Living in my body

At church on Sunday, Jim and I were part of a panel; the topic was mental health. Jack, the moderator, showed a video of Latter-day Saints talking about their personal experiences with depression. Then a young married man spoke of his depression and anxiety, which started in high school. Jim talked about manic depression (I’m not a toy magnet! I'm a person who experiences mania and depression.) and some of our specific experiences with mania, which freed me to be subjective, to try to convey a little of what it’s like to live in my body.

I have had many psychiatrists and therapists over the past 35 years. Although I hate taking psych meds, I realize that had I been born 40 years earlier, before the drugs, I probably would have spent years in locked mental institutions. My manias have been severe and debilitating. Psych meds, for all their limitations and side effects, have allowed me to live a full and rich life.

I’ve been psychotic three times (or, as Jim says, two and a half): in 1983, in 1995, and in 2003. During the last two, I was sent from the emergency department to a locked psychiatric unit.

In 1995, I was given Haldol, a powerful anti-psychotic, and slept for 18 hours. When I awoke, I felt wrenched back from the dead; it was horrible. My brain had failed me. How could I ever trust myself again?

I resisted taking meds. I had birthed six children without as much as a Tylenol. I didn’t want to take pills every day. But, I trusted what the professionals said, that other episodes would follow, in more rapid succession, if I didn’t medicate against them.

Psychotic mania is terrifying. However, in hypomania (literally: below mania) I'm more productive and creative and need little sleep. My confidence soars.

Close your eyes for a minute and remember a time in your life where you were very happy. It could be monumental, like the day you got engaged or married. It could be the birth of your child, the birthday you got the best present ever, or learning to ride a bike. It could be looking into a baby’s eyes and getting a smile, receiving a bouquet of hand-picked flowers, or seeing the afternoon sunlight through autumn leaves.

With my diagnosis, I got the message that that level of happiness is dangerous for me. Without taking pills every day to prevent hypomania (and therefore mania), I wouldn’t be trustworthy, reliable, or dependable. I wouldn’t stay sane enough to be a good marriage partner, raise children, and live a normal life.

Even on medication, any really big, creative idea of mine is suspect. I constantly second-guess myself. If I feel elated and energized, have a rush of ideas, or just wake up early, I have to question myself: did I take my meds last night? Do I need to take more?

These pills dull my edge, harm my memory, make me tremor like an 85-year-old Parkinson’s patient. I have to hold onto the railing while walking downstairs.

It took me two days to recover from the panel. That surprised me. Today, I realized why. I’ll tell you about it next week.