Sometimes that’s a relief.  Does that sound strange?  I know some of you understand.  Just to let the darkness have its way…to sink, curl up, sleep, and close out the world.  It hurts less. That twilight, in between state prevents enjoyment, but you’re still very much aware of all you cannot do, don’t want to do.  You don’t care about much, but somehow care that…you don’t care.  You’re supposed to care, and you know that. But the energy, the strength it takes to accomplish even the minutest task simply isn’t there.  And it’s frustrating, aggravating, demoralizing…here it is again.  At least with the full darkness everything is shut out.  That’s not to say full depression is a good thing.  It definitely isn’t.  I’ve spent more than my share of time curled up in a fetal position, blanket over my head, too tired to even cry, and just wanting it to stop.  In that in between, twilight state, though, is the belief that you should be able to carry on as if nothing was wrong.  As if you were walking in the light.  As if all was well in your world when there may only be enough energy present to take a shower, get dressed, and watch TV.  And sometimes there’s only energy to choose one from that list, like choosing dinner in a Chinese restaurant.

The tentacles have been stretching towards me since early October.  I woke up one morning and all my interests were simply no longer interesting.  I felt flat, emotionless, yet not depressed.  Slowly, little by little, I could feel the cold, misty-gray tentacles moving towards me, grasping me lightly, just enough to be aware.  The tentacles were getting stronger, darker, squeezing harder.  I managed to fake my way through Christmas and prepared a separate, second dinner on New Year’s Eve to celebrate with a son and daughter-in-law who had been out of town at Christmas.  I managed to get through, and was aware enough of having met the challenge to even give myself a little pat on the back.  “Good work. Success.”  The fact that I was in bed by 6:30 New Year’s Eve wasn’t important…I had accomplished what I had set out to do.

Then on New Year’s Day, somehow, for some reason I don’t want to even question, the tentacles’ strength lessened, they became a bit thinner, less dark.  I’m not yet back in the light, but I have managed to vacuum and mop my living room, dining room, and entryway, shop, run a couple of other errands, and still feel like writing this blog post.  That’s pretty good and I’ll take it as a sign that perhaps I’m moving towards the light instead of away from it. I feel I’m beginning to care again, and I take that as a good sign, too.  I had hoped I wasn’t experiencing a long, slow, spiraling decline into that dark place from which it is so very difficult to escape.

I feel blessed to be able to say I appear to be climbing out of that hole.

Starting with “this”: I’m grateful for you, my readers.  When I started this blog I had no idea how it would be received.  Face it, a lot of people out there still make wide circles around us “mentally interesting” people.  (Wish I could take credit for the “mentally interesting” comment. Credit fully goes to Jerrod Poole at Crazy Meds.) I’ve had it happen to me at a time when I really needed some support. But overall, I’ve been embraced!  I’ve spoken about my battles at Toastmaster meetings. (Funny thing, social situations ramp up the anxiety probs, but public speaking rocks!)  I’ve been very open on Facebook about the wars I fight and have not had one single negative comment.  Not one!  And as far as I can tell, no one has “unfriended” me, thinking I’m some kind of loony-tune on the verge of creating mayhem.  Heh-heh.  And you…you have given me such support.  Okay, I’m getting teary here, and probably more gushy than you’d like.  I’m so incredibly humbled by your comments and your messages to me.  I’ve discovered there’s a bunch of us mentally interesting people as well as people who don’t ordinarily hack at the demons of a challenged neurotransmitting system, but are having temporary problems.  Whether brought on by environmental causes or physiological issues, it doesn’t matter.  Even brief travels into the world of the demons is harrowing.  So thank you.  Again, I’m humbled and honored.

Next is “that”: my doctors.  I live in a community of 17,000 people in a rural county of 40,000 inhabitants in SE MO.  Get the picture? Small community, poor rural area…not a place where one would expect to find stellar health care.  Yet I have!  I’ll start with my medical doc.  When we moved to our little corner of the world we had no idea who to choose for a primary care physician.  Should we just open the phone book, close our eyes, and point a finger?  Seemed the best way…in fact the only way.

Instead, we actually went to the trouble of asking our neighbors who they saw.  Turns out their doctor was a geriatric doc, but their office steered us to the office of a young doctor.  Doc C.M. is a genius.  Seriously.  For my husband’s neuropathy, a pain specialist in a fancy hospital in the big city of St. Louis told us our doc was treating it just exactly as he would and he wouldn’t change a thing.  Doc C.M. is always on the lookout for new treatments, as well.  He’s treated one son’s ADHD beautifully and another’s anxiety perfectly, in addition to the myriad other health issues we call on him to solve.  He’s actually cared enough about me to “yell” at me that I need to accept that I have a medically recognized ailment.  And yelled at me when I discovered the extent of my anemia.  He didn’t know a nurse practitioner who worked with him at the time had seen the test results but only mentioned that my iron was a little low and I might want to consider taking supplements.  I hope you know he doesn’t actually raise his voice, but it’s possible to yell without actually doing so.  We do it to our kids when they act up in public.  Anyway, he’s great.

Now, I’m even more blessed with my pdoc (psychiatrist).  Do you know how difficult it is to find a good pdoc?  Hmmm?  I went through two at a fancy hospital in a big city (recurring theme here).  The first ditched me when he no longer accepted our insurance.  I fired the second when he said there was no possible way I could have a certain side effect from a particular drug.  Bullhockey.  I was quite easily able to find that side effect online in the drug’s information sheet.  Geez!  Anyway, I was in tears and, quite frankly suicidal, when I went to see a nurse practitioner who shares office space with my MD.  She’s great.  She made a phone call to a friend who’s a psychiatric nurse practitioner and I had an appointment less than a week later.  My depression is apparently quite difficult to treat and she wasn’t really getting anywhere, so she referred me to my pdoc, whose office is next door to hers  I loved him immediately.  I was so low I could barely respond to his questions, but I appreciated how he didn’t just go over a checklist as my former pdocs did.  He listened.  He paraphrased.  He genuinely wanted to know what I was experiencing.  Then he explained how the various neurotransmitters work with regards to mood.  Wow!  I was getting therapy, a pdoc’s expertise, AND an education all in one meeting.  It was fabulous.  And rather than throwing the baby out with the bathtub as my former docs did, he suggested tweaking the mood stabilizer I was on.

And at later appointments, as I described how and what I was feeling, he explained what he wanted to do and why…which neurotransmitter a particular drug would affect and why he wanted to make an adjustment.  He doesn’t like to prescribe medical cocktails, but has found it necessary to place me on four different medications, all very carefully monitored and adjusted.  He admits my case is difficult to treat, partly because I respond atypically to most antidepressants.  In other words, Prozac should send me on a wild rampage when instead it causes me to become one with the couch.

Each time I’ve seen him, he goes back over what I told him before, reviews notes made by my therapist, then carefully listens to what I have to say.  And when I’m doing well he appears to genuinely be happy!  His eyes actually sparkle.  And he seems to enjoy chatting with me about the medical side of drugs, brain cooties, etc.  He also reassures me that in his practice he sees a wide variety of people, including professionals, so I shouldn’t feel inferior.  I could go on and on, but you get the picture.  And here he is, a Pakistani native, living and working in a small rural town in Southeast Missouri.  What a blessing.

My therapist is another blessing.  She listens, she talks with me, she explains the how’s and why’s of what I’m experiencing.  She shares little bits and pieces about her own life.  She never rushes me (neither does my pdoc).  She’s genuine, sincere, professional, approachable, funny, and a great listener, even when I ramble, which, sadly, is often.  J  Kind of a bipolar trait.  She explains well the byproducts of my various brain cooties and why some things are difficult for me, like maintaining order in my house.  Like finishing projects (anyone want to decorate a tree for me?).  Like skipping appointments because I’m just not able to leave the house.  Stuff like that.  And she’s non-judgmental.  Better yet, she’s helped me let go of a lot of baggage.  Very simple suggestions and comments that absolutely ring true.  She’s a true blessing in my life.

Medication.  ‘nuff said.

My family for patiently and lovingly enduring my ups and downs.

Now for “the other”: my husband.  Oh, my goodness.  I seriously don’t know what I’d do without him.  Two hospitalizations (I know, I’ve only blogged about one.  Part deux will be forthcoming.  Don’t touch that dial!), depression so dark that I couldn’t get out of bed, depression not quite that dark but deep enough that I can barely function, half-finished projects, an inability to keep up with laundry and housekeeping, hypomanic spending (Be honest…you know what I mean.), and more.  He endures patiently, lovingly, and with worry.  When my downs appear to be darker or lasting longer than usual, he begs me to call the doctor. He has no problem with eating grilled cheese sandwiches or frozen pizza (heated, of course) for dinner.  He’s asked me over and over to not apologize, to the point I had to make a pact.  I’m sick, he says, and he knows what illness does to a person’s ability to carry out responsibilities.  He also understands when I spend “good” feeling days doing something I enjoy rather than something necessary.  Well, except for laundry.  He kind of likes having clean underwear and shirts.  I don’t have to worry about my feelings being “validated”.  He gets it.  And when he doesn’t, he tries to understand.  And sometimes I need a reality check which he gives with love and concern.  I could go on and on.

And as awful as it has been, can be, and may be again, maybe I should be grateful for my illness.  It’s taught me to be patient with myself.  Actually, no, that’s a lie.  I’m still not patient with myself.  But I am more patient with others.  I feel I’m more compassionate and I’m learning to accept my God-given gifts for what they are.

I am, indeed, one lucky woman.

My sister was beautiful.  Always a bit on the heavy side, but beautiful with natural blonde hair and blue eyes.  When she was little and got her hair cut, the beautician asked to keep her hair so it could be made into wigs.  My sister was outside all the time, and her best friend was our aunt and uncle’s pure white Samoyed, Gus.  Gus, despite his size, could wriggle through the wires separating our properties like nobody’s business.  Anything to be near his little girl.  All summer long they played in the sprinkler.  Sometimes my sister would have to push Gus off the sprinkler so she could play, too!  Living in the central valley of California, summers were HOT and I’m sure Gus, bred for cooler climes, was grateful for the sprinkler, as well as my sister’s attention.  OH!  Back to my sister’s hair.  All that time in the sun created natural streaks that many women, even today, would spend a fortune to replicate.  And there they were in the thick, naturally wavy hair of my sister.

My sister was loving and forgiving, at least at that time.  I’m almost ten years older than she was…ten years ahead of her on getting out of the house and away from our mom.  You see, I loved…and love…my mom.  But she had serious mental demons of her own and they weren’t treated back in the day.  No doubt my mom didn’t even realize anything was wrong, that is until she came very close to having a breakdown when my sister was a tweenager.  She was placed on medication that did seem to tame her inner devils, but those devils didn’t completely go away. There was no therapy or ongoing help aside from medication.  But this was in the late 1970s/early 1980s.  Only those truly considered to be mental cases received more intensive care, or so we thought.   My sister and my dad were on the receiving end of her wrath.  Oh, it wasn’t physical, but it didn’t have to be.  When told over and over how stupid, dumb, and idiotic you are…when as a little girl you’re called a little bitch and worse, well, let’s just say it took its toll.  I married early.  It was one way out.  But I left my sister behind.

My sister battled her weight all through school, but it ballooned the last couple years of high school.  Even so, she was a genius at putting looks together and doing her hair and make up.  We were quite poor, so my sister didn’t have an extensive wardrobe, but she excelled at putting pieces together in unique ways, and always had friends she could swap out clothing with.  Yes, she was also very social whereas I was very quiet and reserved.  I envied my sister in many ways.  Perhaps I should have told her this.  I don’t know that I ever did.

Fast forward several years and my sister married her high school sweetheart.  They had three kids, a girl and two boys.  Life for them was rough…for all of them.  Eventually my sis and her hubby split up with my sister retaining custody of the kids.  I did try to step in and be a sister.  I tried to insert myself into her life and supported her as she tried to get a foot hold.  By this time, she knew she had bipolar I.  There were several issues at play which I won’t go into details about, but eventually she lost custody of her kids to the state.  John and I were living in a mobile home in a home owners’ association and because of the rules couldn’t take any of the kids.  I just knew the daughter was my hero for bringing abuse issues to the attention of administrators at her school.  My sister battled for two years to regain custody, failing to follow through at times on requirements.  Eventually John and I managed to sell our home and rented another.  My parents had the kids at that time, but it wasn’t a good situation for anyone.  After a while, my mother fell and broke her hip.  My dad’s emphysema was crippling.  John and I took the two boys.  It broke our hearts to not be able to take the daughter, but she was 14 and out of control, sneaking out at night to party…drinking and using drugs, not to mention having sex.  Smoking openly at home.  And we knew that if we attempted to place boundaries around her, all she’d have to do would be to claim that John and touched her inappropriately and our lives would be ruined, along with her brothers’ lives.  I still feel broken hearted about it.  It wasn’t fair!  But everyone from their caseworker to their therapist to the social workers advised us against taking her.  So, we took the boys.

Interestingly, John and I had already purchased a home in the Midwest with the intent of moving a few years down the road.  That was the sole purpose.  I wanted to graduate from college first, as I’d been attempting to go to school for decades and life kept getting in the way.  Or maybe I should say school kept getting in the way of life.  Life needed to come first.  But these two boys, oh how they needed us.  And needed a fresh start.  Making the decision to go ahead and move wasn’t easy.  The State of California encouraged us, surprisingly.  They wanted to make sure my sister’s contact with her children was limited.  But…but.  I had no idea just how difficult the move would be and how all these changes would affect me.  However, I didn’t know.  We didn’t know.  So, we moved.  But not before my sister divulged during a visit that an uncle had molested her when she was young.  I believed her.  He had molested me, too.  I didn’t say anything to anyone.  I was disgusted with myself, him, and the situation.  I was horribly embarrassed. But my family relied on him and my aunt for many things, so I kept my mouth shut.  I didn’t realize that my sister would pay the price.  I didn’t know.

While my sister was married, she developed Hepatitis C.  She claimed she didn’t know where it came from.  Well, there are only a couple of sources, since she wasn’t a nurse.  According to officials, Hepatitis C “…does not spread through casual contact with affected individuals” (https://www.reference.com/health/causes-hepatitis-c-fbede6c6c2897adb?aq=the+cause+of+hepatitis+c&qo=cdpArticles

Later, a niece…who was also one of my sister’s best friends…told me about some of the risky behavior my sister engaged in.  I was heartbroken.  Was it the BP I?  The symptoms can cause a sufferer to engage in risky behavior plus there was the possibility of self-medicating.  Was it years of being told she wasn’t good enough?  Was it a combination?  Did she feel she didn’t deserve any better?

Whatever the reason, my sister died way too young and probably alone.  Instead of my hurt getting better as the years go by, it gets worse.  What could I have done to help her more than what I tried to do?  And I did try.  But could I have done more?  What could I have done that would have made a difference?

I don’t have any answers.  I do know, though, that she’s aware her boys…our boys…have grown to be men she can be proud of.  They’re good men, with good lives.  One is in the military and the other is working for the state, just a year out of high school and is wanting his parents to give him advice on investing.  Sheesh!!

I’ll quietly celebrate my sister’s life.  Try to keep from crying.  And will do my best to let her know I love her, always loved her, and hope she’s at peace.