Cutting: When The Pain Just Can't Get Out

I was thinking about whether or not to put a trigger alert at the beginning of this post as it might be touchy but I could put a trigger alert on this entire blog. So, for what it's worth since some of this might be a bit alarming:

TRIGGER ALERT!

I am a cutter. Or a was a cutter. Have been a cutter. I am a reformed cutter? Once a cutter, always a cutter? Someone early on commented that I am a "label whore" because of all of my diagnoses and that made me laugh. So I guess, I'll simply add to that and say that yes, I am a cutter. I also say this because since I've done it in the past, I know that I am capable of doing it in the future. I think that will always make me a cutter.

Every cutter has a story, as I have learned. I can not speak for everyone so I will simply talk about my own experiences. Some people cut habitually, I on the other hand have only cut impulsively while in the throes of uncontrolled mixed state cycling.

Why? I guess during those moments, the utter pain, despair, frustration and hopelessness was so intense that words could not express what I felt. In a mixed state, you are simultaneously depressed but experiencing manic symptoms so you have the capability to act out violently. While the depression makes you feel so absolutely dead inside, the mania demands that you do something to make yourself feel alive. You cry out to the world to show your pain, to feel it so you reach for a knife and you damn well make it known.

The first time I cut myself I became an amatuer surgeon (albeit, a very bad one.) I severed three-quarters of the left median nerve in my wrist. All the doctors were amazed that I didn't hit any major arteries or veins. I was sent for surgery the next morning and they repaired it but not completely. I still have some numbness in my hand and fingers that will never return.

The second time, I more wrecklessly slashed my forearm deep into several layers of subcutaneous fatty tissue. No serious damage was done and I was stitched up in the ER.

Cutting is serious business. I absolutely loathe the taboo that surrounds it. Most frequently, it is attributed to people with Borderline Personality Disorder but believe me, people with BPD haven't cornered the market on self-injurious behaviour. I am living proof of that. And it works both ways--not all people with BPD harm themselves either.

Not long after the first cutting I spoke to my cousin who is an ER doc. She didn't know about it, just that I was hospitalized for psych reasons (even though I was kept on a surgical floor.) She immediately launched into a tirade about "cutters" and how she couldn't stand them as they were all a bunch of attention seekers, how they just wouldn't stay on their meds and how they never listened and on and on. I was deeply disturbed. I then told her casually the reason for my admission. Oh, she backpedalled hard but she couldn't redeem herself. I had always idolized her but now she really dropped from my esteem. We have since spoken and she seems a bit more sensitive to mentally ill patients. Perhaps she's had some training or grown up a little bit?

I won't argue that it can be difficult to help or treat someone who is a cutter (or who participates in other self-injurious behaviours.) It can be downright disturbing and painful in it's own right to witness it, perhaps even more so if it's habitual. But it doesn't mean that the person deserves less than adequate and/or sensitive care. For someone to get to that point, they are really, really hurting. I know. I never thought I'd find myself there but I did.

A New Tool For My ADD?

I just saw a commercial for this on television. Caution: it actually shows you the annoying commercial. It actually reminded me of some discussion about Direct Marketing Ads over at Dr. Anonymous' blog, granted they were about selling pharmaceuticals. This is for some "must have" gadget that will make your life so much more manageable.

I always wonder about these ads. I mean, if the product is so great(!) why isn't it sold in stores, in catalogues, all over the free world? Well, I did find it on the internet but well...look what else you can find on the internet.

Hey, you found me right?

But back on point. They said in the commerical that "other" voice recorders (aka microcassette etc...) were *flash flash* more expensive! But this product was so much cheaper, smaller, handier and you get 2-for-the-price-of 1! Ah, there's the hook.

I have a microcassette recorder and I used to try and carry it around whenever I got a great "writing idea" when I used to write (and coincidentally be hypomanic.) But I more often than not forgot to to bring it with me wherever I went. That was the ADD rearing it's head.

This new doodad has a keychain attachment, however. But when you have ADD there's the issue of remembering where exactly you put your keys... Didn't someone come out with something where you could whistle if you lost your keys and that gadget would emit a sound so you could find them...?

Yes! Apparently no longer available through Amazon.com (people in the US aren't losing their keys anymore?) but here's a company in the UK that apparently still has a model to offer: Maplin Electronics.

But by this time, even if you don't have any cutesy personal key tags/trinkets to identify your set, your keychain is going to be getting pretty heavy. Will it still fit into your pocket? And I still have some questions that remain unanswered about that little "reminder thingie." I mean, what's it's capacity? I forget a lot of things in the span of one day. I mean A LOT. How many messages can I record for myself? What's sort of memory is on that thing? Can I get it upgraded? And who will remind me that I need to check my reminders? Does it have a flashing light or a beep? Ooh, a beep would be kind of annoying--probably to all parties involved with the amount of messages I'd need to record.

I guess if I want to scrap adding the extra 5lbs. to my frame, I can always go for the Hipster PDA. But really, I've never been that crafty and it just seems to be too much work. I've already had way too many bad experiences with Post-It notes tacked all over the place. They inevitably end up not being sticky enough and fall off their intended surfaces and then, my reminder is lost into an abyss forever. Paper doesn't seem to work all that well for me. And eternally, there's always the chance that I'd forget to bring my Hipster PDA (like my keys or my microcassette recorder--and just about everything else I use every day) with me wherever I went.

I don't think there's a product out there that can really help me. Certainly not one I'd pay for.

Lipstick For Your Roots?

So on my way in to work this morning, I saw one of the oddest things. A woman looked like she was applying lipstick to her faded roots with a compact mirror. I just sat and stared. And barely contained myself--I wanted to laugh out loud! I know it's rude to stare but when I see things that I can't comprehend, sometimes my eyes betray me.

Now I don't dye my hair (I've earned every one of my incoming greys and they're staying!) so I don't know if some bizarre product is on the market that looks like lipstick that could be used to "patch up" the offending spots on your scalp before you can get to your stylist.

But still. What on earth could it be made of? And wouldn't it be greasy? And this thing looked like lipstick. It was this dark, almost maroon colour and slid up and down and was shaped like the traditional thing.

I'm sure I could spend some time researching this as there just may very well be something someone has invented out there that matches this description. But I don't know if I will. It's just too much fun to think that this woman was actually applying lipstick to her head (I'm still grinning like a fool as I type this.)

I did ask a colleague when I arrived at work (who does colour her hair) and she'd never heard of such a thing. She also thought the whole incident equally bizarre. Maybe I should ask my own hairdresser when I see him next.

Bipolar Acceptance

A reader took the time to send me an email about their personal experiences with Bipolar Disorder. How nice. Thank you!

Some of the things in our exchange got me thinking about a post I had been mulling around for a bit so now seems an appropriate time to write it. I think this a great topic that everyone with Bipolar can relate to and I could probably go on about it forever but I'll try to keep it brief. And I'm a little fuzzed out today so...well, let me just give it a go.

Stage 1: The Diagnosis

Oh my god, I'm Bipolar! What the hell does that mean?! If you didn't suffer panic attacks before you just might start now! Welcome to Identity Crisis (Part I.) Congratulations! You've now been affixed with a label that you may proudly (if you dare?) wear for the rest of your life. You get to ponder what the stigma of it all means and how to disclose this new information about yourself. Who do I tell? Do I tell?

Relax. Slow down (if you're still not a whirling dirvish of manic cycling) and breathe. You can and will get help. Find a good psychiatrist and therapist (if you feel necessary--although, I've always been a believer in utilizing both therapies: meds and psychotherapy) and do talk about it with people you are close to that you feel you can trust. Develop a good support system. Get to know what to do in a crisis. Don't be afraid to use hotlines or telephone support numbers or even 911 if you need it! There is nothing wrong with you. You have an illness, not a character flaw.

Stage 2: Meds

Welcome to the med-go-round! Unfortunately it is very rare to find the "magic bullet" right off the hop with Bipolar. In fact, there may not even be such a thing. You'll always need to be wary of triggers as Bipolar is something you are going to have live with for the rest of your life. That's right! There is no cure. You will no doubt need to try several or many medications in order to find the right one or combination (yes combination) of drugs in order to ease your symptoms. Oh, and you will need to stay on these medications for the rest of your life. And they will probably cause you a multitude of side effects ranging from mildly annoying to downright sickening to sometimes even freakishly bizarre. Oh, the fun never stops!

Med compliance is extremely important with Bipolar Disorder. I've heard of so many people who went off their meds and really regretted it. I don't advise it. I never would go off my meds.

Stage 3: Stability (aka The Holy Grail)

...or not? Welcome to Identity Crisis (Part II.) For me, and perhaps a lot of other people with Bipolar, this is the hardest part of having the disorder. It's the last part. It's Limbo. It's this weird no-man's-land, sort of oblivion that you're left in while you manage this life long disorder.

Bipolar comes in many flavours. I'm not a big fan of the DSM-IV diagnostic criteria as it seems too stringent and the ICD-10 seems to take things a little bit further, nonetheless, (as an example) when you've been swinging from the rafters for a long time and now you're medicated, calmed--even flattened--down, no longer behaving as you once were... The questions inevitably arise:

Where did I go?
Who am I?
Who am I now?
Was that the real me?
Is this the real me?
What happened to all of that energy/spark/creativeness (fill in the appropriate noun)?

Feel free to keep asking yourself more questions. I know I still do.

What I keep reminding myself of, though, is all the havoc I wreaked while unmedicated. I mean, sure, it's easy to remember the *fun* times but in reality, they weren't so much fun. If I look through more clear eyes, I can see that my euphoria always came with a hefty price tag--either financial, emotional or both. And that was just the euphoria. There were also periods of self-destruction and harm during the crazy mixed state times.

So, if trading off some of that "spark" (or whatever it was that I thought I had) means finding something else within myself now that I am properly treated and managing this disorder...perhaps that means acceptance?

For Any Canadian Readers...Or If You Have A Big Satellite Dish?

I forgot to post this earlier. I watched this on television last night and it wasn't bad. If you can, check it out as it's airing a few more times on Radio-Canada and CBC.

I won't criticize it too much (or at all!) because...

Spoiler Alert!

Do not read any further if you do not want to know how this documentary ends...simply close your browser and exit my blog now.

Okay.

Ready?

I won't say much because well...the guy worked as a film/video director and after surviving his injury, he directed this project himself.

Before Vijay Busts a Gut...

So while over at Vijay's place the other day on scan man's notes pitifully mourning my low IQ score from his online test (108--I normally rank around 130, I swear!!!) I inadvertently made the mistake/discovered the art of link baiting. Oops! I posted that his part of the world (or nearby) was very near and dear to my heart.

I've been trying to map out in my head how to talk about my family. There's just so much of it. I guess you just go with the flow and start typing? So, I may as well drop this bomb. I alluded to it in one of my lists on the right...someone I'd like to meet.

My biological father is from Pakistan. I know very little about him. I might not ever know much more. You see, my Mom is quite ill--mentally--and really in denial about it all. I mean, she's crackers. I've been trying to think of ways ever since I found out this choice piece of information, how to talk to her about it but I may never get anything out of her.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

In the very late 1960s my family (well my non-biological father) was in Karachi on business. Back in those days, companies paid for the entire brood to travel abroad, especially if it was for extended periods. My older sister even had part of her first year of school (a version of Kindergarden) there.

Mom never adapted very well to the cultural change. And she was tremendously agoraphobic. While the other Western woman of the colony would socialize and shop (while the men were away working) Mom would just hide. She was terribly lonely, I think. She ended up having an affair with the hamal, basically a porter or servant in the home. They had several servants, a cook etc... being Westerners. My mother spent a lot of time with this man, as did my father (they were the same age and became good friends) and I believe that she really loved him--that they loved each other. She even nursed him through a terrible case of Dysentery so I've been told.

I was also a twin--or so they thought. Mom miscarried in her first trimester but upon further examination, she was still pregnant. The explanation was that she miscarried my...brother? Sister? Who would know? But the story is that another foetus was there. She was advised to travel to London as the pregnancy and delivery might prove to be difficult but she refused to leave. Was that because she refused to leave the man who fathered me? Or did she just not want to be alone and travel to yet another foreign country? Perhaps both? I have no answers at all surrounding these issues of my birth and so many more.

My family travelled home to Canada and I was born without incident. Oh but I sure looked different! My sister was fair with almost flaxen hair in her childhood. I was so dark! A convenient foil? Oh, there were black genes waaaay back on my non-biological father's side. That was it!

I lived under this assumption until I was 29 and had my first psych hospitalization. I did not call my mother as I did not need absolute hysteria as I could barely deal with my own. Actually, I was more like a puddle on the floor but you get the idea of a world crumbling all around you. I did call my non-biological father (my parents divorced when I was 14.) He told the hospital psychiatrist treating me that his history was irrelevant as he was not my biological father but I did not know this. The psychiatrist told him that everything was relevant.

Sometime later after further hospitalizations and record transfers, I was speaking with a social worker who told me that something "didn't make sense" regarding that hospital stay. She told me of the conversation and I lost it. I got so angry of the accusation that my father could not be "my father!" She told me that was a pretty strong reaction. Could there be any truth in it? I sat silent for a moment and thought about it. I denied it and quickly left the appointment.

Truth time. I called my father and basically caught him in the lie. He came over to my apartment and we talked for about three hours. I tried to get as much information out of him as possible in between trying to just get over the shock. Part of me wasn't shocked, however. I was never "my father's daughter." I was always more his pal, his buddy. And I already knew way too much more about my parents marriage courtesy of him than a child should--like they were swingers and had affairs and things like that. Boundary issues with my Dad? Gee, none at all!

So maybe it wasn't much of a surprise really? But it rocked my world. It did. And I wasn't mentally stable: in and out of the hospital, not on the right meds, drinking every day...this wasn't exactly the news I needed.

So, I guess that's what I was trying to say, Vijay...I'm half Pakistani! I had DNA testing done and everything. I wanted proof that after all the years of lying and deceit that the man who raised me truly wasn't my biological father. Tests conclusively proved that fact. That cost me a lot of money though!

Where to go from here? Who knows? Maybe nowhere but at least I have a better sense of who I am. It's painful. My therapist says she sees it a lot in people she works with who are adopted. It's like you're missing a part of who you are.

It's funny. My mom made me sit down and write this virtual--no complete-- stranger a letter when I was about six or seven years old. I challenged her as I said, he didn't even know who I was! She got very angry and told me to just do it! So I did. I still have the letter he sent back, written by a scribe as he could only speak English, not write, nor read it. Unfortunately the return address got torn off. I'm not even sure how to spell his last name correctly. I wouldn't know how to begin to try and find him.

It's Not Just "All In My Head..." I Have Other Problems Too!

I feel like shit today. I was going to post about something else (hang on Vijay, it's coming!) but I'd rather rant about this. My gut is killing me. I had a brief respite during my upper respiratory tract infection--or maybe I was just preoccupied with it? Or perhaps my body was being kind enough to let me deal with just one issue at a time.

I'm going to see a Gastroenterologist/Specialist in Internal Medicine (I'm not sure...haven't met him yet!) soon (counting down the days...) and believe me, it won't be soon enough! I've been feeling quite ill since the summer (well, since I was about 13 but that's the longer history.)

I mentioned in my med list that I'm currently taking Nexium for GERD. Well, that has been going along swimmingly for over a couple of years now but I'm not sure what's happening at the moment. I'm in a lot of pain and I've had some night time reflux incidents over the last few months (and other stuff but I won't bother to list everything--post a comment if you want to know.) I've searched high and low for any findings of proton pump inhibitor "poop out" (pardon the bad pun) or (in)tolerance but I can find anything. And then there are the lower GI symptoms. They're pointing in the direction of IBS but who knows? I need to a full work up. I want a full work up.

So I figure a scope is probably in order. Boy, I sure hope things have changed in The Land of Endoscopies in the last 20 some odd years. The last two attempts I had were absolutely horrific.

When I was about 13, they couldn't get the damn tube down. I have a superhuman gag reflex and despite the throat spray (useless) and what I suspect were two benzos and one shot of whatever concoction the anaesthesiologist gave me via IV, I still remained wide awake and chatty. The anaesthesiologist confirmed that I had been given the pills "to relax me" and then told the doctor performing the endoscopy that he'd be on the floor by now after the IV sedation. So he shot me up again and still, the tube would not go down. Gag, gag, gag...the next thing I remember was: nothing. I passed out.

Fast forward to the end of the day (half day procedure.) They had to call my father at work to come and get me. He had to dress me and carry me out of the hospital and into the car. I could not speak I was still so out of it. So, needless to say, that procedure didn't go so well.

A few years later, I went to see a Gastroenterologist at another hospital further away from my small(er) home town where I grew up. He wanted to try the nasal route (I guess because of the swallowing issues?) I was still pretty young (and willing to try anything.) Now I'm just older and willing to try anything--but in the name of science haha!

Anyway, the nurse started lubing up the surgical tubing with the little camera and I'm getting a bit nervous, kind of second guessing this decision. But I really wanted some relief from the pain! Slowly she begins inserting the tube through my nose but she reaches a roadblock. She pushes again. No go. She leaves to get the Gastro who's all prepped for surgery. He places his hand on the back of my head and really gives it the old college try.

Wham! Ow.

Still no movement. "Hmmm," he says. "You seem to have unusually small nasal cavities. This isn't going to work." He removes the tube and I have a gusher of a nosebleed. I'd never had a nosebleed in my life, let alone been punched in the face--by a doctor, no less! He turns and leaves and makes no mention of a follow up appointment.

At this point, I am just bawling. Not only from the pain but from the entire ordeal. To further things along, the nurse then stated sharply: "Oh, what's your problem! You see it every month, don't you?" I kid you not. I should have been stunned into silence but I actually sputtered out: "Not out of my face, I don't!"

And with that, I'd had it with Gastroenterologists.

This upcoming appointment shoud be interesting. With age comes courage?