The Nut Huts: An Introduction

Window to the world

Okay, let's admit it -- most of us are very interested in knowing what goes on in mental wards. We've seen movies, read books about it. This is a compelling topic. And I have the honor of having first-hand, intimate knowledge of what these places are like. And folks, I'd like to share this knowledge with you.

Now, I can go the usual route of complaining about how horrible the wards are (which is true); or talk about all the troubled individuals I met (some were quite colorful); or go on a long vent about what I perceived to be uncaring staff and doctors; or describe in detail my intricate plans for escape. But this has all been done before. What do I have to add to the dialogue?  So I am temporarily stuck here. I want to show I am "unique" and my situation was "different" than everyone else's. But sadly, I don't think that's the case.

Which leads us to some very interesting questions.

In Columbus, with it's population nearing 1.5 million, with numerous hospitals scattered all over the place, with millions of dollars of donated money flowing into them from right and left, why are the mental health wards in these places flat out god awful? Why aren't there enough beds available for those in florid mania or suicidal depression? Why does one have to wait in a cramped Emergency Room lobby 6, sometimes 7 hours before transportation to the facility? That is, if there is even room at the inn at all? This whole thing is broken. And dammit, I want to know why.

Yeah, yeah, we've got the guys and gals in Congress saying, "Oh, mental health care in America needs to be fixed" and when some violent act shakes the nation, the mental health care issue gets bandied about in the media for awhile. But let's think about it. Soon the dialogue dissipates -- poof! It's gone. And there's Melissa's husband back in Ohio trying in vain to get his wife admitted to a ward because she's very, very sick and needs a safe place to recover. And we have insurance. Sorry. There's not a bed to be found.

I go back and forth between anger and sadness when I think about the current facilities available in Columbus for individuals with a mental illness who are in a crisis situation. And what goes on inside those places. And these feelings intensify when I see the large, gleaming cancer or heart treatment wings at the largest hospitals in our city. There are plenty of beds there. And I'm sure the rooms are bright and beautiful. I'm tearing up right now as I write this. If I had lots of money, I'd build a beautiful hospital just for the mentally ill. The most broken, vulnerable members of society.

I just wanted to lay this out before I start in on my series describing my hospitalizations over the past 12 years. I think I told you I was hospitalized four times, but actually it has been 5. I forgot about one. I have been to 4 different hospitals, so I've got a pretty good take on what's available here. This is a hard thing to talk about, but I need to get this off my chest. I've been wanting to share my experiences for a long, long time.

Off we go, into the wild black and blue yonder. Hang on. It's going to be quite a ride.

From Hellion To Hermit

I was a very "bad" girl back in the day. I say this tongue-in-cheek. In essence, I loved to socialize, loved to go to parties, always wanted to be in the center of the action. I was like this from a very young age and cultivated numerous friendships along the way. I "partied hard" with alcohol and pot, and I enjoyed it, thank you very much! I never got in trouble with the law -- and for that I am extremely grateful.

I particularly enjoyed making people laugh -- and I was a natural at it. I picked up this skill by following in my father's shoes. He had a wonderful wit and a smile for everyone. I know he was tickled pink to see that his daughter was following in his footsteps. It made him proud.

Yet when I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and the frustrating search for an effective medicine combination began, I began to retreat from my friends. When the phone rang, I cringed and couldn't wait for the answering machine to kick in. As for checking messages, days would pass before I forced myself to listen to the calls. I didn't want to talk to anyone, much less see them.

I slowly began to isolate myself, only going out to my part-time job in an office of five; to the grocery; to walk my two Basset Hounds; and to do miscellaneous errands that didn't require a lot of conversation. It was if overnight I was transformed from a hellion to a hermit. I know this confused my friends, who initially kept calling me to invite me out, but eventually stopped when their phone calls were not returned. Who can blame them? I don't.

Today, my true comfort zone is at home with my husband and two hounds. That's it. My anxiety remains under control and I feel safe. We do not answer the phone at all, unless it is a family member calling. This means we miss out on a lot of contact with the outside world. But I now have my Facebook world to keep in touch with old friends. As I've said, Facebook doesn't scare or threaten me at all and I feel very comfortable with it. Sure, I've had a few run-ins with some negative folks, but those are very, very rare. I do often wonder if I am a freak for loving Facebook so much, but it keeps me "plugged in" to other people.

Man is a social animal. Most are driven to intermingle with others. For the most part, face-to-face. I used to be this way, in many ways to an extreme. But all that changed. Does my shame over my diagnosis or the medication prompt me to isolate from others? I'm not sure. I know being a hermit isn't healthy, yet I do nothing to change it. I know this is behavior that needs to be reversed. It's just so hard. Chalk this up to another thing I need to work on in therapy. Grrrrr.

A Gift: Creativity

Home away from home: The art store

Not everything about my disorder is terrible. Indeed, it has "unleashed" (for lack of a better word) a wonderful creative streak inside of me. When I arrived home after my first hospitalization in 2002, I remember well driving to a local art store and purchasing canvases, acrylic paint, brushes and other material. I wanted to create art. Lots of it.

I also went to fabric shops and thrift stores looking for prints I could cut up and incorporate into my pieces. I became fascinated with old buttons and beads. And newspapers -- oh, the newspapers -- magazines and books.

Every day, from around 8:30 a.m. to 5:00 p.m., I would sit outside on our porch furiously cranking out piece after piece. I would stop every now and then to have a cigarette (I was a chain smoker back then) and some cold coffee but would quickly return to my task. My husband would come home from work to find my pieces scattered around the porch. He would smile and say, "Great job honey! These are really good!" That served to inspire me even more.

A few months later, he convinced me to have an informal "art show" on the porch during the annual community yard sale. Hundreds of folks wander throughout our neighborhood looking for finds. I was nervous, but agreed to do it. Imagine my surprise when people not only loved my art, they wanted to buy it!

My husband quickly made up some prices and out the door the art went. One woman bought three pieces. I couldn't believe anyone could find beauty in something created by a bipolar mind. But fascinated they were. I don't know how many pieces we have sold over the years, but it's been many. Some I miss and wish I could have back -- but selling them helped to strengthen my fragile self-esteem a little bit.

Also, I developed a passion for gourmet cooking. It literally came out of nowhere and I continue to crank out wonderful dishes to this day (my husband is very spoiled). I believe it is the color, the texture, the smell of the ingredients; combining complex ingredients together to create a wonderful dish; the challenge of preparing something new day after day. I took a part-time (albeit low-paying!) job so I could devote the entire afternoon to my cooking. I'm very proud of it.

And then there's the writing. Oh, how I love to write. It flows so effortlessly for me, a natural gift. Now, I do get "writer's block" sometimes, something I never contended with before my diagnosis and the medications I must take. It does eventually go away, but I never know how long the block will last.

So all is not "gloom and doom" for me. I am talented in many respects. Other individuals with a mental illness are too. It can go with the territory. I think (?) my husband took some photos of some of my artwork that was sold. I will see if I can find them and post. I'd love to get your feedback!
 

Some Words About Shame

Most probably know that in the good old days, individuals with a mental illness were likely confined to asylums for long periods of time, and basically shut off from normal society. It's almost as if the general feeling was, "We'll just put 'these people' here, where no one has to see them."

It's my belief that, although our society has made some strides in mental health care, efforts to eradicate the stigma attached to the mentally ill have been woefully lacking. And when we hear of individuals with a mental illness doing a very violent act (i.e. mass shootings), the public becomes frightened and/or outraged -- rightfully so. Yet this stokes the stigma flames and in my case, makes me feel very scared I will be forever perceived as a potential threat, even though I have never been violent or harmed anyone.

The existing stigma also makes me so ashamed that I have a mental illness, it must be my "fault," and I need to stay away from the general public. Now, I guess I know that deep down, none of this is true, but I cannot seem to break this line of thinking. I feel "less than" and my self esteem is very, very low right now. I have been seeing a therapist once a week for over two years to work on these issues -- and we are making progress -- but my shame feelings are very strong and difficult to unravel.

As I've expanded my network of friends also contending with a mental illness, it's clear that I am not the only one contending with shame. It's widespread, and they are also frightened of how they will be perceived if people find out they have a mental disorder. Many keep their diagnosis secret. Over the years, I have become more comfortable revealing my illness and talking about it, but it took some time to get to this point.

Sadly, my shame has led to cutting off my friends, and interacting with only family, four colleagues in my office, a few doctors and individual at clinics, and the friends I have through Facebook. For some reason, I am very comfortable on Facebook and prefer that mode of communication to "face to face" interaction. It feels safe, I cannot be physically seen, and I can express myself freely and confidently. A few of my Facebook friends know I have bipolar disorder, but many do not. And I like it that way.

I think as advancements are made in eradicating mental illness stigmatization, I can shed my shame a little easier. In the meantime, I'll continue to work on it in therapy. It's the fear of a negative perception that keeps me trapped. Before I end here, I want to really emphasize that the vast, vast majority of individuals with a mental illness are not violent in any way. We can be engaging, productive members of society. I hope all can remember that. It's important.


 

The Bane Of My Existence: Meds

Grrrr...

I remember years ago -- and I chuckle about it now -- going to visit my thyroid doctor a few years after I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. His assistant called me before the appointment and told me to bring the medications I was currently taking so he could record them in my file. So I opened up the drawer and began setting the pill bottles on the counter. And I quickly realized I would need a very large Ziploc bag to transport the "bounty" to his office.

"This is my life now," I told him when he came into the examining room and I handed him the bag. I honestly think he was taken aback. Some of the medications he had never heard of before and frankly had trouble pronouncing. One by one he wrote them down.

Depakote: Mood stabilizer
Lamictal: Mood stabilizer
Invega: Anti-psychotic
Lexapro: Anti-depressant
Ativan: Anti-anxiety

I also had bottles of meds I was phasing off of (or had once taken) because they didn't work or had such terrible side effects that I refused to take them:

Lithium
Zyprexa
Seroquel
Geodon
Abilify
Topomax

Have I left anything out?

There are some very lucky souls out there who get diagnosed with bipolar disorder and the right med combination to manage it is found right off the bat. Alas, I am not one of those people. It has taken a decade to nail down a good combination for me, peppered with manic episodes along the way. Every year we would think we had it nailed down, only to find the combination didn't work. I felt like a guinea pig. Heck, I was and I still am a guinea pig.

And the side effects -- oh those damn side effects -- there are so many that I cannot believe I've managed to stay med-compliant the whole way through. Incredible weight gain. Hair loss. Loss of sex drive. Memory loss. Constipation. Lethargy. Inability to concentrate. Difficulty doing simple tasks. Agoraphobia. The list goes on and on.

So given all of this, why in the hell would anyone want to take these dreaded medications?

Well, it's simple really. I want my mood to be stable. Always. I've been in the tar pit of clinical depression and I've been in the frightening world of manic psychosis. And without my medication, I will swing between these mood states with no relief in sight. I've been locked up four times in horrible mental wards and I didn't like it at all. And then there's the fear: will I do something so terrible, so horrific that I am locked up forever?

Some days I'm on auto-pilot, and look at taking my pills like I look at brushing my teeth. It's just something you do every day. But other days...oh, I hate my medication, hate what it does to me, don't want to take it, can't believe I am taking it, curse my illness. But inevitably, I always swallow them. I have to.

Perhaps one day I will come to peace with my medicine. Lord knows I've been taking it long enough to stop fighting it. It's just a part of my world now, part of my existence. I may not like it, but this be the truth.

In Sickness And In Health

On October 13, 2001, basically one month after 9/11, my husband and I exchanged wedding vows in a very traditional, evening ceremony. I was nervous but very excited, and said my vows quickly. The weight of the words was not apparent to me at the time. The reverend prompted my husband and me what to say, we said it, the rings were exchanged, and a kiss sealed the deal.

Little did we know that I would be delusional in the nut hut just three months later. Three months of newlywed bliss before we had to start facing a very serious threat to our marriage. When a spouse has a mental disorder, it can place an incredible burden on the other partner. Many, many marriages like this don't make it. Yet mine has. How? Why?

Well, I guess I'll say right of the bat that my husband is loyal by nature. That certainly helps matters. But it goes much deeper than that. I can say he loves me, and yes, that's true. And it's very important. Yet perhaps the key thing that came into play when I got sick was my husband remembered the vows he took -- and that he meant them when he said them. For better or for worse. For richer or for poorer. In sickness and in health.

When I got sick, my husband had to move into a great responsibility mode, in essence become my caregiver in many, many ways. Financial manager is a no-brainer. He handles all those aspects. But more importantly, he keeps me focused on current affairs, keeps me interested in what is going on in my surroundings. He gets me out to hockey games, restaurants, art shows, music events. He even reminds me every night to brush my teeth.

And perhaps the most important thing he does is remind me to take my medicine. Every night.

"Honey, have you taken your pills?" he asks. And sometimes I have, but many times I forgot. More times than I'm comfortable with acknowledging. And when Melissa doesn't take her pills, unpleasant things can happen. And friends, I don't want to go there.

When I was locked up in the mental wards, his daily visits were the only bright spot of my day. Once -- and only once -- was he late for visiting hours and I got hysterical while I waited. When he finally arrived I ran into his arms, sobbing and begging him to never be late again. And he never was. During my last hospitalization, he slipped in some nicotene gum to me -- a true lifesaver -- and I giggled like a school girl. God bless my husband. He knows me so well.

We celebrated 12 years of marriage last October and are moving along day by day. Tonight I am writing in the parlor where a beautiful fire he made for me burns in the fireplace. I feel safe and loved. And I don't take this for granted. I love you honey. Now and forever.

Jump On In, The Water's Fine

You know, I've been wanting to start this damn blog for at least five years. Maybe longer. When I was diagnosed with Bipolar Type 1 in 2002, I started drafting a book (don't most of us after our first trip to the nuthouse?), but as more episodes occurred and my medications got stronger, I found I couldn't write the book anymore. Now, blogging -- with the short posts -- is something I can do. Yet I have shied away from writing about my bipolar disorder, preferring to delve into other topics. Why? Frankly folks, I don't know. But here I am, putting some sentences together so I guess we are finally off to a quasi-good start.

Who am I? Well, honestly at this juncture I don't know. There was the Melissa before she got sick and diagnosed with bipolar disorder (manic-depressive illness) at age 36. And I, and many others, knew her very well. Energetic, enthusiastic, bright, articulate, inquisitive, intellectual, passionate, focused...no need to go on. I was working as a reporter and had just received an A.P. award. Newly married. Carefree? Perhaps.

And then the bottom fell out, and I'm in the loony bin shot up with Haldol, my husband's in tears, and Old Melissa is gone, to be replaced by...someone else. And she's scared and confused and doesn't know what "Bipolar Disorder Type 1 with Psychotic Features" means.

I think that word "psychotic" frightens me the most, even though I've never been violent or harmed anyone. Psychosis for me means, among other things, if mania is sparked, I will "wander" either on foot or by car, babbling out loud about religious or political things. I believe I can talk to world leaders, God, and my deceased father telepathically. I think my husband is a CIA agent. And I believe secret messages are sent out through hard rock radio stations.

For obvious reasons, I must be medicated with strong drugs immediately. I can be clever though, and fool my family into thinking all is fine and good. It all feels "real" to me -- but something that must be kept secret. When I have "flashbacks" about my manias, it physically hurts and makes me shiver. I hate the flashbacks. I am ashamed I behaved the way I did and feel like it's my fault. Indeed, I want to crawl into a cave and hide forever.

Since 2002, I have had four manic episodes, my last in May 2011. I've been to four different hospitals here in Columbus and they were terrible, frightening places. More about that later. I've been fired from jobs or I've left out of embarrassment. I live in constant fear I'll go manic again -- despite assurances from my doctor and therapist that it won't happen again. I go through periods where I want to conquer this illness and fight back, but have many times where I am dejected and long for the "Old Melissa."

My tale is probably not that different from others diagnosed with Bipolar Type 1. Without medication, I will "swing" from crushing depression to wild mania, with depression typically occurring in the Fall/Winter months and mania in the Spring/Early Summer months. It is not "I feel blue" depression. It is "I want to kill myself" depression, where you go over endlessly in your head the method you will use to dispose of yourself. I was bed-ridden, dirty, in physical pain.

And as for mania -- well, mine always have the psychosis attached. But the gist is you feel high and energized and like God's gift to mankind. That's called grandiosity. You also want to spend money. Lots and lots of it. Some get sexually promiscuous. Others, like me, feel the need to "educate" people with your wisdom, so letters to newspaper editors get sent. All of this seems fun at the time -- but when the mania is over, one often realizes how frightening it is. I feel acute, painful, crippling embarrassment.

But the good thing is as of right now, I have been "episode-free" for 2 1/2 years. And I finally started this blog today. Maybe it's the beginning of shedding my shame. Up goes this post. And onward we go...