Category Archives: Treatments

Reflections on 2015

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As I sit back and reflect on my goals and planned projects for 2016, I can’t help but to think about all that I lived through in 2015 and how that has shaped this year’s prospective.

This will be a quick read, I promise.

I learned more about myself in this past year than I believe I have learned in all of my life. I learned that I am more resilient and stronger than I imagined. I learned that psychiatrists and psychologists, though I may hate them sometimes, know more than I do because of their experience. Therefore, listen to them and learn to curb your ego.

I also learned to stop thinking I know better than anyone about my mental health because although sometimes it may be hard to hear, I need to listen to what others around me have to say about my mood and behavior.

And finally, I learned to take my medication each and every day. I have learned over and over again that I truly do need my meds in order to prevent a manic episode. Yet, I continue to get off them because I know better, right? Wrong!!! So, I learned in 2015 after 9 years since my initial diagnosis, that YES I really truly do need to take my medication every day consistently and continuously. Ok, got it.

And you, my fellow reader and confidante, what did you learn from 2015???

7 years

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RE Camera

It has been 7 years since I had a full fledged manic episode. It has also been 7 years since I’ve been in a psychiatric hospital. I waited until November to write this post because my last hospitalization began in October 2008, and I did not want to write a post in October about how I have been without a manic episode for 7 years for fear of jinxing myself. Luckily, October has passed and I can proudly say that it has officially been 7 good years without a manic episode. That’s not to say I don’t get the typical Bipolar ups and downs, because I do. The difference, and it’s a big difference, is that I have not been 5150’ed and had to stay against my will in a psychiatric ward.

But let’s not turn this post into the horrors and inadequacies of psychiatric wards lest I scare off readers. Instead, I want to focus on all the progress I have made that has kept me out of those “looney bins” (I gotta poke fun to keep from becoming depressed).

In the past 7 years, I graduated from UC Irvine, got married, had 2 wonderful little girls, worked on and off through my pregnancies, bought a home, and have recently interviewed for my dream job (fingers crossed). So, I haven’t discovered any cures or vaccinations, established peace in any turmoiled countries, or created anything other than arts and crafts. Yet, I feel accomplished because not only have I triumphed over my daily mood swing obstacles, but also over life obstacles. I have succeeded in life when I was told after my diagnosis in 2006 that I would not could not do it.

I would like to make clear that this post is not meant to glorify my accomplishments, but rather shed light on a subject that many fail to address: how can you deal with life issues at the same time that you deal with your mental health issues? It’s simple, really. You take it one day at a time and with lots of support. I cannot emphasize enough how establishing a support network for myself has been my saving grace. From close friends and family, to the internet, including this blog and Twitter. I have found a relief and a sense of belonging amongst fellow Bipolar survivors, and have learned so much from them.

Let’s keep the learning going and pass on your knowledge on how to cope and triumph over your diagnosis!

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Re-Raising Yourself

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Even as I look at my own childhood, I see how my parents wanted me to stay young and innocent as long as possible, but without too much fantasy. I was not allowed to believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and any other “fantastical” character. I grew to have a fear of people dressed in character costumes such as Ronald McDonald, the Red Robin bird, clowns, the characters on Sesame Street, you name it I feared it. I don’t blame my parents; they were trying to do the best they could with what limited knowledge and resources they had. Yet, I confess that in order for me to have become a well-adjusted adult, I had to re-raise myself.

Re-raise yourself I ask? It is a concept I stumbled upon in many a psych book that I have read after being diagnosed with Bipolar I. It is a very complex concept, yet it basically means to identify habits, fears, customs, or other behaviors that are counter-productive to your well-being and adjusting your behavior through constant re-direction and behavior correction. The term means what it means: re-raising yourself to the point that you correct your behaviors such as a parent would do so to a child. You must remember to be patient and kind with yourself, however, so as to not instill more fear into your psyche and fill those voids with love and compassion.

I recommend this exercise to everyone and anyone who feels they have been shortchanged in life and want to make some real positive change in their future. It seems as a human race we tend to repeat our errors over and over again, without any progress. My favorite saying is that the definition of insanity is doing something the same way repeatedly and expecting different results. If it doesn’t make sense, then think about it. Have you ever yelled at someone for not doing something correctly and after the umpteenth time of scolding them, they still don’t correct their behavior? Maybe, perhaps it’s time you correct your approach in order to produce different results.

I also recommend this to people who tend to run away from their problems, either literally or theoretically. It’s odd to see someone move to a new job, a new state, country, what have you in order to change their lives only to repeat the same behavior patterns. Like the saying goes, wherever you go, there you are. And I have been guilty of this, so please don’t take this as condemnation or judgement of any kind; I am not exempt. It has been through trials and tribulations that I have learned to change my behavior and attitudes towards all kinds of issues. From child rearing, to marriage, to employment, to saving money. And I am still working on all of those because just like a plant, life is constantly growing, changing, evolving, so I have to constantly grow, change, and evolve my behavior and attitude.

Sounds like a lot of work doesn’t it? But life is work, because you get out of it what you put into it. However, if you do it right, it becomes a labor of love and can move you in more ways than you imagined.

Saving up for depression

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The title sounds weird, right? Incoherent and non-sensical. How can you “save up” for depression? What does that even mean? Well, I like to think I coined this term and it means that whenever I feel happy, experience a positive event, feel energized, I try to engrave these moments into my memory so that when I feel depressed, I can revisit them and somehow see the light at the end of the tunnel. Therefore, I “save up” good memories to counteract the awful moments that I sometimes find myself in. It’s not easy, and it didn’t come to me through a psychiatrist or self-help book, although those help as well, but rather through a self-realization that thinking about happy thoughts helps me get through the tough times, usually.

The last time I had depressive feelings was over a month ago and through the entire period I concentrated on my daughter’s birthday that had just passed, and her elation at the event. It helped me get through the depression. I also thought about eating watermelon with my family on a certain hot summer evening and how Isa, the youngest, got watermelon all over her hair, ears, and of course, face. It was enough to bring a smile to my face and motivate me to shower and be ready for my kids.

I am sure that we all have good memories we can look back on, either recent or in the past, that can get us through those tough moments when we feel nothing but despair. It helps to remember that there is a light at the end of the tunnel after all.

Sent from God to the psychiatric ward

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I have heard this term referred to as Grandiosity, Delusions of Grandeur, and so many other variations, but they all mean and refer to the same thing: an elevated sense of self-esteem, sometimes leading the person to believe they are famous, omnipotent, wealthy, or otherwise very powerful (Wikipedia.org). I have often wondered why this happens, especially since it occurs more often in people with Bipolar Disorder than any other mental diagnosis. And, I have experienced thoughts of grandeur myself, to the point that during each of my two manic episodes, I have believed that I was sent from God to save humanity.

I have done some research on the causes of Grandiosity, as well as asked all of my psychiatrists, but no one has a definitive answer as to why this happens. This may sound odd, but I have even gone so far as to speculate if people back in the Biblical times who claimed to be sent from God suffered from Grandiosity. And if so, they were heralded as saints, not sent to a psychiatric ward and pumped with various meds. To make my point more clear, who’s to say I am not actually sent from God? Who’s to say my thoughts of grandeur during manic episodes aren’t a manifestation of God’s power? And what would have happened if I had lived in Biblical times? Would I be heralded as a savior?

Somehow, I doubt all of this, even as I write it. Why? Because I remember that in my manic episodes I tend to be a violent person when confronted by someone or asked to stop my delusional actions (e.g. trying to heal the sick). And from studies and research, I know that Jesus was a calm and patient person, never quick to aggression like I am during my manic episodes. So, alas, I am not sent from God, I am not here to save humanity, but I am here to get the word out on mental health and staying sane.

There’s a saying in Spanish that goes, “de poetas y locos, todos tenemos un poco.” Translated, it means “of poets and insanity, we all have a little.” And I do believe this is true, but I don’t believe I am sent from God. And if I get an inkling feeling that I am, I know it is time to up my meds and take a nap.

What I know and what I don’t

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I have never attempted suicide myself, but an uncle of mine did once, and well, paid the ultimate price, his life. He was unofficially diagnosed by my mother and her sisters as Bipolar, whether or not that was true, we will never know. What I do know for sure is that he was pushed to a point where he no longer found meaning in his life. I also know that I have felt such despair that I wish someone would take my babies and just let me sleep. I have felt so depressed and in the midst of nothingness that all I wanted to do was lay in my bed and do and be nothing. Just nothing. This would usually come after a late night, a restless, sleepless night. Or, when I “forgot” to take my medication because I know better than the psychiatrist. Wrong!! So wrong!!

I now know that I don’t know more than any psychiatrist no matter how flawed I may think they are or how much higher my IQ may be, I am at the mercy of their education and experience. I put it so dramatically because that is how I sometimes feel. I feel as though I am helpless sometimes and not only at the mercy of the psychiatrists, but at the mercy of my mind. Why? Because it leads me to think things, things I should not be thinking. Like, “don’t take your meds, you’re fine”, “your mood swings are totally typical”, and my favorite, “you are not Bipolar, everyone else is.”

I also know that everyone’s life has meaning, no matter what you or others may think. And sometimes it’s hard to see through all the mugginess and fog, but believe me, your life has meaning. Whatever it may be, make it your mission to find it. Make that your daily goal! I dare you.

 

On Refusing to Take Medication

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I avoided medications of all varieties for much of my adult life. When I was 36, I had had too much of my depression and opted to start taking Prozac under the care of a psychiatrist at Redwood City Kaiser. I stayed on anti-depressants alone until I was 47 when I finally acknowledged my bipolar disorder after a suicide attempt and added mood stabilizers to the list of drugs that I was taking. Why did I go so long before I sought relief? Mostly because of a prejudice that had been drummed into my head by my mother, a registered nurse, who believed that medications should be avoided at all costs and that my depression and manic swings were character flaws. When I stopped listening to her, the quality of my life improved and I was able to be the person who I always knew that I was.

Many people feel that people who refuse to take medications should be forced to take them. They cite incidents such as a New York City man who went off his meds and started hitting people with a hammer or a schizophrenic woman who killed her baby in a fast food restaurant’s bathroom. The recitation of such litanies by certain advocates who favor forced medication is stigmatizing because the vast majority of people who go unmedicated don’t commit such crimes. Their struggles are worse than those of us who don’t take them, but it is important to understand their reasons for refusing.

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I was forced to grow up

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At age 20, I was diagnosed with Bipolar I after a manic episode mixed with psychosis which sent me straight to a psychiatric hospital. Well not really a hospital, rather, a rehabilitation center in Georgia. No, I’m not from Georgia nor have ever lived there, but it just so happens that I was visiting a friend when I went “manic”.

But don’t be alarmed, this is not an account of my (mal) treatment in the rehabilitation center or in the jail I was held for 5 days because of all things, my mania began at the Atlanta airport. No, this is about how I was forced to grow up after my experiences. How I could no longer consider myself just a care free college girl with no worries, but rather, an adult woman with a mental health diagnosis, which was tough, at best.

I could not accept my diagnosis, nor did I want to admit that perhaps I needed help from someone other than myself. As a psychology major I should have known better than to fall prey to stigmatizing myself and my diagnosis, I thought “But I’m not crazy.” How ignorant and little of me to think such a thing.

And after yet another stint in a psychiatric ward in the Bay Area, literally three days after returning from Georgia, I was convinced I had Bipolar I. It wasn’t the psychiatrists who convinced me, nor my arsenal of daily meds that did it. No. It was my mood swings. My constant flow between happy and sad. My to and fro, that’s what convinced me I had Bipolar I, and yes I needed help.

I became my own advocate, then. Seeking help and resources in my community. Standing up for myself whenever necessary and becoming an adult, in a manner of speech. I never thought I would have to grow up so fast and so soon, it was in the summer before my Senior year in college.

I felt as though the Universe had screwed me over, big time. And after wallowing in my self-pity, I got it. I understood. Sometimes it takes a huge life change to make you appreciate life better and make you a better person. It’s life’s way of putting you back in your place and giving you perspective. And wow, did I ever get perspectified! Yes, it’s a new word, I just made it up because I can do that. 🙂

 

 

Review: Rethinking Positive Thinking

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Rethinking Positive Thinking: Inside the New Science of Motivation by Gabriele Oettingen

I don’t know how many times I have listened to people in support groups declare that they have decided to apply positive thinking to their lives and then watched them crash and burn. People declare all kinds of objectives for their affirmations. They will lose weight. They will master their drug problem. They will control their anger. They will grow rich. Money will come to them without effort. They will find a millionaire and marry him. They will find a fabulous new job and leave all the cares of the old one behind them. Some goals are realistic. Others are simply fantastic.

Studies show that plain old positive thinking drags people into a depressive rut. Oettingen cites the example of her work examining the attitudes of East Germans versus West Germans. East Germans spend a lot of time thinking positively. They see themselves as rich, as coming into opportunities of a lifetime which change their life situation for the better. But they still end up at bars trying to drink their melancholy away, and they never get anywhere with these plans. West Germans set reasonable objectives, put in the work, and succeed. Even though their goals are less grandiose, they are happier than their former Communist counterparts.

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What I Did to Stay Out of the Hospital

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Today marks the beginning of Mental Health Awareness Month.

I committed myself for five days at South Coast Medical Center (now Mission Laguna Beach) when I was 47 years old and then attended their partial (out-patient) program for another six months. One thing that negatively impressed me were those people for whom hospitalization was a revolving door: they visited several times and probably have been back since. I resolved not to be one of these, so I made a plan for staying out. I have followed and improved upon that plan ever since. That episode in 2005 was the only time I went in, so far. These are the things that I did:

I faithfully reported to my psychiatrist as we arranged.

I kept every one of my appointments.

Coping with bipolar disorder demanded that I manage the symptoms of my illness. They changed from week to week, at first, so dosages and types of medication needed to be adjusted. My psychiatrist also assured me that things would get better which encouraged me to stick to the treatment.

I had not been honest with her or with my two previous psychiatrists about my condition. I had symptoms such as irritability, paranoia, grandiosity, religiosity, and suicidal ideation — among others — which would have changed my diagnosis. Believing that I could handle these on my own, I kept silent about them. Deep down I did not want my diagnosis to change. I am not sure whether this was due to dread of stigma or the different drugs I would have to take. My anti-depressants were enough, I thought, and through what those didn’t erase, I believed I could boot-strap my way. When the hospital psychiatrist finally presented me with a different take on the strange constellation of indicators that betrayed my bizarre state of mind, I actually felt relief.

One of the first things I did was thank my regular psychiatrist for convincing me to check myself into the psych ward. She had saved my life. And she would do it again.

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