When
I first began psychiatric medication, it threw my brain for a loop.
My manic mind slowed to the pace of a snail — hibernating.
Since I was used to doing multiple projects at once, taking at least
17-21 college credits at a time, and participating in at least three
or four extracurricular activities on a regular basis, my brain’s
new speed (or lack thereof) was frustrating and alarming.
In
addition to struggling to process information like simple
instructions on a microwave dinner, it was like things happening
around me were fuzzed. Nothing felt clear; nothing felt real. Nothing
that is, until I fell asleep.
Asleep,
my dreams played out crystal clear, in high-def and 4-D. Colors
brighter. Sounds and music played on surround-sound Bose-like stereo
system. I worked. I danced. I sweat. I laughed. I cried. I felt human
in my dreams — which was more than I could say for my subdued
daily existence.
After
my initial diagnosis, I awoke from dreams, unable to distinguish
between what was real and what had been a dream. In fact, sometimes
in the dreams, after an event, I would return to my dream home
(not to be confused with my ideal home) and retire to my dream
bed, only to wake in my heavily medicated reality. Talk about
confusing.
For
example, dreaming meant going on a date with an old boyfriend, eating
a gourmet salad with pomegranate vinaigrette dressing, brie cheese
and candied pecans, while laughing about something that (really had)
happened in high school. Then I’d wait with school-girl
anticipation for the kiss on the cheek.
After
the dreamy dinner, I’d “go home” and fall asleep on
my bed, only to wake up (for real) all giggly and fogged to a mom
re-convincing my clouded mind for the next six hours that the high
school sweetheart was long gone.
The
vibrant dreams only mocked my dull, impaired life. In dreams, I
thought clearly, completed complicated tasks, went to college
classes, studied for tests, took vacations and lived a “normal”
life. Awake, I sat stuck with my hibernating slug of a brain, wading
through a world so fuzzy and slow it was surreal.
Is
it any question why sleep felt like a welcome relief for my
frustrated, consistently panicked mind? So, I slept. I slept a lot. I
did so partly because of my medically-induced drowsiness, and partly
because it was more interesting and liberating than dragging and
forcing my way through a life that made little coherent sense.
Dreaming was positively sensational, unless it was a nightmare.
Nightmares
are a regular occurrence for most people using psychiatric
medications. Who knows why? I’m not familiar with any research
pertaining to the matter. But I have a sneaking suspicion that it has
everything to do with the vivid nature of dreams when real life is a
drowsy haze. When I first began my psychotropic meds, I had major
difficulty shaking myself from my dreamy reality.
Gratefully
I haven’t had difficulties with nightmares for quite some time.
Consequently I forgot just what a welcome relief it was. But
recently, a powerful sleep experience jarred me. I awoke coughing,
gagging, and crying after watching a wild fire engulf my childhood
home, taking my father with it. It was so lifelike that I called my
father, who reassured me that he would never try to defend his home
on the roof with a garden hose. His calm voice reassured me that he
was alive.
Some
people say they wake up on the wrong side of the bed. As a person on
psychotropic meds with vivid dreams, I can only compare it to holding
a loved one in my arms as they die and then awaking traumatized with
the warmth and smell of their body still lingering in the air. Trying
to shake off traumatic experiences can take more than a few hours.
To
cure bad dreams, my mom once told me that all I had to do was to tell
myself to wake up or change the channel. I can honestly say that each
time I’ve tried, someone comes to me in my dream and “proves”
to me why it isn’t a dream using vivid sensory input. Whatever
I’d dreamed was usually more graphic than life itself.
Evidently
curing bad dreams is still something I struggle with. I suppose we
all do, to some extent. I learned a good lesson on ridding nightmares
from a little boy who offered a closing prayer at church. Pleading
with Heavenly Father that none of us would have bad dreams, he
confidently finished his prayer and smiled. I wanted to just go up
and give him a huge hug and kiss.
I
guess the only reason why I share this is because I’ve lived in
a variety of situations over the past 16 years. Sometimes people get
exasperated with my waking state, commanding me to get over it.
Telling me it was all a dream — because it was. However, being
impatient with me as I came to my senses, never helped.
So,
if you’re a loved one of someone who lives with a mental
illness and struggles with nightmares, take this little piece of
advice: the best thing you can do for them is to offer to just hold
them, apologize for their horrific experience, reassure them that
life is moving forward and that it can be great.
May
this coming year be your best one yet — without any nightmares!
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.