Gianna first asked me to write this back in December for the Recovery Page at her blog, Beyond Meds. It was posted there about a month ago, but I thought I'd put it here, too, since this blog is kind of about reclaiming one's life after being misdiagnosed with bipolar disorder and buying into the bullshit for a while before finally seeing the light.
In retrospect, I find it interesting, tragic, and infuriating that a gp and a psychiatrist were able to take an otherwise healthy woman suffering from situation-induced anxiety with a history of two brief periods of depression probably caused by as-yet undiagnosed hypothyroidism, and parlay that into a bipolar diagnosis and a life-sentence of medication-or-else.
I'd always had ups and downs. As a child, I'd been very anxious and very creative. As a writer I'd experienced intense writing highs when I could write for hours at a time and get by with very little sleep, and I'd also experienced intense creative lows where my mind seemed to be mired in muck and I couldn't eke out a single sentence for weeks on end. It never occurred to me to medicalize of pathologize that behavior...it was just part of me and who I was and how I operated.
In the fall of 2003, I went to my gp to get something to help me sleep. I'd taken Ambien before, when I had my creative periods and just couldn't get the wheels to stop turning long enough to fall asleep, and figured that was probably what I needed. At the time, we had a very difficult, anxious family situation going on—my best friend, who was in the process of getting a divorce, had moved in with us, and had promptly met and began an affair with my then-married brother-in-law, putting me smack in the middle between her and his bewildered wife. When I lay down to sleep, I couldn't stop thinking about what was going on and how to fix it. When I went to see my gp for help, my regular doctor wasn't there, and I had to see one of his partners. I was running on maybe three hours of sleep a night for the past week, and felt like I had way too much energy for having had that little amount of sleep.
The doctor asked me if I'd ever been depressed. I recalled two six-week periods, on in 1999 and one in 2001 when I had felt really down, unmotivated, and exhausted. Each of these periods of "depression" resolved on their own without medication. Sure, I'd felt horrible, but I was a young mother stuck at home with two small children and no car (let alone no time to write), which hadn't exactly been part of my career-oriented game plan. The doctor decided that I might be bipolar and asked me how I felt about seeing a psychiatrist. I was a bit surprised, but figured she probably knew what she was talking about and said I would make an appointment. She told me it would probably be a number of weeks or possibly months before I could get in to see anyone and that she would prescribe something for me to take to "bring me down" until I could get an appointment.
She gave me Zyprexa.
She also drew blood for a thyroid test, saying it was possible that my thyroid levels were high.
I managed to get an appointment with a psychiatrist six weeks out. In the meantime, I thought it wouldn't hurt to do some research on bipolar disorder. What I learned did not make me very happy. I read the DSM laundry list of symptoms of bipolar disorder, and realized that I had had all of those symptoms at one time or another. I began going through my journals and noting times when I had been down and times when I had been unusually creative or energetic. No pattern emerged, but there were an awful lot of ups and downs.
A week after my initial appointment with the gp, the thyroid results came back, and I learned that my thyroid levels were low and that I would need to start taking Synthroid. This was no surprise, really, as my mother had been diagnosed with the same thing years ago. But I have to wonder now just how long that had been going on, and whether it might have played a part in those two periods of "depression" I'd experienced a few years earlier.
The Zyprexa took a week or so to kick in, but it did seem to help. By the time I went to see the psychiatrist, I was sleeping better and my anxiety levels had come down somewhat (former best friend had moved in with brother-in-law, so I wasn't having to deal with that situation on a daily basis), though they were still a lot higher than normal. When I finally went to see the psychiatrist, I believed I had educated myself about bipolar disorder, and was fully prepared for him to diagnose me and medicate me. After a 45 minute interview, this man whom I had never met before and knew nothing about me other than my answers to his standardized questions, diagnosed me with bipolar II and told me that I would need to start medication immediately and that I would need to take it forever.
He did not once ask about anything that might be going on in my life.
To his credit, he wasn't too thrilled that the gp had prescribed Zyprexa. "We don't like Zyprexa," he told me, "but I'm sure she was just trying to help." He prescribed Depakote for the mood swings and trazodone (an older antidepressant with the helpful side effect of making one extremely sleepy) to help me sleep.
In my research, I had read that many writers and artists who had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder refused to take medication because it stopped them from being able to create. I told him I was a writer, and I was concerned about my ability to write while on medications. He gave me a condescending look and said, "Depakote won't kill your creativity." I took my prescriptions and dutifully made an appointment to see him again in four weeks.
At my next appointment, I told him I was still feeling a lot of anxiety, although I was sleeping better. He prescribed Lexapro, an antidepressant, because he said it would help with the anxiety and that he was concerned that untreated anxiety might lead to depression.
I swallowed all the propaganda, hook, line, and sinker. I became a student of my moods. When I felt good, I was "hypomanic" and needed to call him and ask him to increase my Depakote. When I felt lousy, I was obviously becoming "depressed" and needed to have more Lexapro. There was no room for normal, human emotions in my illness, for any emotion I felt might be the herald of disaster. My doctor told me on every appointment that the medications were "saving my life" and that if I ever stopped them I would ruin my life.
My Depakote dose went up and up and so did my weight. Within six months I had put on sixty pounds, and within a year I was suffering from terrible pain in my feet from plantar fasciitis, which the foot doctor whose advice I sought told me had been brought on by gaining so much weight so quickly. He prescribed orthotics and stretching exercises, but also told me that it was likely that I would not find a whole lot of relief until I lost some of the weight. I tried the orthotics, I tried the stretching, I tried to lose weight, and finally I submitted to painful cortisone shots, which brought some relief, but alas, only for a few weeks, and then the pain would return.
Pain became my constant companion. It was so bad that many evenings I was in tears. I couldn't be on my feet for more than ten minutes without excruciating pain. Housework had to be done in fits and starts. Grocery shopping became a nightmare, and I had to strategically plan shopping trips that would keep me in just one area of the store for the minimum amount of time. I missed out on taking the children places like the zoo, the science museum, and the amusement park because I just couldn't be on my feet for that long.
Soon after starting the Lexapro, my moods began to cycle rapidly. During my first year on Lexapro, I experienced three depressive episodes and two hypomanic episodes. My doctor took this as validation that being on medications was the right course, because obviously my illness was worsening, and it was a good thing we'd caught it before things really went off the rails.
It never occurred to me that the medications might be the cause of the mood swings.
As the doses of medication increased, my mind started to shut down. Where once I had possessed a rapier wit, now it was all I could do to get the right word out without stuttering. My hands shook and I couldn't do the fine needlework I'd always taken pride in. And worst of all, my verbal abilities disappeared. I couldn't write. I couldn't remember things. I couldn't even find the right words half the time. I also lost all interest in sex, and I found myself unable to care about anything. Life just drifted by, and nothing ever seemed to touch me. In fact, the only time I really felt anything was when my moods cycled up or down.
But I had to keep taking the medications, right? Because if I stopped, I'd "ruin my life", and I was damned lucky that we had caught this problem before things got really out of hand. A doctor had told me so, and he was Educated and Informed, so he had to know what he was talking about, right? After all, he was a professional psychiatrist—an expert on mood disorders--and a professor at a respected university, to boot. I could trust him...right? And after all, my mood swings had become much more frequent and much more severe in recent months. All proof to me that I was doing the right thing.
As time went on I became more and more drugged and disillusioned. I couldn't write anymore so my dreams of writing and publishing novels for a living went down the toilet. By the fall of 2004, over-medicated and overweight, the future no longer seemed bright and full of colour and energy. It looked cold and numb, the colour of ash. And I had pretty much resigned myself to the idea that this is my life now. I have bipolar disorder and I'm lucky to have a life at all.
I tried complaining to my psychiatrist about some of this, but although he listened, I do not think he ever really heard me. And he had an answer for everything:
"I'm concerned about the amount of weight I'm putting on," I told him at one appointment. "When do the risks of carrying around this extra weight outweigh the benefits of taking the medications?"
"You are taking the best medications we have available," he told me, and his manner made me feel like an ungrateful child asking for a second helping of dessert.
"What about going off the medications for a while and seeing what happens?" I persisted, aware that weight loss wasn't going to happen on Depakote—I'd already been trying, and was having no luck.
He gave me a severe look and said, "You are an intelligent woman. Your episodes have been more frequent during the last year, and you know that if you stop taking your medications, you will ruin your life."
Eventually, in the winter of 2005, after months of me pestering him at every visit, he finally agreed to let me try Lamictal. I was very excited at the prospect, because I had read that Lamictal was not as sedating as Depakote—I might actually be able to think and write while on this drug—and it was weight neutral, so I might be able to lose weight as well. I was instructed to cut my Depakote down over a few weeks from 2500 mg to 1000 mg, and then start the Lamictal, then taper the rest of the Depakote after I was up to 100 mg of Lamictal a day. Within three months, if all went well, I would be off the Depakote entirely.
Unfortunately for me, I developed the dreaded Rash, and was told to stop the Lamictal immediately. Cold turkey. I was on 100 mg at the time, and stopped as instructed. A week later I came down with the worst "flu" I'd ever had and was in bed for six weeks with the worst fatigue I had ever felt. I was so exhausted I could barely get off the couch to stagger to the bathroom. I didn't have the energy to make dinner or do laundry, or anything I normally did. My husband had to take over pretty much all the household chores as all I was capable of doing was lying on the couch sleeping 18-20 hours a day. At that time I'd never heard of Lamictal withdrawal, and my doctor had not mentioned anything about the risks or symptoms associated with stopping it so abruptly, and so I assumed I'd had a rotten bout of flu. I know better now.
So the Lamictal experiment had failed, but I was down to only 1000 mg of Depakote, and was beginning to be able to think a bit more clearly. My memory was better and I didn't feel like I was groping for the right words all the time. The shakes had mostly gone away, although I still couldn't do really fine needlework. And I was starting to care about things again. I felt so much better on the lower dose that I told my doctor I wanted to stay there for a while. He agreed.
The turning point came that spring when my husband suffered a severe heart attack. In a cold, numb daze, I dealt with it. I called the ambulance, I called the neighbor to take care of the kids, I drove (with my terrible sense of direction and fear of getting lost) into the big city to a hospital I'd never been to before, and I held it together. I didn't cry. I didn't feel much of anything, actually.
Fortunately, my husband survived. He had a catheterization procedure done, which he came through with flying colours, and was out of the hospital within three days. But I still couldn't feel anything. I couldn't even cry, and I knew that wasn't normal.
At that point, I decided that I'd had enough of being drugged numb. I was completely unable to respond to normal human emotion, and I began to fear that I was not able to respond to my children appropriately. When I told my doctor that I was concerned about the fact that this traumatic, life-changing event had occurred and that I had been unable to react to it, his response was, "Well, the medication protected you."
Yeah. Thanks ever so, doc.
That was my last visit to him. Without having a clue what I was doing, I tapered my medications down over the next month, and by the summer I was off of Depakote and Lexapro. I was still taking trazodone to help me sleep, because I still believed I had bipolar disorder, and that I needed to do everything in my power to stay stable. I embarked upon a program of healthy living—excellent nutrition, supplements, regular bedtimes with trazodone to make sure I got my sleep. I even gave up caffeine. I'd been a regular Diet Coke drinker for years, but I knew that caffeine could mess up my sleep, and I'd had it hammered into my brain for the last year and a half that proper sleep could be the difference between stability and a manic episode. When I was on the medications, caffeine was often the only thing that allowed me to see through the drug fog long enough to get the kids off to school in the mornings, but with the dulling effects of medication gone, I found that I didn't need caffeine any more. For exercise, I started a simple yoga routine because that was about the only thing I could think of that didn't involve impact that would hurt my feet. I found that I enjoyed yoga a lot, and this naturally led me to an interest in meditation, which I added on to the end of my yoga program.
The first week completely off meds was rough. My emotions were all over the map. But I refused to pathologize them. I told myself that I'd had everything deadened for the last year and a half, and that I had to become accustomed to feeling things again. I told myself that I had a year and a half of chemically suppressed emotion that I needed to deal with, so I let myself cry, I let myself feel whatever it was I needed to feel, and embraced the fact that I could feel at all. After that week, things eased up and I began to feel more like my old self.
I began to lose weight slowly, and the yoga had an unexpected benefit—even before I had lost much weight, the pain in my feet began to ease up (although it did not disappear entirely until I had lost thirty of the sixty pounds I'd put on). Soon I was able to go back to my usual activities, and even take short walks.
I was still taking trazodone, and I still believed that I had become that most dangerous of creatures, an Unmedicated Bipolar. Months went by and I was still unable to write. I was afraid that something, either the bipolar disorder or the medications, had damaged my mind, destroyed my creativity. I tried everything to bring it back, but nothing seemed to work. The ability to write seemed to be intact, but it didn't move me that way it once had, there was none of the sparkle I recalled, and I lacked the drive to do the one thing that I had once believed to be my life's purpose.
A couple of years passed. I was still taking trazodone, and I lived in constant fear that I was going to have an "episode" and not be able to control myself. Eventually, the fear got to me and I decided that, knowing how long it takes to see a psychiatrist, it might not be a bad idea to have one on board, "just in case." I found one not too far from my house, and went to see him. Even though I had been stable off medications for nearly three years, he wanted to put me back on medication. I told him I would consider it, but I also told him point blank that I refused to take anything that would make me gain weight or make me stupid. He named three medications—Abilify, Lamictal, and Trileptal. I told him about my past Lamictal problems (the rash, at least, not the withdrawal symptoms, as I still believed it had just been a nasty bout of flu), and he suggested that if we increased the dose much more slowly and without Depakote present that things might go better. He told me to research the medications he had suggested and we would discuss them next time.
However. In my research I came across Phil Dawdy's Furious Seasons, and Gianna's Beyond Meds, and after doing much reading and thinking, I decided that this new psychiatrist had a hell of a lot of nerve suggesting that I ought to be on medication when I'd been completely stable on just trazodone for nearly three years. And in fact, I decided that I didn't want to be on trazodone anymore either, because from what I'd been reading, it just might be responsible for my lack of enthusiasm for writing.
My trazodone taper was a lot smarter than the others. It took me about four months to go from 200 mg a day to nothing. I had headaches for a few days every time I lowered the dose, and I had a couple of weeks somewhere in the middle where I'd have scary flashes of suicidal thoughts. But I persisted, because during this time, I was reading recovery stories and looking into alternative mental health solutions, and realizing that drugs might well have been part of the problem rather than the solution.
In my reading, I also came across some information about the artificial sweetener Aspartame being implicated in mood disorders. When I thought back over my own history, I realized that my mood swings had started in college, soon after I'd turned to diet soda as a study aid. I'd never liked coffee or tea, and didn't want the calories in regular soda, so Diet Coke became my drug of choice. More importantly, those mood swings had stopped when I'd stopped drinking Diet Coke.
As I write this, I've been off mood stabilizers for over three and a half years, and off of trazodone for about six months. My enthusiasm for writing seems to be returning, and I feel better and more stable than I have in years. The mood swings that followed me through college and beyond are gone, and I've felt neither depression nor hypomania since stopping mood stabilizers and aspartame. I am incredibly grateful to Gianna and others who have shared their recovery stories on her site, because if I hadn't found this resource, I might well have listened to that second psychiatrist last year, and allowed him to frighten me back onto the medication merry-go-round.
I no longer live in fear that I am going to lose control or that the Bipolar Monster is going to rear its ugly head and ruin my life. I no longer believe that I have untreated bipolar disorder. I accept the fact that I had symptoms of bipolar disorder, but as more and more time passes with no recurrence of these symptoms, I become more and more convinced that these symptoms were caused by a toxic reaction to Aspartame, and have nothing to do with bipolar disorder.
For a while, I was pretty angry. Angry that drugs like Aspartame could be put into the food supply because they were supposed to be "safe". Angry that I could be diagnosed with a major mental illness so quickly and easily by someone who had never met me. Angry that the diagnostic criteria for this life sentence left no room for life-circumstances and that the doctors I saw never asked about anything beyond those narrow criteria. Angry that my doctors saw medications as the only treatment options available and refused to consider alternatives. And mostly angry at myself, that I bought into the whole thing in the first place, that I listened to doctors without questioning. That I bought into mainstream media perceptions. That I was a sheep. Baa...
But you can't stay angry forever, and my yoga practice has helped me to accept what happened and to make peace with it. I had to go there to get here, and I like where I am now. That which does not kill us can make us stronger...and perhaps wiser, if we are open to learning from it.
Today, I've lost about forty-five of the sixty pounds Depakote packed onto me, and my feet no longer hurt—I can now do some of the higher impact activities I used to enjoy. I'm starting to write again, and rather than feeling angry, I'm starting to feel like I had a pretty lucky escape.
Hopefully reading my story might help someone else start to think and to question...and maybe give them the inspiration to stage their own lucky escape.
Showing posts with label Psychiatrists. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Psychiatrists. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Social Anxiety? Or Just Me?
I quit my quilters' guild. I was supposed to go on Monday night, and I just couldn't deal with sitting in that room with all those women that I don't feel I have anything in common with...except that we all make quilts. Of course, my quilts don't look anything like theirs...mine aren't these pretty, traditional things in country blues and pinks with perfect points and lovely neat blocks. My quilts are abstract-flowing-full-of-rivers-of-color things that look like someone spilled a paintbox and then threw water all over it...
Okay, well I like them!
So anyway, I'm not sure what it is with me...I have a really hard time belonging to groups. Part of it is never feeling like I have anything in common with the people in the group. Part of it is not wanting to commit to anything too far ahead (this comes from the bipolar thing...not knowing if I would be too depressed to get my butt off the couch when push came to shove). Part of it is me being me, which is to say, shy and introverted and just not needing or wanting to have a whole lot of people around me. Crowds irritate me to the extreme. I can't stand that amount of energy around me.
I'm sure my psychiatrist would be happy to diagnose me with Social Anxiety Disorder and put me on Seroquel for life. But what if I'm quite happy with the way I am? What if I've learned to adjust and accommodate for my needs, and know what I need to do to keep myself happy and functional? Is that still a disorder? Or is it just me?
And why should someone else decide that I'm not the way I should be, that I should be more like everyone else, and that I should therefore be medicated?
Writing Prompt: In what ways are you different from the rest of the world? Do you see these differences as strengths, or do you wish you were like everyone else?
Okay, well I like them!
So anyway, I'm not sure what it is with me...I have a really hard time belonging to groups. Part of it is never feeling like I have anything in common with the people in the group. Part of it is not wanting to commit to anything too far ahead (this comes from the bipolar thing...not knowing if I would be too depressed to get my butt off the couch when push came to shove). Part of it is me being me, which is to say, shy and introverted and just not needing or wanting to have a whole lot of people around me. Crowds irritate me to the extreme. I can't stand that amount of energy around me.
I'm sure my psychiatrist would be happy to diagnose me with Social Anxiety Disorder and put me on Seroquel for life. But what if I'm quite happy with the way I am? What if I've learned to adjust and accommodate for my needs, and know what I need to do to keep myself happy and functional? Is that still a disorder? Or is it just me?
And why should someone else decide that I'm not the way I should be, that I should be more like everyone else, and that I should therefore be medicated?
Writing Prompt: In what ways are you different from the rest of the world? Do you see these differences as strengths, or do you wish you were like everyone else?
Friday, July 11, 2008
Trazodone Taper, Part 10.5: Sleep
While tapering off of trazodone has been really good for my mental acuity and creativity, I am still struggling with sleep. I took my last 25 mg of trazodone last Saturday night, and since then I have had a difficult time falling asleep and staying asleep.
Sunday night I tried Sleepytime Tea (by Celestial Seasonings)--the one with valerian and chamomile...which did actually make me sleepy, but not sleepy enough to ignore the fact that I had to get up to go to the bathroom several times because I drank tea at bedtime!
The next few nights it took ages to fall asleep, and it felt like I was awake a good part of the night...although I didn't feel too bad in the morning, so I must have gotten more sleep than it seemed.
I wonder if maybe when I'm not on trazodone, I just don't need as much sleep. I got it beaten into my head by my psychiatrist that I needed to get 8-9 hours a night or I would get hypomanic...but before my diagnosis, I did fine on 7 or 7 1/2 hours. I'll have to play with my bedtime and see what happens.
Last night was actually much better...I think because I made an effort to avoid caffeine after lunch. I fell asleep fairly quickly, but was rudely awakened at 1:30 am by my weather radio telling me we had a severe thunderstorm watch (a watch, for Pete's sake! I think that after 10:00 they should really only have the thing go off if a tornado is bearing down upon my house...anything else, I'd rather sleep through, thank you!). I had no sooner gotten back to sleep when the storm hit, keeping me awake for over an hour.
Writing Prompt: Yesterday I wrote about journal writing rituals, and now I'm thinking about bedtime rituals. Do you have a bedtime ritual? If so, what do you do to get your mind ready for sleep? (If you've got any good ideas, go ahead and post them in comments--I'd be interested to hear what other people are doing to get to sleep!). My kids have a bedtime ritual, and it seems to help them settle down. Me, I don't really have anything other than grab a glass of water, go upstairs, brush teeth, hop into bed and read for fifteen or twenty minutes. Maybe I need to do some yoga or meditation before bed...I think it's a matter of, well, I know I should do this, but...you know.
Sunday night I tried Sleepytime Tea (by Celestial Seasonings)--the one with valerian and chamomile...which did actually make me sleepy, but not sleepy enough to ignore the fact that I had to get up to go to the bathroom several times because I drank tea at bedtime!
The next few nights it took ages to fall asleep, and it felt like I was awake a good part of the night...although I didn't feel too bad in the morning, so I must have gotten more sleep than it seemed.
I wonder if maybe when I'm not on trazodone, I just don't need as much sleep. I got it beaten into my head by my psychiatrist that I needed to get 8-9 hours a night or I would get hypomanic...but before my diagnosis, I did fine on 7 or 7 1/2 hours. I'll have to play with my bedtime and see what happens.
Last night was actually much better...I think because I made an effort to avoid caffeine after lunch. I fell asleep fairly quickly, but was rudely awakened at 1:30 am by my weather radio telling me we had a severe thunderstorm watch (a watch, for Pete's sake! I think that after 10:00 they should really only have the thing go off if a tornado is bearing down upon my house...anything else, I'd rather sleep through, thank you!). I had no sooner gotten back to sleep when the storm hit, keeping me awake for over an hour.
Writing Prompt: Yesterday I wrote about journal writing rituals, and now I'm thinking about bedtime rituals. Do you have a bedtime ritual? If so, what do you do to get your mind ready for sleep? (If you've got any good ideas, go ahead and post them in comments--I'd be interested to hear what other people are doing to get to sleep!). My kids have a bedtime ritual, and it seems to help them settle down. Me, I don't really have anything other than grab a glass of water, go upstairs, brush teeth, hop into bed and read for fifteen or twenty minutes. Maybe I need to do some yoga or meditation before bed...I think it's a matter of, well, I know I should do this, but...you know.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Identity Theft
One of the most insidious effects of my bipolar diagnosis was the way it robbed me of my identity...
I was not suicidal, nor was I psychotic, or even a whole lot out of control. I initially went to my GP because I couldn't sleep. I hadn't slept more than a few hours for nearly a week, and wasn't feeling tired, and I figured that wasn't normal, I ought to be exhausted...so maybe I better get this checked out. I was also under an enormous amount of stress, and my anxiety levels were sky-high due to some extremely stressful Family Bullsh*t that was going on at the time. Did anyone ask about that? No. Instead, I was asked if I'd ever been depressed. And since I said yes (although I'd never been diagnosed or medicated for it), I was sent home with Zyprexa and Ambien, and told I should call a psychiatrist.
This led to an ever-descending spiral of self-doubt. In my reading, I learned that my writing highs--those times when I could just let go and write for hours on end--were actually "hypomania". And those times when I felt like I just loved life and really enjoyed everything I was doing--that was "hypomania", too...so the last two or three years of my life, which had been wonderful, happy years in which I felt productive, and excited about my future, suddenly took on the sinister aspect of an "illness". Which must be "managed." I learned that if I ever felt that way again--exuberant and loving life--that I should talk to my psychiatrist immediately, because I urgently required a "medication adjustment." And that if I didn't have my medications adjusted, the hypomania could steamroll on into full blown "mania" in which I would be completely out of control and need to be hospitalized (even though I had never been close to being "out of control"). I also learned that if I felt just a little bit sad, I needed to consider that a "warning sign" and to talk to my doctor because I might be getting "depressed". Which would require that another medication or three be added to my "cocktail" in order to prevent me from becoming so ill that I might kill myself (even though I'd never really considered that seriously before). Overnight, my perception of myself went from creative, confident and happy to "very sick and in need of medication for the rest of my life."
For the next two years, I would be haunted by the question, "How much of my personality is me and how much is it?" The answer, according to my psychiatrist, was that a lot of my drive, my energy, my productivity, and my creative whirlwinds could be attributed to it. So I figured whatever was left over once the medications were working, that was probably the real me. And since I lost my ability to think, laugh, create, write and enjoy life once I was medicated, I began to think that the real me wasn't worth very much, was she? She was actually a hopeless, dull-witted, exhausted lump who couldn't even speak without stumbling over her words, and didn't want to do anything but sit on the couch.
Life was pretty dismal for those two years. I no longer had the capacity to enjoy life, and the medications I was taking actually made me more sick. My moods began to cycle, and within a year I'd had three "episodes" each requiring that my medications be adjusted (read "increased") and that new medications be added. My doctor pointed this out to me as proof of just how sick I was.
I am so glad that I retained enough clarity and sense of self to say Enough. Unfortunately, it took a near-tragedy to shake me back to my senses (my husband's heart attack and my inability to respond to it in any sort of normal way). But however it happened, I did finally see the light and realize that my misplaced trust in psychiatry was only making me sicker, and that there had probably been nothing wrong with me in the first place that a little therapy or education in stress management wouldn't have taken care of.
I stopped taking medications over a very short period, probably too short, but then I didn't have much in the way of medical support--my psychiatrist's view of stopping medications was that it would be "stupid" and that I would "ruin my life". He didn't say It would be a bad idea, but if you're hell bent on doing it, here's how to do it safely, no, he just said Don't.
When I came off of meds, I was a mess. I had no idea who I really was anymore. After being told that all the things I had loved about myself were due to my illness, my self-confidence had taken a serious hit. I was terribly overweight and out of shape and dreadfully ashamed of myself for having let myself get into that condition. It took a long time for the anger to fade, for me to accept what I'd allowed to be done to me. And in some ways, I think I am still working on that acceptance, because the anger is still smouldering away in there.
After I was off most of the drugs, my sense of self, my sense of humor, and my ability to enjoy life slowly returned over a period of a few months. It took a longer time for my creativity and my confidence in myself as an artist to return--after all, I'd been told that all of my artistic achievements were actually manifestations of my "illness". For a long time I wondered if my drive to create--to write and to "make stuff"--would ever come back, or if the medications had damaged my brain in some subtle way and I'd never be able to create again--or worse, even want to.
Thank goodness I took my life back into my own hands. I dread to think where I would be now if I hadn't. I certainly wouldn't be myself.
Writing Prompt: Has there ever been a time in your life when your identity, your sense of self, was threatened by a label, an event, or a person/group? How did you deal with it and in what ways did this experience change you? If you've never experienced a threat to your sense of self, what sort of event do you think it would take to do this? Where are your vulnerabilities?
I was not suicidal, nor was I psychotic, or even a whole lot out of control. I initially went to my GP because I couldn't sleep. I hadn't slept more than a few hours for nearly a week, and wasn't feeling tired, and I figured that wasn't normal, I ought to be exhausted...so maybe I better get this checked out. I was also under an enormous amount of stress, and my anxiety levels were sky-high due to some extremely stressful Family Bullsh*t that was going on at the time. Did anyone ask about that? No. Instead, I was asked if I'd ever been depressed. And since I said yes (although I'd never been diagnosed or medicated for it), I was sent home with Zyprexa and Ambien, and told I should call a psychiatrist.
This led to an ever-descending spiral of self-doubt. In my reading, I learned that my writing highs--those times when I could just let go and write for hours on end--were actually "hypomania". And those times when I felt like I just loved life and really enjoyed everything I was doing--that was "hypomania", too...so the last two or three years of my life, which had been wonderful, happy years in which I felt productive, and excited about my future, suddenly took on the sinister aspect of an "illness". Which must be "managed." I learned that if I ever felt that way again--exuberant and loving life--that I should talk to my psychiatrist immediately, because I urgently required a "medication adjustment." And that if I didn't have my medications adjusted, the hypomania could steamroll on into full blown "mania" in which I would be completely out of control and need to be hospitalized (even though I had never been close to being "out of control"). I also learned that if I felt just a little bit sad, I needed to consider that a "warning sign" and to talk to my doctor because I might be getting "depressed". Which would require that another medication or three be added to my "cocktail" in order to prevent me from becoming so ill that I might kill myself (even though I'd never really considered that seriously before). Overnight, my perception of myself went from creative, confident and happy to "very sick and in need of medication for the rest of my life."
For the next two years, I would be haunted by the question, "How much of my personality is me and how much is it?" The answer, according to my psychiatrist, was that a lot of my drive, my energy, my productivity, and my creative whirlwinds could be attributed to it. So I figured whatever was left over once the medications were working, that was probably the real me. And since I lost my ability to think, laugh, create, write and enjoy life once I was medicated, I began to think that the real me wasn't worth very much, was she? She was actually a hopeless, dull-witted, exhausted lump who couldn't even speak without stumbling over her words, and didn't want to do anything but sit on the couch.
Life was pretty dismal for those two years. I no longer had the capacity to enjoy life, and the medications I was taking actually made me more sick. My moods began to cycle, and within a year I'd had three "episodes" each requiring that my medications be adjusted (read "increased") and that new medications be added. My doctor pointed this out to me as proof of just how sick I was.
I am so glad that I retained enough clarity and sense of self to say Enough. Unfortunately, it took a near-tragedy to shake me back to my senses (my husband's heart attack and my inability to respond to it in any sort of normal way). But however it happened, I did finally see the light and realize that my misplaced trust in psychiatry was only making me sicker, and that there had probably been nothing wrong with me in the first place that a little therapy or education in stress management wouldn't have taken care of.
I stopped taking medications over a very short period, probably too short, but then I didn't have much in the way of medical support--my psychiatrist's view of stopping medications was that it would be "stupid" and that I would "ruin my life". He didn't say It would be a bad idea, but if you're hell bent on doing it, here's how to do it safely, no, he just said Don't.
When I came off of meds, I was a mess. I had no idea who I really was anymore. After being told that all the things I had loved about myself were due to my illness, my self-confidence had taken a serious hit. I was terribly overweight and out of shape and dreadfully ashamed of myself for having let myself get into that condition. It took a long time for the anger to fade, for me to accept what I'd allowed to be done to me. And in some ways, I think I am still working on that acceptance, because the anger is still smouldering away in there.
After I was off most of the drugs, my sense of self, my sense of humor, and my ability to enjoy life slowly returned over a period of a few months. It took a longer time for my creativity and my confidence in myself as an artist to return--after all, I'd been told that all of my artistic achievements were actually manifestations of my "illness". For a long time I wondered if my drive to create--to write and to "make stuff"--would ever come back, or if the medications had damaged my brain in some subtle way and I'd never be able to create again--or worse, even want to.
Thank goodness I took my life back into my own hands. I dread to think where I would be now if I hadn't. I certainly wouldn't be myself.
Writing Prompt: Has there ever been a time in your life when your identity, your sense of self, was threatened by a label, an event, or a person/group? How did you deal with it and in what ways did this experience change you? If you've never experienced a threat to your sense of self, what sort of event do you think it would take to do this? Where are your vulnerabilities?
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Thoughts on Wanting Wellness
Susan, the Bipolar Wellness Writer had an interesting post up yesterday about wanting wellness. Her key question to people who are on medication for bipolar disorder or depression but who are not moving in the direction of wellness is "What are you doing besides taking medication?"
It's a good question because so many things feed into our health and well-being, and taking medication is only one of them. I have a friend who has been battling depression on and off for most of his adult life. He takes medication when the depressions come on but other than that has done nothing to change his lifestyle, which is incredibly stressful both in terms of his emotional well-being and his physical health. It is frustrating to watch him lose hope and lose heart when there is so much else that he could be doing for himself. But he is not willing to make any of the changes that might help him.
Or is it that he is not able to make those changes?
I am reminded of the place I was in three or four years ago. Bipolar medications made me so ill that I was unable to do the things I knew I should be doing. I had no energy, no motivation, no clarity of thought. The things that would have been good for my body--like eating more healthfully and exercising--were beyond me, as I literally had not the energy to do them. Planning healthy meals was an exercise that was beyond my mental capabilities...and cooking healthy meals was beyond me physically--because of the 60 lbs I had put on (due to the medications) I was suffering from painful tendonitis in my feet, and was unable to stand for more than ten minutes at a time. The things that would have been good for my spirit were also beyond me--I was too mentally dulled to do much of anything. Writing would have helped me a lot, as that is the way I process things and gain insight...but Depakote took that ability away from me.
I wanted wellness badly at that point. I wanted to have the energy and clarity to care for my family, I wanted to be able to do the creative things I'd always done. But I was not able to do any of the things that would have moved me in that direction. Because I trusted my doctor, I believed that the choice was medication or illness and chaos. There was no middle ground, and I was not encouraged to do things that might minimize the amount of medication he thought I needed. I was not able to make healthy decisions for myself until I decided to trust myself and stop the medications that were making me so sick.
I think that our doctors need to take more responsibility for making sure that we have the ability to pursue wellness. Drugging us into oblivion may make them feel safer, but it is not conducive to wellness.
Writing Prompt: The pursuit of wellness often requires us to make sacrifices. Sometimes it's something as simple as sacrificing some of your hard-earned free time to exercise when you'd really rather be doing something else, or perhaps sacrificing your favorite foods because you know they are not good for you. Sometimes these sacrifices have a far deeper impact, both on yourself and the people around you--like cutting toxic relationships out of your life or making a decision to pursue an alternative treatment for an illness that those around you may not approve of. What have you sacrificed in your pursuit of wellness?
It's a good question because so many things feed into our health and well-being, and taking medication is only one of them. I have a friend who has been battling depression on and off for most of his adult life. He takes medication when the depressions come on but other than that has done nothing to change his lifestyle, which is incredibly stressful both in terms of his emotional well-being and his physical health. It is frustrating to watch him lose hope and lose heart when there is so much else that he could be doing for himself. But he is not willing to make any of the changes that might help him.
Or is it that he is not able to make those changes?
I am reminded of the place I was in three or four years ago. Bipolar medications made me so ill that I was unable to do the things I knew I should be doing. I had no energy, no motivation, no clarity of thought. The things that would have been good for my body--like eating more healthfully and exercising--were beyond me, as I literally had not the energy to do them. Planning healthy meals was an exercise that was beyond my mental capabilities...and cooking healthy meals was beyond me physically--because of the 60 lbs I had put on (due to the medications) I was suffering from painful tendonitis in my feet, and was unable to stand for more than ten minutes at a time. The things that would have been good for my spirit were also beyond me--I was too mentally dulled to do much of anything. Writing would have helped me a lot, as that is the way I process things and gain insight...but Depakote took that ability away from me.
I wanted wellness badly at that point. I wanted to have the energy and clarity to care for my family, I wanted to be able to do the creative things I'd always done. But I was not able to do any of the things that would have moved me in that direction. Because I trusted my doctor, I believed that the choice was medication or illness and chaos. There was no middle ground, and I was not encouraged to do things that might minimize the amount of medication he thought I needed. I was not able to make healthy decisions for myself until I decided to trust myself and stop the medications that were making me so sick.
I think that our doctors need to take more responsibility for making sure that we have the ability to pursue wellness. Drugging us into oblivion may make them feel safer, but it is not conducive to wellness.
Writing Prompt: The pursuit of wellness often requires us to make sacrifices. Sometimes it's something as simple as sacrificing some of your hard-earned free time to exercise when you'd really rather be doing something else, or perhaps sacrificing your favorite foods because you know they are not good for you. Sometimes these sacrifices have a far deeper impact, both on yourself and the people around you--like cutting toxic relationships out of your life or making a decision to pursue an alternative treatment for an illness that those around you may not approve of. What have you sacrificed in your pursuit of wellness?
Monday, June 23, 2008
You Are What You Eat
Naturalgal has been running a series on foods that are healthy and foods to avoid. Reading her work and talking with my psychiatrist the other day got me thinking...
I find it interesting that my psychiatrist has never asked me about my diet. Nor does he have any interest in which supplements I am taking. Now, admittedly I'm not taking anything exotic, but so many substances that are marketed as "supplements" have the potential to cause harm or interact with psych meds that I find it curious that he does not ask.
It strikes me that part of the reason most psychiatrists don't want to look too closely at diet is that the typical western diet is so bad for you that for most people, eating healthier would mean a huge lifestyle change. And let's face it, it's easier to get people to take a pill every day than it is to get them to change their habits.
But all of the brain chemicals involved in psychiatry's pet theory of chemical imbalance--namely the neurotransmitters like serotonin and dopamine--are made by the body from the materials it has at hand, meaning whatever has gone into the mouth recently. And so it makes sense to me (although I am not a biochemist or a nutritionist) that if you are giving your body junk for building blocks, the quality (and quantity) of the things it can make from those building blocks may not be optimal.
Looking at all the junk that's out there on the shelves at the grocery store, it amazes me that the average human lifespan keeps increasing. Our bodies are extremely resilient, and they'll keep running for a long time, even if we do fill them with crap. But damage is occurring whether we notice it or not.
Maybe if our bodies just balked and stop performing when we ate junk--like a car with a gas tank full of water--then we'd all be a lot more mindful about what we put in our mouths.
Writing Prompt: While our bodies need good food to run optimally, our minds/souls/spirits also need to be nourished. What things do you do to nourish your spirit and keep it healthy? Could you do more? Are there things you'd like to try but haven't? What things get in the way of nourishing yourself?
I find it interesting that my psychiatrist has never asked me about my diet. Nor does he have any interest in which supplements I am taking. Now, admittedly I'm not taking anything exotic, but so many substances that are marketed as "supplements" have the potential to cause harm or interact with psych meds that I find it curious that he does not ask.
It strikes me that part of the reason most psychiatrists don't want to look too closely at diet is that the typical western diet is so bad for you that for most people, eating healthier would mean a huge lifestyle change. And let's face it, it's easier to get people to take a pill every day than it is to get them to change their habits.
But all of the brain chemicals involved in psychiatry's pet theory of chemical imbalance--namely the neurotransmitters like serotonin and dopamine--are made by the body from the materials it has at hand, meaning whatever has gone into the mouth recently. And so it makes sense to me (although I am not a biochemist or a nutritionist) that if you are giving your body junk for building blocks, the quality (and quantity) of the things it can make from those building blocks may not be optimal.
Looking at all the junk that's out there on the shelves at the grocery store, it amazes me that the average human lifespan keeps increasing. Our bodies are extremely resilient, and they'll keep running for a long time, even if we do fill them with crap. But damage is occurring whether we notice it or not.
Maybe if our bodies just balked and stop performing when we ate junk--like a car with a gas tank full of water--then we'd all be a lot more mindful about what we put in our mouths.
Writing Prompt: While our bodies need good food to run optimally, our minds/souls/spirits also need to be nourished. What things do you do to nourish your spirit and keep it healthy? Could you do more? Are there things you'd like to try but haven't? What things get in the way of nourishing yourself?
Thursday, June 19, 2008
A Victory of Sorts
I went to see my psychiatrist, Dr. L., yesterday. We are on a 3-month check-in schedule right now, with me now off all meds except trazodone, and having been stable for the past four years.
It was actually a good visit. I was afraid I might be feeling rather hostile and bad-attitudinal, especially with all the feelings that my art-journaling experiment the other day stirred up. But I was in such a good mood yesterday when I woke up that I was quite well behaved (give that woman a cookie!).
He asked me what I was currently taking, and I told him I had cut my trazodone down from 200 mg to 50 mg since my last visit, and he was fine with that.
I asked about the aspartame connection and whether or not we ever get to talk about undiagnosing me, or misdiagnosis. He said not really, because regardless of the cause, I did have all the symptoms of a manic episode, and I have had several depressions. Neither of which I would deny, because, well, they did happen. However, he did concede that given my sensitivity to medications it is certainly a possibility that aspartame contributed to my mood issues. And he added that given what we are learning about different food additives and some of the effects they can have on people, it would not surprise him if aspartame was at least partially responsible.
So I felt like that was a victory of sorts: he listened to me, he heard me, and he admitted that I could be right.
And he didn't once mention Abilify!
It was actually a good visit. I was afraid I might be feeling rather hostile and bad-attitudinal, especially with all the feelings that my art-journaling experiment the other day stirred up. But I was in such a good mood yesterday when I woke up that I was quite well behaved (give that woman a cookie!).
He asked me what I was currently taking, and I told him I had cut my trazodone down from 200 mg to 50 mg since my last visit, and he was fine with that.
I asked about the aspartame connection and whether or not we ever get to talk about undiagnosing me, or misdiagnosis. He said not really, because regardless of the cause, I did have all the symptoms of a manic episode, and I have had several depressions. Neither of which I would deny, because, well, they did happen. However, he did concede that given my sensitivity to medications it is certainly a possibility that aspartame contributed to my mood issues. And he added that given what we are learning about different food additives and some of the effects they can have on people, it would not surprise him if aspartame was at least partially responsible.
So I felt like that was a victory of sorts: he listened to me, he heard me, and he admitted that I could be right.
And he didn't once mention Abilify!
Friday, May 16, 2008
Hope
Hope is something there is precious little of in the mental health system. Once you are labeled with a diagnosis of bipolar disorder, you are told that you are going to need to take medication for the rest of your life. That you have a lifelong condition, and that although you may have periods of stability between episodes, it is not something that ever goes away. You are told that you will ruin your life if you don't take your medication. And you are told that the side effects from the medications just aren't that important in light of the alternative--losing your sanity. Oh, there are things you can do to help--you can chart your moods diligently and look for patterns...you can make sure you get enough sleep...you can eat right and exercise...you can get therapy...but even if you do all of those things, there's still basically no hope. You will be saddled with this illness for the rest of your life.
Unfortunately, once you get into the mental health system and start believing these things about yourself, what they've told you becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. And rather than look for different answers when the medications they give you makes you worse, they nod knowingly and tell you that this is the natural course of the illness, and isn't it a good thing you started taking medication when you did. Think how much worse it would be if you hadn't!
But there is hope out there. There are people out there looking for alternative answers and treatments--and finding them. And there are many of us who were misdiagnosed or overdiagnosed. I've been reading a lot about hope lately, and in my readings, I think I've found some of my own.
When I was in college--about the same time I started showing mild symptoms of bipolar disorder--I went on a diet. Here's the thing. I needed to study. I needed to work. I needed caffeine to stay awake. But I hated coffee. For the first year of college, Mountain Dew was my drug of choice. But it didn't take long to notice that I was packing on the pounds (C'mon, Jazz, six cans a day, what did you expect?) Hence the diet. Which led to the Diet Coke. Which led to me consuming vast quantities of aspartame--six or more cans a day, for years on end. Which continued until--wait for it--the day I went off the bipolar meds, and decided I was going to start taking proper care of myself. Aspartame, I have learned, can cause all of the symptoms I experienced, and more.
Coincidence? Maybe. Irrelevant? Possibly. But I'd prefer to think of it as extremely relevant, considering the fact that I have been more stable in the three years since I stopped taking medication and stopped consuming aspartame than I have ever been.
It gives me hope.
Unfortunately, once you get into the mental health system and start believing these things about yourself, what they've told you becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. And rather than look for different answers when the medications they give you makes you worse, they nod knowingly and tell you that this is the natural course of the illness, and isn't it a good thing you started taking medication when you did. Think how much worse it would be if you hadn't!
But there is hope out there. There are people out there looking for alternative answers and treatments--and finding them. And there are many of us who were misdiagnosed or overdiagnosed. I've been reading a lot about hope lately, and in my readings, I think I've found some of my own.
When I was in college--about the same time I started showing mild symptoms of bipolar disorder--I went on a diet. Here's the thing. I needed to study. I needed to work. I needed caffeine to stay awake. But I hated coffee. For the first year of college, Mountain Dew was my drug of choice. But it didn't take long to notice that I was packing on the pounds (C'mon, Jazz, six cans a day, what did you expect?) Hence the diet. Which led to the Diet Coke. Which led to me consuming vast quantities of aspartame--six or more cans a day, for years on end. Which continued until--wait for it--the day I went off the bipolar meds, and decided I was going to start taking proper care of myself. Aspartame, I have learned, can cause all of the symptoms I experienced, and more.
Coincidence? Maybe. Irrelevant? Possibly. But I'd prefer to think of it as extremely relevant, considering the fact that I have been more stable in the three years since I stopped taking medication and stopped consuming aspartame than I have ever been.
It gives me hope.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
What To Do About This Pesky Diagnosis
In the nearly three years since I stopped taking most of my psych meds I've been trying to come to terms with the bipolar diagnosis I've been handed and figure out what it is I really need to do about it. The way I see it, there are a number of options...
1. Embrace the current paradigm of mental illness and take the damn meds. Been there, done that, and discovered that psychiatry has little to offer me besides a chemical cage, which I'm not particularly enamored with, thanks ever so. Mood stabilizers did not seem to stop my mood swings, and antidepressants reduced the time between episodes to months rather than years.
2. Deny the diagnosis--it was all a Big Mistake. But then I have to take full personal responsibility for my actions during the Big Mania, and that would make me a Horrible Person. And since I cringe and shudder in retrospect, I have a feeling I'm not a Horrible Person. Not really.
3. Ignore the diagnosis and go along my merry way. Except that it isn't just me I have to think about. I have a husband and kids, and if I go off the rails again, it's not just me that will suffer. So that seems a bit irresponsible.
4. Accept the diagnosis, but reject the current paradigm of mental illness, and do all I can to preserve stability. This is a lot of work, because it involves a lot of self-monitoring, self-awareness, and Being Honest with Myself. It also involves being able to say, "Okay, this isn't working, maybe I do need meds on a short-term basis." But if it keeps me off medication, then the work is definitely worth it.
And the fifth and only acceptable alternative, which both Gianna (Psychiatric Drug Withdrawal and Recovery) and Susan (Bipolar Wellness Writer) pointed out in their comments on yesterday's post, the reading of which helped me to finally be able to articulate:
5. Accept that I did once fit the criteria for a bipolar diagnosis, but that I have healed myself and that the diagnosis no longer fits. Of course, my doctor will not agree with this assessment. He will tell me that I'm a train wreck waiting to happen. He would, after all, like to get me hooked on his pet drug, Abilify.
In the spirit of continuing my healing journey, I am starting a more focused writing program, something that will help me examine specific issues rather than just my usual Daily Bitch session. I'm planning to use Julia Cameron's "Vein of Gold", and Deena Metzger's "Writing for Your Life."
It's cheaper than therapy, at any rate, and in my experience, writing is a very powerful healing tool.
1. Embrace the current paradigm of mental illness and take the damn meds. Been there, done that, and discovered that psychiatry has little to offer me besides a chemical cage, which I'm not particularly enamored with, thanks ever so. Mood stabilizers did not seem to stop my mood swings, and antidepressants reduced the time between episodes to months rather than years.
2. Deny the diagnosis--it was all a Big Mistake. But then I have to take full personal responsibility for my actions during the Big Mania, and that would make me a Horrible Person. And since I cringe and shudder in retrospect, I have a feeling I'm not a Horrible Person. Not really.
3. Ignore the diagnosis and go along my merry way. Except that it isn't just me I have to think about. I have a husband and kids, and if I go off the rails again, it's not just me that will suffer. So that seems a bit irresponsible.
4. Accept the diagnosis, but reject the current paradigm of mental illness, and do all I can to preserve stability. This is a lot of work, because it involves a lot of self-monitoring, self-awareness, and Being Honest with Myself. It also involves being able to say, "Okay, this isn't working, maybe I do need meds on a short-term basis." But if it keeps me off medication, then the work is definitely worth it.
And the fifth and only acceptable alternative, which both Gianna (Psychiatric Drug Withdrawal and Recovery) and Susan (Bipolar Wellness Writer) pointed out in their comments on yesterday's post, the reading of which helped me to finally be able to articulate:
5. Accept that I did once fit the criteria for a bipolar diagnosis, but that I have healed myself and that the diagnosis no longer fits. Of course, my doctor will not agree with this assessment. He will tell me that I'm a train wreck waiting to happen. He would, after all, like to get me hooked on his pet drug, Abilify.
In the spirit of continuing my healing journey, I am starting a more focused writing program, something that will help me examine specific issues rather than just my usual Daily Bitch session. I'm planning to use Julia Cameron's "Vein of Gold", and Deena Metzger's "Writing for Your Life."
It's cheaper than therapy, at any rate, and in my experience, writing is a very powerful healing tool.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
The Path to Wellness, Part Two: The Ice Princess
Something had to change.
It took a near-disaster to make me see that. The Chief had a heart attack at age forty (three years ago). I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. His father died of heart disease at 62, and his older brother had his first heart attack at 38.
The people who took care of him were amazing--within 40 minutes of my 911 call, they had transported him to the local hospital, determined that he should be sent elsewhere, air-lifted him to another hospital, and got him in surgery, where they placed three stents in his heart. He had two coronary arteries that were completely blocked. The doctor told him one of them was referred to as the "widowmaker" because 40% of the people who go in to the hospital with a blockage in that artery do not come out.
While this was going on, I had to find someone to take care of the kids and then figure out how to get myself to a hospital I'd never been to in the heart of downtown Minneapolis (eeeeeeep!). Thanks to my wonderful neighbor, who didn't think I ought to be driving under those circumstances, I didn't have to drive myself.
Within three days, the Chief was back home with a fistful of pills, a schedule for cardiac rehab, a new diet, and three months off work. I was terrified when they released him so quickly. He'd just had a heart attack, after all! At night I would lie awake, listening to him breathe, afraid to fall asleep in case he stopped.
Through all of this, I did not, could not, cry. I called myself the Ice Princess, because I just couldn't feel anything. I mentioned this to my psychiatrist. He said, "Well, the medications protected you! That's a good thing." Yeah. Right.
Something had to change, all right. I had to get off the damned drugs.
It took a near-disaster to make me see that. The Chief had a heart attack at age forty (three years ago). I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. His father died of heart disease at 62, and his older brother had his first heart attack at 38.
The people who took care of him were amazing--within 40 minutes of my 911 call, they had transported him to the local hospital, determined that he should be sent elsewhere, air-lifted him to another hospital, and got him in surgery, where they placed three stents in his heart. He had two coronary arteries that were completely blocked. The doctor told him one of them was referred to as the "widowmaker" because 40% of the people who go in to the hospital with a blockage in that artery do not come out.
While this was going on, I had to find someone to take care of the kids and then figure out how to get myself to a hospital I'd never been to in the heart of downtown Minneapolis (eeeeeeep!). Thanks to my wonderful neighbor, who didn't think I ought to be driving under those circumstances, I didn't have to drive myself.
Within three days, the Chief was back home with a fistful of pills, a schedule for cardiac rehab, a new diet, and three months off work. I was terrified when they released him so quickly. He'd just had a heart attack, after all! At night I would lie awake, listening to him breathe, afraid to fall asleep in case he stopped.
Through all of this, I did not, could not, cry. I called myself the Ice Princess, because I just couldn't feel anything. I mentioned this to my psychiatrist. He said, "Well, the medications protected you! That's a good thing." Yeah. Right.
Something had to change, all right. I had to get off the damned drugs.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
The Fun Police
Seems like it's been all doom and gloom for the last week or so...we need a bit of Fun...but don't let Canis Feisticus know, because she takes her role as The Fun Police extremely seriously.
Canis Feisticus hasn't always had this role...she used to pounce on butterflies, chase birds, and disrupt ants' nests. Several times she came inside brushing her face with her paw, and when I looked more closely, I could see hundreds of ants crawling all over her whiskers. But last year, when she turned two, she suddenly stopped acting like a puppy and started to take life more seriously.
Unfortunately, like many males I know, Canis Dafticus is a bit slower in maturation department. He still takes great joy in pouncing upon anything that moves, trying to get under the fence to the neighbors' dog (one of those fluffy little lap-dogs, which I am sure he thinks is a rabbit), and falling over from dizziness whilst engaged in the never-ending pursuit of his own tail.
But that's okay, because it gives Canis Feisticus something to do. If it appears, even for one minute, that Canis Dafticus is having Too Much Fun, along comes his sister to put him in his place.
Canis Feisticus has a number of tools in her arsenal. There is the grab-the-boy-by-his-collar-and-don't-let-go move, which is generally not too successful, as both dogs wear break-away collars. There is the get-the-boy-in-trouble-with-Mom move, which I detailed last week. And there is the most annoying howl-until-the-boy-stops-enjoying-life-so-much move, which is okay when they are outside, but gets a bit much at 6:00 on a Saturday morning.
Canis Feisticus doesn't limit her policing activities to her brother, either. Oh, no. If the rest of the family seems to be having Too Much Fun, she puts herself right in the middle of everything and begins howling. If the Chief decides to wrestle with the Barrister, or tickle Little Mouse, she's right in there, making sure nobody has Too Much Fun.
Too Much Fun, after all, can be dangerous for your health. Hell, I've had a psychiatrist increase my medication because he thought I was having Too Much Fun. It's lucky that we have Canis Feisticus to keep us all under control...otherwise we might all have to be medicated.
Canis Feisticus hasn't always had this role...she used to pounce on butterflies, chase birds, and disrupt ants' nests. Several times she came inside brushing her face with her paw, and when I looked more closely, I could see hundreds of ants crawling all over her whiskers. But last year, when she turned two, she suddenly stopped acting like a puppy and started to take life more seriously.
Unfortunately, like many males I know, Canis Dafticus is a bit slower in maturation department. He still takes great joy in pouncing upon anything that moves, trying to get under the fence to the neighbors' dog (one of those fluffy little lap-dogs, which I am sure he thinks is a rabbit), and falling over from dizziness whilst engaged in the never-ending pursuit of his own tail.
But that's okay, because it gives Canis Feisticus something to do. If it appears, even for one minute, that Canis Dafticus is having Too Much Fun, along comes his sister to put him in his place.
Canis Feisticus has a number of tools in her arsenal. There is the grab-the-boy-by-his-collar-and-don't-let-go move, which is generally not too successful, as both dogs wear break-away collars. There is the get-the-boy-in-trouble-with-Mom move, which I detailed last week. And there is the most annoying howl-until-the-boy-stops-enjoying-life-so-much move, which is okay when they are outside, but gets a bit much at 6:00 on a Saturday morning.
Canis Feisticus doesn't limit her policing activities to her brother, either. Oh, no. If the rest of the family seems to be having Too Much Fun, she puts herself right in the middle of everything and begins howling. If the Chief decides to wrestle with the Barrister, or tickle Little Mouse, she's right in there, making sure nobody has Too Much Fun.
Too Much Fun, after all, can be dangerous for your health. Hell, I've had a psychiatrist increase my medication because he thought I was having Too Much Fun. It's lucky that we have Canis Feisticus to keep us all under control...otherwise we might all have to be medicated.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Psychiatrists Say the Darndest Things
My first psychiatrist was a short, dumpy little guy from somewhere in the middle east. He is a well-respected psychiatrist, and has impressive credentials. We shall call him Dr. F. I will not divulge here what the "F" actually stands for, but I'm sure you all have active imaginations.
On my first visit, while discussing medications:
Me: I'm a writer, and I've heard a lot about these meds making it difficult to do anything creative.
Dr. F: Oh, don't worry, Depakote won't kill your creativity.
On a later visit, twenty pounds heavier, and expressing my concerns about the side effects I was experiencing on Depakote:
Me: I'm concerned about side effects...I've noticed that my mind doesn't seem to functioning at its normal clip. I'm having trouble multitasking, I can't write anymore, and I've put on quite a lot of weight.
Dr. F: Depakote doesn't do that.
Me: All the same, I was wondering if there was some other medication I could try. What about lithium?
Dr. F: You wouldn't like lithium. Besides, you're already on the very best medications we have.
Me: Well, I really don't like the way they make me feel.
Dr. F: You are an intelligent woman. You know that you need to take these medications. If you're having issues with that, you should be in therapy.
On an even later visit, after having put on a total of forty pounds in only a few months:
Me: I'm really concerned about the amount of weight I've put on.
Dr. F: Well, you need to watch what you're eating. If you eat less, you could probably lose all that weight without even having to exercise.
At my next visit, The Scale appeared in his office, and I was subjected to the additional shame of having to step on it at every visit thereafter. As if I wasn't already painfully aware that my size 6 body had ballooned to a 14, and I could barely stand to look at myself in the mirror.
Another visit, now sixty pounds heavier than when I started:
Me: I'm concerned about the amount of weight I've put on. At what point do the health risks of being overweight become more serious than the risks of not being on medications?
Dr. F: You need to be taking your medications. The risks of being overweight aren't nearly as great as the risk of you becoming hypomanic again.
Me: I've put on sixty pounds in the last year. That can't be healthy. My feet hurt all the time, so I can't even exercise.
Dr. F: I may not have been entirely honest with you about the side effects of Depakote...
Me: Well, what about trying a lower dose? Or stopping it entirely?
Dr. F: If you stop taking your medications, you will ruin your life.
That was my last visit with Dr. F.
How am I supposed to be a partner in my own health care when my doctor won't be straight with me about the risks and side effects of the medications he insists I take?
I have a new psychiatrist now. His name is Dr. L. I haven't come up with anything snarky to call him yet, because so far he's been up front with me, answered my questions, and hasn't made any dire prophecies concerning my currently unmedicated future.
Time will tell, eh?
On my first visit, while discussing medications:
Me: I'm a writer, and I've heard a lot about these meds making it difficult to do anything creative.
Dr. F: Oh, don't worry, Depakote won't kill your creativity.
On a later visit, twenty pounds heavier, and expressing my concerns about the side effects I was experiencing on Depakote:
Me: I'm concerned about side effects...I've noticed that my mind doesn't seem to functioning at its normal clip. I'm having trouble multitasking, I can't write anymore, and I've put on quite a lot of weight.
Dr. F: Depakote doesn't do that.
Me: All the same, I was wondering if there was some other medication I could try. What about lithium?
Dr. F: You wouldn't like lithium. Besides, you're already on the very best medications we have.
Me: Well, I really don't like the way they make me feel.
Dr. F: You are an intelligent woman. You know that you need to take these medications. If you're having issues with that, you should be in therapy.
On an even later visit, after having put on a total of forty pounds in only a few months:
Me: I'm really concerned about the amount of weight I've put on.
Dr. F: Well, you need to watch what you're eating. If you eat less, you could probably lose all that weight without even having to exercise.
At my next visit, The Scale appeared in his office, and I was subjected to the additional shame of having to step on it at every visit thereafter. As if I wasn't already painfully aware that my size 6 body had ballooned to a 14, and I could barely stand to look at myself in the mirror.
Another visit, now sixty pounds heavier than when I started:
Me: I'm concerned about the amount of weight I've put on. At what point do the health risks of being overweight become more serious than the risks of not being on medications?
Dr. F: You need to be taking your medications. The risks of being overweight aren't nearly as great as the risk of you becoming hypomanic again.
Me: I've put on sixty pounds in the last year. That can't be healthy. My feet hurt all the time, so I can't even exercise.
Dr. F: I may not have been entirely honest with you about the side effects of Depakote...
Me: Well, what about trying a lower dose? Or stopping it entirely?
Dr. F: If you stop taking your medications, you will ruin your life.
That was my last visit with Dr. F.
How am I supposed to be a partner in my own health care when my doctor won't be straight with me about the risks and side effects of the medications he insists I take?
I have a new psychiatrist now. His name is Dr. L. I haven't come up with anything snarky to call him yet, because so far he's been up front with me, answered my questions, and hasn't made any dire prophecies concerning my currently unmedicated future.
Time will tell, eh?
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Well, What Sort of Chance Does That Give Me?
I spoke to my psychiatrist the other day about whether or not my diagnosis was correct. After all, I've not had an episode in three and a half years, and since I stopped taking mood stabilizers and antidepressants nearly three years ago, I've felt more stable than I have ever felt before. And the last two episodes I had I'm pretty sure were caused by my first psych doc giving me antidepressants. Maybe everything I'm doing for myself (My Bipolar Survival Toolbox) is working. Maybe, I suggested hopefully, I was better. Maybe, I dared venture, I was never bipolar at all.
He pulled out the history of episodes I had given him during my first visit. And the thick sheaf of notes he'd gotten from my last psychiatrist. One of the hallmarks of bipolar disorder, he informed me, is that when one is not actually in the grip of an episode, one mistakenly thinks that one is well. And one often thinks one doesn't need medications, he added with a meaningful look.
I felt a bit like Brian in that lovely Monty Python movie The Life of Brian, when he is trying to convince all of the followers that he has inadvertently acquired that he is not the messiah:
"I'm not the messiah, I'm not!" he insists.
And the woman at the front of the crowd declares, "Only the true messiah would deny his divinity!"
Poor Brian throws his hands up in the air and says, "Well, what sort of chance does that give me?"
I wonder how many years I'll have to go med-free and episode-free before he will consider "un-diagnosing" me. Can you even be un-diagnosed?
On second thought, making it official might not be a good idea...the insurance company would probably want all their money back...
He pulled out the history of episodes I had given him during my first visit. And the thick sheaf of notes he'd gotten from my last psychiatrist. One of the hallmarks of bipolar disorder, he informed me, is that when one is not actually in the grip of an episode, one mistakenly thinks that one is well. And one often thinks one doesn't need medications, he added with a meaningful look.
I felt a bit like Brian in that lovely Monty Python movie The Life of Brian, when he is trying to convince all of the followers that he has inadvertently acquired that he is not the messiah:
"I'm not the messiah, I'm not!" he insists.
And the woman at the front of the crowd declares, "Only the true messiah would deny his divinity!"
Poor Brian throws his hands up in the air and says, "Well, what sort of chance does that give me?"
I wonder how many years I'll have to go med-free and episode-free before he will consider "un-diagnosing" me. Can you even be un-diagnosed?
On second thought, making it official might not be a good idea...the insurance company would probably want all their money back...
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Medication Withdrawal
I've been reading a number of mental health blogs lately, and one thing that I did not appreciate when I was diagnosed bipolar II and began taking psychiatric medications was how difficult it is to get off of these drugs.
One thing I now realize is that the terrible bout of "flu" I had early in 2005 following my sudden stopping of Lamictal due to a rash, probably wasn't the flu. It was more likely Lamictal withdrawal. I was only on the stuff for three weeks, but I was sick for nearly two months after stopping. I was utterly exhausted. I couldn't move from the couch. My husband had to take over all the household duties. Even cooking a simple supper was beyond me...all I wanted to do was sleep.
The doctor who had prescribed the Lamictal for me said nothing about withdrawal symptoms--he just wanted me to stop taking it due to the rash. And the PI sheet didn't say anything about stopping the medication (other than don't), so I assumed I had the flu...although it lasted a helluva long time for the flu.
When I decided to stop taking most of my other medications (Depakote and Lexapro) in the summer of 2005, I still knew nothing about medication withdrawal. Common sense told me I should probably taper the drugs down since I'd been on them for nearly two years at that point, but I didn't have any medical advice for doing so. The only thing my psych doctor had to say about going off my medications was that I would "ruin my life" if I did. Of course, this was also the man who told me to my 60-lbs-heavier face that Depakote doesn't cause weight gain or cognitive dulling, so he didn't have a whole lot of credit with me by that time.
So I quit the meds on my own, probably way too fast, if what I've been reading lately is any indication of how it ought to be done. I cut the doses of both meds in half for two weeks, then in half again for two weeks, then stopped entirely. The first week off meds entirely was pretty awful--my emotions were all over the map, and I was seriously scared that I was heading into another episode. But after that week, things settled down, the fog cleared from my mind, and I started being able to feel and to think again. My energy returned, my sense of humor returned, my creativity returned, my ability to multitask and to think on my feet returned...
And I have to ask myself why, when I had never been hospitalized for mania, when I had never been suicidal with depression, when I was never a danger to myself or anyone else (in a life-threatening sense), was I put on so much medication in the first place? All I really needed was something to help me come down from wherever I was. Not to be drugged into a cage with a lifetime regimen of "maintenance medications." Not to be intimidated with horror stories about what would happen if I stopped taking the medications. And certainly not to be put into the position of having to choose between the things that make life worth living and the promise of "stability"...a promise that was never realized while I was on medication, because the Lexapro started me cycling in and out of episodes every few months.
Now that I've been off most of these meds for nearly three years and am following my own regimen of good nutrition, yoga, meditation, supplements, and common sense, I'm more stable than I've ever been in my life.
Sometimes I regret the time I lost to medication. My son was having a lot of trouble in school at that time, and due to my complete lack of emotion and energy, I was not capable of being present enough to advocate for him. I'd like to think I've made up for that in the years since, and he's doing much better now...but those lost years really bother me sometimes. He'll never get that time back. And neither will I.
One thing I now realize is that the terrible bout of "flu" I had early in 2005 following my sudden stopping of Lamictal due to a rash, probably wasn't the flu. It was more likely Lamictal withdrawal. I was only on the stuff for three weeks, but I was sick for nearly two months after stopping. I was utterly exhausted. I couldn't move from the couch. My husband had to take over all the household duties. Even cooking a simple supper was beyond me...all I wanted to do was sleep.
The doctor who had prescribed the Lamictal for me said nothing about withdrawal symptoms--he just wanted me to stop taking it due to the rash. And the PI sheet didn't say anything about stopping the medication (other than don't), so I assumed I had the flu...although it lasted a helluva long time for the flu.
When I decided to stop taking most of my other medications (Depakote and Lexapro) in the summer of 2005, I still knew nothing about medication withdrawal. Common sense told me I should probably taper the drugs down since I'd been on them for nearly two years at that point, but I didn't have any medical advice for doing so. The only thing my psych doctor had to say about going off my medications was that I would "ruin my life" if I did. Of course, this was also the man who told me to my 60-lbs-heavier face that Depakote doesn't cause weight gain or cognitive dulling, so he didn't have a whole lot of credit with me by that time.
So I quit the meds on my own, probably way too fast, if what I've been reading lately is any indication of how it ought to be done. I cut the doses of both meds in half for two weeks, then in half again for two weeks, then stopped entirely. The first week off meds entirely was pretty awful--my emotions were all over the map, and I was seriously scared that I was heading into another episode. But after that week, things settled down, the fog cleared from my mind, and I started being able to feel and to think again. My energy returned, my sense of humor returned, my creativity returned, my ability to multitask and to think on my feet returned...
And I have to ask myself why, when I had never been hospitalized for mania, when I had never been suicidal with depression, when I was never a danger to myself or anyone else (in a life-threatening sense), was I put on so much medication in the first place? All I really needed was something to help me come down from wherever I was. Not to be drugged into a cage with a lifetime regimen of "maintenance medications." Not to be intimidated with horror stories about what would happen if I stopped taking the medications. And certainly not to be put into the position of having to choose between the things that make life worth living and the promise of "stability"...a promise that was never realized while I was on medication, because the Lexapro started me cycling in and out of episodes every few months.
Now that I've been off most of these meds for nearly three years and am following my own regimen of good nutrition, yoga, meditation, supplements, and common sense, I'm more stable than I've ever been in my life.
Sometimes I regret the time I lost to medication. My son was having a lot of trouble in school at that time, and due to my complete lack of emotion and energy, I was not capable of being present enough to advocate for him. I'd like to think I've made up for that in the years since, and he's doing much better now...but those lost years really bother me sometimes. He'll never get that time back. And neither will I.
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