Coming Off The “Happy Pill”
By Shauna L Slater
8/2012
“For behold, are we not all beggars? Do we not all depend upon the same
Being, even God, for all the substance which we have, for both food and
raiment, and for gold, and for silver, and for all the riches which we have of
every kind? And behold, even at this time, ye have been calling on his name,
and begging for a remission of your sins. And has he suffered that ye have
begged in vain? Nay; he has poured out his Spirit upon you, and has caused that
your hearts should be filled with joy, and has caused that your mouths should
be stopped that ye could not find utterance, so exceedingly great was your joy.
And now, if God, who has created you, on whom you are dependent for your lives
and for all that ye have and are, doth grant unto you whatsoever ye ask that is
right, in faith, believing that ye shall receive, O then, how ye ought to
impart of the substance that ye have one to another. And now, for the sake of
these things which I have spoken unto you- that is, for the sake of retaining a
remission of your sins from day to day, that ye may walk guiltless before God-
I would that ye should impart of your substance to the poor, every man
according to that which he hath, such as feeding the hungry, clothing the
naked, visiting the sick and administering to their relief, both spiritually and temporally,
according to their wants.”
-
Mosiah 4:19-21,
26 (Book of Mormon)
As I look back on my life, I can’t help
but realize that as I look at what trials I have had I know there are many,
many others who have had it worse. Sometimes I feel like a wimp because of it.
I’m not really sure how this story is
going to go – I had a professor once who taught us to never be afraid to write
badly – just let it come out as it does -
just let it flow. So here it is, oozing out of me for whatever reason I
feel I need to write it – never knowing if anyone will ever read it or if it
will even matter to anyone.
I grew up in a pretty typical average
LDS family. I am the oldest of eight children. Mom stayed at home and Dad
worked, so you can imagine, we went without quite a lot. But I suppose we
didn’t really know the difference as it were.
Childhood for the most part for us was
pretty happy. When I became an adolescent things got harder as my mom and I
would butt heads quite frequently. My mind ran on a system of logic where hers
seemed to run on a system of irrational and emotional outburst and
decisions. I never realized then that
she suffered from an invisible illness that would latter also greatly effect my
life.
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We were never allowed to talk much
about Grandpa, my mother’s father, because it would “upset” Grandma. There
always seemed to be an unspoken anger and resentment between my mother and
grandmother over my grandfather, but I never really knew what it was until
later in life.
Grandpa had been “sick” and had to go
to the hospital because he had something called a “nervous breakdown.” I’m not
sure I really knew what that was at the time but it must have been really bad because
they had to do an “experimental operation” on his brain to try to “fix” him.
But instead of “fixing” him, it left him brain damaged and he spent the rest of
his life – around thirty years – in a hospital. I have been told by my uncles
that in the beginning he would leave the hospital and hitch hike back home to
his family on several occasions, only to be returned to the hospital by the
very loved ones he was trying so desperately to return to. I suppose he
eventually gave up on trying to come home. It was a jail sentence – a death
sentence – ad very long, slow, lonely death sentence for him – and what was his
crime? He was “sick;” Never violent or dangerous, just “sick.”
I only met him twice in my life, once
when I was very young and once as an youth – both long before I was mature
enough to know how to interact with him and try to get to know him – or what
was left of him – after all, my whole life I had been told that he was “sick”
and “not really himself” any more; a spirit trapped in a physical shell of who
he use to be; Trapped until his body would release him to travel home to
paradise.
But did he have feelings? Did he have
thoughts? Did he have memories? I was told he could remember my grandmother and
his children. I can’t even begin to imagine
the confusion that must have been going through his mind about his
circumstances. Why was he here? Why did his family abandon him? Why did his mind not work correctly and more?
Why could he not remember things? When were they going to let him come home?
I don’t harbor any hard feelings
towards my grandmother. She was doing the best she knew how for him. At least
he was in a safe place where they could care for him. I know my mom resented
the fact that my grandmother had let them do the surgery on him, but I’m sure
she was ever so desperate to find a way to help him get better. I know she
loves him and was just trying her best to take care of him.
I never really understood nor realized
until I was an adult how much this “sickness” would effect me and my
family. As a teen, I started realizing
more and more the irrationalness of some of my mom’s behavior growing up, the
stupid things we would fight about. But I never understood the why behind it
all. I’m sure some of it was just the typical power struggle between parent and
child, but there was something more I wouldn’t come to understand until years
later and even now, years after her death, I am still learning and realizing
things about her and myself as I come to learn more about this “sickness” and
the effects it can have on people.
When I was twenty years old, I prepared
to serve an LDS mission. This is something I had wanted to do for a very long
time. I went through the typical preparation and got my papers sent in to the
church headquarters. A few weeks later I received my mission call in the mail
and found out where I would be serving.
As is customary for those about to
serve missions, my time was set up with the church for me to go through the LDS
temple for the first time. The LDS temple is the most sacred building and form
of worship of our Heavenly Father and Savior Jesus Christ in the LDS faith. We
make sacred covenants to follow the commandments, learn more about the
Atonement and the plan of salvation – which we also call the plan of happiness;
we also learn about how families are meant to be forever! We learn about how to
treat each other with kindness, how to find true and lasting joy through living
the gospel, and find true peace and happiness in our souls. It is a sacred
experience we receive when we are old enough and mature enough in the gospel as
an adult.
As I write about this experience,
please know that even though I faced some difficult trials in life – difficult
for me at my level - I am still a very
happy person and love to bring happiness and joy to others as much as possible
– I will discuss this in more detail later in this writing, but please
understand, I love to be happy, and make other happy as well.
As I prepared to go through the temple
for the first time I had all the normal wonderings about what the experience
would be like such as anyone would have going for their first time. I felt
close to God, I felt his Spirit with me. I felt happy. I felt joy. My parents
and several relatives were able to attend with me. It was a beautiful experience
and I couldn’t wait to go back again and again to learn more. (They teach you
so much it takes a while to remember it all.) I was so happy. Family was all
around. My cousin was getting ready to leave the MTC and fly out to her mission
in a couple of days. We were all planning on going to the airport to see her
off. Life was bliss.
Two days later my dad died in his
sleep.
My world
came crashing down. The happiness screeched to a dead stop. Life was a blur.
The funeral came and went and I spent a
brief time with my family and the grieving process we all began to undertake. A
couple of the memories that stick out in my mind was hearing one of my sisters
bawling and crying herself to sleep, another sister that usually wasn’t the
touchy feely type wanting to crawl in bed with me and sleep during the night. I
remember feeling her tremble for a long time before she drifted off into
oblivious sleep.
Soon I was on my mission. It was the
happiest and saddest I had ever been in my life; Quite the feat to feel both
extremities at the same time. The grief
took its toll on me, but I feel I was greatly blessed. Still it was very hard,
especially towards the end of my mission when I started getting letters from my
siblings detailing the strange behaviors my mom started to exhibit; Strange for
her. Things like, not being responsible, spending money frivolously, taking off
for two to three days and not telling anyone where she was.
I didn’t realize it at the time but
this was the beginning of the “sickness” really making a big entrance into our
lives again. We had no idea at this time what that would mean.
Right around the same time period I
received news about my cousin who was on a mission. Something was wrong. She
had to come home a month early from her mission. We didn’t know what was going
on.
I got permission to call her when she
got home. The conversation was very confusing. She had a difficult time
speaking English and kept breaking into Spanish, a language I did not know at
the time. She seemed very confused and out of it. The conversation was
relatively short and nothing like I had imagined it would be. I didn’t
recognize her personality at all.
I bawled my eyes out after hanging up
with her. I love her so much! I knew something was very wrong but I didn’t know
what. Had she had something bad happen to her? Did she experience some kind of
trauma? Had she been hurt in some way? What was going on with my cousin whom I
love with all of my heart? I cried so hard and just prayed that she would be
ok. I didn’t know what to do. I felt so helpless so far away from home and
family. I just wanted to put my arms around her and take her pain away, but I
couldn’t.
Weeks and months went by. I continued
to write to my cousin every week but got no response in return. Finally I heard
from her and she described to me what was going on with her. She is my cousin
on my mom’s side of the family so we share the same grandfather with the
“sickness.” I learned that she too now
was dealing with this “sickness.”
It was like “being in hell,” she told
me, but now the medication they had her on was finally working somewhat for her
and she was beginning to feel better and coming back to being herself again.
Depression is what they call this
“sickness” now, only thankfully they do not perform brain surgery or put you
away in a hospital for the rest of your life to treat it. Now they use drugs to
treat things like depression.
Depression, Anxiety, Bi-Polar and other
mental health illnesses scientists and doctors have learned, are caused by some
kind of imbalanced chemicals in the brain; Chemicals like Serotonin,
Nora-epinephrine, Dopamine and others.
The medication is used to try to help
balance these chemicals and effect moods and such. It can take several months
and years and numerous tries and combinations to find the right medications to
help treat this illness. No two people are the same; every person’s treatment
is unique to them. It took several months to find a working solution for my
cousin and even to this day it is monitored and adjusted as needed. But even
medication comes with a price and problems, problems like side effects that are
not so fun.
Soon it came time to come home from the
mission for me. I came home to chaos; my mom acting more irrationally than ever.
I thought it was the grief from losing my father, but later in life I would
come to realize it was so much more. I came to realize that she also dealt with
depression, untreated depression.
I worked with her a lot to try to help
her through the grief and changes in life. I
encouraged
her to get out and make some friends. She eventually did, which helped her a
lot. I was happy to see she had found some friends who could help her be happy
again.
Still at this point I had no idea how
this “sickness” was going to effect me and my family.
I went on with my life, went back to
college. I moved closer to school and also worked full time. It was a busy
life.
One night out of the blue I sat up
suddenly in bed around three o’clock in the morning feeling like I couldn’t
breathe. My heart was racing, my muscles tensed up tighter than I knew was
possible. I couldn’t catch my breath no matter how hard I tried.
I was about twenty five years old at
this time. I had no idea of what was happening to me. I thought I was going to
die!
It took a few hours to calm down and
relax again. I was exhausted.
This same type of experience started
happening over and over for weeks at all times of the day or night. It happened
in class at school, it happened at home, it happened in church, it happened
while driving in the car. No place was safe.
I took myself to the doctor and after
several tests ruling out “physical” things, I was diagnosed with and Anxiety
disorder – which I later learned was caused by brain chemistry imbalances. I had to face the reality now, I had to face
that I too had the “sickness.”
At first I thought I was just having
issues dealing with my dad’s death. I went to some counseling which helped a
lot, but didn’t “fix” me. Instead I was taught coping skills and relaxation
techniques to help me come out of a “panic attack” as they call it. They wanted
to put me on medication at that time, but I was not ready for that. I thought
being on medication would make me weak. Plus they said I had to go se a psychiatrist
to get a prescription. Why? I wasn’t “crazy.” What if people found out? Would
they thing I was “crazy” too? I couldn’t
handle that. I did not have an accurate understanding at the time of what that
all meant. Plus I had heard so many bad things about the drugs and how they
mess you up and ruin your personality and turn you into a zombie and things
like that. I wasn’t going to do it. I was going to get myself better. This was
only temporary I insisted to myself! So I declined taking medicine at that
time.
After a few months of counseling
sessions, my medical insurance in it’s wisdom figured I had been going long
enough now to be “cured” so why should they pay for any more. I couldn’t afford
them out of pocket so I stopped going. I
was left alone to deal with it by myself.
The “sickness” never went away. The
anxiety, panic attacks and depression invaded every aspect of my life. It
followed me to school, I often had to leave class to deal with it because I
would feel like I would “lose it” if I stayed; It followed me to church, often
times I would feel so stressed out and have such a strong attack that I felt like I was in a daze; in a surreal
universe. I started having sever anxiety
attacks any time I went to the temple, I have no idea why, so I didn’t go
often, which made me feel guilty. I had them in the middle of the night, at
work, after school. I had a hard time keeping up with homework which effected
my grades. The list goes on.
The depression left me with zero
motivation. It made it hard to get things done, especially get out of bed. When
you feel like bla and nothing sounds fun and you feel like you are melted into
the bed and have no energy, even getting up is a trial. I had to even force
myself to go to work.
One day while I was driving to work I
had an attack so bad I thought my mind would shut down and I would pass out. I
was crying and sobbing so hard I could hardly see. I finally made the decision
to drive myself to the doctor’s instead of work. I didn’t understand what was happening
to me. Why was my boding doing this to me? Why didn’t God heal me?
I was given a doctor who was a
psychologist of some sort and he again suggested to me to take medicine. I
still didn’t want to have to rely on that as a crutch (as I thought of it). But the doctor didn’t give up on me. He
explained to me that my bra in was exhausted, that the medicine would give it a
break, just like a cast would support a broken bone, so it could heal. That
made sense to me so I finally agreed to try the medicine. I had hit a rock
bottom at this point and didn’t know what else to do.
The meds did help some, but just like
any drug, there is a trade off. Side effects were the main trade off for these.
Some of the side effects I have experienced over the years being on meds
include; insomnia, fatigue, head aches, burning dry eyes, burning sensation in
the skin, restless legs, shudder speech, confusion, memory loss, twitches, loss
of appetite, loss of sex drive, and mental numbness. For many years the meds they tried with me
worked great on the Anxiety, but greatly amplified the depression.
Because of all of these side effects,
especially the lack of sleep and increased depression and lack of motivation, I
couldn’t stay on a treatment for more than two or three months at a time. So it
was a constant roller coaster back and forth of brain chemistry going sideways.
In the meantime my mother was getting
worse with her depression. I pleaded with her several times to get help and
even used my experience with treatment as an example. It wasn’t perfect but it
was better than feeling all of that. But she refused. I understand why, after
what “doctors had done to her dad,” its no wonder she didn’t trust them.
Even now treatment of this “sickness”
is in its infancy. Still very little is known on what exactly is happening in
the brain and how to correct it. Even the meds they give, very little is
understood about how and why they may work.
Eventually my mother had a “breakdown.”
She still refused medical treatment and we couldn’t force her to get it. She
wasn’t eating well. She had pretty much given up taking care of herself, the
family and the house after my dad had died. I remember fixing her a meal and
making sure she ate it one day. She lost a lot of weight and became very
dehydrated.
She frequently spoke of death and dying
which had a very negative effect on my younger four siblings who were very
young when our father died.
Eventually the Relief Society president
who was visiting her was able to convince her to get help.
She spent some time in the hospital; it
wasn’t a pretty sight but at least she was getting help. I went to visit her one night and the nurse
asked me to see if I could get her to eat. I fed her like a baby. She was not
herself at all. She was like a little child; spaced off and distant. She was
afraid and cried. She nearly freaked out when she saw some nurses preparing a
bed with restraints and she was afraid that this bed was for her and they were
going to tie her down. I reassured her it was for another patient who was on
suicide watch.
Minutes later we watched a young man be
brought in by police, his hands cuffed behind his back, his wrists wrapped in
bandages. It killed me to see my mother in such a place! It killed me to see
what this “sickness” had done to her. My only glimmer of hope was that she was
finally getting the help and medication she needed.
A few days later we took her home to
stay at my brother’s house. He is a nurse and could care for her the best. The
family helped out as much as they could.
A couple of weeks later my sister and
sister-in-law were getting her up and ready to go to her doctor’s appointment.
The meds were starting to work and she was coming back to us. As they got her
up, she struggled to breathe, and then collapsed. They called an ambulance.
About an
hour later, my mom was dead in the ER.
She had
gotten a blood clot in her lungs, they couldn’t save her.
I was at church at the time. It was
Sunday. I stayed after church to participate in the choir. I did it mostly
because there was a guy in the choir I was interested in. Back then not many
people carried cell phones. I carried a pager because at the time I worked at
the University’s radio station and had to be reachable.
I got paged twice by a number I didn’t
recognize so I finally went to the church phone and called, but the number
didn’t work. It wasn’t until I got home that my sister was able to find me and
called with the sad news.
I was numb as I drove to the hospital.
My aunt hugged me so tight I think she almost broke my ribs. I remember seeing
my mom in the ER with a tube down her throat. No life. She was gone.
I remember calling my little brother
who was in the MTC getting ready for his mission. I remember hearing his sobs
after I told him the news.
He came form for a few days to attend
the funeral, then he went back and served a faithful mission.
I worried about him a lot. I knew what
it was like to have to grieve so far away from home and family and friends.
I moved home to take care of my two
youngest sisters and became their legal guardian. One was a senior in high
school, one just starting jr. high.
All this time I was still dealing with
my anxiety and depression. Now the depression was worse. I remember being in
such a dark place of grief and depression that I just didn’t came about
anything any more.
I played hockey so I started practicing
shooting pucks in the house. I broke a window and my VCR before I realized I
should do that outside.
With battling the grief, anxiety and depression,
I did the best I could to take care of my sisters and family. With all the emotion going through the
family, each member dealing with the grief in their own way, there was some
contention and strife we had to work through. It brought us closer as a family.
Time went by, my sister graduated and
went to college, soon my younger sister decided to move in with one of my other
sisters who was a stay at home mom at the time.
I had to work and couldn’t be there all the time for her.
I stayed living at the house alone for
six months so that my brother wouldn’t come home to an empty house. He came
home and life went on. We each dealt with our grief in our own ways.
Time went by and little by little this
“sickness” started manifesting in more and more of my family, siblings,
cousins, uncles. We had to come together to help each other deal with this.
Some have gotten medical help. Some
have self medicated with illegal drugs and/or alcohol – which has led to sad
consequences, some have tried alternate forms of treatment such as diet and
exercise.
For me I have come to realize from
watching my mother that I needed some kind of medical help, though I resisted
drugs for a long time and tried to regulate it through diet and exercise alone,
eventually I had to give medicine a try and was on and off them many times
trying to find a solution that worked for me over the years. As I have said,
there are always trade offs with medicine such as side effects and possible
other bodily damage, but what else could I do?
The experience over the years with
these trade-offs and side effects with the meds had become bad enough that
eventually I decided to stay off the maintenance drugs as long as possible and
just treat the anxiety attacks with my rescue drug which for me was xanax.
Xanax (pronounced - zan-axe) for me
gets me high. It’s kind of a “happy pill” that helps me relax and calm my brain
activity down to get me out of an attack. It then makes me very sleepy after
about four hours and makes me want to sleep the rest of the day. It would also
make me dizzy, extremely silly and of course I couldn’t drive. The results
being that pretty much my whole day was shot after taking one.
Contrary to some popular belief, being
“high” isn’t all that it is cracked up to be! I do not like it! I do not like
feeling out of control of myself. I don’t like the way it makes me feel, I
don’t like what it does to me – aka side effects- the only good thing is it
does do what I took it for and that is to help my brain activity calm down so
my anxiety will subside. But the trade off is a terrible price to pay!
My “sickness” has effected me at work
many times over the years. It has made me moody and killed my motivation, when
I would have an attack at work I would often have to leave my desk and find a
quiet and preferably dark place to deal with it, I found it difficult to drag
myself out of bed in the mornings to get myself to work on time. I had to force
myself to do my work if I could at all some times. So you can imagine the kind
of stress and strife it caused between me and my co-workers and me and my boss.
Eventually I would be forced to share
with my co-workers this very personal thing that was going on with me and hope
for understanding and patience, if only I could some how explain it well enough
for them to understand what it was like for me to live with this. If only I
could get them to understand how hard I was trying and how much I just wanted
to be and feel “normal” and not have this effect my life and work.
One particular time I remember sitting
in a team meeting at work with the co-workers in my department. I was
struggling with getting some of my work assignments done on time and I felt
obligated to share with them some of the things I was struggling with and hoped
that they would understand and have compassion for me.
All I had the guts to tell them was
that I was sorry that I was struggling so much and told them that I was having
difficulties in my personal life that was causing a big distraction for me and
that I was trying to do better.
What I didn’t tell them was this. The
fact that it hadn’t been that long before that my mother had passed away was
really effecting me. I was dealing with the normal grief process that comes
from losing a family member. I was still trying to adjust to now being a
“single mom” as it were as the legal guardian to my two teen aged sisters,
taking care of my brother on a mission, running the home, running the finances
as appointed by the court, dealing with other stress and strife between family
members who were moody and angry and depressed themselves from the grieving
process.
I was often doing the work of three
people at work at the time. At that time my company was brining up a new plant
in Mexico , so me and my
co-worker took turns traveling to Mexico
So, when she was down there, I did my
work, covered for her, doing her work AND did the work she sent back to me from
the plant in Mexico that for some reason they couldn’t do down there (because
she wasn’t training them).
So a database that had crashed that I
was assigned to rebuild, wasn’t getting done quick enough because I had all
this other work that took priority. I got that done on time but all that was
focused on me was what I wasn’t getting done. I was exhausted by the end of the
day and had other responsibilities to my home life and family so I couldn’t
spend extra hours there working. Plus my brain was fried by the end of the day.
Then I was also taking my turn
traveling to Mexico
On top of that, my anxiety was acting
up really bad and I was still trying to figure out my medication strategy. I
was taking meds at the time but then having to deal with the side effects. Then
add the stress of being in another country, working ten or eleven hours a day,
having to be careful of what I ate and drank so that I didn’t get sick, dealing
with really gross bathrooms, speaking in foreign language, had the
responsibility of driving myself and my co-workers safely to and from our
destinations (I was the only one who could drive a stick and had previous
experience with how crazy people drive down there), plus making sure my sisters
where doing ok with me gone…. Ya, I had a few things on my plate. But still, I
could feel the tension of my co-workers being angry at me because I couldn’t
get that data bass rebuilt fast enough. So I apologized in our meeting and
asked for understanding for the personal stuff going on in my life at that
time.
It wasn’t long before I had no choice but
to tell them about my “sickness.” They had to take me to the doctor’s one day
because I had an attack so bad I felt like I was going to pass out.
I often felt ashamed to have to admit
that I had this “weakness” to my co-workers at the different places I have
worked over the years. I wanted to be a good worker. I wanted to pull my
weight. But it was just so hard some days. It wasn’t like a cold or the flu
where you could predict an approximate date when you would feel better. I had
come to notice a pattern in me of times of the year when it seemed to be worse
than others and tried to reassure them it was just a seasonal thing, but I
could never guarantee it because no matter how much I wanted to feel better, my
body had other plans and would not cooperate.
At one place I worked, I had a
supervisor who was going to school to become a counselor for people like me. Of
all the people that I had worked with I thought this person of all the people
would understand the best when I started having problems again at work.
Unfortunately this supervisor and many
of my co-workers did not “understand” and soon lost patience with me. Many treated me as if I should just be able
to “choose” to be happy and not feel that way, pull myself up by my own
bootstraps as it were, suck it up and move on. Believe me, I do try. I do want
to. I try like a cripple tries and wants to walk but their legs just won’t
cooperate with their wishes. It does not matter how hard they try to will
themselves into a standing position, they just can’t! It is impossible!
Neither can I!
In an article she wrote on April 1, 2012,
Stephanie Gallman, an Assignment Editor for CNN News, shares her experience of
coming to terms with the depression that she experiences;
“I was raised in a "pick-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps,"
kind of a family, so while hurtful that some people immediately discounted that
I was actually sick, it was those people who don't believe depression is a real
thing that I identified (and still identify) with the most.
The sadness that comes from depression is not rooted in anything real. I'm not sad because of anyone or anything. I don't know why I am sad. I just am. I don't know why I worry about things that are so far out of my control. I just do. And I so wish that I didn't.
Most people who don't believe in depression also don't believe in being medicated for it. Their warnings to me ranged from mindful caution to downright fear that I'd become addicted to pills and turn into a zombie.
Instead of drugs, they'd say, why don't you "do more of the things that you enjoy?"
"Tend to your garden."
"Find a project, something to focus your attention on."
"Read, 'The Secret.' "
Bite me.
These patronizing ("The Secret"? Are you serious?) prescriptions infuriated me, as if the reason I wasn't happy is because I hadn't tried hard enough.”
The sadness that comes from depression is not rooted in anything real. I'm not sad because of anyone or anything. I don't know why I am sad. I just am. I don't know why I worry about things that are so far out of my control. I just do. And I so wish that I didn't.
Most people who don't believe in depression also don't believe in being medicated for it. Their warnings to me ranged from mindful caution to downright fear that I'd become addicted to pills and turn into a zombie.
Instead of drugs, they'd say, why don't you "do more of the things that you enjoy?"
"Tend to your garden."
"Find a project, something to focus your attention on."
"Read, 'The Secret.' "
Bite me.
These patronizing ("The Secret"? Are you serious?) prescriptions infuriated me, as if the reason I wasn't happy is because I hadn't tried hard enough.”
(See the whole article at the end of this
book.)
I eventually lost my job there because
of this sickness. I was having a hard time completing work and having a hard
time dragging myself to work. The supervisor said in the beginning that they
understood and would work with me as I struggled with it. I explained that I
was going back on medication and it would just take time. I told her a date
that I thought I may be doing better based on past experience. But that date
came and went and I was not doing better. The supervisor lost patience and
threw it back in my face,
“You said you would be better by now!”
I was so sick that I did not know how
to advocate for myself. I tried to get my doctor to help, but I did not know
how to explain to him that I was still very sick. I did not realize myself how
bad I was at the time. I had no motivation. I could not advocate for myself.
Besides causing strife at work, this
“sickness” has cause challenges with many other parts of my life; it effects
home life, life in my community and culture life, religion and friends life.
At home it effects my children when I
promise to take them on a fun activity then I get feeling so low I cannot get
out of bed. I hate disappointing them. It causes stress for my husband who
tries his best to care for me. He often has to do more around the house that I
should be doing but can’t get myself to do. He’s had to learn to just accept me
cleaning at 5 am in the morning or 11 o’clock at night when “I’m in the mood.”
I always tell him,
“You know I have to do this now while
I’ve got the momentum or it won’t get done.”
Thankfully he is understanding and
patient with me. He has lost a lot of sleep staying up with me for an hour or
two when I wake up with an anxiety attack and I just know I am going to “die”
without him there to make sure that I don’t.
It has made it very difficult to go to
church on many occasions as I often would have attacks there. It made me feel
very uncomfortable about getting to know people and participate because I was
afraid that eventually I would have to share with them about what was going on
with me. It made it almost impossible to attend the temple as I ALWAYS had an
attack there, maybe because I felt trapped there as once you start the session,
you feel obligated to stay – though I have had to walk out on a few occasions
because I just couldn’t handle it. The only way I could sit through a session
was doing so stoned with the xanax I would take before going. I felt bad about
that, going to the temple stoned or high. It never felt completely right. I
felt ashamed to have to do it, and weak.
I have lost friends because of this
“sickness,” people who I have reached out to for help who just didn’t
understand. They didn’t understand what was happening to me, and who could
really blame them, I didn’t understand what was happening to me either. I just
needed them to hold me in their arms and tell me it was going to be alright.
But that was too much to ask of them I guess. It didn’t matter that I was dying
inside, as long as they didn’t have to deal with it I suppose. I didn’t need
them to be my doctor, I just needed them to be my friend, and love me anyway.
Was that too much to ask?
One thing I have been taught in my
research and counseling and just good old experience is that I need a good
network of friends and family who can act as a support system for me. It does
help me to have a professional counselor, but they cannot be with me
twenty-four-seven. They are not my family, they are not my friends – who to me
are the same as family. The friends who have left me, have broken my heart into
so many pieces. I do not understand
their fear of me. Do they think I am crazy? Do they think I am dangerous
because I have a brain chemistry deficiency? Do they think it will turn me into
someone I’m not? Do they think I will turn into someone who will hurt them.
I am only me, even when I am sick. The
brain can only work with what is already inside of it. If I eat a cheeseburger
and later get sick do I throw up lasagna? Why would my brain “throw up”
something that is not in it? Why would I become something I am not? Why have
some of my “friends” treated me this way? Why have they become angry when I was
seeking for help?
The experience reminds me of something
the prophet Joseph Smith wrote about his experience of sharing his vision of
Heavenly Father and Jesus when he wrote,
“…and being of very tender years, and
persecuted by those who ought to have been my friends and to have treated me
kindly, and if they supposed me to be deluded to have endeavored in a proper
and affectionate manner to have reclaimed me – I was left…”
(Joseph Smith History Chapter 1 verse 28)
And so I was by these people who were
once my friends, “I was left.”
I was
left by friends at work. I was left by friends at church. I was left by people
who should have known better. I was left.
My one plea
to anyone who is in the middle of this trial is: Don't give up! It can get
better - Sherri
It seems that throughout the years that
I have struggled with this, every time I get really sick I lose friends who
didn’t understand. They didn’t understand how much they were helping me until
they gave up on me. I know what happens to me can be hard to deal with. I know
I can be hard on them. I do not mean to but I am. I get moody, I get angry, I
lack motivation, I need some of their time. I need them as someone to talk to,
to talk it out of me what I am feeling. I need them to help me get healthy. I
need them to put their arms around me and say “It’s ok.” I need. But eventually I lose some of them.
My tears have not ceased. It kills my
self esteem. It makes me wonder if someday I will end up like my grandfather,
locked away in a hospital for the rest of my life. It makes me wonder if I will
ever be able to have a “normal” life – what ever that is. It makes me wonder
who I can trust with this. It makes me wonder if telling people and seeking
their help is a bad decision.
Why couldn’t I stop myself from the
emotional break downs it gives me? Why wasn’t I strong enough?
Perhaps it is better that I chose to
suffer this thing alone. Then at least I can keep my friends. I may have to
hide in a cave for a few months every now and then so that they do not experience
me being sick. But at least I will still have my friends. They won’t think I am
“weird.” They won’t have to be afraid of me.
I decided to create a type of support
web page to help me and others like me. I asked some people that I know who
also have a form of Brain Chemistry Deficiency (or BCD) to help contribute with
some of their thoughts, feelings and experiences.
One
of my contributors whose spouse and child have a Bi-Polar condition shared
this:
“I
too have dealt with a BCD. My husband of 28 years, and now my daughter, 15
years old, are afflicted with bi-polar II disorder. In case you are not aware,
BP II consists of periods of mania, depression, and mixed episodes. Mixed episodes
are times when both mania and depression are evident. BP II is one of the most
difficult BCDs to correctly identify and treat. There are many symptoms of this
disorder, but impulsive behavior, broken relationships, and suicide are some of
the big ones….
…Most people with BP II have it for 15
years before it is diagnosed and go through 2 to 3 failed relationships…
…At one time my husband and I were at
the brink of divorce. At many times he was suicidal. For ten years he was
inactive in the church. (We were both returned missionaries who married in the
temple and have raised 7 children together.)…
… My one plea to anyone who is in the
middle of this trial is: Don't give up! It can get better…
At this point in time, I have come to
realize that mental illness is simply one of many trials that we may be
subjected to in this life. It has a purpose similar to other trials of life. In
my mind, the purpose of these trials is to teach us to love unconditionally, as
Christ does; to teach us that each life has immense unconditional value; and to
teach us to come unto Christ to be healed from the emotional, physical, and
spiritual injuries of this life. Christ is the great healer, the light, and the
life. He will be the one ultimately, who will bring us up out of the grip of
these diseases and their effects, and who will bring us peace. I have
experienced this healing myself, and testify that it can come…”
(See the whole article at the end of this
book.)
Seems the people that have been there
the most for me are my friends on my hockey team and people who either suffer
the same thing as me or have people in their family who suffer some kind of
brain chemistry deficiency.
So continuing on with my experience I
eventually (after dating like a million guys) met Tim. He is such a wonderful
man! But you can imagine my fear and worry about how he would handle my brain
chemistry issues.
But he had been very wonderful and
supportive of me. He has brought such and indescribable happiness into my life.
We dated for about six months and were married October 21, 2005 in the court
house in Farmington Utah
We so wanted to be married in the
temple because we are both LDS, but we could not at the time because Tim had
been married before in the temple to his ex-wife. It would take time to get the
paperwork done to get permission from the church leaders for him to get married
in the temple again.
Two years later our dream was realized
as the permission had come and we were married for time and all eternity in the
Salt Lake City
We had one son from Tim’s second
marriage and had adopted two more boys. On October 20, 2009 we took them to the
Bountiful Utah
Sadly for me, one of those friends who
were with us later chose to abandon our friendship a few years later when I got
really sick again. She didn’t want to deal with it I guess. I really don’t know
what her issue was. She said I was “weird.”
I confided in her what I was going
through, asked her permission to have her be part of my support system to help
me. She agreed to do so and asked me to teach her what to do.
So I tried to do that. I have no idea
to this day what I did to turn her against me. I was just trying to be a good
friend to her. I just needed her to keep being a friend to me and be someone I
could talk to when I needed it.
The really sad part of all of this for
me is that she was really helping me and being there for me in a way that was
really needed to help me feel better. I just wanted to get better and not hurt
any one in the process. I do not have a clue what I did wrong.
Some of the things she said to me made
me feel like she somehow had been “indoctrinated” about the false stigmas that
are out there about people with mental health issues. I know it’s hard to
believe, but the majority of us are not axe murderers. We are just normal happy
people who get knocked down once in a while by something we cannot control. We
just want to get back up and continue on with a normal life and be a good
contributing member of society.
So my story moves on. Tim is very
helpful and loving. He is very supportive when I have anxiety attacks and
depression. I often ask for blessings from him that help and comfort me a lot.
I know my Heavenly Father and Savoir Jesus Christ are watching over me and
comforting me. Even more than my “happy pill” ever could!
Even with losing some friends, he has
blessed me with many others who have been very understanding and supportive,
and just fun to be around. But I still miss the ones I’ve lost very much. I
still love them and wish we were friends and could talk like nothing was wrong,
enjoy each other’s company and be involved in the joy of each others’ lives, like
friends – sisters- should. Mind you, I did not entrust strangers to these
personal things, these were friends I love very much and trusted very highly
before opening up to them. I felt close to them and confident they would be
there for me. That’s why it hurts so bad to lose them. That is why their
rejection of me is so very painful. I will always still love them and consider
them my friends, even if they no longer consider me theirs. I miss them terribly and often cry over their
loss.
My little boy sees me sad and asks why.
I try to explain to him in a way a six-year-old can understand.
“Mommy is sad because she misses her
friends who don’t want to be her friends any more because Mommy is sick.”
He says, “I will say a prayer Mommy
that they will be your friends again.” And then he does.
“Heavenly Father, please bless that
Mommy’s friends will be her friends again.”
So for most of our marriage I tried to
stay off “maintenance” drugs – as I call them – as much as possible and only
use the rescue “happy pill” to control the anxiety, because thus far any meds I
have been on bring out the depression and other side effects so bad, eventually
I cannot function. At this point in time I am only working with my family
doctor even though my cousin has suggested several times to go to a specialist,
I just don’t know where to go to find that or who to trust. I have pretty much
given up on doctors being able to help me any more and just deal with it.
The lack of motivation from the
depression doesn’t help either. It’s hard to get motivated to get treatment
when you don’t even feel like getting out of bed. Plus I had visions in my head
of having to go back on meds and trying this and trying that and a whole slue
of side effects and more misery.
Anger – anger is another emotion I deal
with a lot when my chemistry goes sideways. It’s not directed at anything or any body. I
have no desire to hurt any one or do anything bad. I just get moody and ornery.
I feel such rage but can’t understand why and am ever so careful not to take it
out on any body. I am not always successful. I lose patience sometimes and am
not nice to people which I regret deeply. I beat myself up for my failures.
This is why I try to stay away from
people when I feel this way. I hate the anger.
So about two years ago I started realizing
that my brain chemistry imbalances where getting really bad again. I fought for
a long time the thought of having to go on medication.
Many days my brain got so bad I felt
like my mind was spinning, I couldn’t catch my breath and I was having tunnel
vision. It felt like my brain was shutting down and it was going to explode! I
felt like I had a sensation of falling in my mind. I couldn’t get my brain to
function right! It was so frustrating! It was interfering with my life. It was
interfering with my happiness!
Finally I gave in. I was so exhausted
both mentally and physically. My nerves literally felt like they were frayed
and about to burst.
I had so
me old
meds left over so I started taking them again to start to get some relief until
I could get in to see my family doctor.
I told him about the side effects I
always experienced and especially about how the meds helped the anxiety but
greatly intensified the depression.
He explained that up until now the all
the different meds I had tried up to this point had only treated one brain
chemical. He suggested a different med that treated an additional chemical that
they theorized helped prevent depression.
I kept asking him why. Why was this
happening to me? What was happening to me? What was going on in my body?
He couldn’t really give me a good
answer and didn’t really take a lot of time with me to really find out all that
was going on. He just said it was “genetics.”
So I stopped taking the old medicine
for a couple of days to get it out of my system before I started taking the new
meds he gave me.
Then March 30, 2011 happened. I was at
work and felt a sudden anxiety attack come on. It was so strong and powerful
that I eventually collapsed in the hall where I was trying to “walk it off” as
I often did.
I got an ambulance ride to the hospital
and found myself in the ER. I was sobbing uncontrollably and couldn’t figure
out why. Why was this happening to me? Why was my body doing this to me and
ruining my life? It seemed like it just kept getting more and more worse over
the years. I am still young. How much more can I take? How much worse can it
get before my brain explodes and I am not me any more? Why can’t I make my
brain work? Why can’t I be normal?
Well they drugged me up pretty good
with something to calm my brain down. I was pretty stoned by the time Tim
arrived. I just kept crying and crying to him. Why was this happening?
I had to endure someone coming and
interviewing me with some questions I felt very humiliated and embarrassed
about, some of them being;
“Do you feel suicidal?
Do you feel homicidal?
Do you want to hurt yourself?
Do you want to hurt someone else?
Do you cut yourself?
Have you ever thought about suicide?
Have you ever made a plan about how you
would kill yourself?”
This made me feel very sad that this is
the way people thought about me. I didn’t want to die. I wanted to live! I
wanted to live and be happy and have a normal life. But I didn’t know how.
But there was some hope and this turned
out to be a great blessing. Because of this I was able to talk to the right
people to find some specialists to give me help.
I was referred to a medical prescriber
who was an expert in the field of medicine that treats BCD. He actually took the time to interview me to
learn my history and what I had experienced on the different medicines that I
had been on.
He agreed on my family doctor’s choice
of the new meds to put my on that would treat both brain chemicals but he also
added another medicine that would counter the side effects. That second med has
been the missing key to my treatment and has made all the difference in the
world! I have been on this treatment and had some minor adjustments in the
first few months now for over a year and I have only had to take my “happy
pill” to rescue me once in the beginning months when my body was still
adjusting to the treatment.
So I do not have to worry about
insomnia any more, nor twitches, my restless legs are not completely gone but
they are mostly gone and very manageable to the point that I usually only
notice them when I am first going to sleep; but after I am out, no problems.
I was also set up with a counselor to
help me through the process of adjusting to these challenges I faced and my
self doubts and worries as well as teach me coping skills and positive thinking
methods (which I already knew a lot and am a positive thinking person in nature
already) to help me be healthy.
This new treatment of meds worked so
fast the first few weeks in relieving my symptoms that I couldn’t believe it.
And apparently, neither could my body.
As I have said before, there is always
a trade off when you take drugs, and I had no idea at the time the storm that
was coming my way.
Months before when I was having a real
rough go of it, I asked Tim to give me a blessing. In the blessing he was
inspired to promise me that a cure was coming, that I would no longer have to
suffer with these symptoms. I marveled at that and tried to have faith, this
was such a wonderful promise, but I wondered how God would do it, not that he
couldn’t do it, just wondered how it would happen and when.
A couple of weeks later I was having a
rough time again and Tim gave me another blessing. This time he was inspired to
tell me that things were going to get worse, but that I would be able to endure
it.
“What the…?” I thought. What happened
to the last blessing? Well, I thought at
first maybe the blessings came backwards. I did get worse and ended up in the
hospital. But then I got better when a treatment was found for me that worked.
But now as I look back at those
blessings, perhaps they did come in the right order. I got better, then things
got worse. So far I have endured, but at a great cost and very painful.
Looking back at the experience I was
about to have I have often told Tim that although it was a great blessing to
finally have a treatment that was working to relive the symptoms of my BCD, the
transition my body went through for the next several months and how it effected
me and my life and decisions made by my friends to leave me felt like I had
traded one hell for another.
Let’s just say if I had known what was
coming I would have hid in a cave and told my friends to buckle up because we
were all in for a bumpy ride with me.
What the
“Sickness” does to me…
During
my counseling and treatment I was encouraged to keep a journal to help me deal
with the things and emotions that were happening to me. Here is one of the
entries I wrote:
“July
10, 2011
Hello,
my name is Shauna and I have “BCD.” This is my own term that I have created; it
means “Brain Chemistry Deficiency.”
The
medical world calls it “Mental Illness,” but this is a term I despise. To me,
“Mental Illness” has a bad stigma attached to it of an out of control, psycho
type, “Hollywood” fictitious character image when the truth is, something in
our bodies prevents us from producing the correct portions of chemicals that
the human brain and nervous system need to function correctly in the transmission
and reception of messages in the brain – such as we understand it thus far.
This
misalignment of needed chemicals can cause several symptoms and behaviors in
people, depending on the types of chemicals that are out of balance and the
combination of the different possible proportions.
This
is no different than a person who has a condition such as diabetes wherein
their body does not produce the correct amount of insulin. The difference
result being they cannot process sugars the way their body needs them to.
In
a person with BCD the brain cannot process transmissions the way it needs to
and can cause malfunctions in thoughts and behaviors.”
In
one of my sessions with my counselor I asked her to explain to me what was
happening to me physically to cause this. In all the years of treatment and
doctors I had seen, no one could really tell me nor explain what was going on
and how to explain to myself what was happening to me.
How It All
Works (in theory of course)
|
|
There
is a part of your brain called the Amygdala – or more commonly know as the “fight
or flight” part of the brain. It is located at the bottom of the brain, near
the brain stem.
“The
amygdala determines possible threats, based on stored memories of frightening
situations and prior knowledge of received data and analyzes any emotional
significance attached to the received information.
Defensive
and aggressive behavior is initially mediated by the amygdala, as its role is
to receive stimuli, then alert the hypothalamus (another part of the fight or
flight brain system) via neural impulses to initiate the fight or flight
response, which may save your life in dangerous situations.”
- Parts of the Brain Involved in Fight or
Flight by Melissa Sherrared, eHow contributor.
The
theory is that unbalanced chemicals can cause the amygdala to misfire and cause
heightened anxiety and panic with out and real threat or danger present to act
as stimuli.
In
short, you body wants to freak out but your logic argues with it because
clearly you can see there is no danger around you.
This
is my “anxiety disorder.” Continuing in my journal entry, I have described it
my own eloquent way using my own words. Anxiety is just one of the symptoms I
feel. If I were to name this BCD by the symptoms I feel, it would be called
something more like this:
“Totally
freaked out of my mind, why do I feel like I can’t breathe? Why are all my
muscles tensing up, my chest feels like a fifty pound weight is on it, my chest
also feels like it is being bound with cords so strong I can’t catch my breath.
I can’t slow down my breathing. I can’t catch my breath. Why do I feel like I
just ran a marathon? My heart is pounding, the walls are closing in. Maybe I
really AM dying this time! My lips are going numb, my hands are tingling and
cramping up, I am losing my mind, am I really here? I feel hot. I feel cold. I
can’t stop shaking. I feel chilled to the bone. Pace, pace, I must pace until I
wear out the carpet. No I DON’T know what’s wrong with me! I’ve got to go to
the bathroom! I think my intestines just evacuated my last three meals. I feel
like I am going to vomit. Why am I sweating so much? All my body aches! I need
to go to the ER! I don’t need to go to the ER. I need to go to the ER! I don’t
need to go to the ER. Is the ground moving or are we still in the elevator? I
feel dizzy. I feel like I am going to pass out. My mind won’t stop racing. My
brain feels numb. Nothing makes sense. Time has slowed down. I feel like my
brain is shutting down. What is wrong with me? Did I mention I feel freaked out
of my mind? When are the drugs going to kick in? What do you mean it’s only
been five minutes? It feels like four hours ago that I took them! My back and
chest ache from my muscles tensing up so tight. Why can’t I get them to relax?
I feel like I am being crushed by my own body! I need a drink of water.
Everything is so scary! I need to sit down on the floor and hold my head. I
need to rock back and forth. Now I need to pace again. I can’t sit still. My
heart won’t stop pounding. I feel a lump in my throat. I can’t swallow. I can’t
stop coughing! I feel like I am losing it. I feel like my brain is going to
explode! And oh ya, I am freaking out of my freaking mind! Where is Tim?!!!
Yep,
that’s what I would call it!”
My
secondary symptom is the depression. This just sucks the life and motivation
out of me. I don’t feel like doing anything and I feel like crying all the
time, but the tears just do not come. Nothing matters, I don’t matter, what’s
the use? Why try? I just want to lie down and fade into nothingness.
There
have been quite a few times over the years that I have gone through the above
described symptoms of both anxiety and depression. One time in particular, not
too long ago before I found a treatment that worked for me, my brain chemistry
had gotten really bad and I was experiencing many of the symptoms I have
described, particularly feeling like my mind was spinning, spinning so much and
feeling like my brain was shutting down. I sat on the bathroom floor, head in
my hands, rocking back and forth in pain and mental anguish, sobbing, angry,
frustrated that I couldn’t make my brain work right. What was wrong with me?
Why couldn’t I just stop it? Why couldn’t I control it? I just didn’t know how
much more I could take.
Every
day it seemed to get worse. How was I going to endure many more years of this occurring
on a daily basis for the rest of my life? My brain continued to spin and felt
like it was blacking out. It felt like it was shorting out. All the other
physical symptoms I was having on top of it made it feel like I couldn’t take
it any more! I was losing it! There was no way I could endure this to the end,
not like this, not with this pain, not with this mental torture.
I
reached into my pocket, I pulled out a .40 caliber bullet. I rolled it’s shinny
copper point between my fingers and thumb, sensing its metallic feel and
noticing its weight. In it’s reflection I saw my release from the mental pain
and prison that I was in.
Perhaps
this was the only antidote to this problem. It would be so simple, just use the
instrument it was made for and put it in my head. All the pain would be gone,
instantly! No more feeling like I was going crazy. No more mental pain. No more
physical pain and gut wrenching symptoms. My spirit would finally be released from this torturous
prison it was being held captive in. The thought seeped into me like a bad drug.
The buzz, the high of it all settling in as I put the cold metal to my forehead
to test it’s feel.
One
moment of courage is all I would need; one final movement of my finger to
release the cure into my brain. Then all would be quiet. All would be still. The
cure would be permanent. There would be no going back.
I
savored the thought of the feeling of being released from this pain. It was a
cold dark soothing feeling. But then I began to think of my family. I thought about
Tim and my boys. I knew that it would cause them great pain. I knew I would hurt
a lot of others if I left. But what could I do? Nothing was fixing this! Not
even my “happy pill” was very effective any more, even with increasing the
dose.
I
sobbed some more. I knew this was a one way ticket solution. I knew the choice
could effect my eternal out come.
“I
don’t want to die,” I pleaded with my Heavenly Father, “I just want the pain to
go away. I have had enough! I can’t take any more! I am about to break!”
Somehow
I was given the strength to hold on a little bit longer. I eventually decided
to try long term medication again.
This
is when the incident of me going to the hospital ER and finally finding the
right doctors and specialists to help me happened in my life. This is when I was greatly blessed to finally
find the right medicine to help me. I didn’t even need my “happy pill” any
more. I came off the happy pill treatment. I started feeling better pretty
fast. It seemed to only take a few weeks before the anxiety and depression and
feelings of my brain spinning and shutting down to go away. The pain had gone
away! It was a miracle to me to have this finally happen.
But
even with that, as I have said before about drugs, there is always a trade off,
and one was coming my way that would prove to be yet another great trial for
me. And as I have mentioned earlier, for a very long time it felt like I had
only traded one hell for another. I still struggle with it. The hurt will not leave
me.
Dropping the
'D-Bomb' April 1, 2012
Editor's
note: Stephanie Gallman, a CNN assignment editor, was diagnosed with depression
last year despite being a frequent exerciser, a fairly healthy eater and an
avid fan of Hula-Hoops.
(CNN) --
In August, after several months of seeing a therapist and a psychiatrist, I was
diagnosed with depression.
The news came as a shock.
"I'm not depressed," I said defiantly, shaking my head when the doctor deducted that must be what was ailing me.
The news came as a shock.
"I'm not depressed," I said defiantly, shaking my head when the doctor deducted that must be what was ailing me.
"I
hate depressed people."
She laughed at my strange reaction, but I was serious. I don't want to be in that category of people. Everything they take in and spew out just breathes negativity, and they are difficult to be around. I despise these people.
But as she went down a list of symptoms, they were all there -- loss of appetite, trouble sleeping, waves of irrational anxiety, crying for no reason, loss of interest in work and hobbies, isolation and seclusion. I had nearly every one of them.
We went over my personal history, which included severe bouts with anxiety as a child, teenager, college student and young adult. I told her I assumed all kids were scared of dying, all teenage girls struggled with weight and eating issues, all college students struggled leaving the nest and everyone had a quarter-life crisis. My severe highs and lows that spanned a long period of time were all red flags.
When I told her my family history of mental illness that included at least one suicide, she threw her pen down on the floor as if this years-long mystery had finally been solved.
"It sounds to me like your body just doesn't produce enough serotonin," she said, matter-of-factly.
Her diagnosis sounded quite clinical. We'd only talked for an hour, but she seemed certain, based on our conversation and the briefing she'd had with my therapist, that my body's chemistry was simply off, causing me to feel down. She threw in slight OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder) for good measure, to which I scoffed, thinking of the clothes strewn about my house.
"Your OCD is in your thoughts -- you think about things to the point of obsessing about them."
Well, that's just awesome.
I agreed with her that I had been going through a slump but wondered if her diagnosis was a bit dramatic. I've always been a firm believer that happiness is a choice. I'm an optimist, so if I'm not happy, there has to be a reason for it. Could these feelings be the result of job stress? The on-again/off-again relationship I'd been fighting to make work for almost a year?
She nodded as I posed these questions and then said, "Sure, it's possible that all of these things could've contributed to how you're feeling. But it's also possible, and quite likely for you, that none of them did."
She advised me, as a frequent exerciser and fairly healthy eater, to continue those activities before she said what I'd feared the most.
"I think an antidepressant might help stabilize some of the chemicals in your brain."
I continued to challenge her, wanting to know how long I'd have to be medicated. She could tell I was anxious and looking for a solution to this problem that didn't involve drugs. But she was already writing a prescription and scheduling our next visit.
"For some people," she explained, "happiness isn't a choice. You wanting to be happy and expecting it to just happen is the equivalent of someone with brown eyes wanting blue eyes and expecting that to just happen."
I wasn't thrilled with the diagnosis, but her explanation made sense to me and made me feel better.
Still, I refused to let myself completely off the hook, and as I left her office, I set forth on a path of self-discovery to identify how my actions might've contributed to how I felt -- a path that quickly brought up the ever-confusing chicken and egg game.
Did I isolate myself from my friends because I was depressed? Or did I become depressed because I isolated myself from my friends?
I was more hesitant than usual to keep what was going on to myself, telling only my family and those closest to me at the time what the doctor had said. Soon it became clear that I needed the support of more than a select few if I was going to get through this. Plus, it's not like me not to share what's going on in my life. And isolating myself, I suspected, was partly to blame for being in this situation in the first place. So, at the inappropriate places and the most inopportune times I could find, I began dropping the "D-bomb."
That's usually how I'd open the conversation, "Um, I have to tell you something. It might feel like a bomb, but I'm OK and everything is fine." As I started to open up about it -- I started to feel more like myself -- the Stephanie who isn't embarrassed by life's setbacks, who tackles difficult situations with humor and honesty.
No surprise, the wonderful people in my life have all been very kind and sympathetic, offering words of comfort and support, but reaction and willingness to talk openly about the disease has varied.
I was raised in a "pick-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps," kind of a family, so while hurtful that some people immediately discounted that I was actually sick, it was those people who don't believe depression is a real thing that I identified (and still identify) with the most.
The sadness that comes from depression is not rooted in anything real. I'm not sad because of anyone or anything. I don't know why I am sad. I just am. I don't know why I worry about things that are so far out of my control. I just do. And I so wish that I didn't.
Most people who don't believe in depression also don't believe in being medicated for it. Their warnings to me ranged from mindful caution to downright fear that I'd become addicted to pills and turn into a zombie.
Instead of drugs, they'd say, why don't you "do more of the things that you enjoy?"
"Tend to your garden."
"Find a project, something to focus your attention on."
"Read, 'The Secret.' "
Bite me.
These patronizing ("The Secret"? Are you serious?) prescriptions infuriated me, as if the reason I wasn't happy is because I hadn't tried hard enough.
A lot of the people reacted to the D-bomb the same way I did -- "You're depressed?! You? Stephanie Gallman? But you're one of the happiest people that I know! You Hula-Hoop in Walmart!" (I really do Hula-Hoop in Walmart -- every time I go.)
These are the people I wanted to reach out and hug; they made me feel like I hadn't turned into Debbie Downer.
It's true, to the outside world, I do appear happy. And I realize this is hard to grasp, even for me, but I am happy most of the time. I am fully aware of how blessed my life is and express gratitude for it daily. I have worked hard not to let what's going on with me on the inside affect the way I present myself on the outside.
I guess you could say, I've become a Hula-Hoop in Walmart on the outside, want-to-crawl-into-bed-on-the-inside kind of gal; depression, until now, was my dirty little secret.
My happy-go-lucky cheerful attitude is the element of my personality that I am most proud of. This other part -- that obsessively thinks about things I cannot control, is self-loathing and uncertain -- is also a part of who I am; unfortunately, it's the part that has been screaming the loudest lately.
The third, and perhaps the most popular reaction to my dropping the "D-bomb," has been the barrage of friends divulging their personal connections to mental illnesses.
"My mom has bipolar. ... My uncle has been clinically depressed for years."
I was dumbfounded. I wanted to scream like Adam Sandler in "The Wedding Singer": "Gee, you know that information ... really would've been more useful to me yesterday!" Why isn't anyone talking about these illnesses that affect our most important body part -- our brain?
Last summer, I bought a poster that said, "Everything is OK. Maybe not today, but eventually." I framed it and hung it near my bed where I wake up every day and see it.
On my best day, I believe that quote to be absolutely true. I am attacking this diagnosis with every bit of energy and every resource that I have.
On my worst day, I feel like a different person -- tired and unfocused and desperate to feel like the real, fun, positive Stephanie I know is somewhere trapped inside me. I feel let down by the world but too exhausted to go out and change it.
Admitting I suffer from depression and anxiety has, at times, made me feel weak -- like I'm admitting defeat. I am hard on myself for no reason. I'm pissed that despite having every reason to be happy, sometimes I'm not.
My relationships have suffered -- some ruined completely -- because of this disease; some are of my own doing, not trusting those dearest to me and asking for help when I needed it. Others bowed out, not interested in riding this difficult and often unpredictable journey. I can't blame anyone for making that decision, but I'd like to think that even at my worst, I'm worthy of honesty, compassion and understanding.
Anyone who would judge me for this weakness that I've identified and am treating probably isn't someone I would want to work for or date anyway.
I am someone who struggles with her brain the way that others struggle with their heart.
I love deeply and laugh loudly.
I work hard; I play harder. And I always Hula-Hoop at Walmart.
For information on depression and treatment, go to the National Institute of Mental Health website.
[The opinions expressed in this commentary are solely those of Stephanie Gallman.]
She laughed at my strange reaction, but I was serious. I don't want to be in that category of people. Everything they take in and spew out just breathes negativity, and they are difficult to be around. I despise these people.
But as she went down a list of symptoms, they were all there -- loss of appetite, trouble sleeping, waves of irrational anxiety, crying for no reason, loss of interest in work and hobbies, isolation and seclusion. I had nearly every one of them.
We went over my personal history, which included severe bouts with anxiety as a child, teenager, college student and young adult. I told her I assumed all kids were scared of dying, all teenage girls struggled with weight and eating issues, all college students struggled leaving the nest and everyone had a quarter-life crisis. My severe highs and lows that spanned a long period of time were all red flags.
When I told her my family history of mental illness that included at least one suicide, she threw her pen down on the floor as if this years-long mystery had finally been solved.
"It sounds to me like your body just doesn't produce enough serotonin," she said, matter-of-factly.
Her diagnosis sounded quite clinical. We'd only talked for an hour, but she seemed certain, based on our conversation and the briefing she'd had with my therapist, that my body's chemistry was simply off, causing me to feel down. She threw in slight OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder) for good measure, to which I scoffed, thinking of the clothes strewn about my house.
"Your OCD is in your thoughts -- you think about things to the point of obsessing about them."
Well, that's just awesome.
I agreed with her that I had been going through a slump but wondered if her diagnosis was a bit dramatic. I've always been a firm believer that happiness is a choice. I'm an optimist, so if I'm not happy, there has to be a reason for it. Could these feelings be the result of job stress? The on-again/off-again relationship I'd been fighting to make work for almost a year?
She nodded as I posed these questions and then said, "Sure, it's possible that all of these things could've contributed to how you're feeling. But it's also possible, and quite likely for you, that none of them did."
She advised me, as a frequent exerciser and fairly healthy eater, to continue those activities before she said what I'd feared the most.
"I think an antidepressant might help stabilize some of the chemicals in your brain."
I continued to challenge her, wanting to know how long I'd have to be medicated. She could tell I was anxious and looking for a solution to this problem that didn't involve drugs. But she was already writing a prescription and scheduling our next visit.
"For some people," she explained, "happiness isn't a choice. You wanting to be happy and expecting it to just happen is the equivalent of someone with brown eyes wanting blue eyes and expecting that to just happen."
I wasn't thrilled with the diagnosis, but her explanation made sense to me and made me feel better.
Still, I refused to let myself completely off the hook, and as I left her office, I set forth on a path of self-discovery to identify how my actions might've contributed to how I felt -- a path that quickly brought up the ever-confusing chicken and egg game.
Did I isolate myself from my friends because I was depressed? Or did I become depressed because I isolated myself from my friends?
I was more hesitant than usual to keep what was going on to myself, telling only my family and those closest to me at the time what the doctor had said. Soon it became clear that I needed the support of more than a select few if I was going to get through this. Plus, it's not like me not to share what's going on in my life. And isolating myself, I suspected, was partly to blame for being in this situation in the first place. So, at the inappropriate places and the most inopportune times I could find, I began dropping the "D-bomb."
That's usually how I'd open the conversation, "Um, I have to tell you something. It might feel like a bomb, but I'm OK and everything is fine." As I started to open up about it -- I started to feel more like myself -- the Stephanie who isn't embarrassed by life's setbacks, who tackles difficult situations with humor and honesty.
No surprise, the wonderful people in my life have all been very kind and sympathetic, offering words of comfort and support, but reaction and willingness to talk openly about the disease has varied.
I was raised in a "pick-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps," kind of a family, so while hurtful that some people immediately discounted that I was actually sick, it was those people who don't believe depression is a real thing that I identified (and still identify) with the most.
The sadness that comes from depression is not rooted in anything real. I'm not sad because of anyone or anything. I don't know why I am sad. I just am. I don't know why I worry about things that are so far out of my control. I just do. And I so wish that I didn't.
Most people who don't believe in depression also don't believe in being medicated for it. Their warnings to me ranged from mindful caution to downright fear that I'd become addicted to pills and turn into a zombie.
Instead of drugs, they'd say, why don't you "do more of the things that you enjoy?"
"Tend to your garden."
"Find a project, something to focus your attention on."
"Read, 'The Secret.' "
Bite me.
These patronizing ("The Secret"? Are you serious?) prescriptions infuriated me, as if the reason I wasn't happy is because I hadn't tried hard enough.
A lot of the people reacted to the D-bomb the same way I did -- "You're depressed?! You? Stephanie Gallman? But you're one of the happiest people that I know! You Hula-Hoop in Walmart!" (I really do Hula-Hoop in Walmart -- every time I go.)
These are the people I wanted to reach out and hug; they made me feel like I hadn't turned into Debbie Downer.
It's true, to the outside world, I do appear happy. And I realize this is hard to grasp, even for me, but I am happy most of the time. I am fully aware of how blessed my life is and express gratitude for it daily. I have worked hard not to let what's going on with me on the inside affect the way I present myself on the outside.
I guess you could say, I've become a Hula-Hoop in Walmart on the outside, want-to-crawl-into-bed-on-the-inside kind of gal; depression, until now, was my dirty little secret.
My happy-go-lucky cheerful attitude is the element of my personality that I am most proud of. This other part -- that obsessively thinks about things I cannot control, is self-loathing and uncertain -- is also a part of who I am; unfortunately, it's the part that has been screaming the loudest lately.
The third, and perhaps the most popular reaction to my dropping the "D-bomb," has been the barrage of friends divulging their personal connections to mental illnesses.
"My mom has bipolar. ... My uncle has been clinically depressed for years."
I was dumbfounded. I wanted to scream like Adam Sandler in "The Wedding Singer": "Gee, you know that information ... really would've been more useful to me yesterday!" Why isn't anyone talking about these illnesses that affect our most important body part -- our brain?
Last summer, I bought a poster that said, "Everything is OK. Maybe not today, but eventually." I framed it and hung it near my bed where I wake up every day and see it.
On my best day, I believe that quote to be absolutely true. I am attacking this diagnosis with every bit of energy and every resource that I have.
On my worst day, I feel like a different person -- tired and unfocused and desperate to feel like the real, fun, positive Stephanie I know is somewhere trapped inside me. I feel let down by the world but too exhausted to go out and change it.
Admitting I suffer from depression and anxiety has, at times, made me feel weak -- like I'm admitting defeat. I am hard on myself for no reason. I'm pissed that despite having every reason to be happy, sometimes I'm not.
My relationships have suffered -- some ruined completely -- because of this disease; some are of my own doing, not trusting those dearest to me and asking for help when I needed it. Others bowed out, not interested in riding this difficult and often unpredictable journey. I can't blame anyone for making that decision, but I'd like to think that even at my worst, I'm worthy of honesty, compassion and understanding.
Anyone who would judge me for this weakness that I've identified and am treating probably isn't someone I would want to work for or date anyway.
I am someone who struggles with her brain the way that others struggle with their heart.
I love deeply and laugh loudly.
I work hard; I play harder. And I always Hula-Hoop at Walmart.
For information on depression and treatment, go to the National Institute of Mental Health website.
[The opinions expressed in this commentary are solely those of Stephanie Gallman.]
Kirby & Sherri - Bipolar Experience - March
2012 (www.LDSBCDSUPPORT.com)
“I often think the biggest problem with finding competent
doctors to help is the arrogance of the doctors themselves. If the patient is
fairly intelligent, especially a logical thinker, he/she can out-think the
so-called specialists at every turn, using the same words/phrases the doctors
use to rationalize or cover up the root problems, eg. stating that he/she was
overly tired, had been working too long supporting everyone else, and letting
it come to a head.
Another specific instance I recall is when a psychologist told me he “now understands why you have difficulties in interviews”, but he never elaborated, not in that session, or any subsequent session. If you have the answer (at least in your own mind), shouldn’t it be shared with the afflicted? At least, that’s my (logical) thinking.”
- Kirby
Hi, I'm Sherri. Shauna asked me if I would contribute to her U-2 site.
I-2 have dealt with a BCD. My husband of 28 years, and now my daughter, 15 years old, are afflicted with bi-polar II disorder. In case you are not aware, BP II consists of periods of mania, depression, and mixed episodes. Mixed episodes are times when both mania and depression are evident. BP II is one of the most difficult BCDs to correctly identify and treat. There are many symptoms of this disorder, but impulsive behavior, broken relationships, and suicide are some of the big ones.
I have learned many things over the span of years that my family has dealt with this issue. I will try to elaborate on some of them briefly. Someday, I may write a book--because that is the length of article I would have to write to effectively cover this span of years and the lessons I have learned—stay tuned :).
At this point in time, I have come to realize that mental illness is simply one of many trials that we may be subjected to in this life. It has a purpose similar to other trials of life. In my mind, the purpose of these trials is to teach us to love unconditionally, as Christ does; to teach us that each life has immense unconditional value; and to teach us to come unto Christ to be healed from the emotional, physical, and spiritual injuries of this life. Christ is the great healer, the light, and the life. He will be the one ultimately, who will bring us up out of the grip of these diseases and their effects, and who will bring us peace. I have experienced this healing myself, and testify that it can come.
This is not a simple process or an easy road. It is one that has literally taken me 28 years to traverse. There is much difficulty in this journey. I would not in any way try to simplify it or make light of the suffering incurred by anyone who is subjected to these trials, but I would offer hope.
At one time my husband and I were at the brink of divorce. At many times he was suicidal. For ten years he was inactive in the church. (We were both returned missionaries who married in the temple and have raised 7 children together.) A few weeks ago, my husband and I spent time together in two temples with extended family and he currently serves in a branch presidency. Our love is stronger than it has ever been. We are truly one.
My one plea to anyone who is in the middle of this trial is: Don't give up! It can get better.
When I took my daughter in to the doctor this summer to try to find some type of medication to ease her symptoms, I told the doctor what I thought her problem was. He listed some symptoms of BP-II and the length of time most people suffer from the disease before obtaining a correct diagnosis.
Most people with BP II have it for 15 years before it is diagnosed and go through 2 to 3 failed relationships. I thought at the time that this sounded about right. I diagnosed my husband. He has yet to find a doctor or counselor who has been helpful, and he has never been correctly medicated.
He currently controls his condition by learned behavioral techniques, awareness of symptoms, and self control of thoughts and self monitoring of mood swings. As a spouse of a BP personality.
I felt like I have gone through at least 3 personalities myself. These personalities correlated with stages I went through: the innocent optimistic stage, the surprise and shock stage, the why does this keep happening stage, the grim determination stage, the somebody help me, I'm not going to survive this stage, and the recognition and recovery stage.
Hopefully these stages will take you less time to go through than they have for us. For my daughter, early recognition and treatment have made a huge difference.
Another specific instance I recall is when a psychologist told me he “now understands why you have difficulties in interviews”, but he never elaborated, not in that session, or any subsequent session. If you have the answer (at least in your own mind), shouldn’t it be shared with the afflicted? At least, that’s my (logical) thinking.”
- Kirby
Hi, I'm Sherri. Shauna asked me if I would contribute to her U-2 site.
I-2 have dealt with a BCD. My husband of 28 years, and now my daughter, 15 years old, are afflicted with bi-polar II disorder. In case you are not aware, BP II consists of periods of mania, depression, and mixed episodes. Mixed episodes are times when both mania and depression are evident. BP II is one of the most difficult BCDs to correctly identify and treat. There are many symptoms of this disorder, but impulsive behavior, broken relationships, and suicide are some of the big ones.
I have learned many things over the span of years that my family has dealt with this issue. I will try to elaborate on some of them briefly. Someday, I may write a book--because that is the length of article I would have to write to effectively cover this span of years and the lessons I have learned—stay tuned :).
At this point in time, I have come to realize that mental illness is simply one of many trials that we may be subjected to in this life. It has a purpose similar to other trials of life. In my mind, the purpose of these trials is to teach us to love unconditionally, as Christ does; to teach us that each life has immense unconditional value; and to teach us to come unto Christ to be healed from the emotional, physical, and spiritual injuries of this life. Christ is the great healer, the light, and the life. He will be the one ultimately, who will bring us up out of the grip of these diseases and their effects, and who will bring us peace. I have experienced this healing myself, and testify that it can come.
This is not a simple process or an easy road. It is one that has literally taken me 28 years to traverse. There is much difficulty in this journey. I would not in any way try to simplify it or make light of the suffering incurred by anyone who is subjected to these trials, but I would offer hope.
At one time my husband and I were at the brink of divorce. At many times he was suicidal. For ten years he was inactive in the church. (We were both returned missionaries who married in the temple and have raised 7 children together.) A few weeks ago, my husband and I spent time together in two temples with extended family and he currently serves in a branch presidency. Our love is stronger than it has ever been. We are truly one.
My one plea to anyone who is in the middle of this trial is: Don't give up! It can get better.
When I took my daughter in to the doctor this summer to try to find some type of medication to ease her symptoms, I told the doctor what I thought her problem was. He listed some symptoms of BP-II and the length of time most people suffer from the disease before obtaining a correct diagnosis.
Most people with BP II have it for 15 years before it is diagnosed and go through 2 to 3 failed relationships. I thought at the time that this sounded about right. I diagnosed my husband. He has yet to find a doctor or counselor who has been helpful, and he has never been correctly medicated.
He currently controls his condition by learned behavioral techniques, awareness of symptoms, and self control of thoughts and self monitoring of mood swings. As a spouse of a BP personality.
I felt like I have gone through at least 3 personalities myself. These personalities correlated with stages I went through: the innocent optimistic stage, the surprise and shock stage, the why does this keep happening stage, the grim determination stage, the somebody help me, I'm not going to survive this stage, and the recognition and recovery stage.
Hopefully these stages will take you less time to go through than they have for us. For my daughter, early recognition and treatment have made a huge difference.