Fuck

Every time you get electro convulsive therapy  they give you a test at the beginning to see if your memory has been affected. It consists of awesome things like identifying pictures of animals, connecting dots, and drawing a cube.

The thing about this test is they only change it up every couple months so usually you have the same questions for quite a few treatments in a row. One of the things they ask you to do is name as many words in a minute as you can all starting with the same letter. For my first eight appointments or so the letter was “F”… which of course meant I started each session trying to think of a minute full of “F” words without saying “fuck.”

“Face, fumble, fear, flustered, futon, feng-shui, fester, Physics, no that doesn’t count, ferment, flamingo, Febreeze….” ahh, I just need to say Fuck.

The past year had been full of fucks. It is the perfect word to use when describing extremely frustrating challenges. Challenges you do not see ending. And I used this word quite liberally. It provided a moment of comfort, a release from the anger.  In the ECT appointments I wanted to say “fuck” so bad, especially in the beginning before the treatments had started working, but I just couldn’t.

Why not?

Because of the fucking ECT nurses who are so fucking kind and so fucking sweet. They are some of the best fucking people I have ever had the chance to fucking meet. Because of them I just couldn’t fucking bring myself to fucking say it. Not even one fucking time.

But then one day they finally changed the letter to “A”.

Assholes.

I suck at naming things – pets, improv groups, small islands I’ve discovered. It is just not my thing.
I have been doing this blog for only one week and it has already had three different names. Lucky for my kid I like his name or he would be having some sort of huge identity crisis by now. 
All three blog names have prominently referenced bipolar disease in the title. This is kind of odd because if I was going to categorize me, and you know, my stuff, being bipolar is really not a “big thing” for me. Technically I have Bipolar II. It’s like Toy Story II, less popular than the original but sort of delightful when you get to know it.
You see with Bipolar II you have less of the manic stuff (dancing naked while purchasing more than you could ever afford on some website like etsy.) and more of the depressive stuff (not dancing, not buying stuff, and cancelling your etsy account because “Why bother?”)  
The depression is something that is a relatively big part of my life, sometimes taking center stage and sometimes being a back-up dancer.
So why draw attention to the bipolar disease and put it in the title of this wildly popular (possibly a slight exaggeration) blog?
It’s all because of the mood disorder marketing. You see bipolar sounds like a legitimate disease. It sounds all real and something someone should actually be allowed to suffer from.
Depression, well in the slightly altered words of Seinfeld, who were the ad wizards who came up with this name? It is vague and wimpy and should be able to be defeated by anyone who is not weak or self-absorbed.
Being in a mood disorder program put these two illnesses in perspective as to how they affect my life. The thing about being in a group with a whole bunch of people who are on the crazy train is you figure out your seat assignment pretty quickly. As depression goes I can be the freaking conductor. When it comes to Bipolar though, I am the hobo in the back who tries not to cause trouble and every so often gets caught.
Fortunately right now I am just hanging out in the train station by the snack machine with no ticket in hand. Anyone wanna share some Funions? 
 

Thank You Princess Leia

wishful_art


It’s not what you’re given, it’s how you take it” Carrie Fisher

You know you are a real improviser when you start finding improv in anything.
“Oh marriage it’s just like improv, you have to ‘yes and’ your partner.”
“Business is just like improv, you have to take risks and get out of your comfort zone to succeed.”
“Getting a Prince Albert piercing is just like improv, you have to go through the discomfort to reach the moments of true pleasure.”
And on and on.
The Carrie Fisher quote above can easily be viewed as perfect improv advice, and it is. Don’t blame your scene partner, rather make brilliance from what they give you.
This is not what was meant though. Recently I have been reading Carrie Fisher’s memoirs. I am drawn to them partly because of her ECT experience and partly because when your son digs Star Wars, it is really enjoyable to bring home books that have fun cover art like Princess Leia surrounded by drugs and alcohol. In saying the above statement, Fisher was referring to the fact we can’t blame our parents for our faults, we need to own them.This is a lesson I have learned, albeit late in life, and I credit it to the combination of good therapy and having a child of my own.
Any therapist who knows what they are doing will encourage you to take responsibility for your life. I must admit the choice to listen is on you and I might have required multiple attempts.
Having a child kicks this realization into overdrive. One day you reprimand them a little louder than you should or let the TV babysit them and you get the scary image of them one day yelling “I am totally messed up and it is all your fault.”
I have realized I was raised with an ounce of stuff that can mess you up and a pound of all the stuff that adds to your life. And as hard as it is to accept, you can’t complain about one without being thankful for the other. I know everyone is not so lucky and I am sure they have legitimate gripes.
I, on the other hand, am a grown adult and would be a complete ass-hat if I did not own my shit. Coincidentally, another lesson that is also true for improv.

Two of the biggest things I battle in my life (I hate using battle but I cannot think of another word) are being at a healthy weight and dealing with a depression that makes me think about ending my life. Fortunately both of these seem to be on the right path currently and I am grateful. 
I am pretty sure I can sum up these two struggles in one true sentence about my life and that is this:
I once took a lunch break in the middle of attempting suicide.
A few days before I was set to graduate college I drove to a scenic lookout in Peoria with the goal of driving my car over the embankment and killing myself. While I sat there pondering this I guess I got hungry because I decided, in the middle of this very serious moment, to go grab a bagel. 
After this meal I went back and did indeed drive my car over a 200 foot drop. I am lucky, amazingly lucky. I survived and a lot of fantastic things have happened in my life since then.
Of course this destructive act led me to lots of regret. I worried and hurt family and friends. I missed my college graduation. I totaled a car. It all was just a lot of awful stuff.Though the Dr. at the psychiatric hospital did try to make me feel better about myself by complimenting my poetic choice of the scenic lookout as a place to end my life, so there is that I guess.
In all this, one of the things that still tends to plague me about this whole experience is my choice of what I assumed would be my last meal. A bagel, a sad factory-made bagel.
If I had this whole experience to do all over, well hopefully I wouldn’t do it but if I did, I really hope I would choose Thai food. 

“Will I still remember the theme song to Silver Spoons?” This is the first question I asked the psychiatrist when we discussed the possibility of ECT (shock therapy.) I’m pretty sure this is a standard concern. Like others I was worried about memory loss, a common side effect. This theme song represented two very important things for me. One, my son. Since he was born he has been sung to sleep with classic 80s theme songs. (Take that Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. In our house you have been replaced.) Being told I would not forget the delightful Silver Spoons lyrics also helped in reassuring me that the memories I have when it comes to my boy would remain intact. Also, I have to be honest, in improv circles if I am known for nothing else I can always be counted on for my 80s television references. I dare you to try and out Golden Girls me. I was worried ECT would effect, possibly end, my ability to perform on stage. I am happy to report my theme song lyric knowledge is still fully there. As my treatments accumulate, I have had some memory issues.Remembering how to get places, recent events that have happened, and my skills on the improv stage have all been problems. Of course this is a a trade-off I am happy to except and I am hopeful when my ECT ends so will these side effects. ECT saved my life. Before these treatments the things that mattered most to me and their enjoyment were quickly diminishing. Life was beginning to feel like the photo in Back to the Future and the importance of staying alive for my love of my son and improv were, like Michel J. Fox’s movie siblings, beginning to fade away. ECT became as necessary as getting Marty McFly’s parents to fall in love with each other at the Under the Sea Dance and I am beyond fortunate it worked. Cue Johnny B. Goode. The lack of energy (I miss you hypomania) and inability to come up with the words in the moment on stage has been the toughest for me. These have always been my performing  strengths. This change though has given me the drive to increase my skill set and not to fall back on my usual bag of tricks. So for now I am making a go, making it grow and that feels really good.

So I have an appointment with my Psychiatrist today. As you may know the difference between a Psychiatrist and a Psychologist is the former is an MD and the latter is a PHd. From my personal view and multitude of experiences though, Psychologists (and therapists) often have a sense of humor and a personality while Psychiatrists almost never do.  This fall as I spent time in my outpatient program I was shocked, shocked to find there was a very talented Psychiatrist there (bastardized Casablanca reference for my Dad) that was actually able to relate to people and laugh. Oh and the other bonus, he found meds that wound up being helpful. It was awesome. If I  created a fantasy team with all of my mental health professionals over the years, (possible weekend activity) he would be in my top three. This is saying a lot. Unfortunately this is not the guy I am seeing today. He is crazy busy (bad pun) and I see this other lady. She is decent enough and gives me refills and, to my delight, that seems to be enough right now in my current stage of good health. So tonight as you are drinking you red wine or hard liquor while watching people with flags and torches, know I will be sitting in my comfy bed with a delightful cocktail of my own (yay for sleeping pills and mood stabilizers.) Hopefully I won’t be sending Ambien-fueled text messages that I don’t remember in the morning. Either way I hope to fall asleep to the dulcet tones of Bob Costas talking about the history of Croatia’s gymnastics uniforms while being thankful for my medicated happy self.  Go Olympics!

I think when you spend over a year dealing with severe often suicidal depression you start to ponder a lot about yourself, those around you, and the world as a whole. You think about things you were never forced to consider before. Of all the different beliefs that were cemented in my thoughts during this past year, there is one I am more certain of then all the rest: Crazy people love PayDay candy bars. Now let me clarify, I do not believe all people who are mentally ill eat PayDays, that would be a ridiculous sweeping generalization. I do, however, believe anyone who eats a PayDay is some form of diagnosed or undiagnosed crazy. This stance is based on a lot of research. In my life, before I had my lovely stay at the mental hospital, (which I also like to refer to as one of Cleveland’s finest Bed and Breakfasts. No shit, Alton Brown would call it a delightful yet understated hidden gem.) I had never seen anyone eat a PayDay. During my brief residence at the crazy people B&B, I saw three different people eat them. I feel so strong in my convictions that if you see someone on the street eating a PayDay, you could ask them what SSRI they are currently on. I pretty much guarantee they would answer you with the same automatic response they have come accustomed to when answering the myriad of doctors they go to. And if you think about it, the crazy person/PayDay connection makes total sense because you have to be somewhat ill to be convinced this is a candy bar in the first place. A PayDay is a glorified hunk of nuts. Yet at every grocery store or drug store you go to, it has somehow gotten the glorious location of being with the good, chocolaty, legitimate candy bars. I mean really, the Bit-O-Honey has more of a right to be there. Now prehaps you are a PayDay fan and none of this makes sense to you. To you I say “Let me know if you need a good psychiatrist, I know tons of them.”  

“There comes a time when you should stop expecting other people to make a big deal about your birthday. That time is age eleven.” – Dave Barry

I don’t expect much from other people on my birthday but I do like to really celebrate the heck out of it.
I think when you have had a couple of suicide attempts, it does feel like a bit of a big deal to have once again made it.
Don’t get me wrong. I think everyone should really go all out for their own birthday. Attempting to off yourself in the past is not a requirement.
I feel really good and healthy this year, and just like birthdays, I am not taking that for granted. So happy day everyone and eat something sinful on my behalf. 

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