HealthyPlace.com Gave Me a Blog?

Well, I've gone and done it. Yes, it's been done and I'm gone. Well, not gone really. Still on my couch actually. But I have gone and gotten a blogging contract with HealthyPlace.com, "America's Mental Health Channel".

The people at HealthyPlace approached me a couple of weeks ago about doing it, and after some serious consideration, and bouts of vanity, I decided to move forward with it.

In all honesty, I wasn't familiar with this site before they approached me and I tend to regard such approaches and sites as suspicious. I have been approached by various people over the years for various things but for one reason or another, I decided not to do it. I do not, in any way, wish to have my point of view compromised by sponsors. Money runs the world, and around here, that means big-pharma. I'm not naive enough to think they don't play a role, but I won't have them shaping my voice. My voice is mine, period.

But the people at HealthyPlace have been fine with that. They have a "no naughty words" policy, which I think is kind of silly, but certainly isn't a problem. And yes, they are funded by advertisers, and those advertisers are pharmaceutical companies. Here's what HealthyPlace has to say about that:

HealthyPlace is not owned or directed by companies that sell any products or medications. None of the articles are written or influenced by companies advertising on our website. All advertisements and sponsorships are clearly identified and labeled. (you can read our editorial and advertising policies) As a company and general policy of our website, we do not make any claims relating to the benefit or performance of a specific medical treatment, commercial product or service. We strongly believe that the individual and their healthcare provider should work in concert to determine what the best treatment is for that person's particular situation.

All of which I find quite acceptable and endorse. 

And I must say, the people at HealthyPlace have been tremendously kind and generous in getting me started with them. Every interaction has been a pleasure. I hope to have a long a positive relationship with them and their readers.

So, am I leaving?

Of course not, silly. There are still things that aren't going to be appropriate for that site that I'll post here, and I have the luxury of being a lot more random in this arena. I've put a lot of work into this place and I have no intention of leaving just when it's getting good.

I do hope you'll drop by HealthyPlace and check them out, if you haven't already done so. They do offer many mental health resources, including discussion groups. Their audience is somewhat more "adult" (think 30+) in their demographics than you get elsewhere, which I, for one, find refreshing. And they picked me out of the blogosphere, and that's saying something right there isn't it?

My new blog is called "Breaking Bipolar". It will include two articles a week plus two audio clips a month and one video. Yes, that's right, you get to see me, and hear me. My picture's up. Let me know how you like the hair.

My first article talks about the price of being bipolar in public. It talks a little about my decision to come out of the crazy closet. Or out of the closet crazy. Or crazed. Or something. I have a lot to say on this as I've been thinking about anonymity vs. non-anonymity for a long time now. I've gradually become less anonymous over the years and now I have a name and a face. It's really rather shocking. It's a subject I'll be revisiting there, here, somewhere, for sure.

There is also a short about Natasha article, if you're interested.

Not all the features are working just yet but a video should soon appear as well.

I hope you'll all support me in this new venue. I love writing here and see writing there as an extension of that, but really, I need your help to find an audience. A writer without readers is sort of like one hand clapping. Which I guess means it's pointless or transcendent, depending on your point of view.

Any feedback on any of my writing is welcome, here, there, and everywhere.

And by the way, every one of you who ever left a comment saying that I touched you, or that you could really identify with my writing, are what helped make this happen. Every one of you helped keep me writing and as long as I'm touching people I intend to continue. I am one voice speaking for many. Thank-you for all of your support.

Now go read my new article ;)

Stabbing is Bad

Stabbing is bad. It just is. If you have to pick between cutting, hitting, and stabbing, don't pick stabbing.

Unless you're trying to kill someone, in which case I think stabbing would be pretty good. And satisfying. I'm surprised more murderers don't pick stabbing.

I'm having anxiety issues. And impulse control issues. And stabbing issues. Well, that last one is really a function of the other two, but it's an issue nonetheless.

I've always been attracted to stabbing. I think that's because when you start wielding a blade with force, you can't change your mind. And it's so easy to did deep. And draw a lot of blood.

And as I considered stabbing, I also thought it had the advantage of leaving a minimal scar. You cut down, not across.

This turns out not to be the case. Stabbing doesn't produce a large incision, but the one it does produce tends to gape and cause more scarring than you think. Just trust me. Don't try it.

And so, as much as I like the force, and blood, and bruising associated with stabbing, I've really written it off as a self-harm method. Death method, probably decent, self-harm, not so much.

But as I've said, I've been having issues.

For whatever reason, for whatever cocktail, for whatever brain misfire, I seem to be turning in super-anxious-suicide-girl at night. Like, way more than usual. And on top of that there seems to be a real lack of impulse control on my part, last notably seen with the cutting of my wrist with broken glass.

And so I had been hitting myself with a blunt object, went into the kitchen to cut up a yellow pepper, and then as I was removing the core I thought to myself, I wonder what it would be like if I hit myself with this knife. And then I just did. And then there was a lot of blood. I was standing next to the sink so I just tried to keep standing while the blood went down the drain.

It just kind of, happened. Like stubbing your toe. An accident.

And it's fine. My arm is fine. There does seem to be some nerve damage going into my thumb, but it seems minor and may get better, I don't know. This isn't really my area of expertise.

And I don't know. It's a scary thing. To do something, without intention. One of the problems is I really don't care if I die. I mean, like, really don't care. I'm so over it's unbelievable. So when something pops into my head, whatever filter I did have doesn't exist. So I just do it.

And then there's the drinking. Crazy people shouldn't drink. Crazy people on meds really shouldn't drink. Crazy people on meds and tranquilizers really, really shouldn't drink. But I feel so irreparably horrifically self-loathing and suicidal that I couldn't care less that it's a bad idea. I'll take any idea at all that would mask the pain. Even a little.

Sigh. All roads lead to scar tissue.

Again, try not to worry, OK? You're scared, I know. I am too. But there's nothing you can do. There's nothing I can do. I'm suppose to see my GP on Monday and maybe she'll be able to get me in to see a psychiatrist. Of course the psychiatrist won't have any answers so it's a bit moot. More moot than usual. Ultra-moot. Now with more brightening power.

go to the ocean

Go to the ocean.

Go to the ocean. It reminds me of go to the mattresses, for no real logical reason. Like it's some kind of order, or answer to a deep question. Go to the ocean.

And I do. I go to the ocean. I go to the beach where I immediately fall down on the rocks and almost fall every step I take thereafter. "It didn't used to be so hard," I thought. But then, I didn't used to be this fat. And my balance didn't used to be quite this medicated.

I find a log to sit in front of and watch the people and watch the dogs and watch the boats and watch the paragliders. And I'm sad and lonely, as one would expect. I find the waves lapping, drown all human speech into simply a natter. A couple fighting is just a natter. A child playing is just a natter. A debate over dinner is just a natter. The waves become a great equalizer.

And I pull out my red Molskin notebook assuming that it's very pages will provoke genius, and I start to write. I write a beautiful and romantic piece about how it is neither beautiful nor romantic to be lonely and alone. The notebook's heart breaks a little. It's good writing.

I'm a good writer. It's ironic to know this now more than ever. What I write is so beautiful and so forlorn. The bleat of a solitary lamb on a mountaintop. I think about how nice it would be to be a pebble. Because you're always butted up against friends that are just like you.

The words on the page and precious and mine. Only coming from me. Only going to me. If I'm dead there will be no one there to write them., Which I find tragic. Deeply. Mournfully. Shatteringly.

And I go home and try to kill her anyway. The writer must die along with the pain. The bathwater is just so bitter and acidic and flesh-eating it is worth throwing out the baby.

I have a writing job for the first time. I've finally realized that's what I was meant to do. And now it seems more likely than ever that I will die of what drives me to write. I'm drenched in irony.

If you're reading this please don't worry. It's all OK. I think I'll be here tomorrow. I just know that there's a force driving me not to be. I'm acknowledging the force. It's bigger than me.

an aching life

My life hurts. Wretched, breathless pain. Pain in the bruises. Pain in the scars. Pain bringing bruises. Pain bringing scars.

Last night I dreamed that I birthed 5 babies. One seemed to die, pretty much right off, which didn't seem to bother anyone. The others were disabled. I didn't feed them. I didn't think they should have to live disabled. I didn't think they should have to live in pain. No one else thought it was weird that I wasn't feeding my babies. It didn't bother anyone that they would die.

It's true, my subconscious doesn't bother with much metaphor. And obtuse it is not. I suppose my brain is too tired to be creative and brilliant in REM sleep. Sort of like it is when it isn't asleep.

I'm cycling. Really cycling. I'm absolutely convinced that I have it all together for a moment and then I've fallen apart the next. There isn't enough clonazapam. There isn't enough gin. To stop my life from trying to kill me.

what a train wreck

all I want is blood

indigo and violet

further loss?

This silence feels familiar. I despise the deafening, familiar sounds of silence. They terrify me. I suppose the silence strangles me. Strangled, alone, screaming.

People who know me, know this about me. They know how much I hate being ignored. They know that when they don't return my calls or my emails my mind riles in negative and catastrophic scenarios. People who actually like me don't want to do that to me.

Of course, there aren't many people left who actually like me. Or at the very least, they don't treat me like they do. I don't know what it takes to be treated with care and respect. Most people just don't treat me that way. (And yes, there are exceptions.)

To lose another person I love. To lose another person I thought loved me. Not only does it prove to me that no one really does love me, but it also proves that no one ever will. That I can never trust that anyone actually does. Even the people who say they do, can watch me slip, screaming into the worst deadly mire without even blinking.

And here's the question I leave to you: how many emails from a suicidal girl would you ignore? Even if you didn't like her. I mean, really.

(Upon pushing the publish button I actually did receive a 1-word email. Perhaps I'm not being ignored, I'm simply immensely unimportant. Sort of not news.)

Predictors of ECT Efficacy

It would be nice to know ahead of time, if a treatment would work. Unfortunately, no one cal tell the future: not for cancer treatment and not for mental illness treatment either.

But very smart people try to figure out what might predict the outcome of treatments. Especially treatments like ECT, a hotly debated, and much maligned treatment. That's the good news. And the bad news.

In a retrospective chart review of depressive and bipolar patients in a Netherlands hospital, of those who received  ECT, 65.8% met the standards for remission. The only predictor of response found was duration of index series.

The good part here is that medication failure did not predict response; so theoretically, no matter how many medications you have failed you have an equal chance of response to ECT.

The bad part is that the more times you get ECT in your initial series, the more likely you are to respond. I say this is bad because the more times you do ECT the more chances are you're going to suffer more and worsening brain damage too.

It's something to consider when thinking about starting or stopping ECT treatment.

If You're Going Through Hell

I don't normally make reading recommendations or even have a blog roll here. It's just not my thing.

But I have to say, Susan from If You're Going Through Hell Keep Going is an amazing person and great to read. She has been reaching out to me even through my insanity and her own. She absolutely deserves everyone's love, support, and admiration of her writing and her accomplishments.

Go read her. You'll thank me later.

So What Happened?

So laying bleeding on my kitchen floor cutting my left wrist with broken glass was pretty bad. Finger painting in the blood wasn't much better. Mixing drugs and alcohol and drugs wasn't a high point either.

So what happened?

In general, I'm a pretty depressed person, and sometimes that depression gets pretty bad. Usually because of stress or change. These things hurt. I think the stress worsens the depression, increases anxiety and that leads to self-harm and suicidal ideation.

But still, this doesn't generally involve broken glass.

This time was, and still is, different. Now is the time when I don't have a doctor. Now is the time the doctors have given up.

Sometimes I tell people that I've "failed" innumerable treatments. People don't like it phrased that way. I didn't "fail" them, they treatments just didn't work. Well, experientially, it's the same thing. And the way doctors treat you, it's like you're the one failing. Their treatment is perfect. It's your fault it doesn't work.

And, of course, in addition to all the meds I've tried I've also tried, and failed, ECT, VNS, CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy), mounds of other therapy, and several ridiculous alternative treatments.

And understand that someone with this history has a very bleak future in front of them indeed. I understand that.

Since I've been back in Canada, 6 months, I haven't seen a psychiatrist. Partly my fault, and partly because it takes forever to actually see one here.

I was assigned some random doctor at the mood disorder clinic here. I requested my old doctor, but instead I received someone else. The Cunt, we shall call her. It seemed that three seconds after calling my name in the waiting room, possibly due to a slight second-ish delay to her calling, The Cunt was unhappy with me.

She led me back to her office and promptly did not introduce herself. She did not say hi. She did not say hello. She did not smile. She did not look at me. She did not make small talk. She interrogated me, confirming and informing the details she had in the file in front of her. And she wrote long-hand, speedily. She might have been mad at the paper. Or pen. Or the air. It was hard to tell.

I kept it together valiantly, almost the entire, horrific time. Until she asked me what I wanted to do. It was at that point that I started sobbing while holding my head and told her that if I knew what I wanted, I would simply ask for it. My sobbing did not change her expression, nor her writing. Her angry, unhappy face remained. She seemed to want to prove how little she cared.

She then gave me her verdict. She thought I should get off of the medication, clearly it wasn't helping, and I should exercise more and take some CBT. I told the doctor that I had already done two rounds of CBT. I told her when, and by whom. She told me that people didn't use CBT unless they were actually in therapy and being forced to. I told the doctor that I knew CBT better than more therapists. The Cunt told me that was arrogant. I agreed. The arrogance does not change the fact it's true.

I told her that the only thing that had ever improved my mood in all my history was medication. This, unsurprisingly, did not effect her.

I then told her my advice. I told her she should smile. And that she had the bedside manner of a lamp post.

I don't advise you talk to a health care professional that way. They write it in your file.

There was then a lot of confusion because she wanted me to get in some "activity" program, except she wouldn't let me apply because I wasn't going to be a patient of the clinic and she just basically wanted me to leave. I twisted her arm into prescribing two whole weeks of medication. As I was completely out. Although she seemed to think me ceasing meds immediately was a better idea. She refused to refer me to the bigger clinic at a university. She felt there was no point. She told me I should learn how to manage a chronic condition.

So that's what happened. She believe so little in me getting better she wouldn't even treatment. In fact, she wanted to remove treatment. I felt like she was handing out razor blade and "where to cut" diagrams. I think I've never been quite as hopeless as I am right now. I have no doctor. I've actively been told there's no point. And I've been told it's not going to get better. See, I understand there are a few people who want me to live, but it seems that even the experts think there's no point.

And that's all I can say right now. Before I start to get really upset. Upset-er. Really upset-er. Broken-glass upset-er. Again.

People Who Attempt Suicide Don't Want To Die

There are frequent reports that of the people who survive suicide attempts, the realized sometime after the pills, or the gun, or the jump, that they didn't want to die.

This is obvious.

No one wants to die. They want to be out of pain.

It is obvious that every human wants to live. No matter what their personal circumstance each human claws against death until they either don't see it coming, or they feel there is no alternative for them.

Many people actually have no problem with that - we call it doctor-assisted suicide.

The reason it's "OK" to kill yourself near the end of your life is because it is medically certain that you will be in agony for the short remainder of your existence. In this instance doctors just turn their head while a little extra morphine is administered. Happens all the time.

No one, however, recognizes mental illness as a terminal illness, and it can never be determined to a medical certainty that the rest of your life will be lived in agony. Even though it might be.

Yeah, I get that. Tomorrow might be different. Magic might happen. A unicorn might walk through my front door.

But probably not. Tomorrow is probably going to be exactly like today. Only it'll be Saturday. Yay.

The problem with a disorder like depression is that pleasure is simply absent. Pleasure in all ways is gone. Desire is gone. You don't like anything. You don't want to do anything. And even if something extraordinary were to happen, like a unicorn in your living room, it wouldn't matter. Because the ability to feel pleasure is gone.

And if anhedonia weren't enough to make life absolutely pointless, there's the adding of pain on top of it. Pain on top of pain on top of the unbearable, unarguable knowledge of more pain.

And still, I don't want to die. I just really don't want to live. Like this.

And on Tuesday, the doctor I saw basically told me to give up. She told me medications weren't going to help, I should get off of them, and I should just work on maintaining a chronic condition. I would not be her patient. There was no point. I should go to therapy. Like more than the 15 years I've already done.

I would suggest a woman like that wants me to die. She practically rolled out a red carpet for me an invited me into death.

And see, it's hard to get thrown out by a doctor. It's hard to have the one person who's supposed to believe in you give up. In this case, a person who didn't even know me. A hard and heartless stranger decided it was over.

And it's convincing when someone with a medical degree says it. They seem right. Of course I'm done. Of course it's hopeless.

And so what I really feel right now is hopelessness. I feel like there is no point in anything, at all. I always wanted to slice my wrist with a piece of broken glass. So I did. I didn't see any reason not to. I was hoping I would be found in a puddle of blood on my kitchen floor. So I wrote in my blood, "It's not your fault." It's not anyone's. It's only mine.

Yeah, the odds weren't very good I was going to die that way, but I was hoping.

I then I get really drunk. I never get drunk. It's bad for crazy people. But if it's hopeless, then it doesn't matter.

And then last night I got really high. Like really, seriously, fucked up. I wondered what it would be like to consume way too much pot. And now I know. Normally I would never do that, but without any desire to live, there's no real point in being reasonable.

And so I wonder if it will go like this. I'll waggle from idiotic thing to dumb dangerous thing until something kills me. I think I might. I don't really see any reason not to.

you need to know

If, for some reason, I die, I  need you to know this:

1. It isn't your fault. Whatever you did, or didn't do, didn't cause this. You are blameless. The crazy behave crazily. It's not your fault.

2. I love you. I do. I really do. There aren't a huge number of people left that I love, but for those who I do, I love you deeply, strongly, and boldly. You almost make life worth living.

3. If I commit suicide it was still a stupid thing to do. Don't do it. Your life is worth living. People can help you. They just couldn't help me.

4. Have a party. My death is a blessing. I couldn't be happier. Hang onto that.

How to Make the World Better for the Mentally Ill

It's understandable that people who love those of us with a mental illness tend to feel powerless. But here are some ways you can help.

Six Ways to Help People with Mental Illnesses

Bipolar is one of the most commonly diagnosed psychiatric conditions among teens and twenty-somethings, but there has been little written about it, and few people know how to approach the topic. In her new book, Welcome to the Jungle: Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Bipolar but Were Too Freaked Out to Ask (Conari Press, May 2010), Hilary Smith fills in the gap with an upfront and empowering approach to the challenges of being diagnosed with bipolar. Here she shares with us six tips for making the world a better place for people with mental illnesses.

1. Meet a person with a mental illness.
The best way to learn about mental illness is from a person who lives with one. The National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) has a new program called In Our Own Voices in which people living with serious mental illnesses give presentations in their communities. These free presentations are a great way to learn about what day-to-day life with a mental illness is like, and presenters (who live with conditions such as bipolar disorder and schizophrenia) are more than happy to answer questions from the audience.

2. Believe passionately in recovery.
The next time you’re walking down the street and you see a homeless person with schizophrenia, try to picture what his life would be like if he was getting adequate care for his symptoms. With proper treatment, the same man might be at home throwing a baseball with his young son, or growing prize tomatoes at his apartment. Severe mental illness does not have to equal homelessness, but until we learn to see people with severe mental illnesses as capable of recovery, their plight will all too often be seen as inevitable.

3. Support community organizations that help people with mental illnesses.
Give time or money to an organization in your community that provides outreach, shelter, job training, counseling, or healthcare services to people with mental illnesses. Mental illness affects millions of Americans every year. One day, the person most in need of these services might be a friend, relative, co-worker–or even you.

4. Support legislation that helps people with mental illnesses.
Campaign for healthcare reform banning health insurance companies from discriminating based on pre-existing conditions. Vote yes on bills for affordable housing and increased funding for mental health programs. Support campaigns to keep people with mental illnesses out of prisons and receiving the treatment they need.

5. Teach your children about mental illness.
Children often absorb their parents’ attitudes towards people who are different. Explain to your children what it means when they see people with mental illnesses acting or speaking in unusual ways. Emphasize the need for compassion and tolerance, and always put the person first, not their disorder. Teach your children not to see a “crazy lady,” but a woman struggling with a disease.

6. Talk openly about your own experience with mental illness.
Even if you’ve never struggled with a serious disorder like bipolar or schizophrenia, you’ve probably had a friend or relative who has.

she had a pair of braids, and yet, it worked for her

I went on a date. Like an actual date with a real-live girl. A beautiful girl, actually. Charming. Bubbling over with laughter. Interesting. Lovely.

I met her, not surprisingly, online. Yes, actually posted a profile and contacted other girls. Girls I might actually like. Girls that might actually like me. Yeah, I was pretty surprised too.

I didn't really expect it to go that well. I did it once before although with a different proposed end point. That time was more whip and rope oriented. This is more connection oriented. I would like to meet people. Good people. People who I want to spend time with. People who want to spend time with me.

And the date went well. We were to have coffee and that ended up turning in dinner, which I thought was a good sign. But I found myself, in the moment when she excused herself to the ladies room, anxious and emotional. I wanted to cry. Sitting there. With someone normal. Who could theoretically, come to like me.

And later, sitting at home, I really do cry. I really am scared. I really don't like the way reality smells.

I am reminded by a friend that tomorrow I could jump out of a plane, something extraordinary, and suffer little more than helmet hair. I could fly to Paris, paraglide above Venezuela, play with an octopus underwater, or even be lashed, half-naked to a whipping post; each of the extraordinary experiences becoming ordinary to me. Just the accumulation of experiences of my life. The lint and buttons collecting at the bottom of a deep, dark pocket.

But real life? I quiver and quake and beg for it to be over already. I realize that my writing has value. I realize that what I say, and how I say it, has value not only to me, but to others as well. I realize my technical skills have value. Value to me, value to others. I can stand behind these things, flawed though I may be. But personally? I'm not sure I add value to another human being.

It's been so long since I met a person that I actually might have a human relationship with, I realize now how little I think I have to offer to another person. I freely admit that I have no problem falling into orgasm and performing like a porn star, but these things are without emotion attached. A beautiful girl thinking about her Mexican heritage and meditation, sitting across from me is just so much more impossible. I suddenly can't rely on a scream-inducing skill-set. Now I have to actually make someone like me. Me. Blech.

It shows how little practice I have in the area, and how few wins I've had in this scenario. I realize how deep-seeded my belief is that I am not lovably, or even likable.

I like to think that I'm coping with life. I know I'm depressed, I know I hate it here, and I know I want to die. But I like to think I'm coping. That I've reached a level of depression that is workable, somehow.

But I suppose this isn't true. I suppose this is the lie I tell myself to get my ass out of bed. The lie I tell myself that motivates me to bother with anything at all. A lie that I try desperately to believe because I know the truth is that it's unlikely to get any better anyway.

Truthfully, I'm unstable. I can cry at the drop of a feather. Everything overwhelms me. It takes an obscene amount of time for me to get anything done. I avoid tasks. I don't open the mail because I don't want to know about the people demanding money I don't have. I put off making phone calls that must be made. I even put off calls that would help me just because I find the prospect of doing it overwhelming.

And of course there is the pleasure. Or more specifically, the lack thereof. I haven't wanted anything in so long. Death. I want that. But anything else? No. I just don't. I just can't. The lack of pleasure is so heavy and black and thick it feels like try to run and breathe and bleed in molasses.

Leaving my house just reminds me how bad it all is. It's why I don't like to do it. And in case you were wondering. No. She didn't call.