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?

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.

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.

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?

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?

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.


  

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.

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.

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...