Bipolar Disorder (FD)

Assignment for Composition II (FD)
Initially entered as a draft (12-7-13), updated and opened to public view.
After knowledge received in recent classes, I consider this more of a rough draft. As I do not plan on making changes, the official status is Final Draft.

This is a researched essay tied in with personal experience.

I was diagnosed with unipolar depression at the age of ten. Unipolar depression is the type of depression that most people are familiar with. Unipolar depression is a deep pit filled with sticky, tar-like dysphoria that feels impossible to escape from. I went through several different antidepressants, some with ill-effects, before I ended up in the hospital at age sixteen. I had been on a specific antidepressant for about a year. I felt that it had been working well for me until I began having hypomanic and psychotic episodes. I would wake up in the morning feeling sublime and go through my day brimming with energy.  An endless stream of words would spill forth from my mouth as I jiggled in my seat during class discussions. Sometime during the evening something in my mind would shatter, though. Everything was wrong, the world was against me, or there were demons trying to claw their way out of my head. There was so much energy built up inside of me that I would just scream until the electric whirlwind of emotion swirling inside me abated.  My mom witnessed one of these episodes and decided I needed to be hospitalized. My first stay in the adolescent psychiatric ward truly unsettled me.

 

I weave my way through the brightly lit corridor, squinting my eyes against the abrasive light given off by humming fluorescent bulbs. Every time my heart beats, a stabbing pain shoots through my temples in response. I do not want to be awake. I certainly do not enjoy having been forced from my temporary room. I recall the murky events of the previous day as I pad into the common area for breakfast.

The click of the door opening had pulled me from slumber. My doctor seated himself on the bed opposite my own. My back was to him, but I couldn't get my body to respond well enough to roll over. I mumbled a nearly incoherent response when asked if I was awake.

"You can't leave until you begin attending therapy sessions. You have to get out of bed." These words swam around my barely conscious mind. My body felt so heavy. I finally forced myself to roll over and face the doctor, though. I waded through my thick-as-molasses brain to access an appropriate response to the doctor.

"I'm tired. I can't move. I think it's too much."

Though it was a vague response, I believe the psychiatrist understood what I meant by "too much." The next set of pills delivered to me was slightly different. By dinner that evening, I felt that my brain had reconnected with my body well enough to peel myself away from the bed. Directly after dinner, staff members began setting up the television for "movie night." I was called to the counter for my evening medication several minutes after the G-rated movie began to cast its flickering light over the audience. I recognized the pill that rattled around in the little plastic cup I was handed.

"I don't want a sleeping pill. I just woke up."

"You have to take it. Doctor says you have to take it. No discussion. No arguing." I understood the nurse saw me as just another troubled teenager looking for a fight. There was no way I could express my fears to her. No way would she understand that after being pseudo-comatose for nearly two days, I did not want to take anything that would exacerbate the foggy drowsiness that still enveloped my mind.

I swallowed the pill with a gulp and trudged back to my seat. The colorful flickering soon began to blur. My eyes watered profusely as I attempted to regain my focus. The images on the screen came in and out of focus several times before I gave in. I stood up shakily and meandered through the small crowd with my arms stretched out for balance. While slowly making my way back to my room, I noticed my head felt incredibly light. I thought I would float away like a helium balloon if not for my leaden body. Darkness swallowed me the moment I collapsed on the bed.

"Sidney!"

            I pull myself from yesterday's memories and gaze about. A disgruntled nurse peers at me from behind the nurses' station desk. I scramble over as quickly as my leaden body will allow. Disgruntled Nurse greets me by thrusting a pill cup in my direction while using her free hand to snag my wrist and check my identification bracelet. Though I am still hung over from the sleeping pill, I am more aware than I have been in two days. This is the first time I've taken a moment to look at these specific pills. I know immediately what one of them is. It's the antidepressant I've been taking for the past year. The other is not familiar to me at all.

"What am I taking?" I ask the nurse in my most polite voice.

"Pristiq and Geodon," Disgruntled Nurse hastily replies before calling the next name on her chart.

I vaguely recall the doctor giving me an overview of the new medication and the reasons for which it was prescribed. I believe he stated that he was prescribing me an antipsychotic because I was showing signs of early bipolar disorder. My antidepressant, working alone, was beginning to hinder rather than help.

The next two days I spend in the adolescent psychiatric ward are identical to each other. I wake up in a fog and lumber to the common area for breakfast. I take my morning medications, and then head back to my room to shower and attempt to shed my remaining daze. I get three hour-long reprieves throughout the day; the first one is after breakfast, the second is after lunch, and the final one occurs right before lights out. The rest of my days are filled with various styles of therapy. There is a one-on-one session, group talk-therapy sessions, art therapy, group anger management courses, and a visit from a therapy dog. Though my body still feels slightly leaden and I'm feeling dizzy occasionally, I make it through both days fully conscious. My doctor releases me partway through my fifth day in the adolescent psychiatric ward. I feel as though I have been handed a hardly legible map and two gallons of water, set upon a raft of questionable durability, and released upon the open ocean.

Once released, I spend a quiet evening at home. I have school, along with stacks of make-up homework to pick up, the next day. I try to get as much relaxation in as possible. After dinner, I shower then read for several hours before heading to bed a little later than I should. Life is supposed to return to normal tomorrow.

I awake to the grating sound of my phone ringing. It is my father calling to tell me he is leaving to pick me up in ten minutes. My heart races as I try to piece my scattered mind together. I clumsily gather clothes for the day and head to the bathroom to clean up. After spending a few minutes brushing my teeth, washing my face, and putting my clothes on, I turn to head to the living room. I am barely across the bathroom threshold when the edges of my vision darkens and I feel my body slacken. The next thing I am aware of is a wave of nausea hitting me as the room swirls back into view. I can hear my phone ringing, but I cannot yet comprehend what I am supposed to do with that knowledge. I curl up on the floor in tears feeling as if I’m right back where I was the night I was admitted into the hospital. My raft has developed a gaping hole and I have no idea how to plug it.

            My doctor explains to me the next day that it was most likely the new medication affecting my blood pressure, causing me to pass out. Only seven days after I have begun my new medication, it is already being changed. Instead of an antipsychotic, I am going to be taking a mood stabilizer. The hole has essentially been patched up for me, and I will be at sea again in no time.

            This experience left me anxious about taking psychiatric medications. Not only was I terrified after blacking out, dealing with some of the lesser side effects was frustrating. I was left out of decisions pertaining to my health care because I was a minor. No one explained to me in detail the reasons I was being medicated, nor how I was supposed to cope with what little information I was given. Most of the therapy sessions I had attended were aimed toward adolescents with anger, alcohol, and drug problems. I felt as if I had been grouped together with a gaggle of misbehaving delinquents and did not receive the proper kind of attention. My recollections of this event prompted me to research alternative treatments for bipolar spectrum disorders. I wanted to find out if there is a better way of treating bipolar disorder than mere medications and ill-aimed therapy.

            Bipolar disorder is a complex mental illness. Even as a person living with a bipolar spectrum disorder, there is a lot I do not understand about it. I have just one of several different types of bipolar disorder. I was initially diagnosed with cyclothymia, and later “upgraded” to bipolar disorder type II. The bipolar spectrum includes BD I, BD II, cyclothymia, and some less severe mood dysregulation disorders. Each of these bipolar spectrum mood disorders consist of alternating periods of extreme euphoria (mania or hypomania), depression, euthymia (balanced mood state), and mixed states. The most common treatment for bipolar spectrum disorders is pharmacotherapy (Leahy 419-422). Pharmacotherapy is the treatment of a medical, or in this case psychiatric, ailment with medication. I was first prescribed an antidepressant and an antianxiety medication, then had an antipsychotic added on later. As the antipsychotic did not work well for me, it was replaced by the more commonly prescribed mood stabilizer. Usually, the first medication prescribed is an antidepressant. Bipolar disorder is commonly misdiagnosed as unipolar depression because patients overlook manic and hypomanic symptoms (Swartz, Levenson, and Frank 146). Antidepressants are known to trigger mania and/or exacerbate mood cycling (Leahy 420).  Once it is understood that a patient has bipolar disorder, a mood stabilizer is usually prescribed. Mood stabilizers calm activity in the brain, relieving much of the mood dysregulation. In more severe cases, an antipsychotic will be prescribed. Antipsychotics treat psychosis and agitation. Oftentimes, a sedative is prescribed for insomnia. Common side effects of these medications include tremors, weight gain, thyroid dysfunction, and elevated liver enzymes (Sarris, Lake, and Hoenders 883). According to Robert L. Leahy, “Pharmacological treatment is typically essential for bipolar disorder.” He also states that, “For many years in mental health, there was an accepted “wisdom” that bipolar disorder was a biological illness that simply required lithium (a common mood stabilizer). This all-or-nothing view has since been eclipsed by the development of effective psychological treatments used in conjunction with biological treatments (418-419).” This means that though medication is highly recommended for patients with bipolar disorder, there are other treatments available.

            It seems that my psychiatrist was following a well-worn path. He prescribed to me the usual medications to alleviate my mood dysregulation symptoms. He did not continue with the recommended path, though. Contrary to the fact that pharmacotherapy is the “first line of treatment” for bipolar disorder, the overall success of treating bipolar disorder with only medication is “moderate.”(Parikh, et al. 483) Nearly all of my research suggests that patients seek a form of therapy designed for mood disorders. There are three styles of therapy geared toward bipolar patients that are highly favored by mental health professionals. These therapies include cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), interpersonal and social rhythm therapy (IPSRT), and family focused therapy (FFT). These are often used after, or in conjunction with, psychoeducation (PE) (Leahy 420; Parikh, et al. 483). Both CBT and IPSRT work towards a goal of being able to manage symptoms of bipolar disorder. Both therapies are also constructed with the assumption that the patient will be taking medication to relieve the more severe symptoms of the disorder (Frank 465). I find it unusual that my psychiatrist did not offer to refer me to a therapist specializing in any of these styles of therapy. I feel that I would have benefitted from learning more about my mental illness and developing coping skills.

Once I was released from the structured environment of the hospital, I reverted back to the lifestyle I was living before. My lifestyle motto was “go with the flow”, a far cry from any sort of schedule. Ellen Frank states that, “Stabilizing social rhythms is a key aspect of the management of mood symptoms (466).” Regardless of the patient’s pharmacotherapy status, learning to cope with a life-long mood disorder is pertinent. Frank emphasizes this by explaining the importance of circadian rhythms. We were once ruled by the rising and setting of the sun. Because of the many technological and societal changes the world has undergone, this is no longer true for everyone. Work, recreational activities, and social obligations are constantly altering our schedules. People with a predisposition to mood disorders are affected by these small shifts far more than the general population. It is more difficult for people with bipolar disorder to recover from cogs in the system (464). CBT and IPSRT both provide tools for dealing with such occurrences. I had no such tools and was already in a weakened mental state from my abrupt rhythm alteration. Once I was faced with a strong negative emotion, the fear and anxiety brought on from suddenly blacking out, my tentative hold on my emotions was broken.

Being able to deal with strong emotions is an important aspect of coping with bipolar disorder. I had previously allowed myself to be mowed-over by any strong emotion. Cognitive behavioral therapy focuses on thought processes and behaviors. Patients are taught to recognize and monitor mood swings. They are then taught how to use this knowledge and apply coping techniques. Patients learn how to gauge how much stimulation they should have depending on whether they are entering a manic or depressive state. Problem solving skills are taught along with methods of viewing the problems in a less stressful way. Patients also learn how to decipher when and why they need to seek professional help. The “cognitive restructuring” aspect of CBT challenges dysfunctional beliefs (Parikh, et al. 486). Interpersonal and social rhythm therapy focuses more on forming routines and improving satisfaction with social relationships. Though the focus is forming healthy lifestyle habits, IPSRT does involve learning the same coping skills that CBT teaches (Swartz, Levenson, and Frank 149). Both styles of therapy aim to teach the patient how to cope with the mood fluctuations that pharmacotherapy cannot completely abate. Patients who lack the skills and knowledge of how to handle difficulties or stressors are more likely to end up requiring hospitalization (Leahy 421). Without the knowledge and skills provided by these therapies, I did end up requiring hospitalization about nine months after I was released the first time.

Sometime after my diagnosis, I was faced with the possibility that I would have to be medicated for bipolar disorder for the remainder of my life. Not only did I feel slightly broken because of this knowledge, I was greatly disappointed that I would have to deal with the side effects for a lifetime as well. During my research, I also found a few alternative methods patients use that are referred to as complementary and alternative medicines (CAM). These are either used in conjunction with, or instead of, medication prescribed by a doctor. Up to fifty percent of psychiatric patients seek CAM therapies. These therapies include, but are not limited to, acupuncture, naturopathy, and medicinal herbs. Research on supplement therapies even found that certain regions with high fish consumption had lower rates of bipolar disorder. They believe this is linked to the higher consumption of fatty and amino acids (Sarris, Lake, and Hoenders 881-885). I’ve theorized that patients are more comfortable with these more natural remedies because they lack the same side effects that psychiatric medications commonly produce.  Taking a herbal supplement may also seem less daunting than having to fill multiple prescriptions. According to the National Comorbidity Survey Replication, sixty-one percent of patients with bipolar disorder did not meet the minimum suggested treatment requirements (Gruber, Jane, and Persons 17). Refusal to take psychiatric medication seems to be a common issue among those affected by bipolar disorder. I became especially disenchanted with pharmaceuticals after my hospitalization experiences.  This is a good argument for pushing alternative therapies.

Though medication is highly recommended for bipolar patients, it seems that specific forms of therapy are of equal, if not greater, importance. Therapy supplies patients with important knowledge and skills. My aunt, Cathy Johnson, is a licensed mental health counselor. She was aghast at the concept of coping with bipolar disorder without medication. She claims that because bipolar disorder is believed to be a dysregulation of certain chemicals in the brain, it requires a chemical assist to cope with. Johnson clarified that the need for medication does not detract from the importance of therapy, though. Education about the illness itself and ways to handle it are important. Apparently therapy is also a convenient way to keep track of a patient’s moods and get them help if they are not handling a situation well. If I had known more about bipolar disorder and the possible reactions to the drugs I was prescribed, I may not have been so put off by my experience. I would have greatly benefited from therapy that pertained to my specific issues. Being caught off guard in a stressful scenario right after being discharged caused me to relapse. Perhaps if I had been taught coping mechanisms, I would have been able to handle the situation better.

All of my resources tout pharmacotherapy, but many of them also emphasize that medication is not a cure-all. My coworker, Christy Kaczmarczyk, was originally diagnosed with BD I twelve years ago. She claims that pharmacotherapy has been a God-send, but that medication was not biggest aspect of her healing. She has attended many different styles of therapy and gained a lot of insight about herself and her illness from it. Though Christy dislikes the side effects from her medications and her moods still fluctuate, she claims those things are worth dealing with. Bipolar disorder is not simple or easy to manage. It requires a lot of work, a lot of knowledge, and patience. These are all things one cannot gain through a pill. Though the possible “faulty regulation” of adrenaline, serotonin, and dopamine may be eased through medication, life does not stop being complex or frustrating (Encyclopedia Britannica). Successful treatment of bipolar disorder requires both pharmacotherapy and alternative therapies.

 

Works Cited

Encyclopedia Britannica. “Bipolar Disorder.” Encyclopedia Britannica Online Academic   Edition. 

Encyclopedia Britannica Inc., 2013. Web. 25 Nov. 2013.

Frank, Ellen. "Interpersonal And Social Rhythm Therapy: A Means Of Improving Depression       And Preventing Relapse In Bipolar Disorder." Journal Of Clinical Psychology 63.5        (2007): 463-473. Academic Search Premier. Web. 19 Nov. 2013.

Gruber, June, and Jacqueline B. Persons. "Unquiet Treatment: Handling Treatment Refusal In      Bipolar Disorder." Journal Of Cognitive Psychotherapy 24.1 (2010): 16-25.             Academic Search Premier. Web. 13 Nov. 2013.

Johnson, Cathy. Personal interview. 30 Nov. 2013.

Kaczmarczyk, Christy. Personal interview. 29 Nov. 2013.

Leahy, Robert L. "Bipolar Disorder: Causes, Contexts, And Treatments." Journal Of Clinical       Psychology             63.5 (2007): 417-424. Academic Search Premier. Web. 19 Nov. 2013.

Parikh, Sagar V., et al. "Psychosocial Interventions For Bipolar Disorder And Coping Style             Modification: Similar Clinical Outcomes, Similar Mechanisms?." Canadian Journal Of     Psychiatry 58.8 (2013): 482-486. Academic Search Premier. Web. 13 Nov. 2013.

Sarris, Jerome, James Lake, and Rogier Hoenders. "Bipolar Disorder And Complementary            Medicine: Current Evidence, Safety Issues, And Clinical Considerations." Journal Of            Alternative &             Complementary Medicine 17.10 (2011): 881-890. Academic Search             Premier. Web. 14 Nov. 2013.

Swartz, Holly A., Jessica C. Levenson, and Ellen Frank. "Psychotherapy For Bipolar II Disorder:             The Role Of           Interpersonal And Social Rhythm Therapy." Professional Psychology:        Research And Practice 43.2   (2012): 145-153. PsycARTICLES. Web. 11 Nov. 2013.

Finding a Zipper Amidst the Wool

Written for Composition II
11/11/13

                                                                             

When I was nineteen, and four months into a relationship with a man ten years older than myself, I found myself faced with impending motherhood. The moment that second line showed up on the pregnancy test, I panicked. I had no idea what I was supposed to do. There was absolutely no way I was prepared for this. I waited for Jerry to come back upstairs from the laundry room. The minutes ticked by as I attempted to hold back the torrent of tears and quell the swell of anxiety. The moment Jerry walked into the room, the sobs erupted from me. I garbled some unintelligible explanation as I waved the positive pregnancy test in front of his eyes. When I calmed down enough to have a conversation, we discussed our options. Jerry already had two kids. It was the money that concerned him the most, though. I wasn’t sure what to do. Near the end of the discussion, he said the one thing that truly made up my mind.

            “Whatever you decide, I will be there for you. If we keep the baby, I will help you. You will not have to do this alone.”

            On Valentine’s Day 2012, Xaiden Vaughn Dudley was born without complications. I cried for thirty minutes straight. I held Xaiden, a scrunched-up little man, not recognizing him. He did not feel like my son. I did not feel like a mother. Thus began my descent into post-partum depression. I knew I needed help. I would wake up to the sobs of my child and weep for several minutes, lost in anguish, before scraping myself out of bed. Though the help I truly needed was emotional, I also needed assistance in the physical world.

            Shortly before I gave birth, Jerry and I moved into a house with two of Jerry’s coworkers. I wasn’t completely content with the situation, but it was a great way to obtain a place a bit nicer than we could afford on our own. Xaiden and I had been home from the hospital for about three days when my family began insisting on coming over. I had not initiated contact with anyone, and had refused any and all help offered. They came over in shifts; first my mom, then my sister, then finally my dad. My father was furious. The trash in the kitchen was overflowing. The dishes in the sink were beginning to smell rancid. The linoleum was so sticky it felt as if, practically glued to the sole of your shoe, it would peel off the floor beneath with each step taken.

            “You have to get these boys to clean the kitchen. I will not have my daughter, and especially not my grandson, living like this. It is unsanitary and unsafe. If they do not clean it, I’m going to remove you and Xaiden from this cesspool.” When Brian Sivill says something, he absolutely means it. So I finally asked for help. I asked Jerry to get everyone to pitch in to clean the kitchen. I had been running on three hours of broken sleep a day. There was no way I would have been capable of tackling a mess that large and still manage to eat, let alone sleep. After an entire day without progress went by, I mentioned it to Jerry again. I noted that the muscle in his jaw that twitched when he was angry was wriggling about as he stared at the television screen.

            “You’re here all day while I’m at work. Why can’t you do it?” Jerry asked. I was instantly furious, but remained silent for the moment.

The next day, I made a flat out complaint. “I am tired. No, not tired; I am absolutely exhausted and I haven’t showered in four days. I literally have four dirty dishes in the sink. I was in the hospital for three and a half days, and I can promise you that the multitude of beer cans littering the kitchen floor do not belong to me. Do the damn dishes or get someone else to do them.” I returned to the couch to tend to Xaiden, who was fussing in his bouncer. All of a sudden, I heard banging and crashing from the kitchen. I peered over my shoulder and watched Jerry toss dirty pots and pans across the small counter space. He was so angry; I wouldn’t have been surprised if I had seen heat waves wafting from him. Forty-five minutes of crashing, banging, and muttered curses later, the dishes were clean. At least the dishes were clean. This was the only time Jerry ever washed dishes, and it was brought up in nearly every argument we had. He is an angel because he washed the dishes for me. Even after I spent the next day scrubbing every last cranny in the kitchen, he remained the angel.

Months later, we were evicted. We moved into a dilapidated 450 square foot apartment across town. It was only three blocks from my mom’s house. Even though the building was run down and the apartment was on the third floor, access to my mom was the most important thing. She was my emotional support when Jerry and I were constantly arguing. He would not help me, even after I went back to work. He paid the rent and I paid for utilities, food, and gas for my two vehicles. I stayed up with my nocturnal baby until four in the morning, slept for two hours, and then left Xaiden in Jerry’s care while I worked seven in the morning until two in the afternoon. While they were usually awake by the time I came home, occasionally I would arrive home to Xaiden crying while Jerry slept undisturbed. Several times, Xaiden was on the floor next to the bed. Since we had no bed frame, it was not a long drop. He was still on the floor, though. My Motherly Instincts began kicking in with a heated ferociousness. My baby. Crying on the floor. While you are sleeping?

“Wake the hell up! I don’t really care how freaking tired you are. You get off work at three in the morning. You don’t ever get home until I’m getting up for work at six. Whatever the hell it is you’re doing, it is not my fault. It is your job, for a mere seven hours a day, to tend to our son. For much of that time, he is sleeping!” I was furious. My entire face felt as if it were on fire. I could hear my blood thundering through my skull. With violently shaking hands, I pulled out my dresser drawers and began shoveling the contents into trash bags. “If you’re not going to give a shit about me, at least give a shit about our son!”

Somehow, he talked me out of leaving. Jerry was my soul mate. I couldn’t just give up on him, especially after he promised to do better. He complained that he worked more than I did and needed time to himself, that he was just playing video games with his friends. I figured I should learn to be okay with that because I wanted him to be happy. He then vented his frustrations about not knowing how to handle my sadness, so he hid from it. I was the bad guy. I was causing Jerry stress, which was why he never came home until the last minute. He was tired and my constant nagging about the trash and laundry made him not want me like he used to. My poor self-esteem was all in my own head, not derived from his actions or words. I just wanted us to be happy, so I tried to alter my behavior.

Life went on. Jerry worked nights and I worked mornings. Xaiden finally began sleeping during the night, so I was getting more sleep before work. I had stopped asking Jerry to help me. I stopped telling him about my long, arduous days at work. He began going out more and more often. It felt as if a rift had opened up between us both emotionally and physically. My heart felt as if hot nails were being driven into it. I was trying so hard to be the person, the wife, Jerry wanted me to be. Why wasn’t I getting a positive response?  He wouldn’t even sleep in the same bed with me anymore, let alone “sleep” with me. I began having anxiety attacks when I woke up and he wasn’t home. Eventually, he began walking in the door ten minutes after I should have left for work. This happened nearly every morning that I worked. When I didn’t work, there was no telling when he would be home. My eyes were beginning to open and I started to wonder what exactly he was doing. I wondered what kind of person this man really was.

Not long after I began to realize Jerry wasn’t the person I thought him to be, I caught him. It wasn’t as if I had been searching very hard for an indiscretion. Something had just felt off. Every word that fell from his lips after he quietly slipped through the front door tingled in my head. Something was off. So, I followed my intuition. I sent a simple message to the friend he had stayed out playing video games with until six in the morning. It was the first and only time I ever checked up on him. Just a short sentence, “Was Jerry with you last night?”

“No. Did he say he was?”

It was over. No matter what the excuses were, it was over. I didn’t even care at this point whether or not he had cheated on me. Jerry had lied to me. From his confessions after the confrontation, he had been lying to me for months. He was no longer my Jer Bear. He had taken one step too far, and no amount of words was going to fix it. It was over.

How does one move on from an unhealthy relationship? Even if you’re ultimately over the loss of the other person, there are still scars left over. I often wonder, after all the little lies that were sprinkled upon me, which things were real and which weren’t. Did I really misinterpret so many jokes? How often did I not understand the true meaning of a statement, or somehow skew it in my head to mean something completely different than was intended? My shortfalls as a mother and housekeeper contributed to arguments. I wasn’t the only one not getting any sleep. My inability to take criticism or jokes in the right way caused tension. I could not hold up a cheerful façade in the face of piles of laundry, backed up trash cans, and twelve bags of groceries to be toted up three flights of stairs.  I could not handle working opposite schedules and anxiously waiting for the door to open at five in the morning. I felt desperately alone in my depression, and felt that my spouse did not want to help me deal with it. He could not handle my volatile mood swings. He couldn’t remember, in his sleep deprived state, to grab the trash before he walked out the door. I think he wanted the smiling and passionate girl he had gotten to know when we first met. I wanted the man who would merely hold me when I cried, rather than sternly spouting a list of ways to improve my situation. We just seemed to be trapped in an emotional sinkhole. Neither of us could find a handhold.

Whatever physical insecurities I have lie in the monstrously large shadow of the emotional and intellectual insecurities left behind from an emotionally abusive relationship. My scars lie deep in my conscience, my soul. I feel as if these wounds should be represented by a large, red, twisting scar across my face.  I wonder if I can be happy in a relationship. Can I accept someone else’s shortfalls and work around them rather than condemning the person? I feel like I’ve learned skills to cope with such instances. Could I put these skills to use when such a situation occurs, though? If anything, I believe I now know when to stop. I know that not everything is worth fighting for, no matter how emotionally invested you are in it. If the cost is too high, you must let go. Learning how to coexist with another person, faults included, can wait. Just knowing when to take a step back, appraise the situation, and make an intelligent decision is the important lesson. Do not allow love to blind you.

Poly-Vocational

Written for Composition II
10/13/13

I believe that some of the most difficult undertakings in life are also the most spiritually fruitful. Sometimes one needs to see the darkness before they can truly comprehend the light. Being a single mother is the hardest thing I have ever done. The hours are terrible and the boss has a terrible tendency to whine. There is no vacation time, paid or unpaid. It requires the expertise of a maid, a teacher, a cook, a drill sergeant, a biohazard cleanup crew, and a nun. I must perform a version of all those professions without having had the proper training. That is not to say the job is not rewarding, though.

Late this summer, I caught a cold that had been plaguing various family members and co-workers. I woke up one morning feeling as if I had been run over by a herd of cattle. I spent my morning battling a mass of laundry, preparing breakfast, and keeping my son, Xaiden, out of trouble. All the while my head was pounding, my throat blazing, and my muscles screaming in protest to every miniscule movement. Once I completed the morning chores and Xaiden’s stomach was full, we headed up to the bedroom. After depositing him amidst his toys, I cuddled into my bed. As I lay there with eyes that were itching to close, he wobbled over to me with his favorite stuffed animal, Piggy.

“Is that Piggy?”

“Piggy!”

Xaiden then shoved back my blanket, nestled Piggy under my chin. He even tucked me back in to the best of his ability. The action brought tears to my eyes. My little boy, only a year and a half old, was trying his hardest to make me comfortable.

It is the small moments full of warmth, joy, and love that truly make life enjoyable. Amidst a sea of homework deadlines, stressful days at work, and never-ending household chores, some moments shine so bright that they wash out everything detestable or unpleasant.

Sometimes, the best part of my day is picking Xaiden up from the sitter’s. Even after a long day at work, my mood instantly brightens when I open the door and hear Xaiden squeal in excitement because of my arrival. His eyes light up as he runs toward me with a huge smile splayed across his face. I have encountered no joy greater than that of having someone I love so deeply be so excited to see me.

            The work is often frustrating, and days off are few and far between. Those short spells of pride and happiness make the tiring frustration worth it, though. I would take on a mountain of fermented, milk-steeped rags for those moments. I would slay a swimming pool of pots and pans for Xaiden’s smile. For his giggles, I would haul seventeen loads of groceries up five flights of stairs. Shining moments are the fruit of pushing forward through tough times. My little boy has taught me how to recognize and cherish these little fragments of serenity.

Technical Difficulties

Written for Composition I
4/2/13

            The digital age; The majority of the United States population has grown more and more reliant on technology in their day to day lives. As a young adult who has experienced and observed the mass digitization of the world around me, I feel capable of claiming that technological advancement has produced both satisfying and detrimental effects. Being “plugged in” has inspired in me a begrudging sort of love for all these ridiculous gizmos and social media websites. While there are so many practical uses of cell phones, vehicles, and social media it is very easy to allow simple modern day tools to turn into obsessive dependence.

            Facebook is a magnificent instrument. I have reconnected with quite a few old acquaintances that would have otherwise remained a fixture in the past. I am able to keep track of birthdays, events, and even contact information without any effort whatsoever. I am always up to date on my friends' and family’s doings by merely logging in and taking a peek at my “newsfeed”. I captured a picture of my son the other day and was able to upload it scant minutes after it was taken. I can alternately view and share the many pictures my grandma has posted of family gatherings. There is even a multitude of games available to play “with” my friends. Parties can be planned and guests invited in a very short period of time. RSVP information and questions can be added to the event page very easily. All this information contained in a single website accessible anywhere at any time. Just fifteen minutes of staring at bright screen and tapping out warm words with hard little keys seems to inspire a false sense of productiveness. It is quick, effortless, and simple.

            There lies the dark side underneath all of this efficiency. This so called “social media” site has drained the true socialization out of communication. Relationships of any kind are far from simple or easy. They require love, patience, understanding, and time. While being able to converse with someone at a time of day I would be otherwise unavailable is actually very nice, it is a poor replacement for spending quality time with those I care about. An hour long phone call is now replaced by several messages sent throughout the day. While communicating in that way may ease the infamous awkward silences during phone calls or lunch dates, it cannot make up for the fit of laughter that relieves those moments. I now find myself at a loss for conversational topics when I'm actually out with friends. Although I am a valued Facebook asset to a select few family members and close friends, to many I have become a number. A number in a conquest to get as many “likes” on a funny post or a silly picture as possible. So many people, me included, are taking this great opportunity to communicate with people across the globe for granted. Without consideration, I have assimilated myself into this “social-less media” community. One of my very best friends joined Peace Corp. and is on the other side of the planet doing her part to change the world. I have not once shared any private words with her since she has departed. I have read all of her blog posts and periodically send her comical cat pictures with cheesy captions. She supplies little comments here and there on my status updates and photos. Once upon a time I would have made the effort to send a three page hand written letter overseas. I would draw humorous little sketches in the margins and place a few photos inside the folded pages. In place of that warm demonstration of affection, I've absentmindedly chosen to take a less affable route. Even if we did write back and forth, what would be left to say after having seen each other’s lives play out through daily photos and scattered complaints about our rough days?  A letter or email would be liken to having a person read a film script after they've already seen the movie. I can imagine there would be quite a bit of skimming. My choice of social interaction currently boils down to settling between chilly efficiency or finding the time for intimacy.  Between school, work, and raising a young child, efficiency tends to win by a landslide.

            What could be considered more efficient in modern day life than vehicles? At sixteen years old it was a right of passage to obtain my driver's license and purchase my first car.  Having a vehicle suddenly thrust upon me an array of choices.  All of that freedom felt wonderful to sixteen year old me. After a short affair with teenage rebellion, I was able to finally find a job thanks to my access to transportation.  With a car and money I was able to take the initiative to visit out of town family members, rendezvous with friends in Omaha, and meet new friends at new venues. Traveling from place to place in my little car was so much faster and far more convenient than walking or cycling. My world was able to expand and I reached out for more.

            The problem with constantly moving forward is that a person can forget to look at what is directly surrounding them. It was difficult to maintain healthy relationships when all I was focused on was finding new adventures and meeting new people. I spent most of my time for several years just driving away. I had obtained forward momentum and unconsciously bequeathed upon myself a set of blinders to all the little things that make the odyssey of life worthwhile. I still notice that while driving I often do not really perceive my surroundings. I can physically see them, but there is a disconnection between seeing my surroundings and actually experiencing the sight. I get so fixated on the destination I forget to slow down and experience the journey. Taking a walk around the neighborhood and observing those little things I overlook while driving is now a decision I have to make for myself. Often times I have to stop and tell myself to slow down. “Sidney, that vehicle outside is not a means of living. It is merely a tool you have the option to use in order to travel through life.” Sometimes it's just difficult to make myself pull over and pay attention to the present. I believe the true meaning of the saying, “patience is a virtue” is being lost in a culture so immersed in immediate gratification.

            There are few things that could be considered more immediately gratifying than today's cell phones. They're practically miniature computers with nearly constant connection to the rest of the world. I can check up on my son at the sitter's from work without making a phone call. If I've suddenly remembered that I forgot to transfer money to my checking account, all I have to do is spend three minutes tapping on my phone and suddenly there is enough money in my account to pay for dinner. When I lock my keys in the van, again, I pull up the internet browser on my phone and quickly hunt down a cheap locksmith. There are thousands of games and videos available to alleviate boredom at a moment's notice. I have an entire library of books stored away on this tiny electronic device in my purse. I always have my mobile phone on me so there is always someone to text, a game to play, or a book to read. How is it that I can somehow manage to feel bored several times a day?

            That seemingly unobtrusive device supplies so many distractions. I've gotten rather used to being distracted. When I tire of “blasting bubbles” and I've lost myself in five books in a little less than two weeks, what is there left to do? I can check my Facebook for the third time in an hour or I may attempt to start a text message conversation with someone. None of that lasts, though. I spend my life filling in what I view as gaps with temporary stimulation. I could be learning how to cook or taking a trip to the park. Instead of squinting at another miniature sized episode of “Doctor Who”, I could be showing my son how to squint into a microscope at the Natural History Museum. There are so many fulfilling things I could be doing. Instead I allow myself to continuously be sucked into a digital façade of entertainment.

            I spend most of my days either working, studying, or caring for my little man. I fill all the little spaces in between absently driving from destination to destination. I try to distract myself in the moments I am not moving by pretending to maintain healthy friendships using inflection-less words. I ease my late evening boredom with software-generated solitaire and endless amounts of subtitled French romance films. Most of the time I just allow myself to do all of this without a second thought. Every now and then I catch myself, though. I remember that there is more to life than constant distraction. There are flowers to pick and quandaries to contemplate. I have two minds to nurture and bolster. Sometimes it's more than okay to park the van, turn off my phone, and ignore online social media. While there are many great things to be said about these technological advancements, being constantly “plugged in” can turn into a very negative thing.

Fatherly Facade

At first I tried rather hard to make my son's father a part of our lives. Even while we lived in the same abode, Jerry was distant. He was not a part of our "family". After we separated, I tried my best to get him to spend time with Xaiden. It became tiring, though. Bending someone to your will is not a natural thing to do. It requires massive amounts of energy and resources. Now, with only occasional exceptions, it is up to  Jerry to arrange time with Xaiden.

Part of me is a lot more content with this situation. I am far less stressed out about the goings on in Jerry's life. I have allowed myself to detach myself from him. If he's homeless, oh well. He loses his job again? Sucks for him. It's no longer my problem. He is an adult that lives a life completely separate from my own. Mondays are the exception to this. Mondays are the days that Jerry signed up to take Xaiden. Mondays are the days my life comes into contact with this frustrating man.

_

I sat in my idling van, allowing your never-ending string of complaints to fall upon my indifferent ears. You wail about the hours you have to work; you've been scheduled to work on Halloween. I am gripping the steering wheel, more than ready to back out the drive and go home. You continue on, though.

"Everyone with kids is scheduled to work! All these young college kids have the day off, but those of us with families have to work all fucking day." Your jaw muscle twitches in genuine irritation. I know you didn't request it off. You never have requested holidays off. You merely expect your employers to understand you would prefer to not work every single holiday. Though I have explained the issues with that several times over, the logic has refused to sink in.

"You work all day on Halloween? How many people are scheduled?" I realize I'm falling into the trap. Asking questions only ever leads to more complaints. I am curious as to what "all fucking day" currently means to you, though.

"I work from eight in the morning until four."

"You're working twenty hours?!?"

"Four in the evening." I should have known better. Working until four in the evening completely negates many of your complaints. Most kids don't even don their costumes until after four. I'm now entirely convinced your boss was actually trying to help you out by scheduling you in the morning. I myself had expected to be working in the morning on Halloween. I was grateful that my evening would be free. I was far more grateful to find I was not scheduled.

"That sucks." I mutter while trying to physically portray my urge to leave. I square my shoulders and refuse eye contact. I really don't give a shit that you have to work. You should be ecstatic you finally found a job after so many months of searching. We both know how much my opinion matters to you, though. I will continue to keep my mouth shut on the issue.

"If you would like to go out with us, let me know." This evokes a string of half-assed excuses. At least you continue to fill my expectations for you; lies, excuses, evasion, and complaints.

You finally slide out the side of the van, say your goodbye, and slam the sliding door into place. Our son's wails accost my ears as you trudge your way back up to the house you're currently residing in. I am completely baffled that Xaiden inherently knows you are his father. Maybe those first few months when we all lived together made a difference. Perhaps infants have a sort of imprinting mechanism. You certainly aren't around him enough now. Sometimes I'm confused as to whether or not you're his father.

As I drive home, I realize something. It will never change. I feel as if I've just released a gush of breath I've been holding for months. While part of me knew, the epiphany leaves me slightly dizzy. You will never be able to take him for more than a day or two at a time.  How could you? You will always work weird hours or have multiple jobs. I don't think you'll ever have a reliable car or a home to yourself. While I'm a  bit vexed, I'm handling this realization better than I would have expected. I'm not anxious or angry. I'm a bit sad, and perhaps slightly overwhelmed. Nothing has changed for me, though. I've been living well, and happily, up to this point. Though I occasionally feel as if my busy schedule is suffocating me, I can handle it. I'll just keep doing it without you.


Halloween comes and goes amidst the blurred activities of an excessively busy week. Several days pass before you are scheduled to watch Xaiden again. You mention your desire to receive Halloween photos. I absently nod and return my attention to the text message I was composing. Sometimes I hate that you linger around the van attempting to chat for so long when I pick Xaiden up. More words fall from your lips in  these eight irritating minutes than in the last three months of our relationship. I cannot imagine myself not being ruffled by this.

"See you next Monday!" I chime sweetly as you begin to meander into a new topic. Xaiden cries again after you back out of my van. It still bewilders me. So odd that he just knows.

Another seven days blur together and I am back in that damn driveway again.

"You haven't sent me pictures yet." You're whining again. No wonder I was so fucking depressed. Who the hell can tolerate such a devoted pessimist on an everyday basis?

"Sorry." I'm not sorry. Telling him won't help, though. I want to explain to him that the few pictures that I took before we went trick-or-treating can be found on Facebook. I also want to shake him and scream in his face. In my head, I tell him how I really feel.

"You want pictures? Maybe next year you should come out with us. Maybe, if you want so many god damn pictures all the time, you should put in some effort. I am not here to record your years of fatherhood for you. You're so full of excuses! What were they this time? You worked until four? We didn't go out until five. You had to spend time with your oldest son?  It is perfectly acceptable to have two of your children in your presence at the same time. Neither of them will shrivel up and die because your attention is divided. At least you would have been there!"

I would never do that. I tried to force my point of view upon you before. You respond like a teenager. You just become more obstinate which causes the situation to worsen. Instead, I tell you I'll send them.

It may be spiteful of me, and I'm probably setting a terrible example. I really don't think you've earned the right to see the photos, though. Perhaps if you had at least sent me a text inquiring about how our evening  went. You never ask, and you never will. I am the one putting effort into these special moments. They are my  moments. I have nourished and choreographed them. I do not want to share the joy that is solely mine. I do not want you sharing the pictures I took as if they were your own. That is not fair to me. It  is most certainly not fair to our son.

You're never getting those photos.