Advice on controlling suicidal thoughts without mood stabilizers

I was recently asked by a reader, and fellow manic-depressive, for some advice.   How can suicidal thoughts be effectively managed when long term mood stabilizers are not an option for that person? 

Here's my response: 

------------------------------------

Hey,  

This is a really challenging question, and I’m not sure if there is a single answer that would apply in general.  I think the triggers for each person’s manic-depressive episodes are unique and as such, there is no single treatment for a nasty bipolar low b/c its a multilayered health issue. I think it has to be dealt with both medically and psychologically - in my experience.  

Admittedly, I’ve been suicidal twice in my life.  Yet I believe its no coincidence that both those moments were before I fully understood my medical condition, as well as my immediate family members also (e.g. mother & aunt who are very supportive/compassionate).  Since my diagnosis I’ve been better prepared to handle my depressive episodes that could potentially lead to suicidal thoughts or worse...  So broadly, I think understanding the full spectrum of my mental health condition has better prepared me for this life long struggle.  I can identify 2 specific tools which have helped me greatly when I hit bottom:

1. Realizing its not really the end of my usefulness/abilities/happiness.  Both my suicide attempts came before I fully understood my bipolar disorder and its affect on me. I really thought it was the end.  But now I know that it will pass.  And I draw on my moments of clarity after those previous suicide attempts as lifelines to get me through.  I think, not so much about my self-worth at that dark moment, but about what I have left to offer others, or the promises left unfilled to others that I still need to conclude.  I convince myself that until I take care of these things I can’t ‘opt out’.   

I don’t know if you’ll feel the same about this, but for me, personally, others can not guilt me into staying alive, only I can do that. My mothers love was not enough. I actually wrote that in my suicide note.  I’ve found that things left undone and using personal guilt from that was much more effective for some reason.   A good example of what I’m talking about is found in the song ‘Me and a Gun’ by Tori Amos. Her long story short - she dealt with a very traumatic situation by realizing that since she hasn’t seen Barbados yet she had to live through the ordeal. Its a strategy many people struggling with severe emotional problems often use to cope.   I’ve found myself using this strategy as well.  I’ve made a deal with myself (one which I’ve never forgotten or belittled for years now), that I could not ‘off myself’ unless I’ve honestly tried to do all the things that were important to me while I was ‘sane’.  And only if I had completed this list would it be my time to ‘off myself’ - with a clear conscious.  While I prefer to keep my full list private, I’m OK with sharing a little with you because it might actually help you, and thats something I consider important (as I know its not easy talking about this stuff - I know reaching out is difficult). One of the things I have to do before I allow myself the option of suicide again in the future is to take a trip around the world, one that includes an extended stopover in some beautiful South Pacific Island where I can escape the city and get in touch with nature again.  

To those who don’t know me, this may sound superficial but this task runs much deeper than many realize.  The happiest moments of my life have always been recalled in my travels. And unless I complete my travel goals it would be too soon to end my life. Simultaneously, I’ve always felt most peaceful/happy while in touch with nature, especially the ocean.  

So when I get really low, and start thinking dark thoughts, I remind myself that there are a few things that might still make life worth living.  And if after traveling and reconnecting with the ocean and nature again, I still feel nothing than maybe its really time to end it.  The way I figure it, I invest a few grand into staying alive.  Put it all on my visa.  And if it saves me from committing suicide then it was money well spent.  If not, well its not my problem when I’m dead then is it?! 

I don’t know if any of my twisted logic will be of any help to you, but its worth a shot I suppose.  Like I said, its a very personal issue. Just take some time and think about it. Its your life, make your own decisions. I don’t know you at all, so I can’t recommend things that might hold value for you, but I’m sure you can find something you care about.  You wouldn’t have bothered to write me if not.  

Honestly, and sincerely, your message reminds me of the time I finally sought help after my second suicide attempt.  My shrink asked me why I was seeking professional help instead of finishing off the job.  It was an excellent question.  After taking a few moments to seriously consider it I replied, “Well I suppose, for some reason, despite the fact that I researched the lethal dose needed (and actually ingested), and ensuring I would be isolated for what I expected to be 3 days (as I didn’t want a hero to interrupt me in the process), I survived the overdose despite my best intentions, for some reason I don’t honestly understand.  All I could think of was that it just wasn’t my time.   I was still in agony, and since my own methods weren’t working, I thought that seeking medical help might be the only other option to end my suffering. So here I am.” 

I’ve thought alot about that Q & A over the years.  I’ve come to realize that in my personal case (and many many others, but not all), suicide attempts are deeply routed in pain alleviation, after no other options are available.  Its not that they want to stop living, so much as it hurts too much to keep on living.  

To sum this up, while I’m not saying that understanding the nature of the beast, or simply making a bet with oneself, will stop someone from committing suicide (especially if they’re at rock bottom), but its at least one strategy worth considering if you refuse to take long term mood stabilizing medications. 

2. My second recommendation is much less complicated.  While I detest taking long term mood stabilizing psychiatric drugs due to their awful side effects, there are some quite good, very tolerable, anti-anxiety meds that I take on the short term to help take the edge off my episodes.  Benzodiazepines (I like to call them ‘Pammies’) help with anxiety by targeting the neurotransmitter GABA, which is often one of the main factors contributing to bipolar episodes. While pammies (like valium or klonopin) are not mood stabilizing in the traditional sense, they but do seem to work like one at times. At least for me. Here’s a good link to help explain: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clonazepam . They won’t prevent an episode but they can nip it in the bud.  They’ve helped me tremendously. 

Hope this helps. All the best - BSW

My Monsters

I really enjoy this time of year, more specifically the Halloween season.  I love the way horror and scary stories are embraced by society without question.  Disturbing activity is not judged, but encouraged.  I’m sure I wrote about this in my blog last year so I won’t repeat too much.  Perhaps I’ll even go back and re-read my old Oct blogs of yesteryear to reminisce.  

And of course, its also my birthday week. BSW - I’m a scorpio born during Halloween week in particular, which must surely have influenced certain character traits of the season within my very being. 

Alas, its not just being a Halloween born scorpio that has shaped my character, but my bipolar disorder has also manifested some darker traits within myself. I don’t mean anything truly evil or bad, but more akin to the imagination of George Romero, Alfred Hitchcock, Greg Nicotero, Edgar Allan Poe or Stephen King.   

Thus, its no surprise BSW loves the last week of October!  

No doubt, anyone who has turned on the TV over the last week or two has noticed (and hopefully watched) all the horror flicks playing in heavy rotation.   I give a big ‘tip of the hat’ to AMC for their awesome Fear Fest - a full 2 week horror movie marathon.  It’s all I’ve been watching when I’m not working or sleeping.  Good times, good times. 

'Cujo', the infamous movie that tarnished the good reputation of the faithful St. Bernard in the minds of so many, was screened several times last week. Ironically, the movie spawned a fear of dogs, although the true evils (or lessons learned) of the story were the consequences of: i) not taking your pet the the vet regularly (e.g. rabies vaccination), ii) avoiding regular car maintenance, and iii) adultery.   Cujo, was one of the few works of Stephen King that did not involve monsters from another dimension, paranormal powers or evil forces otherwise unexplained.  ‘Cujo’ could realistically happen to any family tomorrow.   I think that’s what makes it so scary really.  No car named ‘Christine’ or encroaching ‘Mist‘ (two other examples of King’s work for those unfamiliar) scares me as much as a rabid dog because of the reality factor.    

All that being said, in my mind, its King’s use of little children in his horror stories that make his stories so gripping.  A great story must stir emotion in the reader, and without that reaction (anger, anxiety, sadness, empathy...) the writer failed to reach the reader, and without this connection the story is lacking (in my opinion anyway).  I believe King’s greatest talent as a writer is how he uses the innocence of children to bring out the ultimate horror of a particular situation.     

OK OK, moving right along, this blog wasn’t intended to be a critical review of the works of Stephen King, but rather how one scene in particular from ‘Cujo’ stirred a strong childhood memory of my own that I wanted to discuss.  As a child I had many fears of monsters in my mind.  At the time I assumed every other kid shared the same fears as I did. However, its only now that I’m an adult, and have shared some of these childhood monster stories with others, that I’m only now realizing that not all of my childhood fears were so average or typical. 

For example, ‘Cujo‘ set its scary atmosphere early through the use of scenes where ‘Tad’ (the little boy) was terrified by what he believed were monsters hiding in his closet and under his bed.  Admittedly, this is a fairly common childhood fear that most of us grow out of in time.  However, the depth of Tad’s fear of the monsters under his bed, and the behaviour that he adapts in order to deal with his fear was incredibly described and emoted in Cujo that it hits on something deeper.  It stirred some deep memories in me, that’s for sure. 

I totally understand how Tad felt during the whole movie. Both Tad and I, faced a terrifying situation every night before bed.  We knew that the monsters couldn’t get us when the light was on, as they could only come out from beneath the bed when it was dark.  Our dilemma was that our beds were on the other side of the room, a good 10 feet away from the only light switch, which was always next to the door, which meant we had to cross our bedroom in complete darkness leaving us vulnerable to attack during the few seconds it took to reach the sanctuary of our beds. (Monsters must stay on the floor thus we were safe on our beds which were elevated - basic monster rules).  

While this is probably a normal childhood fear, I think it was how each family dealt with it that affected the child’s mentality and future behavioural patterns.  The simplest solution to this dilemma would be for a parent to tuck their child into bed then turn out the light, thus avoiding the whole situation entirely.  

But not all parents tuck their kids into bed at night, or they stop tucking them in too early.   I think that was the case with me.  While my parents didn’t divorce until I was in high school, I don’t have any memories of being read to at night or being tucked in. I recall Dad was too lazy to get up off the couch/barstool to do so (he was always in the basement if he was home), and once Mom had fed and washed me and my brother she hopped into the car and went to play bingo.  I remember sneaking into my parents bedroom (it had a front facing window with a street view) night after night, so I could watch her going out. I was so sad watching her drive away.     

When kids have to deal with irrational fears on their own, while they’re too young to properly deal with the situation, its one for the earliest opportunities for mental problems to occur.      

Since we couldn’t depend on our parents to protect us from the monsters under our bed we (Tad and I) developed behavioural solutions out of necessity.  (It wasn’t like we could re-wire our bedrooms for more sensible monster defensive light switches when a simple tuck in was out of the question!).   

I had almost forgotten about all this until watching ‘Cujo’ again after so many years.  Tad was going to bed on his own (his parents had stopped tucking him in recently) and he had to turn off the light, then get into bed. However, he knew that as soon as he turned off the light the monsters could reach out from under his bed and get him.  The only way to safely deal with this situation (on his own) was to completely prep for bed as much as possible with the light still on, then at the very last moment flick the switch and essentially do the childhood monster equivalent of the running long jump.   When I saw Tad bolt in the dark in knew exactly what he was doing and why.  In the sudden darkness the monsters under the bed were temporarily limited to arms reach, and if you were able to leap the distance of the monsters reach between the safe spot on the floor to your bed, you’d be safe.  Those were the monster rules - I don’t know why but for some reason we all knew what they were.   Countless nights I did the running monster long jump to bed every night.  Its just the way it had to be.  

I never thought about it that much since growing up, but watching that scene in ‘Cujo’, having all those thoughts rushing back again when I saw myself in Tad (that scared child in the dark), I started thinking about my childhood monsters again.  I suppose it was partly because I was caught up in the Halloween hype, and partly because I trusted this person in particular (as he’d stood by me through some rocky times over the past few years) that I shared this memory with him.  And his response surprised me.  He thought the running monster long jump was bizarre.  He never did it himself and had never heard of it before now.  He wasn’t judgmental or freaked out by my confiding, but felt that as my friend he wanted to tell me what he honestly thought. (Its this integrity that is the foundation of our friendship I have no doubt).  

It was the first time I ever told anyone else about the running monster long jump, and the only other time I saw anyone else do it was in ‘Cujo’.  Now I don’t know what to think.  Was it normal to do that or not?  I can’t deny that since I was so hesitant to mention this to anyone else for so many years that I obviously felt a certain degree of invalidated shame regarding the topic.  

I’ve thought a lot about this over the last few days and I keep coming back to the same conclusion.  Its normal for little kids to fear monsters in the night.  That’s a normal part of life.  But there are ways, better or worse ways (not so much right or wrong ways), to deal with this fear.   I thought about why my friend never felt/acted the same way as I did, and I realized that he shared a bedroom with his brother during those formidable years of his childhood, and that made all the difference.  He never had to face the monsters in the dark alone night after night.  They had each others back.  I had no one.  I can’t help but muse at the irony in which the poverty of his upbringing brought him so much comfort in the night, while my ‘privileged’ upper middle class upbringing afforded me the cold comfort of isolation. 

Although I haven’t discussed this with very many people, I’m willing to bet children who were left alone with their fears developed very different coping mechanisms than children who had the support and perceived protection of family to ease them through their fears.   It would be something worth discussing with a psychiatrist or psychologist no doubt.  

I wish I could say my childhood monster fears had ran its natural course, but I don’t think I ever truly outgrew that fear like most other children did.  Instead, I think it just changed its manifestation according to my lifestyle (e.g. what realities and responsibilities I had at that age as I grew up).  Eventually I stopped being afraid of the monsters under my bed - I was old enough to know that fear was nonsense after intense physical examination of the space under my bed and my ensuing purchase of a waterbed which strategically closed them down regardless!!! haha!!! - but instead found a much more serious monster to fear.        

At this point I was older and had more free space through out the house.  Even the responsibility for locking the doors, both front and back.  I have no idea why, but the monsters that used to live under my bed suddenly moved to the backyard.  And unless somebody was doing something in the backyard (which would always keep the monsters away) I felt an uncontrollable urge to lock up the back door to protect us.  It didn’t matter if it was day or night anymore either.  The monster had gained the ability to attack at any moment, so long as the backyard was empty.  It was like I was the gatekeeper to the backdoor and I had to stop all the monsters.  They never dared use the front door. Just the backdoor.  I don’t know why. They just did.  

I can still vividly recall my terror, racing to the backdoor terrified that I wouldn’t be able to slide the deadbolt through its adjacent metal loops fast enough before the monster would beat me there.        

I was always so incredibly relieved when I made it just in the nick of time to lock the door and save us all.  I never told anyone about my backdoor monster until last year.  And it never mentioned it to anyone else since.  The only soul I ever told this to was a relative of mine who also has bipolar disorder.  I had recently opened up to her about my vivid nightmares and wondered if she had ever experienced anything similar.  She said she had.  She told me that her whole life she had been dealing with the same kind of dreams I was and suddenly I didn’t feel so alone (after a little research I discovered vivid dreams were quite common in manic depressives actually).   

Then I told her about the fear I had with the back door monster. She stopped suddenly, she didn’t know what to say about that.   She didn’t think it was normal and she sounded concerned.  I reassured her that since leaving home several years ago, I had never felt like that since.  I had almost forgotten about it.  But going home scares me sometimes it seems.  I never feel scared by monsters at my current backdoor.  

• Am I just more mature now?
• Do I truly feel more secure now than before?
• Am I coping with my bipolar disorder more effectively perhaps?

I just don’t know.  I thought about it briefly once last year, then buried it away again.  I’ve never mentioned any of this to anybody else. Not even my doctors.  Its only the Fear Fest horror movie marathon that made me think on all this stuff again.  

Ok that’s it for now. I’m done talking about this stuff. I feel exhausted. 

So do my childhood monsters seem strange? Am I normal or odd? I have no idea what’s normal anymore.  ugh. 

Creativity Linked to Mental Illness

Is it just me, or does it seem like there are more articles about mental illness on the evening news lately?  Not that I’m complaining, its a good thing - really it is, but I also can’t help but feel its cold comfort that this issue is suddenly hot and worth talking about.  

It appears that the major media outlets all covered this study today:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/health-19959565 (This is a link to the BBC study but most networks all give the same summary).

http://ki.se/ki/jsp/polopoly.jsp?d=130&a=151722&l=en&newsdep=130 (This link is from the Swedish Institute where the study was done). 

Essentially, the report concludes that mental illness (e.g. bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, depression, autism) is linked to creativity (e.g. writing, dancing, photography, research). 

I don’t think its a coincidence I keep a bound hardcover copy of Edgar Allen Poe’s work on my nightstand.  While I prefer to write short story or essay style pieces myself, I do find poetry interesting and enjoyable to analyze.  

I remember being in high school literature classes and finding it strange that other students couldn’t figure out the meaning of the poem we were assigned to read simply by tweezing apart the word play of the author.  I eventually dropped literature in my final year of high school because I found it boring.  Looking back I wonder if I shouldn’t have been in an accelerated class instead.

I was always a voracious reader.  One of my earliest memories was of reading bedtime stories to myself until I fell asleep.  All the classic fairy tales: Aesop, Mother Goose, The Brothers Grimm...  My parents never read to me.  My father was too lazy to bother and my mother, who sadly was pulled out of school after grade 5, wasn’t comfortable reading books.  So I did it myself.  Growing up, I’ve often wondered how many parents actually read to their children at bedtime.  It seemed like all the families on TV did... oh well. It was probably just another fairy tale. 

Recently I’ve been wondering why I didn’t make more of an effort to write considering how much I liked it.  I can’t say for sure but two things come to mind off hand: 

- Firstly, I never received much encouragement at home in this area (as mentioned above).  

- Secondly, and probably more influential/traumatic, were the bullies in my grade nine literature class.   An incident I 

remember specifically, was when a poem I had written for school was published in our high school newsletter.  Sure its only a high school paper, but when you’re a little kid from a small town it was as awesome and just as great as if the New Yorker had come calling.   But what I thought was a blessing turned out to be a curse.  I remember the morning when the paper was passed out, the group of girls who all turned on me after reading my poem.  They scoffed, and spat, and called me a fraud.  They said there was no way I could have written that.  Despite their inability to support their accusation with proof (any previously published work which I had apparently copied), mob mentality ruled.  I don’t know why those girls hated me so, and why that poem was such a trigger for them, but they ganged up on me all year long.  I didn’t write much after that. Didn’t see any good coming from it.  

I wish I had a copy of that poem today.  I’d like to re-read it and try to understand the whole thing. I do remember that it was a sad poem and didn’t have a very happy ending.  The girl died in the end. 

  

Wow, I haven’t thought about this in a long time. It wasn’t until this past year - when I finally found an amazing doctor (and by amazing I mean a doctor who possesses the traits of compassion, commitment, patience, objectivity, intelligence, competence and respect) - that I started thinking about writing again.  I was working through a manic episode at the time and I was describing my dreams to him.  I had never discussed how dark and scary and intense my dreams were with anybody before then. It was a milestone for me I suppose. 

My dreams always came and went over time, but have been there for as long as I can remember.  I kept them bottled away until that day in his office.  After I described my dreams to him I held my breath.  I was afraid of what he would say.  If he would even believe me.  After a moment of silence he straightened the thoughtful composure of his countenance and suggested that I should be writing horror stories.     

It was the first time anyone had ever encouraged me to write, especially in a genre that was branded taboo.  I suppose it would be prudent to add to this discussion that the teachers at the catholic school I attended frowned on the topics I wanted to hone my grammar and writing skills with.  After so long I just gave up.  

Its hard to do a full 180 after all I’ve been through. 

But I’m trying.  Actually, it’s been through this blog that I’ve attempted to start writing again.  Its the first time I’ve ever written about my dreams.  And thats due to my doc’s support.  It was strange to suddenly start writing it down, all the dark thoughts and images in my mind, then send it out to the world, but at the same time extremely cathartic.  

I think I should make more of an effort to scribe my dreams.  It probably wouldn’t be too long before I’d have my own collection of short horror stories.  

One of the other issues I have about writing is inconsistency.  My dreams and thoughts and creative moments come and go in unpredictable cycles. They can not be forced into structure.  

Its clearer to me now, since I’ve been diagnosed and have been making an effort to reflect on things past. Just looking at this blog over time I can tell when I’m running high (e.g. dreaming more, writing more, sleeping less, acting out) and then settling down or swinging low (e.g. too bummed to write or care).  Last year I had so many intense dreams and was relieved when they tapered off over the spring and early summer.  But since August they’ve started up again.  Terrifying dreams where I’ve been fighting zombies or stumbling upon corpses while swimming in the lake.  I’m going to try to write them down again.  I really should.  

Sitting down at my laptop this evening, I had no intention to write about any of this (my dreams, writing and mood disorder), but obviously the news article I stumbled across hit a nerve, and it ran deeper than I thought.  I’ve always suspected a link between my mood swings (my mental illness) and my levels of creativity and productivity.  I suppose I felt a sense of validation when I read the report linking creativity and mental illness.  Then I figured venting through words seemed appropriate.  

Countless times I’ve wondered if an earlier diagnosis would have made my life any easier or happier, but now I also wonder if I had a more open-minded and nurturing environment growing up would things have been different for me.  I’ve discussed my parents a fair bit, but haven’t really sorted out nor reconciled all the negative experiences I had in my school years.  I was tormented, bullied and outcast consistently  and harshly from grades 7-12.  

There were only 4 teachers in my entire time at high school that ever reached out to me and had a genuine conversation about my life and self.   I wonder if it was because 3 of them were science teachers that I ended up studying science at university?  I never felt like any of my arts and literature teachers liked me for some reason.  Except for one substitute teacher. He took over grade 10 literature after the regular teacher suffered a nervous breakdown.  No joke.  The bullies at my school were hardcore and no one was spared their wrath.  They eventually pushed 1 of the 3, and the only female, literature teacher past her breaking point.  She was a good literature teacher, tough but fair. I respect and appreciate that now, but back then most high school kids hated her b/c she challenged them to work, think and discuss. I suppose it was this that caused the childish resentment necessary for bullying, and their fuel was found in her painfully obvious struggle with obesity.  They broke her. I never saw her again. I graduated a couple years later and she still hadn’t returned to teaching by then.  I hope she’s doing better now. 

I truly hated high school. I don’t really want to go into the subject of bullying here and now, but let me just point out it can make your life hell.  More to the point, I wonder if those bastards hadn’t broke our best lit teacher and scared me away from writing would I have taken a different path? I’ll never know.  And I know that I shouldn’t spend too much time dwelling on it, but perhaps its worth a brief visit back to this place in order to take back my self-confidence, esteem and worth.   Perhaps some inspiration too. 

Argh! I still have so much to reconcile.  It seems like the more I dig, the more I find.  

There’s something to that saying: ignorance is bliss.  I suppose that’s why so many of us drink.  But also why so many of us write or express ourselves through the arts.   I’m going to try to start writing again. We’ll see what happens...   

Even Bigger than Cancer

“The burden of mental illness and addictions is more than 1.5 times that of all cancers, a new report suggests”.

For those who missed the evening news last night here you go:

http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/toronto/story/2012/10/09/mental-illness.html 

And a link to the full report:

http://www.oahpp.ca/resources/documents/reports/opening-eyes-mental-health/PHO-ICES%20Opening%20Eyes%20Opening%20Minds%20Report%20-%20Oct%202012%20Exec%20Summary%20EN.pdf 

I honestly can’t say that I was surprised by the magnitude of the findings of the study, but I have a different perspective than most on this subject. Having had mental illness take such a massive toll on my quality of life since I was just 15 years old, I could have been an ideal case study for that report. 

Not that I’m blaming all my life problems on my bipolar disorder, but it certainly doesn’t help.  Its the kind of illness that tends to make situations harder to deal with, often exacerbating the problem, making things worse then they had to be I suppose. But that’s only one way of looking at it. 

Without my disorder - my altered brain chemistry - I strongly believe I never would have attempted suicide twice, ended my engagement with my fiance, dropped out of grad school, become completely estranged from my father, become an escort, and self-medicate through alcohol and substance abuse.  

All those things must make me sound like I’m a horrible person, but I’m not.  I’m intelligent, kind and compassionate.  The only person I really hurt is myself.  I’ve missed out on many things in life because my illness kept me from functioning at my best. 

If I were properly diagnosed when things first got nasty for me (when I was 16) I firmly believe that things might not have gotten so out of hand later in my life.  I might have had the proper care (e.g. support and meds) that would have gotten me through grad school.  I’d be doing a very different job now if I didn’t drop out of grad school I’m sure. Hell I’d probably be married with kids!   

It was ten years later I was finally diagnosed properly and could start managing my illness and reclaim my life.  Its not all smooth sailing for me now by any means, but its not as out of control as it was before.   I’m managing a much more normal life now (besides the escorting maybe - lol). 

But enough about me. 

Its apparent that unless you’ve dealt with mental illness personally, most people simply don’t understand what its like and how it affects the person in almost every aspect of their life.  These illnesses are harder to grasp by most because its an illness that you can’t actually see or touch physically.  A broken arm, a cancerous tumor, collapsed lung, heart attack, blood clot are all easier to grasp by the average person b/c its possible to see the problem with their own eyes, which gives it validation.  In our “see it to believe it” culture its hard to validate an illness that is in most cases impossible to see with our naked eye.   “You look fine to me, so snap out of it....”

Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.  Most of us believe in gravity or God (for example) but you can’t see either of those with you own eyes now can you. 

So what’s it going to take for mental illness to be taken as seriously as other ‘physical’ diseases and offer appropriate help for those in need?  Isn’t that basic human dignity and decency?

What's real and what's not? I ask you - who's crazy now?

I often find myself writing about the dark side of being BSW.    But its not always so bad.  I have some humorous moments too.  And I realized I haven’t shared many of them, and that’s not a fair perspective.  So here goes...

Recently I was in my doctors office for a follow up appt about an episode that hit me a few days before.  I have no doubt that trigger would’ve made things really bad for me, but since I had finally gained some sense of self-awareness and a medical team with compassion and sensibility, I was able to nip the episode in the bud.  Thank goodness for that!!!!  

Anyways, we were discussing my medication status and costs based on my Blue Cross insurance plan (for entrepreneurs/escorts) I had for my drug plan coverage. I bluntly said I had the mediocre drug plan just to cover the basics and emergencies.  He laughed and said that was quite an accurate name for their plan actually.  My doc has a very endearing quality of bluntness that always feels appropriate.  Quite a talent.

He asked if I needed any more clonazepam, and I responded that I was OK for the week because I was just cutting the higher dosage pills in half to save money.  I had the ‘mediocre drug plan’ and money wasn’t growing on any trees that I knew of.  Again he laughed and said OK.  However, he made me promise to let him know if I did find any trees that appeared to me to be growing money.  I like his sanity jokes.  They’re very appropriate.  I assured him I would.  

The next day I was driving down the road and I spotted what I swore appeared to be a money tree.  Seriously, a goddamn money tree.  Like right out of yesterdays conversation in the doctors office. Fuck me. Suddenly I was questioning my sanity.  I thought I had things under control again.  I pulled the car over, cut the engine and walked back down the roadside until I came across ‘the money tree’ I saw.  To be sure I wasn’t imagining the whole thing I took this picture: 

I thought it was pretty funny.  Who’s crazy now?  

My contribution to the DSM V, seriously.

The DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) is the standard text used by mental health professionals when considering mental illness diagnoses. Currently, the fourth edition is in use (DSM IV), and the fifth edition is being planned/prepped, expected to be published in 2013.  

The reason I’m bringing this up is that I have a rather personal connection in the making of the DSM V.  I’m one of the subjects being used in the updated data collection for the statistical manual - particularly, the personality axis.  

Since I’m registered in the CAMH patient registry I was contacted to participate in the formation of the new improved version of the DSM.  I thought that was pretty neat and I wanted to take part of it because I felt it was very important to help improve the treatment of mental illness. 

The CAMH researchers explained the purpose for the survey I participated in as follows:  

“Purpose - the book that clinicians use to make diagnoses of mental health problems is being revised. The new book will be called DSM-5. This study, which is sponsored by the University of Minnesota Press Test Division, will evaluate a new measure designed to assess personality as defined in DSM-5”

The particular study I participated in focussed on the aspects of personality.  The survey was lengthy and many questions were asked.  Some questions were relevant to my mood disorder, while others weren’t.  I assume the survey questions were based on a broad range of disorders not specific ones. 

I don’t remember them all but a few questions really hit home for me. Here are a few examples:  

1. While falling asleep or waking up do you have vivid dream-like images?
2. Do you like to do new and adventurous things?
3. Do you believe you will eventually commit suicide?
4. Do you prefer to spend time alone as opposed with others socially?
5. Do you feel that others don’t appreciate/understand your ideas/thoughts?

They were all weighted on a scale from 1 (strongly disagree) to 5 (highly agree).

These questions were very personal to me because these topics have always set me apart from ‘normal’ people - those not mentally ill I suppose.  If researchers come to recognize these traits in others who may need intervention I hope that better treatment of the mentally ill can happen in the future.  It would be satisfying to know that my personality traits will be formally acknowledged and possibly help recognize others like me who need help.  

Its nice to know that I had input in the DSM-V, and that, in turn may help others.   

Rude Dude (or the self-righteous asshole who needs to learn some manners)

This is simply a blog to let off some steam that has built up on me over this past week.  

I acknowledge that if this is the only bad client I see this week, or more, than its really nothing to complain about in the grand scheme of things.  He never assaulted me in any way, robbed me, threatened me or anything else nasty like.  Being rude is not a crime, I fully acknowledge, but I also see the very slippery slope he’s on and I’m quite aware that its right here where the real problems begin sooner or later.  Thus, as an independent escort, I always reserve the right to profile all my clients and act solely on my gut alone.  

The minute this guy (who I’ll call Steve) strolled through my door, I knew he was going to be a difficult client.  Understand, I’m no idiot, and I will have each client sized up before their ass even touches my living room sofa, have no doubt.  But I’m silent and polite about it all naturally. 

The first offense he committed was strolling right on through my porch area, into my kitchen then headed straight into my den, without being invited past the hallway before proper introductions/greetings were exchanged, and all while still wearing his outdoor shoes.  That’s incredibly rude by any cultures standards.  If a person has any common decency they will remove their shoes before walking through another persons house. Not doing so indicates their low opinion of their host.   While I will openly admit that I presented this single unit private condo as an incall location, and not my own home, its still a well maintained space that I take pride in and should be respected as such.  

His second mistake occurred when he made my request for washing up more awkward then necessary.  As I usually do, I politely directed him towards the bathroom. Saying that he’s welcome to shower before or after, but at least its always nice to wash your face and hands after coming in from outside.  Its a very polite yet direct request to please wash yourself before placing your strange hands inside me. But he did not move a single muscle.  Basically I had to tell him to wash his hands at the very least before being intimate with me.   

As the date progressed we ended up in the bedroom and I asked him if he would like a BJ.  He said he would, of course, but the look on his face was extremely telling when I pulled out the condom. He whined and complained when I told him that I practiced safe oral only.  Wah, wah, wah, cry baby.  I’m not going to change my mind no matter how loud you whine...  

I understand that people will ask questions regarding where their boundaries lie, I have no problem when someone asks me a question to be clear where individual boundaries exist, I actually appreciate that, but once that info is known - any form of pressure, mockery or nagging is totally unacceptable.   I offer CBJ only, if you don’t like it leave, its that simple.  Its rude to pressure a girl to take the condom off, even if its ‘just for oral’. You asked, she said no, end of story.  Don’t be an asshole. That’s offense #3. 

  

But it gets even more offensive when he asked me the following, ‘Where should he expect to cum with this condom in the way?’  I couldn’t believe he just asked that question.  Really?? Oh, I expect you to cum in the condom like everyone else usually does.  But he wasn’t going to be satisfied with that. He wanted a facial.  I straight out refused. I don’t toy with clients at all. I tell them straight up what’s cool and not.  I at least give them that respect.  But he had no respect for the boundaries of prostitutes obviously.  He kept pushing for that fucking facial cum shot despite my clear and straight refusal. 

It wasn’t enough that I invited him into my private condo, offered him a drink, a place to wash, willingly give him a damn fine BJ (if I do say so myself, I am a pro after all) and then fuck him in several different positions of his choosing, all with a smile on my face. He continued to pester me, so I explained how it would ruin my make up and mess up my hair which I really didn’t appreciate - but still he whined like a bitch - so then I said that I wasn’t comfortable risking getting any of his semen in my eyes, ears or nose due to the potential health risks associated.   I was incredibly offended that I had to even say that out loud to his face, when in this day and age we all know the risks associated with certain behaviours.  The fact that he felt he had any right to ask that of me pissed me off big time, especially after I told him no, not once, but several times.  To appease him I took the shot safely on my chest. 

We’re up to number four now - the counts getting too high for my liking.  

Now after all that you’d think he’d let me rinse up first (since I had all his cum on my chest mind you), but instead he insists that he uses the bathroom first because he likes privacy when he pees. Wow. He just reached offense #5. What a jerk. That will be the first and last time I will ever see him.  

Many people think that working as a prostitute is a degrading job, but its not.  Except when a client like him knocks on my door. I take pride in my work and am not ashamed of what I do, and I refuse to be disrespected by anybody.  I’ll do many wild and wonderful things but only if you treat me right and respect my boundaries. I’m a lady and a whore.  That rude dude needs to learn some manners, regardless of who he’s dealing with. 

Don’t worry, Steve is not my typical client.  I’m very appreciative for all the awesome regular clients I have which make my work so very much fun - 99% of the time.  If all the clients were like Steve I wouldn’t be in this industry.  Thankfully, most are really cool guys I actually have a good rapport with.  Not creeps at all.  So stay cool guys.