Battling my demons

I don’t know if I believe in demons, but I feel like I’ve been fighting three this week: mania, depression and rapid cycling.

I suspect my low levels of lithium combined with an increase in the amount of Zolft I take has caused a bit of rapid cycling. Within seven days I’ve experienced the high of hypo-mania and lows of depression. Technically, I don’t think I’ve met the DSM IV’s definition of rapid cycling because my hypo-mania didn’t last for at least four days.

For the purposes of this blog, lets just say in the last week my moods have changed more dramatically than Mitt Romney’s stance on political issues.

It all started a few months months ago when I decided to decrease my dose of Lithium from 1200 mg a day to 900 mg a day because I was afraid of dehydration during the ridiculous Kansas summer heat. I ran this past my primary care physician who was all, “Cool, whatever.”

Note to readers: Do not adjust your own doses without consulting an actual psychiatrist. Your primary care physician, pharmacist, or husband is no substitute for your actual psychiatrist. This is true even if your husband is a primary care physician or pharmacist.

When my lithium levels came back low I told my doctor’s nurse that I was comfortable with that and reminded her of the dehydration scare I had experienced the previous summer.

I was, and am, comfortable with 900 mg a day. So comfortable, in fact that four weeks ago I decided to decrease my dosage down to 600 mg a day. Why not? I eventually want to get off of lithium all together so what’s the worst that can happen by tapering down on my own?

Note to readers: DO NOT DO THIS!

For this tweak, I knew better than to tell my husband, who is in fact a pharmacist. I felt fine, better than ever. And that lasted for a couple of weeks. I noticed mood swings that spiraled toward depression two weeks ago. I bounced back from the mini-depressive episode and I as I did my energy increased and my thoughts grew faster.

I brushed off any signs that this could lead to hypo-mania. I am in the midst of a very busy season at my job, so of course I have a constant stream of thoughts, I told my self. If I didn’t things would fall through the cracks.

A week ago Sunday I realized that my rapid thoughts had crossed into the danger zone when I found myself doing dishes, practicing a standup comedy routine and going through my client’s wellness calenders. All of these tasks occurred simultaneously and later two occurred in my head.

“I should really try to get a stand up act going,” I thought. “I’m really funny.”

And that’s when I knew I needed to slow things down.

That night at dinner I asked Logan if I had seemed a bit flighty lately and confessed that I had reduced my dosage of Lithium.

He told me to get back on the dose my doctor had prescribed and I made an appointment with my psychiatrist and therapist the next day.

I have only had one full blown manic episode in my life, but it was in enough to scare me into compliance with my doctor. Anytime I experience anything that I think resembles hypomania or could cause me to become manic I go straight to my therapist and doctor. I can’t risk becoming crazy again, and that humbles me to get help.

Depression, on the other hand, is a demon all its own. And in the darkness of depression I don’t reach out for help as often. I fear that mania would cause me to lose everything I love. But when I’m depressed I don’t feel like I love anything at all. I feel like I have nothing to lose because it’s already gone.

My week that started off so high and full of my grand comedic ambitions ended with me crying my self to sleep, longing for something to numb my pain. This emotional roller coaster is the beast I call rapid cycling.

Sometimes depression reaches a level where you can’t pull yourself out of it, where you can’t even find the strength to get out of bed. I’m not at that level. So I woke up today, took a shower, went to church, and prayed for traveling mercies as I continue on my journey with this disease.

Dissecting my depression

Sitting in the parking lot of Dillion’s while my husband purchased groceries for our camping trip, I felt a hot steady stream of tears roll down my face.

Depression. When it occurs it causes me to write ridiculously long sentences like the one above and I don’t know how to stop it. 

I typically try to pinpoint the trigger of my depression.

Is the dose of Zoloft I’m taking causing me to rapid cycle? Some studies show anti-depressants can cause rapid cycling (i.e. frequent shifts from depression to hypomania).

Is it my always evolving job description at work? I tend to get anxiety when I don’t have a clearly defined role.

Is it the changes in the weather? A cloudy, rainy forecast can get me down in the dumps.

Or is the routine stresses of my life? I mean stress would be what would cause a normal person to be depressed, right?

Sometimes I think it’s the reality of constant change, rather than the change itself, that causes my depression.

But no doubt levels of my serotonin and other hormones that cause my depression once the triggers go off.

During these times of depression, I just want to break free. Break free from the reprimands for all the ways I’m falling short. Break free from my mind that’s trapped in this foggy haze. Break free from this moment where I can’t see things clear.

I mustered the strength to get out of the car to go inside to inside Dillion’s to get a drink from Starbuck’s.

I don’t know how to break free. But at Starbuck’s I have control to chose my own destiny, at least as far as beverages are concerned. That morning I ordered a chilled lime refresher instead of my normal latte. And just maybe breaking free from my morning routine was enough to get me through the morning.

Community- A gift everyone should embrace

“We should all exercise our gift to build community.” Jean Vanier

During college I took my junior year off to live in an intentional community through a volunteer program.

Along with living together and sharing a budget we also prayed together, broke bread together, and shared in each others struggles and strengths on a daily basis. We were five women who had never met learning what it meant to create community within our house and within the neighborhood in which we lived.

This experiment in communal living (or as I sometimes jokingly refer to it, ‘living in a commune) taught me the beauty of living life together. It also taught me that literally living in the same house with five, or rather any other roommates post-college, was not something I wanted to pursue. (I tried having roommates the first year after college and it didn’t end well. Cut to my happy life in midtown.)

I found an artsy one-bedroom apartment in midtown Kansas City and discovered a neighborhood in which I truly belonged. One of my close friends moved in a few blocks a way, I found an amazing progressive church, and other friendships naturally fell into place. I loved my midtown apartment. It was my safe oasis from any annoying drama I faced in my coverage of health and education in the suburbs.

Nothing, short of a marriage proposal, would be able to take me away from cozy, ridiculously low-priced home.

Well, on May 31, 2010, my boyfriend, now husband, hid a ring in a picnic basket and popped the question while we dinned on orange soda and pre-maid grocery store sandwiches. When it comes to romance that is how we role.

So, we bought a house in Lawrence, Kan., and I moved 40 miles west to the land of milk, honey, and national basketball championships.

My excitement for the wedding, my marriage and this new life Logan and I had started faded as depression started to sit in.

One thing I have noticed since my diagnosis with bipolar disorder is that major life changes are often a trigger for depression. Moments that should be the happiest of my life, wouldn’t be without the help of SSRIs.

As I tried to adapt to my new life in Lawrence, I realized that even months after the move I still didn’t feel at home.

Logan and I had recently started to attend Plymouth Congregational Church, conveniently located just a mile from our house. One Sunday, as I sat in the pew feeling, lost and lonely, the pastor preached a message about how God will protect us, sustain us, and lead us home.

When he got to that last line I could feel the tears welling in my eyes. God had led me home, this - this church, this town, this husband- this was my new community.

That same Sunday a woman lifted up a prayer for the mentally ill in our community. And even though I don’t like to think of myself as “ill” I knew in my heart that that prayer was for me.

Since that day, Logan and I have joined Plymouth as official members. And the void that existed in my heart for community has been filled. I feel truly blessed to attend a church where I can be open about my mental illness without the fear of stigma or judgement.

Everyone needs a safe place, where true community can thrive. I am lucky to have found mine.