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.

Angry and hopeful (or, giving up perpetual happiness)

I feel both angry and hopeful right now.
Is that possible?  

I feel angry that Dave can't be happy.  I feel a little angry at him, very angry for him, and very angry for me.
I have blogged before (see this post) about how the hardest part of Dave's depression for me is that I can't make him happy. I think I've made some slight changes since that time, and I would be excited if Dave could just be happy, even if I wasn't the cause.

But today we talked (at my insistence) about whether or not he should continue school.  Dave always becomes very frustrated and depressed when we talk about the future.  Today Dave told me it's because the future seems extremely bleak.  If he makes a decision and, once again, things don't get better, that would be devastating.  Dave really doesn't seem to expect to be happy in the future.  And so he is really reluctant to try any of the things that could possibly (even if only remotely possibly) make him happier.

So at the end of our conversation today, I felt like I had to accept the possibility that Dave will never be happy.

I hate that for two reasons.  First, I hate that I have to give up what seems like the one thing I want - for Dave to be happy.  Second, if Dave will never be happy, it seems like a lot to ask for him to continue to live.  

So that's why I'm angry.

But just when I was feeling so upset, Dave and I made a joke.  And then I felt happy.  It felt good to be sitting with him and to be happy, for a moment, together.

And I am pretty sure I can be happy with that.  With moments of happiness, for both of us.

So at the end of the conversation, I felt hopeful.  I can be very happy with a life full of moments like this.  

Why I haven't blogged in a while

Two reasons why I haven't blogged recently:

1)  Things have been mostly stable.  Especially on his newest medication, his mood doesn't fluctuate as widely or quickly.  So I almost never feel blindsided.  

2)  The longer that we are on this journey, the more that I have to look at myself.  It's an immediate relief and a support to post things that I am going through that are hard for me.  It's much more intimidating to blog about unpleasant questions I am asking about myself (like, how much of me is comfortable with things as they are)

That said, I still think I can benefit a lot from blogging, and intend to continue.  Including a series of 2-4 blogs to follow immediately.