Taking It All Away

Being bipolar has made it impossible to engage in some of the activities I previously had. I went to my psychiatrist a few days ago to get my meds refilled. I was joking with her how I cannot gamble, drink alcohol or eat sugar and now I have been put on a low fat/no fat diet and how this last ‘cannot’ has put me over the edge. A low fat diet? I’m the one who eats a bowl of melted cheese with a fork and calls it a grilled cheese without bread. I’ll deep fry french fries and eat them with a mound of melted shredded cheese. And butter? If I was able to put butter on whatever had melted cheese then utopia had been achieved. I was and always will be a cheese and butter snob. The low fat/no fat diet is not bipolar-induced but it has caused a depressive episode. My doctor suggested we find something to replace the things I can longer do. I said I could always take an ativan. Silence. More silence. She refilled my prescriptions and sent me on my way. When I got home I noticed that my ativan was refilled for only six months and not the usual year as my other meds were. Of course I was joking about the ativan. I take ativan as a maintenance drug and I do not use it other than prescribed. But I realized I now have nothing to give me that intoxicated feeling except my mania. It used to be that I would get a gambling rush, an alcohol buzz, a sugar high and a fatty food daze. I guess I will need to wait for my manic side to show up so that I can have a good time (to a point). I’ll always remember something a friend of my son said after seeing my husband and I returning from a Christmas party. He said, ‘Wow, your mom is really funny when she’s drunk.” My son replied, “My mom doesn’t drink.”

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Self-Injury Lesson

Self-Injury Definition: The deliberate, direct destruction or alteration of
body tissue without conscious suicidal intent, but resulting in
injury severe enough for tissue damage (e.g., scarring) to occur.

References of self-injury have been noted through the Medieval ages when medical remedies consisted of bloodletting, blistering and purging, and during the 11th century there were reports of nuns and saints starving/purging, flagellating and scaring themselves. Although these are societal instances of self-injury rather than the individual kind performed alone and secretively, logic tells us that self-injury has been a part of the human condition since the beginning of time. In 1846 the first case of self-injury was published. In this case a guilt-ridden widow enucleated both of her eyes. The phenomenon of self-injury has perplexed the medical environment.

In 1938 Physician Karl Menninger wrote, “Local self-destruction is a form of partial suicide to avert total suicide.” This theory was expanded on by Norman Farberow into the classification of ‘indirect self-destructive behavior’ (direct self-destructive behavior being complete suicide or suicide attempts). Following this classification, “death results gradually rather than immediately, and in which the degree of intentionality is less obvious than in an overt suicide attempt.” Before the 1990′s self-injury was viewed as a failed suicide. In 1998 Armando Favazza, M.D. wrote, “…self-mutilation is distinct from suicide. Major reviews have upheld this distinction. . . A basic understanding is that a person who truly attempts suicide seeks to end all feelings whereas a person who self-mutilates seeks to feel better.”

Today the most widely accepted classification of self injury comes from Favazza and they are: major, stereotypic and moderate/superficial. Moderate/superficial is further broken-down into three sub-categories of compulsive, episodic, and repetitive. Major self-mutilation (including such things as castration, amputation of limbs, enucleation of eyes, etc) is rare and usually associated with psychotic states. Stereotypic self-injury comprises the sort of rhythmic head-banging, etc, seen in autistic, mentally retarded, and psychotic people. Moderate/superficial is the most common form of self-injury. This category includes cutting, burning, scratching, skin-picking, hair-pulling, bone-breaking, hitting, deliberate overuse injuries, interference with wound healing, and virtually any other method of inflicting damage on oneself.

The first sub-category of moderate/superficial self-injury is Compulsive. This is associated with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and includes hair-pulling, skin picking, and excoriation when it is done to remove perceived faults or blemishes in the skin. The other two sub-categories of moderate/superficial self-injury, Episodic and Repetitive, are both impulsive in nature and differ only in the degree. Episodic behavior is engaged in every so often by people who don’t think about the act otherwise and don’t view themselves as ‘self-injurers’. In repetitive self-injury the person thinks about self-harm even when not doing it and identifies themselves as a self-injurer. Episodic self-harm can easily become repetitive self-harm.

Even with Favazza’s classifications researchers still use such terms as parasuicide, focal suicide, self-attack, self-mutilation, autoaggression, symbolic wounding and non-fatal deliberate self-harm. However most do recognize that self-injurers do not intend to die as a result of their acts.

And that’s the point. I only want to feel better…

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Wearing Myself Out

There are times, when I am in a group of people, that I will talk and laugh, joke and smile to the point of giddiness. I’ll become breathless, my voice will grow louder and my body will buzz with animation. My mania comes out to play. My sister propositioned that I was fun to be around during these circumstances. It’s a relief to hear I’m entertaining rather than disturbing yet, it sometimes feels, during these occasions, like I’m drunk – not on liquor but on raw brain chemicals. My inhibitions get tossed in the ditch along with my boring personality. But periodically I wear myself out. During a mother’s day get together with my family I couldn’t stop laughing. Tears were streaming down my face, my stomach muscles were cramping. Someone said, ‘we get it, you can stop.’ Well, that wasn’t the point. Everyone else had moved on from the joke or the quip or whatever it was (started by me of course). The reality was that I couldn’t stop laughing or smiling or talking and that is how the afternoon continued. By the time the gathering was over my face was fused into a smile that wasn’t quite genuine or normal and… we had another shindig to attend – my husband’s family. On the way to my husband’s family’s house he mentioned that it looked like I had a good time. I guess I did. No better than any other time. It’s misleading because when you’re body and mind is mimicking being intoxicated everything looks more merry.  We arrived at my in-laws with dinner and conversation in full swing where I introduced my onslaught of bliss to a new set of subjects. Then the inevitable happened. I shut down. I was finished, depleted, spent. I looked at my husband, silently pleading to go home. He looked at me funny and asked what was wrong. I only shook my head. The remainder of the evening I was reticent and closed and stayed close to my husband. What can I say? I crashed. On the way home my husband remarked how strange it was that I suddenly just stopped. I stopped talking, moving, reacting, like I hit a wall. Yeah, I did. I guess my buzz was gone. I wanted to sleep. I had wore myself out.

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Depressive Day

I found myself on my bedroom floor today. Staring at the ceiling, feeling hopeless, helpless and isolated. I laid there for a long time with too many thoughts and emotions provoking my already slippery judgment into further jeopardy.  I needed to ‘snap out of it’. Yes, we’ve all heard that one. But I really needed to do something. I couldn’t be laying there at 2:00 p.m. when my family came home. So, I got my camera. I decided to take a pictorial of my despondency. It got me off the floor, then back on the floor but, at least I was moving and now I am writing. I feel somewhat better. Below is what I captured.

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When Silence is the Enemy

The other night as I lay on my side in my living room the quiet was too intense. It was as though the power had been turned off and all things electrical had ceased. I was in a poorly lit, silent box of a room waiting to be turned on.  I shut my eyes and my brain instantly greeted me with a cacophony of sound, color and bodies. I opened my eyes and encountered my silent quarters at a slant and was suddenly confused. I quickly closed my eyes again and I was surrounded by people thumping in-time to music. I was there, in the middle of the crowd, jumping and laughing and dancing. My hair was flying and colors were moving from side to side. The music had a frenetic, intoxicating beat. This was much better than the silence of my open eyes. I stayed this way for what seemed like an hour, twisting and twirling with the music, reveling in the colors but, I know it was only a few minutes. My mind had taken me to a comforting place that I hadn’t known existed. I raced along side the music and colors and people and when it was over, was able to continue with my evening as though nothing had happened. When I did finally open my eyes for good, I got up, made popcorn and watched a movie with my husband. This has never happened before. Has anyone else experienced an episode where quiet is the enemy and your psyche offers up noise and colors to ease your anxiety?

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Paranoia Episode

Recently, in our local newspaper, there was an article about a woman with a history of mental illness who was having a ‘paranoia episode’ late one night. Her 12 year old son had been staying up with her that evening but had gone to bed and woke the next morning to find her missing. I can only speculate that she told him she was okay and that he should go to bed.  I have had nights sitting up with anxiety and panic attacks. I am not sure if they would be described as ‘paranoia episodes’ as referenced in the article but this did bring back a memory of many years ago, when my boys were young and still in little footie pajamas and one particular anxiety episode that took me roaming about the house. My husband was working midnights and I was alone. As I recall, I was walking in circles through the house from room to room to room. Again and again and again. I would count my steps as I walked. 1, 2, 3, 4.  1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4. Always stopping on four and starting over again. My arms were crossed tightly over my chest and my knees were slightly bent, ready to run if necessary. This is my usual body stance during an attack. I truly felt there was something horribly wrong with me. My thoughts were filled with what if’s. What if this doesn’t go away? What if this gets worse? What if my kids wake up and I can’t take care of them? What if I’m dying? I kept walking in circles. Every so often I would detour out the front door for a smoke and pace back and forth on the wooden walk-way. Ten steps down, ten steps back but I still counted in fours. Over and over. The only deviation was to bring my hand to my mouth and cigarette to my lips, pulling the smoke in, pushing  the smoke out; pulling the smoke in, pushing the smoke out. Then back into the house where I would begin the circles again trying to convince myself that I was not dying, that my throat was not closing, that I could breathe.  My persuasive abilities had abandoned me. The anxiety was getting worse. I moved to the bathtub hoping water would have a calming effect. Once in the tub, I poured handfuls of hot water over my back, through my hair and onto my face. Nothing. My distress was getting more intense. I leaned my face into the tub spout and gulped at the hot water fast and hard. I swallowed more air than I did water and ended up sputtering and squirting water out of my nose. After coughing for a full five minutes I decided to lay back in the tub. Yet another mistake. The hot water caused my body to pound with my pulse. I swear I could see the water ripple with each heart beat. I sat up quickly. Too quickly. My heart was racing, my skin was red and I was hyperventilating. My throat was raw and burning from coughing and my head hurt. I must have been out of the bath and dressed in street clothes in under three minutes. I was trembling and teary when I called my mother and asked her to stay with me for the night. As soon as she entered my house I had to ask her if I was okay. Did my color look alright? Were my nails blue? I pulled down my lower eye lid. Was the tissue there red enough? I’m not bleeding internally am I? I had her look at my gum tissue. Are my gums pink enough? Check my pulse. Is it bounding, thready, weak, fast? We both slept on the couch, half sitting, half laying. All night long every 15 minutes or so I would open my eyes and ask her if I was okay. The answer was always the same, ‘Yes, you are okay’. I made it through the night. Nothing terrible happened to me but nobody could have convinced me of that outcome at the time. I am very lucky to have a great support system. Tragically, the woman from the article was found two weeks later, dead from exposure, under the back porch of someone’s house. She must have fled her house in a paranoid state. Foul play and drugs were not involved. Extreme paranoia can lead to the most unexpected, unexplainable actions.

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