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