Recovery is a verb: It’s what you do!

a cure for what ails you, anxiety, call for submissions, medication, rapid-cycle bipolar disorder, relationships, three hopeful thoughts, Uncategorized

I’m not going to lie–moving to Baltimore has been a bit of an adjustment for me. The whole new city, new places, new people thing doesn’t faze me, partly because I’m here with someone I love and care for deeply and can lean on, and partly because I was so desperate to get away from the Midwest, to start fresh and re-invent myself again.

The part that’s scary is not having much of a support system yet. I’ll admit it; I’m frightened because right now I don’t know many people and the ones I’ve met (and like immensely!) are my fella’s classmates. I’m in that awkward transitional phase where an introvert suddenly has to start over and find friends in the area to hang out with, and as someone who’s generally a homebody, it’s tough. It’s especially hard right now because I’m taking a gap semester to adjust, work on the blog and CTL, and find a grad school down here to continue my work toward a Master’s in Counseling Psychology. What that translates into is a lot of long days where I have to figure out what to do with myself.

I’ve had a rough few days. It always seems to hit around this time of year–I love autumn and it’s always been my favorite season, but as someone with relatively severe bipolar disorder, my brain chemistry doesn’t like the changing of the seasons so much. I’m hopeful that this year it won’t be so bad, as I’ve heard the seasons are a lot milder here in the Southeast. Still, I came to the realization last night that I need to change my meds a little bit, which is nothing unusual for me. (I have some beef with the texture of my uncoated lamotrigine tabs, which makes snapping them in half to add a half-dose for nighttime a little unpleasant texturally-speaking, but that seems pretty minor in the grand scheme of things.)

Important side note and disclaimer: I don’t recommend anyone tweaking their meds without the express permission and guidance of a psychiatrist–luckily, mine helped me develop a seasons guide to use in situations like this, where I’m unable to get in to see a doctor to make adjustments. I’m still within the prescribed dose range and am only doing this to get myself through until I’m able to start seeing a psychiatrist down here.

The other night, I finally opened up. My last relationship–a five-year marriage–was somewhat disastrous and left a ton of emotional damage. As some of you may remember, I was out of work for thirteen months because I was simply too ill to hold down a job with regular hours, and staying inside most of the time with little to do means I got a lot worse before I started getting better. I don’t want to become a dependent. I don’t want to be needy. I want to be a partner, a strong woman who is capable of supporting herself and living her own life and not feeling sad and lonely and, perhaps worst of all, soul-crushingly bored when I’m alone during the day.

To counter this, I’ve been making myself a little “schedule” for each day, just little things I can do to keep myself busy so that at the end of the day, I feel like I’ve accomplished something. It helps a little; I don’t feel as melancholy and like I wasted the day. But it’s still very much a process. Recovery is not something you either have or you don’t. It’s not like you either are or aren’t “recovered.”

Each of us has natural ups and downs in life, regardless of how well-medicated we are. We can take our pills every day and go to therapy and exercise and be social and do everything right, and we will still have low periods. It’s the nature of the illness. It doesn’t mean that we’ve failed on any level or that, as I believed for years, that we’re unsuitable partners, sons, daughters, friends. It just means that we have an illness and we’re doing everything we can to fight it. Despite our best intentions, it is always going to be there, and I’ve found that accepting that fact has it a lot easier to live with.

I’m trying to make friends with my brain again. I’m trying to make friends with the ugly voice in the back of my mind that tells me I’m not enough. It’s the same one that brings up such tiny, insignificant things from decades ago and nags me about how these events, most of which I had little control over, make me bad or less-than in some way. I talk to the negative thoughts. I tell them to shut up if I’m feeling peevish or overwhelmed, but I also try to be sympathetic. I try to rationalize with the parts of me that are still trying to drag me down.

I still externalize what I’m feeling and pretend I’m a therapist and my client is me-but-not-me, a person who has the exact same concerns and emotions and neuroses that I do. If I separate myself from the negative feelings and thoughts, it’s easier to cope. I feel a sense of power over the thoughts. I counter them with the A-B-C-D-E method of learned optimism, which, thankfully, is effective more often than not.

And most of all, I am still working hard to be kind to myself every day. When I’m feeling bad, I try to remind myself of everything I’ve accomplished so far in spite of these huge obstacles and the weight I’m still carrying around.

On a happier note, I found out that Johns Hopkins offers free counseling to students as well as family members and significant others, so I’ve put in an appointment request for short-term counseling to get me through until my Medicaid (ugh) paperwork is finished and I can find a long-term therapist and psychiatrist again.

In the meantime, I’m trying to practice good self-care and take pride and enjoyment in the little things in life, whether it’s nailing a tough piano piece or simply tidying up the apartment. I don’t want to go back to my life being all about pain. I want to keep moving forward, to keep doing more. I have huge goals for myself in life, and I refuse to let this illness keep me from accomplishing them. My stubbornness has kept me alive for 27 years, and I need to harness that and use it as a recovery tool.

Where are you in your recovery, readers? Do you have any helpful tips to share?

As always, stay safe and lovely and well. I’ll see you all again next Tuesday for another exciting News Day! And keep those submissions coming–I want as many unique voices and stories on the blog as possible!

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I remember.

abuse, explanations, ptsd, three hopeful thoughts

I remember the way the cold March wind felt against my pale blue spring jacket as I stood alone on the playground, looking up at the dead trees creating a black labyrinth against the white sky.

I remember that wind, warmer now, ruffling my hair on an overcast day.

I remember rainy early-summer days where it was so dark outside, the lights in the living room were on and cast a soft glow on the miniature city I’d constructed with my figurines.

I remember painting the room overlooking the garden at my friend’s house. It was, again, overcast, and the coolness of the dark hardwood floors beneath my feet, spattered with seafoam paint, was the most wonderful thing I’d ever felt.

I remember riding my bike around the neighborhood at sunset after a thunderstorm, inhaling the heavy air and taking time to admire the myriad of colors in the oil spots on the wet pavement as if committing each one to memory.

I remember waking up in my mother’s boyfriend’s house in the spare bedroom he’d made just for me. They had just returned from a date. I remember seeing the door open, his frame silhouetted against the yellow light of the hall, and then nothing.

I remember my very first mixed episode. I was fourteen and stressing over what outfit to wear to a “graduation from middle school” party a wealthy friend was throwing. In my frustration, I grabbed a coat hanger, desperate and aching and crying and full of rage, and slashed up my upper arms. I wore a sweater in May.

I remember waking up before dawn and walking to my aunt’s station wagon in the frigid air. I piled blankets and my chapter books into the back in preparation for the two-hour ride to the penitentiary where my mother was being held.

I remember the twelve years during which my mother and I communicated only by phone and letters.

I remember going up to see her at age 19 with my new boyfriend, who later became my husband. She was already drunk when we picked her up, but I think we had a pretty good time.

I remember when my great-aunt died. She was like a mother to me. I got the news early in the morning on the day I planned to visit her in the nursing home, then promptly sat down and churned out a 20-page psychoanalysis of Dorian Gray. Then, I spent the next two weeks crying. We sent out our wedding invitations the day before her funeral.

I remember the first time a boy ever hit me. I was seventeen. It was my boyfriend.

I remember the first time a boy ever told me I was worthless. I was seventeen. It was my boyfriend.

I remember the first time a boy raped me. I was seventeen. It was my boyfriend.

I remember the last day I cut myself: December 16, 2013.

I remember the first time I felt stable and glad to be alive in years; it was three weeks ago.

 

Baby steps, readers. Don’t let anyone tell you your past doesn’t matter; it is your story and has made you who you are. Just don’t let it repeat itself.

Stay safe and lovely, readers.

– J

Manic Depression: A Brief Explanation

authoress in motion, explanations, major depression, medication, rapid-cycle bipolar disorder, self-harm, stigma

I finally got around to editing the explanation video on bipolar disorder/manic depression (I prefer the latter term as I feel it’s more descriptive).

In the video, I talk about the different categories of bipolar disorder, what each phase (from depression to mania and mixed states) is and what it feels like, and tips for dealing with a mixed episode.

For once, I know exactly why I am crying.

a cure for what ails you, abuse, ptsd, rapid-cycle bipolar disorder, self-harm, suicidal ideation, three hopeful thoughts

A Sylvia Plath tattoo blog on Tumblr reblogged my thigh piece with the entire poem (“Elm”) attached…and reading it actually made me cry.

For the first time in my life, I am weeping for everything that’s happened to me over the last 24 years, all the pain and heaviness and self-doubt from the horrifying amount of unimaginably cruel things that have been done to me (and that I’ve done to myself as a result). I am finally allowing myself to feel everything that I’ve repressed over the years because I was scared to let it out, terrified to lose my tightly-wound control even for a second.

For once, the tears aren’t the product of a chemical fluctuation in my brain. They’re cathartic and even though I can’t seem to stop, I’m not all that freaked out. I know this crying jag is of the good, healing variety. Experience isn’t the source of this knowledge—it’s a sign that I am finally beginning to trust my therapist, my husband, my friends who have told me all along that it’s better to let it out than to hold it inside.

I’ve been turning that pain inward for over two decades and somehow have not destroyed myself yet.

I am crying for Sylvia Plath. I am crying for my mother. I am crying for myself. I am crying for every person who has ever been a victim. I am crying for every person who is trying not to be a victim.

I am trying not to die.

Its snaky acids kiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults 
That kill, that kill, that kill.”

I am completely baffled by the fact that I’m still alive, still breathing even though there are days when every single breath hurts and every thought, every second of every minute of every hour is occupied by a battle of wills—resisting the urge to run a bath and grab a knife or stop casually poisoning myself and finally get the job done.

For the first time, I know I’m going to live and that thought doesn’t scare me.

Some days, my need for acceptance and praise is really disturbing.

abuse, major depression, ptsd, rapid-cycle bipolar disorder, self-harm, suicidal ideation, therapy

I say this because of the things I know beyond a doubt: I am attractive, there is nothing wrong with my body. But I need reassurance about the physical things because of the most important parts I can’t accept—the thought that I am worthy and lovable and worthwhile and that I don’t ruin everything I touch.

*

I had a particularly disturbing dream last night that D. suddenly decided he didn’t love me, never had. I told him I was feeling suicidal and his response was something along the lines of, “Actually, that’s the best thing that could happen to me right now.” I woke up in a panic, convinced that it had been real. I had some terrible dream-within-a-dream-within-a-dream experience last night, and it’s left me a little rattled. I know the dream is just my subconscious vomiting out the particularly horrible bits of all the abuse I’ve taken—the dream situation is ripped almost verbatim from something that happened countless times in a past relationship—but it’s still upsetting.

It’s upsetting because after all these years and how far I’ve come, I still feel like a victim. It’s upsetting because my childhood would have fucked me up enough without the awful part in my teens where I realized that even if someone tells you they love you, they can still hurt you terribly. In some cases, they can hurt you more after they’ve said it.

*

A stranger once complimented me on my eyes and followed it with, “But there’s something unquiet about them.” It took me a long time to realize that everything I’ve gone through has turned me into a haunted house. If the eyes are windows to the soul, then the restlessness in mine is because of all the horrible memories, all the ghosts.

*

D. and I were discussing “Inception” the other day. “I wonder what my subconscious would look like,” I said. He replied, “I’m pretty sure it would be full of monsters.”

*

I’ve been reading a lot about self-harm and how it relates to prior abuse (the book I’m currently reading focuses on the theory that childhood abuse is completely to blame, but for me, it’s been more of a cumulative effect). I have to go slow because it’s very triggering for me, but it’s also hauling some useful anecdotes up from the depths and forcing me to confront a lot of hard truths about myself—about what happened to me during the first twenty years of my life and how those experiences have shaped almost everything about me.

*

I’m heading back to therapy on Thursday, and I’m feeling particularly anxious about it. I’m not sure what to expect; I already know my prognosis for ever coming out of the dissociative state is pretty grim, and that it’s likely I’ll be in therapy for the rest of my life. We have to move so maddeningly slow—working through the trauma without awakening my defense mechanisms is like trying to sneak past a sleeping dragon in a cave. If it shifts in its sleep or makes a sound, we have to go back and find a safe hiding place until it passes.

My therapist is wonderful. She’ll start off by prompting me to share what’s been going on in my life, and then she’s somehow able to zero in on what I need to talk about during that session. She reassures me that it’s okay if I can only handle remembering things for a minute or two—she says it’s a lot healthier than going at it too hard and making the dissociation even worse.

I’ve gotten pretty good about just accepting the way things are, the numbness and the detachment. But there are times when it makes me want to scream, when I just want to feel something other than all the pain and numbness. I want to be in the moment all the time instead of faking it. I want hearing “I love you” during sex to feel good instead of scaring the shit out of me and causing me to shut down.

I want someone to turn me off and fix me. I wish I had a factory default switch, that I could go back to being an infant and be born into a situation that wouldn’t cause so much damage. People say I’m lucky; the abuse has given me an endless source of inspiration for writing, and most people with “normal”/stable home lives have to work harder.

To that, I say: Fuck you so very, very much. If any one of those people had to live like this even for a day, they’d probably end up putting a gun to their head before sundown. No one wants to live like this. No one.

*

I know this post has jumped all over the damn place; please bear with me, as I’ve been dealing with some pretty brutal cycling as of late. I want to close this on a positive note, so let’s just appreciate that I made it through two suicide attempts, nine months of self-harm, and a lot of substance abuse—and that’s just this year.

I want to live the rest of my life without ending up in a hospital. I want to make it through this without dying by my own hand. I want to be happy, if I can’t be completely well ever again.

Dissociated Press is finally on Facebook!

major depression, rapid-cycle bipolar disorder

WordPress is a bastard, so here’s the full link: https://www.facebook.com/couldhavegonemad?fref=ts

I’ll be posting book recommendations/what I’m currently reading (research for the memoir), brain droppings that aren’t quite long or substantial enough to warrant their own blog post, and whatever else pops into my head (so in other words, anything goes). I’d love it if you guys would “like” the page and jump into the fray by asking questions or whatever it is people do on Facebook nowadays.

Transition.

a cure for what ails you, major depression, medication, ptsd, rapid-cycle bipolar disorder, three hopeful thoughts

At this point, I can’t say that I’m cured or that my bipolar is in remission, but something feels different. My mood swings aren’t as intense as they were before, and “Flat/numb” has replaced “Depressed” as my default mood state. I still can’t remember the last time I felt truly happy without also feeling some underlying negative emotion, but I actually feel hopeful.

My PTSD is still pretty bad. There’s some parking lot construction going on right outside our apartment, and when I had to walk past it yesterday to get home, I flinched, jumped about a foot, and had to clamp my hands down over my ears to get through the unrelenting roar of construction equipment. I felt embarrassed and remember thinking, “Normal people don’t act like this.” But I’m trying not to judge my reactions and emotions. My therapists over the years have all encouraged me to just experience them without having a knee-jerk response and assigning a morality to everything.

My derealization/depersonalization is present, as always, and I’ve been having unnerving spikes in severity that have unusual triggers…if I have my head turned or tilted a certain way and I say something/something is said to me, for example, the detached feeling increases tenfold and sticks around until I finally go to sleep. It seems to only happen in the late afternoon/early evening, but I’m still not sure what to make of it. But in spite of this, I feel like I’m finally starting to recover. I’ll deal with the emotional bit first; then, I’ll try to tackle my dissociation.

Medications: Lorazepam, 1 mg tablets*, 37.5 mg Effexor, 400 mg lamotrigine/Lamictal.

* I think it’s important to note that I can’t remember the last time I actually needed one of these.