Seeing Bipolar Disorder as an Energy Disorder

I am not a medical doctor; my primary care physician would be delighted to hear me admit this.  After having a disorder for 60 years, however, one begins to know things.  Just to be safe, though, I will preface all of this with the caveat that, what I am about to say applies to me, and may not be true for other people.

Bipolar disorder (for me) is primarily an energy disorder.  (I thank my former psychiatrist for explaining the energy disorder view, to me.)  Tendencies to be brilliant and creative or, conversely, financially irresponsible, when manic, depend on circumstances.  If I am working as a programmer, I create highly-efficient and complex algorithms and code at lightning speed.  Likewise, at the bottom end of a cycle, I can be sad, lacking in faith or hope, or even suicidal, if circumstances are dire or weighing heavily on me.  If circumstances are okay, my down times find me tired, disinterested, or vegetative...but not despairing or suicidal; My energetic times find me getting my housework done, easily and cheerfully.  If I'm in high energy state, I can clean all night.

This perspective on the bipolar condition gives me a vantage point from which to address 'mood swings' with strategies that do not include medication...as long as I remain aware.  For example, if I am full of energy, exuberant, optimistic, and the future looks only bright, I need to stay home and off of the retail web sites.  At those times, my high energy and optimism flies on ahead without consideration of budget and ramifications.  Mania does not cause me to over-spend; it obscures or glosses-over the reality of my limited resources.  In truth, my mood is not swinging, my pocketbook is.

Conversely, if I am sad, depressed, and see no hope in my future, there is truth behind my emotions.  A year ago, I saw no change, no improvement, in my prospects. The shock of losing my job last summer, however, put me in the hospital for a week and a half, during which time I entertained the idea of change and possibilities.  My children are now launched and so am I.  I am comfortable, secure, have a lot of (but not too much) hope and optimism about my life here at 5022 and so, when I am swinging through a low-energy period, I am merely low on energy.

Interestingly, other ailments seem to follow the energy cycles, as well.  I had severe IBS before being diagnosed bipolar.  When I started taking the correct medication for the bipolar disorder, the IBS leveled-off and has seemingly, gone away.  (An aside: when I was put on the wrong medication for me, I was diagnosed with Crohn's disease, not just by symptoms; I had the tell-tale type of tissue present in my intestines.  Colonoscopies since then, have shone no such tissue.)

Another disorder, that I still suffer from, that also follows the swings of energy level, is fibromyalgia.  When I am in a low energy state, I usually also hurt all over.  (I have been carefully diagnosed; I have the usual overly-sensitive places on my body, typical of the disorder.)  If the low energy state lasts long enough, accompanied by the seemingly-constant pain of fibromyalgia, I can get discouraged, and feel without hope...the result, a depressed mood.  Chronic pain can bring on disappointment and a loss of hope or faith, in anyone.

Bipolar disorder does not make me sad or depressed; it is the lack of energy that I need to deal with stressful situations, or need in order to concentrate, or need to be creative that is what makes me sad.

My strategy (for me, remember) is to be aware of my circumstances and my energy.  Some activities or tasks are better left for a 'higher-energy' day.  Shopping is better left for those in-between days when my energy level is not too high or too low.  (In fact, I have been known to buy things that are not necessary out of anger or in defiance of my low-energy state.)

In my previous essays, I suggest many other strategies that I used before I looked at Bipolar Disorder as an energy thing.  I believe they are still relevant, but seeing the disorder as an energy issue removes the common, yet unwarranted and damaging viewpoint that Bipolar Disorder is a character flaw...that bipolar people are bad people.  (I will go so far as to add that if a bipolar person is dangerous or destructive to others, there is something else going on in addition to the bipolar disorder....in spite of what Hollywood may lead you to believe.)

I have chosen to wean myself off of bipolar medications.  At one point, I was taking 3  or 4 different bipolar medications, along with others prescribed to address side-effects, as a "cocktail," a commonly used term describing the mixture of a variety of ingredients taken together toward the desired result.  I have had to stop most of my medications over the last 2 to 3 years, under close medical supervision, because of adverse effects of taking those medications over a long period of time.  Then, once I began moving (and my prospects improved), I weaned myself off of the final medication, over a 6-week period.  I avoid energy influencing foods and drinks (like sugar and caffeine), avoid artificial flavors and colors, and eat foods and take supplements known to be good for nerves, blood sugar, and brain function.  Adequate sleep and exercise are crucial, as well.

Again, I am not a doctor; I don't even play one on TV.  But, and this is a BIG BUT, when I prayed to Jesus, directly, to heal me of Bipolar Disorder, I believe one aspect of His healing was to show me how to look at my energy and my circumstances as separate factors which work in compound to affect my feelings, thoughts, and behavior.  My energy swings have been easily recognizable and manageable since praying to Him.  And He has encouraged me to pass along to others what I have observed for myself.  I hope this is encouraging if not helpful to others who suffer with the disorder.  Like a medical doctor (which I am not) it is my intention to "Do No Harm..." and to God be the Glory.

When Erratic Energy meets with Despair

This is where it gets dicey.  If you are familiar with bipolar disorder, you have probably heard the term 'mixed states.' You probably also know that suicide is attempted more often when the sufferer is considered 'agitated.'

In terms of energy, the state of 'mixed state' can best be described ( in my view) as rapidly changing and erratic.  Think of problems with the power lines when the lights flicker or glow brighter than usual, power surges cause appliances and electronics to pop and trip breakers, and computers don't know what to do and often shut down.

If you are attempting to monitor your energy, in conjunction with circumstances, it is nearly impossible to gauge.  At times like that, the state of your circumstances governs what you should do.  For example, if circumstances are okay, walking or meditation may be helpful to even out the energy.  Avoiding problematic situations (shopping, conversations which can go awry, or dealing with potentially stressful issues) is probably a good idea.

If circumstances suck, the combination of that with erratic energy can be dangerous.  Psychiatrists use the term "agitation" to describe the feelings of confusion, despair, hopelessness and panic...and all kinds of red flags fly up. Inappropriate outbursts at just about any frustration are likely.  Poor concentration and the inability to put things in perspective can lead to suicidal thoughts.

It is my suggestion to first 'table' all concern for the circumstances, if possible.  My table of choice is at the feet of Jesus.  Then get thoughts about the circumstances out of your head.  Write them down if you feel the need to keep track of the details but do what you must to quiet your mind.

Then, address the energy.  If it is intense, find a way to release some.  I listen to music that makes me cry...and I usually listen to it really really loud.  The first audition of Charlotte and Jonathan singing "My Prayer," does it for me; or Samuel Barber's "Adagio for Strings" (The premier performance by Arturo Toscanini, if you can find it); or "Bring Him Home" (Colm Wilkinson or Alfie Boe); Nessun Dorma (Pavarotti or, a personal favorite, Alfie Boe "warbles a bit").  I even cry when listening to "NASA's Orion Space Launch set to Interstellar Soundtrack (the 1st one listed)"

But, I digress.  The idea is to expel some energy in a safe and healthy way...and I think crying is healthy.

Before picking the circumstances back up, if you must, you should assess your energy.  If your energy is too low to deal with the issues, and if they can wait, let them wait.  Napping is good.

If circumstances are dire, you need to establish a safe situation for yourself.  Call someone who has experience with such matters.  Let someone, someone who will respond with compassion and strength, know what you are going through. Do not go through it alone.  Being aware of His presence will help, but if your thinking is distorted, your perception of His voice may be, too.

If you do not feel safe, take yourself to the hospital; let someone else do the thinking for a while.  You need to build up your strength so you can see things clearly again, so you can accurately assess your energy and your options and make good choices.

Jesus is there; help is available; you are not alone.  I know what of I speak.

Intentions

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.

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.

For Chris and my friends

I'm on my way to the inpatient ward at the hospital.

later

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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 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.