I seem to have settled into a pattern where I feel good (but not manic) during the week, and depressed on the weekends. The depression started to appear when I stopped using my light box, but discontinuing that was also what took care of my daily descent into bitchyland (the remaining irritability), so good riddance. And as Jeff pointed out, I get to have my cake and eat it too- Lamictal is only really effective for treating bipolar lows. So I get to keep my hypomanic periods. Unless I should suddenly start to develop mania with psychotic symptoms, hallucinations, or grandiose delusions (which seems unlikely), I'm golden.
Jeff is also feeling better, which feels good for all of us. Things were really rocky for a while- with my mood completely unpredictable, his depressed and highly irritable, and four small children...well, let's just say it wasn't Disneyland. At least not as it's portrayed in the commercials- I've been there and know better ;)
I'm also supposed to be making some lifestyle changes- Making Sure I Get 8 Hours of Sleep Each Night, and No Caffiene After Noon. Obviously, this is a lot harder for me than taking the medicine (just look at the time stamp on this post, realize my kids get up around 9, and do the math). But I am trying. I'm not a person who goes to bed at 9- never have been. That's Jeff. But I'm striving to become a person who goes to bed around midnight. Caffiene is my life's blood in the winter, so that isn't going so hot. I think I'd actually take it by IV if I could. Nah...I know I would.
The worrysome things really aren't so bad when I consider what things were like a few months ago. We have a consultation at our mental health clinic for Allie on Friday to hopefully start the process of getting her help with whatever is going on with her. We are scheduling screenings for Gabe and Eva to make sure they are developmentally on-track (and very likely, we'll discuss behavioral referrals for them). Jeff is missing a decent chunk of work to keep all these appointments, but thankfully a bus driver's schedule is pretty flexible, so it's not a threat to his job- just our finances.
There are more good things, though...I made feta jalepeno dip today, and while it could have used a little more jalepeno, it was still scrumptious. My pumpkin cheesecake for Thanksgiving turned out looking almost professional (and tasting fantastic, if I can be pardoned for saying so). Thanksgiving went great. We had it here, just us and our parents. They brought stuff and I made the turkey, stuffing, and cranberries. It was the first holiday gathering I have completely enjoyed since Allie was born...because since that day, we've been pressured to attend two (sometimes three) different celebrations each Thanksgiving and Christmas, often on the same day. And by "pressured" I mean coerced. But this time, instead of hitting Jeff's folks' house at 11:30, eating, dashing out with crabby kids in tow at 3:30 to arrive at my grandma's by 4 and spend the remainder of our evening trying to protect her 300+ music boxes in their glass-fronted cabinets from toddler hands, we just relaxed the morning away as the turkey cooked, played with the kids, and waited for our parents to arrive. Then a thoroughly restful meal where for once I didn't have to worry what my kids might be breaking, because whatever it was, it's mine and I probably didn't need it anyway.
Sorry that this was kind of an aimless post- I haven't written in a while, so I just sort of hopped around through all the things I felt like talking about.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Thursday, October 20, 2005
My Pet Peeve
I have to write this, because it's been bothering me for years now, but for some reason the last few days it won't leave me alone.
I hate the way we refer to doctors' involvement in a birth in this country. It drives me absolutely batty. And I know I said "doctors", but I mean midwives too, most of them (and most of us) use this terminology and when I'm dictator, I'm going to glare very sternly at anyone who uses it, and maybe make them give me five dollars. For now I'm just going to beg all of you lovely, mindful people to pretty please think about the language we use and decide for yourself if my objections are valid.
Women say in this country "Dr/Midwife Sally delivered my baby". It's like fingernails on a chalkboard for me, people. Like someone peeing in my Coca-Cola.
The problems with this:
1. In most cases, the only thing a doctor does at a birth is arrive in time for the grand finale, coach the woman in pushing (which she doesn't need anyway), and announce the baby's sex (again, unnecessary...I'm guessing most people able to have sex can figure out on their own which one the baby is).
2. Even in cases which require some sort of dramatic intervention (forceps, surgery, whatever), saying that the doctor delivered the baby completely robs the woman of any sort of crucial role in what happened. In this phrasing, the doctor, not the woman laboring, is the star. I always want to ask, "So, what were you doing while the doctor was delivering your baby?" not out of a desire to humiliate, but because I want women to realize that the doctor is there for them. The show can't go on without them.
3. It implies passivity. That birth is something that is done to us, not something we participate in. I think it was Henci Goer who put it like this: "There's a big difference between being the magician who pulls a rabbit out of a hat and merely being the hat." Who wants to be the hat?
4. It's just sloppy English. The word "deliver" (as a transitive verb) has 9 meanings at dictionary.com. Only one (#7) concerns birth. The rest are either nonsense in this context (#1-6, #8), or truly horrible when applied to the doctor's role in birth (#9). There's got to be a better way to say this.
I'm open to any and all suggestions for a replacement phrase. Sadly, I have caught myself saying this from time to time, and it always makes me sad. Because any doctor worth the money knows that s/he's not the magician when it comes to a birth. The laboring woman is. The doctor is more akin to the magician's lovely assistant- sometimes crucial, sometimes clumsy, but always second fiddle. Stand there, look pretty, help me if I need it...good doctor.
I hate the way we refer to doctors' involvement in a birth in this country. It drives me absolutely batty. And I know I said "doctors", but I mean midwives too, most of them (and most of us) use this terminology and when I'm dictator, I'm going to glare very sternly at anyone who uses it, and maybe make them give me five dollars. For now I'm just going to beg all of you lovely, mindful people to pretty please think about the language we use and decide for yourself if my objections are valid.
Women say in this country "Dr/Midwife Sally delivered my baby". It's like fingernails on a chalkboard for me, people. Like someone peeing in my Coca-Cola.
The problems with this:
1. In most cases, the only thing a doctor does at a birth is arrive in time for the grand finale, coach the woman in pushing (which she doesn't need anyway), and announce the baby's sex (again, unnecessary...I'm guessing most people able to have sex can figure out on their own which one the baby is).
2. Even in cases which require some sort of dramatic intervention (forceps, surgery, whatever), saying that the doctor delivered the baby completely robs the woman of any sort of crucial role in what happened. In this phrasing, the doctor, not the woman laboring, is the star. I always want to ask, "So, what were you doing while the doctor was delivering your baby?" not out of a desire to humiliate, but because I want women to realize that the doctor is there for them. The show can't go on without them.
3. It implies passivity. That birth is something that is done to us, not something we participate in. I think it was Henci Goer who put it like this: "There's a big difference between being the magician who pulls a rabbit out of a hat and merely being the hat." Who wants to be the hat?
4. It's just sloppy English. The word "deliver" (as a transitive verb) has 9 meanings at dictionary.com. Only one (#7) concerns birth. The rest are either nonsense in this context (#1-6, #8), or truly horrible when applied to the doctor's role in birth (#9). There's got to be a better way to say this.
I'm open to any and all suggestions for a replacement phrase. Sadly, I have caught myself saying this from time to time, and it always makes me sad. Because any doctor worth the money knows that s/he's not the magician when it comes to a birth. The laboring woman is. The doctor is more akin to the magician's lovely assistant- sometimes crucial, sometimes clumsy, but always second fiddle. Stand there, look pretty, help me if I need it...good doctor.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Progress
I'm happy to report some improvement here. We seem to have finally found a med combo that is working for Jeff. That's the first thing, but it's affected everything else. We're getting along better, he and the kids are getting along better. Dinner time is becoming more predictably pleasant, instead of being our daily exercise in falling apart as a family. This is a great relief.
On the less-happy front, I had my first episode of can't-wake-up syndrome today. This is really typical for me in winter, and I was sort of hoping it wouldn't start this year. But, blessedly, Jeff not only ran the household and got breakfast this morning, he also fixed the clogged pipes under the kitchen sink and did the dishes. When I finally dragged my ass out of bed after 11, he told me he'd been hoping to get more done. I was overwhelmed. I still am. For months now, we've been living lives of bare civility and occasional angry outbursts, also occasional affectionate outbursts. Between me being ill and untreated and him being ill and ineffectively treated, things were not going well. But my hope for the future of our family, which never died completely but needed life support at times, is now getting steadily stronger.
It's a good time for it. Because the feeling we've had for a long time, that there is something off about Allie, is getting stronger as well. It's hard to explain to someone who doesn't live with us, because 90% of the behavior that concerns us happens at home, with only our family around to witness it. But here's some highlights:
Allie asked us the other day, out of the blue: "why do some parents hate their children and kill them?"
She has started hitting her siblings again, and seemed poised to choke Eva with a jumprope the other day (put it around her neck and started pulling the ends in opposite directions), although I intervened before the actual choking started
She screams inconsolably when I leave the room until I return
She is becoming more defiant, lying more, and refusing to listen to Jeff or me in most instances
She has out-of-control screaming tantrums, where she is mentally unreachable (but obviously terrified) and cannot participate in calming herself down- we have to wait them out, sometimes for a half-hour or more
She was an extremely intense baby, and she has always had periods like this ("difficult stages" is our family nomenclature), but as she gets older, not only are they getting worse, but they're getting more and more out-of-sync with expected, normal behavior-for-age. She reminds me of my brother, which is a very scary thing. Since her preschool screening was A-OK, I think our next stop is a referral to a behavioral specialist for evaluation. Hopefully they'll take our word for it, because she is still her normal, bright, charming self when not at home. I wish I could see inside her head and know what is going on with her, because I know what a wonderful girl she can be.
On the less-happy front, I had my first episode of can't-wake-up syndrome today. This is really typical for me in winter, and I was sort of hoping it wouldn't start this year. But, blessedly, Jeff not only ran the household and got breakfast this morning, he also fixed the clogged pipes under the kitchen sink and did the dishes. When I finally dragged my ass out of bed after 11, he told me he'd been hoping to get more done. I was overwhelmed. I still am. For months now, we've been living lives of bare civility and occasional angry outbursts, also occasional affectionate outbursts. Between me being ill and untreated and him being ill and ineffectively treated, things were not going well. But my hope for the future of our family, which never died completely but needed life support at times, is now getting steadily stronger.
It's a good time for it. Because the feeling we've had for a long time, that there is something off about Allie, is getting stronger as well. It's hard to explain to someone who doesn't live with us, because 90% of the behavior that concerns us happens at home, with only our family around to witness it. But here's some highlights:
Allie asked us the other day, out of the blue: "why do some parents hate their children and kill them?"
She has started hitting her siblings again, and seemed poised to choke Eva with a jumprope the other day (put it around her neck and started pulling the ends in opposite directions), although I intervened before the actual choking started
She screams inconsolably when I leave the room until I return
She is becoming more defiant, lying more, and refusing to listen to Jeff or me in most instances
She has out-of-control screaming tantrums, where she is mentally unreachable (but obviously terrified) and cannot participate in calming herself down- we have to wait them out, sometimes for a half-hour or more
She was an extremely intense baby, and she has always had periods like this ("difficult stages" is our family nomenclature), but as she gets older, not only are they getting worse, but they're getting more and more out-of-sync with expected, normal behavior-for-age. She reminds me of my brother, which is a very scary thing. Since her preschool screening was A-OK, I think our next stop is a referral to a behavioral specialist for evaluation. Hopefully they'll take our word for it, because she is still her normal, bright, charming self when not at home. I wish I could see inside her head and know what is going on with her, because I know what a wonderful girl she can be.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
The days pass
I've been struggling, ever since I posted last, with whether or not that last post should remain up or not. Not so much because I swore (I do, occasionally, and we have a rather liberal attitude toward "bad language" in our house), but because I was so open. I have trouble being vulnerable. But in the end, it remains up, and will remain up, because I decided if I can't be honest here, I'm in a whole heap of trouble.
I'm not angry all the time. Right now, I'm not angry at all, just anxious to get started with treatment...to start getting better. Such is the dualistic nature of this disease, I guess. Daily doses of evening primrose oil (suggested by a friend) seem to be heading off my descent into depression for the time being, but I'm wondering if that is also the cause of the low-grade mania I seem to be dealing with on and off. But for now, I'll take the low-grade mania, even though it's only in fits and starts, because I know when I detour into full-blown depression I will slip from finding it difficult to get daily tasks done to feeling overwhelmed at the thought of having to make lunch. It's hard to describe what it's like to be completely paralyzed by contemplating simple, routine tasks- except to say that I dread it immensely, and while I love autumn, winter to me is a sinister season that sucks away everything I am and everything I love, until I'm left with only the memory of life and enjoyment.
But there is a silver lining, even now. Being aware of my cycling has helped me immensely in managing my emotions. It doesn't help me manage my moods, but that's where drugs come in, I guess. To explain what I mean, differentiating between moods and emotion: sadness is an emotion; depression is a mood. Fear is an emotion; anxiety is a mood. This may not be how a psychologist would categorize things, but it is aiding me, so I'm keeping it. A mood, for me, has emotional manifestations (crying while depressed, biting nails while anxious, talking fast while manic), but in itself, it is not an emotion, and it is not necessarily responsive to emotional triggers...petting a puppy probably won't make me happy while I'm depressed, nor will talking about our atrocious financial situation bring me down when I'm manic. The more I think about it, the odder it seems how completely disconnected my moods are from my emotions. And how disconnected my self-perception is from reality (or, if not reality, at least from others' perceptions...but if you tally up enough people's perceptions, and they agree on the whole, I think it's fairly safe to call the sum "reality"). I think part of the reason this diagnosis in general has been such a crushing blow to me is that I'm a type 4. For someone (in this case, a doctor) to tell me that my perception of reality has some serious flaws was basically telling me that I can't trust my perceptions. And if I can't trust my perceptions, what *can* I trust?
So I'm lucky beyond words to have Jeff. For now, I trust him more than I do myself. And thankfully, he trusts me enough to tell me when I'm full of it (like when I question the validity of my diagnosis). A lot of the time, he can see my mood shifting before I can...example: when I'm getting manic, I start to talk pretty fast. And interrupt people. And talk over them. And almost shout (which I don't realize I'm doing). I don't notice the change until I'm literally stuttering because my brain is running so far ahead of my mouth (which is struggling to keep up). He can hear the change in my speech way sooner than that. It sounds like a small thing, but with something like manic depression, even a small warning that a shift is coming can head off a minor (or not so minor) disaster. Oh, I'm getting manic? Perhaps I should postpone that shopping trip until my mood settles a bit (of course, once I *am* manic, convincing me to postpone *anything* can be a major undertaking...which is why I end up scrubbing the bathrooms down at 4 in the morning).
Small victories, but victories nonetheless. It's not all doom and gloom here...but there are definitely good days and bad.
Since I probably won't be posting again before Friday, happy birthday Michelle and Chico!
I'm not angry all the time. Right now, I'm not angry at all, just anxious to get started with treatment...to start getting better. Such is the dualistic nature of this disease, I guess. Daily doses of evening primrose oil (suggested by a friend) seem to be heading off my descent into depression for the time being, but I'm wondering if that is also the cause of the low-grade mania I seem to be dealing with on and off. But for now, I'll take the low-grade mania, even though it's only in fits and starts, because I know when I detour into full-blown depression I will slip from finding it difficult to get daily tasks done to feeling overwhelmed at the thought of having to make lunch. It's hard to describe what it's like to be completely paralyzed by contemplating simple, routine tasks- except to say that I dread it immensely, and while I love autumn, winter to me is a sinister season that sucks away everything I am and everything I love, until I'm left with only the memory of life and enjoyment.
But there is a silver lining, even now. Being aware of my cycling has helped me immensely in managing my emotions. It doesn't help me manage my moods, but that's where drugs come in, I guess. To explain what I mean, differentiating between moods and emotion: sadness is an emotion; depression is a mood. Fear is an emotion; anxiety is a mood. This may not be how a psychologist would categorize things, but it is aiding me, so I'm keeping it. A mood, for me, has emotional manifestations (crying while depressed, biting nails while anxious, talking fast while manic), but in itself, it is not an emotion, and it is not necessarily responsive to emotional triggers...petting a puppy probably won't make me happy while I'm depressed, nor will talking about our atrocious financial situation bring me down when I'm manic. The more I think about it, the odder it seems how completely disconnected my moods are from my emotions. And how disconnected my self-perception is from reality (or, if not reality, at least from others' perceptions...but if you tally up enough people's perceptions, and they agree on the whole, I think it's fairly safe to call the sum "reality"). I think part of the reason this diagnosis in general has been such a crushing blow to me is that I'm a type 4. For someone (in this case, a doctor) to tell me that my perception of reality has some serious flaws was basically telling me that I can't trust my perceptions. And if I can't trust my perceptions, what *can* I trust?
So I'm lucky beyond words to have Jeff. For now, I trust him more than I do myself. And thankfully, he trusts me enough to tell me when I'm full of it (like when I question the validity of my diagnosis). A lot of the time, he can see my mood shifting before I can...example: when I'm getting manic, I start to talk pretty fast. And interrupt people. And talk over them. And almost shout (which I don't realize I'm doing). I don't notice the change until I'm literally stuttering because my brain is running so far ahead of my mouth (which is struggling to keep up). He can hear the change in my speech way sooner than that. It sounds like a small thing, but with something like manic depression, even a small warning that a shift is coming can head off a minor (or not so minor) disaster. Oh, I'm getting manic? Perhaps I should postpone that shopping trip until my mood settles a bit (of course, once I *am* manic, convincing me to postpone *anything* can be a major undertaking...which is why I end up scrubbing the bathrooms down at 4 in the morning).
Small victories, but victories nonetheless. It's not all doom and gloom here...but there are definitely good days and bad.
Since I probably won't be posting again before Friday, happy birthday Michelle and Chico!
Friday, September 30, 2005
Thank God, I'm not Crazy
Or, rather, I am crazy...but not uniquely so. For the past month, I've been confessing to Jeff almost every day that I don't really feel sick. I know what depression feels like, and it's easy to classify that as illness. But I'm not depressed. And I've ranted about how what is pathology for me (mania and hypomania), in people who do not suffer the depressive side of the coin is not considered pathology- and how damned unfair that is. They're not sick- they're your tireless leaders, your undauntable explorers, your unflagging visionaries and reformers. So they came with a thermostat set a little higher than the average- they only sleep 5 hours a night, say, or can come up with fresh ideas for saving the world when everyone around them is dozing off in exhaustion ("It's 5 am? Wow, time flies!"). They're not sick.
It's incredibly. Fucking. Unfair.
******
Quoted from this article, but I could have written the exact same thing. And I think it may be harder for me right now, as someone who has never displayed a lot of classic psychotic symptoms (hallucinations or grandiose delusions) with my manias, to frame mania in terms of illness at all. Yes, I understand this is a progressive disorder, that without treatment, I will deteriorate until I die (from either natural or self-inflicted causes, self-inflicted being more likely without treatment). I understand that mixed episodes, like I have been experiencing ever since my second week of Zoloft- these will become the norm for me. The giddy, pure mania that I'm trying desperately to reclassify as something other than illness will disappear almost completely. But it's not enough. I don't know if "enough" exists to make me comfortable with permanent medicated status. Did I mention that I don't like taking drugs? Not even Tylenol.
******
So, anyway, I tell Jeff I'm not sick. And he always responds with this totally priceless look...it's the look our kids are going to get when they ask if they can stay overnight at the hotel after prom, or have a kegger for their underage friends at our house (ok, so it's probably wishful thinking that they would ask if they could have the kegger). And that helps, because to be brutally honest with you all (and I think I can do that, after dropping the f-bomb on ya), if it was for my own sake, I would not seek treatment.
Oh, ok, I love being in therapy (c'mon, what could be more fun for a type 4 than having someone listen for an hour while I talk about myself and how I feel?)...so I'd probably do that. Mood stabilizer? Forget it. I'd rather ride the waves than blunt them. When I'm not in the thick of depression, it's easy to convince myself that there is romance in the crushing despair. When I'm not in the grip of mania, it's easy to convince myself that it's just Stacey 2.0...me, only better- smarter, more creative, more interesting, more energetic. It's easy to forget the frightening loss of control...the things I have said and done that were an excruciating embarassment months or years later, the risk-taking, the overspending, the frightening rages, the eventual crash-and-burn.
But regardless, I don't have the option of complete selfishness. I have children who need a mom who isn't incapacitated for 1/3 of the year, who doesn't rage without warning, who can provide some consistency and predictability and structure. I have a husband who needs to be able to trust me with the finances, and trust me with myself. None of that is happenin' without a friendly little dose of lithium (or depakote, or whatever they end up picking for me). I love my kids to death, and I firmly believe that that fact balances out a helluva lot of crap they might otherwise carry, but it doesn't cancel out "my mom's bipolar". This is a case where love isn't...can't be...enough. I have to cooperate. Be a good girl. Take my meds.
And I resent it, intensely.
It's incredibly. Fucking. Unfair.
******
"I'm honestly not scared - yet - of the diagnosis. It's not a complete surprise. What I am nervous about is the medications...But it's more than that. I don't feel bipolar. Good moods don't feel like mania or hypomania to me - they feel like - good moods."
Quoted from this article, but I could have written the exact same thing. And I think it may be harder for me right now, as someone who has never displayed a lot of classic psychotic symptoms (hallucinations or grandiose delusions) with my manias, to frame mania in terms of illness at all. Yes, I understand this is a progressive disorder, that without treatment, I will deteriorate until I die (from either natural or self-inflicted causes, self-inflicted being more likely without treatment). I understand that mixed episodes, like I have been experiencing ever since my second week of Zoloft- these will become the norm for me. The giddy, pure mania that I'm trying desperately to reclassify as something other than illness will disappear almost completely. But it's not enough. I don't know if "enough" exists to make me comfortable with permanent medicated status. Did I mention that I don't like taking drugs? Not even Tylenol.
******
So, anyway, I tell Jeff I'm not sick. And he always responds with this totally priceless look...it's the look our kids are going to get when they ask if they can stay overnight at the hotel after prom, or have a kegger for their underage friends at our house (ok, so it's probably wishful thinking that they would ask if they could have the kegger). And that helps, because to be brutally honest with you all (and I think I can do that, after dropping the f-bomb on ya), if it was for my own sake, I would not seek treatment.
Oh, ok, I love being in therapy (c'mon, what could be more fun for a type 4 than having someone listen for an hour while I talk about myself and how I feel?)...so I'd probably do that. Mood stabilizer? Forget it. I'd rather ride the waves than blunt them. When I'm not in the thick of depression, it's easy to convince myself that there is romance in the crushing despair. When I'm not in the grip of mania, it's easy to convince myself that it's just Stacey 2.0...me, only better- smarter, more creative, more interesting, more energetic. It's easy to forget the frightening loss of control...the things I have said and done that were an excruciating embarassment months or years later, the risk-taking, the overspending, the frightening rages, the eventual crash-and-burn.
But regardless, I don't have the option of complete selfishness. I have children who need a mom who isn't incapacitated for 1/3 of the year, who doesn't rage without warning, who can provide some consistency and predictability and structure. I have a husband who needs to be able to trust me with the finances, and trust me with myself. None of that is happenin' without a friendly little dose of lithium (or depakote, or whatever they end up picking for me). I love my kids to death, and I firmly believe that that fact balances out a helluva lot of crap they might otherwise carry, but it doesn't cancel out "my mom's bipolar". This is a case where love isn't...can't be...enough. I have to cooperate. Be a good girl. Take my meds.
And I resent it, intensely.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)