Part 5 of 5 : Living with a Serious Mental Illness

I’m Still Here

How I wish I could tie up this story with a cute little bow and tell you that everything turned out fine. For the past two and a half months, I have continued to struggle with depression, trying to dig myself out. I’m not suicidal anymore, and I’ve come a long way, but I can’t tell you that I’m 100% better, or even close. I still attend therapy and medication management, but progress is slow. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about December and the psychotic break, or the aftermath of it. One simply does not go through something like that and come out unscathed. I live daily with the embarrassment of not only being unable to work, but the fact that I was even a mental health counselor with a Masters degree in the field, and even I couldn’t predict the onset of my illness or do anything to stop or change it. I literally am having to teach myself how to live again. How to walk, how to breathe, how to sleep without giving into the wiles of the darkness. How to be a present wife and mother. How not to damage my kids too much. How to try to be normal with healthy routines and habits. Quite literally how to smile again, how to feel joy, how to push through when giving up could be the easiest way out.

 Jason and I were planning to begin the process of fostering-to-adopt this year; in fact, we were even set up for the classes in January. We had talked also about having more biological children next year. All those dreams are gone, at least for the foreseeable future. With my diagnoses, I probably wouldn’t even be allowed to adopt, and I also have to seriously question if having another biological is safe (due to the effect of my medications on pregnancy) or the best choice (due to the unpredictability of my physical and mental health).

I have to be honest. Through all of this my faith has been greatly shaken. Not only because I just turned out to be psychotic instead of fulfilling the will of God, but because I didn’t even feel comfortable discussing this with other Christians. All I’d ever heard from the church in general about mental illness was either negative or it wasn’t discussed at all, swept under the rug because we just don’t talk about stuff like this. How could I tell them that I’d been in an institution not once, but twice within a three month period because of a severe mental illness? Would they think I was possessed, evil, not of God? Would they tell me to just pray harder? Because I’d heard enough of that already. I enthusiastically welcome prayers, and I do still believe, but telling me to pray more or to pray harder is like a slap in my face. I’ve been a Christian since I was five years old and I know how to pray. I know how to read the Bible. I know how to study the Bible exegetically. But none of it has spared me from my problems. It didn’t stop the abuse as a child, that I also have PTSD from. It didn’t stop the depression and anxiety as a teenager. It didn’t stop my multiple physical ailments. It didn’t stop my suicidality in 2012. It didn’t stop my mania or psychosis in 2016. It didn’t stop my depression and suicidality this year. Pray for me if you’d like (I really do welcome prayers), and I’ll hold onto believing that God can heal me, but don’t tell me to pray harder. What if God chooses not to heal me? What if I cycle back and forth between mania and depression for the rest of my life? What if I can’t ever look you in the eye and tell you that I’m okay? Because for the last several months, I haven’t been able to.

I have been terribly lonely the last seven months, living in the shadows of this illness. Very few people knew until this week, and I honestly feel like a couple of my friends distanced themselves from me, even if it was on a subconscious level. I went months without hanging out with friends, very little talking or texting, living like a recluse. No one seems to know how to respond to something like this. That’s why I decided to write these blog posts – one, as a way of releasing everything that’s been pent up, and two, as a way to shed light on the subject and hope that people can begin to understand the living hell that mental illness is. And in doing so, it might give someone who is suffering the ability and the courage to speak out as well.

Now that I’m working on getting better, and I have goals in mind, by nature I won’t give up. I do think that some of the passion I have is God-given. I can’t sit back and do nothing. I have to find ways to force myself out of my comfort zone in order to get better, and I’ve been working on that. I know that I am an “Overcomer”, and I know that there’s a reason “I’m still here”. While my walk with God has been on shaky ground, I have found solace in Mandisa’s music and her lyrics push me to keep going.

I was just approved for long-term disability benefits through the plan my employer had for me, and I’m in the process of applying for Social Security disability. It was extremely hard for me to come to terms with the fact that I am truly disabled at this time, and it will likely be years before I can work again, if ever. But this is where I am and I cannot change that. It’s been hard finding my purpose without having a career, but maybe for right now my purpose is just to work on me, and be there for my family.

Yesterday
Had me knocked to the ground
Had me down for the count
My faith a million miles away
And I dropped outta sight
This overcomer, lost her
Will to fight

I know it's been a while since
Anybody see me smile and
Shame had me thinking it was
Game over
Thought my best days were gone, yeah
Turns out, that I was wrong 'cause
This is my comeback song, yeah
And by the grace of God

I'm still here
Hope is rising, waking up my soul
I'm still here
All my broken, turning beautiful
'Cause I feel my heartbeat beating
And my lungs breathe- breathing
Guess my God's not done with me yet
I'm still here

--“I’m Still Here” by Mandisa

THE END

Part 4 of 5 : Living with a Serious Mental Illness

The Aftermath

After about seven days, I felt myself coming out of a fog. The first thing I remember is my therapist talking to me, asking me if I am aware of who I am and where I am at. I had figured out that this was a mental hospital, but I didn’t know how long I had been there, how long I would continue to be there, and what exactly happened to me. My therapist explained that my diagnosis was Bipolar I, manic, severe, with psychotic features. I had been taking and would continue to take an antipsychotic medication along with my antidepressant and an antianxiety medication. I was told I would soon move from the acute wing of the hospital to the wing with the more stable patients.

I fell into the normal schedule and routine at the hospital, and I started making sense of my surroundings and activities. I started to feel somewhat normal again. I participated in group therapy, individual therapy, and sessions with the psychiatrist. I became a model patient. I often talked and shared my experiences and feelings in group therapy, more so than the other patients. I was getting back to my old self, outspoken and overachieving. I remember a nurse telling me that people like me is why they do what they do, and they loved to see turnarounds such as this. After a few more days of doing well, with no symptoms of psychosis or mania, the hospital allowed me to go home. I felt pretty good, and I was more than ready to see my husband and children. I was to continue with outpatient therapy and medication management, and to come back if the symptoms returned.

So, I went home. Thankfully, I was given six weeks’ FMLA time off, which I spent at home mostly resting. While I was gone, Jason had converted our extra bedroom into a “coping room” for me where he set up my desk, office supplies, and art supplies so I could come in there and relax, be creative. I spent a lot of time in there painting, drawing, doing puzzles, and writing. I was doing pretty well for several weeks. I attended my therapy and medication management sessions faithfully, and took my medicine correctly. During my time off, we took a vacation to Universal Studios in Florida with the kids. It was a blast. I even went on to do the live audition for America’s Got Talent in Memphis (this time singing a different song, of course). The time went quickly though, and soon it was time to go back to work. I was nervous but excited to get back into my normal routine. The only things amiss were the continued symptoms of pregnancy. It turns out that the pregnancy in the hospital was definitely a figment of my imagination, but I believed it so much that my body actually began to exhibit the symptoms, even after I was out of psychosis. Had the pregnancy tests not been negative, I would have sworn I was pregnant; turns out, I had a hysterical pregnancy. After several more weeks, the symptoms subsided.

In March, only a few weeks after I returned to work, I began having the old, familiar, intense pains in my abdomen and I was immediately worried about my bile duct again, as this was the primary symptom before. I went to the emergency room with level 10 pain; a CT revealed that indeed my bile duct was occluded, and I would need to be sent to Jackson for an emergency surgery. I began to pass large amounts of blood and this continued even after the procedure, in which they replaced the plastic stint with a metal one. I passed so much blood that I required a blood transfusion, and I stayed in the hospital for a week. I found out that the source of the problem, causing the continued blockages and bleeding, was something called Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis (PSC). It is an autoimmune disease of the liver and bile duct where the liver attacks itself and degenerates over time. I was told that I will likely need a liver transplant within 10-15 years. It also makes me overly tired and weak. This combined with my Crohn’s disease made me feel like I was falling apart.

After discharge I went back to work again. Other than my medical problems I’m not sure what exactly triggered it, but I began to fall into a depression. At first I thought little of it; I’m no stranger to depression and anxiety, as I’ve suffered off and on since I was 14 years old. I even had an inpatient stay back in 2012 for severe depression leading to suicidal ideations. This depression started out normally, feeling sad, hopeless, and wanting to sleep more. But over time, the depression worsened. It became incredibly hard to get up in the morning. Work tasks that were old hat became very difficult, as I couldn’t concentrate more than a few minutes. I could no longer think critically or problem-solve, and talking about cases in work meetings was near impossible because I couldn’t conceptualize problems or formulate goals. I found it hard to help clients when I was struggling with my own problems. I no longer found joy in my work, and I feared that I wouldn’t be able to do it much longer. My personal hygiene declined; it was a chore to make myself get in the shower every few days, and brushing my teeth was a thing of the past. I had very little energy, no interest in using coping skills, and found happiness in absolutely nothing. Not wanting to, I even began to detach from my own two little boys.

Within just a couple weeks, the depression twisted and darkened. I began to ruminate on what happened to me in December with the onset of the mania and psychosis. I felt like a terrible, worthless, crazy human being that had put my family through hell. I couldn’t handle that mental illness that severe happened to me. The psychotic break became a trauma in and of itself. I worried that it wouldn’t stop with just one episode. My husband did not deserve a crazy wife, and my children did not deserve a crazy mother. There was no telling what I would do after everything that I did do. What if my medication stopped working? What if it was only the beginning and the manias and psychosis would just continue to get worse? My Christian faith did little to help me, as I began to question God about everything. It felt like my heart literally almost broke in two when I admitted to myself that I was never following God’s will in December, I was simply very, very sick. It was like the wind was knocked out of me. Before I got sick I had been very faithful, probably the most in my life. I was reading my Bible every day, in fervent prayer multiple times a day, and attending church regularly. I prayed with and read Bible stories to my children every night. I was doing everything right, and I was so convinced when God told me I was a prophet…only to be very, very wrong.

The depression was unrelenting. I became so miserable, so dark, so lonely, and so scared that I could do nothing but think of death. For days I debated the pros and cons of the different ways to die. I knew hanging wasn’t a good idea; I was afraid that I would suffer too long. I wanted to die quickly and with as little pain as possible. We had guns, but nothing that would be easy to use by myself. I decided that taking all my pills would be the best way to do it, as it wouldn’t be messy and hopefully I could just go to sleep and not wake up. I was scared to actually do it though. I was scared that my children would find me. I was scared that it wouldn’t be enough to kill me but instead leave me with organ damage and I’d live a miserable, sickly, disabled life. Admittedly I was also worried immensely about how my children would fare without me. I knew that if I was successful in killing myself, I would seal the deal for their fate. They already had a biological predisposition for mental illness, and if I died in this way it would make their chances even greater. I hoped that focusing on them would keep me from doing anything stupid.

But as much as I tried, I couldn’t just will myself to get better. As much as I pleaded to God, I couldn’t pray myself out of the pit. As much as I listened to the preacher talk about giving my burdens to God, it didn’t make a difference. The intrusive thoughts that death was the only way out continued and became smothering. One day, I had had enough. It just so happened that I had a therapy session scheduled that day, and I confessed my feelings to my therapist. I shared that I had to go back to work after the session and somehow muster a good enough front to conduct a therapy session and then make my way back home to my family. I didn’t know if I could do it, and I felt certain that one way or another, I would be dying soon. My therapist strongly encouraged me to go back to the hospital. I texted my husband and told him what she said. He was completely blindsided. He knew that I had been depressed but didn’t realize how serious it had gotten, even though I felt like I had told him. He was very obviously frustrated with me, but I knew that I had to go to the hospital. Death was imminent otherwise, I was afraid. So I let my therapist call Crestwyn, and they agreed to take me back.

And back to the hospital I went. It was different this time, because while I was greatly depressed I was more in my right mind than the first time I had been there. I was miserable. It felt like prison. I hated going to group therapy sessions. They seemed so cheesy and pointless. Boring, useless worksheets: “List out your positive qualities and notice how much better you feel about yourself!” It was bogus. This was not going to help me. Just a couple days after entering the hospital, I was begging to go back home, promising my therapist that I was ready and I could handle it. She told me that I would have to stay at least a week. So each day I counted down the time until I could go back home.

My therapist explained that falling into such a deep depression after a mania was normal, as is the course with bipolar: cycles of manic highs and low depressions. Of course with my background in mental health I knew this, but it frustrated me that one day I just woke up depressed, months after the mania, with no one specific trigger. She said that these cycles were just a normal part of my illness, and that I could expect it to continue to happen, but that with the proper medication it would lessen. I was pissed, for a lack of a better word, and I didn’t understand why I just became Bipolar randomly. While I had struggled with depression, I never had the mania or psychosis at all until December, at 27 years old.

 While I was there they made some changes to my medication, increasing my antidepressant to a more therapeutic dose. After several days I no longer felt suicidal, but the depression itself remained. Without suicidality, the hospital couldn’t keep me. However, my therapist and psychiatrist were very worried about the severity of my Bipolar, with the two hospitalizations within three months of each other. The prognosis wasn’t good, they said. They believed I could and would get better over time, but the course of my illness was unpredictable. They told me that it would be a huge risk to go back to work, and wrote out a letter deeming me disabled.

In an instant, my career was ripped away from me. I could no longer work, and I knew that my illness may or may not stabilize to the desired outcome. Once I was discharged from the hospital, I sadly went back to my workplace and resigned. I didn’t know how my life would play out next. It did little to remedy the festering depression that remained.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Part 3 of 5 : Living with a Serious Mental Illness

An Escape Room

The next thing I remember, I’m waking up in an unfamiliar place. The door is shut, the blinds in the window are closed and encased in such a way that I cannot open them, and the walls are utterly bland. I instantly realize that I am in an escape room, and I don’t know how much time I have to get out. I get out of the bed and quickly overturn the bare mattress, looking for clues. I find nothing in the hollow space of the bed, but quickly find the manufacturing tag on the mattress and rip it off, searching the print for clues. I look in the bedside table, in the nooks and crannies of the bookshelves, nothing. The bottom cabinet doors are locked, but I find a way to press in and pull out quickly and open them. Nothing in there but a pair of hospital socks. I find odd, silver protrusions coming from the wall that I cannot identify, so I push on them as though they are buttons. Nothing happens. I go into the bathroom and find more of the silver objects on the wall and keep hitting them. I check over the shower, sink, and toilet and find nothing. Then, I look into the mirror and tell them to let me out, that I am tired of this escape room. I know there are people on the other side of this mirror, watching my every move. Nothing happens. I become angry and turn the light off for a few seconds so they can’t see me. I turn the light back on, and one of the techs is sitting in my shower. Scared, I flip the light off and on again. This time she’s gone.

I retreat back to the bed. At this point I completely lose track of date and time. My mind goes in and out of multiple delusions for days, and while I’ve obviously lost touch with reality, I can also no longer separate life from dreams, or keep track of the days. The first several days of treatment at Crestwyn are a blur, and all I can remember are these delusions, maybe in part because I refused to attend therapy groups and stayed holed up in my room. I recall being served meals in my room since I would not go to the cafeteria, refusing to eat, and throwing the food all over the walls. Apparently I also got violent with some staff, because they had to knock me to the ground and give me a shot of Seroquel to get me to calm down. It did little to break the psychosis, however.

The next thing I remember is refusing to see my family on visitation day. I was certain that my father was with them, and I was not ready to see him after everything we had been through. I wanted my mother and husband to know that I loved them but that I just could not see them at this time. My two sisters were with them, and I read messages they sent me through the system for the air conditioner on the wall: “Sys mode cool” – okay, great, my sisters understand. Next thing I know, I have realized I am in a hospital and outside my room several of my friends and acquaintances are in labor. All my friends who have been unable to have children or told that they cannot have any more. I realize that this is part of my prophecy, that these babies will be born before the end of the world occurs. And it hits me, I have become a prophet to tie up all these loose connections because Christ is coming back, and really soon.

As I am praying over each of these women, that their labors will be quick and easy, I know that I am with child. Not just any child, but the last child to be born on earth. I struggle with what his name should be, but it has to be a “Z” name, to signal finality. I spend what feels like the next several hours in active labor. I feel the steady, intense contractions, and I contort into various birthing positions as I try to push the baby out. I feel beads of sweat pouring off of me. I get into the shower in hopes of easing the pain. I see my swollen belly moving as the baby changes positions. I’m getting through labor by praying feverishly over the other women outside my room in labor. I exhibit many of the physical indicators of pregnancy and labor, when I had not been pregnant at all just hours ago. After some time, the labor pains begin to ease and I seem to drift off to sleep. When I wake up, I’m in a room called the Noisy Activity Room.

Several people are around me, and they turn me towards the television which is set to BET. Nicki Minaj is accepting some music award, and I beam with pride. I am Nicki Minaj, and I’m finally making it in the music world. I wonder what else I missed while holed up in my room. I start dancing and singing in joy, and my peers are cheering me on. Some of them start dancing and singing too, rallying around me like I’m the center of attention, the star of the show. I instantly know that I have the power to do anything I want to do.

Again, time blurs and I only remember bits and pieces of my first several days there. I see myself singing and dancing down the halls, encouraging my peers to sing and dance with me as we go to the cafeteria and the gym. During recreation time at the gym, I lead my peers in song and dance as we jam to Michael Jackson. The next thing I know, Michael Jackson is there with us dancing – what a party! And I had the power to bring him back to life.

The next delusion I strongly remember involves learning that not only am I a prophet, I am actually the Messiah. As I lied in the bed, I heard God telling me that I have to continue spreading the truth for a little longer, and then I must come to die. I told God that I would do absolutely anything for him, and asked him what it was I must do. God told me that the reason I didn’t make it to the New Years Eve party was because there were still too many in unbelief. The party, I learned, was actually a huge party in heaven and God had wanted everyone to be there. So, now I had to get everyone around me to believe, so we could all make it to the party in heaven together.

The next day, I told everyone I saw that they must believe in Jesus Christ and give their lives to him. I shared that the end is near but it cannot be fulfilled until all believe. I told my peers, the staff members, and even the cameras in the building about this. I spoke about it in every room I went into, because I was sure there had to be hidden cameras and microphones everywhere, and those monitoring them needed to hear the truth too.

The next thing I know, I am in an airplane. There are what look to be military men all around me. One soldier tells me the plan, that when he gives me the signal I am to jump from the plane and land on a huge platform in the sky. I am terrified of heights, and definitely of jumping out of the plane, but I know that in order for the prophecy to be fulfilled, this is what I must do. I do not argue or complain. In an instant, almost as though I’ve teleported, I’m on the platform. It is made of glass and completely transparent, so I can clearly see the ground below me. Shaking, I stand up straight, and put my back against the clear wall. A few soldiers come to me and strip me of my clothes. I am completely naked but I do not feel ashamed. Then, they somehow hammer my hands and feet into the wall. As I am praying, the pain goes away and I feel nothing. After a few minutes, everything goes black.

TO BE CONTINUED...