Tag: mental-health

The Brain Breakdown

~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 1 Comment

abrain

A psychiatrist offered this analogy:

Your brain is like a computer which has a fixed amount of memory.

When your brain is occupied trying to process depression there’s a fixed amount available to use to process other activities, say memory or long division.  Eventually, as you heal, more memory is made available to concentration or routines or interest in life or, in my case, facing the ashen landscape called life to which a debilitating, manic, and, calamitous event crippled my job, my family, and my spouse.

abrain2

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A Recent Visit With An Old Journal (July-September, 2008)

~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 1 Comment

astormI do know how it happened, this convergence of the perfect storm, but the why I set it in motion is still a mystery to me. My feelings of absolute worthlessness have been building for years; starting much like the birth of a tsunami deep in some crevice in the ocean, a shifting of my inner tectonic plates, natural I suppose in the grind of life, but this shift caused great, unpredictable movement of the seas of my life which, by all accounts rose higher, and deeper, and soon engulfed the tiny town of my life, built, I suppose foolishly too close to the shore.

And then it came, this huge wave and friends and lovers fled. I on the other hand, all too well aware stood steadfast in its path. It washed over awaveme, this wave, crushing me against the only world I knew now, that which was beneath my feet. Gripping the sand I held firm, never certain that as it receded, that it would not pull me far, far out to sea.

Gradually it did retreat and once again the sun broke the surface and I lay gasping, choking on air which days before had given life and now condemns me to deal with this devastation.

I had a deep sense that not all was okay with me. I often complained of a dark gnawing I had felt, or heard in my mind. I always thought that it was my creative self scratching to get out in the form of writing. But now I wonder if indeed it was my inner self pleading for help. I could never articulate it sufficiently to those around me, nor did I ever think it was truly a cry for help. Until this week when, what I thought was my tidy little world fell absolutely apart. It was this week when I was diagnosed with major depression.

aquietzone2And from what I now understand it is taking a very predictable course complete with dark patches, rough zones, drifting away from reality, but the one part which I cannot fathom is my inability to be stimulated by more than one thing at a time. For instance, I cannot tolerate music playing and talking; I cannot tolerate stress; I cannot tolerate anger or anything except calm. If I sense more than one thing at a time I shut down and go to a quiet place.

I suspect it all fell apart when it all came together; a perfect storm as I have said; a convergence of three wholly separate, yet tumultuous events which I set in motion.

I had been in a loving 23 year relationship. We had all the trappings of a solid relationship: jobs, cars, cat, home, garden, money, retirement. But something was sorely lacking. Me. I wasn’t in it any longer. I couldn’t be in it. Being in it was too painful for me. The hurt which started as aloverskissingsuspicion around my drinking and drug abuse quickly cascaded into a kind of secret identity which I couldn’t share with him for fear of reprisal. I needed the drugs and alcohol to buffer the deepening sadness of my life. I didn’t want to face, didn’t know how to face this gnawing, this scratching which would never quiet on its own. The only way to silence it was through sleep, inebriation or a Vicodin high.

I also had a very romantic side which died when my partner no longer accepted my tokens of affection. It’s not that he didn’t want them, but they grew silly or unneeded or immaterial or expensive or, even I suppose worthless. Aren’t these tokens of affection best saved for times of seduction or apology or bereavement? And so into the roll-top desk of my life I placed this need to “show” my affection in the drawer called “get to later” right next to my sexual desires, overwhelming need for affection and self-worth. I simply closed the drawer and drew down the lid patting those things adieu. I knew they’d be withdrawn at some later date, when the amour would willingly accept my advances.

Should I have simply ignored his requests to cease and continued my gifts? Perhaps. But our finances had become so entwined that he would have known how much I had spent of these trinkets and he would’ve been cross. Could I have paid cash? Of course, I suppose, but when tokens of affection aren’t valued, the value plummets, the surprise ebbs, the feeling I get wanes. I learned to simply file it away.

I knew that our relationship had weathered many storms; it was built strong; based on honesty and open communication. But shouldn’t every abiggameman have a secret or two? A trinket of conquest placed deeply into a suit pocket? An amulet to ward off demons? A trophy? Hung handsomely on the wall? Hadn’t all my friends had trophies? Yes! Oh, yes, they had! Not one friend that I know has ever been in a relationship as long as ours without the occasional dalliance; but mine was different. Mine was a manic affair, built on a foundation of bogs and swampland and prone to sink.  A manic affair is a very dangerous liaison often resulting in collateral damage and repairable of which I did not fully anticipate it’s consequence.

 

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“Hopeless Ness” and the Lass “Chance” (a recent chat) for marsh d.

~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 2 Comments

atextingThis is an excerpt from a longer conversation with my cousin who’s been living with chronic pain and fibromyalgia.  This excerpt was of particular significance because it was answering an unasked question which was hidden “between the lines” regarding hopelessness.  If one is faced with 20 years of chronic pain, immobility, mood swings, etc. AND loss of hope what might their next stop be named?

Or is it the end of the line?

LUCY

Hello T. M. . . .,

I’m worried about you. You wrote a great post on hopelessness, are you feeling hopeless?

How can I help….I’m a good listener. You’ve poured your heart out onto the pages, you’ve been through a lot in your life and every one of those memories makes changes in the way our central nervous system functions and in the way the brain functions.

We (all of us who are chronically ill) put a lot of hope in those little pills. Those pills are able to aid you in functioning but can’t fix what has been broken. But, there is HOPE! The hope is within you and, with the help of another human being (not another pill), you can find a sense of peace and understanding.  Then we come to acceptance…..well, that’ll be a whole ‘nother blog.

 

T. M.

Hi Lucy:        
ahopeless
I made a promise to myself when I started this blog that I would be honest in my writing without sounding pitiful. I believe honesty transcends our diversity and therefore many can relate. The problem I have is that I suffer from untreatable maladies (brain, heart) and have recently been plagued by severe shooting pain in my lower and upper right side of my back, sciatica on my left leg, and most recently pain and weakness in my lower right leg. I was compromised with untreatable long-term illness, but then add these perpetual pains and immobility (I’ve been in pain every single day for 10 months): I take a cocktail of pain relief and muscle relaxants which work somewhat, but gastric bypass changes everything. Pardon my expression, but I feel like I’m all fucked up, none of my doctors seem to have the answers, and I am virtually homebound and use a small 3-wheeled walker to move around the house (which I’ll give to Rick when I’m finished with it). It’s almost impossible to have hope when you take stock of your life and all you see is lunacy, suffocation or heart attack, and constant and crippling pain. I’ve asked myself, “Am I really alive? Is this 24 hour ticktock simply doing time for a crime I didn’t commit? The only thing I look forward to is writing my blog. If only I could discover pain relief.

LUCY

I’m so sorry about your back pain….I have been through terrible sciatic pain and understand completely what you’re describing. It IS hard to abackpainhave hope!  What you’re describing is what everyone with fibro describes……many lose hope. Without hope, you have nothing. I was at that point at one time, too and made a plan to commit suicide. All seemed hopeless and I didn’t want to live a life of pain. i threw myself into research and coming to understand what was happening inside of me. I’m still coming to understand what’s happening…..researchers are still trying to come to understand what’s happening.  For 40 years, I went to the doctor, described my problem….he did tests, which all came back as normal. As long as the tests came back normal, there wasn’t a real problem. Thousands of people have gone through this same thing….test after test and all is normal. I was turned away and humiliated by a few specialists who didn’t believe me….no one would believe me. The doctors were trained in medical school that when someone like me comes in….to disregard the complaints….it’s all in her head and she’s making it up to get attention. Talk about losing hope!!!!!
Dr. Oz actually did a show on this a few months back and he admitted this is how the medical field has been trained …..to not take seriously any pain that can’t be diagnosed on a test. And, he admitted that he felt this way, too…..until just 2 years ago. Now, he has come to understand more of what’s actually going on inside of us. I am not alone.

Facebook has been like a miracle for me because I have found all of these other people just like me who have suffered for forty years and discounted, too. There are thousands and thousands of people all over the world who are suffering. The medical profession doesn’t know what to do with things they can’t see on a test!!  You have terrible pain in your back…..surely they must be able to see this pain on a scan. But, no….they won’t see it unless you have a herniated disc, that they can see. That, they can do something about because they can see it.

T. M.

I used to volunteer at The National Runaway Switchboard as a “liner” (the person who answers the call. I decided to continue until my problems surpassed those of the caller. Well, I stopped when Rick got sick and haven’t been back since. I could deal with the long-term illnesses if I could just shake the pain.

LUCY

I have learned so much. I went off on my own and spent a fortune on alternative therapy and a Fibro Specialist that wasn’t covered on my insurance plan. I had to drive 12 hours one way to get to see him….talk about desperate!! But, he helped me gain a semblance of a life back. alternative medicineIt was worth every penny.

What I’m trying to say is this….the doctors don’t have all the answers. In fact, they don’t have many of the answers. There is much more you can do to help alleviate the pain.

One thing I suggest is seeing a Pain Specialist. Jeff has been suffering with debilitating sciatic pain for some time. He couldn’t walk without his walker. He was losing hope.

He went to see the pain specialist who injected the spine…….because the injections helped somewhat, the doctor knew that a more radical treatment would work. He did the treatment on his sciatic nerve and it was a MIRACLE. He was able to walk, to stand up straight and to begin to enjoy life again.

Just the value of having one other person understand what you’re going through and to be able to relate with compassion and empathy is very healing.  I’ve seen it again and again as I talk to people. They all say it . . . empathy, simple compassion for another’s suffering.

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Those Damned Little Pills

~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 5 Comments

amanandpill

For the very first time since I swallowed my first 20 mg. tablet of Paxil four-and-a-half years ago, I finally understand why so many people living with mood disorders stop or want to stop ingesting those damned little pills. Those little pills, like slap-happy lovers, amend their  promises of change immediately after they’ve failed you once again.  One more chance?  One more try?  We’re narrowing the field; one day we’ll strike the right chord, just have patience.  Patience?  What patience?  NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) reported that adults who live with serious mental illness die 25 years earlier than other Americans . . .

Imagine yourself standing next to the Greyhound bus to say good-bye to Hope as she takes a window seat, looking at you detached and hopeless2indifferent.  Your worst fear is happening: That Greyhound bus is leaving you utterly Hopeless.  Hopelessness is a loaded .38 in the nightstand on your dad’s side of the bed; hopelessness is impressionable and interested in alternatives; hopelessness implies that the rough-housing and agonizing conflict you’ve accepted as life is all yours, pal, so grab some gloves and climb into the ring!

Eighty-sixed and cast aside, people with mood disorders are often adrift and desperately clutch to any buoyant object to preserve the credo of the awringingdowncast, that missing people like you are rescued.  But there is no rescue.  Or search.  No one even noticed you were gone.  But then serendipity zips past on her jet-ski waving and reassuring her return. Immediately you squeeze and squeeze again until every bit of blue sky is wrung from her fly by.  You weave strands of hope into bonds of promises and cling to them for their six-week trial, hoping your wholeheartedness created the perfect environment for the mood stabilizing drug to speed down your arterial on-ramp and slide into your bloodstream, easy-sneezy!

Nope.  Nothing.  Nada.  That bitch Hope and her batty cousin, Serendipity played you once again for the hapless Sad Sack, the lunatic adrugcompdesperate for clemency, the believer of broken promises in the form of a pill.  Those damned little pills!  The pharmaceutical industry’s great hoax endorsed by psychiatrist’s, dispensed by Pharmacists, and dutifully swallowed with some water and a handful of hope.  Hope that it’ll take; make a difference; do something; ease my burden; make me laugh.

At my desk 30 minutes after waking, the gravity of hopelessness, fatigue, and apathy plunge my mood underwater; the depressive side of bipolar ajetleads to chronic pleas for the manic cavalry to save the day.  Hold on, I mutter to myself, Just hold on for the pills; they’ll carry you far away from despair. Into my mind’s ground fog I wander further out on the pier when a carefully apportioned packet of dextro-amphetamine salts (think F-22 Raptor Fighter Jet in a mach-1 vertical climb); mood-stabilizer (think the F-22 Raptor running out of gas); and anti-depressant (think glider) are swallowed to ensure mood stability.  Followed by a pair of diuretics to reduce significant edema caused by heart failure and pulmonary hypertension.  At last I down two pain medications and one muscle relaxant for back and knee pain associated with recent weight gain caused by heart failure and venous insufficiency.

How did life become a scene from Soylent Green?  Not so long ago I’d lounge sleepily awaiting the skipping return to bed of my spouse.  Now mycomforter mornings are strict regimens in a very specific sequence to assure all medication has been ingested.  I too, would like nothing more than to flee from this pill-filled merry-go-round so-called Life and run back to that sanctuary of pressed sheets, downy comforters, famished pillows which swallow everything, and quiet, inside-joke laughter reserved for those blessed with wellness.

Instead, every morning I sit at our kitchen table despising those damned little pills. 

 

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(Ex-Representative) Jesse Jackson, Jr.: Denouement

~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 4 Comments

Hoodwinked?  A definite possibility.  Bamboozled?  Most likely.  Hornswoggled?  Should be considered.

Whatever you want to call it, Mr. Jackson Jr. disappeared six months ago; five months ago Mrs. Jackson Jr. read a prepared statement which delicately described Mr. Jackson Jr.’s sudden absence without divulging the root cause.  Mrs. Jackson’s calculated disclosure purposefully neglected any explanation of Mr. Jackson’s bizarre journey from Washington, D.C. to an addiction retreat in Arizona and finally his willful confinement at the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota.  Someone with considerable influence strongly urged Mr. Jackson to depart Washington, D.C. without a peep and bee-line himself to the addiction retreat in Arizona.  Certain accounts told of Mr. Jackson reaching out to Reverend Jackson who, it was said, immediately went to aid his son.  Upon arrival Rev. Jackson described Mr. Jackson’s condition as serious: weight-loss, insomnia, restlessness, hopelessness, fatigue, and a general feeling of depression.

When I presented very similar symptoms at the pinnacle of my ascension to mania, I was strongly advised to immediately be evaluated by a psychiatrist in order to determine if I was clinically depressed.  Were my self-medicating behaviors indicative of a substance addiction?  Certainly, especially if that’s what you’re looking for.  But a member of Congress with the best health insurance in the country?  Did he seek an evaluation from a psychiatrist in Washington? Is it likely that a psychiatrist prescribed an addiction treatment facility in Arizona while ignoring Walter Reed Army Medical Center or the Psychiatric Institute of Washington?  Doubtful.  Are we to believe that no one in Mr. Jackson’s inner circle was curious as to what other illnesses might Mr. Jackson be suffering when presenting his specific symptoms?

I must admit that a fair percent of public comments insinuate that timing for political gains has been, from the very start, the predominant focus.  His alcohol addiction (reason for in-patient treatment at an Arizona Rehab Center), bipolar diagnosis (reason for his transfer to the Mayo Clinic), and clandestine exodus from Washington (to protect his privacy while en route) is, to his discredit, a shrewd, calculated, and well-executed chain-of-events whose purpose, Mr. Jackson’s representatives said, was to seek the best treatment centers for his addiction and subsequent bipolar diagnosis.  One month passed before Mr. Jackson’s representatives confirmed he was at a HIPAA protected treatment facility.  Then he was transferred to the HIPAA protected Mayo Clinic.  Then he ran for re-election without a campaign: no appearances, no advertising, no lawn signs.  And he won 64% of the vote!  Finally, six months after his twilight departure from Washington, the requested and ultimately expected communiqué was delivered to House Speaker Mr. Boehner in a two-page letter of resignation citing health issues and a federal investigation.

And that’s it.

But. . .if he has an addiction and suffers from bipolar disorder, then his timing couldn’t be worse for his career and the reputation of his family.  But then again. . .if it was all a ruse to buy time and strategize his reaction to the upcoming federal indictments, then his actions were dishonest, cowardly, and ignorantly insensitive and offensive to those of us who struggle with mental illness on a daily basis.  But what if. . .he is an addict and bipolar and anticipating federal indictments?  It’s difficult, even for me who defended him on this very blog, to be sympathetic.  After all, he’s a crooked politician who stole tens of thousands of tax-payers money for personal gain, who then fled under the guise of addiction and mental illness to protected locations for six months, abandoning his job, his constituents, and those who voted for him, in order to clean his own house and strategize his legal response and perhaps a plea bargain.  Oh, and he’s an addict and suffers from bipolar disorder.

Well Mr. Jackson, I suffer from bipolar disorder and face that fact every single day head on. . .I don’t hide behind it. . .and I certainly don’t break the law and then use my mental illness to garner sympathy.

Truth is Mr. Jackson, you’re a coward, a liar, and a thief.  The Illinois politician’s trifecta!

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