With drug addiction, you hear that you can recover and reclaim your former self, the person you were before you started using. With other psychiatric illnesses, getting rid of symptoms means you’re more or less back to “yourself.” But what if you simply don’t have a solid self to return to — if the way you are is seen as basically broken? And what if you can’t conceive of “normal” or “healthy” because pain and loneliness are all you remember?

~Kiera Van Gelder, The Buddha & The Borderline

This. A million times this. I spent the first year of therapy trying to discover “who I am”, and never felt like I came up with an answer that felt right. The depression, the suicidality, the anxiety, the overall instability… that is my normal.

This year I accidentally started a new tradition for December: spending time as a patient in the psychiatric ward. Last year, I stayed for three days because I was suicidal and feeling unsafe. This year, I stayed for six days (including Christmas Eve and Christmas) because I was suicidal and had overdosed on benzodiazapenes. It’s no secret that I am mentally disordered, but I don’t think people expect me to be the type who ends up hospitalized. To be honest, I don’t know what that type looks like. I didn’t want people to know while I was in, but now that I’m out, I feel like it needs to be spoken about.

I wasn’t dragged out of my house in a straitjacket or hauled off unconscious via ambulance; I walked under my own power into the emergency room with my psychologist. I remember very, very little of what happened that day, but I think I told the receptionist at the ER that I was there because I “took too many little pills” or something like that. Just like any other ER visit, they triage you and then do what they have to in order to make sure you are medically safe. Then it’s off to the behavioral health unit of the ER, which is basically a collection of four private rooms (not padded cells) that contain a bed and a table. And then… you wait. And wait. And wait and wait and wait. For insurance pre-certifications, for bed availability, for the psychiatrist.

I got up to the psych ward pretty late in the day. Now, let me tell you about this particular psych ward. There aren’t people maniacally running around, or people wandering the halls in straitjackets. There’s nobody rocking back and forth in a catatonic state in the corner. For the most part, if you walked into the ward and looked around, you wouldn’t know that we were in there for mental reasons. Mental illness doesn’t make you stand out from the crowd, and those of who have mental issues don’t usually act “crazy”. Oh, sure, you have the delusional people who spout off about their distorted perception of reality… like the guy who believed that the doctors were refusing to discharge him because they were prejudiced against him, and that every staff member was an embodiment of one of the seven deadly sins. Or the elderly woman who developed a certain.. uh.. affection for one of the younger guy patients. I won’t go into details, but let’s just say he left more traumatized than when he arrived.

There are community phones (no phones in the rooms) and limited visiting times, and any personal possessions coming into the ward have to be checked by the staff and deemed safe. The days are structured by the hour, which was comforting for me because that’s just how I am. There are daily group sessions and individual meetings with various nurses, social workers, and psychiatrists.  The staff work towards discharge from the time you set foot in the unit. Bottom line is safety both in and out of the hospital.

I’ve been home for a week now, and things are… okay. It’s a day by day process of recovery. There will be bad days; there will be not-so-bad days. There will be days that are “normal”; there will be days that I don’t want to get out of bed. There will be days that I am comfortable around other people; there will be days that the thought of being near people makes me want to cry. Maybe, eventually, there might even be good days.

Maybe this will be the year tradition is broken.

I have OCD, although it’s on the mild-moderate end of the spectrum. I don’t often admit that to people because of the assumption of what that means. I am not a checker (usually) or hand-washer. I don’t have many outward compulsions. In my world, there are good numbers and bad numbers. Good colors and bad colors. Everything must be organized and then organized again, because if things aren’t in the correct order, then something bad will happen. Different foods must not touch on my plate, because otherwise the food will be contaminated. After putting toothpaste on my toothbrush, I can only stick the toothbrush under running water for a split second. If I leave it under too long, then the toothpaste will foam too much and that will negate the whole purpose of brushing my teeth. I have to take my shower in a specific order (shampoo, rinse, conditioner, body wash, rinse conditioner, rinse body wash, run fingers through hair 4 times) or else I won’t be clean. And yes, if I screw up, I start over.

People are always finding my compulsions to be fascinating and interesting, but to me – compulsions suck. It’s my brain’s way of saying, “The only way to make the anxiety stop is to do this” or “Unless you do this, something bad will happen.” Even though I know that this line of thinking is irrational, I can’t help but compulse. As the level of my anxiety increases, so does the number of compulsions.

To the mice, I say: *pffbbt*

Self-harm is one of those compulsions, and a dangerous one at that. One of the most common, if not the most common, coping mechanisms is to find something positive to replace the negative compulsion. It’s not just about stopping the behavior. Let’s say you have a house that’s overrun by mice (anxiety). You find a way to get rid of the mice: mousetraps (self-harm or other negative compulsion). But if you get rid of the mousetraps, the mice come back. You could put the traps back out, but it’s time consuming to have to constantly check and replace them, and it’s not exactly aesthetically pleasing to have mousetraps all over your house. Or you find something that will help keep the mice away before they become a problem: a cat (positive behavior). Cats aren’t perfect, and every now and again you might be faced with a mouse or two. That doesn’t mean the cat failed; it just means that maybe the mouse proved to be a bigger challenge for the cat.

I have no problem finding my cats. Where I trip and fall is when I begin to assume that the mice will come back regardless of how many cats I have and how cunning they are. I give up on the cats and stop nurturing them, or sometimes I’ll just avoid getting the cat in the first place because really… what’s the point? The mousetraps worked just fine. They might be more inconvenient, but at least I know they worked. And I’ll admit that I have a hard time with the idea of “fixing” my OCD. My compulsions typically don’t affect anyone else, and the obsessional thoughts are kept to myself. I don’t understand why I can’t or shouldn’t continue to do these little things that make me feel safe, especially when they aren’t a big deal.

But I do understand the importance of finding one’s cat, whether it’s journaling, composing music, drawing, doing puzzles… whatever. Don’t get rid of the cat before it’s even had a chance to tackle the mice, and remember that not all cats are mousers. I have a lot to learn before I can box up the mousetraps and maybe even throw them away. Judging by the spike of anxiety brought on by thinking of throwing away metaphorical mousetraps, I’d say it’s going to be a while.

What’s your cat, and are you taking care of it?

“He looks like a rabbit!” (spoken by a 8-ish year old girl)

I are not bunny.

I love @becker64 so much that I married him twice. Happy Altar Anniversary, honey! Love you <3—
Ami (@beckami) June 30, 2011

Yes, you read that correctly. My husband and I got married twice.

The “real” anniversary is in October. We were married at my parents’ Buddhist temple in a first-of-its-kind Thai/American wedding. The wedding was so involved that my dad actually wrote out a 4 or 5 page script for the entire ceremony… and that didn’t even include the majority of the spoken parts. There was no officiator, and no declaration of being deemed a married couple. But it was a wedding that celebrated my cultural heritage, with aspects of a “traditional” wedding incorporated in.

A few months after the wedding, and after much guidance and soul searching, I became a Christian. Given that vows were not a part of our wedding, I wanted to have another “wedding” that gave us the opportunity to exchange vows and commit ourselves to God and each other. We planned a short and simple blessing ceremony at the church, held on the anniversary of our first date. Ever since, June 30th has been our Altar Anniversary (get it? Altar? Alter? I’m pretty sure I’m not to blame for the pun).

Happy Altar Anniversary to my wonderful husband, and much gratitude to God for bringing us together.

He'll be my support... always.

]]> http://beckami.wordpress.com/2011/06/30/altar-anniversary/feed/ 1 ami Rings http://beckami.wordpress.com/2011/06/16/its-baaa-aaaaack/ http://beckami.wordpress.com/2011/06/16/its-baaa-aaaaack/#comments Thu, 16 Jun 2011 19:11:22 +0000 ami http://beckami.wordpress.com/?p=1798 ]]> The past week and a half or so has been… decent. My mood was up, my anxiety and depression levels were down, I had productive days, and I even had some interest in doing something artsy-crafty. I was completely blown away by an unexpected blessing, spent time with friends and family, went away for a weekend. Life was good. It was a little strange, this state of being content – especially since it lasted more than 48 hours. But I let myself stay there, mostly.

Sure, there were things that tripped me up, like delicately balancing relationship dynamics on more than one occasion. Arguing with my therapist about the words he was speaking and the words I was hearing. Going on a mini-vacation without knowing what to expect for two and a half days. All things that would normally have me nearly incapable of being in the moment. Yet somehow, I managed to stay present. I didn’t dissociate, I didn’t panic (okay, once I almost panicked), and for once I was okay with how I felt.

Then I got to today. After a marginally productive morning, it was like someone flipped a switch, and all I could think of was, “It’s back.” The motivation, productivity, contentment, alertness… it all dissipated into thin air, leaving me with a vague sense of unease. I don’t know that I can label the mood as being anxious or depressed or angry or melancholy, but it’s a mood that I can physically feel. It’s like that feeling you get when you’re holding your breath and you reach that point of absolutely needing to gasp for air.

It’s a mood that makes me want to hide from all the danger in the world. It’s a mood that tells me, “Remember? It’s not possible for you to be normal” and makes me wonder yet again why I am the way I am. It makes me question how horrible a person I must be that I can’t continuously embrace and enjoy the joy and grace that God has planted somewhere in my heart.

A week ago, I was determined to not let myself be intimidated by the words of others. I was going to state my opinion and be confident about it. I wasn’t going to be a scaredy cat and back down just to appease everybody else. Not feeling that so much anymore. Nor am I feeling that it’s safe to talk to people, and I can tell that the walls are trying to rebuild themselves.

I have a strong suspicion that these mood changes are medically related, both for the good and the bad. The anti-depressant that I’m on is effective for me. Unfortunately, the side effects (mostly tremors and twitches) can be disruptive. How disruptive? To the point that I couldn’t drive for a couple of days, and leading worship was like I was singing through chattering teeth. I couldn’t cut up strawberries because my hand was shaking so violently that I was afraid I would accidentally cut myself. My doctor lowered the dosage, and my body sort of evened out. At my last med check, he observed the tremors and told me to experiment with the dosage and times of medication. I have a minimum and maximum amount that I can take per day, per time.

I want to point out here that I do not agree that this was the best treatment plan to attempt. I have a history of not taking my meds when I’m feeling “better”, because… well, I’m feeling better. Telling me to self-medicate is too much pressure to find the perfect balance, even though there is no such thing.

I decreased my dosage by a half pill a day. The timing of this coincides with my change in moods. Now, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to respond to this little experiment, but I am responding by thinking that my “good mood” was a forgery and nothing more than a medically induced hallucination. I’m not actually getting better.

So now I feel like I need to choose: be medicated at a dosage that increases the tremors (which in turn lead to a great deal of agitation), but be deceived into thinking that I’m “better”, or stay at a dosage that is physically more tolerable but allows the dysthymia to take the lead. I can’t tell if I’m truly learning how to cope with my anxiety, or if I’m getting better at fooling myself into thinking that I’m handling my emotions.

I know that I am blessed to be loved by many people, but does it really matter in the end if I don’t love myself?

Sounds like that should be a no-brainer statement, right? Everybody should be able to exercise this right. Unfortunately, the sad reality isn’t quite the case. We belittle each other because of the differences in our opinions about trivial matters, and we downright attack each other over the more influential topics. Now, I’m not advocating for a hive mind mentality where we all have the same opinion about everything. Variety is what makes us thrive.

Suppose I told you that someone treated another person like they’re subpar simply because their opinion about left versus right was different. You would probably think they’re being ridiculous. Clearly, right is way better than left (I kid, I kid). Yet it’s somehow okay, or at least more societally inoffensive, for people to judge others based on whether they like American Idol. Or if they prefer import cars over domestic. Or cats over dogs.

Someone please explain to me how that makes sense.

Someone also explain to me how it is appropriate and/or acceptable to tell me that my emotions (or anyone else’s) are unwarranted or invalid. Is it completely unreasonable for me to be hurt and maybe even the slightest bit offended by someone who treats me differently because I have a mental illness label attached to me? I am still a human being with legitimate emotions and opinions. Regardless of mental health condition, I can still be affected by the words and actions of others.

Would you think it was mean if a person expressed anger over not being supported after the death of a loved one? I didn’t think so. Yet if I think it’s unfair to be offended by people who give me the attitude of “quit feeling suicidal/depressed/anxious, it’s not that big of a deal”, then somehow I’m the mean one. For some reason, it isn’t okay for me to feel differently about food, values, or personal emotions. Why?

There was a time when I would just want to cry if someone told me that how I felt or what I wanted was stupid. I once cried for hours because somebody told me that going to a mall just to get cookies was a dumb idea. And inevitably, I would convince myself that they were, in fact, correct: I had no right to feel that way because I didn’t deserve to. Part of it was to keep the peace, because I hate confrontation. Part of it was (is) because I think so poorly of myself that I let others dictate how I should feel about things.

Now you’re sitting there thinking, “Of course you can feel the way you do about things!”

Except I feel like I can’t, because I am told that I am being unfair or mean, or that I take things too personally or am simply hypersensitive. I’m told that I’m supposed to be stronger than this and just let the passive bullying roll off my back. I’m told that if I didn’t have depression and anxiety issues, this would all be no big deal, so I should just get over it.

So tell me… why is it okay for “normal” people to be upset when they are treated unjustly, but the mentally ill people have to suck it up and deal with it?

I am not one of those people.

Oh sure, I get hurt and annoyed by people – who doesn’t? The problem is that I typically don’t resolve it the person whose actions are the source of my annoyance. Why? Because I feel that I don’t deserve to be affected by what other people do or say to me, nor do I have the right to speak up when something bothers me. That I should take whatever abuse is thrown at me and tolerate it the best I can… and then break down about it later in the privacy of my own home.

I’m the person who stands there while someone pokes me with a stick over and over and over again for the sake of their own entertainment. I’m the person who feels guilty for being unhappy at a restaurant when my meal is brought out and it’s not what I ordered. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. It’s not worth interrupting the flow of things over something that was probably my fault anyway. Maybe part of that comes from my upbringing. My parents tried to teach me to let go of what other people said or did to me and to not fuss over, well, anything. If it doesn’t affect my life in a major way, then it’s not worth trying to right the wrong.

I recently wrote an email to someone who had unintentionally caused potentially devastating damage to our relationship. Just a few brief paragraphs, mostly straight to the point. Before I was even halfway through the email, that fun little voice in my head started questioning why I was even bothering. Did this person mean to cause harm? Probably not. So why should I be upset by something that wasn’t intended as I received it? It wasn’t their fault, so who am I to make a bigger deal out of than it actually is? More importantly, I know that by the time I have to interact with this person again, I’ll have buried all this away and lied to myself about being over it. So there’s really no point in speaking up. By the time I was finished with the email, I was so anxious about sending it that I felt physically ill. But I did it. I spoke up about being hurt – and explaining why I was hurt – and didn’t keep it all to myself. Am I now worrying non-stop about what the ramifications of this email will be? Yes, I am. Do I regret sending the email? I’m not sure yet. But it was okay that I did it… right?

I am easily intimidated and will almost always back down first, apologizing for something that clearly wasn’t my fault. I am also incredibly paranoid and believe that people are always trying to manipulate my emotions. Those two traits don’t mix well together. It leads to me becoming angry over things that weren’t done intentionally, and keeps me from defending myself when it really counts.

So let me just remind myself: It is okay to feel the way I do, both positive and negative. It is okay to speak up when something isn’t right. It is okay to let other people know that their actions do have some sort of effect on me. It is okay to not understand why somebody insists on bullying me. It is okay to not be okay.

And it really is okay to say, “Hey. Quit poking me with that stick, ’cause it hurts.”

More and more, I find my paranoia increasing. I’m afraid to leave my house alone because I might run into somebody I know while I’m out, and they might want to talk to me and I won’t know what to say. The front door stays shut and the blinds stay closed because there’s a chance that somebody might come to the house uninvited.  The sound of the doorbell ringing when I’m not expecting anyone gets my heart racing and makes me want to hide. Like, in a closet.

It’s one thing to be able to distance yourself from something avoidable when you know it’s going to terrify you. If you’re afraid of heights, then don’t go on the ferris wheel. If you’re afraid of snakes, then don’t go in the reptile house at the zoo. If you’re afraid of the dark, then sleep with a nightlight on. It’s another thing entirely to be afraid of something that is intrinsically a part of you. I can’t distance myself from my own mind or the thoughts that come tumbling out of it.

I always – always – experience a feeling of guilt or shame or embarrassment when it comes to admitting that anxiety and depression are winning at any given moment. No matter how hard someone tries to convince me otherwise, I still feel like I’m secretly being made fun of or judged because I’m “crazy”. There are people in my life who have started treating me differently ever since I started being more open about my mental status, and I suppose that was to be expected. What wasn’t expected, perhaps because I’m simply naive, was how hurt and angry and sad that would make me. The people who are concerned and want to know how I’m doing, but feel awkward talking about it… well, I can deal with them. That’s what mental health advocacy is about: getting rid of the stigma and teaching people that it’s okay to talk about it. The people who treat me like I’ve somehow been devalued because I’m open about my problems? Those are the ones that I am hurt by.

Because I know that, logically, there’s no reason for me to be afraid of trivial things that other people encounter every single day without thinking about it, I keep my mouth shut about many of my OCD behaviors and fears and feelings. I’m afraid that of the “So? What’s the big deal?” sentiment that I perceive. I am embarrassed by a lot of my thoughts, and I’m even more embarrassed to admit that I’m embarrassed.

There are numerous times when I curse myself for being an intelligent human being and recognizing that my thoughts are irrational. I come down hard on myself because I know I shouldn’t be thinking the way I do. There are times when I wish I could fully succumb to the insanity so that being wrong would feel right. So that I wouldn’t be aware of being ridiculed or judged or the target of condescension. So that I could be ashamed of myself without feeling guilty about it.

I should be stronger than this. I should be able to do the CBT and read the books and take the pills and just get over it. By the way, please don’t ever tell someone with a mental illness to simply get over it or snap out of it or suck it up. That’s like telling someone who has suddenly lost their eyesight to just get over it and move on. It takes time to adapt and live again. And I should be able to do that. I’ve been dealing with this on some level or another for the past 20ish years. I should know by now how to fix myself. I should be able to keep the anxiety at bay.

But I can’t. Because I’m not smart enough. Not good enough. Not worthy enough. Not strong enough.

The more I try to re-order all that disorder, the more frustrated I get. It’s like trying to untangle a massive knot of yarn. Pulling on one loose end tightens the knot. Trying to follow that loose end gets me confused and often turning in circles, going in and out of different loops. Eventually, I want to throw the whole thing at the wall and then shove it in a bin somewhere.

I need to figure out where to begin, but it seems like everything that would be a good starting point has a prerequisite that has to be fulfilled first. And those prerequisites have their own set of prerequisites, and if I don’t accomplish each task along the way exactly how it’s supposed to be done, then the whole thing blows up in my face.

I feel like I’m on a deadline (no pun intended). For whatever reason, I think that I only have a certain amount of time to be fully recovered and strong enough to withstand a relapse. If I don’t meet that deadline, then I’m going to lose everything – people, places, and things. What I’ve learned is that there is no such thing as unconditional love. People only have a limited amount of patience before they give up on me and hand me off to someone else. Even if, by the grace of God, I actually do manage to get the upper hand on this mental illness battle, I will inevitably fall yet again… and I know everybody around me is already tired of it.

I’ve been told by more than one person that “there will be hell to pay” if I stop taking my meds again without permission from a doctor. Reading between the lines, I understand that my hospitalization was completely avoidable if I’d have just been smart enough to stay medicated. That it was a waste of time and a disruptive inconvenience. The thought of going to ER again is now a threat and something to fear; there’s the possibility of being admitted again. So what if I stay on my meds and still end up being unsafe? Whose fault is it then? Am I so fundamentally broken that there is no hope? Sometimes, yes, it feels that way.

Today would be one of those days.

I’ve been trying to dispel the psychological pain, the psych-ache, all day. Laundry. Reading. Taking the dog around the block. Writing this blog post. I even sat down and played around on the piano for the first time in almost a year.

But there’s still that persistent voice in my head…

Give up, before it’s too late.