Lines Drawn and the Draft of a Safety Plan

Yesterday morning I woke up and wanted to immediately go back to bed. Reminiscent of mornings as a teenager (around the time of my diagnosis and at my lowest), I felt a strong pull toward my pillow and wanted to return to sleep as soon as physically possible. However, it turns out that it is much more difficult to ignore an energetic two year-old than it is your mom begging you to go to school. 

So I got up. 

I pulled on clothes so I could drive to daycare and then the train station. I don't think I said a real sentence until we were all packed into the car. 

I had known I was going to get right back into bed as soon as I got home. I was sure of it when my feet first left the edge of the bed and touched the floor. I was thinking about it on the drive; my body felt heavy and I was sure the only thing that could hold its weight was my mattress and bed-frame. 

I was right, of course. When I got back home I walked through the door, slid into my bed and under the blanket. I couldn't make my body small enough or my breathing slow enough. But then I was asleep. I was asleep for a long time. I think Shawn must have called me four times, every two hours, and each time I told him "Not yet, not now. Soon". 

Imagine a deep, downward curving line. Imagine plummeting, drowning, falling for a really long time while desperately searching for something to hold onto, something to halt your descent. 

That's not what yesterday was. 

Imagine instead a dash, something that looks like this "-". Sure, it's flat. But it's short, halted, directionless. Now, this may be an unpopular opinion, but I sure as hell would rather know I was going somewhere. Nine times out of ten I would choose that downward curving line over this dash, no question. 

Yesterday I did nothing, felt nothing; I barely existed and that didn't bother me at all. Everything I could have done felt like too much effort for too little reward. I didn't care. Ask anyone well acquainted with depression and they'll tell you that the not caring part is the most dangerous, because that's when it is easiest to give up and give in. 

I didn't care and I didn't see that changing anytime soon. Halted, remember? 

But then Shawn came home and whether he studied the safety plan on his train ride or he already knows it by heart I have no idea---he just poked and prodded at the dash a little bit. Extended it, gave it a little shape.

He held me for a little while. He put socks on my feet and helped me pick out shoes so that we could go on a walk with the dogs. When we got home and I collapsed on the ground because I was already so tired, he picked me up and put me in front of the kitchen sink. We cleaned the kitchen together, me doing the dishes and him cleaning the oven/stove. He kept me company while I took a bath, because I had wanted to be clean for the past two days but had been too tired to do it. 

And at the end of the night, when I looked back on what I had done, I felt something.

A little bit of hope.

For those that are curious, I want to share a little bit about my safety plan. I decided to divide my safety plan by the different states of my mental illness: anxiety (which is not part of my bipolar disorder but relevant to my particular experience), mania and depression. Under each of those emotional states I outlined three categories: 

1. signs (symptoms/behaviors that characterize the specific emotional state), 

2. options (or you could call this category coping strategies, things I do both before and during the emotional state to address it); 

3. and things that Shawn can do (ways he can help support me in coping/addressing the emotional state).

Under each category I listed four items, although I'm sure I could come up with more, to keep the safety plan specific and accessible. I didn't want Shawn to get bogged down with details that might make it more overwhelming to read or that create more questions than answers. 

At the very bottom, I made some notes about items I had included that I thought needed some extra context. For example, one of the ways I have included that Shawn can support me with my depression is to ask me about my medication. I realize that without context, it may appear as though I am requesting that Shawn ask me whether or not I have taken my meds. However, I am often frustrated by that question because it seems to imply that medication is the solution, that depression can be prevented if I take my medication as prescribed and challenges my commitment to my mental health. I have been committed to taking my medication for at least four years now and believe that it is an important part of my treatment plan. Instead, I suggest in my safety plan that Shawn ask me how I feel about my meds effectiveness and remind me that I can reach out to my psychiatrist to increase my dosage, if I feel it is necessary to do so. 

After drafting my safety plan (in a shared iphone note), I went through it in its entirety with Shawn, explaining it point by point and giving him an opportunity to ask questions. As we read over the draft together, Shawn added any notes to items he had asked for clarity around. 

To be clear, this safety plan is to help address an emotional state in its early stages and to monitor it throughout. The hope is that these strategies will prevent me from experiencing a "mental health crisis". Throughout this plan, the first item listed under ways for Shawn to support me is to check that I am safe. This means that I don't have a plan to harm myself or others. I have not reached this point in a very long time and don't expect that with my current treatment plan I will, but I think it is one of the most important questions a loved one can ask me when I am in any of these three emotional states. If my answer is no, I need them to know how to help me.

The details of this part of my plan are still in the works. They are more complex and will take time.  

I am still learning how to let my partner support me, it's a lot harder than you'd think. But I feel good about the work Shawn and I have done so far. 

Last night, I saw the result of that work. And this morning I woke up feeling something.

Here and Back Again

I'm not sure where to begin this time, although I guess I never really am. I want to say I'm back here, back on the blog, back to depression. Usually my return to writing is a good indicator of my current emotional state. Something I'm struggling with though, is the feeling that the place I'm currently in appears to be familiar and brand-spanking new at the same time.

I'm depressed; I cried it out, I've leaned into it (after some kicking and screaming--wouldn't say embraced, exactly), I'm calling it what it is. I'm depressed and yet I feel like a different person. My beast wants to pull out all of the old stops but none of it is sticking. I didn't see it coming this time and I definitely shamed myself for missing the signs (you'd think that over a decade of experience with depression would be good for something) but I'm starting to think that I wouldn't recognize it at first if my beast had smacked me across the face with it. It's depression alright, but it's a whole new shape and color. And a whole new me has risen to meet it. 

I am living in a new place.

I am in a new relationship.

I am helping to raise my partner's son. 

I am unemployed and anxiously awaiting the start of grad school.

I am also depressed.

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't hoped to leave my beast on the other side of the country, to set him on fire so that after graduating from undergrad, bringing closure to relationships and grieving the loss of my grandmother, I could arrive in Rhode Island born anew. And I'd be lying if I said that I know how to navigate the introductions: my beast to my new little family and my beast to myself. 

But I've started. 

I named this (depression) on Saturday. 

On Sunday I went for a hike with my partner and our dogs and I felt my brain settle in my skull, my heart and lungs cling to my rib-cage, my muscles to my flesh. I was anchored in my body and it felt different.

I called my psychiatrist on Monday (like I said I would) and we made the decision to increase my medication for the time being.

Later (still Monday) I wrote a safety plan for myself and my partner. I described worst case scenarios, took responsibility, and asked for help. I extended myself farther than I thought myself capable of, sitting in vulnerability longer than I prepared myself for and waited for rejection that didn't come. Then, before I could catch my breath I rose to meet parenting and an inconsolable two year-old at his bedroom door. I held him in his vulnerability, ran my fingers through his hair, sang to him. This too, felt different.

Today is Tuesday. And you could say I'm back here. But what does that really mean anyway? 

Crazy Talk

I'm here, again. I feel like that's almost the only thing I need to say. Maybe I could install some sort of check-in button for this blog so you'll know when I've logged on. That way anytime I come back here you can bet-your-bottom-dollar that I've hit, well, rock bottom. But maybe I shouldn't try to meld all of my depressive episodes into one huge lump of evidence that I'm just a sad person. Maybe they really are distinct in important ways. Maybe coming back here isn't a sign I've failed, yet again, to be happy. I will say though, that the evidence seems stacked against that point of view.

I don't know how to say this in a way that doesn't sound crazy, so I'm just going to say it.
I think I'm going to die soon.
Told you.

Before you jump to all sorts of conclusions: No I do not plan on taking my own life.
Let me try to explain, okay?

When I turned twenty-five years old, I was shocked that I had survived that long. I had never before then imagined that I would live that long. Mostly because my mental illness was so successfully kicking my ass that I didn't feel up to the task of fighting back and I was pretty sure that I would eventually give up.
I turn twenty-seven in a month and I'm still alive but it almost feels like by complete accident. Like death had an appointment with me but double-booked or something and is just now too embarrassed to admit he made a mistake. A lot of my life has changed drastically in the last few months, I know that needs to be acknowledged too. My life circumstances would probably make anyone feel a little disoriented and dizzy.
But I'm not dizzy right now, I'm telling you that I'm operating on borrowed time and I think it's so that I can prove what I'm worth. I don't know when the deadline is or what it'll be that finally gets death off my back but I know that it's soon and I'm fighting harder than I ever have before. This time I don't think I'm going to give up and take my own life. This time I have a feeling that if I give up it will be taken from me.

Yeah, it still sounds crazy. I get it. What's new.

I want to continue writing here. The nature of my illness, the shift I experience in mood and energy, often makes it unrealistic for me to take on long-term projects. Even with medication and therapy my motivation and creativity are unreliable at best. For that reason, the only way one can discern the passing of time when reading through my posts, is by following the cyclical nature of my illness. I've often wished that my writing could be more consistent and many times I've tried to write because I've felt that I should. It is an unfortunate part of my experience with this illness, that I am most creative at the same time that I am the most volatile. Sometimes I feel numb and it is too difficult to articulate myself. Other times it seems there is nothing to report. I return to this blog though, time and time again, when I feel myself losing ground---this is my lifeline.

And that's why this is important. 

That is why I keep this blog; even on my worst days when I'm convinced everything I've ever touched is garbage. Or even when I know I won't have anything to say for months.

Sometimes I read older posts and I grieve for the creativity I'm certain I've lost forever and the way I was once able to express myself. Later, when I am thrown for a loop by a new cycle of mania-depression, I am reminded of the price I pay.

I know in reality my creative strengths do not disappear during my more stable periods and I also know my perception of my abilities in different emotional states may be more than a little skewed. However, I don't think I can put into words the depth of the inherent tie I believe my creativity has to my illness. They aren't one and the same, but maybe branches from the same tree (I warned you that I couldn't put it into words). My creativity knows my illness well and vice versa.  

It's taken me hours to write this. My brain feels foggy and I have caught myself staring into space more than a dozen times. And it seems that the only conclusion I've come to at this point is that I'm going to keep doing what I've been doing...?? 

Maybe this will be where all of my creativity comes to die or maybe this blog will be used in some eye-opening study of manic-depressive illness one day, who knows. 

I'm back for a while, I guess.

I haven't been to work in six days. Four snow days and a weekend.
I haven't seen my students.
I haven't eaten well, sometimes not at all. I don't shop like it's the end of the world, excuse me.
I haven't left my house more than couple of times. Mostly it's because I haven't had anywhere to go, but a little bit because walking on the ice freaks me out after my most recent interaction with it and the resulting injury.
I have been asleep more often than I have been awake. Or at least it feels that way.
I have been entirely unproductive, unless you count beating Spyro, the video game with a little purple dragon? Turns out he's a real jerk.
I have been sad. I don't know why.
I have been wishing I had my surgery already, because that would at least make sense. That would explain why I am this way.

But really, I'm just emotionally broken.

I have my appointment with the surgeon tomorrow, bright (but irl dark) and early. No news is good news, but I know there'll be news. I've known that for a while. I have been struggling to accept that no matter what the dude says tomorrow, I have a surgery in my future. It is time, it is happening.
Are you prepared to read a couple of months worth of existential dread?
If not, have you read my other stuff? Do you even know where you are right now?

Stay tuned.

2017 #newyearnewknee

Well, I'm back. It had to happen some time, right?

New year, new me? HA. #newyearnewknee
Let me explain.

Right before winter break, literally the night before, I dislocated my knee. This has happened before and in the very moment I was falling, I was pretty sure it would happen again.
But the length of time it has taken to heal, the confirmation by a doctor and my upcoming appointment with a surgeon makes me unsure.
I've been in straight up denial. And maybe, the surgeon will tell me everyone, my knee included, has been lying to me and I'm totally fine. But the energy it has taken to keep up that charade I could be using to prepare myself for two months of recovery.
A couple of days ago, I cried for the first time about it. It hit me about as hard as I hit the ground a few weeks before that. I may have to suspend my term of service with AmeriCorps. I have never said "bye for now" before, but my dad's common expression may be the only thing that makes leaving my newfound community, made up of brilliant coworkers and resilient students for a while, less devastating.
For the last week I've seen my ceilings cave in on me, when my eyes are closed and I'm trying to fall asleep. My breath catches when a door closes. My body feels stiff in way that no amount of stretching can cure. I don't even have the nail in the coffin, a surgery date, and I feel trapped. I am dreading this extended pause in my life. I see it quietly approaching and I'm terrified.
My loved ones have suggested I make a list of things I can do during this period of time but I have writer's block, something I've never experienced before with list making. I've been avoiding even sitting down with pen and paper.
Often I question myself and my life's purpose. But something I know is that this isn't me. This isn't where I belong or what I'm supposed to be doing. This is a nightmare, this is something I have always feared. I will in reality be incapable of taking care of myself. I won't be enough.
These are things the beast tells me as he pulls me down and keeps me there. These are thoughts that bury me. They keep me under for days, sometimes weeks or months. But in those times, I know it's not something I'm asking for or choosing.
This time I really will have brought it on myself. The beast knows it, I know it. I see him waiting and he is pleased.
The place I live, "the cabin", the little house attached to the big house that is often my sanctuary, it will disappear into the wilderness of my backyard. I will be alone, with only the beast for company. This isn't negative thinking or a wildly irrational fear, this is my life. This has happened before, only the circumstances and four walls are different.
I know this. I know this so well, it is written all over my skin, it's the color of my bed sheets, the sound of rain hitting the cabin's roof. It will be here soon and I would be a fool to try to stop it.

I always return to this place with a bang, don't I?

I can't wait for summer. Have I said that yet? You could probably guess.
WELL I AM.

It's been warm the past few days. The sun does miraculous things for my mood, sometimes. It would have more of an impact if I weren't still stuck under the cloud of work I have to do before the term is over. The cloud of procrastination and possible failure.

Even now, I don't really have anything to say. I would just rather write a bunch of bullshit here, than write any of a number of papers I have due.

So here we go, no shame in my game:

I love the summertime. It's become associated with some of my best memories, my best days. I'm so happy in the summer. I'm so much more of who I feel I am. Maybe it's the weather. Maybe it's that I'm not in school. Maybe it's a combination of those things. I don't know.

I think I'm going to have to finish up some of my incompletes this summer though, so I won't be entirely free. But maybe it'll give me at least some structure so I won't become bored and restless. Even with the sun out, I have to have some sort of purpose.

Either way, Robert and I have been looking for a puppy I can train as my emotional support animal. So a little baby dog will give me purpose this summer. I want to make sure I train the puppy well when it's young so it can do the job. I'm so excited to have another source of support, an animal that's trained to be just mine.  Dogs are capable of doing so much, I can train the pup to:

-be a physical barrier in social situations that give me anxiety
-wake me up in the morning
-be aware of my moods and comfort me during panic attacks

Hell, I could train a dog to go fetch my meds and glass of water. Dogs are so smart and capable of all sorts of things. I know I'm going to have do a lot of work to take care of myself and a dog isn't a cure-all, but it might surprise me the impact it could have on my mental health and well-being.

I need to stay in the present. I need to focus on schoolwork and getting through the week and a half I have left of the term. But all I can think about is summer, change and possibility.

Anyone want to write a paper for me? Bueller?