A Journey Through The Bipolar Mind

by Caroline Mondoux-Gardiner, R.N., BGB

“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change

the courage to change the things I can,

and the wisdom to know the difference.”

-         The Serenity Prayer

 My earliest recollection of being “different” came at age 5. I don’t remember much of those early years, only the deep anger that resided in my mind - an anger I neither understood nor possessed the ability to express. I don’t think I was a “difficult” child, although family and friends tell me now I was hard to be around. I didn’t like to “share” – but that’s “normal” for a five year-old. They chalked it up to my being an only child. There was always a rational explanation to explain my many odd behaviors.

 During the following years of my childhood, I remember feelings of exuberance, of omnipotence and of very vivid dreams. I also remember feelings of doom, which preoccupied me on a fairly consistent basis. Some days were good, some bad – again, that’s “normal”, is it not?

 I was fluently bilingual – French and English – and knew how to read before I even started 1^st Grade at age 5. I finished the 1^st Grade curriculum by mid-year and was fortunate to be in a system that did not believe in holding children back. So, remaining in 1^st Grade, I was started with Grade 2 material. There was nothing much I didn’t excel at academically. This however set me even further apart from all my other fellow students who were all at least a year older than myself.

 At age 9, I met my best friend, Dominique. Little did I know at the time she would support be through thick and thin, accept me unconditionally, lovingly and continuously be willing to bear with the “darkest recesses of my mind”. Although she now lives more than 2,000 miles away, she made the time to call me numerous times, every single day, during my first major hospitalization and all subsequent ones. During one of many suicidal periods in my life, she dropped everything to come and stay with me, to comfort, to help and to keep me safe. I will never be able to express how deeply I appreciate all that she has done and continues to do. I am getting ahead of myself now (I’m currently in the midst of mania and have a difficult time keeping my thoughts orderly! You all understand that!).

 By the time I was in my early teens, I had already mastered the art of being “the good girl” – donning the “mask of normalcy” I would continue to wear for many years. My self-esteem was low. I was very shy and had already been labeled a “snob”. Even though it was hurtful and unfair, I wished people would try to get to know me before labeling me, while subconsciously avoided letting anyone close enough to discover “my secret” – not that I knew yet what that secret was - that realization would only come decades later.

 The mood swings started to come faster and faster. Many moments were filled with wild aspirations of changing the world, thoughts racing at mach speed, starting numerous projects (and never finishing them!) then, crashing so low that nothing mattered anymore. The dreams were gone, I felt hopeless, helpless, crushed under the weight of all I couldn’t do. Despair followed me, an unwelcome companion, never letting go, no matter how much I tried. I was often told, “you need to help yourself, pick yourself up and get on with it, you have to be strong!” If only it had been so easy. Couldn’t anyone understand that I did not choose to be this way, that if I could have picked up the pieces, I would have, that I did not want to be miserable, irritable and angry? Didn’t anyone realize that I couldn’t stand living with myself?

 I was 17 when I consciously admitted to myself that something was indeed wrong with me. This realization occurred when I started having panic attacks and the fire in my mind became unbearable. That was when I embarked in self-mutilation. I did not understand why I “needed” to do it, all I knew was that I “had to”. And so began a pattern of “running away” from all that stressed and frightened me. I successfully broke my arm, twice, in a six-month period. The relief it brought was very brief, but also very addictive. For some unknown reason to me, physical pain attenuated psychological pain. I never did admit to the self-mutilation, I just manufactured the most plausible explanations I could get away with. In the years that followed, and still to this day, the urge comes back and I sometimes relinquish control to the inevitable. But still, I did not seek help. I was in full denial.

 One moment I distinctly remember as frightening and foreboding occurred during my psychiatry rotation in nursing school. I just hated those three months. What I saw and heard behind those locked doors sank me deeper and deeper in despair and manic episodes. I knew then, that somehow, if the psychiatrists there got into my psyche, they’d lock me up! The patients’ descriptions of their feelings hit home! They were describing my life! I had to get out of there fast!

 During this period of my life and into early adulthood, the frequency and cyclicity of my moods continued to increase. I was involved in a very good relationship with a wonderful, compassionate and loving man to whom I later got engaged. The fear of being found out intensified and I eventually broke off the engagement. In the process I hurt many, including myself – you see, I really did love him. But, I just couldn’t take the chance that my “secret” would be revealed. I also loved him enough not to want to subject him to the hurt and harm I feared I’d inflict. By then, those close to me had started to recognize a pattern of “wild” spending, which I vehemently denied. It was to close for comfort!

 The following years, the depressions and manias came and went. I thought I could handle my own problems. I searched and searched for all or any external factors that would bring me “happiness”, all for not. The spending increased. The moments of euphoria and dysphoria increased and the depressions got lengthier and more severe.

 I got involved in a growing series of dysfunctional relationships with men who chronically verbally abused me! That only served to confirm my own feelings about myself. It was also very destructive. I changed jobs more times than I can count and my resume showed the increasingly erratic pattern of my life. I just knew that if I found the “right” job, all my problems would disappear. Of course, that never happened.

 Eventually I got married, and am still married, and had two wonderful boys. They were to a large extent “the” catalyst to what was to follow. My depressions got more severe and manias more frequent. This disorder – yes, bipolar – wrecked serious havoc with my marriage. I still wonder how my husband has managed to live through the thoroughly irritable, agitated and angry person I became so frequently and the even longer depressions that would follow. He stuck by me nonetheless.

 In moments of mania, I would go on extraordinary spending sprees, incapable of stopping myself or of deciding what exactly I wanted, so, I got a lot! I went on quilting binges – hand-making and quilting 6 quilts in one year – writing binges – buying dozens of books on writing references, but not publishing anything or even try to – buying paper, pens, notepads and computer software, convinced once I had everything necessary, I would then be productive (not!) – clothes, and on and on. Ideas came, fast and furious, with no discernible order. I couldn’t sleep and would often get by on a few hours a night – stealthily pacing around the house, in the middle of the night, fearful of waking the children.

 During my depressions, I often did not even bother dressing and would often be prodded by the boys to, “please get up mommy, we’re hungry!” On most days I would sleep up to 16 hours a day, curled up in a fetal position, totally oblivious to the world or crying in despair just hoping I could escape, even for one moment, from the torment in my mind. Alas there was no relief.

 I’ve now divided my life in two distinct segments: life before diagnosis and life after diagnosis.

 This determining moment came in September of 1999, at age 35, after a particularly bad manic episode, during which time I studied, from scratch, for 5 courses in a four-week period and, wrote all five finals during those very same 4 weeks (and got A’s in all 5) for my Bachelor’s Degree in Business. After this “high”, productive and entirely dysphoric moment came the suicidal depression that changed my life.

 I gave away all things that didn’t seem to be important anymore (I certainly wasn’t going to need them where I was going!), wrote letters to both my children and organized everything and anything I thought was necessary at the time. Then I carefully planned the end of my torture. Luckily, my husband came home just before I was about to swallow over 100mg of Ativan, a load full of narcotics I had for chronic back pain, the liquor and the knives – just in case. My mother flew down from Canada four hours later and, after watching over me for three days, asked me what I wanted.

 My painful answer was, “I need to see a psychiatrist, now!” It had taken 35 years to finally accept that I couldn’t deny this anymore. I was ready to get help. The very next day I voluntarily committed myself behind those dreaded “locked doors”. The fear, the shame, the pain and the humiliation were unbelievable.

The first twenty-four hours I spent crying. However my psychiatrist was a gift from heaven. We discussed the possibility of manic depression due to the nature of previous episodes I had experienced but, having presented with clinical depression, it was decided to treat me with high doses of antidepressants. The first day, I was told I had to attend two group therapy sessions a day. Not being comfortable in a crowd, I feared having to bare my most intimate and painful thoughts to strangers. After one session, listening intently to other patients’ stories I felt a sense of calm wash over me.

 I was not alone!

 I started to look forward to the group sessions, sharing my feelings and thoughts and reveled at the kind support from other patients. Soon, I too, surprised myself by giving support to others. We cried together, laughed together and helped each other. It was the first time in my life I truly felt accepted just as I was. I didn’t have to hide anymore! I was safe!

 I spent 8 days in hospital that first time. I was rapidly put on increasingly high doses of Serzone – an antidepressant – until I became zombie-like, walking into walls, slurring my words, and watching the world in slow motion. My diagnosis: severe clinical depression.

 A day after discharge, I became manic. I showed up to the outpatient group therapy at the hospital talking a mile a minute, having disjointed thoughts, shaking and anxious and euphoric at the same time. The diagnosis: manic depression. Back to the hospital.

 First it was lithium. At therapeutic doses I suffered from tardive dyskinesia, slurred speech, distorted thoughts, inability to concentrate and general sluggishness. After 5 weeks, it was determined I had lithium-resistant mania.

 Then there was Depakote (valproic acid, Depakene). It did break the mania but very quickly sent me spiraling back down to suicidal depression – and so, one more trip to the dreaded “locked doors”. Depakote and I were not a match made in heaven. As the doses were increased to reach therapeutic levels – which I never did get to – I suffered from nausea, vomiting, migraines (which lasted 4 months), the inability to stay up for longer than 15 minutes, and eventually after three months I developed a toxic reaction.

 The next, usual, alternative was Neurontin (gabapentin), however, I was allergic to it. So my psychiatrist suggested ECT wanting me to be able to enjoy the holiday season. I refused. The thought of maybe losing some of the happy memories of my life, especially the birth of my children and all the firsts that come with raising children, was more than I could bear. And so, I rang in the New Millennium with Lamictal (lamotrigine) and Klonopin (clonazepam). Within the first few days I started to feel better. Maybe this would be “my wonder drug”.

 Over the following months, my moods stabilized somewhat but I still had a lot of trouble with rapid-cycling – sometimes up to 6 mood changes in one day. Many a day, I didn’t know if I was coming or going. The strain on my marriage was intense. My children were stressed. Suicidal thoughts came and went more times than I care to remember. My therapist and my psychiatrist are the only reason I am here today to tell my story. They have kept me grounded when I was flying and kept me up when I despaired.

 We’ve survived Y2K and it’s a new year again, 2001! I’ve been cycling for 5 months now. My Lamictal dose was upped all the way to 400 mg a day and the Klonopin to 4 mg a day. It’s not working. So now it’s on to Zyprexa combined with Lamictal and Klonopin.

 I now have the “distinction” of being classified as having severe bipolar I disorder.

 I can’t honestly say I’ve completely accepted all this. I’ve been through all the stages: denial, anger, bargaining and acceptance. But now and again, the anger comes back. I’m tired of fighting this beast; I’m tired of my “unquiet mind” (From Kay Redfield Jamison’s An Unquiet Mind).

 My New Year’s resolution is simple, yet complex: to live each day to the fullest and to express gratitude for all that I do have. I’ve resolved to start a gratitude journal, partly inspired by Oprah’s show and her Oxygen website. I also have resolved to get involved.

 Together we can make a difference!

“If you don’t risk anything,

you risk even more.”

- Erica Jong, writer and poet!

Thank You Caroline ~ Colleen