Getting Real

I just got back from getting my Real ID. It’s a perfect morning in eastern Oklahoma—bright, clear, cool—so the short drive over the Arkansas River with the pretty foothills in the southeast pulled my shoulders down from my ears. I’ve been fighting a sinus infection for the last week. Getting out and breathing in the beauty of today was better medicine than anything on my nightstand.

Getting a Real ID—the one that gives a person more access than a regular driver’s license—takes some preparation. This kind of red tape is stressful for me. Ghosts of Doing It Wrong rise up and cluck. But when I dug out my passport, it surprised me by still being valid. It also rolled out wonderful memories of my whirlwind trip to England in 2014 and stirred my current fantasy of visiting Scotland some far-off day.

Whirlwind Souvenirs

I was Real when I traveled to England, but realized I’d lost that sense of myself. Too much stress. Too many changes. Too many dreams abandoned—Trump, Covid, Oklahoma and adapting to life with my sister. My bipolar disorder wrapped me up like a quilt and bundled me into a safe, padded room.

Today, my illness feels lighter. Today, my art is coming back, like red-tailed hawks came back to Iowa after DDT left the ecosystem. The birds migrated to a place where their eggs could be viable, but eventually came home again when it was safe.

My art seems to be laying eggs again, too. I’m getting new ideas, using new elements, trying scarier and out-of-my-comfort-zone things. Like making little watercolor and marker sketches of my own to illustrate my cards.

A walk through my sister’s lovely backyard garden gave me lots of deadfall and other treasures to make some different kinds of cards. Sewing something so fragile feels like a meditation, and I haven’t been able to meditate in a long while.

My therapist and I are also working with a new (for me) kind of therapy called Acceptance and Commitment Therapy. Lots of familiar behavioral and mindfulness elements presented in a new way. One of my first tasks was to sort through What Is Important To Me. Honestly, I wasn’t sure anymore, so that took time. And now I’m journaling about how I move toward those things or values. You can see how much progress I’ve made so far.

With this unmoored sense of self, I will have to dig to find ways I am actively seeking the things I say I value—if I’m doing that at all. And it’s scary to think how much they might have changed or if I just abandoned what I loved and valued. But that’s what therapy is for, right? To set a new course. To Get Real.

And maybe, when I’m a Real Girl again, and the Covid pigs fly, and the Border Unicorns prance open, I’ll take my passport to Scotland and breathe in the beauty there.

Oh, today I am blessed with Adventure.

Team Thanos

I was always Team Thanos when the Avengers movies came out. Honestly, the guy was misunderstood. Cut the population in half with no suffering. Cut across all political, social, and income levels. Bring the Earth (and every planet) back into balance. Covid is trying, but it’s not nearly as fair.

Tighter restrictions are back in place since the rise of active cases. I know a lot of people who refuse to get vaccinated, and others who think being vaccinated is the only precaution they need to take. Here in beef country, ranchers are dosing themselves with cattle dewormer instead of getting a shot. I think we deserve a visit from Thanos.

Today, I’d be happy to provide one of his vacancies. After a spell of soul-crushing depression, I got up this morning determined to Do The Work of managing my illness. I packed up my traveling art studio and headed to Starbucks… which is closed again. And it’s not like arting is a comfort anymore, though if I work really hard at it, I can find some distraction from the ugly in my head.

And from the growing sclerosis that continues to crystalize around my heart. It’s easier to feel nothing, to shut all doors, to cancel anything that brings me in contact with people.

Easier, but it also makes me feel less human.

Yeah, okay, I’m contradictory and contrary. Bite me.

Still determined, I stopped on my way home to get a healthy smoothie, pulling out the little bit of Bipolar Badass that hides in my hindbrain. I will art on my bed with Marvel’s Agents of SHIELD running in the background, and I will try to distract myself by making cards for the people I still have feelings for, even if I have to root around a while to find a soft spot in my heart.

If I can find it, I can nurture it with art. I know I can.

But if Thanos shows up for supper, I’m splitting a pizza with him.

Happy Long Weekend

Hope you and all your critters have plenty of hidey–holes when the fireworks start (and go on and on and on and…)

Amazing

Eli from Israel asked me to make an OMG! card for him. He told me he has two cats and dreams of being a father. He also likes Maya Angelou.

Eli, if you happen to see this before the card arrives in the mail, I’m sorry to spoil the surprise. Like all the special orders I am privileged to make, they come at the exact time I need to make them.

I’m moving through another long trough where my head is filled with possible suicide options. Normally, I wait until I’m on the other side of said trough (you know. To be POSITIVE and UPLIFTING), but it feels important to share where I am now.

Maybe to name it. Maybe to ask for support. Maybe to poke holes in the red rage that encapsulates it. Maybe just to be honest.

A song came up on my iPod a few days ago that grabbed me by the throat. It was from another life when I was a different person. My friend Frank Anthony, who is dead now, singing about Light and Truth, resurrected memories of great Love and Compassion. I remembered singing with him and my friend Carol. I remembered laughing HARD with Lily. I remembered using my hands and my voice to heal and comfort. I remembered being Present.

Now I’m an angry person, more likely to say “Fuck you” than “Thank you.” I opt for numb instead of present. Those memories felt like a story I might have written long ago.

“Divination” for my Round Robin Journaling group

And yet. And yet.

Beauty can still call me back.

A young woman just walked in front of the coffee shop window with a huge bouquet of cut flowers blazing color against the rainy-gray day.

A lithe, smoky-gray cat slipped between the tires of a parked pick-up and blinked up at me with water-clear eyes.

I’m still able to breathe “Thank you” when Beauty arrives.

To me, that’s amazing.

Today

Today the illness is quiet.

Color steals back into the iris outside my window; pale, pale lavender with throats of orange.

Chores and tasks long neglected get taken care of without thought or effort.

Ideas come. Art that has shied away from my ruthless brain offers small enticements.

I am coaxed back into living.

Ten Years Blogging

Gosh, it seems I’ve been indulging myself on this blog longer than ten years. Maybe life with bipolar disorder is like dog-years. Or maybe the rift in the Space/Time continuum is actually in my head. Must talk to The Doctor about that.

I seriously thought about closing out A Mind Divided. I’ve told my story, shared my process, tried to wait until the Lesson was Learned before posting. It felt like there was nothing new to report, just recycling the same ups and downs. And I was in a long mixed-state episode, which makes me want to quit everything.

But then, I met a new bipolar friend, and I was reminded that our journey is all we really have to share. My posts may be numbingly repetitious to me, but to him (and maybe others) it’s new. Maybe helpful.

Going through a three-week episode and coming out the other side is part of the Long Journey. I know from experience that today is all I have, so I must make the best of it. I have a few moments to make amends and repairs (I’m sorry I yelled and threw pillows at you, Sissy), to pick up pieces that got left behind (reschedule the dentist appointment I forgot), to allow the art that wants to be made.

Mostly, today is for remembering who I am. I am not my illness. I am not alone. I am not the distorted, negative thoughts my illness conjures up. I am alive, and grateful, and surrounded by kindness and support. I am remarkable.

And, so, A Mind Divided continues.

Walkabout

I don’t often pull out my Walkabout Journal. It’s used for creating art out of whatever I find on my walks. Usually, the amount of trash I see depresses me more than inspires me, so I sorta gave up on that concept.

How-some-ever, last week I visited Civitan Park for the first time. The park is close to home, and offers trails plus some scraggly woods. When I found a funky snack bag, I knew I needed to look a little closer at the trash there.

Civitan Park

I found a few more interesting things (though I left the used condom where it lay in the parking lot), and talked to a beautiful tree that was dying and losing all its bark. Then, I came home and worked on this for a couple of days.

I went to the park originally to sit in my car and journal. That has taken the place of camping out in a coffee shop like I used to do pre-Covid. It’s nowhere near as satisfying, but it gets me out of the house and making art in a different, albeit cramped and chilly, environment.

This winter has made me a little claustrophobic with Covid’s lack of options. I do so miss the thick smell of coffee in a shop, the patrons with their laptops, and the baristas’ banter.

My Sissy has a lovely Keurig coffee maker, and I subscribe to Hugh Jackman’s Laughing Man coffee cups, but it’s just not the same (though this add is one of my favorite things in life).

I like the idea of making Car-Journaling into a full event—arting, walking, and scavenging for Walkabout fodder. I’ll be on the lookout for other parks to visit now, instead of just waiting for warmer weather and the lure of my coffee shops’ outdoor seating. Winters are mild here compared to what I’m used to. I don’t want to waste them.

The Next Simple Thing

I’ve “gotten out the door” every day for almost two weeks. I feel good about that. Doesn’t matter if I went to the mailbox and back or if I explored the neighborhood. I’m moving my grumpy knee.

The Next Thing is to pay attention to my gut.

Who knows what all is going on there? Compulsive Eating Disorder, Leaky Gut Syndrome, allergies, food intolerances, addiction… I’ve tried all my adult life to control my eating. And by that standard, I’ve failed every time.

How-some-ever, I do know a few things.

1. I’ve been eating crap consistently since Covid started.

2. I’ve gained weight. Don’t know how much since I threw away my scale years ago, but my grumpy knee says it’s a significant amount.

3. My gut is disturbed and unhappy. Everyone knows what that feels like and the explosive ways it can manifest.

4. Some foods make it worse. Some foods make it better.

Today I pulled out my old notes on Leaky Gut (since eating the foods on that list makes my gut happier) and started a grocery list. I also downloaded a recipe book onto my Kindle. I realized that was probably a waste since I have a mental block about cooking, but who knows?

I’m just trying to pay attention, to hold it all lightly. I will have days of clarity and days of fog. I will resist and I will fly.

I feel like I’m launching buoys with these simple tasks. When the bipolar symptoms swamp me or the compulsive eating pulls me under, I have something to focus on when the waters recede. When the weirdness of Covid-life pushes me farther from shore, I can hear those little bells in the distance. Instead of treading water, I can float toward my buoys. And then, swim.

Yeah, it’s still an Adventure.

A Report from the New Normal

A friend reminded me that I hadn’t posted here in a while.  Fact is, I have nothing useful to offer.

Severe depression seems to be my new COVID-era normal.  Art can’t touch it.  Drugs rarely provide enough energy to do a load of laundry or make a run to the grocery store.  Not often enough to consider myself “functional.”

In another time and place, I would be hospitalized.  As it is, I try to keep my head down as I slog through the Suicidal Ideation mire.  One foot in front of the other.

With no other options, I am shamelessly asking for help on FaceBook—from the friends and family who know me there.  Help comes.  Groceries and prepared meals from real live people near me; in cold boxes and online deliveries from those far away.  I’ve asked that folks clean out their desks and attics for collage fodder—old pictures, papers, receipts, music sheets, letters—anything flat and weird that might kindle a spark of creative oomph.  I’ve asked them to remind me who I am to them, if I mean anything at all, since I’ve lost perspective about all that.

I can’t wait for the cycle to shift anymore.  I may get a boost now and then, but my little marble rolls back to this trough with no real mood change.  Like everyone else in the world, I have to do things differently.  I have to ask for help, not once, but repeatedly.  I have to get over the shame of that, get over my upbringing, get over myself.

Just one more fucking Adventure.

Never Give Up. Never Surrender.

 


Never Give Up. Never Surrender. —Galaxy Quest

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