So the Baby Has Reflux

It’s not that I thought caring for a baby would be easy. I just never imagined it would be this hard.

We found out the other day that poor little David has “silent reflux.” Basically, after he eats, his stomach acid comes up and burns his throat. He rarely spits up, though, so the acid would do its thing on the way up and down.

It’s a relief to know there’s actually something wrong. From the day after he was born, we knew the kid could cry. Shriek, actually. Things that he’d enjoy one day—like playing on his activity mat or sitting in his bouncy chair—would make him scream in agony the next, so we couldn’t get a handle on what, if anything, was wrong.

When I’d mention how unhappy he seemed all the time, people would say, in an irritatingly offhanded manner, “Oh, all babies cry.” And being a new mom, I thought maybe he was just a loud little guy who needed to be carried around on my shoulder all the time.

But he was also sleeping poorly, and then his breathing started sounding odd—sort of wheezy or gurgly, as though he was choking on phlegm.

Can a Marriage with Mental Illness Survive a Symptom Cop Spouse?

A few weeks ago, the Weightless blog published an interview with Susan Schulherr, author of EATING DISORDERS FOR DUMMIES, in which she explains the distinction between a symptom cop—someone who tries to control your symptoms—and a truly supportive friend or family member. The interview, of course, focuses on eating disorders, but it got me thinking about how to best offer support to a spouse with any type mental illness.

Being in recovery for an eating disorder myself, and being married to a man with bipolar disorder, I have experience with this issue from both sides of the fence. Interestingly, when I was in the thick of my illness—bingeing and purging multiple times a day—I didn’t think I’d recover unless I was being monitored/controlled by a symptom cop.

I daydreamed about getting locked up on eating disorder ward, joining the army, even going to jail—all because I imagined that in those places, finally, with someone else dictating what and when and how much I ate, I would lose weight and be okay.

At one point, I tried to enlist my mother as a symptom cop. I told her that having sweet foods in the house was bad for me. She understood, and stopped buying them. Of course, that pissed me off, and in the end, it only served to reinforce my sneaky behavior around food.

In my experience, relying on someone else to fix you never works.

When it’s your spouse who suffers from a mental illness, however, it’s hard to remember this fact.

A Lesson in Boundaries from Charlie Sheen

A lot’s been written lately about Charlie Sheen and his bizarre, bitter ranting (check out my friend Chris Wells’ great article about it on AOL News), and the news that he’s about to embark on a 21-day live tour that will net him $7 million made me sad for him. Someone (CBS) finally stood up to him and said, “Your behavior is unacceptable,” yet others have rushed in to laud and applaud him, enabling his violent, delusional conduct.

There’s a great saying in Twelve Step circles: You hit bottom when you stop digging. Charlie Sheen has no incentive to stop digging. Every time he does something stupid, immoral, or illegal, his money and fame come to the rescue.

Lost your wife because you held a knife to her throat? No problem, get a couple of porn stars to move in with you. Lost your lucrative day job because you refused to get real help for your drug problem and then very publicly insulted your boss? So what? Sue CBS, and launch a lucrative live tour.

Blog, Meet David

John and I are pleased to announce the birth of our son David. He was born last Sunday, measuring 22 inches long and weighing 7 pounds, 12 ounces. We are tired, but very much in love with our little guy. Thank you for all your kind wishes and support.

Why I Need a Higher Purpose than Pleasure

I’m not an ascetic. I enjoy an expensive steak, a sparkly piece of jewelry, and an intimate moment with my husband as much as the next gal.

I do, however, abstain from a number of foods that many people find pleasurable. Chocolate, for instance. Spaghetti. A nice bottle of wine.

A lot of people in my life don’t get it. “Everything in moderation,” they say, shaking their heads, incredulous that I haven’t allowed myself the “pleasure” of eating these foods in more than 11 years.

They don’t understand that, for me, although the actual act of tasting the food might give me pleasure, it’s the same kind of pleasure a heroin addict feels as she pushes a needle into her vein.

Mental Illness, Misdiagnosis, and Forgiveness

About a year ago, I had a terrible, two-week anxiety attack. My eyelids twitched constantly, I couldn’t sleep without serious pharmaceutical assistance, and—in lieu of a heartbeat—cold-winged butterflies beat around in my chest.

At first, I wasn’t sure what had triggered my anxiety. I’d experienced one similar episode about six months earlier, after starting a new job (I didn’t work for nine months after John’s hospitalization) and having a confrontation with a woman at one of my Twelve Step meetings. I chalked that experience up to nerves around the new job and a fear of conflict, and I didn’t think too much about it after the anxiety went away.

The second time it happened, though, I had to dig a little deeper to figure out what was really going on. And the truth was, I was still traumatized by the fact that my husband had been misdiagnosed after all my efforts to communicate what was happening with his psychiatrist.

The worst night of my life, in fact, occurred two days after said psychiatrist—Dr. Black—decreased John’s dose of Risperdal, and then proceeded to tell him that she “wasn’t that concerned” as his psychosis escalated and I pleaded with him to return to the hospital.

After my husband went back to the hospital, I was furious. I had trusted his psychiatrist. I had assumed that, because she had much more experience with mental illness than I did, she knew what she was doing when she ignored my calls and input.

I had, of course, assumed wrong.

Happy News (about the Baby) that Made Me Sad (about Bipolar)

I started thinking about babies when John and I moved to the West Coast three and a half years ago. John wasn’t quite on the same page; he wanted some time to establish himself at his new company. He wanted some time to settle into our new life.

About two and a half years ago, we had a bit of a scare that left me thinking—briefly—that I might be pregnant. When I learned that I wasn’t, I was disappointed. I said as much to John, but once again, he wanted to wait. He wanted to make sure his company was stable and his future there secure.

To be honest, his reluctance to start a family pissed me off. It made me feel as though what I wanted was less important than what he wanted for his career.

So I got passive-aggressive.

More on Suffering and Creativity

I’m reading a fabulous book right now called THE MAGICIANS, which is about a young man who’s recruited to attend a college for magicians. Not magicians as we know them—sleight of hand, illusionists, and all that—but real, honest-to-God, spellcasting magicians.

When our young hero graduates from the magic school, the dean addresses the class and explains why he thinks people become magicians.

As I was reading it, it struck me that it’s very similar to why a lot of people become writers or painters or singers. Changing the word “magician” to “artist,” here’s the dean’s monologue:

I have a little theory I’d like to air here, if I may. What is it that makes you artists? Is it because you are intelligent? Is it because you are brave and good? Is it because you’re special?

Maybe. Who know. But I’ll tell you something: I think you’re artists because you’re unhappy. An artist is strong because he feels pain. He feels the difference between what the world is and what he would make of it. Or what did you think that stuff in chest was? An artist is strong because he hurts more than others. His wound is his strength.

Most people carry that pain around inside them their whole lives, until they kill the pain by other means, or until it kills them. But you, my friends, you found another way: a way to use the pain. To burn it as fuel, for light and warmth. You have learned to break the world that has tried to break you.

Suffering’s Role in Creativity

I’ve always fancied myself to be a creative person. A reader from a young age, I wrote my first “novel” in the fifth grade. I won prizes for my short stories in high school. I went to graduate school for creative writing, and I write for a living today.

For a long time, though, writing was something I had to do—as Maya Angelou once said, “There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside of you.”—but it wasn’t necessarily something I enjoyed.

You see, I bought into the myth of the suffering artist. I thought great art could only come from a place of pain. I identified heavily with Hemingway when he said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

I conveniently forgot that Hemingway killed himself, which is the most destructive act anyone can ever achieve.

Jared Lee Loughner’s Parents: Why Didn’t They Know?

In the wake of last weekend’s tragic shooting in Arizona, many people are speculating that the gunman, Jared Lee Loughner, is mentally ill—most likely schizophrenic—based on reports of his antisocial and paranoid behavior.

Many people are also asking why his parents didn’t intervene and get him help for his mental problems, as evidenced by this comment from a recent MSNBC article titled “Ariz. Suspect’s Parents: ‘We Don’t Know Why This Happened’”:

The parents had to have known they had a disturbed man living with them, and it was their responsibility to get him to a doctor who would put him on medicine or hospitalize him. Even if he failed to voluntarily commit himself for treatment, he could have been involuntarily treated. The reports of his behaviors in school and by classmates, “friends” and observers are concrete and undeniable as to the severity of his mental problems! And it’s clear these problems had been going on for some time. The parents were apparently the only ones who failed to see them—it’s called denial. They should feel awful and very, very guilty for responding so irresponsibly to their son’s illness and indications he was a danger to others.

I really don’t know much about the Loughners’ situation, and given that John was never violent, I can’t imagine what they’re feeling right now, but here’s what I can tell you: When John became psychotic, I was the last to know.