Sionnach Wintergreen

author of romance and fantasy


Nothing is More Important than Mental Health


I keep trying to think of amusing things to write for this blog, since working on my current book doesn’t seem to be happening today. I want to encourage you to read Zen Alpha. (I’m offering free reviewer copies if anyone’s interested. Just email me at: I want to talk about my two favorite cats, who are in my office today, Loki and Bruce Banner. Bruce is sleeping in the middle of the floor; Loki is trying to tear the curtains down. I want to tell you about the book I’m writing and how scared I am that it won’t be received well.

But I’m not. All I’ve been able to think about today is my son. I don’t know where he is. He’s an adult and moved to California earlier this year. He lost the job that brought him out there; he lost the job after that. He’s bipolar (as am I) and he keeps having problems with his medications. I suspect the main problem is he stops taking them. Every time I talk to him, I urge him to stay on his meds–even if he feels better. That’s what worked for me.

He doesn’t seem to have his phone anymore. We message each other on FB. The last time I heard from him, last week, he said he had been suicidal and that only knowing how hurt I would be and wondering what would become of his cat kept him alive. Now, I’ve left messages and heard nothing. I feel like he’s all right. He’s a survivor. But I miss him and can’t help worrying.

I wish I knew the magic words that would make him better. I wish I could tell him a story that would fix everything. I’m lost. Each time, I tell him my own story, what saved me–seeking treatment, taking it seriously, staying on my medications despite upsetting side effects. Nothing, I’ve decided, is more important than mental health.

So, this is what I’m doing now. I wait for his response with my cats mirroring the poles of bipolar disorder, one crashed on the carpet, the other climbing the walls. I try to write my little gay romance about opposites who attract–one taciturn, one grandiose. And I wish with all of my heart that whatever benevolent forces might exist attend my son and keep him from harm.

And I hope you–whomever you are, wherever you are–are in good mental health. Nothing else is more important.



Depression Feels Like…

I’ve been sort of beige and muffled lately, mildly depressed. I’ve been functional, for the most part. My mood is lifting, and I’m grateful. While I was sifting through some files today, however, I found something I wrote while in the midst of one of my worst depressions. A lot of people don’t seem to understand what clinical depression feels like. To me, if feels like this:

I feel numb. I get out of bed in the morning because I know my husband expects it. All I want to do is sleep. Everything seems difficult–little things like brushing my teeth and hair feel arduous. I don’t want to be around other people. I cringe from my friends. Just attending a social function physically hurts–I have to escape to another room or outside to make my skin stop crawling. I have so little energy that I feel like I could fall asleep standing, like a horse. Everyone around me seems to be moving at eighty miles an hour while I stumble through a sea of gelatin.

I know it wasn’t always like this, but I can’t remember feeling normal or competent or whole or anything. I can’t feel anything but the overwhelming numbness. I am a hollow tree or a frozen landscape, something empty and barren, something dead–a waxwork of the person I distantly remember being.

A few weeks after I wrote this I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. My variety tends more toward Bipolar II, which is characterized by long, deep depressive episodes. The antidepressants that work so well for many people with unipolar depression can actually drive bipolar people into manias or suicide. I had tried different antidepressants in the past and none of them worked. I believed the fault lay somehow with me, never realizing that I had been misdiagnosed with chronic depression and that I simply hadn’t been given the right medications.

I still have low moods, but I rarely feel the level of emptiness that I felt in the throes of my worst depressive episodes. Medications are not for everyone, but I credit a combination of mood stabilizers and anti-psychotic medications with saving my life.