What's Wrong with My Daughter?

What's Wrong with My Daughter?

By Diane

Desperate to Find the Reason For Her Behavior

I had the most amazing daughter for 18 years. She was a beautiful child. Everyone loved her and she loved everyone. She was so happy that she smiled when she slept. She was a straight-A student and although she had ADHD, it only seemed to enhance her life. Even as a teenager, she was delightful with none of the rebelliousness or drug use most parents dread.
When she turned 18, however, something changed. It seemed to happen overnight. Her behavior became erratic, sparking explosive fights with her boyfriend. It still wasn't presenting so much at home, so I chalked it up to him. It couldn't be her.
Little by little she changed. She drifted away from us. This girl who once idolized her mother, suddenly couldn't stand me. She started drinking more, getting tattoos, and became someone I just did not recognize. I remember telling my friend I felt like my Shauna had died and this strange new girl had replaced her. I was heartbroken.
The week she was breaking up with her boyfriend of one year, screaming at him that she despised him right in front of me, she became pregnant. Then she became so happy. She decided to stay with the guy. My grandson is now two-years-old. My daughter expressed anger over my not being present when he was born. Everyone used to make such a big deal about how close we were. They were envious.

In my wildest dreams I never would have imagined how she could get so angry at me in an instant, and go for weeks without speaking to me. I would tear my hair out trying to figure out the reason. Was it me? Did I deserve this?
I finally put it all together after an especially rough week. She had exploded in her husband’s restaurant and made a huge scene because she thought the staff was purposely ignoring her. She dragged her sick son out into freezing weather to make her husband pay for not responding to her texts, and she completely melted down at my house because she was furious at me for serving her brother dinner at his computer. She was so mad she dragged her son back out into the cold and went home to the husband she was also angry with.
I finally started Googling her symptoms—paranoia, extreme anger, fear of being alone, intense anxiety—and finally I had it: borderline personality disorder. It fit all the criteria. I just could not believe it took so long. All these years of anguish. I could see now how families would go through this and never know the reason, how someone with borderline personality disorder would go on endlessly being undiagnosed. I could not believe that for all the Oprah and Dr. Phil I watched, that this had never come up. It’s tragic that there isn't more awareness about this type of mental illness.

Trying to compress ten years into words, it is comforting to finally have an explanation for the very extreme behavior I experienced with my daughter. It is my mission to share this information so that other families don't have to guess for ten years about their loved one’s unusual behavior. It should not have to be so difficult.

Repeated Tragedies Still Hit Hard

Repeated Tragedies Still Hit Hard

By Regina

Suicide Was My Answer

I have suffered from depression and anxiety for most of my life, but kept it under control by being busy with my family, career and the occasional visit to my therapist. Things came to a head, however, when my husband of twenty-nine years unexpectedly left me.

I was devastated. In spite of the fact that I had my nineteen-year-old son to take care of, I felt as if I did not want to go on living. I started drinking. One night, after several glasses of wine, I took a whole bottle of anti-depressants with the intent of taking my life. Just moments after I took the pills, I realized I wanted to live, and immediately called 911. That was my first suicide attempt.

I kept sinking lower and lower into depression. My performance at work began to suffer. I lost my job and my house. Then my son turned to drugs. But I was fortunate in that I met a wonderful man named Terry who fell in love with me and accepted my son and his addiction as “part of the package.”

Things began looking up. I was able to find another job, though at a much lower level of salary and responsibility. Then six months into that job, my drinking and depression led to frequent absences from work and I lost the position. I still missed my ex-husband and my house, perhaps more because of the lifestyle I led when I was married than because of a broken heart.

When I lost my new job I sank into a deep depression and my drinking became out of control. One evening, when my son and Terry were out, I drank a bottle of wine and took a full bottle of Clonazepam (Klonopin). Did I want to end my life? I still don’t know to this day what my intentions really were, I just knew that I wanted the pain to end.

I awoke one week later in a psychiatric ward on my way back from an ECT treatment. I had been conscious before that moment, but had no memory of it. And I had no recollection of consenting to ECT. I was told afterward that my doctor held a family meeting with myself included to make the decision to go with ECT, as I was unresponsive to other treatment.

The ECT treatments made all the difference and brought me back to some level of functionality. The important thing was that I was happy my suicide attempt was unsuccessful. I realized how my drinking and taking prescription drugs indiscriminately could have resulted in my death. I was taking chances and fortunately was lucky enough that Terry found me in time to save my life.

My life has not improved much since that incident. Terry was diagnosed with bladder cancer and died a year and a half ago. I was left without money, as we had no savings. I did not know where to turn. Fortunately, my sister helped me financially and I was able to find an affordable apartment. My son, unfortunately, continued his heroin addiction and became an alcoholic.

Realizing it had to do with my depression and anxiety, I should have known better, yet I risked my life again by mixing Clonazepam, Ambien and alcohol. I slipped into unconsciousness that would have led to death if I were not rescued in time by my son.

Upon awakening, I realized how fortunate I was to still be alive, even with the emotional pain of living with my son’s addictions and the grief of Terry’s death. I always felt that there was a possibility of having a normal life, and most important of all, being there for my son.

I am still depressed and dealing with issues of loneliness, my son in jail and financial problems. There are days when I escape into my bedroom and just read. I let everything go, my personal hygiene, taking care of my apartment, going out, talking to family and friends.

No matter how bad things become, I have stopped taking chances with my life. I no longer turn to drugs and alcohol for relief from pain. I want to live. Because where there is life, there is hope. And hope is what I have now.

A Voice for the Voiceless: One Man's Saga

A Voice for the Voiceless: One Man's Saga
By Pete
A Call for Mental Health Advocacy
I was born at the Flower Hospital in New York City in 1936, the only child of older parents. There were questions as to whether my mother, whose health was unfavorable, should have contemplated childbirth at the age of 36, but she found a way. My father was 57 years old and didn't want children.
I was otherwise a healthy baby boy born into a life of privilege. My mother ensured that I would be afforded every opportunity to succeed. I attended kindergarten at Friends Seminary and in 1946 joined the St. Thomas Boys' Choir.
After moving to Bucks County, Pennsylvania, I attended the Lawrenceville School where I played soccer and became an All-American swimmer. During the summer I held various jobs as camp counselor and lifeguard. I attended Brown University, majoring in Classical Studies. I became captain of the swim team, and set a number of swimming records. After graduating from Brown, I attended the Institute for Classical Studies in Athens, Greece, then returned to Lawrenceville to teach Latin. I also became a Housemaster and coached Lower house athletics.
I was married in 1960 and earned an M.A. in Latin from Columbia the following year. That Spring my wife and I had our first child.
In 1961, I began teaching Latin at a private school near Toledo, Ohio, where I also coached the Greek and Chess Clubs and was involved in community-based classical associations. Our second child arrived in 1963.
In 1965, the Toledo Blade published a story on our propitious expanding clan entitled, "Family Puts Fun In Learning." I began working that year toward a second Masters degree at the University of Michigan. We moved to Ann Arbor where I obtained an M.A. in Greek in the spring of 1966.
As I started work on my doctoral thesis, our third child arrived. I was now 30 years old and looking forward to a promising future in academia and ongoing roles as a coach, mentor, and community leader. But my proudest and most important responsibility would always be the one which carried me home every day, as a loving husband and father of three.
Then I started finding Satanic messages hidden in the works of Cicero and Virgil. Then came the voices. My wife and I argued. I became violent, threatening her and the children. I grew withdrawn and became complacent. I paced, began smoking, and gained weight. Needless to say, the family was thrown into a collective shock, confused, helpless and terrified.
In November 1966, I was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. Thus began an odyssey of torment and disgrace which I have now endured for nearly half a century. The out-of-pocket cost of my care over this time is well into the millions of dollars.
By the early 1970s, as the situation became increasingly volatile, my wife filed for divorce. Paranoid schizophrenia decimated my family, which has since, for all intents and purposes, ceased to exist.
I had no contact with my children for nearly 20 years, until one day in 1994, my son came to see me. By then I was known as "Sir" and insisted on being called "Sir." Later I changed my name again. To this day my caretakers refer to me as "Pete."
Prior to her death, my mother set up a charitable trust naming me as its life beneficiary. She was well-aware of the severity of my condition while reserving the hope I would someday improve. Nevertheless, medical understanding of schizophrenia was still in its infancy. By all accounts, she had arranged to provide for my care for as long as I lived, if necessary.
Thus far, the courts disagree. After 29 years' residency in a long-term psychiatric facility (which does not accept Medicaid) I am now 77 years old, in ill health, and at risk of eviction as the result of nonpayment of expenses exceeding $220,000. In pursuit of a resolution to my legal dilemma, my son and guardian has learned firsthand that the mentally ill have no voice in mainstream society and little influence in our courts and legislature.
The severity and progression of my disease has left me psychotic and utterly incapacitated, unable to manage my own life and affairs. Consequently, my story has been provided by my son who not only assumed the responsibility for my care but in so doing became a voice for all victims of mental illness and their caregivers who seek justice and peace of mind.

Darkness Stayed After Mum

Darkness Stayed After Mum
By Jayne
Peace and Love Quest Fraught with Peril
I couldn’t say I had a normal childhood. Mum was frequently ill, and as a child I recall being sent to family since I was a baby. My Dad got a better job which meant leaving the security of the family, and when we moved away, I was left in the care of Mum.
Mum seemed to like the new area, and I was well looked after. It wasn’t until I went to primary school at age five that I asked what the rope was in the gardens and was told that they were clothes lines where you hung your clothing to dry. We used the radiators, as Mum never went outside. Because if Mum didn’t go out, neither did I, unless it was with Dad. I began to realize that my home was different from the other kids in my class.
Soon Mum was ill again and sent off to the old Victorian Mental Institution miles away from home. I was sitting on the stairs listening to the doctors examining her and Mum screaming that she wasn’t going back. I didn’t see her for about three months and she had been given ECT (electro convulsive therapy). In the late 1960s you didn’t get pain killers with the treatment. When Mum returned home, she had no idea that I was her child. And so I went to stay with family. In the end, I stopped feeling anything for my Mum. She had spent all of my childhood and well into my twenties in and out of hospitals having different medications and therapies.
My life as an adult wasn’t brilliant. I made awful mistakes. I would absorb myself into the families of boyfriends, making myself into someone they would love. I had children and vowed that I would be the best mother I could be. But my husband fell in love with someone else and set up home with her and my children, resulting in my first breakdown. I wasn’t a fit person to look after myself or my children. Then he moved away. I had no idea where they had moved to. Breakdown number two began with new meds and therapy, but nothing could take my pain away, so I thought I would. I had been cast as an unfit mother so my children wouldn’t miss me, as they had a perfect new Mum.
I collected tablets, went to the doctors with bad headaches. They prescribed painkillers, and didn’t question me. I took them and found myself spending time in the hospital. It took a lot of time to feel at peace in my life.
When I slowly got back to my Mum, I think she started to care. I then remarried. After eight years of marriage, he started to change and do things I didn’t like. In my dreams I would wish him harm in small ways. But toward the end of our marriage, I wished nasty things to happen to him. I found the strength to leave him and was getting a grip on my life, when he died within a few months. Feeling horrendous guilt, I blamed myself for two years. Pushing the guilt to the back of my mind, I tried to forget anything about him and our life together. I just could not settle anywhere. Then I met a man and fell in love again.
With this man, I felt that I had never experienced anything like I felt for him. At last I was truly loving and being loved. After about one year, I found out that he was having an affair with another woman. My life was shattered again and I wanted out. I began collecting tablets again.
One Sunday when he was out, the tablets went down with a bottle of wine and I went to bed. He came back home because I had acted odd, and caught me just in time to save my life. But I am living with the consequences five years now. The guilt from wishing my second husband dead, losing my children, and then the affair, all mixed in with the pain of my Mum was just too much.
The darkness that came afterward lasted a long while. But nowadays, I am able to see the signs of when I am slipping downward. And I am now able to ask for help. Losing my Mum was scary for me. Those around me thought I would be unable to cope. Some days have been hell to go through. But I breathe, and that’s all that matters in the moment. Small steps now will lead to bigger and better ones soon.

Tooth Extraction Unlocks Bipolar Adventure

Tooth Extraction Unlocks Bipolar Adventure

By David Scott

Some Parts of the Adventure Were Better Than Others

The year 1995 was the greatest year of my life. The worst year of my life was 1996. That in itself comprised the highs and lows of bipolar.

In 1995, I was 22 and had two jobs, a girlfriend, lots of friends and my own car. One of my jobs was security at all the concerts in the Washington, DC area. I also worked security at all Washington Redskin games.

While I was backstage at a concert, my supervisor asked me if I wanted to work the Super Bowl. I was thrilled! They flew me down to Miami and I worked on the field at Super Bowl 29. I even took Steve Young, the MVP, back to the locker room after the game. 1995 was an incredible year.

In 1996, I had to have two wisdom teeth removed. My mother took me to the doctor. The doctor had the same last name as me. I thought I was in good hands.

The procedure did not go well. I could feel the drill going into my gum. The novocaine kept wearing off. The doctor stuck me with the novocaine seven different times. I remember everything because I am forced to relive that day every day of my life. The doctor even told his assistant to go get the larger drill because he could not extract the tooth. After it was all over, I felt strange, like my mind had been altered. My mother and I got into the elevator and I whispered in her ear that I could hear what the other people in the elevator were thinking. She did not respond.

When we got into the car, all I could talk about was God and other grandiose things. We went to the pharmacy to pick up my pain medicine and I could hear everyone's thoughts. Two days later I was completely insane and violent.

I was taken by ambulance to the local hospital. Once there, I fought with at least six doctors and hospital staffers before they knocked me out with a needle. When I woke up, a doctor told me that they thought I was high on drugs but found none in my system. I told them I had never taken drugs and I didn't even drink alcohol. The doctor told me I had bipolar disorder. I did not know what that was. He explained it to me. I told him that I didn't understand. Nobody in my family had mental illness and it was not brought on by drugs or alcohol. He said I had it all along but the severe trauma that I went through with my oral surgery had triggered it. I was devastated.

I spent a month in the hospital, the first two weeks in restraints. One time they released my right wrist to eat the tray of food and when I took the tray off, I hallucinated that there was a live snake wrapped around the plate, so I threw it on the floor. Also, while in restraints, I talked to this shadow on my ceiling and this light that would form a shape of what I was thinking. I thought it was God. 

After a month, I came home. I felt great and took my medication. I thought after taking the medication for two weeks, who needs the side effects? So I stopped taking it. 

This time I had to go to a different hospital. It was not like a mental hospital with restraints and harshness of any sort. I was in the room with two other guys and I had the freedom to walk around. I participated in group and I played chess with this bipolar lady every day. It was not bad except that I wanted to go home and every time I thought I was okay, the doctor was like, I think you need one more week. That was totally frustrating. What did I have to do to convince them to let me go? Well, I ended up staying there for a month, just like the other hospital. I would never stop taking psychiatric medication ever again.

When I got home, something was happening. I started writing poetry although I had never written any before. I was pretty good at writing in school but I did not know how to write poetry. In my manic state I was writing two poems per day. In my depressed state I was writing one every other day. I showed them to my father who was duly impressed. I started reading poets, beginning with Langston Hughes whom I had always admired. Then at a book sale, something just drew me to a rather plain looking book with the name Dylan Thomas on it. I was blown away by this guy and I discovered he was bipolar like me. I also found out that people were mesmerized at his poetry readings. So I started going to poetry readings.

People responded to my poetry. Within a year, I was featured at libraries and literary venues. When I discovered poetry slams I started writing more upbeat poems for performance purposes. I was winning poetry slams all over the Washington, DC area. One of my poems was on the hottest radio station in DC. For some reason, getting published was not as important to me as performing was.

Today, I suffer a great deal with heat and mania but I am able to control it. I don't get depressed that much even though I don't have a girlfriend or any friends for that matter. I am still on the spiral staircase but I am ascending one step forward every day.

I’ve Been Here Before

I’ve Been Here Before

By A.J. Johnson

The desire to be understood; the angst when you’re not

I'm sitting at my desk, bawling my eyes out over everything and anything going on in my life. I'm hyperventilating at all of the possible outcomes of my situation, thinking the worst. My mind is racing from here to there to everywhere and back again, trying to figure things out, and it's not getting anywhere. I've been here before.

I’d like to think I’m different. Certainly, many people I meet think I’m unique, or even special. They can’t quite put a finger on it. But I can. And so can many others around the world who live with the same issues I live with. People treat us differently, sometimes with empathy. Most of the time, it’s with contempt, hostility, anger and fear. They don’t understand what it’s like to live with a mental illness, and they probably never will. It’s difficult to get people to understand something you can barely understand or control yourself. I’ve been here before.

I ache all over from the sheer loneliness I feel, even after I've reached out to friends and family, telling them I need to talk, and no one responds. I'm usually so open and verbal about myself, that when I need a lifeline from time to time to talk privately about things, and no one responds, I feel like a shit heel because I'm bugging people too much. And no one wants to hear about my problems anymore. There's always something wrong with A.J. I've been here before.

I'm bargaining and arguing with my loved ones, bawling, weeping, sniffling, begging and pleading with them to just listen to me. They tell me to "get over it," "quit the crying," and to "go get a job." When I tell them I can't because my doctors highly recommend that I don't and I actually agree with the decision. It isn't because I want to be lazy, it's because I don't want to go to jail for killing someone. I don't want to end up on the news as my kid finds me after school one day once I’ve taken a handful of pills. They end the conversation because they don't want to hear what I have to say, because they’ve heard it before and they’ve got their own ideas about my situation. I've been here before.

I struggle with my daily grind, trying to put my best foot forward. But it's difficult at best, excruciatingly painful at the worst. I try to do things that will help me feel better about myself so I can change my mental state and attitude. Sometimes it works. For the times it doesn't work, I'm left feeling flat, hollow and cold. I've been here before.

I try to do other things to make myself feel better. Safe things. Things that I don't have to pay money for, things I can do at home, because heaven forbid I do something like get out of the house. That would be expensive and I can't afford it right now. I've been there before too.

Point is: I've been here before. I keep coming back and I don't like it here. But it's one place I know better than I know anything else. It's not a happy or fun or sunny place. But it's more familiar to me than the lines on my own face. I want to change it in the most desperate ways possible and most of the ways I can think of are morbid, sad and heartbreaking.

It makes me seem selfish, inconsiderate, conceited even. But I'm not. I honestly wonder whether or not my life in any way possible means anything to anyone other than my immediate family. Why should I care? Because I'm one of those types of people; I care about others and I do care what others think of me, to a point. I think about those people whose lives I've touched, if at all, when I try to bring myself out of these doldrums. It brings me to a place where I think I can handle this mess of mental illness swirling through my brain. It helps me calm myself and think that I can move forward, even though I know, deep down inside, I'm really not.

I've been here before.