Michele: Lists and how my feelings about them have maybe changed.

In the past, I basically existed on one of two speeds: Manic, when I could do all the things ever, better than everyone else and probably even save the world if I thought hard enough about it, and depressed, when I sat up only when I got uncomfortable lying down. When I was depressed, I did NOTHING or next to nothing. I picked up my kids from school. If I ran the dishes or washed a load of laundry, that was a gold star day. When I was manic, I made elaborate plans and then did many things while usually accomplishing nothing.

Those elaborate plans almost always involved long lists. I LOVED lists. I would make lists of things to do, I would make lists of routines, I would make lists of things to buy, I would make lists of my lists. I used fancy pens, special paper and always highlighted done items (crossing them off just seemed too negative for something I DID). I got pleasure in making the lists and dreaming of grandiose results.

I am now running at a new, normal-for-me-I-hope, speed. I don’t feel like I can conquer the world every day but I also am able to get dressed, put on makeup, visit friends–even ANSWER THE PHONE. Every day involves dishes washed and put away, at least one load of laundry, basic cleaning, and playing taxi driver. While my house is still not up to par, it is getting there, slowly but surely.

This morning, I set about making some to-do lists, which I have not done since reaching stable. I made a general to-do list. I made a bedroom makeover project to-do list. I made a playroom rearrangement to-do list. I used special to-do paper and a sparkly gel pen.

It was harder than usual to make the lists, but I figured that it was because I had full mind that needed to be dumped onto the paper. I got the lists done and dialed the DMV so I could renew my car registration. After hearing the expected hold time (25-31 minutes), I grabbed a load of laundry and put it away while I sat with the phone.

50 minutes later, I huffed at the phone when I got disconnected from the man helping me after I waited for almost 40 minutes on hold. I did get a complete load of laundry put away, I consoled myself. I picked up my list and highlighted the “7” after “P/A laundry 1 2 3 4 5 6.” (I have a lot of clean laundry waiting to be put away.)

I smiled as I capped the highlighter and turned back to the list, waiting for the swoosh of fullsizeoutput_1509 satisfaction and anticipation (for what I had just accomplished and for the rest of my plans). Instead, I felt. . .frustration. Overwhelmed. Weary.

This is the first time in memory that I have made project lists without the rush of manic energy. I had never realized how much of my excitement and enjoyment was coming from a manic reaction. I am staring at these lists, knowing that there is actually a chance that the things on them will all get done and that I will be able to finish the projects and chores that I have before me. But instead of excitement and thrill, these lists now represent work. Do-able work, but work nevertheless.

I don’t know that I love lists like I used to.

Bok Bok Bok

Hello out there in anxiety-land! I cannot sleep. I am getting ready to potentially move and I start my new job next week. So I thought I would write an anxiety-ridden diatribe.

Location, location, location. I am going to be paying way more than I want to for an apartment so I can stay in the North End of Boise. My kiddo, who has just developed a social circle a few years after my separation/divorce, needs to maintain said social circle by attending the nearby junior high. She said she could move further away since she would be moving anyway, but having just met her friends, I’m going to say that would only serve to further traumatize her.

So what about food? Thank God mom lives right down the street. We are going to have way less spending money and what we do have is going to clothes and food for the girl. It’ll be good for me to stop drinking entirely and have to eat like a bird anyway, I have about 50 lbs. I could stand to lose. So that will be good in a way.

I am trying to talk myself into this situation whereas anxiety is attempting to talk me out of it. Anxiety says, quite clearly, “don’t.” Don’t you dare try to make it, somewhat on your own. And then there are choices. Am I making the right one? Can I get a cheaper unit anywhere else that’s livable? Do the unusually high deposits I will be paying at the other place negate what I will be saving per month in rent?

Decisions, decisions.

And I haven’t even started my new job and I’m already contemplating getting another one to continue to make ends meet. Some online gig. I have a lead on one that pays $12 an hour but it’s difficult to navigate after so many years out of college. Did I have the grades and the brains to edit college papers? Sure, but time seems to have eroded my capabilities. Maybe I’m just exhausted from not sleeping this week. Maybe it will look better if I take a deep breath and quit putting so much pressure on myself.

One step at a time.

So I’m calling some places at 9am and going to a leasing office at 10am. I will have my financials in hand and whatever else they need, my signature scrawled in my blood in hieroglyphics or whatever it takes to get a 13-month lease these days. I’m doing this for my daughter and a bit for me. Independence is a good thing, right?

Breathe, breathe. Edit your math, you can do this. The numbers don’t lie but you’ll have to budget. It will be alright, you have a bit of a safety net right now and some great friends who are already helping you through this. Oy. Calm down.

I took my meds, I took a melatonin, I cannot for the life of me sleep. And I have to be up at 6 anyway so…yeah.

Anxiety sucks but I’m hoping this will normalize my life and my parenting. Gotta leave the nest. I am a 40-year-old bird afraid of leaving the nest. Overgrown bird. Big Bird, if you will, but without the hue or cheery disposition.

Big chicken.

A riddle for you. Why did Mozart get rid of all of his chickens?

Because when he fed the chickens, they all kept saying, “Bach, Bach, Bach.”

Michele: How I Became Crazy (Maybe)

On March 23, at 12:01 AM, I checked into Cedars-Sinai hospital with an aching back, an enormous baby belly, an induction scheduled, and an intense feeling of anticipation. In fewer than 48 hours, I left with a beautiful baby girl, a broken tail bone, a broken back, and a broken mind.

Blame and causation are slippery bastards and not easy to understand or assign. I hesitate to even consider the word “blame” here. I am 100% positive that that new baby girl, Piper, was the product of the induced labor–though she probably would have made an appearance, sooner or later, without the induction part. I am about 98% certain the the broken tail bone is a direct result of the vaginal birth of that 9 lb, 4 oz baby girl.

471999_10150692284224390_44099016_o — Taken the night of P’s Birth

The broken back–that’s much harder to pinpoint. Less dramatically, I have a stress fracture in the 5th lumbar vertebrae. It almost certainly happened before the actual birth. It may have occurred in the preceding nine months. The gigantic baby bump pulling at my back could have caused it. But before that was a previous pregnancy and before that were years of gymnastics as a child and then years of coaching as an adult. Slippage and/or a stress fracture at L5 are not exactly common for gymnasts, but neither are they unheard of. It could have been a ticking time bomb, waiting for the added stress of that belly to set it off. For all I know, it was a ticking time bomb that had gone off during my first pregnancy, or even as far back as when I was a teenager. I just was never made aware of it until after Piper’s birth.

My broken mind is like my broken back. Again, less dramatically, I have been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, peripartum onset. Added to that is what my psychiatrist and I refer to as “general anxiety.” I show symptoms of social anxiety, general anxiety disorder (GAD), panic disorder. We just group it as “anxiety” since his treatment plan would be the same, no matter how many names or letters we gave to it. I will save talk about anxiety for another time, along with the sleep issues I have. There is only so much crazy you can talk about at a time.

263747_10150219880599390_6709942_n — Normal first time mom first birthday crazy or mania?

So that’s the official diagnosis–bipolar, peripartum onset. Beginning before or after childbirth. I was diagnosed as having peripartum depression at first, and only after seeing a psychiatrist when I wasn’t getting better was the diagnosis changed. But when did it begin, really? I had postpartum depression with my first child, Finn. Was that actually misdiagnosed bipolar? I search memories from before I had kids. I was treated for depression, first in college, then in law school. Was that actually bipolar? The rush from all nighters pulled in school, working on projects. Was that “normal” procrastination or something different? The euphoria I felt at times, that I could win any speech competition, that I was the ultimate stage manager, that I could do ANYTHING. Normal excitement or hypomania? I could spend hours picking apart my previous life, trying to see if there was some indication of any manic states. I HAVE spent hours, picking apart my previous life, doing just that.

538024_134314083394788_933330073_n — EVERYONE stays up all night at college debate tournaments, is convinced they are unstoppable and are so all knowing they set up their friends (WHO LATER MARRY!), right?

Of course, it could have be that I legitimately had postpartum depression and that it triggered bipolar disorder later.

I have finally come to the conclusion that it is impossible to know. And it probably doesn’t matter.

The most important thing for me to remember is that bipolar, peripartum onset differs from postpartum depression in that it isn’t going anywhere. I have bipolar disorder and barring some miraculous cure being developed, I will have to treat and manage my bipolar for the rest of my life. That probably means medication, every day, for the rest of my life. It means seeing my psychiatrist on a regular basis, for the rest of my life. It means that while I will hopefully reach and maintain “stable,” I will never NOT have to be vigilant about my mental health, for the rest of my life. It means that no matter how hard I try, my loved ones and those close to me and even those who have the slightest contact with me, will at some time or another, be affected by my mood disorder, for the rest of my life.

530563_10151215264864390_833676935_n — Manic-induced, spur of the moment paint decision.

621266_10151220221079390_1141491999_o — It came out pretty well, but even my friends said I was crazy.

I continue to work with my doctors, and it seems that we have finally found the right mood stabilizer. We are still working on details and right now my life feels like a mess but it also feels like we are looking in the right direction.

I am privileged to have access to doctors and medications and other therapies. I am privileged to have a family who loves me and supports me and helps me. I am privileged to be able to not work. I am so damn lucky.

But I still have to deal with the reality that my mind is broken, every day, for the rest of my life.