Tag: Perfectionism

Unapologetically Fifty

How to mark turning fifty? For me? Two ways.

First, I sought solitude.

A weekend away with myself, books, writing implements, a beach, and the ticking of a clock in absolute silence (a sound I love in a way no one else in my family does). –

I relished the feel of sand moulding itself to the arches of my feet and the rush of eternal waves onto the almost empty beach. I ran into the bracing water, and it yanked the breath from my lungs. But once I’d dived in, I adjusted quickly to the foaming, swirling rush of it. The plunge through the waves – like moving through liquid glass. And I was alone. Gloriously so.

I could have stayed longer, happily cocooned in my own company.  But I came away with a handful of seashells and some jottings about what fifty means for me.

To date I have hungrily embraced each new decade, and I am not bothered by being midlife (if I live a long one). But I wince at some of the connotations the world cloaks this age in.

I grimace at ads for ‘Fit over fifty’ exercise classes and independent living communities for fifty plus people. I am not ready to go gently into ‘age appropriate’ exercise or towards ‘communities’ of over fifties who wander aimlessly through their last decades. And the prospect of fifty rendering me eligible to enter the geriatric wing of the hospital whenever the next bipolar episode strikes, feels horrific.

My view of fifty?

I am grateful for a body that works well most of the time and that exercise has been a part of my life for long enough for me to know what gets my endorphins going. I have no idea what I weigh, and providing my size doesn’t interfere with my ability to exercise I don’t care.

 Small age spots have bloomed on the top of my right hand, where sun hits skin when I drive. A recent selfie captured some crepey skin around my neck. And surprise jolts me when I look at it because I don’t feel old enough to have this skin. But I move on. Same with my wrinkles. I don’t necessarily love them, but I love them enough to spend money on books, chocolate, and clothes that fit well rather than on Botox.

I am not into anti-aging products and procedures. Not because I don’t care at all about my appearance.  A pretty dress and a good lipstick wrap me in joy when I choose them. But so far, I haven’t turned ‘stopping the visible signs of aging’ into a full-time job I’d be paying money to do.

For me, pregnancy and childbirth did not leave behind stretch marks, varicosities, or cellulite, and my pelvic floor is in great shape. Instead, they triggered my bipolar 1 disorder, which I’d happily trade for some stretch marks.

I don’t worship at the altar of motherhood or martyr myself for it. And I don’t believe in fetishising motherhood into it being the most important, meaningful thing a woman can do. I love my children with a heart squeezing intensity. But that love doesn’t erase the sucking-you-dry-if-you-let-it aspect of mothering.

As for wisdom?

I don’t believe people automatically acquire wisdom with age. If you don’t work for it, you just end up being an older person whose beliefs and opinions calcify into tired well-trodden paths that lack nuance and become almost impossible to break free from.

Some of my rotten patterns have taken decades to unlearn again and again.

I was a perfectly formed perfectionist even before I entered a profession in which the stakes of mistakes are high, and perfectionism is rife and revered. I marinated (quite happily) in the culture of veterinary practice for twenty years. But it has taken a long time to view my perfectionism as deleterious to my mental health rather than as an asset to my career.

I have only recently loosened the white knuckled clench I’ve had on the course of my life and (mostly) relinquished a poisonous, deeply learnt, inbred need for control.

For me, perfectionism and control come with rigidity, and judgement. And while understanding the concept of letting these things go is easy. The work to do it is hard, boring, and ongoing. At times I still slip back into all of them like pairs of comfortable slippers.

The endless pressure to achieve has now mostly evaporated. In its place I recognise that I have more to learn than I ever have and a sense that whatever is next matters.

I have flung open the window toward fifty now and am ready to see what possibilities lie beyond this age for me.

And my birthday wish? That if I put in the work, my words will keep coming.

PS: My second way to mark fifty involves great company and cake. A lot of cake.

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Trauma And Bipolar Disorder: Chicken Or Egg?

Photo by haik ourfal on Unsplash

Content Note: This post mentions trauma. It does not include specific details.

It’s a little acknowledged truth that sometimes bipolar disorder does not spring from a history of trauma. On my first admission to hospital and every admission since, I have been asked whether trauma smoulders in my past, and keeps the fire of my bipolar disorder burning.

Up until relatively recently parents were still automatically blamed for their children’s mental illnesses, particularly schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. And while abusive parenting can be a contributing factor to these illnesses, and parents can pass on a genetic predisposition to a highly heritable mental illness such as bipolar disorder, beyond that, a parent isn’t responsible. As for my upbringing – my parents were not perfect. But they were loving and supportive. They were not a source of trauma.

I searched for years for some of the more common culprits of a trauma history (such as physical, sexual, or emotional abuse) hiding in the shadows. I ran a fine-toothed comb through my entire living memory for evidence. For something to explain the existence and severity of my bipolar 1 disorder.

After the second time I got sick, I began to wonder if I was missing something. If I had blocked out something horrible? I spent close to a year working with both my psychologist and psychiatrist to try and unearth a tangible cause for the god awfulness that had descended on me. And I came across a lot of things in this archaeological dig through my psyche.

Among many happy memories. I found sadness, exclusion, some bullying. I found burnout and disappointment. I found ambition and perfectionism. I found drive. I found questionable decisions. I found some experiences that my psychiatrist raised his eyebrows at, but when my psychologist worked through them with me, we found no symptoms of PTSD, no persistent feelings of powerlessness. I found experiences that were difficult and unpleasant and challenging.

But I did not find trauma.

Ironically, the only trauma I have ever experienced came with this illness in the form of psychosis, especially the first episode. Nothing I have experienced before or since that first time comes close to the hell of psychosis.

For me, the sudden onset of this severe psychiatric symptom contributed to its traumatic footprint. One week I was due to give birth to my first baby, with no history of mental illness. The following week I inhabited a terrifying alternate reality that no one else could see, in a psychiatric hospital Special Care Unit, tipping highly medicated breastmilk down the sink, while my husband looked after our new baby at home. For me, the experience of psychosis is the definition of terror and powerlessness.

The trauma of psychosis left its mark. After my second episode I started having panic attacks. I had never had them before. They were linked to the fear of psychosis recurring.

It took a long time to process what happened to me and to learn to live with the ongoing implications of this illness. But I am fortunate it was an acute trauma, not chronic or complex, and not of childhood onset. It didn’t happen at a time when my brain was still developing and more vulnerable to this kind of assault.

I have worked towards having excellent insight, which means I now recognise the precursor symptoms of mania, which can lead to psychosis. The early detection of symptoms and acting on them immediately have meant it’s been six years now since I’ve experienced true symptoms of psychosis. The deep sense of powerlessness has eased. In my case the trauma was a side effect of my bipolar disorder, not a causal factor.

But I sense I am in the minority. Of the people I know who also live with bipolar disorder many carry a history of trauma and/ or complex PTSD with them which, occurred before the emergence of their bipolar disorder.

I do not have the complication of a contributing trauma to re-trigger episodes of illness and to work through. These days, I don’t have a knotted web of psychological issues to untangle before my medication can get to work. I also think letting go of my resentful feelings at being landed with this illness has been somewhat easier because I can’t lay blame or direct my anger at anyone or anything  specific for causing this sickness.

And I am grateful for all of that.

If this post has brought up difficult feelings or symptoms for you and you are struggling, please contact your mental health professional. If you are in crisis (and in Australia) please phone LIFELINE on 13 11 14

Further reading:

Insight: The Essential Ingredient

My First Time

Misunderstood Mania

My Mental Illness Makes Me A Better Parent

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I am giving my eight-week-old son a bath. One hand supports his head and neck, the other gently moves a wash cloth over his delicate skin. He kicks his legs, rippling the shallow water. His dark eyes stare up at me. Pools of trust. I make a minute adjustment to my hand supporting his neck. His head slips under the water, for less than a second before I instinctively lift him up. He splutters briefly and is fine. But I am not.

I hit the call button next to the baby bath and a nurse pops her head in:

‘Are you ok?’

‘No.’

I hand her my baby. Nausea clamps my stomach and works its way up my throat. Black mist hovers in my peripheral vision and I sink to the ground. I put my head between my knees, as red-hot malignant words shoot through me:

‘Did I just try to drown my baby?’

Continue reading “My Mental Illness Makes Me A Better Parent”