Zero Sum Bad-Assery

hand made card, collage artI happen to be a Libra.  And bipolar.   The irony of this tickles me no end.  While the Libra part of me strives for balance and harmony, the bipolar part makes sure that doesn’t happen.  It’s a conundrum, really, this constant, internal tug-of-war.  I feel like a mother with two teenage girls who share a bedroom.  Please just give it a rest, kids.

But, I think it’s the Libra part of me that keeps the bipolar part from overthrowing the entire Sandy government.  Take my current Zero Money Initiative.  In my quest to save money for a new car on a Disability income, and to practice some deep Work with my compulsive spending, I’ve tallied 31 days of success.  I’ve put money in the bank and not used my credit card once in that time.  Huge success.  Huge.  The only problem is I’m eating everything in sight.

I get the psychology of this—concentrate on one compulsive behavior and the others will flare—and I’ve tried to be gentle with myself about it.  Take away too many coping mechanisms and the stress could trigger a total meltdown (I can hear Scotty now—”Cap’n, she’s gunna blow!”).  I figured I was doing well to be cooking all my meals at home when, for so long, cooking created enormous anxiety for me.  No take-out, no restaurants—I was saving big money.  I also continued my vegan diet—quadruple portions, but vegan portions.

bowling ballThe sorry fact is that I’ve gained back 17 pounds.  That’s the weight of an average bowling ball.  Pick up a bowling ball sometime and carry it around all day.  Granted, I’m still carrying the whole tournament, but one less ball makes a big difference.  On the joints, on self-esteem, on buttons and zippers.

I really don’t want to continue this slow creep back to 300 pounds.  I’ve worked too hard to whittle that down, and still dream of the day when I can claim to be simply “obese” instead of “morbidly obese.”

So, it’s time pull out the old tools that have worked in the past.  I dusted off my Food Journal yesterday.  And my calorie guide.  And my food scale.  Even if I continue to compulsively eat, at least I’ll document accurate information about what I’m consuming.  I can’t change something I can’t see.

I’ll go back to eating my meals at the table instead of in front of the TV.  I may have cancelled my cable, but I can still watch movies on the DVD player.  And once I start eating in front of the TV, the grazing can go on for hours.

As always, it’s a matter of attention.  I’ve focused so much on Ninja Tightwaddery that I didn’t think I had any left for Sane Eating.  But, I have to try.  It’s the Libra in me that won’t let the chaos go on forever.  It’s the Libra that wants to pull both compulsions onto her scale and find what will balance them.  The bipolar part will play merry hell with Her, but that’s to be expected.  Let them scream at each other—I’ve got Work to do.

The Good Fight

handmade greeting cards, collage artSo, I’m ducking and weaving with this whole idea of letting Life be instead of knocking it to the ground.  It’s a weird place for me, the Ultimate Gnat’s Ass Detailer.  My modus operandi is to schedule, make lists, revise the schedule, scrap the first list and make a new one.  I’m never comfortable without a Plan.  But, see, after all this time, the Plan is ingrained.  I know what works and what doesn’t as far as my bipolarness goes.  And there will never be an Answer. There’s no alchemy, no incantation of To Do lists that will halt the rapid cycling or turn me into someone who can work a day job.

What I’ve got are a few tools to help me be the healthiest I can be in the moment—daily exercise, an emphasis on fruits and vegetables, distraction that does no harm, and an attitude of skepticism when it comes to what my brain says.  That’s all really.  Turning from “what’s the plan” to “what do I need now” is incredibly hard.  I’m giving up my fantasy of the future.  But when I take a breath and notice the details around me right now, that unlikely future loses its glamour.

Yesterday, walking around the track at the Y, I had to dodge clots of teenagers.  Bored from watching the girls’ volleyball tournament, they hung out around the free weights or wandered aimlessly back and forth across the track, not paying attention to the runners and walkers.  Several times, I had to gently push them aside as I marched past.  One girl stopped right in front of me and I had to straight-arm her out of my way to keep from falling.  But, no one fell.  No one stumbled.  No collisions or recriminations.  No anger or scolding.  Just paying attention and making adjustments.

And then there was that golden, winter afternoon light that shot through the high windows and kissed me on every lap.  Sweet, blinding sunlight for a moment.  A flash of warmth on my face.  A gift, if I only turned my face toward it.

Of course, there will be backsliding in my acceptance of moment-to-moment life.  Last night I rebelled.  After seven months of vegan eating, I ordered a Super Supreme from Pizza Hut, ate half of it with a bottle of wine, and watched “Win a Date with Tad Hamilton.”  This, my sad and angry little brain told me, is as close to sex as you’ll ever get again.

Richard ArmitageYes, facing reality instead of living in fantasy is a little hard to swallow sometimes.  I watched Richard Armitage in The Vicar of Dibley on YouTube and cheered.  A handsome stranger falls head-over-heals for an obese, middle-aged cynic—oh, dream come true!  But, dreams like that keep me from living.  There are no handsome strangers in real life, just banter with the happily married help-desk guy at the Y.  Losing weight will not transform me into a young, desirable princess.  I am firmly in Queen territory now, fast approaching Crone-hood.

There are pleasures and delights in my life as it is—a purring, furry presence to wake me in the morning, an iPod full of cheer, train whistles in the dark, the kindness and patience of friends.  This is my life—quixotic and painful with moments of grace.  This is the fight now—to stand side-by-side with my bipolarness and duke it out together for place to stand.  To live together in the moment.

To be real.

The Dreadful, Horrible Day

After yesterday, when I was puttering along and actually living, today’s sudden plunge into abject terror and compulsive frenzy came as a shock—and I’m fairly used to the roller coaster ride.  I found myself pacing all over my little apartment, trying to figure out how I could get food when I had no money, seizing on that no money echo and scaring myself about surviving the rest of the month.  Schemes dashed in and out too fast to pin down, all rejected, all dug out of the trash to revisit.

Nicholas Cage, Bridget FondaFor distraction, I started to watch a sweet movie from the ’90′s, It Could Happen to You—Nicholas Cage and Bridget Fonda as a cop and waitress who share Lotto winnings.  Every few minutes I had to turn it off to pace from kitchen sink, to bathroom, to living room chair—I had to have FOOD.  What was the plan?  Grocery store? Convenience station?  Then, the compulsion would let go enough to watch the movie a little more until the next attack.  I tried to concentrate on the love story, the kindness and generosity of the characters, but they only seemed to rev me up even more.  A two hour movie took five hours to watch.

When the movie ended I went to bed—hoping sleep might trigger a shift in mood.  Hoping to blunt the fear with oblivion.  Frantic sleep—little burps of drifting off only to jerk awake with nightmares.  And those jerks sent the cats flying off the bed to mutter in the corners.

I gave up on that strategy and tried to work on my manuscript.  Instead of writing, I organized sections.  That helped.  Organizing.  Arranging.  Tidying.  All very calming distractions.

I’d decided earlier to hold out until 4:00, then I’d go to the movies.  I had just enough credit left on a gift card my sis gave me for one last movie.  And Tuesdays are “free popcorn matinees” at the local theater.  Food and distraction.  Perfect.

James Bond, Daniel Craig, SkyfallSo, I went to Skyfall, the new James Bond movie, got lost in the action and story, enjoyed the technical bits, and kept breathing.  Afterward, I was able to pick up a reasonable supper of vegetable fried rice instead of ransacking the candy aisle at the grocery store.  I could feel this mixed episode shifting.  There’s always a steely resolve that comes over me when I get to the other side of a particularly bad one.  It’s like once I survive that, I can survive anything.  As I pulled into my parking space at the apartment, I said to myself, “We made it.  Disaster averted.  Well done.”

Truth is, as hysterical and flat-out bug-shit as I was today, I could have done a world of damage.  The fact that I didn’t has more to do with Grace than any kind of management technique or skill.  And yet there was some of that, too.  None of this is clear.  None of it tidy.  It’s hard to analyze while holding on by your fingernails.  In the heat of crisis, that’s all we bipolar’s have—our bloody fingernails and the cliff’s edge.  Analysis is for later, when the smoke clears and the fires burn down, when we can be a little more objective about the extent of the real damage done.

I’m hoping I get to do that tomorrow.  I’m hoping this shift into a less crazy gear sticks for a bit.  But, it may not, and I need to be ready for that, too.  And since I got a little taste of the Bad-Ass—that determined, Double-O-like creature—I’ll be okay either way.  Dignity under fire, that’s the Bond way.

In and Out

hand made cards, collage art

♦ ♦ ♦

Awake at 4:00.  Panic and sinking despair.  Read email and blogs to calm, calm, calm. But the discomfort like gravel under the skin, ants in the brain.  Go! Go! Go!  Dash water on our face and find clean underwear.  Enough grooming.  Go!  Will jump in the truck and Drive.  To the Forbidden City.  Starbucks.  A movie later.

Another voice.  So quiet.  *wait.

Check billfold.  $45 to last two more weeks.  Not enough.  Check movies and times.  Ah, one we haven’t seen.  Print out the free soda coupon.  Check bank account.  Balance on the Visa is HighHighHigh.  Nothing left in checking.

*don’t do this today.

We lay on the floor to listen better to the quiet voice.  Want to bolt.  Need to bolt.  But can’t squeeze past the facts.  Have to.  Have to.  Can’t stay in town.  No proper coffee in town anymore.  No proper writing place.  Can’t come back to the apartment-prison.  Can’tCan’tCan’t.  Go now.

*wait.  can you hold the tension?

No.  Too much.  Drowning.

*think of it like an experiment.  try, and see what happens.  try one thing.

On the floor with Henry watching from the chair.  We can go to the Y.  Ride the recumbent bike.  Walk.

*yes, then what?

Then, we’ll see.

*good.

We walk to the Y.  Ride the bike.  Moving through syrup.  Pain.  Exhausted before starting.  Stumbling tired after.

*what now?

Experimenting and holding the tension of flight or fight.

*can you stay?  *can you keep from spending money today?

We will stay in town.  We have a gift card for the movies here.  Maybe go later.  Forget going to the inadequate cafe.  Make our own chai.  Need almond milk.  Forget going to the grocery store.  Too tired.  Too much pain.  Make a meal from what we have.  Healthy, but too much.  Staying, but eating.  Can only hold so much tension.  Drop into eating and watching a movie.  Then, drop into full sleep.  For hours.

Wake up like a drunk.  Out on the sidewalk with the iPod and an apple.  Walk.  Eat a proper snack.  Feel the breeze—sun-warm on the top, October-cool on the bottom.  Shuffle through drifts of leaves.  Plodding, plodding.  Still, the gravel under the skin.  Still, the ants in the brain.  Feet are platters, swollen and sore.  Body feels huge, bloated.  FeelFeelFeel.  But, the urgent voice is quiet.  Only the Other voice is here.

*breathe.  turn your face to the sun.  yes…

We miss our street concentrating on putting one platter in front of the other.  Funny.  At home, we pound a nail and hang a picture.  We need a companion for this picture.  TensionTensionTension.  Online we find one.  Not too expensive.  And we need double-sided tape.  And…and…and…  Tension stretches and snaps.  Running free.  Almost.  Remove items from the shopping cart.  DeleteDeleteDelete. $35 spent.  Not too bad.

*come back to holding the tension. be curious.  can you keep coming back?

Daylight fades.  Henry sits at the window watching the street go dark.  Time to shroud the TV.  Time to write.  Time to breathe.  In and out.  Like the tension.  Like the experiment.  In and out.

In and out.

What Scared Looks Like

I’m scared.

I’ve gone through bad episodes before.  Being a “brittle” bipolar, that’s just a fact of life.  Some I get through with more grace and humor than others.  This isn’t one of those episodes.

Yesterday I completely lost my moorings.  Except for going to the post office and then the grocery store to get binge food, I stayed in my apartment and tried to shut it all down.  Of course that’s not possible.  After nearly fifty years of dealing with bipolar disorder, one would think I’d have figured that out.  Well, I have, but I forget.  And the desperation makes me try one more time.

I woke up screaming in the night.  Nightmares of a big, shadowy man sneaking through my door.  That’s this illness.  A huge black presence that creeps in and does despicable harm.

I’m nearly hysterical thinking I might gain back the weight I’ve lost this year.  I don’t trust my conviction or my strength.  I don’t believe I can really change my life.  I only see the pattern that leads back to fat and crazy.

I don’t believe my new friends are real.  I don’t believe I’ll ever finish my book on my fight with this illness.  I’m terrified that I’m getting worse, remembering the studies I read that said bipolar disorder rots the brain and eventually leaves the patient stupid and demented.

I’m sure the flurry of activity on my new Etsy site was just opening day traffic from everyone I sent an email.  Now it will sink into oblivion, but I fuss and fret over it—making more cards and adding them to the shop, worrying about being fair, trying not to hope and doing it anyway.

Who is this panicky, desperate, tearful woman?  How can I be this petrified and isolated when just a few months ago I was riding the Bad-Ass train to a new and improved life with a cadre of companions?

I am not helpless.  I still have tools, even if they don’t work very well right now.  I’ll get myself to the Y, get in the water, and stay there until something shifts.  I’ll either break down in tears, get furious, or exhaust myself.  Any of those will be better than this jagged hopelessness.  I’ll call my therapist and pour out this jumble so she can help me sort through it.

I’ll go to a different cafe and journal.  I don’t think I can bear going to Haven anymore, even though they won’t close for another month.  The stink of failure and sadness is stronger than the coffee now.

I’ll get outside and walk with my iPod draped over my neck in the cozy I made out of a sock and a shoestring.  I’ll walk the cool, autumn streets and breathe.  I’ll let the music do its work and keep walking.  Walking back to a different place on the bipolar spectrum.  Walking through the fear.  Walking back to myself.

The Cost of Honesty

It’s hard to be honest when The Illness reaches this level of intensity.  I’ve been told the despair and hopelessness are too scary, too intimidating, too uncomfortable to witness and cause a ricochet of helplessness and a drive to fix me.  So, I don’t share this very much, even though it’s the time I need human contact the most.

When I am at my worst, the cost of asking for support is more than I can afford.  The illness has already rubbed away my self-worth, so in my mind I don’t deserve it.  And as my thoughts become more distorted, I imagine the dread my friends and family must feel when they hear my voice on the phone or see me drive up to their homes.  Not again.  I don’t want to spend the last bit of goodwill I may have with these people.  What if I get worse and have nothing left in my account with them?

The other cost is trying to endure the inevitable Question—What can I do to help?  When the illness gets this severe, there’s no way to answer that question, no way to even consider it.  What I need is whatever they want to do.  I can’t possibly tell them what that might be.  I can’t tell them what they’re capable of or willing to try.  I need them to figure it out.  I need them to offer.  Because I’m lost in here.  If I could find my own way out, I would, believe me.

And if it’s hard to be honest during the worst of an episode, it’s impossible to tell the truth.  I can’t trust whatever my brain labels as The Truth and have learned that speaking it out loud only terrifies my loved ones and lands me in the hospital.  Truth morphs to the reality of the moment, and that is in constant flux during a severe episode.  So I try to ride on top of the Dark Absolutes that seem so inevitable.  I try not to pick up the words my mother said once when I was very sick—This is not a life—and turn it into an anthem.

Last night, driving in my truck, crying so hard I couldn’t see, I took a chance with a new friend.  She knew about my illness, and had always been very kind, but I’d not dipped into the equity we’d built up.  She took me in without any sign of fear or horror and just chatted about “normal things.”  She offered her time, and her presence, and a simple way to distract me from myself.  I couldn’t concentrate very well, but that didn’t matter.  The sound of her voice, the taste of the iced coffee she gave me, the sense of being safe pushed back the darkness so that I could go home and sleep.

And while I was terrified to ask Penny for help, I knew I had to.  I knew I wouldn’t survive the night without reaching out to someone.  And if I could just risk the costs involved, I could hang on until the illness shifted.  Because is always does.  That is an absolute truth.

Honest.

Pendulum Swing

collage art, hand-made greeting cardToday the bipolar pendulum swings deep into depression.  The drive to sleep through it, to eat through it, pulls me like beefy fists wrapped around my shirt with another pushing me from behind.  I can’t quite stay on my feet.

But between the muggings, I keep breathing as mindfully as I’m able.  I keep walking, placing one foot intentionally before the other.  I look in the mirror and practice smiling.  I tally what I eat.  I move my limbs, so wooden, through the water in Penny’s pool.  I notice how I consider Penny as a safe haven for my cats should I chose to leave them behind, and acknowledge the death thoughts as part of the pendulum swing.  A swish of air is all.

No movies to escape to today, so I must be creative in my distraction when creativity is impossible.  I will plug in my ear buds and walk.  Then, ride my friends’ stationary bike.  Then, walk some more.  Because I can do this without thinking about it too much.  Because the exercise will make me feel better.

And the pendulum swings.

Portion Control

Collage art, greeting card, humor

I’m forever looking for a different perspective on my bipolar disorder, a new spin, a fresh approach, some metaphor that will pop the lid on Magic and Truth.  Driving home from the movie theater the other day, another one presented itself.

My life is all about Portion Control.

Since impulse control is the Troll under my bipolar bridge, restraint and moderation have simply been beyond my reach most of my life.  Between episodes, I’m a paragon of virtue, walking the path of Divine Temperance with nary a glance to either side of Temptation.  But once I hit that bridge, Troll-Mind takes over.  It goes something like this:

GimmeGimmeGimme. MoreMoreMore. NowNowNow.

 

When I finally make it to the other side of the bridge, I look back at massive destruction, consumption, and extravagance.  Caligula was a poser in comparison.

So part of my quest is to find methods or structures that will enforce prudence where none exists.  For several years, I gave control of my money to my friend, Cheryl. She held my credit card and my checkbook.  She watched me pay bills and provided me a weekly allowance.  My sister kept track of my tiny savings account, and still does.  That money remains in a bank out of my reach.  Troll-Mind still sends me on spending sprees, but I seem to be able to compensate better than I used to.  The Troll seems to be satisfied with a scrap of indulgence now rather than pillaging a whole countryside.  And I wonder why.

Snow White Troll

The changes I’ve been making in my daily habits like exercising or reading memoirs instead of watching TV poke the Troll with a big stick.  I’ve felt my compulsive urges roar with renewed violence—a monster frightened of losing its power.  To find some balance, I’ve tried to offer it scraps—a movie at a theater instead of hours of TV, one ice cream cone from McDonald’s instead of a carton of Ben & Jerry’s at home, writing a schmaltzy romance story instead of pining for the perfect mate.  I wonder if offering scraps for these other compulsions will work the way it did for money?  I wonder if this version of portion control will lull the beast?

Time and practice will tell, I guess.  Until I stumble over the next metaphor.

Holiday Survival Tactics

I don’t like holidays.

I would rather scratch them all from my calendar.  I understand that the weary working need and savor this break, but they only make me sick.  The YMCA closes, my coffee shops close, the folks I interact with on a daily basis trot off to be with their families or throw parties—all of which blasts apart my routine.  Without my routine, I am a Bipolar Time Bomb with a very short fuse.

Since I was already in a heightened state of stress going into the holiday, I knew I needed some serious backup planning to keep from wigging out completely.  I planned to walk the neighborhood to make up for my missed aquatics classes.  Yesterday’s temperature was supposed to top out over 100 degrees, so I took my walk at 4:00 AM.  I was awake anyway with a yammering cross-fire of spiky thoughts (courtesy of the Bipolar Agitation Fairy), so why not use the time, right?

I decided to allow myself some TV, but the only thing on was Magic City, a Starz series about hotels and the mob in 1959—sort of like Mad Men with dead bodies.  I got hooked immediately and had to watch six episodes in a row until I couldn’t take any more depravity or naked women.  More yammering, only now it’s images of icky, greasy mobsters doing icky things.  Ick.

The urge to bolt seized me, and all I could think of was to go to a movie.  That I’d already seen.  Which was fine.  Air conditioning and popcorn with a little distraction from the yammerers.  But after the movie I was right back where I started.  I made birthday cards for a while, cooked some supper, worked three crossword puzzles.  I tried to soothe my traumatized cats when the fireworks started up, but they would have none of that.  They planted themselves under my bed and stayed there.

When I finally crawled into bed myself, all I sent up a little prayer of thanks.  I made it through another holiday.  Sort of.

Satin Breeze

It’s been a hard couple of days—one of those deep depressions that makes the body too weary to move.  Sunday, after struggling through my workout and being sociable with my family, I grabbed a big bag of Cheetos at the Kwik Star and watched a horrible movie on TV.  I didn’t care.  All I wanted was oblivion.  Damn new ways of behaving.  Damn it all.

I made myself nauseous and slept for three hours.  When I woke up with Henry and Emmett both guarding me on the bed, I rolled over and thought, Okay, that doesn’t work anymore.

Today I took a different tack.  I went to my regular water aerobics class, then stayed for two more.  I figured, the longer I moved in the water, the less likely I was to do something stupid (like eat or go back to bed).  Then, I drove to Des Moines to my favorite theater and camped out for two good movies, Moonrise Kingdom and Seeking a Friend for the End of the World.  Quirky (the former) and Poignant (the latter).  High quality diversion at a discount (I had a coupon) with limited access to unseemly snacks (I don’t seem to have a problem limiting myself to plain popcorn at the movies.  This is a gift, thank you, Universe).

The weather today in central Iowa was perfect, so after the movie marathon, I walked to PF Chang’s down the road and sat out on the veranda for a supper of Dim Sum and Wrinkled Green Beans.  Still depressed, I could nonetheless gaze out at the big pond with its ducks and geese, feel the satin air slide over my skin, and appreciate the pedestrians wandering along the walkway  Toddlers bobbed on splayed legs, an elderly couple shared a piece of cheesecake, middle-school boys tried to look like a tough gang.  I breathed it all in, feeling my sadness, relishing the sweet garlic of the green beans, wondering about the little girl in pink sunglasses riding her daddy’s shoulders.

I took a turn around the pond myself, talked to the ducks going tail-up in the water to feed on the bottom, remembered other lakes and rivers I’d strolled around, remembered to ignore the regrets and dark twists my thoughts wanted to take.  I rolled down all my windows on the drive home, letting that luscious air blow through my hair, and sang as loud as I could with my iPod.

I wanted to think of Sunday as a failure, but that’s not right.  Diving back into pattern is expected in this process of change.  Each time I make different choices, like I did today, those old ways lose a little more power.  One binge in three weeks is actually quite miraculous for me.  That’s what I need to focus on, not the dire and dismal that my depression shoves in my face.

So, tonight, as Henry and Emmet settle nearby, I’ll turn my face toward the open window and take another hit of that satin, summer breeze.

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