DEPRESSION

• Feelings of guilt and worthlessness.

• Feeling helpless.

• Thoughts of death and/or suicide.

• Restlessness.

• Irritability.

• Difficulty concentrating or remembering.

• Difficulty making decisions.

• Decreased energy or fatigue.

• Loss of interest in ordinary activities.

• Loss of interest in sex.

• Persistent sadness, anxiousness or emptiness.

• Sleep problems, including insomnia.

• Over sleeping or waking up too early.

• Changes in appetite or weight gain/loss.

• Feelings of hopelessness or pessimism.

There is hope. This book outlines, step by step what I did the GET BETTER! It will be available in the fall of 2002. Just click on the picture.

Tears ran down my face like tiny rivers, rushing to an unknown destination. My face was pressed against the window, waiting for one final glimpse of my children. My breath made circles of fog that obstructed my vision in the cold, January, morning air. I felt that if I could only see them one more time, I would be assured of seeing them again.

Slowly the doors closed and I held myself in my seat, knowing that if I allowed myself to think one single, fleeting thought, I would rush out of this airplane, back to my safe, but insane world.

I sat back in my seat, still gripped with fear. My brain began to whirl as the sound of the engines picked up speed below me. Every attempt at quieting my thoughts was much the same as standing before a thundering herd of horses bent on their own destination, and willing the thundering herd to stop.

I knew without a doubt in the small part of my rational mind that remained, that I was sitting in the exact place where God wanted me to be. Yet, the whirlwind of fear continued to envelope me. My thoughts returned to the blackness of a few nights before. The decision to make this trip had been difficult. Years of wild, chasing of ever, distant winds, frequent, feeble attempts at solving my problems had led to this moment. All had been just as futile as standing before the ever present, herd of racing horses.

In the air now, my silent weeping had ceased and I ran the events through my mind. Growing up in a dysfunctional home where argumets were loud, tension was prevalent and the fear of fierce reprimand was a constant shadow did very little to build self esteem and confidence.

Being tall and thin with thick, studious glasses and protruding front teeth with an overbite led to thoughtless ridicule from schoolmates. At the tender age of 13, I was noticed by a boy. I thought this was true love. I soon found my heart broken and my virtue shattered.

For the next decade, my attempts to find love and acceptance were shattered by men bent on their own agenda. By this time I had two small children and an alcaholic husband. My dreams lay in a fragmented heap. My marriage was over. My only recourse was to divorce my abusive and wayward husband.

Through my pain and anger I had one constant friend. My sister who is only a year older than I. She has a loving marriage to her best friend and first love. My own dreams of marital bliss had been elusive.

The shreds of my existing world crumbled as my sister and her husband packed their three children and my life into a truck and moved 400 miles away. I wanted to move also, but something stopped me. Little did I know at the time, but my sister moving would become a very positive thing.

I felt as though Jesus had walked away from me for a very long time. I begged Jesus to come, to end all of this. I could no longer function. I knew I needed to reach out to someone.

I call the EAP (Employee Assistance Program) that represented the company I worked for. They sent me to a counselor in my area, I hoped she would have the answers to my problems. Her answer was a recommendation for 28 days, in-house treatment. I was stunned, I really was crazy. I told her "NO, I couldn't leave my job, my children or anything else, and I sure wasn't going to go get "locked up". After all, the holidays were coming, I didn't want to be gone over Christmas.

One night as I lay in bed, unable to sleep, the question wouldn't leave my mind. I knew I should go. A still, quiet voice spoke to me. "Do you really want to spend the rest of your life like this"? "No, of course I didn't, but who would take care of the children"? Quietly the voice said "don't you think I can take care of the children." At that moment I knew that my will must give in to God's. The next morning I called my counselor and told her that I would go.

Now, two days later my airplane was landing on a foggy, rainy afternoon in Tulsa, Oklahoma. It was January, 1991. I was met at the airport by a little old man, who looked like an angel.

At the hospital, I was surprised to find that there were no bars on the windows and no straight jackets. A nurse showed me to my room and helped check in and inventory my belongings. She took anything that I might use to hurt myself. There were rules, but they all made sense. I wasn't a prisoner after all. After my things were put away she gave me a blue card and said "it's dinner time, let's eat". In the dining room she introduced me to my roommate and some of the other patients.

The first couple of weeks I felt like I was in a fog, I trusted no one and was desperately homesick. When I talked to my children they cried and I felt so guilty for being gone.

One night they held a graduation. Two or three of the patients were going home, and we were all invited to attend. We sat in a circle and passed a coin, as each person got the coin they told of something they had shared with the person graduating. They talked of deep friendships, late night talks, how something this person had said had made such a difference in their recovery. The things they were saying sounded an awful lot like bull to me. I decided that I would graduate, but I wouldn't believe anything anyone said.

One morning I awoke and felt this strange joy in my heart, for the first time in my life I could hardly wait to get up. I actually liked the people that were around me. I actually liked MYSELF!! Every week some graduated, and new ones came in. I started adding things to the graduation ceremonies, and I cried when some left. I felt such a kindred spirt with those I had only known a few days. We shared a bond that could never be broken. I didn't suspect a man every time he asked for a hug, and it felt really good to get a hug with no strings attached.

On Sundays we went to church. I felt the love of God from a church body for the first time in my life.

The days flew by, I was smiling all of the time. Groups were hard as I talked about my divorce, my childhood and teenage years. I allowed myself to talk about being raped at age 11 for the first time. I felt safe for the first time, and I cried, but I knew that God was with me and I had to go through this to get better.

They told me that this was the tip of the iceberg and when I went home I would crash in 30 days, and 60 and so on. But, if I kept at it, the crashes would get further apart and my road to recovery would get easier. That recovery is a journey, not a destination.

My time was up, graduation day was here. I sat and listened to people tell of times we had talked until the wee hours of the morning, things I had said that had made a difference in their lives. My life had touched theirs, and theirs had touched mine. That night we stood together, in a group hug singing "Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me, I once was lost, but now I'm found, twas' blind but now I see". In 28 short days, 900 miles from home, my life had been changed forever. At that moment, I was home.

Once again I pressed my nose against the window to get one last glimpse of the hospital. Everyone was in group, last good-byes had been said and I was going home. Tears ran down my face, rushing like tiny rivers to an unknown destination. A part of my heart stays in a small town in Oklahoma and will remain there forever.

As the plane landed, the ground rushed up to meet me, as did many memories and thoughts of responsibilities un-tended. I prayed that somday my children would understand why I left. I realized that when my sister moved, she unknowingly forced me to look at my own problems, I had been using her as a crutch not to deal with my problems. Although I still missed her, I thanked her for helping me get the help I needed. Even if at the time, she did not realize she it.

The doors opened and I walked into the airport. With a bang my life burst upon me once again. The chatter of my children was a welcome sound to my ears.

My life resumed as though nothing had happened, I was on a pink cloud, I felt like I didn't have any problems. Then the sharp jolt of reality hit, I crashed. There was one element of my recovery that was missing. I couldn't go back to the church I grew up in. I had tried and I felt like I was in a dungeon screaming for air. I had been trained since I was a little girl, that if I didn't go to "this" church, I was going to hell.

My boss shared Jesus with me, and he invited me to his church. I still struggled, but I knew he was a Christian. He lived being a Christian daily, he was the same at home, at work, and at church. I cried all the way through the service. I prayed "Lord, if this is wrong, show me and help me to get over the guilty feeling I have for being here". I went forward that day and asked Jesus into my life. I felt total peace with my decision.

I had been baptized when I was nine, but I never knew Jesus. I was baptized again on Easter Sunday 1991. My family did not come, but I was surrounded by my church family and the Lord comforted me.

As the months went by, my desire for a partner grew. Knowing that I typically chose the wrong person to be in a relationship with, I asked God for guidance. My prayer was a simple one. "Lord, if you want a man in my life, you need to put him on my doorstep, because I am not looking for one".

I promptly forgot this prayer. I was enjoying my life, my Christian friends and my Bible study. I looked at the guys, and talked to them, but I made no effort to date one.

One evening I came home from evening services and there was a red carnation and a note on my door. The note asked me to meet this man for dinner, if I could. I could and I did, he was the one I had liked the most at church.

We had a whirlwind courtship, and three and 1/2 short weeks later he asked me to marry him. I didn't doubt he was the right man for me, because he had left the note, and the carnation, "On my doorstep".

My husband and I were married almost exactly two years after I had first begun counseling, I had been released from counseling, and I thought I was on top of the world. Little did I know, that the worst trials were still yet to come.

We settled into married life happily. I thought that since God had put us together, that we wouldn't have all those problems, and life would be wonderful. I had forgotten that Satan is still at work in this world.

My husband was thoughtful, attentive and seemed to put me on a pedestal. Just about anything I wanted, was mine. If I came home from work with sore feet, he put me in a nice warm bath while he cooked dinner. He helped around the house and took over with the kids.

Slowly depression seeped back into my bones. I blamed it on my tyrant of a boss. I had changed jobs two years before, and my first boss quit. This one told me daily I couln't do anything right, and he was tired of holding my hand. He treated everyone like that, but I took it personally. I felt that if I quit my job, the depression would go away. It didn't.

The children began coming to me with problems, things that were happening around the house. They were getting along with my husband less and less. I tried to talk to him, but he was busy and didn't have time.

My husband is a school teacher, and he was working on a minor in history. That summer he was gone for what seemed an eternity. By the end of five weeks everything conceivable went wrong, and I was angry at him for being gone so long. In his eyes he was doing this for the family. I felt abandoned, and I was getting more and more depressed.

At first my husband had not wanted another child, and I did. Finally I gave up and said "Lord, if you want this child to be born, you talk to him, because he's not listening to me." Late that summer my husband walked in and wrapped his arms around me, "let's have a baby". My heart nearly stopped, I was no longer certain I wanted a baby. Thinking quickly I decided that a baby would pull me out of the dulldrums, so I said yes.

Very soon, our baby was on its way. I was in tears constantly, and frequently stared out the window looking at nothing. I complained constantly to my friend, she tried to help, but nothing made any difference. Very little got done around the house and the kids were doing more and more, and rebelling more and more, I was doing less and less. The kids were too young for this. My husband has a lot of outside projects that needed his attention. I begged him to talk to me, but he didn't have time and he went outside.

As my pregnancy progressed, so did my depression. My husband tried to make it easier on me. I didn't cook, I didn't clean, I mainly sat in my chair while I let him do everything. He gave more and more chores to the kids, hoping for at least a little help. My children rebelled loudly. They were 9 1/2 and 8 years old.

As my fifth month approached, tensions were high, and my kids were more and more angry that they had to do so many chores. Looking back I knew my husband was getting more and more frustrated. And my kids complained more and more. I neither heard, nor saw much of anything that was happening. One morning the pains in my stomach were un-mistakeable. I was in labor.

Rushing to the hospital, I was in a panic. I was losing my baby, and I was terrified. I was sent to the maternity ward, and soon my doctor was there, grave concern written all over his face. My husband works 45 miles from our house, but soon he was there too.

Once the labor had stopped. My doctor came in and sat down, he looked straight at me and said "why are you so depressed, are there problems at home?" My face reddened as I mumbled, "yeah some, but not too bad". He promptly got to the point, "I think you are depressed and I'm going to put you on a mild anti-depressant." Of course I was worried about my baby, but my friend had already mentioned this, so I was kind of relieved. I went home armed with my pills, and a determination that things would be better.

For the rest of my pregnancy they were better. My husband was relieved to have his wife back. The kids were unhappy, but I still couldn't face it. When they came to me and complained I panicked. I didn't want to risk a fight, and I thought they would be ok, I had never made them do many chores, so I just thought they needed to get used to it. I would pick a fight with my husband about it, but I really didn't want to deal with it. I was afraid to rock the boat, this felt way too familiar.

Once again I felt like my old self, the depression was gone. I breathed a sigh of relief, went on with my life and waited for my baby's arrival. Early summer 1994, after a very difficult labor and delivery. Our son was finally here. He was beautiful, our house was busy. Daddy changed as many daipers as I did. My Mother-in-law came to help, she is a sweet, unassuming woman, and I was so glad she was there. She took care of things, helped with the baby, and made our transition so much easier. I will always be thankful for her.

Soon my doctor wanted to take me off the anti-depressant to see how I would do. I agreed, I was sure I was OK. For a couple of months I was. Then I started to slide again, down that slow spiral, into inky blackness.

My daughter was unhappy and I knew, but I didn't want to deal with it. I had a new baby and I was depressed again. She wanted to go live with her Dad, and I let her. I was certain she would be back in a few weeks. I wasn't worried.

As time went by, the realization sunk in, she wasn't coming back. I blamed that on my husband, "if he hadn't made her do all those chores, she would still be here." I blamed myself for not doing something. I sobbed daily because I missed her so much.

Frequent phone calls punctuated those feelings. The callers told me that my husband was abusing her, and if I was any kind of Mother at all, I'd get out of there, get all of the kids out, and my daughter would come back. I thought of nothing else. If I didn't leave, I was a horrible Mother. Mid summer 1995, I moved out.

My depression had hit an all time low. I woke up one morning unable to move, tears streaming down my face I called my friend. She came and got me, and took me to the emergency room. I was terrified, I didn't want to be there, but was unable to function, or think clearly. She had called my husband and he met us there. I lay there in a fog as four doctors stood around my bed discussing my condition. It was unanimous, I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, and admitted into the Crisis Observation Unit, and put on medication again.

I did OK for a few weeks, and then once again, I was on the Crisis unit. Out in a few days, I made it five weeks before I was once again in crisis. My daughter didn't do something the second I told her to, and I exploded, I was screaming at her and in a rage. Suddenly I stopped and looked at my terrified child, the knowledge that I put her in this state was more than I could handle, I stormed from the room, picked up something off the floor and slung it against the wall. I missed the wall and shattered the window. Slowly I sank to the floor.

"What was wrong with me?" My oldest son quietly sat down beside me. He had put the baby in his crib and came to check on me. He was eleven years old. I said, "I need help, call Dad, and everyone else, I need to go back to the hospital." Within two days I was on a critical mental health ward, in a city 200 miles away.

By then I was good at pretending everything was OK. The Psychiatrist couldn't figure out why they sent me there, he told me there was nothing wrong with me, took me off most of my meds and sent me home. I was thrilled, I was OK, these other doctors were wrong.

I was fine, I went home and moved back with my husband. I sold my house, he wanted to pay bills, I didn't. I won. $12,000 was gone in two months. He wanted to save some out for taxes on the house. We put the tax money in savings. I decided to take some classes, I didn't like that, so I took the tax money from the house and opened a sewing shop. My business was booming. I put out lots of work. What I didn't know was I was manic, and depression always follows a mania.

I was erratic, spending money like there was no end. I had so many un-finished projects I didn't know where I was. My husband tried to caution me, but I wouldn't listen.

I still had the thought in the back of my mind that I needed to move out, so my daughter would come back home, after I got my daughter back, I was sure I could work out things with my husband. My anguish and grief were killing me. I blamed my husband for my pain.

I moved out again, to a ratty little trailer, he found out and got me out of there. Two months later, I was gone again. Hell bent on getting my daughter back.

My shop was very busy, but everything had ground to a halt. I hired someone to help, but I had no money left for my own bills. Once again I was back in the hospital, and back on medication.

I took them sort of, I missed 3 - 4 doses a week, and I still held to my denial. Even though I had to close my business, I lost my car because I couldn't make the payments. I was still in denial. Both my kids were gone, both had moved out and were not with me. They did not get along with their step-Dad. The grief at losing my kids was destroying me.

Over the next two years I fought it, determined I wasn't going to let it get me down. I filed for divorce, taking my anger out on my husband every chance I got. Finally the day came to sign the papers. I sat staring at them. Somewhere in the deeper parts of my mind I knew I didn't want this. Sadness crept in as I realized that I had to sign these, I could not guarantee I wouldn't change my mind, and my husband deserved a chance at a normal life. I signed them and walked out the door. Leaning against the steering wheel, I sobbed. Where had everything gone so wrong. I wanted to be back with him, but I couldn't stop blaming him for my problems. And, my daughter and my oldest son werew still gone. I had to get them back!!!

In the division of property, my husband had stated that I had run up nearly $3,000 in bills. I had made him document them, and was shocked when his figures were right. I had no idea. It hadn't seemed like too much at the time. I agreed to pay them, although I didn't know how.

I had filed for Social Security early, and in summer 1998, it finally came through. Along with over $12,000 in back pay. It took me four months to spend it all. I bought a house, went out to eat, spent money like crazy. But, I never paid my husband back a cent.

This was the beginning of a new life I thought. I'm starting over. I bought wall-paper and paint, some new furniture. My house was going to be a show-place.

In no time I was broke, half finished projects everywhere. I had made friends with a woman that drank allot, and I joined right in. My house was a shambles, you couldn't see the floor for the filth. My dogs were not house trained and it showed. I allowed my son to have a beer now and then, life was one big party. One night my friend and I got crossways. She was drunk, and I didn't think she should drive so I called her husband. She was angry and vowed to get even. She threatened to call Social Services on me.

I was not totally surprised when Social Services knocked on my door. Along with the Sheriff. She had accused me of throwing parties for minors. I admitted to letting my son have a beer now and then, but I had never thrown parties for minors, that was the truth. They believed me, and I was not arrested. I'd been to jail once for bad checks, and didn't want to go back. I think I would've rather have gone to jail, they took my kids away from me until I could get my filthy house cleaned up. I was devastated. I had just gotten the kids back with me!

Eight days later I got my kids back, my house was clean, and I vowed things would be different. Three weeks later I was out of the system, and breathed a sigh of relief.

It was short-lived, my van blew the engine because the thermostat went out, and I didn't take care of it. I lost my van because I ignored an $8.00 part. Now I was afoot, and in late December Social Services was back. They didn't take my kids. My youngest son was with his Dad, and had been since the first of December. They ordered me to get help, and I voluntarily took my older son to my Mom's. My daughter was with her Dad.

By mid-January I knew I was in serious trouble. I had taken my nieces to Albuquerque and my car had broken down. I was stranded in Albuquerque with three kids. I called my ex-husband and cried on his shoulder, I still called him when I needed to talk, and had lots of respect for him.

He told me to call a Christian friend of his. I had always felt intimidated by her, but I knew I should call her. She came to see me. I was uncomforable, because I was staying at an old boyfriends house, and I didn't want her, or my ex to know. She was great, she brought me a gift of the Bible on CD, dramatized. I cried, it was such a beautiful gift, and I still treasure it.

That weekend I found out that my boss, the one who had led me to Jesus nearly eight years before, was dead. It had been cancer, now he was with Jesus. I was devastated. I thought to myself, what would he say if he saw me now. He wasn't the type to judge, but still I felt bad.

Finally my sister-in-law came and got us and we went home. What I found at home would change my life forever.

My son and his friend had a party at my house while I was gone. There had been a fight and $500 worth of damage was done. This friend was 21, so I called the Sheriff and my caseworker from Social Services. I was given my options by the Sheriff, and my caseworker suggested I put my son in a shelter for teens with drug and alcahol problems. I called my ex-husband, he had adopted my son, so I wanted him in on this. I knew that I should never have kept my son away from his Dad, and I vowed to change that.

That night my son's friend came out to talk to me, I was honestly afraid of him so I called the Sheriff. The officer walked in and immediately asked me where my younger son was. I assured him he was with his Dad. It was the same officer who had come with Social Services the first time.

As I stood there I looked around at my son, his friend and the officer, amidst the filth of my house. Reality finally sunk in, and I was mortified at what I saw. It was like the light came on, I knew that bad decisions had put me here. I was just as responsible as my son for his drinking. I vowed then and there, that things would be different.

We took my son to the shelter that night, his Dad and I. I had no idea that my son had been drinking daily, and was now classified as an alcaholic. He was 14.

Over the next month I moved out of our house. It was in the middle of foreclosure because of my erratic spending habits. My ex-husband managed rentals, and he let me move into one.

I vowed that this house would be clean, that I would take my medication daily, I was no longer in denial. I made a budget and vowed to stick to it.

My son was angry at first for being put in the shelter. But, he got over that. His grades came up, and whenever one of his friends suggests going to a party, he tells them how stupid that is, and they frequently don't go. His friends now respect his decision not to drink, and they don't mention it around him.

Along with the realization that my life was a mess, I admitted to myself, and to others that I had blamed my husband for my daughter and my son being gone, and it wasn't all his fault. I had to take blame too. I also realized that my daughters Dad had just as much right to have her living with him, as I did.

The guilt and pain over everything I had done was overwhelming. I could barely carry it. I went to a "Passion Play" (the story of the life of Christ, and the crucifixion). I went forward for prayer and I knew that having an illness was not an excuse to act the way I had, nor do the things I had done. But, I also knew without a doubt that I was forgiven for my sins. I walked with a much lighter step.

I grieved over walking away from my marriage. I was certain God had put us together, and I had walked away. I asked my ex-husband if we could work things out and get back together. He said "NO". I really can't blame him, but was still hoping for a chance. I made such a mess of things.

I take my meds daily, and I have kept my house clean since February 1999. My bills are paid, I still mess up once in awhile, but for the most part, my finances are good. I have a car again. My son has not had any alcohol since January 1999. His grades are better than they have been since fourth grade. My daughter was there for the summer, and we had a great time. She went back, and I missed her. But, I was OK.

My ex-husband and I are friends. He says he has forgiven me for what I did, and doesn't totally understand, but that's OK.

In March 1999 I went back to church, I joined a Ladies Bible study, and I joined the choir. Life is never simple, but working at it, is definitely worth it. I much prefer sanity to insanity. Living with Bipolar Disorder does not have to be life threatening, it can be controlled.

I have come so very far. This ministry is a direct result of all that happened. It is a "GOOD" thing! I'm not certain that the "note on the doorstep" was a sign from God. I'm not certain that I was "supposed" to marry my husband. We are apart, we are divorced, and we are NOT getting back together. My older two kids are out on their own now. I have grandkids, and I adore my grandkids. My kids and I are close. We are eternally changed because of what happened. My husband handles children differently than I do. He is very strict. He is a great guy in many ways. But, because of issues from his own past, this panics him I think. He's gonna have to handle things in his own life, and I will handle things in mine. He and the kids will have to deal with their relationships now, its not my job.

I leave you with this, you are who you are, but you are also what you make of yourself. Get up, and look in the mirror, do you like what you see? If you don't, there are so many things you can change. A new hairstyle, ladies a touch of make-up, men a clean shave. Look at your clothes, put on something you look good in. My Mom has always said, "if you feel depressed, make yourself look good, that in itself, will help you feel better". She is right, a new hairstyle, a little make-up or a shave, dressing nice, all did wonders for me. Every person is on this earth for a reason, we are all children of God, and we are worth it. Give yourself a make-over. Both physically and emotionally! Look in the mirror. You will look and feel better.

The ministry moves on. God has a plan. I am, at this writing, about to finish counseling. Coming to grips with what happened and moving on. It's hard, but it IS possible. Bipolar Disorder can be managed effectively. Medication is a tool, diet and exercise are very important, and Jesus in your life makes all the difference. Jesus saved me from certain death, and he can you too. If you don't go to church, 12 step programs work for this kind of thing to.

You are not a piece of junnk because you have this. It's an illness, treat it like that! And, YOU ARE WORTH IT!! If you are reading this and you are the parent or spouse of someone with Bipolar, I say two things. Love and respect that person as tho, they were whole right now, because someday they will be. And, two, Set your boundaries, don't baby them, and let them walk all over you. It only keeps them sick!