So much better

I just went back and re-read all of my original journal entries.

Things are so much better.  In my blog this morning, I was trying to remind myself that things are still a little better, even when they look a little gray.  But I was shocked, as I read old entries, by the contrast between then and now.

So here's a quick list of differences, a short note of gratitude:

• I can tell Dave everything now.  I think we talk about everything now.  I never feel like I have to hold something back because he is feeling too depressed.  I think we've learned a lot about communication, and we are much more open with each other.  I never feel segmented due to his depression.
• I don't feel responsible as often anymore.  I know that Dave and I are both doing our best.   I don't feel responsible to find the one solution that will make everyone feel better.  I try things, and when they don't work, I move on.  It feels much less weighty to me, and more like part of marriage and life.
• I think we share a lot more of the burden of depression. 
• Dave always has things he's working on.  As I mentioned this morning, even when he is at his most depressed, he is still willing to take a few steps forward (like calling a doctor, or scheduling to take our car in).  This is amazing to me, and I am so grateful.   
• I think we might be starting to realize some of the things we can learn from Dave's depression (this process is very slow).  
• We have friends who are very aware of us, who listen and are always there when needed.  This is amazing.
• I can go weeks without worrying that Dave will commit suicide.  This is a big change.  
• I am not nearly as afraid that things won't get better.  If things don't get better than this, that's okay.  I can live with this.  If things get bad again, we're ready.  We can handle it together.

                                                    

This isn't comprehensive, but it's a good indicator of how much relief and peace I feel.  I am so grateful to Dave for everything he's done (and it's a lot) to come to this point.  I am so grateful he was willing to talk with me.

And I am grateful to myself, too.  Does that sound weird?  I'm grateful that I tried a lot of things, and kept going when it was really hard, so that I could be here.

I wanted to write this blog to beat and pound my drums for Dave's efforts and my efforts, regardless of outcome.  Today I'm grateful for the outcome, and grateful for the efforts.  And so today, I beat and pound my drums!  Vivas!  

Still better

Things are still better.

Things are still better because even when Dave feels depressed and wakes up feeling overwhelmed, he says, "I'll just start working on something."  Things are better because the situation is very rarely, if ever, dangerous.  Things are better because he sometimes enjoys things.  Occasionally, though rarely, Dave almost looks forward to something.

Things are still better.  In obvious, apparent ways that things are better.





Sometimes they're still hard to see.

Change

Lots of change is happening in our family.  I find myself really reluctant to describe the changes, because I don't want there to be any pressure on Dave to have to continue or report on those changes.  So I'll just say that Dave's desk is getting cleared off, his stress at work is becoming manageable, and  even when things are really dark, they are never hopeless.

Reasons for slow blogging

My mom asked that I post something new, since we as a family have transitioned away from the pain of the previous post.  Chelsey is doing really well, and has retained all of her personality while becoming both more grateful and somewhat more assertive.  Her transition to a group home has been slightly sad for all of us, but on the whole has been positive.  We feel this is a good change for her, and we've already seen a lot of benefits and positive changes.

As that transition became more calm, peaceful, and resolved, my Dad wrote "I now have no energy for this blog, and very little of interest to say about CCH now that the problems are less salient".  He and I talked about how in the moment of crisis, the problems are pressing and it feels important to voice your experience and your insights, as well as to hear from others' insights and responses.  Once the crisis has passed and you can cope with ongoing concerns on your own, there isn't a lot of energy or interest in posting.

That's how I've been feeling lately.  Though the depression is ongoing, the crisis of the depression seems past.  Dave and I have learned a lot, and we've both learned how to cope, individually and in our relationship.  There are ongoing lessons to learn, but it doesn't feel like a crisis anymore.

I'm not saying goodbye to this blog, though, by any means.  This blog has been a lifeline to me when times were most hard, and I am not at all ready to let it go completely.  I want to keep writing about our transition, and I want to keep it available if there should be another crisis.  

I'm grateful for you readers of this blog, who have been part of my lifeline.

Calling Chelsey

I found out a few days ago that I could call Chelsey at the hospital.  I wanted to talk to her, but I felt really reluctant to do it.  It made my stomach churn to think about calling.
I didn't want to touch this world she's in.  I didn't want our worlds to touch, I guess.  The idea felt painful and disorienting and uncomfortable.

I had to call 4 times before I could get through to her - I am assuming the phone is actually on the psych unit, and someone answered and then set down the phone, someone hung up as soon as they heard me ask for Chelsey, and then someone talked to me (mostly unintelligibly) for two minutes before hanging up.  When I did get to talk to her, Chelsey had to yell twice "I'm on the phone!  Stop it!" It was disconcerting to experience some of the chaos of her world right now.  

Even over the phone

But it was really, really good to talk to her.  
Unbelievably good.  


The first thing she said, after realizing it was me on the phone, was "I know now that I'm Chelsey Rogers."  When I paused for a minute, she said, "You see, I've been in a psych ward, and I've had to re-learn some things."  


But it was so good to hear her say that.  It was so good to know that she knows who she is, and what she's been going through.  


Much more than that, it was good to hear her interact with me in the same way and even to say some of the exact same things (like "Can you tell me a story?") with the exact same intonation I've heard so many times before.  It felt like I still have my sister, like I can still talk to her the way I always have before.  It felt so good.  


Aside from frequent retching, more assertiveness with people around her, and more self-disclosure about how she is feeling, this was the same as countless other conversations I've had with her.  
I feel like my parents took a bullet for me, having all the conversations and experiencing all of the behavior that has been so disorienting and heartbreaking.  They provided the stability and sanity, and found the support services, so that she could do what she needed to and be where she is today.  So I could have this conversation with her.   


And if I had to guess, I would guess some of these things will happen again (the nature of chronic illness).  At the very least, she's still in the psych ward for a few more days because they want to see a little more change before she comes home.  


But having this conversation made me feel like everything is okay.  If I can still interact with her in the way I'm used to, even if it's only sometimes, then everything is okay.  I still have Chelsey.  She's still my sister.  I still get to talk to her.  


We talked for a little while about how it's sad to realize you can't have some of your fantasies, but it's ok.  At the very end of our conversation, she said, "I just want to be Chelsey, the human (not the TRON computer program), and be home with Mom and Dad."

That's what I want, too.

Chelsey

For the past two weeks my sister has been in a manic episode (at least, that's what we are currently assuming.  The alternative would be the early stages of schizophrenia).  Last week it drastically worsened.  She had multiple suicide attempts, self-harm, and really bizarre delusions.  My parents took her to the ER twice, and she is now in a good neuropsych hospital.

When I first heard that Chelsey had been taken to the ER for her suicidality and delusions, I thought this:

I really, really wanted Chelsey to come visit me for a week.  Now that won't be possible.  Or if it is possible, it won't be what I wanted.  It won't be with the person I really wanted to be with.  Not really.

That thought made me really sad, and I've really struggled with it the past two weeks.  I am mourning that opportunity.  I've had seventy thoughts since then, but that theme of "not the person I know" has run through most of them.  The stories I'm hearing describe someone different from the Chelsey I knew.  And what if I cannot get her back?

I don't know how to proceed with this blog post from here, and so it seems like the simplest way will be to write down a brief summary of the other recurring thoughts I've had in the past week.  I am writing them down as I had them:

     1.  How are my parents getting through this?  What is this like for them?

     2.  For the first time, I am afraid of what people might think of me if they know what I am going through.  I have freely blogged about and discussed my husband and my dad's history of depression without even a thought of being judged for it.  But the threat of schizophrenia in my family is different, and I am afraid.  (Even though this thought only lasted for a moment, it scared me to have it).

     3.  I bought Chelsey a t-shirt for her birthday.  Maybe I should send it to her, since she's having a hard time?  But I don't know that she is having a hard time.  I don't know that she is even aware of everything she is going through.  And I don't really want to give it to this person, who I don't even know.  I don't want to give it to her.  I bought it for Chelsey, the one I know.  If I wait until her birthday in September, can I give it to the Chelsey I remember?   If I wait forever, would that be long enough?

     4.  What does it mean if I never get Chelsey back?  What does it mean if I have to accept this new person, who I will never spend as much time with as I spent with my Chelsey?  What is the personality continuity across this psychotic break?  Break is a good word for this.  

     5.  How dare the neuropsych staff say Chelsey is nonverbal.  How. dare. they. 

     6.  How can I leave Chelsey in a place where she is defenseless?  How can I hold the image of her being dragged in her chair by a compulsive chair stacker?  How can I?

     7.  I am glad this is happening while I'm far away.

     8.  I feel sad that I can't be there.

     9.  I feel guilty for being glad.  

     10.  I'm grateful for the love and support I feel.  Especially when people know Chelsey.  It means a lot to me when people want to support me, but what means the most is when others who know Chelsey are sad.  For some reason, that means the most.

As of today, my parents report that Chelsey is doing better.  She was on an antidepressant, which can aggravate a manic episode.  The doctor is taking her off of the antidepressant and putting her on a mood stabilizer for bipolar, which gives us a healthy hope that she is bipolar and not schizophrenic (which would be huge).  The flip side of that is that as she gets better, she feels more sad to be in the neuropsych unit, and is sadder when my parents leave.  That's a good and a bad thing.

I don't normally post pics, because I value my anonymity

 with stranger-readers of this blog.  But I wanted you to see 

my beautiful sister.  This is Chelsey.

Stability

I said in my last blog post that I was both angry and hopeful after accepting that I might need to give up the expectation of Dave's perpetual happiness, though we could still have moments of happiness.

I wanted to mention that I felt like I need to accept one other thing.  The earlier-referenced conversation came up because I was working on our finances, and was curious what we could expect for the future.
The fact is, I like stability.  It would be cool if I could plan out our financial future for the next 5 years.

But I can handle not doing that.  We're doing absolutely, 100% okay financially right now.  And our future is not at all scary; Dave is in a good job, and after I graduate I will be in line for an income as good as any social services worker can hope for.

So maybe I don't need to have a 5-year plan.  I feel happy tonight anyway.