Hello again, gentle readers!
The following is the third and final part of my "Crazytown" series for Dr. Brown's class. *waves at everyone!*
***Before we pick up with the story, I wanted to take a brief moment to talk about family history, which is a HUGE part of most people's journey in the psych system. If you've been diagnosed with a mental illness, chances are pretty good someone else in your family has been as well (or there's someone in your family trying to struggle through life without help!). The first time I went to McLean Hospital (which I will get into shortly), the doc admitting me asked about my family history. After I spoke for a few minutes, she said "You, my dear, are what we like to call 'genetically loaded'". Huh-HA! Another layer of frosting on the cake. Much of what I had been feeling my whole life was also felt by others in my extended family, in varying forms, on both sides. Those feelings came in the form of Bipolar Disorder (or Manic Depression, as it was called in the old days), Generalized Anxiety, Alcoholism R/T Anxiety, Clinical Depression. We are a delectable buffet of DSM-IV morsels. And let me be crystal-clear on this: we are one HELL of an awesome family. We are creative, passionate, hard-working, zany, practical, hilarious, serious, wonderful people. Some of us do a bit of "better living through chemistry". And I wouldn't trade a single disorder for the world. It is part of what makes us US!***
So, after 3.5 great years of Emmanuel education, I started working for Emmanuel in administration. I had a fantastic set of bosses, and great co-workers. My depression & anxiety & PTSD(?) seemed to be managed very well with some therapy and occasional medication. For awhile I wasn't on any meds at all. I had one bout of depression that was fairly serious, but short-lived, and with the help of smart people, I got back on track. I met the most incredible man in the entire world (now the most incredible husband in the world), and we began dating. "It was heaven in two and a half rooms..." (OK, no, we weren't living together.... and what is with all the "Chicago" quotes this week?)
BUT, I was traveling from Dracut to Boston to Dracut everyday, and that was getting tiresome. When I heard about a full-time music position at my home parish, I jumped at the chance to interview. My degree from Emmanuel was in Voice, Theatre Arts, and Speech Communication. I had graduated Cum Laude with Distinction in the Field, and really felt ready for a change into full-time music work. Boy, was I in for it! The job itself was not difficult at all. The pastor at the church was a loving, wonderful man, who probably tried to please people a little too much. Well, we were alike in that! We became good friends, and I loved playing and singing for the parish in which I had been raised.
This is when my depressed brain decided to take a big detour. I was seeing a therapist here and there, but not consistently. I had not taken meds in a year or so. Suddenly, one Sunday, I finished playing Mass for the day, went home, and was determined to kill myself. I didn't have a black-out, but in the blink of an eye (or so it felt), I was suicidal, and my parents rushed me to the hospital. I was there for a week or so, given that I had not had help in a long time. I had to quit my job at the church, and my life started a very disgusting slide downward.
That was 2004; for the next 6 years, my life was filled with hospitalizations, medications, changing therapists, an engagement & wedding (yay!), and eventually, my qualifying for Social Security Disability Benefits. I tried for almost 2 years to hold down a job, and I tried every kind of job I could think of, but no dice. The cutting that I had experimented with as a teen became far worse, and after a while, it was the only thing I could do to keep myself "present". In reality, my brain was crying out for help, and I was so miserable, inflicting physical pain was the only thing that made sense. Finally I applied for Social Security, and was accepted on the first try (apparently, this doesn't happen a lot)... I was so crazy, even the government was eager to help!
In this time, Emerson Hospital introduced me to a course of "talk" therapy and skills called DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy). It is a marvelous program, integrating CBT and Zen mindfulness. I was enrolled in a group near my home, and began to learn a LOT about how I handled people, places, my own emotions, etc. The group and therapists were super-helpful, and I use the skills to this very day. At this time, my diagnosis also changed from the Anxiety, Depression, PTSD mix to Bipolar II Disorder. In short, my more-downs-than-ups could be explained as Bipolar II, and would also be the umbrella that included anxiety and the weird black-outs I had. Score one for the DSM-IV!
In the medication arena, I was miserable. The doctor who saw me through the DBT program had me on 13 different medications. He kept adding something every few days, and it felt as though he was trying to hold back a dam by sticking his fingers in the leaks. I was a zombie; my friends just looked at me with sad faces a lot of the time. I managed to get married in there somewhere, and it was a beautiful day, but overwhelming in some ways, since I was so bogged down in psychotropic drugs. I eventually went to McLean Hospital for treatment. They took one look at my med sheet, and ripped the thing up in front of my face: "We are starting fresh!", they said. Hallelujah! They have a program on their campus called the Women's Treatment Program, and it is probably the most fantastic psycho-therapy program I've ever been involved with; they mix residential and day patients into a very tight schedule of therapeutic groups and individual sessions. I met incredible women at WTP, and there are some with whom I am still in contact. Being at McLean was one of the first times that I realized that beautiful, smart, strong women had mental illnesses, and they could still function. I had been so drugged and not working for such a very long time, I figured the brilliance of my academic youth was a fluke; I was just a dumb crazy person. McLean was a much-needed boost of confidence and therapeutic help.
After I married, I continued to try to volunteer a bit here and there, and I was still singing with the BSO (this fall will be my 15th season!!!). There were more hospitalizations, and there was even more drug-swapping. I had found a level-headed therapist (who I see to this day), and we were really frustrated by my constant feelings of suicidal ideation and depression, accompanied still by a bit of cutting here and there.
Finally, my psychopharmacologist (read: M.D. you see for meds, but not therapy) convinced me to try ECT. Electro-Convulsive Therapy is what the general public would lovingly call "shock therapy". In the old days, they basically plugged you into a wall and flipped the switch. This is NOT the way it is now. I met with the doctor at BI who would do the therapy, and we agreed I was a good candidate (I was now deemed to have "therapy-resistant Bipolar II Disorder"). I attended 12 treatments over a period of 3 months. The routine was simple; you showed up at the clinic, they threw an IV in your arm, put you under with anesthesia, and then induced a seizure of the brain with electrodes. I didn't find it too difficult, and Paulie was awesome about driving me everywhere without complaining (you can't drive for the entire time you're in treatment). I thought I was feeling better, and the treatments were over. But God had other plans. In a few months, I was back in the hospital again, and more medications were being fiddled with. I was at McLean at one point, and they offered to try a second round of ECT after consulting with the doc at BI. Then they came back to tell me I couldn't have another round; when a patient is given ECT, they induce a brain seizure lasting between 10-30 seconds. The BI clinic could never get more than 3 or 4 seconds out of me. Survey said???? I HAVE A THICK SKULL. If I wasn't so depressed at the time, I probably would have laughed my ass off. At least my parents felt some validation from the doctors regarding their stubborn first-born.
Then in November of 2009, I made a decision. I was done. I was done with the hospitalizations, the treatments, I was dddooonnnneeee. Stick a fork in me, people!!! By January of 2010, I had taken myself off of all medications (with a doctor's reluctant supervision), with the understanding that the second I started to feel iffy, I would go right back on something. I took myself off of the 4 or 5 meds I was on at the time, and talked to my therapist. She agreed to see me every week, sometimes twice a week, so that I could get some time under my belt without the use of medication.
It's now been 2 years and 2 months since I took any medications for my Bipolar II disorder. I am a woman with a mental illness who may never work full-time, but is able to hold down fulfilling part-time work. I have the very best kind of supportive spouse, an incredible family, and lots & lots of friends from all my walks of life. I have had good, bad, and ugly days. Most of my days are good. My therapist is one of the most kick-ass, awesome people I've ever met in my life. She is understanding, but not afraid to call me out on things. I have a folded up prescription for Lamictal sitting in my wallet at all times, in case the brain really goes into a nose-dive. There are days where I would like to hurt myself, but I don't, and I haven't used any drugs to get me there. I use skills, a therapist, and support systems instead.
My mother has always impressed upon me that life has so very much to offer, but I must be present and engaged to enjoy it! As she has always quoted to me: "Laura, life is a banquet, and some sons-of-bitches are starving to death." I hope that I can continue to live up to this invitation to the show, and try to enjoy myself along the way.
The following is the third and final part of my "Crazytown" series for Dr. Brown's class. *waves at everyone!*
***Before we pick up with the story, I wanted to take a brief moment to talk about family history, which is a HUGE part of most people's journey in the psych system. If you've been diagnosed with a mental illness, chances are pretty good someone else in your family has been as well (or there's someone in your family trying to struggle through life without help!). The first time I went to McLean Hospital (which I will get into shortly), the doc admitting me asked about my family history. After I spoke for a few minutes, she said "You, my dear, are what we like to call 'genetically loaded'". Huh-HA! Another layer of frosting on the cake. Much of what I had been feeling my whole life was also felt by others in my extended family, in varying forms, on both sides. Those feelings came in the form of Bipolar Disorder (or Manic Depression, as it was called in the old days), Generalized Anxiety, Alcoholism R/T Anxiety, Clinical Depression. We are a delectable buffet of DSM-IV morsels. And let me be crystal-clear on this: we are one HELL of an awesome family. We are creative, passionate, hard-working, zany, practical, hilarious, serious, wonderful people. Some of us do a bit of "better living through chemistry". And I wouldn't trade a single disorder for the world. It is part of what makes us US!***
So, after 3.5 great years of Emmanuel education, I started working for Emmanuel in administration. I had a fantastic set of bosses, and great co-workers. My depression & anxiety & PTSD(?) seemed to be managed very well with some therapy and occasional medication. For awhile I wasn't on any meds at all. I had one bout of depression that was fairly serious, but short-lived, and with the help of smart people, I got back on track. I met the most incredible man in the entire world (now the most incredible husband in the world), and we began dating. "It was heaven in two and a half rooms..." (OK, no, we weren't living together.... and what is with all the "Chicago" quotes this week?)
BUT, I was traveling from Dracut to Boston to Dracut everyday, and that was getting tiresome. When I heard about a full-time music position at my home parish, I jumped at the chance to interview. My degree from Emmanuel was in Voice, Theatre Arts, and Speech Communication. I had graduated Cum Laude with Distinction in the Field, and really felt ready for a change into full-time music work. Boy, was I in for it! The job itself was not difficult at all. The pastor at the church was a loving, wonderful man, who probably tried to please people a little too much. Well, we were alike in that! We became good friends, and I loved playing and singing for the parish in which I had been raised.
This is when my depressed brain decided to take a big detour. I was seeing a therapist here and there, but not consistently. I had not taken meds in a year or so. Suddenly, one Sunday, I finished playing Mass for the day, went home, and was determined to kill myself. I didn't have a black-out, but in the blink of an eye (or so it felt), I was suicidal, and my parents rushed me to the hospital. I was there for a week or so, given that I had not had help in a long time. I had to quit my job at the church, and my life started a very disgusting slide downward.
That was 2004; for the next 6 years, my life was filled with hospitalizations, medications, changing therapists, an engagement & wedding (yay!), and eventually, my qualifying for Social Security Disability Benefits. I tried for almost 2 years to hold down a job, and I tried every kind of job I could think of, but no dice. The cutting that I had experimented with as a teen became far worse, and after a while, it was the only thing I could do to keep myself "present". In reality, my brain was crying out for help, and I was so miserable, inflicting physical pain was the only thing that made sense. Finally I applied for Social Security, and was accepted on the first try (apparently, this doesn't happen a lot)... I was so crazy, even the government was eager to help!
In this time, Emerson Hospital introduced me to a course of "talk" therapy and skills called DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy). It is a marvelous program, integrating CBT and Zen mindfulness. I was enrolled in a group near my home, and began to learn a LOT about how I handled people, places, my own emotions, etc. The group and therapists were super-helpful, and I use the skills to this very day. At this time, my diagnosis also changed from the Anxiety, Depression, PTSD mix to Bipolar II Disorder. In short, my more-downs-than-ups could be explained as Bipolar II, and would also be the umbrella that included anxiety and the weird black-outs I had. Score one for the DSM-IV!
In the medication arena, I was miserable. The doctor who saw me through the DBT program had me on 13 different medications. He kept adding something every few days, and it felt as though he was trying to hold back a dam by sticking his fingers in the leaks. I was a zombie; my friends just looked at me with sad faces a lot of the time. I managed to get married in there somewhere, and it was a beautiful day, but overwhelming in some ways, since I was so bogged down in psychotropic drugs. I eventually went to McLean Hospital for treatment. They took one look at my med sheet, and ripped the thing up in front of my face: "We are starting fresh!", they said. Hallelujah! They have a program on their campus called the Women's Treatment Program, and it is probably the most fantastic psycho-therapy program I've ever been involved with; they mix residential and day patients into a very tight schedule of therapeutic groups and individual sessions. I met incredible women at WTP, and there are some with whom I am still in contact. Being at McLean was one of the first times that I realized that beautiful, smart, strong women had mental illnesses, and they could still function. I had been so drugged and not working for such a very long time, I figured the brilliance of my academic youth was a fluke; I was just a dumb crazy person. McLean was a much-needed boost of confidence and therapeutic help.
After I married, I continued to try to volunteer a bit here and there, and I was still singing with the BSO (this fall will be my 15th season!!!). There were more hospitalizations, and there was even more drug-swapping. I had found a level-headed therapist (who I see to this day), and we were really frustrated by my constant feelings of suicidal ideation and depression, accompanied still by a bit of cutting here and there.
Finally, my psychopharmacologist (read: M.D. you see for meds, but not therapy) convinced me to try ECT. Electro-Convulsive Therapy is what the general public would lovingly call "shock therapy". In the old days, they basically plugged you into a wall and flipped the switch. This is NOT the way it is now. I met with the doctor at BI who would do the therapy, and we agreed I was a good candidate (I was now deemed to have "therapy-resistant Bipolar II Disorder"). I attended 12 treatments over a period of 3 months. The routine was simple; you showed up at the clinic, they threw an IV in your arm, put you under with anesthesia, and then induced a seizure of the brain with electrodes. I didn't find it too difficult, and Paulie was awesome about driving me everywhere without complaining (you can't drive for the entire time you're in treatment). I thought I was feeling better, and the treatments were over. But God had other plans. In a few months, I was back in the hospital again, and more medications were being fiddled with. I was at McLean at one point, and they offered to try a second round of ECT after consulting with the doc at BI. Then they came back to tell me I couldn't have another round; when a patient is given ECT, they induce a brain seizure lasting between 10-30 seconds. The BI clinic could never get more than 3 or 4 seconds out of me. Survey said???? I HAVE A THICK SKULL. If I wasn't so depressed at the time, I probably would have laughed my ass off. At least my parents felt some validation from the doctors regarding their stubborn first-born.
Then in November of 2009, I made a decision. I was done. I was done with the hospitalizations, the treatments, I was dddooonnnneeee. Stick a fork in me, people!!! By January of 2010, I had taken myself off of all medications (with a doctor's reluctant supervision), with the understanding that the second I started to feel iffy, I would go right back on something. I took myself off of the 4 or 5 meds I was on at the time, and talked to my therapist. She agreed to see me every week, sometimes twice a week, so that I could get some time under my belt without the use of medication.
It's now been 2 years and 2 months since I took any medications for my Bipolar II disorder. I am a woman with a mental illness who may never work full-time, but is able to hold down fulfilling part-time work. I have the very best kind of supportive spouse, an incredible family, and lots & lots of friends from all my walks of life. I have had good, bad, and ugly days. Most of my days are good. My therapist is one of the most kick-ass, awesome people I've ever met in my life. She is understanding, but not afraid to call me out on things. I have a folded up prescription for Lamictal sitting in my wallet at all times, in case the brain really goes into a nose-dive. There are days where I would like to hurt myself, but I don't, and I haven't used any drugs to get me there. I use skills, a therapist, and support systems instead.
My mother has always impressed upon me that life has so very much to offer, but I must be present and engaged to enjoy it! As she has always quoted to me: "Laura, life is a banquet, and some sons-of-bitches are starving to death." I hope that I can continue to live up to this invitation to the show, and try to enjoy myself along the way.
Hi, I'm Haley from Dr. Brown's class!
ReplyDeleteI just wanted to say that your story is truly inspiring and it shows how strong you are.
We discussed Bipolar II Disorder in class, and I was wondering if you have ever experienced hypomanic episodes and what they are like?
Hi Haley! Thanks for the kind words, and your question.
ReplyDeleteI have had hypomanic episodes, but they are few and far-between in my situation. My episodes are fairly textbook: racing thoughts, needing less sleep, eating less. There are also 2 symptoms I notice in my episodes that aren't so textbook. One is that I only write in cursive; printing isn't "fast enough" when I'm hypomanic. The other is that my racing thoughts are usually in the form of music. I, and my therapist, assume that this is mainly due to the fact that I am a musician. (Duh, Laura). Instead of words or pictures constantly flashing through my head, I'll lie awake at night with whole pieces of music running through my head, one after the other, without stopping. It's like you put your earbuds in, but the ipod is in your brain! Weirdness.
I have only had 4 or 5 stand-out hypomanic episodes. Fortunately, I've never had a big crisis accompany them.
Hope that's a helpful answer; please, feel free to ask anything you like! :)
And good luck with finals, everyone! :)
Hi Laura!
ReplyDeleteMy name is Taylor and I am also from Dr. Brown's class. I think your story is truely amazing! You have really helped me understand what it is like to live with mental illnesses. I was wondering if you ever considered doing Deep Brain Stimulation as a treatment option?
Hi Taylor! :)
ReplyDeleteThanks for the question. DBS is something I looked into in its "very early stages" through Mass General Hospital. At the time, it was being done as part of a larger surgical study regarding mental illness. I submitted an application to begin the study process, but after reading the literature and information available through the hospital, decided against it. It would have involved a series of surgical procedures (a minimum of three), and was so super-new, I was a bit wary. Luckily things changed for me in the last few years, and I've not thought much about it since! :) I will admit though, if I ever get as sick as I was about 4 years ago, I'd run to MGH and re-up. They are one of the top hospitals in the world, and I would trust them to do the therapy justice! ;)
Thanks again for the question, and all the best for the end of your semester! :)
Laura