Pills Pills Pills

Back in June of this year I decided to take a little time off of work to deal with the immense pressure depression had, again, started to put on my shoulders.  I sought the help of a new psychiatrist and counselor who not only did not help my case, but made me worse. 
I had hoped when I began seeing this new doctor that I would be able to get the help I needed much quicker than I was getting with my current doctor who had long wait times in between visits.  Unfortunately the only positive that came from me seeing this new doc was I met my deductible quite quickly because she charged a fortune to not do much of anything other than take my pulse and tell me that I was acting manic when I very clearly was not.

So I switched back to my old doctor after less than a month of being overcharged and under helped and started seeing my old counselor who (as always) gave me wonderful insight and helped me see what was really attacking my psyche.  We found that my medications had not been working for a while due to an immunity my body had decided it needed to Lexapro, so we switched me to Prozac and left my Abilify that I had been on since the beginning, alone. 

Prozac had, once upon a time, been my great reliever of depression.  We had switched me to Lexapro when the Prozac had built what we believed to be a temporary immunity in my system.  So why not try this miracle drug once again and go back to the days when I had this energy and ability to smile that I hadn’t seen for several years.

I was on the Prozac for one day when I started to feel more energetic and hopeful.  I was on it for two when I started to think I could go a whole day without sleeping through the majority of it.  I was on it for three days when the suicidal thoughts started to creep in slow and steady.

Time to call my doctor again, no way was this going to fly.

Still not ready to return to work, August seeped in through the cracks of time between sleep and awake.  My psychiatrist made a point of noting that I have never shown any manic symptoms in his care over the years.  While maintaining my diagnosis for the time being, he decided to put me on a strictly anti-depression medicine mix.  Now on and upped dose of Abilify and new medication of Effexor the suicidal thoughts and uncontrollable weeping that had interrupted nearly all waking moments seems to have gone.

In the place of these terrible things is an obnoxious amount of weight gain from the Abilify, an exhaustion even worse than ever before from the mix, and worst of all I feel as though I have lost all ability to create.  All artistic ability in me seems to have flittered off somewhere I cannot reach and most of the time don’t care about except as something to fill the boredom.

I see the psychiatrist again in 3 days.

The Earliest of Beginnings (a.k.a. The Tale of The Chella, a.k.a. A Name for Your Beverage)

Yellowstone burned the year I was born.

I like to think that the fires in 1988 were a mere foreshadowing of what was to come.  Of course, I’m melodramatic and used to believe that it only rained when I wanted it to because I was that important to the universe.  Don’t worry, I grew to learn a little more about how weather patterns work and know that I (probably) don’t have the ability to stop the terrible droughts that happen here in the Idaho desert.  That being said, I still feel a strange pride knowing that such a powerful destruction happened as a precursor to my birth.

I was born into a good family.  My Mom and Dad named me Chelsea and my darling brother Shayne looked on adoringly at the package he had very specifically ordered from my parents.  I fear if I had been born a boy, my poor disappointed brother would have immediately disowned my mother for not taking his instructions that he wanted a baby sister seriously enough.  I guess she got lucky.

Shortly after being named Chelsea, I came into my more permanent title as Chella. (I should explain that this was the name of a red wine at the time.  Its so important you know this.  I cannot stress that enough.  Okay, lets continue…)

Apparently I wouldn’t stop crying and my poor tired Mom exclaimed “Chella! Please!” in an attempt to show frustration which I probably didn’t understand, being a new born and all.

“Chella?” My Dad asked.

“Well, she’s all red, and she whines” My mom replied, not quite sure why she said it either, but quick witted enough to make a joke even in her exhaustion.

And thus the Chella was truly born into this world.  Red and whining. 

(I would also like to mention the irony that the Hispanic community laughs when they hear my name because it so closely resembles the Spanish word for beer or alcohol.  My mother had no idea just how funny her joke was.)

To this day some of my closest friends often forget or have never even known that my legal name is Chelsea.  Even I forget often enough that when family members call me by it, I do not respond.  Instead I look on confused until it clicks and I have to convince my displeased grandmother of the truth: I forgot who I am…again.

So that, my friends, is a quick tale of the name that has brought me some color in this world.  Hope you enjoyed my beginnings.  Thanks for reading, and have a good one. 

Much love.

On Manic Depression

I forgot to take my meds last night.  With a recent raise in my daily dose, missing a day appears to have far more severe consequences than when I have been on a consistent dose for a while.

As some of you may know I was diagnosed with Manic Depression (Bipolar Disorder) about 5 years ago.  It has been a continuous struggle throughout my life with only the fairly recent explanation of my diagnosis.  I have found that my normal psychiatrist that manages my medication is just too unavailable to me when I am going through a bought of depression or mania.  So I had decided a few weeks back to seek the help of a new doctor who agreed to take me off work for a few weeks while we start working on cognitive behavioral therapy (which I am finding about as useful as a mosquito).  She upped the dose on both my current psychological medications and that’s been about the extent of her work at this point.  After already spending over $600 on visits with her I would expect some sort of actual therapy, not just medication management which is one of the reasons I left my other doctors care. Needless to say I am considering returning to the old psychiatrist and seeking the help also, from a therapist whom I had great success with a few years back.  While I (deep down) know that my current doctors method is just not right for me and that is in no way either of our faults, I feel flakey and overly dramatic leaving her practice to return to where I once was.

Today has reminded me of many things. 

Mainly of the wonderful depth that this disease carries with it.  I sat in my room sobbing uncontrollably as I watched a documentary by Stephen Fry called The Secret Life of a Manic Depressive (or something like that.  I highly recommend it).  I found a clip where he was talking about how several people with this disorder were asked if they had a choice to keep manic depression and all that comes with it or get rid of it.  Only 2 people out of I don’t remember how many hundreds said they would take the cure.  I found this wonderfully liberating as I am among those that would keep it.  I’d like to explain why in my own words as best as I can.

With Bipolar disorder comes some absolutely pure beauty.  Inspirations in all forms of art are constantly attributed to artists who have suffered from this awful and intense diagnosis.  I have felt this elation that can come from the manic side of the bipolar spectrum which comes from being able to create and see things so grandiosely.  Carrie Fischer once said that being manic was better than any drug she could have ever taken.  

 This rang so true with me that it took my breath away.

But there is this other side to the mania, and that, as you are aware of I am sure, is the depression.

It’s a dark place where all those feelings you once had are far away.  Seeing past the moment you are in is impossible, and I don’t use that term lightly here.

Stephen Fry described it like the weather of the mind.  It’s one of the best analogies I’ve heard and I am grateful to have found it today.  He spoke about how when it rains you can’t stop the rain by choosing to do so, you have to ride it out.  Yes there is sun out there somewhere, but right now its ice cold rain, sleet, the wind is unbearable!  Imagine now that there is no end to this.  Or rather that you do not have it in your capacity to comprehend that there is an end to this.  No matter how many times you are told, that sun will be here soon; you just can’t get your head there.

That is depression.  You just CAN’T get your head there.

So here is a bit of wine with the cheese I have presented:

I cannot stand one more person telling me that everything is going to be okay.  My friends and family are some of the best the universe has to offer.  For this I am truly grateful.  And it is to them that this next message is directed.  To them and to anyone who doesn’t have this or any other mental disorder they do not completely and utterly understand from their own personal experience.

Telling me that I just need to try harder or keep trying – makes me feel like all that I have done means nothing because you cannot see that every moment is my best moment because it’s the only way I can breathe.

Telling me you are there for me and I am never alone – I know this, it doesn’t really make me feel better and I am sorry to say that.  Please believe me, I am sorry.

Telling me I just need to get out and do more (hang out with more people, be more outdoorsy) – Tells me I am not living up to your standards and I am a let-down for not enjoying what you enjoy.

Asking me what is causing this, especially when I have stated that I don’t have a reason – I really don’t have a reason.  I don’t have low self-esteem, I don’t dwell on terrible things.  This is a medical condition that sometimes makes crying unstoppable and facing life unbearable.   I know it most likely doesn’t make sense to you that I’m sad for no reason, but if that’s what I say is going on, it’s not a lie.  So don’t keep asking, it makes me think you don’t trust me.

Okay, time for wine is over.  Back to that oh so delicious cheese.

You may be wondering “well, how do I help you if those are things I shouldn’t say?  I don’t mean to make her feel worse when I say things like that, I just don’t know how to help.”

Fear not: I have provided below a little advice as to what to say/do to help.  At least this is how I feel about things. (please remember ever case is different, and this is just advise on my case and advise I have heard others like myself say they wish other people knew)

Step one: Do some research.  If you really want to help someone, try to understand what it is like, and what causes this to happen.

Step two: Be an advocate for active research and positive treatment.

Step three: Spread awareness that this is a serious health issue, and that the stigma around mental illness is nothing but harmful.

Step four: when encountering someone in a depression, it is totally okay to ask if they need anything or want to talk about it.  If they say anything other than no (and that includes “I don’t know what to talk about”) the answer is almost certainly a yes.

Step five: ask, how can I help you right now?

Step six: If that person doesn’t have an answer for you, you can always say the following.  “ I love you and I’m going to sit here with you while you cry.  If you want to talk, then talk.  If you don’t, that is okay too.”  Yes this is similar to saying you are not alone.  But, proving it is different than saying it.

Step seven: Have no expectations and no agenda.  Don’t try to cheer me up.  I know misery is uncomfortable, especially for those outside looking in.  But think of it this way.  A person is not there condition and making a person feel guilty for having a condition because you are uncomfortable is really your fault, not theirs.  So just don’t worry about it.  Be calm.  Hold their hand through the storm and when you both come out on the other side, it would have made more difference than you may ever be aware of.

Step eight: Be honest.  If you don’t know what to say, I would far rather you told me that, then sat there uncomfortable and feeling bad.  I don’t want you to feel bad and I don’t expect you to have the magic words.  This goes back to asking if there is anything you can do or if the person wants to talk.  Don’t ask this if you are just being nice and don’t really want to be there.

Believe it or not, I understand that this disorder is not just uncomfortable and exhausting for the person with it.  If you need a break from me, just tell me that.  Explain how you are feeling because your fears and feelings are equally as valid as mine.  COMMUNICATE  COMMUNICATE COMMUNICATE.

Okay,   I think you get the gist of what I am trying to convey here.  I would appreciate any comments or questions you may have on any of this.  Whether you have a mental health condition or not, you are valid.  Please speak up if you are able.  And if you’re not, that’s okay.  I love you and I will sit here with you through this storm, whether you think you want me there or not.

Thanks for reading all.

Much love and Blessed Be.