“Sometimes Mommy’s brain doesn’t
work right so I might feel sad, tired, or frustrated,” I try to explain to my
twelve year old daughter. It’s really
hard to describe to a kid what my brain is doing when she can’t see it, so she
has difficulty grasping the concept of the word bipolar and what it means. In reality I want to say that sometimes Mommy
wants to stay in bed all day and cry or crawl into a hole and never come
out. That is what bipolar depression is
for me.
Maybe
when my parents didn’t connect with my dark poetry and tearful outbursts at the age of
twelve as hormonal changes, they misunderstood the first signs of my
depression. Not daring to share details
about my panic attacks concerning death or my inability to sleep, I became
fearful that they would think I was crazy.
Instead, during high school, I poured myself into tragic literature
studies and using writing as my escape from my moments of desperation.
When
college rolled around, I suddenly became motivated and inspired to make a
change in my life. I felt alive. Colors seemed more vibrant and my sense of
smell intensified. It was as if the blue
sky was brighter and the smell of fall gave me a sense of comfort as a form of
electricity pumped through my body. I bounced around in my studies eager to
learn as much as I could. I experimented
with classes ranging from dance to journalism. With my newfound burst of energy, I could stay up all night and
still maintain my studies the following day.
Shopping on borrowed money didn’t seem so frivolous. I enjoyed my
freedom and thrived on my thoughts of being invincible.
However, after five years with
a degree in sight and marriage on the horizon upon graduation, one would think
that I was in the prime of my life and I could conquer the world, until in one
day every ounce of confidence and all of the hope and enthusiasm for life was
sucked out of me. It was as if a tsunami
of despair washed over me, and it took every ounce of strength to keep my head
above water and keep a smile on my face.
Not until many years later was I exposed to the fact that those glorious
college days were an indication of prolonged mania, which included a sense of
euphoria and hyperactivity, my sudden crash of emotion only proved to be the
next cycle of an extremely depressive phase of my bipolar history.
As
soon as I returned from my honeymoon, my supportive husband and parents encouraged
me to find a doctor who could diagnose my sudden slump of gloom and doom. Instead of taking note of rapid mood cycles,
the physician prescribed me with my first taste of an antidepressant, Prozac,
and suggested that I have a baby and all of my sadness would instantly
disappear. I was beginning to think I
wasn’t the one who was crazy. Yet, I
cried for days and in self-pity and took my so-called happy pill as prescribed.
Ironically,
two years later with a second degree in progress and working as a student
teacher, I found out that I was pregnant.
Anxiety kicked in. Would I be
able to handle a new career and being a new mother? Would I struggle with postpartum? Would I be
able to continue taking my medication without harming the baby? Endless nights of racing thoughts and
self-doubt only proceeded to what would be one of the happiest times of my life
– motherhood. Maybe that doctor wasn’t a
quack after all. As a new mother I was
introduced to the antidepressant Zoloft, which was supposed to be safer to take
while breastfeeding. With the intense
emotions of being in love all over again with my child while enjoying the
creativity and spontaneity of teaching, I was cycling into another phase of
mania. During this time, it was revealed
that my brother suffered with bipolar disorder; however, he cycled more in the
manic phase than I did. At this time, I
just continued to think that I was suffering with typical depression.
Eight
years, two kids and ten different antidepressants later, I thought my life was
starting to feel what I thought normal should feel like, so I made the mistake
of completely abstaining from any medication.
If I stayed positive and prayed hard enough, I was sure that I could be
a super mom, work and keep thing under control.
I truly believed that I was cured and could handle any small feelings of
depression that might creep up in the future.
What was I thinking?
About
six months later as the school year was coming to an end, I began to have
strange feelings. Physically, I could
not eat and lost ten pounds. I began to withdraw from my friends, I would feel
restless and couldn’t sit for longer than five minutes at a time as anxiety
about feeling confined to a classroom set in, and my brain began to work
quickly at an alarming rate. I could sit
up for hours at night creating jewelry or some other craft. I would bake a cake
for my daughter’s birthday at 2 am while listening to loud music until it was
absolutely perfect. I would become
obsessed with different foods such as chocolate chip cookies or lemonade and
have to have them ritualistically every night of the week until I moved on the
next thing. Many
days I sat outside listening to the birds chatter and I would think, Do they
understand each other? What are they saying? Do they notice I’m here? Are they
a sign from God that I need help? I
began to call family members and chatter on at a rapid pace about anything and
everything that was racing through my mind. My daughter would ask, “Are you drunk? You are
acting really weird!” It was only a
matter of time before I realized that I could not continue at this pace for
much longer before I would spiral into the world of hopeless misery.
My family suffered
the most. I became too tired to leave the house. My husband was left
taking three kids to the movies or to a soccer game on the weekend. Outbursts of tears and panic at the mall
would leave the Easter bunny waiting another day. My poor kids didn’t know what to say or do
around me worried that they might provoke a crying spell or be worried about my
impatience when getting ready for school in the morning. It’s difficult to see a disappointed look or
a face of fear in your children when depression takes over. Trying to apologize after the fact almost
seemed pointless. Looking back, if I could bottle up all of
these emotions during this time of my life, I would not have never taken myself
off of any medication.
After
much needed guidance from my loving family, I found my first psychiatrist. She was foreign and her lack of understanding
idioms was hilarious, yet she was kind and understanding. As I sat there wringing my hands, years and
years of frustration gushed out of my mouth.
Without making eye contact with her, I knew she was carefully listening
to every detail that I could recall about my history. After what seemed like an eternity, she held
my hand, and she introduced the word bipolar into my vocabulary. I was confused. Weren’t bipolar people the ones you always
saw on the news as having committed a crime and using it as an insanity
plea? Or maybe a bipolar person was a
struggling actor who on numerous attempts tried to commit suicide. Had I been misdiagnosed all of these years?
The answer according to her was yes.
These intense mood swings of highs and lows over an extended period of
time were beginning to affect my health, my family and my job. I began to understand what manic behavior
looked like from the events in my past.
I also knew that after these periods of a high that a crash of
depression was not far behind it. I
learned what sort of things could trigger my symptoms and how to manage my
medication by taking a mood stabilizer with an antidepressant with the aid of a
sleeping pill.
Going
to therapy in addition to taking new medications, allowed me to understand the
disorder immensely. I learned how to
communicate with my husband about my feelings of anxiety and depression while
he learned how to not get frustrated when I was sad and couldn’t get out of
bed. Essentially, my husband was
learning his new role as my caregiver and not just my spouse. He began to understand that I couldn’t just
be happy event though I was living a blessed life with three beautiful children
in a lovely home. This is when the term
of “million dollar day” was introduced as a code word for us as a couple. For instance, I would explain to him, I could
be standing at the top of the Eiffel Tower with a million dollars and still
wouldn’t be happy. Depression works that
way. After reading The Bell Jar by Silvia Plath I felt justified with my explanation.
She states, “because wherever
I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be
sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.” Being
placed in the most amazing situation, doesn’t mean that I would be happy on a
day that I’m feeling depressed. It just
means that on that particular day, I might need some extra help with the kids,
some alone time, or an extra hug to make it through the day. Although, Sylvia
Plath ended her life chained by her depression, I can feel as though mine is
just beginning to make sense. And unlike
her, my kids ARE enough reason for me to continue breathing each day.
With
a new understanding of this disorder, I began to absorb anything related to
it. I’ve read numerous books, articles
and even seen movies involving how people struggle and cope with the
illness. After five more years passed, I found new doctors who specialized in mood disorders, which me the chance to try a new
medication approved for bipolar depression.
Also, they removed my sleeping pill and taught me how to maintain better
sleep hygiene at night without relying on medication. Therapy sessions opened my
eyes to seeing that having a compassionate family surrounding me and staying
strong in my faith, gives me hope everyday that I can lead a “normal”
life.
Secretly, there
are still days when I miss my manic moments. I would love to wake up feeling
refreshed and full of energy instead of hiding under the covers for hours. Now matter how much I stare at it, the sky
isn’t as blue and occasionally the sound of wind rustling through the trees
gives me a glimmer of peace. But for
now, I continue to grow and learn about what it means to be bipolar and embrace
the fact that this is a lifelong illness.
In the meantime, I will continue to spend time with my family, pour my
emotions into writing, and listen to music so my spirit is not broken. Like I told my daughter, “Mommy’s brain
might be a little sick, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t love you more and
more each day.” I continue to push myself to see and do what is important as a
mom and a wife. Bipolar depression is not the enemy. It will only make me stronger.
God will continue to bless you. Have faith!
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