Double Standard

Greg is going to write our wedding vows...I heard those snickers. He has a wonderful sense of humor, and it's probably going to be silly. We've been having fun with them, and he's been teasing me that a double standard is necessary for a happy union, and of course I insist there won't be any double standard in our marriage. But I've realized that while there may not be a double standard in our relationship, I certainly have one when it comes to my own mental health.

There is a vast array of coping mechanisms that my on-line and IRL mental health support family use. Everything from holistic methodologies to meds. For the most part, because everybody is different, I feel that whatever a person needs to deal with their mental illness is acceptable...except when it comes to myself. I realized that this morning when I was updating my med list.

It's been many years since I've relied upon benzos to help me deal with my symptoms. At one point, when life was horrific, I became addicted to Ativan. It can be taken sublingual, so it's very easy to take. Just slip one of those little babies under your tongue and life is good again. A couple years ago I became involved with Healing Touch, which drastically changed my life. I was taking the least medication I've ever taken, and learning new ways to deal with stress and manic episodes. Unfortunately, I had to reduce my expenses and that was the first thing to go. I had learned so much and was certain I could keep it up alone, but as the stressors in my life increased, my ability to cope drastically decreased.

Don't get me wrong, life is good. My stressors are temporary. Greg is wonderful, I am safe and secure, Rachel seems to be in a good place, and my back is healing well. That's what's so horrible about mental illness, there's no logic.

When the mixed episode hit, I knew trouble was coming. Everything I worked so hard to learn flew out the window. I couldn't remember a thing, not one damn thing. My mind wouldn't shut the fuck up, I couldn't sleep, and my days started with crying in the shower. When, after more years than I can remember, taking a shower with my razor sitting on the little shelf became scary, I knew trouble had come to stay. My therapist said "You're just stressed, get a massage." Well, that didn't work, it was a big waste of time and money. My psychiatrist said "How about Ativan?" My first response was a resounding "No! I can't take that, I'll get addicted again." He countered with the fact that life is very different now than it was then, and he'd give me a low dose and only allow for two each day. If I wanted more, I was to call him right away. So I've left the child-proof cap on (I always switch them out because I hate fighting with those damn things), and I've tucked it up in an inconvenient place. I did not put any in my little pill box that I carry in my purse, and I limit myself to one before bed.

The double standard? I'm a failure to need this. I don't see anyone else as being a failure for needing benzos, or any other meds, only me. Hopefully, as my temporary stressors are dealt with, I'll no longer feel the need to use this crutch. Until that time, I need to find a way to apply the compassion and understanding I have for others to myself.

Mixing it up

Louis-Léopold Boilly [Public domain],
via Wikimedia Commons

Mixed episodes are the worst. Ask any person with bipolar disorder who experiences these horrendous times, and they'll probably say the same thing. One second you're flying, the next you've crashed. It's all jumbled together. I've been hanging on for dear life for at least two weeks, and I've had enough. 

The triggers? Hmm...could it be I'm a bit stressed because I'm getting married in 50 days and I'm still getting unasked-for advice (no, Jackie, not you). Or perhaps it's that my younger daughter was in a car accident (grateful she only broke a finger), and I'm trying to find her a car for the same amount the insurance gave me. Oh wait, how about recovering from spinal fusion (PLIF --->) and feeling trapped in my brace, unable to do any of the things I love to do?

The symptoms...absolute confusion and worse-than-usual memory loss, severe depression, on the verge of tears, talking a mile-a-minute, giddy, happy, agitated over everything, bug-crawly skin (I wonder if that's in the DMSV), starving then no appetite. Meanwhile, the weather seems to be cruising right along with me, hot one day and cold/rainy the next.

What am I going to to about it? Just hang on, I suppose, like my mother and her mother before me always said "This too shall pass." I'll try meditation when I remember, but lately that's been flying out the window. I can't seem to get my brain quiet enough.

Maybe I'm Normal?

I am trapped inside a blue, hard plastic belt of immobility. OK, maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration, I can walk around the house. And that's what I do, I actually walk in circles in the house several times a day. I sit for no more than 45 minutes, I walk for 10-15 minutes, then I sit, then I walk. I don't bake bread, I don't knead bread, I don't create crusty masterpieces. Not much cooking of any kind going on, can't get anything into or out of the oven. Look at this odd picture of me. I originally took it to show how happy I was to be able to get out of the house, but now I see such a strange...um...smile (?). What the hell is that, a smirk or perhaps a grimace?

This little pity party I've been having about not being able to do anything I normally do is starting to turn into depression. I realized I am still defined by my abilities. I thought I'd gotten past all that when I tried to get away from being defined by my disability (mental illness). But I'm finding that without being able to bake, or clean, or simply be a fun companion (couldn't go out last night to watch a college basketball game, and "intimacy" scares the hell out of me) I feel useless, worthless, unloveable.

I'm guessing that if my older daughter is reading this, which it seems she has been reading my blog (thank you Sarah), she'd be thinking "Oh mom, it's normal to feel that way." Lately she's been reminding me that some feelings I've been having are actually quite universal, not limited to a person with bipolar disorder or severe depression. It's been interesting to have the perspective of someone outside of the realm of mental illness.

Except for my med change blip, I've been relatively stable for well over a year. However, I still define my feelings in terms of my mental illness. I forget that one can be sad because of a situation or one's circumstances. I forget that one can feel anxiety simply because life can be stressful. Normal is not something with which I have much experience. However, this time around I started to think outside my usual limits. I'd venture to guess that anyone who can no longer do the things they're used to doing would get pretty depressed. I'm grateful that my limits are, for the most part, temporary. I know I will have some new lifetime limits since I now have three fused vertebrae, but other than some post-surgical pain, I am virtually pain free. I can stand up and walk without collapsing in excruciating pain. I am not confined to a wheelchair, nor have I lost any limbs. OK Sheri, time to for the pity party to end.

In a week I'll have my four week post-surgical follow-up, at which time I'll find out when I can start baking again. In the meantime, it sure would be nice if someone could invent something that would help me get bread in and out of the oven without bending or redecorating our kitchen (I told Greg he's going to have to install a built-in oven higher up).