A Normal, Tranquil State of Mind

What is that like?

Today's newsletter is sponsored by Best Day Brewing, a non-alcoholic beer born in Northern California and crafted for doers everywhere. Because life is full of moments that deserve a great beer, but not the booze. Have a Best Day throughout Dry January — and beyond. Scroll to the end to learn more about Best Day's Dry January contest, the Best You Yet Adventure.

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eu·​thy·​mia \ yü-ˈthī-mē-ə

A normal, tranquil mental state or mood specifically: a stable mental state or mood in those affected with bipolar disorder that is neither manic nor depressive … there were no significant differences among groups in the rates of durable recovery, defined as 8 consecutive weeks of euthymia without a switch to mania or hypomania.

— Mark A. Frye, The New England Journal of Medicine, 6 Jan. 2011

Ever since I was a boy, younger than 10, I felt depression inside me, but I also lacked the language nor the interest in sharing about it with medical professionals for fear of — I don’t know what. I guess I feared what other people close to me would say about me, like my parents. And if my parents knew, then who would they tell? I wanted people in my life, so I didn’t want to emit either danger or disgrace. Later in my teens, I sought outside help, but I primarily began to rely upon drugs or serial monogamy for stability. But something creepy has always run through me, brook-like, and I wonder if it will ever be under control.

It should be noted that when The Small Bow began in 2018, I was not medicated yet. That came about in 2019 after I had a run of dark thoughts and admitted to my then-therapist that I was feeling suicidal. The entire exchange went something like, “Do you feel like you’re going to hurt yourself?” I thought I answered it vaguely enough but also truthfully enough not to lie, but my answer was also alarming enough for the therapist to intervene. She called my wife and asked her to pick me up from the office to take me right to the hospital. When we arrived at the emergency room, I wanted to leave. If we did, Julieanne made me promise to get a psychiatrist as soon as we got home.

After a lengthy consultation, my psychiatrist, Dr. Bobak, and I decided we liked each other enough to work on a plan to make me better. She diagnosed me with bipolar II disorder, which is a fairly common diagnosis for people like me, someone with a history of gloominess, moodiness, and peculiar behavior. She prescribed me medication to help with the mania and the depression and take it from there.

This is the most up-to-date history of what we’ve done so far:

2019: 50 > 125mg of Lamictal and 5mg of Abilify per day.

2020-2021: Ditched the Abilify because of the panic attacks, then switched to 150mg of Lamictal, 25mg of Seroquel, and 200mg of Gabapentin. I stopped the Seroquel because it made me droopy and sludgy. She upped the Lamictal dosage to 175mg.

2022 - present: We upped to 250mg of Lamictal and 300mg–600mg of Gabapentin, but the 250 of Lamictal gave me a neck rash and, more panic attacks and some temper tantrums. We knocked it back down to 200mg and used 2.5mg of Zyprexa for the moments I really wanted to hurt myself or others. Some days I pop a shit-ton of Gabapentin to keep my nerves and my anger down, which I’m told isn’t great and that Gabs can mimic real-deal drugs if I take too much.

Recently, due to some increased depressive bouts, Dr. Bobak has suggested I try lithium, but I don’t know. Something about lithium frightens me.

I have written about this topic many times in this newsletter, but I assure you it doesn’t get any less embarrassing or uncomfortable. It’s helpful for some who read it, especially others who may be embarrassed or uncomfortable talking about it, especially when medication is involved in treatment. For our next “What It’s Like…” segment, I hoped we could all exchange information about those experiences.

For our next installment of What It’s Like — what’s your meds story? Have you had a positive or negative experience? Tell us all about why you started taking it and how long.

All contributors will remain anonymous (obv).

Please keep contributions to under 500 words.

Send your stories here: tsbcheckins@thesmallbow.com

Subject: MY MEDICATED LIFE

Anyone who submits gets three free months of TSB Sundays. – AJD

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ALL ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDITH ZIMMERMAN

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More On Bipolar Disorder:

An interview with author Jaime Lowe, about her book “Mental”

I’m having trouble with how to be open about my mental illness. I don’t know what to tell people because they get so freaked out when I say I’m being treated for bipolar disorder. How do I get more comfortable with who I am and what it’s about?

If you’re having trouble with being open about it, that’s totally ok. No one said you have to be open about it. A lot of people aren’t and that’s fine. If you want to tell someone or explain your behaviors or try to open up about it, I would say trust your instincts. If you trust the person, they’ll more than likely understand and want to know anyway. I’ve always been surprised by how many people really want to talk about mental health — their own and that of their loved ones. Most people have been affected in some way: either someone close has experienced some form of mental illness or they have. And generally, there aren’t enough spaces to honestly share stories and talk about it, so finding other people can be really helpful, all around, and that starts with opening up about it. Also, it takes time to get used to it and to fold it into the long list of things that may or may not ‘define’ you. Time, and getting used to being bipolar, makes you more comfortable in general.

The Diagnosis of Bipolar Can Mean So Many Things

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More On Depression:

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MORE IN THE “WHAT IT’S LIKE” SERIES:

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This is The Small Bow newsletter. It is mainly written and edited by A.J. Daulerio. And Edith Zimmerman always illustrates it. We send it out every Tuesday and Friday.

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ZOOM MEETING SCHEDULE

Monday: 5:30 p.m. PT/ 8:30 p.m ET

Wednesday: 10 a.m. PT/1 p.m. ET

Thursday: 10 a.m PT/1 p.m. ET (Women and non-binary meeting.)

Friday: 10 a.m. PT/1 p.m. ET

Saturday: Mental Health Focus (Peer support for bipolar/anxiety/depression) 9:30 a.m. PT/12:30 p.m. ET

Sunday: (Mental Health and Sobriety Support Group.) 1:00 p.m PT/4 p.m. ET

*****

If you don't feel comfortable calling yourself an "alcoholic," that's fine. If you have issues with sex, food, drugs, codependency, love, loneliness, depression —whatever-whatever–come on in. Newcomers are especially welcome. We’re here.

FORMAT: CROSSTALK, TOPIC MEETING

We're there for an hour, sometimes more. We'd love to have you.

Meeting ID: 874 2568 6609

PASSWORD TO ZOOM: nickfoles

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A POEM ON THE WAY OUT:

Zoloft

by Maggie Dietz

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Two weeks into the bottle of pills, I'd remember
exiting the one-hour lens grinder at Copley Square—
the same store that years later would be blown
back and blood-spattered by a backpack
bomb at the marathon. But this was back when
terror happened elsewhere. I walked out
wearing the standard Boston graduate student
wire-rims, my first-ever glasses, and saw little people
in office tower windows working late under fluorescent
lights. File cabinets with drawer seams blossomed
wire bins, and little hands answered little black
telephones, rested receivers on bloused shoulders—
real as the tiny flushing toilets, the paneled wainscotting
and armed candelabras I gasped at as a child in
the miniature room at the Art Institute in Chicago.

It was October and I could see the edges
of everything—where the branches had been a blur
of fire, now there were scalloped oak leaves, leathery
maple five-points plain as on the Canadian flag.
When the wind lifted the leaves the trees went pale,
then dark again, in waves. Exhaling manholes,
convenience store tiled with boxed cigarettes
and gum, the BPL's forbidding fixtures lit
to their razor tips and Trinity's windows holding
individual panes of glass between bent metal like
hosts in a monstrance. It was wonderful. It made me
horribly sad.

It was the same
years later with the pills. As I walked across
the field, the usual field, to the same river, I felt
a little burst of joy when the sun cleared a cloud.
It was fricking Christmas, and I was five years old!
I laughed out loud, picked up my pace: the sun
was shining on me, on the trees, on the whole
damn world. It was exhilarating. And sad,
that sham. Nothing had changed. Or
I had. But who wants to be that kind of happy?
The lenses, the doses. Nothing should be that easy.

— “Poetry Foundation”

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