Family

Families are like fudge - mostly sweet with a few nuts. ~Author Unknown
I am incredibly blessed to have a family that is so supportive.  For the past two years I've lived with my mom and dad.  I moved in here two years ago, with nothing but the clothes on my back, and a bag of clothes for me, and one for each of the kids.  It was a time of crisis.  I had just left an abusive marriage in a very dramatic way.

Two years later, mom and dad have helped me through the 17 month divorce, and my latest mental health crisis.  They have stepped up to help out without question time and time again.

That's just my immediate family.  My extended family rocks too.  Yesterday we spent the evening with my grandparents, my aunt, uncle, cousin, brother, and his girlfriend.  We spent time playing pool, shuffle board, and backgammon, going out on the boat, and the kids swam.  We were just together.  I can't think of much that I would rather do.  Our family hang out time is always fun.  That is probably why Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, the family togetherness. 

Today, I will see them again when I go to learn more about gas laws in chemistry and I'm thrilled that I'll get to see my grandparents before they head back south.

Feeling lost

I'm so used to being at group for half of the day on Friday that I'm feeling a bit lost today.  I don't have therapy again until Wednesday.  That is a long stretch for someone who just stepped down from 12 hours of therapy a week.  I'm also not feeling super today.  I woke up in the middle of the night with a searing headache, got up, took some tylenol and went back to bed.  The alarm went off far too early.  I was up around 6:15 (normal time), but my headache wasn't gone.  It wasn't as bad as it was in the middle of the night, but it warranted taking more meds.  I took aleve and ate some breakfast.

It is gray and rainy here today.  Warm, not hot, though very humid.  A perfect day for curling up and sleeping. 

I will try to stay upbeat-ish for the rest of the day, and hopefully do something fun tonight.

A tough day

Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood.
Ralph Waldo Emerson

I had an intake today.  I still cry at every.single.intake.  For those who've never had one, you basically rehash the last 5 years of your life.  For me, that's hard to do.  In the past 5 years I've been pregnant, had a baby, been through a life changing surgery that my ex-husband had (and brought on changes that led to our divorce), left my marriage, went through a 17 month divorce, had a breakdown that led to hospitalization. 

I've gone over all the minute details every time someone new talked to me.  The crisis team in the ER, the doctor that admitted me, the doctor that treated me, the therapist at the intensive program, in group, and now to the therapist that did my intake for outpatient.  It is exhausting.  Every time I wish I could just come home, curl up and go to sleep.  I can't.  I have a life to live and kids to take care of. 

I will go to bed, feeling tired, and emotionally drained and sleep soundly.  After ice cream of course.  :)

The things they don't tell you

The future depends on what we do in the present. - Mahatma Gandhi

Did you know that you can ask for reasonable accommodations if you have a psychiatric disability?  I didn't.  Not until I started my new job.  I was getting the tour of the offices when my supervisor pointed out the counselor's office that handles learning disabilities, then pointed out the office of the counselor that handles physical disabilities and psychiatric disorders.  My ears perked up.  Psychiatric disorders?  You can get services for that?

NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) states:
Serious mental illnesses include major depression, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD), panic disorder, post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and borderline personality disorder. The good news about mental illness is that recovery is possible.

With the diagnosis of MDD, I have a serious mental illness.  One that can be debilitating.  Institutions, like schools, are starting to recognize this.  I can get safeguards put into place in school.  Reasonable accommodations.  Like, if I need to leave in the middle of class because the anxiety is becoming overwhelming.  Taking tests in a less crowded space, not with the other 47 people in the lecture.

Of course, you have to have documentation to get these services, and you have to be willing to meet with the counselor in charge, and work out what accommodations you will need.  No Joe-Sixpack ;-)  can walk into the office, say I'm majorly depressed, and expect miracles.  You have to let someone know.  You have to prove it.  You have to work hard in classes.  It isn't a way out.  It's something to help, so you don't crash.  It lets one more person know that red flags could be shooting up.  You have to be aware that the services exist.

During a recruiting session today, my supervisor answered a question about if the school accepts students with disabilities.  The answer, of course, is yes.  She then went on to specify that there are services for learning disabilities, physical disabilities, and psychiatric disabilities.  Psychiatric Disabilities.

By talking to one person, a whole group of potential incoming students are now aware that if they have a serious mental illness, they too are able to get help.  In order to make people aware, and to make things change, sometimes we need to talk.

A new chapter begins.

"With the new day comes new strength and new thoughts" ~Eleanor Roosevelt

Today a chapter in my life ended.  Maybe a whole book.  I don't know yet, all I know is that this chapter is done, and now I'll start a new one.

As I was finishing the paperwork for my discharge, we went over my (long) list of meds, and my diagnosis.  Nothing new.  Major Depressive Disorder - Severe without psychotic features (yay, I'm not psychotic...) - recurrent.  Yeah, I get depressed more often than I'd like.  2nd diagnosis: Anxiety disorder NOS (not otherwise specified).  Again, nothing new.  Good to know I don't have any personality disorders going on with that too.

I had a total of 4 days of PHP (partial hospitalization) which was 5 hours of therapy a day, and 18 days of IOP (intensive outpatient) which was 4 hours of therapy a day.  Now I will go to outpatient, which will be roughly 1 hour a week, and an outpatient group which I assume is 1-2 hours per week.  Big step down.

I'm starting school up again at the end of next month, actually exactly one month from today.  I have my chem final on Monday.  It'll be good to get that out of the way...finally.  I was in the hospital during finals week :-s  I'm taking just 2 classes this fall, and that's about all I can handle.  2 classes, 15 hours of work, and 2 kids.  Yep.  I'm good.

I'm good.

More changes. Yay.

"People have a hard time letting go of their suffering. Out of a fear of the unknown, they prefer suffering that is familiar." ~ Tich Nhat Hanh

 

Change.  It isn't something I do well.  It doesn't matter if it's a good change, or a bad change.  If it's change, I don't like it.

Tomorrow is my last day in my intensive outpatient program.  It's great.  I've been there 6 weeks and it's time to move on.  However, I'm comfortable there.  I know the people, the clinicians, the prescriber.  I now have to move to a new place.  Get used to new people, a new therapist, a new prescriber.  I'll adjust, but it will take time, as it did when I transitioned from the hospital into the outpatient program.

Fortunately, I have more skills to cope with change now than I did a couple of years ago.  Even more than a couple of weeks ago.

Even though it's something I don't do well, change is all around us.  People change, situations change, jobs change, seasons change.  With change all around, learning to deal with it is probably one of the most valuable things I've learned over the past couple of months.  Time to put it to use again!

Life goes on

"Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes." ~ Carl Jung

The world doesn't stop.  Life keeps on going whether you're aware of it or not, and able to function in it is a different story.  No matter how badly you're feeling, things still need to get done.  Feeding the kids, eating, laundry, cleaning, work, school.  Just because you're sick doesn't mean that all of these things stop needing attention.  Especially the kids.

It has been a daily struggle for me trying to keep up with my kids.  I have two, one of each gender.  They're young, and need a lot of time, attention, and love from me.  Not to mention the constant trail of toys they leave in their wake.  Something else to either get on them about, or clean up myself.  I'm trying to get myself better (and I admit, I'm much better than I was a couple of months ago), and trying to make sure all of their needs are met.  I'm not sure what I would do without my parents help.  They've been awesome the past two years we've lived with them, but they've really stepped up to the plate in the past few months.  Having Mom and Dad has helped me be able to really focus on myself.  To look inward, and work on my coping skills and feel better.  I'm slowly taking back the responsibility of raising my own children, still with a helping hand from Mom and Dad.

Don't be afraid to ask for help.  Working on recovery is so very important, and asking for help is not a sign of weakness.

Going back to work

"My actions are my only true belongings. I cannot escape the consequences of my actions. My actions are the ground upon which I stand." ~Thich Nhat Hanh

When I was admitted to the hospital, I sent a text message from the ER to my boss to let her know I wouldn't be in for my shift that night.  The only thing I told her was that I was being admitted to the hospital.  I didn't tell her why, I had no idea how long I would be in there.  I ignored the text messages that followed.  The ones that asked what was wrong, would I be in the next day, how long did I anticipate being out of work.  I didn't know.  I wasn't in a good place to deal with that either.  My mother went in either that night, or the following day to talk to someone about taking me off the schedule for at the very least that week.  All in all, I ended up being out of work for just under a month.

Coming back was really hard.  I wondered what the rumors were around my absence.  I didn't want to know what they were.  How would I handle the inevitable questions about what was wrong that led me to be in the hospital for a week?  I decided I would answer any questions with "I'm feeling much better, thank you".  Ultimately, that worked sometimes, other times I just had to say I was sick, but I'm feeling better now.  Then some persisted even further trying to pry down deep and find out how I was sick.  What did I have.  There didn't seem to be a good answer to that, so I just said it was personal and I'd rather not talk about it.

I lived with the fear that if people knew why I had been inpatient, they would have judged me, felt unsafe with me working in the part of the store where I worked.  I was afraid they'd gossip or look at me like I was weak. 

I came back to work on a very limited basis, just working one day a week.  It was exhausting, but I did it.  I was out functioning in society.  I looked normal, not like I had been sick enough to be out for as long as I was.  If it had been a "medical" issue, like a burst appendix, or a seriously broken bone that needed surgery, or God forbid cancer, I would have more comfortable sharing what was wrong.

I ended up ultimately leaving that job, as scheduling was a nightmare around my therapy, school, and kids.  I'm now working in a work study job that gives me modest hours, that work with my school schedule as it changes each semester.

I think that we, who are afraid of telling people what is wrong, help keep the stigma alive and well.  I'm working very slowly to get it out there that I have an illness, and that sometimes I'm fragile, sometimes I get anxious over silly things.  I'm writing about it so others can read to learn what it's like, or people who are in similar situations have someone to relate to.

Mental illness is real.  Just like any other disease.  There are treatments, and services out there for those of us who suffer from this disease.  Maybe, if one person opens up to one other person every once in awhile, we'll be able to start to crack through the stigma.  The one where people think that everyone on the inpatient unit is psychotic, or that no one with mental illness can work among them.

All the meds in the world...

All the meds in the world can't help you keep your feelings completely at bay.  I'm still surprised by some of the strong emotions I feel on a daily basis, especially the ones that my meds help combat.

An anxiety attack yesterday, brought on by a group activity.  Feelings of horror, then sadness and tears after someone said something about soldiers dying.  The random, fleeting thoughts of cutting, or other self injurious behavior that creep into your mind when you're having a really good day.  The feelings of inadequacy when someone passes judgement based on a tiny glimpse into your life.

If there was a magic pill I could take so all of this would go away, I would take it, but there isn't.  I work hard, every day, to work with the medications to deal with these feelings and strong emotions.  I aid my medications by learning and utilizing coping skills, by talking to people I trust, by not letting the evil thoughts get the best of me, by writing out my thoughts.

Learning to cope

As I mentioned in the previous post, I'm finally learning how to cope with different situations.  I'm learning this by way of therapy.  Right now, group therapy. 

I discharge from my intensive outpatient therapy next week, and will "step down" to individual therapy and a DBT group.  DBT stands for dialectical behavioral therapy.  Basically, it will give me tools to change the way I think.  Instead of internalizing things, I'll learn skills to realize that doing things for myself, standing up for myself, and being assertive rather than passive is and OK thing to do.  I'm very excited that I'll still be in a group because I've come to really like the group environment over the past two months.

It is still as daily struggle when people pass judgement.  I'm working on realizing that people only see the surface, they don't know what goes on internally.  Yesterday, I felt very very small.  I'm trying to register for Biology for the fall, but am unable due to an incomplete in Chemistry.  I take my final exam on August 1st with my professor's summer class.  Last semester I dealt with high anxiety and debilitating depression.  This led to doing poorly in classes, being unable to get out of my bed, or face my anxiety to get to class.  An advisor took a look at my transcripts yesterday, and based solely on what she saw made the assumption that taking a course with a "hard" teacher probably wouldn't be in my best interest.  This hurt me very deeply.  I'm not a dumb person, I never have been.  I'm looking at this as a challenge to get a FABULOUS grade in Biology.

Today I get to go to therapy and vent about it, talk it out, and get some feedback.

Don't judge a book by it's cover.  We're all deeper than we seem on the outside.  It's a good thing for everyone, including me, to remember.

The History...

I have an illness.  You can't see it, you can't hear it in my voice, you can't notice from the outside.  My illness is Major Depressive Disorder (MDD). 

Unfortunately there is still a perceived stigma with psychiatric illnesses.  It is the one that makes us hide, pretend that we're OK, go through the motions until we can no longer live life like a "normal" person does.  I work everyday to recover from an illness that put me in the hospital for 8 days, and has kept me in a program for the past 6 weeks.  Next week, I graduate from that program, and step down into individual therapy.

For me, the symptoms reared their ugly heads in middle school.  It's a tender time, especially for girls where the bullying can be unrelenting, and mostly verbal, which takes a heavy toll on how your view yourself.  My first thoughts of suicide came on in 8th grade.  I never attempted, but the thought was never gone.  In high school I overcompensated.  I laughed all the time, acted happy, and seemed just completely high on life.  After so many people telling me to buck up and "fake it till I make it", I was trying to do just that.    Inside part of me was dying.  I hurt.  It physically hurt to smile and pretend that things were hunky dory.  I wanted to stay home, sleep, isolate.  I found a niche where I fit in and the thoughts of dying faded from time to time.  I made it through that chapter of my life, hoping things would get better as time went on.  They didn't.  I went away to college.  Things got worse.  FAR worse.

My first semester at college, 5 hours away from home, was filled with challenges.  A roommate I hated, feeling isolated, trying to balance schoolwork and friends.  9-11.  I woke up that morning and wanted nothing but to be home with those who I loved.  I couldn't go.  I had no car.  I was supposed to stay at school, except for holidays.  I was stuck.

I made it through that semester, and even did pretty well in my courses.  I came home for winter break and didn't want to go back.  I did, at the urging of family to at least finish out my first year.  At this point, I had a double-single, meaning I had a two person room all to myself.  PERFECT!  I could effectively isolate.  I rarely left my room the second semester.  I would skip classes to sleep.  I was so tired all the time.  When I thought about going to classes, I would get extremely anxious and just stay in my room.  I stayed off the computer during class times, and I didn't have a TV.  I did ~nothing~.  No one knew.  I came out to eat, and socialize with friends, but more and more I isolated myself in my little hole.  I flunked out of college.

Instead of going back to school on academic probation, or transferring to a school near home, I quit school all together.  I got a job.  A full time job with benefits, and moved out of my parents home at the age of 19. 

I got up everyday and, again, went through the motions of life.  I got up, got dressed, went to work, came home, ate, and went to bed.  I was alone.  (noticing a pattern?)  A coworker introduced me to her son.  He was a little odd looking, and not too bright, but he was interested in me.  He thought I was beautiful.  A mere 4 months after we met, we were engaged.  I ignored his temper, thought he'd be better with me, thought I could change who he was, thought I couldn't do any better.  4 months after the engagement we were married.  5 months after we were married I was pregnant.

Things really hit the fan after my son was born.  I was so deeply depressed I actually asked for help for the first time in my life.  I went onto my first psychiatric medication with the diagnosis of post partum depression.  I felt like a zombie.  I was off and on zoloft a few times, saw a therapist for a bit, tried to work through some things, but didn't get anywhere.  It was like running in quicksand.  I was getting nowhere, really fast, then...I was pregnant again.  Alone this time.  My husband was working 8 hours away most of the time, occasionally coming home for weekends.  For 6 months, it was me, and a 2 year old.  The house was a disaster, we watched way too much TV, I slept.  When he came home it didn't get any better.  He started to get aggressive towards me, and my son.  I slipped into a deep depression, but couldn't do anything about it being pregnant.  Toward the end of my pregnancy I was at the doctor 2 to 3 times a week to make sure that I was doing alright, and making sure I was able to cope.  5 days after my due date, I was induced.  About an hour after she was born I went on Paxil.

That served me well for three whole years.  I was functioning.  I had friends.  I liked my kids.  I wasn't so afraid to leave the house.  It was amazing.  Then the slide came.  I left my marriage, went through a grueling divorce, weaned my baby (hormonal changes anyone???).  The Paxil wasn't working.  I was working in a job that caused high anxiety.  It was all I could do somedays to go to work and face the world.  I went back to school.  After missing a couple of classes, I just stopped going, too anxious to face my professors.  I came home and hid.  I slept.  I felt horrible.  I knew I was going to fail at school again.  Then, I cut.  I watched the knife go into my skin.  I watched myself bleed.  I felt nothing.  Thoughts of dying were in my head.  I never made any motions to kill myself.  I couldn't.  I couldn't leave my kids.  Plans to die were in my head, but I couldn't...I couldn't leave my kids.  At the urging of a friend, I called my doctor and set up an appointment for the next day.  I went to my appointment 4 hours early, sobbing uncontrollably.  From there I was sent to the hospital, admitted, and treated.

That is the beginning of my story.