Archive for the ‘therapy’ Tag

THE BIPOLAR PERSPECTIVE: OH, IT’S JUST THAT AGE   4 comments

MY CHILD IS MY HEART

Watch any kind of television program where they interview random people. When asked about their children there is an eight out of ten chance they will say, “Oh, my child is my heart.” What does that actually mean? That your child is beating inside your chest creating blood flow to your body and you are taking your red slimy beating heart to the playground and named it Raymond? Or is saying “my child is my heart” the most loving thing you can possibly say about your child? It even trumps “My child means the world to me.” So, are all the times I have said “I love my daughter” insufficient and I have not properly annunciated my love for her? If you are Bipolar with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, this is enough to double your weekly therapy visits.

BETTER CHIMES

I had a really bad upbringing. My Mother was a severely depressed Bipolar sufferer with Beating Disorder. And my Father never saw a set of doorbell chimes he couldn’t ring by raising his voice at me. Plus, nothing I said was without criticism. But I promised myself I would be a better more supportive Father in every way my parents were not to me. And being Bipolar, I was very attuned to everything that came out of my mouth to build up my daughter, instead of knocking her down. Moreover, if I ever felt I did fail, I’d ruminate on it for days trying to make it right. My concern was whether I scarred her for life. Any parenting mistake would practically send me over the edge.

THE COOL FOOL

Many parents decide they want to be their child’s best friend, instead of their best parent. I constantly took my daughter shopping and allowed her to eat anything she liked. I hoped the “let’s keep it a secret from Mom” would further endear her to me. Once When she got suspended from school we spent the rest of the day at the mall. I bought countless cars and old convertibles because I thought she’d get a kick out of them. I don’t even look like a father, with long hair and hip glasses. I was trying to give her everything I would have wanted as a child. In theory it makes sense. Now I just feel foolish.

THE PARENT RAP

In a Bipolar world, your child would love and appreciate you. They’d see how hard you are trying to make them happy and not be a nagging constantly punishing parent. And when you talk to them you try and turn it into a rap session, instead speaking to them as a parent. But in my case, my daughter did not seem to even notice or have much interest in anything I did or do. At almost sixteen she has no idea what I do for a living and nothing matters about what is going on in my life. For me the parent rap is just a parent trap, because everything I did to make her love me just gave me a bad rap. With the negative influence from my ex-wife, she has disappeared completely from my life.

OH, IT”S JUST THAT AGE

Anyone who says “Oh, it’s just that age” should be shot on site. We all remember what it’s like in high school to want to hang out with out friends constantly and not tell our parents anything. Everyone needs to give their teenager some room. But when your child does not return phone calls, emails and texts, it has nothing to do with “Oh, it’s just that age.” Instead it’s, “Oh, I’m your Dad and get back to me in a reasonable amount of time.” Could you imagine your parent’s calling you at sixteen and not getting back to them…ever? If you suffer from Bipolar Illness, the constant analysis of this situation in your mind can overcome you with severe grief, which later turns to anger. You forever feel the need to straighten things out, and at the same time want to de-friend your own kid on Facebook, plus move away without telling them. If you are lucky you’ll remember you’re the adult in the situation and get ahold of yourself.

YOUR SPOUSE IS A LOUSE

Let’s not spend too much time on this. Those of us who are divorced did it because our spouses are louses. And when they’ve got primary custody you have no idea what kind of venom they are filling your child’s head with. If you are Bipolar, you can ponder infinitely until your face turns blue trying to make sense out of the situation. It’s our nature. I’m sure my ex is not doing me any favors. The words “call your father” have been lost behind “I leased you a horse, bought you all the best riding gear and am paying for your lessons and competitions!” I guess I can’t compete unless I were a talking horse like good ole Mr. Ed.

HOPE, DON”T MOPE

So, where do you go from here? You feel disrespected, unloved, unwanted and unsure of what you did wrong. You have done everything you can to try and find out what the issue is and repair the relationship. You hope your child has a conscious and misses you. You hope for that phone call or text from your child telling you they love you and what’s going on. But the bottom line you have no control over it. And unless you subscribe to the concept of “Magical Thinking,” the tendency is to mope. Somehow this is your fault. Could your ex be this divisive? I knew my ex was a control freak when I married her. Almost six years after our divorce I realized Miss Peaches and Cream had issues with telling the truth as well. Like I have discovered, without honesty in return, talking to your ex is like swallowing thumb tacks.

THE HARDEST THING TO DO IS NOTHING

I’m not an expert on child psychology and bitter ex-spouses. And being Bipolar my brain has this need to have everything concerning me right in the world. Disorder and anger directed at me is extremely hard with which to live. But if you are like me, you have to sit on your hands an avoid emails, phone calls and texts hoping to get even a “Hi Dad, miss you,” from your child. They know you feel terrible. This is their only way of exerting power over you. Get back in the driver seat by doing your parental duty by doing absolutely nothing. If they come around celebrate. If not, try and accept it. This may include therapy and medication. Losing a child who is not dead is a horrible thing to go through. How do you explain it to people without giving details you don’t even quite comprehend?

I TRIED AND I TRIED BUT COULD NOT LIGHT UP YOUR SKY

These are some of the last words I emailed my daughter. They are paraphrased from a rock group named “Cracker.” The song is called “I Can’t Forget You.” First they made me cry. Now they bring me comfort. I put away all her pictures and have stopped talking about her. I now have graduated to believing “it is what it is.” Probably the most profound phrase in the English language. It doesn’t bring closure. But for an estranged Bipolar Dad, it allows me to let things rest without completely shutting the door.

The Bipolar Perspective: The Season of Reason   2 comments

FIGHT NIGHT

Friday night was fight night.  Or, at least it was for me.   While talking with an irrational foul-mouthed balding and bloated neighbor with bad breath over my car being towed, his deceivingly meek looking son came out of nowhere and slammed me to the ground, fracturing my wrist and cutting up my arm.   I make it a rule not to fight back unless in dire straights.   Hit someone the wrong way and you could be the one going to the big house.  Plus, fighting solves nothing.   I prefer to use words.  Aren’t we even taught as children to “use our words?”  He must have missed that lesson.

Was the confrontation avoidable?  Absolutely.   I could have dismissed it and let this vindictive Porsche laden aristocrat go on with his elitist life having cars towed off his block, as he feels not only does he own his house, but the entire street.  But I was out a $650 towing fee and wanted to know why.  So when I saw him getting out of his four door Porsche which resembles the Fred Flintstone mobile, I went up to ask him about it and a small riot broke out.

GROUND HOGS DON’T TAKE HOLIDAYS

I am Bipolar II.  I suffer from rapid cycling.  If I’m not careful I can turn from depressed to manic in a matter of seconds.  Consequently, I always have to keep myself in check.  And for years I have done a relatively good job.

But no matter how hard I try I always have a major incident during the holiday season. It could be a serious problem at work, a car accident, a deep depression, a drunken mishap… Something to make me wish I could have gone to sleep on the day before Thanksgiving and wake up January 2nd, skipping all the drama.  The holidays for me are an annual Ground Hog’s Day, the likes of the Bill Murray movie with the same name.  Problems ever year.  Same miserable results where I end up forlorn, depressed and suicidal.

SEASON OF THE WITCH

This year I made a conscious effort not to fuck up.  Starting last week I decided to make no major decisions, to drive very carefully and not get into any arguments.  At work I kept my head low and concentrated on my tasks.   I decided not to go overboard with the unavoidable holiday drinking so I wouldn’t do or say anything stupid.  Basically I was putting myself on parole.  If I started to screw up I decided to put a David Yurman Bracelet around my ankle and voluntarily submit to house arrest.

However as Donovan said in the 1960’s, “It’s The Season of the Witch.”  Some get the holiday blues and others get the witches’ brew.  I think one slipped me a mickey when I left my water bottle briefly unattended at the office last week.  I thought something tasted funny.

THE BITTER-SWEET TASTE OF REVENGE

As advised by the doctor who saw me in the emergency room when I went to have my wrist taken care of the next day, I filed assault and battery charges against the slap-happy looking son who blindsided me.  I felt kind of bad, because it was the vermin-ridden father who I wished I could have arrested.   I think he misread the situation and was protecting his dad.

Who knows what will become of the case?  With my luck it will somehow backfire on me and I’ll end up doing five to ten in San Quentin.   Most probably nothing will happen.  So then my manic brain will start thinking of all the ways of seeking revenge;  Painting “Ass Hole” on his garage door, camouflaging some spike strips at the end of his driveway or some other completely juvenile, but highly rewarding payback.

But revenge is bitter-sweet.   It’s sweet at first because you are getting back at the person who has escaped the consequences of their abusive temper-tantrum.   However it’s bitter because they will surmise it’s you and you will forever be looking over your shoulder in fear of retaliation.  Moreover, take the low road of vengeance and you’ll have another confrontation in the future.  This guy is obviously is a bottom feeder.  Take the high road and you’ll never run into miscreants like these again.

HOLIDAY BLACK AND BLUES

So as I sit here licking my wounds, my dog is sitting next to me licking his ass.   It reminds me of all my Bipolar friends and acquaintances who have told me “cheerful holiday revelers can take the whole season and shove it up their asses.”   It depresses them too.

Many researches believe people with Bipolar Disorder cycle at specific times of the year.  If it’s around the holidays, it could have to do with the colder weather and it getting dark earlier.  Or, something about the season can be a trigger.  Some people feel left out or lonely during the holidays, and it causes depression or manic behavior.

It all makes sense to me.  The issue I have is why, through all my behavioral vigilance, did I still end up black and blue this holiday season?  Was it wrong not to stand up for myself and approach the tow-happy father and son duo?  Maybe considering the time of year I should have refrained?  Should I just have accepted the $650 tow charge as just another Holiday blow and let it go at that?   Could I have guessed there could be trouble and leave it alone?  Hind site is twenty-twenty.  Maybe my dog is not so stupid for licking his ass.

THE SEASON OF REASON

For Lexus it’s “the December to remember.”  For me the holidays are “the season of reason.” Every year when I have my holiday trauma, I remind myself with extra vigilance of all the reasons not to kill myself.   If you are Bipolar, thoughts of suicide are frequent occurrences that would scare the Juicy Coutures right off “normal people.”   We see thoughts of suicide as part of the mind-scape we navigate on a daily basis.

I have them every day and night.  But around the holidays, I spend the month thinking of reasons not to go ahead and do it.  And every year it becomes harder.  Is this the season I’ll run out of reasons?

DEPARTMENT OF PARKING AND EXTORTION

Just when I thought it was all over came the encore.  I went to the San Francisco Department of Parking and Extortion to get a neighborhood parking permit so I can park without it raining tickets on me anymore.  But the city worker who resembled a potato with only half a brain would not give me the sticker unless I paid for the two tickets I received the day I was towed.  And not having my briefcase full of money with me, I couldn’t get the permit.  So as soon as my car is spotted on the street by the parking authority, it will get booted.   It’s a never-ending cycle specially created by the City of San Francisco to punish people for living and working in the city and contributing hundreds of millions of dollars in tax revenue.

It was all I could do not to drag the bored looking potato-headed clerk out from behind the glass via the little pass-through slot where she takes your money head first.  But I heard there is a city surcharge if you do that.  And then you are responsible for stuffing her back in.

DEATH WISH 

The easiest thing to do is sit down and die.  I have a suicide plan.  Many Bipolars that suffer deep depression do.   But I have a hard time pulling the euphemistic trigger.   I’d rather someone else do it.

So I am walking through the worst neighborhoods alone and at night.  I am crossing streets against on coming traffic.  When I’m driving near canyons I speed up, hoping to lose control, crashing through the guard rail and over the side exploding in a fireball of magnificent Mustang.  I even wash my Bipolar medication down with a couple of glasses of wine at night.  And, at the end of the day I’m secretly glad I’m alive.

I don’t really want to die.  Or at least not quite yet.  I just want Holiday Ground Hogs Day to have its final showing.  To make it through next year’s holidays without incident.  To keep my Bipolar Disorder in check instead of thinking of ways to check-out.  Medication can not do all the work.  I have to do my part by avoiding the triggers and talking to my therapist.   There is no “easy button.” Maybe reaffirming this is my holiday gift to myself.   I’d like to give this gift of wisdom to you as well this holiday season.  I hope it will help.   Sorry it’s not wrapped.

Bipolar Support Groups: What are they Supporting?   Leave a comment

A few years ago I was a mess.  Diagnosed Bipolar II with hypomanic episodes and freshly divorced, I was living with my girlfriend, one dog, a cat and her two little girls all in my tiny studio apartment in San Francisco.  Plus, my girlfriend had an ex-husband that would practically scale the side of my apartment hi-rise like a little lobster to the seventh floor looking in on us for incriminating evidence he could use against her in divorce court.

I was already seeing a psychiatrist for my medications and a psychologist for talk therapy.  But the latter felt I was suicidal and needed more support.  It was either go to group therapy or resign me as a client.  I agreed because whenever I was a little late for an appointment she started calling hospitals to see if I was on a metal table a toe tag.  Personally I thought hearing about other people’s problems would depress the pants of me.  However she was adement, so I went out of respect for all the good she had done for me in the past.

I began my group odyssey on a Saturday afternoon in a session held in the basement of a local hospital.  Right away I was greeted by an older, portly, belly sticking out of sweater, thick plastic bespectacled gentleman who would later introduce himself to me at least five more times in the next hour and a half.  I got past him and sat on a chair arranged in a big circle.  I was one of the first people to arrive aside from the facilitator.

The facilitator was not a professional and had no therapy credentials.  He was just a guy in his mid 30’s with severe depression and an uncontrollable inclination to insult strangers he sees out on the street.  Bloated from medication, too much cake and a crew cut that should have come with a complimentary pair of Dennis the Menace pavement sliders, he would read the meeting ground rules as if every syllable bored him more than the last.  Then he’d make sure anyone who wanted to talk had their ten allocated minutes.  And if anyone ever got out of line, he’d ask them to leave. But you could tell cake was his main concern.  Coffee cake, pound cake, walnut cake, angel food cake… Ah, so many wonderful cakes!

Quickly the empty seats filled up with what I assumed were bipolar butts.  But to my surprise almost anyone could sit down and chime in.  And some of the regulars were schizophrenic or had other major psychological disorders.  And when they started talking delusionally, everyone would get mad at them for wasting time and tell them to shut up.   I thought it might be a good idea to get them information about the appropriate group therapy session for their mental disorder, but the moderator just sat there with his thumb up his ass dreaming about the way sponge cake feels when rubbed all over his body.

Here is a snapshot of the Bipolar Support Group’s composure:

We had a delightful gentleman in at the ripe age of 90 who came to talk about his older sister.  He was just lonely and frightened of what life held for him.  He could have been sitting in Knitters Anonymous and be just as content.  But he was too nice a person suggest attending a different meeting.

We had a young school teacher on medical leave, afraid to return to the classroom due to severe panic attacks. It was obvious she was bright and communicative.  I felt her anxiety could be overcome with some exposure and talk therapy.  However, practically everyone united to convince heron permanent disability was the way to go.  To about half the group of around twenty people, the question wasn’t if you could go back to work, it was whether you could qualify for permanent disability.  The consensus was she could make a good case for it.

One lady was never formally diagnosed with anything, but liked making the coffee shop arrangements for after the meeting.  She was a mental illness groupie.  She would latch on to a really sick person and become their sole support system.  And when no longer needed, or getting on that person’s nerves, she’d find a new lost soul in the group to mother.  I think she had a disease called munchausen-bipolar.  She found self worth making herself part of the drama centered around a bipolar person going through hardship.

Then there was a 350 pound woman who was sweet on the outside and a trouble maker on the inside thriving on confrontation.  Once she brought a very old little dog to the group that was literally on it’s last leg.  She was bald, blind, barely able to walk and fighting for breath from fluid filled lungs. This woman walked it around the circle basking in the “isn’t she adorables.”  But the dog was so close to death it was like bringing a dead bird to the meeting.  It was probably a blessing, but the little dog died that evening.

My favorite was a woman who complained of Personality Dissociative Disorder, so she sat with a mirror in front of her reminding herself she was still there.  She never talked.  All she did was stare into the mirror.  I wanted to say, “Put away the mirror.  I’ll let you know if you disappear.”

Finally was the lady with a greenish abscessed toe bursting out of her shoe who always wasted half the session talking about free theatre tickets she can get through an agency that donates them to non-profits.  But that infected toe was like a gargoyle that encouraged me to keep my distance from her.

My last example of the misplaced mentally ill was my greeter.  He would sleep through most of the session and suddenly awaken with a random suggestion, like how to get free pencils from the city.  Apparently he noticed someone writing with one in a notebook and felt it would be helpful knowledge.  Then his head would drop and he’d be back to slumberland in no time.

Basically out of an average of twenty people, two of them talked about real bipolar issues the first time I attended.  The rest would just give advice on how to get permanent disability, free psychiatric care and medications.  Others were there for the coffee shop get-together after each session.  It was more a place to socialize for the generally mentally ill and senile.

Not all bipolar support groups are the same.  I am sure there are some with a better illness vetting process and accredited facilitators who actually lead the group instead of waiting for it to implode.  My suggestion is to learn more about all the Bipolar Support Groups in your area and sit in on several.   Note others in the group looking for a feeling of commonality of mental disorder, age and education.  In other words, find a support group in which you feel comfortable sharing.  With support groups it’s the people attending the group who are most important. They are the ones offering advice and comfort.  It’s crucial you find people you can relate to.

That teacher with the anxiety disorder did eventually go back to work full time and the last I heard is doing quite well.  When asking someone what gave her the confidence to go back to teaching, she told me it was leaving  the support group.   If support groups were on Yelp, what a story she’d have to tell.

Statistics: The Thing Standing Between Bipolar Treatment and The Truth   7 comments

People were so gullible back in the 1950’s and 1960’s.  “9 out of 10 doctors recommend Pall Mall Cigarettes because they are less harsh on your throat. ”  “In a side by side comparison, Lincoln is better than Cadillac.”  “More people trust Goodyear than any other tire.”  I’m paraphrasing, but you get the gist.  And people believed this stuff.  Nobody was calling out for Google Analytics, or even for Pall Mall to simply show how they conducted their survey.  All you had to do is make the claim and everyone assumed it was fact.

Before you start musing at people’s low level of bullshit detection back then, we are still eating up the same statistical nonsense in 2012.  It’s just packaged differently.  Take the Bipolar Disorder drug Lamictal.  According to Wikipedia, between 5% to 10% of patients taking Lamictal will develop a rash, but only 1 in 1,000 patients will develop a serious rash. Plus only 1 in 50,000 patients die from the rash.  This is an un-cited claim according to Wikipedia.  The information powerhouse aggregator went on to say that 9 out of 10 doctors smoke Marlboro Cigarettes because the brand gives them steadier hands in the operating room.  Personally, I’d like my doctor to smoke Marlboros while he’s actually operating on me to insure the very best outcome.

Most people reading this aren’t looking for citations.  Wikipedia has credibility because it says so.  And if 1 in 50,000 actually die from Stevens-Johnson Syndrome (the killer rash), those are pretty good odds.  They are willing to take the gamble if they are suffering from bipolar symptoms and Lamictal is their greatest hope.

Wikipedia downplays the killer-rash statistic, as does its manufacturer GlaxoSmithklein.  But just getting the rash must be scary.  The patient doesn’t know if it’s “the big one.”  And 5% to 10% of patients will get it.   That’s at best 1 in 20 people.  Maybe 1 in 10.  I see these very same statistics influencing people not to try Lamictal,  So you see, we really have not evolved from the 1950’s and 1960’s vulnerability to marketing mind melding.  Any statistics can be made to lean in any direction you favor.  It’s the interpretation you chose to believe that makes up your mind.  However,  I don’t think anyone can argue the Lincoln is a better car than the Cadillac.  Everyone says it has a better ride.  Everyone.

Personally, I chose to flirt with death and take Lamictal for my bipolar symptoms.  Fortunately, I did not get the rash.  I also didn’t know any of the rash statistics.  I just trusted my doctor when he said getting Stevens-Johnson Syndrome was very remote.  And the minute a rash developed he’d stop the medication.   Notice how I used the phrase “I trusted my doctor.”  I think when the drug manufacturers and web sites are whipping statistics at you for their own less than altruistic reasons, you need a doctor or knowledgable advisor you can trust.  Someone from the real world who can talk from experience, not an Excel Spreadsheet.

Years ago when I was just out of college and had started my first job, I had a crippling attack of depression hosted by my bipolar illness.  It was a Friday night and I was rolling around on the living room floor shaking, unable to keep still and telling my then girlfriend that I wanted to die.  I couldn’t get through to my usual psychiatrist and I needed something to help me sleep and keep me from killing myself over the weekend.  One of my Dad’s friends had a brother who was a psychiatrist who I called at home and he said he’d see me first thing Monday.  But to get through the weekend he wanted me to have a glass of wine and a couple of Benedryl whenever I needed it to calm down.  He hadn’t met me yet and did not want to start pumping drugs into me site unseen.  From 30 years of practicing, he knew this was unorthodox but safe and effective.

I didn’t do it.  I was so depressed I ended up overdosing on sleeping pills and was taken to the hospital.  But I admired the doctor’s practical grass roots approach to getting me through the weekend.   He had excellent credentials, 30 years experience and a solution, albiet a little off beat one.   I trusted him more than a statistic.  I’m sure there are many statistics telling you not to mix even Sweet Tarts with alcohol.  However, we all do it now and then usually to no ill effect.  The doctor knew this.  He was being practical and compassionate toward my deteriorating condition.  He also definitely agreed more people trust Goodyear than any other tire.

For these reasons, I am not a big fan of the statistic, especially when it is not cited or the fine print is a disclaimer for it probably being inaccurate.  I also detest when people just make a claim citing everyone as their source.  My grandfather, a Philadelphia native and its biggest cheerleader, used to tell me things like “Philadelphia has become the restaurant capital of the world.”  I’d say “Pop, where the hell did you hear that?”  And he’d say, “Hear it?  Everyone knows it!”  He also smoked Lucky Strikes because LSMFT.  (Lucky Strikes Means Fine Tobacco).   How could you argue with that kind of logic?

So when negotiating the bipolar landscape of doctors, medications and therapy, do your research.  But don’t believe everything you read, even the statistics.  Find people you trust and talk with them.  Statistics are not real.  They are man made.  Experience is real.  And someone you trust to help you evaluate it is invaluable.  Just please always remember, Michelob is the right beer when you’re having more than one.  At least that’s what they say.

Sunday Kind of Blues   Leave a comment

I’m sitting here in a local San Francisco coffee shop, which is how most San Franciscans spend their days.  Everybody is busily working on business plans for new start-ups or milling around outside on their cell phones trying to convince venture capitalists to fund their new ventures.  The problem is about 3% of these nonsensical deals actually come to fruition and even fewer actually survive the first two years.  But everyone wants to jump on the get rich quick technology bandwagon.  I prefer to call it a hayride.

I’m even embarrassed to say I had a partner and we drank the micro-brew Kool-Aide too, which was all the rage, back in the late 1990’s.  Unfortunately, my partner had an aversion to making money, I bailed out and he floundered around by himself for awhile and then moved out of the area.  But we could have had something.  It was my big chance at making a serious nest egg.  Instead the hen just farted.

So, I’ll share with you today that I am a little depressed.  However I think it’s more  situational than chemical. I’m sad at 46 years old that with all the things I know how to do, I have never done anything exceptional.  I’ve done a lot of good things, but nothing that I feel will leave a mark that says “Peter Goodman was here” after I am gone. Except, for the circular water stain on the coffee table I left from putting my drink down without a coaster.

Could it be my mood stabilizers kicking in just making sure I feel neither good or bad and just exist in a quagmire of nothingness? Mine keep me in limbo from feeling excitement or despair, in this military “no fly zone” where nothing ever touches me.  They are always there to remind me how much I don’t feel, never even giving me 15 minutes for a mental coffee break.

In all my star studded brilliance I decided to sleep all weekend.  Sleeping is something we bipolars are really good at.  I wish being a good sleeper could help me leave my mark on the world. “God, that Peter Goodman wasn’t much of a guy when he was awake, but boy could that motherfucker sleep.  We’ll never see a sleeper like that again in our lifetime!”

I was already literally sick and tired when Friday rolled around.  And when my girlfriend decided to start in on me about so something ridiculous only her mind could conjure, I decided to go for a world record.  I went to bed and didn’t get out until late Sunday morning.

I love sleeping and disconnecting from my bipolar tormented mind.  I don’t know what it’s doing when we are not together, but at least I don’t have to deal with it.  It probably goes out to get a burger and a beer and then picks up hookers at the adult movie theater.

Actually, sleep has become my new therapy.  If I don’t want to deal with something, I just go home, get in bed and go to sleep.   I’m not talking about work issues or being a father to my daughter.  I’m referring to problems with my relationship, getting a speeding ticket, owing a lot in taxes, etc.  And as soon as I put my head down on that pillow and trail off to sweet slumber, I am free.

I often wonder if this is the effect people are trying for when they commit suicide?  The mindlessness of being permanently unconscious.  I have tried to do away with myself before.  And I can not promise I won’t do it again.  What people do not understand is the constant distress of the bipolar mind.  The depression, sadness and disconnection from the world and everyone in it is unbearable.  And if someone is at the point where they can not stand one more minute of it and medications, electroshock and therapy have proven benign, I believe they have the right to end it.

People do not ask to be born, and certainly not bipolar.  If they want to leave this world it should be on their own terms.  I am not advocating suicide, but I am not going to put a pad lock on the door.  And of course I don’t think it should be a rash decision.  But in the end it’s our decision.

So if you are having a hard day today making sense of it all and questioning what you are doing here, you are not alone.  I am right here with you in the blogesphere.  And if you are looking for a reason to get up tomorrow morning, do it because you might make a difference in someone’s life and without you it never would have happened.  Also, just maybe something good will happen to you.  The odds are a lot better than winning the Lottery.

The other reason to slog onward is because you still can make change in your own life. Get out of that awful living situation.  Find a better job.  Get a better shrink.  Change your meds.  Set something positive in motion and give yourself something to look forward too.  Kick those mood stabilizers in the ass and say “Not today, I’m making a change in my life and you aren’t going to sabotage my motivation.”  Then press the “override” button.  You know, the one between your…. Uh, you know where it is.

And of course always feel free to blog back at me.  I read everything and answer back if requested.  I’m not a doctor and have no psychotherapy credentials.  I’m just a guy who cares about other people with Bipolar Illness and those who love them.