The couch is ok

Yes, the season is changing and so are my moods.  Who turns down an opportunity to go clothes shopping? Me.  We only made it about 2 miles down the road before the tears started, and we had to turn around.  For the past few days I've been in a sort of emotional coma.  Between a two-day migraine and returning sadness, I thought today I was making progress.  I was up early, got the kids off to school, showered and even curled my hair.  All for what?  The couch.  My little sidekick Pepper hasn't left my lap all day.  I know my dogs sense my depression.  I should be happy about our cruise in a few weeks, but those irritating pounds crept back into my life and onto my scale, which doesn't add to my fantastic mood.  So many things could be completely worse right now and I understand that.  When these chemicals in my brain become unbalanced it doesn't matter.  I could've inherited a million dollars and I'd still be sitting here.  "Cheer up!" people say.  "Get over it!"  You don't want to know what I would say to that.  Don't you think I would if I could??  I'm trying… for now, it's the couch, my black-haired companions and a few tears.
3:00 - smile - go

Grieving a loved one

Recently, I wrote this article about the passing of my beloved grandfather/ Pop.  It will be published in Grief Digest, but just in case you don't read this (haha) I am putting it up on my blog.


His Bird

Head on the soft, dewy grass.  Tick-Tock.  Legs tucked in to my chest.  Tick-Tock.  Hands folded beneath my cheek.  Tick-Tock.  The sun shines light on the golden Timex creating a blinding glow, so I close my eyes.  Tick-Tock. 

For 39 years he called me his bird.  With my blue eyes as wide as saucers and a little pointy nose, I followed his every step through the hallways.  His enormous key chain jingled on the hoop of his navy pants.  Being a building superintendent was his second job.  If a faucet was leaky, he would show up with a wrench.  If a lock was broken, it was replaced with a brand new one.  If a mouse appeared, traps were set.  There was never a dull moment.  Yet, out of all the adventures we pursued, my favorite was the trip to the mysterious basement.

“Please, please, please!!! Can I come down there with you? Please!” I cried.

“How can I resist those eyes?” he asked. “I need to check a few things.

As I skipped into the elevator, I grabbed his hand.  Tick-Tock.  Beneath the hair and grease, I noticed the gleam of metal against his olive skin.  Quickly, I jabbed my thumb on the B button.  With each creak and moan of the aged contraption, my stomach was filled with horrific excitement. When we stopped and the door opened, I grabbed his leg, and we stepped into complete darkness.  Reaching over his head, I heard the tinkle of a chain and click the single light bulb illuminated the entire area.

While he went into the boiler room, I began to explore.  On the right side of the wall stood two massive white machines.  Moving closer, I realized they were the community washer and dryer.  Looking toward the left, I noticed my baby crib and an oversized chair surrounded by boxes.  I walked closer and peered inside of it.  Among the yellow sheets and old blankets, I spotted one of my baby toys.  It was an orange, stuffed owl.  I wound it up, and it twinkled with sweet music that bounced around the basement walls.  It was time to go.  I tucked the owl under my arm, walked into the elevator smiling up at his unshaven face and he smiled right back.  Tick-Tock.

I opened my wet eyes.  As I wiped away the tears, I noticed the hot sun had shifted directly over me.  Tick-Tock.  Sitting up, I leaned against the cold, hard stone.  Tick-tock.  Shaking my wrist, the over-sized watch slid down hitting the palm of my hand.  Once again, I closed my eyes.  Tick-Tock.

“Julie, can you grab that basket behind the lawn chair?” he asked.

I walked over to the brown basket, and as I leaned over to pick it up, droplets of sweat from my forehead hit the pavement.  Puerto Rico was extremely hot in July.  But I didn’t care.  The garden behind his house was amazing.  Not a very tall man, he had to use a ladder to grab the bananas from underneath the leaves.  While I found some relief from the heat underneath the large palms of the tree, I handed him the basket.  I watched with admiration as he selected the perfect fruit. 

“Graçias mija,” he said.

Next, we strolled around the yard and picked up some breadfruit that had fallen from another set of trees. 

“These will taste good with the tostones for later,” he said.  “Why don’t you check the avocado plant in the corner?” he asked.

Lifting the leaves of the plant, I found a large, green avocado hanging heavily on the branch.  I picked it and brought it over to the basket.

“This will have to sit for a few days before it’s ready to eat,” he explained.

I smiled.

“Don’t worry.  We will be here for an entire week,” I said.

He hugged me and I felt warm and loved.

That night as I lay in bed listening to the coqui frogs chirping outside my window and feeling a warm breeze float through the curtains, I thought about arriving to his house and hearing him call out my name with such joy, you would think we were meeting for the first time.   I enjoyed spending time with him.  I loved listening to his familiar stories about the army and watching his eyes light up with excitement.  Feeling special in every moment we shared, lingers in my heart.  Tick-Tock

I opened my eyes.  As I dabbed a tissue on my cheeks, I was relieved to see the sun had settled behind some trees in the distance.  Tick-Tock.  Now facing the stone, my fingers shakily traced the letters boldly engraved on the front.  Sitting on my knees with my hands holding the stone, I dropped my head and closed my eyes again.  Tick-Tock.

He stood proud at each graduation and birthday celebration. We danced at my wedding.  He visited new homes we purchased.  He held each of my girls after they were born.  He attended holiday gatherings and family meals.  His 98 year old body was tired. I will always cherish Hearing “I love you” for the last time as he lay in his bed.  Tick-Tock.

I remember watching as every corner was folded and each crease was smoothed when the flag was handed over.  Silence.  I saw them carry him away.  I clenched his watch in my hand. Tick-Tock

I opened my eyes once more and sat up straight and tall. The headstone read, Celso Rivera.  He was my grandfather, and I will always be his bird.

Light Therapy

After years of hearing about it from my doctors, I finally bought a light box.  Along with my bipolar comes seasonal affective disorder.  This means that when the seasons change I usually plunge into a depression, and sure enough, that is what happened about a month ago.  So, my doctor recommended a light box.  After a lot of research, I selected one that seemed right for me.  It came in the mail yesterday, and I am surprised to say it is much larger than I thought it would be.  That's my fault for not looking at the dimensions.  It's about the size of a large computer monitor screen!  It provides 10,000 LUX of natural spectrum light minus the harmful UV rays. As I sit here typing, it is propped up on the chair facing me.  You don't look directly into the light unless you want to be blind for a day.  You sit with it for about 30 minutes while you drink coffee, check emails, etc.  I am excited to see if it improves my mood, sleep patterns and energy level as stated by the manufacturer and my doctor.  Why not?  I've tried everything else.  As long as it doesn't trigger a migraine, this could work. The only negative appears to be that it might not be conducive to traveling since it's huge.  I will keep you updated....

Meds and motivation

One of those mornings...bury my head in my pillow and refuse to wake up.  Of course, with three kids that's not an option.  I continue to wonder if maybe my meds make me drowsy in the morning.  If I take them too early in the evening, I am wide awake at 5am!  I'm trying to figure out the perfect time. Experimenting with medication has been an ongoing thing for years.  I've tried almost every antidepressant out there to the point where I believe I became immune to taking them.  I would feel no positive effect.  Unfortunately, with only an antidepressant I would either spiral into greater depression or a small phase of mania.  I've had the same experience with mood stabilizers.  There are many out there that can have me sleeping for two straight days.  I don't want to be in a coma.  When I found Lamictal it was instantly a perfect fit for me.  Matched with a newer drug called Latuda, I feel that I am on a normal level of existence.  I may not be as happy as I would like to be, but I will take semi-normal for now.  There have been many times where I thought that I felt well enough to be off of medication, so I would stop taking them completely.  Big mistake.  No matter how much praying, acupuncture, therapy, or exercise I committed myself to, happiness didn't miraculously appear and I would crash.  I understand that there are times when I have a little cry and then pep talk myself into completing the next activity.  Some days it's a chore to get in the shower and run to the grocery store.  Oftentimes, I've talked myself out of going to the gym or getting together with a friend.  Sadly, when I need a friend the most, they just don't completely understand. Those who are close to me know not to take it personally and will either leave me be for awhile or pursue me to get out of the house until I agree.  Usually when I do get outside my mood will shift for the better.  It's just the thought of doing it. Pushing myself out the door as I write this.  I have a lot of running around to do and I can't put it off any longer.  Here I go.

Small Stress

For me, when I have the littlest amount of stress, I tend to be dramatic, overly sensitive, and extremely analytical of the situation.  For example, today I am going to my daughter's classroom to assist the teacher during literacy time. (Being room mom brings out other anxiety that I won't discuss. ha!)  This will be the first time that I will be in a classroom to help for more than just a few minutes during a class party.  As I dropped off an ecstatic Bella to school, my stress had reached its limit.  Driving away, the tears flooded as if it was the first day of school and I was watching her skip off to Kindergarten. These tears came from a different part of me.  The teacher inside began to appear.  The teacher who was passionate about her job and would do anything for her students.  Whether it was using my best Skippyjon Jones voice to read a book aloud, or showing 2nd graders how to use onomatopoeia in their writing, I missed it.  But after 12 years of joyful teaching, something stirred inside of me.  Slowly the anxiety began to creep in.  Maybe it was the new meds or the fact that I wasn't sleeping, but I was consumed with fear.  It wouldn't be fair to my students if I couldn't give them 100%.  So, that year I made the hardest decision to leave teaching and stay at home to focus on my health and the girls.  Every fall when school starts I become depressed.  I miss setting up my classroom and meeting new faces at my door on the first day of school.  I deeply miss my co-workers and feel like I let them down. I miss people calling me Mrs. Souther or accidentally, mommy. I began to feel that I lost my purpose in life and became angry with God.  No matter how much I prayed, I felt as though he wasn't listening and wouldn't take away my pain.  After all is said and done, I truly feel that my purpose for staying home is to watch my children blossom and be there for all of their important events.  I know a door will open up somewhere as my life continues.  So after all of this rambling, (my brain never shuts up) I'm worried about going to Bella's classroom today.  I don't want to be overwhelmed with anxiety.  I just want to be in the moment and enjoy the wonderful opportunity I've been given to help her teacher.  So after three years, I will be back in a classroom as a parent, not a teacher.  I will hold in the tears and let someone else be in control.

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.