Living with mental illness

I think it is important to talk about mental illness because it is nothing to be ashamed of -- no more so than other physical illnesses like breast cancer or anything else.

I have bipolar disorder, which is what people used to call "manic-depressive". I was taking Depakote for it, but am temporarily off meds under my doctor's supervision during my quest to get pregnant.

If anyone reading this is thinking of weaning themselves from a prescribed drug, do NOT do that without working with your doctor.

Fortunately for me, my periods of depression are relatively mild, and they don't last nearly as long as my manic periods. When I am depressed, I have no energy or ambition and spend the day in bed. I never seriously think about suicide. It has crossed my mind a few times, but when I am that low in my cycle I would not have the energy to do anything bad to my body other than to not eat or bathe.

So that's not too bad, and in exchange I get lots more days of mania. Most of the time, my manic periods are pretty great. I get a lot done when I'm manic and I feel . . . wonderful. I would not want to be magically "cured" of bipolar disorder because I don't want to give up my mania.

Now, to clarify, I use the word "mania" throughout my journal because that's the common word most people are familiar with. When I tell you I have mania, you will not be surprised when I list the following symptoms:

• Full of energy with little need of sleep
• Talking a lot and fast (chatterbox)
• Ultra-excited about whatever project or idea I am focused on (even if it is a bad idea)
• Great self confidence -- I am certain that whatever crazy thing I'm doing is sure to work out fabulously, and I am also certain that I am beautiful and brilliant
• Sometimes make bad decisions
• Sometimes squander money

Technically, that is "hypomania" which is not as bad as full-on mania because according to the official clinical terminology, when you are "manic" you are probably hallucinating and need to be hospitalized for your own safety. You would have those same general symptoms listed above, but at such an extreme that you might jump off a building because you are convinced you can fly. I have been batshit manic before, and I have been in the psych ward restrained to a bed because of it. So no, I don't want THAT kind of mania. But HYPOmania (with a little supervision) can be a really fun ride -- if you don't mind a little breakage.

But I am fortunate -- as I always seem to be -- and have Mona looking out for me. She keeps me safe while usually letting me do whatever crazy-ass thing I want to do.

I'm the youngest of five girls, but was always the odd one. My sisters were all honor students and everybody assumed I would be too -- but I wasn't. In elementary school the teachers kept saying I didn't pay attention in class, or that I was disruptive or talked too much -- which I'm sure was true. My current shrink says I was probably ADHD, which is much more common in boys and often goes undiagnosed in girls.

In high school I sometimes got radiant 'A's on lots of projects and reports, and then 'F's on tests and some other projects. I would blitz thru a test, getting everything right and turning it in before anyone else -- but I'd overlook a whole page. Socially, I was popular because I am so outgoing. I was not dependent on being accepted by any individual "clique" because I drifted among them all. At lunchtime, I liked to sit with kids who were sitting alone. Sometimes the popular kids ridiculed me for this, but I was breezily impervious to snubs or catty comments, though sometimes I did feel hurt by them. But when I was manic, baby, bullets bounced right off of me.

My undiagnosed ADHD as a child morphed into undiagnosed bipolar disorder by the time I was 17 or 18 and about to go to college. I was having lots of mania experiences when I was first with Jack, and he was a good partner for me because he enhanced all the good parts of my mania and he always had my best interests in mind and helped me not be too reckless. After I broke up with him, I was hanging out with some people who were really fun and who got a kick out of my antics, but they weren't looking out for me and I did stupid, reckless stuff.

When I dropped out of college, I was aimlessly energetic. I still didn't know what mania was, but I had it. It feels good being manic -- loads more fun than depression. But at least with depression, you stay in bed and don't get in trouble. You can get in lots of trouble when manic.

On one particular night, I was driving crazy-fast down a curvy country road in a convertible, my hair flying with the wind. I was convinced I was in total control, screeching around sharp turns and imagining two wheels were coming off the ground like in the movies. I was doing pretty good too . . . until I hit that tree.

By any reasonable expectation, I should have been killed or seriously injured -- and of course, I wasn't wearing my seatbelt. And yet, by Grace or Fate or Serendipity, I was thrown cleanly from the car and landed in a cornfield. I wasn't injured except for a cut above one eye. It would only require a few stitches, but blood was trickling down one side of my face and getting in my eye.

There was moonlight, but I couldn't see far in any direction because it was late summer and the corn was taller than me. I ran down the corn rows looking for a way out and finally came to a road. It wasn't the road my wrecked car was on but, it looked the same and there was no car, no wreck, no "me." I remember having that Twilight Zone feeling that maybe I didn't really exist. I picked a direction and ran and ran until my lungs hurt, and I knew for certain that I was crazy. That was probably the scariest thing I felt that night -- that I was insane.

At dawn, I was still walking down that same road. I wasn't bleeding anymore but it was crusted on my skin and streaked down my white blouse. There were no thoughts in my head. My mind was closed for business and only operating enough brain cells to keep my body upright and my feet moving.

A sheriff's cruiser gently came up alongside me in the other lane, and the deputy asked me if I was okay. I looked at him and whispered, "no," very quietly because I did not want the corn to hear.

Welcome to the Psych Ward

That nice deputy assured me that I was going to be okay as he drove me to a hospital where they stitched up my head (I still have a scar), gave me a psychiatric evaluation and admitted me for "observation."

They gave me something that made me sleep until the next day, and my mom was there when I woke up. I felt a lot better -- reasonably sane if you grade on a curve. I was no longer suspicious of corn, at least.

It was at this hospital that I learned about bipolar disorder, and when they described it to me I felt so relieved because it was spot on. THIS was what I had! And it was an actual illness you have because the chemicals in your brain get out of whack. It wasn't my fault! I wasn't just "acting out" -- I was sick. And not just "sick" in a way that you have made up in your mind like a hypochondriac, but an actual real physical sickness in your brain.

I was only in the hospital a few days and then they sent me home with my mom. They had me on lithium at first, but I didn't like that because it put me in a fog and made me tired. But I started seeing a psychiatrist who tried some different medications on me and after a while we settled on Depakote, which was originally used for people with seizures but they learned it can work for bipolar also.

That was a few years ago and since that time we have tweaked the dosage so I have a good balance. I am somewhat manic -- they call it "hypomanic" -- most of the time, and I consider that "me," but the Depakote keeps it from being too extreme, and it softens the depression phases as well. And that works for me. I DO want to be a little manic. I like feeling that way, but I know that if a person is TOO manic they can hurt themselves or become delusional, so I don't want that.