…but not by as much as last year! Last year marked the four year anniversary of my stroke and my neurologist thought I should have a memory test done to see the extent of the damage it caused and to do the test annually to make sure the decline isn’t getting worse. Last January, I sat down in front of the test computer and spent an hour wanting to cry out of confusion. I used to have a great memory before my stroke. As I sat there taking the test I realized I couldn’t remember two words paired together, even though I got to look at them four times. My score was bad.

For an average 40-year-old (which I’m 41) the test score is 120. For the average 60-year-old the test score is 100. Last year I scored 90. My stroke had caused lasting short term memory damage. There was no denying it. This year when I took the test, I didn’t feel nearly as confused. I thought I did quite well. I thought the test would show my memory was back. I thought I would score at least 115. That confidence was slightly unfounded.

I scored 99. My memory is still worse than a 60- year-old but not by much. What changed in the past year to have improved my score by 9 points? Adderall. Adderall improved my brain function. I didn’t realize what an impact it would have on my brain. Though it’s a little worrisome, this newfound confidence. I’m normally not this sure of myself. I’ll get over it. I have my next test set up for next January. Then I will be close to the six year anniversary of my stroke. As the five year mark rolls around, I feel lucky and grateful to be alive. I can live with having the memory of a 60-year-old. The price of life could have been so much higher and all I’m left with is not knowing if I just repeated myself or if the stranger I’m talking to is someone I’ve already met. I’m not sure if I’ll ever stop explaining I’ve had a stroke to people. I’m not even sure if I’ve already explained this.

Being a mother isn’t easy. I love it with all my heart and can’t imagine doing anything else but along with the usual stresses that come with raising children come the stress of having episodes.

I just finished have a schizophrenic episode. It lasted four weeks. I couldn’t hide in bed, I couldn’t stay all day in my pjs and forget there’s a shower in my house. The days of recuperating at the pace my brain needs to to become stable again are gone. Maybe I’ll get them back when my boys leave the house but maybe by then I will have changed. I have changed. I was able to handle the needs of my boys and hallucinate their decapitated heads on the kitchen floor at the same time. I somehow managed.

This episode was just as awful as the ones in the past but I only had myself to rely on and I soldiered through. I would like a day off to stay in bed. I’m exhausted mentally and I’m not sure if ignoring my need to recuperate is a good thing. I take breaks when I can. My boys are older and can get their own snacks so I can slip away for a bit of time to lay down and try not to cry. I think being a mother has made me stronger. I can’t wallow in my illness anymore. I don’t have the luxury.

I happen to be different from most schizophrenics. Not only to I have vivid visual hallucinations, I know my hallucinations aren’t real. A true schizophrenic has mainly auditory hallucinations and very rarely sees things that don’t exists. These schizophrenics are also completely convinced that what they are hearing is actually happening. It’s a distinction that sets me apart. When I’m seeing my son’s mangled body in the dishwasher, I’m understandably traumatized but I know in my heart of hearts that he isn’t actually dead in the dishwasher. One psychologist mentioned that I probably have schizo-obsessive disorder, which is schizophrenia and OCD. I dismissed the psychologist because I didn’t like her and I have no typical OCD symptoms. Sure I’m obsessive about everything being alphabetized but that’s about it. However, earlier this year I switched psychiatrists and a fresh look at my case prompted me to take another look at the disorder.

I do hands-down, no questions asked, know my visual and auditory hallucinations are all in my head. It doesn’t make it any easier. Last night it sounded like a traffic jam was in my living room and I went into a corner and cried as I waited for the Ativan to calm my nerves. What does this new diagnosis mean? It means I may be able to get off one of my anti-psychotics by adding an anti-depressant. That’s where the fun has started.

My new doctor tried to just take me off of Latuda by reducing my dosage. Going from 120 mg to 80 mg wasn’t easy and it tripped me into a schizophrenic episode. My Saphris was increased and things began to level off. Then I went from 80 to 60 and that kicked off an episode that took a month to get over even after raising the Latuda back to 80. My doctor then told me that if I can get on an antidepressant, I should be able to reduce the Latuda even further. I told him about the time I tried Prozac and ended up in the ER because of rectal bleeding. The ER doctor told me it was the Prozac and that can happen when someone takes aspirin everyday. I had a stroke. I need the aspirin. I went off the Prozac. None-the-less my new doctor wanted me to try Lexapro.

I was on Lexapro for 10 days. Each day I gained a pound and then on day 10 the rectal bleeding started. I took myself off it. I had been down that path before, no need to go to the hospital. I told my doctor that I’m sticking to my current medication regiment for the time being. Last week, during my appointment he suggested another antidepressant that shouldn’t cause bleeding. I told him I’d think about it. I’m not in any hurry to experiment at the moment. I did start taking Adderall because he correctly diagnosed me with ADHD and it has made a world of difference in my day-to-day quality of life.

It’s odd to have my diagnosis go from schizoaffective bipolar disorder to schizo-obsessive ADHD disorder with underlying anxiety in such a short time but it seems to fit better. Whether or not I try a different antidepressant and whether or not I tolerate it better, it’s good to have a better understanding of who I am and what disorder I live with. And isn’t knowing half the battle?

Since March, I have been quarantined with my two sons, ages seven and four. During this time, I was diagnosed with ADHD and lost the description of bipolar. Adderall has helped me in ways I only dreamed bipolar medications would. My seven year old and I survived two and a half months of homeschooling. My autistic four year had his therapy abruptly halted. About a month ago, twelve hours of in-home therapy resumed. Most of the time I’m on the edge of tears. I don’t want to talk about how I’m about to shut down but it would be nice if people didn’t believe me when I say “I’m fine.”

I’m not fine. Not by a long shot. My boys are noisy. Both when they are playing happily and when they are fighting. Both of which happen multiple times in the course of a day. The beauty of school is I get a noise-free house for a few hours a day. I like silence, I’m good at it. There is no longer any moments for me to catch a thought. I’m in constant demand. Even when the boys are silently watching TV and I sneak to my bedroom, the peace and quiet can be ripped from me any moment. TV isn’t a guarantee if absolute silence. Neither is video games.

I hesitated in writing this. I hesitate to come across as whining. I have only written one blog post in the past six months. My creativity has been placed on hold because of my current situation. In fact, this post has taken me days to write and so far I’m only on the third paragraph.

What is there to be done? I don’t know. Everyone right now is going through a hard time. We all are having a bad time. In this, I know I’m not alone. I’m trying to find some message of hope or at least a point to this blog post but I’m struggling. I just want to cry. I’m not fine.

When I was a little girl and until the day she died, my mom told me I was Irish/Italian. She really focused on the Irish side. She had a lot of fun putting me in green on St. Patrick’s Day. She just went on and on about me being Irish. There was no denying I was part Italian. I don’t look Italian as I’m very pale with blonde/brown hair. Mom, though, looked like her Italian side very much. It came as a shock that when she passed away my aunts told me I’m not Irish. They have no idea why Mom told me that. It turns out I’m British/Italian. I had an identity crisis. Who was I without my Irish ancestry? I’ve been Irish my whole life but I’m actually British. Then it started to feel correct. I do love English history and I’m an ardent Jane Austen admirer. Being British just made more sense than being Irish. Mom was a firm believer in reincarnation and she told me several times that she was my mother long ago in Ireland. She was quite the free spirit. After the initial shock wore off, I became comfortable with the new way to describe myself.

A couple of months ago, I finally changed psychiatrists. The one who was my doctor for eighteen years finally priced me out of seeing him and his office is a two hour drive from my house. It was time to find someone closer and who took my insurance. That I did and I got a good impression from him. He’s big on me explaining in detail my symptoms and that’s a challenge but I figure I’ll give him a chance.

A few weeks ago, I had a manic episode with thoughts that were racing so fast, I couldn’t pin them down. The whole situation made me curl up in my bed and cry. As my old doctor took several days to get back to me, and it would somehow end up costing me $350, I had reservations about the timeliness of the new doctor. I called him to start the process and he had an appointment that day. With my insurance, the visit was much cheaper. Since the stay-at-home mandate is in full effect, the appointment was a video conference. After telling my new psychiatrist my symptoms, he told me he didn’t believe I was having a manic episode. He said I was having a panic attack. He doesn’t believe I’m bipolar. He believes I have ADHD with underlying anxiety. He changed my diagnosis to schizoaffective ADHD disorder.

What do you mean I’m not bipolar? I’ve been bipolar for the past twenty-six years. I identify as a bipolar schizophrenic. I wrote a book about living with the disorder. Who was I without my bipolar label? I had an identity crisis. Then I started looking into ADHD in children and adults and things started to click. My childhood was full of hyperactivity and not mania. Of course there was underlying anxiety. A lot of manic episodes I thought I was having were actual panic attacks. Bipolar medications don’t work that well for me and I was constantly trying different drugs. I thought I had such a severe case that medication couldn’t help me much. In fact the truth was bipolar medications don’t work for me because I’m not bipolar. My doctor then put me on Adderall. And wow, there’s a huge difference in my brain. A good difference.

Of course, I’m still schizophrenic. There’s no denying the that aspect of my diagnosis. One part of me has been taken away and replaced with something that fits. It makes me a little angry that I was misdiagnosed by three doctors, but I can’t change the past. I just have to move forward with a better understanding of who I am. With that knowledge I can better treat my condition. It will take a bit of an adjustment saying I have ADHD but there will be a time when it becomes second nature and I will no longer think to say “bipolar.” Kind of like how I don’t think to say “Irish” anymore when I state my ethnicity.

Whoever said crying doesn’t solve anything has never felt the emotional release a good sob fest can bring. I discovered the magic a healing bout of crying can bring when I was a teenager. When I was all alone in the house and full of stress brought on by yet another bipolar episode, I would sob out loud for as long as needed. Normally about an hour. I would walk from room to room, sitting here and there, and just cry out warm gigantic tears.

Somewhere in my twenties, I started to feel the need to laugh and sob. They intertwined themselves so much that at any given moment I didn’t know if I was laughing or crying. Most of the time I was doing both at the same time. It’s a feat I never thought possible.

Then in my thirties, the screaming came about. I would enter my empty house and scream at the top of my lungs, then laugh, then cry, then laugh again, and cycle back into screaming. Doing this really helps when I’m feeling overwhelmingly stressed. It helps bring the end to a particularly bad episode or ward off another episode for a day or two.

Today a new aid helped. I came home and screamed. And then, yes, I laughed and cried too. Then I realized there was still noise in my head, so I turned on Me First and the Gimme Gimmes. They’re a punk rock band that does punk versions of classic songs. The noise of the band drowned out the noise in my head. After an about thirty minutes of punk music accompanied by crying, laughing, and screaming I felt better. I have just lived through a schizophrenic episode and a mixed bipolar episode. I’m recovering and after today’s performance for me alone, I’m starting to feel calm again. I love feeling calm.

Growing up, my older friends would tell me I wasn’t Gen X in a snarky manner. I was clearly Gen Y as I was born in 1979. I was happily a Gen Yer. Then suddenly the term “Millennial” started to get used. I honestly thought Millennials were the generation behind me. I still called myself Gen Y and thought it was awesome that we were largely being ignored by the world as no one talked about Gen Y anymore.

It was finally pointed out to me that Millennials are what Gen Y’s are now called. My first reaction was “I’m not a Millennial.” Then I dug deeper and found that I am not a Millennial. My birth year was moved to Gen X. I am not a Gen Xer. I’m lost as to where my place in sociology is.

My favorite color isn’t black and the greatness of ‘The Breakfast Club’ is lost to me. I also have no idea what the hell “craft” means. The term makes me crabby like an old person whose time in society is slipping away. I almost started boycotting Peet’s Coffee and Tea because their cups now says something along the lines of “Craft coffee since 1974.” (That’s a guess. I have no idea when Peet’s was founded) The only thing that prevents me from no longer going to Peet’s again is the baristas actually know what a London Fog is. I hate explaining to the clueless person at Starbucks what the drink is.

A generation doesn’t define you as an individual but it just tells you the group you belong to in society and history. Then something slightly horrifying happened. I became part of a micro generation called Xennials. I’m definitely not a hybrid.

Sure, making the year I was born in part of a micro generation makes sense but I’m holding tight to the belief my micro generation should be call Gen Y. Especially since the generation after Millennials is called Gen Z. Okay, I’m done with the ramble/rant. I’ll try to hurry up and have another schizoaffective episode so I can have something interesting to write about. Love and sparkles to you.

Last week, I was dropping my son off at school when a lady came up to me and started to talk to me in a familiar fashion. I don’t read cues all that well, so I stopped her and said, “Hi, I’m Meaghan.” She looked at me slightly horrified and replied, “I know. We’ve met before.” I had a choice to make. Do I tell her I’ve had a stroke and my short term memory has a 50/50 chance of failing me and that she was a case of my memory failing? I did my usual thing- I didn’t say anything. Part of me is tired of explaining myself because my experience of having a stroke brings up questions that for the most part I don’t want to answer. I end up finally saying, “Good news is that I’m alive and if my only remaining issue from having a stroke is terrible memory then yay me!”

Though lately my memory problem has gotten worse. It’s not uncommon for me to repeat a story or ask the same question more than three times. I have an appointment at the end of the month with my neurologist to see if there’s something I can do or if it’s the Risperdal I had to start taking six weeks ago. It feels like my psych meds really reek havoc on my poor brain.

Hopefully, there is something I can do but it’s probably permanent. My brain is not in the best shape anymore. Also, maybe I should get on top of having a cue reading ability and not say anything if the person I’m talking to seems to be acting like I should know what they are talking about. Good news though is that I’m alive and if my only remaining issue from having a stroke is terrible memory then yay me!

There are times when my illness takes control over every aspect of my life and I fall off the map. Multiple doctor appointments are had in the course of one month. Medication gets adjusted and readjusted in hopes to curb my symptoms. When I finally get stable, I go into recovery mode. I don’t come up for air anywhere from a couple of weeks to a couple of months. I don’t like how sick I get. I don’t like asking for help.

And yet, I get sick and I’m forced to ask for help. I’m lucky, I have help. Not all is lost when these types of episodes happen. I have safety nets that I use when I can’t even take care of myself. It’s all over now and I’m back to my usual self. I wish there was a way to stop this from happening but at least it only happens every couple of years and it’s not an ongoing occurrence. I’m feeling fine and that’s an awesome place to be.

Every now and again I have a paranoid thought that I can’t shake and it causes a lot of trouble. Such a thought ruined my day a couple of weeks ago. It’s hard to talk about when it happens because it can be scary. Thankfully, all I tend to do is shop. Let me explain.

I was getting my younger son in the car to take him to preschool. As I was doing so, I waved to the gardener who takes care of the community plants. He’s been the gardener here ever since I moved in almost a decade ago. I’ve smiled and waved at him hundreds of times. He seems like good people. However, this time a horrifying image of him dropping his work and raping and murdering me and my three-year-old son ran through my brain. The details were so vivid and clear that they felt real. I got in the car took a deep breath and tried not to feel scared and unsafe. Without incident, I got my son to preschool and then proceeded to blackout.

I came back to reality a couple of hours and a couple of hundred dollars later. Alternate Meaghan (the person I call myself while blacking out) went and bought Christmas presents for the boys. I love Christmas shopping. It’s one of my many joys so it’s no surprise that under the amount of stress the paranoid thought gave me, Alternate Meaghan did something joyful. I felt calm again. I felt normal again. I started to cry. I don’t like losing time. What am I like when I’m Alternate Meaghan? I’d like to meet her one day. Blackouts don’t happen often often and all I do is shop. I like spending money. This is normal. Not remembering doing so? Not normal.