Meds

I’m sick of taking medication.

I want to quit.

I mean I really want to quit.

I wonder if who I am now is who I truly am or if I am just some shadow of my real self. I know that my meds change who I am – I get sick if I forget to take them.

How do I know that the meds aren’t making me into a totally different person?

Would I still like the same things? Would I still hate the same things? Would I still want to do the same things?

I guess I’ll only know if I go off my meds.

But I don’t.

I want to, but I won’t.

Here’s the three biggest reasons: Lori, Logan and Kamryn.

I know that when I’m off my meds, my mood swings are off the charts. I know that I will have highs that are electric, but also lows where I will want to crawl inside a cave and snuff myself out.

I know that when I’m off my meds I can’t always function in day-to-day tasks with any consistency. I can’t pay the bills on time; I don’t speak to people in love.

Instead, when I’m off my meds, it’s all about ME. It’s about how I feel, what I feel, when I feel.

If I were to go off my meds, I would be ignoring the relationships I have with my family, my church and even to God. I can’t worship God when I don’t give a rat’s behind about anybody but myself.

I don’t want my kids to have to go through what my wife went through before I found meds that work. I don’t want them to grow up never knowing if dad’s going to be stable enough to come to a soccer match or the school program.

Thinking further down the road, I want to be able to see them get married and play with my grandkids.

I know that if I’m not on my meds, those things may not be possible. And even if I was functional enough to go to those events med-free, do I really want to be the one everyone is worried about blowing up, starting a fight or talking about something inappropriate?

So I guess the point is that I hate being on meds, but I also fear the damage I will do to my friends and family enough to stay on them. It sucks, but that’s the way it is.

I find comfort in the fact that God knew that I was going to be this way – to have this disorder – and he still chose to use me for his glory and work. That’s pretty awesome. 

ONE Article: Bipolar, the Conclusion

I decided to write about my bipolar for a number of reasons. One of which was to help diminish the stigma that is associated with having a mental illness. I hope that I have been able to help.
At the same time, I know that there is a long way to go. Someone just this week told me that during a church service here in Hays the speaker told the congregation that depression was a result of sin in a person’s life.

When I heard this, I was very upset, but unfortunately I was not surprised.

Depression, bipolar and other mental illnesses are often seen as a different from all other illnesses. People don’t realize that the chemical imbalances that occur in the brain are just as harmful as diabetes or cancer. I wonder if that speaker would say that those who develop breast cancer do so because of unrepentant sin in their life.

This highlights the fact that there is much work to be done as far as education about mental illness. If I have been able to reach just one person through this column, then I feel that it was worth it.

Mainly, though, the feedback to sharing my story has been overwhelmingly positive. I have had the honor of talking with many of you on the phone or in person, and I treasure the stories that you have shared and the time we spent together. I want to encourage you that though my columns in ONE have come to a close, I am still more than willing to talk with you.

In addition, I am going to continue writing my thoughts about being bipolar on a new blog that I have started: yesIamBipolar.blogspot.com. My hope is to update the blog twice per month so that I can continue to help those who are struggling with questions about bipolar.

Every person deals with some sort of health concern. That’s just how it goes. If you haven’t had cancer, you know someone who has. If you don’t have a mental illness, you know someone who does. I hope that through reading this series of articles you have been able to be encouraged, educated and better equipped about mental illnesses.

I want to take a minute to honor my wife, Lori. When we got married “for better or for worse, in sickness and in health,” neither of us knew how bad things were going to get. I cannot comprehend the pain that I have caused her through all this, and I am so grateful that by the grace of God she has stuck by my side through all of this. Without her I don’t know where I would be.

I truly am blessed to be married to my best friend. Thank you, Lori. I love you.

ONE Article: Bipolar, Part 4

My family has been killed in a car accident. I knew that I shouldn’t have stayed at home. What was I thinking? I can’t believe I let this happen. If only I’d finished my work ahead of time I could have…


**RING** **RING**

“Hey Kev, sorry I couldn’t answer my phone just now, but I was driving and couldn’t find it. What’s up?” my wife says.

***

Racing thoughts are one of the many things that I struggle with being bipolar. When I can’t get a hold of someone, my mind often jumps to the worst possible scenario and my body reacts as if it were a true crisis.

Now would someone sitting next to me while I’m having these thoughts necessarily know that I am freaking out inside? Probably not. I don’t get hysterical – but my mind just starts going through all of the possible, although highly improbable, scenarios.

My mind also races about other things – not just tragedies. Often I will have periods of time when I can write and write and everything just clicks. I can tap into my creative self in ways I’m not always able to under “normal” circumstances (whatever “normal” is). Or I start thinking about a new way to do something or how great things will be when this or that happens.

Sometimes the thoughts are good, sometimes they are bad, and there doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason why they are one way or the other. All I know is that it drives me nuts when it happens. It’s like someone hijacks my brain and there’s not much I can do about it.

When it happens, I have to try to distract myself with something else. I try to call someone. I turn up the radio louder. I start talking out loud to myself. I’ll do just about anything to get them to stop.

When I can’t get them to stop, there’s a risk for me to have a panic attack.

***

“I don’t know why, but I’ve just got to get out of here.” I told my wife.

She could see in my eyes that I wasn’t joking around, so we took the kids and got back into the van. She drove, and as we were leaving I was flooded with unchecked emotion. I didn’t know where the emotion came from or what was going to happen next.

As we drove down the highway, I started shaking a bit and then began to cry. I was tense and filled with a fear and uncertainty that was simply overwhelming. My wife looked over at me and didn’t know what to think or do. The fact was, neither did I.

It felt like it lasted for over 3 hours, but really it was probably just 15 minutes. I finally started to relax a bit, and then the tears stopped and I was able to regain some composure. I hadn’t had a panic attack in years, and I wasn’t prepared or expecting one right then – but really, when do you expect a panic attack?

***

My panic attacks have been much worse, but that is the latest one.

I have never written about my bipolar before, and I appreciate the cards, notes and emails that people have sent encouraging me to continue writing. I am honored that many of you have decided to share a bit of your stories with me, and I hope to continue hearing from you.

If you’re suffering with any form of mental illness, I want you to know that you are not alone.

ONE Article: Bipolar, Part 3

This sucks.

The problem started with something called art therapy. OK – it involved more than that, but that was what we spent the majority of the time doing during this time of day. If I have to make one more * collage I’m going to paper-cut myself to death!

The therapist who was responsible for art therapy was probably a nice person. We got along in the beginning, but then she noticed that I sat in the same place every day. It was a rectangular table and I would always sit at the shorter end facing the window, where I could see everyone. She would often sit opposite me and most of the others would sit on either side.

Well, she decided that I was making a power play on her and the group.

“No, I just want to be able to see people’s faces when they talk.” I said.

“Well, I’d like you to sit somewhere else.”

It was nearing the end of my treatment and I just wanted to go home, so I agreed. I sat someplace different. I can’t wait to get out of here and away from the seat Nazi. … Great, another art project with cotton balls.

The next day for group therapy, which was in a different room, the regular guy was gone and my individual therapist was filling in. I arrived a couple minutes late and when I went to sit down he said, “Kevin, the group has decided that you are going to sit here today,” pointing to a metal folding chair on the side of the circle.

What * is he talking about?

“Kevin, you always sit in the same place and now the group has decided you should sit in this chair here.”

I was angry, and I was hurt. My “friends” talked about me when I wasn’t here and then decided to make me sit in this metal chair while they all sit on cloth chairs and sofas? “Can I at least sit there?” I asked as I pointed to another empty chair.

“That’s fine. We just didn’t want you sitting in your regular place.”

I didn’t say a word for those 90 minutes. I was pissed.

After group the first thing out of my friend’s mouth was that the therapist was the one with the idea to have me sit someplace different, and not the group’s. This furthered my distrust for my therapist and my anger for his lie was off the charts.

I was in a strange environment and one of my few familiar things was sitting in a particular seat in the circle. It may sound silly, but when my life was falling apart I wanted to be able to have something within my control. But that’s not how he saw it and it greatly damaged our therapeutic relationship. Like I said, it may sound silly, but at the time that was virtually all I had.

ONE Article: Bipolar, Part 2

Finally I’m free. I can go outside. I can use the phone. I can do whatever I want. I’m not locked up any more. Now I have to go see a psychiatrist. Great. Just what I need. I guess it’s a small price to pay for my freedom.

Those were my thoughts as I was being picked up from my time in a locked mental facility in March of 2000. The psychiatrist that I was assigned was an average doctor, but he was very matter-of-fact. He had been in the military and there wasn’t much discussion. He gave me the meds that he thought I needed and that was that. He put me on many medicines and the cocktail gave me severe side effects. The two biggest side effects were weight gain and fatigue.

***

My alarm clock went off something like 14 times this morning. I guess I missed class again. Oh well. I don’t really care anymore. I just want to sleep and eat and be left alone. Why can’t people understand that? Ever since I got out of the hospital people have been looking at me weird. Their stares pierce through me to the core of my soul and I can see the disgust in their eyes. And they should be disgusted. They should laugh. I am a nut case. I couldn’t function without medication – and now I can’t function on medication. I just want this to be over.

I have missed 3 appointments with my psychiatrist now and so I can only make same-day appointments if there are any available. He also won’t give me any med refills until I see him. What the heck? I’m on so much medication that I can’t wake up, and then I’m punished for that fact by not being able to see my doctor. He says the medication is helping, but what does he know? He’s not living this. He’s not seeing the snickering and feeling like a leper. I hate my life.

Several months go by while I’m on various medications. Psych meds are a peculiar group because no one really understands how they work. What’s more, every person reacts differently to each med, so to get a person on the right doses and the right meds is trial-and-error.

Why can’t they just get my medication figured out?? I can’t remember things. I’m sleeping all the time. When I’m not sleeping I’m eating. God, make this stop.

***

Things are getting worse. It’s been 7 months since my lock-up and I don’t feel any better. I’m really ticked off now. I tried to do the right thing and get help, but it’s pointless. No one can help me. I’ve got to just get away from all these people who are trying to “help.” They are incompetent and have no idea what it’s like living with bipolar. Yeah, that’s what they call me now. I have a label. I’m supposed to fit in this nice little therapeutic box. My DSM code is 296. Isn’t that handy? I’m now a number.

But still no one can help me.

***

The following takes place after the events described in last month’s column.

I have been driving all night now and I don’t know what my destination is yet. Someone once told me about this clinic in Texas. Maybe they can help me. I’m out of options. I can’t live like this. If they can’t help me, no one can.

It’s now 8 am and I am half way to Texas. I called directory assistance and they were able to find the number for the clinic. I called them and told them I needed help and was coming now. They transferred me to a few different people and tried to talk me down a bit. I was very anxious, hadn’t slept for 36 hours and no one knew where I was going.

“You’ve got to call your wife,” the voice on the other end of the phone kept saying.

“Fine. But she won’t understand. She’s going to be mad at me and will try to get me to come home,” I protested. Thankfully I was wrong.

ONE Article: Bipolar, Part 1

It was 1:15 in the morning. I grabbed my wallet, my keys and my watch and headed for the door. I yelled, “I just have to get out of here.” My wife, Lori, who had been sound asleep moments before tried to get to the door before I did. I beat her out the door and jumped into my Honda. As I was pulling away she tried to jump on the corner of the hood – anything to stop my leaving. I threw the car into reverse and watched her slide off onto the ground. I punched the gas and sped away.

The speedometer was pushed past 80. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t really know why I was going. I just felt in some deep seated part of my soul that I had to run. As I got out to Highway 75 I noticed that a car was gaining on me and the driver was flashing her lights. I knew it had to be her. “Why doesn’t she leave me alone?” I shouted to my empty car.

I went over another hill and lost her in the rear view mirror. I saw a side road and I turned sharply, skidding around the corner. I drove a few hundred feet, took my foot off the gas and turned off my lights. I saw her fly by. Finally. I’m alone.

The relief was short lived. It’s the middle of the night and I’m on some side road that I’ve never been on before. I really need to just drive. I’ve got to get on the Interstate. But which way would I go? I’m from Seattle, so people would look for me to head west. I could go north, but Lori has family that direction. What about south? No logical reason not to go south, I said to myself. Even in the midst of my madness I still believed myself to be logical.

Seven months earlier I had been in a locked mental facility.

I sort of feel like I’m in prison. I’m not allowed to go for a walk or go outside. Ironically, all I want to do is go outside for a walk. Lori’s always bugging me about wanting to go for walks – if only she could hear me now.

I’m sitting here in my room at a mental hospital. I just talked with Lori and she told Mr. Nickels* where I was. He said he was proud of me. That’s what everyone has told me. I don’t feel proud. I just feel out of place. I don’t belong here.

After journaling those words I went to sleep. My life was about to be changed forever.



*names have been changed

Introduction

My name is Kevin Daniels and I currently live in Hays, Kansas. I am a husband, a father and a pastor. I am also bipolar.

I write a column in a local monthly magazine called ONE, which is published and distributed by the Hays Daily News. In that column I have been writing about living my life being bipolar. Currently you can only read my articles in hard copy or at www.facebook.com/ecmaone. Since I have had some people ask to get copies of the articles online who aren't on Facebook, I decided that putting them up on a blog would be a good solution.

As I state in my first article, everyone's experience being bipolar, or any mental illness, is unique and can't be experienced by any other person. My hope with this blog is that I can share my story and maybe someone will realize that he/she is not alone. I know that when I was in crisis with this I felt alone; I didn't believe that anyone could understand and I didn't believe anyone could help.  Maybe this can help someone out there realize that there is someone else who has gone through something similar and you don't have to be ashamed.

Being bipolar is just like having any other illness. I didn't choose to be bipolar, I didn't do anything to become bipolar, and I'm not a lesser person just because I am.

I'll try to post a new entry at least every couple weeks, and of course, I'll post the magazine articles as they are published. I'll put the first article up tomorrow. Feel free to contact me if you want to.

Kevin