New Blog

EXCITING NEWS!!  I'm branching out of the tree!

I've transformed Life In A Nut-Shell into a Devotional Blog called "In His Word"!

I'm working on writing a 12 month Devotional, so I'll be using posts to compose it.  I hope you'll tune in weekly and study with me, then take these devotionals and study more on your own.   

You've all been such devoted readers of the Nut-Shell, I hope you'll hang around and spend some time In His Word with me, too!   

NOTE:  All posts prior to Jan 2017 are from Life In A Nut-Shell, and are NOT part of the Devotional Blog.   

Thank you for your continued support.

- lesli 

'Tis The Season

We gather 'round ornately garnished trees and garland-lit pianos singing carols of peace on earth, goodwill toward men. 'Tis the season of love. 

Many, locked arm-in-arm toasting with voices raised in harmonious Joy To The World, lift glasses full of egg-nog; hearts empty.  Plastic smiles on mannequin faces. 'Tis the season of hopelessness.  

Do we hear the lyrics of their silent night, or merely those of the Holy night?  Brightness comes only from lights upon trees barren of gifts; holidays spent alone. No visitors, no phone calls from family or friends. 'Tis the season to be forgotten. 

"Said the night wind to the little lamb, do you see what 
I see?" Do we look upon our brother without seeing their pain?  Hasten not by a weary soul without extend-ing a hand. 'Tis the season of giving; give hope.


And now...

"May the God of your hope so fill you with all joy and peace in believing [through the experience of your faith] that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound and be overflowing (bubbling over) with hope."   Romans 15:12  


Merry Christmas from my house to yours.  






"Do You Hear What I Hear"  by Gloria Shayne Baker

Turn The Page

In silent introspection, I turn the page and reflect upon the year behind.  What answer shall I make?  Is it not the same as before?  No ocean crossed, no mountain scaled.  Nothing.

Perspective becomes truth; mindset, surety of footing. Opportunities cannot be embraced while a heart is en-cumbered with yesterday's [perceived] failures. There must be a breaking away from the old if the new is to come. A breaking through the soil for the flower to arise and bloom.  A breaking.  

We fear the fallowing, yet there is a hardening for those who refuse.  Barricading the soul against the elements of Winter, hinders Spring's kiss. The issues of life can-not flow from a heart shut off. The potential for pain remains great when wells are opened wide.  Acceptance walks hand-in-hand with rejection. 

What then shall we say to this? Will we allow moisten-ing from the morning dew to soften the ground for the tiller; that slow process toward a promised end? Shall we welcome the sprig not yet a tree, or despise the days of small beginnings?  

Set the face like flint toward an expected end while embracing today's challenges with unhindered deter-mination.  Embark on the journey in high spirits and joyful anticipation, knowing that 'all things work to-gether for your good, as you love God and are called according to His purpose.'*  

In silent introspection, as the page is turned and reflec-tion made on the year behind, my answer is thus, I have stayed the course.  

  










*Romans 8:28 Paraphrased

ALL THE KING'S HORSES - (BIPOLAR) CONCLUSION

I continued to ponder my thoughts about Christen's creativity, and the possible roll being bipolar played.  I mulled over the events that had taken place while I visited her, reflected on her demeanor during severe depression, and her beginning stages of mania.  How could this be one person, how could she also have periods with no depression or mania, as well?  What this must do to her, how hard it must be to be her.  I was her friend, and had had no idea. 

Christen will never tell you there are times when all sensory perception is so heightened and sound magnified, that she’d like to tear her head off to gain five minutes of quiet.  You'll never notice it takes all her strength to force the pendulum
of her life somewhere close to the manageable boundaries
of middle ground.  How she lives constantly aware that at any moment she could teeter off the edge in either direction, or how exhausting her fight is.

She'll never mention the crying spells she can’t explain because even she doesn’t understand what causes them.  She’ll never tell you she battles depression to an incapacitating degree.  You’ll never suspect it, because Christen is actually one of the most positive, optimistic, most encouraging people you’ll ever meet.  That’s why bipolar depression is particularly torturous for her, it violates the very core of her personality.

Christen will never tell you that when she's working on a project for you, it's nearly killing her, or that she’s become manic in the process of getting it done.  You'll never know she'll have gone days with little to no sleep and all her creati-vity was focused like a laser beam to the point that everything else in her life disappeared.  When she's finished, you’ll never know accomplishing your project will put her to bed for days.  She would never want you to know it.

You'll never hear Christen say she feels like a disappointment and humiliation to her kids.  She'll never tell you most days it’s all she can do to just get up and do what she absolutely has to do.  Or that she can’t keep up with the things she should, and how that overwhelms her and of course, makes her feel like even more of a disappointment, to herself, if to no one else.  She’ll never complain about how sick she is of feeling like no-body understands what she’s going through, especially her family.  She isn’t looking for sympathy, just someone to get her, and not look at her with contempt and frustration all the time, to stop telling her she’s too emotional.  She’ll never tell you how being bipolar has made her feel as if she’s lost herself, like she doesn’t know who she is anymore; how she doesn’t trust herself . 

Christen will never tell you how ashamed she is that she went from being financially secure with a great job, to being unem-ployable.  From being someone who always managed money and budgets, to destroying her credit and being forced into bankruptcy because months spent in a severe manic cycle manifested itself in illogical and excessive spending sprees (a common symptom of bipolar disorder).  She’ll never tell you how alone she feels. How she's too afraid to let anyone close enough to find out she’s bipolar for fear of being rejected.

Christen will never tell you she would have rather the doctor had told her she had cancer than bipolar disorder.  She just wants her life back.  She'll work hard to conceal her alter ego.  She’ll fix her hair, put on her makeup and magic stilettos, and head out the door seemingly a confident, successful woman.  You’ll never know it's her costume, her mask. 

Christen will never tell you…

…but I will.

I hope you’re listening.

ALL THE KING'S HORSES - (BIPOLAR) PART VI

When I began this journey with Christen, I thought it would be easy to do a piece on people with bipolar disorder.  It was my goal to help put expression to the issues they deal with on a daily basis, and strengthen the bonds of support, patience, compassion, and understanding that friends and family have for their loved one(s) suffering from this disease.  The problem is, what I've learned about being bipolar doesn't fit into the neat little package I'd planned to wrap it in.

Little did I know what awaited me when I squeezed through
my friend’s door so many weeks ago.  I've learn how one-di-mensional the portrayals of every article and medical notation I'd ever read on bipolar had been.

Little did I know this chemical imbalance isn’t something you deal with on occasion, if and when it flares up.  Little did I know the symptoms of bipolar were always clawing like a
caged animal to escape, despite extraordinary attempts to
keep its affects contained.  I didn't know it was a never ending balancing act, a delicate calibration of medication, stress man-agement, and the sheer will to survive. Little did I know suffer-ers were struggling through the basic tasks of life that you and I so readily take for granted. 

So very little did I know.

During my stay with Christen, I had the opportunity to see changes in her cycles.  A cycle can vary from person-to-person, and even an individual can have varied patterns.  They can go from one end of the spectrum to the other in a matter of hours, days, weeks, or even months. 

Christen tends to struggle more intensely with the severe depression end of the pendulum.  She said she can get stuck in that part of the cycle for months.  Her worst depressive cycle lasted a little over six months; she was virtually incapacitated during that time.  She told me she became agoraphobic and lethargic, barely ate or drank anything.  She wasn’t able to care for herself or her home, and dealt with despair to the point of relentless suicidal ideations.  

I will note that under typical circumstances, someone suffering from that severe an onslaught of depression accompanied by thoughts of suicide, would most likely have been hospitalized for their protection.  I asked Christen why her doctor hadn’t put her in the hospital.  She explained she’d made it clear to her doctor if he did hospitalize her, she was far more likely to kill herself from the sheer terror and anxiety it invoked in her. She had devised an at-home safety plan for these times of severe depression.  A family member would come and stay with her until it was okay for her to be alone. 

This extreme depression cycle Christen experienced, took place shortly after she was first diagnosed with bipolar disorder.  Her doctor had not yet identified and perfected the best antidepressant(s) and mood stabilizer(s) for her.  Although she continues to battle bipolar depression, Christen has not experienced another episode anywhere near that severe.  It’s been almost three years. 

Through the course of our many conversations, Christen admitted she loves those initial stages of mania.  She confes-sed, when compared to her constant battle with depression,
“it’s like a breath of fresh air to actually have some energy
for a change.”  And added, “I know it’s probably wrong, but
it’s about the only time I feel alive.  I feel like I can take on the world, and actually win!  It’s amazing how much a person can get done when they’re just a pinch manic!  I know it sounds weird, but I’ve noticed time and again, that’s when I’m the most creative.  Isn’t that strange?” 

Christen’s offhanded comment about her increased creativity during her hypomania, sparked some curiosity in me.  Which part of the brain was being stimulated, and was soon to be-come dangerously overstimulated if she wasn’t careful.  Obvi-ously, there was a connection.  To be honest, Christen is one of the most creative people I’ve ever known. 

Suddenly I began to wonder if the chemical imbalance I’d per-ceived as such a two-headed monster in need of obliteration was in fact, the very essence of Christen’s artistic ability.  This begs the question, if Christen were totally free from all effects and imbalances of being bipolar, would we have killed every-thing in her that is poetic, artistic, and creative? If so, what would be left of Christen?



Join us next week for the conclusion of Christen's Story

ALL THE KING'S HORSES - (BIPOLAR) PART V

It had only been two days since our trip to Christen’s doctor.  She’d had to scrape herself off the couch just to take a shower and get dressed.  Now she was manic.  I wanted to squeeze back out that front door and never look back.  I wasn’t sure I could deal with this.  It was bad enough when I thought she’d lay on the couch until her skin grew to it, but this?  She looked so small under her comforter.  That, I could handle.  Suddenly I found myself feeling intimidated by her, even a little scared.  What if she does something dangerous and I need to stop her?  Would I be able to?  Does she have so much adrenaline pump-ing through her that she’s stronger than normal? My mind raced on. 

I topped off my coffee and asked Christen if she would come sit in the living room for just a few minutes, and help me under-stand how she was feeling this morning.  From the initial look on her face, it was evident that my perplexity was as unexpect-ed to her, as her behavior had been to me.  It seemed, momen-tarily at least, to snap her out of hyper-drive long enough to talk, though I noticed the physical inactivity slightly increased the tremor in her right hand. 

When my feet first hit the floor that morning, I’d planned to sip a hot cup of coffee and sift through my notes, maybe even begin typing.  I thought having the house to myself for a few hours while Christen lay emotionally comatose on the sofa would provide the perfect opportunity.  Sitting here listening to Christen, I realized how much I took for granted, like the
simplicity of waking up with a plan.  In dealing with being bipolar, apparently little things like that aren’t quite so little 
to Christen.    

In the few days prior to this episode, I’d noticed Christen getting an uncharacteristic sharpness in her tone, and an undeniable irritability she didn’t even try to filter.  I’ve known her a long time, this isn’t behavior you would have ever convinced me I’d see from her.  But there it was. Occasionally, even directed at me.   

While Christen was talking, I recalled having jotted a note to myself that the increase in irritability might be an indication
of a change in Christen's cycles.  I knew she had been trying to keep track of all these subtleties, wanting to understand her own disorder as well as provide helpful information for me.  There were so many crossover symptoms, but we ulti-mately concluded there had to be a connection between the increase in her irritability and her ebbing toward mania.

It was obvious how exhausted Christen was.  She'd spent the better part of two hours sharing her experiences with being manic.  Tears and more tears.  Christen needed to lie down, even if she couldn't sleep.

Before heading to her room, Christen walked over to her desk and removed a stack of spiral notebooks from the lower left hand drawer.  “Here”,  she said.  “I’ve been debating on whether or not to give these to you.  They’re journals I’ve
been keeping for the last two years.  All this talking is really starting to get to me.  Maybe it would be better if you just read these.  I’m not saying I won’t talk anymore, it’s just that my ears have been ringing and noise of any kind sounds like it’s turned up 1000 times.  I can hardly stand it.  I’m very aware that everything is over magnified for me right now.  Things that wouldn’t normally bother me are making me furious.  I think I just need to pull back for a few days.  I’m supposed to adjust my antidepressant when I feel mania coming on,  but sometimes the back and forth really screws with me.  It’s nothing personal, I just need you to leave me alone for a few days.  I seem to have adjusted the antidepres-sant too much and triggered some hyper-mania.  I’ll have to lower the antidepressant, which means I could drop back into depression.  Welcome to my life.”

With that, she disappeared into her room and closed the door.  I sat on the couch and began to read what varied between the chaotic to very dark writings by Christen.  She'd catalogued her experiences over the last couple of years.  Some ramblings were too bizarre to follow.  I found myself reading over them two or three times to piece together her scattered thoughts, wondering what medication must she have been on when she wrote.  

It would take weeks to sift through Christen’s journals, but I was thrilled to have them.  My eyelids grew heavy, along with my heart, as I read page after page of her life uncensored.  A picture began to form in my mind, an image of my dear friend shattered into countless pieces.  Like Humpty-Dumpty, I won-dered if she would ever be whole again.


Join us next week for Part VI of Christen's Story

ALL THE KING'S HORSES - (BIPOLAR) PART IV

I groped around for my phone to see what time it was, the clock showed 1:49am.  Seriously?  I rolled over and snuggled back under the covers for a few minutes, but there was no point trying to doze off.  My insomnia had been in full swing for several days, three hours of sleep was all to be had.  Using the ominous blue light on my cell phone to help me see, I quietly began the descent downstairs to make some coffee.

The house was chilly, but I loved sleeping with the windows open, the cool Fall breeze wafting across the bed, myself of course, buried beneath a mound of toasty warm blankets.
It didn’t make for great morning hair but, as far back as my memory would carry me, I knew I’d slept with the covers pulled over my head.  It wasn’t until spending all this time
with Christen, that the thought crossed my mind this peculiar
ritual might have meaning deeper than the mere practical application of keeping my head warm.  I did it year round; what was my purpose for it in the summer? 

Shutting down the probes of introspection, I concluded there was surely no big mystery behind my blanket thing.  It was more comfortable to concede my time with Christen simply had me psychoanalyzing everything about everyone, myself included.  It didn’t mean anything.  Right?  I just needed some coffee, apparently I needed a lot of coffee.  I put it out of my mind, and proceeded toward the kitchen. 

As I made my way downstairs, there was a faint fragrance of pumpkin spice coming from an unlit candle in the hall, and for a moment I could also smell the undeniable scent of freshly ground Columbian coffee beans brewing.  It welcomed me like a long lost friend.  My thoughts immediately transported me back to childhood.   So many mornings I awakened to the sounds and accompanying aroma coming from Grandma’s Pyrex coffeepot as it began its faithful percolating at precisely 5:45am.  I loved waking up at Grandma’s house.  Even now, I’m not altogether certain if the tradition of my morning coffee is the need of caffeine, or the sheer love of how it engulfs the house in the most glorious of memories.   Today, after only three hours of sleep, it was definitely the caffeine.

Rounding the corner to the kitchen, I saw that Christen had indeed made coffee and as soon as she heard me coming, had poured me a cup.  “Good morning!”, her cheery voice greeted me.  “What on earth are you doing up so early?  Please tell me I didn’t wake you with all my clanging around in here!”  I had no idea how long Christen had been up, but she was dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans; her hair gathered up in a ponytail.  She had pulled every dish out of the cabinets and drawers, and was cleaning every nook and cranny of the kitchen like she was on assignment from God with the clock ticking!

Sipping on my steaming cup of coffee, I slipped onto a barstool and tried to take in this scene as it unfolded in front of me.  I tried to act very nonchalant, but to be perfectly honest, it con-cerned me.  “Uhhh, no you didn’t wake me.  I just couldn’t sleep, it happens.  The joys of insomnia.”  Why I felt the need to speak slowly and calmly, as if not to startle Christen, I wasn’t quite sure, but I did.  “So…you couldn’t sleep, either?”, I con-tinued. 

While I waited for Christen to offer some explanation as to what was going on, my eyes darted around the room quickly; half trying to absorb as much of the scene as I could for my research, half planning a quick escape, which of course made me feel wretchedly guilty.  But the atmosphere was strange.  Christen was wound like I’ve never seen her.  She was moving faster than I think I’ve ever seen anyone move, and there was an air of disorganization about it.  She’d start working on one cabinet, and then she’d get distracted.  Next thing you’d know she’d be on to something else.  She gave a whole new meaning to bouncing off the walls.  Literally, she’d run into things every now and then, simply because she was moving so fast.  The closer I looked, I noticed a slight tremor in her hands.  Not a flat out shake, but a definite tremor.  She was talking really loud, and fast.  I hate to say it, but she just wouldn’t shut up. 

Between you and me, I genuinely sat there for a while wonder-ing if Christen had become so fed up with how depressed she’d been that she’d swallowed a few too many of something, and was just flat speeding!  How to describe what I was seeing, much less what I was experiencing in response to it, is beyond my ability to articulate. 

There’s a part of me that wants to soft-soap this; downplay it.  Toss it out because at least Christen was off that bloody couch, and back to some sense of normalcy where her depression was concerned.  So what, she was up at 2:00am doing some spring cleaning; maybe it needed to be done. But, she asked me to write her story.  My instinct to protect her in the telling of it 
must be limited to concealing her identity.  Not by fading into softer colors, the vivid reality of what I saw.

The truth is, I was greatly distressed by this whole kitchen scene.  Christen felt emotionally supercharged, hyper beyond anything I’d ever seen in my life.  She was a little disoriented
at times, and a bit unpredictable.  There was way too much energy in her.  I sat looking at her wondering if she would actually self-combust.  I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to do something.  Should she take something?  Should I call some-one?  Christen was bouncing off the walls in a room with glass and knives, and there I sat like an idiot without the first clue how to respond. 

Join us next week for Part V of Christen's Story

ALL THE KING'S HORSES - (BIPOLAR) PART III

Christen began to explain her bipolar condition from a more clinical standpoint, first.  She was right, I’d totally oversimpli-fied it.  She described five basic mood zones; the middle one being what we would consider normal.  Two zones above nor-mal representing varied stages of mania, the first one mild to moderate, and the second stage would be considered severe.  The last two mood zones would be drawn on a line below nor-mal, and represented two varied stages of depression.  The first zone being mild to moderate, and the second zone repre-senting severe depression.   In a repentant tone she whispered, "But yes, you're right, my highs are higher, and my lows are lower.  I'm sorry I snapped at you."    

She gave me a website to look up when we got back to the house. She felt it had some fairly decent information related
to bipolar symptoms but added, “Just reading about it isn’t
the same as living with someone who has it.  Bipolar depres-sion isn’t like regular depression.  I’ve battled major depres-sion since I was a teenager.  I’ve never encountered any-thing like bipolar depression; it’s debilitating.  One of the worst things about it, is that my doctor can’t just increase
my antidepressant until it snaps me out of it.  Too high a
dose of an antidepressant can trigger a manic episode.  It’s
a vicious cycle.  It’s a deeper depression than anything I ever experienced with regular depression and like I said, I’ve battled major depression for years.” 

Christen began to share some of her personal experiences with bipolar depression.  She said it hit her so hard one time, she spent six months on the couch under her yellow comforter.  Her voice became strained and tears streamed down her face as she shared the intimate details of that dark time in her life.  With every word she spoke, I could feel the depth of shame shrouding her secret.  Weeks without bathing, speaking, or eating.  The hours spent sobbing uncontrollably, pleading with God that if He truly cared, her eyes wouldn’t see the morning.  As if I were her priest, she confessed contemplating suicide to the point of checking to see if any combination of her medica-tions might end her nightmare.  Sharing in humiliation how she’d written each of her children a letter during that time, telling them she could no longer go on. 

She told me that medications she never should have been taking, exacerbated her depression, compounded the suicidal ideations, and had her so doped up she really didn’t realize everything she was doing.  Even so, I could sense her lack of self-forgiveness.  There was no convincing her she hadn’t traumatized her children.  She would receive no absolution. 
My heart heavy to free her from the unfounded guilt, I sug-gested that surely her kids were old enough to understand.  In a feeble attempt to comfort her I stammered, “It wasn’t
you, it was the meds.”

Carefully brushing tears away from what remained of her eyeliner, Christen riffled through the purse and pulled out another cigarette.  She took a drink of her diet coke, put the cigarette to her lips and lit it; still too bizarre a sight to com-prehend.  Cracking the window again, quite matter of factly Christen said, “It may have been the meds on THIS end, but
on THAT end, it was their mom, and it’s not something they'll forget.  It’s not something they let YOU forget.  I don’t think they really understand.  They just know they got a letter
from their mother telling them she couldn’t make it through another day.  They’ve never forgiven me for that; never looked at me the same.  Not that I can blame them.”

Her eyes welled up with tears again.  In a way I was glad, perhaps she wouldn’t notice the tears in mine.  I’d known Christen for several years.  She was divorced and had raised her two children alone.  I knew she loved those kids more than life itself.  There would be nothing I could say to ease the pain I saw etched in her face.  She would forgive herself the humilia-tion and shame she felt for everything she had shared with me that day, all but what she believed had hurt her children. 

I was beginning to understand why the symptom lists and arrow charts were so meaningless to Christen.  I would search the website when we got home and sure, it mentioned the need to have support from the families of a person who’s bipolar.  But there was nothing anywhere to prepare me for what I saw in my friend’s eyes, heard in her voice; could feel in the break-ing of her heart. 

We made the rest of the trip without talking; only the music on the radio to ease the sadness that permeated the atmosphere.  Usually silence would have bothered me, but it came as a cool-ing salve on scalded flesh.  With my head rested against the window, my thoughts searched the depths of all my friend had shared. 

Join us next week for Part IV of Christen's Story

ALL THE KING'S HORSES - (BIPOLAR) PART II

Christen emerged from her bedroom in a beautiful chocolate brown and sky blue top, and a darling pair of jeans.  Her hair was clean and fixed, and she was wearing makeup for the first time in the three days I’d been there.  I couldn’t pinpoint how long it had been since she'd showered prior to the day I first squeezed through the 2 foot opening in the front door.  She spritzed herself lightly with her signature perfume.

Soon Christen began digging under the mountain of clothes I’d estimated had been waiting a week to be folded and put away, and shoved them around the chair until her hand emerged with a lovely over-sized bright yellow purse.  With one of her famous sighs, she signaled it was time to leave.  Today I would accompany Christen to the doctor, never to be referred to as her therapist.  She didn’t dare risk someone finding out she was seeing one. 

Only hours before, Christen was wrapped like a caterpillar in a cocoon beneath her faded yellow comforter.  She looked gaunt, withered and drawn, as though life itself were draining out of her.   Now I stood watching her slip into her brown faux croc stilettos, thinking to myself how she resembled a butterfly about to spread its wings in flight.  Were they magic shoes?  Of course I knew there was no such thing, but only because com-mon sense told me there couldn’t be.  Truth be told, such a transformation came over her as the shoes were secured around her feet, I was tempted to try them on myself, to see what wondrous metamorphosis might await me! 

It was strange, she bounded out the door with a confident stride.  Shoulders back, hair loosely curled and blowing gently in the breeze.  Not an exact smile on her face, but one in her eyes that was quite engaging.  She looked herself.  It was the first time since my visit began that I felt I was seeing the real Christen.  Once inside the car, I scribbled a few notes to myself as I  pondered the phenomenon. I wondered if I might have an opportunity to ask her about it.

Radio turned to her favorite country station, we began the
long drive to the doctor without much conversation.  Christen opened one of the diet cokes she’d brought for us, then began rummaging around inside her purse.  To my utter shock, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and proceeded to roll her window down to let the smoke escape. 

Without taking her eyes off the road, Christen answered the question she knew I wanted to ask.  “Yeah, I’m smoking again.  I’m not going to do it long enough to get hooked, but I realized I was taking my antianxiety med, how should I say, not ex-actly as prescribed?  It kinda worried me."  I guess this was her solution, the prospect of cancer?  I said nothing. 

Whether she was deflecting about the smoking issue or not I wasn’t sure, but suddenly all Christen’s attention was focused on her negative experiences with medications.  Her counte-nance and tone of voice intensified slightly.  She began to tell me how many medications she’d been on, and the horror stories that accompanied each trial and error.  Mostly error. 

“That’s something you’ll learn about all this bipolar crap", her rant continued, “half the meds they put you on are worse than what’s wrong with you to begin with.  I spent the first year after I was diagnosed being bounced from med to med.  
I was either stoned out of my mind, horribly suicidal, or the meds were literally poisoning me!  I’m not kidding.  They had me so doped up I didn’t know if I was comin' or goin'.  One med we tried even made me obsessive compulsive.  Though I must admit, I didn't mind that one; got some serious organiz-ing done around the house.”   She smiled for the first time in two days.  I felt a subtle but temporary lifting of her mood.

Christen slightly shook her head as she began telling me about very serious side effects she’d suffered from one of the bipolar medications her psychiatrist had tried her on.  She said she would try staying on the various meds long enough to give her system time to adjust to them, so they would know which side effects were or were not going to subside, unless of course it was one she had a toxic or suicidal reaction to. 

“What exactly are the bipolar medicines supposed to do?"  It was probably my first ignorant question of the day, certainly not to be my last.  “How many meds are you on, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Christen shot me a glance I interpreted as being combined annoyance and moderate offense.  “Do you know anything about being bipolar?”  Her question wasn’t as rhetorical as
I’d hoped it might be.  The pause in her voice and nod in my direction, hinted she expected me to answer. 

“Well, I know it’s what we used to call manic/depressive disorder.  Basically, and forgive me if I’m oversimplifying it but, when you’re bipolar, aren't your emotional high’s higher than normal and your emotional lows lower than normal?”  My face felt a little flushed as I waited to find out how wrong my answer was.  Retrospectively, I think Christen deliberately sat in silence for the remainder of a song we were neither one particularly interested in hearing.  After what seemed like forever, she began to speak.

“Definitely an oversimplification.  I’m not sure what that’s even supposed to mean.  My high’s are higher and my lows are lower.  Did you read that in a book or something?”  Christen’s sarcasm cut through me with unexpected precision.  I had definitely irritated her, and she made no attempt at concealing it.  That’s quite out of character for her. Christen would never say or do anything to make another person feel stupid, or snap at someone like this.  I would soon come to recognize this as an indication she was starting to become manic. 

Join us next time for Part III of Christian's Story

ALL THE KING'S HORSES - (BIPOLAR) PART I

The door opened wide enough for me to barely squeeze inside.  Before I’d altogether stepped into the entryway, it was closing; I quickly darted out of the way. “Hey Christen, how’s it goin'?"  I thought a cheerful greeting might cut through the eerie si-lence permeating the atmosphere.  It didn't.  Without a word, my hostess disappeared back into the living room. She climbed beneath the slightly worn yellow comforter she’d taken refuge under since mid-afternoon the day before, as she would later tell me.  While settling back in, Christin fluffed her pillow and propped her head slightly in my direction.  She softly replied, “I don’t feel very good today.”

I offered the apologies appropriate under such circumstances, and asked Christen if she would prefer we do this another time. After expelling one of the largest sighs I’ve ever heard, she responded, “No, you may as well see this, too”.  I made myself comfortable.  Well, as comfortable as you can be when you’re really uncomfortable.

It was the first time I’d seen Christen like "this", as she’d put it.  To be honest, she was scarcely recognizable.  Hardly the put together, gregarious woman I was accustomed to.  Christen is the kind of person who lights up the room.  It’s not that she’s drop-dead gorgeous but not “altogether unfortunate looking”, to steal a line from Legally Blonde.  She’s what I’d call fashion forward, and usually comes off looking pretty sharp.  There’s just something about her.  She’s captivating, in a sense.  Hilar-iously funny, and at the same time serious and sensitive. It’s hard to explain, but I’ve just always loved being around her.  Somehow, she leaves me feeling better about myself.  I sat in my chair looking at this shell of a person, apathetic and des-pondent.  I wondered how this imposter could possibly be Christen. 

Suddenly I came to myself.  How long had I been sitting there lost in these thoughts associated with my shock?  Had I con-cealed my reaction, or was my mouth hanging open as I stared in disbelief at this stranger burrowed into the couch?  Lord, please don’t let what’s going through my mind be flashing across my face.  

Breaking my paralyzing silence, Christen spoke up and said, “Pretty pathetic, isn’t it?  I’m ashamed to admit this is where
I am the majority of the time.  Does that surprise you?  Well, don’t just sit there, go ahead and ask your questions.  You'll never learn anything just sitting there staring at me.”

I was so embarrassed I could have melted into the chair.  Did she actually know what I’d been thinking?  Was she assuming what my thoughts were based on her own fears and insecur-ities, or had there been past experiences?  Did it matter?  Either way, she had me dead-to-rights.  

“I’m sorry, Christen."  I felt like an idiot.  "I’ve just never seen you like this, it caught me off guard".  It was readily apparent, if I was to write something about being bipolar [that would help anyone], there was a lot I needed to learn.  "Why don't you tell me what’s going on.  I’m not even sure what questions to ask right now.”

I realized my interviews with Christen could never effectively be in a question and answer format.  No, it was obvious to me that Christen needed to talk, and I needed to listen.  So that’s what we did, for hours; for days.  Christen talked, and I listened.

I listened, and I wrote…


Join us next week for Part II of Christen's Story

Scars

I grew up in a small town in the heartland of Kansas surrounded by cornfields, and train tracks that led nowhere.  Embers of childhood 'what might have been' imaginings have long since faded into the recesses of my mind.  Dreams changed into an unexpected reality that carved out who I am, good and bad.  I was both crushed and strengthened by it. 

There were two rules in my hometown: you didn't have children before you were married, and you didn't marry interracially. There was a price to be paid for the love I'd found, I lost my family.  Holes in hearts never filled, not even by the love of others.  I would wait twenty-five years for the music's starts and stops, still not knowing
if a chair will be left for me in their home.  Conditions can be placed on love, I didn't know that as a child. 

Two became four, our lives now complete.  Then nightmares from war invaded his peace.  Our "complete life", completely falling apart.  So helpless and small compared to the enormity of his suffering, I was impotent to console him.  Enduring relentless torment, he turn-ed for relief and found its beginning through the very one some might say had abandoned him.  Programs and progress fall short to eradi-cate the damage done when one endures hell.  There are scars that can never be covered, only attempts to reconcile oneself to being maimed.  He's a strong man, a strong man with scars. 

As they grew, I saw my children through glasses of rose, not unlike you, if truth be laid bare.  How could I not know they were steeped
in the deception of drugs and alcohol, surrendering their futures to lies whispered in their ears.  We all grope in the darkness, and strug-gle to see truth with clarity of vision. Years of expectations, holding everything and everyone together; mounting pressure crashing down on me.  Eyes clouded by the fog of depression, I was blind and I was broken.   

Grandchildren arriving to sons and daughters not yet grown, a bless-ing because that's what babies are.  Drugs stopped and started, more babies, drugs stopped again if tapestries of lies can be unwoven.  At the end of the thread, children who visited didn't leave for years. 

In a dimly lit room, I sat beside others.  I uttered no words, yet they knew the depth of my pain, felt my silent shame.  One spoke, "no glasses here".  My trembling hands removed obstructions from my eyes, I saw the truth.  Exerting strength to reach them, we enabled them.  Attempts to redeem them only attached us to their bondage.
I was broken, but no longer blind. 

We walk today in freedom, limping from the battles of yesterday. Nothing is sure, save our determination to carry on the fight.  We
are a strong family, a strong family with scars.   

DEPRESSION: AMANDA'S STORY - CONCLUSION

As a severely depressed functional depressive, Amanda was up early for work, and worked late most days.  But when she came home...she "dropped into bed". 

"It was taking me twice as long to get anything done because I couldn't concentrate.  I typically spent much of the day day-dreaming, exhausted, and unable to think straight.  I was procrastinating about doing tasks I thought were difficult or were going to take more time than others, which only put me further behind.  I made To Do lists almost every day to help
me prioritize the work I needed to get done, but these lists just kept getting longer.  I tried to give myself deadlines hoping I would get the important tasks done more quickly.  My efforts failed.  I would just changed due
dates when they came and went, and projects were still not completed; sometimes not even started.

I had no desire to go anywhere.  I went to work, and came home.  If I needed groceries, I bought them at the pharmacy while picking up med-ications.  I was constantly physically ill and ate little more than yogurt with granola, if I ate at all.

By this time, I'd convinced myself I was worth nothing.  I felt nobody cared about, needed or loved me, and no one would notice or care if I wasn't here anymore.  I didn't see my life getting any better, and completely believed I would be that miserable forever. I was planning how I would commit sui-cide.  I wrote notes to my family and a few friends, explaining why I felt this was the only way to end the pain I'd been in for so long. 

My ex called again, but this time was different...I was different.  There were no more buttons for her to push, no more open wounds to pour salt in, or were there?  Maybe it was just that I couldn't feel them anymore.  That must be it,  I couldn't feel anything.   She took my demeanor as a silent cue that things were fine between us.  She actually had the audacity to invite me to lunch the following week.  I was glad I couldn't feel.  I never wanted to feel anything again, and so much as told her so.  I said I wouldn't be there next week to talk to.  She wanted to know where I was going.  I told her to think about it, then asked why she would care, anyway.  It seems
my ex figured out my thinly veiled message, and phoned my parents, who, along with my sister, drove to Kansas City that night to make sure I wasn't going to hurt myself. 

It was a long time before I connected the dots, that my ex had called my family. I was in such a confused state, I was trying to figure out how they knew I was contemplating suicide.  They convinced me I needed to be ad-mitted to the hospital for an assessment and counseling. That was the first I'd heard I should have been getting counseling, and the first they knew I wasn't.  I guess we all just assumed.  Truth be told, whether I knew I needed to go to the hospital or not, I refused to go that night, feeling they'd gotten me through the initial crisis.  Had my boss not gone with me after work a couple of days later, I wouldn't have followed through at all.  Even know-ing I needed to go, I'd have used work as an excuse to put it off.  Work, of course, being more important than getting help for myself.

So, how did I go from being a severely depressed functional depressive to where I am today?  It started with a trip to the hospital for assessment and a definite adjustment to my medication; amazing what the right dose can do.  I participated in the counseling sessions and group activities the hos-pital made available to me (after spending my first three days hibernating in my room) that is.  I spent a week in the hospital getting stabilized.  The attending physician arranged for me to see a therapist when I got out, or I'd have procrastinated about doing that; work, you know. 

Stable can get shaky in a moment's notice.  Fortunately, I was better prepared this time.  Six weeks after my hospitalization, my boss left
me a note on the refrigerator (no less), telling me I needed to move out. 
It was another blow I could have lived without, especially the way she
went about it.  Here I was, about to be homeless, again.  I'd paid down some of the debt, but was sure it wasn't enough.  It took awhile, but I finally found a small apartment I could afford.  I was living alone for
the first time in my life.  Well, me and the puppy my boss had given me when I moved out.  I think that was another factor in my improvement,
the unconditional love of that puppy.  Having someone to take care of, someone who needed me, again.  Someone I loved.

I soon found myself feeling well enough to slowly start doing things.  I
took my dog for walks when I got home from work, that got me out of the house.  It took a couple of months before I could force myself to do things with other people, and I still wasn't comfortable with strangers.  I'm painfully shy.  Sometime later, as I improved, my mother and I  joined a women's bowling league.  I was bowling weekly.  I was finally beginning
to get my life back.   

I continued going to work during the worst of my depression because I had no choice. I had to pay the bills.  Lesli would say, that "teaspoon full of ob-stinance" gave me a foothold, up to the life I have now.  I would say, I did
it "walking on broken legs and flying with tattered wings; forging ahead even when I'd lost the will to live".  So can you.
 

Until next time, remember that you matter, you have something to contribute and I hope you'll share it. 

DEPRESSION: AMANDA'S STORY - PART II

My boss was a kind and understanding woman.  I'd always liked working for her and I loved my job, but I knew what I had to do.  Choking back the lump determined to rise in my throat, I took her my letter of resignation, and briefly explained why my plan was the only option I had.  She refused to accept my resignation, and suggested I move into the basement of her home until I could get back on my feet.  I could scarcely believe what I was hearing.  Before I could form intelligible words, I heard myself stuttering out an exuberant acceptance of her invitation.

I was thrilled with my new temporary living arrangement, but was soon to find out not everyone felt the same.  One of my very best friends, more like a sister to me, a woman I'd worked and shared an office with for more than 5 years, learned I was living in our bosses home.  She felt it was inappro-priate, and would lead to "unfair favoritism within our team".  How could she think such a thing about me?  We'd been friends for so long.  We spent personal, as well as professional time together, and had even vacationed together.  We'd shared everything with each other.  Where was this coming from?  I assured her I was more than capable of keeping my personal life with our boss separate from our professional relationship, but my words fell on deaf ears.  She began distancing herself from me, and soon stopped talking to me altogether.

Within the span of about a month, I'd effectively lost my two best friends
at no conceivable fault of my own; just circumstances beyond my control. 
I think that was the hardest part, what was so difficult to accept, what I couldn't wrap my mind around...everything being out of control.  There was nothing I could do.  Feelings of helplessness and hopelessness began
to tighten their grasp around my neck.

Like blazing arrows shot into an already bleeding heart, my ex began calling me almost daily, begging me to move back home.  The calls came both day and night.  They concluded the same way:  yelling, fighting, she was drunk, I was in tears.  As if her calls themselves weren't wretched enough, she seemed intent on offering her solution to our problem: I'd move into one of the guest rooms, and she'd continue her affair.  She and
I would, of course, continue to be friends, as if that's all there had ever been between us.

My ex's calls and our chance encounters at work were more than I could bear.  Yes, we worked for the same company.  I felt myself reeling, ab-sorbing blows from all directions.  My feeble legs were buckling, I could
no longer stand amid the pressure.  Work demands, stress from living in my boss's base-ment, knowing I had to pay off that insurmountable debt
in order to afford a place of my own, my best friend won't speak to me,
this, this torture from my ex, then I found out my sister (who I'm very
close to]) was moving with her husband and my baby nephew to North Carolina!  No...NO...it was the final straw.  I was breaking beneath the load. 

I'd burst into tears for seemingly no reason.  No reason, that's what I told myself.  I knew something had to be wrong.  Never dawning on me it could be depression, I talked to my primary care physician; asked what was going on with these crying spells.  I told her I'd just start crying, and couldn't stop for the longest of times.  It wasn't until she referred me to a psychiatrist to discuss "appropriate medications if necessary", wasn't until the words were spoken out loud, that I gave myself permission to realize the enormity of my stress...and dare I say it, depression.   

Psychiatrist appointments were always interesting to me.  He never asked how "I" was doing or feeling. His questions were always regarding my medication: if I felt the medicine was helping, if I had side effects, and if I was taking it as prescribed.  Questions I appreciated being asked; it wasn't, I didn't, and I was, but there was a nagging curiosity in my gut: shouldn't there be more than this?

My depression grew worse.  I'd never been depressed before...was this normal?  As I would later find out, I should have been seeing a therapist along with a psychiatrist.  I also found out the other delay in my recovery, my medication. The psychiatrist was giving me such a pediatric dose of Prozac, it was providing me no benefit whatsoever!" 

So, what does it look like to be a severely depressed functionally depressed person?  Well, I think I've painted a clear picture of how Amanda became depressed.  Life happens to us all, and circumstances can send us bounding over the edge of surefootedness with little to no warning.  It doesn't mean we're weak, or crazy.  Being depressed means exactly that...we're being pressed...too far.  It can, and often does happen to any one of us, short or long-term.  Our goal is to identify it, learn coping skills to help us function while we overcome it, and not let it control our lives. 

Join us next week for the Conclusion of Amanda's Story

DEPRESSION: AMANDA'S STORY - PART I

Her name was Amanda.  She had light brown hair and porcelain skin, the sun's kiss of freckles danced softly across her face and arms.  I'd met her through a mutual friend while we were in High School.  She was reserved, some might say shy.  A bit of an introvert until you got to know her, that is.  Amanda had a contagious laugh, and I recall her smile so vividly; it was all consuming.  She was an enigma to be sure.  To really know her was to see her insecurities, but also her courage and silent resolve.  She was generous, loyal, and faithful to what outsiders might consider a fault.  But it wasn't, it was a great strength; one that would empower her to rise from the ashes of grief, to love again.

I always knew Amanda would accomplish whatever she set her mind to, if nothing else, out of sheer determination.   And succeed, she did.  Oh, did I fail to mention she had just a teaspoon full of obstinance?  Not enough to be obnoxious, just the right amount, should my opinion count for anything.  Enough stubbornness to handle whatever life would throw at her, enough to survive.  Little did she know how invaluable that quality would be.  It would save her...more than once.

Life went on for us both.  Throughout the years we were in and out of touch with each other, yet time simultaneously stood still.  That's the mark of true friends:  having the ability to pick up where you leave off, we were and we did.  But one thing had changed, Amanda had a secret.  A secret that began 15 years after we graduated, one she'd wait another 20 to tell me.

Amanda and I reconnected a few years ago. I had shared my emotional struggles with her, and could tell her living situation wasn't as picture perfect as I'd imagined it would be.  Little by little she confided stories of fighting, financial pressure, misery, depression, and how trapped she felt
in her life.  After years of happiness, her partner had turned her back on everything she professed to love, and returned to her first love, alcohol. 
Her words shocked me.  But I knew Amanda, forbearing and persevering.  She wouldn't give up on the relationship until there was no shred of giving left to be done.  Far more giving than you or I would be capable of, after
what I considered to be too long, too much abuse, too much of everything, Amanda had reached the end of the most generous, tolerant heart you could know, she'd had enough, and ended the relationship.  One thing I love about Amanda, when she is done...she's done.

I asked Amanda to share her experience with us so we'd have an example of how a 'severely depressed functionally depressed' person can function (if I can make up terms).  It was the period of time I just skimmed the surface of, that I expected her to elaborate on.  I was quite surprised when she began to open up about something that happened 20 years prior.  Events she'd never told me about before.  Personal traumas creating a far more depressed per-son who somehow managed to continue showing up at work. 

This is the story of one brave woman's fight through the blackness of tragedy and depression.  It's an inspiration to us all, that we can walk on broken legs; fly with tattered wings; forge ahead, even when we lack the will to live.

This is Amanda's story...

"Severe depression didn't exactly sneak up on me, it slammed into me like
a freight train.  I'd met my partner of 15 years when I was 18, we'd been together ever since.  As far as I knew, things were great, we were young and in love.  We had good jobs, a lovely home, and spent time with family and friends.  It was the proverbial wonderful life.

Why is it negative life-events all seem to hit at once?  My partner's mother passed away that Spring, and I'd spent a grueling year working on a new system implementation at the office.  I'd been putting in 10 hour days, 6 days a week for months.  Physical and emotional exhaustion were becom-ing a way of life.  So were betrayal and deceit, I just didn't know it yet.

I came home from work one evening, late as usual, walked in to find my partner in bed...our bed...with a man I'd never seen before.  Needless to say, I was devastated.  I left the house and drove for hours.  I didn't know what else to do.  When I returned home the next day, I tried to talk to her about what had happened.  To my utter amazement, she felt she'd done nothing wrong, didn't think she'd been unfaithful or done anything to cause me pain.  She didn't even understand why I was so upset.  I couldn't wrap my mind around her offense, much less her callous disregard for its devastating effects on me.  I could feel the room spinning, hear my ears ringing; my life was crumbling around my feet.  What should I do?  Had she been repentant, perhaps we could work through it.  But this cavalier attitude?  I couldn't... wouldn't abide it, no matter how much I cared about her.  But one problem remained, where would I go?  The house we lived in had been purchased by her father. 

I spent the next couple of weeks looking for somewhere else to live.  My looking soon caused more finding than I'd bargained for.  I discovered I had almost $30,000 of debt due to credit cards she'd opened in my name.  Allowing her to pay the bills, while I just kept depositing my paychecks into the checking account, was a huge mistake; one from which I was destined to learn a hard lesson.

I'm virtually homeless, and discover I'm thousands of dollars in debt.  Despair was mounting like layers on a cake.  Where was I going to live?  What was I going to do?  The questions echoed through my mind relent-lessly.  Depression began to consume me.  I could conceive of only one solution: quit my job and move home with my parents.  My hope was to find a job near my hometown and payoff the debt, only then could I live
on my own.  Armed with what seemed to be the lone remedy, I went to my boss.


Join us next week for Part II of Amanda's Story