Seeing Bipolar Disorder as an Energy Disorder

I am not a medical doctor; my primary care physician would be delighted to hear me admit this.  After having a disorder for 60 years, however, one begins to know things.  Just to be safe, though, I will preface all of this with the caveat that, what I am about to say applies to me, and may not be true for other people.

Bipolar disorder (for me) is primarily an energy disorder.  (I thank my former psychiatrist for explaining the energy disorder view, to me.)  Tendencies to be brilliant and creative or, conversely, financially irresponsible, when manic, depend on circumstances.  If I am working as a programmer, I create highly-efficient and complex algorithms and code at lightning speed.  Likewise, at the bottom end of a cycle, I can be sad, lacking in faith or hope, or even suicidal, if circumstances are dire or weighing heavily on me.  If circumstances are okay, my down times find me tired, disinterested, or vegetative...but not despairing or suicidal; My energetic times find me getting my housework done, easily and cheerfully.  If I'm in high energy state, I can clean all night.

This perspective on the bipolar condition gives me a vantage point from which to address 'mood swings' with strategies that do not include medication...as long as I remain aware.  For example, if I am full of energy, exuberant, optimistic, and the future looks only bright, I need to stay home and off of the retail web sites.  At those times, my high energy and optimism flies on ahead without consideration of budget and ramifications.  Mania does not cause me to over-spend; it obscures or glosses-over the reality of my limited resources.  In truth, my mood is not swinging, my pocketbook is.

Conversely, if I am sad, depressed, and see no hope in my future, there is truth behind my emotions.  A year ago, I saw no change, no improvement, in my prospects. The shock of losing my job last summer, however, put me in the hospital for a week and a half, during which time I entertained the idea of change and possibilities.  My children are now launched and so am I.  I am comfortable, secure, have a lot of (but not too much) hope and optimism about my life here at 5022 and so, when I am swinging through a low-energy period, I am merely low on energy.

Interestingly, other ailments seem to follow the energy cycles, as well.  I had severe IBS before being diagnosed bipolar.  When I started taking the correct medication for the bipolar disorder, the IBS leveled-off and has seemingly, gone away.  (An aside: when I was put on the wrong medication for me, I was diagnosed with Crohn's disease, not just by symptoms; I had the tell-tale type of tissue present in my intestines.  Colonoscopies since then, have shone no such tissue.)

Another disorder, that I still suffer from, that also follows the swings of energy level, is fibromyalgia.  When I am in a low energy state, I usually also hurt all over.  (I have been carefully diagnosed; I have the usual overly-sensitive places on my body, typical of the disorder.)  If the low energy state lasts long enough, accompanied by the seemingly-constant pain of fibromyalgia, I can get discouraged, and feel without hope...the result, a depressed mood.  Chronic pain can bring on disappointment and a loss of hope or faith, in anyone.

Bipolar disorder does not make me sad or depressed; it is the lack of energy that I need to deal with stressful situations, or need in order to concentrate, or need to be creative that is what makes me sad.

My strategy (for me, remember) is to be aware of my circumstances and my energy.  Some activities or tasks are better left for a 'higher-energy' day.  Shopping is better left for those in-between days when my energy level is not too high or too low.  (In fact, I have been known to buy things that are not necessary out of anger or in defiance of my low-energy state.)

In my previous essays, I suggest many other strategies that I used before I looked at Bipolar Disorder as an energy thing.  I believe they are still relevant, but seeing the disorder as an energy issue removes the common, yet unwarranted and damaging viewpoint that Bipolar Disorder is a character flaw...that bipolar people are bad people.  (I will go so far as to add that if a bipolar person is dangerous or destructive to others, there is something else going on in addition to the bipolar disorder....in spite of what Hollywood may lead you to believe.)

I have chosen to wean myself off of bipolar medications.  At one point, I was taking 3  or 4 different bipolar medications, along with others prescribed to address side-effects, as a "cocktail," a commonly used term describing the mixture of a variety of ingredients taken together toward the desired result.  I have had to stop most of my medications over the last 2 to 3 years, under close medical supervision, because of adverse effects of taking those medications over a long period of time.  Then, once I began moving (and my prospects improved), I weaned myself off of the final medication, over a 6-week period.  I avoid energy influencing foods and drinks (like sugar and caffeine), avoid artificial flavors and colors, and eat foods and take supplements known to be good for nerves, blood sugar, and brain function.  Adequate sleep and exercise are crucial, as well.

Again, I am not a doctor; I don't even play one on TV.  But, and this is a BIG BUT, when I prayed to Jesus, directly, to heal me of Bipolar Disorder, I believe one aspect of His healing was to show me how to look at my energy and my circumstances as separate factors which work in compound to affect my feelings, thoughts, and behavior.  My energy swings have been easily recognizable and manageable since praying to Him.  And He has encouraged me to pass along to others what I have observed for myself.  I hope this is encouraging if not helpful to others who suffer with the disorder.  Like a medical doctor (which I am not) it is my intention to "Do No Harm..." and to God be the Glory.

I'm tired of being inappropriate

I'm tired.  I'm fed up.  I say the wrong thing.  I do the wrong thing.  I live the wrong way.  I realize 'normal' people make mistakes, but I do the wrong thing all the time.  Just ask my children or my friends or my coworkers or the people I meet online.  Life will be sailing along and suddenly I'll rock the boat.  I'll step over the line.  And ruin everything.

I need asylum.  I need a place to go where I am allowed and expected to be dysfunctional, a place where I am safe and not expected to interact with others in any meaningful way...except to take pills.  It would be nice if there were azaleas and oak trees but right now I'd be content with a cardboard box.

I'm not depressed.  I'm not manic.  I'm not suicidal.  But I am tired.  I feel that if I could just stand still, not say anything, not write anything, not think or feel anything, then maybe I would do no harm.  No additional harm.  I have been so inappropriate all my life that I embarrass myself.  I am appalled at some of the things I have said and done.  Some of it is documented online, or in databases, or people's memories.  It's out there. And the darn thing is, I don't feel inappropriate when I'm doing it...just when I'm looking back on it.

Why can't I just be nice and normal?  Why did I have to be bipolar?  Or why couldn't I be so mentally ill that I don't know what I'm doing...even later.

I'm sorry, there's not much hope or encouragement in this post.  I'm afraid of what my next gaffe is going to be.

Whiffs

My brain is still struggling to pull out of a depression.  I am what is called a 'rapid cycler,' so this has been a long and especially deep depression, for me.  In addition to what is going on chemically in my brain, I am failing to see a purpose to my life.  I have no goals.  I have no reasons.  Folding that basket of towels is about as purposeful as it gets.  Bleak, is a good word.

Even when I am reminded of what I used to do:  paint, write, take pretty pictures, I recall that part of my life with dim interest.  For all practical purposes, I was not "successful" at those endeavors.  I made no money at it, certainly not enough to even pay for the materials.  But more than that, I received mixed messages as to whether or not I was even any good at it...my painting, for example.  Was my artwork effective?  Did it bring anyone Joy or Healing?  I doubt it.  I dragged it to art shows and dragged it home again.  It piled up in the basement until I gave it away to Goodwill last month.  I had spent a lot of time and money on it.

But I am getting off track.

The gist of all this is that I am no longer compelled to go back to what I have tried in the past...even my writing.  Even though I write here on my blog, very few people read it...and usually, no one comments.  Does that matter?  Apparently not, because here I am.


It is gloomy here in my head.  I do what needs to be done.  I take my pills, I drive my daughter to work, I do the dishes and laundry, I write the blog.

I glare out the window as if the landscape is supposed to present me with something.  But it is cloudy...the ugly, glaring, white kind of cloudy that hurts your eyes and forces you to turn away.

And then I get a whiff...like a whiff of bread baking, or fireplace smoke, or the tea olive in Charleston where I grew up.  I have a whiff of interest in what goes on...the little bird at the feeder, the cat's steady breathing, the blooming thrift at the end of the walk.

And then it is gone...as quickly as it came.  However, I know, whether I want it to or not, my brain is shifting ever so slightly, like an old train's rusty wheels being nudged to move.  I am not sure I am ready.

Playing catch up

I am cooking supper.  I have probably mentioned before that my two children (24 and 26) live with me, work, and pay rent.  We all share the cooking duties but for the most part, I do the dishes and laundry.  Just now, I was carrying a load of laundry downstairs and was wondering, "Is this all I do anymore?"  I quit my part time job a few weeks ago and have been going through a pretty rough time emotionally.  I am not of a mind to paint or take pictures.  In fact, I got rid of most of my old art work. (That was a signal right there of bad times to come.)

So, I am not doing art work, I am not writing (except here), I am not working.  I am doing dishes, and laundry, and cooking.  Oh, and I drive my daughter to and from work.

Then it dawned on me...this is what I SHOULD have been doing 15-25 years ago when my children were young.  I had to work full time from the time my children were babies.  Their father left when my son was born so I had to do it all by myself.  I was un-diagnosed, therefore un-medicated, bipolar.  At its best, I hired friends to clean my house once a week and often bought fast food.  At its worst, every item of clothing we owned was being walked on, on the hall floor, waiting to be washed...waiting week after week after week.  We did not have any clean dishes but that was ok we did not have any food.  I am not sure what we ate.

It does not make up for a miserable childhood.  We talk about those days and I apologize and tell them I am sorry.  And maybe now I am trying to make up for lost time by keeping up with the laundry and dishes and fixing a decent supper.  I know it is not good enough.  I know it will not go deep enough.  But I will not grumble or ask why this is all I am inspired to do right now.  It is like a monastic practice: chop wood - carry water.  Perhaps, in time, enlightenment.

Coming back up (Caution: mentions s______)

I have been in a bad place for a while but now I am finally on my way back up.  This was a bad one.  I quit my job, and nearly burned those bridges, as well.   I counted pills and did research.  I told my children as well as my doctors.  I pulled out my will and printed out information on how to claim my life insurance.  It was like following a to do list.  When I felt like there was nothing between me and the edge, I put a simple post on a mental health website:  "I have discovered, that when the idea of taking your own life no longer scares you, you are on a very slippery slope," or something to that effect.

I am grateful to those who responded by asking me to please be safe.  I read those messages over and over.  They became a mantra, of sorts.  There were those, however, who wanted to argue semantics with me, that if I had used different terminology, they might have taken me seriously.  Really?

Feeling a bit better yesterday, I posted the details of what I deal with and why simply coming out of a depression will not fix the situation entirely.  I waited all day to hear from someone...anyone.  At the end of the day, when I had received no comments of commiseration, compassion, or criticism, I thanked all those who had cared before and said, "well, I guess that's it."

This morning, the web site moderators took that to be a suicide note and removed me from the system.  If I didn't feel isolated before, I do now.

I originally intended this blog to offer hope and encouragement to people who suffer from the struggles of bipolar disorder.  When I started it, I was semi-manic, lucid, optimistic, and functionally creative.  Now, I feel like the blind leading the blind.  I'm not in a place to give hope.  I struggle to understand what it is all for.

BUT...

As I have testified on this blog before, when you are down, it feels like you have always been down and that you will always be down...that the landscape will always be bleak, the road will always be uphill, and that the horizon will always be pointless.  I am taking it on faith that this will Not always be the case.  That this too shall pass.

Purity Balls and PTSD...Caution: addresses possible sexual abuse

Yesterday, my daughter asked me if I have PTSD.  Her reasoning is that I tend to not remember my past until I go through old letters or paperwork documenting my life.  For example, my son is applying for disability so I have been going through old files for medical records for his case.  I came across old report cards and reports from child psychologists and school psychologists.  Boy, did the memories flood back.  All three of us are bipolar, with other stuff thrown in, but we were not diagnosed or even under good care back then.  I was either too manic or too depressed to even know how bad it was.  I never got them to school on time; forget homework; they didn't even bathe regularly.  I don't remember what we ate.  I made good money (I was a programmer) so I don't think we went hungry.  My daughter remembers empty cabinets and  lunches of popcorn.

My point is this:  there is a lot I have blocked out from my past, and that includes from my childhood.  I am aware that there was a lot of weird dynamics going on in my family.  A lot of shame and guilt and anger.  And neglect.  There was a lot we weren't allowed to see or do because it was "bad" or "sinful."  My father had an obsession with privacy and modesty, an unnatural obsession. And it gets worse.

So when I saw the posts on Purity Balls, I thought I would throw up.  The thought of my father "protecting my virginity" or being my "boyfriend" makes me physically sick.  Even the declarations of love and adoration make me queasy.  Is it me or is it them?  I would love nothing more than for these evangelical fathers to be emotionally strong and stable so that they never take advantage of their daughters.  But I feel that this ritual covenant between father and daughter could blur boundaries for the girl, make her feel safe when she is not, and give the father perceived rights to take liberties.

We shouldn't need Purity Balls.  Fathers should protect their daughters Anyway.  This whole thing is just creepy.

Reflection on life

It does not pay for me to look back on my life...although I do it quite a bit.  I could blame the mood swings of my disorder, but a lot of my life seems to have been a waste.  Lots of aborted efforts.  I've enumerated them before:  programming, painting, photography, writing, relationships,...  When I worked for the government, I once worked for four years on a database effort that was thrown away, ironically, while I was in the hospital giving birth to my son.  Why?  The data were later salvaged and used in another project by a different branch.  It still makes me angry to think about it.

I have already expounded on the waste of my artistic efforts:  the painting, photography, and writing that has ended up at the dump.  Why do I do this?  I have become a self-absorbed whiner.  Does looking at where you have been help you determine where you are going?  Is it going to be more of the same?  There is no way to guarantee that it will not.  None of those efforts were started with the intention of non-accomplishment.

Then, of course, I could flip it around...why do I feel that I need to accomplish anything?  Am I measured by my contributions to the world?  Is that how we are to measure the merit of a person?  What does that say about the millions of beautiful people who spend their entire existence merely staying alive.  

I hope that when I leave this earthly realm, I get a chance to talk with someone who knows what it was for.

In the meantime, I will join the throngs of human beings merely striving to stay alive.  If you have read my previous posts you will know that on many days I write to stay alive.

I have a new GP

I have changed doctors...GP's, that is.  I was in a power struggle with my former doctor.  She is 12.  Well, of course she is older than 12, but she is very young and doesn't believe what I tell her.  If I do not manifest the symptom in her office, then they do not exist...symptoms like air hunger, head tremor, hesitation in my movements, burning tongue and throat.  I wanted to get a neurologist to weigh in on what was going on.  She would not refer me.  I called to get the results of my lab work.  She would not tell me what the specific numbers were, just that "everything looks fine."

The new doctor gave a talk on "Taking Charge of Your Health."  I thought, "Oh good, this is what I am looking for."  So, I scheduled an appointment with him.

I wish I could tell you he was different.  He pretty much dismissed my concerns.  What I referred to as 'air hunger,' he called a 'sigh.'  Really?  Since my head was not shaking at the time, he said it was a non-issue.  My psychiatrist takes me more seriously than that, but then I have been with him for more than 10 years.

But the new GP did bring up a valid point.  All of my weird symptoms are neurological, BUT there is nothing a neurologist could do to fix them...essentially, suck it up.  Well, actually, he said "live with it."  In all fairness, my psychiatrist had said these symptoms fall in the PITA realm...or, Pain In The Ass.

Something else the new GP said that was interesting was that my setting a goal to "Run before I die," may actually have been my own internal psyche's way of trying to heal my body of these strange symptoms...walking and running may ultimately even out the neurological noise that I am experiencing.  Okay, I can run with that.

Sorry.

Throwing away my life...Caution: mentions suicide

I am throwing stuff out...lots of stuff.  I know it is risky.  One of the warning signs of suicide is giving away prized possessions.  And some of these are prized possessions.  Dozens of oil paintings.  Dozens of photographs, matted and framed.  Watercolor prints, matted and framed.  Boxes of them.  These represent stages of my life and my creative endeavors during those times.  All failed attempts to share my creativity. These pieces of artwork have languished in gift shops, craft fairs, and on restaurant walls.  I even have many of them posted on the internet. www.flickr.com/photos/kitsy_1955/

These items are doing no one any good in boxes or piles in the basement.  And, yes, I am aware that it is a cardinal sin to give away (or lower your price on) something you have previously sold.  So sue me. What is more, they remind me of my failures, my manic efforts with perhaps unrealistic expectations, and a lot of money ill spent.

So out they go to Goodwill, The Salvation Army, and the dump.  A lot of that stuff represents what I ought to have been.  Getting rid of it is, in that way, liberating.  No more should's or ought's.  But it brings up the question, "What the hell am I, if not an artist?"

My mother was an artist.  She always took home first prize in the local art show because her style was so unique.  She was also a hoarder, not so much like what you see on TV but a hoarder of memorabilia, dishes, pots and pans, furniture, newspaper clippings, books, and her art.  She was also bipolar and obese.  When she died, the minister struggled to find something positive to say about her life.  He focused on her outlook, that her hoarding was an indication that she felt she would live forever, that she looked to eternity. Whatever.

I am not sure what I am doing this for...this clearing out.  I do not want to be a hoarder.  I know I have, at best, 20-25 years left to live.  I have no thoughts toward living forever.  Perhaps I did once.  Not any more. Furthermore, I no longer want to be burdened by unimportant options like knitting and sewing.  But where will it end?  How will it end?  What gets to stay?

This morning I was pulling out the camping gear.  I loved camping as a child.  Unfortunately, because of my mother's condition, camping was a chaotic affair with lots of blankets and sheets of clear plastic.  After my husband left, when my children were still young, I built a camping system of matching, hard case boxes filled with everything we would want on a camping trip: cast iron frying pans, enameled plates and mugs, table cloths, matching dish towels, candles, enamel-handled flatware, clothes lines, tarps, lanterns, a cook stove, the whole nine yards.  There are sleeping bags, mats, folding chairs, tents, and a car-top carrier to carry it all in.  It was used maybe once or twice.

Pulling it out this morning, I was overcome with incredible sadness.  I had put such hope and happiness into those hard case boxes.  Clearly, I was manic at the time and had disposable income.  But, more than that, I had a vision of happiness for my children.  By God, I was going to give them the experience that brought me such joy, with or without the help of another adult.  Sadly, it was more than I could handle.  Camping was very difficult for my daughter.  She did not like it.  My son did not like it, either, at the time.  He has since been through Boy Scouts and camps with his friends.

In fact, it was my son who saw I was so distraught this morning, and pulled me out of the dive, offering that we can go camping, once it warms up a bit.

So, I have put on the brakes a bit.  The treadmill and workout equipment stay.  The gardening tools stay, I think.  The paper making supplies, I'm not sure.  The grill/smoker, we'll see.  The darkroom equipment stay, for now.

In other words, it is not over.  There is plenty left to attach me to this earth with hopeful expectations.

Ash Wednesday...or giving up for Lent

Ash Wednesday is the first day of Lent, the 40 day period of fasting, repentance, and spiritual discipline before Easter, not including Sundays.  There are posts on line, which I find credible, that state that bipolar individuals should not fast.  I think that makes sense. We need to keep in balance everything we can control, like food.

But what about abstaining from one substance?  Common substances given up for Lent are coffee and sugar. While neither of which is good for bipolar individuals, suddenly stopping them is not good either, for obvious reasons.

I have decided to give up for Lent.  I tried to give up coffee and mindlessly made my routine cup before dawn on Wednesday morning.  As my daughter said, "I blew it."  I intended to cut out sugar but impulsively went after 2 Dunkin' Donuts yesterday afternoon...and I don't even like them.  Again, she's a "better Christian" than I am.

Some Christians choose to 'take on,' rather than 'give up.' something for Lent.  I had planned on starting a practice of Centering Prayer, but lately I've been too manic or agitated to sit for 20 minutes in silence, consenting and intending to just be in the presence of God.  I can manage maybe 5 minutes.

If you have followed my blog at all, you are aware that I am all over the place.  Lots of plans, best of intentions, failure and defeat.  I think the most genuine and hopeful gesture I can make is resignation.  I give up for Lent.

Taking care of myself, wherever I am.

It occurs to me that I may not change.  This may be how it is going to be for however long I remain alive.  (deep sigh.)  Medications are not working like they used to.  I have been on them for too long.  I might as well not be on medication, or so it seems.  I cycle wildly and rapidly, regardless.

I can not stay in bed all day.  I do not sleep.  Even at night I do not sleep.  My hands and feet are constantly in motion.  I wake up stiff from being in motion all night.

So what do I do?

I make plans, plans of how best to take care of myself, depending on what state of disorder I am in.  For example, when I am manic, I will be careful not to start any new projects or make any new goals.  They tend to be unrealistic, overwhelming, and disappointing.  Also when I am manic, I will take advantage of the energy and get some exercise.  Long vigorous walks tend to burn out the jitters.  Walking and talking with someone makes it even better.  Manic energy is also good for cleaning out places like the basement, shoving stuff around and sweeping up dust and dirt.  Manic energy is good for mopping floors.  It is not good for filing paperwork, unless I am taking on the entire filing system.

If I had a good yard, manic energy might be good for gardening.  HOWEVER, over the years I have spent thousands of dollars at garden supply stores.  Not a good place for me.  So, I must limit my 'gardening' to raking, weeding, pruning, and sweeping.

Depression is good for inspirational reading, slow walks, writing, catching up on movies, watching the dog breathe, watching the snow fall, belly breathing, meditation, hand-washing dishes, clothes, windows.

Mixed states are tricky.  If I am depressed and agitated, it may be best to nap.  I'm not sleeping my life away, just this short phase of my life.  If I am manic and full of negative energy, I can write blogs or letters that I just don't post or mail.  And walk.

Today, I intend to look into what diets are best for which states of disorder.  In the meantime, I will head back down to the basement and work on the studio.

What a difference a day makes

I had a rough day yesterday.  It had built up over the weekend because I had decided on Friday that I was going to quit my very part-time job.  The manager is a tyrant.  Actually, he is more like a petulant playground bully.  The secretary would spend hours crying on my shoulder, telling me what mean things he has said and done, instead of standing up for herself.  I finally said, "enough."  When she related that he "didn't know what he was paying me for," that he had "paid me for nothing,"  I wrote him a letter and told him I wouldn't work for him any more.  I delivered it in person yesterday morning.

I was already in a really low mood and it got worse as the day wore on.  I wrote it out on this blog (see yesterday's post), spent an hour or more reading web pages on the warning signs of suicide, put on a movie, pulled a comforter over my head, and slept.  I haven't behaved that way in years.  After I woke up, I went out for the mail.  There is was, the letter from Social Security that I have been waiting for for two years.  They finally reinstated my disability.  I celebrated by going to the grocery store.

I am going to a class tonight on basic photography.  I took 2 -3 years of photography back in 1998 - 2000.  At that time, I bought an enlarger and enough supplies and equipment to set up a darkroom in my basement.  In fact, I did set it up in my laundry room and used it once or twice.  I loved it but was pretty manic at that time in my life.  Things became pretty crazy after that.  The enlarger got covered with dust and laundry, the equipment was packed away in various locations.  I haven't touched it since.

But I will touch it today.  I plan on spending the day taking inventory, cleaning off the equipment, finding the two old manual Canon cameras, and going out for batteries and film.

What a difference a day makes.

From one extreme to another.  That's the name of this bipolar game.  Which reminds me, I need to be careful and take my time.  This up mood won't last either and my biggest failing when manic is spending money, particularly on creative projects.

I want to thank the two ladies who commented on my post yesterday when I was in crisis.  The letter from SSA was great, but their two comments pulled me out of a dive, just by letting me know I was heard.  thank you.

Defeated **Warning...contains thoughts on suicide"

I have already written on how this winter has been hard.  The medical treatment of my bipolar disorder is falling apart; I am suffering from side effects of having been on the meds for so long; I have other medical problems like Fibromyalgia, degenerative eye disease, and tooth/sinus infections; I'm just not doing well.

For a while I was manically throwing everything into feeling better:  getting on a healthy eating kick; following a walking training plan for the intent of running one day; changing doctors from a trainee to an internal medicine specialist; cleaning up my studio with the intent of painting again; getting back on the dating site in hopes of meeting someone; ...writing this blog.

None of it has worked.  And as bipolar disorder would have it, I am no longer manic but hopelessly depressed.  Looking back on the past week or so I see I have been getting my affairs in order; I quit my part time job; I gave away most of my paintings; I plan to give away my photography; I do not want or need it anymore.

Down through the years I have tried painting (never went anywhere), writing (never went anywhere), I was a programmer for 22 years (career aborted due to severe depression), I raised two children (but I have given both of them bipolar disorder.)    One person has commented on my blog (bless her heart.)  I am defeated.

Last night I gave my son my bottle of Lorazepam for safe keeping.  He did not take it.  I think he felt by not taking it he was diffusing the situation.  I felt not only defeated but dismissed.  I do not blame him.  He is young and not a professional at handling such situations.

This is not good.  I am alone in the house.  The bottle of pills is back in the bedside table drawer.

It is raining and cold.

I could call my psychiatrist or a friend or one of my children.  Or I could just check out the emergency room.

I do not want to die and cause all that trauma to my children and friends.  I just want to feel better.  I do not want to live this life anymore.  I want it to change.

Dare I talk about faith?

I have already posted on how hard this winter has been.  It is not just about bipolar disorder but about all the crises my family has faced:  wisdom teeth, molar infections, sinus infections, timing belts, valve damage, medicine reactions and toxicity, Parkinson's symptoms, Tardive Dyskinesia, repeatedly being over-drawn, no heat, all the way to the sewer backing up into the basement, and more.  Are we having fun, yet?

But I want to write about what all this can do to ones faith and hope.  Personally, I find it difficult to praise and worship when life is so dark and hard.  I am no Job ("Though He slay me, yet will I hope in Him."). Times like this it is easy to feel ignored or neglected.  It is difficult to even have hope.  So I went to see my priest.

He tried the Job angle.  That didn't work.  But this did...he reminded me that I am a part of a community, that if I couldn't bring myself to believe, couldn't bring myself to have hope, that THEY COULD and for me to hold tight to the hands of my friends and let them believe for me.

So, I will.

I think that is why I follow so many blogs on bipolar disorder.  We all have bad days (weeks, months, seasons,...) but somebody is bound to be posting something hopeful.  I cling to that.

Something else my priest suggested was centering prayer.  I won't go into the details of it here; it is on the internet, if you are curious,  But, I tried centering prayer years ago and thought I would jump out of my skin. Essentially you meditate for 20 minutes focusing lightly on a chosen word which indicates your consent and intention to be in the presence of God.  I felt claustrophobic, panicky, and hyperventilated.

This time, my priest says, I can sit by the door.

Do you believe in synchronicity?  This morning's post by Christine Valters Paintner (Abbey of the Arts) deals with text from Joel where God says "return to me with your whole heart."  I'm trying.

Air Hunger

     Here is a new one for me, Air Hunger, otherwise known as Dyspnea.  Wikipedia defines it as "an uncomfortable awareness of one's breath effort."  That is my latest side effect of bipolar disorder, or the medications I take for it, or something else.  I consciously take a slow deep inhale and then a quick exhale...sort of like a 'puff.' I do this all the time, when I go to sleep, when I wake up, I do not have to think about it;  it just happens. I initially thought of it as comforting... sort of like a meditative breathing.  It is calming but I'm not having an anxiety or panic attack.

     Well, I thought it was calming until I looked up what it could be caused by:  pulmonary hypertension, heart disease, diabetes, COPD, GERD, sleep apnea,  asthma, shock, chronic heart failure, pulmonary embolism, imminent death... among other diseases I can not spell or pronounce.  Well, I think we can rule out 'imminent death.'  And I have never smoked, except for a few cigars in college, so it is likely not COPD.  It might be GERD or sleep apnea, both of which will require further exploration.  I have been tested for diabetes and do not have any chest pain.  Then again, it could just be bipolar disorder.

     There is documentation on the web about air hunger and bipolar disorder (usually related to panic and anxiety) but I have yet to find any real medical evidence.  I will keep looking.  In the meantime, I am trying an exercise to 'normalize' the oxygen and CO2 levels in my blood.  I found this on Reddit (my son's favorite website)

   "the reason why you feel air hunger is because your body has low carbon dioxide levels as a   result of stress. When under stress, you breathe in more air and exhale a greater amount of carbon dioxide. This creates a viscous (sic) cycle causing your body to inhale more and more deeply to maintain the carbon dioxide level. If you continue to do this over a prolonged period of time then your body deems your increased breathing volume as "normal" and as a result you will constantly feel short of breath unless you keep taking in big breaths.

Your goal is to break this habit and restore your oxygen/carbon dioxide levels back to a healthier level. "

     Thank you, username outlooker707 on Reddit. Outlooker goes on to describe steps to "break the habit."  It may take weeks or months.  By then I should know if this Air Hunger is being brought on by something more 'serious.'  In the meantime, I will be on the lookout for more information.  If you deal with Air Hunger and have some insight, please comment. In fact there is a blog devoted to Living with Air Hunger.  The author describes her condition as having been a lifelong problem, finally finds a doctor who will listen to her, and that is her last post.  I hope that is a good sign.

     Next up, Tardive Dyskinesia

Pain and Comfort

I'm on the path to gaining weight:  cereal at night, frozen yogurt, sugar in my coffee.  I have been needing comfort.  Broken sleep isn't going to help, either.

I have had a toothache for three or four weeks...ever since I had a tooth filled.  But that is not where it hurts. In fact, we can not tell exactly where the pain is coming from.  It hurts all over the side of my head and down my jaw.  I have been taking ibuprofen and Tylenol around the clock for weeks.  I hate to think what that is doing to my lithium levels...or my kidneys and liver, for that matter.

I'm tired of pain.  I'm tired of dry mouth.  I'm tired of non-stop tongue and jaw movement (tardive dyskinesia).  I'm tired of sighing.  I'm tired of not sleeping through the night. But, what I am doing for comfort is sabotaging the one aspect of my life that is going right for me these days:  My weight is down.  I have 15-25 lbs. to go but I've lost 25 lbs. since last Fall...when I stopped taking Abilify and we jacked up the Lithium...and I became so sick.

The challenge now is to identify some other activity that will comfort me and not harm me or my efforts.  For example...

• There are beneficial foods that can be comforting, like fruit, small amounts of protein, even cereal...just not in the middle of the night.
• There are books of inspiration and comfort.  (I may elaborate on this in a later post.) 
• There are music, candles, and incense.
• Favorite movies.
• Gentle yoga
• A long walk
• A short walk
• Bubble bath
• Hair cut (my beautician gives an incredibly nice head massage)
• Putting an area of the house in order, like my desk or dresser.  I find cleared, smooth surfaces (especially wood surfaces) soothing.
• Sweeping the floor (again with the wood surface). Of course, having someone else sweep the floor would be nice...but that requires a struggle...and that is a whole other post.

I need pain relief...I need comfort.  Do you have any ideas?  What do you do for comfort?  I'd love to know...

A Rough Winter

A while back I posted (railed, actually) about an incredibly insensitive pharmacist who declared that bipolar women my age quite often committed suicide because their medications quit working.  Well, it seems that has come back to bite me...the 'quit working' part, anyway.  Last summer/fall I developed Parkinsonian symptoms...tremor, primarily, but also dizziness, confusion, memory loss, hesitation, etc.  My doctor suspected the Abilify so we tapered that off and increased the Lithium. I wasn't sleeping so I was prescribed Lunesta.  A short time after that I developed Tardive Dyskinesia...my tongue and jaw would not stay still.  It affected my speech and eating...not to mention my appearance...and eventually affected my ability to swallow.  Then came the bitter tongue, dry mouth, and metallic taste.  Blood tests revealed that my lithium level was 1.2...within published therapeutic range, but way too high for me.  We lowered my dose of lithium and that helped the metallic taste.  We lowered it some more and added Mirapex to help with the other symptoms.

Long story short, everything got better...for a while.  I stopped the Lunesta.  It had quit working and apparently caused the bitter tongue.  But everything is back...Parkinsonian symptoms, slightly improved, tongue/jaw movement, dry mouth...and because I am on a lowered dose of Lithium, I'm cycling.  Some days I can't sit still and build 2-full page to-do lists, cleaning house all day; Other days, I'm so uncomfortable and foggy headed I just stand in the middle of the room and stare into space.

That is when I start wondering, "What is my life?"  I feel miserable, I don't want to be around anybody, everything tastes bad,...  On 'good' days I devise plans of attack.  Because I have lost 15 lbs. from not eating much (everything tastes bad and eating is difficult) I have decided to continue the trend by walking and eventually running.  I have decided that I want to run before I die; If not now, when?  Well, one week into the 7-week training plan, I develop sciatica.  Have I mentioned that I also have Fibromyalgia?

Another area for attack is my house.  When I was happily on Abilify, I wasn't paying too much attention to the state of things.  Without the happy-filter, I see how much needs to be done...hence the two pages of to-do's ...and that's just to get started.

In unrelated matters, I had a molar filled and the dentist owned up to lacerating my gum and hyper-extending my jaw joint.  I have been on Ibuprofen for days, which increases my blood lithium levels, which exacerbates my adverse side effects.  To top it off, my sewer backed up into the basement and there is 10-inches of snow on the ground.  I'M READY FOR SPRING in oh, so many ways!!

Thoughts of suicide?  Oh, they have been there.  I know how I would do it and I have even told my doctor and therapist.  I really have nothing more to say about that.  I don't want to prove that pharmacist right nor do I want to devastate my children.  So I continue to work with my doctors, try to exercise and eat right, take the current collection of meds, meditate/nap, and read for inspiration...except when I stand in the middle of the room and stare into space.

This post is probably not going to help anybody beyond letting you know that I understand.  Let me know if you want to chat.