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Author: missgnutmeg

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.

my socks have more personality than you do

my socks have more personality than you do

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Some days, as I sit there waiting for the sun to catch up to me, morning just seems like the worst possible thing to possibly happen. Because it leads to day, which in turn leads to expectations of socialization and normality. There are days when I’ll just huddle back under the blankets (awake, because the gods know I can’t sleep) and just refuse to face the day. And why shouldn’t I? Day turns me into a victim of expectations. Expectations to eat, expectations to behave in certain ways, expectations to like certain things…

I choose my prison over yours. I’ll take a coffin to a cage, every time.

Expectations are a terribly heavy thing. They can leave you feeling like Atlas. This can be true for anyone, however it becomes more extreme in the case of mental illness. One that has been especially hard for me lately has been the expectation of eating. Due to some complications with my BPAD, I managed to develop a mild eating disorder. I’m grateful I didn’t develop true anorexia nervosa or  bulimia nervosa and Odin keep those who do have either of those or any eating disorder. They are horrible, painful diseases that steal far too many beautiful women and men from us.

My own experience with ED had me skipping a lot of meals because I just didn’t want to eat. Food was too much effort. When I did force nutrients down, I just felt physically ill. For a month I was basically living off of cheese, crackers, and fruit once a day.

I dropped over 15 lbs in 2 weeks.

That terrified me. I tried to get it under control, and did manage to at least slow down the rate at which I was losing weight. I’ve lost about 40 lbs this year, though. I mean, it’s not a horrid thing, as I’m the type of person who could afford to lose some weight. I just wish I’d had control over it. No matter how many compliments I get for my new figure, there is always that part of me that wishes I hadn’t lost it at all. I mean, when someone says “wow, you look really good!” “thanks, I was really sick” is not exactly the greatest way to answer.

I’ve been getting a lot better, now, but I still have trouble on some days. I think the fact that my medication makes me really REALLY sick if I don’t eat is a major encouraging factor for me. I think one of the biggest ironies in my situation is that I love food. Seriously, I absolutely love it. I’m studying to be a pastry chef. Not eating was really hard on me. What I found worse, however, were all those people who were trying to help by forcing me to eat. All that really did was remind me of just how sick I was. I felt pitied and useless. I hate that feeling.

I’m a grown woman. I eat whenever and whatever my body allows me. Sometimes my stomach doesn’t allow it, due to meds or other sensitivities. Sometimes my brain doesn’t allow it, interfering with depressive moods or distraction or exhaustion. But I try. I really do. No matter how often I say otherwise, I’m fairly certain I don’t want to die at 27. So if you’re with me, or anyone who has an eating disorder, don’t try to force me/them to eat. Offer to talk, get us help, but don’t shove food down our throats. It only encourages a dislike of food.

a drop of cream?

a drop of cream?

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Here’s a “fun” new thing I’ve had to deal with: vomiting blood. Now don’t freak out. It’s not quite as bad as it sounds. The blood isn’t coming from damage in my stomach or esophagus. As far as I can figure, the blood is coming from my mouth and lips. This is due to the joys of lithium-fuelled dehydration + a night’s “sleep” wherein I’m not drinking the 500mL/hour that I usually try to get into me. Thus I dry out and skin cracks, lips bleed, gums bleed, not fun. And then, as I so often do in the morning, when I vomit the blood is there either from my mouth or because I’d swallowed some of it while sleeping.

Yup. Got to love when my medications’ side effects combine to make life fabulous. I’ll talk to my doctor about it when I see him next week.

I’m going to go have some tea now.

found in a sugar bowl

found in a sugar bowl

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Notes:

It’s never going to go away. It’s never going to get better. You may get it under control, but you will always carry this disease with you. It’s already ruined your life a thousand times and it will a thousand more. It’s yours until you die. And you will die early, whether from suicide or medications or some other disease-related issue. It will be both your life and your death.

You will never truly be free. You will either submit to the disease and be alone and lost or you will live always on the edges, around those you love but not opening to them for fear of hurting them. Always the lies. You’re not allowed to be yourself because it breaks people. You are a monster.

There will always be the secrets in your ears, the shadows in your eyes, and the people in the walls because they want you. They will never let you go, though so many real people do. They will reach for you with their daggerish hands and make you believe all their lies. There will be paranoia, anxiety, aggression.

And everything will be so loud, so loud, so fast that you can’t keep up. And so quiet you’ll wonder if you’re deaf. And so crowded you can’t even breathe.

Is it any wonder you long for that early death? When life is a prison, what other freedom can there be? But still, everyone tells you to fight. Everyone tells you that you’re not allowed to do that. If they truly cared, they’d stop being greedy and let you end your pain.

So you push them away, one by one. You find their weakness and stab at it until they leave. (Sometimes there’s explosions in the leaving, sometimes not.) But you have to make them go. They can’t stop you if they’re not there. They can’t stop you if you won’t listen.

Life is a very thin sense of guilt. One of these days, it’ll slip.

bitter marmalade

bitter marmalade

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To everyone who’s ever hurt me;

Thank you for the scars. Thank you for the blood and pain and tears and screams you allowed me to release. Thank you for the low self-worth and reminders that self esteem is just for delusional idiots anyway. I really didn’t need that heart anyway. I mean, what would I do with it? Give it away? Better that it’s torn to pieces and destroyed. And confidence? Hah! Waste of effort. We’re all worms’ meat in the end, aren’t we? Isn’t that what the Bard said?

It really touches me that you were so considerate as to make sure I could never truly trust another person. That was one of those “if I can’t have you, no one can” things, wasn’t it? Or was it more of a “no one wants my trash once I’ve used it up”? I guess it doesn’t really matter, the result is the same. Thanks for destroying my ability to trust.

And thank god you got to me before I’d decided to have any silly dreams or hopes for my future. Now I can never be disappointed because I know nothing good will ever happen. I don’t hope for the best and then sob because reality kicked in, not me, I’m cynical and pessimistic (though that’s a good part disease, too) and I know better than that.  I don’t deceive with belief. I don’t seek greener grass next door. In fact, you’ve taught me that it’s far more realistic that there’s no grass at all over there.

Your most considerate actions (of course) were your betraying, abandoning, lying to, and breaking promises to me. Each of you was a person I had every reason to trust, a person I’d expected to have in my life until I died. Well, I suppose a few of you did kill me emotionally on your way out, so you kept THAT promise, at least. The rest of you? Need to work harder on your emotional wounding skills. I mean, that last one? A mild emotional gutting at best. You were doing a lot better with the emotional abuse and using me. And you, you! Physical scars don’t last anywhere close to as long as emotional ones, surely you know that? Do I need to lend you some of my books on mental health?

I’m sorry that I made you hurt me, but couldn’t you have done a better job of it? I’m healing again, I mean, what’s with that? Even those mental wounds I thought were too badly infected to ever heal are starting to close up. How did this happen? It’s just not right. One of you needs to come back and finish the job. I’m still alive and fighting. I’m bleeding and missing a few pieces, but I can stand – much straighter without your “support”.

your former friend lover victim s,

nutmeg

p.s. Yes, I do still love you. Sorry for that, too.

cake cutting for fun and profit

cake cutting for fun and profit

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If you saw an injured animal on the side of the road, say a cat or a dog, could you just walk past it? Would you be able to walk away and just completely ignore the animal’s plight? I’m fairly willing to bet you’re saying no right now. Even if all you could do was move the animal to a place where it was out of harm’s way, or where someone else could help it, you would at least do something. So why is it we’re so willing to ignore the pain of other human beings?

I’m about to make a generalized statement which is largely my own opinion (isn’t that this whole blog, though?) and some may feel is incorrect:

wrist cutters want attention

There. I said it. Not a pretty statement, but it’s out. Now, please don’t misunderstand me with this statement. I don’t mean that they only want attention or that they don’t need help. (Oh, they do. They really do. If you’re willing to do that to yourself for any reason, you need help.) I just think that they’d cut someplace less obvious if they didn’t want to be seen. Thighs, for instance, bleed quite nicely and are really easy to hide. Wrists and arms can be less so. Even if you live in long sleeved shirts, sometimes the cuff slips up. And if you don’t? People notice when you suddenly completely change your dressing habits. Bracelets, arm bands, mittens and gloves are all options too, but again people notice if it’s a sudden change or not in season to wear.

So what’s the big deal?

I think Ottawa’s mental health crisis line said it best in their bus ads: “Think of your deepest secret. Now turn to the person next to you. Can you tell it to them?” (Along those lines… I may be paraphrasing a bit.) Asking for help is terrifying. It’s not easy. Sometimes all people can do is make it obvious so someone will notice and say something. For myself, even as open as I seem to be about things, I have a lot of trouble actually talking about my mental health. If you want more than 2 sentences out of me, I need to write/type/text. Spoken words aren’t safe to me.

What can you do? That’s what you’re asking, right? I’m not an expert, by any means, but this is what I would recommend:

  • be there for them. Duh, right? You’d be surprised how often I’ve felt completely alone in my life despite being surrounded by “friends”. It can be incredibly hard to trust in situations like this. If someone with a mental health problem comes to you, please listen to them and give them your time. Don’t tell them you can’t, don’t lie, and sure as hell don’t say you’ll be there and then say “it can wait until morning” like my one former friend did to me when I asked for help during a particularly bad suicidal/depressive episode.
  • get them professional help. This is especially true if you feel you can’t handle their problems on your own. Personally, I think it is unfair for someone with a mental illness to rely completely on a friend/lover. I hate myself for everytime I even did this a little bit. It’s unhealthy and obsessive, and it destroys the person who’s trying to help. It destroys relationships. If you “fail” them in any way (real or perceived) it can get very ugly very fast.
  • don’t go it alone. Just as someone with mental health needs help, so do those supporting them. Do not get yourself into a situation you find uncomfortable. Depending on the illness, you could actually be putting yourself into a lot of danger by setting off one of their triggers without knowing it. For instance, I’ve been known to go off in rage on people who break promises. Even stupid little ones like “I’ll pay you back that $5”. Or, alternately, I break into tears whenever someone yells at me, no matter why they’re yelling. (Or even if I’m the one yelling.) It’s a volume thing. A lot of people don’t know these things about me and it can get them into a fair deal of trouble.
  • don’t break promises. And no, this isn’t just a me thing because it makes me angry. It has to do with building trust. So never ever make a promise you aren’t 100% sure of keeping. Trust is especially important to people who are in positions like this where they feel vulnerable. Breaking trust can break a lot of progress on the road to health. Depending on their level of health, it can also trigger suicidal or depressive episodes.
  • follow their lead. Yes they’ve asked for help, yes they’ve accepted you to help them. That doesn’t mean they’ll be instantly better because you’re there. Imagine the road to health as a mostly-constructed bridge covered in debris during an earthquake. It’s not an easy path to take. Sometimes they’ll have to lean heavily on you and sometimes they’ll have to go it alone. No matter what, though, don’t try to push them past their comfort. It can actually do more harm than good. It took me almost 2 years to actually see a doctor once I asked for help. Mind, it took almost dying to ask for help in the first place.
  • remember that their illness is not them. Odds are they won’t. I’ve a friend that reminds me all the time that I’m not the monster, it’s just something that lives inside me. I’ve also had “friends” tell me they were disappointed in me for not being able to do things because of my illness, or for not feeling strong enough to. Like calling a doctor. I had one “friend” even tell me that she was disappointed that she had to take care of me. I have a lot of trouble trusting her with anything now.
  • there is no magic wand you can wave and make things all better. Just like everything else in this life, problems don’t go away magically just because you see they’re there. I think this is one of the things that frustrates me most, as someone with mental illness. I’m not just going to cheer up because you did some random thing for me. I’m not going to magically be fine because you expect me to be. I’m sick. My moods are not controllable like a normal person’s. That’s why I’m on so many medications. That’s why I can go months on almost no sleep. That’s why I sometimes don’t eat for months. My mind sometimes has trouble telling the difference between good and bad choices, sometimes. Again, I’m sick. That’s why I need help.
  • camouflage is not a cure. But it sure is popular. Be wary of the problems that are being hidden. I lie to people all the time to “protect” them from me/my illness. I say I choose things even though they happened largely due to the illness. I take responsibility for actions I do when I’m manic or depressive even if they’re things I would never normally do because I don’t want people to realize how badly the disease has me. I’m really really good at smiling until I can get 10 minutes by myself to explode. Many of my closest friends can tell you that a number of words in my vocabulary actually mean the exact opposite when I say them.

Oh, and one last thing you can do for the mentally ill, or at least THIS mad girl? Make me a cup of tea.

the cup with the poison is mine

the cup with the poison is mine

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The other day, I was talking to my mother about a movie she’d watched (forgive me, I don’t know which one, she never said) about a teen boy who killed himself because they’d given him Lithium for his bipolar. I found this a little odd since one of my doctors had actually called Lithium the “anti-suicide” drug and suggested that to her. I’d also made mention that I really wished that the doctor I’d had when I was 18 had just put me on Lithium in the first place (instead of running me through hell with various anti-depressants that just made my swings worse) and my father suddenly yells to us from the other room “You were never suicidal. Grumpy as hell, but not suicidal.”

9 years since I was first diagnosed with this damned illness and my father still has no idea what I’ve been through. I was half tempted to pull up my skirt and show him the roadwork of scars across my legs. Or to give him some sort of lecture on the difference between feeling suicidal and actually acting out on it.

I’ve wanted to die for most of the past 15 years. I’ve only actually taken that extra step to try and destroy myself a handful of times. Twice, in this last year.

But since we’ve gotten my Lithium to a level that seems to stabilize me, I’ve definitely noticed that my self-harm has gone from a near-daily habit to one or twice a month. I’m hoping it’ll eventually stop completely. My suicidal urges have also decreased significantly. I would like to take a moment right now to point out that the two, though sometimes overlapped, are not directly related. For me, self injury comes from a place of anger and hatred. I’m trying to destroy something inside so I can be free. Sometimes, I think of it as cutting myself open to let the demons out. Suicidal urges tend to come from a quieter place in me, a sad, hurt, broken place. A place that is desperate for relief and rest. Self harm is, ironically, born from a strong urge to live.

You did read the part where I said I was mad, right? It’s called a mental illness because you’re sick. Your brain is malfunctioning and the messages getting to you are messed up but you think they’re right because you have no frame of reference to compare it to or else lack the tools to do the comparing with. Yes, I sometimes honestly believe there are demons in my skin. Yes, I sometimes honestly believe the only way to get them out and save myself is to cut my skin open. No, I would not advise this practice to anyone. Yes, I always hate myself after I do it, once I come back to my proper sensibilities.

I hide my scars because they embarrass me. I don’t want the questions. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want attention. For a little while, a friend of mine made me promise to tell her whenever I cut myself. But she apparently couldn’t handle it. Now I don’t tell anyone.

When you fall outside of the social norm for one reason or another, you find yourself on a very lonely road. It’s not until someone tries to walk with you that you discover that it’s really more of a tightrope, and that trying to help you just puts them at risk.

wear your hat to tea

wear your hat to tea

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You know, a lot of people joke about how “crazy” or “mad” certain things are, but I often wonder if they really know what they’re saying? Have they ever had to throw their phone across the room so they wouldn’t be tempted to call their close friend and bitch her out just for texting “how are you?”? Have they ever come to and found themselves curled up on the bathroom floor, squished behind the toilet as though hiding from something? Have they ever had to call their best friend in the middle of the night because they were so covered in blood and tears and snot that they couldn’t tell the difference? Have they ever seriously believed everyone in their life was lying to them about caring, for selfish reasons? If not, maybe they should rethink their choice of words.

(For the record, I did all of that in one month. It was a fun month. Really.)

All I’m saying, muffins, is that you should be very careful when you say something. Some of us may resemble your comment.

I’ll admit, though, I’m as bad as anyone about this. Because things do often seem mad or insane to me. Or maybe, because my view of the world is skewed, should I instead write things off as being “sane” and “normal”? I don’t know. I don’t know much of anything anymore.

Really, a girl who spends as much of her life trying not to vomit her medication back up as I do can’t afford to be all that judgmental.