Memory

 

I miss the you of yesterday

The solver of problems

When I was in a bad way.

 

Your hugs are still you

But your words,

They’re so confused.

 

They call it the long goodbye.

Your memory is fading,

& you're not the same guy.

 

Sometimes your mind slips slowly,

Other days, at light speed.

I cry for the day you won’t know me.

 

For now we must be content

To love you for this season

& not query the troubles that were sent.

 

I will always remember you as Dad

Not this person who’s tangled

in his own mind, fragmented and sad.

I need help…

 8 1/2 years ago, I crawled on my hands and knees, weeping softly, and said the bravest three words I’ve ever uttered, “I need help.”

I didn’t feel brave. I felt broken, hopeless, fragile, small, and most of all, ashamed.

After I told the nurse my plan, it was decided. They took my purse, my phone, my shoelaces, and the drawstring from my hooded sweatshirt. They stripped me of my belongings. I was so hopeless, it didn’t matter. All I wanted was to sleep. That was my plan. To go to sleep.

After a day and a half of sleep, waking up only for meds, and to pee, I met my first roommate. She said her mom told her she had demons. That she was a demonic creature. She hoped the Bible would help her be better. She carried it around the place but I never saw her open it. 

It was her last day. I still wonder if the Bible helped. I also wonder if her mom maybe needed to open that bible too. 

I barely remember the doctor. I do remember crying when he told me Wellbutrin would be the med to bring me out of my depression. I told him I had already tried it a few years ago and it made me better at first, wonderful in fact. But then, a switch flipped and all I could feel was anger. The road rage was the worst. Surely that wasn’t who I was supposed to be? He wrote something in his notebook. More questions. More meds added to the cocktail. 

The dreaded word. Bipolar. My family doctor had already brought it up to me a few months prior. I was taking a low dose of an SSRI. Most of the medications over the years blurred together in my mind. A carousel of pill bottles. I would take them for awhile, feel better, feel good, feel euphoric, then get angry with an energy that could only be described as frenetic. Onto the next bottle.

The doctor asked me if I had seen a psychiatrist. I had. He was in jail for trading drugs to a few of his patients for “favors.” The man was an enigma. Going to him made me feel less crazy. He was always puttering around his office in a disheveled button-down shirt and dingy looking socks. His filing system was Manila folders piled on every flat surface in the room. He also ran a suboxone clinic out of his office. Sometimes he would forget when suboxone night was supposed to happen and he  would schedule me an appointment at the same time. Yet he would preach to me, “No narcotics.” No wonder the guy missed the diagnosis. He was too busy slinging legal heroin and preaching “No narcotics, not even for labor or dental work.”

8 days. That’s how long I spent in the hospital. It was kind of a blur. My hair was so dry from using only shampoo. One could “win” a small bottle of conditioner. 

My parents came to visit. I imagine my mom had to coach my dad on what not to say to me. He did well. They both told me how much they loved me. For the record, I never doubted anyone’s love. Only my worthiness. My brother, Nate, and my sister in law, Amanda visited me. I think I assured them I was ok. That I was on my way to being ok anyway.

Now that a second doctor had confirmed the dreaded diagnosis, the jig was up. Bipolar. It sent shivers down my spine. But also, it had cleared up a lot of past behaviors and relationship issues I had with people. As young as 13, I could remember times of deep despair and instances of pure euphoria. During high school, I was relatively quiet. But every now and then, I got a burst of excitement, a bubbling over desire to talk. I’m certain it mystified my classmates when I would inadvertently come out of my shell for a day or so. 

Really, bipolar is a misnomer. It gives a sense that there is a clear line between two moods. A dichotomy of personalities. It’s not that. It’s more of a cycle of feelings between depression and mania. Every one has cycles of highs and lows. Every one. But, chances are, you’ll never reach my highest high (unless you use a substance) and you’ll never succumb to my lowest low.

Bipolar is not who I am. It’s something I have. The last thing I want is sympathy. I’m looking for empathy, not just for my struggles, but for the struggles of every person who is fighting a mental illness. The strongest adversary in this fight is the stigma, the idea that I, or those like me, are somehow damaged, crazy, or scary. 

8 years of stability has taught me that this fight is not won behind closed doors. Whispers are damaging. Ignorance is costly. Outright bullying can be deadly. Please, if you can’t be an ally in this fight, the least you can do is not be an adversary.

The most important thing I learned is that suicidal feelings are temporary; if you can find even just a sliver of hope, embrace that light. Crawl on your hands and knees if you have to. If you can't speak, then whisper, "I need help."

 I still struggle with cycling mood changes; however, the hills and valleys are much closer together now.  The people closest to me know the signs of a mood shift. I’m so grateful for my family and friends. This battle is not one that should be faced alone. 

I matter. You matter. 

If you are struggling with suicidal thoughts or have a plan, please call or text 988.

I am mama

You were the shooting star

I hitched my dreams to.

Ephemeral, a rainbow

doused by the blinding sun.

Youth was not kind to

these dreams. I was not

kind to my youth.

Fighting for air, crying 

for just one breath,

It was almost the end.

Then you were there. 

A flutter, oh, sweet hope.

Your first cry was my first breath.

Faith

The year was 1987, the year
my faith was lowered into
the Pennsylvania clay
alongside my Pappy.

Sometimes I still check
my back pocket, or
maybe it's crushed with
mints in the bottom of my purse.

People question less and less
what happened to it.
As the years go by,
so do I, without.

The truth is that my
faith was buried in
a Catholic cemetery,
mingling with the mud.

Or maybe the worms
went hungry when
they realized how
very small it was anyway.

Walnuts

Gold light splashes

a few branches of

the walnut tree

while the storm

rumbles on and on.

Madness beckons

like clarity

and the bright

green leaves of the

walnut tree shine on.

Lightning sharp

razors split the

dull, gray matter;

words tumble, lost in

corners of medicinal fog.

Posies

With a slight of hand and the love of a mother’s mother.

you turned peanuts into candy bars.

Those wrinkled hands wrap me in memories.

Planting kisses on top of golden curls, smiling with

Only the radiance that love times years can produce,

You fixed indelible marks on your little ones.

I hear your voice, gritty and soft, like a

muddy spring day and I want to

show you the posies, all your little ones.

March

Winter, dirty white, still foaming at the mouth,

pleading, begging for sweet release.

March winds bring splintered hope,

shattered on blustery days leftover

from the old man's icy grip.

Beat brown grasses, bent and smashed

to frozen aching earth, bowing down,

defeated by the smothering weight of snow.

Almost one year old and making

way for bright, breathing shoots of renewal.

No ceremony for last year’s growth,

We cast a baleful eye at its leftovers,

willing the moment of Spring to be now.

Hope

I’m trying to decide if I rise from depression or if I am raised. There must be something internal, a shifting of chemicals that triggers the onset of hope. But there is also a personal responsibility in lifting oneself out of the rabbit hole. The small shred of hope that has sustained me, that has said to me, “This will get better; it must get better,” inspires a battle of will. I will myself to get out of bed, to face the day, to go when I want to stay. That voice of me that has been clamoring for the light reaches up and says, “Please, give me more light. If there is not more, then I will make light."

Who is in charge of my thoughts? Which version of me says, “Not today. Today is not the day that I give in,” forcing the proverbial one foot in front of the other? 

The mind is a wondrous and shifting place. Mindfulness is not a myth, but a truth we should recognize in all its power. But we must also never give in to the black and white ideology that proclaims we have absolute control.

I will observe my thoughts. I will accept them. I will move forward.

I have decided that I rise and am raised. I am delivered from the depths by chance, by circumstance and by sheer will of want—the want to live and experience life.

Here's a Crazy Thought

 I started this blog around Christmas, when I started to come out of a dark place. I have been struggling since then, but the light keeps peeking through the clouds. I'm grateful to my family and my friends for loving me through this pain.

“It’s the most wonderful time of the year…”

It really is an amazing time of year. People are more giving and generous whether they have a little or a lot. Also, real houses start to look like gingerbread houses…or small theme parks, depending on how crazy their owners get with the lights and giant, blow-up Snowmen and Santas.

Speaking of crazy, it’s not always the most wonderful time of the year for some of us, the ones who carry a mental illness around like a (mostly) invisible label of shame, a label we carry on the inside, out of sight.

I am one of those people. My labels say, “Depression” and “Anxiety.” (Throughout this blog, I will rely heavily on examples of Depression and Anxiety due to first-hand experience). My labels are fairly invisible. Sometimes they start to show on the outside, as when physical symptoms like aches, pains, exhaustion and panic attacks make their appearances. The second biggest problem (I think) with my internal war is that my own brain is supposed to be the “good guy” but sometimes it’s an enemy that carries secret identities.

When you really think about it, your brain is the command center for your whole body. Most of what your brain does is so behind-the-scenes that you don’t even realize it’s in charge. Brain says, “Hey fingers, type these words.” Brain commands, “Hey mouth, chew this food.” (These are not “voices in your head.” That’s an entirely different mental illness, one I am fortunate not to have experienced.) You don't question the commands of your brain. You take it for granted that Brain is in charge here and you're a good soldier.

Anyway, if your brain is captured by an enemy (like Depression), it may turn on you, then give false (but very real) orders like, “Hey self, your life is not worth living; you feel hopeless; you are useless and worthless.” It flashes its “Brain Badge” along with its “Real Thoughts” credentials and continues to give dangerous commands.

Unless you’ve experienced this covert operation in the past and lived to tell about it, you most likely won’t even think to question Brain’s authority. Even if you have experienced this take-over in the past, every battle is different and Brain is an awfully worthy opponent, especially when it’s on a Suicide Mission.

I’ve already told you about the second biggest problem of the mental illness war, now let’s talk about the biggest problem. My opinion is that the number one reason people can’t get better and can’t get help when their brains wage a war on their lives (and unfortunately the lives around them) is because of the stigma that surrounds mental illness. Stigma is the propaganda of this war.

The stigma brings about a sense of shame for the sufferer and even for their loved ones. The sufferer is sometimes blamed for his or her own mental illness; therefore, she may isolate herself in an attempt to hide what she believes is a personal character flaw.

Personally, during episodes of Depression, I have uttered phrases that uphold self-blame. “This is all my fault.” “I ruin everything.” “I’m so sorry that I feel this way.” “I don’t deserve you.” “Why do you put up with me?” “I can’t do this anymore.” “I want to give up.”

Another option the sufferer has is to blame outside forces or other “real” ailments to try to explain their suffering. I have blamed PMS, the stranger who cut me off on the highway, the mess on the dining room table (which is usually mostly mine), neighbors who ring the doorbell (“why can’t they just leave me alone?”), the weather (which actually has some credence but can’t be blamed for everything), and so on and so forth.

To add another layer to the Depression/Anxiety chaos, although outside forces (like being robbed or your car breaking down) and “real” ailments (like the flu or an injury)  don’t actually cause Depression and/or Anxiety, these things do add up to stressors that can trigger an episode. See, the Depression and Anxiety are already inside me. Most of the time they’re in a state of rest, but then stressors add up, a round of “friendly fire” is triggered and the enemy is engaged in a new battle.

What we need to remember is that blame is not helpful. Blame prevents a solution to the real problem. The real problem is an illness, not a curable illness but a very treatable illness.

Fortunately (or maybe by a grand design, who knows), I do have safe places to turn to when the battle becomes too big for me. Sometimes it takes awhile for me to seek their asylum (pun intended) and I have had some close calls, but I have always made it into the loving arms of my allies. My husband, my Mom, a wonderful (finally) family doctor and a few trusted friends are more than just a safe place to land. They are my advocates. They fight for me even when I’m ready to give up. They recognize the strength that it takes for me to go to them and say, “I need help. I’m not doing too well and I’m having bad thoughts.” They remind me that even though my dark thoughts are real, they are not my fault and they are not true, that I will get better and life can be good again, worth living for again.

These are the people who are helping to change the world, to make it a more habitable place for those of us who suffer from mental illness. 

Many years ago, during another dark time, I asked my husband, “Why do you stick with me? Why don’t you give up on me when I’m ready to give up on me?” His answer was so simple and yet so profound. To paraphrase, he told me, “For one thing, you know you would do the same for me or for anyone you love. The other thing is that I know how great you are and how good things are when you are at your best. That’s worth fighting for.”

He is right (and my husband loves when I say he is “right!”). My life is worth fighting for. That is what is at stake here, my life. And I’ll tell you what, when I’m not in a state of Depression, I am a force to be reckoned with. I am empathetic, intelligent, wordy, kind, generous and sometimes pretty funny. I will laugh with you; I will cry with you; I will take on the world with you. 

Just give me a chance to get back to feeling like me again.

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Know someone with Depression? Here are some helpful suggestions on what not to say to them.

The Wrong Things to Say:

“I know how you feel.”

Just remove this statement from your speech. Don’t say it. Ever. You never know how another person is feeling. This is not a helpful thing to say to someone who has lost a loved one. It is not helpful to say to someone who has Depression. Hell, it’s not even helpful to say to someone who just got a paper cut. You do not know how another person is feeling.  Ever.

​

“Stop thinking about only yourself.”

I already feel selfish; I don’t need to be reminded of it. But you know what else I feel? Worthless, exhausted, useless, sad, hopeless and sometimes nothing at all. I don’t want to feel this way and I don’t choose to feel this way.  Honestly, I would rather you say nothing at all to me than say something hurtful. If you can’t be helpful, at least avoid being hurtful.

“Cheer up.”

If only it were that easy. Believe me, if I could inject cheer into my brain, I would do it in a heartbeat. But a depressed person cannot will himself into a state of cheer. Remember, Depression is not the same as Sadness. If telling a depressed person to “Cheer up” really worked, then you could tell them to “Energize up, have hope, be of use, feel worthy!” Sounds pretty stupid, huh? Depression is caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain. Telling someone with Depression to “cheer up” is as effective as telling a person with Diabetes, “make your body create insulin!” 

“Have you tried ________?”

Have you tried more caffeine? Less caffeine? Watching a funny movie? Chamomile tea? Working out? I’m tried a lot of things to help with Depression. Some things have helped, but have never cured it. There’s no cure for Depression. Like most illnesses, we can only treat the symptoms. And like most things in life, what works for one person may not work for another. Also, try to remember, the person you’re saying these things to may be at the lowest point of his or her life. They may even be suicidal. If your best friend was hanging from a cliff, you wouldn’t offer them a hot beverage and some friendly advice. You would give them a hand.

“Count your blessings.”  “You have so much to be thankful for.”  “You have so much going for you.”  “Your life is so wonderful.” Etc.

When you point out how amazing a depressed person’s life looks from the outside, all you’re really doing is reinforcing that she is unable to enjoy the good things about life. I am aware of my blessings and nothing is more frustrating than not being able to enjoy life.