My Herstory, part 2
The next experience that has helped formed interest in all-things-medical comes from a totally different perspective in my body: my mental health. I’ve known for a long time I was different. Old blogs, may they never be dredged up, are filled with swearing and sad poetry, typical of the time, and typical of the teenage angst that comes with puberty and the trials of finding your place in school and the outside world. I have memory after memory of teachers being exasperated with me for my apparent moodiness or my literal tears over assignments, when I have been reported by other teachers who knew both my and my family, that I generally had a friendly disposition. At university, I am pressured by other students and by administration to ‘be an example’ for others, and denied access to mental health resources; when I do get them, they are highly limited in scope. It wasn’t until I moved back in with my parents after graduation I learned the vocabulary to describe why I couldn’t make friends easily, why many friendships were destroyed, and why I couldn’t seem to breathe most days. ****
I am in tears. Another conversation has ended with me crying, worn out, and frustrated. I am trying to express my loneliness to my siblings, all of whom at this time have lives elsewhere. I am also managing grief and anger over explosively-destructive friendships, so catastrophic the friendships had no hope of recovering. To sum it up, I was depressed. And while I knew the term depression, and knew it to be prevalent in my family, I was loathe to apply the term again. I had experienced a downturn during my sophomore year at college, and was not inclined to return to the blackness that enveloped me at that time. In time, my mother encouraged me to visit a local clinic and check out their options for mental health. As it turns out, they had what they called behavioral consultants available. So, in an effort to prevent myself from falling into Dark Days (so called because many of those days were isolated, lonely, and when I think back, a mental image of gray and black clouds are conjured), I go. My behavioral consultants end up being a white man, slightly older, and energetic, and a young black woman, closer to my age, very energetic and kind. Over the course of a few weeks, I explain my struggles in coping with stress, in feeling overwhelmed, in not understanding why I am the way I am. I explain that I am planning my wedding, grieving different losses, looking for work, and trying to help my parents all at once. I explain that I now have migraines, that I have lost friends, and that I don’t know why I am so freaked out all the time. I explain that doctor visits are frustrating, that I keep trying to do the right thing and failing, that I don’t understand anything anymore. And through the explanations, the consultants explain to me what they see. They see tears on one visit, frantic pacing in another. They see a generally positive outlook on life that gets beaten back by constantly fighting stressful events. They see high energy for one visit, but low and apathetic the next. And overall, they see a sadness and anxiety that does not dissipate over days or weeks or months at a time. In sum, they are able to tangentially pattern my behavior and tentatively (they weren't entirely confident, but given my limited time left in town, wanted to express their thoughts) diagnose me with manic depression. They are able to help me understand that while they don't don't believe I am specifically bipolar, I exhibit manic behaviors and depression in turns: which confirmed a lot of my behavior in high school and in college, where I was exuberant one week but the next I was sluggish. They help me evaluate coping mechanisms, when I explain to them any medication for the brain is risky because of the migraines. They have me experiment with physical techniques and methods (like exercises, or journaling) to help stabilize my mania when I do experience it, and accept the depression as it is when it comes, too. To have a word or phrase to express why I was so cheerful some days and so sad others was a relief. It also freed me from confusion, and gave me a platform for understanding how the brain is connected to the body as a whole. It also explained why I behaved somewhat erratically and strangely in reaction to stressful events. Picture a color by numbers, if you will: I have filled in, now, two halves of my head, one to explain physical pain, and the other to explain certain patterns of behavior. Still to fill in is the rest of my body, but for the first time in my whole life, I am generating a portrait of why I am, and not just who.
