I love every hair on my husband's head. I do not, however, love every hair on his back and ass. Jasen could grow a mustache at 14 years old. He's down right burly in the winter when he "needs the hair for warmth," or in the summer when he just forgets to shave.
Shaving days just plain suck. He swears every time that he's cleaned up after himself. I beg to differ. I have to completely re-clean the entire bathroom sink. But really, that's okay. It's every other day of the week that gets to me.
He sheds. Constantly. In the shower, on the bathroom floor, in the closet. Two-inch black hairs. Undeniably his. And mine to clean up. If the floor is wet, I take a piece of toilet paper before I get into the shower, wipe down the floor, and toss it in the toilet. The vacuum doesn't like his hairs. Every now and then the drain clogs, and I sit there with a wire, cussing for an hour that he has enough hair on his back to make wigs.
A few years ago I decided to wax his back. I gave him a glass of whiskey on ice, and smeared hot, gooey, thick wax. Over his entire back. There was no turning back. I know it's sadistic, but that was my point. There would be no turning back. No strip of wonderfully smooth skin surrounded by the normal forest. I figured if we waxed his back, it would gradually get thinner. When I shave it, there's still stubble. Who knew men were wussies when it comes to beautification.
The first pull wasn't so bad. A shock, maybe, but not too bad. After that the whole experience (for him) went to hell.
"Holy mother of God that hurt! What the hell, babe!"
"Dude. Sip your drink. It's not that bad. Look...King of the Hill is on. Watch that and lay still."
"Just give me thirty seconds..."
He starts breathing like a woman in labor, grabs the rug, and holds on for dear life.
"Okay. Go!"
Riiiiiippp.
"F#%@. Am I bleeding?"
"Of course your not bleeding. Grow up. Let's just get this over with."
Okay. I lied. He was definitely bleeding. Tiny drops of blood started pooling out of each pore. At this point, I began to laugh. Uncontrollably. I don't know why. Maybe it's because women shave, we birth babies, we have yearly exams, and my Redneck Husband can't have his back waxed. Maybe it was his reaction...like I was scalping him. Maybe it was because he held his breath with each rip, and then cussed. I don't know. I just got tickled, and he did not find the situation as hilariously funny as me.
"Jesus Christ, honey. It's effing hot in here. Can you turn up the A.C.?"
"Oh for the love of God."
I turn up the air conditioner, and return to my wax-o-pain.
Riiiiiipppppp.
"Okay! That's enough...you just pulled off a mole. And don't tell me I'm not bleeding. Get this shit off of me. Now. I'm done."
"Ummm...honey, there's no way to get it off. That's the point. We have to keep going. Otherwise you're just going to live with wax on your back. Suck it up, and lay down."
"F@%#. Just do them all. Turn up the television or something, so I can't hear myself scream. I can't believe I let you do this to me. You suck. I hate you right now."
"It's called Manscaping, honey. And I like a smooth back. It's sexy. You like smooth legs, I like smooth backs. Okay...hold on."
Riiiipppp.
"I don't care if I'm not sexy. I'm a man, damn it. I'm supposed to be hairy."
"Not this hairy, honey. This is ridiculous."
"F@%& you and your wax. This sucks. I'm never doing this again. You tricked me."
Yep...sure did...and it's friggin hilarious.
Flash forward eight years or so. Juni was scratching Jasen's back, and apparently scratched off a mole. One of those red, weird looking things. Benign. Pretty much every time I shave Jasen's back I usually nip a few, unintentionally. Which is why he basically doesn't let me near his back side with a razor.
So Juni scratches off the mole. I tell Jasen to get it checked out, because that's what my dermatologist had always told me; that if you injure a mole, it can easily become infected and can change the makeup of the cells. Raises the chance of cancer or something.
Of course Jasen says he's fine. The next day, he comes home.
"Babe, can you come in here?"
"What is it? That bump on your head is NOT a tick. I've looked at it every year for nine years. And I'm not looking at anything on your butt. Get a mirror."
"I want you to look at this thing on my back. It hurts like hell. But you have to promise not to touch it."
There is only one way to describe what was left of the mole. A giant, very full cow tick. They're gray, bulbous, and just plain nasty.
"Ummm....honey, this doesn't look so good. It looks like an inflated cow tick. I think you should see a doctor. And it's all red around it."
"It's fine. As long as nothing touches it, it's fine."
The next day we take Juni to a birthday pool party. Jasen wears a white shirt, and sits in a high-backed chair. He gets up looking like a mobster has stabbed him square in the back.
"Babe, will you look at my mole? It itches."
"Holy Hell, Jasen. It looks like someone's stabbed you. Get in the house before you scare the kids."
The blood had mixed with the sweat, run down his back, and soaked the waistband in his shorts.
"Just put a band aid on it. It's fine."
"It's not fine! You look like you should be on the Sopranos! Go. To. The. DOCTOR. Now. Otherwise, the sympathy is gone."
Two days later, Jasen comes home during lunch and swipes on extra deodorant. He's having his moles checked. An hour later, I get a few texts. Remember, My Redneck Husband has huge fingers, so texting is not his thing.
"Carp [crap]. They want me no clothes. I got no underwear on. What I do?"
"Ha! What the hell is wrong with you? Didn't your mom teach you to always wear your undies to the doctor? Ask for a paper blanket or something. A paper towel. A napkin. Anything."
"Shut [shit]. Here comes doc."
Thirty minutes later he calls.
"Babe. It was horrible. I can hear the nurses laughing, and in comes the most beautiful woman in the world. Seriously. Of course, I had to have this 25-year-old doctor, and there I am naked-assed. It was horrible."
I start laughing. And them remember...shouldn't I be the most beautiful woman in the world? I give him shit for the slip-up, but really it's just too funny. It would be like Brad Pit (before he was all shaggy) coming in for my yearly girlie appointment.
"It was horrible, babe. I started to sweat and everything. I felt like an idiot."
"You didn't wear underwear. You are an idiot. Hows the mole?"
"Gone. She took it off...said it looked like it was getting infected. But she checked everything else out, and all the other moles are good to go."
"Lovely, honey. Hey...can I shave your back tonight?"
"F@%$ no. What's for dinner?"
Monday, July 30, 2012
Sunday, July 29, 2012
What I learned from Whitewater Rafting
I knew our vacation would rock. A cabin, rafting, zip lines, and lake with tons of floating toys. I also knew Jasen and I could very well kill each other in the car (that's for another post). Juni was an angel in the car.
What I didn't know, was that our guide would make me really thing about life, what it means to be happy, and the obstacles people can overcome.
He had an accent, so of course I asked where he's from "South Africa, born and raised. And no, I'm not black."
Ummm...yeah, I got that your white. Thanks.
He got us down the river, picking on me and Juni the whole time, making jokes, talking about his wife and schooling, and smiling the whole time.
During a swim break, I asked him how often he returned home to see his family. He immigrated to the U.S. 9 years ago.
"My mother was murdered 15 years ago. My father killed himself 4 months later. And my brother killed himself 4 months ago. My last sibling lives in Australia, raising his family. I will never return home. There's no one to return to."
Okay. There are very few times when words evade me. This was one of them. "Ummm...I have no idea what to say. I'm sorry doesn't sound even remotely close to what you went through."
"No worries. I did start smoking again when my brother killed himself, though. I just focus on the present, look forward to the future, and remember the good things in my past. "
What amazed me about this man (he's 37) is his zest for life. Almost everyone in his family has died untimely, and yet he does what he loves. He guides rafts, holds two degrees from WVU, and is working on his nursing degree. He shows no fear.
One of my largest fears (and I have a lot of fears, believe me), is anyone in my family dying too soon. Especially my sister. I couldn't imagine the hurt, pain and sense of loss. And then to have half of your family kill themselves. I would be a shell. An empty, fragile shell. It would change me forever.
But Brian was anything but a shell. He was smiling, playing, and living his life. He inspired me to live my life not in fear of losing someone, but with the realization that living in fear is not living at all. He taught me that people can survive the most horrific events, and find happiness. All this, on the New River in West Virginia.
I stepped into the raft looking for a relaxing good time, and left with so much more. A refreshed outlook, and an incredible sense of admiration for a man living every single one of his dreams, despite the death and despair plaguing his past.
It's amazing what the human mind can overcome. And he is a testament to the strength we all have, somewhere within ourselves. He inspired me to find that strength within myself. And I could never thank him enough.
What I didn't know, was that our guide would make me really thing about life, what it means to be happy, and the obstacles people can overcome.
He had an accent, so of course I asked where he's from "South Africa, born and raised. And no, I'm not black."
Ummm...yeah, I got that your white. Thanks.
He got us down the river, picking on me and Juni the whole time, making jokes, talking about his wife and schooling, and smiling the whole time.
During a swim break, I asked him how often he returned home to see his family. He immigrated to the U.S. 9 years ago.
"My mother was murdered 15 years ago. My father killed himself 4 months later. And my brother killed himself 4 months ago. My last sibling lives in Australia, raising his family. I will never return home. There's no one to return to."
Okay. There are very few times when words evade me. This was one of them. "Ummm...I have no idea what to say. I'm sorry doesn't sound even remotely close to what you went through."
"No worries. I did start smoking again when my brother killed himself, though. I just focus on the present, look forward to the future, and remember the good things in my past. "
What amazed me about this man (he's 37) is his zest for life. Almost everyone in his family has died untimely, and yet he does what he loves. He guides rafts, holds two degrees from WVU, and is working on his nursing degree. He shows no fear.
One of my largest fears (and I have a lot of fears, believe me), is anyone in my family dying too soon. Especially my sister. I couldn't imagine the hurt, pain and sense of loss. And then to have half of your family kill themselves. I would be a shell. An empty, fragile shell. It would change me forever.
But Brian was anything but a shell. He was smiling, playing, and living his life. He inspired me to live my life not in fear of losing someone, but with the realization that living in fear is not living at all. He taught me that people can survive the most horrific events, and find happiness. All this, on the New River in West Virginia.
I stepped into the raft looking for a relaxing good time, and left with so much more. A refreshed outlook, and an incredible sense of admiration for a man living every single one of his dreams, despite the death and despair plaguing his past.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Feeling like a Heroin Addict
I've mentioned depression is slow. Before you realize you're depressed, it's too late. You've fallen into the hole, tried scraping your way out by your hands, and are left with bloody stubs.
Apparently I tried to crawl out of my hole by filling my body with cookie dough. 15 lbs of cookie dough, to be exact. It's been a long time since I've dealt with depression. The meds have worked for six years. But after a while my body develops a tolerance. As usual, I maxed out my dose years ago.
Juni getting onto the bus to begin kindergarten began my depression. My baby is growing up. He doesn't need me any more. It's only a matter of time before he's married. You get the gist.
I realized the depth of the depression when, in the spring, Jasen said "Just get off the couch a DO SOMETHING. What the hell have you done today?"
Ummm....let me think...clean, watch tv, stare at tv, and eat cookie dough. Yep. That was my day. Oh...and I took a nap.
So, I made an appointment to begin changing meds, and stepped on the dreaded scale. 15 lbs to show for a winter of depression. Lovely. Six months I'll never get back, and 15 lbs I never needed in the first damned place.
Some medications are easy to switch. You stop taking one pill, and begin the other. Not so much with mine. You slowly take your dose down, and begin taking the new one once you get down to 75 mg. Here's the issue...it takes Wellbutrin, my new drug, 6-8 weeks to begin working. So my doctor and I decided to go from 225 mg of Effexor to 75.
My husband knew it would be rough. "Shit. Here we go again. You're not going to sit in the freezer at Harris Teeter this time, are you?" My Zoloft withdrawal hit me in the freezer isle, and yes, I was hot and confused. So I sat my fat ass into the freezer. Juni was 3 weeks old.
OUCH. I woke up the next morning feeling like I had the flu. There were migraines, brain shocks, the shivers, night sweats, trembling, and a general feeling of anxiety and panic. Xanax became my friend, once again. It's been 4 weeks, and I'm still at 75 mg. Eventually, I'll start taking them every other day, then none at all. But I'm not through the first stage of withdrawal.
Seriously. I feel like a heroin addict. And the withdraw symptoms are similar. The shakes. Nausea. And the oddest feeling, a brain shock. Like something just misfired in my brain, and I'm totally effed for a minute or two. Completely not in the world or this moment. It makes my stomach drop just like a roller coaster. And if I turn my head, my vision doesn't catch up. Bizarre.
But it's worth it. Depression is a bitch. She sneaks in your back door and stays on your couch until you kick her out with steel-toed boots. My depression is gone, for now, just from the thought of feeling better with the Wellbutrin. The thought that things will soon begin working has gotten me off the couch, out of the fridge, and back into life. I spend every moment loving and enjoying Juni. yes, I let myself cry at night that he's 6, getting older, yadda yadda yadda, but it's better than all day. And no more naps. I have energy. Okay, more like anxiety, but I can sometimes channel that feeling into energy and walk the edge of panic.
My body isn't happy and my brain is literally in shock, but the withdrawal is worth it. I've begun to channel some of the anxiety into exercise. I've lost 10 lbs. Of pure cookie dough. Which has shed the tube around my stomach, but failed to touch the cottage cheese permanently in residence on my thighs. Maybe that last withdrawal step will strip that away. Wouldn't that be nice. Smooth legs in themselves would be worth the withdrawal.
Apparently I tried to crawl out of my hole by filling my body with cookie dough. 15 lbs of cookie dough, to be exact. It's been a long time since I've dealt with depression. The meds have worked for six years. But after a while my body develops a tolerance. As usual, I maxed out my dose years ago.
Juni getting onto the bus to begin kindergarten began my depression. My baby is growing up. He doesn't need me any more. It's only a matter of time before he's married. You get the gist.
I realized the depth of the depression when, in the spring, Jasen said "Just get off the couch a DO SOMETHING. What the hell have you done today?"
Ummm....let me think...clean, watch tv, stare at tv, and eat cookie dough. Yep. That was my day. Oh...and I took a nap.
So, I made an appointment to begin changing meds, and stepped on the dreaded scale. 15 lbs to show for a winter of depression. Lovely. Six months I'll never get back, and 15 lbs I never needed in the first damned place.
Some medications are easy to switch. You stop taking one pill, and begin the other. Not so much with mine. You slowly take your dose down, and begin taking the new one once you get down to 75 mg. Here's the issue...it takes Wellbutrin, my new drug, 6-8 weeks to begin working. So my doctor and I decided to go from 225 mg of Effexor to 75.
My husband knew it would be rough. "Shit. Here we go again. You're not going to sit in the freezer at Harris Teeter this time, are you?" My Zoloft withdrawal hit me in the freezer isle, and yes, I was hot and confused. So I sat my fat ass into the freezer. Juni was 3 weeks old.
OUCH. I woke up the next morning feeling like I had the flu. There were migraines, brain shocks, the shivers, night sweats, trembling, and a general feeling of anxiety and panic. Xanax became my friend, once again. It's been 4 weeks, and I'm still at 75 mg. Eventually, I'll start taking them every other day, then none at all. But I'm not through the first stage of withdrawal.
Seriously. I feel like a heroin addict. And the withdraw symptoms are similar. The shakes. Nausea. And the oddest feeling, a brain shock. Like something just misfired in my brain, and I'm totally effed for a minute or two. Completely not in the world or this moment. It makes my stomach drop just like a roller coaster. And if I turn my head, my vision doesn't catch up. Bizarre.
But it's worth it. Depression is a bitch. She sneaks in your back door and stays on your couch until you kick her out with steel-toed boots. My depression is gone, for now, just from the thought of feeling better with the Wellbutrin. The thought that things will soon begin working has gotten me off the couch, out of the fridge, and back into life. I spend every moment loving and enjoying Juni. yes, I let myself cry at night that he's 6, getting older, yadda yadda yadda, but it's better than all day. And no more naps. I have energy. Okay, more like anxiety, but I can sometimes channel that feeling into energy and walk the edge of panic.
My body isn't happy and my brain is literally in shock, but the withdrawal is worth it. I've begun to channel some of the anxiety into exercise. I've lost 10 lbs. Of pure cookie dough. Which has shed the tube around my stomach, but failed to touch the cottage cheese permanently in residence on my thighs. Maybe that last withdrawal step will strip that away. Wouldn't that be nice. Smooth legs in themselves would be worth the withdrawal.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Vodka Water
I bought my kiln about a year ago ... a few months before I found a wheel. To offset my pottery withdrawal, I played with glass for a bit; especially bottle slumping. Jasen poured vodka into a water bottle, tossed it in the freezer, and forgot about it. Apparently he did this so I could have the bottle.
Until last week. He packed a cooler for a day trip, and tossed in the water bottle, oblivious to the fact that it was, in fact, raspberry vodka. Cheap raspberry vodka.
"Mommy...taste this water, please. There's something wrong with it."
"It's water, Juni. I'm sure it's fine."
"Seriously, Mommy. Taste this. Please."
"Ugh! Okay. Hand me the bottle."
I take a swig, and immediately spew sticky raspberry vodka across the dashboard.
"What the Hell, Jasen? This is friggin vodka! Juni, are you okay buddy? Did you swallow it?"
"No, I spit it back in the bottle. My tongue burns dough."
"Awe, buddy, I'm sorry. Jasen ... I am NOT cleaning this dashboard. Your vodka, your mess."
"It's okay. Daddy ... alcohol is nasty. You shouldn't drink it. Mommy ... does vodka kill little boys?"
"No, Juni, it doesn't. It just burns your tongue."
"Whew. I fought I might get killed by it."
Fast forward to today. Juni is my little golf-a-holic, in his second clinic this summer. He gets into the car, it's almost 100 degrees out, and I hand him a bottled water. Apparently, it resembled the the vodka water bottle.
"Mommy, is this oka water?"
"Huh?"
"ODKA water...is this ODKA water?"
"What? Say it slower, Juni."
"VODKA. WATER. Is this VODKA WATER. You know, that nasty stuff Daddy drinks."
"No, Juni. It's not vodka water. You're cool, dude. I threw that out and made Daddy promise to keep his vodka water out of the freezer."
Until last week. He packed a cooler for a day trip, and tossed in the water bottle, oblivious to the fact that it was, in fact, raspberry vodka. Cheap raspberry vodka.
"Mommy...taste this water, please. There's something wrong with it."
"It's water, Juni. I'm sure it's fine."
"Seriously, Mommy. Taste this. Please."
"Ugh! Okay. Hand me the bottle."
I take a swig, and immediately spew sticky raspberry vodka across the dashboard.
"What the Hell, Jasen? This is friggin vodka! Juni, are you okay buddy? Did you swallow it?"
"No, I spit it back in the bottle. My tongue burns dough."
"Awe, buddy, I'm sorry. Jasen ... I am NOT cleaning this dashboard. Your vodka, your mess."
"It's okay. Daddy ... alcohol is nasty. You shouldn't drink it. Mommy ... does vodka kill little boys?"
"No, Juni, it doesn't. It just burns your tongue."
"Whew. I fought I might get killed by it."
Fast forward to today. Juni is my little golf-a-holic, in his second clinic this summer. He gets into the car, it's almost 100 degrees out, and I hand him a bottled water. Apparently, it resembled the the vodka water bottle.
"Mommy, is this oka water?"
"Huh?"
"ODKA water...is this ODKA water?"
"What? Say it slower, Juni."
"VODKA. WATER. Is this VODKA WATER. You know, that nasty stuff Daddy drinks."
"No, Juni. It's not vodka water. You're cool, dude. I threw that out and made Daddy promise to keep his vodka water out of the freezer."
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
The Last Spring Calf
Remember the debacle that was last years' calfing? I pulled one out, the vet cut one out piece by piece...it was not good. We were afraid that one of our heifers was infertile because of the god-awful procedure, and that our bull just threw gigantic babies.
Saturday Jasen and I can home to see a boy (for some reason I've named him Norman. If you don't get the reference, watch more great movies). Anyway, I didn't name the heifer because I was sure we'd have to put her down. She is now known as... Bertha. Because that cow waited two years for her calf. And she won't leave the little tike's side. Or let anyone else near him. Including the other calves, who have now had their share of head butts strong enough to fling their feisty little butts 10 feet away from Norman.
There's just something so comforting about calves. They play, they curl up in the field, and they look like giant deer. The best part is when they're nursing ... foam dripping from their mouths, their mothers chewing their cud and falling asleep, and the calf's tail wagging like a pinwheel in delight.
Saturday Jasen and I can home to see a boy (for some reason I've named him Norman. If you don't get the reference, watch more great movies). Anyway, I didn't name the heifer because I was sure we'd have to put her down. She is now known as... Bertha. Because that cow waited two years for her calf. And she won't leave the little tike's side. Or let anyone else near him. Including the other calves, who have now had their share of head butts strong enough to fling their feisty little butts 10 feet away from Norman.
There's just something so comforting about calves. They play, they curl up in the field, and they look like giant deer. The best part is when they're nursing ... foam dripping from their mouths, their mothers chewing their cud and falling asleep, and the calf's tail wagging like a pinwheel in delight.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
What it Feels Like, Part 5
Bipolar. People make jokes. They think we're the crazies. And honestly, many people with bipolar disorder (manic depression) are crazy. They can become violent, psychotic, delusional, and a lot of us self-medicate with drugs or alcohol. This is not me.
There are a ton of different degrees of bipolar disorder. I'd say mine is pretty mild. I am in the most severe category, but within that designation, I'm on the mild side. I am Bipolar I (meaning that during a manic episode I am a danger to myself, others or my relationships.) This does not mean I'm violent. Yes, I have shaken Jasen with excitement, but that's pretty much it. I would drive too fast without realizing it. Spend a little too much money. But by far, I am a danger to my relationships. Basically, if I don't take my medications, my manic episodes change my personality to the point where my husband would leave. And I wouldn't blame him. If I don't take my medication, I loose my family. My life. So no matter what, I take that pill every single day. And I have people to watch for signs that I need a higher dose. This disease will not ruin my life. I am in charge. I can do this.
When I look back on my manias, they don't make sense. I don't remember the things I said or did. Okay, wait, I do, but that couldn't have been me, could it? When the switch goes off and I'm back in reality, I don't remember everything. It's called disassociation. An extreme version is blacking out. Mine is very mild. Confusing as hell, too.
So it's simple. I take the meds. Jasen will never forget the horrible manic episodes I put him through, but he has forgiven. I don't think I could do that. No matter how redneck he is, or how much dirt he brings into the house or how loud he snores, he stayed by my side, literally holding me every night until the medications started working. He told me he loved me. That he didn't understand my disorder, and didn't want to be the one for me to confide in, but that as long as I found someone to keep me in check (my therapist, psychiatrist, mom, sister and a few close friends), he would stay.
He knows my triggers. He gives me more attention, and only drinks on the weekends. My diagnosis has helped him become a better person, and our marriage is strong.
He went to my therapy sessions (they began at 2 times a week. Now I go about once a month). He still loves me. And that's a blessing.
Most people with bipolar disorder ruin their relationships, credit scores, and bodies before they are ever diagnosed, or because they don't take their medications.
I understand why taking the meds can be a bitch. Mood stabilizers (Lithium) cause weight gain. Some people have one emotion. And it's boring. So there's a reason they stop taking their pills.
The high from the mania is unreal. For me, taking my meds isn't a problem. I'm on a fairly low dose of an anti-seizure medication. It's not a mood stabilizer, so I still feel happy, excited, and shorts bursts of non-dangerous manias. I do experience pressure speech (loud, fast, very ADD), but Jasen tells me to calm down. And I do.
And by the way - the seizure med? For seizure patients they take 10 mg. I take 150. A manic episode is literally a seizure in your brain affecting your mood and personality. Think about a person during a seizure. They are completely unable to control their body. When I'm manic, I am completely unable to control my mind.
But I digress. The high is amazing. Indescribable.
Here are some of the non-dangerous manics I've experienced. First...I do NOT like to sew. Hate it, actually. Button fell off? disaster. Hate it. Yet a few years ago, I got it into my manic head that I wanted to make a quilt. Instead of one, I made 18. EIGHTEEN. In a month. The downside? Juni played on the floor by himself. A lot. The guilt from that makes me cry. Seriously. Tears down my cheeks at this very moment. He was about two. And for 30 days, I wasn't the mom I want to be. The house was a mess. And Jasen cooked dinner.
During my manias I had crazy energy. I didn't sleep. I felt like I could do anything. I'd make up these amazing business ventures, which I'm sure would be awesome, but really? In my normal state of mind I'd think of these ideas as way to large an undertaking.
I'd loose weight, because who needs to eat when you have so much energy? I've never taken any recreational drugs. But I would imagine that if you took the best-of-the-best and combined them, that would be a mania.
So there it is. The evil Bipolar Disorder. People joke about it all the time. And when they do it in front of me, I tell them I'm bipolar. I asked Jasen if he minded people knowing. He said he loves me for who I am. And so I tell people...my diagnosis is ... Bipolar I, non-psychotic, non-hospitalization, with a low level disassociation, ADD and severe panic disorder. Fun, fun times.
There are a ton of different degrees of bipolar disorder. I'd say mine is pretty mild. I am in the most severe category, but within that designation, I'm on the mild side. I am Bipolar I (meaning that during a manic episode I am a danger to myself, others or my relationships.) This does not mean I'm violent. Yes, I have shaken Jasen with excitement, but that's pretty much it. I would drive too fast without realizing it. Spend a little too much money. But by far, I am a danger to my relationships. Basically, if I don't take my medications, my manic episodes change my personality to the point where my husband would leave. And I wouldn't blame him. If I don't take my medication, I loose my family. My life. So no matter what, I take that pill every single day. And I have people to watch for signs that I need a higher dose. This disease will not ruin my life. I am in charge. I can do this.
When I look back on my manias, they don't make sense. I don't remember the things I said or did. Okay, wait, I do, but that couldn't have been me, could it? When the switch goes off and I'm back in reality, I don't remember everything. It's called disassociation. An extreme version is blacking out. Mine is very mild. Confusing as hell, too.
So it's simple. I take the meds. Jasen will never forget the horrible manic episodes I put him through, but he has forgiven. I don't think I could do that. No matter how redneck he is, or how much dirt he brings into the house or how loud he snores, he stayed by my side, literally holding me every night until the medications started working. He told me he loved me. That he didn't understand my disorder, and didn't want to be the one for me to confide in, but that as long as I found someone to keep me in check (my therapist, psychiatrist, mom, sister and a few close friends), he would stay.
He knows my triggers. He gives me more attention, and only drinks on the weekends. My diagnosis has helped him become a better person, and our marriage is strong.
He went to my therapy sessions (they began at 2 times a week. Now I go about once a month). He still loves me. And that's a blessing.
Most people with bipolar disorder ruin their relationships, credit scores, and bodies before they are ever diagnosed, or because they don't take their medications.
I understand why taking the meds can be a bitch. Mood stabilizers (Lithium) cause weight gain. Some people have one emotion. And it's boring. So there's a reason they stop taking their pills.
The high from the mania is unreal. For me, taking my meds isn't a problem. I'm on a fairly low dose of an anti-seizure medication. It's not a mood stabilizer, so I still feel happy, excited, and shorts bursts of non-dangerous manias. I do experience pressure speech (loud, fast, very ADD), but Jasen tells me to calm down. And I do.
And by the way - the seizure med? For seizure patients they take 10 mg. I take 150. A manic episode is literally a seizure in your brain affecting your mood and personality. Think about a person during a seizure. They are completely unable to control their body. When I'm manic, I am completely unable to control my mind.
But I digress. The high is amazing. Indescribable.
Here are some of the non-dangerous manics I've experienced. First...I do NOT like to sew. Hate it, actually. Button fell off? disaster. Hate it. Yet a few years ago, I got it into my manic head that I wanted to make a quilt. Instead of one, I made 18. EIGHTEEN. In a month. The downside? Juni played on the floor by himself. A lot. The guilt from that makes me cry. Seriously. Tears down my cheeks at this very moment. He was about two. And for 30 days, I wasn't the mom I want to be. The house was a mess. And Jasen cooked dinner.
During my manias I had crazy energy. I didn't sleep. I felt like I could do anything. I'd make up these amazing business ventures, which I'm sure would be awesome, but really? In my normal state of mind I'd think of these ideas as way to large an undertaking.
I'd loose weight, because who needs to eat when you have so much energy? I've never taken any recreational drugs. But I would imagine that if you took the best-of-the-best and combined them, that would be a mania.
So there it is. The evil Bipolar Disorder. People joke about it all the time. And when they do it in front of me, I tell them I'm bipolar. I asked Jasen if he minded people knowing. He said he loves me for who I am. And so I tell people...my diagnosis is ... Bipolar I, non-psychotic, non-hospitalization, with a low level disassociation, ADD and severe panic disorder. Fun, fun times.
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