"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.

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.

 

Voiceless

I didn’t expect to be writing about my childhood today.  A few weeks ago I set up my upcoming blogs and I have no recollection of picking this topic.  That says a lot. That I’m avoiding this topic. It is relevant, to say the least.  My past sets up who Doc Z is today. There are early signs of insecurities, but resilience shines through. 

I was literally voiceless for the first five years of my life.  Let me explain.  When I was a baby I had chronic ear infections. When I was learning to talk, what I was hearing was muffled.  How can I explain? Imagine how you hear when you’re underwater.  That was how I always heard.  When you’re learning to talk, you imitate the sounds you hear.  So my speech was so garbled, I was voiceless.  I did have an ally.  My brother was the Aaron to my Moses.  Don’t get it twisted, I’m not saying I’m Moses and God is out here talking to me with a burning bush, all I’m saying is my brother was my mouthpiece.  My mother couldn’t even understand me.  My mother later revealed to me that not being about to understand me made her feel like a terrible mother.  She also thought, because I couldn’t talk I was a little developmentally delayed and I would just be her special creative daughter.   Now she understands me more than anyone. 

So there we were me and my brother.  It was an aide and a crutch.  I didn’t need to learn to talk because I had him.  That all changed when I started at an elementary magnet school.  This school had an excellent speech program.  I got to have full days while every other kindergartner had half days.  This school also tested every one to see who was gifted and lil ole voiceless Lil Z was picked.  So my mother was thoroughly surprised and pleased.  Some of my core memories were made at that school.   I am a strong advocate for magnet schools!  I fit in at that school, although I still had trouble with my Rs, still do as a matter of fact. Ask me to say iron, you’ll be in for a treat.  The demographics were very diverse and I remember my two best friends. I recently found one of them on social media and she is still such a treasure.   Although I fit in and loved that school, I was an observer more than I talker.  Something, once again, that is still true to this day.  Although I do not suffer from speech issues still, I do ofter feel voiceless.

My mother and I were attached at the hip.  Let me give you an example.  I slept in bed with my mother until I was six.  She finally kicked me out. I took it hard. I slept on the cold, hard, concrete floor outside her bedroom door constantly.  THIS WAS A REGULAR THING. My mother would just nonchalantly step over me in the morning. I was her shadow and I loved every second of it.  Whatever she was doing, I wanted to do it too.  This could be sewing, cooking, cleaning, reading, anything. If she was doing it, I wanted in.  Being voiceless and insecure, my security was tied up in my mother. I suppose you could say she was my security blanket.   I did leave her side from time to time to ride bikes or play outside with my brother.  We would also go to my play cousins’ house.  I’m trying to paint a picture to show you how close my mother and I were.  As said in a previous post, we dressed alike frequently. This all came crashing down with him!

My security was tied to my relationship with my mother.  When I perceived that as threatened, my self-worth, the little bit I had left, diminished.   My mom met her soon-to-be husband when I was seven. It was rainbows and cupcakes in the beginning.  He was kind to me but it didn’t matter because seven-year-old Z couldn’t logically think, when a new person is added the love grows.  My little life was forever altered and the longer he was around, the worst it got.  Once my sister was born he literally told my mother, I can’t love more than one person.  Therefore his affection for me and for my mother dissolved. This is not a post to demonize my stepfather.  I am explaining the end of my childhood. I wish the man nothing but the best, but at a time when I was developing characteristics and establishing core memories, I was also losing my childhood.  The move solidified this fact.  Once again Voiceless but this time I didn’t have my Aaron. 

"Call Me Mara"

 Ruth 1:19-21 So they two went until they came to Bethlehem. And it came to pass when they were come to Bethlehem, that all the city was moved about them, and they said, Is this Naomi. And she said unto them, Call me not Naomi, call me Mara: for the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me.

God hadn’t caused my suffering any more than he caused Naomi’s.  In fact, my suffering was my own doing. Call me Mara though, meaning bitter. I had a walk of shame. A bitter return.  Goodbye New Orleans.  Some places are for a season, but you think they’re forever.  New Orleans was a season.  I gained lifetime friends in a temporary place. 

982 miles at 90mph. That’s the definition of Manic. I was trying to leave everything behind me.  I strategically planned a playlist that would overpower the voices, but the voices were relentless. Loud music, louder auditory hallucinations.  The music is inconsequential because the voices engulf me. I drive faster, away from the voices. Hoping I can outdrive them. By the time I reach my destination I’m exhausted and overwhelmed. Twelve hours, record time, life-threatening time.  Destination: depression and despair. 

My mother moved us to this town when I was eleven.  That’s a post for another day.  Just know, while I’m not revealing the name, to remain anonymous, it is a midwest town, majority white, and so small the movie theatre plays one movie. Oh, wait, it has two screens now. When my family moved here the KKK had a rally and they followed us for some time.   Not the place to mend a broken heart and figure out why my brain is going bezerk.  So, call me Mara, forget my name, and just know I”m bitter and broken. 

Naomi’s husband and sons died. She had Ruth by her side, her daughter-in-law, who, besides her God, was her anchor.  By my side was my pup.  When I didn’t know what was real and what was not, she was my anchor. My husband did not die.  We did not get that far.  I suppose the thought of him did. See the previous post. I read somewhere, I can’t remember where now, that some people are in your lives for a season, to teach you something. I do not think I buy into that concept completely, but I do adhere to the idea that you should learn from your mistakes. I learned not to rely on myself, especially when I am physically alone, as I was in New Orleans.  Instead, I needed to rely on God to get me through because Satan was watching and working.  That season was over and I dreaded the next season. I was on point with my dread because it grew steadily worse as the season wore on.  I was going to stay with my mother for two months before my lease started on campus. Did I mention, in the midst of everything I was a Doctoral Candidate at a prestigious university? 

My mom and I have always been best friends. Two peas in a pod. When I was little she would dress us alike.  She would sew us matching outfits. It was great. In fact, I was an adult when we went to Fashion Bug (RIP) and bought matching skirts and actually wore them together. Heck, I would match her now no regrets.  But, call me Mara. Mara isn’t the type to dress like her mother or even appreciate the gem of a mother she was blessed with. Mara, however, was more agitated and angry than loving and caring.   

Aside from the auditory hallucinations, the first time I knew I was really sick is when I went off on my mother. My loving, wonderful, generous woman of a mom.  We had a disagreement and I, wait for it, raised my voice! gasp Ok, maybe you do not get the significance, but in the Black community, if you raise your voice at yo mama, you won’t live to tell about it.  I survived but my soul ached.  I emotionally hurt my life-giver. Yet, I still hadn’t hit rock bottom.

Four in the Morning

 It’s almost four in the morning and I have to be awake for work in two and a half hours. It’s that time of night when one debates whether or not to even try to sleep.  My ex called our wedding off over four months ago, almost five months now actually, and I’m awake at four in the morning.  I’m awake at four in the morning recovering from an anxiety attack, tears still in my eyes.  I’m awake at four in the morning and I’m furious.  I rarely discuss the breakup; I walk around work busy, cheery, and peppy. I walk around smiling and ok, but I’m not. It’s four in the morning and I’m weeping and furious.  My chest hurts, my head hurts, my heart hurts, and I’M AWAKE AT FOUR IN THE MORNING! 

I’m awake at four in the morning and I wonder why the burden of heartache falls on the woman. Why, although he broke up with me, I am expected to still be there for him.  I remember when I finally broke up with my ex before the ex-fiancé, and one day he asked, “why are you being so mean?” What is mean to a man who ruined you? Is mean refusing mistreatment?  I don’t know anymore.  My heart doesn’t still hurt from my ex prior to this. I vaguely remember the pain and completely forgot the decent memories.  I was once told love is the best remedy for a broken heart, but I now think that another broken heart is the remedy.  Another good heartbreak completely erases old pain.  It’s like when someone jokingly offers to punch you in the arm to distract you from another pain.  Although no one ever takes up that offer, there’s truth to it.  There’s a reality that the heart has muscle memory.  It becomes a pro at being broken, pained, and ruined.  You look forward to the numbness that eventually comes.  It’s really sad that feeling nothing becomes the only alternative to pain.  When the pain is this bad, this constantly fighting the desire to die pain, happiness isn’t even an option, so you settle for feeling nothing.  The problem is when the pain starts to subside, even slightly, the numbness wears off, and then you’re awake at four in the morning recovering from a panic attack, recovering from anxiety, recovering from pain, but not really recovering at all, just waiting until it’s bad enough for the numbness to kick back in. Unfortunately, the heart isn’t a broken bone, it beats blood to the entire body, and when it’s damaged, when trauma accompanies those beats, shards of glass pump through your veins and you sit awake at four in the morning looking at a computer screen because the numbness that would allow sleep won’t set in until you’re supposed to be awake, and it starts all over again. 

It’s four in the morning and I’m finally ready to talk about my latest failed relationship.  I’m finally able to process, through the tears, all of the mistakes I made and continue to make. It’s four in the morning and I’m alone and I need to get out of here. My last relationship became a cycle of pain and the expectation of things returning to “normal” no matter what hurtful and hateful words were said.  The expectation that it’s normal to yell at the one you claim to love.  The expectation that love is supposed to be painful.  I remember him telling me that I need to love myself. Asking how I could love someone else without loving myself.  However, when I think of the situation, it was a conundrum really.  I couldn’t love myself when I was with him because he made me hate myself.  I hated who I was with him.  I convinced myself it was normal.  It’s funny how we can justify anything if we try hard enough, but at the end of the day I hated myself.   I hated that I allowed life to just happen to me, that I became a passive observer to my life.  I’m not trying to demonize my ex because, truth is, people only do what you allow and I allowed myself to become someone I hated.  I allowed myself to become someone who normalized toxicity. I became someone who went into a coma instead of waking up to realize what was happening.  When I finally woke up, over four months later, I’m still awake at four in the morning voices loud, heartache louder

He ruined me and I am getting far far away.  Although he ruined me, I’m no longer a passive observer in my life. I’m not allowing that.  Instead, I am going to become someone I love again and I can’t do that with him in my life.  I’m ruined, but not destroyed.  To a certain extent, I embrace the pain because it means that I’m awake, I’m not numb.  I’m not finished, there’s still so much I need to do without him.  I want to make a clean break; I need to make a clean break. In the meantime, I’m awake at four in the morning recovering. I’m recovering. It’s time for the next journey in my life.  One where I am emotionally and mentally stronger.

 

New Orleans, New Voices

New Orleans, two words, too much meaning behind them. It was the start of my third year there and my world was crumbling all around me. I was in New Orleans to complete fieldwork for my dissertation. The first two years were full of surprises, both positive and negative. However, this third year was something else. 

 I feel the need to back up and introduce myself. Since I am in academia and will be discussing some heavy, dark periods of my life, along with some delightfully light periods of my life, I prefer to stay anonymous and call myself Doc Z. I suppose that is a spoiler. You all now know I did, in fact, complete my dissertation, but you will want to stick along for the ride, bumpy would be an understatement. I am a thirty-something Black scholar who is navigating academia with severe mental and physical illnesses. 

 So, where was I? Oh yes, New Orleans. New Orleans was the first time I lived out of state from the people with whom I was raised and grew up around. I found the most wonderful friends there. Many of whom I still stay in close contact with. No matter how great my support system was though, I couldn’t go to anyone for help. It was November 2016 the voices started a month earlier. My body was so emotionally stressed that my brain betrayed me. “Are you going to get married without telling anyone?” I started hearing that in October. The first time I had auditory hallucinations as an adult was in the bathroom. “Are you going to get married without telling anyone?’ I actually answered. “What are you talking about?” I was confused and scared, but really more confused than anything. I wasn’t thinking “who was that and why are you in my house?” I was confused by the question. I painstakingly planned my wedding, sent out invites, and all that jazz. Even had the traditional falling out with my maid of honor. So, who in the heck is getting married without telling anyone? 

 The voices came more frequently as time went on. Various phrases were sprinkled into my everyday lived routine. I was an educator with a number of kids and coworkers around me. Needless to say, work was mentally exhausting when experiencing auditory hallucinations. I learned reality checks as time went on. If I don’t recognize the voice, must be my stupid brain betraying me again. At that time, it was still auditory and still fairly neutral in its messages. Some common auditory hallucinations were 

“what are you thinking?”, “Are you sure?” And my favorite, “think about it?” It was as if all my second-guessing literally detached from my conscious and became hallucinations. Looking back, it makes sense, I was in a very doubtful time. I was doubting everything, except my faith. “What are you thinking? What are you thinking? What are you thinking? What are you thinking?” The voice is relentless today. My brain fighting my brain. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. I have never been super confident, but now I don’t trust myself. But to answer the question brain, I’m thinking I CAN NOT MARRY HIM!!! Boom, mic drop.