When I was fifteen, my mother took me to see a pediatrician because I was in pain all the time. Not uncomfortable. Not just achy. In pain. Pain that inspired me to take over 20 Tylenol caplets in one school day. My back, my legs, my head. PAIN.
The doctor ran his tests and talked to us for a bit. I hadn't seen him before and I never saw him after, but I suppose he was doing his job well. He couldn't find a physical reason for my pain, so he suggested that what we were dealing with was actually "major depressive disorder."
I cried all the way home in the car. It was dark since it was winter in New England and it is almost always dark in winter in New England. I didn't want to be crazy. I didn't want treatment because it would confirm that I was crazy. I didn't want to talk about it. Even though the doctor has specifically said that I wasn't crazy, that this was a chemical imbalance and it is very normal for depression to cause physical symptoms, all I heard was "crazy."
What is so ridiculous about my reaction to this diagnosis is that I knew I wasn't "normal" anyway, and honestly if I could have been helped then I would have saved myself a ton of trouble later. But I was fifteen and stubborn and thought I knew how to take care of myself. It really didn't help that I was getting this diagnosis during the same year that I testified on camera about the five years of abuse I'd survived at the hands of my step-father. I missed a lot of school that year. And since I was in New England, that whole step-father thing turned into a royal fuck up of epic proportions. But I digress.
In college I was finally convinced to go on Zoloft for the depression. By this point not only had I had numerous very public freak outs on my boyfriend(s), but I was also self-mutilating. You've heard this story before. It is almost boring it is so standard. Crazy girl cuts and burns herself in order to stop the crazy. You know, cyclical bullshit that just seems to go along with certain life tracks. And yes, I was also very smart and over scheduled. So typical.
So there were years of medication and weight gain, loss of libido, and yet still freaking out or feeling hopeless or contemplating suicide or self injurious behavior pretty much daily. It's so much fun living in my head sometimes. I tell ya, I should sell tickets. "Welcome to the Kir Royale Bat Crap Crazy Funhouse! Please keep arms and legs inside the ride at all times, and do not feed the animals!"
In 2005 I lost my home and my job in two days. Living with my parents I was looking for work and my father suggested I try out to be a police officer. Seriously. Follow in my father's steps? Seemed ideal. I had always been fascinated by police work and I have a strong sense of justice and protection. Seemed like a good fit. But there was one thing he wanted me to do. I had to go off the medication. He felt that it would be a mark against me that I was on mood altering medication when I applied. And since there was a physical component to the application process, I also had to quit smoking. In July of 2005 I quit smoking and got off Effexor at the same time!
I was a total and complete bitch for at least a week. Maybe more. I don't really remember some of that time. I do remember having to MOVE, walk walk walk walk walk walk walk. Walk walk walk walk walk. Just keep moving. Until I collapsed. Felt like my cells were eating themselves. It was awful. But I got through it.
Now 7 1/2 years later I am still nicotine and medication free. I'm also still breastfeeding my child and therefore either would be a bad idea (no I have no intention of ever smoking cigarettes again, even though I use my flavor only ecig often). But I'm also still crazy.
I think that as I've gotten older some of my symptoms have rounded out a bit, but I still get edgy and what I call "manic." Everything bothers me, I hurt all over and I cannot stand smells or sounds or sights that are unpleasant. I want to chew out everyone and I feel like I have been pulled as tight as a completely stretched out rubber band and I can snap at any second. My shoulders feel like they are up around my ears and my jaw hurts from clenching. I believe that I was misdiagnosed all those years ago. From my own research, Bipolar Type II fits better because I have these little mini manic episodes that are so violently uncomfortable. It feels like a sandstorm in my brain. But they only last a few days at most. I also have the crushing, everything is lost why bother, depression episodes when just getting out of bed and being there for my daughter is an Olympic test of willpower. But I do it. And I smile at her and hug her and tell her I love her. And walk into the other room or lock myself in the bathroom when I don't want her to see my face contorted in fear or grief or whatever random emotion has assaulted me in the moment.
Today I'm coming out of what I think is a manic episode. I was so angry and edgy yesterday. All I wanted to do was sleep, instead I spent all afternoon and evening yesterday working on one blog post.
And yes, I'm fine with the word crazy. I'm a highly functioning wackjob, but I'm nuts. I have completely inappropriate emotional responses to stimuli and I have tried to kick over a refrigerator. But that's okay because I know I will never hurt my child or myself and that if I just get through it, I will be okay soon. So today I'm going to be kind to myself and my daughter, and hopefully by tonight, I'll be more "myself" and less "insane person."
Wish me luck!.
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