"My blood will be on your hands"

If I don't get this out, I'm not sure I ever will.

My 'life story' is fucked. When people hear the details, their first response, guaranteed, is: "You should write a book." I can barely imagine discussing a hard day, let alone combing through my traumatic past in detail.

After weeks of feeling better, I plummeted into another dark depression two days ago. What put me on the brink was seeing an intake counselor at a university psych clinic. I hate intake sessions because in one hour you have to try and summarize every major event that has contributed to, or is a result of, your poor mental health. Every trauma, every sin, every trial, every error, every waking nightmare, every wish for death, everything you've never been able to forgive yourself for, everything you never had any control over in the first place. When you have to hear all of this out-loud, in your own voice, out of your own mouth, it just makes you feel hopeless. I think: is this really me? This sounds like a Hollywood script. I wonder: when will it end? will there ever be a happy ending?'

But something else pushed me off the edge and plunged me into a dark, deep state of unconsciousness - a warm state of relief - all of yesterday. (Ironic? yes, considering I've spent every previous post complaining about insomnia). I'd open my eyes, heavy with sleep, only to realize that it's in this world that my nightmare continues and I'd surrender back to the blissful state of numbness that accompanies sleep during depression. What's anchored me into this depression so rapidly is a conversation I had with my biological mother the night before.


"Exhibits symptoms of severe child abuse"
That's what multiple psychological evaluations, ordered by a judge or a social worker or some other well-meaning civil servant, read. The last one I saw was completed about a year before my first suicide attempt- at age 9.

My mother beat the shit out of me when I was growing up. My first memories are filled with a fear of dying. Children's cognitive functions are limited; my abuse began at such an early age that I was never able to distinguish the concept of surviving or dying at the hands of my mother. Each assault felt like it would be my last. And, not to sound too dramatic, but it easily could have been. One of my mother's favorite forms of punishment was shoving a pillow over my face and placing her 5'10'', 170 lb frame on top of my head. At age 5, I remember choking on tears, gasping for air, seeing stars, and the unforgettable panic that accompanies slow suffocation. She would do it until I was quiet, until I no longer had the oxygen available to plead for air. She said she did it to shut me up. It worked.

Because when your caretaker, the one person who is supposed to make you feel safe, is the monster hiding under the bed, your entire childhood is spent living in fear. Will the monster come out today or won't it? What will lure it out of its lair? One time, when she was teaching me to read at age 3, I forgot how to pronounce qu. I blanked, I stared at the page willing it to tell me what to say, I kept glancing at my mother's reddening face, I started to panic, and sure enough, this resulted in being kicked in the stomach. I still hate the word squash. Another time, at around age 6, I couldn't remember my 12 multiplication times table and she slammed a large piece of pottery (that I had made for her) onto the top of my head. I remember blood dripping down from my fore head onto that stupid math workbook.

I've been thrown down the stairs, dragged down a hallway and around the kitchen by my hair, kicked, punched, slapped, locked in a bathroom for 3 days (fed only one slice of bread and a glass of water, because "that is what prisoners get in jail.") I've had multiple stints in foster homes where one type of abuse was replaced by another; I've hidden bruises from teachers (if they noticed, I was told to say that I had 'fallen of the monkey bars'); I've been interviewed in a janitor's closet by social services. In fact, social services came calling a lot. Without fail, they always made things worse.



 "My blood will be on your hands."
So there is a morsel of why it is still difficult for me to talk to my biological mother. There is more- so, so much more but I don't want to put myself through the retelling, let alone an unsuspecting reader, so let's fast-forward a bit. In a rags to riches story, my absent father gained full custody of me. The circumstances surrounding this case and the storm of testimony from witnesses who saw so many signs of abuse, made the decision legally unprecedented in the state of Georgia. Teachers, neighbors, parents, my mother's own friends, all came forward. So, when I was 8, I was spirited from my House of Horrors across the country to live with my 5 half siblings and my step-mom (who I refer to as my mother, an incredibly selfless person who raised me as her own and on whom I can still rely as a source of support).

Next, my biological mother spent another 8 years inflicting severe emotional abuse. It's amazing what you can do long-distance. I spent multiple summers with her, listening to how she was going to commit suicide once I left. "My blood will be on your hands," she loved to say.

At 16 the court-ordered mandatory visits stopped. After that, I rarely spoke to her. This was during a blur of manic highs, suicidal lows, and incessant binge drinking.  I'm not sure it was ever a conscious choice. I just couldn't do it anymore. For about ten years, I saw her a handful of times and spoke to her on holidays (when I could muster up the strength to hear her voice). Without fail, a conversation with her, regardless of how benign the subject matter, would tear down any semblance of sanity I managed to build up.

This still happens. 


Cat Lady
My mother has alienated everyone in her life. She is virtually impossible for anyone to be around. She is sick; she has always been sick. My stints in foster-care coincided with her being involuntarily committed. I don't know what her diagnosis is. I don't think she is bipolar, I don't think I've ever witnessed her manic. I remember the term 'borderline personality' being tossed around at some point. At the very least, I know she suffers from untreated, almost catatonic depressions.

Over the past ten years, my mother has literally become a cat lady. She lives alone, in a big empty house with nine, that's right, nine cats, 3 dogs ,a couple birds, and even feeds a family of raccoons that live under her house. You'll see a dark cloud pass over my face at the mention of any cat lady jokes. I know one. She gave birth to me.

My mother is now a sorry, lonely old woman. She spends her holidays alone, in front of the television, with the phone sitting next to her, hoping someone, anyone, will call. I spend holidays dreading making that phone call, during which she will plead for me to call more often, and beg for me to spend the next holiday with her. I will make vague promises I can't keep, and get off feeling so exhausted it's difficult for me to keep my eyes open. My whole body aches and I curl up into a ball, praying she won't pay me a visit in my dreams.



 We don't get to choose our family 
You could argue she deserves the sorry state of her life. You could be like everyone else I talk to and tell me not to speak to her, but the problem is: she's not your mother, her blood doesn't course through your veins. We don't get to choose our family.

Every day I feel guilt for not calling her more often and guilt for the sorry state of her life. She began expressing remorse for what she did to me about five years ago. Now when we speak there is this devastating sorrow on both ends of the line. Everything about the situation feels hopeless. For me, it becomes a matter of sacrifice. Do I sacrifice my own mental health to ease her suffering?

The thing is, now she earnestly tries. She puts paints on her prettiest face. I am open about whatever current state of hell I am in. Brutally honest, in fact; I think I'm hoping to scare her away. But I don't. Instead her responses are encouraging, supportive, and compassionate and as anyone could possibly be. Many times she'll contribute insight into why I handle things the way I do - where I might get it from. She will commiserate, having coped poorly with stress in a similar manner. She tries so hard to be there for me. I don't believe she is the same woman she used to be. Life has punished her for her transgressions. She's gotten 'what she deserves,' though I'd never wish any of this upon her or anyone else. It would be easier not to acknowledge this change and to blanket myself in bitterness and hate for what she did to me as a child. But I'm not that kind of person and at some point, I started learning how to forgive her.


"I will not leave this house."
 My mother is the quintessential example of why the economy collapsed. For two decades she has not worked, able to survive by paying off one credit card with another. She's taken out two mortgages on her house and finally, it has all caught up with her. Yesterday she told me it is 45 degrees outside but she can't afford to turn the heat on, her electricity is about to be cut, her car repossessed, and worst of all - she is about to lose her house. Last year, at age 64, she went back to school to become a nurse but because of her age, she can't seem to get or keep a job. She had one but was fired for being too slow. Her television, her one source of companionship other than the zoo that resides in her house, has recently been shut off.

She says with a frightening resolution, "I will not leave this house." Although she has threatened suicide before, I know that this time it's not an empty threat. She feels that she is too old to start over. There is some truth to that. She cannot get a job and certainly cannot survive on the street. She tells me acquiescently that she has had "a good past five years."  She spent almost all of that time online, having created an elephant advocate avatar who has hundreds of friends across the globe. She feels she gained some purpose in life going after people that abuse elephants (atonement, perhaps?). People tell me, "She's threatened this before, she's not going to do it." But they don't know her like I do. No one does. And my gut-instinct says this very well may happen. My gut-instincts have always been spot on.


 She seems at peace with death. There is no desperation, just resolve.


So what in the fuck do I do? I have no job, no money. I am not in a position where I can have her come live with me (I live in someone else's house with 4 other people). Plus, I have my own sanity to think about. Talking to her can trigger post-traumatic flashbacks of the abuse. All of a sudden, I'm right back clawing underneath that pillow for air. I cannot get enough oxygen in the present. I tell you, time travel is possible. That stability I work so hard for, gets derailed in an instant at the sound of her voice.

I feel like the way I handle these next few months will be critical to the way I view what kind of person I am, for the rest of my life. Can I muster up the strength and compassion to be there for her at the end? Can I do something as simple as call her more often? It seems to brighten her mood considerably. The surprise, the delight, that my number has unexpectedly shown up on her caller id is evident when she giddily answers the phone. It makes me physically ache to think about how lonely she must be.

I've decided to send her a little money. People advise me against this but no one else is in my shoes. If she dies, and I did nothing to ease her suffering, I don't know how I will live with myself. The least I can do is make sure she has electricity during her last days. If these are her last days. And if they aren't and I sent her money, so what? She doesn't have a drug habit, she's just completely broke.

Where I have to put my foot down is her plea for me to come visit. I can't go back to that house. I just can't. I wish I was a stronger person but I can't step on the same flight of stairs she threw me down. I'm hoping to save up some money and fly her out here in the spring, to the city that she adores, the city in which she grew up. I figure she can take me to her old stomping grounds and together we can visit a time before her mental deterioration and her suffering began. I'd like to learn more about my family history. I'd like to see my mother in a different light.

But if something happens beforehand, will I ever be able to forgive myself for not doing enough? For not calling the police? For not showing up on her front door? For not going to say goodbye?

I just don't know what to do.

Lamictal & Night Sweats

Lamictal has been, by far, the best mood stabilizer I've been on. When first diagnosed with bipolar disorder, the boarding school I attended put me on a massive dose of lithium. I remember my world incessantly buzzing, feeling like I had more in common with the fluorescent light bulbs in the hallways than any human around me. I couldn't form complete sentences. I felt trapped deep within my own body. It was awful and turned me off from medicinal treatment for years. I think if I'd had a more positive experience when first put on meds, I wouldn't have battled my entire diagnosis for so long after.

Currently I'm on 400mg of Lamictal (it's considered a lot, and I only recently went from 200 to 400, there has been a stark contrast between the two doses) and fluoxetine (prozac) 40 mg. A bipolar patient can't take an anti-depressants without a mood stabilizer because there is a high risk anti-depressants will trigger a manic episode. In fact, many doctors won't even prescribe them to bipolar patients. However, because the bottom drops out so severely when I am depressed, I need to stay on one. It serves as a safety net.

Night Sweats
I spoke with L, one of the support group founders, and we talked about Lamictal side effects. He brought up night sweats. It's 4 am, and I've finally given up on sleeping after waking up sopping wet, sweatpants damp to the touch, and sheets that you could literally wring out. S and I sleep on a king sized bed thank god, because otherwise he'd be forced to lay in my own pool of sweat. In fact, my feelings were hurt yesterday morning when he rolled over to hold me and jerked away because of how cold and wet my share of the sheets were. (another example of my intolerable sensitivity). Right now, I'm literally drenched. The hair on my scalp is slick, you can see large wet spots all over my gray pants, every inch of my skin is covered in a salty residue, and I feel like I just completed strenuous exercise.

I don't think I've ever really pinpointed a period in my life where I've been able to say, 'Oh, those are night sweats.' I've always been haunted by the severe child abuse I experienced at the hands of my biological mother. Scenes come to me in flashbacks or in vivid dreams. (If something is thrown anywhere near my person, you're guaranteed to see me duck or cover my head. It's why I'm a runner: trying to avoid being hit by a ball is one of the most unenjoyable things I can imagine. I cannot play sports.) So, to recognize night sweats as a side-effect from my medicine is kind of a relief. It's better than once again, wondering 'what is wrong with me?' and feeling embarrassed that the person willing to sleep beside me must bear witness to (let alone sleep in) something that, let's be honest, is pretty gross.

I don't constantly get night sweats. I go through a week or 2 or 3 where it happens almost every night. And then, it won't happen for a while... and then it will come back. Given how little I've been sleeping for the past two months (insomnia problem is still not solved, but I do have an upcoming psych appt!), night sweats have only compounded the exhaustion I am currently experiencing every hour of every day.

And yet this - compared to other side-effects from other medications I have been on, and most importantly, compared to how completely non-functional I become off meds - is still worth it. I want to live my life.


---
Recent developments:
2 people moved into our house and I'm starting to flip because it no longer feels safe. I just keep telling myself I can spend a night at my Mom's if I am desperate. I think I'm getting desperate pretty quickly.

I gave up an opportunity to go abroad for 3 months because I worry about my emotional stability - which I think is a mature decision. I have a bad history with traveling and mania.*Pat on the back*

I'm going to try to, dun dun dun, get a job at an after school program. Having enough confidence in my ability to function in order to apply for a job is a big deal. I just don't want to fuck up yet another job, yet another responsibility, anymore. It's 4 hours in the afternoon, 5 days a week, playing with little kids. In general, I'm trying to learn to have realistic expectations of my capabilities. This seems like something I can manage. Like anyone with a debilitating disease, I've learned a lot of bipolar people have a hard time holding jobs, and met a few of those people at my support group, which I guess makes me feel better in a way, but still - emotionally, I just can't afford to fuck this up.

Mom, Please Help Me

 Mood Diary: I've been feeling a lot, a lot better. I think tweaking my meds worked, but I reached out to my Mom (huge step) and she's agreed to help me find a prescribing psychiatrist. I had one anxiety attack during the trip and I am still not sleeping well. I've been up since 3:30 - went to sleep at 11:30 even though I ran 3 miles and felt exhausted after.
This is the letter I wrote my step-mom (who basically raised me). My step-mom has fought my bipolar diagnosis for years. I feel like I can't even talk to her about it. To me, it's like a giant elephant in the room She is a physician, which makes it all the more frustrating. But currently I am not sleeping, suffering from severe mood swings, and I cannot afford to pay for a psychiatrist. I don't have a job, nor do I have health insurance. A is her new husband. I post this in case there is anyone who feels they need to reach out to their parents but think it is virtually impossible to convince them this disease is real. It is possible. Sometimes it just takes persistence. I got a positive response from both and even a "hang in there" from her husband. We're having dinner to discuss treatment tonight.

 

Mom & A,

If need be, my therapist in N.O. (who helped get me out of the mental hospital when I got committed after my suicide attempt) is willing to write you a letter. I've cc'd my therapist because I promised her I would reach out to you. Future commitment isn't outside the realm of possibility. It's an ugly truth but it's real.

I really, really, really need to see a prescribing psychiatrist. Do you have an recommendations? This is becoming an urgent necessity. I'm rapid cycling between bouts of deep depression, then states really high energy that border on panic (rapid heartbeat, sweating, I tend to run for 5-10 miles to expend the energy) -we're talking severe, severe mood swings. And I've been suffering from awful insomnia (average of 3-4 hours of sleep - ex: last night I finally fell asleep at 2 and woke up at 5). This is NOT a good sign.

 Not everything going on is negative - I did start going to a bipolar support group (free) in SF, that has been truly amazing.

I'm including you, A, because I trust you and really need as much support as I can get trying to stop this rapid cycling so I don't become manic again. A, I also trust that you will read this because I worry Mom skims long emails due to her busy schedule. Insomnia is a huge factor that triggers mania. I've been prescribed NON-NARCOTIC sleeping aids before. That is what I'll ask for.  I don't like taking them any more than you both dislike them. I don't want Ambien. I'll stop as soon as I get a regular sleep cycle. To prevent these 4-6 weeks deep, deep, deep depressions that have happened over the course of the past 9 months, I may need to supplement my medicinal cocktail. It may not be cheap. But I don't know what to do. I can't keep losing MONTHS at a time because I literally can't function. When I'm in this state I can't pick myself up by my bootstraps. I become like H (my half-sister). I become almost catatonic. I physically ache. I am almost paralyzed at the thought of leaving the house: my agoraphobia and anxiety become insufferable. I cry constantly. I have flashbacks to childhood abuse [from my biological mother]. Again, these are ugly truths but they are real.

S has seen all of what I describe and more. He is also cc'd. S has even attended the support group with me. Yes, mom he is INCREDIBLE. I love him and foresee a long-term future with him. But he doesn't cure my disease. Being in love is not a solution for treatment. I've already made that mistake with R.

 I moved out to California for precisely this reason. I need support from my family. I need my family to become a support network as I master my disorder so my life doesn't spiral out of control as it has repeatedly has since I was diagnosed at 16. We're talking 10 years now. Every single doctor I have seen agrees with this diagnosis. I am textbook bipolar. My manic episodes are frighteningly real. You are both welcome to attend the bipolar support group so you can hear how so many other's experience mirror my own. Mom, I love you and I know this is a harsh reality but I am not ruined and I have not given up and I think I have a bright future ahead of me as long as I can master this. This is not something to stress over because I am trying to help myself. Bipolar disorder is like diabetes. Diabetics need to take insulin, I need to take medication and be monitored by a prescribing psychiatrist.

 Please help me.

P.S I'm worried about my upcoming trip abroad. I also want to make sure I have my medicinal cocktail correct before I go abroad. I became manic in London and got kicked out of my program because they thought I was doing cocaine. I've never mentioned it but I got very depressed in Kenya for two months (and literally dragged myself to my internship, co-workers saw a noticeable difference, I lost 20 pounds and looked haggard) and then I became manic toward the end with grandiose ideas of literally, actually saving the world. I'm not Gandhi.

Time Heals

Historically, I always feel emotions very deeply. I write about this, as do others. Not the fact that Bipolar Disorder can mean extreme highs and lows; the fact that we actually feel our emotions on an acute level.

I have experienced the genuine love of friendships in the past few days; not romantic love.
My heart is very heavy; with love. I am at a point of perplexity. I never knew I could feel such a sensation.
I can not seem to find the words for this lingering emotion wrapping around my heart and soul for the past two days.

I am not manic; I am actually very serene. I am high on love and friendship.
I now know I will never let these friendships grow away from my heart ever again.

Blog: http://mercurialmindbipolarblog.blogspot.com/

I've just returned from a whirlwind vacation on the East Coast. My sister got married in Boston two weeks ago and S's family invited me to in northern Massachusetts (which went REALLY well), so we made a Northeast Corridor tour out of it and saw friends in Boston, Philadelphia, and New York City.

There is no quick way to summarize this trip other than to say that it has gone much, much better than expected. On top of seeing my entire immediate family- 8 volatile personalities prone to rampant in-fighting (referencing a term usually reserved for describing political factions is perfectly appropriate), I wound up being able to spend at least a few hours catching up with 7 people from different periods of my past

for my memory: B: MCD, DG - PH: SW - in HD: BC & ML - NYC: HG, KC, ZS.

These aren't just people; at one point I've called each one a close friend. 

My time-tested, emotional mathematical proof is as follows:

• close friend + my tumultuous past = graphic views through a shattered window of a chaotic young life 

'Views' puts it mildly; most of these people were dragged into the turmoil. Some - like the friend who flew in for my 21st birthday, only to find me unconscious on my bathroom floor after ingesting the small pharmacy I had meticulously accumulated in the back of my closet - were affected deeply. Understandably, not only did I lose touch with many, but others found it necessary to cut me out of their lives. I was toxic. Not only do I forgive those that had to; I completely understand.

During the weeks leading up to this current trip, each time a lost friend was not only willing, but excited, at the prospect of seeing me became a galvanizing shot of reassurance and proof that the old adage rings true: Time Heals
The above excerpt is exactly, exactly how I feel about all of my friends who have stuck by me or come back into my life. This includes people I saw and all of those I still have the honor of calling close friends. We may not see each other often, but they are all deeply loved and valued. This love is experienced so acutely it my eyes well up each and every time I think about how lucky I am to have the gift of such beauty in my life. My friends are my true family.

Living in fear of becoming manic

A brilliant idea has just been suggested to me to solve a problem I've spent a year having serious anxiety over. Anxiety as in I avoided checking my email for 3 months. I realize it is a really, REALLY big improvement when I am emotionally capable to check my email. When I'm feeling really bad, the amount of crippling anxiety and resulting avoidance, overwhelms me at the thought of checking it. I can't acknowledge that there is an outside world that might be bombarding me with responsibility I just am not up to handling. I am on the board of a non-profit and while I LOVE serving on it, for a while it was inducing paralyzing fear because I was avoiding it but I didn't want to lose my position.

Anyway this problem has 30 women in Kenya relying on me to find a solution - needless to say, it is a lot of pressure and for a while I simply caved under it. I.could.not.handle.it.

So I am feeling better. Which is surprising because I'm actually traveling right now for the next two weeks. Traveling is stressful to anyone and the amount of family and friends I have not seen in a long time even more so. A lot of these friends have seen me during REALLY bad periods. Before I believed my diagnosis & took my medication - I just ran around totally crazy. 

The way my one friend put it: "I just tell people, Anon-bipolar (me:) has calmed down now." It just made think about how I must have come across when I was manic as a teenager and early adult. I remember having so much untapped energy & absolutely no filter or self-awareness. Not to mention a serious binge drinking problem which caused constant bouts of hysteria and violent outbursts which I took out on friends I cared so much about, to the extent that many people had to shut me out of their lives for extended periods of time. I know they will never look at me the same way but I always feel lucky that so many people will still talk to me. It's incredible how looking back through the bipolar lens can make so many actions and so many periods that you have such intent guilt over makes SENSE.

I just went to my sister's wedding. My family is large and there is a serious problematic history. I've upped my Lamictal to 400 mg and have been taking it pretty consistently. This is hard because it gives me headaches. It used to give me headaches when I took all 100 mg at once but now it takes about 200mg to give me the headaches. What really drives me nuts though is that it causes motion sickness for a few hours after taking it. I don't get nauseous unless I'm in a car. I also dug out these samples of Abilify a shrink gave me last spring and am supplementing the Lamictal, Prozac (40mg) cocktail with 5 mg of Abilify. Abilify has been recommended to me by countless physicians but it is 300/month so I can't afford it. I have a months worth and they told me at the bipolar support group that there are organizations in San Francisco who may help pay for meds. It takes a while for any of these mood stabilizers to work so I wanted to start taking them now. S is concerned about it but I'm ignoring it even though I appreciate that he cares.

I'm worried because I am still not sleeping. I was up till 3 am after the wedding and woke up at 6. Not sleeping can prolong a depressive cycle or trigger a manic episode. Because of my manic episode last March and hypomania which may have lasted up till August. I am, in a way, scared to feel better. My excitement over this suggestion to my Kenya problem, which solves a HUGE obstacle I have been clueless as to how to overcome, scares me. 

I don't want to get grandiose ideas about success like I have on so many other occasions. When this happens I then become very depressed when I don't meet such lofty goals. I feel like a failure even though, what I am now realizing, is that this is a result of being manic, not an effect of being incompetent. 

 I need to stay grounded and realistic. I think the best way may be to make sure many people are involved in the process - sort of to keep my thoughts in check. 

When I'm manic or hypomanic I absolutely think I can take on the world.  I think I can go to Harvard and enroll in a demanding grad school program, when in reality, my bipolar mind just can't handle that kind of stress. I've FINALLY been able to admit to myself that it is ok to live a normal, 'boring', STABLE life. I can find contentment in stability alone. It's just so difficult to restrain such racing thoughts because the feeling that accompanies them are SO pleasant, so exciting... you feel so high.

It's much more glamorous and exciting to plan a career saving the world by working for the UN than it is to be a 1st grade teacher. I am thinking about pursuing teaching because I do have a lot of energy for young kids, I would get a chance to implement my passion using a school environment - community gardens in low-income areas, and it has a steady schedule with some time off in the summer. Certainly not lucrative, but another thing I've come to terms with: 

At this point, I would kill for just a 'normal' life. 

My boyfriend S has helped me see a lot of this and I love him so much for it.