First Person, Singular: Regarding Men (and Everything Else)
Thanks to this submitter, who prefers I don't use his name, for sharing himself with us. Keep sending 'em in!
Liz, the reason I wouldn't normally write about my male experiences with mental illness is because it's so, for lack of a better word, refreshing, to read about the experiences of others and to realize I'm not alone. Kind of like being gay (which adds an interesting spice to the soup).There must be a gene in my family which predisposes us to mental illness. My father and his niece (my first cousin) both lived or are living with depression. I have not been in touch with my cousin for 20 years because I really don't want to know what might be in store for me. Not that I'm worried, mind you – I've jumped from DSM IV-TR 296.33, “Major depressive disorder, recurring, not psychotic” to 296.xx, “Bipolar Disorder I or II”.
Working:
I'm working. Thank God. In about 14 months, I'll vest in a pension plan which will give me medical, dental, and vision care for the rest of my life. I don't care so much about the money in the plan. I just want access to decent medical care. And with my diagnosis, anywhere I go I'm a “parity” case and am not limited to 20 psych visits a year. My job also gives me lots of vacation and other leave, and I'm working very hard on accruing as much vacation and sick leave as I can so that if I have to go on disability retirement after I vest, there will be something accruing.
The benefit and pension issues are huge. Most people are not as fortunate as I am. I got into the workforce early and got two government jobs, both of which paid into Social Security as well as a traditional pension plan. I cannot emphasize enough the importance of people paying into some kind of retirement plan or working for a company (OR GOVERNMENT AGENCY!) which provides for workers at some point in the future. My age (over 40) has played in my favor.
[Image (not of the author) by DirgeElucidatr via Flickr. Sorry if it's depressing, when this entry is not. But I think it's a beautiful photo of a man.]
My experience at work says to suggest that you not “come out” quickly. Get through your probationary period. See what works for you and what doesn't. If you get in and it smells bad immediately, bail right away. If you think you can tolerate your working situation, great. If you need to tweak anything based on the Americans with Disabilities Act, do so after it becomes difficult to let you go. And document everything you say or do.Drugs:
Medication fucks me up. Luckily, I'm not on a weight-gain drug. Unfortunately, the valproic acid formulation I'm taking, Depakote, makes me look Parkinsonian and I have trouble handwriting, eating soup, carving Thanksgiving turkey, etc. People who haven't seen me in a while notice.
Take your meds. Question your doctor. Get your blood levels checked for glucose, lithium, valproic acid, liver function, etc. Your family practitioner is not going to know enough to do this, so it's up to you to figure it all out. It's hard work.
There are good meds out there and meds that aren't so good. Your body will let you know what you can tolerate. If you can handle gaining 40 pounds and you feel good, then put on the weight and feel good and live with it. I'm more anorexic. I've sent my weight down from 205 to 165. It's back up to 180 now but I still feel fat (6'2”, 34”, no “muffin roll”). Go figure.
Social life:
My family and partner have stood behind me. I would have shot me, I think, just to put me out of the misery and mood swings. I love and admire them for it. And I respect them. For my family, it helps living far away. For my partner, who has to wake up with me every morning, I give special credit. He's seen a steady deterioration over 23 years and it's just not fair to him. We've had a good life much of the time, but my job “irregularities” and health issues have been stressful and harmful to him, just as my father's were to my mother.
I've lost most of my friends. This is not a complaint. I really don't want to put them in a situation where they're constantly asking how I'm doing or if I'm hospitalized or working or someplace in-between. From what I gather, this is typical.
People at work can see me in a “normal” environment and, so far at least, I haven't managed to piss off any of my peers or people who work for my peers. My superordinates, however, are another story which I won't address here. I'm in work which puts me in contact with the public, and because I usually like being around other people, I can smile and make our clientele feel at ease when they visit my worksite.
Outside of work, we go out to dinner once every two weeks with friends who moved to this city about ten years after we did. We're home by 9:00 p.m. My other “social” behavior comes from Internet chat rooms where I can have people perceive me to be healthy and normal. This is inappropriate in itself because it reinforces the avoidance of healthy face-to-face social interaction which would make my life a lot better. It really feels good to be like other people, even if they're as messed up as I am. At least we're messed up on the same level.
The Internet chat rooms are on their way out. They provoke unhealthy and obsessive behavior. I think blogging and skill-building (i.e., learn to use Dreamweaver, etc.) tasks are more useful.
An observation:
I've seen a statistic or two which suggest that people with bipolar disorder tend to live about 15 years less than the national average. If I run the numbers, I'm not all that far off from that general block of time. My goal: outlive my mother. It is the height of rudeness for a parent to have to bury a child. My younger sister seems resigned to it (and has already told me which of the three plots we own she'll place my marker) but I don't want to put my mother through that kind of grief. That's my motivation for today. When something happens to her, I hope I'll have another motivator to keep me going.
