The Old Me was sexy, brilliant, and cruel. I had moments of bursting creativity and racing thoughts of endless fascination. I was provocative in conversations and passionate in my beliefs. I went through jobs like Kleenex, drank a lot of coffee, smoked a lot of cigarettes. I maxed out my credit cards. I voraciously read fashion magazines, tearing out my favorite pictures and pasting them into a sketchbook of my singular visions. I sat in the dog park for hours, making friends with many canines but never with their human owners. I was a strange, beautiful creature.
I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss those days.
But along with these intense positive experiences came a dark side of my mania: I could also become abrasive, testy, vindictive. Raging. This was usually triggered by workplace annoyances and tedium. I was once fired from a job because of my inability to control my own seething wrath.
I saw a therapist who thought if I talked and talked and talked about my feelings, I would come out the other end at peace with my past and present circumstances, no longer angry at the world. This never worked; I became even more temperamental as I tried to explain my feelings to a baby boomer who got her training in the touchy-feely 70s. Her wisdom was antiquated, annoyingly banal. Good self-esteem was the answer to everything. She felt that the Internet was going to bring about world peace. She said that people do recreational drugs to block out the pain of their existence. In response, I shot back with my harsh observations of reality, decimating her comfortable platitudes with brutal facility. If she was Joan Baez, then I was Johnny Rotten.
After this frustrating experience, I avoided therapy for many years.
I eventually sought out the services of another therapist who, like the first, believed that if I talked and talked and talked about my feelings, I would come out the other end at peace with my past and present circumstances, no longer angry at the world. But, she was not a clone of the first therapist. She differed in what to me was the important factor at the time: she was not naïve and held no polyanna delusions about the world. When I told her about the horrible things that had happened to me, that I had witnessed, she believed me and didn’t think I was exaggerating or somehow misperceiving reality. Moreover, unlike one other therapist who I saw very briefly before her, she didn’t instantly make up her mind about what my problems were and how I should be treated without giving me a chance to talk.
But I stopped seeing her in the spring of 2005. We had decided that the talk therapy had achieved all it could achieve for me and that I needed to try other approaches. She recommended me to a particular program called Dialectical Behavioral Therapy at a local hospital and I went during the summer. Mostly what the program did was give us tips and coping strategies in a group setting. Was it relevant or helpful to me? No.
That October, due to circumstances too complicated and harrowing to explain, I had a nervous breakdown and ended up at the city mental health center. I was diagnosed as bipolar after a 4-minute conversation with the ward psychiatrist. I called my last therapist from the payphone and told her the news. She scoffed. “Bipolar disorder is the disease du jour.” Slightly annoyed, she then told me not to call her anymore since it was at least four months since my last session with her and technically we no longer had a therapy relationship. When I called my private practice psychiatrist, he told me it was his policy to cut off communication once a patient has been admitted into a facility.
Once out of the mental health center, I began seeing a psychiatrist my father had found. And I started to see a therapist in her practice group. Not once did the psychiatrist and therapist speak to each other about me, even through their offices were literally across the hall from each other. Then I remembered what my previous therapist had said: she had never, in all of her years of practice, received a phone call from a psychiatrist to discuss a patient that they both shared.
By now the dynamic was clear. Private practice therapists are suspicious of psychiatric medicine because 1) they feel that talking things through, not medication, is the answer for emotional anguish (and that we as a society are looking for quick fixes and easy answers in the form of a pill) and 2) they feel threatened by psychiatric pharmaceuticals which are indeed highjacking the psychology industry. Conversely, private practice psychiatrists feel it is beneath them to consult with a lowly therapist. At best, one hand doesn’t know what the other hand is doing. At worst, the therapist and psychiatrist are actually competing with each other theoretically and professionally.
I don’t have this problem anymore because I now get all my mental health treatment at Community Counseling Centers of Chicago, which accepts my Medicare. My psychiatrist is really thorough, perceptive, and caring. And my therapist, who can’t be a day over 25, is the best therapist I have ever had (although, admittedly, that is not saying much). They actually consult with one another about me, rather than being derisive competitors, and because no money changes hands, there’s an integrity to our relationship that you can never get with a private practice therapist/psychiatrist. My only complaint is that they tend to view any slight change in my persona as a sign of a manic episode; they’re overreactive. For example, I currently have a bout of insomnia and I only sleep one or two hours a night, yet I feel totally awake during the day anyway. So my therapist told me the other day that she thinks I may be hypo-manic (a more subtle form of mania) and I imagine she will talk to my psychiatrist who will then suggest changes in my medicine regimen when I see her next week.
I should add here that I am not perfectly comfortable with the label bipolar. Not because I think it’s anything to be ashamed about, but because it still bothers me that I was initially diagnosed with this disorder after a 4-minute conversation. I feel my moods are the result of outside influences, not chemical imbalances in my brain.
I’m on lots and lots of drugs, which I have mixed feelings about as well. Sure, I’m no longer a raging monster and I no longer get so depressed that I can’t even get out of bed, but the downside to that is there is a sort of “leveling” in my whole personality, a sort of “flatness” in reality. I’m not as creative as I used to be and the racing thoughts, which I actually enjoyed, have been replaced with nothingness. I’m not interested in things that used to interest me, like magazines and books. I don’t appreciate movies with the same enchantment that I once had. I’m not as imaginative. I’m not as alive. Even as I type this, I’m keenly aware that I am not writing with the same kind of verve and eloquence that I was capable of only four years ago.
So, yeah, there are times when I really miss the Old Me. And then I wonder, was I really so out of control of my feelings and actions? Was I really that bad? Don Riso of the Enneagram Institute would say that my problem is not that I have a chemical imbalance, but that I’m indulging in my feelings, becoming my feelings, as opposed to making a concerted effort to live through objective thoughts and actions. Maybe I’m just not disciplined enough to follow his advice. Maybe this is all a mistake.
And maybe bipolar disorder diagnoses are really just another outcome of emotional correctness. That’s another idea that keeps popping up in my mind. I have too many inconvenient, albeit logical, feelings about situations I cannot change … so if I can’t change the situation, I suppose they’ll just have to change me. After all, the New Me is more “pleasant” to be around. I’m no longer confrontational and argumentative. I’m no longer brutally outspoken. I’m no longer so depressed I can’t function in the workplace. I am, by most accounts, an easier person to be around.
I’ve been fixed.
I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss those days.
But along with these intense positive experiences came a dark side of my mania: I could also become abrasive, testy, vindictive. Raging. This was usually triggered by workplace annoyances and tedium. I was once fired from a job because of my inability to control my own seething wrath.
I saw a therapist who thought if I talked and talked and talked about my feelings, I would come out the other end at peace with my past and present circumstances, no longer angry at the world. This never worked; I became even more temperamental as I tried to explain my feelings to a baby boomer who got her training in the touchy-feely 70s. Her wisdom was antiquated, annoyingly banal. Good self-esteem was the answer to everything. She felt that the Internet was going to bring about world peace. She said that people do recreational drugs to block out the pain of their existence. In response, I shot back with my harsh observations of reality, decimating her comfortable platitudes with brutal facility. If she was Joan Baez, then I was Johnny Rotten.
After this frustrating experience, I avoided therapy for many years.
I eventually sought out the services of another therapist who, like the first, believed that if I talked and talked and talked about my feelings, I would come out the other end at peace with my past and present circumstances, no longer angry at the world. But, she was not a clone of the first therapist. She differed in what to me was the important factor at the time: she was not naïve and held no polyanna delusions about the world. When I told her about the horrible things that had happened to me, that I had witnessed, she believed me and didn’t think I was exaggerating or somehow misperceiving reality. Moreover, unlike one other therapist who I saw very briefly before her, she didn’t instantly make up her mind about what my problems were and how I should be treated without giving me a chance to talk.
But I stopped seeing her in the spring of 2005. We had decided that the talk therapy had achieved all it could achieve for me and that I needed to try other approaches. She recommended me to a particular program called Dialectical Behavioral Therapy at a local hospital and I went during the summer. Mostly what the program did was give us tips and coping strategies in a group setting. Was it relevant or helpful to me? No.
That October, due to circumstances too complicated and harrowing to explain, I had a nervous breakdown and ended up at the city mental health center. I was diagnosed as bipolar after a 4-minute conversation with the ward psychiatrist. I called my last therapist from the payphone and told her the news. She scoffed. “Bipolar disorder is the disease du jour.” Slightly annoyed, she then told me not to call her anymore since it was at least four months since my last session with her and technically we no longer had a therapy relationship. When I called my private practice psychiatrist, he told me it was his policy to cut off communication once a patient has been admitted into a facility.
Once out of the mental health center, I began seeing a psychiatrist my father had found. And I started to see a therapist in her practice group. Not once did the psychiatrist and therapist speak to each other about me, even through their offices were literally across the hall from each other. Then I remembered what my previous therapist had said: she had never, in all of her years of practice, received a phone call from a psychiatrist to discuss a patient that they both shared.
By now the dynamic was clear. Private practice therapists are suspicious of psychiatric medicine because 1) they feel that talking things through, not medication, is the answer for emotional anguish (and that we as a society are looking for quick fixes and easy answers in the form of a pill) and 2) they feel threatened by psychiatric pharmaceuticals which are indeed highjacking the psychology industry. Conversely, private practice psychiatrists feel it is beneath them to consult with a lowly therapist. At best, one hand doesn’t know what the other hand is doing. At worst, the therapist and psychiatrist are actually competing with each other theoretically and professionally.
I don’t have this problem anymore because I now get all my mental health treatment at Community Counseling Centers of Chicago, which accepts my Medicare. My psychiatrist is really thorough, perceptive, and caring. And my therapist, who can’t be a day over 25, is the best therapist I have ever had (although, admittedly, that is not saying much). They actually consult with one another about me, rather than being derisive competitors, and because no money changes hands, there’s an integrity to our relationship that you can never get with a private practice therapist/psychiatrist. My only complaint is that they tend to view any slight change in my persona as a sign of a manic episode; they’re overreactive. For example, I currently have a bout of insomnia and I only sleep one or two hours a night, yet I feel totally awake during the day anyway. So my therapist told me the other day that she thinks I may be hypo-manic (a more subtle form of mania) and I imagine she will talk to my psychiatrist who will then suggest changes in my medicine regimen when I see her next week.
I should add here that I am not perfectly comfortable with the label bipolar. Not because I think it’s anything to be ashamed about, but because it still bothers me that I was initially diagnosed with this disorder after a 4-minute conversation. I feel my moods are the result of outside influences, not chemical imbalances in my brain.
I’m on lots and lots of drugs, which I have mixed feelings about as well. Sure, I’m no longer a raging monster and I no longer get so depressed that I can’t even get out of bed, but the downside to that is there is a sort of “leveling” in my whole personality, a sort of “flatness” in reality. I’m not as creative as I used to be and the racing thoughts, which I actually enjoyed, have been replaced with nothingness. I’m not interested in things that used to interest me, like magazines and books. I don’t appreciate movies with the same enchantment that I once had. I’m not as imaginative. I’m not as alive. Even as I type this, I’m keenly aware that I am not writing with the same kind of verve and eloquence that I was capable of only four years ago.
So, yeah, there are times when I really miss the Old Me. And then I wonder, was I really so out of control of my feelings and actions? Was I really that bad? Don Riso of the Enneagram Institute would say that my problem is not that I have a chemical imbalance, but that I’m indulging in my feelings, becoming my feelings, as opposed to making a concerted effort to live through objective thoughts and actions. Maybe I’m just not disciplined enough to follow his advice. Maybe this is all a mistake.
And maybe bipolar disorder diagnoses are really just another outcome of emotional correctness. That’s another idea that keeps popping up in my mind. I have too many inconvenient, albeit logical, feelings about situations I cannot change … so if I can’t change the situation, I suppose they’ll just have to change me. After all, the New Me is more “pleasant” to be around. I’m no longer confrontational and argumentative. I’m no longer brutally outspoken. I’m no longer so depressed I can’t function in the workplace. I am, by most accounts, an easier person to be around.
I’ve been fixed.
6 comments:
I read what you wrote with great interest. I'm not bipolar but I have psychotic depression. In addition to all the other lovely sides to depression (feeling worthless, hopeless etc), try dealing with hallucinations and delusions as well. The thing about this type of diagnosis is that I'm fully aware that what I'm thinking is completely irrational. I didn't even dare seeing a therapist for YEARS because I thought I'd be put somewhere with white padded walls "forever" and never be let out (again, irrational). How very One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, right?
I had anxiety attacks in my pre-teens, I've always had insomnia, depression has hit me so badly I've stayed in bed for weeks, literally not left the house for months, toyed with the idea of suicide since I was twelve... Because this was never picked up on, and I self-medicated with alcohol, my "official diagnosis" was "alcoholic" and my symptoms were clearly because I drank heavily – they thought. What people didn't know was that the symptoms came before the alcohol and that the alcohol only came about because of the symtoms.
I'm now 33 and was properly diagnosed about 18 months ago. It took me a LONG TIME to come to therms with a diagnosis with the word "psychotic" in it. I was forced into that "padded walls" place (that didn't really have any padded walls at all, ironically. I must have watched too many American movies...) after I took a lethal cocktail of pills and whatnot, and stayed there until I'd been stabilized and diagnosed. My "problem" is that I can talk very rationally about what's "wrong with me" when I have to. My first shrink in the "outside world" thought I was too rational to be psychotic and too level-minded to be depressed.
I am, like you, on a nice little cocktail of pills. Antidepressants, antipsychotic, sleeping pills, the occasional Valium… I think the funny thing about it is that I have enough pills to committ suicide about five times over. The side-effects of some of them are "suicidal tendencies". Where's the logic?
But I guess I've been fixed, too. Although, having said that, I still have times when I feel worthless, like I'm not "allowed" to be happy, I'm upset over "nothing" because I have irrational thoughts about being left completely alone cause clearly my lovely wife (yes, I managed to find someone that would put up with me) would clearly be better off with someone else, right? I don't show jealousy, but I do let it fester inside of me. I know I have no reason to be jealous, cause she keeps saying she's not going anywhere. She has the patience of a saint and has helped me more than anyone else, just by letting me be me and loving me for all that I am.
I'm better now than I've ever been. My wife thinks that I hold onto my pain and uncertainties because I don't think I deserve happiness. She knows me better than anyone. It's all true. Whenever we have a period in our marriage that's been really great, I usually end up having a panic attack after a certain amount of time cause things can't possibly stay this good, right? Something bad has to happen so that I'll go back to being alone, unworthy and dead inside.
I do sometimes wonder if I'll ever be "normal" – and if "normal" is worth pursuing. After all, I don't know how to be anything other than what I've always been; emotional, irrational and worthless. It would be a bit like teaching an old dog new tricks ;)
Thank you so much for your honest words Patty, I am reading it always with huge interest u have to know from day one i came here (the reason was a socalled naughty erotic story with GM that I misssssssssss so much since that time!!!!!)but unfortunately my English is still not the best to express my inner thoughts to you as correct as I would so forgive me...all i know i admired your honesty since the very beginning and one thing is common with u...I am a CRAZY IN LOVE GM FREAK FAN WITH DIAGNOSED BIPOLAR..
If u want u can pm me u find me on youtube as well at 2funkyangel..love,Ria
@ Jacob: Your story is compelling. I’m amazed you were diagnosed so recently, only 18 months ago. How on earth did you survive before then? I don’t know anything about psychotic depression, but it sounds like something quite debilitating.
I think you are profoundly fortunate to have a wife who understands you and stays by your side with such loyalty and patience. I’m sure you deserve to have such a partner as well. How long ago did you meet her? Were you very “high functioning” for someone with psychotic depression and that was why you were able to start a relationship (I’m assuming you met her before being properly diagnosed).
I can only dream of being as fortunate as you. I’m single and don’t foresee falling in love with anyone in the future because most men would run for the hills if they knew about my condition. It’s different for women – we are supposed to only be nurturers, never the nurturee. It would be hard for me to imagine a woman with psychotic depression having a man be by her side, without fear and with total support such as your wife displays toward you. It just doesn’t work that way. Men, and society in general, are terrified of women with mental health issues; we are seen as “dangerous women.”
I once did an art project on this very subject. This was when I was in art therapy over at the clinic. The art piece was really two large representations: one of Britney Spears and the other of comedic actor Owen Wilson. For the Britney Spears side, I posted a small picture that the paparazzi took of her where she is sitting alone on a curbside at night. All around this small picture, I wrote the actual words of what the media had been saying about her nervous breakdown: that she was a freak, that she was “an inbred swamp thing,” that her downfall was the most famous in pop history, etc. The reportings were largely voyeuristic, sensational, and unsympathetic. For the Owen Wilson side, I posted a small picture of comedic actor Owen Wilson and all around this small picture I wrote the actual words of what the media had been saying about his suicide attempt. In sharp contrast to the public response to Britney Spears’ plight, the sentiments expressed by the media toward Owen Wilson were largely concern, support, and sympathy. The difference in responses by the media (and therefore the public?) were like night and day.
(yvonne) Your art project sounds really interesting--and sadly true. The "madwoman" is a romantic figure in literature, but feared, shunned and excoriated in life.
For what it's worth, I believe that there's room for both the pharmacological approach and the psychotherapeutic approach. In my opinion, some people are depressed because they can't control their thoughts (and would benefit from processing their emotions and practicing Cognitive Behavioral Therapy), while some people can't control their thoughts because they are depressed (and should go straight for the meds).
As of right now, though, only trial and error can reveal which camp a person belongs in. That makes for a difficult struggle. And you have certainly endured an extremely difficult struggle! :(
About Don Riso, I think you may be on to something, but not necessarily in the way you think. I wonder if it's not your emotions, but rather, your image of your former self, from which you need to detach.
If I'm not mistaken, you type yourself as a Four, right? The mood of your attachment to your former self sounds very Four. You highlight the uniqueness of your former self.
Right now, you believe this self is gone. My question to you would be: (A) is that really, really true? For example, I find this post of yours every bit as interesting and involving as all the others I've read. I don't feel you've become deadened in any way. You still sound like you.
And (B) Even if it is true, and you have "lost" that person, can you "move to One" (become "objective") about that? This could help you not only have a better experience of your present, but see more clearly which direction you should go in the future.
Anyhow, I want to offer you my support and good wishes.
@ Yvonne: When I say I am less creative than I used to be, I am comparing myself to the me of four/five years ago. Before I started all this medication. I know there is a difference and that saddens me. So in that sense, I am "deadened."
From what you say, I think Cognitive Behavioral Therapy might help, although at this point I feel just hopeless. I am definitely depressed because I cannot control my thought BUT ALSO I can't control my thoughts because I am depressed. It's a vicious circle, but more the first than the latter.
I may be starting a new job soon. Hopefully that will keep me busy and move to ONE.
The Old Me wasn't so great at times, but I don't know what to replace it with and furthermore, I miss the dynamism and creativity of my old self. That was the one thing I had going for me then and now I don't really have anything. It's impossible for me to feel objective about this because I'm so set in my ways and being subjective and in touch with my emotions is who I am. I don't know if I can change that at my age... even if I really wanted to.
(yvonne) Oh, I see--I got confused about your timeline.
Maybe a combination of meds and Cognitive Behavioral Therapy will address both aspects of the vicious circle you're in. I hope so. Good luck.
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