“Expensive Tic Tacs”

That phrase keeps rolling around in my head…

“Expensive Tic Tacs”

That’s what saved my life?

“Expensive Tic Tacs”

I just finished reading the controversial cover story – ANTIDEPRESSANTS DON’T WORK – in Newsweek’s Feb. 10 edition. I don’t know where to start. How about

IS THERE AN EDITOR IN THE HOUSE????!!!!

I had a big D’uh moment yesterday.

I woke up with a nasty cold and decided to work from home. I had a lot to do and so to stave off a nap-a-thon I had two cups of caffeinated coffee when I got up. I have weaned myself off my morning mainline of joe. It wasn’t easy. I couldn’t trick my brain into thinking the decaf was regular. Funny how an addict’s brain knows the real deal.

Anyway, by late morning my bed was looking mighty tempting so I pulled out a liter of Diet Coke leftover from a party. I recently quit caffeinated diet soda (pop) which I used to keep me awake in the afternoon.

After lunch I began to feel weird. I noticed my hands were a little shaky on the keyboard. I was bouncing from one task to another, then forgetting what I was looking for in a dump of data. I was actually getting a lot of work done but the pace felt wrong. I wasn’t comfortable in my skin. It was the frickin’ caffeine!

D’uh.

Bipolar and caffeine don’t mix – at least not in my body. I know when I am working on a story that I am really into that I get jazzed. Yesterday I was working on two stories that I was really into, so I was  double jazzed. Not a good idea to suck down a stimulant when I am already naturally pumped by the nature of my work.

But I assumed I would need a pick up – which I obviously did not need. Instead of listening to my body, I told it what it needed. I felt yucky and I looked like I was six months pregnant after drinking nearly a liter of Diet Coke.

It’s my addict/alcoholic thinking – “Yea, you better pound a few now because you’re going to need it later” – coupled with my bipolar disorder, which doesn’t need a jump start. So, I am …

I went to the Ryan Litch Sang Bipolar Foundation’s annual dinner dance in Palm Beach on Sunday night. I did not know a soul besides Joyce and Dusty Sang, Ryan’s parents, whom I met a couple of years ago when I wrote a story about the Sangs’ efforts to raise money for research into early onset bipolar disorder and to help find an empirical test for bipolar.

At age five, Ryan began exhibiting symptoms of Bipolar Disorder, a serious mental illness which manifests itself with recurring episodes of mania and depression. Unbeknownst to everyone, Ryan had decided to stop all prescription mood stabilization medications because he did not like their powerful side effects.

He believed he could control his illness, a decision all too common with Bipolar Disorder. When Ryan suddenly entered a manic episode, he had nothing to help stabilize his brain chemistry. He had not slept in days, and in order to sleep, he self-medicated. Tragically, Ryan passed away in his sleep. Ryan was 24-years-old.

It was a swank affair – black tie, champagne and lots of beautiful people  with eye popping bling. Ruh-roh. My idea of jewelry is the permanent henna tattoo that wraps around my left wrist. I felt a teeny bit intimidated with my fake diamond earings, my one and only snazzy dress and my rental car. Thank God for Crest Whitestrips. At least I could stand there and smile if I nothing else.

But, no, as soon as I was introduced by my gracious host, I felt fine. “Christine has just written about book about her depression, bipolar and alcoholism…” Wow. That kind of intro usually provokes stammering and raised eyebrows. But not here. Everyone at this party had been touched by bipolar – whether a child, sibling, parent or other loved one. We all shared this one, very private secret about which we rarely speak. We all “get it” – as I like to say.

The walls fell down and, man, did we talk. It was so amazing to hear …

We had another murder here last week. Actually, it was three murders and an attempted suicide. According to news reports:

What friends, family and authorities do say is that it appears that as Neal Jacobson sank deeper and deeper into depression, something terrible was building inside him.

The once successful mortgage broker from New Jersey left his company and moved to Florida to care for his ailing father, who died in 2007. Jacobson, 49, lost money in bad investments and hated himself despite his beautiful wife and brilliant twin sons, he confided in his best friend, Richard Norton.

When Norton died of cancer this month, it pushed him farther off his axis, said Norton’s wife, Laurie.

Less than a week after his friend’s funeral, Jacobson took up a gun and shot and killed his wife, Franki, 53, and 7-year-old boys, Eric and Joshua, according to a family member and Palm Beach County Sheriff’s investigators.

After killing his family – just hours before the twin boys’ seventh birthday party – Jacobson took 10 Xanax tablets and a gun and drove away. He go into an accident. Police asked what happened:

“I went off the deep end,” he said, according to the police affidavit.

I have a lot of questions. Most start with “why didn’t he…”

go to a doctor or psychologist?

voluntarily commit himself for observation?

call a suicide hotline?

call a pastor/priest/rabbi?

talk about his feelings?

ask for help?

I understand wanting to kill yourself. I have been at that place and it is a very, very real place – even though today it seems like a dream. But I do not understand the kind of depression and desperation that would drive a person to kill their own child. It must be some kind of excruciating, horrific, mental anguish that is beyond comprehension.

I feel terrible for men with depression and anxiety. It is not just the stigma of mental illness that they face. It is also the ridiculous stereotypes we hold about men – they are …

I have trained my dog, “Dog” to run in front of my bicycle on a retractable leash. He loves it. I love it. Every morning we ride down to the park, about 1/2 mile from my house. At the north end of the park is a little pond, where I let him off the leash and he runs free. The pond is home to three ducks, a little blue heron, egrets, anhinga and an alligator. On days when the water level is high, wood storks -endangered – also visit the pond.

The park is stunning. Filled with giant ficus trees with bizarre shaped trunks and huge canopies. There is a dog park, soccer field, baseball diamond, playground, tennis courts and exercise trail. It’s not unusual to hear five different languages spoken and people of every color playing at the park. I love my park and I have visited it everyday for years.

Monday was a perfect Florida winter morning. Sunny, about 68 degrees. As I rode with Dog to the park I was amazed at the park’s beauty in the early morning light. We have had a lot of rain lately and the greens of the trees and landscaping were so green. The light was perfect. I said “mornin’” to my neighbors out walking their dogs. Swear to God there was even a faint rainbow over the soccer field.

How the hell did my life come to this? Pinch me, I thought. My life is so good. I am so blessed. Look how beautiful my world is. Amazing.

Four years ago, in the same park, on the same bike with the same weather I was asked myself the same question: How the hell did my life come to this? I was in the beginnings of a severe depression that would take me to death’s doorstep. I hated life – I hated MY life. I hated my weakness for not being able to pull myself up by my bootstraps. I hated the monotony of daily routines. I hated working so hard. I hated being a loser.

Same park. Same weather. Same …

humility: \hyü-ˈmi-lə-tē, yü-\

1 : the quality or state of being humble

humble: \həm-bəl\

1 : not proud or haughty : not arrogant or assertive

2 : reflecting, expressing, or offered in a spirit of deference or submission

3 a : ranking low in a hierarchy or scale b : not costly or luxurious

The upside of depression – and pretty much any mental illness – is that it will wipe out any pride, arrogance and self-importance you had before your fall. It’s not easy to be your old pompous, pretentious, highfalutin self after going through a major depression. Ditto for bipolar.

When you are in a depression you learn the true meaning of humility – to remain teachable – whether you want to or not. Only through humility could I get well. Sure, the medications helped lift me from my black hole and my mood stabilizer calmed me down, but to become truly healthy I had to become humble.

I spent most of my life trying to pull myself up by my bootstraps whenever I sank into my black hole. I made no effort to calm myself when I vibrated with mania. I can handle this, I thought. Then came “The Big One.” I could not lift myself and I refused to listen to anyone – even my therapist – who told me I was in a major clinical depression and needed medications. I was NOT going to take antidepressants. I was not the kind of woman who took antidepressants. I was above that. I was strong. I just needed to work harder and exercise harder and get off my freakin’ pity pot.

Crash.

I was like a little baby. Help me, please. Someone, help me. I could not focus. I could not eat. I could not sleep. I could not read or write. All I wanted was to curl up in a little ball. Everything was flat. I did not know what to do to help myself. I had to take off my …

I interviewed conservative talk show host Larry Kudlow on Tuesday night, about 10 minutes after he finished his prime time show, The Kudlow Report, on CNBC. Kudlow is speaking in Palm Beach on Saturday night at a black-tie benefit for Gratitude House, a local treatment center for women – many who are off the streets and could never afford the kind of long-term residential treatment they get there.

I am not a big fan of talk shows – radio or television – whose hosts cover current events like they are fans at a hockey game – taunting each other’s beliefs with insults, threats and misinformation. I think these shows encourage viewers to draw a line in the sand – you are either on their side or you are not.

On the rude-o-meter Kudlow is nowhere near Palm Beach’s own Rush Limbaugh. Regardless of what you think about Kudlow’s beliefs,  the guy is brilliant and he has a resume that blows all other talk show hosts out of the water: Chief economist at Bear Sterns, Paine Webber and the OMB under Reagan. His is an author and regular contributor to The National Review. He was a member of the Bush Cheney transition team and advisor to Jack Kemp.

Personally, I don’t agree with some of Kudlow’s beliefs but he knows what he is talking about. He is NOT just another talking head.

What does any of this have to do with depression?

Kudlow is a fellow recovered alcoholic who speaks openly about his illness.

What does that have to do with depression?

I am one of those alcoholics who also has depression. I am dual diagnosed, like about half the other alcoholics out there. I don’t know if Kudlow is dual-diagnosed but I admire and respect the hell out of his 15-years in recovery. Unlike his TV persona, Kudlow –  the recovered addict and alcoholic – is soft-spoken, calm and humble when he speaks of his respect for his illness and 12-Step program.

He regularly attends meetings. He still …

I was brought up to believe in a God with flowing robes and a beard. He looked to be in his sixties – maybe seventies but he was a in good shape. He was white with long white hair and he did not look pleased. Actually, he looked kind of pissed.

For some reason I never understood, he liked us to pin little plastic cameos, called scapulars, to our undershirts and whenever we went to church the girls – not the boys – had to cover our heads. Our God was big on keeping score. Apparently he counted every single sin that everyone had ever committed and he broke them into two groups – venial sins: little sins (like “borrowing” your sister’s Girl Scout sash because she had more badges than you and telling everyone it was yours) and mortal sins, like killing someone – even Hitler – for which there was no redemption and you would burn in hell for eternity.

Depending on the offense and the priest that happened to be in the confessional that day, you had to say a bunch of Hail Mary’s to get your soul off the hook. This God, whom I had been tip-toeing around all my life, was the One I was supposed to ask for help – the One who would help me climb out of my black hole, keep me sober and calm my mania.

I was screwed.

Still, I knew it was going to take a power greater than me to get me through, make me healthy and maybe even happy. My best efforts had failed – I knew that. The medications and therapy eventually helped but before they did, I needed faith to believe that they would work. And after the depression lifted I needed faith that if I ever slipped into that black hole again, took a drink or lost control of my mouth, body and brain, I could count on some kind of higher power to help me out.

Luckily I had been introduced to a 12-Step program which gave me permission to believe in a …

I was watching the PBS program This Emotional Life – which is fantastic – and one of the researchers explained how the brains of people with depression become hardwired to cop to the negative. He said it much more elegantly but when I heard this, the bush burned, the clouds parted, the cherubim sang and my life made a lot more sense.

I ALWAYS cop to the negative. I ALWAYS assume the worst will happen and, hey, if the best happens, well, extra bonus points! I do this with the big things in life: “They’re not going to give you a raise so don’t waste your time asking.” “You’re never going to be able to retire so get over it.” ”Just settle for what you can get.” ”You’re not going to find a handsome, kind, honest guy who thinks that diamonds really are a girl’s best friend – and even if you did, you think he’s going to want to go out with YOU?”  Copping to the negative allows me to live life as a victim. I did not know any other way to live.

Then I went shopping with a friend. The parking lot was crowded. “There’s a spot,” I pointed out – the first one I saw – about 1/4 mile from the store. “No,” he said. “I start at the very best spot and work my way out. You have to assume you’re going to get the best spot.” And I’ll be damned, he got a really good spot up front.

“Some people settle,” he said.

Holy cow! This was an extraordinary revelation. I am a settler. I settle. I would have settled for the parking spot in Egypt without thinking that a better spot might be out there. My brain instinctively cops to the negative. It’s subliminal and subtle but it’s there. So over the Christmas holidays I decided to try his theory of positive parking. It worked damn near every time, even at the new Super Target and the mall. It worked at the grocery store, too, and in parking garages and on the street. …