Dearest Daughters,
Since I’m nominated for the We Shield Moms Contest on Facebook for my efforts to write openly about mental illness, I suppose it’s very fitting that there has been a bit of radio silence on my blog the past few weeks. And I suppose I should explain why. (By the way, hello and thanks to any visitors for stopping by!)
If you asked my psychiatrist, she’d say I have Bipolar Disorder I. If you asked my therapist, she’d say it’s complicated.
If you ask me, I’d say I’m just trying to navigate my own life. If drugs stabilize my moods, so be it. If meditation helps my anxiety and panic, so be it. If getting a full night of sleep, planning ahead and attempting to mindfully experience the present are all predictors of how my day will go, then so be it.
I’ve been managing quite nicely over the past six months since my initial life crisis (manic and depressive episodes, intense anxiety and several panic attacks), my life getting better—not only in terms of mental illness, but also in terms of my overall well-being.
Except, I woke up on Monday with no desire to get out of bed.
Oh sure, people say this all the time and I don’t blame them? Beds are a) super comfy b) warm c) not the real world. But, if you’ve ever been depressed (which I pray you won’t be) not wanting to get out of bed is another ball game.
I recognized right away what this was, my body made of lead, a buzzing silence in my ears, the fetal position.
As your dad kissed me goodbye to go to work, I told him to put you girls in front of the television, I’d be up soon. But I rolled over and I wasn’t up soon.
You girls, thank God, are able to watch television without incident. And you may certainly call it negligence that you watched PBS while I wallowed in bed. Go ahead, I give you permission to judge. But, it is what it is.
Soon enough, like actors on cue, you came looking for me. Both of you climbed into bed with me, out of empathy or out of necessity--I know not. I handed you my iPad and rolled over again.
I just could not face the world.
You played nicely, snuggled up to my body. But, after Danjo’s repeated attempts to stand on my chest, balancing, then collapsing atop me in fits of laughter, I gave up any inkling of a notion of an idea of getting more sleep. So, we all got out of bed.
It was nearly 10:00am. And you hadn’t eaten breakfast yet either, poor things.
If I wasn’t so numb, I might have felt like the worst mother in the world. Instead, I just felt a little bit like a zombie, as I distracted us with one activity after another through the morning.
As much as I wanted to crawl into bed at nap time, I couldn’t fall asleep.
I thought to myself, I don’t feel like doing anything. So, I won’t do anything.
Eureka! Exactly, I’ll do nothing! And the first step I took to get back in control, to cope, was to meditate while you girls took a nap.
I’m not saying twenty minutes of silence is the entire solution for me or for anyone, but it redirected my day towards a shower, laundry and homemade dinner—neither you girls nor I any worse for the wear.
I reflected back on the past week. I had days where I can’t recall ever sitting down. I was productive and full of energy, setting up all sorts of activities for the girls, attempting to kill our wild garlic weeds, working on the girls dress up closet, vacuuming the whole house at 9:30pm, sewing an advent bunting, insisting we get a Christmas tree and lights N. O. W., baking a rainbow sprinkle cake for my niece, which was seriously awesome and thoroughly enjoyable to do; it was just time consuming, as I baked past bedtime and into the night.
Sounds about right: a week and weekend of busy-ness and then crashing. Happens to the best of us, right?
For me, having been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, the reflection cannot end there. The hypomanic and depressive episodes don’t happen in a vacuum. It’s not as if I’m just this moody person who can’t control my emotions and needs to go take a nap.
I need a fuller understanding of what triggered my hypomanic and, subsequently, depressive episodes.
This past month Lola was in the hospital—for knee surgery, nothing dramatic. But, in addition to the worry that surfaced, I also spent an hour or two visiting her in the hospital and rehab nearly every day. Sometimes I brought you girls or meals. We ate a lot of drive-thru-accessible food those weeks. Lola, on pain meds, was usually somewhat out of it, even asking me if I went to college or not. Funny, but also alarming.
At the time, I did what a good daughter does and it was so instinctual I didn’t consider any of it to be stressful.
There was also Thanksgiving that, while pleasant, was still a stressor however positive: travel with young kids, being away from the comfort and sanctuary of my own home.
It’s very difficult to recognize a manic episode when I’m in the middle of it because I feel so awesome and omnipotent. Your dad noticed, though, and he did ask me at one point if I needed to slow down or do something for myself. I told him, yes, probably, but then I didn’t, I powered through until I couldn’t any longer.
And I’m not out of the woods yet. I lack motivation to do much of anything. I’m unable to focus. Bel and I were both in tears the other night battling to put her pajamas on, as we fed off of each other’s frustration. I’ve been eating chocolate as my main form of sustenance. And I haven’t showered since Monday. Your dad has been out of town for work, so we’ve spent a lot of hours at Lola’s house, where I feel no guilt about you watching Dora all day, and where there’s another adult around, keeping us all from having major meltdowns.
At least, I’m here, writing to you now. Still in my jammy jams. You’re watching a movie, tummies full of sausage and chocolate chip pancakes.
I cannot take this day or this moment for granted, because I’ve experienced The Worst of It, I’ve experienced the suffocation when I don’t put on my oxygen mask, I’ve experienced the darkness that could have been if I did not wake up on Monday with the ability to
identify my depressive symptoms and initiate my coping mechanisms, my
self-care habits, and to seek support (the four P's: psychatric, psychological, personal and iPad, ha!).
It’s time to be mindfully present with my feelings and the daily routines of my Dearest Daughters, time to nurture myself with a cup of tea, maybe some knitting, perhaps a shower, and most importantly it’s time to get our cuddle on.
Love you no matter what,
