Tardive Dyskinesia (TD) is a condition of involuntary, repetitive movements of the jaw, tongue or other body movements. It frequently is a side effect of the long-term use of antipsychotic drugs used to treat schizophrenia or bipolar disorder. It is almost always permanent. I’ve been told Vitamin E might help a bit. Benzodiazepines have also been used with mixed results on a short-term basis.
Some examples of these types of involuntary movements include:
Grimacing
Tongue movements
Lip smacking
Lip puckering
Pursing of the lips
Excessive eye blinking
(Wikipedia)
I recently was diagnosed as having TD after the use of Zyprexa. My version is my lower jaw moves from side-to-side, unless I concentrate on not doing it. I quickly revert to this involuntary movement when I’m not aware of it. I recently saw a video of myself (with my family) and sure enough there I was, doing the ‘jaw thing.’ It was very obvious. It was also very embarrassing. (I have the ‘lithium jitters’— where my hands always shake, but TD is different.)
There are a couple of things I might mention:
1) I’ve discovered that there is a real social isolation with this TD stuff. To be doing this in public is “not acceptable.” I have had people come up to me wanting to know what’s my problem. Since I can’t control the movement I just say, “It’s my meds— they affect me this way.” In a way it’s like wearing a neon sign saying, “I’m a fruit cake.” Having a mental illness is stigma enough, but the TD just puts a new edge on it.
2) As a natural introvert the isolation has only deepened. (I avoid crowds and most social engagements.) I guess if the truth be told, I’m uncomfortable when others look at me strangely or whisper to each other. My standard ‘paranoia level’ has taken a new twist. I feel I’m compelled to explain. I guess I’m embarrassed when others are embarrassed.
3) I settle myself down in my faith to cope. I know I’m not alone in this– the Lord Jesus is always with me. He holds me tight through all these twists and turns. Since I isolate myself so much, I savor the connection I have with a few friends who have become inured to my condition. Social media helps out— Facebook is a big help, as well as my two blogs.
4) One of the things I try to remember are the issues of selfishness and pride. I keep reminding myself it’s not about me all the time. One of the significant areas mentally ill people deal with is self-absorbed thinking. It seems it comes with the illness.
5) I try to keep a sense of humor everyday. It breaks down the mental pain to tolerable levels. We can take ourselves too seriously sometimes. Be more patient with yourself. I know I have to.
I ask that you remember me in prayer from time-to-time. I’m in ‘uncharted waters’ (it seems) and I sometimes feel all alone with my mental illness and all its tangents. I want good to come out of this. (An instantaneous healing would be o.k. But, I’m not too finicky.) Sorry for so much.
If you can’t pray, don’t feel at all impinged upon.
“Why should you be like someone confused, like a mighty warrior who cannot give help? Yet you, O Lord, are in the midst of us, and we are called by your name; do not forsake us!”
Jeremiah 14:9
Twenty three years ago, I started this blog–
Looking back on it has been very helpful.
In recent weeks I’ve gone through a time of profound confusion. My grip on reality has been tenuous at best. I’ve had a struggle with a depersonalizing sense, I seem not to “see” reality as I used to. Everything seems increasingly odd, and disjointed. I see myself outside myself.
Everything is knotted up, again.
I have had bouts with this before. And yet every time the Father has “fathered” me. I have been led through each bout. In many ways, the clinical depression has changed, now it slams. It used to be kind of low grade, kind of a grey fog, a steady and tedious despair, but now it’s more like a black lightning bolt.
I have had suicidal urges and thinking. I hate handling a kitchen knife, as I get the urge to plunge it into my chest. It’s funny like that, I call out to Jesus and He truly does find me.
He straightens out my knotted life only as He can.
History:
This blog initially started off in September 2009 following the idea of “broken believers.” Perhaps it was overly ambitious. But my heart’s desire is to be transparent and very honest. I still want to see this happen, and it does, sometimes.
I know I am not some super-saint with just the right answer for everyone. If I ever made this impression, please forgive me. Believe me, I only want His gentle presence to touch broken people.
For you see, I am the broken believer that writes this blog.
“Lord Jesus Christ, you are for me medicine when I am sick; you are my strength when I need help; you are life itself when I fear death; you are the way when I long for heaven; you are light when all is dark; you are my food when I need nourishment.”
Our theology makes all the difference in fighting depression, writes Kathryn Greene-McCreight, Author of “Darkness, Is My Only Companion” and Episcopal priest.
Here is an excerpt where she introduces the depression of Christians:
In his Problem of Pain, C. S. Lewis says that suffering is uniquely difficult for the Christian, for the one who believes in a good God. If there were no good God to factor into the equation, suffering would still be painful, and ultimately meaningless.
For the Christian, who believes in the crucified and risen Messiah, suffering is always meaningful. It is meaningful because of the one in whose suffering we participate, Jesus. This is neither to say, of course, that suffering will be pleasant, nor that it should be sought. Rather, in the personal suffering of the Christian, one finds a correlate in Christ’s suffering, which gathers up our tears and calms our sorrows and points us toward his resurrection.
In the midst of a major mental illness, we are often unable to sense the presence of God at all. Sometimes all we can feel is the complete absence of God, utter abandonment by God, the sheer ridiculousness of the very notion of a loving and merciful God. This cuts to the very heart of the Christian and challenges everything we believe about the world and ourselves.
I have a chronic mental illness, a brain disorder that used to be called manic depression, but now is less offensively called bipolar disorder. I have sought help from psychiatrists, social workers, and mental health professionals; one is a Christian, but most of my helpers are not. I have been in active therapy with a succession of therapists over many years, and have been prescribed many psychiatric medications, most of which brought quite unpleasant side effects, and only a few of which relieved my symptoms. I have been hospitalized during the worst times and given electroconvulsive therapy treatments.
All of this has helped, I must say, despite my disinclination toward medicine and hospitals. They have helped me to rebuild some of “myself,” so that I can continue to be the kind of mother, priest, and writer I believe God wants me to be.
During these bouts of illness, I would often ask myself: How could I, as a faithful Christian, be undergoing such torture of the soul? And how could I say that such torture has nothing to do with God? This is, of course, the assumption of the psychiatric guild in general, where faith in God is often viewed at best as a crutch, and at worst as a symptom of disease.
How could I, as a Christian, indeed as a theologian of the church, understand anything in my life as though it were separate from God? This is clearly impossible. And yet how could I confess my faith in that God who was “an ever-present help in trouble” (Ps. 46:1) when I felt entirely abandoned by that God? And if this torture did have something to do with God, was it punishment, wrath, or chastisement? Was I, to use a phrase of Jonathan Edwards’s, simply a “sinner in the hands of an angry God”?
I started my journey into the world of mental illness with a postpartum depression after the birth of our second child. News outlets are rife with stories of women who destroy their own children soon after giving birth. It is absolutely tragic. Usually every instinct in the mother pushes toward preserving the life of the infant. Most mothers would give their own lives to protect their babies. But in postpartum depression, reality is so bent that that instinct is blocked. Women who would otherwise be loving mothers have their confidence shaken by painful thoughts and feelings.
Depression is not just sadness or sorrow.
When I am depressed, every thought, every breath, every conscious moment hurts.
And often the opposite is the case when I am hypomanic: I am scintillating both to myself, and, in my imagination, to the whole world. But mania is more than speeding mentally, more than euphoria, more than creative genius at work. Sometimes, when it tips into full-blown psychosis, it can be terrifying. The sick individual cannot simply shrug it off or pull out of it: there is no pulling oneself “up by the bootstraps.”
And yet the Christian faith has a word of real hope, especially for those who suffer mentally. Hope is found in the risen Christ. Suffering is not eliminated by his resurrection, but transformed by it. Christ’s resurrection kills even the power of death, and promises that God will wipe away every tear on that final day.
But we still have tears in the present.
We still die. In God’s future, however, death itself will die. The tree from which Adam and Eve took the fruit of their sin and death becomes the cross that gives us life.
The hope of the Resurrection is not just optimism, but keeps the Christian facing ever toward the future, not merely dwelling in the present. But the Christian hope is not only for the individual Christian, nor for the church itself, but for all of Creation, bound in decay by that first sin: “Cursed is the ground because of you … It will produce thorns and thistles for you …” (Gen. 3:17-18).
This curse of the very ground and its increase will be turned around at the Resurrection. All Creation will be redeemed from pain and woe. In my bouts with mental illness, this understanding of Christian hope gives comfort and encouragement, even if no relief from symptoms. Sorrowing and sighing will be no more. Tears will be wiped away. Even fractious [unruly, irritable] brains will be restored.
“Darkness: My Only Companion”
Kathryn Greene-McCreightis assistant priest at St. John’s Episcopal Church in New Haven, Connecticut, and author of Darkness Is My Only Copanion: A Christian Response to Mental Illness (Brazos Press, 2006).
This is a scary list. We’re told repeatedly that love is the evidence that disciples are to be identified. Love is the blood of the body. It’s that necessary. It’s critical. We’re called to love (one another) that proves we’re real and authentic.
Some of us are handicapped, either mentally or physically. Our issues are truly formidable, very few understand.
I pretty much live in physical pain now. I struggle with depression. I have some battles that few understand. And I get terribly self-absorbed by all of it. If love is the blood of the Christian then I absolutely need a transfusion. I’m anemic. I’m the proverbial 95 pound spiritual weakling! 😁
“Love one another.” I believe I’m missing this in my spiritual walk. For the most part I operate as “to tolerate one another.” It’s easy to love those who love me, but that’s not how discipleship to Jesus works. He wants us to find enemies to love. (At least I think it does.)
Our Teacher, the Holy Spirit, knows how ignorant we really are. But He is patient and oh so very kind. He has lessons that fit us and our needs. I want to love (usually) and I’m counting on Him to tutor me. How do I do this?
You learn to love by loving.
A few things (I know it’s a terribly incomplete list):
To love you must walk in discernment. Learn to “see” the needs of specific people. Contrary to church opinion, discernment is not to pass judgement on another, rather it’s all about seeing needs. Not everyone can do this.
To love takes availability. You need to be “ready for use.” This takes a certain amount of skill. I’m a terrible kind of introvert. Sometimes I won’t answer the phone or go to a home group. I sorta resent it. The Spirit keeps putting me in spots that require interaction with others, and I hate it.
Love creates humility in us (which takes some doing). As I learn to love I find myself stripped down and washing somebody’s feet. I become a servant who is learning to scrub between the toes if that’s what it takes.
To love you must love others just like Jesus loves you. (Yikes!) “The extra mile,” all of that. So tell me, how much has He loved you? Isn’t that supposed to teach you something? Remember, love is a fruit of Him living inside of you.
To love creates growing joy. This joy will protect us from legalism. When joy is operational every burden is light–we do our tasks smiling. I heard a preacher speak about J.O.Y. Jesus, Others, and You. In order of importance.
To love is to learn how to pray. Intercession is like oxygen to a fire. It’s like one of those old fashioned bellows to a sputtering flame. It pumps air into the pile of twigs and wood to spread the fire and ignite a blaze. We pray and love starts spreading.
To live with hard mental and physical issues as an authentic Christian is profoundly difficult. We get so self-absorbed at times. But being a disciple of love isn’t just for healthy believers, it’s also for us who struggle.
Grace is increased exponentially to those of us with deep physical problems.
I totally believe this. God takes special care as He works on and in us. We can count on Him to give us the extra attention we need as we learn love.
I’ve found that suffering is like learning another language. Changed by His love we are speaking to others in a way they understand. We can communicate with others because we’ve learned how to “speak their language.” We have been taught by God to speak into broken lives because we’ve been broken too.
Broken Believers 