The New York Times thinks I'm a nutcase.

In the New York Times crossword puzzle of Monday, October 23, 2006, the clue for 5 down reads "Nutcase." Turns out the correct 6-letter response is: "maniac."

This is a problem.

Je Suis le mental case, Part 3

The Lack of Order within my Extremes

This last fall, I was diagnosed with Bipolar I Disorder. I've shared this information with some friends and only a handful of people in my family. Mostly, I chose to share only with people who might respond in an understanding and gentle manner. This is one of the ways I take care of myself.

As a result, my mother does not have any idea that I have (have had) Bipolar Disorder. I'm not sure if I will tell her and, if so, how I will tell her. Since Bipolar is often present in more than one family member, I'd like to learn if there might be someone in my family history who had Bipolar Disorder (even if it went undiagnosed) - I suspect this may have been the case with one of my grandparents.

I've struggled with telling people and worry that it makes some folks uncomfortable. People respond differently, though. It's interesting. Some get that "aha moment" look (sorry to quote Oprah) and I can tell that much of my mood swingage and behavior unpredictability suddenly all makes perfect sense to them. People who already know someone with Bipolar Disorder have been the greatest - they know how to respond in a very gentle and respectful way that doesn't make me feel defective. I get a little bit annoyed when I reveal this information to someone and their response is: "yeah, I think I might be Bipolar, too." I mean, I don't want to rain on anyone's parade or anything, but that just seems really insensitive and when I'm struggling to tell something that is difficult for me, "me too" is not the first thing I want to hear in response. Maybe that makes me a hypersensitive wuss, but I don't care.

There are a couple of reasons why I feel compelled to have this information out in the open.

First of all, I have been symptomatic for many years and have not been correctly diagnosed until recently. The new medication that I am on has completely changed my world and I wish I could have been diagnosed and medicated sooner (plus, if my words -here, or in my daily life- help even one person who is struggling the way I was, it's worth it). Why couldn't I get to this point any sooner? Let me explain.

Here are some of the red flags of my diagnosis: depressive episodes (both major and minor, recurring, sometimes without explanation or not pertaining to current upsetting situations), chronic and debilitating insomnia (during which time I would often experience bouts of creativity - writing all night long, or go on cleaning binges, or rearrange the furniture in the house, or cook gourmet dishes all night, etc.), extreme variances in energy levels and irritability levels and degree to which I would participate in things socially, then there were the sex and shopping binges.

Seems pretty cut and dry, huh? However, much of what a medical/psychiatric professional is able to conclude depends on how the information is reported. Without having any idea that I was skewing an analysis of my problems, I have always placed an emphasis on depression and insomnia when I sought treatment. And then I would be treated for depression and insomnia. Why wasn't I reporting manic episodes? Because I had no fucking clue that I was experiencing manic episodes. I even had a therapist, many years ago, ask if I ever experienced manic episodes. Not really knowing what this meant in psychological terms, only what I thought it meant socially/pop-culturally, I looked at him indignantly and gave him an adamant "no." Since he had no reason to believe that I didn't know what the hell he was really asking me, he accepted my response and moved on.

Herein lies the problem: when asked if I had manic episodes, my thought process went like this ---> manic episodes? ---> mania? ---> maniac? ---> who is a maniac? ---> Charles Manson, Hitler, Aileen Wuornos ---> have I gone on crazy-ass killing sprees? no, I have not ---> I'm not a maniac, what a dumb question. Hence, my response to him.

As a result, did I ever tell this therapist about some of the things I do in the middle of the night when I had insomnia and all of the energy I had that enabled me to do these things? Of course not! They just didn't seem important to me because I'd spent so many years experiencing these things on-again and off-again that I just thought it was no big deal - I'm just a little weird and that's just me.

So, I've been taking medication (Lamictal, no Lithium for me because it would make my Essential Tremor worse) since last fall and, not only have I not experienced any polar mood swings (or anything remotely resembling them), but my insomnia is virtually GONE. In the past few months, I've had insomnia about twice and, both times, it has been situationally related. This is a major improvement over having horrible insomnia 4-7 nights a week, every week. Sure, I got a lot of writing and schoolwork done then, but at some expense to my health. While I don't miss my depressive episodes and how they felt and all of the crappy thoughts and self-talk that come along with it, I have to admit that I miss my middle-of-the-night writing binges a little. I fear that I am less creative now (on medication) and less interesting, as a result. I worry that it will make me less successful, probably because I would often measure my self-worth by what I was able to accomplish in the middle of the night when the rest of the world is sleeping. Ultimately, though, I believe the medicated route is more beneficial to me in the long run, even though I hate the idea of having one more pill in the til-death-do-us-part pillbox. But now I know what normal feels like and what it's like to sleep seven hours a night every night and there's something really likable about those things.

There was another reason that I wanted to bring this issue up. Three years ago, an old friend of mine, E, shot herself. Sadly, she was struggling enormously and had been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, amongst other things. Even more sadly, she chose not to share this information with anyone she knew, including her closest of friends. As a result, when she would seemingly disappear and not return phone calls and barely acknowledge her disappearance when she would return, we all just thought she was a flake. And a liar. Consequently, E would frequently find herself losing friends and attempting to acquire new ones. After one too many times of dealing with her lying, betraying, and disappearing, I told her that I couldn't be friends with her any more. She responded to my lengthy letter of explanation as to why I could no longer be her friend with an email. It said, "Great to hear from you. Let me know when you're in Portland again [I lived in LA at the time] and we'll do lunch."

I didn't know what to make of her apparent denial and I had no clue about her mental diagnosis, nor had I really thought beyond the fact that she could be a flake and would get on my nerves. I never did rekindle the friendship or run into her when I moved back to Portland. It was about a year or so after I sent her that letter that she killed herself. I attended her memorial service with a dear friend of mine who was also close to E at one time and then later took some distance from her. It was then that we both learned that she had struggled with Bipolar, and all of its symptoms, and that she wasn't so good about staying on medication.

It breaks my heart that she was unable to reach out to anyone and perhaps, if she had, she might have had more empathy in her life and fewer people abandoning her. I was saddened when I once did a Google search for her after she had passed away. E had taught English Comp. at a couple of the local community colleges and I stumbled upon a site that posted student reviews of professors. E had two reviews, both of which were graded 'F.' One student even went so far as to explain her review by referring to E as 'Miss Flaky Pants.'

So this is the part where I get to my point. And it is this: if some of the symptoms I've described sound like you or someone you know, you might want to further investigate. Talk to your doctor, your therapist, or someone you know with a PhD (okay, kidding...or maybe not). Don't take my word for anything, I'm not a doctor - I'm just a kitty. But just remember that if you have a Miss Flaky Pants in your life, there might be more than meets the eye. If I knew then what I know now about E, I would have responded to her irrational behavior much differently, or so I like to think.

Also be kind to yourself and to others.

je suis le mental case, part 2

Essentially, I Tremor

I have a neurological disorder called Essential Tremor. Personally, I think that is one of the stupidest names ever, but since I'm not able to change that anytime soon, I should just get over that. It's a tremor, to be sure, I have no problem with that part of it - it's the whole "Essential" bit that I just can't wrap my head around. There's really nothing "essential" about it. But I digress.

While the onset of Essential Tremor can result in a trembling or twitching impacting many different areas of the body, it is most commonly found in the hands or the face of those afflicted. The tremor is sometimes, but not always, noticeable in a resting position and is frequently seen in moving gestures, particularly those with a more precise or finely tuned sense of movement. Love espresso though I may, those demi-tasse cups are killer. Chopsticks are also difficult for me to maneuver, but I still insist on using them. And it's safe to say that I could never aspire to become a brain surgeon.

For some time, I simply thought that I drank too much coffee and left it at that. I later was able to rule out this theory when I asked my doctor about my shaky hands.

Essential Tremor is surprisingly common (more so than Parkinson's Disease), yet I had never heard of it prior to my diagnosis some ten years ago. And while many are under the impression that she had Parkinson's, Essential Tremor is actually what Katherine Hepburn was afflicted with and that caused her to tremble.

To settle the tremor, I take beta blockers (specifically Inderal) and that seems to work most of the time. Alcohol works, too, but isn't always advisable. Unfortunately, the condition seems to worsen with age and I'm pretty much maxed out on the dosage of beta blockers that I'm permitted to swallow. You see, beta blockers lower one's heart rate and blood pressure and since, in both cases, mine are already on the low side, the consumption of the beta blockers plummets my blood pressure into the alarming region.

And, still, I shake.

Not such a big deal if I were a go-go dancer or a dog washer.

The worst part of it is not so much the shaking itself - it's not as though it is painful to tremble, although it is a little bit agitating. Worse, though, is how some folks respond to me when they notice my hands trembling.

I kid you not. Peeps are downright MEAN. I have had people ask me if I am an alcoholic or a junkie or if I am jonesin' for a fix; I have had folks exaggeratingly mimic my tremble (often with an affected crazy-person expression on their face); I've had customers at work tip me less because I shake and have been the recipient of cruel career advice (i.e. "maybe you should get a job where you don't have to carry things"); I've had people nervously grab things out of my hands and I've encountered people who have just said rude and obnoxious things (in addition to those previously mentioned).

I wish it didn't bother me so much when folks say rude things or when they mimic me, but it does. I don't know why. Years ago, before I knew that I had a neurological disorder, I would cower in shame at the rude comments and mimicry. Now, I just look people directly in the eyes and tell them that I have a neurological disorder and can't help it and that I'm sorry if it makes them uncomfortable. Usually, when this happens, people will shut up already. Unless, of course, I am at work and am serving them a martini and accidentally spill it. But then I just make them a little extra to (over)compensate for what I spilled and that usually shuts them up.

The moral of this story: be nice to shaky people please!

Je suis le mental case, part 1

I'm mildly agoraphobic.

I mean, I am not fearful of actual marketplaces per se, but I don't do so well in crowds or around folks who take up a great deal of emotional space. With elevators, I'm great as long as I'm the sole rider (or if I am amongst family or friends); otherwise, 'tis freaky for moi.

So I guess it's not so much the open spaces that prove alarming for me, but the people in the open spaces that I have a hard time with. Is that still agoraphobia?

Sadly, none of my phobias seem to have names and all of the phobias that DO have names don't seem so applicable to me.

Arachnophobia - nope
Xenophobia - nope
Homophobia - absolutely not
Acrophobia - no
Claustrophobia - oh, definitely. ok, nevermind.

Here are some of the other things I have a hard time with - are there names for any of these phobias?

loud noises
flourescent light/direct (non-natural) light
abandonment
dental work
fire (pyrophobia?)
change

Looking at the bright side, I should consider myself fortunate to be living in an era in which I can fearlessly blog about my phobias and not during a time in which I might have been burned at the stake or put away in a mental institution.

Yay 2006!

insomniacs anonymous

I have insomnia.

Fierce, vicious insomnia.

I've had it on and off for years since high school (so, about 25 years) and, for the most part, I've learned to live with it. During the school year, I make the most of it and typically get a LOT of studying done between the hours of midnight and 4am. Sometimes people think I'm crazy. Which is fine, I guess, but the insomnia has become so normalized for me by now.

Sometimes I am completely incapable of making sleep happen until 6 or 7 am.

When I embark upon a group project at school, I have made it a habit of letting my groupmates know that they ought not be alarmed if they receive email from me at three in the morning or so. I learned the hard way that that sort of thing tends to freak some people out a little.

Here is a list of things I have tried in an attempt to rid myself of said insomnia (either permanently or temporarily - ya gotta take what you can get):

• warm bath
• hot tea, milk, and other warm beverages (without alcohol)
• alcohol (in varying quantities and temperatures)
• Chammomile
• Lavender
• Melatonin
• Valerian
• St. John's Wort
• reading
• thinking about something peaceful
• thinking about something boring
• several over-the-counter sleep aids, none of which worked
• Trazedone (kinda works, but takes too long to kick in)
• Ellavil (did not work AT ALL)
• one other lame Rx that did nothing Restoril
• Sonata (worked well most of the time)
• Valium (kinda worked)
• Ambien (got me to sleep, just didn't keep me there)
• Morphine (this worked!)

So, you see the problem. And even though I go to my doc and say that I wanna try this Lunestra stuff that I see advertised in my New Yorker or that I did okay with Sonata, or alternating Sonata and Ambien, they tell me no and write me a prescription for Trazedone. When I first picked this prescription up from the pharmacy, the pharmacist told me that I should be really careful if I get up in the middle of the night because this drug will make me so drowsy that it'll be dangerous for me to be at large! In my own home even!!!

This was so exciting for me to hear, I cannot even begin to describe. Hooray! Finally a drug that will conk me out completely so that I can have a peaceful night's sleep like the normal people do! I simply could not wait for evening to fall so that I could battle my insomnia - kapow, right in the kisser!

The kind pharmacist even suggested that I cut the pill in half and begin with a mere half dosage! It's that powerful, he tells me! I consider the possibilities. I so cannot wait to try this and I'm gonna take a whole one because I have a high tolerance and I hate cutting pills in half - they never divide perfectly evenly and this drives me crazy. I do not tell the pharmacist any of this, though. It is my own little secret.

I was nearly giddy with joy when I popped my first Trazedone at around 11pm. I crawled into bed and found a somewhat comfortable position while I waited for the magic drug to whisk me away into a wondrous sleep.

And I waited.

And I waited.

And I waited.

Some grueling two hours later, sleep finally remembered me and claimed me as one of her own. I did not feel like crap the next day and for that I am grateful. In two and a half weeks, I see my new doctor. Perhaps she will agree with me that perhaps a different, better, more effective sleeping pill is in my best interest.

I don't understand why they won't just give me Morphine to take for insomnia. The motherfucker works. And how.

Planes sometimes crash

I just recently learned that someone I know has been diagnosed with some form of Leukemia. It's sad, to be sure, particularly considering how young Avion is. However, I've never really liked her all that much. She's rather unkind to her on-again/off-again girlfriend and speaks to her condescendingly. One time she broke up with her, stating to Whitney that she wanted, instead, to be with someone who is her intellectual equal. Ouch. I honestly don't know why Whitney puts up with it and told her just as much. We were becoming pretty close friends until Avion told Whitney to stop hanging out with me and, sadly, Whitney complied.

And, since that time, Avion's been nothing but haughty and arrogant toward me as well. Her air of superiority has been an enormous turnoff and I've avoided opportunities to share in her company even though we know some of the same people and run in similar circles. Seems that most people I know who know Avion don't really care for her much and some even seem afraid of her in a way. But now that she's sick, people who know her and know of her mostly only show concern for her. I have to wonder whether it's Avion they're really concerned about or if it's more of a reflection on how they feel about Whitney, who is very well liked. People won't really talk about it and are more so talking around it. Why are they afraid?

But I understand the reluctance to speak frankly about Avion as a person, as the person we have known her to be, as it feels so cruel to dislike someone who is dying more rapidly than they should be. So do I now just forget about her cruelty and how she has hurt my friend? Do I toss aside her rudeness and arrogance? Does severe illness erase those things? Does she get a clean slate because she's sick?

As much as the thriving Buddhist wannabe in me wants to forgive Avion and have compassion for her because I feel like it's what I'm supposed to do - because it's the right thing to do, if I'm being completely honest with myself - and I am, I'm just not there. I have pity for Avion, as I'm sure that her failing health has been humbling and challenging to her, but I still just don't trust her.

And maybe that says more about me than it does about her.

burn, baby, burn

On Saturday night, fortunately toward the end of my shift, I had the misfortune of picking up a plate that had been sitting on a burner.

Yes, on a burner.

I then proceeded to let out a "blood curdling" (my boss' words) stream of expletives that could be heard on table 28, quite possibly even table 28 in the restaurant across the street. I then rushed to the sink, basking in the comfort that was the ice cold water cascading over my throbbing, injured thumb. I yelled out to whoever would listen, "Will somebody please get me an Advil?" and requested that the remainder of my hot food somehow find its way out to the appropriate tables.

Meanwhile, my customers at my tables, being the not-so-very-understanding-creatures-that-they-were, became disgruntled at not seeing me in the vicinity tending to their immediate whims for at least seven minutes (hey, I understand, seven minutes can seem like an awfully long time when you want another martini).

To one table, I attempted to explain the discrepency, using phrases such as third-degree burn and severely injured. They then informed me that I "shouldn't tell people about that" because I'm "doing a fine job, despite the injury" and "you can't tell." Not exactly the sypathetic response I was hoping for. Despite having the fortitude of a mail carrier and carrying on with my duties through the injured-waiter-equivalent of sleet and snow, this table of seniors apparently never forgave me for my seven-minute absence and left a mere 12% gratuity as a token of their appreciation.

Now, three days later, my thumb still is completely numb and the skin has a reptilian feel and appearance. My doctor says it will heal (slowly) on its own and there is nothing I can do to facilitate that. And I can't help but wonder, if any of my impatient-with-me customers had injured themselves at work and had to take less than ten minutes away from their duties to tend to their injuries, would their customers be disgruntled with them and would their pay be docked? I'm thinking no. [/pity party]

In other, more positive, news, I am proud to say that I have joined the ranks of thousands (millions?) of other lesbian-Americans and am now the proud owner of a Subaru Outback. It's a 2002 model, shiny blue with charcoal grey interior and tinted windows, and only 38,000 miles. This car has road trip written all over it and I can't wait to take her on one -- even if it is just to Seattle and back again ad nauseum. Bottom line, all of my whining and bitching about how much I hated that Saturn has come to an immediate halt as the Saturn is no longer my problem.

My favorite Saturn-as-trade-in line: (upon the explanation that I am getting money toward the purchase of the new Subaru and the Saturn taken off of my hands) Kira: "is that legal?"

No zzzzzzzz and Sleater-Kinney sushi

I love insomnia. Actually, I don't love it, per se, but I do suspect that it is something akin to Linus and that damn blanket for me. Sometimes I just can not, for the life of me, make sleep happen. It just simply won't. Now is one of those times. Oddly, I think that the wandery, racing thoughts have something to do with it. Last night, for example, I was laying there thinking, amongst other things, "damn it, what the hell is Jerud's middle name?" And it was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn't quite access it. Then it came to me. Burton. His middle name is Burton. And it's not that I really needed to know that, nor was I planning on using that information for anything, I just couldn't shut my mind down because I didn't know the answer to the question. I know what you're thinking. . . it's no wonder I can't sleep since there are so many questions that I don't know the answer to. Yeah, I know.

The other night, Kira and I got to go out for sushi. Not that that is so unusual, really, but this time we had actual reasons. I was feeling under the weather -ok, like total crap- and, despite my very good intentions of making the really yummy mac and cheese from Noble Rot, I just couldn't do it. Plus I was craving miso - or a good chicken matzoh ball soup, but that is a whole other rant. The other reason was to honor Kira's kick assedness on her project for her language arts class in which, on four separate categories with a possible five points each, she received six points for three of the categories and five on the other. Kira's awesome. So we're sitting there in Mio Sushi on Hawthorne (yes, we drove...I'm sick, remember?) drowning my pending ailment in soy bean curd broth and celebrating Kira's awesomeness and in walks Carrie Brownstein, guitarist for Sleater-Kinney. She's there to pick up some take out and, while looking quite adorable in her loose jeans and down puffy jacket, she pretty much blends in with all of the other Portlanders. Thing is, the only other time I've seen a member of Sleater-Kinney about town and not on stage was in Mio Sushi on Hawthorne about a year ago when we saw Janet Weiss, the drummer, dining there with some friends.

My newest issue of Vanity Fair arrived in yesterday's mail. The cover is their pre-Oscar pull-out showcasing ten Hollywood starlets. And with the exception of the three (3!) ethnic chicks, they are ALL BLONDS! wtf? Since I have not yet had a chance to read the accompanying article, the exact criteria for coverdom inclusion remains a mystery. Some of the celeblets are established household names (Uma Thurman and Claire Danes), whereas others are more up-and-coming (Ziyi Zhang and Sienna Miller). But why not a better balance with a brunette or two? How about Natalie Portman and Fairuza Balk? They wouldn't even have to throw out two blonds in order to squeeze the other two in - I mean, it's a pull-out cover, there's plenty-o-room! Perhaps I shall write them and address this oversight. OK, I know I never will, but I like to think that I might, that I'm inclined to.

J is making me watch The Bachelorette. Alright, so she's not making me, but if it weren't for her, I'd probably have never known that the show existed at all. Well, except when Meredith was on, but that's 'cause she's from Portland and I like knowing about things from Portland. So I'm on the couch studying and Jillynn informs me that this season's bachelorette is Jen, who was slated to marry Andrew Firestone and who has been on the cover of People magazine almost as many times in the past year as Johnny Depp has. "That's nice, honey," I tell J, as if I really don't give a shit. But this thing is a trainwreck and I can't sit in the same room and not watch it. As an added bonus, I invented a drinking game to accompany said program:

-take one drink every time someone speaks of "taking things to the next/another level"
-take two drinks every time the word "connection" is uttered
-take three drinks every time the phrase "the most ________rose ceremony EVER" is announced

I should turn all tv shows into drinking games!