Well, it has been one hell of a week, lemme tellya. Hell of a month, really, but things really came to a head this past week. I went from being pretty damned happy, though not too happy I don’t think, yet still suffering from physical effects of mania, not mental ones, to being pharmaceutically dragged from my lofty perch to very unnecessary depths which actually still left my brain way up where my doctor was trying to get it down from, and that was not the right approach. All he did was induce what psychology calls a “mixed state”, something seemingly unique to bipolar disorder in which the various aspects of the body, mind, and soul/psyche fail to operate at the same speed anymore. Instead of bringing me back down to what he considered Earth, he threw me way out of equilibrium and as a result very nearly made me suicidal.
Which leads me to the same conclusion I made while I was having my psychotic break a month ago and was observing parts of the Universe as well as the inner mind that led me to an irrefutable, to me, truth: psychs, therapists, and shrinks are fucking with shit they do NOT understand. Not enough, anyway, for way too many of us. If they knew as much as they like to pretend they do, then we would not have this problem we have today of both medical psychiatric practitioners as well as therapeutic practitioners doing the equivalent of playing darts with drugs and therapies until they find something that sticks. Sometimes this works out really well, like with my kid, who was given the right antidepressant and anxiolytic the first time out. He got super lucky. A lot of people don’t.
So my husband and I along with my shrink have been discussing/arguing over what to do about the “crash” I experienced a few days ago as well as how to address what has been both correctly yet incorrectly viewed as my suffering from “mania”. Mostly they discuss and then present what they think to me, and then I argue, because I haven’t made myself clear to either one of them, particularly my shrink. Yes, my physical being has been in a high state of mania that has prevented basic things like sleeping and eating enough. However, my mental activities when I was awake, which were very focused but not uninterruptible, were actually operating on a pretty normal level for perhaps the first time in my life. I was pretty happy, but not excessively so, and I was busy, but not excessively so, and I was re-experiencing things like writing, sex, and dancing, again, not excessively so. Except perhaps the sex but quite frankly after my husband I having not had decent sex in probably five years if not more, I think I can be forgiven for wanting to make up for lost time.
Unfortunately, my first visit to my shrink was just a few days after I really began to spiral out of control, and just before my actual psychotic break, which lasted about a day or so, to my admittedly fuzzy memory. At this visit he put me on a brand-new antipsychotic (and therefore horribly expensive so he was giving us samples) as well as an anti-anxiety agent that has been used for a very long time, although its use as such is off-label. He said both were very mild and would not result in a screeching halt to my thought processes or a hammer to the psyche. That sounded good to me, because part of me was enjoying the intellectual and other epiphanies I was experiencing as my brain spiraled out of control. And I know that’s a danger of bipolar disorder: getting hooked on that amazingly creative and introspective state of mind that allows for truly genius connections. So I was happy to take something that would supposedly not seriously affect that state of mind but allow me to establish some control over the speed of the mental vehicle.
However, since I was essentially not yet finished with the process that brought me to his office, at least one of his prescriptions was very premature. Fortunately since it was slow-acting, it didn’t interrupt the major central transformative and healing process that took place over probably a week, culminating in a night of panic attacks that forced me to reconnect with the one person in my vicinity: my husband. I hate to say “forced” because that makes it sound like it was an unwilling activity on my part, but that’s not true. While the panic was awful, it allowed me to pierce straight through all those shit-colored lenses of perception that had been laid over my “eyes” over varying amounts of time and from different life situations, and be able to SEE my husband for who he really was, the main message of whom during that panicky night was “I’m safe, I won’t hurt you.” Which was demonstrated repeatedly over the night as my brain over and over again left my body and then snapped back in a state of utter terror and confusion.
By the time I woke up in the morning, all, and I do mean all, of the negative baggage that I had un/subconsciously projected against him had fallen away. And that baggage and its associated lenses of perception had also fallen away from other aspects of my life, largely involving my kid and therefore many parts of my own childhood. My thoughts and emotions were no longer so far away that they could not be controlled, so it was much, much easier to avoid negative states of mind that I had previously been ruled by for decades and that caused me to behave in…very unpleasant ways, especially towards my child.
Now it did take a couple of days to get a handle on those newfound, much closer emotions, though I never got angry like I had before. If anything, I was able to tell when anger might be approaching, grab it before it got too far, identify it, and be able to do something such as say to my kid, “Hey, you’re doing something I’ve asked you not to do repeatedly, yet you’re still doing it, and if you don’t stop I’m going to really lose it on you and I know you hate that, and I hate it, so let’s not go there, okay? Just do what needs to be done.”
And lo and behold, when presented very directly yet kindly, sometimes sternly, in my newfound non-angry Mom Voice, he would usually blink or nod and go do whatever I wanted him to do, or not do, depending on the situation. It even worked on my nephew, who is very neurodivergent and much of his behavior is based in unpredictable chaos, so it’s hard to get through to him. I did, though, much to I think both of our relief.
And thus I spent a couple of really wonderful weeks actually enjoying true happiness, although because I was essentially like a newborn baby, I had to re-experience things like food, which was really weird for a while and still is sometimes. I still haven’t eaten anything sweet besides my coffee and pumpkin bread, or had any soda. I discovered dancing, and then I couldn’t stop bringing my phone everywhere to listen to music and dance, though it was usually dancing in my kitchen waiting for my coffee to brew. I spent days listening to music and making YouTube and Spotify playlists not just for myself, but for a larger project I had in mind, and still do. I brushed off my blog, picked a new theme, and started organizing it while I wrote new blog posts about my experience. No, I wasn’t getting enough sleep, and food intake, while improving, was still on the low side. I was also smoking a lot and drinking a lot of coffee, but honestly that’s not so unusual for a writer and as far as I’m concerned is a minor problem I can tackle later.
Then the antipsychotic that my shrink gave me at that first visit started to kick in, rather slowly at first, but then plunging me into darkness much like the first hill on a roller coaster. Only I wasn’t coming back up like the roller coaster does. I ground to a near halt, spending two nights in a row crying into my food in the middle of crowded restaurants because that window to happiness had been painted black and the door nailed shut, cutting me off from the writing, the dancing, and most importantly, the sex. All of it, just gone in the space of about 24 hours. I felt like the world’s most cruel joke had been played on me and while I did not find myself contemplating suicide, that big black door that represents it was sitting RIGHT THERE. I took a look at that fucker, as did my Inner Voice which to me had been squelched, and they both went “nope”, and went to bed with every intention of staying there until this horrible wave passed and/or something was done about the medication regimen. I had never, not once, been so sad and unhappy, and damn that is saying a LOT.
To make things even worse, the “crash” had done absolutely nothing about the perceived primary issues of my supposed “mania”: the lack of sleep and the poor eating. It was like someone had set demolition charges to blow up a certain section of a building only to find that when the detonation occurred, unforeseen connections in the building’s infrastructure nearly caused the whole thing to collapse, with me in it!
Fortunately I am not a building, I’m a person, and I know my brain can heal itself under the right circumstances. Yet I was going to have to go through several days of discussing/arguing with my shrink over how best to treat this “crash”. And pretty much everything he recommended went way against my Inner Voice and how I thought this should be approached, and in my newly agitated state of mind I typically reacted angrily about it. He wanted to increase the antipsychotic and have me start retaking another drug that had been one of the direct causes of several years of my life during which “every day is exactly the same”, to use the Nine Inch Nails song. And it was true. “I believe I can see the future, because I repeat the same routine” was my mantra for years, and I will not tell you about the disgusting and filthy state of affairs I allowed my body, clothes, and general surroundings to descend into while I was in that state of mind. I.DID.NOT.CARE.
Fortunately I had railed to my husband about that particular drug and what it did to me and he was able to convey that to my shrink without my having to go into it, and at least on the phone he said that was fine. And I was befuddled and angered by the suggestion that I increase the dosage on the antipsychotic, which we had previously DEcreased because of side effects and did not seem to be doing what we wanted it to. To my mind’s Inner guiding Voice, none of this made rational sense, and it had been keeping a very careful watch on me during the entire process, so I was very reluctant to ignore it.
I was very angry and panicky for a few days after the crash because I was repeatedly being given untenable options for how to deal with it, much to my husband’s consternation, who was having trouble dealing with not only my anger, but my growing inability to properly communicate my thoughts and feelings because of the rising panic. I could not talk to my shrink on the phone because a) I knew I’d get into an irrational state with him because b) he was going to try to argue with me based on his perception that I was not thinking clearly, and I knew for a fact that I was, unless I was being actively panicky.
Friday I was prescribed two more drugs that I was trepidatious-bordering on-angry about, another antipsychotic for sleep that I had taken before and gotten bad muscle twitches from, and a common mood stabilizer that I had said many times before that I would never take again. That particular day had started out relatively okay, but grew into depression as the day wore on, and rage when I noticed how much of one of the drugs he had prescribed to me. I had been emailing him the entire time, and I wondered if he had even read them, seeing as how he seemed to be doing the exact opposite of what I wanted or needed him to. I was tired and wanted to go to bed, so I angrily took my meds, even the new one, and stomped upstairs where I blew up at my husband again, not because I was angry at him, but just because I was angry, as well as frightened and confused.
As we drifted off to sleep, he said he had some ideas he wanted to talk about in the morning about my mental state and the drugs I was taking. I agreed and we went to sleep.
In the morning, I had indeed slept for several hours in a row, but my back hurt terribly because I don’t think I ever moved, my mouth was dry as the damned Sahara, and I was very groggy from the additional antipsychotic I had been given for sleep. I decided right then and there that that would be an on occasion only drug to be used only when I had too many nights in a row without adequate sleep.
My husband I attempted to create a timeline for the drugs I had taken over the years along with start and stop dates, and dates of onset for different mental states I had experienced. It was very clear almost immediately which drugs were responsible for what, which my Inner Voice and I had already suspected and were merely confirming. We did the same for the much shorter time span beginning late last year when I began ending taking those drugs one at a time, and again for the time span of the last month that began with my spiral on May 21.
The long and the short of it was that my experience was being misinterpreted and therefore mistreated, much to my detriment. Amazingly, at the same time, my shrink answered an email I had written the day before, in which he AGAIN tried to convince me that I needed to increase the antipsychotic and add a mood stabilizer, his favorite of which was the “every day is exactly the same” drug.
I didn’t lose it this time, though I was rather incredulous. However, since my husband and I had been nailing all this shit down all morning, I was able to craft a “good morning and good timing” email in which I laid out much of what you just read, but not before making the statement that no, I would not be taking that particular drug anymore, I would not take the other drug again, and the other new/old drug he gave me would not be taken in as high a dose as he wanted me to, at least not yet. I would also be treating the sleep meds much more carefully. I also rejected his assertion that I needed a mood stabilizer, but said I was willing to discuss it.
I didn’t put him down or yell at him or express any of the other negativity that my knee-jerk reactions were producing towards him earlier in the week, I just laid it all out as simply as I could that he did not understand what happened to me, and was therefore mistreating it, dangerously so.
It’s the weekend and he doesn’t like email, so I do not expect a reply until my visit with him on Tuesday, at which point we’ll find out whether he accepts what he read and is willing to respect my autonomy and newfound knowledge and experience, or if he persists in wanting me to take drugs that I am pretty damned sure will NOT help me.
And this is the power struggle that so many mentally ill/neurodivergent people in crisis find themselves in, and regrettably a lot of them do not seem to have the internal cogence that I do that allows me to be able to determine which drugs are good for me and which ones are bad. And there is the further problem of potentially not being taken seriously because it is assumed that because you have X disorder and/or are in crisis, you are therefore incapable of thinking rationally. And at least for me, that’s bullshit.
That may indeed be the case for a lot of people, and I can even see where it might apply to myself in the right circumstances, but that would require a profound loss of my ethical, rational, and logical mental structures again that I do not think will happen, as that baggage has been processed now. My breakdown served a huge purpose which has been largely fulfilled, leaving me with so much energy and fodder for further exploration that I will be happily busy writing for quite some time, provided that ending taking that one drug has the intended result, which I believe it will, since it’s not even doing what it’s supposed to be doing in the first place. Sorry, FAIL. Next!
My huge fears right now are that a) the ability to dance never returns, which is vastly overshadowed by the fear that b) my libido, finally recaptured and then cruelly yanked away again, never returns. My Inner Voice tries to tell me that won’t happen, though, that I just have to wait for this shit to wear off, which might take a few weeks, and that I will indeed be able to dance and enjoy sex again. And I admit that itself may actually take another drug of some sort, although I hope not. I have discovered that my physical body, which underwent some really amazing and strange changes that I will have to write about to be believed, along with my mind/soul/psyche, are in careful balance that are dependent on another, much like the orbit of the planets in the Solar System. Fuck with one, and the entire system goes to shit. Ask any astronomer what the Earth would be like without the Moon. TL;DR – bad, bad things that would likely prevent the formation of life on the planet in the first place. Let’s not even discuss what would happen if there were no Jupiter.
I am no different. Part of psychology and psychiatry’s problem is that it often treats what is wrong in the brain while failing to address or even acknowledge the elephant in the room that carries it: the rest of the human body. Which is probably why we have so many psychiatric drugs that carry profound physical symptoms, many of which are unbearable to the user. It’s a terrible and, to me, unacceptable tradeoff that I will no longer engage in, even if I’m back to eating bananas and only sleeping for two hours at a time, because I know that state of mind/body will not last forever and while it may look wrong from the outside, dammit I’m happy! No, not TOO happy, just happy, and true happiness has been so rare in my life it’s hard to describe.
If you could walk in my life’s shoes, not only would you stumble in my footsteps, you’d crawl back to me on your hands and knees, bleeding, scarred, and sobbing for me to take my shoes back. And then maybe you would understand what I will and will not sacrifice for this long-fought for happiness, and why I was so upset that it and vital parts of it were ripped away from me almost as I was just beginning to enjoy them.
Me and my baby soul still have a website and its menus to wrangle, and blog posts to finish that were started over the last few weeks. In the meantime I just have to check in with my Inner Voice, aka The Goddess, and get reassured that things will return to my new normal, not someone else’s.