If My Inner Warrior Had a Voice

This is what my inner warrior wants me to hear but I'm often too busy, distracted, or angry at my limitations to really hear it. When I gave it space this is what it told me.

I try so hard, but you need to be gentler with me. I often feel like I'm drowning and sometimes you don't take care of me. Sometimes you get angry and resentful and can't see all the small steps I'm trying to take to make life easier. I can't explain to you how hard it is when you push me beyond my limits and then are surprised when you crash at the end of the day. I give you lots of hints that I just can't anymore, and you ignore them. I make your breathing shallow, I clench your stomach so tight you can't eat, and I slow down your thinking.

I need you to be patient with me when I'm barely holding on. Sometimes I'm coming undone and can't hold myself together anymore and shut down to survive. It's exhausting to try and keep the voices away while you want to come up with pithy lines to impress a potential editor.

I need you to listen to me. At night when I'm heavy and need to be released please let yourself sob and not distract yourself with Escape Room games on your phone. When I start to clench your fists and tense your shoulders let yourself hit a pillow or scream or dance it out. And when your body feels so heavy it takes effort to even breath let yourself lay down and rest.

I need you to see how far I've come. When you were younger, I could barely stop you from cutting yourself and taking all your pills but look at you now. Even when unwell you can still mostly function and that was damn hard to get to. Years of trying out different pills, therapy, honing coping skills, and learning to lean on others when you need help.

I need you to stop writing this blog. You want to make it longer or more impressive, but I am exhausted, and I need you to put away the computer and just rest.

5 Tips for Finding Motivation When Depressed

I just spent the last three hours playing online cards and watching You Tube dance videos instead of working on a short story due this week. Months ago, I was driven to finish the tasks and deadlines I set for myself and now I'm lucky if I write at all. I used to follow a strict schedule that included yoga, meditation, cleaning, writing, eating, exercising, etc. and now I only do about half the tasks. It's starting to occur to me that depression is moving back in. It can be hard to spot because it brings lots of baggage but only unpacks one shirt at a time. By the time I notice its presence my drawers are overflowing and I'm stuck in the muck and not sure what to do.

Sadly, life doesn't stop because I'm not well. After years and years of this cycle I've created some coping skills to try and keep productive and engaged with life when depressed. It's really difficult when my carpets are screaming for a hoover and my keyboard is covered in dust and all I want to do is lay in bed all day. So, here's a few things I do to motivate myself when unwell:

1)Sit with it. Whenever I want to move through something, I sit in my body and feel it. Right now, the grief and anger that are hiding under my current depression are crushing my chest and making my body feel so heavy it seems impossible to move forward. I'm angry that I'm not working towards my goals and sad because when apathy takes over, I don't care. It sucks to sit in the uncomfortable emotions but sometimes the only way through it, is through it.

2)Talk to someone. Sometimes I don't realize I've become so unmotivated until I start talking to someone about how their life is going and I realize mine has been put on hold again. When I get depressed, I get so distracted by my own inner monsters that I forget there is a whole world out there accomplishing things. I find that if I talk to a loved one about my depression, and how I'm feeling useless and like a failure, I don't have to carry around all that shame and I have more energy to be productive.

3)Create goals. I'm a goal-oriented person. I need to be working towards something or I get bored and lose all my creative juices. The goals don't have to be opening a bakery or becoming a lawyer; it can be having a shower and eating a meal. Right now, my goal is to work on blogs an hour a day and stories for thirty minutes. These are easy goals because if I can't accomplish them I just get angry with myself, become hopeless, and go back to watching Jennifer Lopez convince me she 'Ain't Your Mama'.

4)Just start. Sometimes I have to start doing the tasks no matter how I feel and hope it gets easier. I find the hardest step is the first step. The good thing about starting is that it can give me the motivation to keep going. That one shower makes me feel good enough to add on a meal. This path may be slow, but each step is one step closer towards my goals and farther from hours of online crib. I understand when really unwell this can be horribly difficult so maybe giving yourself compassion and forgiveness can be the goal for that day.

5)Celebrate the good days and forgive yourself for the rest. Some days I can do yoga, exercise, eat three meals, and write for three hours and the next I can barely have a shower and eat a single meal but I keep trying. Honestly, I'm still working on this tool. I'm actually better at forgiveness than celebration but giving myself high fives is starting to get easier.

What I Want To Say To My Psychiatrist But Am Scared To

Dr Psychiatrist:

 

I’ve been waiting an hour for a 7-minute appointment. 3 minutes to chat and 4 minutes for you to look at my chart and write my prescription. I comment that your office is too hot, and you squint at the thermostat and say something about how you’re waiting for the maintenance man. This is the first step in our prescription dance.

 

“How are you doing, Brandi?” He asks as he crosses his legs and slowly pulls at the seam of his dress pants. He removes a piece of lint that isn’t there.

 

This is what I say: “I’m ok.” 

 

This is what I want to say: I can’t make it through one day without crying hysterically and sometimes it looks like the ceiling is stretching like taffy. But I want you to be proud, so I lie. I want you to look at me with a smile that reaches your eyes like you did before I became a complicated patient. Are you still proud of how hard I work to stay stable? Were you proud because you had done a good job or because I had? Please don’t put me in the psyche ward again.

 

“How’s work?” He asks while distracted by an email that’s popped up on his computer.

 

This is what I say: “Um. It’s going ok.” 

 

This is what I want to say: I’m barely hanging on at work. When I get really overwhelmed, I have to close my office door and hide under my desk. I cover my ears and repeat to myself that I’m safe until I can breathe again. Sometimes I go home and just sit in my closet and cry. Luckily me and my husband own the business or else I would be fired.

 

“How’s your sleep?” He asks.

 

This is what I say: “It’s not great but I’ll be ok.”

 

This is what I want to say: Each night I struggle to sleep. I’ve tried to plan out the exact time to take my pills so I can fall asleep at 9pm, but not wake up at 3am. Still, I wake up at 12am, then 4am, and it takes me 30-60 minutes to fall back asleep. I get up and move to the couch so that I can listen to a show on YouTube about serial killers or plane crashes because that seems to lull me into sleep.

 

“How’s your weight?” He asks.

 

This is what I say: “I’ve lost some weight.”

 

What I want to say: I wear hoodies to these appointments to hide my bulges because you’ve hurt me in the past with comments about my weight. Of course, I need to lose weight, but first I need you to hear and validate how much I’m struggling. I know your job isn’t to validate, but do you know how much your patients want to hear it? Just a quick, ‘That sounds hard, but I can see you’re really trying.’ Because trust me when I say, most of us are trying our asses off.

 

“How are you doing overall?” He asks.

 

What I usually say: “It’s manageable.” Because this is what you want me to say. If I don’t say this, we have a conversation about how I feel my anxiety is unmanageable and you, in a dismissive and frustrated tone, say, “Brandi, you know there will always be symptoms and we’ve tried so many meds with you.”

 

But, after taking a deep breathe, this is what I said this last appointment: “So, here’s the thing. I’ve tried everything I can think of. Yoga, meditation, decreasing caffeine, eating healthier, more exercise and I can’t make these symptoms leave. I know you say that there will always be some symptoms and I try really hard but at some point, I just can’t do it on my own.”

 

I don’t think you mean to, but the frustration you have with my complicated case comes across as if I’m failing. As if I’m sitting at home trying to figure out ways to stop the pills from working and excited to try a new cocktail. A new colorful collection of pills that will give me a tremor and nausea but help enough to overlook the side effects. This new cocktail will work for a few months, if I’m lucky, and then we have to adjust them again. The truth is that I’m far more disappointed and frustrated than you are. I’m sure I’m not on your mind when you go home for dinner, but your disappointed voice swims through my head for weeks.

 

I know the older I get the harder it is to treat me. I don’t know how to fix this. Maybe we take a picture of my brain and see what lights up? Maybe I take one of those GeneSight tests to see what meds would probably work best? Maybe we try decreasing Seroquel, stopping Lamictal, or increasing Wellbutrin? What if I take my meds standing on my head at 4am in a clown costume? I’m willing to try anything at this point. Are you?  

 

From you’re complicated patient, 

Brandi

 

5 Hacks for Eating When Depressed or Anxious

You wake up feeling like you’re covered in cement and even breathing takes a lot of effort. After snoozing the alarm five times you get up in a fog. You swallow your meds medley, glare at your toothbrush, and go into the kitchen because you’re supposed to have something to eat but find it’s too overwhelming.

Or,

You wake up two hours early and start googling all the diseases you could have or all the ways the world is falling apart. There is no cement, but a boa constrictor is slithering into your bed and squeezing the air out of you. Your mouth is a desert, the drummer for Slayer is beating on your heart, and your clothes are soaked. You swallow your meds medley, glare at your toothbrush, and go into the kitchen because you’re supposed to have something to eat but you’re nauseous.

Eating can seem impossible when unwell and that sucks. It really, really sucks. You may be nauseous, overwhelmed by the choices, or too exhausted to pour cereal and milk into a bowl. (Let alone use a spoon!) I understand the struggle so deeply and I’m right there with you. You are definitely not alone in eating challenges.

So, here are some eating hacks I’ve learned to keep from perishing.

1)Small and simple. If I have to use a knife and fork to cut it or find a pot to cook it, it’s too complicated. I look at eating as an all-day snack. Anything I can get into my body with any sort of nutritional value is a win. If it means nuts and milk for breakfast, cheese for a morning snack, Boost for lunch, grapes for an afternoon snack, and chicken nuggets for dinner then I’ve been successful. If I try and get too complicated with what foods I think I should eat, then I just get overwhelmed and can’t eat anyway. Be gentle with yourself. It can be so overwhelming to prepare and eat food when all you want to do is crawl back into bed or throw up. Do what you can and then celebrate the hell out of it.

2)Protein. Protein. Protein. Now, I’m no nutritionist or dietician but protein seems important. When we have no energy, it can give us enough fuel to take a shower or brush our teeth. I tend to gag a lot when my anxiety is at an all-time high, so I find it hard to swallow whole foods. For this reason, liquid nutrients are my go-to and I always have Boost in my fridge. If you can get your hands on a protein shake or smoothie (preferably made by someone else) that’s great. Other foods with high protein that are easy to eat are cheese, yogurt, nuts, oats, milk, broccoli, tuna, beans, hemp seeds, sun-dried tomatoes, and pumpkin seeds.

3)Be prepared. Almost all my coping skills have some version of being prepared. It’s easier to come up with solutions when your brain isn’t fuzzy and tummy cranky. For me, it’s all about having food that’s easy to find, make, and eat. Microwave meals are a good example. They aren’t cordon bleu prepared BUT it’s better than stale crackers under the couch. You can also fill your freezer with leftovers, get pre-cut fruits and veggies, and stock up on protein bars, cereals, mixed nuts, crackers and cheese, yogurt, and have Domino’s on speed dial. It also helps me to have some favorite foods in the cupboard because I’m more willing to eat them. On really bad days if all I can eat is Cheetos and chocolate then that’s what I do. I show up the best I can every day and hope that’s enough.

4)Ask for help. I know this can be really hard, especially when we already feel ashamed because we’re unable to take care of ourselves. But, often loved ones want to help and don’t know how. They see how much we’re suffering and can’t hug or talk or love us out of it, so this gives them something concrete to do. It also creates a chance for reciprocal vulnerability. When we start to feel better and they need help, they may be more likely to come to us because they know we won’t judge them. As someone who sees the ceiling stretch like taffy and hangs in the psyche ward, there is no room for judgement on my part.

In the vein of asking for help, I asked my husband for some ideas for how loved one’s can help.

5)Guidance for loved one’s. He says aim for finger foods and smaller portions because lots of food on a plate can be overwhelming. Cook simple meals that are easy to digest and if they need someone to cut up their meat then do it with patience and compassion. Most important, don’t guilt or shame the person into eating. Be there to provide the food when needed but don’t be pushy about it.

Extreme Health Anxiety

1 Day

5am: I’m frantically googling the percentage of people diagnosed with lymphoma at stage 4, the life expectancy of lymphoma under 40, and rare side effects of chemotherapy.

1pm: I’m giving myself a Romberg Test I saw on You Tube to see if I have sensory ataxia.

7pm: I’m measuring my blood pressure in 8-minute intervals to see if I have orthostatic hypotension. I take it 5 minutes after laying down, 30 seconds after standing up, and 2 minutes after I sit. I lay, I sit, I stand, lay, sit, stand, lay, sit, stand. My left arm is covered in red scratches from scraping the machine cuff on and off.


7 Days

Monday: I’m bent over the toilet with my iPhone flashlight examining my poo to see if it’s black, pencil thin, smeared with blood, yellow, floating, fatty, or covered in mucus.

Tuesday: I’m taking many, many pictures of my poo. I do it with the lights on and off and then the flash on and off to get the most detailed pictures. I rush to the computer to compare it to the images of colon cancer found on medicinenet.com, webmd.com, and cancer.org.

Wednesday: I’m hiding in my closet and meticulously searching my breasts for lumps, swelling, thickening, dimpling, red nipples, nipple discharge, and pulling near the nipples.

Thursday: I’m taking pictures of my breasts from all angles and swiping back and forth between them to find the most detailed. I want to make sure I have the clearest one to compare to the breast cancer images found on healthline.com, mayoclinic.org, and cdc.gov.

Friday: In secret, I’m downloading a microscope app to examine my skin for moles that are asymmetrical, have irregular borders, are bleeding, waxy, scabbing, scaly, or red.

Saturday: I download an app that diagnoses moles, and it finds something suspicious. I anxiously wait until Monday to call my dermatologist in case I have squamous cell carcinoma, basil cell carcinoma, or melanoma.

Sunday: The day of rest.

12 Months

January: I’m waiting an hour in my doctor’s waiting room for him to fill out a requisition form for a complete blood count, basic metabolic panel, and lipid panel. He says, “40 is when things start to go wrong.”

February: I’m playing phone games for two hours as I wait in line to have a diagnostic mammogram and breast ultrasound. My doctor is concerned and says, “Your sister died young from breast cancer. We just need to be careful.”

March: I’m at my optometrist’s office for a full exam and she tells me to come back immediately if I start to see lots of floaters or flashing lights. “That means your retina is detaching,” she explains.

April: A month off from diagnostic tests.

May: I’m sitting frozen on an exam table in a blue gown, naked from the waist up. My doctor hands me an ultrasound requisition form because, although he can’t feel a lump, “It’s hard to feel breast cancer in young women. Always come in as soon as you think you feel something!”

June: I’m starving for 12 hours because my bowels have to be spotless for my flexible sigmoidoscopy. My internist has me in the fetal position, in agony, searching my rectum and lower colon for inflammation, ulcers, abnormal tissue, polyps, and cancer. My mom warns me, “Brandi, colon cancer runs in our family.”

July: I’m once again naked and freezing, waiting for the dermatologist to inspect my body for suspicious lesions because my mom said, “Me and all four of your siblings had skin cancer.”

August: My doctor is on holiday’s.

September: I’m pinched by an IV for 3 hours to prepare for a polypectomy and a Dilation and Curettage. My gynaecologist is searching for uterine polyps because, “I see something suspicious on your ultrasound.”

October: My neurologist is sending me for a CT scan because she says, “Your numbness, tremor, and tingling are probably just anxiety but let’s rule out any sort of brain lesion.” 

November: I’m naked again, freezing again, waiting for my gynecologist to scrape my cervix because he says, “Cervical cancer is rare, but you never know.”

December: Everyone’s on Christmas vacation.

I don’t want to know all these terms and symptoms and yet here I am. I’ve never been diagnosed with any of these diseases, but sometimes I live like I’m preparing to die.

5 Hacks for Bathing When Depressed

It has been ‘sweat dripping from under my boobs, behind my knees, and between my fingers’ weather and daily showers have become mandatory. I’ve always been pretty good at sudsing up, but it’s been a challenge this last week. My depression has been following me around like an annoying younger sibling and I’ve noticed my showers are starting to happen later in the day and zapping all my energy. 

 

I understand the shame of not showering or brushing your teeth for a week (or two). I feel like such a failure when I can’t muster up the mental or physical energy to do something as basic as keeping myself clean but that’s the dirty truth. However, when I can eventually force myself to bath there are some hacks I picked up. The goal is to always make it as easy and enjoyable as possible. Possible being the operative word.

 

1)When and how. When do you have the most energy to lather up? Do you want a soak in the tub or a quick shower? I’m usually awake by 6am and have a limited number of hours where I have energy to shower so it’s one of the first things I do. Generally I’m a shower girl but if standing for 5 minutes feels like slogging through mud, I chose to have a bath instead. 

 

2)Be prepared. What do you need in the shower/bath and after the shower/bath? I lay my purple towel on the toilet beside the shower, set out my leggings, sensible undies, and tank top, and make sure that the shampoo and Ivory soap are where they’re supposed to be. It’s so stressful to get in the shower and then have to chase the soap into the corner of the bathtub where it inevitably escapes again. It belongs in its conveniently placed dish. Ditto with the shampoo. If it helps, buy one of those hanging shower caddies.

 

3)Make it easy. What takes the least effort? I only wash my hair 2 or 3 times a week and use a 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner. I haven’t used this before, but I heard dry shampoo works well. Or if your hair has been in a messy bun for a week and your brush refuses to do its job there is always detangler. This may seem silly, but I wash my body in the same pattern each time because it takes the least amount of physical and mental effort. I start at my feet and legs and work my way up, so I don’t have to bend down twice. When I’m really tired, I follow my husband’s advice: “You don’t need to wash your feet because that’s where all the soap is anyway.” He’s a brilliant man.

 

4)Make it enjoyable. What will motivate you to get out of bed and into the shower/bath? Sometimes, the only thing that gets me in the shower is the knowledge that my shower head will massage my aching shoulders and back. I haven’t invested in a massage shower head but I might just do that. Also, it can help to use shampoo and soap that smell good. I’m a lavender, coconut, and vanilla kind of gal but some like it fruity. There is a whole industry dedicated to you breathing a sigh of relief when entering the bath; bath bombs, bubble bath, bath beads, aromatherapy oils, etc.

 

5)Desperate times call for desperate measures. What if you’re really unwell and haven’t bathed in a couple weeks? I set an alarm so that I know I’m only going to be in there for 5 minutes and then dive back under the sheets when I’m done. I understand how deep down exhausting it can be to even stand up. So, we deserve a break after. The last weapon in my arsenal is to have my husband come into the bathroom and talk to me while I’m in the shower. This distracts me so that the 5 minutes don’t feel so long, and I don’t feel so lonely. 

 

These tricks may or may not work for you, but I hope it helps a bit. Even knowing that you’re not alone in this horrible, exhausting, depressive episode can be huge. What tricks do you have when bathing feels impossible?

A Road to Love: 5 Things I've Accepted About Myself

I would love to love myself like those girls with bright, white teeth on the cover of self-help books that give you a formula for self-love in 5 easy steps. But I’m finding it a tad challenging. Loving and appreciating myself feels impossible but so did making it to 40-years-old with bipolar so I guess it’s worth a try.  

 

There are so many reasons that I don’t feel worthy of my own love but mostly it’s 25 years of the bipolar monster spewing its hateful words and me drowning as I gulp them down. It hijacks my mind and colors the way I see myself and the world around me and it’s time to take some of that power back. There is a softer, quieter voice underneath that has been patiently waiting for me to shut up long enough to hear it. 

 

I’m not quite ready to love myself but I figure if I can start to like myself that’s a step in the right direction. I’ve come up with a list of 5 things I’m starting to accept about myself. I feel like an imposter and a liar but if I don’t commit myself to this loving journey then I’m not going to live the life I want. And for me, nothing is more dire. I’ve fought so hard to stay alive and I CAN NOT have that fight mean nothing. 

 

So, here’s my acceptance list:

 

…hmmm…

 

Ok, I’ve got this.

 

1)I’m coming to accept that my love will always feel like all or nothing and this often corresponds with my depression and hypomania.  One minute I want to run and live by myself in the woods with a bunch of cats and the next my husband feels like the only home I’ll ever want. It’s beyond challenging not to pack up my purple leggings and electric toothbrush when I start obsessing about whether he’ll leave because I’m so broken. I’m scared he’ll figure out he can do better and go find that better.

 

2)I’ll always need help when my brain stops working. I get stuck in the bathtub, well not literally, and need someone to come in and help me figure out my next steps. I can’t wrangle my thoughts enough to piece together how to get from wet in bathtub to dry in bed with pajamas on. This may seem ridiculous but when my mind shuts down it doesn’t leave any cookie crumbs back to knowing
how to dress myself.

 

3)I can’t support myself financially. This may change in the future when I sell my next book for sweet, sweet ‘cabin on the water money’, but right now I can barely work. Working part time sent me to the psyche ward so staying stable is now my full-time job. I’m trying to see, though, what value I bring to my household without money. It’s still a work in progress.

 

4)I will always have hanging boobs and stretch marks on my, well, everything. I was super skinny when I was young but food became my way of coping with bipolar, so I have ballooned. As I get older, though, my concern becomes more about health and not how I look in a bathing suit.

 

5)I’ve accepted I won’t get back all those years I hated myself, but I’m starting to create a gentler relationship with myself. I’m not sure if it’ll lead to love but you never really do at the start of a possible love affair.

 

            Do you love or at least like yourself?

Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction: A Game Changer

Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) is a game changer for me. I don't deal well with stress so there've been countless nights where I'm lying in my bed crying with my stomach and neck muscles so tense, they're aching. The worst part is watching my mind racing with thoughts like, “You're a horrible person who deserves to die. I can't do this. Everything is too much.”  

MBSR isn't about relaxation but this can be an awesome side effect. (Finally, a side effect I can get on board with!) It's about taking the moment as it is, no matter how stressful, with curious awareness instead of judgement. In the 8-week course I've been taking there is a formula that's at the heart of mindfulness. Suffering = pain x resistance. Basically, this means that pain is inevitable in everyone's life but it's when we resist the pain that suffering is the outcome. MBSR teaches you to sit with the pain and just watch and accept it without the expectation of change.  

Turns out there's science behind this. MBSR was created by Jon Kabat-Zinn who is a professor of medicine with a Ph.D. in molecular biology. Research has proven that MBSR helps to alleviate stress, anxiety, depression, and chronic pain. It brings together cognitive behavioural skills, mindful movement (yoga and walking), and meditation. 

What's the connection between stress and our body/mind?

People of the cave man era generally dealt with stress by either fight (take on the tiger trying to eat them) or flight (run and hope the tiger eats someone else). And while this was mandatory to stay alive, those of us in the current era have held onto this way of dealing with life's stressors, both big and small. While it's helpful when a building is on fire, it's a bit of an overreaction when someone cuts us off on the drive home from work.  

The flight or fight response causes oxygen to rush to our large muscle groups and shuts down bodily systems that don't seem essential to kill the tiger. These include the digestive, immune, and reproductive systems. Then the brain decides it's time to create a ton of cortisol and adrenaline which increases heart rate, temperature, blood pressure, and sets off so many other alarms. After the threat is over you become exhausted and rest until the heart rate, temperature and blood pressure return to normal and your other bodily systems come back online. This takes about 20 minutes. In life threatening circumstances this is imperative but if we start to respond to all of life's stressors, like the jerk who cut us off, the acute response becomes a chronic one and your body just ain't down with that. 

When the acute stress response becomes chronic it can lead to headaches, chronic pain, frequent illness, decreased energy and insomnia, fertility issues, high blood pressure, high blood sugar, low sex drive, and increased risk of heart attack, anxiety, and depression. This list is exhausting to write so imagine how exhausted your body is when you live this way every. single. day. 

How do we generally deal with this chronic overreaction to stress? 

Through maladaptive behaviours such as overeating, spending too many nights binge watching Netflix, drugs, sex (as a distraction), and overspending. The list is as long as the number of people reading it.  

So, how does MBSR help? Well, let me tell you how it's helped me.

MBSR is teaching me is to regulate my stress response so that I'm not always primed to kill the tiger or finger the driver. Instead, it's given me the space between stressor and response to decide how I want to react. Instead of trying to numb myself by shoving down double stuffed Golden Oreos (the best!) or binge watching serial killer cult documentaries (also the best!) maybe I sit and just take deep breathes for 5 minutes.  

MBSR has been truly amazing in decreasing my anxiety and depression. My brain is calmer and little stressors like having to go grocery shopping or make dinner have become so much easier. But most importantly, the loud and incessant voice in my brain still says awful things 85% of the time but there are now moments of, “You are such a strong person. You can do more and handle more than you think.” All I really want is to not hate myself and I never thought this was possible. Just sitting with and accepting what I feel, think, and who I am at that particular moment has given me the space to re-evaluate my relationship with myself. Man, if I can just take half of the energy I use to fight my self-hate and apply it somewhere productive imagine the things I can do. 

Grocery Store Anxiety

         Do you guys have a get ‘er done friend? I have this friend who is amazing. She has 10 kids (well, maybe 2) and is always getting her to-do lists done. I make a list with the first items being: “Get up”, “Have a shower”, and “Finish making this list”. Three check marks to start off my day. I have such good intentions at 8am but by noon my brain and body have agreed that I just need to chill out for the remainder of the day. Maybe I can stretch it to 1pm but if I push too far a mixed episode is the consequence.

 

         I feel exhausted just listening to how my friend fits in the grocery store, bank, and work between school drop off and pick up. She makes a grocery list and goes shopping. Done. No obsessing about what could go wrong or having to leave the store without her groceries because there’s too many people and it’s overwhelming. 

 

         So, for all of you who may not live up to the get ‘er done title, here’s my experience. Brandi vs the Grocery Store.

 

         I spent the day before making a grocery list that included the brand name and price of each item. This way I could find the product without getting overwhelmed by all the choices. Who knew how many types of toilet paper there were? How many ply’s would I actually need to make my bathroom experience optimal? I blocked off the whole day for 45-minutes of grocery shopping because the noise and fluorescent lights overstimulated me.

         

         I left around 9am on a weekday because the store was mostly empty. Usually only a few elderly people were shopping. They tended to cause a line up by the milk and cheese, while they looked at a flyer, but it was better than being surrounded by stressed parents and cranky kids. 

 

         At the entrance to the store the greeter gave me a smile, but I was embarrassed. I knew my hair was disheveled, I was pale, and my eyes were darting around looking for danger that was never there. 

 

         Upon entering the store I headed to the fruits and vegetables. I squeezed the kiwi’s but they were all too hard or too soft. So, I froze. Did I still get them? If I didn’t check that off my list did that mean I was a failure? A loser? I wished I didn’t go from hard kiwi to failure in 10 seconds, but this was my world. So, I grabbed a stupid, tiny plastic bag, licked my fingers, and packed up the kiwi’s I won’t eat. Covid be damned!

 

         The meat aisle was next. I forgot to write the brand name of the bacon I wanted but to my relief I wrote the price. Unfortunately, there were 5 different brands with that price. My pits started to stain my tank top and cotton filled my mouth. Breathe in, hold for 5, breathe out. (After 40 years you’d think I’d have that breathing thing down by now.) Which bacon had less fat? Which would my husband like? Did we want applewood smoked or just applewood? My get er’ done friend would have snatched one up and moved on but I stood there with a stunned look on my face. Why did everything seem so much harder for me? 

         

After searching up and down 4 aisles I found the Kraft Dinner. The new arrows for Covid protection added a whole new level of anxiety. I came to the end of an aisle and I almost ran into another cart whose driver was searching the floor to see what direction would keep us all alive. We laughed nervously and I noticed the dark circles under her eyes. She was just trying to stay awake long enough to find the goddamn peas and get home to teach her 5^th grader math she had to google. I felt a little less alone.

 

         I made it to the lineup to pay. There was one thing left on my list but it was either give up or sit in the frozen food section and cry. I hadn’t brought a sweater, so I decided to leave my list unfinished. I was too inept to even find the McCain’s hash browns that my husband wanted. He did so much for me, and I couldn’t even manage to get him his favorite breakfast. Wife of the year over here.

 

         The woman in front of me was on her phone complaining about how much it cost to have her car detailed. Why was she so loud and grating? I could barely breath, how could she be worrying about her car? Also, why was her shirt so yellow? It was too bright. I looked away and scrolled through Facebook hoping I could distract myself until I went numb. Numb was so nice.

 

         Someone came up behind me. I needed 6 feet, 6 feet, 6 feet. I’m trapped. Breathe in, hold for 5, breathe out. No, you couldn’t reach past me for the frozen fruit bars. Stay in your little red circle and don’t tap your ridiculously long nails on your cart. 

 

         My turn for the cashier. She smiled but I looked down because kindness would make me break down and cry. As I placed my kiwi and bacon on the conveyer belt the toilet paper started to climb on top of the soap beside the cashier. Did I stop placing groceries on the belt? Screw it. I didn’t care anymore if I failed at the shopping experience. I just needed it to be done. I needed it all to stop so I could lay on my bed in the dark and wonder how come I couldn’t be a get er’ done friend.

 

         My friend made a list and went to the store. A short story that she probably wouldn’t  remember at the end of the day.

The Stories We Build Our Lives Around

            It would be great to escape into someone else’s brain. Shrink, “Honey I Shrunk the Kids” style, and burrow through their ear to hike among their gushy brain matter. Eventually I’d find the Cineplex in their brain, grab some caramel popcorn, and watch their life story unfold. Not the story of what actually happened but the story they tell themselves about what happened.  

            The particular film, of a 30-year-old man I know, has two scenes. One of him and his bride covering each other’s nose in buttercream icing and the second was ten years later when a couple signatures made him feel like a failure. But the movie, and marriage, was so much more than that. It was two people who rooted themselves in a messy, distressing, and beautiful life. Those ten years of creating a safe space to fall apart, change, and rebuild themselves wasn’t proof of failure. It was a testament to how two people created a home with no guarantees but still showed up every day to do their best. That’s a huge success in my mind. 

            I’m watching my own story through the lens of twenty-five years of therapy and there’s a deep pain that I’m never able to fully excavate. It’s like the dead flies that you push into the corner of a windowsill when cleaning. You can’t pick them up no matter how many times you stuff paper towel down there. I’m spending thousands and thousands of dollars on therapy when I just need someone to tell me that these flies are part of the messy and uncomfortable human experience. It reflects how clean the rest of the window is. That I work really hard to make them sparkle, but at some point, I have to call it a day.             

            My most predominant story, the one that insinuated itself into all parts of my life, was the belief that I was broken because of bipolar. I was born defective and could never be fixed. That I would never be fully functional. However, I’ve really been working on this and the next step was to write a letter to my 15-year-old self about why I decided she was broken when diagnosed with bipolar. She deserved an explanation and apology.  

            Dear 15-year-old Brandi,             

             I’ve erased and retyped this letter so many times. I still don’t know if I have the words or wisdom to explain to you why I drowned you in shame and convinced you that you were horribly broken. I’ve been experiencing this grief that has no words or breathe or reason. Just a gut feeling that it was time to let go of this destructive and inaccurate story I’ve built my life around. It’s terrifying because the story made me feel safe but it’s bulldozing through my joy. I got to the point where it didn’t really feel like a choice anymore. I can’t carry around this shame.  

            I’ve engraved you into my mind as a victim. Someone who had life happen to her but that wasn’t the real story. The real story was how I helped create a safe place for at-risk youth to heal their own painful stories, opened a brewery, published a book, fell in love with my best friend, and showed up every day to fight for a kick ass life. That’s a pretty impressive list for someone who was only a victim. You were such an integral part of this story. You had this spark, and grit, that I still carry around with me. I’m a scrappy fighter.  

            So, I guess this turned out more of a letter of gratitude than an apology. Maybe you don’t need my guilt but my love and gratitude. And I do so dearly love you. I guess the bottom line is we’re broken and whole, loved and lonely, and strong and exhausted. It’s messy and there’s no need for shame. I don’t think you could understand this at 15, but you gave me the balls to stay alive long enough to figure this out. I miss you.   

                                                                                                                                 Love 40-year-old Brandi

 

What About Fun?

            

            My husband was playing online trivia and seemed genuinely engaged. So, I asked, “Are you having fun?”

 

            He nodded. “Yeah.” 

 

            And then it hit me. Like all heavy moments that were inevitable but blindsided me anyway. My mind was so ravaged with the shouting monsters that it never occurred to me to even want to have fun for the last year. How sad is that?

 

            This last year’s been pretty awful but the last couple months have been hell. One day I’d feel confident in my creative abilities and would write 5 poems and 2 blogs but the next I’d hide under the covers and watch Serial Killer documentaries. They numbed my mind and distracted me from the growing hole inside.

 

            I’m finally, finally starting to feel better. As my unraveling slows down a heaviness in my chest appears. I’ve lost a year of my life. There've been so many goddamn years that I’ve lost and will continue to lose. 

 

            What do I miss the most?

 

            1)Laughter. Not chuckling from a sit com with predictable tropes, but an explosion of laughter. Pepsi shooting out of my nose laughter. Bent over, not able to catch my breath laugher. Joy that doesn’t expect me to earn it. All my struggles with eating and sleeping and hiding fade into the background. The joy will drain away, and the hidden will be revealed, but the moments of glee give me hope.

 

            2)Hugs. I shy away from hugs when depression bulldozes through the life I’ve just rebuilt. I wish I spent less time falling into depression and more time falling into my husband. 

 

            3)Nature. When I go into the forest or sit by the ocean I’m always amazed by how calm and whole I feel. Nature takes the sting out of knowing this illness will never end. I start to wonder if maybe the real power of my broken pieces is not in how they tear me down but in how they help others build back up. 

 

            

 

             

 

            

40 the New 30? My Body Calls B*llshit

           

 Whenever someone says, “I feel healthier than I did 10 years ago,” I mumble, “Good for you.” I’ve just turned 40 and it’s actually been my favorite birthday, but my body would like to lodge a complaint. 40 is not the new 30.

 

            When I went to the doctor at 30 it was for birth control and burning when I pee. To be clear, it was a bladder infection not a consequence of sexy time scenarios that went rogue. This year my doctor said, “I think we’re going to start doing some routine tests every year. You’re getting to that age when things start to go wrong.” This was met with stunned silence. Had my heart and eating innards chatted with my brain and decided to revolt as well? That’s just unfair b*llshit.

 

            Once upon a time when I looked in the mirror my nipples would be standing at attention. Now, that only happens when it’s cold like a motha. Otherwise, they stare at the floor, drained from holding up too many Dairy Milk Toffee bars. No longer are they saying, “Let’s go meet some boys!” but, “We already got the boys to the yard, now leave us alone.”

 

            I do yoga to trick my brain into thinking my body is relaxed and I’m not constantly unraveling. There’s this 25-year-old yoga guru who goes from mountain pose (standing with arms stretched out at 11 and 1) to kissing her knees in one second. My journey is slower and accompanied by grunts. Halfway down I grab onto my knees and slowly walk my hands down my lower legs to the ground. This way my back doesn’t snap. It’s graceful as f*ck. By the time my hands reach the floor she’s already moved onto the next pose. But I keep going because one day soon, “I’ll feel healthier than I did ten years ago.”          

4 Coping Tools for Med Adjustments

            Med changes are the worst. It affects all parts of our lives and we all have our horror stories. Here’s some coping tools I use to get through the precarious times. There is an accompanying video on Ramblings of a Bipolar Chick on Facebook.

Schedule

           Huge for me. It helps reduce my anxiety and makes sure I eat, sleep, and relax. I work from home so I have a really flexible schedule. As long as you make sure you eat regularly, sleep at the same time if possible, relax, and do something enjoyable that should help.

 

7:30-8:30 – Up, yoga, shower, eat

8:30-9 – Journal 

9-10am – Coping tools blog; post video

10am-12pm – Character building poem “She Was Silent When”

12pm-1 – Meditate, eat, play escape room game on phone

1pm-2pm – Character building as above

2pm-3pm – Work on “Fancy Lady” poem

3pm-5 – Relax, read, free time

5pm – Dinner

7pm – Nighttime yoga and meditation

10pm- Bed

 

Eating

            Biggest challenge for me. As soon as more meds are added my body decides there’s no need to eat anymore. Also, for some reason I can’t use a knife and fork because my brain is swimming in new chemicals. But, I can use a spoon. Here are some ideas for mealtimes. Honestly, when really unwell I may eat McDonald’s or Crazy Bread or chocolate once a day. I try and get back to normal(ish) eating when I start to feel better. Even eating a little bit at each meal is huge.

 

Breakfast: Boost (my go-to), blueberries (or any small fruit), protein bar, milk, cereal

Lunch: Cheese and crackers (my go-to), Kraft Dinner, soup, baby carrots, nuts

Dinner: Small piece of meat cut up for me, mashed potatoes, broccoli, spaghetti, Boost

Snacks: really anything small I can eat with my hands. Too much food in front of me stresses me out.

 

Relaxation

            Anything that helps clear your mind and relax your body. You may not feel like you have time but even 5 minutes will help. Read, take a bath, a short walk, create something, text or call a friend, watch your favorite show, yoga, meditate. I spend a lot of time practicing relaxation because I honestly can’t function without it. I created this practice from ideas from the book “The Dialectical Behavior Therapy Skills Workbook”. DBT is teaching you how to self-regulate your emotions and relaxation is part of it. Highly recommend this book.

 

Morning

Yoga: “Morning Yoga Routine 15 min Daily Slow Yoga Stretches with Sara Beth”

3 min breathing: Deep breath in through your nose, hold, and breath out through your mouth. Count each of the breaths up to 4 (1, 2, 3, 4) and start again at 1. It helps with the mind wandering. 

Affirmations: I repeat to myself 3 times; I am safe, I am loved, I am whole, I am home. (I used to hate affirmations, but they actually help.)

 

3 minutes healing: This may not be part of most people’s routine. I studied energy healing (hands on healing) many years ago, so I just imagine myself doing this to my body.

 

Visualization: I visualize what my life would be like without anxiety - work, health, relationships.                                                                                                                                                              

 

Afternoon

I have this amazing self-massager that has attachments to massage the whole body. I do each body part for a minute, then 3 minutes of just breathing.

 

Evening 

Yoga: “Wind Down Yoga – 12 Minute Bedtime Yoga with Adriene” (both yoga videos I found on You Tube). 3 minutes breathing and 3 minutes healing. There are so many yoga videos out there, even ones for 5 minutes.

 Expectations: 

            Decrease those mother f*ckers. Your body and brain don’t even know what’s going on so be gentle. It’s incredibly hard but if you don’t you may stress yourself out so much you can’t tell if the pills are helping. Delegate as much as possible. Kevin (my husband) does the cooking and picks up the groceries, we both do laundry, and honestly the housework just doesn’t get done. I’m being gentle with myself today. I wanted to write a more extensive and comprehensive guide to coping with pill adjustments. But, my mind is foggy and my anxiety is high so this is as good as it gets.

 

                          

Bad Ass: Letting Yourself Be Loved

            

            This weekend I felt really seen. I felt important. I felt loved. You know those moments when you feel so overwhelmed with gratitude your eyes brim with tears but a sweet smile dances across your lips? Yeah, there was lots of those. I was so overwhelmed with the gifts, cards, texts, and phone calls for my birthday. I truly, honestly, did not expect it. How do you expect something you don’t feel worthy of? 

            

            I find it so difficult to let myself sit in love. Believe someone when they say how rad I am or let myself feel safe in their hugs and kisses. I have a survival instinct to run as soon as I feel safe enough to melt into someone. I protect myself from being left by leaving first. Who else does this? Why do we keep doing this when we end up feeling alone either way?

 

            This week, in my Facebook and Instagram video, I was going to talk about being a bad ass. What you’ve conquered, what goal you reached that you didn’t think you could. I pride myself in being a fighter. Strong, resilient, willing to jump off a ledge but maybe I’m wrong. Not that I’m not those things but that I’m missing a vital piece. It’s not all about me. Shocker, I know. 

 

            What if the real joy is jumping into someone's arms at the finish line? Or letting yourself be vulnerable enough to show the bruises you earned along the way? Not just because it feels good for you to be loved but it feels good for them to love you. 

 

            I’ve been humbled and reminded that I still have a lot of work to do in the bad ass arena. If I can reach the end of my life and let myself feel love all the way down to my toes, I’ll consider that a bad ass life lived. 

 

I'm 40 B*tches!

            

             Ya’ll I’m 40. Am I upset or scared or regretful? Hell no! This is by far my most impressive feat. I’m incredibly proud of this birthday. It’s been a long ass 40 years and I was pretty convinced bipolar would kill me by now. But, so far, I’m too strong and stubborn to give up. Perhaps, too stubborn at times. But if I’m always right, what’s the problem?

 

The best gift 40 has given me is the permission to strive for more bad ass moments and the freedom to fail. All the while knowing it’s not because I’m broken or bad or weak. I failed at staying stable enough to keep a job at a business my husband and I created. That was a breaking point for me. But there is freedom in this failure. I can now jump off a ledge and think, “Welp here we go. Hope I don’t crash and burn.” Knowing if I do, I’ll be ok. I jumped off a cliff when opening the brewery and damn did I crash hard. But it led to a life that finally fits.

            

In the end, as I welcome 40, I don’t have many regrets. I have a very clear understanding of what matters to me. My family and friends, writing, travelling, and doing everything I can to make those with mental illness feel seen, less ashamed, and less lonely. 

 

No matter what birthday you have coming up, who do you yearn to be and how can you show up to life like that? I’m going to be doing a video and blog next Wednesday about your bad ass moments. Those moments you look back and think, damn I did that and go text everyone you know to tell them. Where you feel whole or seen or worthy. I’m going to talk about what makes a bad ass moment, what gets in the way, and how to make more.

 

3 Reasons Porta Potties Deserve Respect

    

    Ok, hear me out here. I’m really not taking the piss. These containers get a bad rap, but they’ve made communing with nature more comfortable when having a fun(?) camping trip. You know, when you set up tents and spend three days taking staged pics to show how much fun others are missing out on. Instagram perfect moments. #naturebitches.
 
So, here’s 3 reasons porta potties deserve respect:
 
1)No auto flush. That shit scares me. How many times have you jumped up and looked between your legs to see what all the fuss is about? Just me? Mmmkay. I’ll be scrolling through Facebook and the toilet decides it’s had enough of my shit before I even start. I never know what to do. Should I leave before I’m finished or stay in protest? I go back and forth between feeling guilty for overstaying my welcome and indignant because I’ll goddamn leave when I’m ready!
 
2)The smell. I know, I know. You’re thinking, “But Brandi. It smells like someone ate enough curry to suffer the burn.” Perhaps, but I find it refreshing that it’s not trying to be something it’s not. Whenever I go into those bathrooms with an Orange Blossom diffuser, it reminds me of the girl who brags about guarding her special flower but gets pollinated in the backseat of a jalopy. We all know the down low of the biffy boom-boom. It doesn’t need to smell like a meadow.
 
3)Better than crouching at 2am. First, you need a piddle partner to keep an eye out for bears and drunk teenagers. Next, you grab your unmentionables and pull them forward not sure where the spigot will spray. (Based on my female experience.) I don’t know how, but even in an area with just dirt, a lone blade of grass tickles the fanny and tries to venture into the no enter zone. You try your best not to get any on the undies. But let’s be honest, you do. So, you sit around the fire, checking your Instagram stats, knowing that everyone has a little dribble in their drawers.
 
            So, there’s my list. I hope next time you need to use one you think of me. Wait, no. Wipe that.
.

Goddamn Health Anxiety

            Fucking health anxiety. I’m just so tired of this shit and it takes over my life. Googling symptoms of breast cancer or colon cancer or skin cancer and survival statistics by age. I feel trapped. The hours, days, months lost in this prison of obsession. Up to 60 hours a month when at my worst. 60 hours! There's so much of life I miss out on. Reading, writing, time with Kevin.

 

This googling doesn’t feel like a choice. It legit feels like if I stop, a volcano of red anger and black fear will erupt from the bottom of my stomach and shoot out my mouth. Devastating me, and everything else in its wake. I picture my thoughts, generally some version of, “I have (insert body part) cancer,” chasing each other throughout my brain. Going in endless loop-di-loops with the roller coaster cars crashing into one another. But, this doesn’t seem to slow them down. I’m chasing these cars, breathless, but they just have so much more speed and power than I do. They’ve gotten away from me once again. I go to the doctor to make the obsessive chatter in my mind shut the hell up. 

 

This is what the doctor debacle looks like: 

 

1)Preparing myself for the news I have cancer. This is before I’ve had any tests or even seen the doctor. I picture him saying “I’m really sorry, but...” and me trying not to throw up or pass out. I’ve even written goodbye letters to those I love at the stage. Like, that’s fucked. 

 

2)Sitting in his waiting room and trying to distract myself by playing an escape room game on my phone. Spoiler alert, this doesn’t work. I go into his office and am so nervous my words trip over each other and I forget what I want to say. I’m embarrassed and ashamed that once again I’m in his office with a symptom I may have created in my mind. Generally, he sends me for a test because he’s very cautious. 

 

3)The time between getting the test date and results I’m actually less stressed. I’ve done my part to stop my death by going to the doctor. It’s in the professional’s hands now.

 

4)Waiting for results is the worst part. Mouth dry, muscles clenched, thoughts scattered for the days between test and results. Now, I’m no longer googling symptoms but side effects of chemo/radiation. I'm wondering who will drive me to appointments and what type of vomit bowl I want. I’ve been wrong every time and the next time I’m still positive it’s cancer.

 

5)Get results that everything is fine. There’s a sigh of relief and my mind is blessedly calm for about a week. Then I find a new symptom and the whole goddamn roller coaster starts again.

 

It’s exhausting and lonely. No one is really with me on this trip. I spend hours hiding in my closet to check my breasts for lumps and taking pictures of what I think are dimples to compare to Dr Google. I don’t want Kevin to see this. There’s just so much shame.