Breaking Point

There's a fine line, in my life, between keeping and losing my mind. I don't mean this figuratively, but quite literally. My brain has a chemical imbalance, a few in fact, and there isn't a lot of wiggle room on a good day, let alone when my world is slowly crumbling. Finally, 10 days ago, I lost that balance and had the first psychotic break I've had in years.

Before I continue, you're probably saying, what's a psychotic break? Again, I'm not a doctor, so I can't give you a medical definition. But for me, it's my mind falling apart "piece by piece and row by row, I don't know, I don't know, where the fucking pieces go" (Next to Normal).  I lose touch with reality and see things in a warped and fucked up way.  Imagine you're driving along the highway at 80 mph, and suddenly a rock hits your windshield and it cracks--spiderwebbing instantly, faster and faster until the road and the outside world cease to exist, because all you can see is the shattered glass, and feel the imminent terror of knowing it's going to explode in on you at any moment. That is exactly what it felt like--my brain was the shattered glass all around me, and instead of the fear, it actually started to explode inward, and I couldn't find any way out--except death. 

The only reason I am not dead is because I have been blessed with, and I still don't know why, a small little group of friends who have become my family--I am closer to these people than I am to most of my blood family. KB is one of these friends and she rode out the explosion of my break right along with me as far as she could, and then said: "You need help Kel. I've never seen you like this. You need help." She sat for hours telling me how much I'm loved, how important I am to so many people, how people care about and value and love me. She tried to make me laugh, but when none of that worked, she told me to unlock my phone. I don't know why I did, to be honest, because I really just wanted to wait till she left and kill myself, but I did, and she called my stepmom and told her how bad the situation was. Together, they figured out how to get me into Carrier Clinic, and Karen sat with me and kept me calm during Carrier's intense phone intake. When I was accepted, she helped me pack, dealt with my dad's anxiety, and cleaned up the chaos I caused while looking for my wallet. Even though I kept apologizing, she kept saying: "Stop. I'm not here because I have to be. I'm here because I want to. You're not keeping me here, I can go any time I want."

The drive to Carrier was a tense one at first, just being me and my dad. We never saw eye to eye on mental illness, he's a "you just need to stop being depressed or manic or whatever." I'm living through it, and it's not exactly easy to do that. "If you yell at me," I told him as we started driving, "you're just going to make things worse." He shocked me. Instead of getting mad, his default emotion when under stress, he got emotional. "I hate seeing you like this. I know I don't know I just want to help. I don't understand. Help me understand." He never said that to me before, and I got emotional back. So we scrounged up a bunch of loose change (neither of us had a lot of money) which was enough to buy us a Quick Check sub we shared, and before we got to Carrier we sat in the parking lot of Quick Check and talked for the first time in forever. I don't know if he fully understands my struggles, but he listened actively and that is a huge accomplishment. 

Carrier Clinic is in the middle of nowhere New Jersey. We were driving through the jungle (really it was the Pine Barrens, I think) but it was a sea of green and then BAM! This large campus looking building suddenly appeared out of nowhere. It was a nice looking place, not hospital like at all. It more resembled the resort from Dirty Dancing. I know that sounds weird, but it was so true. My father also had to protect me from a live peacock (they have several around the hospital). I've never seen a live one in my life, and was fucking terrified.

Once inside Carrier, I knew from the first minute, this was going to be a turning point in my life. Everyone was so caring it was unbelievable, from the intake nurse through all the techs to the cleaning people. But no matter how caring everyone is, and no matter how much it seems more like a hotel than a psych ward, everything had great wood paneling, was new, and my room had a shower and writing desk inside (they even give you welcome kits with all toiletries), it is still a psychiatric hospital: Lonely, isolating, terrifying places.     

My psychiatrist, Dr. Michelle Grant, literally gave me my life back. My first day at Carrier, she listened to all that I told her, was appalled by my med changes that had previously happened (she kept apologizing that it even happened), and said: "Don't worry, Kel. We've got this." (You also meet with your psychiatrist every day in Carrier, and a weekend one on the weekends. I've never had this happen in any other place, so it was pretty incredible). She safely detoxed my body (even though that was brutal) and we started back on a combination of Lithium and Lamictal (we added a third drug but I'm allergic to it. I puffed up like a pufferfish!) And within days, the cracks went away, and it was like my brain got a new windshield around it. 

The group therapists were really awesome too, and the Carrier model is pretty unique.
You own your illness, and then you work on steps to heal. The groups were informative, helpful and made me think about how much I let things affect me that I shouldn't. I also looked at my own lack of coping skills and worked with therapists to develop better, safer ones that work for me.

In spite of always having groups, and being able to socialize with people, Carrier was still a lonely place. Being it was so far from everyone, it was hard to have visitors, so you can imagine how stoked I was when my parents were able to visit, and I spoke to them on the phone every day, which was awesome, but it's hard being in your head all the time, without much to do. (The library at Carrier is my ONLY criticism).

I've got some other friends who have become family members, AM and B, who saved my life by taking my calls and calling back, AND by sending me, via my dad, a collection of 11 books. I'm a huge reader, and when I got that bag, it was like I was once again a little kid at Christmas. I had a hard time deciding what to read first, as all of them looked intriguing. 

The books were amazing and I read through two of them while I was at Carrier. B called once to see how I was fairing and we were able to discuss one of the books, Running with Scissors, briefly, which was a nice change of pace. My days at Carrier were suddenly easier with good books, and dealing with the side effects of treatment, was a lot easier being transported to a new place while reading, and being able to forget, for a while at least, where I was. The books became so vital to my healing that I slept with the one I was reading just so I had it and could hold those characters close. I was in a psych ward, after all, where people were hallucinating and stuff all around me. The books grounded me, and I didn't want to let them go--I firmly knew the difference between fiction and fact. 

Treatment at Carrier went well, but was going slowly. I filled my days meeting with my doctors, going to groups, taking my meds, reading, eating, reading, napping, eating, groups, reading, reading, socializing, naping, groups, meds, reading, sleeping. But I kept realizing that every day I was seeing a major improvement in my mood.

After 8 days, they finally released me--I'm stuck doing a secondary program but that's another entry--and when my dad picked me up, he grinned at me. I asked him why he was being weird, and he said: "I'm just so happy to see you look like you again. I know it sounds weird, but you look like you...my kid." I knew what he meant because it was the first time I felt like my old self in about two years. I know I've still got a long way to go before I'm back and "better than before" (Next to Normal) but I finally feel like I'm on a positive, solid and stable road to recovery. My last day, I actually hugged my psychiatrist, and said: "Thank you for giving me my life back." She actually got tears in her eyes and hugged me back. "Thank you, that means a lot. I'm so glad. Good luck to you."

So thank you to my family, my friends, my friends that have become family, and Carrier Clinic for getting me back on my feet. Huge thank you to KB, AM and B for getting me there, and helping to make the Carrier days easier. 

Rapid Cycling...

TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDAL IDEATION 

So it's now 2:43 AM--almost the witching hour, I went on a 22-mile

Simon Cowell Abc.news photo
credit. 

bike ride, took all my meds and I'm STILL AWAKE! I've gone from writing the next great Amerian novel to staring pretty hard at my Lithium bottle and thinking about taking them. I've gone from laughing at Simon Cowell (if I, as a lesbian, had a crush on any man, it would absolutely be Simon. He's adorable, brutally honest and I adore his accent--but that's another blog post!) to crying.

My cartoon for this kind of mood is Tazmanian Devil from Loony
Tunes. He's hyper and goes out of control in a massive tornado. I love that image because that's what if feels like in my brain--a massive out of control tornado, because it's all mixed up.

My productivity has been way, way high, but in forty minutes, I'm crying while watching Simon Cowell because that's all I have the energy to do. (Simon Cowell does not make me cry, he makes me laugh, but my brain just feels like crying. Remember, he's my man crush 💙💚).

Frankly, I feel rapid cycling is waaaaay worse than either being manic or being depressed because it's not consistent. It's kind of funny because this is the one type of Bipolar Disorder that doesn't get as much press attention. I think because it's hard to figure out. Sometimes I don't even know what mood I am--I'm a hot mess. That feeling is also called a mixed mood, for anyone who wants a techinical term.

What rapid cycling looks like:
laughing one minute, crying the next. 

How am I dealing with this whole mood mess? Each time I think of a suicidal thought, I look at my wrist tattoo (for right now) and then think of one thing I'm grateful for. In the past hour, it's been Raman, Dawn dish soap (to de-tick Moppet and me), my friends, and Simon Cowell. When I go up, I think of one thing I want to accomplish during this high. In the past hour it's been ALL THE THINGS, but I narrowed it down to look at a bus schedule to NYC since I have a free bus pass and I'm meeting a friend to just aimlessly wander. That took a lot of effort because focusing is not easy.

Rapid cycling is brutal, but it's just something else that comes along with the illness. On the plus side, I've been watching a lot of American and Britan's Got Talent and American Idol (Thank God for youtube because I cannot, at this moment, afford cable!).

My salvation 

Medication Struggles--Are they making me more crazy?

TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDAL IDEATION 

Medication. It is beyond vital for managing my Bipolar 1 Disorder. I'd be mad or dead without it, trust me there. And yet...

I was on Lithium for 10 years and I was doing really great on it--was only hospitalized once. I had ups and downs, nothing a little help from my friend Ativan couldn't cure. My psychiatrist retired--and let me tell you, losing your psychiatrist is like losing a very dear friend--who gives you meds, always returns your calls, and keeps you fucking saner than you'd be without them. He was great, he listened,  he'd text to check in if I had fallen off the face of the earth, he did medication changes VERY VERY slowly, and always followed up within a few days to make sure all was well. When I was hospitalized, he got me a follow-up appointment with him that week. And I was ALWAYS cleared for work.

I had an interim psychiatrist and that didn't work out for me. She was way too expensive and didn't take my insurance.

I went off my psych meds, as stated in an earlier post, and got into a program to help me out. My Lithium got upped to almost double the dosage in a day and I turned toxic. NEVER good--I'm here though so all turned out well.

Now I'm on an interesting cocktail, Depakote, Seroquel, and Lamictal. I'm taking the Depakote 2X's

per day, 500 mg each time, Seroquel 50 mgs at night with 75 mgs of Lamictal. Here's the problem, I feel like I'm going crazier on those meds. My thoughts are racing MAD FAST 90% of the day, and my rapid cycling has gotten way worse. I was having a great day, did some bike riding, went to church, got ticks off me and Moppet, talking to some friends. And suddenly, BAM! I'm sitting here typing and wondering why I'm even still here. It's brutal. And I cannot get a psychiatrist appointment until June 4th. That's pretty damn far away. My options are very limited right now, and it seems like the number of meds I got from the hospital might not carry me all the way through. So I might be royally fucked. (They know this, btw, but the therapist said there's nothing they can do about it).

See, it's hard when you are going through medication changes. They're expensive as all hell, 2/3rds of them can kill you, and the side effects are brutal. Depakote, for instance, literally says on that little hand out that it can cause and/or increase suicidal thinking. What the hell is the point of that? If I already want to kill myself, why do you want to prescribe me something that could make me want to kill myself quicker? That boggles my mind. And the psych who prescribed it goes to me, literally, "if your suicide plan hasn't changed in 2 years, you should be fine." Really? Because I think if I've kept this same suicide plan in mind for 2 years, one day I might pull it out and see if it works.

I just don't understand. Part of me wonders what would happen if I just said fuck it and stopped taking it all. The other half of me thinks that a REALLY BAD idea because I could lose any scrap of sanity I still have--and I don't think it's much. My sanity is in short supply as it is, and I don't really have much more to lose. 😜😜

My drive to do anything is also non-existent right now. I have a crap ton of stuff to do, and all I can do is just stare at a wall. Once again, I'm smiling to bite the lie and say everything is okay when it's not. But then again, how many more people, or have many of the same people, can you keep turning to when you're losing your mind? And, more to the point, how many people are going to listen when you start bitching about the meds? No one.

I'm going to keep taking the meds, you know, gonna preserve that sanity, as best I can. And see what happens. A bit of a leap of faith!

The Aftermath of Mania

I've read a lot about experiences, and I've seen a lot of blog posts about recovery from a Bipolar episode. But I've rarely seen them talk about the nitty-gritty of what it's like trying to get yourself "us back to normal...get us back to good...Gonna get back what we had and maybe more" from Next to Normal the musical. So here's what it's like. TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDAL IDEATION AND MANIC FALLOUT BELOW. 

Coming down off a manic high is akin to ending a war and taking stock of your casualties. There are three categories of casualties after one of my manic episodes: financial, relationships, self. 

Real screenshot of my bank account currently.

Let's start with the financial. My budgeting has never been on point, but after this latest episode, I learned that TD bank has an overdraft limit of -$800. I reached it and surpassed it with a maintenance fee. I don't know what they are mantianing--I literally have less than zero dollars to my name. Now, not all of that has been manic spending. 

A lot of that has been co-pays, outpatient therapy, gas, EZ-Pass, hospitalization, overdraft fees, etc. But some of it--coloring books, crayons, markers, glitter, glue, notebooks (ALL THE NOTEBOOKS), upgraded Netflix, Amazon Prime, Brainpop and Brainpop Jr, Acarde game money, pretzels...those were manic purchases.

No one has cleared me for work yet, so I am on disability but that's been a headache (another post for another time) so I haven't gotten paid in a month. That doesn't help either. This does not include rent (not sure where that's coming from), and wouldn't include food (my fridge was empty, but thanks to amazing friends who have become family, I have groceries and can actually feed myself and Moppet). See why I said in my earlier post mania can be bad?

Second: Relationships. I do a lot of crazy shit when I'm manic, I say a lot of crazy shit. I melt down like a psycho. It's a raging storm--kind of like if Elsa was a demon as opposed to a princess and her ice was hellfire. I've burned a lot of bridges, cried a lot when I've realized it. This time I had to go and apologize to so many people for my actions--I created peace offerings, and earnest apologies fell from my lips over and over again. These true friends, and friends who have become family, and my actual family, welcomed me back with open arms. But the guilt, well that remains. It's always hard for me to swallow, how I can hurt the people I love the most, but I do. Over and over again. Mania sucks. 

Third: Self. It's interesting. When you get out of a general hospital, the consensus is you're

That's me, and Moppet (Dog)

cured. Or at least diagnosed and in the process of getting fixed. There are get well cards, and balloons and stuffed animals. There is empathy. That is not the case for getting out of the psych ward--people, my friends included, automatically think okay well you're okay now. Right? It's past--we're over the crazy? No one has, of course, said these things, but it's always implied. 

Just because I was discharged does not mean I'm okay. I will relapse and relapse a lot. Even as I sit here typing, I'm doubting my self-worth, I'm having rapid thoughts. I feel guilt over my actions when I was manic, I'm grieving my lost engagement. I'm a fucking mess. But I can't tell anyone--at least it doesn't feel that way--because they've all been through the crazy with me. The stopping point was the psych ward. That's where I was supposed to be fixed. And I wasn't. 

See, the hardest part is admitting to myself that I have a long way to go before I can put this entire episode behind me. I have done too much, it has gone on too long. I have been unable to work, so I feel like garbage, I have been unable to live alone so I feel worthless. My mind is my biggest enemy right now, and no matter what the therapists and psychiatrists say, it's not getting easier. It's a big, fucking uphill climb that never seems to end. And every step I take, I feel like I fall down even further. 

So when people say: "you're okay? You're doing better?" I smile and bite on the lie because I don't know how to tell people I'm not. It's a slow process, I don't feel like it. I've wounded myself badly. I'm trying to remember this is all just "for right now." And that's hard. That's why, I think, healing the self is far harder than the financial and the relationships. Because to quote the musical Pippin (can you tell I love theatre) to run from yourself "is mighty far to run." 

Observations in a Psych Ward...

TRIGGER WARNING-Mention of Hospitalization and Suicide Ideation 

I was recently in a psych ward (I don't want to name it, that wouldn't be cool) because I literally lost my mind. I went through a rough break-up, I went completely Manic out of my mind, I started Rapid Cycling (going through Bipolar Moods really fast) and decided I was going to kill myself. (This was not my first hospitalization, but my first one at this place). I first want to say, they were amazing. The staff, nurses and doctors were incredible, and they saved my life.

In the midst of my crazy, where I lessoned planned an ENTIRE unit of science for my 5th grade in two hours, I called my Step-Mom and my Dad--and they were both like "you need to get help. Go to the hospital." So I did. Here are some observations: 

DO NOT depend on a Lyft Driver to take you to the hospital when you are manic. I was dropped at the wrong ER and had to walk around and cry and break down until I found the correct emergency room.

Security took my things. I had no access to my clothing, my cell phone, my wallet or anything. I begged to keep my book and my little card I thought to write down all the important people's phone numbers. They let me.

I was quiet in the ER, the nurses stopped bothering me, let me wander and so I lost my 1:1 (the little nurse buddy you're assigned when you say you want to kill yourself). This is really good, but really, really bad. I literally could have left and no one would have noticed other than the fact I would have been ass naked except for a hospital gown.

When I finally got to the psych ward: 

There are NO CLOCKS readily available. If you're like me, I'm a teacher, a stage manager, I live my entire life on a schedule so the lack of knowing the proper time caused my anxiety to go through the roof. They do that, specifically for people like me who only focus on time. But the fact I rarely knew what hour it was, was really, really really hard. I'm a Laban Student (you never stop learning) and I was living in Spell Drive--a world without time). It was cool for the first minute, but then I wanted out.

Toothbrushes are considered contraband. They literally kept throwing out my toothbrush every single day because it was in my room. And they had to give me a new one every single day because they threw mine out.

Mini-sharpened golf pencils, however, were okay. I love to write, so after I requested a journal, I had amassed a collection of 5 mini pencils which they readily sharpened. Now, I think they're more dangerous than a toothbrush, but that's just me.

There is one phone--I will repeat one phone--for like 40 people to share. You get five minutes per call and there is a nurse monitoring your phone calls. I only ever used the phone at the end of the night 5 minutes before they turned them off. People were annoyed and when you got a message on a Post-It that you got a phone call you couldn't call back because someone was ALWAYS on the phone.

Arts and Crafts--you could either color a felt picture with Crayola markers OR paint a birdhouse. I opted for the picture. My stepmom hung it up on my empty apartment wall so that I have something positive to look at.

My Arts and Crafts Project

Your sleep directly impacts your ability to leave. These psych meds made me tired as hell, and when the doctors screw with the dosages, I felt like a zombie. However, if I was in bed all day, the nurse with the clipboard writes it down and I'd be stuck--I wouldn't be participating.

Group Therapty talks A LOT about mindfulness without giving really concrete examples. Participating in groups is IMPORTANT to your release, even if you don't see the value of them.

The food is better than I thought it would be, but with a lack of caffeine, I needed to get three hot chocolate packets just to get a jolt.

After 24 hours, I was allowed to have my own clothes with a few exceptions.

Strings are not allowed. My father ruined my favorite sweats trying to remove the string before bringing them to me.

NEVER get your period during a stay in the psych ward. I had no idea how to use the pads they gave me, I ripped three of them, and I couldn't use Tampons because they contain a string.

I saw my psychiatrist every other day, for five minutes, sometimes when she was walking to another meeting.

My psychiatrist was hot so that made talking to her a little easier, but also made me more self-conscious when she woke me up to discuss my progress.

My nurse was my lifesaver and NEVER confused me with other patients as my psychiatrist often did.

My nurses always made me smile

I had to keep checking medication updates, the doctors got my dosages and times wrong the first night.

They took my blood a million times a day and woke me up to do so.

The fire alarm sounds like two metal pipes being beaten together.

The shower has two settings--Antartica and Hell, and two forces--None and Niagra Falls.

The selection of books is VERY limited, and to get one is akin to buying a gun in New Jersey or New York.

No INTERNET! 😱😱😱

My true friends called every day (even if I couldn't call back), or facebook messaged (even if I couldn't see it while I was there), or emailed me (even though I couldn't see it). They also passed on messages to other friends or family who they knew have a better chance at speaking with me.

My friends who have become family picked up the phone at 9:30 PM from an unknown number and talked to me as I cried for literally no reason. They also talked me off a few manic ledges before I even got to the hospital. And gave me a good mantra to live by.

My family was ready to pick me up, even driving from South Jersey a million times in one week, and got me a cake when I got home.

General Observations: 
Psych wards are great places to help you get your head on straight, to adjust medication, and to keep you safe. I wish there was less stigma about these places. Both hospitals I stayed at had amazing staff, great doctors and I felt so much better leaving them. They are not like One Flew Over the Cookoo's Nest or like Hollywood often portrays them.

If you feel like you are in danger of hurting yourself or others, please call: The National Suicide Hotline: Call 1-800-273-8255 or go to the ER. 

Psych hospitals are there to save you. Don't be afraid to go. There's nothing wrong with admitting you need help "for right now." Things will get better, and you will be helped. You're stronger than you think you are, and getting help only solidifies that. 

What the heck is Bipolar 1, ADHD and a Sensory Processing Disorder?!-Sensory Processing Disorder

Sensory Processing Disorder. This a very new diagnosis for me, I literally just got it "officially" in the hospital a few weeks ago, so I honestly had to go on google and look it up. Apparently, it's having trouble with receiving and responding to sensory input. Like through my 5 senses. I have been classified as "Sensory Seeker."

Again, this is a thing where I am in constant motion and don't realize it (pretty accurate about me). My body is always looking for stimulation.  I have a stim where I like to chew on things (that's part of it, I get input from chewing--so I have chewlery--Ark Therapeutic-is the best chewlery website I've found. I LOVE their products).

I have trouble sleeping (accurate), I like crunchy things (accurate), I love to run and spin (accurate), I crave visual stimulation (accurate, I'm always attached to my phone, laptop, Kindle-named Harold, he'll be mentioned--or other devices). I constantly fidget (accurate, it drives people CRAZY), and I have a hard time monitoring my voice volume (accurate. One of my best friends today said: "Kel you're loud. I heard you in the bathroom." Whoops!)

Apparently, my new therapist wants to work on treating this disorder because she thinks that it will help treat my OTHER disorders too. I'll let you know how that goes!

What the heck is Bipolar 1, ADHD and a Sensory Processing Disorder?!-ADHD

ADHD--Attention Deficit/ Hyper Activity Disorder.  That is a lot of words, and A LOT to unpack. I like think of myself as Sonic the Hedgehog for this one--constantly in motion, always moving, breaking apart when hitting an obstacle and losing all the stuff he's collected along the way.  People like to throw it around a lot-she's so ADHD, but it's not all fun and games.

See, for me, mania and ADHD are linked pretty closely. For me, ADHD presents itself as being in constant motion. I literally cannot sit still, and if I'm not HYPER-FOCUSED, I have a very hard time paying attention. I am terrible in meetings, for this reason. I cannot focus unless something catches my interest.

I am as DISORGANIZED as they come. And I mean a complete and total WRECK. I cannot, for the life of me, organize ANYTHING. I lose EVERYTHING. I put papers down, they go into what my students call the "black hole" because they never reappear. I do not know how to color code or set things up, or even clean properly (as my Step-Mom can attest to). No matter how hard I try, it NEVER works. I get write-ups by my principal for having a completely disorganized classroom, and no matter what I do, it never works.

I have a very low frustration threshold, and that leads to a lot of meltdowns. I get far too overwhelmed with things (tasks, organization, things that are too confusing or challenging) and I will have a meltdown like crazy. I will cry, and hit things, and throw things. I will yell and scream and fall to the floor. I will hyperventilate because my brain can literally NOT process or handle whatever it is I'm supposed to do.

I am also really IMPULSIVE and say things I really shouldn't say. I cannot help it, things just come out of my mouth. Or actions just happen. "Oh look! There's a hill, I'm going to roll down it." It makes no sense, I know this, but at the time it seems like a really good idea. Except, like with mania, there are consequences. Going to the casino and playing a $100 slot machine sounds like a good idea at the time, but really isn't.