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Depression and Agitation

 I shut down.  I was on a high in New Orleans, not sleeping, talking fast, driving faster, but with every high comes a low.  The appearance of Chris was met with silence, my own and the voices.  I only went to work and came home and went to bed.  At work I was zombic.  My students noticed it and I felt like my life was not mine anymore.   My life belonged to everything happening to me.  I was simply a passive observer.  With my depression came agitation. The target was my biggest ally and down to this very day, I am so sorry for that.  

My sister and I had just gotten my stuff out of storage before my time in NOLA.  Picture the scene.  There are boxes everywhere.  We were in the kitchen, so there was a great deal of glass around us.  Those days are fuzzy.  The doctors thought I was bipolar so I was on Is Seroquel.  I am not a psychiatrist so I don’t know all the details of the drug.  I only know what I experienced.  I was groggy and tired.  Looking the drug up now, it says it is even used to treat insomnia. I was taking that in the morning. It made me slow down but did nothing for the voices and hallucinations. 

As we stood in the kitchen looking at the vast amount of stuff surrounding us, my sister said something that offended me.  Remember, I was medicated at the time so I can’t recall everything.  I went berserk! I started screaming and throwing things.  The poor wine glasses on the counter were now on the floor. My sister left the room and I was left with my crazy.  I sat in the glass, took a piece, and tried to slit my wrist.  I was too weak, thank God. 

“Kill yourself”. 

I looked over and a little girl with creamy skin, rosy cheeks, Shirley Temple curls, and patent leather Mary Janes was scowling at me.  She was an oxymoron.  She looked sweet but the words coming out of her mouth were completely bitter and cruel. To be so cute, she looked so evil.  I dropped the glass. 

“What did you say?” I asked.  In the beginning, I rarely engaged the hallucinations. However, I was still heated from earlier and I wanted answers.

“Kill yourself, just do it!” She commanded. 

Surprisingly, her command made me snap out of it.  I didn’t really want to die, I just hated my life. I was too sick to change it though. I stood up slowly, keeping one eye on the girl.  I grabbed a broom and started sweeping, avoiding the stove area where the girl planted her feet. I reached down to grab the dustpan and when I looked up, she was gone.  I never learned her name, she wasn’t as nice as Chris, who told me his name. I called her Cissy, don’t ask me why. 

Cissy was a wake-up call.  If I wasn’t going to kill myself I had to make my life livable. This is a lesson I’m still learning, almost six years later.  For example, I’m terrible with organization and I am studying it and am doing things bird by bird. It’s a process.  When I feel that the job is unsurmountable, like that mountain we need to climb, I get paralyzed. However, taking it little by little bits of help.  My life is not back to normal, I don’t even know what normal means. But I can vividly remember Cissy’s piercing glare while she commands that I kill myself. 

I did not go to my sister.  I do not think it was pride, but remorse.  I wanted to give her space.  I started unpacking the kitchen.  I looked up and hours passed.  The kitchen was unpacked and then I cleaned it.  I put the china in the china cabinet.  Then I looked down and saw the kitchen table. I put it together and cleaned the whole house.  It was 3am and I wasn’t tired.  

Why, hello mania.  

"Treatment"

I’ve been in therapy for about a month and I see my psychiatrist every week.  I’ve been diagnosed as either an agitated depressive or bipolar.  I fully understand why they call it a practice.  They’re folks experimenting on me.  I’ve been on every medicine for the crazies that you could imagine.  Let me share all the side effects.  Mind you, I don’t remember all the medicines I have been on, there’s been a lot. 

First medicine combination

I was on a mood stabilizer, but it wasn’t lithium.  Dr. Penny didn’t want to prescribe Lithium because then I would need blood tests a lot in the beginning and then every six months.  So there I was on this mood stabilizer.  If I wasn’t at work I was sleeping. I didn’t even eat.  I couldn’t keep my eyes open.  I wasn’t hearing voices or seeing things because I was asleep.  Was that the goal? 

Second Medicine Combination

By this time, I was back in my ministry.  This includes a lot of walking.  My bible study conductor, let’s call her Netty, was working with me.   It felt like the world was moving in fast forward.  I couldn’t keep up.  I wasn’t talking slow, but I sure was moving slow.  Netty looked at me and she said, “Girl, why are you walking so slow?”  I was confused. I wasn’t walking slow or was I.  “I’m walking slow?” I asked sincerely. “Yes, unusually so,” she responded.  I took note and tried my hardest to speed up but I could not.  I did not know what was wrong with me.   My sister pointed it out when I got home.  We went to the gym and I was on the bike.  I pedaled so slow the machine did not even register is.  I called my doctor because I thought, I’m already crazy, now I have something physical going on.  Dr. Penny informed me that this is Bradykinesia caused by the medicine I was taking.  On to the third medicine combination.

Third Medicine Combination

I am not the most attractive person in the world, but I get by.  Starting soon after starting this medicine I got a tick.  My eye, cheek, or mouth would have tremors.  After some research, I learned this was Tardive dyskinesia. This neurological condition is caused by the long-term use of certain drugs used to treat psychiatric conditions. Tardive dyskinesia causes repetitive and involuntary movements such as grimacing, eye blinking, and other movements.  I was already self-conscious because of my mental health struggles, now my face was literally crazy. The sad thing is, this medicine combination was working the best.  I couldn’t write either, which was a big deal because I was writing a dissertation. 

Final Medicine combination (Kinda)

I was still dealing with the side effects and to be frank, I was still seeing and hearing people.  Invega was a miracle drug.  It was an antipsychotic that slowed down the voices so we kept it. Unfortunately, though, Chris was still alive and well.  This combination was “working.” By working I mean, the guinea pig, who is me, was still alive but not thriving.  

I had a dear friend named Lynn who knew me before all of this and she said I was a different person.  She was right. I was a fragment of my former self.   I knew my diagnosis did not match my experience because I was not getting better.

Writing about Writing...So Meta

 Greetings, sane Doc Z here.  Well, semi-sane lol.  I am writing a book.  My blog led me to have even grander goals.  The book is called Deciphering the Darkness.  The blog posts will be part of the book, but it’s so much more than that.  The posts are examples of my experiences but I provide some present-day commentary so others can learn from me.  A sort of lifting as I climb. A motivational text.

A dear friend of mine suggested I write about writing my book.  Hence the title, Writing about Writing, so meta :).   As I type, my soul pours out. My story.  I lived it, but as I write, I can’t believe it’s non-fiction, let alone that it’s me.  I type and type and sometimes write.  Things are operating at a subconscious level. I don’t have to remember things because I know them, I lived them, they shaped me.   The people feel like characters, but they’re my friends and a few frenemies sprinkled in.  Kidding...kinda. 

My eyes pop open at seven.  My heart knows it writing time. Well, let me rephrase, letting out and feeding dog time, THEN writing time. I write for an hour and a half and time flies by.  I lay in bed at night and it’s writing time again.  Listening to my Spotify daily mix. I must say, Spotify is a vibe.  So, I start and end my day with writing.  It’s calming. My display switches to dark mode and my stress level declines.  I literally know this because I have a Samsung watch and it measures my stress.  This is not a paid endorsement.  

Do you all want a sampling of my introduction?  You have to promise to still buy the book when it comes out.  Here goes nothing:

Excerpt from Intro to Deciphering the Darkness

Surviving as a Black Mentally Compromised Woman in a Stigmatized World

About seven years ago I experienced the onset of a mental illness.  Since then, I have had to rebuild my life because I was literally starting with nothing.  When asked about my family history, I could not think of anyone else who had experienced the ups and downs of bipolar and the hallucinations of Schizophrenia.  That math equation equals Schizoaffective disorder.  Through the pages of this book, I will explain in raw detail what I went through, while at the same time speaking from the present about how I got through it.  I want to use my experience for good.  Excuse me for sounding cliche, but I want to lift as I climb.  I’m not fully up the mountain yet so this is for me as much as for you.  However, the mountain is a possibility despite mental illness. 

I am going to use this mountain illustration several times throughout this book because a mountain seems insurmountable.  This is especially true when you were climbing up and got knocked down to the bottom.  That’s how my life was and I’m sure that’s how you felt when diagnosed. It’s all about progress.  One day getting dressed is your small victory, other days it will be showering or making up your bed. These are all things that seem second nature to people sans a mental illness but take the world for people who are sufferings.   

When I was diagnosed, first with bipolar, they asked if I had any relatives who had similar afflictions. I asked both sides of my family.  My dad sounded alarmed and confused saying, “We ain’t got nobody like that in our family.  I didn’t believe it because I had a cousin who killed himself.  However, in the Black community, it’s a stigma to have mental illnesses.  Based on my father’s response, I didn’t share anything about my mental health.  Up to this day, he doesn’t know I’m mentally compromised.  I prefer mentally compromised over mentally ill.  

 I asked my mom about our mental family history and she said we had some cousins with mental illness, but they were related by marriage.  Then she thought for a few moments and said, I think my mother.  She went on to explain ups and downs and restless nights.  In fact, when I would go to visit her we didn’t sleep much.  My mother revealed that after my grandmother’s mother (my great grandmother) died my grandmother heard voices in the car telling her to jump out of the vehicle.  My grandmother was a Black woman living 70+ years ago. That was a time when mental health wasn’t a priority, but her uncle used to always say my grandmother was one crayon short of a whole pack.  Could it be that her eccentricities were in part due to a Lil mania?  We’ll never know, but I think my grandmother would have benefitted from a book like this.  All of her clutter and glitter, literally, she put glitter on everything, being misunderstood. 

“Is anybody in the room with us right now?”

 “Is anybody in the room with us right now?” My therapist asked.  This was our first meeting and I was unsure what I could share without being committed to an institution.   That is the fear that looms in my mind always.  Even five or six years later when I meet with my psychiatrist, I am nervous. Let’s just say it was a fear realized, and YES it was as bad as I dreaded.   Back to 2016.

“Chris is here,” I respond.  Who is Chris you may be wondering? A few days prior I spoke to the mysterious hooded figure.  Here’s how that conversation went, and yes I’m aware that me talking to a hallucination makes me certifiably insane.  Hmm, well so many things in that statement make me coo coo for coco puffs. 

“What do you want?”  I ask, looking directly at him for the first time since he appeared in my car. 

“I’m here for you,” he responded. His sunglasses were still on so I couldn’t see his eyes. I wanted so desperately to see his eyes. As if, if I could see his eyes everything would make sense, his presence, the voices, the confusion which was my life, all of it.   How is he here for me?  He’s here in spite of me.  He’s literally making me crazy.  Somehow, though, part of my brain created him.  This is a puzzle.  I did not ask him to clarify.  I think I was afraid of his answer. 

“Who are you?” I asked him, or should I say: I asked it.  What’s the protocol for addressing hallucinations? I digress.  I don’t know what I was expecting asking this.  Heck, I don’t know what I was expecting talking to a hallucination at all.  I mean, do they come with histories and families and likes and dislikes and the such? Alas, he had an answer.

“I’m Chris,” he said so matter-of-factly. I looked down to process and when I looked back up, he was gone.

“Who is Chris?” My therapist asked.  I didn’t know what was safe to tell her. I just admitted I was having hallucinations.  I was having hallucinations with whom I was on a first-name basis.  The reality checks with my auditory hallucinations expanded with the visual hallucinations.  Check one: can anyone else see what you see. Check 2: does said figure make sense in the setting. Check 3: can said figure defy rules of nature.  If the answer is no to these three questions, it’s a hallucination.  This is what allowed me to appear sane for so long.  I would argue, it also delayed my diagnosis for so long.

“I am not sure who Chris is, but his name is Chris. He told me yesterday,” I answered.  I found myself opening up to this woman.  She saw my situation as urgent.  When I called and explained what was going on, she saw me the next day.  My sister dropped me off.  I was wary of driving.  I described him to her and explained how, with Chris, the auditory hallucinations went silent.   She listened to me and was slow to speak and quick to listen.  I came in guarded and I was left vulnerable, which felt alright.  The hour ended and I walked outside to my sister waiting in the car.  

“So, how was it?” She asked

“I’m not sure yet,” I responded.  Even then I knew I was at the beginning of a very long journey. 

Academically Insane

 While all the crazy was going on, I was attempting to maintain a writing schedule.  I was All But Dissertation (ABD) and I was giving myself a year to analyze and write up my ethnography.  That timeline was before everything. My sister really supported me in my writing.  Now that I think about it, I do not know what she was writing. It was possible she was just keeping me company and keeping me relatively sane. (See what I did there?). I wrote and wrote and wrote.  The problem was I often wrote what I was hearing. Once again the way I heard affected everything. Only, it wasn’t an ear infection, it was crazy.  I call myself crazy affectionately. It’s a term of endearment.  My therapist often reminds me to be kind to myself.  Therefore, when I look back and call myself crazy, it’s a term of endearment.  Like “look here, I’m crazy y’all, but look what I overcame.” So yes, it was the crazy interfering with my writing.  Ironically, now it’s because of the crazy that I’m writing. 

I scheduled a meeting to get my mind right.  My relationship with my advisor was love/hate.  Some days I felt so nurtured and encouraged, while others I felt patronized.   Not knowing what to expect, I went into the meeting guarded.  I spent two additional years in the field than I originally intended, I did not know her thoughts on that.  I was going to stay, but, well, read Four in the Morning.   There I was, unsure if she was going to be an ally or an enemy.  “Just die!”  OH NO! NOT NOW.  I feared I wouldn’t be able to distinguish the voices and direct my attention to my advisor.  I said a quick prayer for focus. 

“Hello!” She said to me and came forward and embraced me.  I could have cried.  I felt like that hug was an answer to a prayer. A hug from my Father. “Long time, no see. At least in person anyway.” I responded.  The meeting was a breeze.  Her voice crowded out the demands of my demise.  We set some goals and they felt feasible.  We sat and chatted like old friends.  I’d known her for over a decade of my life and although I never open up too much, there is a closeness there, until there’s not, but that’s a story for another day.  I got in my car and as I sat there trying to regain some semblance of normalcy a man appeared.  For those tracking my crazy, this marks the second visual hallucination.

I sat there, mute, eyes wide and mouth open.  This man was around my age (no, I won’t be revealing my age in this post) wearing a gray hoodie and jeans.  His hood was up and he was wearing sunglasses. I was in shock.  I put my key in the ignition and drove home.  The whole time this figure is starring ahead getting a free ride.  My mind was not processing anything.  I don’t even think it processed what I was seeing. I stared straight ahead and drove.  It was eerily quiet.  The voices were gone! Although I didn’t appreciate a random hallucination in my car, I did like being able to hear myself think for once. I pulled into my parking spot and ran into the house, not looking back, leaving the figure and the crazy behind me. 

Now that I had a comrade in all this, I told my sister everything.  Being the loving person she is, she suggested we go outside to see if he was still out there.  She didn’t say, you’re insane or try to have me committed. She met me at my level and we checked the car.  Nothing there.  She hugged me. The second hug of the day, again I’m saying it was from my Heavenly Father. “We have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow and maybe I should drive,” she said.  I just shook my head.  

Demands and Threats

The voices changed.  From questions and doubts to demands and threats. It was as if the more aware I was of them, the more aggressive they were with me.  The scream of “Kill yourself!”  woke me up. I had gotten a bed in my room, so I didn’t have to share with my sister anymore. I was happy to be alone as I was frightened awake.  “KILL YOURSELF!”  It was clear now that this was an all-out assault and I needed to defend myself.  My defense: curling up into the fetal position with my hands over my ears. I could not go back to sleep. I lay there, wide awake with the cacophony of “Kill Yourself!!” in the foreground.  My life was in shambles.   I watched the clock until it was time to wake up.

I had the day off of work and my sister had company.  I was in my room and the walls closed in on me. Literally, I saw the walls closing in. If you’re tracking my crazy in the blog, this marks the first visual hallucination.   My room grew smaller and smaller until only my bed remained. The voices filled the small area, “”KILL YOURSELF!”  Over and over those words sounded in stereo.   I was in a torture chamber. Tears flowed down my cheeks.   I can’t live like this. Soon I would start believing the voices and listen.  I realized right then, almost half a year since the start of it all, that I needed help.  

The next thing I know, my sister is in the doorway saying my name. I look around.  The room is bigger now.  The voice is but a whisper, but always the same message. I look at my sister, tears in my eyes, and proclaim “I need help, there’s something wrong with me.” “Ok, how can I help?” She replies saying the most perfect thing anyone could ever say at that moment.  She sits on my bed and everything I was hiding from everyone came pouring out my mouth.  My sister listened and looked and hugged. Then called ma. Our mother, who had the answer for everything, was answerless. This paralleled when I was young. Once again I put her in a position where she couldn’t understand me. This was a foreign language to her. However, she took it all in and made it her mission to try to understand what I was going through. How could she, though, because I had no idea what I was going through. 

Once the cat was out of the bag, it was on!  I called the mental health center and they didn’t have any openings anytime soon.  I did not know what to do.  After another painful day at work, I went into the student health center and saw my PCP, and told her what was happening.  Imagine how you would look at someone if another head started growing out of their neck. That is how she was looking at me like I had two heads.  I didn’t care though, I wasn’t living, I was barely surviving. “Kill yourself.”  Perfect timing, right when I am sure I am about to be sent to the crazy house, the voices start again.  I must have reacted in some way because the doctor asked if something was wrong. I shyly shook my head no.  “Let’s get you an appointment with Mental Health,” she said.  This was the doctor I saw since undergrad. I felt as if she would be invested enough to really help me.  “I tried that, they don’t have any appointments,” I responded.  “No, they’ll have an appointment for you.”  Would this be the start of my road to recovery?

 “Kill Yourself!” 

Maybe not.