Do You Realize?

Manic Monday--Bipolar Teenage Decision Making 101

Scientists have discovered that two pathways exist in the human brain to the final destination of a decision. One is the limbic system, which controls emotional decision-making, along with other "gut reaction" activities, like the fight-or-flight response; the other, the parietal and frontal cortices, which are in charge of planning and rational decision making, among other things.

In the above mentioned study, normally-functioning people were found to have both pathways, and that even they were torn (as shown by brain activity via MRI) between a choice involving some sort of immediate gratification and one involving a more logical one which would provide an even greater reward after a short waiting period (in the study, somewhere between a month and six weeks). Using my admittedly limited scientific knowledge and my slightly more efficient common sense, I've come up with a reason for Youngest's inability to make even the easiest of "right" or "good" decisions, if not a way to combat my extreme anger and frustration regarding those decisions.

I posit that, because a bipolar person's limbic system activity is often elevated and his/her fronal lobe regional activity is suppressed/delayed/otherwise fucked up, this makes their ability to make rational decisions very, very difficult, to say the least. Further, as Youngest is only just now reaching some semblance of adolescence, the cerebral fibers in his frontal lobe are still not finished developing. So, in layman's terms, his brain's road to a crappy decision is wider and well-paved, while the road to a good decision is a one-lane dirt country lane.

Last night, one such decision-making session played itself out in a fashion equally fascinating and frustrating. For a couple of weeks now, Youngest's best friend (BF) at school and Youngest have been planning for Youngest to go home with BF after their early release day this upcoming Friday. It's a bigger deal than most trips to a friend's house, because BF lives an hour away, so these trips are pretty infrequent. As personal hygiene is currently low decision on the totem pole, we've been using this trip to BF's to encourage showers. His decision to take a shower or not on school nights will directly be tied to his ability to go to BF's; more, if he chooses to miss a shower, he will have to explain his decision to BF all on his own. Until last night, he'd been doing fine. (I suspect his not having to shower on the weekend further lowered his motivation to actually get back up on that horse.)

Despite my trying to get him to shower earlier than usual, to combat the particular situation that occurred, and despite the fact that he was happily awake up until the very point of decision-making, he decided he was "too sleepy" to take his shower. He was not too sleepy to argue with me in huge, convoluted circles, mind you, but four fucking minutes in the shower was too much to ask. We tried every bit of logic and every bit of emotional impetus imaginable, but nothing was budging him. His limbic system just wanted to lay in that bed and not do a damn thing if it wasn't fun. His frontal lobe was on the picket line... "Hell no! I won't go!" Eventually, I sat on his bed and told him that since he couldn't seem to make this decision, and that BF was that important to me if not to him, I would sit and talk enough that he wouldn't be able to sleep anyway. After letting us know exactly how much he hated us for trying to sabotage his friendship with BF (WTF?!!? Delusional, table for one!), he took his shower. He spewed vitriol for about 10-15 more minutes before passing out mid-sentence. Ahhh, the fun-filled roller-coaster ride of bipolar disorder.

Manic Monday--Book Review

I've just finished reading Manic: A Memoir by Terri Cheney. I read a lot of books about Bipolar Disorder, some specifically about Childhood Bipolar Disorder, some just about Bipolar Disorder in general. This is the first memoir I've read written by someone who has suffered from the disorder for many years.

Ms. Cheney made a very important decision when writing her memoir, a decision that perfected it, in my opinion. She chose to write the book episodically rather than chronologically, preferring to give readers a realistic sense of the disconnectedness one feels when swinging from Mania to Depression and back again. Each chapter covers a different episode in her life, some manic, some hypomanic, some depressed.

The book is filled with gorgeous writing that transports me into Cheney's experience. She writes so viscerally, and with a sense of humor that belies her devastating experiences. Here is a woman who has learned to laugh rather than to cry. A couple of the many passages that I have marked:

"Terribly, terribly happy was quickly dissolving into not so terribly comfortable. How absolutely marvelous. How thrilling. Probably nobody but a manic-depressive can understand that putting on the brakes is sometimes far more exhilarating than winning the race."

...

"I was probably manic, I realized. It added up: None of the other people on safari had started bawling at the sight of two cheetahs humping. Nobody else kept standing up in the jeep and making sweeping pronouncements like, "Surely this is how God meant the world to be." And nobody else was spending all night camped out in a deck chair, expecting the stars to speak to them. But recognition of mania is one thing. Doing something about it is something else altogether."

Reading Cheney's memoir was greatly agitating for me, forcing me to move forward in time twenty years, when Youngest will be well into adulthood. It gave me a glimpse of what an adult suffering from bipolar thinks and feels and how they function (or don't function, in some cases). It didn't go so far as to give me great hope, since there were at least three suicide attempts in the 242 pages, but it makes me feel more prepared, anyway. It performed well under my personal opinion of this loathsome disease: "Have no expectations, and prepare for anything."

Pet Peeve #27

What I'm about to say is probably going to seem horrible to some, outrageous to others, but that's okay with me.

I am sick of hearing about "autism this" and "autism that" and how terrible autism is and how it is such a devastating illness with no cause and no cure and blah, blah, blah... Yeah, I get it. People with autism lead a spectacularly different life. But let's get something straight. I would trade my son's diagnoses for autism any day. It would take me about a millisecond to make that particular decision. Oddly enough, I think a lot of parents of autistics don't want pity; it's the autism fundraisers proclaiming what a blight this illness is upon the lives of beautiful children that get me.

Before you jump on the mommyblogger "she's bashing autism" bandwagon, take a minute to listen. I have no problem with the idea that living with autism is uncomfortable, strange, and confusing. But until your autistic son is specifically NOT invited to a family reunion because of his autism, don't cry to me about how devastating this autism thing is. Until you've actually contemplated the legality of future mandatory sterilization for your 12-year-old because the thought of him procreating scares the hell out of you, don't whine about how watching your autistic child struggle with making friends makes you want to cry. Until your autistic child cuts himself to see how it would feel, or tries to jump out his second-story bedroom window in a delusional manic rage, I don't want to hear about how terribly frightening autism statistics are. Autism, my friends, is like Bipolar Lite. All the quirky character flaws, none of the terrifying mood fluctuations. Count your autistic blessings. Count them one by one.

Social awkwardness? On the Bipolar menu, you get that plus a side order of frontal lobe impairment, which causes my child to actually act out or loudly voice his inappropriate thoughts.

Lack of or delay in spoken language? If your other option was a barrage of hate-filled vitriol possibly lasting for hours, then a tsunami of sorrow washing through, choking every word with despair and self-loathing, would you take that instead?

Little or no eye contact? I'd wet myself with relief if my child couldn't look me in the eyes when he tells me things I know for certain are not true, because it would mean he knew they weren't true, too. As it is, he is truly convinced of his own brand of reality, and it almost never matches the reality of the people around him. And he'll look you in the eye and tell you all of it, because it is his reality as his brain has processed it.

So, while I understand the discomfort and confusion surrounding parents of kids with autism, I don't feel sorry for them. Maybe I'm too busy feeling sorry for myself some days.

Thirteen Things...

...that I'm thinkin' 'bout on Thursday...

1. ...winners from my Blogiversary Giveaways! Congrats to Jeff at Biking Duluth (Greenies & Pet Promise dog food sample), Caroline in NH at Fiber Arts & Furry Critters (Bush's Last Day keychain), Hootin' Anni (CD of ten of my photographic images), Andree at Meeyau (Feline Greenies & Pet Promise cat food sample), Molly at RedMolly Picayune-Democrat (a copy of Diane MacEachern's book Big Green Purse), and Anonymous Mom at Tenuous at Best (handcrafted journal)! If I don't hear from each of you within 24 hours, I will contact you. I'm asking until next Saturday (hopefully won't need that long) to get everything ready to ship.

2. ...my complete and utter domination at the art of oatmeal. I have mastered my "perfect oats." No extra liquid, but not too dry either. MMMMM.

3. ...philosophical subjects like evil and faith. I've determined that the basis for one's faith in an idea or entity is a positive and memorable event that the person attributes, whether correctly or incorrectly, to that idea or entity. For example, my husband sees, on a regular basis, the healing and saving of lives. He attributes that to the science of medicine; his faith, therefore, lies in the scientific.

4. ...suicide. Not mine, no. The book I'm reading, Jodi Picoult's The Pact, is about a failed teen suicide pact, where the surviving teen is charged with murder.

5. ...how terrible I am at poker. Some friends of ours have bought a table at a local "Casino Night" fundraiser and have graciously asked Hubby & I to go. I know not a damn thing about poker, but I will throw down with the best of them when intoxicated, I'm sure.

6. ...Texas's crazy caucusing. We voted early to avoid voting day crowds, but then had to go out anyway for the caucusing portion of the night.

7. ...how terrifyingly easy it is to imagine Youngest as a drug addict. He has a very addictive personality anyway, and a bipolar individual's risk of addiction to drugs or alcohol is much higher than that of a normally functioning person. At thirteen, his drug of choice is Runescape or the Playstation 3; he will do anything, self-destructive or otherwise, to get his fix. Seeing his desperation while in Austin last weekend with limited Internet availability was truly amazing.

8. ...our freakish weather. It's snowing again. Hard. Remember, I was talking about the weather yesterday?

9. ...how hitting an already-dead, but still fresh, skunk on the highway is very, very bad. Very bad, indeed. I also discovered why so many of them seem to be hit on the road. Nearly impossible to see until the last minute. Poor buggers.

10. ...organ donation. My mom is down in Florida at a post-transplant checkup. She's doing amazingly well!

11. ...photography. I mentioned it's snowing again, right?

12. ...the Project Runway season finale last night. As I fully expected, Christian kicked ass. His clothes, while not designed for the everyday woman, were exquisite concoctions, full of ruffles and feathers. His runway music killed, too (created and arranged by Anonymous Mom's not-so-anonymous talented son). Way to go, Christian! I just want to eat him up like a cookie, he's so freakin' cute.

13. ...how I SO don't want to do the laundry and mop the floors.

Edited to add: I drove for six hours to accomplish what would usually take three.

The Same, Only Different

I had originally planned to post on whatever subject corresponds to the item I'm giving away each day, but I'm at a loss as to what in the world I could give away relating to mental illness. The only things I could come up with are illegal (free Adderall and Concerta for all! No, not really, no.). I had also planned for today to be an environmental post, giving away Diane MacEachern's book Big Green Purse, but with my current frame of mind, an informational, yet subjective, post about bipolar disorder came out instead. Ergo, I have nothing yet planned for today's giveaway. The environment and Big Green Purse will be rescheduled for Tuesday.

I mentioned the other day that I was reading to catch up on a blog written by an incredible woman who has a bipolar teenager (as well as a normally-functioning adult son). I mentioned yesterday that life had thrown another curveball, which almost always includes my bipolar son.

So many of her posts left me breathless, simply because it made me think, "Hey! We're not alone!" or "I didn't imagine this. Other people have had this happen, too."

Some things that I've either realized, but now have the knowledge that I'm not alone, or things that I've recognized by reading her blog:

Youngest is triggered by therapy sessions. We've wondered for a year or more why, when his therapy sessions would be progressing calmly and well, we were suddenly confronted by "the monster" before we even hit the highway headed back home. He is responding to and relieving himself of the anxiety that his sessions cause him.

We are lucky that, financially, we can choose any doctor we want without the constraints of insurance (we've never filed his visits because his doc is out-of-network), and we can afford the specialized private school that Youngest attends. Distance is not a problem; I drive about 1000 miles per week for school and therapy (individual for Youngest and for me, and a family therapist, as well).

We are more challenged than others because Youngest has two siblings who are pretty close in age to him. They definitely trigger him a good deal, and their reactions to him and his illness play a large part in the explosive dynamics of our family. Every decision we make, we have to weigh how it will affect each of the five of us, as well as the family unit.

When Youngest yells in the heat of battle that we "just don't understand," he's right. As much as I read on the subject, and talk to other parents of bp kids, and stay abreast of medications and his therapy, I don't understand all it entails to be him. On some level I wish I did, but mostly I know how lucky I am that I don't.

No matter how hard or long or loudly I try to force him to reason, he cannot do it. He will not be able to do it; he is not wired to reason, for good or for ill.

Our life is far from normal, and one day, it may become even less so. We've talked about the possibility of locking away foods high in carbs (bipolar kids crave carbs like no other); because of Youngest's lack of self-regulation, he can easily eat a 16-oz. jar of my homemade organic jelly or a bag of Newman-O's in two sittings or a huge can of Ovaltine in three days. One day, we may have to lock away the steak knives and kitchen knives, or things that make fire, because of same lack of self-regulation.

Waking up a bipolar child is a nightmare. It's not just mine. Their sleep cycles are often severely fucked up, for lack of a more appropriate medical term. The first attempt to wake Youngest happens at 6:30 a.m. Most often, five trips into his room and thirty minutes later, he's finally up. Then he has just twenty minutes to have some sort of breakfast, get dressed, take his meds, brush his teeth. Mornings suck.

Now, just because we know these things, doesn't mean we always do the right things with that knowledge. I, especially, struggle with Youngest's hostility & rages, because although I get the brunt of 98% of his rages, he was almost unnaturally attached to me for 8-10 years. I also struggle because being in the same room with him is exactly like being in the room with my ex-husband; I therefore spend a lot of time with him in uncomfortable silence, breathing in shallow breaths while my heart beats like a hummingbird's wings because I'm afraid to speak and trip a land mine.

We've now been two days off his Concerta, the ADHD medication. Because they are stimulants, medications like Concerta (et al) can worsen any manic symptoms that are there. And because children's and, often, adolescents', manic symptoms manifest as irritability which swings to rage, that's a very bad thing. But, because his sleep rhythm is severely screwed, Youngest is all but comatose for most of the day, as well as silly and inattentive.  I can't win.

A Super Secret Undercover Mission

One big reason that Youngest triggers horrific reactions in me is that he is a carbon copy of his biological father. And I divorced his biological father for a reason. Because he wasn't a likable person, and I didn't like him. At all. Now, it's like I have to live with him again, with no divorce in sight.

"So, are you going to look for a job today?" a very pregnant me asks a very unemployed husband. (Remember him?) Thirteen years ago.

"Not yet. I have something I have to do today. And I'm going to take Middle (who was really Youngest at that point in time) with me. We'll go to the park or something. We'll hang out." (We'll be a chick magnet.)

"No job?"

"Tomorrow." (Riiiiight. If hell freezes over.)

Hours pass. Unemployed husband comes home with toddler and three new comics in hand. (How the fuck did these get in my hand when I have no fucking money? Huh.) Elated. Giddy. Euphoric.

"Middle was a hero today, Mommy." (Ummmm...)

"Oh, really? How's that?" (Ask you no questions, tell me no lies. I should know better.)

"He saved a police investigation." (Huh?)

Me: "Tell me about it."

"Well, I've got this friend at the department who I occasionally do favors for when he needs somebody. Like an informant." (Oooh, this is gonna be good.)

"So, today, he asked me to come and make a pickup of an audio tape for a big investigation they're doing right now. I can't say exactly who it is, but when it breaks it's gonna be big. Very important political figure. His family owns juice companies." (Really good.)

"I'm sitting on the bench waiting for the drop-off, and when it happens, the tape falls to the ground. Middle ran over & picked it up & brought it to me. Didn't you buddy?" (You're asking a fifteen-month-old.)

Me: "Did you get paid for this?" (Wait for iiiit....)

"No. But I helped the police out, baby! If you can't handle my working with them, you need to get over it now. Because I do important stuff for them sometimes. They just can't pay me for it." (Oh, well, of course not.)

(sarcasm) Thirteen years later, I'm still trying to figure out what political scandal Bob Dole was supposedly being investigated for in Floyd County, Georgia. Maybe he was lying. Maybe he was out spending money we didn't have on comic books. Ya think? (/sarcasm)  I'm telling you, I couldn't make this shit up.

Sunday Scribblings--Passion

From dictionary (dot) com:

"Passion...
...
8. an outburst of strong emotion or feeling: He suddenly broke into a passion of bitter words.
9. violent anger
...
12. Archaic. the sufferings of a martyr
..."

All of these definitions apply when it comes to living with mental illness in one's family. Don't ask me why poetry happens when I think about my son's disease, because I just don't know. This week, it's an acrostic poem:

Prayers beseeching
An unheeding god for a
Sign that this hateful
Sickness has an end.
I search for answers
Over and over, but
Nothing appears.

Sunday Scribblings--Fellow Travelers

It's early evening; the train is leaving the station once more. This train is designated for frequent travelers, those who must make this journey at least daily, and not because they want to, but because they must. This trip is a requisite, for their lives are interminably entwined with their fellow travelers, who are also aboard out of duty and necessity.

On this day (and most), my companions are my family. Three teenaged children and a husband.  We are, all of us, at the mercy of our conductor: my youngest child's inoperable frontal lobe. This train's destination is set, and the ride will not be smooth or pleasant. Although it is a trip we take often, it is not one we have chosen.

As the train leaves the station, there is a cacophony of screeching as we are catapulted forward. The noise becomes unbearable, the train pushing forward at dangerous velocity. It's time to put on my seatbelt, because the ride will be jarring; nausea is unavoidable. The speed with which we catapult forward never subsides as we approach the first of an unknown number of breakneck twists and turns in the track. Reason and logic are futile: we shouldn't be traveling this fast, we shouldn't be on this track, we shouldn't be here at all, but our conductor is indifferent.

For what seems an eternity, we hang on with white knuckles and empty souls, until the train inevitably begins to slow. Pulling into the very station from which we departed, we realize that, although we are taken a different route each time,  the scenery is nearly always identical.

Queasy, confused, and spent, we disembark. We recognize that we may have only a short layover before our next trip on the (Bi)Polar Express, and it angers us, saddens us. Though we hold tickets with no expiration dates, we are warriors; we are a band of weary travelers with enough determination to weather these trips with courage and love.

Sunday Scribblings--Dance

My first poetic endeavor... possibly ever, unless you count grade school. It actually came quite easily once I sat down and quietly contemplated what's going on in our life right now.

We dance around it
The elephant in the room--
Invisibly ill.

Living Green in the Chaos

What I have to say today is going to sound controversial to some, like an excuse to others, and still more are going to 'fess up and say, "Hey, she's right."

Living green is easier to do in a life that is not filled with chaos. Lives that stick pretty much to a day-to-day scripted routine. I can say this with every confidence, because I know from firsthand experience. When Youngest was relatively stable (for those just tuning in, he suffers from Childhood Bipolar Disorder, ADHD, and Overanxious Disorder), it was much easier to cook at home, shop for local and/or organic foods, avoid restaurants, think about how every object you come in contact with has already and will further impact the environment.

When my days are filled with doctors, therapists, appointments for the other kids, SATs, marching competitions, and on and on, things get trickier. The smaller eco-friendly habits are easier to keep up at home: canvas shopping bags, natural and plant-based cleaners and shampoos, letting the yellow mellow at home, etc. But the sad truth is that when I'm giving every ounce of my time and energy trying to just make sure our little world at home isn't going to fall apart at its unreinforced seams, I really find it impossible to think about every aspect of keeping the larger world in tip-top condition.

Yesterday, for example, we had a day in which we were going from 8a-8p. Youngest had to have blood drawn to check his medication levels, then a drive into The Big D to his psychiatrist for a double session. Middle had an after-school basketball game nearby, so it didn't make any sense to drive all the way home and back again, so we hung out for a couple of hours. Then Youngest had a session alone with the family therapist, then we headed home, where I had to proofread a paper for Eldest. In the middle of all that running and worrying, we ate two meals out. Had we been hungry for dinner, we would have had three. Even driving a Prius, that's a lot of driving (I average 200 miles per day).

Yesterday we made one of the most emotional decisions of our lives regarding Youngest's care. When my life is crumbling around me one block at a time, sometimes I really find it hard to think about and care about whether child slave labor picked the beans that made my Godiva truffle or my vanilla latte. Does that make me a bad person? Maybe.

But until my life begins to even remotely resemble normal, that's the way it is. Yeah, the truth hurts.