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.
Monday, March 31, 2014
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.
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