Eleanor Rigby's Jar

Ah, look at all the lonely people

Ah, look at all the lonely people
Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for? ~ The Beatles

Bowser and I watched a movie last night. It was filmed in the town in which I lived before I met him. The movie was extraordinary, the acting intense and poetic, the story utterly captivating; but the image that stuck with us was not an intentional frame set up by the director to specifically shock us. I originally saw the scenery as a background to a funny moment in the film, until the background passed the actors and the story, crashed through my television screen and smacked me across the face. I made Bowser rewind and pause at the moment the frame first comes into focus.

"Do you see that set of trees there on the left side of the screen behind Ms. Z?" I directed Bowser.

"Yeah, what about it?"

"I sat under those trees 16 years ago and took 48 sleeping pills."

"WHAT! Right there? Are you sure?"

"Oh, yeah. I can't forget a place like that, besides it was a park I walked through almost every day. I know that grove of trees.

"Bowser, that day was the last of three psychotic days.  I was seriously delusional, but I thought I knew what I was doing. Two nights before that morning in the park, I came home from Cloe's after having a lovely girls' night together drinking wine and watching Ju Dou and I took 6 sleeping pills and slashed my wrist. She had no idea I was suicidal; I wanted our last night together to be happy. I deliberately hid my pain and intentions from her. I didn't want to pollute her with my dark thoughts. 

"My attempt didn't work very well; I just got very confused and hallucinated about imaginary cats jumping around my dining room. But, I was so emotionally, mentally gone, bereft of reason. The only thought looping through my mind over and over and over was "Nytol will help you get your Zzzzzzs." I just wanted to go to sleep and make the pain go away. The next day I took 24 sleeping pills and sang the song to myself until I threw up in my sleep. On the following day, a Tuesday morning in late spring, I got up, went to Walgreens and bought a bottle of water and 48 over the counter sleeping pills. I walked to the park and sat under the trees and ingested the whole lot of them. Maybe a half hour went by and I realized I was really dying. I felt my heart stop. Once. Then a second time. I crawled on my hands and knees out of the trees, sobbing, in and out of reality, until I found a gay couple and begged them for help. One of the men sat and held my hand while his partner ran to call 911. When the paramedics got there... well, I don't remember much about that. What I do remember is being in the ER and freaking out because I thought the nurses were trying to shove a serpent down my throat. It was just a tube so they could pump my stomach. They pumped and pumped and I puked and puked, but the angels in the ER saved my life. They told me I would have died of congestive heart failure*."

"Jesus Christ! Under those trees?"

"Yup."

"You know, honey, I'm sure glad that you're here and making normal memories now instead of that kind of shit. That must have been awful."

And it sure was. My story is similar to many, many bipolar patients. I had half a dozen suicide attempts by the time I was 22, if you count the suicide binge recounted above as three separate incidents. I came from a home of abuse and an Egg Donor who refused to treat her manic-depressive disorder and the accompanying schizo-affective disorder. I didn't get a very good genetic basket, nor the tools to deal with my mood swings and impulses.

 

I somehow managed to survive childhood and I ran away from home and began my own life in the healthiest manner I could muster. I looked pretty good from the outside. When I was my typical, non-symptomatic self & when I was in a lovely little hypomanic state, everyone wanted to be around me. I was fun, spontaneous, and interested in every detail about every thing. I actually liked people back then and I'd befriend anyone. I was such a free spirit. But, when I was down, I hid. I told everyone I was just too busy to get together and came up with all sorts of excuses. When I had to be with people, I pulled out my Eleanor Rigby mask and faked it. I never wanted others to worry about me, and, I sure as hell didn't want to be accountable to anyone for my dark, intrusive thoughts. 

After I realized the gift I had received, retaining my life, after that terrible late spring morning, I was shocked into good behavior for the next 8 years. I was so grateful to be alive that I didn't try to kill myself again even though I still would think about suicide rather intensely every now and then. I thought about suicide because my mood-disorder problem was still not fixed. I was fairly even-keeled most of the time, but when things got bad, like when I discovered two months into our sparkly, shiny wedding that my husband, Bowser, was a porn addict, I couldn't stop planning the perfect death.

 

The wrist you see up there is my own. That is my very real scar from the suicide attempt I made two nights before I sat under those trees in the movie. What I want you to see is that it is healed. The scar tissue is there, still bright white and slightly bulging. It was angry and red for many years, but life and time have smoothed out the rough, ragged edges both on my wrist and in my mind. I get asked about it every now and then by phlebotomists when they are trying to find a good vein in which to stick a needle. "What happened there?" they ask, and instead of saying, "Duh, what do you think?" I say, "that is what happened before I finally found the help for which I had been seeking for 15 years. That is what the Before picture of the Mental Health Wellness Plan looks like. The face you see before you is the After picture."

"Oh."

I held myself together for a long time, through a first year of marriage that doubled as a first year of personal hell as I learned all the ways in which my husband betrayed me while he was an active addict, and through wearing my Eleanor Rigby mask while I held down a full-time job and took my graduate classes. I thought about suicide, but I never attempted it. I went to the funeral of a friend's sister who committed suicide and I looked around me at the hundreds and hundreds of people at the ceremony and told myself to internalize the image. "This is what you would do to everyone you know if you ever killed yourself."

Then I gave birth to my first son, Luigi and I plummeted into a Postpartum Depression. I had never before nor since been that depressed. I thought about killing myself every single day. I was convinced I was going to seriously fuck up Luigi because I was such a horribly flawed person. He was joy, goodness, love, and light. I looked at him in terror wondering what tales of his horrible childhood he would recant to his therapist in 25 years - tales in which I would be in the starring role ruining his life and any chance of having normal, loving relationships. I never had visions of throwing him against the wall, nor did I ever consider harming him. Mine was not that type of postpartum depression.  Besides, I've always been more of an introspective masochist anyway. Plus, I knew how to hurt myself.  I'd done it before. I would do it again and save this perfect child from the ghastly poisonous environment in which I was sure I would raise him. I had Thought Monkeys galore. 

Now, I've talked quite a bit about Thought Monkeys and given you links to the post I wrote about them almost a year ago, but I need to republish that post here. I have a new reader, a friend of Cloe's, whose very close relation just made a serious attempt to harm herself. I have other readers who haven't been with me since the very beginning and may not have the 2 weeks vacation needed to sit down and read through all of my super long posts. The Thought Monkey concept is imperative to understand if you're going to hang out in Sophie's world. If the real life me hadn't conquered her Thought Monkeys, there would be no Sophie & there would be no quest for wisdom in the space among the stars. 

Let me put it this way, once I understood Thought Monkeys, I understood how I was my own worst enemy mentally and emotionally. Bowser's addiction, the rape, beatings and molestation of my childhood did not do the damage I did to myself on a daily basis by listening to the prattling of the Thought Monkeys and treating their discourse as though they were divine proclamations. Once I understood the power I had given the Depression-loving Thought Monkeys, I was able to stop blaming every mood and erratic action I had on the crisis du jour, and I was able to open my mind to Dr. Mean Old Lady and her wonderful successor, Dr. Feel Good, and figure out what was wrong with me. In my case, what's wrong with me? turned out to be an undiagnosed and untreated Bipolar II.  When I received the treatment for what ailed me, everything changed. I did go through a brief period of mourning the loss of the years and years of life that I spent battling my Thoughts and trying, but not always succeeding, to not hurt myself. But I am Here, Now. I worked my butt off, I made it over the rainbow, and I am joyful to be hanging out with the leprechauns and other elfin creatures that are absolutely not figments of my imagination.  ;)  If you ever met Cloe, you'd agree. She definitely has elvish blood.

The answers to the questions might be different for you or you or you, but as I've shared the Thought Monkey concept over the years, I've been blown away by how well it resonates in people from all walks of life. We each have our own internal cognitive demons to fight, but we can fight them. First, we need to name them for there is great power in a name. Your Monkeys may have different names than mine, but once you read the names of mine, the names of yours might become a bit clearer. The power of a name. 

I ask all of you who find yourselves struggling with feelings and thoughts that you are unsure if you can handle on your own to please go talk to someone, someone who loves you, someone who has your very best interests at heart, will listen to you, and help you find a healing hand to guide you. The very act of saying "I need help." changes the course of your life for the better. 

If you are with someone who doesn't believe in mental illness or anti-depressants and discourages you from getting the help you think you need, then fine. He does not have to take any medication he doesn't want to take, nor does he have to see any therapists he doesn't want to see. We won't make him.  My question for you is: Would you ask permission to get treatment for cancer? Would you not take the daily dose of aspirin your doctor told you to take to prevent another heart attack because your uncle thinks it's stupid? No. Your health, your HEALTH care, is your responsibility. Change begins in you. You take care of you first, the rest will follow. Believe me, I know.

For Cloe's friend: after this republication of the Thought Monkeys post, I've attached some links to specific posts that are also about my experiences with postpartum depression and coming through suicide to a better place. I've also put in some links from other helpful, more official, websites. Over on the right is the first half of The Horrible Month series which recounts my final (and damn near successful) suicide attempt and how I found my way to treatment and re-gained the privilege of seeing my husband and my beloved Luigi. The second half of the series will be published over the next month, or, (for you), you can ask Cloe. Please feel free to email me and I will promise to respond as best I can. That goes for the rest of you, too. I will always do what I can when you reach out to me in need. Change begins in You, but sometimes an empathetic ear can help you hear your own possibilities.

Thought Monkeys:

When I was going through my Post-partum depression after the birth of my oldest son, I lamented to Cloe that all I wanted was one good day. Just one. A day in which the baby stayed on schedule and my husband stayed on the wagon. A day in which my soul would be free of the torment of suicidal ideation and the skies would be free of torrents of rain. I wanted a day in which I liked myself effortlessly. My heart, my soul, and my mind, were bruised from continuously beating myself up with all of my perceived inadequacies, shortcomings, and reasons the world would be better off without me in it. Although I was not physically attempting suicide on a daily basis, I was starving my psyche to death by depriving it of nurturing thoughts and feeding it spiritual poison. I was killing my soul day by day and thought by thought.

Cloe, who had listened to me sob on a near daily basis for months, looked at me softly and said, "Honey, we don't get good Days, not a whole day. But we get really great moments sometimes, and those are what see us through the yucky moments. You have to look for the good ones and not let them go; they're yours. And keep them in mind when you think you're having a bad day, 'cuz it's not all bad, not all day." I thought she was full of it at the time. She seemed to have good days all the time; everyone seemed to have good days but me. Everyone else seemed so capable and well-adjusted. Even if Cloe was having a rough day, she didn't think she was worthless and should off herself. She just went and hung out in Cloe's World, a magical coping place where all difficulties are illuminated with slightly optimistic sunshine and iridescent rationality blooms all around, until things got better. Which was just further proof to me that I was incapable and should off myself. I was a sick woman.

In the months after the diagnosis of Bipolar II, I made a commitment to never let those thoughts go by unchecked again. I decided I was sick and tired of being a slave to the Thought Monkeys - my name for those incredibly destructive, deeply internalized, mischievous thoughts that jump and screech inside my mind, demanding attention, demanding action NOW. Look at us NOW. Thought Monkeys believe they are viable, tangible, living creatures, and in a sense they are. They eat, they breathe, and they grow, which, according to Sesame Street, are the three qualifications for deciding whether or not something is alive.

Thought Monkeys feed on depressed thinking. The proof in this pudding is that my energy to fight them is depleted the more they jump around. The vanishing stores of personal strength are the evidence of their appetites. Second, Thought Monkeys breathe in the vapors of my soul. J.K. Rowling recently revealed that the Dementors in the Harry Potter series were literary expressions of a suicidal depression she had struggled with earlier in life. The Dementors feed on misery and when let loose gather in groups to take turns sucking out the soul of their victim. I have never identified more with an author. Lastly, Thought Monkeys grow in intensity when left unchecked for any period of time. The more they feed on my weakened thinking, the more they breathe in my soul, the more they exercise by jumping and screeching in my cerebral cortex, the bigger and more exaggerated their presence becomes. They are fearsome creatures and their real formidability is that they have been with me since I was a young girl.

The Thought Monkeys even have names. In no particular order they alternately introduce themselves as follows: "I'm 'Not Enough of, at or for Anything'"; "I'm 'A Big Burden'"; "I'm 'Unlovable'"; "My name is, 'The World Would Be Better Off Without Me'"; and her close cousin, "I'm 'Not Worthy to Breathe In This Air Shared By My Friends and Family'"; and my least favorite says, "I'm 'To Blame for Every Abusive Thing that Has Ever Been Done to Me My Entire Life'". Aren't they sweet? Each one is uglier than the last and they each think they are the most important one. Hateful little creatures.

So, I decided to challenge them. Each one, every time. This process was the most exhausting task I have ever undertaken. For six months I looked at every single thought that went through my head. If the thought was positive, "Isn't my son cute?" I kept it. If the thought was neutral, "Don't forget to pick up milk", I kept it. If a Thought Monkey popped up, I would challenge it and dismiss it. For example, if "Not Enough..." started yelling, I would think, "Who exactly set that standard? I might not be the best, but I am Good Enough." If "Not Worthy to Breathe in the Air..." started jumping on the bed, I would say (and there was a lot of talking to myself out loud during this time) "Then what exactly is the purpose of having lungs and four ventricles?"

You get the picture.

After roughly six months, I got so good at this that I didn't have to argue with the Monkeys anymore, I could just think, "I see you and it's not working." And I learned that because the Monkeys were alive, I could starve them to death; I could stop feeding them my energy, stop letting them breathe in my soul, and stop letting them grow in strength and intensity. The bonus was that every time I denied them a piece of me, I fed my spirit. I breathed in the air and loved the freshness, loved knowing that I was inhaling what the trees around me were exhaling. I grew stronger by walking down my Path to Wellness step by step, mental mile by mental mile. I had more good moments than bad moments for the first time in years. Creating this process for myself and finishing it with a bit of help from Dr. Mean Old Lady, Cloe, Genevieve, Kate, my husband, Bowser, and the smile of my little son, Luigi, is one of the Greatest Accomplishments of my life. I feel the effects of it to this day.

When I do cycle and I've got a bit of a depression going on, the Thought Monkeys come knocking at my door. Sometimes I inadvertently get stuck listening to them, as if they were Jehovah Witnesses that rang my doorbell on a day I was feeling more polite and less snarky than usual. But after a bit, I come to my senses and remember that these creatures are not a part of my reality. I do not believe in their bullshit on days when I am feeling most myself. I remember how hard-won my toolbox is. So I acknowledge them, then I dismiss them. I reach in my toolbox, pull out my hammer, and nail the door closed. I see the fallen sign and put it back up in my window: Thought Monkeys Beware. Premises Patrolled by Attack Sophie.

Other Sophie in the Moonlight Resources:

My Promise, My Reason, My Hope: my quiet everyday stay-at-home mom triumphs over a suicidal past

Today I am a small blue thing: what if felt like as a mother when I thought suicide was my only option 

Haiku for Rebirth: yes, I did. I made it. You can, too.

Rock's Lullaby: my favorite post ever. It's about how to soothe oneself and change one's perspective when it doesn't seem like anything good will ever happen again.

Some Self-Soothing techniques I've picked up along the way:

Anxiety

HALT

The 5 Minute Rule

Mountain Solid Self-Soothing Visualization

The Four S's

And from the pros:

Postpartum Progress

National Alliance on Mental Illness

What to Do if you think someone is suicidal

SAVE- Suicide Awareness Voices of Education

Please go here if you think you are in danger of harming yourself; this is a good site.

How to find a good therapist in your area:

 *advice from Go Ask Alice is sound

 *US Dept of Way Too Many Acronyms has a good map locating system for finding local care.

 *A good informative Q & A about the nature of Partial Hospitalization programs which offer amazing in-depth care on a weekday schedule while you live at home. I cannot say enough good things about them.

Best Wishes,

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*Don't get any bright ideas. They changed the formularies long ago and if you try to kill yourself with OTC sleeping pills, it won't work. You will end up with non-lethal, but costly heart, kidney, and liver problems. Call 1-800-SUICIDE or 1-800-273-TALK if taking a bunch of sleeping pills seems like a good idea to you. Don't do it. Just don't. Suicide is the murder of your own soul. You're too beautiful for that. YES, you are. Call the good folks up there. They're nice. I've talked to them before.

**VERY COOL photo by Ingridf_nl on Flickr