What is true?

As a person with mental illness, I struggle daily to distinguish between what thoughts, emotions and actions are truly mine versus symptoms of my illness or side-effects of my medications. Did I just raise my voice to my son because I believe he did something significantly wrong? Or, did I do it because I’m hypomanic and, therefore, super irritable? Or because I am tapering a medication, which has significantly increased my anxiety? Which one is it? Or, is it all of the above? Some? Many days, I have no fucking idea. These collective days have eroded my confidence, my sense of self, my ability and desire to be present in my life and my hope for the future.

The last two weeks have been excruciating due to tapering a medication (I think). We started by cutting my dose in half and I have felt nothing but raw, burning anxiety and suffocating depression. Or maybe these feelings are attributable to a mixed-state episode (i.e. hypomania and depression at the same time). There really is no way to tell the difference. All I know for sure is that I feel more “sick” than I have in over 7 months. I feel like every single bit of progress I have made toward minimizing the symptoms of my bipolar disorder has been lost. And I have acted horribly because of how I feel.

I am constantly irritable and have little to no patience, so I do not behave as a have and should towards my children. I get upset about the smallest transgressions and I am quick to say no to every request that I feel would be too much for me. Sometimes I yell. I have no tolerance for messiness or loudness or things that are not safe (which is pretty much everything in my addled mind). But messiness and loudness and doing things that may not be safe, but won’t cause serious harm, are inherent parts of childhood; these are things that parents live with everyday and ignore, within reason, because they are part of the package of having tiny little humans that you love with all your heart. But I can’t see that most days. Or, worse, I can see it but I can’t stop myself from getting upset anyway.

I have also be consistently down, negative, unhappy, tearful and hopeless. I am always upset, never light-hearted. I refuse every request to try something new. I don’t want new. I don’t want old. I don’t want anything except to hide from my family and the rest of the world so that I don’t have to feel my feelings, so that I can pretend, if only for a few minutes, that I am alone in world, without the responsibility to care for or love anyone.

My rational self knows and understands that my thoughts, emotions and behaviors described above are the result of a medication change and/or my illness. But other parts of myself can’t understand that, or hold on to that understanding. Instead, I feel that my emotions and behaviors are me, true illustrations of the person I really am. I feel that I am a horrible mother, that I should not have had children because I cannot care for them properly or love them as they deserve to be loved. I am heartbroken that my behavior has harmed them and will continue to harm them far into their futures. I apologize constantly, but that is not enough. They are too young to understand why I would do such things in the first place. All they know is that their mommy isn’t as nice to them as she used to be, that maybe she doesn’t love them as much as she once did.

Again, I read over the above paragraph and I know that those sentences are not true. I am not a horrible mother. I am a good mother who loves her children fiercely, who still manages to comfort them in the night despite her powerful sleep medication, who kisses every ouchie and sing songs (off-key) whenever requested. I never miss the morning routine, dinner, bath time or bedtime. I clean their clothes and make sure they haven’t outgrown their shoes. I manage their school supplies and their doctor visits. Even at my worst moments of illness, I do these things, and more, because I am a good mother who loves her children. That is the truth about me and my life, whatever my illness or meds might make me feel. But my truth is not stable. It is vulnerable and tenuous.

If I am going to survive living with this illness, I have to hold on to my truth. I have to build it up, put a wall around it and defend it with all the mental strength I have left.

I have an illness but it does not have me. I am still the one in control of my life. I will not surrender. I will fight for who I know I truly am. I will do it for my kids, my spouse, my family and my friends. I will do it for me, because to live my life in any other way would not be a life worth living.

There are no words

I have read a number of stories, blog posts, etc. about Chris Cornell and depression over the past few days. His death is an incredibly sad cultural loss and personal loss for his loved ones. It also exemplifies the simple truth that depression is indiscriminate. It does not affect a certain type of person; it is not the result of a character flaw or a lack of personal ambition; it does not care what you have achieved or how much you are loved. It is an illness caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain, a chemical imbalance that exists among millionaires and rock stars as well as the people who live next door. It effects the moms and dads and grandparents and teenagers who you know and even love. It is so much more common than you realize. Knowing this fact, really internalizing it, is a very important, powerful step towards de-stigmatizing mental illness and providing true support, even empathy, to those who suffer from it.

Even so, simply recognizing that depression is an illness is not enough. We need you to believe that depression is not something that can be “fixed” through personal effort or optimism. We need you to acknowledge that dealing with depression requires serious, often long-term treatment. It also requires fucking hard work just to survive. Many people who suffer from depression, myself included, put in more emotional work just to get to “normal” each day, than many people expend simply living their lives.  Having someone we love truly believe these truths about depression is an incredibly validating experience. It makes us feel seen and heard. It makes us feel less alone.

I have found the most difficult part in bridging the gap of understanding between myself and my loved ones is my inability to adequately describe what my depression feels like. Yes, it is caused by a chemical imbalance, but an imbalance that doesn’t cause any adverse feelings would be irrelevant. It is the feelings caused by the imbalance that make depression what it is. And those feelings are different for each person. However, in an effort to give some sense, some words to what depression can be like, I offer up my personal experience and feelings:

  • Depression takes me back; it examines every mistake I’ve ever made and forces me to physically and emotionally experience those past events. I feel the chest tightening, heart-wrenching pain of every loss. I feel the waves of shame starting in the pit of my stomach, traveling through my chest and then my face. I examine every major decision I ever made and sob at the imagined joy I may have missed.
  • Depression critically examines my current life circumstances and meticulously points out every area in which I am failing. It tells me, viciously and repeatedly, that I should be a better, more patient and loving mother who spends more quality time with her children. It tells me I spend far too much time on the mundane tasks of day-to-day household management rather than with my family. It make me feel like an inferior partner to my husband, who I now depend on financially; that I ask too much; that I don’t contribute enough; that I am a burden; that eventually he will leave me.
  • Depression also robs me of hope for the future. It tells me that my pain and regrets will never go away. I feel as though nothing will ever change or get better; that I will spend the rest of my life feeling overwhelmed by mothering three children, satisfying my husband’s emotional needs and keeping my own head above water. Depression makes me feel like no matter what treatment I seek, or how religiously I adhere to any doctor’s recommendations, I will never feel better, not in a sustained way.

Depression makes me feel all of the above, day in and day out, nearly everyday of my life. It is exhausting. It feels so unfair. Even though I know it is not my fault, even though I constantly preach that message, I still feel like it is my fault much of the time. How can I not? It is my own mind after all. Why can’t I just control it?

But I can’t, I can’t control it, or stop it, or fix it. Believe me, I’ve tried. Depression is part of who I am. It always will be. It is my monster. My internal demon that I will never be able to truly share with anyone else. I bear the burden. I will carry it, always. I will carry it as far and as long as I can.

 

Weaving a parachute out of everything broken

Things have been rough the past few weeks. Major depressive episode plus extreme anxiety is the most awful mental state I have ever experienced. I walk around all day, every day worried, annoyed and even angry that everything in my life is a mess (e.g. my house, my backyard, my car, my kids, my professional life) but am too depressed to do anything about it. In other words, I am simultaneously furious about all the things that need to be “fixed” and overwhelmed by the idea of fixing any of them. It all feels too pointless to bother.

As I’ve struggled, my ruminations have gone from broad to very narrow. Now, my mind endlessly pleads to go back, back to being the person I used to be before all of this shit happened. I remember years of consistent psychological stability; kicking ass at multiple tough jobs; reading great big books because I could both concentrate and sit still. I remember eating amazing food on dates with my husband, making him laugh from across the table without having to consciously work at it. I remember being good and relatively content — as a person, a friend, a wife, a co-worker — without having to do anything except be myself.

All during the year leading up to my breakdown, I felt my confidence, my sense of self, my values and beliefs, slipping away. People close to me can readily attest to my abnormal behavior, including substance-abuse, lying, recklessness and poor work performance, assuming I showed up at all. There were days when I got up, got dressed, drove my son to preschool and then simply drove back home and went to bed, instead of going to work. By the end, all I could do without significant effort was sleep and cry.

Taking leave from work to go to treatment was a very hard and, to me at the time, a very shameful decision. It felt like admitting I was weak, like pulling back the curtain and revealing I wasn’t who everyone thought I was after all. I was an imposter, a fake and all my efforts to prove otherwise had not only failed but had broken me in some fundamental way.

Despite my misgivings, I left work and went to IOP and doing so probably saved my life. Without a proper diagnosis and proper medication, I doubt I would still be here. But that doesn’t mean things are easier now. Being diagnosed with late onset bipolar disorder 2 did not provide a map for getting back to who I was. It confirmed that the woman I was no longer exists.

Often, I feel I am walking around inside the shell of the person I used to be, looking at the world through her eyes, living in her house with her family, mothering her children and working to build a strong relationship with her husband. But I am not her.

We look quite similar on the outside, but on the inside we are two different people. The small cracks that appeared in my mind after the twins were born grew into canyons under the pressure of mothering, working and caring for our household, without taking any time to care for myself. Eventually, those canyons split entire continents of psychological existence apart and those continents floated away. I do not think about my life or live it the way she did. And it breaks my heart to know she is gone, that I will never be her again.

There is no going back in time to when I did not have a bipolar disorder, or three small children or a sense of ease and confidence in being myself. There is only me as I exist today. 

There is the hard work to stay well and to care for my kids. There is the hard work to dig deep into my marriage so it can be the rock our kids stand on to feel safe. There is the courage to be vulnerable in asking for what I need and expressing my disatisfsction with the status quo without knowing what the response will be. There is the constant internal battle between what I know I can do and what think I should do to contribute to our family’s well-being, while also respecting my own needs and health. There is guilt and relief, fear and freedom. Most of all, there is a lack of certainty about pretty much everything.

What I do know is that she, the woman I was before, is gone. And mourning her is wasted time and energy better spent living my life now. “Unanticipated” is not an inherently negative word. It is synonymous with, among other words, fortuitous, stunning and amazing. I plan do whatever it takes to eventually use one of those words to describe the result of the unanticipated turn of events in my life. 

I will weave my parachute out of everything broken; my scars will be my shield; and I will jump.

 (The italicized sentence above and the title of this post are paraphrased excerpts from William Stafford’s poem, Any Time, which, like all of his poetry, is fucking amazing).

 

 

 

 

 

Please describe the source of your condition

I’ve been wrangling with some insurance folks lately. The title of this post, or some iteration thereof, has appeared in every request for information I have received: Please describe the source of your condition. I suppose if I had a broken leg, this might be a reasonable request, but for any mental illness, this request is practically, and most likely scientifically, impossible to comply with.

The first time I received a form asking me to describe the source of my bipolar disorder, I just stared at the form for awhile and then laughed out loud. The absurdity of the request was confirmed when I realized the form provided less than four blank lines to write my answer. Since then, some forms with the same request have allowed for the attachment of additional pages “if needed.” The best idea I could come up with to be as accurate as possible was to write nothing except “see [most commonly used textbook on mood disorders, most current edition]” and also maybe “Talk to my doctors. You already know who they are and have signed releases to speak with them. However, even they probably can’t give you a comprehensive or entirely correct description of the source of my condition; but they are a hell of a lot more qualified to try than I am.”

Recently, a real live insurance company person asked me to provide this same information over the phone. I asked, only half-jokingly, how much time he had. I also told him I wasn’t qualified to answer the question and that he should speak to my doctors instead. He insisted that I provide an answer to the best of my ability and so I did. My unqualified, minimally researched, extremely speculative description of the source of my bipolar disorder went something like this:

My Genetics – I have a family history of bipolar disorder on my father’s side. While none of the people with this condition are part of my immediate family (e.g., father, mother, brother) they are only slightly removed. All of them are women. I also have a family history of substance abuse, an indicator of possible bipolarity.

My Brain Chemistry – Some researchers believe that neurotransmitters, like serotonin and dopamine, don’t function properly in people with bipolar disorder. Given that I was diagnosed with unipolar depression and have taken some kind of Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor (SSRI) since I was 18, it seems highly likely my neurotransmitters are dysfunctional.

My Postpartum Experiences – Some researchers believe that suffering from a postpartum illness like postpartum depression (PPD) or postpartum anxiety (PPA) is an indicator of bipolarity. I experienced significant PPA after our oldest was born and may have had significant PPD after our twins were born until that illness combined with other factors to become bipolar disorder. Also worth noting is the fact that women with bipolar disorder (known or unknown) who are pregnant or have recently given birth are seven times more likely than other women to be admitted to the hospital for their bipolar disorder.

My Hormones – In brief, pregnancy screws with your hormones in significant ways. Some go up, some go down, some make you puke, some make you super flexible, etc. Logically, a multiples pregnancy results in greater hormonal changes. Researchers believe that, particularly in women, hormones may play a role in the development and severity of bipolar disorder. Some possible examples of my hormonal train wreck after giving birth to the twins are that my pin-straight hair became wildly curly (hormones change the shape of hair follicles); I had no cycle despite not nursing; and, I had no acne, not one pimple, for over a year. Once I stared my bipolar meds, my hair became straight, my cycle regular and my acne plentiful.

My Life Circumstances – Bipolar is exacerbated by lack of sleep, an irregular life schedule or structure, and high levels of stress. Beginning in August 2015, I had two newborns plus a three year old, no predictability to my nights or days, very little sleep, and a great deal of stress, both home and work-related. Additionally, I took very little time for self-care because I believed my time was better spent doing other things.

Take the above five factors, put them in a cocktail shaker and shake for about 14 months. Open, pour and out comes my bipolar disorder II.

As you can tell from the above, I do not believe that I have always had a bipolar disorder and been misdiagnosed and improperly medicated for decades. For a long time, I experienced symptoms of depression, but so long as I took my Zoloft things were okay; often better than okay. After the twins were born, my Zoloft stopped working. We tried other antidepressants, antipsychotics, everything that seemed potentially helpful. None of it worked. Finally, I left work to enroll in an Intensive Outpatient Treatment Program (IOP) and that’s when I was first diagnosed with bipolar disorder II. Perhaps that diagnosis could have been made earlier in the year, but I don’t think it could have been made before August 2015. In short, I believe my genetic tendency for bipolar disorder was triggered by my physical, psychological and life circumstances at some point during the 14 months after my twins were born. This triggering resulted in a full-blown illness.

So that’s my description of the source of my condition. It is not well-supported by my educational background or research. I could not testify as an expert about it in court; but I am the best possible fact witness.

From what I can tell, there is very little known, as opposed to hypothesized, about the source(s) of bipolar disorder. The symptoms are often easy to spot but why those symptoms arise in a particular person is, at best, indeterminate. The above explanation of what happened feels correct; it makes sense to me. And that may be as much as I can hope for, as close to the truth about the source of my bipolar disorder as I will ever get.

 

Everybody Panic

**Note to the Reader: I started writing this post a couple of weeks ago, while in the throes of a severe episode of anxiety. Ultimately, I found writing the post at the same time I was experiencing these symptoms too triggering, so I set it aside. I finished the post just recently.**

In the last 72 hours, I have felt more anxious, uneasy, fearful, on edge, [insert additional synonyms for anxious here] than I have felt in months, maybe even since I left treatment. We’re talking, “Hold please, I think I’m going to have a panic attack now . . . uh, okay, I guess not, that’s a relief. Let’s . . . wait, I think it’s really going to happen now; I just need a minute to sit down, maybe lie down actually . . . ,” kind of anxiety. Every single waking moment. I have been so eager to be alone in my bedroom the past three days, I have gone to bed directly after tucking in my four-year old.

I don’t know why this is happening. I mean, I know I have a mood disorder, so duh, I have crazy mood swings, but usually there is some sort of identifiable trigger — like it’s the weekend.

I remember when I used to love weekends. I would be so excited for that two-day break in my work-week to exercise, hang out with friends, go out to eat or see a movie. After our oldest was born, weekends become more complicated but my husband and I managed to maintain most of our prior activities, by taking turns with the baby or having one of my husband’s parents babysit. Sure we went out less but we still managed one or two dates a month, including dinner and a movie, if we could stay up that late.

Weekends are now the hardest part of my week. They involve two adults trying to keep three very mobile, loud and irrational toddlers from maiming themselves or each other, shattering eardrums or eating things that are not food. For me, it is the perfect storm of wanting to keep everyone safe and happy and nobody being safe or happy (at least not at the same time). While I constantly feel like I need to do something, I also feel like I can’t do anything right and that it’s going to be this way forever because we will always be outnumbered and the kids will only become more willful and unpredictable. Basically, I get super freaked out, am no fun at all and spend most of our family activity time wanting to run home and hide in my bedroom closet until Monday.

So weekends are a trigger. But the last three days have been a Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. These days are usually pretty low-stress for me (unless I have to go to the pediatrician’s office three times or find out my husband is flying to the Middle East for work next week). I have gone running each morning, to therapy and to visit a good friend. I have spent time outside in the warm weather, played with the twins in the backyard and taken them for walks. We went to baby swim lessons and watched the Muppets during lunch (yes, I am raising my kids to appreciate the classics). I even sat down and finally made a list of potential book projects.

But none of this self-care, socializing or meaningful activity has helped. I am jumpy, my heart races constantly and I am always too hot. My hands shake and I have trouble sitting still. I am impatient with everyone, including my children, so I find myself spending as much time alone as possible. I don’t want to eat. I don’t want to listen to anyone talk. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I don’t want to make any decisions. Every single thing feels like too much.

Living with this level of anxiety for the past three days has been particularly frustrating because I saw my psychiatrist a few weeks ago and we tweaked my meds to specifically address my anxiety symptoms. And I felt better. I really did. But now I do not. Definitely not. So I suppose it could be a meds thing, maybe we tweaked too much, or not enough. Medicating a mental illness involves a great deal of trial and error and, unfortunately, the errors affect your brain, which is a pretty big part of who you are and how well you function.

Another possible reason for this spike in my anxiety is that my mom and step-dad are here to help out while my husband is out of town. Last year, when I was still misdiagnosed and improperly medicated, I would often have my most severe panic attacks and most debilitating episodes of depression when my parents were in town. I was spending most of my days holding on for dear life, trying to manage work, a household of six and mothering three small children. My husband works a billion hours a week, so I was responsible for the lion’s share of household management and parenting-related stuff. But, when my parents showed up, there was suddenly, magically two additional people whom I trusted to do much of the work I was doing. And once that safety net was in place, I couldn’t help but let go.

It wasn’t that their visits made me more sick; the anxiety and depression had always been there, I just held them in as best I could because I had to take care of my family and perform well at my job. Once I felt my most important people, my children, were safe without me, I could stop trying to hold it all together and instead fall apart. My parents’ visits were like a safety valve for my sanity. So maybe having my parents here now, despite all the positive changes in my mental health, weekly schedule, self-care, etc., is triggering a relapse to the anxiety symptoms I had before; a sort of pavlovian relapse (because clearly I wasn’t enough of a science experiment already).

There is also the fact that their visit has completely thrown off my weekly structure. My brain, like all Bipolar brains, really, really benefits from structure, structured days, structured weeks; we just like knowing what’s going to happen next. But my parents really, really like helping, so they basically took over 90 percent or more of my regular, daily tasks. While this sounds lovely and was certainly done with the best intentions, it definitely threw me off my game. The tasks they were doing were part of my daily schedule and my contribution to the household. Suddenly, I had nothing to do and having nothing to do is a very bad thing when your mind is your enemy. I ended up spending far too much time in my mind, which, as Anne Lamott once quipped, “. . . is like a bad neighborhood, I try not to go there alone.”

Another possible factor is that my husband was away for almost a week. His absence can be hard and anxiety producing, especially in the evenings and at night. Being the only parent in the house, even when there are other adults present, feels like so much responsibility — sometimes more than I can bear. At night, every cry, every bump, every “mommy” makes me jump out of my skin, and the quiet feels even worse because I can only anticipate the next noise. It’s excruciating. When my husband is home, even if I am the one on night duty, I don’t experience any of this agitation or fear. Having another parent present makes me feel like I can screw up and someone of equal responsibility and love for our kids will be there to fix it. Also, our oldest child will freely harass me with bedtime-related requests for hours and won’t stop no matter what I say or do or refuse to do. But my husband shuts that kind of thing down like a boss. Particularly on days when my anxiety is really high, knowing I have a human hammer when it comes to bedtime is a huge relief. And after my husband got home, I did start feeling somewhat better.

I talked with my therapist the following week and we agreed that the lack of structure, or the significant, unanticipated change in my structure, was likely the biggest contributing factor to my anxiety attack. Although I’ve known for some time that I feel better with structure, I did not realize, until now, that lack of structure or a significant change in structure could be so devastating.

It seems I will need to create alternative structures or schedules for any visits, vacations, schools breaks, etc., of sufficient length to throw my brain into its unhappy place. In other words, my life is now, in large part, an administrative project. Fortunately, I enjoy making tables and spreadsheets more than the average bear. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are also nice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

20 Reasons why parenting with mental illness is hard

Many of these reasons are not limited to parents with mental illness but apply to parents generally. This shit is hard, whether you are certifiable or not. So I present to you, in no particular order, the following 20 reasons why parenting with mental illness is hard:

  1. Even when you wake up knowing it is going to be a shit day, you still have to get out of bed.
  2. Crying in front of your kids.
  3. Having to explain to your kids, in a non-scary way, why you are crying.
  4. The screaming (mostly theirs).
  5. The guilt (all yours).
  6. Feeling scared and incompetent, which leads to acting irritated and impatient with your kids and your partner.
  7. Medical need for consistent, uninterrupted, 7-8 hour sleep periods vs. teething, illness, nightmares, diaper fails, thirst, scary noises, heat, cold, etc.
  8. Feeling afraid of spending time with your own kids, especially when there is no other adult around to help in case you mess up or break down.
  9. Not being able to chase a tough day of parenting with a glass of wine.
  10. Having weekends become a trigger.
  11. Missing good parts.
  12. Wondering whether you have passed on your illness to your child; and wondering whether it will pass on to one of your grandchildren.
  13. Being hypomanic at your kid’s birthday party.
  14. Feeling socially dysfunctional and/or terrified at all the other birthday parties.
  15. Having to ask your spouse to carry the parenting load alone when you just can’t, not for one more minute.
  16. Being the overzealous, annoying safety patrol person at the park, because you can’t not say something.
  17. Feeling overwhelmed with love and anxiety, simultaneously, every waking minute of your day and knowing this feeling will last for years, if not forever.
  18. Being very, very organized (e.g. meals planned, bags packed, weekly schedule on paper), but inevitably becoming increasingly unorganized until you can barely remember what day it is. Repeat ad nauseam.
  19. Wondering whether your struggles as a parent are truly related to your mental illness, or if you’re just not very good at parenting.
  20. Questioning your decision to have children at all, given the hereditary nature of most mental illnesses and the likelihood that you would be less debilitated by your illness if you were not a parent.

*Credit for awesome card pictured above goes to Emily McDowell Studio

 

I am afraid of trying but more afraid of not trying 

If you have a mental illness, any mental illness, you learn to shape your life around it. It is a part of you, sometimes a small part and sometimes a very large part. Regardless, you cannot ignore it. Sooner or later, it will not be ignored. At the same time, you should not allow it to define you. For instance, I am not bipolar; I have a bipolar disorder, just like other people have major depressive disorder, an anxiety disorder or cancer.

My hope is to live my most meaningful, joyful and satisfying life, while giving my illness the respect it is due but not one bit more. I have yet to figure out how to create this balance. I worry that, because of my experiences last year, I give my illness more respect than it is due. I have not gone back to the job I left in October or begun to search for a new one. I have not started writing a manuscript, registered for a half marathon or done anything else that might be considered a mid-to-long term goal. Absent the (more than) occasional bout of the plague among our three children, my days are pretty low-key. I am busy from early morning to past my bedtime, but I am not doing anything particularly challenging, or not intellectually challenging.

I miss the intellectual challenge of my old job and, at times, I feel confident that I could return immediately with little to no need for a catch-up or re-learning period. I worked as an Assistant Attorney General for six years and never once felt unable to perform my job at the highest level, until last year. Now that I have been properly diagnosed and am taking the correct medications, what is stopping me from going back? I’m not an invalid; I’m just someone with a mental illness. People with mental illnesses work. They work really challenging jobs. Why not me?

Honestly, I am afraid. I am afraid that if I go back to my old job, or on to something new, I will fail to recognize the line between challenging work-life balance and triggering overload of responsibilities. Or worse, that I will recognize that line but choose to cross it because, despite all my bluster, I will be unable or unwilling to admit I can’t do it all.

There is also the fact that sometimes, even on the easy days, my brain decides it wants to totally freak out and I have to dunk my face in a sink full of cold water so I don’t have a panic attack right as the twins wake up from nap. And the times when my hands shake so badly it is impossible for me to thread the elastic band through the side of my son’s nebulizer mask. There are nights of insomnia and weekends of heart-pounding anxiety and sudden tearful outbursts that I can’t explain, to myself or my family. These kind of mood swings make me question whether a regular office job is feasible.

Yet, I am an intelligent, well-educated, skilled and resourceful woman. I am (was?) a very good attorney. Though I feel like I should have been back at work months ago, I am thankful nearly everyday that I am not. I don’t know what the right choice is when it comes to work. And I never imagined that whether to work or not would be a difficult decision for me. I worked hard for my degree and I always intended to be a model of working-motherhood for my children. At the same time, I never intended to have three toddlers. And I need to take care of myself so that I can be healthy and safe and so that I can take care of my family. It feels so unfair to have to make this decision at all, that my illness has essentially changed the course of my life. Sometimes I start to trace back the winding path that resulted in my breakdown, but there are so many potential factors and certain events I would not change even if I could. Nobody did anything wrong, including me. It just happened.

While I knew there was some risk of postpartum illness as a result of a multiples pregnancy, I had no idea that it could contribute to late onset bipolar disorder. My doctors did not discuss it with me, despite my postpartum anxiety after my first son’s birth. My husband knew I had struggled postpartum before, but he had no reason to expect such different and more extreme consequences from a twin pregnancy. Moreover, even if we had all talked about it, there would have been no way to know whether the possibility of postpartum bipolar would actually affect me.

Would I have made a different decision if I had known what would happen?Absolutely not. L and C are my children. I love them. I would die for them. End of story.

My diagnosis and treatment have also had many unexpected benefits. I now have strong boundaries and a definite set of core values. And if either my boundaries or values are not respected, I am one hundred times more likely to refuse to accept such disrespect. In other words, I am no longer afraid to stand up for myself, even when it might hurt someone’s feelings, cause a fight or threaten a relationship. I will not pretend to be anyone other than who I am and I will not apologize for being myself. Ever. Again.

So yeah, I am afraid of what might happen depending on what I choose to do with my life. But I have my safety plan and my safety people. There is no guarantee that things will be okay, but there never really was. I might always be afraid of falling apart, but I can’t not live my life. I am afraid of trying but I am more afraid of not trying.