23 Mar 2012
by Sandy Sue
in art, bipolar disorder, quality of life, relationships
Tags: distorted thinking, home, isolating, surgery, TOPS
The life of a shut-in takes on a strange flavor. I feel a little like William Hurt in the old movie Altered States, floating in my sensory deprivation tank. Everything seems perfectly normal until I rub up against the outside world.
Wednesday my friends brought me to their house for supper and to watch Criminal Minds. At first, everything seemed homey and familiar—Gracie, their Border Collie whimpered with delight when I came in, spaghetti sauce smelled like spaghetti sauce, furniture rested on the floor the way gravity intended. But there was this odd thing we did at the dinner table. Conversation. What? And a different channel was showing on the TV. And Tom started playing his guitar while Scott Pelley relayed the news. The world started to cant sideways like an old Twilight Zone episode.
Back in the womb of my apartment, the weirdness faded. Hehehe. I’m not really a blob of morphing jelly-flesh in a Salvador Dali painting. Just a little stimulus-deprived. Yeah, that’s it.
Yesterday, one of the gals from TOPS gave me a ride to the meeting. What a treat to have all those women fuss over me. Such a lovely group of friends I’m building there. But, part-way through the meeting the sound of all those voices talking in a cavernous auditorium crossed a threshold. Is that what the Plague of Locusts sounded like? The hot metallic buzzing of billions of tiny, hairy legs rubbing together? I got a little dizzy.
A person can get used to living alone, can even come to prefer it. But, too long alone and cocooned by the same music, the same visual stimulus, the same, the same, the same… Well, it messes with the mind. And my mind doesn’t need any more messiness. I’m taking back my driving privileges this weekend and getting the hell out of Dodge.
This experience also makes me much more sympathetic to long-term shut-ins. If you know anyone who can’t get out of the home on their own, think about taking them for a ride. They might resist. That deprivation tank expands to encompass the whole world, so stepping outside it is jarring. But, friends don’t let friends turn into flesh-jelly.
17 Mar 2012
by Sandy Sue
in exercise, mixed-media art, quality of life
Tags: animals, community, home, spring, surgery
I just got back from my afternoon walk—a slow-motion shuffle around three square blocks. All the better to see the lilac bushes greening and crocus heads swelling. Iris blades like emerald knives slice through the winter brown. A warm, moist breeze calls Spring to come forward.
This is my fourth walk since coming home from the hospital yesterday. Each time I go a little farther, see something a little different. At 1:30 in the morning, stars talk out loud and warm, velvet air slides over skin. At 8:30 the Saturday traffic takes over, rushing to compete with the trains wailing in the yard.
Sometimes I’m the only human being on the street. Sometimes I’m one of many. The homeless shelter and emergency food bank are just up the street, so people in need pass by often—families, singles, elderly. People who roll their entire lives with them in wheeled garbage bins. People with nothing. People who fight and swear at each other. People who scold and natter at themselves.
Teenagers wander by in groups leaving their detritus of gum wrappers and Red Bull cans. The library is next door, and the Kwik Star down the street, so I imagine they gravitate between the two. But, what do I know about teenagers?
And the dogs are always out. A plethora of Chihuahuas in all shapes and sizes. They’re like a box of left-over Valentine’s Day chocolates—nuggets, and cherry centers, and dark mousse—all excited, all yipping in their tiny rodent voices. There’s a black and white Bull Terrier who sits on the corner all day long, staring at the flower shop. And a Pit Bull with pink eyes who seems bored out of her mind. A trio of Corgis race up and down their fenced yard like jousters challenging the entire neighborhood to a duel. Behind the dog noise, feral cats slink along the alleys, quietly going about their feline business. They’re happy to let the dogs grab all the attention—anonymity is more their game.
If I could bend over, I’d start picking up the refuse winter leaves behind, but I have to leave that for now. It’s enough to be outside, in the unseasonably warm, feeling the stretch of my stride in my sore belly, walking my way back to whole.
25 Jan 2012
by Sandy Sue
in Bipolar Bad-Ass Training, bipolar disorder, health, quality of life
Tags: anxiety, depression, home, resistance, shopping, Stephen King, synchronicity, volunteering
I just finished reading Stephen King’s newest doorstop, 11/22/63. It’s a story about time travel and the Kennedy assassination, and one of the themes is that the past fights hard to stay the same. Yesterday, I couldn’t help thinking that the present (particularly my present) will roll over anyone (insert “me”) to stay the same.
I visited the Animal Shelter yesterday to discuss volunteering. The gal at the desk asked me what I’d like to do. I said anything that needed doing. She signed me up to work next Monday afternoon. I walked back out to my truck in a daze. I’d been in the building a good seven minutes.
On the drive back to town I kept telling myself, “You can do this. It’s one afternoon. It’s doggies and kitties.” But, the anxiety started low in my gut and crept up to my throat. Where was all that positive, life-affirming determination that shot me out of Minneapolis and back to Marshalltown with a vision of My New Life? Stuck under the depression that’s since arrived, I imagine. It was as if a part of me fought hard to stay the same. Because the same is known, safe.
Later I went to Wal-Mart. To start beautifying my little apartment and make it more my home, I asked my mom to help me purchase a storage cabinet for my bathroom. Always happy to have something concrete to buy for me, Mom agreed. I found a reasonably priced one online and had it shipped to our local store.
“Some assembly required” meant a box full of boards (Not boards, pressboard—the next step up from cardboard) and a big bag of hardware. I’m pretty handy. I mean, I’ve got my own drill, for heaven’s sake. So, I wasn’t too concerned about putting an over-the-toilet cupboard together. The instruction manual neglected to mention fronts or backs of any of the pieces, so I “assembled” the thing three times. By then the anchors were tearing out of the pressboard, and even Gorilla Glue wouldn’t keep it standing up. After five hours of wrestling with the thing, I gave up and took it back. At least I got my money back.
The present took one last jab this morning. As I was cleaning the pieces of my CPAP machine, I poked a hole in the hose that connects the machine to my face mask. I stood at the bathroom sink, holding up both ends of the hose, watching water squirt out the hole, and I thought. ”Okay. I give up.” I can’t afford any more accidents (I fell on the ice out side Wal-Mart and also getting into my truck) or medical issues (an old shoulder injury is painfully back in town and there’s some gynecological shenanigans going on in my nether-regions). I get the message.
But, there’s a part of me outside the current depression that’s getting steely-eyed. I can feel her reaching for the Uzi. Entropy may be a powerful force, but so is the Bad-Ass. I’ll regroup and rethink while the depression grips me. But, after that. Yippy-Ki-Yay, Motherf*****.
23 Jan 2012
by Sandy Sue
in art, creativity, quality of life
Tags: community, home, joy
We’ve had our first real snow accumulation over the past week. Here’s what the neighbor kitty-corner from me did with it.
This is the corner of a pretty busy street, so it’s even more fun to watch people stop and hold up traffic to take a gander. Folks park and get out to talk to him while he’s working. A very humble, shy guy who’s not quite comfortable with all the attention.
Ahh! Now the day care gaggle from the Lutheran church up the street is gathered around King Kong taking pictures. This is just too cute!
What I love even more than the art or the public’s reaction is that the artist is Hispanic—a much-maligned minority in our White Bread town. HeeHeeHee.
17 Jan 2012
by Sandy Sue
in creativity, friends, music, nature, quality of life, spirituality, teachers, writing
Tags: community, compassion, gratitude, home, play, singing
I left a lot of good friends behind in the Twin Cities when I moved to Iowa. I only stayed in contact with a rare few, mostly because it was too painful. They belonged to a life abandoned and forever lost to me—I thought. A big part of my healing as been reconnecting with these cherished treasures.
This trip I went to see two women who set up residence in my heart years ago. I met Jinjer and Carol at Lake Harriet Spiritual Community. We were all seekers, trying to find a meaningful way to the Divine. Bright, soulful, creative, talented and committed to the Earth, these two women became part of my everyday life.
With Jinjer I learned to be a better writer, how to craft rituals that would honor the Divine in nature, and how to take myself and others to that still place of communion with the Universal Source. With Carol I learned how to use sound and music to reach a new level of joy and spiritual experience, and a way of moving and being in the world with compassion and grace. Together we laughed and cried, played, shared every holiday, and every important event.
For years, I spent time in their home every week, so to walk back through their front door after more than five years made me light-headed with the sense of homecoming. The spicy, fresh-baked-bread smell; the familiar paintings and books; even their beautifully remodeled kitchen and bath felt right and familiar. It was as if I’d never been away.
Our friendship seemed like an independent entity—a swift, tumbling river that swept below us and carried us on its waves. I knew them, and they knew me, and we settled into that knowing immediately. Our conversation tasted the same as always—complex, dark-chocolate-rich, and so satisfying.
And, as usual, spending time with these two beautiful women left me clearer, lighter and more grateful for my life. Insights and healing always happened when we were together, and happen still. We are good juju together.
With this trip, I reclaimed Jinjer and Carol as my friends. Present tense. I won’t let go of them so easily again.
16 Jan 2012
by Sandy Sue
in Bipolar Bad-Ass Training, bipolar disorder, friends, quality of life, spiritual practice, travel
Tags: community, creative process, evolution, grief, home, memory loss, pain
You’re song,
a wished-for song.
Go through the ear to the center
where sky is, where wind,
where silent knowing.
Put seeds and cover them.
Blades will sprout
where you do your work.
—Rumi
≈ ≈ ≈
Back from my trip to Minneapolis/St. Paul, and I hardly know how to talk about its profound effect on my life moving forward. I expected my ten days there to be meaningful and challenging as I reconnected with friends I haven’t seen in five years—when I left defeated and broken after losing everything to the bipolar disorder.
What I didn’t realize is that I literally left my life there. I never expected to survive moving back to Iowa, let alone start a new life. Most of these past five years are a blur of mental pain, drug-fog and a near-sighted view of putting one foot in front of the other. That’s not a life. My life was in Minnesota.
But, I could never go back, so I shut that door and bolted it. When I did visit one or two friends there, I kept my head down and my eyes shut because the grief and loss were too much to bear.
This week, out of the blue, while I ate supper with my friends Kirk and LaRae, they suddenly invited me to move in with them. I dismissed it immediately (the door stayed firmly bolted), but other friends suggested I consider it. So, for the first time, I cracked the door and imagined what my life might look like if I went “home.”
The three of us talked more about the possibility, and it became clear that it wouldn’t work. But the process of considering, of listing what I want in my life, of writing down what I value and what I need, started a whole avalanche of inner change.
The crippling grief lifted. The overwhelming sense of loss and desperate longing for my old life vanished. I started to envision how I could create a life worth living in Marshalltown—a life that celebrates the glorious parts of me that survived and the Bad-Ass parts born here.
I started planting seeds today, and will continue to do the Work required to help them grow. Now, I feel like I can go back to Minneapolis anytime, reconnect with more of my old crew, take those friendships forward instead of spinning in the past. And then, I can come home, to Marshalltown, where my life is growing. Where my life is.
28 Nov 2011
by Sandy Sue
in cats, mixed-media art, money, quality of life, travel, writing
Tags: coffee shops, home
I’m a girl who needs a dive, a hang-out, a haunt, a place. As long as I’ve been writing, I’ve done my best work tucked away in a funky cafe, scribbling longhand on tables that wobble, with Alternative music floating out of the corners. Menus change, the number of piercings and tattoos on the wait-staff change, the music definitely changes, but there’s always a hidey-hole I can call my own somewhere nearby.
So to be without a home away from home is unthinkable, yet, here I am—dive-less. I admit I’m picky about my spots. They can’t be too expensive or too busy: I need to be able to enjoy the faire without sacrificing heat, shoes or one of the cats, and I must be allowed to linger without the staff snorting steam about turning my table for the next customer. The chairs have to be comfortable if I’m to plant my butt there for hours, so booths or padded seats are a must. Conversation, traffic, innocuous music, and espresso machinery actually add to my experience, but loud and opinionated Bible study groups, toddlers in tantrum mode, football games on TV, and fights in the kitchen don’t (though the kitchen fights can be entertaining). The food and drink need to be edible, if simple—no tepid coffee kept for hours in an airpot, no breakfast burritos with mayonnaise guacamole and frozen centers.
One by one, I’ve eliminated all the writing holes my hometown has to offer. Bad food, too expensive, uncomfortable seats, too busy, weird hours, too loud, too prejudiced, bad service. For awhile I tried to rotate through them, putting up with their deficiencies by preparing for them. I brought my own pillows, found the most isolated tables, dug out my old pocket CD player and earphones, brought my own food or ate before I arrived, altered my schedule—anything to make the experience pleasant enough to get some writing done. But all this just gave me cramps from bending so far over backwards.
A new coffee shop has been under construction for over a year a few blocks from my apartment. Each day I drive by and watch it inch toward completion. Could this be The One? Might my Goldilocks snuggle into this dive and find it just right? Maybe, but I can’t stop searching. Right now, I’m driving a half hour to sit in a near-perfect Panera’s. I worry about spending too much money on gas, but my writing is going so well that I’m determined to make it work. After all, it’s the writing that’s important here, not the quality of the lattes or the freshness of the scones. Well… as long as they have blueberry.
14 Nov 2011
by Sandy Sue
in bipolar disorder, cats, exercise, mixed-media art, music, poetry, spiritual practice, writing
Tags: coffee shops, compulsive eating, depression, distorted thinking, distraction, fatigue, home, hypersensitivity, management, mixed-state, pain, routine, Rumi, shopping, sleep, symptoms
Drumsound rises on the air,
its throb, my heart.
A voice inside the beat says,
“I know you’re tired,
but come. This is the way.”
—Rumi
∞ ∞ ∞
How to follow that quiet, wise voice inside. Because it’s still there, much as my ears rush with this other sound. There seems no other how but to do, to follow the dim suggestion to plant one foot in front of the other.
The old routine tastes off, contaminated by this unsavoriness. The water still feels like comfort as my body stretches and churns, flexing out depression’s burrs. But, Haven, my writing sanctuary, my one indulgence, irritates and offends. Christian music blares from outside speakers, Easy Listening inside, and I hear both at my regular table. No one will fix the cacophony for me, and I leave. I’m done there, I think.
I look for a new shirt at Wal-Mart, but nothing is right. I push my cart around and around the racks of clothes as if I can conjure what I want with the proper spiral. I go to the grocery store, determined to buy healthy food, no junk. Each selection requires long scrutiny, painful contemplation. There are moments of standing blank in the aisle, staring into the sea of lunch meats and cheeses, holding two jars of spaghetti sauce.
I come home to waiting cats, mildly curious about my bags. I put groceries away, heat up soup, make a sandwich, start to watch a movie I’m not interested in, lay down on my bed with Henry tucked close.
I hear the faint voice encouraging me, and I do the next thing. Then the next.
“I know you’re tired,
but come. This is the way.”
05 Nov 2011
by Sandy Sue
in art, bipolar disorder, developing consciousness, exercise, family, friends, mixed-media art, money, nature, TV and Movies, writing
Tags: art techniques, compulsive eating, distraction, evolution, home, management, routine, shopping, transition, volunteering
I’m going to say I’m back from the bipolar battlefield even if I’m not sure. I seem to be back enough to do triage, sorting the casualties into who needs immediate attention, who can wait, and who is too far gone to warrant any attention at all.
What needs immediate attention is my home. During an episode, I tend to “let things go.” So, the bathroom needs a scrub, as does the kitchen. Laundry, vacuuming and a general picking up and putting away. I have a duffel bag full of pictures and photo albums to put away from creating the slide show for Dad’s funeral. A general dusting might be a good idea, too.
Concurrently, I need to get my routine back. It’s not too far off—I’ve been getting to the Y every day, doing a little writing and art—but off enough. Watching TV during an episode is positive distraction, but watching too much and continuing on after the episode fades like this sets me up for mindlessness and compulsive eating.
Once I get my apartment and routine in order, I need to stock up. The cupboards are pretty bare, which makes me reach for take-out, which I can’t afford. I’m out of any kind of analgesic (Advil, Tylenol, et al.) and Kleenex (little things, but vital when you’ve got fibromyalgia and allergies).
Finally, I need to move ahead with projects and plans that I set for myself. Check out another juvenile book from the library. Call my cousin, Ray, to set up a time to meditate together. Call my friend, Joyce, who I haven’t even told about my dad yet. Go out to the Animal Rescue League and talk to them about volunteering. Get outside while the weather holds. Dust off my sketchbook and draw.
I’m relieved to see no dead bodies in this triage run, no parts of my life that I’ve ruined or blown up, no relationships destroyed or bridges burned. That, in itself, is a miracle, considering my past. It makes me think I can actually evolve with this illness, learn from it, and make a few lasting changes. One thing about bipolar disorder is that there’s always another opportunity to practice these new ways of thinking and behaving, always the next crazy-bomb set to explode. Hopefully, the casualties will continue to stand up and walk away.
27 Oct 2011
by Sandy Sue
in bipolar disorder, cats, exercise, family, mixed-media art, relationships
Tags: agitation, animals, anxiety, awareness, depression, distorted thinking, fatigue, home, hypersensitivity, management, memory loss, mixed-state, social phobia, symptoms
The sense of this episode is one of being overwhelmed. It’s like my brain has lost all elasticity and resilience. I’m unable to problem-solve even small hiccups in the day much less figure out how to deal with unusual tasks. My cognitive ability seems mired in glue, and at the same time my body perceives each decision to be made as a threat.
For example, the apartment management notified us that the bedbug-sniffing dog would be coming around to all the apartments today. They do this every 3-4 months, since we have a history of infestation. Still, it’s an ordeal, since I have to pack up the cats and all their paraphernalia two hours before the dog arrives. Usually I take them to a friends’ house, but they’re having work done on their basement, so I had to devise another plan.
I was at a total loss as to what to do. My mind spun. I tried to approach the problem, but the vortex whipped me away. Finally, after crying in the pool at the Y this morning, I suddenly thought of calling my mom and taking the cats out there. Problem solved, but I was exhausted and frayed. Mom asked me if I wanted to take home some tomatoes a neighbor had brought her, and I burst into tears. Then, my neighbor in the apartment building called to say the inspection had been cancelled. I sobbed so hard Henry came running to see what all the racket was about.
All of a sudden I have appointments and meetings written all over my calendar through the end of the year (a normal week will have one item, at most). And even though I write them all down so I won’t forget, I keep forgetting. I can’t hold them in my head. And when a few do stick, they bump around in there like mad hornets. These aren’t things I can blow off. I had my annual physical, and there are specialists to be seen, lab work to be done, boobs to be squished.
Between episodes, I could manage all this just fine. But right now it feels like non-stop attack. I want to find a hidey-hole like my scaredy-cat, Emmett, and tuck myself into a ball so small no one can see me.
What this tells me is that I need to eliminate everything but the essential right now, keep social contact to no more than two people at a time (that seems to be my limit), put off making any serious decisions (like buying a new swim suit), and do what I can to soothe the exposed nerve endings. I can’t avoid situations like today, but I can choose not to go to a party and a church supper this weekend like I’d planned.
It makes me sad to give up those social opportunities since I don’t get many of them. But, it’s just bad timing. Better to live in reality than suffer in denial. At least that’s what Henry says. When Emmett comes out of his hidey-hole, he’ll probably have a different opinion.
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The life of a shut-in takes on a strange flavor. I feel a little like William Hurt in the old movie Altered States, floating in my sensory deprivation tank. Everything seems perfectly normal until I rub up against the outside world.
A person can get used to living alone, can even come to prefer it. But, too long alone and cocooned by the same music, the same visual stimulus, the same, the same, the same… Well, it messes with the mind. And my mind doesn’t need any more messiness. I’m taking back my driving privileges this weekend and getting the hell out of Dodge.
SandySue Altered
