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I was almost looking forward to Thanksgiving this year. We had a pretty uneventful holiday planned--Bob would be at his father's house until Saturday evening, and my large, loud extended family had opted for a smaller gathering on Saturday (just my parents, siblings, and assorted nieces).
Until Bob caught wind of this plan, and asked to come home early so he could go to his grandparents' house with us. And then I discovered it was not to be an intimate gathering (or as "intimate" as it gets with four siblings, their spouses, and 7 grandchildren); it would be the whole family--aunts, uncles, ad nauseum--totalling 28 people.
Sex is a basic human drive. We want to eat. We want to sleep. And we want to have sex. These are the things that bring us pleasure in life. Almost everything boils down to those three things.
But unfortunately, bipolar disorder and bipolar medication can affect all three. Bipolar disorder and its associated medication can make you eat. Or make you not eat. It can make you sleep. Or it can make you not sleep. And it can affect your sex life the same way.
But for some reason, doctors often take the effect on your sex life least seriously.
You are sitting in your psychiatrist's office. The office is large. Her desk sits in the corner near the window. The blinds are always closed. The halogen lights seem much too bright--they hurt your eyes. Eyes that constantly threaten to close, and you wish you were back home where it is safe and dark. Back home where you can pretend there is nothing wrong. But there is: that is why you are sitting across from your doctor, across the small oval table. You glance at the stagnant art and your heart races. Your hands sweat. Your mind moves too quickly and then not fast enough.
I'm having a bit of trouble leaving the rules of my marriage behind me. You see, when I was married, I was to be forever less than him. My job was to focus my energies on making him seem and look better - more capable, responsible, trustworthy... It was my job to prop him up to the outside world. He was a poster-board life-size cut-out, smiling and looking grand, and I was the plain cardboard stand sticking in his rear, supporting him.
Thanksgiving is a special time when family members, spread far and wide across this great land of ours, unite under one roof to dine, catch up, and recall exactly why it is they are so careful to avoid one another the rest of the year.
Those of us strangely blessed with mental illnesses of various descriptions are especially vulnerable, since these allegedly cheerful events feel more like crime scene reconstructions where the horrors that sent us running down the path to Cookoopantsatopolis are revisited endlessly.
Seated at the table, any progress made in therapy over the past year seems to magically melt away. Before long we find ourselves reclaiming emotional baggage we’re desperate to abandon. No matter how far we’ve progressed in life, there, seated in front of that defenseless avian carcass, we’re seven again; and it ain’t pretty.
Small wonder so many of us cringe as we witness the approach of Thanksgiving, contemplating the event with a dread one might reserve for dentistry without anesthesia.
It's easy to get into the habit of not addressing your needs when you have anxiety. I'm yet to meet someone dealing with anxiety who doesn't know 200 ways to say "I'm fine" to paint a rosy picture of life. But treating anxiety is about understanding your reality, not what a perfect reality might be or the reality Jo Normal experiences.
My name is Dan Hoeweler, and if you were to meet me in person, I would seem like your average eccentric artist. I am in many ways undeniably ordinary. I live in a house with my cat Mr Giggles, who I deeply love. I have many friends and work as a janitor at an amusement park, and have been there for three years now without incident. I, with the help of my family, have been purchasing and renovating houses together during the winter time. I blend in fairly well in most situations, and if you were to talk to me you might find me somewhat intelligent and charming.
When your child has a psychiatric illness, your plate fills rather quickly--psychiatrist appointments, therapist appointments, IEP meetings, trips to the pharmacy and the never-ending juggling of prescription medications. But there are other things crowding the china--things like medication side effects--we may have no idea how to handle, even if we feel we've "mastered" all there is to know about our child's diagnosis.
Children with mental illness experience myriad side effects that create even more problems for them and their parents; one in particular has hit us the hardest. In our house, the most persistent medication side effect is bedwetting. And it's driving us all crazy.
One of the problems with borderline personality disorder (BPD) is the ease with which we believe harmful core beliefs. It's as if we think that they are the insight of the century. But believing something does not automatically make it true--not everything you think is trustworthy. Here are six steps to changing a harmful core belief.
Driving through rural Alabama to a funeral recently, I saw a rare and really cool sight. A cropduster was plunging down toward a cotton field, spraying it with what I can only guess was some sort of herbicide. The deft pilot would swoop down just above the power lines, buzz the field and spray the crops, and then lift high into the air to avoid the tree line at the other end of the field.
It got me to thinking. That’s what psychiatrists must feel like. They don’t fly planes to treat their patients, but they must play a precarious game with the fragile mental health of patients like me who suffer from depression. It takes just the right balance and adjustments to keep our medications right.
I read this book many years ago, just as I was entering the turmoil of remembering, questioning and doubting myself all the way (as I'd been covertly taught over a lifetime). I happened to mention to my two sisters one day, "This is so strange but I've been diagnosed with PTSD." Both my sisters surprised me by responding, "Me too."
THEN I happened upon an old book manuscript that my now deceased father had written (not published), wherein the protagonist was obviously based upon himself and he rapes his "fiancee," who had my unusual name. Yes, truly.
Then I made myself look at the peculiar memory I always had where he violently threatened me but somehow I had never been able to recall what came before or after the episode. I had to admit that was a bit strange.
The pressures and powers to forget sexual abuse are great, both in family and society. In fact, I've come to the sad conclusion that the vast majority of survivors never really deal with their childhood wounds (a neglect for which there are always repercussions).
To critique an encouragement of people trusting their intuition in such matters is really getting the prescription dangerously wrong.
Thanks!