Archive for bipolar

Gravity

October 10, 2009 · Filed under G, bipolar, self-awareness

9.7 meters per second per second. G and I discussed what this means for over an hour. There were tears, and a few “aha!” moments, but for the most part, it was a mighty struggle. We had been watching last night’s news with Brian Williams (recorded through MythTV), and the “NASA bombing the moon” story was about to start. I believe that G simply uttered the phrase “9.7 meters per second per second,” and looked at me, querying. “What does that mean?” meaning, “I know the answer, now I want to see if you do.” Enter panic mode.

In 7th and 8th grade we studied astronomy (thanks, Mr. Zagriello!) as part of our science classes, and I remember learning about ::something’s:: speed as (insert random number here) per second per second, something that was really fast. A wide-eyed, “oooh” escaping our 13-year old mouths en masse. But here, in my living room, surrounded by warm felines, I could neither pluck the number nor the object from the recesses of my brain. With G asking the question eleventy different ways, giving me eleventy different scenarios (well, really only three), I was stuck in the middle, trying to remember the lesson of twenty-eight years ago and listening to my husband prodding me, trying to elicit an answer. He was really being so patient, his voice raising only a little bit more than normal, but his excitement/frustration was readily apparent. I was failing, both at remembering the long-ago lesson, and at figuring out the current problem. The noise inside my head was cacophonous, no longer only the astronomy lesson, but also now other guilt-ridden remembrances that, to me, screamed EPIC FAIL. Mostly school-related, spanning all the way back to kindergarten. Things for which I still feel shame.

I have been told by reliable persons, persons with knowledge of the subject, that my persistent feeling of guilt is completely out of whack for the deeds done. Yeah, that’s what they tell me, and I nod my head obediently, with a half-hearted promise to think about it, really, and “just let it go.” Just let it go. Sounds so easy, so reasonable, doesn’t it? Just let it go, and you’ll feel better, it’ll be off your shoulders. Move on to better things. Your life will be so much simpler if you can do this one thing, let it go.

Caught up in this cycle of guilt and wanting to please my husband by figuring out this childishly simple problem, I fell deeper and deeper into despair. My mind felt locked, and I was standing on the outside, curtains drawn tight, meanwhile a fury of a windstorm building all around me. I begged myself to remember the lesson, knowing that if I remembered it, somehow everything would fall into place and I would be able to answer him. I looked everywhere, rattling windows, banging on walls, but nothing would shake free.

Finally, G came up with an example that I grasped. “You owe me 10¢ per minute per minute until you give me the answer, agreed? Pretend that you’re putting it into a box. So, a minute has gone by, that’s 10¢. Now two minutes, so that’s…”

“Twenty cents.”

“Right, but it’s per minute per minute. So what is that?”

“Wait, 10¢ for the first minute, 20¢ for the second minute.”

“Now, how much is in the box?”

“Thirty cents…ohhh! So, per minute per minute adds each amount to the previous amount?”

“YES. So 9.7 meters per second per second is…”

“You are going 9.7 meters in one second…and then 9.7 meters more than that…”

My brain failed at that point. I couldn’t translate dimes to meters, or what it meant. The word “cumulative” escaped me. An age later, I was able to finally say:

“You go 9.7 meters in one second, and then for the next second you go 9.7 meters faster than the last second, and so on. It escalates.”

It took over an hour to get to that point. The frustration and sheer idiocy that I felt has dissipated some as I write this, because I’m proud that I was able to get it, and really get it and be able to extrapolate further, but mixed in there is this drumbeat: “you didn’t get it right away it took forever you are stupid even a child could get it he was feeding you the answer over and over you look like an moron…” and that is the voice that I hear most loudly. The voice that pounds in my ears every time I make a mistake. Every error is a tragedy, every faltering step is fatal. I feel so much anger at myself for even the smallest thing, and then I compound the feeling by sticking my head in the sand and pushing the problem away, hiding it/from it, hoping beyond hope that it will just go away and fix itself. That it will sort itself out. That’s why there are piles of unopened mail, phones that ring unanswered, walls with no paint other than the off-white that has been here since we moved in nearly three years ago, windows without curtains. I know that the solution to so many of these problems is to just face them down and take care of them once and for all, and there are some for which I am doing that, but others have fallen by the wayside, periodically poking up through the ether to make their voices heard, “I’m here! Just finish this and I’ll leave you alone! Forever!” I mean, really, the curtains and rods for the dining room are HERE for Pete’s sake. Just haven’t put them up yet. Constant reminders that I am not taking care of things, and that translates into “You are a BAD WIFE, A BAD MOTHER, AND NOBODY LOVES YOU.”

All of this, this noise, banging around in my head, while I try to figure out what 9.7 meters per second per second means. So silly, to hang onto all of the painful stuff. I mean, it sounds easy enough. Doesn’t it?

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Tenterhooks. I am on them.

September 12, 2009 · Filed under Life in Peekskill, Léa, beads, bipolar, books, cats, family, fiber, knitting, self-awareness, work, yarn

The last piece of information has been submitted, and it looks like Monday is the day I’ll find out.  I have done everything that I can have done to grease the way, and must now wait.

I’m off work tomorrow, and will spend a portion of it at the fourth birthday party of my delectable niece. Upon arriving home, I imagine that I will attack my office with high abandon and perhaps even make room for all of the beads that are currently ensconced on our otherwise lovely dining room table. Most of my stash is living in the sturdy and quite lovely fabric-covered storage boxes from The Container Store. At present, I have seven different colors/patterns and am trying to keep some semblance of control over the stash by keeping all the purple in one box, all the red in another, neutrals, etc. However, after installing ten feet of birch and white elfa shelving on the far wall of my office (all by my ownself!), I deposited *quite* a lot of sock yarn into the sliding drawers, dk weight into another, bulky, yet another. WIPs found a home in another drawer. I added these Colibri sachets to fend off Der Stinkin Moths. I’d prefer something fragrance-free in deference to the asthma-stricken Princess Pyewacket, but the fragrance is what keeps the moths at bay, so I may as well have a scent that pleases me. They contain “100% pure natural botanical essences from tea tree, vetiver, peppermint, lemongrass, neem, and others in a fine sandalwood powder base.” Neem? I lined up my knitting books and pamphletted patterns above the leather dresser shelf workspace, am thinking about a binder for my page-protected patterns,  notions found a one-runner drawer to call home.

I’m feeling manic, more than a little. If I sound so to you, please don’t hesitate to let me know.

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Catharsis

September 7, 2009 · Filed under bipolar, self-awareness

I’ve been struggling at work, mightily, personality conflicts with most of my coworkers, most of whom I feel quite superior to (manic much?). This last time that my manager has taken me aside to speak to me she’s told me that she knows that I like to talk to everyone, and that she’s sure that I don’t even realize that I’m doing it, but that I’m putting myself into everyone else’s conversations, and that many people don’t appreciate that, and that I should wait to be invited in and not just jump in and start talking. That there is at least one person who has requested that she keep me away from them. That she has gotten complaints about me and my lack of boundaries. That I get too personal. That I don’t know when to stop. That I do too much talking and not enough listening.

This all hit me like a hammer square between the eyes. She’s absolutely right, and even though I do not agree with her on practically anything else on the planet, I do agree with her on this.

I have finally seen the light. Been held underwater until my head was about to explode is more like it. Suffice to say that I am now painfully aware that I have a HUGE issue with personal boundaries and respecting them. Imagine my shock and surprise at realizing that not everyone thinks that everything I have to say is fascinating? That since I’m so smart, I must know what I’m talking about? That I am not welcome in every conversation? That some people actually don’t want me to talk to them? They don’t care about the information I have to share?

Wow.

I am stunned, absolutely stunned and embarrassed and I feel so horrible and that I’ve been shoving myself on everyone for my entire life and everyone actually HAS been talking about me behind my back; that it isn’t just that I’m paranoid. They really ARE saying mean things about me. It’s just that I’ve done something to deserve them and that in some cases, maybe even many cases, they may be true. I just haven’t done them on purpose.

As far as therapy goes, this is the killer. I have had years of therapy. Ages of therapy. None of which was worth a good goddamn, apparently. But I guess when you aren’t open to the lesson, no matter how effective the teacher is, it won’t get through. My line of work is retail sales; I am really good at bullshitting people, myself at the top of the list. And then going right back to my old tricks, with the lesson tossed by the wayside, never looked at, never heard. This isn’t by far the first time someone’s told me what my manager said. But perhaps it’s because my job is on the line, or that I’m angling for another job and they’re doing background checks and I’m in a right state, or that my marriage is shaky and G has been throwing his hands up into the air time and time again that I think he will really just finally be completely fed up and say, “That’s it. For good. I’m done.” But for whatever reason, it hit me this time and hit me good. I get it now. This is where, G says, the healing can begin. This is where I have the chance to turn my life around. I’m bipolar, and nothing on this earth can change that, but I here have the opportunity to change how I deal with it. I need to be so diligent, so deliberate, so careful not to slip backwards. This is where I have the chance to become trustworthy. Finally, a chance to grow up.

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Totally manic

July 13, 2008 · Filed under bipolar

Had a 20 oz. mocha with a triple shot of espresso on a (mostly) empty stomach this morning and nothing else to eat until my pepperoni rolls come out of the toaster oven in a few minutes. I really shouldn’t be drinking the Diet Pepsi Wild Cherry, but I am.

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Well, it’s a bit better now

January 18, 2008 · Filed under bipolar, fiber, meds

I went up to the attic with the intention of finding Judi*Kins Diamond Glaze for the aforementioned errant eBayer. What I found was much more valuable. Yeah, I found the glue, but I also found my archival box with The New York Times from September 12, 2001 and the days afterward, the tape I’d recorded of September 11th (not that I’ll ever watch it, but I think it’s important to have. I don’t even have a VHS player anymore, I guess I could get it transferred to DVD…), yummy yarn that I bought at Rhinebeck last year, and some more cute stuff to eBay. I brought up two boxes to put back into the attic (there’s two more waiting downstairs). The reason for wanting the box of newspapers was simple; I bought The Times the day after Hillary Clinton won the New Hampshire primary and I want to preserve that. I also baked the cookies, slicing them whisper-thin. They came out crisp and delicious. They may not make it to tomorrow’s dinner. I’ll think up something else just in case. I remembered to take my midday dose of Geodon (technically not really mid-day but six hours after my first 40 mg dose of the day). I’ve kept the fire fed. I spent the last hour (goodness, time flies!) adding something cool to my blog that my friend Penguin Girl has on hers: for each day where there’s a corresponding post(s), I’ve added a link to my old LiveJournal blog. None for today, but if you look at my post from the 14th, “The Date,” you’ll see way at the bottom a link to the post “Grey Day” from 2006. I’ve only gone as far back as November 1st so far. My writing was pretty wretched back then; I totally blame it on the meds I was on (an Abilify and Wellbutrin cocktail, thankyouverymuch). My writing was never as dull and perfunctory as it was on those drugs, in school I was lauded for my writing abilities and in every honors writing class offered. At the very least, I was writing, bland as it was. I’m slowly getting back there.

I haven’t yet taken a shower, nor eaten lunch (just a few cookies and Diet Pepsi with Cherry), but I think I’ll go bring up the rest of those boxes and get a move on the downstairs. Thanks for the good wishes. :)

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not a good day

January 18, 2008 · Filed under bipolar, meds

I’m sitting at my desk with tears running down my face. I can’t type with the letters in the right order. I just don’t feel good and it is hard, this. I felt the same way yesterday and G suggested that I get under all the afghans I’d knitted, put my feet up, knit, and watch some MythTV, specifically, Needle Arts Studio with Shay Pendray. It turned out to be really disappointing, even though she had someone on from Lantern Moon, all she did was needle-felt some roving into the center of a sewn-on flower. So I watched three episodes of America’s Test Kitchen. All about chocolate. Chocolate in the Tasting Lab, chocolate cakes, mousse, chocolate everywhere. My goal was to get some “mental chocolate” to bring up my spirits. And it worked, for a time. I even mixed the recipe for Cook’s Illustrated’s chocolate butter cookies, to be finished today. Hopefully.

I know I’m not on the full therapeutic dose of Lamictal yet, but jeez, can’t it give me a break? I’m currently taking 75 mg twice a day, with 40 – 40 – 80 mg of Geodon. I know that you have to go up very slowly in order to avoid the death rash. However, I found no heart in reading psycheducation.org’s thoughts on the rash: “Why risk ‘blowing it’ by going up a little faster on the dose and thereby raising the risk of getting the rash, and having to consider stopping entirely at that point? For most patients considering lamotrigine, they’ve had symptoms for years. Waiting another few weeks because of using a slow dose increase — and thus buying a little more insurance that they might be able to benefit and stay on this medication — just makes more sense.” Um, because I FEEL LIKE SHIT NOW? Having had symptoms for decades doesn’t mean that I want to KEEP HAVING THEM. And whoever said that people in the throes of bipolar disorder had any way of making sense of things? The person who thought up that little nugget obviously has never had any dealings with mental illness from a personal vantage point. And it isn’t just another few weeks, it’s another four weeks at least for every level up. From Wikipedia: “Because the dosage must be slowly increased from a sub-therapeutic level to the therapeutic level of 100-200 mg, its utility in the management of acute manic symptoms is debatable; typically benzodiazepines or another anticonvulsant will be used to manage the acute mania until the lamotrigine reaches therapeutic blood concentration.” So I’m at 150 mg a day, I should be feeling some relief. But I’m not. One of the problems I had with Wellbutrin was that, while it was definitely working, it just couldn’t handle my abyssal depression. Maybe my depression is so strong that the Lamictal doesn’t stand a fighting chance? There’s a horrifying thought.

So to help take my mind away, I did some busywork, sweeping the steps to clear away the melting snow, laying and lighting a fire in the hearth with just the hot coals (look Ma, no matches!). I’m still fretting about all the eBay auctions I had that didn’t sell, and the woman with a feedback score of 8 who won two of them but hasn’t yet paid, even after I reported her as a non-paying bidder. She bid on and won two more before I had the presence of mind to block her, let’s see if she pays the total amount. I ticked the wrong radio button on my Unemployment Benefits Claim last week, and now they think I refused work. I sent in the form stating that no, I didn’t refuse work, I made a mistake, but they’re holding benefits until they get the form back. There’s no phone number to call to report my boneheadedness, no email address to write to. At least the claims are somewhat automated on my end, by a weekly web form instead of a phone call. I just have to remember to do it every Monday. And we have friends coming to stay overnight tomorrow; the house is still in post-Christmas mess. I guess that’s what I’m doing today. At the very least, the housecleaners are coming tomorrow before Dave and Shannon get here with the baby.

Small favors: the blower just came on for the woodstove, so now the fireplace will start heating the house, and there’s a log of chocolate butter cookie dough in the fridge that just might make it into the oven. And more busywork to keep me from thinking too hard.

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60˚ in January

January 8, 2008 · Filed under Life in Peekskill, bipolar

I saw two high school-age boys wearing shorts and short sleeves on my way back home from the world’s most fantastic dentist. And a convertible with its top down. I know global warming is a bad thing, and I do love my fireplace, but there’s something to be said for warm, sunny days, even when the sun starts to set at about 3:30 pm.

About the dentist: Years ago I was traumatized by a very evil man disguised as a dentist. I’ll tell you who he is if you email me. He used to scream at his hygienist while working on my mouth, broke off a file in a root canal, called me “a big baby,” and is, I suspect, a misogynist (No man I’ve spoken to has anything bad to say about him, but all the women do). He also cut the underside of my tongue with the drill, you know the part that attaches your tongue to the floor of your mouth? Took forever to heal. Add to that nightmare the fact that while deep in the throes of unmedicated bipolar disorder, I wasn’t too good at taking care of myself, teeth included, I ended up with a very sorry state of affairs in my mouth. So for years I was going to this Goebbels with a drill, too afraid to say anything or to speak up for myself, and then I moved to an apartment across the street for Dr. Kenneth Magid’s office. A saint. There used to be a sign on his front door with a picture of Ziggy hiding behind a dentist’s chair with the legend, “We Cater To Cowards.” Seemed to be the guy for me. He, along with all of the people in his office, have a wonderful bedside manner, don’t treat me like an idiot or a leper, and the best part? They give me “sweet air” for every session (I’ve gotten good enough that I don’t need it for cleanings, but there was a time…). He is an absolute superhero in my book. If you live in Westchester County or even one of the surrounding counties and don’t mind driving a bit for a fantabulous dentist, I can send you a card that gets you a discount for the referral.

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I am afraid

January 2, 2008 · Filed under bipolar, poetry

I am afraid of the dark

it robs me, thieves me of my sanity.

Long shadows become predators

clawing at my skin

tearing at my hair.

The night suffocates me

tangling in my throat

rendering me unable to scream

to shout out

to bring aid to my misery.

I bring the covers up to my ears to keep the night out

keep it from touching my flesh

knowing that only the morning will bring relief.

Morning comes and I hurry

hurry to get everything done

before the night falls once again.

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Halfway there

December 24, 2007 · Filed under bipolar, knitting

Sock One, for Daddy’s Chanukah gift, 12/24/07 Here is the first of Daddy’s Chanukah socks (Colinette Jitterbug, Blue Parrot, my toe-up recipe). In looking for a larger needle with which to bind off, I checked the size on my needles. I’d unwittingly knitted with one size 3 and one size 3.25! (I knit socks on two circs, the Cat Bordhi way.) What a space cadet! The larger needle knitted the top, the smaller one the back and heel. When I took the sock class with Lucy Neatby, she taught us the coolest bind-off technique. I’ll try to explain it here: Knit the first stitch to bind off. Slip your LEFT needle into the back of the stitch you just knit. Slip your right needle around the left side of the second stitch and through the back, so that the stitches are crossed in an X. Wrap the working yarn around the needle, knitting it, and pull the needle down through the X and off. Repeat. I know it sounds weird, but it creates a more flexible bind-off. I still go up a needle size (or two!) for socks because I tend to bind off tightly.

G remarked that I spend my life living like I’m in a swarm of bees, swatting them and getting distracted. I said it’s more like a snowglobe, one of the ones with glitter and snow in it. Snowglobe Girl. No wonder I like them so much! It helps him to understand me more, which is a good thing.

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Ah, the ’80s

December 17, 2007 · Filed under Sunday Scribblings, bipolar

To be fifteen again, is something I both wish I could do, and am glad I will never have to repeat. Fifteen was a nightmare of an age for me, the bipolar disorder had really taken hold of my physiology, with all the classic attached symptoms; the drug abuse, hypersexuality, the not sleeping thing. If I could go back armed with my present-day knowledge, I’d fight for a proper diagnosis, instead of the misdiagnosis of schizophrenia and the attendant drugs that I was given. But there was some fun in that completely fucked-up part of my life, if only while I was manic. I went dancing nearly every weekend in the city. Mostly at the four-story-high Danceteria. I turned around my high school ring and wore it on my left hand, like a wedding band. Although I wasn’t fooling anyone about being married, I never owned a fake ID and never ever got carded. I was a crazy girl back then, with a penchant for vodka and 7Up. I didn’t drink much, didn’t need to, the mania was fueling my drive to dance, alone, or with anyone who sidled up to me. And dance I did, both with my girlfriends, when they dared to accompany me, with our purses in the middle between us, shoes off, sweating like rock stars, and alone, defying my parents’ wishes for my to not go by myself. The music was loud and electronic, and it was a blast, being out there. I watched the clock like a hawk. The derelict train left Grand Central at 1:30 am on the dot, and I only missed it once. I’d been with Steve something-with-a-J back at his place for some risky behavior. He’d promised to get me back to the station on time, but he didn’t. Ass. I called my father, crying, telling him that I’d had a fight with my girlfriend, Sarah, and she’d left the club before me, and I’d lost track of time. Dear old Daddy came and picked me up in his Porsche, me looking like a total whore, makeup running from the sweat, and freezing. The cops pitch you out of Grand Central after the last train has left, so I waited patiently out in front, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible in neon yellow fishnet tights, four-inch stiletto heels, a micro miniskirt, a torn tshirt, and my grandfather’s army jacket. Trying not to attract attention. I garnered some inquisitive stares, but no offers. He pulled up, unlocked the door, and did not scream at me, but instead, asked if I’d had fun. How clueless my parents were. If I could go back, I’d rage until they finally listened to me instead of shutting me out. They saw all sides of my illness, but not many people knew anything about it back then. Instead of doing that, I went out to dance. And hoped for help which never came.

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