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Month: November 2010

my stockings prove my virtue

my stockings prove my virtue

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Emilie Autumn

Who is this? This is the fine and fabulous Emilie Autumn. (Official website)

What does she do? She’s a singer, violinist, and sometimes writer.

Why is she important? She’s amazingly strong, funny, creative and successful despite being bipolar. She proclaims herself loudly and proudly no matter what.

Emilie has not had the easiest life, but what impresses and amazes me about her is how she expresses her pain through her music and writing. Her album Opheliac, for instance, metaphorically discusses a lot of painful times in her life which led to her incarceration in a mental hospital. Her book, “The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls” incorporates actual journal entries from her time there. I would love to talk more about it, but I don’t want to give it away. If you go read it and come back, we can chat. (And, unfortunately, my ex still has my copy and I don’t know if I’ll ever get it back so I can’t lend it to nearby friends atm.)

When I go to one of Emilie’s shows (I’ll be going to my 3rd and 4th next February!) I find myself completely transported into her world. It’s just amazing. And watching her play her violin? Incredible. Maybe that’s the music student in me, but it always gives me goosebumps. She also has a very pro-girl/anti-male/yey!-lesbianism! vibe to her shows which, for me, is really encouraging. But I took my cousin who is an arts/political journalist with me and she enjoyed it even with all the lesbian Victorian burlesque-ness that goes on with it. Because the music is that good. And Emilie has some pretty amazing stories to tell if you’re willing to listen.

it was all very well to say “drink me”

it was all very well to say “drink me”

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“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked.
“Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat. “We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”
“How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.
“You must be,” said the Cat. “or you wouldn’t have come here.”

Let’s talk today about one of my most favourite things in the whole entire world: escapism. Escapism, according to Wikipedia is “mental diversion by means of entertainment or recreation, as an “escape” from the perceived unpleasant or banal aspects of daily life. It can also be used as a term to define the actions people take to help relieve persisting feelings of depression or general sadness.” And by most favourite, you know I mean it’s a well abused method for me.

Where can we escape? With escapism, it doesn’t have to be physical so there’s a lot of possibilities. Video games, for instance. When I feel the need to escape my life, I can spend 20 hours a week or more on video games. Roleplaying is another one I often engage in: usually you take on a character and play in a text based game with other characters/players. I’ll even get to points where, because I play multiple characters, I will play just with myself if no one else is around. Books are bad, too. So many alternate universes you can get lost in for a time. The more an author can absorb you, the more I like them. And DVDs. Wow. I know it’s not uncommon for people to work their way through an entire TV series at one go if they really like it, but I’ll go through it two or three times in a row. (Go on, ask me how many times I’ve seen She-Ra or Lexx.) I can be just as bad with movies. I can watch the same movie (or series, if it’s part of a series) for up to a month at a time.

It’s far too easy to get lost in someone else’s world so you don’t have to face this one. And I know this isn’t a condition that effects only the sick, anyone can have it. Anyone who finds the confines of their world to be too small. And, you know, in moderation it’s not a horrible thing. It’s when one gets to the obsessive levels that worry is necessary.

So what can you do about escapism? I don’t know. I’m no doctor, no therapist. I can tell you what I do. Most of the time? Nothing. As long as my playing doesn’t interrupt my real life, I let it happen. As soon as something does get to the point where it starts interfering, though, I get rid of it. Either of my own will or asking someone else to make it disappear from my life. Assuming I’ve noticed. I don’t always.

So it goes. If you think someone you know may be an obsessive escapist, talk to them about it. It may even be worth a trip to the doctor. Escapism is often a sign of a deeper underlying problem. I imagine if you fix the problem, you’ll probably fix the habit.

can I offer you some sugar?

can I offer you some sugar?

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Yesterday, at the request of my co-guider who’s been working on a bullying challenge with the girls but would be missing the meeting, I got to speak to my rangers about suicide, self harm, and mental illness. Obviously it was tough for me and I did cry a bit but I feel this is the sort of thing it’s really important to talk with teens about.

We started with a conversation about the recent suicides of Samantha Kelly and Doran Richardson, both tragic deaths. This lead into a conversation about the causes of suicide which lead to my presentation. Because, yes, I have a powerpoint. I was actually working on it on Tuesday because I’d been meaning to throw one together and then I got the call… uber weird. Clearly a sign from the Gods. (Odin? Thanks.)

If you’re interested in seeing that powerpoint, I’ve uploaded it here (and the fonts I used are here and here). Obviously, it misses something when you don’t get all my personal input and stories with it, but it still has lots of really good facts and – I believe – has a really good message.

Also, I found a rather interesting article in my search for info on those two. Check it out.

Pennyroyal Tea leads to nirvana

Pennyroyal Tea leads to nirvana

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I am not impressed right now. Seriously.Why did nobody tell me about this?

“NSAIDs reduce blood flow to the kidneys and therefore reduce the action of diuretics and decrease the elimination of lithium (Eskalith) and methotrexate (Rheumatrex).” (Source, more on lithium)

Thank god I read. But why was I never warned about this? I’ve spoken to my doctor and pharmacist both about lithium and neither said to avoid painkillers. You’d think that would be something of some importance to mention? I mean, I’ve been taking a lot less painkillers lately than I used to but winter is coming and the arthritis-like conditions are going to kick in and I’m going to need them again. The pharmacist warned me about the prozac-lithium interaction (wee light-headdedness) but not this one which could seriously harm me?

Lithium

Lithium therapy is useful for indications ranging from bipolar disorder to migraine headaches, but several interactions must be considered. Diuretics and NSAIDs alter the sodium balance at the level of the kidney. As a result, serum lithium levels increase secondary to enhanced reabsorption.3(pp309,368-9) Some NSAIDs may also alter prostaglandin effects on the kidney, thereby reducing the elimination of lithium.3(pp368-9)

If coadministration is necessary, the dosage of lithium should be reduced by 50 percent when a diuretic or an NSAID is added. Signs or symptoms of lithium toxicity involve the central nervous system (drowsiness, confusion, hand tremor, blurred vision, vertigo and seizures), gastrointestinal tract (nausea and vomiting) and cardiovascular system (arrhythmias and widening of the QRS complex). (Source)

Related case study.

…why? Why? Poison the mad until they’re either sane or dead? Is that it? …no. That’s just my frustration talking. This is just all so annoying. My doctor, though an amazing man who obviously does want to help me, doesn’t know enough about this sort of thing. I need a proper psychiatrist. And maybe a therapist, though I don’t really want one of those. I have no problem just keeping my cynical life view.

I think I now have a list of things to talk to my doctor about…

Ophelia’s herbal blend

Ophelia’s herbal blend

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Suicide in the media. It’s rather prettified and romanticized, isn’t it? I mean, just think about some of the famous people who’ve done it: Kurt Cobain (gunshot), Sylvia Plath (gas), Hunter S. Thompson (gunshot), Virginia Woolf (drowned), Marilyn Munroe (overdose), Roman Lyashenko (hanging), Ernest Hemingway (gunshot), Ian Curtis (hanging)… just to name a few.

Shakespeare was also very fond of suicides, like the infamous Romeo and Juliet, Lady Macbeth, Othello, or – my personal favourite – Ophelia. But he’s certainly not the only author to mention it.

And what about the way we talk? Expressions like “die young, stay pretty” “live fast and die young” “I bleed just to know I’m alive” are certainly at least somewhat familiar to you. Or our music? How many songs do you know that glorify death/dying/self-harm in some way? Remember that old TV show M*A*S*H? Know what the theme song was called?

Why? What is the cultural obsession with self-destruction? And how is it, with all this around us, that we are always so shocked and dismayed when we hear about someone killing themselves?

I suspect it might be a healthy mind versus unhealthy mind thing. Though I’m not one to speak with much authority on the healthy mind, I suspect that it usually doesn’t take such things at face value but interprets them instead as metaphorical. An unhealthy mind, unfortunately, has a different filter and as such relays information differently. So if you see the colour red, I might see violet. Or an elephant, depending on my disorder. Thus things that might be considered ridiculous to anyone else seem not only reasonable but like a good idea to the unhealthy. Because our world filter is skewed incorrectly.

Please don’t think I’m saying only the mentally ill will commit suicide, because that’s not true. People who become severely emotionally damaged – those who have been bullied, raped, abused, lost someone/thing incredibly dear – will also consider it an option. Those susceptible to influence are also at risk; such as teens/youth who are not yet firm in their personal identity.

So we surround ourselves with thoughts of death and then act surprised when someone follows through on them? As a society, I think we humans are rather fucked up. We put too much importance into inconsequential things and not enough in each other.

I’ve been bullied, abused, abandoned and betrayed in my life by various people who “loved” me and I was supposed to trust. I’ve had to live with the stigma of being insane and the constant fear that I would someday have an episode in public and not be able to disguise it. I’ve tried to kill myself about a dozen times over the span of my life. I haven’t ended up in the hospital for it yet, but I may still. I can’t count the number of times I drank myself to a stupor so I wouldn’t be able to think about it anymore. I’m not sure how many times I sat with a knife at various vulnerable arteries for hours until I finally talked myself out of it and cut my thighs instead. Just once I stood ankle-deep in a river in the middle of the night and talked myself out of going deeper by pointing out how badly I’d scare those who found my body – likely to be children.  And there were quite a few “sick” days spent throwing up bottles of pills I’d consumed earlier. (For the record? Over the counter painkillers just don’t work.)

To this day, I’m still not sure if I want to live but I think that’s the disease talking. I do believe that my gods want me to live, and I’m pretty sure there are a few people out there who’d be kind of pissed off if I let myself give in. I don’t know, though. It’s a losing battle.

Let me leave you with one of my poems, and we can all think a little more:

I’m Sorry

I want to ram this pen right through my wrist
I want to have this ink instead of blood
so many words pour forth, some days
I think that I may as well just bleed them
I’m sorry that I couldn’t be more perfect
I’m sorry, it feels like all I ever say
I’m sorry that you hurt me
I’m sorry that I’m dying
and I’m sorry for this is how it has to be

with my blood I could tell many stories
as my ink, it would flow easy and quiet
from wrist to page to make my book
my last apology
when I die, it won’t be your fault
as I tape my mouth to choose that silence
my organic pen will leave my note
that’s all I have to say
don’t worry, you won’t miss me all that much

it’s a spoon

it’s a spoon

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Now, I know I often tend to write here rather negatively, but bipolar disorder isn’t all doom and gloom and fire and brimstone. There are parts of it that you can actually come to really like. The bolstered creativity can be quite lovely (though the need to paint/draw/write/etc. so badly can be painful if you’re unable to fill it) and the mildest forms of mania can be very pleasant.

When I’m mildly manic – or “hypomanic” as it’s sometimes called – I tend to be cheerful, bubbly, just a little spacey, fidgety, and an obsessive neat freak. There are quite a few people in my life who tend to associate this me as the “real” or “best” me. I will agree it’s a nice place to visit, but it’s not who I am or who I want to be. At the same time, she is me. But so are the extreme manias. And the depressions. And the mixed states.

I’ve joked with friends for years about how I’m secretly multiple people. I guess that’s one way to think of it. Or maybe you could compare me with the phases of the moon with only certain parts showing but still being the same body? I don’t know. I really don’t.

When you’re fighting with a disorder like this, you end up asking strange questions like “is it ok to be us?” “who am I today” and “where’s the other me?” but they don’t seem so strange. Mind. This IS coming from a girl who sometimes believes she’s a lady in waiting in a queen’s castle.

I do enjoy the energy and productivity mania brings me. But I hate the noise. The more manic I get, the more noisy my brain gets. I think that’s part of what makes me so angry/irritable when I’m manic. My head is so full and so loud that there’s just no room for anything else in it, so don’t you dare try to get in there. Many times I’ve had to just completely shut down because my mind was so loud and so fast that I was unable to function any longer.

The lack of sleep also has some horrid effects on your health. But at least you don’t feel tired. I’m running on three hours right now, but if you were to sit and talk with me, you’d think I was well rested and perky. Really? I’m not. But we see what we want to see in life. Perceptions are everything.

and a gray ribbon on her wrist

and a gray ribbon on her wrist

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Facebook has once again claimed a “To Write Love on Her Arms” day. And while the original charity actually does some pretty cool stuff, and has some great information, I have come to HATE the “days” proclaimed on Facebook.

Why?

According to the TWLOHA website:

“Self-injury, like many addictions, is often a coping mechanism to deal with some manner of internal pain, many who struggle with it also struggle with other issues such as eating disorders and alcohol and drug abuse. While self-injury may be someone’s way to cope with or relieve painful or hard-to-express feelings and is generally NOT a suicide attempt, relief is always temporary, and usually only perpetuates a destructive cycle that continues the struggle. This cycle often means that those who do not get help can become more depressed and shameful, adding to the pain and need for relief, thus perpetuating the cycle.”

The fact that people think just writing “LOVE” on your arms somewhere is not going to actually make a difference. I don’t fucking care WHAT you write on your arms. If I want to cut myself, I will. I was actually (half) joking with my roommate about carving “LOVE” onto my arm with my knife and putting it up as my profile picture as a way of protesting.

I won’t. I’ll be good. Ish.

What really gets me is they always talk about the depression side of things, how writing love on one’s arms can help all the depressed people out there. First off, you’re missing the point. The idea of TWLOHA? Is the fact that they want to write LOVE instead of there being cuts. TWLOHA is a charity that supports the fight against self harm by donating to the many mental health programs that deal with the diseases that causes these urges.

Awareness is extremely important, but I’m not sure if the people doing this even know what’s going on, sometimes. This charity has received the endorsement of Hollywood poptarts such as Lindsay Lohan and Miley Cyrus. In my mind, at least, this speaks poorly for the charity because it’s suddenly become a trend.  It puts me in mind of that “donate your hair to cancer!” thing that went around, which ended up being that the charity actually gave the hair to kids with a rarer disease (alopecia areata) but only about 10-20% of what was donated. The rest was thrown out (due to being in poor condition) or sold to wig makers for money to continue advertising, paying staff, covering manufacturing costs and such. Does this make the charity bad? Not at all. They’re doing exactly as they set out to do. However, public word of mouth twisted the story and then people turned around and called the charity liars when it was actually those “supporting” it who were misrepresenting it.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I want there to be awareness of mental health issues. Hell, why else would I write this blog for anyone to read? My concern is that people are going to go around writing words on their arm and thinking it’ll make some huge difference when it really won’t. Personally? I get insulted. I think “what the hell do you know about it?” I’ve lost friends over admittance of my scars/cutting. I’ve lost a lot of blood. I spend a stupid amount of money on bandaging for myself. Most of my bed sheets have the rather distinctively stripey bloodstains. (For the record? If you move a lot in your sleep, there is pretty much no way that I’ve found of bandaging so it’ll stay.)

My self injuring is the one thing I will always lie about to almost anyone who asks me in person. “What? This scratch? I caught myself on a shelf at work.” “Oh, you know cats…” “One of the tables at school.” “Yeah, I was playing with the rabbit.” “Oh, I don’t know, I must’ve caught myself on something.” “What? Oh, it’s nothing, don’t worry.” Any of those sound familiar?

Tell you what, guys? If you insist on playing this silly game about writing love on your arms, at least actually READ the website of the organization. Know what you’re saying. Know who you’re saying it to. If you really want to make a difference? Find some local charities for mental health and donate or volunteer for them. Or, like I do, make sure people know they exist and that there IS help out there.

It took me three suicide attempts to try to get help the first time. After those people failed me, it took almost ten years to finally start getting the help I needed. Need. I’m not out of the lake yet.

For those who live in my area, here’s a couple of great places to start looking if you truly want to help those of us suffering from mental disorders:

Or just google “your area mental health” and see what comes up!

take the cup by the handle

take the cup by the handle

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Sometimes, I am jealous of the dead. Their pain and suffering has ended. On this day of remembering the fallen of war, and really all those who’ve fought for our freedom, I find myself thinking of it slightly more than usual. Oct 31 – Nov 2 are also traditional days to think of the dead not just of war but all dead. So the month starts off with a lot of downward thinking.

November has long been a bad month for me. We left my home in Saskatchewan in November, my heart was broken for the first time in November, the weight of winter starts to hit me in November. May and June can also be really tough months on me, but November has long been the killer.

Bipolar is a strange disease, largely recognized by severe and uncontrolled mood swings. One of the things that they often don’t tell you is that you can be “triggered” into a swing. What does that mean? Certain things will cause the mood swing. For instance: pictures/writing about self harm can cause me to have a complete shut down if I’m not prepared for it or it comes too close to home. Shouting reduces me to tears. Seeing any couple kiss/touch can make me irrationally angry. Seeing disfigurement of the hands/face  upsets and depresses me.

And some of these things? You just can’t avoid in life, no matter how you try. And sometimes triggers take you by surprise. Something that never affected you before will suddenly hit you like a bag of bricks, and that’s that. Or a trigger can stop being painful. I’ve never really understood it past the point of “sometimes certain things hurt”. I suppose I’ve never really needed to.

I suppose all human being have triggers of some sort. Mine just often cause bigger and more irrational reactions.

do you take your tea black?

do you take your tea black?

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While searching the internet the other day, I stumbled upon a rather interesting image. Manic depression is the new black? Really? Apparently the artist made the image with the thought of making an ironic statement about how mental disorders change names over time, but what it made me think about was the news story I read earlier this year about people who want to be bipolar.

Yes, you read that correctly. People actually want to be diagnosed with this hell.

I first read it on BBC News, here, though it’s also been in a few other sources. Some arguments suggest that people come up with this before going to their doctor because they want a label for why they’re feeling bad, and others suggest that somehow celebrities have glamorized the bipolar “lifestyle”.  I’m not entirely sure what I think yet. Well, aside from the fact that if you want this hell that you are far more fucked up than I am.

Admittedly, when I went back to the doctor in April this year, it was under the impression that I might have bipolar (as I’d been diagnosed as such about 10 years ago) but my first request was that I be rediagnosed as I did not trust the doctor that I had been with when I was first diagnosed. So, basically, I got a second opinion. I said “these are the symptoms I’m seeing, and this is what I’ve been told in past please help me before I destroy myself.”

I remember that first meeting clearly. My friend took me. She insisted I had to show the doctor the mildly infected cut on my leg, even though I told her several times that it just needed polysporin. Doctor looked at it (and all the other scars up that leg…) and said it was fine, just needed polysporin. He agreed to take me on as a patient and tried to get me to a psychiatrist. We managed to get me a diagnosis based on an interview with one psychiatrist, but I’ve yet to get a steady psychiatrist or even psychologist.

But it has not been a fun game. In the past year, I’ve lost 40 lbs, spent several months starving, spent several other months vomiting, lost control of my motor functions any number of times, blacked/spaced out many times when life just got past the point of me handling it, forgotten who I was, and destroyed friendships. Why in the name of all that is good would anyone ever want to be like this?

I have never, and I don’t think I ever will, understood why some of us in our minds will romanticize such ideas as disease so that they become something we want. Trust me, I’m not doing this to be interesting or impressive. Besides, who would I impress with a disease that has the potential to destroy every relationship in my life? I can’t even see the results of my work if I kill myself, so that’s not really something to aim for. Is it the scars? Because I’d happily give mine away.

Or maybe the true sickness is the longing to be normal. How can I validate myself? How can I fit in? That’s it, right?

be careful not to tap the glass as you stir

be careful not to tap the glass as you stir

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In my never-ending quest to read everything ever written about bipolar disorder, I have stumbled upon some interesting new terms…

“psychomotor agitation”

a series of unintentional and purposeless motions that stem from mental tension and anxiety of an individual. This includes pacing around a room, wringing one’s hands, pulling off clothing and putting it back on and other similar actions. In more severe cases, the motions may become harmful to the individual, such as ripping, tearing or chewing at the skin around one’s fingernails or lips to the point of bleeding. Psychomotor agitation is a symptom typically found in major depressive disorder or obsessive-compulsive disorder, and sometimes the manic phase in bipolar disorder, although it can also be a result of an excess intake of stimulants. [wikipedia]

and “psychomotor retardation”

comprises a slowing down of thought and a reduction of physical movements in an individual. This is most commonly seen in people with major depression, as well as in the depressed phase of bipolar disorder, and is also associated with the adverse effects of certain drugs such as benzodiazepines. Particularly in inpatient settings, psychomotor retardation can require increased nursing care to ensure adequate food and fluid intake as well as sufficient personal care. Informed consent for treatment is more difficult to achieve when this is present. People who have psychomotor retardation may also experiencing agitation or self-restlessness, that can construct an inability to relax. As a result, this agitation may turn into a severe condition whereby a client/patient either cannot sit for long or may pace up and down. [wikipedia]

My dear brother, the psychology student, tried at first to tell me that the terms only applied to inpatient situations, and then when I argued that he tried to say that everyone has it a little. Umn, no. It’s one thing to be fidgety, it’s quite another to be fidgety to the point of possibly harming yourself. And there’s a huge difference between sleeping in an extra couple of hours and just lying in bed for hours or days because you just can’t find the will to get up. Then he told me they were old terms anyway and signed off. Good job, bro.

It’s interesting to finally have terms, words to understand some of what’s going on with my body. It’s good to know that these are expectable effects of the illness and that I’m not just crazy. Well. That might be a bad choice of words.

I think, though, that it’s a pretty normal human experience that it’s easier to deal with something if you have a name for it. It’s also easier to deal with something if someone else sees it too. I think a large part of why I’ve spent so many years working so hard to hide my bipolar disorder is that my family largely denied it. I’d get a lot of “oh, you’re not sick you’re just a little sad” or “you just get grumpy sometimes, it’s fine” No. It’s really not. Yeah, I am the type of person who’s quick to tears. It’s not because I’m sensitive, it’s because I’ve had them sitting just below the surface for days and you’ve managed to set me off.

And sometimes I’m stupidly clumsy and can’t manage to do something that’s no problem on a normal day. Or I managed to cut myself doing something I do all the time. Or I manage to fall off my computer chair and nearly give myself a concussion. (My shoulder was bruised for a week!) Or I bite my lips til they bleed. Or I pull my hair out. Or I lay in bed for hours staring at my wall. Or I spend a week in my pyjamas without washing.

Keep telling me I’m normal. Please. I’d like to believe you.