Penny Positive #74

From An Optimist’s Calendar

This one speaks to me today since I just got off the phone with my sister and my soon-to-be new landlord.  We are GO to move in thirty days to a two-bedroom, two-bathroom duplex with hardwood floors and a bird-attracting backyard for the old boys.  It is the kind of space I’ve dreamed about—open, filled with light, more studio space, a whole bathroom for the cats.  It makes the past month or so of wild rapid cycling a small price to pay.



Sunrise turns the derelict house across the street


I am inside watching.

There is nothing golden here.

I Wasn’t Cut Out to Be a Cheerleader

After tumbling around for a couple of months in the worst my bipolarity can offer, I resolved to set aside all thought, expectation, plans and hope of moving.  It would happen in its own time (in months, maybe, or even a year), but until then I needed to reengage with my life instead of living with one foot out the door.  The stretch of that cheerleader’s pose had strained my brain into a constant trembling.  Mental-muscle exhaustion.

I could feel the eminence of a raging relapse on the horizon.  I had to do more than Wait.  So, I made appointments with my therapist, reinstated my Y membership, asked my cleaning lady to postpone her scheduled attack on my Moving Out Cleaning List.  I asked my friends on dates, opening doors that I’d almost closed.

Armed with a new Plan, I slid my foot back inside the door of my life as it is, not what it might become.  I slept a little better.  My capacity seemed a little deeper.

And, of course, yesterday my sister called to say the Move is On.  The tenant I’m replacing is being evicted, and the townhouse could be ready for me as soon as mid-April.

handmade cards, collage artHowever, my new-found footing kept me from spinning at this news.  I’m sorry for whatever reason this woman must be expelled from her home.  I send my heart out to her, hoping she can find a better home, hoping she has support and help to transplant her to a place that is loving and absent of fear.  I also refuse to take note of that “mid-April” business.  It’s just an invitation to more brain-splits, and I’m not having it.

Worried, my sister wanted to know how I was taking this news.  I said I’d just do the next thing (scan and email her all the documentation required), then eat supper.  And if it falls through, that’s fine, because I’m on terra firma.

As I was scanning and emailing last night, I checked my In Box to find a new message from Art Journaling Magazine.  My journal passed muster, and I’ve been invited to write a 700-800 word article about it.  As one of the artists featured in that (as yet unknown) issue, I’ll be part of a forum where we’re asked questions like: How did you get started in art journaling?  What’s your favorite way to fill empty spaces on a journal page? How would you describe your style?

I had to laugh.  If there’s anything I believe in, it’s synchronisity.  In finding my balance and feeling my agitation and anxiety abate, I became ready for The Next Thing.  And after all my years of struggling to be a published writer, it comes to me now on the wings of an art form I love more dearly than writing.

The Universe is a perverse and whimsical partner.  But, I’m much better at dancing with It than I am at cheerleading.


Comfort Me, O, My Soul

After some semi-comatose recovery time from my Taos-Fail, I wheeled my art cart into Starbucks yesterday and camped out for the morning.  Surrounding my surrogate-self on the page with the warm, chuffing bulk of pachyderms coaxed my sore brain to a softer place.

I also started working with my Panda Planner, a tool my therapist highly recommends.  Along with the regular planner-type stuff, it fosters brain health with headings like What I’m Grateful For, Things I’m Looking Forward To, and a nightly review that includes Wins for the Day.

I feel like I’m starting to crawl out from under the stress of moving (or not knowing when I’ll move) and get back to things that need attention.  Slowly.  Carefully.  I don’t want to startle the elephants.


Penny Positive #63

From An Optimist’s Calendar

I didn’t go to Taos today like I’ve been planning for months.  I missed my plane and figuring out the next steps was suddenly more than I could manage.  Instead, I retrieved my suitcase and came home.  Relieved.  Exhausted.  Aware, now, of how fragile and diminished my capacity has become recently.  Which is okay.

I took care of myself by coming home.  I will continue to do so.

It’s all Okay.



Saying Good-Bye Well: Part 2

Today was my last appointment with my therapist, Megan.  Last week I had my last visit with my nurse practitioner, Sarah.  There’s been a lot of blubbing (as the BBC might say), and not all on my side of the couch.

I thought I would be a mess.  These two women saved my life many times over.  They taught me how to be bipolar and still function in the world.  When they set up their clinic almost three years ago, they created a sanctuary for me where I was always welcome to hang out with my art supplies.  They are the most professional care providers I’ve ever had.  And I know, without a doubt, that they love me.

I know, too, that their consistency is the reason I can leave them.  I take everything they’ve taught me, their humor, and their open-heartedness with me.  I will be fine, whoever I find in Muskogee to be my therapist.  It will be a new relationship enriched by the healthy, positive ones I had with Megan and Sarah.

Today, the three of us ate lunch in Sarah’s office, laughing and leaking tears in equal measure.  I know this sounds horrid, but their distress lifted me up.   I’ve been struggling with all the uncertainty of this move—not knowing when it will happen, making lists I can’t act on.  Today’s loving closure gave me a much-needed sense of a job well done.  I drove home feeling lighter than I had in weeks.

In her card to me, Megan wrote in part:

I am a better person and a better provider because of the things I have learned in our work together.  You are super fucking awesome, and I will miss you tremendously.

Sarah wrote:

“In a world of ordinary mortals, you are a wonder woman.” —Queen Hippolyta (Wonder Woman’s mom).  I will miss you dearly.

I am so grateful to have had them on My Adventure.

The Birchwood Team. Megan—back row, second from left. Sarah—front row, in the chair


Arting Away The Megrims

I’m frozen. Anticipation paralysis. A mixed-state too fast-moving to be displaced by my usual trickery.

I have the Moving Out Cleaning Checklist from my landlord, but all I can do is read it. Over and over. I know I must pull together supplies to take to the art workshop in Taos, but I watch Season 3 of “Poldark” instead.

Still. I have my journal.

This morning my sister texted that she showed this spread to her Merry Widows group last night. Two of the members are professional artists. They said I must join the Artists’ Guild as soon as I get to Muskogee.

Somewhere, off in the distance, I hear ice cracking.


Pass the Xanax

Direct correlation:  The more real moving to Oklahoma becomes, the higher my anxiety and general state of mania.

This is no big surprise, just annoying.

I found out the movers will pack everything (I don’t even have to empty out my drawers), get it on a truck and be on the road in just a few hours.  Shane, the boss, kept saying, “You don’t have much.  Shouldn’t take more than an hour to pack.”  The benefits of minimal living.

With that weight off my sizzling brain, I gave my sister the green light to start our apartment search in earnest.  My nephew had already alerted her to a townhouse (I’m so verklempt that he’s involved), that turned out to be everything I want and more for a very reasonable rent price.  Still three bedrooms and two baths seems HUGE, so sissy and her realtor friend will look at a few more places next week for due diligence, but I’m guessing it will be townhouse living for me.

Now, all I have to do is manage my heebie jeebies and prepare for my trip to Taos where I’ll spend a week with my favorite spiritual artist, Orly Avirneri, and a conclave of painty-fingered friends.  Part of doing both tasks has been making a journal for the workshop.  I found these disemboweled book covers at an antique mall a while back, intending them for just this purpose, so it felt good to put a couple to use (and focus my scattered attention).  I’m out of waxed thread, though, so have to wait for that order to come before I can bind the signatures in place.

I can’t sit still long enough to enjoy my magazines, which is my GoTo for mind balm.  So, I’m just doodling in my new journal, which seems to be doing the trick—at least for now.  I’ll have to take my gimpy knee and hit the pool this weekend to burn off some of this excess adrenaline.

In the meantime, pass the Xanax, please.


7 Years and Counting

For A Mind Divided’s seventh birthday, I thought I’d look up my very first post.  Hmm…somehow this seems so familiar…

Insanity, Creativity and Living in the Now

When I was first diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I thought my life had ended.  And in a very real sense, it did.  Parts of my life fell off like flesh off a zombie–my home, my job, my friends, my ability to support myself, my ability to live independently.  In the months and years that followed, the lessons of living in the NOW and letting go of attachments kept repeating.  Living with bipolar disorder (BP) was like living in a constant fire.  It burned away everything I thought I knew about myself and how the world works.  But with fire comes new growth that could never happen otherwise.  I’m finding that to be true in my life as well.

While I always considered myself a writer, I also became an artist because of BP.  I needed a way to express the chaos I felt and the wild shifts from despair to joy and back again.  My study of the world’s religions deepened.  I explored the science and metaphysics of the brain.  I also fell in love with “Criminal Minds” and “Fringe.”

I invite you to journey with me into the overlapping realms of mental illness, creativity and spirituality.  There will be fire and ice, but also miracles.

Of that I’m certain.


This. Instead of Hiding.

“Heartbreak is how we mature; yet we use the word heartbreak as if it only occurs when things have gone wrong: an unrequited love, a shattered dream, a child lost before their time.

Heartbreak… is something we hope we can avoid; something to guard against, a chasm to be carefully looked for and then walked around; the hope is to find a way to place our feet where the elemental forces of life will keep us in the manner to which we want to be accustomed and which will keep us from the losses that all other human beings have experienced without exception since the beginning of conscious time.

But heartbreak may be the very essence of being human, of being on the journey from here to there, and of coming to care deeply for what we find along the way… If heartbreak is inevitable and inescapable, it might be asking us to look for it and make friends with it, to see it as our constant and instructive companion, and even perhaps, in the depth of its impact as well as in its hindsight, to see it as its own reward.

Heartbreak asks us not to look for an alternative path, because there is no alternative path. It is a deeper introduction to what we love and have loved, an inescapable and often beautiful question, something or someone who has been with us all along, asking us to be ready for the last letting go.”

— David Whyte

This quote from David Whyte calls me to be open and available instead of hiding in my apartment until I move to Oklahoma. Leaving will break my heart in many ways as much as moving will give me a new way to be and a family nest. My practice, then, is to lean into the heartbreak, trusting in the gifts it will bring.


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