I stood at my kitchen window yesterday, watching the morning come. Prickly, my brain hot and sore, vague urges and angers surfaced in bubbles to pop, causing an instant of relief and splatter like a crime scene. I felt the craziness in me like a wild animal, pluck-pluck-plucking at my soft tissue with one, long claw.
I watched a car go by on the street. My mind mused:
I thought I’d be better by now.
And a Pandora’s Box opened. Beliefs buried underground rose. I expected my symptoms to lessen once I got off medications. I expected my compulsions to ease as I worked on mindfulness. I believed in a life where I’d be better. I planned for it. But, my symptoms are the same. My compulsions are the same. Mindfulness and being medication-free only help me See. I’m never getting better.
I’m never getting better.
After a moment of self-pity, I looked back out the window. Gray now. The tree, the sidewalk, the patches of snow. Another car went by.
Ah, the next thought settled on me. That’s what all this has been about.
Revelations come in waves, for me. They wash up over me, I get wet, then they recede. I dry off and forget about them. Except they leave sand in my shoes. The next wave comes. This one is stronger, knocks me off my feet. But, it too, recedes, and I dry off again. Each wave pushes me a little further up the surf line until, finally, I’ve altered my path enough to stay out of the water’s way.
The waves are coming fast now.
More and more, I’m being called to live Here and Now, to inhabit the person I am Now. Not planning a life for someone who doesn’t exist. It means respecting the fact that people exhaust and trigger me, accepting that food comforts and fantasy delights me. It means embracing the changeable spectrum of my capacity, knowing that one day I can create a ritual full of symbolism and spirit for a group of 25 and the next day can only take a shower before going back to bed. It means contemplating solitude and finding peace there. It means respecting myself Now—the limits, the talents, the inconsistencies. It means being willing to listen to who I am Now—what I need, what I want, what fills me up.
I don’t really know who I am Now. I know who I was. I know who I should be. I know who other people expect me to be. But, I’m willing to stand at my kitchen window until I find out. Or until another wave nudges me in the right direction.
So, 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.
Yes, 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.
Taking a break from myself for the past week turned out to be an experiment in possibility. Each morning I got up and posed the question “What do I need today?” Most days involved some sort of exercise, often twice in the same day. There was usually a call for delicious, healthy food that I cooked myself. I read a lot, which startled me since reading has been difficult post-ECT. Soy chai from Starbucks seemed to be the treat I craved most. I took several trips to the City without being driven by mania or depression to see what that might be like (delightful, by the way).
What I didn’t do was journal or make art—things I’ve done almost every day since I moved back home six years ago. I only interacted with strangers for the most part. And I put a moratorium on thinking.
Years ago, when I lived in Minneapolis, my friend, Lily, and I would go on “shallow” dates. Both of us tended to over-think and ponder deeply the meaning of Life, so we would pick a fluffy movie and go empty our brains together. Trouble was, we always found The Lesson or A Point to even the most retarded movie. We laughed that we could find the Gift in lint.
I tried something a little different this week. I focused on sensation and intuition. Both of these ways of knowing have become untrustworthy, co-opted by bipolar delusion and compulsion. I learned not to trust myself, what I feel and what I desire, because the illness warps perception. But this set up a constant, internal battlefield. More than just holding tension, or observing my internal workings, I rejected them. Or I labeled all feeling and desire as part of the illness. Either/Or thinking is much easier than trying to tease out the healthy from the unhealthy. It also requires a lot of thought and analysis.
So, this week I practiced not-thinking. I tried to listen to my body for what it wanted. I tried to turn in the direction of beauty and ease like a flower toward the sun (no thinking involved there). And if I felt compulsion push at me, I listened and felt it instead of analyzing and reporting it in my journal.
It was like mud settling in a pond gone still. Defensive and vulnerable when I started the week, I felt my body soften and my heart take a deep breath. My aversion to people thinned and relaxed. Issues shifted from vague discomfort to solid little pebbles with much less mass than I expected. Pathways cleared.
My vacation contained good and bad days (or in my new vernacular, sunny and stormy mental weather), so I was able to practice not-thinking on my rapid cycling as well. I found much comfort in the mantra “Don’t think, just feel.”
So, as I come back to the people and responsibilities in my life today, I feel refreshed and ready. I have some changes to make and more work to do. But I’ll try to keep it shallow.
I’m trying something different. I’m taking a vacation from my life.
I don’t know if this is brilliant—a true Oprah “Ah Ha” inspiration—or a self-destructive twist of bipolar delusion. I guess I’ll find out when I’m on the other side of it.
All I can see right now is that nothing seems to be working. Diet, exercise, meditation, routine, writing, making art—none of these things give me any juice or comfort. And I’m suffocated by people—the friends I love, the family I love, the communities I’ve joined, the faces I see around me every day. I can’t fake another conversation, or feign interest, or hold another smile. I can’t be socially acceptable for another minute.
So, I’m taking a vacation from people and from my normal routine. I’ll get out of bed when Henry tells me to (he usually pounds on the closet door around 5:00, but some mornings he lets me sleep in). I’ll pay attention to what seems to need attention. I’ll see what rises. I’ll go out, move, watch and listen. And I’ll see what happens.
This is more than a vacation. This is coming to terms with my life as it is, not what it might be in the future, not what it was in the past. It’s coming to terms with who I am, not the girl I was, not who I think I should be, not who I dreamed I’d be. Maybe this vacation will be a sort of practice in sitting companionably with myself, my real self. Maybe I’ll finally see her. Maybe this won’t be a vacation at all, but a new way of living.
I’m in that freaky phase of rapid cycling where all the laws of physics and biology flip. Coffee puts me to sleep. Water gives me gas. I get pissed off by menu typefaces. Loud, rude strangers are hilarious.
It’s hard to find a way to comfort myself when the map is suddenly in Elvish (though I would like to learn that). At least I know enough to abandon all attempts at normal—whatever that is. I tried my water class yesterday, and froze to death, so I’m skipping it today. Which could be a gateway behavior to chucking the whole routine. Must watch that. Journaling still holds some mass in this gravity well, so I’ll do some of that today. My therapist asked if there was anything that could distract me from this weirdness. Movies. Movies always work. Even if the Space/Time Continuum ruptured so badly that Walter Bishop couldn’t fix it, movies would still be my go-to balm.
So, after I take a shower (if water still falls earthward), I’ll camp out at the theater and wait for the Universe to regain its sanity. Or mine. Whichever comes first.
It’s a game, really, those resolutions. Something to banter back and forth at the holiday party. Idle daydreams and wishful thinking. They swell the enrollments at the YMCA and Weight Watchers in January. But by March those numbers shrink back to normal. Resolutions are a little squirt of will power soon overtaken by inertia.
But, see, I’ve gotten this resolution thing down. Bipolar Bad-Assery takes resolution and slams it to the ground.
A friend asked me recently if I had a good 2012. In all honesty, I had to say it was the best and the worst year I’d had in a long time. Lots of physical illness, several surgeries, and rampaging rapid cycling mixed with amazing new friends, a solid weight loss and the completion my novel. And that’s exactly what Bad-Assery is all about—living and growing in tandem with mental illness.
Every time the illness loosens its grasp I review my resolutions and set my priorities. Every time. I struggle out from under the dead bodies, wipe the gore off my face, and start the long process of clearing away the wreckage.
Each time I ask myself the same questions. What’s most important to my health and wellbeing? What habits, activities, or practices did I abandon during this episode that I need to re-engage? What ones are unrealistic and need revision? Is there anything new I can try?
What I’ve learned is that there’s no way to do this perfectly. There’s just doing it. Every day my brain can hold onto some level of stability is a Training Day. Inertia may drag at me to watch TV or beg off from getting together with friends, but Bad-Ass Training means pushing against inertia. It means holding the tension of doing something that’s a little uncomfortable. And the more I can hold that tension, the more tension I can tolerate.
Bipolar Bad-Assery is resolution—to come back, to live, to thrive. It’s not a game to toss around at parties, but I try to remember to keep it playful—to inject it with humor, and dreaming, and a sense of exploration. Though those might manifest in a twisted Bruce Willis/Xena/Worf kind of way. Whatever works, right?
Yippee Ki Yay, Gabriella. It is a good day to die.
Unplugging from Christmas felt a little like traveling through a foreign country. After 55 years of doing Christmas, undoing it was just weird. I was able to see how much anxiety and stress the holiday generated in me from the time I was tiny (sleepless and hysterical, watching for a magical man with presents to land on my roof) through my years working retail and still making all the family gatherings, to buying presents I couldn’t afford and eating food that made me sick, to the sensory and emotional blitzkrieg that ultimately triggers a fierce bipolar storm.
Thanksgiving was a trial run, choosing not to attend the family dinner. I had to navigate some pretty big potholes of guilt and shame, feelings of being mean, selfish, anti-social, unloving, ungrateful, etc. It was about as difficult not to go to Thanksgiving dinner as it was to go. But, I knew I was carving a new path, and that it would get easier.
It did. As a whole, my family was supportive. They missed me at the celebrations, but didn’t pile on any additional guilt (I still had some of my own to manage). My brother and I are starting a new tradition of meeting for breakfast the morning he starts back for home (he lives nine hours north). This is perfect. I can still enjoy him without getting overwhelmed. My sister took me to a darling little coffee shop last week where we could do the same. Now, I need to figure out some new tradition to do with my mom. Hmmm…
It helped that I was still enjoying fair mental weather this week. So, cooking a pot of delicious, vegan soup yesterday was a joy instead of a stressor. Listening to my holiday music and snipping new captions for cards felt relaxing and calming. And then watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” and getting weepy over the sweet Frank-Capra-isms was fun and kept me connected to the holiday. I still ate too much yesterday, but all in all, it was a success.
And as a side note, my therapist gave me a tool I’d like to share with all my neuro-diverse friends. It’s called The 14 Days of Christmas and is a way to navigate the stress the week before and the week after the holiday. Here’s how it works:
The following activities are written on little slips of paper and put in a jar. On each of the fourteen days, a slip is drawn and the activity carried out. This helps in a number of ways: each day has a small, doable goal; each day holds something to look forward to; and each day provides a small self-soothing or pleasurable activity. All these benefits could mean the difference between losing one’s mind and keeping it. Of course, there are times when no tool can keep the episodes from happening, but I like to have as many guns in my arsenal as possible.
Here’s the list. Of course, everyone will have others to add that will make the list more personal. I’m also going to fancy-up a jar and pack this with my Christmas decorations for next year. That way I’ll have it ready to go.
The 14 Days of Christmas Activities
Make an Alphabet Gratitude List (A is for Aunt Tootsie, B is for Biker-Chic boots, etc.)
Make a list of ten things you like about yourself or skills you have when you are feeling good, then keep it to read when the bad times come.
Do at least one activity that appeals to each of the senses (visit a flower shop, light a scented candle, etc.)
Make a collage with pictures/words cut out of old magazines. Let it be about what soothes you.
Write down a New Year’s Goal—something you have control over and is reasonable.
Go to a cafe or coffee shop.
Journal.
Turn on loud, fast music and dance.
Read your favorite book, magazine, paper or poem.
Read a trashy, celebrity magazine.
Go for a drive.
Write a letter to someone you haven’t heard from in a while.
Watch an inspirational or funny movie.
Get a haircut or pedicure.
Play a video game or card game.
Make a scrapbook.
Make a list of people you admire (real or fictional) and why.
Blog
Try cooking a new recipe.
Get a massage or go to a spa.
Pray or meditate.
Go to the library or a bookstore.
Do something with your hands (knit, crochet, build models, make art, etc.).
Have sex (alone or with someone you care about).
Do your favorite exercise.
Talk to a friend on the phone.
Go to a museum or art gallery.
Find something funny to do (read the Sunday comics, visit “I Can Haz Cheeseburger” on the net, etc.)
Take a nap.
Write a Bucket List.
Chat online.
Invite a friend to your home.
Sing or play a musical instrument.
Make a simple meal and invite someone to join you.
Watch TV.
Go for a walk and take a picture of whatever catches your eye.
Have a little chocolate.
Go outside and watch the clouds or the stars.
Visit your favorite Web sites.
Go to the movies.
Learn something new (a new word, new skill, idea, information about a friend, anything) and write about it.
Give a gift (bought, made, an experience, time together, etc.).
Join an Internet dating service.
Shop (virtual or real).
Go visit a friend.
Listen to gentle music.
Play a game with someone else.
Sell the stuff you don’t want on eBay or half.com.
Tomorrow I see my shrink for my annual review. Since I’m not on medication anymore, we decided this once-a-year check-in was sufficient to keep me on as a patient. In preparation, I’ve been looking back at the past year in relation to my mental health.
All I can say, is “Wow.”
I believe it to be a part of human nature to put one’s head down and focus on setting one foot in front of the other when times get rough. Our view narrows to the immediate, the necessary and the loudest or most painful problem demanding attention. When we watch where we step like this, it’s impossible to see either where we’ve been or where we’re going. Not that I’m an advocate for living in the past or waiting for the future, but looking up once in a while can help us see where we are.
I’ve been so completely focused on how dysfunctional I am in the moment, that I’ve squeezed out the bigger picture. When I consider this past year, I can see all the progress I’ve made—in setting goals and reaching them, in bettering my physical health, in developing new social networks, and in exploring my illness with new management tools. I can see all the stressors, one after another, that I navigated and survived. Most surprising, I can see a life taking shape out of all the experiments and false starts—the sum much greater than the individual parts.
I’m not sure what I’m feeling as I look at all this—humble and proud in equal measure, which seems fitting for a person with bipolar disorder. I’ve worked hard and I’ve lived in Grace. I’m not just jumping up and down like water on a hot skillet. There is movement in my madness toward wellness and peace. There is a gentle trajectory that is visible and real.
We all need to look up once in a while, especially if we’ve been slogging along for a long time. That shift to a wider view, seeing the horizon on all sides, inspires a deep breath into the belly. Here I am, we say. Look how far I’ve come.
This morning I was led to a new blog The Existential Buddhist and Seth’s post Does All This Sitting Get Us Somewhere? It reminded me that although I’ve been meditating for a couple decades, and teaching meditation for half that time, I forget how much it helps my mental health. Even as I put together a presentation for the staff at my mental health clinic on Friday about the benefits of meditation, I forget to sit when my own illness is raging. In part, Seth says:
We marinate in life and are cooked by it. It’s a process that happens, not something we accomplish. We didn’t build that. Things shift. We tire of hanging onto things. We cease repeating old mistakes. We laugh at ourselves. We open and soften. We come alive.
It’s not the sitting alone that does this. It’s every step we take on our path. It’s our understanding of impermanence, suffering, non-self, and emptiness. It’s our practice of compassion and generosity. It’s our letting go of past insults and injuries. It’s our growing respect for our bodies, our selves, our neighbors, our planet. All of this is reflected in each moment of sitting.
Does all this sitting get us somewhere? No. Sitting always gets us here.
For me, managing this illness is the same process. Staying open and aware, allowing the powerful and dangerous feelings space, breathing into that space, brings me back to me and now. Today I will sit. Right now. And I will remember me.
“Cautious Bad-Ass” sounds like an oxymoron, but that’s how I’m feeling. I’m back in training—shoring up the battlements this last episode weakened, cleaning and loading all my gear, digging out the shrapnel. But, there’s no steam snorting out my nostrils, no fury driving the calisthenics. This was a bad one, and I worry that the physical and mental toll from suicidal depression on top of pneumonia took something vital out of me. I took a hit to the spirit.
But, then I think of Bruce Willis, especially in these “mature” years. I watched him in Looper yesterday—not just his character, but the man. Confident in his skill, but contained. Ready and able to take incredible risks, but only when required and only at the right time. A finely tuned instrument with focus and power.
Holding this version of Bruce in my mind, I know it’s okay to re-enter my training quietly. It might even be prudent. I’ll do what needs to be done in a measured way, step by step, letting the rhythm fill my depleted stores and realign the broken bones. No sudden moves unless required. So, what will that look like?
Clean Eating. I’m grateful that even though I binged through most of the last six weeks, I had no compulsion to return to animal protein. I have no idea what that means, so I’m trying not to attach magical properties to it. My task now is to return to the good habits I had started—keeping a food journal, attending TOPS, paying attention to portions, and spending my grocery money in the produce section.
My friend, Kim, manages a franchise for Lite for Life—a company that focuses on balancing blood sugar as a way to get healthy and lose weight. She offered me a scholarship for the program, which is an incredible gift. I’m not sure yet how this will fit into my plan of “no sudden moves,” but Kim is more about spiritual healing than pounds on a scale. I have a feeling this will be an adventure for both of us.
Strength & Stamina. I’m weak and congested. It will take time to get back to my fighting form. But, I’m already walking everywhere I can, and I’ll keep that up into winter. I’m taking it slow in my water aerobics classes. Yesterday I got back on the recumbent bike and kept up a good pace, but I was exhausted afterward. Slow, slow, slow.
Gather Accurate Intel. I have to be honest with myself. Well, it’s always important to watch for delusion and distorted thinking, but getting back into training requires brutal honesty. I can’t ignore my current physical limitations or block out observations from my team. I can’t blow off stressful situations. I can’t talk myself out of doing whatever it takes to come back to myself.
Plug the Leaks. Compulsions and old patterns drained my bank account, my energy, and my cupboards. Before I can Lay in More Supplies, I have to stop the hemorrhaging—pay my bills, attend to proper sleep hygiene, allow my friends and family to support and assist. I took a fearless accounting of my money and adjusted my budget to one that was more reasonable. I won’t be able to pay down my credit card for a while, but I’ll be able to eat properly. First things first.
While my new Etsy shop is exciting and fun, I know it won’t be a big source of income. It’s more a place where I can put my work on display—the irreverent, naughty, and unsettling stuff I love. But, it was telling to me how much the sales this past week let me breathe a little easier. Just knowing a few more dollars were coming in made all the difference. And God bless the folks who pushed that Donation button! The world is full of generosity and love.
Which leads to Setting Priorities. My Work right now is to get back to my Bad-Assery manuscript and make art. Writing Captain America shorts keep the words flowing while I’m swinging high and low, but I’m committed to this memoir. And while it’s sometimes painful to write, I can’t let that keep me from it. To the front of the line it goes.
I have images and captions pulled together for a batch of Christmas and blank cards. I want to work on those every day and list them on Etsy. There’s a collage starting to coalesce in my brain, too, but that’s farther down the road.
Secure Back-Up and Down Time. Spending time with new and old friends will help me relax and feel real again. Hosting the meditation sit this morning at our UU fellowship will feed my spirit and my sense of competence. Being sick for so long, both mentally and physically, can make a person hold their breath on many levels. Now it’s time to breathe.
I’ve always used images of strong women in my discussion of Bipolar Bad-Assery. It’s a comfort to me to identify with those gun-toting, sword-wielding, no-nonsense gals. But, Bruce fits better today. Not because he’s a hero, but because he reminds me that I’m one, too. I imagine us both on a battlefield as the smoke clears, surveying the wreckage, then glancing across the mess at each other. We’re ready for what’s next.
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