Mommy's Brain

“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.