During my recent hospitalization, the doctor expressed doubt that I am, in fact, bipolar I but that I am rather mildly bipolar II, but much more so a victim of unresolved grief and loss. I think there is some truth to that. Therefore, it is my intention, with the help of God, to release the disappointment, resentment, and pain I have suffered in my life. As part of that release, I am considering closing down this blog. Dwelling on the negative in my life has done me no good. What has done me good, however, is the sense that sharing my experiences, and trying to put a positive light on them, has done you some good.
Therefore, if you would, please indicate whether or not this blog has been a help to you. I share from Saint Francis in that I hope to be an instrument of God's peace.
Where there is despair, let me bring hope.
Where there is darkness, let me bring light.
Where there is sadness, let me bring joy.
I know lately I have sought to be consoled. I have not been well. But I am taking steps (even baby steps) to shed myself of the crap of a painful life. If I continue this blog, it is my intention to bring hope, light, joy, and peace.
Your response will help me decide what to do.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Friday, June 20, 2014
Hospitalization (Caution: mentions suicidal ideation)
Until recently, the thought of being hospitalized gave me cold chills and sweats. My first images of hospitalization came from a 1967 movie starring Rosalind Russell as Rosie Lord who (I believe...my memory could be warped) was committed to a mental hospital by her children. The children felt Rosie was being irresponsible (and selfish?) in spending their 'inheritance.' Somehow, at the age of 12 or 13, I knew that this scenario was significant and scary. There was force. There was screaming. Imagine Rosalind Russell without makeup, wiry hair awry, gown askew. I imagined electric shock and straight jackets. I still feel nauseated at the thought of being forced, held down, and injected. I made my mother promise to never let that happen to me.
Flash forward to two years ago when I helped a family member move into a hospital mental health ward. I was afraid but did my best to not show it. I was supportive and positive. I visited on visitation day and attended the group sessions that day. I was there to take that person home when the time came.
Last Sunday, when the kids were visiting their father and grandfather on Father's Day, I found myself finalizing plans on another technique for exiting this earth. Before actually gathering the materials and implements, I made a call to my therapist. Bless her heart, I was interrupting her packing for a week long retreat and I got the feeling she didn't have a lot of extra time. She made some inquiries and called me back. There were no available beds in Western North Carolina. none. I kept packing.
Ultimately, I drove to a nearby city, found the hospital, and checked into the ER. All told I spent 23 hours dozing in the brightly lit ER examining room with a security guard blocking my door. He was actually quite sweet. Every time I turned over he would ask if I was doing ok with a thumbs up query. Sometimes I gave him a thumbs up...sometimes the thumb was sideways. One of the nurses apologized for my having to wait in the ER for a room to open up upstairs. I told her it was fine; there were no painkillers, tranquilizers, or razor blades there. All I had to do was sleep, and so I slept.
The next afternoon, I was walked upstairs by two security guards. Not having been on the ward before myself, I didn't realize at the time that it was customary...and loving...to congregate and line the halls to see the new person on the ward. It didn't take long to make friends and be a friend to several of the people there. I miss them and sincerely pray for their good fortune and healing.
No one was mistreated. No one was forced to take their meds or needed restraint. It was a sometimes happy, orderly, serene place with caring, kind, and often funny attendants. I could look down on a peaceful garden, up into the changing sky, or out into the trees outside my room. We talked about art, spirituality, stress reduction, wellness, and grief. The food was even not too bad.
I have a friend who thinks fondly on his own rather lengthy stay in a hospital. The idea disturbed me at the time he told me so. I now know better. Getting out was a surreal experience. My medication has been rather drastically changed so perhaps that explains my less than perfect driving skills. Traffic on the interstate, while orderly and reasonable, was too much stimulation for me. But I made it home. And I went to work putting my home in order. I wanted to replicate the tone and feel of the hospital ward.
I want to thank those of you who were concerned for me. That was kind and thoughtful of you.
Someone in the hospital referred to the experience as resetting their buttons. I think that is a good way of putting it. I think about the internet modem and router. Occasionally, they need to be reset, and apparently, so do I.
Flash forward to two years ago when I helped a family member move into a hospital mental health ward. I was afraid but did my best to not show it. I was supportive and positive. I visited on visitation day and attended the group sessions that day. I was there to take that person home when the time came.
Last Sunday, when the kids were visiting their father and grandfather on Father's Day, I found myself finalizing plans on another technique for exiting this earth. Before actually gathering the materials and implements, I made a call to my therapist. Bless her heart, I was interrupting her packing for a week long retreat and I got the feeling she didn't have a lot of extra time. She made some inquiries and called me back. There were no available beds in Western North Carolina. none. I kept packing.
Ultimately, I drove to a nearby city, found the hospital, and checked into the ER. All told I spent 23 hours dozing in the brightly lit ER examining room with a security guard blocking my door. He was actually quite sweet. Every time I turned over he would ask if I was doing ok with a thumbs up query. Sometimes I gave him a thumbs up...sometimes the thumb was sideways. One of the nurses apologized for my having to wait in the ER for a room to open up upstairs. I told her it was fine; there were no painkillers, tranquilizers, or razor blades there. All I had to do was sleep, and so I slept.
The next afternoon, I was walked upstairs by two security guards. Not having been on the ward before myself, I didn't realize at the time that it was customary...and loving...to congregate and line the halls to see the new person on the ward. It didn't take long to make friends and be a friend to several of the people there. I miss them and sincerely pray for their good fortune and healing.
No one was mistreated. No one was forced to take their meds or needed restraint. It was a sometimes happy, orderly, serene place with caring, kind, and often funny attendants. I could look down on a peaceful garden, up into the changing sky, or out into the trees outside my room. We talked about art, spirituality, stress reduction, wellness, and grief. The food was even not too bad.
I have a friend who thinks fondly on his own rather lengthy stay in a hospital. The idea disturbed me at the time he told me so. I now know better. Getting out was a surreal experience. My medication has been rather drastically changed so perhaps that explains my less than perfect driving skills. Traffic on the interstate, while orderly and reasonable, was too much stimulation for me. But I made it home. And I went to work putting my home in order. I wanted to replicate the tone and feel of the hospital ward.
I want to thank those of you who were concerned for me. That was kind and thoughtful of you.
Someone in the hospital referred to the experience as resetting their buttons. I think that is a good way of putting it. I think about the internet modem and router. Occasionally, they need to be reset, and apparently, so do I.
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Friday, June 13, 2014
Risky Behavior
In the past, my risky behavior consisted of over-spending and and the occasional un-protected sex with someone I hardly knew. Now, I have speed. No, not the drug...the car. My little BMW Z3 M Roadster is Fast. And I love it. Yesterday, on a major 4-lane highway, south of town, I sat at a red light. Behind me was an orange Mustang. When the light turned green, I floored it. The mustang stayed with me. I slammed in the clutch and changed gears. The Mustang moved over to the right lane and tried to catch up but I didn't let him. We caught up to traffic and he sat several cars back. He eventually moved up. Having not done this much, I was inexperienced in the etiquette of racing...so, when he moved up beside me, I simply looked over. The grey-haired man about my age was giving me the thumbs up. What a thrill! Traffic was on the move so we couldn't converse. He yelled over, "Now, you have to let me in ahead of you." I was already ahead of him at that point and traffic wasn't cooperating so he pulled off at the next corner.
I feel bad that I didn't do it right. My son would have known what to do. But I still feel good. I hope Mr. Mustang doesn't think I snubbed him. I just don't know what I'm doing. We may have broken a speed limit. but we didn't endanger anyone's lives. We had fun, which I don't ordinarily do. To Mr. Mustang...
thumbs up.
I feel bad that I didn't do it right. My son would have known what to do. But I still feel good. I hope Mr. Mustang doesn't think I snubbed him. I just don't know what I'm doing. We may have broken a speed limit. but we didn't endanger anyone's lives. We had fun, which I don't ordinarily do. To Mr. Mustang...
thumbs up.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Friend
I met a friend on a mental health website. I said we were all "wounded healers." He said we were all looking for validation. I had hoped we were more altruistic than that. But this started a discussion that left the website and moved to our personal email spaces. We discussed our histories, abuse, medication, children, ourselves as children, music, books, travels, hopes, opportunities, aspirations, limitations, and the idea that we would like to meet...one day. 1000 emails later, he is gone.
He had a manic episode that I did not know how to handle. He was getting 'in your face' confrontational with people in his neighborhood. I tried to calm him down and that was apparently not the thing to do. He signed off...and that's the last I've heard from him.
So many feelings...so many reactions...so many possibilities. I hope he's alive. I hope he's safe. I hope he knows I care about him deeply and would not abandon him...intentionally.
Our two months of correspondence walked me back away from a near-fatal depression last spring. I now face the days without the dozens or more new emails titled in bright blue. The silence roars with intensity,.and I wonder, what happened to him.
I will not think I could have been hurt...that I am better off. In spite of his intentions to go out looking for trouble, I know he would not have hurt me. I feel no concern for that. I did not like the intensity of his anger and belligerence...that is why I failed to be what he needed at the time...friend.
I hurt, but I'm ok. In one unanswered email, I said I was like a SETI technician, sending out signals in hopes that I would one day hear something back.
He had a manic episode that I did not know how to handle. He was getting 'in your face' confrontational with people in his neighborhood. I tried to calm him down and that was apparently not the thing to do. He signed off...and that's the last I've heard from him.
So many feelings...so many reactions...so many possibilities. I hope he's alive. I hope he's safe. I hope he knows I care about him deeply and would not abandon him...intentionally.
Our two months of correspondence walked me back away from a near-fatal depression last spring. I now face the days without the dozens or more new emails titled in bright blue. The silence roars with intensity,.and I wonder, what happened to him.
I will not think I could have been hurt...that I am better off. In spite of his intentions to go out looking for trouble, I know he would not have hurt me. I feel no concern for that. I did not like the intensity of his anger and belligerence...that is why I failed to be what he needed at the time...friend.
I hurt, but I'm ok. In one unanswered email, I said I was like a SETI technician, sending out signals in hopes that I would one day hear something back.
Sunday, April 27, 2014
Walls
(addendum to previous post.)
He said that it is healthy for people to build walls and boundaries around themselves. But it is always other people building walls around themselves to shut me out. I didn't think I had boundary issues. I don't think of myself as being invasive or intrusive. But that's usually the problem: I don't think there is a problem until it is too late. My intuition and perception are flawed, damaged, non-functioning. My early warning systems are dead. All that's left is damage to clean up.
Are walls good or bad?
He said that it is healthy for people to build walls and boundaries around themselves. But it is always other people building walls around themselves to shut me out. I didn't think I had boundary issues. I don't think of myself as being invasive or intrusive. But that's usually the problem: I don't think there is a problem until it is too late. My intuition and perception are flawed, damaged, non-functioning. My early warning systems are dead. All that's left is damage to clean up.
Are walls good or bad?
I'm tired of being inappropriate
I'm tired. I'm fed up. I say the wrong thing. I do the wrong thing. I live the wrong way. I realize 'normal' people make mistakes, but I do the wrong thing all the time. Just ask my children or my friends or my coworkers or the people I meet online. Life will be sailing along and suddenly I'll rock the boat. I'll step over the line. And ruin everything.
I need asylum. I need a place to go where I am allowed and expected to be dysfunctional, a place where I am safe and not expected to interact with others in any meaningful way...except to take pills. It would be nice if there were azaleas and oak trees but right now I'd be content with a cardboard box.
I'm not depressed. I'm not manic. I'm not suicidal. But I am tired. I feel that if I could just stand still, not say anything, not write anything, not think or feel anything, then maybe I would do no harm. No additional harm. I have been so inappropriate all my life that I embarrass myself. I am appalled at some of the things I have said and done. Some of it is documented online, or in databases, or people's memories. It's out there. And the darn thing is, I don't feel inappropriate when I'm doing it...just when I'm looking back on it.
Why can't I just be nice and normal? Why did I have to be bipolar? Or why couldn't I be so mentally ill that I don't know what I'm doing...even later.
I'm sorry, there's not much hope or encouragement in this post. I'm afraid of what my next gaffe is going to be.
I need asylum. I need a place to go where I am allowed and expected to be dysfunctional, a place where I am safe and not expected to interact with others in any meaningful way...except to take pills. It would be nice if there were azaleas and oak trees but right now I'd be content with a cardboard box.
I'm not depressed. I'm not manic. I'm not suicidal. But I am tired. I feel that if I could just stand still, not say anything, not write anything, not think or feel anything, then maybe I would do no harm. No additional harm. I have been so inappropriate all my life that I embarrass myself. I am appalled at some of the things I have said and done. Some of it is documented online, or in databases, or people's memories. It's out there. And the darn thing is, I don't feel inappropriate when I'm doing it...just when I'm looking back on it.
Why can't I just be nice and normal? Why did I have to be bipolar? Or why couldn't I be so mentally ill that I don't know what I'm doing...even later.
I'm sorry, there's not much hope or encouragement in this post. I'm afraid of what my next gaffe is going to be.
Saturday, April 19, 2014
What goes up must come down
Remember that little blue car I cried about a few posts ago, well, I hemmed and hawed, listened and reasoned, listed and prayed...then I bought it. Now I know which ones of you are dialing my number right now. Relax. It's going to be okay...but not without a few adjustments. But that is not what I am here to discuss. I bought the car yesterday and let my son drive it home. He's quite familiar with that kind of clutch, etc. Then this morning, I drove it with him coaching me on the finer points of braking, fast clutch work, tight steering, breaking loose the back end, and when not to do that. We put the top down and went up on the parkway and then wound down Elk Mountain Scenic Highway. We even took it to show my priest, who gets to drive it next week.
This afternoon, I started feeling bad. My daughter and I had to go to the grocery store but I did not feel comfortable taking the little car. Back from the store, I still felt bad and after putting away the groceries I climbed into the bed for a nap. I did not sleep long. I just lay in the bed a while until I started thinking about the car. I thought,"Oh my God, what have I done?" My heart started racing, my breath came quick. What have I done? I bought something I have wanted for a long time. I went over my reasoning. It is sound. I went over my financial strategy. It is going to work. And my back up strategy? That will work too. So what is going on? Why am I so upset?
It is simple...what goes up must come down...at least in the bipolar world. Getting the car was exciting. Driving the car was a thrill. Is this a let down? No, I do not think so. I feel more of a responsibility to the new car, responsibility to keep it well maintained and protected. There is still a lot more I need to learn about the car's gauges and temperatures and switches. There is a weight to it I do not feel with my other car. But, no, I am not let down. I am tired and a little overwhelmed and coming down off of a high. That is what we do. And just like the car, I am to be well maintained and protected. I will eat healthy, rest well, and prepare to fend off those of you who may feel justified to cluck and scold.
This afternoon, I started feeling bad. My daughter and I had to go to the grocery store but I did not feel comfortable taking the little car. Back from the store, I still felt bad and after putting away the groceries I climbed into the bed for a nap. I did not sleep long. I just lay in the bed a while until I started thinking about the car. I thought,"Oh my God, what have I done?" My heart started racing, my breath came quick. What have I done? I bought something I have wanted for a long time. I went over my reasoning. It is sound. I went over my financial strategy. It is going to work. And my back up strategy? That will work too. So what is going on? Why am I so upset?
It is simple...what goes up must come down...at least in the bipolar world. Getting the car was exciting. Driving the car was a thrill. Is this a let down? No, I do not think so. I feel more of a responsibility to the new car, responsibility to keep it well maintained and protected. There is still a lot more I need to learn about the car's gauges and temperatures and switches. There is a weight to it I do not feel with my other car. But, no, I am not let down. I am tired and a little overwhelmed and coming down off of a high. That is what we do. And just like the car, I am to be well maintained and protected. I will eat healthy, rest well, and prepare to fend off those of you who may feel justified to cluck and scold.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
A Metaphor for Depression
At some point in this vacation/pilgrimage to the place of my upbringing, Charleston, I decided to walk from the motel to a very well-known restaurant that sits at the edge of the Ashley River. I waited only a short time before I was seated at a window that looked out across the salt marsh to the river..and across the river to the city marina and downtown Charleston beyond. The experience of sitting at that window has stayed with me...and now I know why.
I came to Charleston to reconnect with sensations I equate with happiness...sparkling water, sunshine, boats, salt marsh, sea birds, etc In that restaurant, I had the perfect seat. I was not in the glare of the setting sun, not yet mellowed. I had the perfect view. But, I was miserable. It was TOO FREAKIN LOUD! Annoying music, dozens of conversations, tables being dragged and dropped. People were having to scream to be heard. And when I sought solace in the things I loved, I was met with a cold, hard piece of glass. I could not hear the sea birds, I could not smell the salt marsh, I could not feel the soft breezes or hear the clinking of the sailboat masts. It was all out there, but it was beyond my reach. It was not for me.
I am coming up out of a near-fatal depression and I am trying to feel something, something happy, something other than anger, resentment, fear, and disappointment.
It is Sunday morning. The restaurant is closed now. I went for a walk in the early morning sunshine, skirting around the large, empty parking lot, beside the salt marsh, across in front of the restaurant (the music is still playing inside), and back along another marina. I gazed across the water and caught my breath. There on the opposite dock was a sailboat, painted varnished teak and blue. I'm not good at guessing lengths but she had only one mast. It was so unexpected, almost hidden like an easter egg.
When you are in a serious depression, you do not really expect to come out. But sometimes, something so unexpected, something so insignificant, can give you a little bit of hope.
Have you ever been surprised to find hope?
I came to Charleston to reconnect with sensations I equate with happiness...sparkling water, sunshine, boats, salt marsh, sea birds, etc In that restaurant, I had the perfect seat. I was not in the glare of the setting sun, not yet mellowed. I had the perfect view. But, I was miserable. It was TOO FREAKIN LOUD! Annoying music, dozens of conversations, tables being dragged and dropped. People were having to scream to be heard. And when I sought solace in the things I loved, I was met with a cold, hard piece of glass. I could not hear the sea birds, I could not smell the salt marsh, I could not feel the soft breezes or hear the clinking of the sailboat masts. It was all out there, but it was beyond my reach. It was not for me.
I am coming up out of a near-fatal depression and I am trying to feel something, something happy, something other than anger, resentment, fear, and disappointment.
It is Sunday morning. The restaurant is closed now. I went for a walk in the early morning sunshine, skirting around the large, empty parking lot, beside the salt marsh, across in front of the restaurant (the music is still playing inside), and back along another marina. I gazed across the water and caught my breath. There on the opposite dock was a sailboat, painted varnished teak and blue. I'm not good at guessing lengths but she had only one mast. It was so unexpected, almost hidden like an easter egg.
When you are in a serious depression, you do not really expect to come out. But sometimes, something so unexpected, something so insignificant, can give you a little bit of hope.
Have you ever been surprised to find hope?
Going by home
I had this great idea. I thought that after enduring a scary and life-changing depression, I should reconnect with things I know I love: water, sky, clouds, boats, salt marsh, sea birds, ... Charleston, SC. and the surrounding areas.
When I was depressed, I no longer felt any affection for art, writing, photography, or even getting up and getting dressed. I did dishes and laundry like a mantra.
Pulling out of the depression, I felt vacant and a little afraid of being interested in anything. I thought a gentle trip home would help.
Well, first of all, it is Spring Break. There are so many people, and so much traffic, no parking, and so much noise. Everywhere I went yesterday, there were festivals. What do you do at festivals? You eat and spend money and get overwhelmed by the crowds. I do not need that...any of that.
I have seen the shimmering water, the changing light in the sky, lazy clouds, the salt marsh at high and low tides, watched the sea gulls surfing on the wind, and even caught a whiff of plough (pluff) mud. Lithe, white sailboats are all around me. It does not do it for me, anymore. It just makes me sad.
I grew up here. I went to college here. I went through several relationships while living here. I have not been by the houses where I lived...that would be getting too close. My childhood was painful and sad. I would not do it again. Since the crisis a few weeks ago, I have spent a lot of time writing and talking about memories of hard and disappointing times. Being here brings up more...foolish financial decisions, inappropriate relationships, break-ups, mean neighborhoods, frustrations, and prolonged depressions. At one point in my life I wanted to return and live here. I can barely afford to live where I am much less live in Charleston.
I have been very critical and intolerant of the frustrations here and that is not like me. I suspect the new medication I am on has some play in that. However, while walking in the sand with my head down, yesterday, I struggled with my reaction to it all: art, photography, salt marshes, etc. and decided I needed new material, new things, new places. My set of standby's has too many negative memories attached.
I'm feeling a little fragile. I will need to take it slow.
Any suggestions?
When I was depressed, I no longer felt any affection for art, writing, photography, or even getting up and getting dressed. I did dishes and laundry like a mantra.
Pulling out of the depression, I felt vacant and a little afraid of being interested in anything. I thought a gentle trip home would help.
Well, first of all, it is Spring Break. There are so many people, and so much traffic, no parking, and so much noise. Everywhere I went yesterday, there were festivals. What do you do at festivals? You eat and spend money and get overwhelmed by the crowds. I do not need that...any of that.
I have seen the shimmering water, the changing light in the sky, lazy clouds, the salt marsh at high and low tides, watched the sea gulls surfing on the wind, and even caught a whiff of plough (pluff) mud. Lithe, white sailboats are all around me. It does not do it for me, anymore. It just makes me sad.
I grew up here. I went to college here. I went through several relationships while living here. I have not been by the houses where I lived...that would be getting too close. My childhood was painful and sad. I would not do it again. Since the crisis a few weeks ago, I have spent a lot of time writing and talking about memories of hard and disappointing times. Being here brings up more...foolish financial decisions, inappropriate relationships, break-ups, mean neighborhoods, frustrations, and prolonged depressions. At one point in my life I wanted to return and live here. I can barely afford to live where I am much less live in Charleston.
I have been very critical and intolerant of the frustrations here and that is not like me. I suspect the new medication I am on has some play in that. However, while walking in the sand with my head down, yesterday, I struggled with my reaction to it all: art, photography, salt marshes, etc. and decided I needed new material, new things, new places. My set of standby's has too many negative memories attached.
I'm feeling a little fragile. I will need to take it slow.
Any suggestions?
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Validation vs the "Wounded Healer"
I am jumping in way over my head here and will be gathering material from other sources, but I have recently been slammed between these two frames of reference: 'validation' as a driver for human behavior, and the concept of the "Wounded Healer."
From Wikipedia," Wounded healer is a term created by psychologist Carl Jung. The idea states that an analyst is compelled to treat patients because the analyst himself is "wounded". The idea may have Greek mythology origins. Research has shown that 73.9% of counselors and psychotherapists have experienced one or more wounding experiences leading to career choice."
Furthermore, the act of healing, heals the healer....what you would call a win-win situation. A lot of my compatriots on a mental health forum site realize this concept comes into play quite often in the work they do, even though they are not technically "analysts." They are more patient and kind with people who have mental health issues and that helping others makes them feel better...less ill themselves. These forum posters were surprised to learn that there is actually a term for it.
But, another concept was brought up on this forum, that of our need for "validation." In fact, my son says there are only three drivers for human behavior: chemical reaction, procreation, and validation. I daresay 85% of what I do is driven by chemical reaction, particularly brain chemistry. But, it is the validation part I am struggling with. (I am too old to care about procreation.) There is no virtue to validation. It is simple neediness...a need for positive reinforcement. Am I okay? Did I do good?
It occurs to me that I am less of a 'wounded healer' and more of an insecure soul seeking validation. I write this blog and post to the forum in order to do something constructive with my disorder. Otherwise, what good is it?
But then I wait for the rare comment. I check throughout the day to see the number of page views rise. I am emotionally dependent on validation. And it makes me sick. I am ashamed.
I once wrote a children's story about this very thing, about how the value and reward for an act of charity is diminished each time you regard it. Have I lost that much ground?
The 'wounded healer' and the seeking of validation. I do not think this is a case of either / or. I believe there is great virtue in helping others and that your ability to heal others is a direct correlation of your having been wounded yourself. However, I also feel that the benefit to one's psyche, the subsequent healing of oneself, is diminished if one's intent or interest is in validation. If one can act, and then walk away without regard to receiving validation, then healing can happen. Therefore, I would say to my son that there are FOUR drivers of human behavior: chemical reaction, procreation, validation, and healing.
From Wikipedia," Wounded healer is a term created by psychologist Carl Jung. The idea states that an analyst is compelled to treat patients because the analyst himself is "wounded". The idea may have Greek mythology origins. Research has shown that 73.9% of counselors and psychotherapists have experienced one or more wounding experiences leading to career choice."
Furthermore, the act of healing, heals the healer....what you would call a win-win situation. A lot of my compatriots on a mental health forum site realize this concept comes into play quite often in the work they do, even though they are not technically "analysts." They are more patient and kind with people who have mental health issues and that helping others makes them feel better...less ill themselves. These forum posters were surprised to learn that there is actually a term for it.
But, another concept was brought up on this forum, that of our need for "validation." In fact, my son says there are only three drivers for human behavior: chemical reaction, procreation, and validation. I daresay 85% of what I do is driven by chemical reaction, particularly brain chemistry. But, it is the validation part I am struggling with. (I am too old to care about procreation.) There is no virtue to validation. It is simple neediness...a need for positive reinforcement. Am I okay? Did I do good?
It occurs to me that I am less of a 'wounded healer' and more of an insecure soul seeking validation. I write this blog and post to the forum in order to do something constructive with my disorder. Otherwise, what good is it?
But then I wait for the rare comment. I check throughout the day to see the number of page views rise. I am emotionally dependent on validation. And it makes me sick. I am ashamed.
I once wrote a children's story about this very thing, about how the value and reward for an act of charity is diminished each time you regard it. Have I lost that much ground?
The 'wounded healer' and the seeking of validation. I do not think this is a case of either / or. I believe there is great virtue in helping others and that your ability to heal others is a direct correlation of your having been wounded yourself. However, I also feel that the benefit to one's psyche, the subsequent healing of oneself, is diminished if one's intent or interest is in validation. If one can act, and then walk away without regard to receiving validation, then healing can happen. Therefore, I would say to my son that there are FOUR drivers of human behavior: chemical reaction, procreation, validation, and healing.
Friday, April 4, 2014
Whiffs
My brain is still struggling to pull out of a depression. I am what is called a 'rapid cycler,' so this has been a long and especially deep depression, for me. In addition to what is going on chemically in my brain, I am failing to see a purpose to my life. I have no goals. I have no reasons. Folding that basket of towels is about as purposeful as it gets. Bleak, is a good word.
Even when I am reminded of what I used to do: paint, write, take pretty pictures, I recall that part of my life with dim interest. For all practical purposes, I was not "successful" at those endeavors. I made no money at it, certainly not enough to even pay for the materials. But more than that, I received mixed messages as to whether or not I was even any good at it...my painting, for example. Was my artwork effective? Did it bring anyone Joy or Healing? I doubt it. I dragged it to art shows and dragged it home again. It piled up in the basement until I gave it away to Goodwill last month. I had spent a lot of time and money on it.
But I am getting off track.
The gist of all this is that I am no longer compelled to go back to what I have tried in the past...even my writing. Even though I write here on my blog, very few people read it...and usually, no one comments. Does that matter? Apparently not, because here I am.
It is gloomy here in my head. I do what needs to be done. I take my pills, I drive my daughter to work, I do the dishes and laundry, I write the blog.
I glare out the window as if the landscape is supposed to present me with something. But it is cloudy...the ugly, glaring, white kind of cloudy that hurts your eyes and forces you to turn away.
And then I get a whiff...like a whiff of bread baking, or fireplace smoke, or the tea olive in Charleston where I grew up. I have a whiff of interest in what goes on...the little bird at the feeder, the cat's steady breathing, the blooming thrift at the end of the walk.
And then it is gone...as quickly as it came. However, I know, whether I want it to or not, my brain is shifting ever so slightly, like an old train's rusty wheels being nudged to move. I am not sure I am ready.
Even when I am reminded of what I used to do: paint, write, take pretty pictures, I recall that part of my life with dim interest. For all practical purposes, I was not "successful" at those endeavors. I made no money at it, certainly not enough to even pay for the materials. But more than that, I received mixed messages as to whether or not I was even any good at it...my painting, for example. Was my artwork effective? Did it bring anyone Joy or Healing? I doubt it. I dragged it to art shows and dragged it home again. It piled up in the basement until I gave it away to Goodwill last month. I had spent a lot of time and money on it.
But I am getting off track.
The gist of all this is that I am no longer compelled to go back to what I have tried in the past...even my writing. Even though I write here on my blog, very few people read it...and usually, no one comments. Does that matter? Apparently not, because here I am.
It is gloomy here in my head. I do what needs to be done. I take my pills, I drive my daughter to work, I do the dishes and laundry, I write the blog.
I glare out the window as if the landscape is supposed to present me with something. But it is cloudy...the ugly, glaring, white kind of cloudy that hurts your eyes and forces you to turn away.
And then I get a whiff...like a whiff of bread baking, or fireplace smoke, or the tea olive in Charleston where I grew up. I have a whiff of interest in what goes on...the little bird at the feeder, the cat's steady breathing, the blooming thrift at the end of the walk.
And then it is gone...as quickly as it came. However, I know, whether I want it to or not, my brain is shifting ever so slightly, like an old train's rusty wheels being nudged to move. I am not sure I am ready.
Thursday, April 3, 2014
Playing catch up
I am cooking supper. I have probably mentioned before that my two children (24 and 26) live with me, work, and pay rent. We all share the cooking duties but for the most part, I do the dishes and laundry. Just now, I was carrying a load of laundry downstairs and was wondering, "Is this all I do anymore?" I quit my part time job a few weeks ago and have been going through a pretty rough time emotionally. I am not of a mind to paint or take pictures. In fact, I got rid of most of my old art work. (That was a signal right there of bad times to come.)
So, I am not doing art work, I am not writing (except here), I am not working. I am doing dishes, and laundry, and cooking. Oh, and I drive my daughter to and from work.
Then it dawned on me...this is what I SHOULD have been doing 15-25 years ago when my children were young. I had to work full time from the time my children were babies. Their father left when my son was born so I had to do it all by myself. I was un-diagnosed, therefore un-medicated, bipolar. At its best, I hired friends to clean my house once a week and often bought fast food. At its worst, every item of clothing we owned was being walked on, on the hall floor, waiting to be washed...waiting week after week after week. We did not have any clean dishes but that was ok we did not have any food. I am not sure what we ate.
It does not make up for a miserable childhood. We talk about those days and I apologize and tell them I am sorry. And maybe now I am trying to make up for lost time by keeping up with the laundry and dishes and fixing a decent supper. I know it is not good enough. I know it will not go deep enough. But I will not grumble or ask why this is all I am inspired to do right now. It is like a monastic practice: chop wood - carry water. Perhaps, in time, enlightenment.
So, I am not doing art work, I am not writing (except here), I am not working. I am doing dishes, and laundry, and cooking. Oh, and I drive my daughter to and from work.
Then it dawned on me...this is what I SHOULD have been doing 15-25 years ago when my children were young. I had to work full time from the time my children were babies. Their father left when my son was born so I had to do it all by myself. I was un-diagnosed, therefore un-medicated, bipolar. At its best, I hired friends to clean my house once a week and often bought fast food. At its worst, every item of clothing we owned was being walked on, on the hall floor, waiting to be washed...waiting week after week after week. We did not have any clean dishes but that was ok we did not have any food. I am not sure what we ate.
It does not make up for a miserable childhood. We talk about those days and I apologize and tell them I am sorry. And maybe now I am trying to make up for lost time by keeping up with the laundry and dishes and fixing a decent supper. I know it is not good enough. I know it will not go deep enough. But I will not grumble or ask why this is all I am inspired to do right now. It is like a monastic practice: chop wood - carry water. Perhaps, in time, enlightenment.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
I can't have nice things
Back in the late 1990's, I bought a model car for myself. It's about 6 inches long. It's a blue 1996 BMW Z3 M Roadster. The doors open, the steering wheel turns the wheels, the hood lifts to reveal the engine, It's beautiful. It has always made me happy to look at it. It has sat on my desk for over 15 years.
For some reason last week, when I was desperate to find some reason to not do myself in, I thought about that little car. There has always been a debate between me and my son as to whether it is a Z3 or an M style roadster. As a distraction, I did a little research. We were both right. What's more, there were a few on Craigslist. And then, I found it. It was a 2000, not a 1996, but it was BLUE.
I avoided thinking about it for several days. It was a ridiculous idea. We are poor. We would become the stereotypical low income family living in a dump with a nice car in the yard. I knew considering it is classic manic thinking. Even if I could find the money for the car, we need it to pay off debts and run a new sewer line. Besides, I would probably kill myself in it. Although, I had wanted to do that anyway, for a while I would have some fun. The debate went on for a few more days.
Finally, I decided to look at the obstacles. Purchasing the little blue roadster would require borrowing at least half of the amount from the bank. If they deny my request, decision made. They didn't deny it. They took my application and will get back to me in a day or two. Maybe the car is no longer available. I sent an email. I got no response. My son called. The car is still available. We made an offer contingent upon the loan. They accepted it. I was happy.
Now, I have to tell you that my son has been involved in this search and debate process from the beginning. He knows our financial situation and he also knows where I have been emotionally for the past several weeks. He also knows about manic thinking. But he saw this car as something that might help me, might bring me a little joy. He remembers that this car has been sitting on my desk for 15 years.
Then all hell broke loose. My daughter, the voice of reason, expressed herself with all the strength and vehemence imaginable. I won't go into details but a huge fight ensued. After my daughter went to her room, after we all took a breather, and the house got quiet, I broke down. It was the first time I have cried for myself in years, full of gasps, gulps, and hiccups. My son held me through the worst of it. I cried several more times before I finally went to bed.
I know it was a classically stupid idea, but now I am afraid again. I have nothing to look forward to. I know my life is not as bad as a majority of the world's population, but for some reason I need for my life to make sense, and nothing so far has made sense. Buying that blue 2000 Z3 M Roadster would have made sense of my holding on to that little model car for so long, for buying it in the first place. I'm that desperate.
Lord, help me make it through this day. I have to say no to myself. I have to cancel the bank loan and tell the owner I am no longer interested. And here come the tears...
For some reason last week, when I was desperate to find some reason to not do myself in, I thought about that little car. There has always been a debate between me and my son as to whether it is a Z3 or an M style roadster. As a distraction, I did a little research. We were both right. What's more, there were a few on Craigslist. And then, I found it. It was a 2000, not a 1996, but it was BLUE.
I avoided thinking about it for several days. It was a ridiculous idea. We are poor. We would become the stereotypical low income family living in a dump with a nice car in the yard. I knew considering it is classic manic thinking. Even if I could find the money for the car, we need it to pay off debts and run a new sewer line. Besides, I would probably kill myself in it. Although, I had wanted to do that anyway, for a while I would have some fun. The debate went on for a few more days.
Finally, I decided to look at the obstacles. Purchasing the little blue roadster would require borrowing at least half of the amount from the bank. If they deny my request, decision made. They didn't deny it. They took my application and will get back to me in a day or two. Maybe the car is no longer available. I sent an email. I got no response. My son called. The car is still available. We made an offer contingent upon the loan. They accepted it. I was happy.
Now, I have to tell you that my son has been involved in this search and debate process from the beginning. He knows our financial situation and he also knows where I have been emotionally for the past several weeks. He also knows about manic thinking. But he saw this car as something that might help me, might bring me a little joy. He remembers that this car has been sitting on my desk for 15 years.
Then all hell broke loose. My daughter, the voice of reason, expressed herself with all the strength and vehemence imaginable. I won't go into details but a huge fight ensued. After my daughter went to her room, after we all took a breather, and the house got quiet, I broke down. It was the first time I have cried for myself in years, full of gasps, gulps, and hiccups. My son held me through the worst of it. I cried several more times before I finally went to bed.
I know it was a classically stupid idea, but now I am afraid again. I have nothing to look forward to. I know my life is not as bad as a majority of the world's population, but for some reason I need for my life to make sense, and nothing so far has made sense. Buying that blue 2000 Z3 M Roadster would have made sense of my holding on to that little model car for so long, for buying it in the first place. I'm that desperate.
Lord, help me make it through this day. I have to say no to myself. I have to cancel the bank loan and tell the owner I am no longer interested. And here come the tears...
Monday, March 31, 2014
Coming back up (Caution: mentions s______)
I have been in a bad place for a while but now I am finally on my way back up. This was a bad one. I quit my job, and nearly burned those bridges, as well. I counted pills and did research. I told my children as well as my doctors. I pulled out my will and printed out information on how to claim my life insurance. It was like following a to do list. When I felt like there was nothing between me and the edge, I put a simple post on a mental health website: "I have discovered, that when the idea of taking your own life no longer scares you, you are on a very slippery slope," or something to that effect.
I am grateful to those who responded by asking me to please be safe. I read those messages over and over. They became a mantra, of sorts. There were those, however, who wanted to argue semantics with me, that if I had used different terminology, they might have taken me seriously. Really?
Feeling a bit better yesterday, I posted the details of what I deal with and why simply coming out of a depression will not fix the situation entirely. I waited all day to hear from someone...anyone. At the end of the day, when I had received no comments of commiseration, compassion, or criticism, I thanked all those who had cared before and said, "well, I guess that's it."
This morning, the web site moderators took that to be a suicide note and removed me from the system. If I didn't feel isolated before, I do now.
I originally intended this blog to offer hope and encouragement to people who suffer from the struggles of bipolar disorder. When I started it, I was semi-manic, lucid, optimistic, and functionally creative. Now, I feel like the blind leading the blind. I'm not in a place to give hope. I struggle to understand what it is all for.
BUT...
As I have testified on this blog before, when you are down, it feels like you have always been down and that you will always be down...that the landscape will always be bleak, the road will always be uphill, and that the horizon will always be pointless. I am taking it on faith that this will Not always be the case. That this too shall pass.
I am grateful to those who responded by asking me to please be safe. I read those messages over and over. They became a mantra, of sorts. There were those, however, who wanted to argue semantics with me, that if I had used different terminology, they might have taken me seriously. Really?
Feeling a bit better yesterday, I posted the details of what I deal with and why simply coming out of a depression will not fix the situation entirely. I waited all day to hear from someone...anyone. At the end of the day, when I had received no comments of commiseration, compassion, or criticism, I thanked all those who had cared before and said, "well, I guess that's it."
This morning, the web site moderators took that to be a suicide note and removed me from the system. If I didn't feel isolated before, I do now.
I originally intended this blog to offer hope and encouragement to people who suffer from the struggles of bipolar disorder. When I started it, I was semi-manic, lucid, optimistic, and functionally creative. Now, I feel like the blind leading the blind. I'm not in a place to give hope. I struggle to understand what it is all for.
BUT...
As I have testified on this blog before, when you are down, it feels like you have always been down and that you will always be down...that the landscape will always be bleak, the road will always be uphill, and that the horizon will always be pointless. I am taking it on faith that this will Not always be the case. That this too shall pass.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
Purity Balls and PTSD...Caution: addresses possible sexual abuse
Yesterday, my daughter asked me if I have PTSD. Her reasoning is that I tend to not remember my past until I go through old letters or paperwork documenting my life. For example, my son is applying for disability so I have been going through old files for medical records for his case. I came across old report cards and reports from child psychologists and school psychologists. Boy, did the memories flood back. All three of us are bipolar, with other stuff thrown in, but we were not diagnosed or even under good care back then. I was either too manic or too depressed to even know how bad it was. I never got them to school on time; forget homework; they didn't even bathe regularly. I don't remember what we ate. I made good money (I was a programmer) so I don't think we went hungry. My daughter remembers empty cabinets and lunches of popcorn.
My point is this: there is a lot I have blocked out from my past, and that includes from my childhood. I am aware that there was a lot of weird dynamics going on in my family. A lot of shame and guilt and anger. And neglect. There was a lot we weren't allowed to see or do because it was "bad" or "sinful." My father had an obsession with privacy and modesty, an unnatural obsession. And it gets worse.
So when I saw the posts on Purity Balls, I thought I would throw up. The thought of my father "protecting my virginity" or being my "boyfriend" makes me physically sick. Even the declarations of love and adoration make me queasy. Is it me or is it them? I would love nothing more than for these evangelical fathers to be emotionally strong and stable so that they never take advantage of their daughters. But I feel that this ritual covenant between father and daughter could blur boundaries for the girl, make her feel safe when she is not, and give the father perceived rights to take liberties.
We shouldn't need Purity Balls. Fathers should protect their daughters Anyway. This whole thing is just creepy.
My point is this: there is a lot I have blocked out from my past, and that includes from my childhood. I am aware that there was a lot of weird dynamics going on in my family. A lot of shame and guilt and anger. And neglect. There was a lot we weren't allowed to see or do because it was "bad" or "sinful." My father had an obsession with privacy and modesty, an unnatural obsession. And it gets worse.
So when I saw the posts on Purity Balls, I thought I would throw up. The thought of my father "protecting my virginity" or being my "boyfriend" makes me physically sick. Even the declarations of love and adoration make me queasy. Is it me or is it them? I would love nothing more than for these evangelical fathers to be emotionally strong and stable so that they never take advantage of their daughters. But I feel that this ritual covenant between father and daughter could blur boundaries for the girl, make her feel safe when she is not, and give the father perceived rights to take liberties.
We shouldn't need Purity Balls. Fathers should protect their daughters Anyway. This whole thing is just creepy.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Reflection on life
It does not pay for me to look back on my life...although I do it quite a bit. I could blame the mood swings of my disorder, but a lot of my life seems to have been a waste. Lots of aborted efforts. I've enumerated them before: programming, painting, photography, writing, relationships,... When I worked for the government, I once worked for four years on a database effort that was thrown away, ironically, while I was in the hospital giving birth to my son. Why? The data were later salvaged and used in another project by a different branch. It still makes me angry to think about it.
I have already expounded on the waste of my artistic efforts: the painting, photography, and writing that has ended up at the dump. Why do I do this? I have become a self-absorbed whiner. Does looking at where you have been help you determine where you are going? Is it going to be more of the same? There is no way to guarantee that it will not. None of those efforts were started with the intention of non-accomplishment.
Then, of course, I could flip it around...why do I feel that I need to accomplish anything? Am I measured by my contributions to the world? Is that how we are to measure the merit of a person? What does that say about the millions of beautiful people who spend their entire existence merely staying alive.
I hope that when I leave this earthly realm, I get a chance to talk with someone who knows what it was for.
In the meantime, I will join the throngs of human beings merely striving to stay alive. If you have read my previous posts you will know that on many days I write to stay alive.
I have already expounded on the waste of my artistic efforts: the painting, photography, and writing that has ended up at the dump. Why do I do this? I have become a self-absorbed whiner. Does looking at where you have been help you determine where you are going? Is it going to be more of the same? There is no way to guarantee that it will not. None of those efforts were started with the intention of non-accomplishment.
Then, of course, I could flip it around...why do I feel that I need to accomplish anything? Am I measured by my contributions to the world? Is that how we are to measure the merit of a person? What does that say about the millions of beautiful people who spend their entire existence merely staying alive.
I hope that when I leave this earthly realm, I get a chance to talk with someone who knows what it was for.
In the meantime, I will join the throngs of human beings merely striving to stay alive. If you have read my previous posts you will know that on many days I write to stay alive.
Saturday, March 15, 2014
I have a new GP
I have changed doctors...GP's, that is. I was in a power struggle with my former doctor. She is 12. Well, of course she is older than 12, but she is very young and doesn't believe what I tell her. If I do not manifest the symptom in her office, then they do not exist...symptoms like air hunger, head tremor, hesitation in my movements, burning tongue and throat. I wanted to get a neurologist to weigh in on what was going on. She would not refer me. I called to get the results of my lab work. She would not tell me what the specific numbers were, just that "everything looks fine."
The new doctor gave a talk on "Taking Charge of Your Health." I thought, "Oh good, this is what I am looking for." So, I scheduled an appointment with him.
I wish I could tell you he was different. He pretty much dismissed my concerns. What I referred to as 'air hunger,' he called a 'sigh.' Really? Since my head was not shaking at the time, he said it was a non-issue. My psychiatrist takes me more seriously than that, but then I have been with him for more than 10 years.
But the new GP did bring up a valid point. All of my weird symptoms are neurological, BUT there is nothing a neurologist could do to fix them...essentially, suck it up. Well, actually, he said "live with it." In all fairness, my psychiatrist had said these symptoms fall in the PITA realm...or, Pain In The Ass.
Something else the new GP said that was interesting was that my setting a goal to "Run before I die," may actually have been my own internal psyche's way of trying to heal my body of these strange symptoms...walking and running may ultimately even out the neurological noise that I am experiencing. Okay, I can run with that.
Sorry.
The new doctor gave a talk on "Taking Charge of Your Health." I thought, "Oh good, this is what I am looking for." So, I scheduled an appointment with him.
I wish I could tell you he was different. He pretty much dismissed my concerns. What I referred to as 'air hunger,' he called a 'sigh.' Really? Since my head was not shaking at the time, he said it was a non-issue. My psychiatrist takes me more seriously than that, but then I have been with him for more than 10 years.
But the new GP did bring up a valid point. All of my weird symptoms are neurological, BUT there is nothing a neurologist could do to fix them...essentially, suck it up. Well, actually, he said "live with it." In all fairness, my psychiatrist had said these symptoms fall in the PITA realm...or, Pain In The Ass.
Something else the new GP said that was interesting was that my setting a goal to "Run before I die," may actually have been my own internal psyche's way of trying to heal my body of these strange symptoms...walking and running may ultimately even out the neurological noise that I am experiencing. Okay, I can run with that.
Sorry.
Saturday, March 8, 2014
Throwing away my life...Caution: mentions suicide
I am throwing stuff out...lots of stuff. I know it is risky. One of the warning signs of suicide is giving away prized possessions. And some of these are prized possessions. Dozens of oil paintings. Dozens of photographs, matted and framed. Watercolor prints, matted and framed. Boxes of them. These represent stages of my life and my creative endeavors during those times. All failed attempts to share my creativity. These pieces of artwork have languished in gift shops, craft fairs, and on restaurant walls. I even have many of them posted on the internet. www.flickr.com/photos/kitsy_1955/
These items are doing no one any good in boxes or piles in the basement. And, yes, I am aware that it is a cardinal sin to give away (or lower your price on) something you have previously sold. So sue me. What is more, they remind me of my failures, my manic efforts with perhaps unrealistic expectations, and a lot of money ill spent.
So out they go to Goodwill, The Salvation Army, and the dump. A lot of that stuff represents what I ought to have been. Getting rid of it is, in that way, liberating. No more should's or ought's. But it brings up the question, "What the hell am I, if not an artist?"
My mother was an artist. She always took home first prize in the local art show because her style was so unique. She was also a hoarder, not so much like what you see on TV but a hoarder of memorabilia, dishes, pots and pans, furniture, newspaper clippings, books, and her art. She was also bipolar and obese. When she died, the minister struggled to find something positive to say about her life. He focused on her outlook, that her hoarding was an indication that she felt she would live forever, that she looked to eternity. Whatever.
I am not sure what I am doing this for...this clearing out. I do not want to be a hoarder. I know I have, at best, 20-25 years left to live. I have no thoughts toward living forever. Perhaps I did once. Not any more. Furthermore, I no longer want to be burdened by unimportant options like knitting and sewing. But where will it end? How will it end? What gets to stay?
This morning I was pulling out the camping gear. I loved camping as a child. Unfortunately, because of my mother's condition, camping was a chaotic affair with lots of blankets and sheets of clear plastic. After my husband left, when my children were still young, I built a camping system of matching, hard case boxes filled with everything we would want on a camping trip: cast iron frying pans, enameled plates and mugs, table cloths, matching dish towels, candles, enamel-handled flatware, clothes lines, tarps, lanterns, a cook stove, the whole nine yards. There are sleeping bags, mats, folding chairs, tents, and a car-top carrier to carry it all in. It was used maybe once or twice.
Pulling it out this morning, I was overcome with incredible sadness. I had put such hope and happiness into those hard case boxes. Clearly, I was manic at the time and had disposable income. But, more than that, I had a vision of happiness for my children. By God, I was going to give them the experience that brought me such joy, with or without the help of another adult. Sadly, it was more than I could handle. Camping was very difficult for my daughter. She did not like it. My son did not like it, either, at the time. He has since been through Boy Scouts and camps with his friends.
In fact, it was my son who saw I was so distraught this morning, and pulled me out of the dive, offering that we can go camping, once it warms up a bit.
So, I have put on the brakes a bit. The treadmill and workout equipment stay. The gardening tools stay, I think. The paper making supplies, I'm not sure. The grill/smoker, we'll see. The darkroom equipment stay, for now.
In other words, it is not over. There is plenty left to attach me to this earth with hopeful expectations.
These items are doing no one any good in boxes or piles in the basement. And, yes, I am aware that it is a cardinal sin to give away (or lower your price on) something you have previously sold. So sue me. What is more, they remind me of my failures, my manic efforts with perhaps unrealistic expectations, and a lot of money ill spent.
So out they go to Goodwill, The Salvation Army, and the dump. A lot of that stuff represents what I ought to have been. Getting rid of it is, in that way, liberating. No more should's or ought's. But it brings up the question, "What the hell am I, if not an artist?"
My mother was an artist. She always took home first prize in the local art show because her style was so unique. She was also a hoarder, not so much like what you see on TV but a hoarder of memorabilia, dishes, pots and pans, furniture, newspaper clippings, books, and her art. She was also bipolar and obese. When she died, the minister struggled to find something positive to say about her life. He focused on her outlook, that her hoarding was an indication that she felt she would live forever, that she looked to eternity. Whatever.
I am not sure what I am doing this for...this clearing out. I do not want to be a hoarder. I know I have, at best, 20-25 years left to live. I have no thoughts toward living forever. Perhaps I did once. Not any more. Furthermore, I no longer want to be burdened by unimportant options like knitting and sewing. But where will it end? How will it end? What gets to stay?
This morning I was pulling out the camping gear. I loved camping as a child. Unfortunately, because of my mother's condition, camping was a chaotic affair with lots of blankets and sheets of clear plastic. After my husband left, when my children were still young, I built a camping system of matching, hard case boxes filled with everything we would want on a camping trip: cast iron frying pans, enameled plates and mugs, table cloths, matching dish towels, candles, enamel-handled flatware, clothes lines, tarps, lanterns, a cook stove, the whole nine yards. There are sleeping bags, mats, folding chairs, tents, and a car-top carrier to carry it all in. It was used maybe once or twice.
Pulling it out this morning, I was overcome with incredible sadness. I had put such hope and happiness into those hard case boxes. Clearly, I was manic at the time and had disposable income. But, more than that, I had a vision of happiness for my children. By God, I was going to give them the experience that brought me such joy, with or without the help of another adult. Sadly, it was more than I could handle. Camping was very difficult for my daughter. She did not like it. My son did not like it, either, at the time. He has since been through Boy Scouts and camps with his friends.
In fact, it was my son who saw I was so distraught this morning, and pulled me out of the dive, offering that we can go camping, once it warms up a bit.
So, I have put on the brakes a bit. The treadmill and workout equipment stay. The gardening tools stay, I think. The paper making supplies, I'm not sure. The grill/smoker, we'll see. The darkroom equipment stay, for now.
In other words, it is not over. There is plenty left to attach me to this earth with hopeful expectations.
Friday, March 7, 2014
Ash Wednesday...or giving up for Lent
Ash Wednesday is the first day of Lent, the 40 day period of fasting, repentance, and spiritual discipline before Easter, not including Sundays. There are posts on line, which I find credible, that state that bipolar individuals should not fast. I think that makes sense. We need to keep in balance everything we can control, like food.
But what about abstaining from one substance? Common substances given up for Lent are coffee and sugar. While neither of which is good for bipolar individuals, suddenly stopping them is not good either, for obvious reasons.
I have decided to give up for Lent. I tried to give up coffee and mindlessly made my routine cup before dawn on Wednesday morning. As my daughter said, "I blew it." I intended to cut out sugar but impulsively went after 2 Dunkin' Donuts yesterday afternoon...and I don't even like them. Again, she's a "better Christian" than I am.
Some Christians choose to 'take on,' rather than 'give up.' something for Lent. I had planned on starting a practice of Centering Prayer, but lately I've been too manic or agitated to sit for 20 minutes in silence, consenting and intending to just be in the presence of God. I can manage maybe 5 minutes.
If you have followed my blog at all, you are aware that I am all over the place. Lots of plans, best of intentions, failure and defeat. I think the most genuine and hopeful gesture I can make is resignation. I give up for Lent.
But what about abstaining from one substance? Common substances given up for Lent are coffee and sugar. While neither of which is good for bipolar individuals, suddenly stopping them is not good either, for obvious reasons.
I have decided to give up for Lent. I tried to give up coffee and mindlessly made my routine cup before dawn on Wednesday morning. As my daughter said, "I blew it." I intended to cut out sugar but impulsively went after 2 Dunkin' Donuts yesterday afternoon...and I don't even like them. Again, she's a "better Christian" than I am.
Some Christians choose to 'take on,' rather than 'give up.' something for Lent. I had planned on starting a practice of Centering Prayer, but lately I've been too manic or agitated to sit for 20 minutes in silence, consenting and intending to just be in the presence of God. I can manage maybe 5 minutes.
If you have followed my blog at all, you are aware that I am all over the place. Lots of plans, best of intentions, failure and defeat. I think the most genuine and hopeful gesture I can make is resignation. I give up for Lent.
Taking care of myself, wherever I am.
It occurs to me that I may not change. This may be how it is going to be for however long I remain alive. (deep sigh.) Medications are not working like they used to. I have been on them for too long. I might as well not be on medication, or so it seems. I cycle wildly and rapidly, regardless.
I can not stay in bed all day. I do not sleep. Even at night I do not sleep. My hands and feet are constantly in motion. I wake up stiff from being in motion all night.
So what do I do?
I make plans, plans of how best to take care of myself, depending on what state of disorder I am in. For example, when I am manic, I will be careful not to start any new projects or make any new goals. They tend to be unrealistic, overwhelming, and disappointing. Also when I am manic, I will take advantage of the energy and get some exercise. Long vigorous walks tend to burn out the jitters. Walking and talking with someone makes it even better. Manic energy is also good for cleaning out places like the basement, shoving stuff around and sweeping up dust and dirt. Manic energy is good for mopping floors. It is not good for filing paperwork, unless I am taking on the entire filing system.
If I had a good yard, manic energy might be good for gardening. HOWEVER, over the years I have spent thousands of dollars at garden supply stores. Not a good place for me. So, I must limit my 'gardening' to raking, weeding, pruning, and sweeping.
Depression is good for inspirational reading, slow walks, writing, catching up on movies, watching the dog breathe, watching the snow fall, belly breathing, meditation, hand-washing dishes, clothes, windows.
Mixed states are tricky. If I am depressed and agitated, it may be best to nap. I'm not sleeping my life away, just this short phase of my life. If I am manic and full of negative energy, I can write blogs or letters that I just don't post or mail. And walk.
Today, I intend to look into what diets are best for which states of disorder. In the meantime, I will head back down to the basement and work on the studio.
I can not stay in bed all day. I do not sleep. Even at night I do not sleep. My hands and feet are constantly in motion. I wake up stiff from being in motion all night.
So what do I do?
I make plans, plans of how best to take care of myself, depending on what state of disorder I am in. For example, when I am manic, I will be careful not to start any new projects or make any new goals. They tend to be unrealistic, overwhelming, and disappointing. Also when I am manic, I will take advantage of the energy and get some exercise. Long vigorous walks tend to burn out the jitters. Walking and talking with someone makes it even better. Manic energy is also good for cleaning out places like the basement, shoving stuff around and sweeping up dust and dirt. Manic energy is good for mopping floors. It is not good for filing paperwork, unless I am taking on the entire filing system.
If I had a good yard, manic energy might be good for gardening. HOWEVER, over the years I have spent thousands of dollars at garden supply stores. Not a good place for me. So, I must limit my 'gardening' to raking, weeding, pruning, and sweeping.
Depression is good for inspirational reading, slow walks, writing, catching up on movies, watching the dog breathe, watching the snow fall, belly breathing, meditation, hand-washing dishes, clothes, windows.
Mixed states are tricky. If I am depressed and agitated, it may be best to nap. I'm not sleeping my life away, just this short phase of my life. If I am manic and full of negative energy, I can write blogs or letters that I just don't post or mail. And walk.
Today, I intend to look into what diets are best for which states of disorder. In the meantime, I will head back down to the basement and work on the studio.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
What a difference a day makes
I had a rough day yesterday. It had built up over the weekend because I had decided on Friday that I was going to quit my very part-time job. The manager is a tyrant. Actually, he is more like a petulant playground bully. The secretary would spend hours crying on my shoulder, telling me what mean things he has said and done, instead of standing up for herself. I finally said, "enough." When she related that he "didn't know what he was paying me for," that he had "paid me for nothing," I wrote him a letter and told him I wouldn't work for him any more. I delivered it in person yesterday morning.
I was already in a really low mood and it got worse as the day wore on. I wrote it out on this blog (see yesterday's post), spent an hour or more reading web pages on the warning signs of suicide, put on a movie, pulled a comforter over my head, and slept. I haven't behaved that way in years. After I woke up, I went out for the mail. There is was, the letter from Social Security that I have been waiting for for two years. They finally reinstated my disability. I celebrated by going to the grocery store.
I am going to a class tonight on basic photography. I took 2 -3 years of photography back in 1998 - 2000. At that time, I bought an enlarger and enough supplies and equipment to set up a darkroom in my basement. In fact, I did set it up in my laundry room and used it once or twice. I loved it but was pretty manic at that time in my life. Things became pretty crazy after that. The enlarger got covered with dust and laundry, the equipment was packed away in various locations. I haven't touched it since.
But I will touch it today. I plan on spending the day taking inventory, cleaning off the equipment, finding the two old manual Canon cameras, and going out for batteries and film.
What a difference a day makes.
From one extreme to another. That's the name of this bipolar game. Which reminds me, I need to be careful and take my time. This up mood won't last either and my biggest failing when manic is spending money, particularly on creative projects.
I want to thank the two ladies who commented on my post yesterday when I was in crisis. The letter from SSA was great, but their two comments pulled me out of a dive, just by letting me know I was heard. thank you.
I was already in a really low mood and it got worse as the day wore on. I wrote it out on this blog (see yesterday's post), spent an hour or more reading web pages on the warning signs of suicide, put on a movie, pulled a comforter over my head, and slept. I haven't behaved that way in years. After I woke up, I went out for the mail. There is was, the letter from Social Security that I have been waiting for for two years. They finally reinstated my disability. I celebrated by going to the grocery store.
I am going to a class tonight on basic photography. I took 2 -3 years of photography back in 1998 - 2000. At that time, I bought an enlarger and enough supplies and equipment to set up a darkroom in my basement. In fact, I did set it up in my laundry room and used it once or twice. I loved it but was pretty manic at that time in my life. Things became pretty crazy after that. The enlarger got covered with dust and laundry, the equipment was packed away in various locations. I haven't touched it since.
But I will touch it today. I plan on spending the day taking inventory, cleaning off the equipment, finding the two old manual Canon cameras, and going out for batteries and film.
What a difference a day makes.
From one extreme to another. That's the name of this bipolar game. Which reminds me, I need to be careful and take my time. This up mood won't last either and my biggest failing when manic is spending money, particularly on creative projects.
I want to thank the two ladies who commented on my post yesterday when I was in crisis. The letter from SSA was great, but their two comments pulled me out of a dive, just by letting me know I was heard. thank you.
Monday, March 3, 2014
Defeated **Warning...contains thoughts on suicide"
I have already written on how this winter has been hard. The medical treatment of my bipolar disorder is falling apart; I am suffering from side effects of having been on the meds for so long; I have other medical problems like Fibromyalgia, degenerative eye disease, and tooth/sinus infections; I'm just not doing well.
For a while I was manically throwing everything into feeling better: getting on a healthy eating kick; following a walking training plan for the intent of running one day; changing doctors from a trainee to an internal medicine specialist; cleaning up my studio with the intent of painting again; getting back on the dating site in hopes of meeting someone; ...writing this blog.
None of it has worked. And as bipolar disorder would have it, I am no longer manic but hopelessly depressed. Looking back on the past week or so I see I have been getting my affairs in order; I quit my part time job; I gave away most of my paintings; I plan to give away my photography; I do not want or need it anymore.
Down through the years I have tried painting (never went anywhere), writing (never went anywhere), I was a programmer for 22 years (career aborted due to severe depression), I raised two children (but I have given both of them bipolar disorder.) One person has commented on my blog (bless her heart.) I am defeated.
Last night I gave my son my bottle of Lorazepam for safe keeping. He did not take it. I think he felt by not taking it he was diffusing the situation. I felt not only defeated but dismissed. I do not blame him. He is young and not a professional at handling such situations.
This is not good. I am alone in the house. The bottle of pills is back in the bedside table drawer.
It is raining and cold.
I could call my psychiatrist or a friend or one of my children. Or I could just check out the emergency room.
I do not want to die and cause all that trauma to my children and friends. I just want to feel better. I do not want to live this life anymore. I want it to change.
For a while I was manically throwing everything into feeling better: getting on a healthy eating kick; following a walking training plan for the intent of running one day; changing doctors from a trainee to an internal medicine specialist; cleaning up my studio with the intent of painting again; getting back on the dating site in hopes of meeting someone; ...writing this blog.
None of it has worked. And as bipolar disorder would have it, I am no longer manic but hopelessly depressed. Looking back on the past week or so I see I have been getting my affairs in order; I quit my part time job; I gave away most of my paintings; I plan to give away my photography; I do not want or need it anymore.
Down through the years I have tried painting (never went anywhere), writing (never went anywhere), I was a programmer for 22 years (career aborted due to severe depression), I raised two children (but I have given both of them bipolar disorder.) One person has commented on my blog (bless her heart.) I am defeated.
Last night I gave my son my bottle of Lorazepam for safe keeping. He did not take it. I think he felt by not taking it he was diffusing the situation. I felt not only defeated but dismissed. I do not blame him. He is young and not a professional at handling such situations.
This is not good. I am alone in the house. The bottle of pills is back in the bedside table drawer.
It is raining and cold.
I could call my psychiatrist or a friend or one of my children. Or I could just check out the emergency room.
I do not want to die and cause all that trauma to my children and friends. I just want to feel better. I do not want to live this life anymore. I want it to change.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Dare I talk about faith?
I have already posted on how hard this winter has been. It is not just about bipolar disorder but about all the crises my family has faced: wisdom teeth, molar infections, sinus infections, timing belts, valve damage, medicine reactions and toxicity, Parkinson's symptoms, Tardive Dyskinesia, repeatedly being over-drawn, no heat, all the way to the sewer backing up into the basement, and more. Are we having fun, yet?
But I want to write about what all this can do to ones faith and hope. Personally, I find it difficult to praise and worship when life is so dark and hard. I am no Job ("Though He slay me, yet will I hope in Him."). Times like this it is easy to feel ignored or neglected. It is difficult to even have hope. So I went to see my priest.
He tried the Job angle. That didn't work. But this did...he reminded me that I am a part of a community, that if I couldn't bring myself to believe, couldn't bring myself to have hope, that THEY COULD and for me to hold tight to the hands of my friends and let them believe for me.
So, I will.
I think that is why I follow so many blogs on bipolar disorder. We all have bad days (weeks, months, seasons,...) but somebody is bound to be posting something hopeful. I cling to that.
Something else my priest suggested was centering prayer. I won't go into the details of it here; it is on the internet, if you are curious, But, I tried centering prayer years ago and thought I would jump out of my skin. Essentially you meditate for 20 minutes focusing lightly on a chosen word which indicates your consent and intention to be in the presence of God. I felt claustrophobic, panicky, and hyperventilated.
This time, my priest says, I can sit by the door.
Do you believe in synchronicity? This morning's post by Christine Valters Paintner (Abbey of the Arts) deals with text from Joel where God says "return to me with your whole heart." I'm trying.
But I want to write about what all this can do to ones faith and hope. Personally, I find it difficult to praise and worship when life is so dark and hard. I am no Job ("Though He slay me, yet will I hope in Him."). Times like this it is easy to feel ignored or neglected. It is difficult to even have hope. So I went to see my priest.
He tried the Job angle. That didn't work. But this did...he reminded me that I am a part of a community, that if I couldn't bring myself to believe, couldn't bring myself to have hope, that THEY COULD and for me to hold tight to the hands of my friends and let them believe for me.
So, I will.
I think that is why I follow so many blogs on bipolar disorder. We all have bad days (weeks, months, seasons,...) but somebody is bound to be posting something hopeful. I cling to that.
Something else my priest suggested was centering prayer. I won't go into the details of it here; it is on the internet, if you are curious, But, I tried centering prayer years ago and thought I would jump out of my skin. Essentially you meditate for 20 minutes focusing lightly on a chosen word which indicates your consent and intention to be in the presence of God. I felt claustrophobic, panicky, and hyperventilated.
This time, my priest says, I can sit by the door.
Do you believe in synchronicity? This morning's post by Christine Valters Paintner (Abbey of the Arts) deals with text from Joel where God says "return to me with your whole heart." I'm trying.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Air Hunger
Here is a new one for me, Air Hunger, otherwise known as Dyspnea. Wikipedia defines it as "an uncomfortable awareness of one's breath effort." That is my latest side effect of bipolar disorder, or the medications I take for it, or something else. I consciously take a slow deep inhale and then a quick exhale...sort of like a 'puff.' I do this all the time, when I go to sleep, when I wake up, I do not have to think about it; it just happens. I initially thought of it as comforting... sort of like a meditative breathing. It is calming but I'm not having an anxiety or panic attack.
Well, I thought it was calming until I looked up what it could be caused by: pulmonary hypertension, heart disease, diabetes, COPD, GERD, sleep apnea, asthma, shock, chronic heart failure, pulmonary embolism, imminent death... among other diseases I can not spell or pronounce. Well, I think we can rule out 'imminent death.' And I have never smoked, except for a few cigars in college, so it is likely not COPD. It might be GERD or sleep apnea, both of which will require further exploration. I have been tested for diabetes and do not have any chest pain. Then again, it could just be bipolar disorder.
There is documentation on the web about air hunger and bipolar disorder (usually related to panic and anxiety) but I have yet to find any real medical evidence. I will keep looking. In the meantime, I am trying an exercise to 'normalize' the oxygen and CO2 levels in my blood. I found this on Reddit (my son's favorite website)
"the reason why you feel air hunger is because your body has low carbon dioxide levels as a result of stress. When under stress, you breathe in more air and exhale a greater amount of carbon dioxide. This creates a viscous (sic) cycle causing your body to inhale more and more deeply to maintain the carbon dioxide level. If you continue to do this over a prolonged period of time then your body deems your increased breathing volume as "normal" and as a result you will constantly feel short of breath unless you keep taking in big breaths.
Your goal is to break this habit and restore your oxygen/carbon dioxide levels back to a healthier level. "
Thank you, username outlooker707 on Reddit. Outlooker goes on to describe steps to "break the habit." It may take weeks or months. By then I should know if this Air Hunger is being brought on by something more 'serious.' In the meantime, I will be on the lookout for more information. If you deal with Air Hunger and have some insight, please comment. In fact there is a blog devoted to Living with Air Hunger. The author describes her condition as having been a lifelong problem, finally finds a doctor who will listen to her, and that is her last post. I hope that is a good sign.
Next up, Tardive Dyskinesia
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Pain and Comfort
I'm on the path to gaining weight: cereal at night, frozen yogurt, sugar in my coffee. I have been needing comfort. Broken sleep isn't going to help, either.
I have had a toothache for three or four weeks...ever since I had a tooth filled. But that is not where it hurts. In fact, we can not tell exactly where the pain is coming from. It hurts all over the side of my head and down my jaw. I have been taking ibuprofen and Tylenol around the clock for weeks. I hate to think what that is doing to my lithium levels...or my kidneys and liver, for that matter.
I'm tired of pain. I'm tired of dry mouth. I'm tired of non-stop tongue and jaw movement (tardive dyskinesia). I'm tired of sighing. I'm tired of not sleeping through the night. But, what I am doing for comfort is sabotaging the one aspect of my life that is going right for me these days: My weight is down. I have 15-25 lbs. to go but I've lost 25 lbs. since last Fall...when I stopped taking Abilify and we jacked up the Lithium...and I became so sick.
The challenge now is to identify some other activity that will comfort me and not harm me or my efforts. For example...
I need pain relief...I need comfort. Do you have any ideas? What do you do for comfort? I'd love to know...
I have had a toothache for three or four weeks...ever since I had a tooth filled. But that is not where it hurts. In fact, we can not tell exactly where the pain is coming from. It hurts all over the side of my head and down my jaw. I have been taking ibuprofen and Tylenol around the clock for weeks. I hate to think what that is doing to my lithium levels...or my kidneys and liver, for that matter.
I'm tired of pain. I'm tired of dry mouth. I'm tired of non-stop tongue and jaw movement (tardive dyskinesia). I'm tired of sighing. I'm tired of not sleeping through the night. But, what I am doing for comfort is sabotaging the one aspect of my life that is going right for me these days: My weight is down. I have 15-25 lbs. to go but I've lost 25 lbs. since last Fall...when I stopped taking Abilify and we jacked up the Lithium...and I became so sick.
The challenge now is to identify some other activity that will comfort me and not harm me or my efforts. For example...
- There are beneficial foods that can be comforting, like fruit, small amounts of protein, even cereal...just not in the middle of the night.
- There are books of inspiration and comfort. (I may elaborate on this in a later post.)
- There are music, candles, and incense.
- Favorite movies.
- Gentle yoga
- A long walk
- A short walk
- Bubble bath
- Hair cut (my beautician gives an incredibly nice head massage)
- Putting an area of the house in order, like my desk or dresser. I find cleared, smooth surfaces (especially wood surfaces) soothing.
- Sweeping the floor (again with the wood surface). Of course, having someone else sweep the floor would be nice...but that requires a struggle...and that is a whole other post.
I need pain relief...I need comfort. Do you have any ideas? What do you do for comfort? I'd love to know...
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Living in a Bipolar Family
I live with my son (24) and daughter (26) who are also bipolar. (Their father left when my son was born and I suspect he was bipolar, too, based on his behavior.)
We struggled for a long time when they were younger about whether or not they were bipolar. They thought my suspicions were merely a case of misery loving company. But when symptoms became difficult to manage, when they were around 20, they acquiesced and sought help. One had to be hospitalized, first. She is now on medication. The other is not on medication, but is followed by a psychiatrist. My son paces and listens to music...a lot. He has not been able to keep a full-time job so he has the ability to flow with his moods and pace all night if need be.
My daughter's moods were volatile. Even on meds, she can explode. My son's moods are more internal...brooding and cynical. My moods manifest themselves in a more physical fashion...tremors, tics, busy-ness, creativity, sleepiness, aches, and pains. We have shifted into a place where we understand and accept what is going on. Well, accept isn't quite the right word. We know what is happening is a manifestation of the disorder but we expect a certain amount of responsibility from the other person. In other words, get a grip. If you have missed your meds, find them. If you need sleep, get it. You may be feeling bad but it is not nice to tell me to shut up.
We have had a bad day today. I'm crashing down from 7 days of mania. My kids are prickly and defensive for whatever reason. Maybe my not doing well makes them nervous...still. I tend to suck it up and stay out of their way. That is not the best thing to do. After all, their rights end where mine begin. But when you are dealing with three adults, with fluctuating moods, in a small house, you have to expect a certain amount of friction.
It's quiet now. My son has gone to work. My daughter is sleeping. The sun is setting. I'm sitting in the twilight, typing. This isn't an easy situation we have here but I prefer it to one where the other members of the household have not a clue what I am going through. Besides, when I give serious thought to what my life is about, I find consolation in the hope that I am in some way helping my children find their way.
We struggled for a long time when they were younger about whether or not they were bipolar. They thought my suspicions were merely a case of misery loving company. But when symptoms became difficult to manage, when they were around 20, they acquiesced and sought help. One had to be hospitalized, first. She is now on medication. The other is not on medication, but is followed by a psychiatrist. My son paces and listens to music...a lot. He has not been able to keep a full-time job so he has the ability to flow with his moods and pace all night if need be.
My daughter's moods were volatile. Even on meds, she can explode. My son's moods are more internal...brooding and cynical. My moods manifest themselves in a more physical fashion...tremors, tics, busy-ness, creativity, sleepiness, aches, and pains. We have shifted into a place where we understand and accept what is going on. Well, accept isn't quite the right word. We know what is happening is a manifestation of the disorder but we expect a certain amount of responsibility from the other person. In other words, get a grip. If you have missed your meds, find them. If you need sleep, get it. You may be feeling bad but it is not nice to tell me to shut up.
We have had a bad day today. I'm crashing down from 7 days of mania. My kids are prickly and defensive for whatever reason. Maybe my not doing well makes them nervous...still. I tend to suck it up and stay out of their way. That is not the best thing to do. After all, their rights end where mine begin. But when you are dealing with three adults, with fluctuating moods, in a small house, you have to expect a certain amount of friction.
It's quiet now. My son has gone to work. My daughter is sleeping. The sun is setting. I'm sitting in the twilight, typing. This isn't an easy situation we have here but I prefer it to one where the other members of the household have not a clue what I am going through. Besides, when I give serious thought to what my life is about, I find consolation in the hope that I am in some way helping my children find their way.
The Morning After
I've been manic for about 6 or 7 days...until this morning. I knew it was coming. My brilliantly productive mania had slid into a chaotic, unfocused mania for a day or two. Now I am sliding further into malaise and depression.
I hurt all over...particularly my joints and belly, identified as Fibromyalgia and Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS). Unexpectedly, my tongue and jaw are still hyper-active (Tardive Dyskinesia) which I was suspecting was accompanying my mania. Maybe not. Maybe it is all the time now.
Always trying to make the best of things, I will look on this mood change as a welcomed time of rest. My to-do list is still nearly a page long...it exhausts me to read it. There are items that are still considered critical...pay bills, reconcile budget (what went wrong?), etc. There are items that would benefit me...call Sue, read, go for a walk, do yoga, meditate, make a pot of tea, etc. More than likely I will spend some time standing at the window, staring out.
I've been doing this long enough to know how this goes...it doesn't last for ever, I haven't died from it...yet, I can go with it a use it to my advantage. I do some of my best thinking and writing when depressed. I take the time to appreciate the work I accomplished when I was manic. This is what is.
Breathe deep, move slow, this too shall pass.
I hurt all over...particularly my joints and belly, identified as Fibromyalgia and Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS). Unexpectedly, my tongue and jaw are still hyper-active (Tardive Dyskinesia) which I was suspecting was accompanying my mania. Maybe not. Maybe it is all the time now.
Always trying to make the best of things, I will look on this mood change as a welcomed time of rest. My to-do list is still nearly a page long...it exhausts me to read it. There are items that are still considered critical...pay bills, reconcile budget (what went wrong?), etc. There are items that would benefit me...call Sue, read, go for a walk, do yoga, meditate, make a pot of tea, etc. More than likely I will spend some time standing at the window, staring out.
I've been doing this long enough to know how this goes...it doesn't last for ever, I haven't died from it...yet, I can go with it a use it to my advantage. I do some of my best thinking and writing when depressed. I take the time to appreciate the work I accomplished when I was manic. This is what is.
Breathe deep, move slow, this too shall pass.
Friday, February 21, 2014
Managing Mania
I'm a rapid cycler which means my mood extremes don't last for months or years but rather for days or weeks...or minutes. I've been manic for the past 5 or 6 days. At first it was great tackling things around that house that needed to be done, throwing out clutter, clearing my desk, organizing my closet,...even going for long fast walks,...
But the last few days have been compounded with confusion, distraction, ADHD-type behavior. I do have some Adderall that was prescribed last Fall but not started...I had too much crazy $#!+ going on at the time with medications and side effects. All that has calmed down to a distracting hum...head tremor, busy tongue and jaw (Tardive Dyskinesia), dry mouth. Maybe I'll try the Adderall today if I don't settle down.
In the meantime, there are several activities I think I will try. One, is this...writing...getting a grasp of what is going on. Two...making a "to do" list to get all thoughts and intentions out of my head and onto paper...complete with priorities and the time it will take to do each one. Three...meditation, yoga, exercise...or maybe all three, after all I have all day.
"Having all day..." is the mindset that gets me into trouble. I start out in five directions, make a list two pages long, feel really bad when I only accomplish the first four items, ...
Of course, there is so much more to managing mania. Some manias are not productive but destructive, angry, and chaotic. Agitated mixed states can be dangerous, in fact. That's when we use doctors, hospitals, and 911. My son paces. I write...and walk...and try to Not go shopping.
But the last few days have been compounded with confusion, distraction, ADHD-type behavior. I do have some Adderall that was prescribed last Fall but not started...I had too much crazy $#!+ going on at the time with medications and side effects. All that has calmed down to a distracting hum...head tremor, busy tongue and jaw (Tardive Dyskinesia), dry mouth. Maybe I'll try the Adderall today if I don't settle down.
In the meantime, there are several activities I think I will try. One, is this...writing...getting a grasp of what is going on. Two...making a "to do" list to get all thoughts and intentions out of my head and onto paper...complete with priorities and the time it will take to do each one. Three...meditation, yoga, exercise...or maybe all three, after all I have all day.
"Having all day..." is the mindset that gets me into trouble. I start out in five directions, make a list two pages long, feel really bad when I only accomplish the first four items, ...
Of course, there is so much more to managing mania. Some manias are not productive but destructive, angry, and chaotic. Agitated mixed states can be dangerous, in fact. That's when we use doctors, hospitals, and 911. My son paces. I write...and walk...and try to Not go shopping.
Sunday, February 16, 2014
An Experiment
It was dumb, I'll admit. But I had to try. I was looking for courage and compassion.
Down through the years since my divorce (1990), I have joined several dating sites...and let them lapse. Strange thing is these sites will continue to send me emails and flirts from men to entice me to join back up. Considering my situation, these men are usually not suitable for me. Well, yesterday, in a moment of boredom, loneliness, and secret optimism, I joined back up to one of these sites. I not only did a search and indicated interest in half a dozen men, I updated my profile. Here's the trick...I added that I was bipolar.
I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe I was hoping for the benefit of the doubt. I mean, the people I know don't shun me. I'm not dangerous. And I apologize when I have too many problems to complain about. I don't drool...not since we lowered my lithium. And I have sincere compassion for those who do. I just wanted to be accepted as I am and not have to worry about when to tell. Lay it out up front. Well, I got what I was asking for...
One of the men I expressed interest in not only blocked me, he sent a message thanking me for my email but he "politely declined from further communication." It was the first time I have ever received that kind of response.
Now, maybe I am jumping to conclusions. Maybe he doesn't like blondes or didn't like what I said about NASCAR. But my reaction was swift...I shut the browser window, shut the laptop, and put it away. I felt blank and cold. It was a while before I felt the sadness and isolation. Perhaps I'll eventually feel anger. Not now, though. I just feel numb.
I have run across other bipolar blogs that deal with relationships...perhaps I need to read them. Maybe there's a "Dating for the Mentally Ill" web site. (Is that a little anger showing up?) It takes love to live with a person with bipolar disorder...love, patience, acceptance, kindness, perseverance, faith, hope... You can't expect that from a stranger. They don't show up with love and commitment. Faith takes time.
So what am I wanting to say here? For those of us not in a 'significant other' relationship, perhaps we are enough. We have to dig deeper or wider for compassion and hope. I have friends who love me...children...pets. That can be enough. I will watch the sunrise, write, paint, take my meds, set goals, try to make my own little world a better place.
Sun's up...
Down through the years since my divorce (1990), I have joined several dating sites...and let them lapse. Strange thing is these sites will continue to send me emails and flirts from men to entice me to join back up. Considering my situation, these men are usually not suitable for me. Well, yesterday, in a moment of boredom, loneliness, and secret optimism, I joined back up to one of these sites. I not only did a search and indicated interest in half a dozen men, I updated my profile. Here's the trick...I added that I was bipolar.
I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe I was hoping for the benefit of the doubt. I mean, the people I know don't shun me. I'm not dangerous. And I apologize when I have too many problems to complain about. I don't drool...not since we lowered my lithium. And I have sincere compassion for those who do. I just wanted to be accepted as I am and not have to worry about when to tell. Lay it out up front. Well, I got what I was asking for...
One of the men I expressed interest in not only blocked me, he sent a message thanking me for my email but he "politely declined from further communication." It was the first time I have ever received that kind of response.
Now, maybe I am jumping to conclusions. Maybe he doesn't like blondes or didn't like what I said about NASCAR. But my reaction was swift...I shut the browser window, shut the laptop, and put it away. I felt blank and cold. It was a while before I felt the sadness and isolation. Perhaps I'll eventually feel anger. Not now, though. I just feel numb.
I have run across other bipolar blogs that deal with relationships...perhaps I need to read them. Maybe there's a "Dating for the Mentally Ill" web site. (Is that a little anger showing up?) It takes love to live with a person with bipolar disorder...love, patience, acceptance, kindness, perseverance, faith, hope... You can't expect that from a stranger. They don't show up with love and commitment. Faith takes time.
So what am I wanting to say here? For those of us not in a 'significant other' relationship, perhaps we are enough. We have to dig deeper or wider for compassion and hope. I have friends who love me...children...pets. That can be enough. I will watch the sunrise, write, paint, take my meds, set goals, try to make my own little world a better place.
Sun's up...
Saturday, February 15, 2014
I'm cycling again
I am cycling again. We have lowered my dose of Lithium again to try to get rid of the tardive dyskinesia, dry mouth, metallic taste, and bitter tongue. Those problems are better but not gone. Problem is, I am cycling. I have been manic for a few days...obsessively tackling the mess and clutter that has accumulated over the months and years of depression and denial. Note, I think Abilify can make you feel like you are doing better than you really are.
So, I am manic, for now. I am up at 5:30 am making my to-do list. When I am going in four directions at once, the children make me sit and listen to music or do nothing for a while...which is painful because there is so much that needs to be done.
I have no life. I am a human doing. And depression will come soon enough. I am overdrawn and it is only the 15th of the month. The sewer has backed up into the basement. My only joy is feeding the birds and I am out of seeds.
I am searching for new coping skills. I have cleaned off my overflowing book shelf and isolated a dozen or more books of inspiration. I have moved my chair over by the shelf and read random selections in the morning and at night. I have downloaded a long series of stretching and strengthening exercises for my core and hips hoping that that will bolster my commitment to walk...and my dream to run. And I watch the snow, waiting for Spring.
At least I am desperate to feel better. A month or so ago I was considering the alternative.
So, I am manic, for now. I am up at 5:30 am making my to-do list. When I am going in four directions at once, the children make me sit and listen to music or do nothing for a while...which is painful because there is so much that needs to be done.
I have no life. I am a human doing. And depression will come soon enough. I am overdrawn and it is only the 15th of the month. The sewer has backed up into the basement. My only joy is feeding the birds and I am out of seeds.
I am searching for new coping skills. I have cleaned off my overflowing book shelf and isolated a dozen or more books of inspiration. I have moved my chair over by the shelf and read random selections in the morning and at night. I have downloaded a long series of stretching and strengthening exercises for my core and hips hoping that that will bolster my commitment to walk...and my dream to run. And I watch the snow, waiting for Spring.
At least I am desperate to feel better. A month or so ago I was considering the alternative.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
A Rough Winter
A while back I posted (railed, actually) about an incredibly insensitive pharmacist who declared that bipolar women my age quite often committed suicide because their medications quit working. Well, it seems that has come back to bite me...the 'quit working' part, anyway. Last summer/fall I developed Parkinsonian symptoms...tremor, primarily, but also dizziness, confusion, memory loss, hesitation, etc. My doctor suspected the Abilify so we tapered that off and increased the Lithium. I wasn't sleeping so I was prescribed Lunesta. A short time after that I developed Tardive Dyskinesia...my tongue and jaw would not stay still. It affected my speech and eating...not to mention my appearance...and eventually affected my ability to swallow. Then came the bitter tongue, dry mouth, and metallic taste. Blood tests revealed that my lithium level was 1.2...within published therapeutic range, but way too high for me. We lowered my dose of lithium and that helped the metallic taste. We lowered it some more and added Mirapex to help with the other symptoms.
Long story short, everything got better...for a while. I stopped the Lunesta. It had quit working and apparently caused the bitter tongue. But everything is back...Parkinsonian symptoms, slightly improved, tongue/jaw movement, dry mouth...and because I am on a lowered dose of Lithium, I'm cycling. Some days I can't sit still and build 2-full page to-do lists, cleaning house all day; Other days, I'm so uncomfortable and foggy headed I just stand in the middle of the room and stare into space.
That is when I start wondering, "What is my life?" I feel miserable, I don't want to be around anybody, everything tastes bad,... On 'good' days I devise plans of attack. Because I have lost 15 lbs. from not eating much (everything tastes bad and eating is difficult) I have decided to continue the trend by walking and eventually running. I have decided that I want to run before I die; If not now, when? Well, one week into the 7-week training plan, I develop sciatica. Have I mentioned that I also have Fibromyalgia?
Another area for attack is my house. When I was happily on Abilify, I wasn't paying too much attention to the state of things. Without the happy-filter, I see how much needs to be done...hence the two pages of to-do's ...and that's just to get started.
In unrelated matters, I had a molar filled and the dentist owned up to lacerating my gum and hyper-extending my jaw joint. I have been on Ibuprofen for days, which increases my blood lithium levels, which exacerbates my adverse side effects. To top it off, my sewer backed up into the basement and there is 10-inches of snow on the ground. I'M READY FOR SPRING in oh, so many ways!!
Thoughts of suicide? Oh, they have been there. I know how I would do it and I have even told my doctor and therapist. I really have nothing more to say about that. I don't want to prove that pharmacist right nor do I want to devastate my children. So I continue to work with my doctors, try to exercise and eat right, take the current collection of meds, meditate/nap, and read for inspiration...except when I stand in the middle of the room and stare into space.
This post is probably not going to help anybody beyond letting you know that I understand. Let me know if you want to chat.
Long story short, everything got better...for a while. I stopped the Lunesta. It had quit working and apparently caused the bitter tongue. But everything is back...Parkinsonian symptoms, slightly improved, tongue/jaw movement, dry mouth...and because I am on a lowered dose of Lithium, I'm cycling. Some days I can't sit still and build 2-full page to-do lists, cleaning house all day; Other days, I'm so uncomfortable and foggy headed I just stand in the middle of the room and stare into space.
That is when I start wondering, "What is my life?" I feel miserable, I don't want to be around anybody, everything tastes bad,... On 'good' days I devise plans of attack. Because I have lost 15 lbs. from not eating much (everything tastes bad and eating is difficult) I have decided to continue the trend by walking and eventually running. I have decided that I want to run before I die; If not now, when? Well, one week into the 7-week training plan, I develop sciatica. Have I mentioned that I also have Fibromyalgia?
Another area for attack is my house. When I was happily on Abilify, I wasn't paying too much attention to the state of things. Without the happy-filter, I see how much needs to be done...hence the two pages of to-do's ...and that's just to get started.
In unrelated matters, I had a molar filled and the dentist owned up to lacerating my gum and hyper-extending my jaw joint. I have been on Ibuprofen for days, which increases my blood lithium levels, which exacerbates my adverse side effects. To top it off, my sewer backed up into the basement and there is 10-inches of snow on the ground. I'M READY FOR SPRING in oh, so many ways!!
Thoughts of suicide? Oh, they have been there. I know how I would do it and I have even told my doctor and therapist. I really have nothing more to say about that. I don't want to prove that pharmacist right nor do I want to devastate my children. So I continue to work with my doctors, try to exercise and eat right, take the current collection of meds, meditate/nap, and read for inspiration...except when I stand in the middle of the room and stare into space.
This post is probably not going to help anybody beyond letting you know that I understand. Let me know if you want to chat.
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