I'm Reminded Why Bipolars Should Go To The Doctor

I hate doctors. Like, a lot.

While I recognize the importance of doctors and recommend that everyone keep all their doctors appointments, I still hate going. In fact, I have to bribe myself to do. I promise myself a latte if I go to the doctor. Yes. Like a five-year-old.

And as one commenter mentioned people with a mental illness should go to the doctor "like any other sick person". True, but I think due to the frequency with which I have to see these people I probably am less willing to go. And I don't think I'm alone there.

I created a video on Why People With a Mental Illness Should See Their Doctor, because I had an experience that reminded me, on occasion, doctors can actually be helpful.

Degrees of Wrongness, Shame, and My Cat

If you haven't been hanging out here long, you haven't heard, but I got laid off last year. Big fancy company, big fancy job, big fancy layoff. Thousands of people, all without jobs in the area. Maybe even more than 1000 with a similar skill set to mine. It wasn't a great situation.

Skipping ahead to today, now I'm a writer in my hometown in Canada. There's nothing wrong with that, except of course, that I can't make a living.

I've been looking for work for a year. I took three months off to go to school, but other than that I've been looking. I've interviewed with, what feels like, all the tech firms in this place. Of course, there aren't many, this isn't a tech town. And yet something is always wrong, I'm not what they are looking for. I won't bother pontificating as to why, it's just where we are.

And my cat is sick. My cat throws up every day. I don't know why. Her poor little stomach can't take food in the mornings. And she's so hungry.

So yes, I know that something is wrong. She had never thrown up a single time in her life, and now any morning with dry food in the bowl and she's puking shortly thereafter. I have had some luck with tiny amounts of canned food, but even that is tricky.

And I can't afford to take her to the vet. I literally to not have a dollar to my name. Every cent I have goes to credit card payments and rent.

And I am hugely ashamed. Never in my life did I anticipate being in my 30's and so underwater that I can't take my cat to the vet. Actually, never in my life have I been this fucked. Not. Ever.

Being a lucky, little, talented, award-winning writer really doesn't mean so much to my landlord.

Logically I know there's no reason for shame. I get that people get into these situations, I get that it sucks, I get that it happens all the time, I get that this is a sucky economy. But I'm ashamed anyway.

So, now, I'm and ostrich. I'm working hard not to see what I know is there. Trying hard to believe that something will turn around. Trying hard to believe that some company, somewhere, won't reject me. Or at least ignore that it isn't true. Look over here. Where the sky isn't falling.

And I don't feel like I have the faculties to deal with it. Filing papers and making calls and dealing with agencies is too much for me. I know it sounds pathetic, but it is. All of my energy goes into getting what contracts I can. And trying to not make my brain any worse. Everything seems too hard. Too overwhelming. Ah, being a single person; no one there to help when things go so horribly wrong. Not that my life is generally right. But there are degrees. Of wrongness.

Yes, I'm Grateful, But I'm Still Depressed

People are frequently telling me what to do to feel better:

• Find Jesus
• Hand your life over to a higher power
• Think positively
• Be grateful for what you have
• ...

(And actually, it's the first two I get all the time, but I'm not going to talk about it because it's just too touchy a subject.)

So instead at HealthyPlace I address the issue of gratitude. I am, in fact, grateful for many things. Right now I am sitting on a comfy couch that's paid for, watching my cats run around and play, enjoying the beautiful sunshine, with Ben and Jerry's in the freezer. I am thankful for these things. In spite of gratitude however, my bipolar depression doesn't seem to get better.

(And yes, it bugs me that people think I'm not grateful just because of depression. And yes, it bugs me that people think that if I were grateful I would get better. And yes, people bug me.)

How to Anticipate and Prevent Depression

I do many types of writing on bipolar. I write from the head of a bipolar, I rant about bipolar, I dissect bipolar treatments and on occasion I try to say something proactive and helpful.

One of the things I've learned about bipolar is that you constantly have to watch it. You need to find additional eyes and ears to take note of what it's doing and when things are about to get nasty. I have found there are warning signs for upcoming mood disturbances. So over at HealthyPlace I wrote 5 Signs You're Headed Into a Depression and 5 Ways to Fight Back.

I'm a Top Mental Health Blog

I love an honor here and there. If you nominated or voted for me, thanks.

Caught in my Bipolar Burble, was determined to be one of the best blogs to exude overall brilliance. And so, it has received our 2010 Top 30 Mental Disorder Blogs.

Winners were chosen through a scoring system that included internet nominations, which came from your reader base!

Check out some of the other top 30 mental health blogs too.

Manic Morning - A Devistatiing Afternoon is on Its Way

This is not of the quality you typically find here. Sorry.

I knew I was manic because yesterday I couldn't sleep.

Not sleeping. Waking multiple times during the night. That's hypomania (which ( just refer to as mania, for simplicities sake).

I've sleeping too little, eating too little, producing too much and feeling too OK, that's mania folks. It makes you brilliant and insightful and create and magical. It also makes me completely fucked up.

The mania is probably from being on Pristiq and Welbutrin together. That's a long story.

Wordiness Hampered

I know these words aren't coming out right but that's because I've had 6mg of Lunesta, now 9mg with clonazapam to boot. Sleep is critical to calming the swings so I try to make sure I get it but at the moment that's not looking terribly successful.

So that's right, I'm smashed on meds, typing incoherently, and I know, that in very short order this is go to end with a mess of epic proportions. This is higher than I've been in quite a while.

Signs of Mania

Signs have probably been going back to a week ago, which is far for a gal like me. Usually with rapid cycling you're up, you're down, almost no warning signs. But not at the moment. I've become _so_ terribly obsessive over - everything. And song are getting stuck in my head for _days_. Over and over and over I hear the same pop tune endlessly playing. "I Would Die For You" by Prince was yesterday's favorite, who knows what today's will be.

Yup, work production goes up, creativity goes up, randomness goes up, follow-through goes down. Chattiness goes up. Irritation goes up. Impatience goes up. Fragmentation goes up. Food goes down. Sleep down down. Oh, and you might have noticed, spelling and accuracy goes down.

Fear of a Devastating Afternoon

And extra-specially devastation as to the coming pendulum swign soars.

Allegedly Gifted and Insightful

I got an amazing compliment on my writing today, and in a very egotistical fashion, I'm going to quote it below:

It’s one thing to be living with an illness. It’s another to be insightful.  Being very insightful -- I’m not sure whether it’s innate to you or whether it’s a skill that you developed, but it certainly makes you a gifted writer.

Being told I'm a gifted writer is a beautiful thing because, quite frankly, I forget a lot of the time. It's hard to maintain the ego required to believe that others are going to want to read the things you want. But being told I'm insightful is particularly delicious.

We writers all have to believe we have something to say. Perhaps even something to say that no one else can. It's what drives us to keep writing word after word, page after page, rejection after rejection. And it's kind of difficult to believe a lot of the time. Am I really so special? That our of the six billion people on the planet I have something unique to say? That, is hubris, if I do say so myself.

But insight - now that is relatively rare. I don't think I'm too far off to suggest that humanity is just walking around bumping into walls and falling off of cliffs most of the time. That's OK. It's what we do. We're flawed and seem to require learning things the hard way. Some people though, seem to have a secret map that shows where some of these things are. They have a map that makes meaning out of the random confusion and contusions. They have insight.

Everything You Wanted to Know About Seroquel But Were Afraid to Ask

There is so much to know about Seroquel, and really, you're so right to be afraid.

Over the last week-and-a-half I've been writing at HealthyPlace about the full prescribing information for Seroquel. I've done this to make a point - the full prescribing information for any drug is a treasure trove of knowledge. The full prescribing information really let's you know what you're getting into bed with and in the case of Seroquel, you're getting into bed with a very dangerous substance. (That's OK. I mean really, the only people worth getting into bed with are dangerous.) And whenever you take a (psychotropic) medication it's worth knowing the risks. Seriously. Like, really worth it. And the risks are laid out in black and white in the prescribing information.

I discuss Seroquel prescribing information section by section:

Part I: Drug stats and Seroquel warnings, dosage and indications

Part II: Seroquel warnings and precautions

Part III: Seroquel side-effects (adverse reactions)

And just to be clear, I'm not attacking Seroquel here. Seroquel just happens to be the highest grossing psychotropic medication and that's why I picked it. Prescribing information and all its nastiness is available for any drug. I do think though that particularly everyone on an antipsychotic should look at its full prescribing information. I'm not suggesting these are bad medications, but what I am suggesting is that they are very dangerous and you need to be made aware of it before you stay on them for years.

Doctors Should Treat Mentally Ill Without Consent

Recently I’ve come across several groups on Facebook and elsewhere that claim to be for the rights of the mentally ill. They talk about defending their rights through lawsuits, funding and online campaigns. They also support the banning of a doctor’s rights to give psychotropic medication without consent.

I admit, I fell for one of these groups on first glance. But upon further reflection and research I’ve come to the conclusion that at best, these people are well-intentioned with little grasp of logic, and at worst just plain anti-psychiatry nutjobs.

Selecting a Bipolar Treatment

Once diagnosed with bipolar disorder, most people are overwhelmed and not sure what to do next. More often than not they feel pressured into a single option - often provided by a doctor. Here are a few suggestions on selecting a treatment for bipolar disorder.

Newly-Diagnosed Bipolar - What to Do

One of the things that happens because I write about bipolar so much, is that people ask me a lot of questions about what they should do with their treatment. I understand this. People feel like they don't know what to do. And often people just don't have a good relationship with their doctor.

The thing is, I can't tell you what to do. I can give you information, I can try to help, I can suggest resources, but you have to make the decision. It's a scary thing I know. I still hate it myself.

And the people who have it the toughest are the ones who have just been diagnosed. So here's what I suggest you do if you've just been diagnosed with bipolar disorder.

Obsessing Over the Love that Left

I'm not a person that people really love. I'm OK. I give good head. I'm funny. Intelligent. But not really a package that people are interesting in keeping around. I'm sure there are many reasons for this, but not all of them are particularly clear to me. I just know that I try and fail to make connections with other people. By and large.

I've written and written about a friend of mine who I did love, who I thought loved me, and who decided never to speak to me again after going through the trials of part of my ECT. No one can fault her for despising watching me go through the treatment. I'm sure it was awful. I was mostly just focused on how awful it was for me.

And I cannot get her out of my head. She a big part of why I moved back to this city. And it's a kick in the gut knowing that she's probably within 2 miles of me somewhere and yet there is no contact.

What really bothers me though is how my mind just won't let go. For some reason I can't just say, yes, done, over and out. I mean, I say it. I know it's true. But my stupid, obsessive, unrelenting mind just won't let it go. I'm not usually so bad with unfortunate realities. And honestly, accepting that someone doesn't want me around is something with which I am familiar.

And yet, there it is. She's in my dreams. She's in my fucking dreams. I woke up this morning after having a dream of being with her for a day. Random dream-events. Resolution of some sort. Me being angry with her. (Which only ever happens in dreams. I'm never allowed to be angry in real life.)

I just want to forget her. Throw the experience of her walking out away. Suppress my broken fucking heart.

I hear it's not supposed to hurt this much. I hear that when a friend bows out you're just supposed to replace them with another friend. They are just a friend, after all. It's not like you're married or anything.

Except that my few friends are all I have. No one wants to go through the hell of dating me. And honestly, I'm just not pretty enough. So my friends are it. They are the only people who care about me. And they're impossible to replace. No, we're not married. But I feel love for some of them anyway.

And I know I need to let this go. I'm a big girl. Things happen. People leave. I know. But somehow a part of me brain refuses to relent. Like I'll wake up one day and it won't have happened. Like I can't grip the world that is happening around me.

I hate the obsessive part of my brain. It just never listens to reason.

Biting Insomnia

Normally when I can't sleep it's at the beginning of the night. I just can't get to sleep, but once I do, I tend to stay that way.

But not at the moment.

Yes, it's true that right now I'm writing a series of articles on sleep disorders. And apparently my subconscious mind, as well as god, is fond of a joke. And yes, after my research I'm well aware that one should not write on the computer when trying to sleep. But. Bite me. Anything has to be better than a Lady GaGa song playing endlessly in my head.

The one thing I do know of that it's calming and restful is the pur of my cats (although, yes, I'm aware how that makes me look). Purring cats are un-gaga-able.

Depression - I Do Not Think Therefore I Am Not

I'm a little better, which is to say horrific, but less so than before. I have a greater handle on my suicidal tendencies and my penchant for (ironically) knives and blunt objects. Still here. In pain. As ever.

With a death-grip on my brain. I'm controlling my brain so substantially that I can think of absolutely nothing at all without explicit permission. And permission is granted for almost nothing. Every thought I have spirals into why I should die. Every meandering proves how worthless, unlovable and what a failure I am. I can't leave my apartment without feeling ashamed - ashamed to be seen by others.

So no thinking allowed. No considering, no pondering, no meandering. None. Permission denied.

The same goes for feeling. There'll be none of that either. Any feeling pops out my eyeballs all wet and salty. And I'm running out of tissues goddammit. So no feeling. Not allowed. Anything that might provoke a feeling is hereby abandoned. Left to die at the side of my medulla oblongata.

So, no feeling and no thinking. That's quite a life a lead. What's left? Reality TV and ice cream mostly. Occasional writing. Scratching of my cat's belly. Coffee. That's about it.

And I despise this proto-life. This thing that is supposed to be a life but is clearly anything but. I don't think therefore I am not.

This is the stage in which I wait. I hate everyone and everything and can't produce a genuine smile if my life depended on it and I wait. Just wait. For something to change. Magically. I do all the things I'm supposed to do like medication and a sleep schedule and try to get out and see people, but ultimately, my brain has to flip some kind of switch. As far as I can tell, it just doesn't have that much to do with me.

Life Just Isn't Fair

Did anyone ever mention to you that life isn't fair? Yes, they probably did. People told me too. People were prettier than I was, people ran faster than I did, and people had boyfriends when I didn't. Life, I was told, was not fair.

And, of course, it isn't. There's nothing fair about it. The idea of Karma seems to have been invented to convince us that somewhere, somehow there is some fairness going on, but honestly, that's just silly. Life isn't fair. Period.

And certainly I can get over the pretty and the running and the boyfriends. I'm an adult, I can do those sort of things. But bipolar feels like an especially unfair thing to happen to a person. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, Bipolar Just Isn't Fair.

I'm a Suicidal Girl

I’m a suicidal girl. I’ve been a suicidal girl for a long time. It started sometime around 13 due to situational issues until today when I’m plagued by a life-threatening mood disorder. I never seem to stop hearing bipolar roar.

And the last eight months have been bad. Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad. I seem to be severely depressed on a regular basis. I seem to be suicidal on a regular basis. I’ve caused a ridiculous amount of bodily harm and I am likely to do it again. Like, any minute now.

And so it goes. A wonder of medical, pharmaceutical, therapeutic techniques dying before everyone’s eyes.

I hurt myself to prevent myself from killing myself. It’s a ridiculous tradeoff to make, a ridiculous one to even consider, but that is my life, such as it is.

As I write other places about treatments and doctors and trying and not giving up and hope. When of course the secret is that I have none of my own. I do believe that others should continue. I believe me. They’re not me. They’re not as fucked. They haven’t been doing it as long. They haven’t exhausted every medical avenue.

My GP told me that I had to believe that she could help me in order for her to help me.

I don’t believe she can help me.

She’s nice enough but she has no idea what she’s dealing with. She’s completely in over her head without her even knowing it. I’ll die and she’ll be shocked. She shouldn’t be. I sat in her office and told her I wanted to die. But she doesn’t know what the end really looks like. People generally don’t. I just happen to have a summer home there.

I wait at the end. I keep waiting. And waiting. For someone to come up with something that will help. Something that will manipulate new chemicals and new receptor site. A novel Method of Action.

Death is atrociously novel.

For the first time in my life I am doing something I actually care about but with nonexistence income and nonexistence brain cells the pain is too great to survive anyway. More irony for the annals.

I am left feeling inconsolably weak for not having the courage to take enough pills or slice deep enough to end this particular toil. I look on all the writers who have killed themselves with envy. Another thing about me not to like.

Tomorrow will be Another Day which is precisely why I have no interest in being there. I never do. I look forward to nothing. My days are made up of suppression. Suppression of pain. Suffering. Loneliness. Longing. Even on my better days, that is all there is.

Bipolar builds a coffin for you and you furnish it with misery. It’s no wonder that no one stops by for tea.

[For those who have read this and are considering worrying, don’t bother. The chances of me suiciding are minimal and worrying will only hurt you.]

Talking to Doctors

If you know me, you know that I'm not a fan of doctors, and quite frankly I think I have good reason. Actually, I have many, many good reasons. However, I do understand that doctors are necessary. Perhaps not a necessary evil, per se, but a necessary-highly-unfortunate.

And I understand that there are rules when talking to doctors. Honestly, I've broken them recently, but I still feel they're fairly sound: How to Talk to Your Doctor About Your Mental Illness.

[Oh, and if you're Canadian you'll know what I mean when I say that all I can think of with that title is Talking to Americans.]