I conducted ‘chats’ with these courageous women while an in-patient on the psychiatric floor of a medical hospital, recovering from depression in 2002.  I was able to converse with each woman separately where they shared their stories.

Note:  I was discharged earlier than any of these women; therefore at that point, a conclusion to each woman’s story was absent.  However, I revisited three weeks later to chat.  One woman was previously discharged; however the remaining two were content to share their situation.  I’d like to thank each woman for sharing their stories with me – it took a phenomenal amount of courage and I wish them the best of success to remain well.

 ********************

Clara – Age (46)

Clara’s eyes well up as she recounts her story of anguish and to her, humiliation.  Both wrists are bandaged from a botched suicide attempt, and she stares downward at the floor as she speaks to me.

The dim days of depression have taken their toll and frowns as she recalls her profession as a bank manager, which now has ended.  So has her 20-year marriage.  Her husband threw up his hands and declared that he had, had ‘enough’.  By enough, she explains, he grew weary of the recurring hospitalizations, the continuous unresponsiveness of her life form and now another suicide attempt.  “What is next”, he asks?  She still has her children’s support though, ages eighteen and twenty, and proudly shows me pictures of them.

“I am unsure of what the future holds, of course, nor does anybody else, but I wonder if I’ll be vacating the house – or him.  It will be lonely one way or another, but I felt alone sometimes even when he was there.  I won’t miss the constant criticism.  The loneliness and lack of ambition gets me into trouble hence the days of depression begin”.

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Written by: ME

I describe bipolar as a house with three levels. Upstairs is Mania, Main Floor in even moods, and of course the basement where the shackles of Depression are clasped ever so tightly around your ankles.  I seem to wind up in the basement much more often than upstairs. I was diagnosed with Bipolar in the late 1990′s. (These are recollections on the cruel portrayal of the bipolar illness).

This was written describing a time when my bipolar disorder was not being taken care of and not on the correct meds.  I was flip-flopping between highs and lows – nothing was helping.  I am lucky that I now have a doctor who is knowledgeable in this illness and I was finally put on the correct meds.

~~Mania~~

Why is this mood of mania so good to be true?

How can a human being gather such joy, such stamina, such exuberance, such astuteness over a short period of time?

I was unlucky or as other people say lucky that my mania never lasted very long

I didn’t plan on buying a car, but purchased one today. Travelled from car lot to car lot and at last found the one for me. It’s brand, spanking new with all of the features. I’m unsure how much I paid for it – I’ll fret about that afterward.

Had an appointment with my psychiatrist today. He said I’m cycling too high, too fast and will hit pavement if this is not taken care of. I was given another appointment for the end of the week, handed some medication, but tossed the meds away – I want to fly, no, soar as high as I can go. I refuse to give this rejoicing up.

Visited the bar tonight. Made lots of “friends”. They said they have never seen someone so “up”. Also, I prefer to talk more than listen. Tonight I know I made an impression, people were interested in me and I was the center of attention.  I even bought a few rounds of drinks and plenty for me too. I really entertained them. Top notch. I’m proud.

Suddenly, the urge is there to spend money.  Shopped ‘til I dropped at Walmart and spent, spent, spent on miscellaneous items. The excitement was there big time.

Days pass. I can’t sleep, but who cares, who wants to sleep? I don’t, and miss this wonderful world? The pacing though, I can’t stop. I sit down – get up. Repeat. Repeat. Is this madness? I don’t want to be ‘normal’, I prefer the sweet taste of ‘high’.

Time passes by. I’m slowing down, and begin to spiral downwards. I’m crashing. I’ve hit cement.

I’m in blackness – in the basement.

~~Depression~~

Dreaming. In calm waters. I’m sitting in my dinghy cross-legged, floating. The sea and sky are black.

I awaken. Black. Black is black. The room is black, but it must be morning. I’m all mixed up. I thought I heard the food trays arrive. I sneak a quick look out my room, and yes it is morning, but the halls too look black. All I sense is dread. Am I in a dream world? I shuffle back to bed.

I recollect particular events, my hospital admission for one. My family expressed they had no alternative, I was incoherent, seated in my rocking chair, rocking back and forth, back and forth, tightly wrapped in my orange and lime-green crocheted afghan. I hadn’t called anyone for days, nor answered the telephone. They were apprehensive upon entering the house. Phew! I was alive they said.

Time passes and I am unable to actually climb out of bed now; I am encased in stone. My heart is thumping so I must be alive, but this dreadful veil covers me like death. I feel chilly. Suicidal thoughts dance in my head. Is this punishment for my ‘high’? Life is unfair.

~~The Learning Curve~~

Treated with anti-depressants, I was able to recover from my bottomless depressive state.  I spent many weeks in hospital recovering.

There were times when I totally wished to toss in the cards, so to speak, and admit defeat. Take me, enough of this garbage. What did I do that was so immoral to be selected and handed this illness?

This is not my initial time ‘high’ and believed I was in a position to stop taking medication. What was the point? I felt incredible. When you’ve hit bottom one still doesn’t realize why hell has welcomed him. But, you’re given a kick and memory surfaces. The fog clears and you recall abusing alcohol and refusal of prescribed medication. This spells disaster for persons with mental illness.

~~Conclusion~~

I am working diligently now to surface and achieve an ‘even mood’. It requires enormous effort. Back on medication, faithfully ingesting the prescribed dosages, I am told it will take some time to get back on my feet.

In retrospect, I obviously made some irresponsible choices, but while manic your thoughts and judgment are impaired. It’s unproblematic to scale to the peak of the mountain, but plummeting and sitting in the dungeon is excruciating.

See also TOXIC PARENTS .  I received many comments on this first article – seems there are so many people experiencing this.

It was difficult at first, but now as time goes on I feel this weight lifted off me and the feelings of guilt just aren’t there.   I’ve cut ties with my family.  Just to know that I spent  9 wasted years in and out of hospitals (more in than out) with the severest of depression coupled with the horrific  ECT’s and too-many to count medications for what? What did I ever do to deserve this?  And all at the hands of the people who brought me into this world.  All the while they proceeded along with their lives; the sexual abuse didn’t affect their lives.  And, are they popping psychiatric medication daily to just exist with a level mood?

I tried so hard to please my mom.  When she got up in her 70’s, I knew she was lonesome with my dad passing.  I looked at every means available to get her out of the house and mix with others her own age but all of my ideas were quashed; forever an excuse why this and that wasn’t suitable.  And then still, my daily phone call to her, “hi mom how was your day”, reply, “oh boring as usual”.  I finally thought, what’s the use.

My mother had problems with her own family, she spoke often about her family’s side ruining her wedding.  She brought up the unfairness, hurt feelings and displeasure with her mother and siblings.  She has  severed ties with some of them.  She had an on again/off again relationship with her mother; which sounds as if there wasn’t much closeness.  You would have thought that when she had her own daughter things would be different.  Perhaps the sexual abuse involving the neighbour brought along problems and humiliation to the neighbours and perhaps the neighbourhood.   I’ll really never know.  I felt invisible to them most of my life.

It’s been almost 6 months since I cut the ties.  The choice was family or mental health.  I should have ended this  long ago and not had to suffer in misery.  My psychologist helped me with this, although the decision was my own.  She just made me recognize what this woman was doing to me; it wasn’t a healthy relationship, it was a TOXIC one.  Always felt more like a noose was around my neck and constantly living with a guilt feeling.

The recurring criticisms have disappeared now and I don’t have to make the dreaded phone call to her after work to see if SHE’S ok now.

We’re repeatedly told we need them; they’re family.  I always felt like I owed them something.  Aren’t parents meant  to do things for their children and not always look for pay back?  “ Look at all the things we’ve done for you, you’re ungrateful, you had more than most kids, we went into debt at Christmastime for you kids”.

I still long for that mother, I know it won’t be possible, but I want her to apologize to me.

Deb

     I ultimately realized that depression was altering my life when I met some girls from work for dinner.  Sounds bizarre.

Supervisor of three women in accounting, I enjoyed my position and found it a challenge.

Crushing depression found me with two brief hospital admissions in 1994, and an on and off medical leave from work.  The company was incredibly generous with time off during the “between” leaves, but I found I just couldn’t manage the demands of work.

During the second hospital admission, I was home for one weekend.  The girls and I decided to gather for dinner at our “usual” spot.  We regularly met once per month, had an evening filled with laughs, and couldn’t wait until the next month’s dinner.  They would forever look to me as leader, to tell the humorous stories, and bring life to the conversation.

Tonight would be different.  In my journal I noted: “tonight was a disaster, I was almost in tears”.

We all gathered, sat at our favorite table; and each person simply sat in silence.  No conversation; just frozen looks.   I was the one to speak up and asked “how is work?”  The conversation began, each person sharing and inputting opinions/gossip about the office. That aside, chatter became light; “did you see Oprah’s dress last week?”, “you know they are laying off 35 people at the plant on — Street”.  It was very awkward.

Time to order, and time to ask how I was.  I did not disclose too much; these ladies were uninformed of mental illness nor that of depression.  We all sat in silence.  “Pass the pepper”, were the only words spoken. 

The entire evening felt as if we were all ‘walking on hot coals’, and I knew my life would forever be affected by mental illness.  I was employed with this company for five years, and worked with these women for the majority of that time; and now they didn’t know me any longer, nor did I know them.  I wonder if possibly they felt uneasy to ask any questions of me.  That is a thought.  If I were in their shoes – would I?

In conclusion:  I lost my career with this company eventually and not employable until 2005, and weathered the storm of mental illness for 10 very black years.

As for the women; they kept in touch for about one year after that fateful dinner, however, phone calls and cards soon dwindled to zero and I have never seen any of them since.

Graphic: www.cruciblefoundry.ca

Mental illness is surrounded by a glut of half-truths and untruths. If you tell someone that you’ve been diagnosed with, for example, bipolar disorder, they are likely to roll their eyes and say, “I don’t believe it – you don’t look mentally ill…?”

Which brings me to my question: Do I perchance look like I have Bipolar Disorder? I don’t think I do. Am I perhaps making something out of nothing? Self-confidence and self-esteem slid into the basement and remained there for too many years. Trudging through the mud down there, and finally locating some stairs to climb up, rung by rung, I achieved the surface.

To look at me, I hope you’d never guess I’m bipolar and PTSD. There’s no sign around my neck, but if you worked with me, for example, you’d soon notice that I’m “different,” or a little “odd”. For one thing, “I’m somewhat negative at times, having difficult moments following directions and have to write everything down. Sometimes I can’t keep focus, and where other people find new work assignments challenging; I sit in self-doubt and bewilderment. My self-confidence feels in jeopardy each moment. I am the one who takes their performance review to heart. Out of nine rights, one negative is discussed, for which I feel total devastation, berating myself repeatedly. A true perfectionist, at least I try to be, however letting myself down is somewhat of a crucifixion. But, I am your dependable employee, the gleeful one, the one who shows little anger, and the one touted as one of the paramount in customer service. I must apply a mask for the most part.

Although felt as if a hex was put upon me years ago, I feel slightly different now. I’m still bitter about the illness at times, but realizing that THIS is ME.

Written by: Me

When you first hear these words, you automatically think of losing your job.  I thought I would take it one step further and think back to some of the times I’ve actually been ‘fired’ in other situations.

I will begin with the career position.  The ‘firing’ took place during my first year, in what would be a slippery slide into the world of deep major depression.  I was employed with this company for five years as an accounting supervisor, however, numerous hospitalizations, months off at home recuperating and the return to work following, just did not pan out.  In the end, I was basically ‘fired’. 

As soon as they received the much awaited doctor’s letter, upon what would be my final office return, they shoved a severance package envelope at me, and escorted me to the door  This came after the “you were a valuable asset to the company”.  I was so ill back then, however, in hindsight I wish I would have fought harder for a better compensation package.

~~~~~~~

One of the saddest times in my life, was being ‘fired’ by my close friends.  Felt like a kick in the stomach.  I had four extremely dear friends, and during my first few admissions to hospital they would visit regularly.  When home on passes, we would get together for lunch, and chats; but as the years passed, so did they.  No phone calls returned and no more visits when further hospital admissions.  It’s as if they wanted no more to do with me.

It all fell back on me in my thinking.  I was the cause of this ‘firing’.  Maybe this; maybe that.  Maybe I shouldn’t of acted so glum-like, maybe not described what it really felt like to be depressed, maybe joined in on a joke or conversation or maybe I just wasn’t the old ME.  And then it hit me….why should I have to apologize for being ill.  An illness?  Apologizing for an illness?  What other illness would have you doing this?

~~~~~~~

I was ‘fired’ by a boyfriend, whom I dated for 3 years.  The bomb dropped after an enjoyable dinner out, and what I thought was a pleasant evening; although vibes were there.  But, everything appeared to be running smoothly in the relationship, then unexpectedly on the way home, the old “it’s not you, it’s me” blurts out.  Out of the blue, I was ‘fired’.  Sitting there in the passenger seat, virtually dumbfounded, I asked myself, “What the hell did I do wrong” in this relationship?

Astounding how everything automatically fell back to me.  In any event; I was ‘fired’, and never saw the guy again.

~~~~~~~

Now firing can work the other way; and now you have the upper hand:

I ‘fired’ a couple of my psychiatrists.  I’ve described these pdocs in previous posts.  The first I had for numerous years; an arrogant SOB, who had little time and I was getting nowhere with.  I’m convinced he really cared that I ‘fired’ him; he most likely doesn’t even recognize I’m not even a patient of his any longer!

The second pdoc fell asleep on me during our second session.  I did take this personally at first, then thought – no – he is the one with the problem.

~~~~~~~

And lastly, for a point in time during my illness, when the blackest, muddiest moments of depression would not let up; I believed life had ‘fired’ me.  I felt adrift, discouraged and very suicidal.  Suicide is not the answer, however, when you are able to actually touch the black, depressive fog between your fingers; you identify that death is nearby anyways.  So many days I would ask myself, “What did I do that was so wrong in my life to deserve this black life of depression”.  Life’s ‘firing’ is the worst ‘firing’ of all.

I feel so lucky that I am in a state of wellness now, and recuperated and healed from my mental ‘firing’.

It was decided: Wednesday would be the day.  I’ve kept count; it will be #77, another nightmare procedure producing nil results and I’m pessimistic.  I have to keep going, plodding along, slowly – ever so slowly to somehow reach the top of the mountain. I’ve lost most of my faith in ECT, including most of my long-term memory, but what else is there, what else to do?

I take a seat in the TV area alone, starting to float into a point of peace.  Strangely, I look forward to “going under” for these ECT’s, it’s almost indescribable; almost letting go of your whole being and existing in serene, tranquil waters.  That is where I desire to stay – please let me stay – I don’t want to return – I hate coming back.  But I always awaken.  I begin to sob.   I’ve lost so much…my memory…my life.  Why am I doing this?  Going for #77 now?

Tuesday: 10:00 p.m., I am once again reminded nothing to eat or drink after midnight before ECT tomorrow.   This helps to prevent vomiting during the procedure.  Also, I am to pee right before the procedure as to prevent ‘accidents’.

Wednesday: 8:00 a.m., A fitful sleep last night, awake at different intervals praying that I will not wake up from the anesthetic tomorrow. 

Nurse Anne pops her head in my room, stating I will be patient #2 going for ECT on the ward, which means an additional one hour delay.  I lay back on messed up sheets.  I am a tad nervous, even though I can recite this procedure in my sleep.  Ironic how life is:  I am nervous of the procedure, yet hope for my life to terminate.  Bewildering, painful thoughts.

The time has come.

The gurney is waiting outside of my room and I hoist myself as gracefully as I am able to onto it.  A friendly porter arrives, introduces himself as Allan and makes sure the top sheet is tucked in around me, also equipped with my med chart.  My hands tightly grasp the metal rails of the gurney, and eyes take in the bright florescent hallway lights as we make our ride swiftly down the long corridor.  I become confused and wonder if the lights are moving or am I?  Into the elevator, floor number two is pressed, four floors to go down, a few people waiting, glancing down at me.

 Floor number two, a long gurney ride to the procedure room; my doctor, some technicians and nurses are waiting for me.  An IV is started.  Not an easy process, due to veins that do not cooperate and only the left arm seems to bring any sort of results.  Ouch!  This nurse is not gentle and insists on trying twice now on the backside of my hand.  Finally, an IV is started – phew!  Next comes the sensors for recording brain activity; they are placed on the forehead; other sensors are placed on the chest for heart monitoring with the regular BP cuff around the arm.  Seems as if I am all wrapped up in wires.  The ECT procedure itself is painless.

The general anesthesia is given and I am asked to count backwards from 100.  This is the part where I fall gently backwards off a cliff in my mind, into a world where life is no longer filled with melancholy and suffering.  I would give anything to remain in this place; knowing it’s not reality.  Asking, is a life filled with the affects of bipolar disorder and depression reality? 

After the 100 countdown – as they say:  I am in their hands.

Eyes open.  I am still alive.  Mixed feelings – relief/sadness.  Feels as if I was asleep forever, but assured only 10-15 minutes by the nurse.  This time I am spared a headache, but sometimes that has come about later on in the day.  I am wheeled back to my room and sleep until almost lunchtime. We’ll see how if this ECT does the trick.

Mom later visits me and is shocked, stating she is looking into black, vacant eyes.

Discouraged, yet not surprised, #77 had no positive effect on my depression.

Footnote: 

People have often asked why I would have granted so many ECT’s.  A logical question, however, unless you were existing in my shoes and continually being reassured that this is the only treatment left for my untreatable depression, and then what option did I have?

An example I use is:  If I were a cancer patient, who had experienced many chemo treatments, wasn’t showing any improvement but still encouraged by doctors to continue – would I carry on?  In all probability, yes.

In retrospect, I should have fought more, stood up for myself – but I was just too ill.  Depression claimed my thought processes, self-confidence and self-esteem to stand up to doctors and ask questions.  Family members should have probed also, however, in defense of them; they thought the doctors knew what was best.

Disclaimer:

ECT has been beneficial to many people.  Don’t be dissuaded by my experiences.

 ~~~~~~

ECT is effective in about 80-90% of people who have found anti-depressants ineffective. Its beneficial effects often aren’t immediate. But many people begin to notice an improvement in their symptoms after two or three treatments.

ECT treatments are given three times a week, usually for two to four weeks. The total number of treatments rarely exceeds 20

This was written by: me; happened to: me

I met Audrey in 1998, as an inpatient during one of my countless hospital stays.  Both of us were living and breathing pitch black depression.  We grew very close, seated in the lounge daily, forever sipping diet Coke.  Both of us were struggling though, both feeling as if we were being swallowed up by quicksand.  Everyday grew blacker, and there came a point where we didn’t even want family or friends to visit.

The topic of suicide came up repeatedly, and as the days passed, we were both consumed by thoughts and feelings.  Sometimes, we both said “we could almost taste it”, and we “prayed for it”. 

Audrey went home on an overnight pass, hugged me before leaving and said she’d be back by 10:00 a.m. the following day.  I missed her company that evening.  When morning came, there was a minor commotion around the nurse’s station, then suddenly the nurses were gathering all patients, including myself into the dining room.  My psychiatrist was standing by the window and promptly announced that “Audrey passed away this morning”.  They never said how she passed away, but I knew: she OD, because that was the way she always said she would go.

So many emotions hit me.  One of the nurses hugged me, knowing that Audrey and I were close friends.  I began to sob, yet unexpectedly stopped.  Strangely, I selfishly felt annoyed and resentful at her for both leaving me, and not saying good bye.  My clinical black depressive state tumbled into an almost indescribable blacker depression.  I spent every waking moment in the corner of my hospital room, my pdoc put me on suicide watch, the nursing staff treated me gently.  I worked it through though with a therapist who deals specifically with grief.  

Many years have passed, and I think of Audrey often.  I am in a state of wellness now.  Writing poetry (think I wrote 4 poems in my lifetime) is not a strong point of mine, but I did compose this poem back in 1998, and well up with tears every time I read it.  This is for you, sweet Audrey, I will never forget you:

I spoke to a woman once

Who shared some things with me

She told me of her troubled past

Nothing positive that she could see

I relayed to her some of my hurts

She empathized and said she understood

Two people both hurting

Together we’d end depression altogether if we could