The Redundancy of Depression

I want you to look good and hard at the above picture.  What would you say is going on here?  At first glance, you may say to yourself, “Oh, that’s a malpractice suit waiting to happen.”  Or…”Inappropriate physician behavior.”  I could proceed with a variety of possible scenarios, but WordPress would probably shut me down for inexcusable adult content.

Truth be told, this is the new ad campaign for Abilify.

ABILIFY^® (aripiprazole) is a prescription medicine used to treat depression in adults as an add-on treatment to an antidepressant when an antidepressant alone is not enough.

Okaaay.  So what you’re trying to tell me is:

ABILIFY^® (aripiprazole) is a prescription medicine that we invented to bamboozle the grown folk into believing Pill #1 is inferior and can’t POSSIBLY be effective because we chemically made it that way, unbeknownst to all ya’ll depressed jackasses out there.

Abilify’s original commercials showed middle aged adults slinking around the house in rumpled pajamas, crying over stacks of over-due credit card bills and not feeding the cat for days.  Apparently their demographic research was faulty.  So they put their swollen heads together and came up with a NEW commercial,  more kid-friendly.

So I decided to try a human behavior experiment.  I muted the commercial and made my 5 year old kid watch it, then give me her interpretation.  Here’s what she said:

“What kind of pet is that?  She should’ve bought a cute kitten.  But not a cat like Tess.  Tess is repressed.”

Tess is our cat.  A chronically DEPRESSED cat.  Cali’s interpretation of the word is REPRESSED.  (Is there even a difference?)

So in a round-about way, Cali somehow saw “depression” in that commercial.  Was it an intentional subliminal message or just a coincidence?  I shudder to think.  Either way, I struggle to grasp the intent.  Make meds friendlier?  More approachable?  Less scary?

I’ll tell you what’s scary.  That side-effect guy at the END of the commercial talking 500 mph and the only words you catch are “bloody stool” and “sudden drooling”.

I made a little movie about this very subject that will give you further insight into this new miracle-cure for the dysfunctional anti-depressant.

I give you…..Abilify vs. Cocaine!

Marwencol: A Wake-Up Call

This morning I watched a documentary by the name of “Marwencol”.  Fifteen minutes in, I started to take notes because I knew I had to write an article about this man.  Mark Hogancamp.

A few years ago, 5 men jumped Mark outside of a bar and beat every memory out of his head.  He slipped into a coma for 9 days and after an extended stay, was asked to leave the hospital because his Medicaid refused to pay for anymore treatment or care.  Same went for his physical therapy.

Mark (who bears a striking resemblance to Dustin Hoffman) had to learn to walk, talk, eat, read….like he’d become an infant all over again at the age of 38.  But the human spirit is a resilient being.  The first thing Mark fought to save was his imagination.  Even Einstein knew that imagination was far more important than knowledge.

So Mark went about constructing a minature  1/6th scale WorldWar II-era town in his backyard and began filling it with dolls who represented those who meant the most to him….and those who didn’t.  He dubbed his fantasy world “Marwencol” and the drama ensued from there.  And when I say drama….this place is like a vintage Peyton Place.  But within this world, Mark began to heal.  He unleashed his anger in the form of military torture.  He found love and redemption…and revenge.  All without hurting another human mentally or physically.

But he didn’t just build a town with some dolls and trees.  He began posing and creating scenes that told intricately woven stories, then pain-stakingly photographed each scene.  He wasn’t using a high-priced camera with a fancy lense and tripod.  He mailed away his film to be developed and if the pictures didn’t turn out right…if they were blurry or the exposure was off….he’d simply go back and shoot everything all over again.  He didn’t keep any negatives…he just put all the photographs in a cardboard box.

Mark in no way thought of himself as an artist.  He had simply found a way of coping.  Jeff Malmberg, director of “Marwencol”,  found Mark after watching him pull a toy jeep filled with dolls holding firearms up and down a road. After seeing Mark’s work, he knew he had to share it with the world.  A New York gallery owner caught wind of Mark’s work and went about setting up a show featuring Marwencol.

All professional success aside…it was the moxy of his spirit and soul that had me at hello.  The stronger part of him that talked the dark side into playing with some dolls.  His determination to be himself and realize he wasn’t accountable for the reactions and feelings of other people’s opinion of him.

As a child, I spent the majority of my time in a fantasy world that I’d created to escape a traumatic childhood and I stayed there until my late teens.  I shut everything down, turned off the lights and walked out….because grown-ups don’t live in imaginary worlds.  They ridicule and chastize those who do.  So for the better part of the past three years, I’ve been struggling to un-earth that vivid imagination and begin writing from that place of unpolluted innocence. I’m slowly getting there.  Slowly.  Maybe if I could go play dolls with Mark, I’d tap into what I buried so long ago.

Perhaps playing is the key.  Remember when you were a kid and just hearing someone say, “You wanna play?” was magical?  I think that as adults, we secretly long to cross over into a magical realm where unicorns are real and sticks have magical powers.  Where villians need conquered and princesses need saving.

Mark was able to recapture his birthright.  His imagination.  He didn’t need a high priced shrink or piles of medication.  It would behoove us all to follow in his footsteps.  It shouldn’t take a broken mind to find this magical place.  It takes an open mind.  Completely open.

So without even knowing or realizing it, Mark and his beloved Marwencol has encouraged me to keep digging my way back to the beginning.  For I believe it is THERE where I will find my true path forward.

“I shut my eyes in order to see.”  ~ Paul Gauguin

Maternal Sin

Maternal Sin

(Written by April Trice)

One child is born.

A perfect son.

The mother, fractured.

What’s done is now done.

Another child born.

Again, one more son.

The mother, more fractured

Her descent just begun.

Not ready.

Unsure.

The mother, she pauses.

Two children, so pure

A family dissolves.

How could she?

Who does this?

A mother, unresponsive.

The label: Unfit

Motherhood abolished.

She runs, the mother.

No guilt, only sickness.

A prior life lost.

The plot only thickens.

Away, far away.

The postman comes calling.

For you, Bad Mother

These papers need signing.

A feeble hand signs

Confined to her bed.

A soul signed away.

Come now.

Take your meds.

Opposite of Woe: Giddy Up?

So I broke down and called my pdoc for a med increase.  I’ve been putting it off.  Nothing sucks more than having to tinker around with your head meds, but the wobbles haven’t gotten any better…so it’s up with the Lamictal!  Sometimes I hesitate to ramble about my bouts with depression.  Other times I’m like, “I’m fixin’ to blind ya’ll with science!”

But what’s been my motto…my outspoken creed?  Transparency.  Unfiltered.  Unashamed.  So it doesn’t embarrass me to stand here today and admit that I’ve been so depressed that I cry when a Kotex commercial comes on.  Yeah, I don’t care.  I said it.  Ridicule if you must.  My livin-low homies know what I’m talking about.

I find it amusingly odd that Reader’s Digest always happens to be lying around in places you’d rather not be.  ICU waiting rooms…psych waiting rooms….the Ramada Inn.  But when I was a kid, the first thing I’d do upon spying a Reader’s Digest was go straight for the only decent section…”Laughter, the Best Medicine”.  An old adage, but true.  It tends to unnerve people when they hear depressed or mentally ill people cracking jokes about themselves.  They tend to walk away swiftly, muttering “That is SO wrong. And sad.  Wrong and sad.  I’m going straight home and calling the prayer chain.”

Thankfully, my pdoc has a grand sense of humor and doesn’t mind when I rearrange the faces of her oddly massive collection of Mr. Potato Heads.  She tends to scare people who aren’t dead serious about being well.  She makes no bones about letting you know that the burden of responsibility is on YOU…she’s just there to make sure you’re headed in the right direction with coping skills and mental/emotional balance.  A swell pdoc to be sure!

So…that being said…all ya’ll who just can’t stomach Mental Health Humor…I suggest you turn away.  Go eat a waffle or something.  I ain’t mad atcha.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

* A guy goes to see a psychiatrist at the adamant bidding of his family.  He lays there on the couch and spills his guts, waiting for a profound diagnosis.  The psychiatrist listens closely, taking notes…then sits with a puzzled look upon his face.  After a couple minutes, he looks up with the expression of delight and said:  “”Um, I think your problem is low self-esteem. It is very common among losers.”

*  I’ve always been a hypochondriac. As a little boy, I’d eat my M&M’s one by one with a glass of water.

*  Psychiatrist to his nurse:
Just say we’re very busy. Don’t keep saying it’s a madhouse.

*  Why do you prefer Alzheimer disease to Parkinson disease?
Because it’s better to forget to pay the beer than to spill it.

*  How can you distinguish the staff from the patients in the asylum?
The staff has the door key.

*  Client: “Everybody ignores me. ”
Doctor: “Next, please.”

*  Man goes to doctor. Says he’s depressed. Says life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world, where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. Doctor says the treatment is simple. The great clown Terrifini is in town tonight. Go and see him. That should pick you up. Man bursts into tears: “But doctor . . . I am Terrifini!”

*  Are you Bipolar rapid cycler? Here are my Top 5 Ways to find out.

• #5 –  You love to ride your bike, but only over hills.
• #4 – You try to use the elevator to adjust your mood swings.
• #3 – You are so happy about getting a gift all you do is cry.
• #2 – Your social calendar is broken up into 4 quarters around your moods.
• #1 – You find yourself replacing your break pads every few months because you stop and go, stop and go, stop and go…

The Unpolluted Love of a Child

Sometimes I get sad.  Not as much as I used to…but occasionally, the sad-dog comes and bites my ankles off, leaving me virtually handicapped.  For some whack reason, this time of year is one of the worst..been like that for years.  I’ve learned to stop fighting it and just roll with it.

On top of the sadness comes a big fat dollop of guilt when I think about what kind of effect this has on my daughter.  Am I screwing her up for life?  Condemning her against her will to a lifetime of shrinks, meds and anxiety attacks?  One thing I’ve always bent over backwards to do…be 100% open and honest about my emotions and that no matter what, I love her more than I have words for.

This guilt seems to magnify with each year she grows older and more aware of things.  But last week, that guilt went down a few notches when my daughter tapped my leg and said, “Here you go, Mama.  You go ahead and be sad.  I’m here to love you.”  And she gave me this picture she’d drawn:

What more can a Mama hope for?  Nothing.  I’m ridiculously blessed to have this kid growing up beside me.  And that’s all I have to say about that.

Happy Happy Joy Joy

My daughter will by five years old in September…and there hasn’t been one single solitary day where she hasn’t woke up with a smile on her face.  Not one.  Can you imagine living with that type of happiness?  Sometimes I capture that pure childlike Joy…but it’s always snatched away by grown-up stuff.  I read something recently that said your God-given Joy never leaves you…it simply becomes clouded by worry, stress, anxiety and depression.

I’m fairly certain that childlike Joy is a direct result of being authentic and knowing your true self.  For the past four years, I’ve spent the majority of my time searching for and getting to know my Authentic Self.

Brene Brown says:

“Wholehearted living is about engaging in our lives from a place of worthiness. It means cultivating the courage, compassion, and connection to wake up in the morning and think, No matter what gets done and how much is left undone; I am enough.

It’s going to bed at night thinking, Yes, I am imperfect and vulnerable and sometimes afraid, but that doesn’t change the truth that I am worthy of love and belonging.”

Sounds like a cakewalk…but when the rubber meets the road, self-acceptance and self-love become elusive and misunderstood.  There was a point in my early adult years when I viewed serenity and affirmation like a joke.  And the people who actually believed in those things were obviously void of intelligence.  Now I look back and see those same people as kindred spirits.  People of like-mind.

When my cognitive behavior therapist brought up affirmations as a coping tool and mandatory life skill, I flicked a paper-clip at him, followed by, “Oh please.”  But it turns out, he knew what he was talking about.  He suggested that every single time I had a negative thought….I should stop myself dead in my tracks…and began to repeat this affirmation over and over and over.  Obviously you can do this in your head.  You don’t have to verify your craziness by talking out loud to yourself.

I allow myself to see the true magnitude of my stressors as small & insignificant.

One of the most poignant and obvious examples of affirmations was this one that I said to myself regularly…and still do for that matter:

I attract positive-minded people to me; I draw all things positive to myself.

It wasn’t too long before I began to notice people and circumstances of worth floating into my life on a regular basis.  You know those people you hear about who kicked cancer’s butt or overcame a terminal illness of some type?  In every single one of those cases, it was positive thinking that played a dominant role in their recovery.

When MSNBC’s Your Total Health interviewed me a few months ago about how I managed to live a successful and abundant life with Bipolar, I was quick to passionately point out the effectiveness of cognitive behavioral therapy.  So many people suffering from any type of mental illness want a quick fix.  A pill to fix the pain.  A pill to numb the past.  A passing grade without doing the work.  I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t wanted those things for myself.

CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy) is 100% effective…if you do the work.  One of the main things that used to trigger a depressive down-spin was my own self-loathing.  Telling myself I was nothing.  Unworthy.  Unfit.  It didn’t help that people were verifying these thoughts by pointing out that I was, indeed, unworthy, unfit, less-than.

So when I sat down for the first time with my CBT therapist, I was shocked when he asked, “So what is it that you wish to accomplish by coming here?”  What?!  Where’s my pill?  Who do I make the check out to?  I didn’t actually want to DO anything.  I had homework after the first appointment!  What kind of crackpot nonsense was THIS?!

But as I began to do the work, I began to feel a shift.  It was almost as if I was actively re-programming myself.  I guess in essence, I actually WAS.  It seems ludicrous to tell a severely depressed person, “Chin up!  Life is good!  Happy thoughts!”  It’s a wonder these therapists aren’t beaten with a stethoscope by their agitated patients.

Breathing techniques?  Really?  You can’t be serious.  I highly doubt that THOUGHTS cause our feelings and behaviors, not external things, like people, situations and events.  I demand to see credentials!

CBT forces you to dig to the nasty core of who you are and start dredging up your entire past…looking it square in the face…acknowledging it…taking responsibility for it…then letting it go.  You’re asked questions…forcing you to be in complete control of your well-being.  Then you’re encouraged to ask questions of yourself.

Let’s say you’re at work…and just as you are passing the water cooler, your co-workers bust out laughing.  You spend the rest of the day fretting that they were laughing at YOU.  What had YOU done that deserved to be mocked openly?  These thoughts quickly pick up steam and leave you exhausted, angry, paranoid and depressed by the end of the work-day.

Instead of these negative reactions, CBT teaches you to look at things from a different perspective.  How do I really know those people were laughing at me? Could they be laughing at something else?  I had a hard time with this technique initially…and it’s still one that requires brow sweat.  But I’ve learned that when I remove emotions from the equation, I’m able to rationally problem solve without the drama.

If you happened to saunter into a CBT session in progress, you’d probably think that there were just two people shooting the bull.  Sometimes I assumed the same thing.  Then I’d get halfway down the road and be like, “OOOHHH….I got therapatized!  That dirty rat!”

In that first CBT session, I set a final goal for myself.  When I reached that goal and heard my therapist say, “You’re ready”….I felt exactly that.  Ready.  CBT is constant work.  Constant.  If you want to be symptom-free…then you HAVE to commit to the work. And you HAVE to maintain a maintenance schedule with your therapist.

The wallpaper on my cellphone has a retro housewife cheerfully declaring, “I used to care, but now I take a pill for that.”  Not a true statement…just looking at things with a warped sense of humor.  Your sense of humor is your secret weapon that can be used to guide you in a positive direction or set others at ease about your disease.

So many people feel that mental illness should be talking about in hushed tones. And if you actually ARE mentally ill, you sure as snot don’t admit to it! What..are you sick or something?  You can’t sub at the school anymore, you crazy nut-job!  But I do talk about it.  I’m open like a can ‘o worms at a fishing hole. I want Cali to know that being open and positive about most everything is highly beneficial.

Research has shown that a mother’s depression and negative attitude has a direct and profound impact on their child.  These children often have trouble sustaining healthy relationships.  They struggle with appropriate bonding.  They tend to be temperamental and unable to control and regulate their own behavior.  As these children grow, they begin to show signs of their mother’s illness….which usually ends with a diagnosis of mental instability.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  It becomes a cycle.

Depression is overpowering on both sides of my birth parent’s families.  I pretty much got tag-teamed by the crazy gene.  It used to make me angry…like I got ripped off by the gods.  A life-sentence of insanity.  But I don’t see it like that any more.  I see myself in complete and total control of my own situation…hell bent on breaking the cycle.

So on those days when I’m flogging myself and doubting my maternal abilities…I look at my daughter.  A child who wakes up smiling every single day and doesn’t stop.  Even when things are yucky.  A child who reeks of self-confidence and self-assurance.  In short…an extraordinarily well-adjusted kid with a stellar sense of humor.  I’d like to think all of my hard work to stay “well” has something to do with that.

Now excuse me while I try to convince her that eating Popsicles for breakfast while naked is probably something that should wait until college.

Cracks

Cracks

I feel comfortable

Here.

This place.

Maybe not comfortable.

But definatley not scared.

My Grandma is

Here.

She drinks too much.

Tries to hurt her self.

It’s safe for her

Here.

The state of Ohio says so.

I don’t see patients

Shuffling.

Blank.

Lost.

I don’t smell their rank unbathed bodies.

The stale urine.

Baby powder.

I see through the cracks.

I am only a child.

But I see them.

What they could have been.

What they want to be.

What they’ll never be.

I can almost hear

Their silent screams.

(written by April Trice)

Deluded

Deluded (written by April Trice)

I was keeper of the underworld.

There to guide you through your

Afterlife.

Your own personal night watchman!

The cards tell me this.

The dead send me messages through the computer.

I print them out,

Highlighting the important letters.

Words.

Yes.

Yes.

I will give the message.

I’m cold.

I’m shaking.

I’m singing

“I’ve Got Sunshine”.

What?

There’s no sunshine in my world.

No warmth.

No nourishment.

Only deluded madness.

Illness Progressed

Illness Progressed (written by April Trice)

There’s a hole in my ceiling.

It’s there because I thought there were cameras installed.

To listen.

To watch what I was doing.

I went into the attic

Searching desperately

For a camera that didn’t exist.

I took a screwdriver

And a flashlight.

Making the hole bigger.

Shining the light.

Searching.

Nothing.

Noone was here.

I was alone.

Me.

And my decrepit mind.

Sgt. John Russell

(Original article dated May 13, 2009 – whimsydreams.net)

Since this wretched war began, I’ve heard countless people make the comment, “It’ll take a violent tragedy for the United States Military to give veterans adequate mental health treatment.” Why in the hell does it always take an act of violence for people to start paying attention? With every single homicide, murder, suicide, etc….there have always been signs of stress and disturbance before the incident. Signs that had been over-looked or deemed inconsequential.

It’s no different with Sgt. John Russell. A military man who had given 15 years of service to the United States Army. It was mental stress that placed him in a mental health facility located within Camp Liberty in Baghdad six weeks shy of wrapping up his third tour of duty in Iraq. And it was in this clinic that five men lost their lives, not to the perils of war, but at the hand of a fellow comrade. A comrade who had obviously shown enough emotional and mental distress to be transferred to Camp Liberty by his superior officers.

The military screams in the faces of its recruits to show toughness in the face of weakness. To never show signs of fear. To never cry. To always maintain a facade of mental and physical strength. It is precisely THIS mentality that needs to be addressed. Last November, Army Secretary Pete Geren said combating the stigma of mental illness “is a challenge” throughout American society, especially in the Army “where we have a premium on strength, physically, mentally, emotionally.”

Stigma: A mark of social disgrace. And what is society? A community, nation, or broad grouping of people having common traditions, institutions, and collective activities and interests. Our society has created the very conditions that have become a cesspool for mental afflictions. We are expected to out-perform our neighbors, co-workers, friends and family. Society places a gold medal around the necks of those who live a markedly priviledged life with no sign of weakness or mental affliction, expecting the rest of society to match these standards to be deemed respectable and strong. So is our society one that has “common” traditions and “collective” activities and interests? Uh, no. We’re a society divided. Divided by prejudice, stigmas, entitlement and bias.

It seems unforgivable that the men and women who risk their lives to ensure our safety are treated the worst when it comes to healthcare and quality of life. How many times have we heard, “This war is like no other.” People are coming home…YOUNG people…kids…missing arms and legs, with major brain trauma resulting in paralysis. But aside from these obvious injuries there are ones that are just assevere and life-threatening. That being Combat Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Families across this nation are describing their husbands, wives and children returning as completely different people. People who had previously been gentle, soft-spoken and kind are coming home violent, depressed, angry and suicidal. And it’s not just one or two. It’s hundreds. I believe the official count is 1.7 million. 1.7 million people living in excrutiating, mental anguish without the proper care and treatment. Now, those 1.7 million people have families which would double, if not triple, those numbers.

I’m so sick of hearing the U.S. Military giving the same repetitive answers to these increasing tragedies stemming from PTSD. “U.S. Military to re-visit mental-care system after 5 killings.” Why not BEFORE 5 killings?! If a soldier came home with an arm injury and you neglected it, the arm would eventually fall off. Now let’s get juvenile and pretend that for every arm that was neglected, five more perfectly healthy arms suffered the same fate. If this was taking place, facilities would be shut down and doctors would be stripped of their credentials. How is Mental Healthcare any different?

According to several reports, Sgt. John Russell was showing signs of distress long before he was taken against his will to the Camp Victory facility. Could this tragedy have been prevented? It’s hard to say. But what IS known is the less-than-adequate mental support by the U.S. Military. These men and women are mentally being placed in the middle of a war with no gun or protection, figuratively speaking. Alot of these soldiers receive divorce papers and lose their families while deployed. There is virtually no type of legal or mental support for these types of occurences, which are becoming more and more frequent.

Maybe some good will come of this tragedy. We are re-writing history in so many areas, why not in the way we treat and council members of the military along with their families? If the stigma is so volatile, then why isn’t it being aggresively addressed? The U.S. Military’s number one fact of Combat PTSD is “Traumas happen to many competent, healthy, strong, good people.” Yet these traumatized soldiers receive inadequate healthcare. Things just don’t add up.

I’m always skeptical about investigations being launched after a tragedy of this magnitude. Maybe if proper education and precaution were taken, we could have avoided this type of thing altogether. I’m sure more military men and women would be more apt to seek treatment for their mental issues if they weren’t labelled as “weak” by their own.

“The day soldiers stop bringing you their problems is the day you have stopped leading them. They have either lost confidence that you can help them or concluded that you do not care. Either case is a failure of leadership.” ~Colin Powell