Last
time I shared with you my recent experience with both “positive
symptoms” of schizophrenia (doctors say “positive”
because they are symptoms that are an addition to a normal human
experience — not because they are good and fun) and mania. Here
is the rest of the story.
I’d
been up for 36 hours and knew I had to turn off my mental engine —
I just couldn’t.
At
about 2:30 a.m., I lay awake in bed, brain ever alert — a
ticking bomb. Refusing to do anything that would cause myself to stay
awake, I fought the urge to give in to Facebook or games. In fact, I
left my phone in the other room. I didn’t want to spiral
further into mania.
One
of the problems with mania is that it does weird things to the
perception of passing time. Since your brain is smacking around like
a racquetball hit by a player on steroids, it seems you can think
about more than 100 things in a minute. The longer you’re awake
that becomes 150 and then 200 in a minute. It just keeps getting
faster and faster.
Is
it any wonder that people living with prolonged extreme mania make no
sense?
At
first it’s creatively productive and then it spins into
ridiculous “creativity.” For example, I have sketches of
inventions like prosthetic limbs for snakes and personal water
filters for fish (so they could just pop them in their mouths and
enjoy a day frolicking in the sand at the beach, or even learn to
drive), all of which made perfect sense at the time.
After
lying there for another hour or so I called my insurance’s
mental health crisis line. Surely they could have some insight into
resolving my insomnia. The guy on the line told me that I should
really do some exercise. He preferred yoga. He then went on a
30-minute diatribe about yoga and how I should try it.
My
thought, how in the heck is that going to help me right now? I
mean, I could take up yoga. I’ve done it once in a class I
found bitterly boring — too much to think about in the silence
of stretching.
Oddly,
this crisis line guy didn’t allow me to speak a word edge-wise.
I think he was more manic than I was. When he paused for a breath, I
found myself breaking out my counseling skills.
I
complimented him on the journey he’d made to find such a
meaningful form of exercise that worked for him. I reflected back to
him his yoga insights regarding muscle tension and blood flow. I
asked him a couple more open-ended questions (since he was obviously
a wealth of knowledge) and then I summarized all he said and hung up
the phone.
I
wasn’t a mental centimeter closer to turning my mind off. I
knew one thing was certain: he loved yoga.
As
the sun started peeking over the canyon near my home, I knew with
certainty that I’d been up for 48 hours, and my brain’s
chemical malfunction was severe. If I didn’t stave it off,
things would quickly and exponentially get worse. I needed sleep. It
was the only sure-fire way to rein in the mania and let my brain
recoup.
Because
my brain was in such a ravaged state, I completely forgot about my
WRAP plan. Had I remembered, I could have used one of my action plans
to nip the mania in the bud. Instead, it just kept winding the
spring. We all know what happens when you overwind a spring. Click.
Nothing.
I
picked up that phone again and frantically filed through my contacts,
searching for someone else who might know how to help. I texted three
of my professional colleagues who also live successfully with bipolar
disorder.
Two
texted back that they wanted to help in any way possible and the
third called me directly. By that time my husband was awake as well,
since he’d never seen me really manic, he didn’t
understand the gravity of the situation.
I
put my colleague on speaker phone so he could get a better idea of
where this was going. Mania is more than insomnia. Mania’s
neurochemical components can’t be reversed by taking a warm
bath or listening to soothing music.
My
manic thoughts spiraled into catastrophizing (taking everything to
the worst possible outcome as though it’s already happened).
Basically my brain was telling me that my mania was going to get
worse. I’d end up involuntarily committed somewhere. I’d
lose my job, leaving me unable to meet the family financial needs and
get left by my husband because he was scared of me.
Gratefully,
my coworker’s calm serenity helped me ease those fears. Acutely
aware of the serious situation, she reminded me of the importance of
staying in the moment, focusing on the here and now, providing me
with ideas (deep breathing, journaling, taking a cleansing morning
walk) to counteract the flight of thoughts.
Although
each idea was geared more to relaxing in general, not in getting me
to sleep, relaxing is in obvious forerunner to sleeping for most
people. Her anxiety for me, although hidden, was felt in her since
desire to help me. We closed the conversation with her promise that
she would check on me every two hours throughout the day.
I
also texted my old social worker/nurse and wished her a “good
morning.” I never text her, and I had certainly never texted a
random greeting at 7 a.m. on a Sunday morning. She called me back
instantly. I put her on speaker phone so my husband could hear her
response and better understand this situation growing desperate.
First
she wanted me to go straight to the ER, but after discussing things
with her, we decided to hold off a bit more to see if I could fall
asleep in the next 12 hours. If I couldn’t, I promised I’d
check myself into the hospital.
We
discussed the meds I was taking. At that moment I had a flash of
memory that in my WRAP plan my doctor and I had constructed an
emergency dose of medication to take in cases like this one. I told
her about our plan and she instructed me to do it. She said that
she’d call back in 6 hours if she hadn’t heard from me.
My
husband realized that I should not go to church. Instead, I needed to
treat this like a serious illness — because it is one. I saw
the fear and worry register in his face.
I
took my emergency dose; I was asleep within 30 minutes. Eight hours
later, I woke up. My sweetie reported that both my social worker and
my colleague kept their word, checking in regularly. He noted that
they were both relieved, which eased his concerns as well.
That
night, I took my normal dose of medication and went to bed at 8:30,
waking up ten hours later. I felt like myself again. With clarity
restored, I headed off to work as though nothing had happened,
grateful I wasn’t in the hospital. I cannot stress how without
my resources, I would have or at least should have been hospitalized.
After
four assists, Sarah sinks a three-pointer — just under the
buzzer — for the win.
Sarah Price Hancock, a graduate of San Diego State University's rehabilitation
counseling Masters of Science program with a certificate psychiatric
rehabilitation.
Having embarked on her own journey with a mental health diagnosis, she is
passionate about psychiatric recovery. She enjoys working as a lector
for universities, training upcoming mental health professionals.
Sarah also enjoys sharing insights with peers working to strengthen
their "recovery toolbox." With proper support, Sarah
knows psychiatric recovery isn’t just possible — it’s
probable.
Born and raised in San Diego, California, Sarah served a Spanish-speaking
and ASL mission for the LDS Church in the Texas Dallas Mission. She
was graduated from Ricks College and BYU. Sarah currently resides in
San Diego and inherited four amazing children when she married the
man of her dreams in 2011. She loves writing, public speaking,
ceramics, jewelry-making and kite-flying — not necessarily in
that order.