Bad Spells, etc. (Pt. 2/?): How

Alright then, the “How”. Kind of.

First,  you drink a lot of tea. From your favorite mug. Herbal stuff, because of that caffeinatedanxiety thing. Or cocoa I suppose, if you’re one of those non-tea drinkers.

I say kind of because coping with shitty circumstances is never going to feel good: there is nothing that I know of that will take something that is a) hard and b) necessary and c) uncomfortable, and make you love doing it. And if you find it pretty please let me know?

I love to write–putting down my thoughts so that I can see them, read them and process them linearizes my thinking. Things aren’t this vast tangled web, and I can figure out what I’m actually thinking about and what I actually want, need, and feel. In fact when I’m manic there is almost nothing other than knitting and writing that actually helps me stay calm, or in one place. But writing this thesis: the first long writing piece I’ve had to write about the technical/mathematical craziness I love that is physics, has been hellish.

The other aspect to this that has taken a little while to understand and move past is that it truly knocked my confidence in my recovery. I thought I was a bad ass, honest, leave everything on the table, speak my feelings, recovery oriented ninja and then suddenly I was skipping meds, missing class, missing meetings with my advisor, neglecting myself, and my pets, and generally avoiding anyone who cared enough about me to question the mess that things were obviously becoming.

It turns out that the way I got things to start to come back around was the same way I’ve done so in nearly every other aspect of recovery: find people who I trusted to help me figure it out, spill my guts…

…(be incredibly grateful when they don’t judge me for avoiding everything and everyone and also for helping me come out of the panic attack that inevitably comes up)…

…make a plan, and execute with much communication and help.

For someone who tells those who honor me with their trust, and ask for my advice, that mental illness is physical illness: that it’s physical illness of the brain, and that they don’t need to feel ashamed for needing help, it was a bitter pill to swallow when I had to give the same talk to myself.

In my case this time, I was lucky enough to be at a small, liberal arts college where all the professors in the department know me, and know each other. My advisor reported concern, and I had to face up to the mess I’d been shoving under the rug all term. Since that happened, I’ve started making progress on my thesis again. It isn’t going to be what I wanted, or what it could have been, but that’s something for radical acceptance: I’m hanging onto what one of the lovely people told me when I asked for advice (they work for the college): “The best thesis is the thesis that is done.”

In the spirit of getting all the shit done, when everything is shit, please find below my attempt to distill my experiences here into some general to-do’s for the next time this happens.

And yes, if you know me in the real world please feel free to smack me upside the head with this if I pull a vanishing act on you.

  1. Find someone who you trust loves you enough to call you on your bullshit. Talk to them, tell them what is in your head, and then ask them to help you make a plan to get back above water.
  2. Spread your plan out, and make sure you’re not overloading yourself. It’s not going to do any good if you panic about your plan, and then feel shitty for not doing it “right”.
  3. Drink a cup of tea. Breath. 
  4. Ask your someone if you can check in with them, and if they don’t hear from you if they can check in with you. Feel that other people around you care, and that you aren’t alone in this.
  5. Get shit done. 

Treat yourself as kindly as you would treat anyone else who is feeling like you are. We’re all human here.

My thesis is due on the thirteenth, for better or for worse. A thesis that is the best I can do under the circumstances is better than a thesis that never appears. People are here for me. I’m not alone in my shit. You also, are not alone in whatever shit is going on in your life.

When mental illness rears back up it can really feel like it’s life interfering with the mental illness rather than the other way around. Remember in the midst of that, that you are a person with a mental illness and not reducible to it. We’re all here, dealing with our own shit, and rooting for you.

Until next time,

Kerry

Day, after day, after day, it’s the same shit.

I went to Saratoga to write this.

I don’t particularly know why. I was on my way home from treatment, and then I saw a sign for Saratoga, and thought to myself, “I could go there.”

There was no reason to go to Saratoga to write this. I’m in a nice coffee shop sure, with some pretty kickass hot chocolate, but there are nice coffee shops in Schenectady, and it isn’t almost an hour away.

I’m sitting in Saratoga, with no reason to be here. It’s a weird feeling. At least I didn’t see the sign for Montreal first.

There’s a couple that sat down in front of me, facing me, at the next table over. There are literally six empty tables near me that they could’ve sat in without disturbing anyone.

Do you ever feel like people do things for the sole reason of showing you how lonely a person you really are?

Ew, they’re feeding each other.

Anyway.

The only reason I can think of that makes sense for going to Saratoga tonight is that there was no reason not to go to Saratoga. I feel so settled sometimes in my routine that it drives me crazy.

This especially gets to you when you’re in treatment. Every week repeats, and is endlessly predictable–its almost a joke between the patients. And as one of the therapists tells us, every time we mention this predictability,

“If you know all the groups, and know what I’m going to say, then why are you still here?”

It’s a fair question, but as everyone there says, including that therapist,

“If recovering was as simple as knowing what to do, none of you would be here.”

I’m feeling my “IOP age” tonight–how long I’ve been at IOP. A collage that all of the patients made out of their hands was finally hung up tonight, and out of the many hands on there I was one of three or four people still around. And yet I’m still struggling, and still unwilling to do exactly what I know I need to do to recover.

I’m willing to admit that by the way–that I’m not willing to be recovered yet. I’m willing to try to recover–to try to change [some of]my ways, and see if I could become willing to be a recovered person, but I’m definitely not ready to be recovered just yet.

And as ready as I am to say that I’ll try, a mantra floats into my head…

“Do or do not, there is no try.” (I may be slightly off with the direct quote)

But that’s a question for later.

I think that often people in programs like mine, or inpatient, or in PHP, or any kind of treatment, get caught up with how long they’ve been there.

To an extent, this is reasonable. Is there any benefit to your being there? Do you have more to learn? Do you need that level of care?

But while its important not to overtreat yourself, for fear of becoming a chronic patient and losing track of your actual self, its just as bad to undertreat yourself.

Flexibility is the key–being able to recognize the signs in yourself that you need more or less treatment, and being honest about this with those around you. To use myself as an example, I’ve had a pretty tough week, and so I’ll be attending IOP three times this week instead of once. And as much as this feels like a setback, if it keeps me in my life, and away from the hospital, I’ll do as much outpatient as I need, though hopefully no more than that. I was definitely guilty of overtreating myself at one point, and hopefully I’ll be able to keep away from that this time around.

So keep on keeping on everyone, and be aware of yourself and your needs. That’s what’s important–what you need, not what you feel you should need.

Love you all, thanks for reading, and as always I’m always here.