March 19, 2017

Why am I here?

Like so many, I ask this question nearly daily, and the answer never seems to fully form itself. Am I a witness to the mayhem? Am I doing enough to quiet the fray? Am I a source of bother rather than help? Do I even have the necessary skills to do anything at all?

Today, I am choosing to put my best voice forward, for myself and the world. I sat at Mass this morning and listened hard to the readings. They were a call: a call to me to come to the forefront and speak, but more than that, a call to ACT.

Why am I here?

I am here of my own volition. There are times in my life when I thought "Time to go; I'm done."  There are times when I attempted to end my life. There are times when I wanted to end my life, but sought help instead. I am here because I CHOSE to be. I am seeing more and more now that my life is truly MY CHOICE. God gave me this life again and again, and he gave me the free will to choose to take it up again, even when my brain was encouraging me to refuse.

I have been given and chosen life, and now more than ever, people need to know that they are not alone, that they have choice, that they are called to live their own choices.

March 30th is World Bipolar Day.  In sight of this, I encourage everyone to do as I am doing, in educating themselves about Bipolar Disorder and ALL mental illness. Let's stop being afraid and start a conversation. Let's show people they are not alone in their journey.

Let's speak, act, and show the world why we are here: to love and help each other. 

Ritorna Vincitor!

My title today comes from one of the most famous arias in Verdi's "Aida": essentially in the first act, the Egyptians welcome the return of their beloved warriors, but the Ethiopians aren't as thrilled....must be that whole enslavement deal. Regardless, warriors & victors are celebrated, and I'm feeling a bit "Radames-like", returning for my 19th year to the BSO's summer spot. 

I'm currently in a favorite place on the Tanglewood campus. Amongst the mobs of music devotees (and rich snobs who wouldn't know a Chopin etude if it clobbered them over the damned head), there is a quiet place on the back porch of the Visitors' Center. It attracts cool breezes on muggy days, and is shade from the glorious skin-frying sun (I got all the Irish genes on that front; if I even look at a picture of a sunny day, I burn.) This is my current view: 

Not too shabby, eh? The Stockbridge Bowl is almost a sky-matching blue today, and the greens out here are...I don't know....even MORE somehow. The air smells fresh, the music floats from the Shed, and all is right with the world. 

It makes for an interesting and relaxing place to write. Words trip along, and I skip down the path they provide. Most of the time it's nonsense that I don't even give a second glance, but the Stockbridge Bowl/Berkshire Mountain view today made me stop and take notice of my own scribbling.  

I've had a decent run of things the last few months. After my time at McLean in May, I set out once again and started to work on music. I started to write a bit more each day. I started to take an even more vested interest in library work. I began to collect information on MFA programs. I also began to talk in even more depth with my doctors, and held them accountable for answers. It's annoying as hell to watch people with practically 10 years of school and even more years of experience shrug their shoulders at you, but I'm not going anywhere. I'm in this thing called life, and I'm in it for keeps. 

Now that doesn't mean there haven't been bad days. There are days when I cry, days when I scream, days when I'm so frustrated with my bloody limitations that I could punch someone in the throat (don't worry: Paulie's throat is intact). There are days when I would like nothing more than to drag a blade across my skin, knowing that my messy brain would thank me for the relief of it. 

I've struggled astronomically with my memory. Names, dates, songs, quotes, and events have simply been erased.The last 10 years are mostly gone. I'm still struggling with olfactory hallucinations, everyday, multiple times a day. Same with the visual hallucinations......And I can't remember if I've blogged about this before, so you'll forgive any repeats, yes? Everyone loves reruns!

I look at the beautiful scene before me now, and I remember that it has its own kinds of bad days. Days of rain, days of terrible wind, days of snowstorms and ice everywhere. Days when people throw trash on it, dig it up for no good reason, or try and pollute it in some way.

But in the summer, I can come to this bench......

.....to this view......

.....a score in one hand, coffee in the other......

.....and declare this one of our good days. 

Star Trek & Robin Hood & Romance Novels...Oh my!

Today is July 20th. It's a Monday. I'm back home after a great vacation down the Cape with my family, getting ready for a typical week ahead. 

Unfortunately, my chronic illness has been rearing its ugly head for the last few days. I've been livid, agitated, sad, weeping, confused, and everything in between. All I want to do is sit on my couch, watch television, and go out for a cigarette once in awhile. There's house work and food shopping to be done, and I can't even think about it right now. 

Paulie and my family are wonderful, as always. They tell me they love me, make sure I take my medication, and text encouragement and cute videos when they are able. 

Tomorrow is Tuesday July 21st. Dad will take me to McLean for an ECT treatment. It just can't come soon enough. Although I loathe general anesthesia, I know that I will feel myself again after the procedure. Or so I hope. There's always that fear in the back of my mind that this time the ECT will stop being effective, that the crying and the agitation and the rage won't stop, and that the wanting to cut myself will push itself to the front of my brain, and spill out onto my wrists. 

The "distress tolerance" skills that I've been employing the past few days have been watching episodes of Star Trek:TNG, the BBC Robin Hood (yay Richard Armitage!), and reading romance novels. They help keep me focused on "fun things", even when this illness is trying its hardest to kick my ass into freaking out, or even hurting myself. 

Paulie and I had a talk this morning. We just kept saying "This is a chronic illness; it's going to do this once in awhile." 

And so I ride this wave, pray that ECT will help me tomorrow, and keep my thumb hovering over the Netflix remote, swapping between the USS Enterprise and Sherwood Forest......

A Reflection

But that's what these all are, aren't they? Reflections of a mind that is usually aware of itself, and sometimes on another planet.  Today, I'm somewhere between the two... and here's why....

Today is my 35th birthday. A birthday is always a time of reflection.  What has happened in the last year?  What has happened since I got to this planet?  Am I leaving it in a better place than when I showed up?

I'm not sure.

Everyone who reads this knows the struggles and battles I fight.  I am a woman with Bipolar Disorder.  I am a talented singer, writer, and hopefully a loving person of my friends, family, and fellow man.  But I am also a person who sometimes finds it easier to cut her own flesh than make it through the next five minutes.  

It's been 10 days since that happened. 

I'm proud of myself for that. I also dread the next time. Because I'm not foolish enough to think that it'll never happen again. I can only pray that I'll stave off the feelings for a long while. That I'll keep doing my nails and wearing bracelets and dreaming of the "scar tattoos" that I will never get. 

I am starting another round of partial hospitalization. I am hopeful, as always, that I'll fill my arsenal with more tools and weapons against the worst parts of the disease. 

I am starting to lose hope that the naturopathic care I'm receiving will do anything good for me. I ended up in the ER last week with a whopping part of gastritis. After they gave me morphine and at least 4 different stomach medications, they told me I might have the beginnings of an ulcer. I was instructed to discontinue my supplements by my naturopath. Now I feel better. Many thousands of dollars and supplements and ten months later, I find it hard not to throw inanimate objects randomly. I'm so angry. I feel a fool once again. Just like after the failed TMS and the failed ECT and the myriad of failed medications. 

I saw a new medication doctor last week. He was brutally honest, and I could have kissed him for it. He said "Laura, after reading your chart, I thought a mess would walk into my office. You're not a mess. You're a high-functioning person with a chronic illness, doing the best she can. I don't have a magic pill, or even a lot of ideas for you yet, but if you continue to be open-minded and use your tools, including the hospital, you will live well with this disease." 

It's all I can ask for. It's all any of us can ask for. To go forward and live to the best of our ability, whatever that is. 

So am I leaving this world better off than when I was brought into it? Am I doing my best? I hope so. I hope for better futures. I hope for things like peace and harmony in the world. I hope that the Red Sox will stop sucking. I hope that we will find a way to stop hurting each other and ourselves. 

I hope. 

May Is Mental Health Awareness Month

"I feel like I can fly.  I feel like I could write until the end of time.  I feel like I am worth nothing.  I feel like cutting my skin is the only way to stay in the moment.  I feel like I am the best, worst, and only person on the face of the earth.  I feel like I do too much.  I feel like I will never do enough.  I feel like I am a role model to all those who seek the truth.  I feel like if you listen to me, you will only hear lies.  Don't listen.  Don't look at me.  Don't pay me any mind.  Please see the hurt.  Please see how I am lying.  Please see what I cannot tell you...ever.........."

The preceding is what goes through my mind in about 15 seconds on any given day.  This is the thought process of one person with Bipolar Disorder.  It usually happens about 100 times a day, a few times every hour.

Now add guilt.  Now add anxiety, nausea, sweating, shaking.  Now add the voices of 10 other people, all shouting at the same time. Now add visual hallucinations.  Now add screaming parents, spouses, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, enemies.

Now try to work a job "just like everyone else".  Now try to clean your house, cook your meals, do your laundry, tend to your children, socialize with your friends. Now try to accomplish your dreams.

Seems a little difficult, doesn't it?

The next time someone says they're anxious about something, or they don't know if they can make it out to meet you for dinner, or they just don't know how they're going to get through the day, don't get angry or annoyed.  Don't sigh and think about what a drama queen they are.  Don't try to tell them that "it's all in their head", because IT IS ALL IN THEIR HEAD AT THE SAME TIME.....and it's not going anywhere. Just read this post.  Read it again and again until you start to see what it might be like for them.

And just love them. The only thing people with an illness want is a little love and support.  Just give them that much....and know you make all the difference.

Vignettes Part I

Hello again, gentle readers.  The following is the first of a few vignettes I wrote whilst at Emerson Hospital for another bout of med changes and "staying safe" this month.  All names have been changed to protect the innocent/guilty.

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Carl throws a stress ball across the common room, hitting Blake in the shin.  They're talking about all the ways you can make alcohol and drugs from household items.  They have a case of what Bob would call "the spin drys".  Guys come in for 3-5 days because their wives, bosses or families beg them to get clean.  They dry out enough for the physical effects of their substance of choice to wear off, claim Jesus as their guide, and go right back out and use.  They have no intention of quitting, they just want to make their families happy, or keep the money coming in.  Blake has already managed to ingest Purell to try to stop his tremors and hallucinations.  In his mind, the ethanol in a hand sanitizer would be better than sobriety; all hand sanitizer has been confiscated from the unit.

Carl has taken to Blake and a few others who are all trying to dry out.  They laugh a little too loudly, proclaim their love of the Patriots, Red Sox, and Bruins a little too vehemently, and know everything.  All exclamations have at least one "fahhk" in some part of speech.  They are frightened little boys, wearing their fathers' jerseys and expressions, trying to be just as brave.  When their knowledgeable statements and information are questioned, they are almost always wrong, and they bluster through all the reasons why.  Their glasses weren't on, they thought you said the '77 Sox lineup, not '87, and that bitch nurse gave them the wrong med at the window this morning.  These are the guys who tell you who REALLY killed Kennedy, but can't remember their son's birth date.  Their tales come forth through gravelly, smoke-filled cords.   

I ask one of these gentlemen why he's so angry.  He says "I'm not angry at nothin'. Nothin' bothahs me anymoah." This is the same gentleman who thought Purell would make a good mixer.

It seems to me that I sometimes see these sober men for the last time on earth.  They are walking and talking ghosts, who won't ever be in this corporeal and sensitized state again.  Alcohol and opiates will numb their pain, desensitize the body, until they sleep forever.

"And now, the end is near...

And so I face the final curtain"

My Pa Rocky was a huge Sinatra fan.  He was such a big fan that we played "My Way" at his graveside on the day of his funeral. That song wasn't just one of his favorites; it was a mantra by which he lived his life.

Pa's life was not an easy one.  He came from a small town in Calabria, Italy. When he was 12, he and his father came to the United States, to work and raise enough money to bring his mother and two brothers over.  They lived in an apartment building in Boston, working hard, eventually bringing the rest of the family to America.  When Pa was 15, his father died.  Now he was the head of the family, supporting his mother and two young brothers.  School had been out of the question for a long time; now his life was about family and work.  Childhood was out of the question as well.

The years that followed were not easy either.  There was joy in his marriage and birth of his three children, but heartache in his divorce and strained family relationships.  He continued on his own path, not worrying about consequences, but being true to himself.  Even if no one liked his answers, they were his own truth, and he would not give up.

I find myself thinking about Pa a lot these days, these days that are shaky at best.  He did his utmost to make his own decisions on his own journey.  He was strong and stubborn (some would say to a fault).

I am making my own decisions now.  I have thought about giving up music.  Last night, I was scheduled to sing the Verdi "Requiem" at Tanglewood.  About an hour before the performance, I began to sob uncontrollably.  A dear friend and my manager both rubbed my back and comforted me and told me not to worry about singing, just to take care of myself.  My husband and mother said "Put tonight behind you.  It's one Verdi performance." But how many nights like these must I put behind me?  How many times can I start to lose my mind and let everyone pick me up off the ground, sobbing and wondering why I can't just get swallowed up by it?  How many people must I disappoint?  How many times will I prepare for a concert and then go through such a roller coaster in my brain that I question my own perception of reality?  In the span of one hour, I went from urges to cut myself, to determination to do the concert anyway (sobbing during silence be damned), to a simple and utter despair.  I don't know if I'm manic, hypomanic, anxious, depressed or psychotic.  I keep taking the pills, and taking the pills, and coping and coping and coping.

I want to try to slow the creeping unrest in my heart.  I can't stand to be around more than two or three people at a time.  Going out in public makes me fearful.  I worry that people I don't know will be angry, talk out of turn, or won't be quiet in a movie theater or at Mass.  These things make me feel actual fear!

And so I feel an end is near, and I face a final curtain of sorts. Is this the end of a music career? As I rehearsed the "Requiem" this week, I could not help but weep while I sang.  I am mourning the career that might have been.

I have had regrets, but I will have to do this my way.

Life on the Inside: or, How to Take a Shower in Fifteen Minutes or Less

When one is on a psych ward, there are at least 2 constants: crazy people, and "checks".  Checks are the constant "checking on" every patient throughout their day.  One staff member per hour walks about with a clipboard, making sure that everyone is safe and accounted for EVERY 15 MINUTES.  They bang on every closed door, including the bathrooms.  A running joke amongst "serial patients" is that if you get REALLY good, you can get into a bathroom, shower, change, and leave before someone comes banging down the bathroom door, insisting that you scream out your first name, last initial over the sound of running water whilst you scrub your hair.  It's like a guillotine that comes out of nowhere, blasting your last dignity; a hot shower where, for a short time, you can forget that you are so crazy you live in a locked space.

Life on an inpatient unit is a real lesson in diversity and similarity.  It's a study in opposites, and how they co-exist.  In this particular case, everyone is here because "coping on the outside" has become impossible.  We are a danger to ourselves and others.  How we handle this ranges from sleeping 20 hour a day to running around the halls in socks at all hours of the day and night, making signs for "those that are not aware of how things work" and refusing all medications.

We squeeze stress balls and wrap ourselves in hospital blankets.  We talk to each other about the "good old days", when we used, drank, cut ourselves.  We compare scars and "The Lists"; lists of the hospitals we've been to, lists of the restraints we've been subjected to, lists of the drugs the docs have "tried out" on us.  We eat far too much, sharing candy and treats visitors have brought us.  We are from the city, country, suburbs.  We live in mansions, ranches, split levels, apartments, group homes, and cars; mental illness is the Almighty Equalizer.

I have watched as a young man cried into the shoulder of an elderly woman, finally accepting his addiction.  I have been the recipient of a piece of candy and a smile from a Hells Angel who loved classical music as much as I did.  We are a beautiful and highly dysfunctional family.  We scream and yell and laugh and cry and try to be "normal".

Today I am reeling; mania has taken over my life in a very real way.  I am inpatient now, trying to mix meds and coping skills into a kind of "cocktail" that might work. 

Mania has made me angry, violent, and frustrated.  My mood is labile (Holy understatement, Batman!) and I find myself getting into arguments with friends and family for no "good" reason. I cannot sit in a group for more than 15 minutes without having to leave.  I have a nasty twitch in my hands if I try to stay any longer.  I find myself pacing the halls, biting my nails so I don't scream at nothing and no one.  I shake violently just trying to keep my brain from leaking out my ears.  Sitting in a group starts to give me a glimpse into the life of Bruce Banner.

Up until yesterday, I would have said that I continue to have great faith in the medical profession to get me through.  Now my feelings are mixed.  While speaking with a doc on Tuesday, we discussed the medications I have taken in the past.  One of them is Depakote; I took it from about 1998-2001.  The doc immediately interjected "Well, I would never put you on that again; it obviously already did its worst." When I asked what she meant she told me that Depakote has been shown to cause PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome).  This is the condition that prevents me from ever having children.  Now the truth comes forward; the very medication that was supposed to "help" me ripped away one of my biggest dreams: motherhood.  The Brahms "Lullaby" plays over the loudspeakers here as I write this, indicating a baby has just been born.  Everytime it plays a bit of my heart bleeds faster. 

And now here I sit, at the end of a little twin hospital bed, writing on a tray table, begging God and all the saints and angels to come and bear a little grief and mania with me.  Maybe if they do, I can finish this latest of life's showers in less than 15 minutes.

The Descent...

On Monday, I went to my bi-weekly voice lesson.  I had a great time working on lots of musical theatre repertoire, and my teacher is a gem of a human being.  The lesson began with him taking one look at me as I approached his front door and saying, "Honey, talk to me..."

How do I respond to this invitation?  "Oh, I'm fine, just deep in thought!" "Oh, don't worry about me, I'm just trying to remember the lyrics we have to work on today!"

No. I looked him square in the face and said, "I think I'm losing my mind."

I haven't been using social media very much in the last few days.  I haven't been working, singing, reading, eating, sleeping, or anything really in the past few days.  I have been too busy trying to keep my brain inside my head.

I am manic.

Now, gentle reader, when I say manic, I do not mean the little hypomanic "blips" I've had in the past.  I mean that I am completely off-my-rocker.  I am not quite hallucinating yet, but every bit of my concentration is going toward not hurting myself/anyone else, as well as anyTHING else.  Last night I actually had to physically stop myself from getting out of bed at 11pm to smash every inanimate object in my living and dining rooms.  I had never felt so strongly that I NEEDED to destroy everything there.  Why?  Sure beats the shit out of me.

I have spent entire afternoons this week sitting on a chair and NOT cutting my arms to ribbons.  It takes all of my energy to finish sentences.  I have never been this manic in my life.  I have been anxious, or depressed to the point of self-harm, but this is brand shiny-new.  Paulie sat with me on Monday as I hung onto his sweatshirt in the living room and sobbed over and over again "What's happening to me; WHAT IS HAPPENING?!?!"

Possibly the biggest KICKER to this entire shitty ball of wax is that I had my husband drive me to an Emergency Room on Monday night.... and they sent me home. I'm not crazy enough.  I had no "confirmed plan" of suicide that night, so "Medicare won't pay for any kind of inpatient treatment.  And don't bother telling me now that you're suicidal.  It won't work."  It was then explained to me that there were people waiting 3-5 days in the same emergency room who had not gotten a bed in a substance abuse facility yet.  There were waiting lists for every hospital and program in the area.  I wasn't getting in anywhere.  They told me to go home and talk to my therapist the next day; that she would have MORE luck of getting me into a facility THAN A HOSPITAL WOULD.

So now I sit at home and wait.  There is a facility in my hometown that is able to "talk to me" on Tuesday.  A psych hospital that is quite popular and rhymes with "LeClane" has a 5-week wait to just TALK to me for an intake, never mind get me into a program.

Paulie is being so good; he sits and tries to keep the demons at bay.  I speak in half-sentences and bewildering metaphors, and rail at anyone who will listen to my tale of woe.

Now begins my spiraling descent into uncertainty and insanity.....Hello, old friend.