How Bipolar Disorder Affects My Professional Life

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Every night before bed, I take my Xanax just as prescribed and slip into a dreamless, black void. I wake in the same position I fell asleep in, groggy and feeling like I only took a small nap. Nine hours of sleep should be enough, but it never is. On more than one occasion I have turned off my alarm and then fallen back asleep because I don’t have enough energy to keep my eyes open. I can’t even count the number of times I have been late for work because I just could not wake up.

Mornings are always the same for me. I have to take a quick shower and if I’m lucky, I have time to blow dry and straighten my hair. On very rare occasions I have time to dress myself up in makeup and jewelry; all the things I buy myself to feel and look normal. My coworkers notice it, too. I know it has to bother them that I’m late nearly every day, and they always notice when I actually had time to get ready that morning. I always feel great about myself when I get compliments about my hair or makeup or even just that I “look nice today.” I like to feel accepted.

I work with people all day long, helping them on public computers, sending faxes, making copies, scanning, etc. I can only work around 25 hours a week because the more hours I work, the more I retreat inside of myself because my anxiety becomes uncontrollable. On a good day, I can make it through work without taking a Xanax, which is usually when I’m between my hypomania and depression. The bad days, though, which greatly outnumber the good, I am forced by intrusive thoughts, debilitating panic attacks, and nonsensical rage to go home early or just not go to work at all. I know I am lucky that I have not been fired the past three years I have been employed at my job, and I am grateful that I was hired at such a wonderful establishment.

On the days I don’t work, I end up doing one of three different things:

1. The depressive days — I sleep all day, finally waking up sometime after 5 p.m., probably getting around 15 hours of sleep. I may take a shower when I get up, but I generally stay in my PJs all day and watch TV with my fur-babies, only getting up to let them out.

2. The hypomanic days — I’m up already before I’ve even slept, or if I try really hard, I might get an hour or two of sleep. Sometimes I lie in bed and just scroll through my newsfeed trying to quiet my mind. After I make myself get up, I have to keep going, so I usually find a new way to move around all of my furniture and rearrange it all by myself. These days I find I have energy to play with my dogs and I often find myself trying to do new things, like finally take them to a dog park, or spend money I don’t have on dog toys. I get myself into too much by making commitments that I can’t keep when I’m not hypomanic, or appointments I know I’ll miss if they’re the next week when the depression sets in. By the end of these days, I can be exhausted, but sleep can be
difficult for a few days until I finally tire out

3. In between — I don’t get as much done these days as I do when I am hypomanic, but I do feel good and I can think, and that’s how I prefer to feel. When I am between episodes, I can settle myself into a book and read for hours. I have so much focus, I feel like I did before my symptoms of bipolar disorder became prevalent. I don’t argue with anyone, and I can do anything that requires concentration or a time commitment. I feel great these days.

After almost a whole year of being diagnosed with bipolar disorder II, I am starting to pick up on my triggers and understand why I am feeling the way I do and what can help me feel better and keep me out of trouble. Sometimes I just want to give up and quit my job because of the guilt of making my coworkers wait on me to get on with their days. Sometimes I feel on top of the world, like I’m an unstoppable force. And then there are the days where I feel like me, and I couldn’t be happier. This is what I live with, and it’s a struggle every day.

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What You Should Know Before You Judge Me for Being Unemployed With a Mental Illness

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“What do you do?”

This is one of the first questions you’re asked whenever you meet someone new. For me, it is one of the questions I dread. We seem to be so focused on what job we hold, as if we are defined by it and like it is who we are. People also tend to judge others who aren’t working, as if we are all the same. People who aren’t working are judged as being lazy.

When I say I don’t work anymore, I see the looks of horror and disdain in people’s eyes. I wait for the interrogation that always follows. I think I need to explain myself to anyone who asks. The worst thing about it is I desperately want to be able to work, but you see, I’m can’t. Here’s why:

1. My illness is unpredictable.

Some days, I can function reasonably well. Other days, not so much and some days, not at all.

2. I am unable to maintain stability for long enough to work.

I have rapid-cycling bipolar disorder. I am lucky to get three months stability between episodes.

3. Stress and tiredness make my illness worse.

I might be able to work two or three shifts. However, this would impact my health and I would spend days or even weeks recovering.

4. I am unreliable due to my illness.

I cannot maintain consistency as my moods fluctuate so much.

5. I have anxiety and panic attacks.

Some days, I can’t even leave my house because of this. I’m worse in public, especially if I don’t have someone with me.

6. I often need to be somewhere familiar and with someone I trust.

I need this to manage my anxiety and to help keep myself safe.

7. I have problems eating.

If I’m not at home to eat, I need to be with someone who I trust. Otherwise, I panic and am often unable to eat at all.

8. My medication has bad side effects, including a tremor and extreme tiredness.

I have to sleep a lot more than normal, including during the day to function. My medication and my illness often prevent me from driving too, which is very restrictive.

9. I must keep regular appointments with my mental health professionals.

This helps to help to maintain my mental health and/or to prevent further deterioration if I am unwell. This is vital. A missed appointment can at worst lead to a hospital admission.

Which brings me on to one of the main reasons I can’t hold a job down:

10. I have to sometimes be admitted to hospital and crisis units.

These inpatient admissions have been and are sometimes necessary when I become unwell either with mania, depression or eating issues (whether I like it or not and sometimes whether I cooperate or not.) I have about three admissions a year on average, each lasting anywhere between three days and six weeks.

So despite very much wanting to work, I hope I have been able to explain some of the reasons why I can’t. Oh and before anyone judges me for not trying, can I just mention I have tried being in employment many, many times. I have worked on and off since the age of 16 in various jobs including shop work, bar work, support work, dancing, cashiering, waitressing, modeling, reception work, teaching fitness, assisting teachers, assisting other people with health problems, working as a first responder and administration. You name it, I’ve probably done it.

I also managed to do half of my nursing training before having to drop out due to my illness. I have two degrees, one in psychology and one in social work amongst numerous other qualifications. Clearly, I’m not totally unqualified and obviously, I’m always trying. I do what I can when I can. I’m also a mum, which obviously comes first and foremost. Although, I wish I could work to provide more for my children. But maintaining anything? Or getting an employer to take a chance on me in the first place? That’s pretty tough.

So next time please, don’t be so quick to judge someone who isn’t working. There may be many good reasons. It certainly doesn’t mean they don’t want to.

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What Mornings Are Like With Bipolar Disorder

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There are days the alarm sounds and I rise. There are other days when my alarm sounds and my heart starts racing. And still there are other days when my alarm sounds and I cannot move. It’s not the weight of the blankets. It’s the weight of my existence. The buzzing continues and in my mind I beg it to stop. Rolling over hurts. On these days it could go a number of ways.

The delusion that my office couldn’t possibly go a day without me. The projects I’m working on that are going to fall apart. This somehow lifts me out of bed. I text my boss letting her know I’m late. Tears in the shower. Tears as I stare in the mirror blowing my hair dry. I can’t figure out what to make for breakfast or lunch, so just plan to go without. On the drive, I promise myself I’m going to keep it together. Fighting back more tears I will them not to fall. I walk into my office as if all is well and turn on my computer. The flood of emails brings on such overwhelm I find myself running to the restroom. Anxiety now fills my body.  I shouldn’t be here. There is no graceful exit at this point.

Another way is to notify my boss I will be out sick for the day and roll over one last time. Sleep well past noon, at least hope to. When I wake again I am full of guilt. I should be at work. I should be a functioning member of society. The tears fall staining my pajamas. Why can’t I keep it together?  I was OK yesterday. Just yesterday I completed reports, answered emails, went for a hike, made dinner. I can’t do this any more. Enter suicidal ideation. I think about all the medication bottles. I think about the bridge only 25 minutes away. The voices begin to shout… you don’t belong here. They are better off without you. There is no more sleeping. Escaping the chaos in my mind. 

When my feet hit the floor I feel weak, flush, scared, uncertain. I stumble around my house for a while not knowing what to do. Eventually I’m a crying mess somewhere on the floor.

The last option is to acknowledge it’s going to be a rough day. I can feel it in my bones once that alarm sounds. I make no rash decisions on whether to go into the office or not. I lay still a few minutes longer and breathe. I need coffee. I do not beat myself up for having bipolar disorder and the subsequent mood fluctuations. I sip my cup of coffee and consider how the day can play out.  I try to stay ahead of the emotional game. I take it one minute at a time.

That third plan is the ideal. It’s a work in progress, or rather what I’m striving for. Mostly it’s a mix of option one and two. I usually get myself to work and I usually have to go home early. I struggle with just allowing myself to be… good day or bad day. But, I’m working on it.

If you or someone you know needs help, visit our suicide prevention resources page.

If you need support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255. You can reach the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741.

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What You Should Know About Living With a Mental Illness That's Here to Stay

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It’s OK, I thought. I’ve been here before.

It was while recovering from my second major episode of psychosis with mania that I realized I would be managing this illness for the rest of my life. The feelings that had accompanied the episode had been familiar this time. Looking in the mirror and not recognizing myself, the bizarre thoughts coming fast and wild, the keyed up, unboundless energy, the fear of sleep.

I approached my recovery with confidence. It had been five years since my last episode and I knew what worked for me last time would work again. I refused to be beaten by this illness.

Accepting that my condition is lifelong is difficult at times. Sometimes, I think other people in my life forget it is something I am facing every day. Yes, I am doing well. I am coping, today.

Here are a five things I wish other people understood that come along with living with bipolar every day, for the rest of my life:

1. I am always thinking about my illness because I have to.

Staying well takes commitment. I have to look after my health daily to stay well, and staying well for me is vital. If I’m not well, then I’m unwell. I have to get a good sleep, eat well, exercise, get fresh air, spend time for relaxation, meditate, engage with others, attend medical appointments and take my medication. I am scared to let any of these pillars of health slip because for me the risk is too great.

2. Taking medication sucks.

Keeping track of doses, prescriptions, side effects, blood level checks and not forgetting to take it is more than inconvenient. It hurts to think I’m dependent on those pills. I wish I didn’t have to put drugs in my body, and I can’t help but resent that it’s something I’ll probably have to do the rest of my life. However, it’s necessary, and for me it works. So I try not to complain.

3. I worry about what people think.

I am lucky I am surrounded by amazing people who understand and support me including my family, friends and colleagues. However, I worry about whether or not to disclose my illness to people who don’t know, as I am never really sure if they will understand. I wish I could be more open with people in my life.

4. It can be tiring.

If I say I need a day off, then I really mean it. Some days I just need to check out and recharge. Please, don’t think I’m lazy or making excuses.

5. I will never “get better.”

I have accepted this is part of my life. I need you to as well. Please, don’t put pressure on me to “get better” or think because I am well today that my illness has gone away. It is always going to be there for me. It is manageable. I am OK with it, but this is something I live with. I need you to be OK with it too and not wish I was different.

Image via Thnikstock.

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The First Time I Apologized to Myself for All of the Self-Hate

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One of the traps easiest to fall into is associating the number on the scale with my self-worth. It can lead to a lot of negative feelings toward myself and a lot of hurting. The simplest sentences are often the hardest ones to listen to.

I am more than numbers can describe.

The numbers on the scale only represent how much gravity affects the house, which homes my true self.

I am enough.

Every day, there is a barrage of information telling us how we must look and how we must behave to be deemed beautiful. For someone with a mental illness, those messages come with strong undertones of, “You are never going to be enough the way you are no matter how hard you try.” Each calorie consumed, each offhanded comment about feeling a “little crazy” or about “bipolar weather” just hammers home that message.

Around the time I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I had a lot of habits which tore at my self-worth. I quit eating because I would never be beautiful with curves. I self-harmed because I would never be accepted as someone who was “overly emotional.” I was never happy with who I was because who I was was never good enough.

I remember the moment the words “bipolar disorder” slipped out of my psychiatrist’s mouth. It felt like a death sentence. It would no longer ever be an option for me to be accepted or feel beautiful. I couldn’t live with that.

I looked myself in the mirror recently and almost couldn’t recognize myself. Who I was on the inside didn’t match the outside. I sat down and cried once more, the weight of imperfection forcing me to examine all of my insecurities. I did something I’ve never done before: I apologized to myself.

It wasn’t that my outsides didn’t match the inside. It was that I didn’t match society. I guess I never have but that doesn’t mean I’m not good enough. It means I’m different. Different has never been synonymous with inferior. However, somewhere along the line, I convinced myself there was a divide between what would give me happiness and who I was.

I am enough. You are enough. Even when we don’t believe it for ourselves, it’s true.

Image via Thinkstock.

If you or someone you know needs help, visit our suicide prevention resources page.
If you need support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255
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The Moment I Opened Up to Someone About My Mom’s Bipolar Disorder for the First Time

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The first time I told someone my mom has bipolar disorder was my freshman year of college. I was sitting in a cafe on campus, bags under my eyes, hair in a disheveled bun, my clothes wrinkled and oversized from all the weight I had lost. From working part-time to going to school full-time to managing visits to inpatient care, the ER, courtrooms, police stations and therapists’ offices, I was more stressed than I had ever been in my 18 years of life.

I remember feeling tension in my chest to such an extent that even inhaling hurt. I never knew what anxiety felt like until my mom’s illness. For much of the first year of her diagnosis, my mom’s mental illness was our immediate family’s “not so little” secret. We began telling my mom’s sisters and best friend in increments. We knew we couldn’t hide it forever.

I had never told anyone about my mom on my own. My mom’s mental illness was something I carried on my shoulders. I was there to support my dad and to see my mom got the help she needed, but it was a quiet secret. It was like living a double-life, where I’d go to school and work as this seemingly happy girl and then go home to uncertainty and fear of what would happen next.

I remember the day I told the first friend of mine about my mom. I remember the words pouring out of my mouth like hot lava. I remember the fear of being judged or looked at differently. I remember the longing to not feel so alone in caring for a parent who was mentally ill. I remember the desire to be seen and known by a friend, to allow someone into the more secret corridors of my life, to not feel so alone.

The moment I opened up, I felt as if a balloon burst. All the pressure pent up in my chest immediately released. Luckily for me, the friend whom I first shared my “deep, dark secret” with met me with understanding, grace and a listening ear. I will never forget that moment or that friend.

It was because of her and her acceptance of not only my mom, but me, the daughter of someone with a mental illness, that I grew the strength and courage to be open about my mom’s story in college and long after. The more I shared my story and my mom’s story, the more I found people who either had a mental illness or knew someone with a mental illness. The more I shared, the less alone I felt.

My first college roommate shared with me about her stepbrother with schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. One of my oldest childhood friends told me her aunt has bipolar disorder. I had known her since we were 13 and didn’t find this out for another seven years into our friendship. The president of my sorority shared her story of having a mom with bipolar disorder. The list goes on and on.

It’s funny. So often we are afraid to be honest, to be candid, to be real. We fear sharing our struggles and our hurts out of fear of being judged or treated differently. The more I share my story and my mom’s, the more I see her story, our story, isn’t so rare. The more I share, the stronger I am and the more I heal from my own hurt. It’s a powerful thing: honesty, vulnerability, transparency.

Once, I sat in a support group for children and family members of people with mental illnesses. I was the youngest person there. Everyone in the group was likely my parents’ age or older. They were surprised someone so young would be at a support group, but even more so, I think they were surprised I was sharing such a hard story so openly.

I have come to terms with the fact that I will never know the, “Why?”

Why my mom? Why my family? These are questions I used to ask. Instead, what I now choose to ask myself is: What will I do with this? What will I do with the hand that has been dealt with me? I’ve decided not to let it eat me alive. I’ve decided to share with other people as a means of learning from their experience and perhaps to help them by sharing mine.

It isn’t easy. I have learned just because a picture isn’t perfect doesn’t mean it doesn’t still have beauty in it. My family is different. My story is different. My mom has a mental illness. I don’t have all the answers, but I know I am stronger because of what I’ve been through. I am more brave having learned the power in sharing my story.

Image via Thinkstock.

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