A Different Depression

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I have been bipolar since my late teens. I have anxiety, thyroid problems, snippets of OCD, schizophrenia, and a whole bunch of other little twitches and problems that would take way too long to go into detail about. I have lived with these conditions the majority of my life at this point. I take a lot of medications, religiously go to my therapy appointments, and other doctor appointments, and pretty much do all I can to keep the demons at bay. But no matter how many times life throws you a silent and deadly curve, it always has one more. Life doesn’t stop punching, and it’s a lesson I learned many years ago.

This time it threw me a punch I actually saw coming. I didn’t know it was coming but once it was in front of my face, I knew it was going to hurt. In my life, that is life.

Six months ago, I saw one of my regular doctors, stepped on the scale and realized the full extent of the punch I was going to feel. It took nanoseconds for me to realize that once again the place I had finally gained, the ground I had finally firmed was going to be taken away. The scale showed that I had gained significant weight. And in the months since, I have continued to gain that weight.

I need to back up and explain one or two things. First, I have been underweight my whole adult life. Anytime I saw a new doctor I got to have another enlightening conversation about diet, exercise, and eventually eating disorders. It didn’t matter that I have never had an eating disorder (at least not one that was easily defined), it didn’t matter that even through my pregnancies I didn’t gain the anticipated amount of weight, it didn’t matter that it was years and years of the same number on that scale. Doctors saw the lack of weight and simply panicked. Now, I have a lot of problems but I have always refused to consciously add to those problems with a disorder with my weight.

The first time I realized I was underweight was actually on a Nintendo Wii. I took the stupid little test and up popped my BMI that showed I was underweight. It was a momentarily pause for me, but mostly, I was just wanted the information to disappear off the screen before my parents or my husband saw it and gave me one of their patented looks.

The other thing I need you to understand is that in high school, I weighed more than I do even now. In my early twenties I lost a really large amount of weight, enough to concern the doctors into making sure that they put me through every test there was (including a neurological exam) to make sure that my physical health wasn’t the cause of my massive weight loss. You will be glad to know after three months of intense and intrusive exams, I didn’t have a tumor, blood loss, or any other disease that could adequately explain the loss of the weight. I stopped all the tests after a rather horrible GI exam and put up my hands and declared I was done. The doctors gave up, and off I went to live my life.

I have spent years joking about the fact that I was so underweight; I even wrote a post about it once. I didn’t look like my children’s friends’ parents. I didn’t look like the normal people walking around on earth. I had to shop in the junior’s section most of my life, and so I certainly wasn’t able to dress like what I saw my peers wearing. I was not a typical mother, but it wasn’t that I was thin, it was that I look sickly.

So, one would think that gaining substantial amount of weight in the last six months would make me happy. Unfortunately, situational depression doesn’t use logic, anymore than any other depression. There still resides in my this denial that I have gained so much weight because in the months prior to that first doctor’s scale, I had actually gained only a significant amount of energy and purpose. l had gotten off my couch, deep cleaned my home and my life, and was doing things like painting and writing more. I was more purposeful. I had gotten off my couch. And I started drinking decaffeinated teas. That is the sum total of what had changed. Not my eating habits, I stopped all alcohol long ago, and I was walking and doing yoga every other day. I was actually not only happier, I was what all the doctor’s would call physically healthy. But the scale said something louder. I was gaining weight in my happiness.

Since that first appointment six months ago I have continued to gain weight. Slowly but always there. And now the doctors are saying – situational depression. I have depression because of the weight gain, not because of my brain’s normal gymnastics, not because it’s that time of year, not because it just follows mania. This depression is easy to identify, but no less powerful because of that. I always thought that if I had something like situational depression, I would just change the situation. Funny how best laid plans rarely work out.

Of course, the weight that I have gained is only in my waist and my stomach, not where one would wish it. So I can’t ignore it, especially as the weather here has turned hot and I can’t hide behind the baggy sweatshirts I have been wearing. It’s now out in the open and I am going to have to deal with it.

I have decided to deal with this in a couple of ways. One, I am going to make myself look at it. I am not going to seek out mirrors but I am not going to avoid them. I am not going to dress like it is winter when it is not. I am going to make myself see it until it finally (hopefully) becomes my reality.

And now that the weather has cleared up, and I have done my usual research, I am going to start incorporating walking. Not everyday, but I am going to make an effort. We’ll see how long that actually lasts.

I am going to repeat to myself, “this is a healthy” weight. This is a healthy body. Despite what it looks like to me, the doctors are, on a whole, very happy that I am no longer underweight. So that will be my new mantra.

I do have to be very careful because I have a teenage daughter in the house. She is not underweight or overweight, but rather perfect just the way she is. But we all know the damage that can be done to young people especially when weight, the complaint of it, can become the normal conversation. Technically, she weighs more than I do, although genetically she looks different than I do. But I slip even once and complain about my weight or my beauty, she could be the one most effected. I won’t do that to her. I won’t ruin her anymore than I probably already have.

So, it’s a new turn in a long journey. One I have to navigate, albeit carefully, but in a way that I have done before. This doesn’t feel like bipolar. It’s not nebulous. It is very specific. But it is no less dangerous to me and those I love than any other depression I have dealt with. (I need that drink that I swore off).

It’s All So Different

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If you have read any of my recent blogs, then you know that I have been going through quite the journey. After being put on a new set of medications, I went through a six month period of doing. I cleaned, I took care of myself, I took my daughter shopping, I exercised, I lived a life I had never seen before. At the beginning it was a little daunting because I lost the voices in my head, and there was silence where there hadn’t been for so long. The last six months have been a period of excitement of realizing all that I could do and a loss of all that I had for so long.

And now it’s changing again; but it’s all so different.

About a week ago, approximately when I stopped writing, I began to notice the slow and inevitable dive down. If you know anything about mental illness than you know that no matter how good you feel one day, it isn’t going to last. That’s not how these diseases work. It’s a journey of ups and downs; and you have to reconcile that with everything else going on in your head each and every day. There are no guarantees, there are no promises, except that today won’t look like tomorrow. I knew, even during the last six months, that I would go into a depressive state again; I just didn’t know what it would look like.

The problem always is, if you going really high, your going to fall really hard. It’s physics, it’s our diseases, it’s our reality. I have been flying high for a really long time; much longer than I ever have before. And now it is time to see what the next chapter is going to look like.

It’s funny how in these diseases, how good we become at lying. I can convince everyone around me that I am just fine. I can convince my doctors that there is nothing happening in my life that is momentous or even worthy of talking about. I can convince my husband, the person who probably is closest to me, that I am healthy, happy, and going strong. And I can do it easily, with manipulation and deceit. I have been lying my whole life about my life; and it’s truly better for everyone that I do so. My mother doesn’t need to understand depression or anxiety. My children certainly never need to know the horrors that their mother faces. Even my husband doesn’t need to know the details of my life, despite the fact he believes that he is walking beside me through this life. Because the truth remains that no one, but myself, ever gets to know any of the details, the problems, the issues, unless I am willing to share them. And I have never been good at sharing.

And before you ask, please know that I have a good support system in place. I have people who love me, who will listen to me; the problem is that I have nothing to say to them. When you are walking through these mental illnesses you learn really quickly that most of the work, most of the journey falls on your own shoulders and no one else’s. You can have support, you can have amazing support, but ultimately it is you, and you alone, that has to face each day. It is only you that can determine where you are in a disease, where you are going, and even where you wish you actually were. There is no one else that can fight a mental illness other than the sufferer. Others may feel our pain, some may even know our pain, but it’s a pain that each of us has to learn not only to understand but to deal with; it’s a lonesome disease. So lying for me becomes a way to buy time; a way for me to try and see where I am headed before I bring out the support and the empty gestures of sympathy. There are times I have lied too long and too well, and found myself in a dangerous position. And whether that is happening here or not, only time will tell. Will I have to tell someone, at some point? Yes. Can they do anything to help? No.

And the truth of the matter is, this last week, I haven’t only been lying to my loved ones; I have been lying to myself. Despite the changes I can obviously see (i.e. all the major projects I had on my list are complete, I am struggling to find the motivation to not only keep taking care of myself with exercise but with a healthy diet, and the resignation of so many things) I have tried to ignore it all. I have pushed myself to be the person I have been this last six months rather than the person I am now becoming. The thing about mental illness, at least in my life, is the person that I am today can fully and completely change the next day. Not only my energy but my desires, my needs, my reaction to the same experiences I have had the last couple of months. I change, but the lying comes in when I don’t allow others, even myself, to acknowledge that the change is happening.

Because I am in a new place, a place that I have never even contemplated as a possibility, lying has become a way to distract everyone around me, including myself, until I can get a handle on what is happening and where it going. Lying is my way of putting off the hard questions that I am about to face: how far am I going to go down, how long am I going to be a prisoner there, and can I pull myself out of it as I have done so many times in the past. My brain is different this time. My body is different this time. The complete overtaking of my mind in a way that I have never felt is new. Seven months ago, I knew what mania and depression looked like; now the rules have changed. They have changed in the past, and yes, I adapted; but there is something very different about this time. It’s bigger, more invasive, more pervasive. My mental illness has changed, and the ability to understand where I am and where I am going has changed. So lying becomes the default until I know. It’s better for those around me, despite the numerous warnings society has about being real and truthful to yourself. Those are words, and I am dealing with not only my own mental health, but the happiness of those around me. And the happiness of those around me has to count in the equation.

I need a moment to be quiet and find myself. I need a moment of quiet to determine who this new person is going to be. She hasn’t actually given me any hints but I still feel like I need to know.

In the past, whenever I was sliding towards depression, there was always a firm bottom that I knew was there. The bottom, an actual thing in my mind, did include those suicidal thoughts, the complete lack of energy and desire, the need to retreat into myself to rest and find comfort. I have always known a sense of comfort in depression; it’s what I know best. It’s dark, and quiet. It has walls. It’s warm and welcoming to me. It’s a place that is familiar. It’s a place I understand what to do with; how to manage. Despite what I know it does to my family, specifically my kids, it’s always been a refuge from the world. It has always been my excuse not to see the world but to only focus on me and what I was feeling. Being manic, or whatever I have been the last couple of months, has always been less about me and more about the people around me; making them proud, giving them the version of me they want to see, giving them a moment to not worry about me.

But just like I struggled to define who and what I was these last six months, as I entered into a phase of life I had never seen before, I am struggling to define this girl. There is no solid ground below me. There is no comfort, no rest. I am not sleeping; wondering what is happening. I am not eating, because there is no desire for food. I could go on…but it all boils down to one thing: I am terrified.

I don’t know this new place I am defining. It’s not the depression of the last decade. It’s not a recognizable place to retreat to and it’s not dark or warm or soft. The best description I can give anyone (who cares to ask), and be truthful about it, is I am suspended in air. If you have ever seen the athletes who swing on the sheer fabrics, flying through the air and twisting into positions with the illusion of very little support, that is the closet description I can give. I am simply floating in air, with no ground to land on, no ceiling to climb, just the flimsiest of fabrics trying to keep me stable.

Mental illness means you go through new and terrifying things all the time; but I don’t think I have ever been this aware of the terror. I don’t think I have ever been this conscious that there is nothing I can do to prepare myself, to console myself with, or to understand about the place that I am now finding myself in. Youth used to allow me to go into new phases of this disease with a strange amount of confidence; not about my ability to fight off my own demons, but the knowledge that those demons existed. Living in a familiar pattern of ups and downs have been upended and I literally don’t know where I am in this world. I want to retreat, there’s no doubt about that, but the question is, what am I retreating into and where is the bottom when you have lived so high for so long?

I don’t know what to do here. I don’t have a choice but to keep moving forward. None of my old tricks and little tweaks to my life are working. I am lying my head off to anyone who asks because I don’t know any answers and I don’t want to see that look in their eyes. It’s a new suffering. It’s a new unknown. And this time, my gut says, is going to count in a way that none of the other times ever have. My gut is screaming but I have no idea what it is trying to warn me about. I am lying, flying solo, and dangling thousands of feet in the air.

The Self – Yoga

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Because of my age, and quite frankly my non-interest in exercising, I do a variety of exercising types. I have to have variety because I get bored and will end up quitting. There are days I don’t want to do a full-on exercise that will make me sweat and be sore, and sometimes I need to work on different parts of my body. I have been practicing yoga for a very long time, and I am here to not only espouse the benefits, but to make sure you are aware of the possibilities both good and bad of starting a yoga.

If you are new to yoga or if you have done it a million times, there are so many variations of yoga to explore. There is yoga designed for those wishing to lose weight. There is yoga designed for seniors or those who have balance issues. There is yoga for the morning and yoga for the night. You can probably find a yoga class or video for just about any season you are in.

Yoga is exceptional for mental illness. It is calm, it is quiet, it is peaceful. Yes, if you are a beginner it will take a couple of seconds to figure out the next pose, but that is absolutely normal. Once you find either a class or a video that you can watch over and over, you will seamlessly be able to do the practice and you will find that all you have to concentrate on is breathing. It is an empowering exercise; you will be happy with yourself every time you finish. It allows for you to forget for a moment the world around you and only concentrate on your own self. This isn’t a bad thing, especially if you are dealing with depression or anxiety. Yoga should be not only empowering, but it should simply feel good. Yes, at the beginning while you are building new muscles it might be a little hard; but doing it over and over allows your body to be healthy while your mind builds new positivity. To me, if you are mentally ill, and can only do one exercise for the rest of your life, make it yoga. It will help.

First the benefits:

  • Flexibility – I will say this; yes, I am flexible, but to this day, after practicing yoga for years I still can’t touch my toes. You should gain flexibility the more you practice yoga but it isn’t a prerequisite when you start. In fact, classes and instructors will often show you the modifying positions for those who don’t want to stretch their bodies until they become unable to get off the floor.
  • Strength – Yoga uses your own body. This means you are using your own muscles to strength train. You don’t need weights and balls and other weird devices, you can use your own legs and abdomen to get the results you are looking for. This is where the empowering feeling comes in; you are doing the exercise, not a machine.
  • Peace – I started yoga for one reason: I hate, hate, hate when people are yelling at me. I hate when instructors are yelling at me to move faster, make it burn, or even push! I don’t like people yelling at me in real life, I don’t need someone yelling at me while I am trying to figure out how to best get in a new position. Yes, there are thousands of articles about what happens to your brain when you practice yoga, but for me, it’s the simple requirement that no one looks me dead in the eye and basically forces me out of my comfort zone.
  • Calm – This goes with peace; but maybe further. Once you are established in a yoga routine, you will find that many of the positions and flows actually have the ability not only to calm your mind but calm your muscles as well. Yoga is never supposed to hurt or cause injury; it’s supposed to be breathing through one exercise to the next. Yoga is all about breathing. And if you don’t know this yet, breathing steadily and with purpose can actually help with anxiety, depression, mania, and all the craziness of life. Breathing puts life on the back burner while you are concentrating on something that is positive for you.
  • Clarity – Most people believe that you can achieve more clarity when you practice yoga. I can’t. My brain will often shut off when I am doing the routine, but for me, once it is over my brain is back to thinking about all the things I seem to think are important to obsess over. That doesn’t mean that you won’t find clarity, I just can’t.
  • Healthier Choices – One of the most interesting aspects of starting yoga, unlike other exercise routines, is that you will actually start seeing and looking at your body differently. It should be positive, but if it isn’t, surveys show that people will often turn to more healthier choices in their daily life after practicing yoga. I have no idea if it’s the focus on your body, the feeling of accomplishment you feel after the practice, or simply your brain saying, ‘well, if we are doing this, let’s do that’. I always eat better after yoga; I always drink more water. I don’t know what my brain correlates here, but I tend to run with it.
  • Stress Relief – I won’t lie, yoga is a huge stress relief. There is something about doing a calming, yet healthy exercise that helps me to feel relief from the stresses I am experiencing, if only for a couple of hours. There is something about stretching and breathing that doesn’t solve any of my problems but just makes me feel good. And those feel good emotions (or chemicals, if you prefer) help my stress. I can’t always do other exercises, including walking around my neighborhood, but I can do yoga in a quiet and calm atmosphere and simply feel better. The majority of classes I have attended, even hot yoga, they actually turn the lights off. Sometimes, they burn candles or play soft music. It helps me readjust.
  • Breath function – There are some studies that show yoga helps us to breathe easier, deeper and teaches us to focus on our breath. This can come in handy in the middle of a panic attack. Learning how to breathe is the number one lesson in yoga. Every move, whether you are moving into a position, staying in a position, or moving out of a position, is dictated by your breath. A good instructor will actually tell you exactly when to breathe in and when to breathe out. Over and over again. (If an instructor doesn’t do this, it isn’t the right yoga for you). For instance, when you lift your hands over your head you should be inhaling, when you lower them you should be exhaling. Simple, yes. Important, yes. Automatically coming to mind, not so much.
  • Pain Relief – There are certain yoga routines that are focused solely on pain reduction. Find one. Your neck, your back, your knees will thank you. Like I said from the beginning, there are so many different ways to practice yoga; I guarantee there is one for you.
  • Improves blood sugar – There was a good study that showed that people who practiced yoga faithfully not only improved their blood sugar, but improved their sex life, bone density, balance; I could go on. Now, most of these studies looked at participants who have been practicing yoga for a long time, but the overall theme is that yoga does more good then bad.

Now some cautionary tips.

  • It is always, always, a smart tip that if you are new to yoga to actually go to an in-person class. You don’t necessarily need to go to a gym, in fact, yoga centers are probably better. But there are lessons to be learned when starting any new exercise, and yoga is no different. For instance, most people love the bridge pose. It’s easy, and can be very beneficial. But most people don’t know that you can never, ever turn your head in bridge pose. It can do some serious damage to your neck, especially if you already have problems in that area. (See picture below for what a bridge pose looks like). This is information that you need, and while there is nothing wrong with going to your local gym to practice yoga or even just doing a YouTube video like I do, oftentimes, these very unique instructions won’t be included. Be careful with yoga; and always take it easy at the beginning
  • You may fart. Sorry, but when you are twisting and moving in and out of positions air won’t only be coming out of your nose. (In yoga, you breathe in and out of your nose, never your mouth). This can be embarrassing, but everyone who has ever practiced yoga knows that this happens. Shrug it off and keep paying attention.
  • Other potentially embarrassing moments you will have includes falling over. Yep, you may just fall. Catch yourself and either try again or wait for the next pose. And you may cry. I have never needed to cry during yoga but I have seen grown people sob. If you feel it’s getting out of control, quietly (without picking your stuff up) excuse yourself. Or just pack tissues next time.
  • You do not ever need the cute yoga pants and short little top to practice yoga. You don’t wear shoes so quite worrying about that. You need a mat, as a towel will slip around on the floor, but find one that has a thickness you need – and check discount stores first. Always remember water, but use your daily water bottle. You can practice yoga in your favorite, holey sweats. You can practice it in your oldest sports bra. The great thing about yoga is everyone is literally concentrating on themselves, their breath and their poses, and are not worried about you.
  • You can take breaks. Especially when you are first starting yoga, it’s perfectly acceptable to simply sit on your mat, quietly. Most instructors just expect that you will sit quietly and wait until you feel ready to go again. They probably aren’t even going to check on you…so take that moment, especially if you can’t yet contort your body they way they want you to.
  • You usually can’t bring your phone, tablet, or another electronic in class with you. One, the noise will disturb others in the class trying to concentrate, and if you are focused on your boss’ next text, you aren’t focusing on your routine; this can lead to serious injuries. If you want to do yoga, disconnect yourself.
  • You are not supposed to chat with your mat mate. Whether it’s a stranger or a friend, yoga is supposed to be quiet and focused. Don’t do it; it’s rude.
  • Be careful what yoga you pick to start with. I was doing yoga for years before I ever contemplated doing a hot yoga class. And I have to admit, despite my level of comfort with the poses and the breathing, I still had to take breaks. I still got dizzy, sweated through two towels, and got a headache when I left the warm room. I learned this wasn’t for me. Not because I didn’t know the poses or because of the instructor, but because I realized I didn’t want to put my body through that. It wasn’t worth it. Find a routine that you can do, even if you have to breaks at points in the class. Despite never feeling more accomplished in my life as I did when I left that class (and I was a pretty high executive at that point), it wasn’t what I needed.
  • Lastly, and yes I know what this sounds like, but don’t come in late for a class or leave early. It’s rude.

Like I said from the beginning there are so many different yoga programs. I like a slow, weight-loss video and then some facial yoga practices. It’s all I need and it’s often all I can do. I don’t like to push myself or sweat through multiple towels – I like to use my body to get more toned and strong but calmly. The facial yoga practices are for vanity only.

Whatever you are looking for, just be careful with yoga. Listen to the instructor, but also listen to your own body. It’s going to tell you when you are going too far or too deep. Let it be a relaxing, sometimes challenging, but always a successful part of your exercising routines. Let your body do the work for you, not your mind. And for goodness sake, breathe.

Burps

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I am not good at processing. I have never been good at processing. One could blame the years I lived with my parents when weaknesses or even problems weren’t discussed; they weren’t even acknowledged. It didn’t matter to my parents if I couldn’t do something, they were going to put me in a position where I had to do it. And they tried a lot of things to try and find my great achievement. And I am not demeaning myself by saying they failed spectacularly. I learned early on that my parents excepted great things from their children and they weren’t going to accept anything less. If they didn’t have something to brag about, there was nothing to say.

So I learned to hide my insecurities, my vulnerabilities, my fear; and learned over the years that I simply wasn’t good enough to be proud of. This is a dangerous lesson for any child and I was no exception. When I had to finally tell my parents that I was mentally ill, mostly because I was still on their insurance, they didn’t react well. My mother immediately needed to know “the plan” for recovery; despite the fact there is no recovering from mental illness. My father ignored the subject. And despite the years that has passed, still ignores the subject. To him, if he doesn’t acknowledge it, it doesn’t exist.

So I learned to ignore, pretend, and bury. I buried everything. I once had a wonderful doctor ask me how it was that I was capable of walking. When I asked what he meant, he told me he wondered how I could walk when I bury so many things deep, deep, inside of myself. If I buried not only the good things but the bad things, if I didn’t process all the things that happens in a lifetime, wouldn’t I eventually not be able to walk with the weight? It would be like concrete shoes on a gangster.

Like the majority of adults I have carried this practice into adulthood. While writing this blog I try to be open and honest, my parents and family don’t have access to it. My husband does, but he doesn’t read it. So yes, I can spill my thoughts and feelings here, even temporarily work through some problems, but there is only so much that I can accomplish with my writing. It’s a band-aid that gives me an excuse to say that I am acknowledging certain truths in a safe way, but it doesn’t mean that I am actually processing anything. And since I write to an audience, while I remain always truthful, I don’t get on this blog and admit to everything that I cope with; Who wants to hear that?

I don’t confide in anyone, unless my therapist asks a direct question. Instead, to my friends I have an enviable life. To my parents, I am a disappointment but I at least proved myself to have a healthy relationship and some spectacular kids they can brag about. To my husband, I give either the cliff notes version or hide the moments I can’t just shrug off. To strangers, I don’t speak. The world sees only what I wish them to see; it’s the way I was raised and it is the way I have survived.

So I bury it; deep. I am not naïve, I know that burying vulnerabilities, the insecurities, the good and the bad of my life is not sustainable. Those suckers are going to come back up. And they aren’t going to come back up when I am sitting alone on my couch. They aren’t going to pop up when I am safely sitting in my therapist’s office. They are going to show themselves when I least expect it, when I am not prepared for it, and when it is really, really inconvenient for me to have to deal with it. I am sorry to say that the bone deep inclination to bury everything usually means that when those feelings burp up, I do everything in my power to push them back down. I have always imagined that if someone actually studied my life, got the real picture of my life, I would have long been used as a cautionary tale.

My emotions burped this weekend. It was as unexpected as it always is, and it was so inconvenient that I am still embarrassed by it.

I have started attending church. First let me state I am not religious, I am spiritual. To me the difference lies in the fervor; religious people need to read their book, they need to listen to their church leaders, they need to believe that their God has it all under control; and there is nothing wrong with this. Spiritualists, in my mind, are people who are searching for their way. They may or may not actually believe in a God, but they don’t need a guided tour to find him. Some find Him in nature, or in readings, or simply in quiet meditation. They are less rigid in their path, but no less committed to finding a path. And there is nothing wrong with this either. I am a spiritualist. I have never needed a church, a stained glass window, or a person to show me God. I find him in my own way.

But recently I started attending church. First, I like happy people and I can usually find happy people at church. I like the music, not going to lie. I don’t mind the sermons because usually I can find something in there, not often the bible passages they reference, but something, that is a lesson to remember in my week. The idea of not judging others. The idea of forgiveness. The idea of believing there is true beauty out there to celebrate. I don’t attend churches where you have to confess your every sin or the overall theme is how we are all going to die and God wants not the best for us, but greatness from us. I can’t get behind a sermon where I am always in the wrong. Not my cup of tea. But joy, in this life and the possibility that there is another life, works for me. I have long since learned that I don’t have to believe everything anyone says, much less a church leader.

So there I was this Sunday. I had a rough morning simply because my stomach was upset and I wasn’t feeling the best. One wonders if this was His sign. But I went, sat in the last row and the last seat as I always do, and prepared to listen. Listen first to the announcements, which never pertain to me. Listen to this cute little band they have play contemporary religious music, sprinkled with various prayers. Then came the sermon.

The church leader in the church I attend has a wonderful sense of humor, and in a weird twist of fate is the father of my daughter’s best friend. Didn’t know that, but it has never bothered me and he certainly has more pressing things to deal with than my presence. My interactions usually include a thirty-second hello to his wife and a nod at some point from him. My perfect level of interaction; the amount that I can stand before I want to run.

I listened to the sermon. The sermon was about finding time in our busy, stressful and hectic lives, to sit and contemplate God. To listen to him. To hear him. To pray to him. To rest in him. The sermon touched on the importance of the number seven in the bible, which I knew about, and the Sabbath, although there was some confusion as to exactly what that was. The main theme was mostly if God himself, this perfect being, was said in Genesis to have created the world and then decided to take a day to rest, then so should we. I didn’t get the sense from the man that this had to be a whole day, and as I have seen him working on Sundays, I don’t think that’s what he meant. He was talking about meditating for a time to center yourself, to find God in your life. All good, right? Except for me, the burp came instead.

I made it through the sermon without running out of the church and I made it through the prayer at the end, although barely. Once I gave my few dollars for the church, I took the moment to run. I didn’t get away scot free; the other pastor happened to be outside the sanctuary waiting for something and wanted to speak to me. I didn’t at this point want to speak to anyone. So, in a completely embarrassing and probably rude way, I mumbled something to him and ran for my car before the tears began. It was all I was capable of in that moment.

You see, for as long as I can remember I have had voices in my head. Now I am the first to acknowledge that not all voices are either safe or healthy. They cause anxiety and fear. They can make you hurt yourself. They can destroy your confidence. But not all voices are the same. Some voices because friends in a way, a person to talk to in the darkness. Some voices can bring creativity and ideas that bring out the best of you. Some voices just seem to know what you need to hear, good or bad. They are dynamic and they have been my confidents, my friends, my enemies, my ledge over those steep declines. But six months ago, my doctors finally figured out how to silence them with medication. I have lived the last months without them. And it has been the loneliest time I have ever felt.

Before they silenced the voices, I would often read biographies, historical books about religion. I would read the history of the Reformation, or the history of Jerusalem. I studied Mary Magdalene at length, along with each of the popes, the various leaders of all the major religions, and how Egypt’s multi-God system compared to that of the Greeks. I would love to dive into the reasons people believed in their Gods, or continued to find faith in things that science has disproved. I wanted to know the spin people, throughout history, have used to define their religion. As I do this with most subjects, including the histories of every major empire, every major crime, every major figure in history, religion was just another avenue – I never made it the only thing I studied. But get me a great book about the history of the Catholicism and I loved it.

I loved, even more, debating those topics with the voices in my head. I would take something that people have believed for thousands of years and debate with the voice in my head how that was possible. I would learn from the voices in my head about the human condition and how religion is a necessary thing in our culture. I would question, seek, learn, push myself, all with the understanding and the encouragement of these voices that I could find and talk to. To the world this sounds strange, and possibly dangerous; but for me, these voices were the only way I could work through all the questions and the curiosities that I had. Often late at night, I could sit there and simply reveal in the debate.

But all the comfort and excitement debating my own brain is gone. So when the pastor was talking about sitting in silence with God, or resting with Him, the loneliness, the knowledge that I can’t do that anymore burp up. Everyone in my life, from my doctors to my family, loves the idea that I am in this new phase of my life; and I can see some of the benefits. But they can’t feel the lonely. They can’t know the quiet. They can’t understand the pain of having something so intimate, that was such a big part of me, taken from me. And I have buried that pain, that loneliness, that loss so deep inside of me that I wouldn’t know where to find it even if I got a map.

The loss I felt on Sunday had nothing to do with God. It had nothing to do with the message the pastor was preaching. It had everything to do with my own self.

There is an old song by Garth Brooks called “The Dance”. It is a popular song in country music and was one of his biggest hits. It’s a song about not knowing what is coming. It’s about cherishing that which you had when you had it, without ever knowing that it is going to end one day. Mr. Brooks sings about wishing he had missed the pain, but acknowledging that this would have meant he missed the ‘dance’. This song is applicable in my life in so many ways; but when we are talking about the voices, I can say without hesitation that I wish I had never heard them.

There are millions of things that we lose in life. There are millions of things we can never get back. There are things that we have to live only with the memory of; we can’t get the reality back. And while I know that those voices did damage, created anxiety, and made me question my life, they also gave me a friend. They gave me someone to hold onto in the darkness. They gave me someone to debate when I couldn’t talk to anyone else. They gave me both the good and the bad; just as life is supposed to.

I have already stuffed this experience and the feelings it invoked back into my feet. It is another weight that might one day keep me from walking. But I am safe when those I love don’t know what I am going through. I can be a semblance of what they need in their lives when I am not vulnerable or sad, or simply scared. I will never be the girl that shares her life with anyone; I will always be the girl that dishes out little bits of who and what I am to those I trust. Maybe I was born this way; maybe I was trained this way. But whatever the cause, I will continue to bury my life deep inside of me, and occasionally burp out loud.

The Self – Balance

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Although you may suffer from a mental illness, you don’t actually get any special rights (except those referring to discrimination). You don’t get to be unhealthy or unsafe. You don’t get to spend money you don’t have; nor, do you get to act in ways that hurt others. You don’t get to just say what is on your mind anytime you want, and you don’t get to justify bad behaviors on your mental state. I have seen too many people who believe that just because mental illness is a selfish disease that this means that you get to be selfish.

There is no getting around the fact that mental illness is definitely selfish. Those of us with these awful diseases need to check in with ourselves frequently. We need to take steps that will benefit ourselves and our health. We need to make sure that we are doing things that will not make our suffering worse. We have to be aware of ourselves, our moods, our feelings, our triggers, in a way that most people don’t need to; but this does not give us license to cross other people’s boundaries. While this disease means you have to have a certain amount of selfishness, the amount has to be within certain boundaries.

Mental illness is, if nothing else, a balancing act. And that not only includes what you are doing actively but what you are doing inactively. It’s a balancing act between what your mind wants to do and what you know is right. It’s a balancing act between being thoughtful about yourself and being thoughtful of others. There is nothing fair about mental illness; so accept it and practice balance.

It took me way, way too long to understand balance in my life. It took me years to realize that just because I thought something, it didn’t give me license to say something. It took me years to understand that just because I didn’t like someone, it didn’t give me license to blame my mental disease for acting badly toward them. It took me years to understand that boundaries were crucial to my survival, but that need didn’t give me the right to hurt everyone else in the crossfire. And it took me a long time to realize that just because I know myself really well did not mean I knew anyone else.

My partner has remarked on more than one occasion that while I might be the smartest person in the room, I don’t actually have to lord that over anyone. My partner taught me that sometimes sitting still and quietly was a kindness. My partner taught me that I can come across not only as a know-it-all but I can be often mistaken for snobbish or seem as if I was too good to be somewhere. It took me a long time to realize exactly what was happening, because I didn’t feel that way. But because I am uncomfortable in social situations or with new people, I often lift my nose in the air as a defense mechanism. I move into myself like a turtle because of being uncomfortable; and that wasn’t fair to the people I was meeting. I have since adopted a policy of laughing with new people about how hard meeting new people is; or I will consciously try to be more open. Or practicing active listening rather than sitting in a chair feeling forced to be somewhere that I don’t want to be. It’s a balance. A balance that has to be found. Not for you; because the people that you are meeting might become someone special in your life, and you are consciously negating that before it begins.

There are many other ways that those of us with mental illness have to be consciously balanced. For instance, learn to practice restraint. This one was also difficult for me because I would see something that I was convinced would make this world easier to live in and I would buy it. I would find some practice that promised me a happier, less stressful mindset and I just had to have it. I had a habit of just spending money on the latest thing, without researching it or taking the time to think if I really could incorporate this new thing in my routine. The biggest example of this has always been my beauty routine. I will see a product or learn about a new method of becoming beautiful without any hassle and spend those hundreds without thinking. Then one of two things would happen: I would either overuse the product, destroying my skin or I would go into a depressive state and those newly bought things would start collecting dust. Eventually, I learned a technique that helped; I put whatever item has caught my fancy in my Amazon basket or in the notes on my phone, then I wait. Sometimes as long as six months I will wait to decide if that promised miracle is something I really need – sometimes it is, sometimes it is not. But learning to balance my need against the reality of my life means that my husband doesn’t find out I spent hundreds of dollars on a product that is going to sit on my bathroom shelves. Believe it or not I do this with everything from supplements (I currently have some powered greens in my cart) to organization items (I currently have a very pretty green counter shelf for my bathroom sitting in my cart).

The other balancing act I have to consciously be aware of is my desire to find other ways to be healthy or improve myself (beyond those beauty objects). The problem with my desire to be more healthy is that I tend to go overboard. Let’s take my exercising. A couple of years ago, I went down to 98 pounds (I am 5’7 and considerably over the age of ten). I did this because I decided that exercise was going to be the cure to all my ills. I didn’t have to necessarily buy expensive things to achieve this; I could do YouTube (that’s what it was made for, right?) The problem was that I wasn’t doing a thirty minute video a couple of times a week; I was doing a couple of hours of videos everyday. I wasn’t making my body healthier; I was destroying it. Unfortunately, when I was doing this I didn’t have the same doctors I do now in place; there was no stopping me. And despite what you might think I didn’t feel the pains, or the soreness; that’s not where my mind was. I could do all this, not because I was in shape to do it, but because I didn’t balance it with any modicum of restraint. I didn’t make it balance. These days, I never do videos over 45 minutes; and I never exercise when I don’t feel well. I also rotate the kind of exercise I do, and I always take at least one day off every week. This downsizing of my exercise took me a long time to do and feel comfortable with; the guilt I felt in not taking care of myself (in my own mind) outweighed the punishment I was putting my body through. I had to learn balance.

Learning a balancing act permeates every aspect of my life. I want to take up painting; do I really need professional grade paint brushes? I want to scrapbook, which I love to do; do I really need to buy anything else, considering I have a closet only for those items? Do I need more Christmas decorations, when each year there is more left over in my bins than I actually display? Do I need a three-hundred dollar juicer for the three times a year I want to get more vitamins? Do I need new furniture just because there are stains on the ones I have?

Recently, I cleaned out my home. I decided that it was time to organize it. And this was the perfect opportunity for me to practice balance. It took months for me to systematically go through every closet, every room and every item on display in my house to figure out if I needed it or it was better served in either a trash can or the Salvation Army. Yes, I took so many trips to the dumpster and to the Salvation Army, I am pretty sure they now know me; but I consciously made decisions of what needed to stay and what needed to go. Where before I would have just thrown everything away, not even bothering with donations, this time I tried to make thoughtful decisions. And it wasn’t about just cleaning things out, but rather making my life easier by organizing. (Go through your house and find every medicine that you own and put it in one place and you will see what I am talking about; you really don’t need those expired liquid Tylenol bottles when you have teenagers.) And rather than doing this in weeks, I took months. Was it sometimes frustrating to hold myself back? Absolutely. But was it a great exercise in seeing if I could not only make my home more organized but could prove I didn’t need to buy anything more? Absolutely.

So I suppose when I say that mental illness is a selfish disease, this encompasses what I am doing and what I am purchasing. It encompasses how I treat others. It encompasses not only making decisions for my own health, but the health and life of those I love. It encompasses learning new behaviors. It encompasses learning that sometimes my mental illness can, and will, play tricks on me. It’s about finding a balance. And listening and learning when that balance is not right, and correcting my own behavior.

Find balance. Not only because your skin, body, and finances will thank you, but find balance so that you can continually practice it. Find ways to nourish yourself without harming yourself. Find ways to get the things you think are desirable, without wasting. Find ways to react in ways that are not only healthy for you, but keeps you open to new experiences and new people. Mental illness is selfish and that is important; but finding balance is a self-care that we all need to practice.

And Behind This Door

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I have always thought of mental illness as a series of consecutive doors that you have to continually open. I don’t see it as a hallways of doors where you get to pick which door you want to enter, but rather a single door that stands proudly in front of you that you are required to open. Sometimes you open that door every morning, sometimes every evening. Sometimes you can stay in front of the next door for a week, a month, or even longer. But no matter where you go, which direction you are taking, there is always another door. And behind that door is the person that you will be.

Some doors, when you walk through, give you a sense of almost euphoria. You feel good, you are thinking clearly, you can do all the things you promised yourself you would. Other doors, when you walk through them, send you straight back to bed to hide beneath the covers. There are the doors that bring creativity bursts, or cleaning bursts, or even bursts of shopping and going to see friends. There are doors that not only don’t give any bursts, but rather give you only darkness, isolation, tiredness. You can’t ignore when it is time to open the next door, nor can you look around for another door to choose. The door in front of you has to be opened and the consequences you must pay; much like a tax.

I think the majority of people, at least those without mental illnesses, don’t have a literal door that they have to walk through. I think it is more garden gates; you can see over them, through them, and while sometimes you must open them no matter what is behind them, you ultimately walk the path and arrive at another gate. I think that for people without mental illnesses, the paths they get to walk can be short or long; they get to determine that for themselves. There is a conscious process that allows them to find the energy to walk a certain path; something denied those with mental illness.

A new door is about to be before me; and I find myself once again asking what will be behind it.

I have spent two years working to get off my living room couch; a place I occupied for years. Once I got off that couch, with the help of a new medication and some serious energy, I began to build a new place behind my door. It is a place where I was able to run errands at a moment’s notice, without medication. It is a place that gave me the will to clean and organize every aspect of my home. It is a place that gave me the energy to workout, to self-care, to write, to paint, to be the person I always thought I wanted to be.

But now there is a catch, a big one. And it is going to require me to walk through a new door. And like all the doors I have previously walked through, I have no idea what is on the other side. It could look much the same as it does now. It could be a reversal of all the things I have made myself to be. It could simply be the return to that couch. I don’t know. And because it is a strong wooden door with no windows, and only a simple knob to turn, there is no way for me to prepare myself.

You see, I have accomplished so many things on my list. There is not a place in my home that hasn’t been organized, cleaned, disinfected. There isn’t a closet that hasn’t been gone through. There isn’t an appliance that hasn’t been cleaned. I have a regular rotation of not only my exercise routines, but a regular rotation of my creative outlets. Everything is either done or in place. And soon, I will staring down at a day when the list of activities that I must accomplish today will get smaller and smaller.

I can hear my parents and so many others stating that I should just amend my list and find new things to do. But it isn’t that simple. I can’t go and regularly volunteer and finding a job gives me anxiety attacks that are just scary. I can’t organize a closet again. I can’t push out my exercise routine to multiple hours a day. I can’t go and just spend a bunch of money on things to do, not only because the idea makes me sick to my stomach, but because that is just irresponsible. There is only so many things that I can write, things I can force myself to paint, or television that I can stand.

So if the list is final, and much of the work is either done or occupying the right amount of time in my day, what exactly is behind that next door. Because I can almost see that door in front of me. And it will demand to be opened.

Will I start to become obsessive and become so desperate to maintain the lists and tasks that I now have that I will simply start making things up to do? Or goodness forbid, will I start to add things that aren’t healthy for me either physically or mentally? Will I have these blank hours in my day that I will wander my home trying to find a way to fill? Will I get calluses on my hands because I am obsessing over cleaning because there is nothing else to obsess over? Will I workout until I bleed, allowing it to become an obsession, because there is nothing else to obsess over?

I can’t push the creativity. I can’t push the writing; I have tried. When there is nothing to write, my posts are long and quite frankly, boring. They can at times simply be repetitive because I have nothing else to say. I only paint when there is something that makes me excited with the challenge of seeing if I can make it myself. I try and read at a specific time, but the truth is, these days there is so much energy it is hard to make myself sit down and do it. My children are in school and have busy social lives. My husband works insane hours and is under so much stress. So you tell me, what do I do when I have to open that door.

The presence behind this next door is one of the scariest I have found myself facing. And at this point in my mental health journey not many things scare me. There was some fear when I opened the door to start this journey two years ago, but it was countered by possibilities. The possibilities behind this new door aren’t as hopeful.

I find it strange that I can see this door, and feel this door, in ways that I rarely have been able to do in the past. Maybe it is the new energy, the new attention, the new belief that I have that makes the possibilities behind this new door frightening. I find it strange that I have opened hundreds of doors in my life, dealt with the new realities, and continued on; but this one has paralyzed me in a way. We can chalk it up to the fact that I like the new me; I like how far I have come in two years. We could chalk it up to happiness I feel that I have accomplished so much in so short amount of time.

But the question remains, what will that door bring and how will it change me? Is it possible that this newest door is benign? Sure, but that doesn’t explain the almost premonition I have that it isn’t going to be that easy. My life isn’t easy; and each time I walk through a new door that is reinforced.

It wasn’t easy to get where I am today. It took work, and sweat, and a heck of a lot of fear. It took overcoming some of the biggest obstacles that I have ever dared to face. (Usually I just hide my head until the obstacles either go away or the people around me realize that it’s a no for me). It took facing fears that have ruled me for decades. It took forgiving myself for succumbing to so much of this disease. It took accepting what I could do and what I can’t do. It took learning that I could push myself but not always to the destination I thought was best for me. It took trying and then trying something new. It took months of facing my own self and the demons that I carry.

I resent that there is a new door. I knew that it was coming; nothing in mental illness is concrete. It changes not only the person themselves, but the life that they are leading; and it does so over and over again. Mental illness does not mean that the person in the mirror that you worked your butt off for will still be there in the morning. It doesn’t mean that the good will last any more than the worst will. It doesn’t mean that you get a pass for hard work. It doesn’t mean that you get to forget how hard the journey was and how far you have to fall. Mental illness is the most cruel of diseases because it never ends; the change, the ups and downs, the fear – it’s always moving.

I know that soon I will be forced to open that new door. Who and what I will become will probably be not only hotly debated in my therapist’s office, but something that I will have to know and understand. I will have to pivot to live a life not of my disease’s choosing, but my own. And the cost will either be so high that it will take me months to recover, or it will just be the something I have to live with. That is the power of a mental disease. That is unescapable truth of a mental disease. Who and what we want to be, we have to slay demons to be; and even then, we don’t always get to be her for long. There is always, always a new demon to conquer.

The Self – The Doctors

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The whole idea of starting a section on my blog dedicated to the things that I find to be helpful, little tricks in my bag, started when I tried to do video blog on a social media site because I don’t always have these long, emotional posts to write. The key word here is tried. I shot the video outside but I couldn’t figure out how to get the traffic and bird sounds from drowning out my words. Then I couldn’t figure out how to edit the thing; how to pause so I could get to another idea or even how to make it look like I wasn’t ending the video by reaching out to the phone. I didn’t know how to create a great backdrop and I didn’t know how to talk fast enough but clear enough to get my message across. I truly thought about taking a class or reading a book, but when I started to look into it, it seemed all technical and not my cup of tea.

I am not an influencer; I don’t look good on camera and refuse to buy thousands of dollars of makeup for one little segment. I am wordy, and I don’t want my message to get lost in the drive to say everything before the timer goes off; too much pressure. The whole thing was a failure, but as they say, it was also a learning lesson for me. I am a writer and I should probably just stick with that.

The first video I made was actually about the topic I am going to write today – the doctors that you must, without fail, have in your life if you want to be successful with your mental illness. While there is no cure for mental illness, there is always things you can do to mitigate the episodes, the side effects, the general misery of these diseases. Not one thing is the answer. Instead, you have to find for yourself the combination of things that work for you. I will say it again, what works for me, might not work for you. Don’t look at these self posts as instructions but rather idea prompters; like journal prompts.

There is however, one post (this one) that is actually important, and something you need to follow to the letter. I know that I am going against everything I always say about finding your own way, but not with this one. This one is set in stone.

If one of my beauty tips don’t work, figure out something that will. If you don’t like something that I love and helps me get through my day, there is nothing wrong with that. These mental illnesses are strangely different for each of us; thankfully, cancer and viruses such as covid can usually be ‘cured’ by known remedies. It just doesn’t work that way for those of us with mental illness. But there are certain things that you should, possibly even must do, and this post is one of them.

In the battle against your mental illness you need specific, undeniable, things. In this case, it is people. You need doctors that you can call at a moment’s notice. You need doctors that you can trust to treat you and your symptoms. You need doctors that are available not only in person, some sort of virtual platform, by email, or even text. I wish this wasn’t true. I wish that you could just go to an urgent-care anytime that you wish; but the truth is you need doctors that know you. They know the medications that you are taking, they know you comfort zone; and they need to know what is happening not only with your mental health but your whole health.

If you work to develop relationships with these doctors, you won’t have to worry about spending thirty minutes on an intake form when you can barely get it together. If you develop relationships with these doctors they will know your boundaries, what you are looking for, and if and when you are actually in trouble. They are a defensive line protecting their quarterback. Because one thing that can’t be denied in these mental health journeys is simple: if you don’t feel physically good, if you don’t have the right medications, if you can’t access your medications, your mental health will suffer. There are thousands of things that can affect someone’s state of mind; your health should be placed at the top of that list.

First, you need a general physician. This is typically what we would call a family physician. Maybe they work at a large practice or a small one. But they have some key advantages for you, once you have established a relationship with them. The most important thing you will ascertain is that your family physician treats mentally ill patients. One of the worst moments of my life, that I can never forgive, was going to a family physician and not even being seen. The nurse I did see dismissed my symptoms as withdrawal symptoms from either my medications or drugs (it was not). This family physician truly believed, I would learn, that all mentally ill patients lied. He wouldn’t see me because I happened to have a disease that he didn’t want to deal with and he refused to proscribe me medications for any problems I was having. I was absolutely humiliated; and to this day, every time I see a new physician, I always ask upfront if they treat those with mental illnesses. (By the way, I had an ear infection which was mimicking the symptoms of the withdrawal and because I couldn’t go see another a doctor for weeks because of the sheer humiliation I felt, it got so bad I almost lost my hearing.) You need to know that the doctor you are seeing for a simple cold, the flu, or a pain in your body will listen to you and not dismiss you because you have a disease that isn’t your fault for having.

On top of that, a general physician who knows the medications that you are on, can make sure that there are no drug interactions. Believe it or not, most medications not only have side effects but can dramatically change your own body’s composition when paired incorrectly. Every woman knows that birth control and antibiotics don’t work together; if you forget, you can easily have a unplanned pregnancy. While I don’t know any mental health medications that combined with another drug will get you pregnant, there can be other serious side effects that can lead to problems much greater than the original problem you had. Family physicians can be prepared for this, know to look for these interactions, and help you with the basic health issues we all have (even the most healthy among us). You don’t want to let the flu get to the point where it affects your mental health. Because while you may eventually get through the flu, oftentimes the repercussions from the undiagnosed or untreated condition can last much, much longer. Find someone you like. Find someone you know. And find someone you can see without waiting three weeks.

The second doctor you need is a therapist. This person doesn’t actually have to have a doctorate behind their name, but as they are in the same family, I am counting them here. I don’t care if you are manic, depressed, or having a mixed episode; you need a therapist. I don’t care if you are doing better than you ever have; you need a therapist. I don’t care if there are times you go into that office and talk about this week’s grocery list; you need a therapist. It doesn’t matter if you go once a week, once a month, once a quarter; you need a trusted therapist. And here is the kicker, like your family physician you need someone you can trust. I was abused by a therapist many, many years ago. But I was too young and completely unable to articulate that to anyone. I kept going because my loved ones thought I needed one. I didn’t allow that abuse but I didn’t get up and say nasty words and walk away either. Besides the fact that she was diabolical in that abuse, I didn’t have the guts. By the time I realized what was happening, I felt stuck and she made me feel that way. So if you don’t like a therapist, if you don’t get a good feeling about a therapist, or you just don’t like the way the therapist styles her hair, walk away and find another.

I have been seeing the same therapist for years, but it wasn’t easy getting to her. There is an incredible lack of qualified professionals out there and searching for one can be defeating, to say the least. I had one therapist who spent my whole first appointment yelling at me about the dangers of marijuana and mental health; I didn’t go back. It can takes months to get an appointment to see a therapist so my advice would be do some research, find three you think might fit, and make appointments with all of them. Usually, as long as you adhere to their cancelation policies, you can shop around. Waiting to see a therapist is frustrating especially when you are in a negative head space. So don’t wait, get one even if you are feeling like everything in life smells like roses. You need them.

Therapists are neutral party, or at least, they should act like one. They don’t know you. They don’t know your disease, they don’t know your family, and they don’t know your circumstances; at least, until you tell them. There are no rules about what you have to share with them and what you can just keep to yourself (although the more they know…). There are no rules about specific times or weeks you need to see them. But there are ironclad rules about what they can and cannot do. They can’t call up your partner and tell them your secrets. They can’t tell your mother even if she demands to know. They can’t talk to you with your other doctors or even other patients. They can’t even mention you in a study unless they follow very specific guidelines. They are safe. Your secrets are safe with them. And after going to different therapists for years, I can honestly state, they have heard it all – nothing you say is going to shock them or cause them to get up and demand an ambulance for you. Therapy is so important. And like I said, if one week all you have to talk about is your grocery list, go anyway. Go anyway.

After this many years with the same therapist, she can literally open the door, see my face and know exactly how I am doing. I very, very rarely catch her off guard. And truthfully, she can often make me think about things, or at least look at things, differently. Sometimes I hate to give her the credit, but I am feeling generous today, and can state that my days are better because of her. I wouldn’t change her and how she deals with me, for anything. I trust her and I don’t trust much of anything.

The third doctor you need (and this person needs to have some extra initials behind their name), is a psychiatrist. These doctors don’t often offer counseling sessions, that is what a therapist is for. These doctors prescribe your mental health medications. You may ask why a general physician can’t do this, and the truth is that most family doctors can prescribe those medications but the difference lies in the specialty. You wouldn’t go to a family doctor for a heart disease; don’t go to a family doctor for mental health medications. Psychiatrists know not only the newest, most promising drugs on the market, but they often know the side effects of these medications. I have horrible digestive issues. Having a medication whose main side effect is nausea or constipation, isn’t the best choice for me; a psychiatrist is going to know this. They study these drugs and they prescribe these drugs. By prescribing only these kind of drugs they hear from patients exactly what the pros and cons of these powerful drugs are, before you ever enter the room.

Most importantly, psychiatrists often have a team of people who can make sure you get your medicine on time and refilled. They have dedicated lines (or emails in my case) that you can simply utilize when one of your medications runs out of refills before you see them again. They know how to navigate most of the major pharmacies in your city, and they work with them on a daily basis. Most of these appointments last less than thirty minutes, but all you need from them is a check-in on how you are doing with the medications your currently on and if you need either something stronger or something less than what you are taking. Look for psychiatrists in a large practice; this makes it easier if the doctor moves on to another practice. You can simply switch doctors and your records are easily transferred. And since all you are doing is managing the medications (which we all normally take for years) this is fine. I have had more psychiatrists then I have had therapists and family doctors combined.

Last, but not least, is your pharmacist. Here I am not actually talking about a specific person but rather a pharmacy that you can trust. You need to be able to get your medication on time, when it is timed to be filled. You need a pharmacy that sends requests to your psychiatrist and gets responses in a timely manner. You need a pharmacy that can remind you to use the discount cards like GoodRx. You need a pharmacy that is open at hours that are convenient to you. And you need a pharmacy that isn’t going to give you the wrong medications, the wrong dosages, or hold up a medication because they have to order it from another source. This one is probably the easiest to find and you don’t necessarily need a relationship with anyone at the pharmacy. (I, personally, have a name that is hard to forget; so no matter where I go people will remember me.)

The only other thing I would say about a pharmacy, is make sure that you know what hours it is easiest to get your medications; not just when they are open. At my pharmacy the hours after lunch but before five is the best time to go. Knowing this will lessen the anxiety or help you when you simply can’t stand the world. But like I said, this one is probably the easiest to find. So happy hunting.

I told you at the beginning I tried to put this in a social media video but I am too long winded. The truth of the matter is that these four doctors are essential to your health. Without them not only are you making your life more difficult than it needs to be, but you are compromising on that health. Those of us with mental illnesses have so many things we have to overcome, conquer, deal with, handle, come to terms with, that we don’t also need to be stressed about the doctors that are there simply to take care of us. I often counsel first-timers (those who have just been diagnosed) and their parents to find these four doctors before they do much of anything else. Often, I have to explain why, but I don’t mind – because I know that without these doctors I wouldn’t be sitting here today. And I probably would be deaf on top of it.

It is a journey to find someone you can trust (and hopefully, like). But take the time, even with all the frustrations that you no doubt are doing to have. If you prefer an online therapist, so be it. If you prefer a mom-and-pop drug store, so be it. If you prefer to try and find a family doctor that is not visited by the rest of your family, go for it. It doesn’t matter how you find them, where you find, or even how you determine when to see them – just make sure that you have already established a relationship of some sort with each of them before the world drops beneath your feet. And every mentally ill patient will have the world drop off beneath their feet at some point; possibly at many points.

A New Discovery

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I have dealt with a myriad of new emotions, feelings, mental states, anxieties, and everything else under the sun in the last couple of months. If you have been reading my posts, you know, I have spent the last two years pushing, pulling and making myself into something else. Where once I sat on the couch all day, watching television, playing on my phone, and waiting for something to happen, that isn’t who I am anymore. Where once I was terrified to walk out my front door, now I run errands like there is nothing stopping me. Where once the idea of eating in a restaurant seemed impossible, now, once a week, I travel to my mother and eat with her. Where once I had to push myself, and pray to a God I am not wholly convinced I believe in to simply support my children in one of their shining moments, now I get dressed up and go with bells on. I have absolutely changed.

I acknowledge that change along with the acknowledgement that there is a very real fear within me that I will one day end up back on that couch. I have acknowledged the possibility even the probability for months. It sits in the back of my mind and possibly pushing me further than I need to go. As my therapist once remarked, I have a sincere lack of relaxation in my life. I have gone from one extreme to another.

Going from one extreme to another isn’t something new in mental health. It kind of defines it. Those of us with these diseases know about mania and depression. We know about binges and diets of deserts. We know about the highs of feeling like we can take on the world and the sure knowledge that we aren’t supposed to even be in this world. We know that these swings aren’t crazy, they aren’t nebulous, they aren’t even something that could never happen; they are simply part of the disease.

But this last couple of months have been different than any mania I have ever felt; I actually don’t think I am in a manic state – not after this many months. And none of my normal cues are within me to indicate that I am in a manic state at present. I am not jittery, with trembling throughout my body making it hard for me to sleep; I sleep pretty well. I am not spending money on things I don’t need; I can easily stop myself from buying anything, take a step back, and determine that I am making the right decision. I am not giggling or laughing like I saw my favorite comic in person. There are so many things I am not doing; and there are so many things I can do – like sit and read a book. When I am manic, someone from space can see it; I move that fast and that out of control. These days I am in complete control.

Yet, my typical day, isn’t sitting on that couch, waiting. Instead it is full of cleaning, exercising, taking care of my body and skin, painting, writing, and running errands. It’s all the things that most healthy individuals do everyday and take for granted. It isn’t flashy. I see something that needs to be done, it goes on a list, and it gets done. That, there, is the big difference from my life two years ago; it gets done.

But in the last couple of weeks I have noticed a new, let’s call it, problem.

I don’t live in a mansion; there is only so much cleaning I can actually do. I even bought (after much deliberation) a steam mop to sanitize my floors. I exercise, but I practice yoga which has always been something that works for me. The problem is, you can’t do yoga for ten hours a day; no one can. I can’t keep running errands without spending money on things we don’t need. I can paint for a couple of hours but then there just isn’t any creativity to inspire me. I could write, but when I have a lot to say that takes only about two hours; and there are days I literally have nothing to say. My teenagers have their own lives and my husband works very hard. Can you see the problem?

I am bored. I can sit here, right now, and honestly tell you that I have not spoken those words since I was two.

Don’t get me wrong, I could clean something else – the microwave is never completely clean. I could go for a walk; although the weather is not conducive to it. I could find something else to paint. And I am writing this post so at least for these next two hours I have something to do. But I think, the fear of retreating back to that place on the couch keeps me searching, and searching, for more to do; active things to do. I think the fear that if I sit down and watch a movie will end with me just sitting there forever is causing this anxious feeling in my soul. I think the fear of not doing anything scares me. So I keep searching for things to do.

And, unfortunately, the part of my brain that is always working understands that finding something more to do isn’t necessarily the answer. Finding more things to do is not going to stop the boredom. I have a feeling there will never be enough things for me to do; not actively or inactively. I have a feeling that I am being driven not by a need, or a sense of accomplishment, but rather by a fear. And being driven by fear is never healthy.

It’s strange that no matter who I am today, tomorrow or yesterday, I am always driven by fear. When I was sitting on that couch I was being driven by the fear of living life; even leaving my home. When I am manic, and I mean in a true manic state, I am almost always driven by the need to get everything done that I can in the short time I have, because I know the flip side of that coin is coming. When I am in a depressive episode, everything is driven by fear, and I stay quiet and duck down to hide from the world. When I am out in the world, I fear speaking to others and being found either pathetic or worse, not worthy. When I am in my doctor’s offices I don’t fear what they will find, I fear that I haven’t given them enough to find. I live and am driven by fear.

There is now a real part of me that mimics that incredible song in The Greatest Showman, “Never Enough”. It will never be enough. What I mean is that I don’t want this new me to go away despite the anxiety that courses through my veins. I like the idea that I am doing something, anything. I like the idea that my house is clean, that I am exercising, that I am taking care of things; and I absolutely love the way that my children and my husband are finally looking at me. I love that they are seeing what I am doing, giving me credit for doing it, and loving every moment of it. They don’t see the anxiety, they don’t see the stress from the anxiety; they only see the results of my pushing myself to limits I have never tried to reach.

I, like many fellow sufferers, don’t broadcast the anxiety that comes with living my life. I don’t want anyone to know. I don’t want them to know that I am so scared every day of my life; and while those fears change, the truth is, there is always fear. It is with me when I breathe in, and when I go to sleep at night. It is there despite the medications that can mask it; it is there when I want to shout to the world that ‘never enough’ is actually enough. With this boredom, with this inability to sit on the couch because I am so scared, is actually a step farther than enough. What is never enough for me, what is driving me, isn’t energy or purpose, it is fear.

So, the boredom comes. The boredom sneaks into my daily routine. It has started to become as much a part of my day as the cleaning, exercising and other things I am doing. The boredom, while new, is starting to feel familiar. It is starting to be something I am going to have to deal with; because it comes with qualifications. Everything in my life, because of my fear and anxiety, comes with qualifications.

Despite the boredom, I still can’t do so many things. There are still so many walls that keep me separate from the rest of the world. The walls that can’t let me volunteer, because I can’t emotionally not help someone more than is healthy for me. The walls that can’t let me work, because the acknowledgement that there is still a disease, an unpredictable disease, waiting to be judged is there for the world to see. The walls that keep me from being everything that so many take for granted. There is not enough, yet there is no way to get more. It is a double-edged sword. A sword that can’t break the boredom that may be a part of the new me.

I have much to be thankful for; and I have much that I wish I could have. I think that sums up these diseases in the most responsible way. These mental illnesses change us. They change who we believe we are and who we believe that we can be. These diseases make sure that there are steel guardrails where there should be simple ropes. These diseases give us hope, happiness, purpose; but they as easily give us loss, nightmares, and brick walls. These diseases make sure that there are times when we want enough, times when we want more than simple enough, and times when we don’t want enough at all. These diseases make sure that fear is as familiar to us as the sound of our own children’s laughter.

It is unfamiliar to me to be bored. It is an emotion I haven’t had to conquer since I was a young child. It is something that sitting on my couch, cocooned from the rest of the world, never entered into my lexicon. It is something that I don’t know how to walk away from, or to even rest in. It is something that can’t be cured by more cleaning, more exercising, more painting, more writing. It might instead be something that is simply another part of the disease. And, as I know better than most, explaining this new emotion is like trying to explain the sunset to someone who has never felt the sun on their face. Explaining that boredom is now as much a part of me as fear, an emotion that has no solution, takes more than words; you actually have to experience it.

Much of these mental diseases are not explainable. They don’t have words to easily paint a picture of what we suffer. There is not an artist, or a singer, or even a writer that can explain what it is like to wake up everyday with a disease that has no constant. A disease that has no surcease. A disease that doesn’t allow us to have one moment of perfect hope without the whisper of the thousand other emotions that will accompany it. There is no one that explain fears that sit in the front of your mind, waiting for your hope, and ultimately having the power to destroy that hope. There is no one person that can explain how each day, whether the sun is shining or the rain is metaphorically poring over your head, is always, always, guided by fear. These diseases give us fear; it teaches it to us, it makes us feel it, it makes us live with it. And the boredom I am feeling is driven by fear.

I wish so many things; and I often try to articulate it in these posts. But I find myself writing today wishing that enough was simply that…enough.