Depression on My Mind

Archive for August, 2009

Stigma sells: "The toaster isn't real, Brian"

Saturday, August 29th, 2009

Too bad I don’t eat subs because I’d really like to boycott Quiznos. I am being stalked by the imaginary talking toaster commercial. Every channel I turn to I am assaulted by that inane and insulting ad about the audible hallucinations a guy named Brian hears during a therapy session. The imaginary toaster tells Brian to “tell this quack about the toasty, toasty $1 sub sale,” while the psychiatrist tells Brian that “the toaster isn’t real, Brian.”

Very funny. Ha-ha. Hallucinations are just knee-slapping hilarious! Brian stretched out on a recliner and the stereotypical stern therapist with bushy gray hair, spectacles and vest – how original! Quiznos’ nailed every psychotherapy stereotype – “quack” – the recliner – straight-out-of-central-casting therapist, the “how does that make you feel?” inquiry and the perpetually amusing “hearing voices” gag. Good job, ad writers. Very clever.

Add insult to injury by running the dang thing during every commercial break of every show I watch. Enough already! Quiznos is known for its off-beat commercials. Last year they insulted gays with the homoerotic Toasty Torpedo ad, in which our friend the sultry, masculine talking toaster asked a sub maker named Scott to “Put it in me.”

I am all for push-the-envelope creativity. Jealous beauty on the bench – kinda funny. Old lady eating $5 bill – funny. Sponge moneys – very funny. But Quiznos missed the mark with this one. Mental illness jokes just aren’t funny anymore. It’s time to pull out of the hot, manly talking toaster ad arena.

My mania: Do you really want to get in the ring with me?

Wednesday, August 26th, 2009

Hey, I have an idea…

When you are bipolar – even just hypomanic like me – you have lots of ideas. Tons of ideas. Sometimes they come out of nowhere and zap me like static electricity. Sometimes they are more like popcorn popping – one pop here, then another and another and then they’re popping all over the place, at the same time. Sometimes I have an idea that sucks me into its vortex, where time and distraction do not exist. Just the pure, consuming singularity of the idea.

Sometimes I start talking about an idea I didn’t even know I had until I hear myself speak it. Then I say to myself, whoa, that’s a good idea! Where did THAT come from? Just give me a topic, a conundrum or crisis and I WILL have an idea. I love ideas. How can a person not have ideas?

My problem is the delivery. I get kind of excited when I have a really good idea. Apparently my enthusiasm kind of scares people. I recognize it when folks lean back, tilt their head, inhale, raise their eyebrows and stare at me like they’re looking over a pair of imaginary reading glasses. Some of my ideas intimidate people who kick themselves for not coming up with the same idea. They come out swinging with feeble little punches, trying to poke holes in my idea.

Then I get indignant, arrogant and impatient. The switch is flipped. The adrenaline flows. If I am not careful I will verbally eviscerate any contender who dares set foot in the ring. It can be brilliant and terrifying – and I used to love it. LOVE IT. It was like being high, all powerful and all knowing, perfectly present in the moment with every synapse sizzling. When it’s over my hands shake – vibrate – and my mind races. I cannot find the brakes. I have no OFF switch.

Welcome to my mania. Now you have an idea of what it feels like.

Rant-o-rama: The sheriff vs common sense

Monday, August 24th, 2009

Last week our local sheriff – reacting to a demand to cut $3 million from his proposed $480 budget  - threatened to cut a successful substance-abuse treatment program before cutting deputies. In other words, if the sheriff doesn’t get what he wants he will put alcoholics and drug addicts back on the street before he takes deputies off the street.

This kind of political extortion is inhumane, illogical and demonstrates the sheriff’s ignorance of substance abuse and mental illness. According to the sheriff, ”I only have two options. Cut deputy sheriffs … or cut programs that I’m not mandated to do.”

Many, if not most, inmates with substance abuse problems also suffer from other mental illnesses. It’s called dual-diagnosis. Their addictions and companion illnesses – such as bipolar – have reached the stage where they are committing crimes to self-medicate, support their habits or because they have completely lost their ability to control their impulses.

Release these addicts and alcoholics without treatment and they WILL very likely commit more crimes and those crimes WILL very likely be more serious.  Just as mental illnesses are progressive, so is criminal behavior.

Unfortunately we cannot see the crimes that an addict/alcoholic inmate will not commit because they received treatment. A clean and sober addict/alcoholic probably won’t end up homeless, in an emergency room or back behind bars. They are better able to manage their companion mental illnesses, such as bipolar and depression, and are less likely to physically abuse and abandon their kids. Clean addicts and sober alcoholics are less likely to contract AIDS because they are less likely to have unsafe sex or prostitute themselves. Many actually get jobs, go to school and pay taxes.

Who can put a price tag on how much misery and how many dollars are saved by treating just one mentally ill inmate?

Putting more deputies on the street undoubtedly prevents crime from being committed at a particular location at a specific time. But the drug dealers will simply move to another corner and the addicts will follow. The addicts and alcoholics will continue to drink and drug, abuse and abandon their children, clog emergency rooms, spread sexually-transmitted diseases, commit crimes …

Depression, anxiety and fetal positions

Saturday, August 22nd, 2009

What I hate most about anxiety is waking up with it. It’s like an emotional hangover – the first thing you feel before you open your eyes. I want to be able to tie my anxiety to an event or person or thing. Maybe then I could make sense of it. But I can’t. It is just there, tight and nauseous in my chest. I so badly want it to go away. It is Saturday! It is gorgeous outside!

I run down my gratitude list, hoping that will help: I have been unscathed by the recession – keeping my job and the same pay; I have a teenage daughter who is beautiful, healthy, fun, funny and has never given me any trouble; Ten years after my divorce, I get along with her father; I have a book about to be published; I have a cute little house in a trendy neighborhood; I have friends; I can ride my bike to the ocean; I have money in the bank; I am healthy and weigh the same as I did in college; I am blessed.

Still, I feel rotten and bad. I want to be alone. I want to get back into bed, curl up into the tightest fetal position I can and pray for sleep that is not filled with dreams that make me more anxious. I know everyone has days when they feel overwhelmed, flat and sad. But when those of us with depression feel this way, we don’t know if it is an ordinary, run-of-the-mill blah spell or if it is the beginning of something far more out of the ordinary. And THIS can make us more anxious.

So I am pulling out my tool box. I am going to use every tool I need today to take care of myself. I am going to take my meds, say my prayers, ride my bike to the park, go to the gym, swim and hang-out with a friend tonight.

Thou shalt not get back into bed and curl up into a fetal position.

Missed meds = misery

Wednesday, August 19th, 2009

I felt like crap today and I chalked it up to just coming back from a very laid back vacation in the Florida Keys, a 14-hour day yesterday, the sudden announcement today of a massive reorganization of the corporation I (still) work for and fiddling with a 2 gig database that kept locking up my computer all day. Oh yea, and 15 of us are going to be laid off in the next two week, but we don’t know who.

By the time I got home my brain felt nauseous and a dull headache was building. The back of my eyeballs started to ache. Weird. I had never felt like this. And I felt so good yesterday. I just wanted to crawl into bed. So, I got the coffee maker ready for tomorrow, laid out my mug and my pill container. I take two pills every night – a mood stabilizer and an antidepressant. I opened up the Tuesday container and there were my two pills.

Except it’s Wednesday. Ruh-roh. That means I skipped Tuesday night’s meds and Wednesday morning: about 18 hours without any medication. That had to explain it. I realized how powerful these medications – two antidepressants and one mood stabilizer – really are. I forget because I don’t get high or feel anything magical when I take my meds as prescribed. I feel normal and level – the bubble is plumb.

I can’t imagine the hell of a cold-turkey withdrawal. Why, or why would anyone do that? Then I remembered an article in the Sunday New York Times Magazine a couple of years ago written by a guy who did just that.

“But then my symptoms became more physical: the chills at night and the cold sweats continued. I felt tingling in my shoulders and hands, spasms in my legs. These came and went, seemingly with no reason. And then one night as I lay back to go to sleep, I felt a quick spasm in my head as if an electrical current had suddenly been sent through a circuit somewhere inside my brain. Two more followed in quick succession. With each came a …

Mental Health: Maybe gays, lesbians and bisexuals are braver and smarter

Saturday, August 15th, 2009

Of the smorgasbord of mental health news in my email box this morning was a press release on a UCLA study that found lesbians, gays and bisexuals are twice as likely as heterosexual men and women to seek help from mental health professionals. I do not find this surprising.

The ignorant masses out there – who believe that homosexuality is an unholy plague – probably aren’t surprised either. They will likely claim that the study is proof that homosexuality is an illness and that these people really want to be “cured.”

I see it differently. According to the study, gays, lesbians and bisexual are twice as likely as heterosexual men and women to seek help from mental health professionals. Researchers collected data on 2,074 people for a new survey known as the California Quality of Life Survey. They found that 48.5 percent of lesbian, gay and bisexual individuals reported receiving treatment in the past year, compared with 22.5 percent of heterosexuals. Overall, lesbians and bisexual women were most likely to receive treatment, and heterosexual men were least likely.

“This is consistent with emerging findings from national surveys showing that many individuals who receive mental health treatment do not have a diagnosable disorder but may have other symptoms, such as psychological distress or impairments in functioning, that lead them to seek care,” according to the press release.

Another explanation could be, “discrimination, violence and other stressful life events may be greater among sexual and gender minorities and homosexuality and issues associated with it may be construed as mental health problems — particularly among racial and ethnic minorities — which may encourage people to seek treatment. Further, in gay and lesbian communities, therapeutic services are considered appropriate places for coping with the stresses associated with being a sexual minority.”

It could also be that gays, lesbians and bisexual are braver and smarter than the rest of us. The gays, lesbians and bisexual folks I know have some serious to-thine-own-self-be-true fortitude and perseverance – way more than a lot of heterosexuals I know. And you must have patience and tolerance of steel to put up with the harassment, ignorance and stigma that sill exists against …

Vacation and depression: Square pegs and round holes

Thursday, August 13th, 2009

This has been a weird vacation. Normally I spend weeks – even months – researching a destination, scheduling travel arrangements and planning an itinerary. I always said I enjoyed the planning as much as the vacation.

Well, this year everything went to hell. You can’t say I didn’t try. Work schedules and bank accounts would not cooperate. There were no reasonably priced rentals on the Gulf of Mexico that would take dogs – and I had to take my dog and I had to have sunsets. Even a cheap cruise that seemed perfect was booked solid.

Something was wrong. I shouldn’t have to work this hard to relax. My vacation mojo had vanished. I got anxious. I started to feel sorry for myself – “Woe is me, I have no one to go on vacation with.” I had two weeks looming before me and nothing to show for it. I was pushing too hard, trying to force the proverbial square peg into a round hole.

THAT was the problem – the square peg in the round hole. Before I was diagnosed with depression and bipolar I viewed the square-peg-in-the-round-hole conundrum as a challenge – a gauntlet that I must run. I pushed people, places and things to fit my expectations. I pushed hard – very hard. In hindsight, I rarely achieved what I thought I wanted.

I created a lot of resentments. No one likes to be squeezed like that. I caused a lot of anxiety. Would the travel-stars align as I had planned? Would everyone behave themselves so I could relax? I was not a happy camper.

I have learned that this kind of behavior stokes my depression and bipolar. I have learned to see and feel when I am pushing the square peg into the round hole. When it happens – and it happens a lot – I am supposed to stop what I am doing. Let it go. See what happens.

So, I am looking at these two weeks as God doing for me what I could not do for myself. I gave God the keys and let him drive and I sat in back. There have been …

The mentally ill neighbor

Monday, August 10th, 2009

Every Sunday I read Randy Cohen’s column, The Ethicist, in the New York Times. Cohen settles moral dilemmas with humor and common sense. This week’s ethical conundrum: A mentally ill neighbor.

The writer moved into an apartment in a small town. A woman with schizophrenia lives across the street: “She regularly accosts me, shouting insults with apparent lucidity…Other locals treat her as a harmless nuisance, speaking to her as if she were a child, but I’d feel awkward doing that since she is twice my age. How should I respond to her?”

Cohen’s response began: “Assuming your amateur diagnosis is correct, you should respond courteously and briefly. As you know, you should not chide someone mentally ill for her rudeness.” (I added the bold.)

God bless you Randy Cohen. Just for emphasis, let’s allow Randy say it again: “As you know, you should not chide someone mentally ill for her rudeness.” And one more time, Randy, because you make it sound so common sensical: ”As you know, you should not chide someone mentally ill for her rudeness.”

Nor should we ridicule, berate, deride, ignore or shame someone mentally ill for his/her rudeness. However, it seems like we have a caste system for mental illness and our etiquette depends upon the position a specific a mental illness holds within that system. Often it is easier to pardon rudeness when the person is clearly psychotic and delusional. But how do we treat – how should we treat – the obnoxious alcoholic, the panhandling addict, the “lazy” person with depression or the boiling diatribes and vengeful behavior of those in the throes of their mania?

Good question. Hey, I am as guilty as anyone. I cannot tell you how many times I have “chided” an obnoxious drunk – even though I am an alcoholic. Until I experienced, and was finally diagnosed, with depression I berated others – especially those with dysthymia – as weak and lazy. And apparently I – little Ms. Bipolar – must have  missed – or wasn’t paying attention – during the Sunday school lesson on “Judge Not Lest Ye Shall Be Judged.” But the delusional rages or mutterings of someone with schizophrenia …

How can people doubt that depression is real?

Wednesday, August 5th, 2009

I am on vacation in the Florida Keys. I had dinner tonight with a friend at a restaurant on the Gulf of Mexico. The sunset was postcard over-the-top stunning – pink, orange, lavender, yellow. After dinner we walked across the street and watched in the moon rise on the Atlantic ocean.

I started the day with my favorite breakfast: greasy hash browns, sausage, scrambled eggs and coffee. Then I spent a couple of hours on the bottom of the ocean with thousands of yellow tail snapper, psychadelic parrot fish, sharks, eels, lobster, conch, hog snapper and coral so intricate and delicate that I have no doubt there is a God.

I takes a day like this to make me grasp the depth of my depression. I watched moon silver waves on a black ocean and wondered, “How could I ever have wanted to leave this? How could I have ever wanted to kill myself?”

That is how strong depression is. So strong that no matter how much love and beauty are in our lives we want to die. Maybe not all of us. But I did want to die and even tried it a couple of times. There are so many people who love me deeply and so much natural beauty around me but all I wanted was out.

I am getting ready for bed. Tomorrow morning I will get up early, have another unhealthy breakfast, ride on the bow of a boat into the sunrise and dive to the bottom of the ocean again – and then again in the afternoon.

On Friday I will leave the Florida Keys with deep respect for nature, God and my mental illnesses. I have no doubt that my depression is real. Only a terribly ill woman would want to kill herself surrounded by this much love and beauty.

Good night.

Depression: The thief that took my joy

Sunday, August 2nd, 2009

On my bedside table there are stacks of books, most on depression. On the table next to my beside table, there are stacks of book, most on depression. I have not read any of them. Sometimes I read a few pages from one. Then I put it back on the stack.

I did not buy these books. My friends gave them to me. I appreciate every one of those books. Each book represents someone trying to help me. I am grateful and touched by each book. That is why I keep them on my beside table and the table beside my bedside table.

The oddity of this struck me upside the head yesterday. I accepted an invitation to have lunch with a group of journalists to discuss the fate future of journalism. Someone asked me about writers who have influenced me. I easily named other hard-core news journalists whose work I admire. But mental health writers, I could only think of one: Sylvia Plath – my teenage role model)

It is not because there are no good writers writing about their struggle with mental illness. I mean, William Styron was a brilliant writer. But I only read a couple dozen pages of his classic, Darkness Visible, and then put it down. I haven’t even cracked Kay Jamison’s An Unquiet Mind or Noral Vincent’s Voluntary Madness. I really should read these books. I really want to read these books. I can’t seem to do it.

I don’t want to read about another person’s misery right now. Been there. Done that. Don’t want to read about it. Believe me, I get the irony. Using my own logic, why would anyone want to read my writing? Good question.

I know this: I could not read or write – two of my greatest passions – when I was depressed and that scared the hell out of me. I could not read the newspaper I had been writing for over 20 years. I asked over and over, “It’s going to come back, right? I’m going to be able to read and write again, right?”

“Yes,” my therapist and nurse practitioner assured …

Hoping for a Happy Ending
Check out Christine's book!
Hope for a Happy Ending: A Journalist's
Story of Depression, Bipolar and Alcoholism
Christine Stapleton
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