I've made the decision to move away from Posterous.  It has nothing to do with the acquisition by Twitter - in fact, I'd puchased erindrought.com and started moving my posts over there well before the announcement.

I'm slowly (but surely!) moving my posts from here to there.  So if you were at erindrought.com first and noticed a huge year-long gap in posts, that's why. :) 

On January 31 two of my best friends had a baby.  I can remember when Erik and I were 19 and 15, respectively, working at a children's play place called Congo Bongo.  He was a ride attendant and I was a party hostess.  It's now thirteen years later and he and his wife Lindsey have a tiny little human of their own.

Brian and I went to the hospital to visit them and their beautiful son, Charlie.  It was the first time I had seen a baby up close since my youngest nephew Gabriel was born in 1997.  Erik noted how you could feel Charlie's little bones in his head if you ran your finger ever so gently across his skull.  I was apprehensive at first, okay I was terrified, but I calmed down and felt those little bones against my finger.  It was so weird and yet wonderful all at the same time.

Another of Lindsey's friends had arrived at the same time as us and she was the first to hold Charlie.  I looked on, marvelling at how tiny he is and paying careful attention to how she held him.  After a bit of time had passed, she placed Charlie in my arms and words cannot express what happened to me in that moment.

There was this tiny little human, a beautiful little baby who was barely twelve hours old, nestled in my arms.  His eyes opened a few times, he yawned and drooled a bit, and cooed like a tiny little kitten.  He took my breath away.  I could not stop smiling.

That tiny little baby, who I'll be "Auntie Erin" to, completely and utterly melted my heart.  And he changed me.  Something stirred in me.  Something I think that was there all along but was clouded by fear, commitment, and my old extremely temperamental and impatient self.  And recently, an answer to a very important question.

I had always been adamant about not having children.  I claimed I was too impatient (the word "babyshaker" was often used).  I said I was too selfish with my time, money and living space.  I didn't want to lose myself.  I didn't want Brian to love someone more than he loves me.  Hell, I didn't want to love someone more than I love him.  I said I could barely dress and feed myself, let alone care for someone else.  I talked about my lack of maternal instincts.  I insisted that I didn't have the right personality traits to be a good mother.  I declared that I wanted to travel the world with my husband and children would only hold us back.  I said I would be the best "auntie" I could be and spoil my friends' kids rotten with baby TOMS and offers to babysit so my friends could have some time to themselves.

And then there was that very important question that has been plaguing me for the last half year:  If you knew you had an illness that you could potentially pass on to your children, would you still have them?

My initial reaction was absolutely not.  There was no way I could or would put my child through the hell I went through (and to an extent, am still going through).  It wouldn't be fair.  And then yesterday I saw Dr. M and when I brought up the question during our session, he gave me a look that told me my initial reaction was wrong and I knew the correct answer all along.

Brian and I are not my parents.  The major difference being that they didn't know.  They didn't know.  We do.  We have spent the last six months educating ourselves on bi-polar disorder and we will continue to stay up to date on medical research, clinical trials, and new medications.  (Stephen Fry's documentary "The Secret Life of a Manic Depressive is absolutely amazing.)  We know the warning signs.  We know what to look for.  We know good doctors whom we trust who would treat our child and ease our minds.

On the drive home from the hospital Brian said he had never pictured me holding a baby before (ours or otherwise).  At first I was a little taken aback but shook it off because I'd never really pictured him holding a baby before either.  I asked how it looked and what he thought and he smiled.  Brian talked about how he's always viewed one of his goals in life as being to live, experience and learn as much as he can.  My husband, ever so Switzerland-esque, said he can see pros and cons to both lives and would love it, and me, either way.

There have been times when we have had lazy Sunday's spent on the sofa watching back-to-back episodes of a newly discovered TV series.  We would turn to each other and say, "If we had kids, we wouldn't be able to do this!"  No, we wouldn't be doing that.  We would be out doing something else.  We would be at the park.  Or at the library.  Or the museum.  Or on a playdate.  We wouldn't be parked in front of the TV.

It was so foreign to me.  I couldn't stop smiling.  I could feel my heart swell.  I still can.  It was an entirely new sensation to me.  It isn't a clock, despite how it might sound, but something closer to a big group of friends and family having barbecues and pool parties, completely enveloped in love.  I'd always assumed Brian and I would be the aunt and uncle who would bring extra treats for the kids and wine/margaritas for the adults.  But now I'm picturing myself as a hip mommy, my son/daughter running around with the others.

At the beginning of my Dr. M session I told him all about this and he sat there with this look that I can only describe as being speechless and shocked.  From everything I have told him, I can't blame him for not knowing what to say.  It was completely out of left field, as I'm sure it is for almost everyone who knows me.  He only had three things to say.  The first being, "I don't control your fertility, but you need to give me a heads up because we'll have to change your medication."  And another was in response to my very important question, which was that there are plenty of people who are diagnosed with mental illness' who don't have a family history of it.  And because B and I aren't in the dark on the topic, we really don't have anything to fear.  And finally, he commented on how sure I was about all of this.  I knew where he was going - I have a history of making impulsive decisions and he was worried this would be another.  I assured him that while I am over the fence, we are still at least a couple of years off from the time we decide to throw caution - and my IUD - to the wind.

So there you have it.  At some point, presumably in my early thirties, B and I will have our own tiny human.  Until then, we will watch and learn as two people we love and admire raise their beautiful son Charlie into who is surely to be an adorably quirky and talented little boy.

xx,
E

Dear Twenty-Eleven,

You were quite the year for me.  You were rough, painful, and sometimes downright cruel.  I cried more during you than perhaps any other year preceeding you.  You tested me, pushed me to my absolute brink, and tested my will to live.  Despite all the negativity, a few happy things transpired so the year wasn't completely dark.

This year I was diagnosed with Bipolar II Disorder.  I started medication.  I took a leave of absence from my day job.  I had a couple of suicide attempts.  I learned that I will be okay -- maybe not right now, but eventually.  I'm neither embarassed nor ashamed to have a mental illness.  In fact, I was incredibly relieved to find out.  In one sentance the last decade of my life suddenly made sense.  (One day I will talk about it in more detail.  Today is not that day.)

This year I lost a few friends but their spots in my life were quickly filled with more compatible people and for that I am grateful.  Meeting new people and making new friends is helping me to lower the walls I've built up around myself.  I fought for a very long time against this - I firmly believed the walls protected me from being hurt.  But as the walls lower, I'm finding myself simply dismissing things I used to find hurtful.  Vulnerability it would seem, in it's own way, has begun to make me a stronger individual.

Brian and I went into our second year of marriage.  It was leagues better than our first but still nowhere close to where we would like to be.  We learned a lot this year (about marriage, ourselves and each other) and we have a newly reaffirmed commitment to each other.  This year was especially challenging with both of us figuring out how to live and be married with my mental illness.  But like I've mentioned before, Brian is one of the most adaptable human beings I know.  It hasn't taken us long to find a groove.  The past is where it should be, in the past, and the terrible two's of our marriage will soon be over.

We also took Erin Has a Camera in a new direction, pursuing wedding filmmaking.  One of the things I learned about myself is that I am a classic people pleaser and as a result, I have a very difficult time saying no.  I took on too much work early in the year (due to my incredible excitement at the opportunity).  For those who don't know, Brian does 95% of the work.  I am just the face and even then, I am only present for the wedding.  I made a lot of mistakes this year, and even though it's hard to own up to them, I'm extremely glad they happened.  Learning from those mistakes will help us both improve.  For anyone wondering how I can be on a leave of absence from my job and still run EHaC, I will tell you this: Dr. M and I've discussed it and he said I can/should do EHaC as long as it doesn't cause stress to my life.  I do not make any money from EHaC and neither does Brian.  EHaC doesn't even make money.

At this time last year I was starting my fifth month of therapy.   It's odd to think of my relationship with Dr. M at that time.  There was still a newness to the whole process and I often resisted his treatment.  But gradually over the last twelve months our relationship changed.  I opened up and began talking about things I had never spoken of before.  Then when my life came crashing down, he saved it.  I value his treatment and trust him more than Brian.  I am extremely lucky to have a husband who understands the nature of a therapist-patient relationship and why that level of value and trust is there.  During December my therapist, Dr. M, gave me several homework assignments, all of which involved writing in some capacity.  One was a letter to my future self.  Another was to my present self, written as though I were my future self.  Another was to write about what I had lost when my mother died, both literally and conceptually.  I also had to write a letter to my mother, which was easily one of the most painful, yet freeing things I have ever written.  In those seven pages, I accepted things I didn't think I was capable of.  I learned to let go.  I found that the hope inside me is not lost.  After that letter, Dr. M asked me to write about why I was okay.  It wasn't nearly as profound as the letter to my mother but the assignment helped me stop looking at how far I have to go and turn around to see how far I've come.  To say that was a wake-up call is a huge understatement.

In less than two months one of my closest and best friends will experience a life-changing event.  She is getting married in Hawaii to the most perfect man for her.  I cannot wait to stand beside her as they exchange rings and vows and become husband and wife.  It is an extremely good thing that us girls will have false eyelashes because I will be a complete mess.  I didn't cry at my wedding so I think know I will be crying at hers.  To make the trip even more special, Brian and I will be staying for a few extra days by ourselves as a honeymoon.  We are both extremely excited for that, since we never got to take one after our wedding. 

Another of my closest and best friends became pregnant this year.  I am extremely happy for her, considering her past.  She is one of the most caring people I've ever met and I cannot wait to watch her be a mother, and her husband be a father.  There are few people I've met who I felt were just born to be parents.  They are one of those couples.  Of all the things I know 2012 will bring, their son is in my top three.

To continue on the baby trend, B's cousin had a beautiful baby girl, and his sister is pregnant with what we hope will also be a baby girl.  My brother has two sons (who are practically grown up) and the H's are expecting a son, so a little girl in the immediate family would be absolutely lovely.  Regardless of the sex, we just hope the baby is healthy.  Everything else is just ribbon on the diaper cake.

It's four days into 2012 and already change is afoot.  Brian and I've often said that we would love for nothing more than life to just calm down so we can just take a breather and sit.  With the ideas being tossed around now, we will be able to do just that -- but, of course, not until the spring.  It would appear we can't have our cake and eat it, too.

xx,
E 

Last Monday marked seventeen years since my mother died.  It doesn't get any easier as the years go on.

I saw Dr. M last Thursday and I told him about the anniversary and what I was feeling towards my mother and how this year is different.  I'm angry and more bitter towards her than I've been in previous years.  Not because she's gone necessarily, but because she made a decision to keep who my father is from me.  In her defense how was she supposed to know I would inherit a mental illness from either him or someone in his family?

Though that information would have been useful to me, oh let's say, ten years ago.  Maybe if I'd known there was that history, someone would have seen the warning signs in me.  It would have saved me from ten years of terrible decisions, suicide attempts and a rollercoaster I don't ever want to ride again.  Not to mention the daily regret I feel towards my past self.

Dr. M says that in Past Erin's defense, she wasn't making those decisions entirely of her own free will and that I should forgive her.

Then he gave me a homework assignment: to write about what my life could have been like if my mother hadn't died.  Because not only should I mourn what was, but what could have been.  He told me that he wouldn't accept one of my jovial responses and I asked if that meant I was supposed to crack my sternum and expose my heart and he just smiled.  I told him I hated him and then cursed the people who'd said worse things to him and raised the bar on insults.

So I spent the last several days with my chest ripped open, alternating between feeling like salt was being rubbed into a wound and feeling nothing at all.  I finally completed the assignment and I'm still not sure which is worse to mourn: what was or what could have been.

Tomorrow I read what I've wrote.  Like all those times before, if I'm going to have a breakdown and cry until my lungs give out, my therapist's office is probably the perfect place to do it.

xx,
E 

A couple of months ago Dr. M said I need to make sure I do cardio/exercise five times a week.  "I'm an aggressive exerciser," he'd said.  I stuck with it for a couple of weeks -- I was even going to get a pair of red TOMS for completing the first month.  But then the bandwagon hit a huge pothole and I fell off.  And I never quite caught up.  Probably because I couldn't be bothered to go running after it.  Oh depression, you are a cruel vixen.

Then a couple of weeks ago Dr. M said that I "have to, without fail, complete some form of vigorous cardiovascular activity five times a week".  No if's, and's or butt's.

Things that don't count: walking around the block, taking the stairs to get the mail, throwing snowballs from my balcony.

Things that do count: doing ten/eleven-minute+ miles on the elliptical/treadmill, swimming in the fast lane, going to StepUp/Revs/Kick/Fire/Rush/Zumba at the gym.  Don't even ask me what he said when I asked if sex counted.

I tried to negotiate the whole "five times a week" thing and it went something like this:

Dr. M: What do you think is an appropriate number?
Me: Twice a week.
Dr. M: How about five?
Me: How about three?
Dr. M: How about five?
Me: You're supposed to go down!  How about four?
Dr. M: Well if you're going to go four times a week you may as well go five.
Me: I hate you.

I realized I don't really have a choice anymore.  I have one path with no forks in the road.  If I don't do it, I'm not compliant with my treatment.  Then it was like the part of me that doesn't like to disappoint people appeared in front of me and kicked me square in the jaw.  Once the pain subsided I pulled up my big girl underpants and made a plan.

First I joined MyFitnessPal.  I have nothing but fantastic things to say about that site.  It was scary at first (still sort of is) but I'm determined to stick with it.  There's something about strangers on the internet writing "Great burn!" or "Way to go!" on my small fitness accomplishments that make me feel awesome and helps keep me going.  (Especially when I just want to sleep in.)

Second I bought a Lee Valley Portable Office.  S has one and once he showed it to me, I knew I had to have one.  (Another part of my treatment is to keep a daily activity log, so the logbook that comes with it is perfect for this.)  I made a simple workout logbook to tuck inside, so my agenda/workout log/activity log would all be in one place.  (If anyone wants to see the simple workout logbook, leave a comment and I will post it.)

Third, I decided on a workout schedule.  M-F I will go to the gym and do some form of "vigorous cardiovascular exercise".  Right now my love is busting a move on the elliptical around a 10-11 minute mile.  (One day I started crying on the elliptical and the girl next to me gave me a weird look.  I asked her if she'd ever listened to Eat, Pray, Love on audiotape.)  Saturday is my day off where I don't have to work out.  And Sunday, if I can get up in time (last couple Sunday's I did not), I will go to the Breathe class at my gym.

So there it is: the hardest part of my treatment.  At least for now.  I can only assume that this will get easier at some point (it damn well better!) and then I'll get a new challenge to face.  Until then, I'll be dragging myself to the gym (feel free to pester me M-F).

This was probably a really boring blog post but I feel like by sharing it on the interwebs I'm even more accountable for doing my best to keep up with my plan.

Brian is holding those red TOMS hostage until I do a month of 5x/week at the gym.  I'm going into week two.  Wish me luck.

xx,
E 

There aren't a lot of things that I hate (Eiffel 65, brussel sprouts, car maintenance) but the number one thing I dislike is the sound of my own voice.

I rarely leave voicemails and when I do they're quick, often jilted and I stutter.  I get embarrassed when I talk and people have to listen.

Which is why I have never turned the camera on myself.  Even though I've always really really really wanted to.  But that debilitating fear of my own voice held me back.

Until now.  I have a really good reason.

Watch the video, I explain everything.  And if you don't want to watch the video, you can leave a comment and I'll send you the transcript.  But seriously, it would just be easier to watch it. It's less than three minutes.  And you'll have my undying love and affection forever.

LINKY LOO

xx,
E

I know I've been MIA lately.  I was hypomanic for a couple of weeks but because I can't sustain that behaviour for too long, I came crashing down.  Dr. M was unimpressed and I've spent the last couple of weeks trying to stabilize and structurize my life.  I'm 27 and I can't remember the last time I had either of those things.  To say there is a learning curve is an understatement.

I'm not ignoring or avoiding anyone.  I'm sorry if you think that.  I just want to give you the Healthy Erin instead of the Unhealthy Erin.  He is so much more fun.

Did you see what I did there?  Science is fun.  Har har.

Now I am going to write/respond to a list of emails.  If I owe you one, chances are you'll be getting it tonight.

That's what she said.  *ba bom CHA*

xx,
E 

I talked to Dr. M about That Thing I Didn't Want To Talk About.  After a fifteen minute anxiety attack, I finally got the words out.  I still have a few secrets from my therapist but the one I shared was the biggest one.  Not that I feel any better having said it but at least it's out there and he can help me work through it.

Last week I got a text from my old boss.  There are times when I really miss her, which is funny because I think she thought I didn't like her and I think she didn't like me but I'm sure we both liked each other in our own ways.

I bought a new book, The Bipolar Disorder Survival Guide.  I flipped through it a bit and while the author uses a lot of stories to explain points, the subject matter seems to be more geared towards the "Ok, so I've been diagnosed.  Now what?" stage.  Which is where I'm at.  See, Dr. M warned me that people with my illness often feel isolated because most people not only don't know what bipolar disorder is, but they don't know how to have a relationship with someone who is.  On one hand, I would love it if family/friends could just pretend that I don't have this illness.  But on the other hand?  I was going to kill myself.  I need all the support I can get.  

These past few days have opened my eyes to what an amazing man I married.  (Thank you C for reminding me.)  I know I've said it before, but I'll say it again: Brian is the most incredible person in my life.  Right now, with all the changes that are happening, what I need more than anything in the whole world is love and patience -- both of which he seems to have a never-ending supply of.  Some day I would like to write the real story of us, good and bad.

xx,
E 

When my rollercoaster car is plummeting downwards, there is no raising of the arms with excited screams of anticipation while preparing to hit a water filled canal.

All that's at the bottom is a deep dark pit of despair ready to suck me in and never let me out.

I hit rock bottom last week.

I should have called for B.  I should have called S.  I should have gone to Emergency.

Instead, I spent six hours having nightmares in bed.  Finally, I got up and ran a scalding hot bath and filled it with pink bubble bath oil (aromatherapy my ass) and cried.  I cried until my eyes were red and puffy and my skin was red and my fingers were water-logged beyond recognition.  I sang Steven Page lyrics over, the whole time thinking if I wasn't here, if I was gone, then everything would be okay.

When the water had run cold, I got out and wrapped myself in a big while fluffy bath towel (a gift from one of my fathers-in-law) and lined up all my pill bottles on the toilet: Cipralex in tiny white oval 10mg tablets; Seroquel XR in small round orange 100mg tablets; Epival in big orange 250mg tablets; Epival in big pink 500mg tablets.  I stared at the bottles; three different sizes because the Seroquel and the Epival 250mg came in the same size.  The pharmacy's name, my name, Dr. M's name, the DIN, the sig instructions.  I thought about my day job, the one I'm on leave from, and how I would test an application with patients who take medications like mine.  I know what the dosage limits are.  I know that I had more than enough to make the pain inside stop.

I wrote a note.  I left it in my notebook without tearing it out and curled up inside the king size blankets.

When Brian came in to check on me, I told him I'd been minutes away from swallowing everything in the bottles.

It was the fourth time I'd ever seen my husband cry.  Two of those times had been at funerals.

It wasn't a test for him.  That wouldn't have been fair.  It was a test for me.  I'm still not sure whether I passed or failed.

A few days later I saw Dr. M.  I told him everything.  He called me out on our promise, the one where he and I agreed that I would call someone.  When I told S what happened his response was a simple, "That's strange, I didn't hear my phone ring."

...

I wrote this post about a month ago.  When I wrote the one about Fluid, I wanted to link to this post but it hadn't been published and I wasn't ready to talk about it.

I've changed anti-depressants since The Incident.  I'm no longer taking anti-anxiety medication.  My cocktail has been reduced to Epival twice a day, once with Wellbutrin and once with Seroquel.

I don't think about swallowing all my pills.  I don't think about driving my car off the Beverly Bridge.  I don't think about disappearing.  But that doesn't mean my head is full of rainbows and sunshine because it's not.  But that's a post for another time.

For now, I am okay.  Not good but not bad.  Just...okay.

xx,
E