When Erratic Energy meets with Despair

This is where it gets dicey.  If you are familiar with bipolar disorder, you have probably heard the term 'mixed states.' You probably also know that suicide is attempted more often when the sufferer is considered 'agitated.'

In terms of energy, the state of 'mixed state' can best be described ( in my view) as rapidly changing and erratic.  Think of problems with the power lines when the lights flicker or glow brighter than usual, power surges cause appliances and electronics to pop and trip breakers, and computers don't know what to do and often shut down.

If you are attempting to monitor your energy, in conjunction with circumstances, it is nearly impossible to gauge.  At times like that, the state of your circumstances governs what you should do.  For example, if circumstances are okay, walking or meditation may be helpful to even out the energy.  Avoiding problematic situations (shopping, conversations which can go awry, or dealing with potentially stressful issues) is probably a good idea.

If circumstances suck, the combination of that with erratic energy can be dangerous.  Psychiatrists use the term "agitation" to describe the feelings of confusion, despair, hopelessness and panic...and all kinds of red flags fly up. Inappropriate outbursts at just about any frustration are likely.  Poor concentration and the inability to put things in perspective can lead to suicidal thoughts.

It is my suggestion to first 'table' all concern for the circumstances, if possible.  My table of choice is at the feet of Jesus.  Then get thoughts about the circumstances out of your head.  Write them down if you feel the need to keep track of the details but do what you must to quiet your mind.

Then, address the energy.  If it is intense, find a way to release some.  I listen to music that makes me cry...and I usually listen to it really really loud.  The first audition of Charlotte and Jonathan singing "My Prayer," does it for me; or Samuel Barber's "Adagio for Strings" (The premier performance by Arturo Toscanini, if you can find it); or "Bring Him Home" (Colm Wilkinson or Alfie Boe); Nessun Dorma (Pavarotti or, a personal favorite, Alfie Boe "warbles a bit").  I even cry when listening to "NASA's Orion Space Launch set to Interstellar Soundtrack (the 1st one listed)"

But, I digress.  The idea is to expel some energy in a safe and healthy way...and I think crying is healthy.

Before picking the circumstances back up, if you must, you should assess your energy.  If your energy is too low to deal with the issues, and if they can wait, let them wait.  Napping is good.

If circumstances are dire, you need to establish a safe situation for yourself.  Call someone who has experience with such matters.  Let someone, someone who will respond with compassion and strength, know what you are going through. Do not go through it alone.  Being aware of His presence will help, but if your thinking is distorted, your perception of His voice may be, too.

If you do not feel safe, take yourself to the hospital; let someone else do the thinking for a while.  You need to build up your strength so you can see things clearly again, so you can accurately assess your energy and your options and make good choices.

Jesus is there; help is available; you are not alone.  I know what of I speak.

Hospitalization (Caution: mentions suicidal ideation)

Until recently, the thought of being hospitalized gave me cold chills and sweats.  My first images of hospitalization came from a 1967 movie starring Rosalind Russell as Rosie Lord who (I believe...my memory could be warped) was committed to a mental hospital by her children.  The children felt Rosie was being irresponsible (and selfish?) in spending their 'inheritance.'  Somehow, at the age of 12 or 13, I knew that this scenario was significant and scary.  There was force.  There was screaming.  Imagine Rosalind Russell without makeup, wiry hair awry, gown askew.  I imagined electric shock and straight jackets.  I still feel nauseated at the thought of being forced, held down, and injected.  I made my mother promise to never let that happen to me.

Flash forward to two years ago when I helped a family member move into a hospital mental health ward.  I was afraid but did my best to not show it.  I was supportive and positive.  I visited on visitation day and attended the group sessions that day.  I was there to take that person home when the time came.

Last Sunday, when the kids were visiting their father and grandfather on Father's Day, I found myself finalizing plans on another technique for exiting this earth.  Before actually gathering the materials and implements, I made a call to my therapist.  Bless her heart, I was interrupting her packing for a week long retreat and I got the feeling she didn't have a lot of extra time. She made some inquiries and called me back.  There were no available beds in Western North Carolina.  none.  I kept packing.

Ultimately, I drove to a nearby city, found the hospital, and checked into the ER.  All told I spent 23 hours dozing in the brightly lit ER examining room with a security guard blocking my door.  He was actually quite sweet.  Every time I turned over he would ask if I was doing ok with a thumbs up query.  Sometimes I gave him a thumbs up...sometimes the thumb was sideways.  One of the nurses apologized for my having to wait in the ER for a room to open up upstairs.  I told her it was fine; there were no painkillers, tranquilizers, or razor blades there.  All I had to do was sleep, and so I slept.

The next afternoon, I was walked upstairs by two security guards.  Not having been on the ward before myself, I didn't realize at the time that it was customary...and loving...to congregate and line the halls to see the new person on the ward.  It didn't take long to make friends and be a friend to several of the people there.  I miss them and sincerely pray for their good fortune and healing.

No one was mistreated.  No one was forced to take their meds or needed restraint.  It was a sometimes happy, orderly, serene place with caring, kind, and often funny attendants. I could look down on a peaceful garden, up into the changing sky, or out into the trees outside my room.  We talked about art, spirituality, stress reduction, wellness, and grief.  The food was even not too bad.

I have a friend who thinks fondly on his own rather lengthy stay in a hospital.  The idea disturbed me at the time he told me so.  I now know better.  Getting out was a surreal experience.  My medication has been rather drastically changed so perhaps that explains my less than perfect driving skills.  Traffic on the interstate, while orderly and reasonable, was too much stimulation for me.  But I made it home.  And I went to work putting my home in order.  I wanted to replicate the tone and feel of the hospital ward.

I want to thank those of you who were concerned for me.  That was kind and thoughtful of you.

Someone in the hospital referred to the experience as resetting their buttons.  I think that is a good way of putting it.  I think about the internet modem and router.  Occasionally, they need to be reset, and apparently, so do I.

I can't have nice things

Back in the late 1990's, I bought a model car for myself.  It's about 6 inches long.  It's a blue 1996 BMW Z3 M Roadster.  The doors open, the steering wheel turns the wheels, the hood lifts to reveal the engine,  It's beautiful.  It has always made me happy to look at it.  It has sat on my desk for over 15 years.

For some reason last week, when I was desperate to find some reason to not do myself in, I thought about that little car.  There has always been a debate between me and my son as to whether it is a Z3 or an M style roadster.  As a distraction, I did a little research.  We were both right.  What's more, there were a few on Craigslist.  And then, I found it.  It was a 2000, not a 1996, but it was BLUE.

I avoided thinking about it for several days.  It was a ridiculous idea.  We are poor. We would become the stereotypical low income family living in a dump with a nice car in the yard.  I knew considering it is classic manic thinking. Even if I could find the money for the car, we need it to pay off debts and run a new sewer line.  Besides, I would probably kill myself in it.  Although, I had wanted to do that anyway, for a while I would have some fun. The debate went on for a few more days.

Finally, I decided to look at the obstacles.  Purchasing the little blue roadster would require borrowing at least half of the amount from the bank.  If they deny my request, decision made.  They didn't deny it.  They took my application and will get back to me in a day or two.  Maybe the car is no longer available.  I sent an email.  I got no response.  My son called.  The car is still available.  We made an offer contingent upon the loan.  They accepted it. I was happy.

Now, I have to tell you that my son has been involved in this search and debate process from the beginning.  He knows our financial situation and he also knows where I have been emotionally for the past several weeks.  He also knows about manic thinking.  But he saw this car as something that might help me, might bring me a little joy.  He remembers that this car has been sitting on my desk for 15 years.

Then all hell broke loose.  My daughter, the voice of reason, expressed herself with all the strength and vehemence imaginable.  I won't go into details but a huge fight ensued.  After my daughter went to her room, after we all took a breather, and the house got quiet, I broke down.  It was the first time I have cried for myself in years, full of gasps, gulps, and hiccups.  My son held me through the worst of it.  I cried several more times before I finally went to bed.

I know it was a classically stupid idea, but now I am afraid again.  I have nothing to look forward to.  I know my life is not as bad as a majority of the world's population, but for some reason I need for my life to make sense, and nothing so far has made sense.  Buying that blue 2000 Z3 M Roadster would have made sense of my holding on to that little model car for so long, for buying it in the first place.  I'm that desperate.

Lord, help me make it through this day.  I have to say no to myself.  I have to cancel the bank loan and tell the owner I am no longer interested.  And here come the tears...

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.

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.

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.

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.