I've cohabitated with my husband for over 10 years now. We've been through our share of ups and downs, highs and lows. One struggle that stays consistent, though, is my husband's manic episodes.
My husband was diagnosed with Bipolar II, or bipolar depression, before we met in college. I've experienced him both medicated and unmedicated, in various stages of mind and emotions. I think that mania looks different in each individual, but luckily for me his mania stays fairly consistent in appearance.
Usually it starts with random projects, deep cleaning, or deciding it's time to declutter. He will often avoid conversation and even become agressive if interrupted. He usually is unable to stay focused on the initial task, though, so the house quickly becomes filled with work stations or tasks that he floats in between.
I have to choose my actions and my words carefully during these times: not only because I may disturb his flow or be misunderstood, but also because I can end up interpreting his reactions more extremely than he meant and start having my own enraged impulsivity because of my borderline personality disorder.
I've learned how to recognize these episodes (finally), and I try my best to just allow him to work through them while I keep our two daughters engaged and out of his path as best I can. I'm not always sure how to help him or improve what he's feeling, but through my dialectical behavior therapy I've learned to use mindfulness and distress tolerance skills to help myself stay calm, collected, and rational.
When I used to talk to my friends about these times, I found they often didn't understand. They would tell me that I didn't deserve to be treated poorly, that I shouldn't have to put up with these behaviors. Which, if he was intentionally acting this way, may very well be true. As I learn about my own behaviors that my BPD causes, though, I know that there are two sides to the coin here: like my extreme emotions and instability, his manic episodes are not who he is, nor are they something that is completely in his control. I also know that he is currently making efforts to improve: he is back to taking medication on a regular schedule, he is seeing an individual therapist, and he is taking time to stop and recognize his own emotions and actions with labels. This awareness will, in time, help us both to cope and support each other.
Sunday, April 8, 2018
Saturday, April 7, 2018
Grad School Questions
1) What is the typical timeline for people to complete this program on a part-time schedule? What about if they enroll full-time?
2) What time of day are classes offered for this program? Are there options for some of the classes to be taken online or on weekends?
3) What is the typical workload like for each class? About how many hours outside of class do students spend on the coursework for each class?
4) What certifications/licenses can I receive after completing this program? What are my job options? Will this degree help me work towards my "pie in the sky" ultimate career goal?
5) Are there scholarships or GA positions available? What other financial aid options do I have? Does financial aid require me to meet a "need based" criteria or are there options not based on income?
6) Who can serve as a supervisor for me during my practicum?
2) What time of day are classes offered for this program? Are there options for some of the classes to be taken online or on weekends?
3) What is the typical workload like for each class? About how many hours outside of class do students spend on the coursework for each class?
4) What certifications/licenses can I receive after completing this program? What are my job options? Will this degree help me work towards my "pie in the sky" ultimate career goal?
5) Are there scholarships or GA positions available? What other financial aid options do I have? Does financial aid require me to meet a "need based" criteria or are there options not based on income?
6) Who can serve as a supervisor for me during my practicum?
Tuesday, April 3, 2018
Square Peg in a Round Hole
All I've ever wanted in life is to belong somewhere. That sounds easy enough, doesn't it? To have your "tribe," your "crew," people who accept you, who love you, who get you. Humans were made to be social creatures; we weren't built to stand alone.
Yet, in a fundamental way, that's how I've always felt: alone. I didn't fit with the "brilliant kids" because I wasn't gifted. I never fit with the "average kids" because I cared too much about pretty much everything. I wasn't popular because I was a nerd. I wasn't coordinated enough to be athletic, I was entirely too ugly to be considered even mildly attractive. Even the band kids thought I was weird, even the drama kids thought I was too dramatic. Sure, I had friends, but often times even they would laugh or give me perplexed looks.
Everyone said that things would improve as I grew. Middle School is awkward. High school is all a big show. College is a formality and your 20s is all about self-discovery. Being a new parent is overwhelming but you get the hang of it. The first year of marriage is the hardest. Yep, I've heard it all.
But it never gets better.
I'm not talented and confident enough to really fit in with the other band directors in the district. I'm not flexible and creative enough to feel like I fit with the arts team at my school. I watch teachers every single day do amazing things, and I just don't feel like I am worthy. My students laugh often, but it's more because of how out of touch and nerdy I am, not because I'm funny. Then there's my friends: they are amazing, but even they admit they don't always understand me. I'm not a "super mom" like all the other mothers at our preschool, and I have a hard time talking to any of them ever.
Yes, I know, comparison is the thief of joy, but this isn't about comparing how I stack up to others. It is about the fact that I feel like the odd duck in literally every aspect of my life. I don't know who I am anymore and I don't know where I belong.
That's all I've ever really wanted: love, validation, belonging. I want to feel like I'm a part of something, someone. I want to feel like I am free and that who I am is who I am meant to be.
The weird thing is, that for the first time I my life, I have found the places where I feel like I fit, but it's not the places I expected. I could spend hours there, I feel comfortable even when I'm deep inside my emotions and my crazy thoughts. I have people who seem to actually understand me, who never judge me, and who remind me not to judge myself. I always feel better when I leave these places, when I see these people. I love the smells, the sounds. Where are these miraculous utopias I've found? They are my therapist's office, the intensive outpatient program, and "my unit" in the psych hospital.
I know that sounds completely ridiculous that the only places I feel at home are the places there to try to help me heal from my illness, but it's completely true. My therapist (who is one of the most amazing people I've ever met and has the a wonderful dog) doesn't tell me to "stop being dramatic" or that I'm "too emotional" because she knows that I have borderline personality disorder. The people I was grouped with for the IOP program never pointed out all the mistakes I was making or how they were better than me because we were all in recovery. Nobody in the unit judged me for my scars because many had their own.
I'm still often the square peg in the round hole, but I'm no longer alone.
Yet, in a fundamental way, that's how I've always felt: alone. I didn't fit with the "brilliant kids" because I wasn't gifted. I never fit with the "average kids" because I cared too much about pretty much everything. I wasn't popular because I was a nerd. I wasn't coordinated enough to be athletic, I was entirely too ugly to be considered even mildly attractive. Even the band kids thought I was weird, even the drama kids thought I was too dramatic. Sure, I had friends, but often times even they would laugh or give me perplexed looks.
Everyone said that things would improve as I grew. Middle School is awkward. High school is all a big show. College is a formality and your 20s is all about self-discovery. Being a new parent is overwhelming but you get the hang of it. The first year of marriage is the hardest. Yep, I've heard it all.
But it never gets better.
I'm not talented and confident enough to really fit in with the other band directors in the district. I'm not flexible and creative enough to feel like I fit with the arts team at my school. I watch teachers every single day do amazing things, and I just don't feel like I am worthy. My students laugh often, but it's more because of how out of touch and nerdy I am, not because I'm funny. Then there's my friends: they are amazing, but even they admit they don't always understand me. I'm not a "super mom" like all the other mothers at our preschool, and I have a hard time talking to any of them ever.
Yes, I know, comparison is the thief of joy, but this isn't about comparing how I stack up to others. It is about the fact that I feel like the odd duck in literally every aspect of my life. I don't know who I am anymore and I don't know where I belong.
That's all I've ever really wanted: love, validation, belonging. I want to feel like I'm a part of something, someone. I want to feel like I am free and that who I am is who I am meant to be.
The weird thing is, that for the first time I my life, I have found the places where I feel like I fit, but it's not the places I expected. I could spend hours there, I feel comfortable even when I'm deep inside my emotions and my crazy thoughts. I have people who seem to actually understand me, who never judge me, and who remind me not to judge myself. I always feel better when I leave these places, when I see these people. I love the smells, the sounds. Where are these miraculous utopias I've found? They are my therapist's office, the intensive outpatient program, and "my unit" in the psych hospital.
I know that sounds completely ridiculous that the only places I feel at home are the places there to try to help me heal from my illness, but it's completely true. My therapist (who is one of the most amazing people I've ever met and has the a wonderful dog) doesn't tell me to "stop being dramatic" or that I'm "too emotional" because she knows that I have borderline personality disorder. The people I was grouped with for the IOP program never pointed out all the mistakes I was making or how they were better than me because we were all in recovery. Nobody in the unit judged me for my scars because many had their own.
I'm still often the square peg in the round hole, but I'm no longer alone.
Monday, April 2, 2018
Living Grief
Grief is such a profoundly complicated thing. Many of us spend our lives avoiding negative emotions such as sadness, anger, or fear, so when we find ourselves in a place where we need to grieve, we're not only at a loss on how to cope, but we are overwhelmed by the emotional turmoil we find ourselves unable to escape. At 30 years old I've lost multiple great-grandparents, one of my two grandmothers, a great uncle who I adored, some classmates from high school, an assortment of pets, and a pregnancy. I'm no stranger to grief.
The situation I find myself in now is quite different, though: I have to work through the grieving process for a person who is very much still visible in my everyday world. I don't want to downplay the grief we feel in the time of death of those that we love, but I'm a way it is so much simpler for us to enter into the stages of grief when someone dies because, well, they are gone. We eventually have to work through the loss and deep down we are aware that we can't undo death. What I can't wrap my brain around right now is this, though: how do we let go and grieve the loss of someone in our lives who is still alive and well? How do you not try to continue to try to mend the torn tapestry of a friendship when you have to look at the damage nearly every single day, right in front of your face?
When I was in the intensive outpatient program at my local psychiatric hospital, we would close out each session with The Serenity Prayer. I keep going back to the opening phrase of the prayer: "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change." I am well aware that we simply cannot change the minds of others, nor can we change the past. Yet I impulsively and foolishly keep trying to bring this friendship back to life despite the obvious signs that it is forever dead, like a scene in Grey's Anatomy where they continue compressions while everyone else stares, knowing that it's useless. My therapist had the best analogy: she said that continuing to push for change or desperately trying to fix the friendship is like going into a hardware store every day trying to buy milk: I can keep trying but I'm never going to get the result I want.
So what's the grocery store in this instance? The dialectical behavior therapy term is radical acceptance. Radical acceptance means completely and totally permitting life to be as it is with your entire being, mind, body, and soul. It means letting go and allowing a situation to happen without feelings of resentment, anger, or blame. It means no longer fighting reality. It does not mean you agree with or support the event and it does not mean that you'll be free of any pain, though the pain will be less without resistance. It also does not mean that change can never happen, it just means you aren't fighting for change in the present moment. And everything in DBT is about the present.
My amazing therapist says that radical acceptance is critical for me in this situation, but that the process of acceptance means letting go of control and experiencing significant pain. As Marsha Linehan says, "The path out of hell is through misery. By refusing to accept the misery that is part of climbing out of hell, you fall back into hell." And right now, I'm in hell nearly every damn day. I miss my friend so much that it causes physical pain, days of crying, and lots of impulsive behaviors. Subconsciously I've convinced myself that fighting reality will protect me from the pain, but I don't actually think that's true. Fighting against reality is just leaving me stuck in the suffering, unable to escape or improve my life. Refusing to let go means that I am continuously using distress tolerance skills to attempt to keep myself from relapsing into self harm.
Why can't I let go? Why can't I accept that this friendship is over? I am terrified of failure. I am convinced I don't know who I am without this friend. This loss is a big trigger for my fear of abandonment, meaning I'm waiting for everyone else to leave too. But what I really want is to be stable. I want to move forward. I want to recover and climb my way out of this hell. I want to walk the middle path, to be mindful, to have a life worth living and being present within. I must make this choice, to accept that this loss does not mean all is lost. It's going to be completely miserable for a while I have no doubt. I will have to tell myself, to force myself to accept this fate, repeatedly for months or even years. My only hope is that I can survive...and that my therapist won't give up on me in the process.
The situation I find myself in now is quite different, though: I have to work through the grieving process for a person who is very much still visible in my everyday world. I don't want to downplay the grief we feel in the time of death of those that we love, but I'm a way it is so much simpler for us to enter into the stages of grief when someone dies because, well, they are gone. We eventually have to work through the loss and deep down we are aware that we can't undo death. What I can't wrap my brain around right now is this, though: how do we let go and grieve the loss of someone in our lives who is still alive and well? How do you not try to continue to try to mend the torn tapestry of a friendship when you have to look at the damage nearly every single day, right in front of your face?
When I was in the intensive outpatient program at my local psychiatric hospital, we would close out each session with The Serenity Prayer. I keep going back to the opening phrase of the prayer: "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change." I am well aware that we simply cannot change the minds of others, nor can we change the past. Yet I impulsively and foolishly keep trying to bring this friendship back to life despite the obvious signs that it is forever dead, like a scene in Grey's Anatomy where they continue compressions while everyone else stares, knowing that it's useless. My therapist had the best analogy: she said that continuing to push for change or desperately trying to fix the friendship is like going into a hardware store every day trying to buy milk: I can keep trying but I'm never going to get the result I want.
So what's the grocery store in this instance? The dialectical behavior therapy term is radical acceptance. Radical acceptance means completely and totally permitting life to be as it is with your entire being, mind, body, and soul. It means letting go and allowing a situation to happen without feelings of resentment, anger, or blame. It means no longer fighting reality. It does not mean you agree with or support the event and it does not mean that you'll be free of any pain, though the pain will be less without resistance. It also does not mean that change can never happen, it just means you aren't fighting for change in the present moment. And everything in DBT is about the present.
My amazing therapist says that radical acceptance is critical for me in this situation, but that the process of acceptance means letting go of control and experiencing significant pain. As Marsha Linehan says, "The path out of hell is through misery. By refusing to accept the misery that is part of climbing out of hell, you fall back into hell." And right now, I'm in hell nearly every damn day. I miss my friend so much that it causes physical pain, days of crying, and lots of impulsive behaviors. Subconsciously I've convinced myself that fighting reality will protect me from the pain, but I don't actually think that's true. Fighting against reality is just leaving me stuck in the suffering, unable to escape or improve my life. Refusing to let go means that I am continuously using distress tolerance skills to attempt to keep myself from relapsing into self harm.
Why can't I let go? Why can't I accept that this friendship is over? I am terrified of failure. I am convinced I don't know who I am without this friend. This loss is a big trigger for my fear of abandonment, meaning I'm waiting for everyone else to leave too. But what I really want is to be stable. I want to move forward. I want to recover and climb my way out of this hell. I want to walk the middle path, to be mindful, to have a life worth living and being present within. I must make this choice, to accept that this loss does not mean all is lost. It's going to be completely miserable for a while I have no doubt. I will have to tell myself, to force myself to accept this fate, repeatedly for months or even years. My only hope is that I can survive...and that my therapist won't give up on me in the process.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)