All We Have is Today
Hey, y'all--
I was reading in one of my books this morning, and wanted to share something with you, along the lines of the "One Day at a Time" idea. Because with my BP, if I try to do it more than that, stress comes on me pretty quickly, and I get overwhelmed. Next thing I know, I could be struggling with a bipolar episode, and I avoid that at all costs. One of the reasons for my stability is keeping my life relatively stress-free.
Anyway, here's what the reading says:
"All we really have is now. We have no past time and no future time. As the saying goes: "Yesterday is gone, forget it; tomorrow never comes, don't worry; today is here, get busy." All we have is the present. The past is gone forever and the future never comes. When tomorrow gets here, it will be today."
I especially like that last line: When tomorrow gets here, it will be today.
Anyway, hope you have a great One Day at a Time today!
Would love to hear how y'all are doing -- haven't heard from some of you in awhile.
Remember, God loves you and so do I!
Love, Michele
posted by Michele @ 10:38 AM
2 comments
2 Comments:
Thank you for sharing. I would like to share some of my own experiences with bipolar disorder from a yet-to-be-published article:
Do You Know Why You’re Here?
“Do you know why you’re here?” is always the question asked of me when I am brought to mental health institutions for evaluation. I always answer in the same manner: “ I am here because my family is concerned that I am having a manic episode”. The next question is always: “What do you think about that?” I used to answer: I think my family should come here. That, I am told is a typical manic thing to say. Now I have learned to respond: “Okay”.
The following took place in a twelve step meeting of CA (Cocaines Anonymous) at Las Encinas Hospital, Pasadena, CA April 1, 2007. For purposes of this writing I have edited my comments spoken that day to be less rambling and more succinct. Though the wording may have been slightly different, the facts are the same and the integrety of the story is whole and intact.
“Hi. I’m Didi. I am an Addict.”
“Hi DD”
First – thank you for allowing me to participate in this meeting. I am extremely grateful to have the opportunity to share my story and it is my sincere hope of all hopes that what I have to say might somehow, in some way, touch just one person here as I have so often been touched, relieved and soothed by the many heartfelt stories which I have heard in other twelve step meetings. I trust that I will be able to keep this within the prescribed 3 minute time frame as I have already written this story as recently as yesterday and it is still very clear in my mind.
As it would happen my being here, my speaking here is timelier than ever. I came to Las Encinas mental health facility yesterday for an evaluation. I am doing everything I can to convince those who love and care about me that although they might not like or approve of my actions, I am not a mental patient. I am an addict. I came here 3 nights ago for an evaluation, at the request of Catherine, my 25 year old daughter because she was frightened for me. She said she was trying to return a favor: 3 years ago I delivered her to rehab for drugs and alcohol. I am very proud to tell you that in one month she will celebrate her third year of sobriety. Contrary to her remarks that day, it was not at all difficult for me to do so – she had called for the help she knew she needed. I was just the facilitator. I thanked her and asked her what I could do to make her more comfortable and this “intervention” easier for her. She wanted me to come here for an evaluation for mania. I came without hesitation. She was scared. NOTHING is more important to me than the health and welfare of my children. Frankly, I do not give a flying fuck about any thing or anyone else right now. A lot has been going on in my life recently to indicate irrational – hence manic behavior. I cop to it. My behavior has certainly been unusual for me as a depressed person which unfortunately is where I spend most of my time. In its own right, my behavior has been questionable at best and felonious at worst. It required extra-ordinary strength on Catherine’s part to approach me and I did everything in my power to make it as painless as possible for her. Ultimately the interview Thursday night went sour and it ended with me returning home – I had to walk 1.5 miles home because Catherine asked me to get out of her car. Fortunately I know she will recover but it is still painful to watch and it’s tragic that our collective goodwill was stymied and it was transformed into ugliness.
Stepping back, the evaluation at Las Encinas that night went as follows:
After reading my self evaluation and conducting her interview with me the admitting doctor looked puzzled and asked me why I had come. I explained. She asked why, if I was reporting profound sadness and my affect was decidedly depressive, why I was admitting myself for mania. I explained again. She indicated that In the face of the situation presented her she must take into consideration that affect isn’t the only indicator for mania and she must evaluate me based on the broader picture: my “history” and the observations of those around me. Two against one. This is nothing new. This is not my first dance. I have been through this for over 30 years. I have been taken to all the experts in every major city I’ve ever lived in – New York City, Rio de Janeiro, Sao Paulo, Buenos Aires and presently, Los Angeles - Pasadena. Each time the doctors report the same dilemma. Lesser qualified doctors have gone on the word of my loved ones reporting irregular behavior alone... Others have conducted the most accurate, clinically proven tests available to them for evaluating manic states in bipolar patients – varying from the MMPI 572 question personality assessment, the _____Young“evaluation and brain imaging. Each time the tests results are the same: I am not presenting a manic state. But, a big BUT – since I have a history of debilitating depression, mania has to be considered... This is a very important point for as far as I am aware, a diagnosis of mania is only brought into play if there has been a history of depression. Otherwise schizophrenia is the best guess. I have gotten that too. Uni polar mania exists in its own right but my initial diagnosis was that of unipolar depression. From 1976 through 1980 I was treated by a renowned psychiatrist, Dr. Ruth Bruun in New York City for depression. In that time period, I had been forced to take a leave of absence twice from a high paying, high pressured job due to my inability to cope with the inherent stress. Before my impending move to South America, Dr. Bruun suggested that if I were to become so severely depressed again, I should explore the possibility of unipolar depression and entertain the idea of switching from anti-depression medication to Lithium.
I lived in Rio for 51/2 years, Sao Paulo for 51/2 years and Buenos Aires for 9 months. Lucky me. I mean that. I was hospitalized three times in South America – each time by means that would have been considered illegal in this country. Each time I have been as cooperative as I have been this time in the States. Responding to the concerns of my family, each time I have willingly cooperated to ease my family’s minds. I have never kicked nor screamed. Three times my loved ones declared my attending doctors incompetent though they had been hand picked by my loved ones themselves and each time they have resorted to trickery to achieve their desired results – all in the name of concern for my health. When the experts didn’t agree with their diagnosis, it was on to new ones until SOMEONE would bear out my family’s beliefs. I have been lied to, drugged and carted off by men in white coats three times by my family. It never works because ultimately my nasty illness pops up again.
To bring you up to date…Doctor Timothy Pylko met me in Las Encinas exactly 6 years ago when my second alcoholic ex husband requested I go. I was originally admitted by a Dr. Horowitz whom I hadn’t known previously because Dr. Mariel Tourani, the psychiatrist who had been treating me for bipolar depression was not an attending doctor at Las Encinas. Within a few days I fired Dr. Horowitz as I did not agree that I was in a manic state and refused to be treated for one. Luckily that can be done in North America. Another attending psychiatrist there, Dr. Pylko, took me on as a patient and then released me as he also was unable to concur with a diagnosis of mania. As my family hastens to find doctors to comply with their fears and wishes, so now can I. Fortunately in the States they have a little thing called Patients Rights. Dr. Pylko has seen me through subsequent crises and we have an excellent working relationship. He has seen me through debilitating depressions – never mania. As he said two nights ago, he sees is a hell of a lot of histrionics surrounding me. He conducted the Young Mania Rating Scale test on me 2 weeks ago and I scored “perfectly normal” – not even hypo-manic. On a scale of 1-60, 60 being full blown mania I had scored an 11. A score of 1-12 indicates “normal”, 13 - 20 “hypomania”, 21-60 mania. Upon my request he called my mother and brother as I was in his office and reported the results and his interpretation: for whatever might have occurred earlier, the test he gave me was valid for one week prior to present and that I was not indicating any evidence of a manic episode. I would have scored an 8 but I lost 3 points when I replied negatively to whether I thought I was bipolar. I replied that I was fully aware that I would lose points on that one but that I had responded in the negative because I was trying to make what I perceived to be a very important point: that I consider my manic profile to be inaccurate and that I see it more as a result of a previously diagnosed profile of HIGHLY, off-the-charts ADDICTIVE Personality as born out by the results of the MMPI taken in Argentina.
One conversation with my mother and one voice mail message to my brother was not sufficient to allay my family’s concerns. Upon Dr. Pylko’s request, I filled out a written release form for Dr. Pylko to allow him to have further conversations with my family. Dr. Pylko has been extremely patient with me and my family and has spoken several times with my family members and concerned friends to repeat his evaluation. To no avail.
In our telephone conversation Thursday night – 3 nights ago – which immediately followed the Las Encinas debacle, Dr. Pylko told me that the only time in our 6 year relationship that he has seen me in need of hospitalization was when I admitted my self for depression 3 months after we first met. Please make note that that hospitalization was the first and only time I admitted myself for depression and I went out of my own concern. I have to add that my second ex-husband was instrumental in encouraging me to go at that time. He is the only one in this sordid story who has EVER been on the posse trail for treating my depression clinically. I am very grateful to him for that. Professional wisdom will concur that with bipolar patients, the patient seeks help when he/she is depressed, the family does so when the patient is presenting manic behavior. This for good reason – depression is extremely painful for the patient and manic behavior is extremely discomforting for loved ones.
So – to date, it is Dr. Pylko’s professional opinion that I am not remotely manic. I concur. That is why when I agreed to come here yesterday at the request of my 16 year old daughter, I admitted myself here to the Chemical Dependency unit. When she iterated her concern about my mental state, once again, I came without hesitation. As a point of honor, I wanted to be treated for my addictions, not bipolar. I have a 45 year old history of an eating disorder, I am addicted to cigarettes and I would probably be addicted to alcohol and illicit drugs if I weren’t allergic to both. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, I get sick when I abuse alcohol and cocaine. Bummer – I’m not attracted to alcohol but I LOVE cocaine. I consider my presence here today as the first day of the rest of my life. Henceforth, I will be treating my dis-ease as an addiction, not as a mental illness. That is not a question of semantics. I believe they are one and the same.”
A round of applause….
“ Thank you, Didi. Your time is up”
I sat down. I wasn’t finished but I had covered the important part and what was relevant to that meeting. A very nice gentle man crossed the room to whisper an apology in my ear for having been cut off. I replied that I understood the rules and that after menopause one’s skin gets very thick and impenetrable. I was OK. I was more than OK. It was the start I needed.
After 30 years of being the study of my own research project, 6 rounds in mental institutions in which to conduct the research, countless contact with clinically diagnosed bipolar patients and reams of literature and self help books, I’ve come to the following conclusion about the workings of bipolar disorder:
Bipolar Disorder is a real dis-ease and I have it. It was previously diagnosed typically in one’s late 20’s. Now we are seeing it earlier and increasingly more frequently. The disorder is usually not detected until manic behavior is observed in patients who have had a previous history of depression. This was true in my case. I was 25 when the pressure of the demands on me was as great as to render me incapable of not only doing my job but sufficiently debilitated to be unable to bathe or feed myself. After a two week time out and a reorganization of my responsibilities at work by an understanding and sensitive boss I returned to work. Two years later, ditto. After observing these patterns and treating me for 3 years in therapy, my psychiatrist arrived at the diagnosis of “UNI -polar Depressive” – mood swings at regular intervals without the manic episodes. By 1985, I began to act manic and henceforth I have been treated for BI-Polar.
I have worked as tenaciously as a fox terrier clamps his teeth around an unsuspecting pant leg to get attention and to be heard. I have doggedly pursued every avenue available to me to understand and explain myself and my dis-ease to every one I know - to whomever had the necessary patience and interest to listen long enough and to hear me out. I have worn every body out and myself in the process. I am done. I’ve done the work and I am satisfied with my conclusions. I feel whole even though no one around me either sees me that way or is able to feel the same themselves. This is my final word for any one who qualifies as per the above. I have found the answers that I have been looking for – the ones which fit my story. I believe there is value in my story for others. That’s why I am writing my story.
My story is just my story….
Note: words in italics are direct quotations. The others are a result of my editorializing.)
I don’t know exactly when it started but in my conscious memory, it began something like this:
The Setting: The Breakfast Table. Mom has laid the table with a bowl of Cheerios and has poured a glass of OJ to midpoint.
MOM:
“ Morning DD. Here’s your orange juice. Bummer, your glass is only half empty – that’s OK – mine is too. I poured it that way for you to understand life. I live by the tenet that it’s best to look at it that way – half empty. Never allow yourself to get invested in a positive outcome. I have learned that if I expect the worst, I won’t be disappointed when things go bad and I can be happily surprised when they go well.
Dad enters.
“ Well, Hi there Miss Mouse! Why your glass is only half-full! Here, let me fill it to the brim for you! UPBEAT, DD – that’s the name of the game. You’ve got to keep your head above water. NEVER let yourself get down – it’s too depressing! The world is your oyster – you GO girl!
Thus began each day of my life as an addict-in-training and what I ( can only now) affectionately refer to as my bipolar upbringing . It was crazy making – at it’s worst. Not the big fat elephant in the middle of the room and you’re clearly being messed with, but rather the insidious – pernicious – poison of the double message.
I went through childhood oblivious to something I couldn’t see. I was your average kid with the average amount of lust for life and the average amount of bumps and scrapes. No hospitalizations or stitches even – two broken legs but casts were fun and the boys scrambled to carry my book bag while I hobbled on crutches as “ Little Miss Hop-A-Long Cast DD”. (Surprisingly, that quotation came from my mother’s play on words – she DID have it in her – which only added to the confusion, of course.). I never questioned my parents love and to be honest – I never wanted for anything. I was born with a silver spoon and the dowry only got bigger with age.
I was devastated when my father died in 2000. He was the fun parent. I’d had so little time with him really. My mother was my main contact. She was anything but fun. She is still alive at 85 – but barely. Her heart is ticking but she’s crippled by great pain and will soon enough die of her vascular dis-ease. She has already suffered a stroke. She has been diagnosed with macular degeneration for 10 years and is legally blind; she is severely hearing impaired and her hearing aids don’t quite bring her up to baseline. She feels isolated from the outside world and she possesses no tools to provide her with inner peace. The tools which she could previously rely on to calm her inner demons of self-loathing i.e. physical activity or reading are now unavailable to her. She is now clinically depressed and on medication for all of the above. There’s not much left of her courageous tenacious self. Though she attends Mass every Sunday and on Holy Days of Obligation she is spiritually bankrupt and can no longer find comfort from prayer. Tragically, she will die bitter about a God who clearly didn’t answer her prayers – if for nothing else, a happy peaceful death. She will die not knowing she’s was physically beautiful and inwardly fair and loving. She will die unable to accept her humanly defects, feeling guilty for all her shortcomings, unable to see her well documented strengths. She will leave this earth with the same sense of insecurity and lack of self worth that she entered with and lived to the fullest. This makes me profoundly sad but I have yielded to the conventional wisdom that these are issues that she must resolve herself and all the well intentioned efforts on my part are rendered useless. I’d like to think that it is not too late for her to address her demons and leave here more peacefully. I am actively attempting to do everything in my power to assist her. I am doing so for her sake. For my sake, I am hoping to retrieve a glimmer of the love I know she feels for me, expressed in a manner more congruent with the ideal of motherly love which I have been so desperately seeking to receive as a daughter and which I so ardently seek to provide in my own role as a mother to my dear dear worthy children. I am prepared not to receive that comfort for I recognize her limitations. I am acutely aware that she has loved me and to the best of her ability has dutifully and honorably given me her own version of unconditional love.
Dad worked hard – during the week at his 9-5 day job as an art director and after hours on a freelance basis. After 50 years in the publishing world his obituary in the NY Times stated that amongst his innumerable contributions to the world of juvenile publishing, Dad was to children’s books as Ikea is to furniture. Through his “PictureBacks” collection - paperback books for preschoolers, he brought fine art and literature to children at an affordable price. By all accounts, Dad was the driving force behind Richard Scary’s success with whom he had a 45 year working relationship and friendship. Scary evidently was grateful for he repaid Dad several times over in their lifetimes and he rewarded him the honor and financial prize of being co-executor of his will. Dad’s work speaks for itself as he continues to receive royalties and acclaim through his many honorable mentions and his place amongst the finest in the “20th Century Treasury of Children’s Books where his collaborative effort with Scary is amongst the counted. I won’t pretend that Dad was the perfect parent but he had a leg up on Mom. He was upbeat, he was alive and he made the best of every waking moment. Mom, of course was the opposite – she operated on the down beat and for her every waking moment was just another struggle to make it through the day.
So that’s it: I’m manic-depressive…I’m my father three months of the year and my mother the other nine. I said that to a psychiatrist once in Sao Paulo who’s only possible retort could have been – and was – “that’s such a manic thing to say”. InDeed.
The point I am trying to make is simple. As my father always reminded me when I would get mangled and lost in detail – “it’s just not that complicated”. I have come to believe that all mental illness is a function of emotional dis-ease and that whichever basket you want to put it in, mental health issues and addictions are one in the same. We are all spiritual beings struggling to survive in a decidedly spiritually challenging world. We do so by developing coping mechanisms – adopting behavioral patterns which work uniquely for us to adapt to the stressors of life. As we continue to employ these mechanisms throughout life they become addictive. Hence, alcohol, drugs, food, gambling etc. become our best friends and cohorts. We like them – even love them – regardless of how ultimately self destructive those behaviors become. Some addictive behaviors are more socially acceptable than others – so much so that they don’t look like addictions: excessive exercise, over working etc. AND, I maintain, depression and/or mania. I know this, I feel this. It’s become so clear to me. When the going gets tough I have relied on a handful of coping mechanisms: over eating, smoking and the ultimate fool proof retreat: depression. When I declare myself incapable of doing what is demanded of me and there are doctors to approve and condone my retreat, I am relieved and released of my responsibilities. I can then retreat into my fetal ball under my magic quilt and the world – my loved ones, to be fair, then fly in – literally from around the world to clean up my mess. This has happened a thousand times. It works – very efficiently, very effectively and to date, every time. I am addicted to depressive behavior. It’s that simple.
As for addictive manic behavior, ditto. Mania is just the mirror image, the exact opposite side of the coin. Whereas depression is anger and frustration turned inward in which the patient targets himself, mania is anger and frustration turned outward in which the WORLD – one’s loved ones in particular – become the target. It’s a temper tantrum. I got my first clue about this when my oldest daughter became an adolescent. From one day to the next there was an alien in the house: my sweet, compliant, I’ll-do-everything-you-ask-me-to daughter began rebelling. What??? I realized then that had she not been an average adolescent, she might have been diagnosed as BiPolar II. All the criteria which experts apply to that diagnosis could be applied to her. She happened to have missed the terrible twos but was getting even in adolescence. I missed the terrible twos AND adolescence and as is often the case, only began my tantrums in my late twenties when finally it was time to turned my destructive impulses outward.
So what is this all about? It’s about employing the tools known to me, my “friends”, my coping behaviors which have become “effective” in the face of fear, anger and frustration in a world which is challenging at best and unfriendly at worst. Binging, smoking, depression, mania – for me they are all the same. That is why I marry addicts, breed addicts and like to hang out with addicts. That’s why I feel more comfortable in AA meetings than AlAnon meetings. That is why I said that my presence in the Twelve Step Meeting on April 1, 2007 was the first day of the rest of my life. That is not a bad April Fool’s joke. It is my truth.
This is why I am here.
md seventeen--
WOW! What an incredible story! I could relate to alot of it, and I do agree with you as far as publishing it, as I believe it is a story that needs to be told. All of us are walking stories that need to be told. I admire your boldness and your truth. I hope you come back and post again.
Remember, God loves you and so do I.
Love, Michele
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