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.

Its a New Dawn

After living in our new home for two months, my sister, my cat and I are getting used to the new rhythm. We survived the holidays (which is the only time I can accurately predict those bipolar meltdowns), and it feels like we are turning a corner. At least I am.

I like to have a PLAN. It’s not that I always follow through, but creating a PLAN gives me comfort and a sense of control over my uncontrollable life. I’ve learned that simple is best and baby steps even better—if I hope to get anywhere at all.

Today’s plan is to take a walk first thing every morning.

I’ve tried to get into a walking routine many times since the arthritis in my knee started shouting. It hurts to walk, and I’m a weenie. But, swimming is part of the Covid-past, so walking and yoga are what I have to work with.

After binge-eating all day yesterday, I’m a bit worried about becoming an obese invalid. Visions of the fire department and a crane dance among the rotting sugar plums in my brain.

Compulsive Overeating is a whole other brain monster, so I will concentrate on walking. Getting out the door and pointing myself in a direction is all I require of the weenie. I can’t be concerned with how far or how fast. I want to make this a routine, which will take time and consistency. I know I can consistently get out the door every morning.

Boom!

A new day dawns. I’m sure you know how I feel.

November 18, 2020

Geese-song in the sun behind me. Blood-rose riding the living air. Squirrel-alarm, upside down, from the neighbor’s tree.

Something roars in the distance. A long-held note. Too steady to be natural. Only Man makes things so static.

I ebb. I crescendo. I blaze like our wintering garden.

Please, let me be waking up.

One Giant Leap

As I tried to think outside my bipolar management box this summer, I kept coming back to the increased isolation caused by COVID-19. So, I asked my sister if it would be possible to live together.

Not only was she agreeable, but completely willing to sell her house so we could find a place that fit us. In just a couple of weeks, we found the right house with a lovely garden situated in a quiet neighborhood. She takes possession tomorrow and we will be moved in by the end of the month.

I know this will make a huge difference in my mental health. Just to hear someone else puttering around. And I believe my sister when she says it will be good for her too.

So, here’s to stepping outside the box!



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.

Switching the Message

I am changing as the world changes.  My world kaleidoscopes inward, spiraling smaller and smaller.  Some days, it scares me.  Some days, I’m content.

Lately, I find little desire to create.  The art I made before holds little meaning or the kind of depth this changing requires.  Some days that scares me.  Some days, I’m content.

What soothed and distracted me before has lost its power.  I am left alone with my brain—the labyrinths and dark pits.  Some days they scare me.  Some days, I’m content.

I need a new banner, a new battle cry, because this—all this—feels like a battle.  But more like the battle a chick wages to emerge from her egg shell.  Something new is being birthed—in me, in the country, in the world.

I can’t choose between these two:

Never give Up. Never Surrender. —”Galaxy Quest”

Oh, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, that has such people in ‘t! —William Shakespeare

So, I choose both—the common sourced from silliness and the erudite sourced from genius.  Something new will shake out from their pairing, something with flavors of fear and acceptance, I’ll wager.

And I am willing.  Still on the Adventure.

Petting the Black Dog

Searching for shows I haven’t watched (it’s getting harder, isn’t it?), I found Flowers—a very odd, very dark British comedy about family dysfunction, depression and madness.  It’s a total HOOT!  Plus, I love Olivia Coleman in whatever she does.

Anyhoo… this is the second or third time I’ve heard depression called The Black Dog as in “when the Black Dog is on him…”  It’s a delicious descriptor.  Littermate to the Hound of the Baskervilles.

So, I’m petting the Black Dog a lot lately.  He just seems pretty content to snooze on the rug indefinitely.  Gratefully, the amphetamine I take gives me a few hours of oomph before he crawls into my lap.  Here’s one of the things I’m doing with that time…

A while ago (who can keep track of time now), I made some little art journals with all the cup sleeves saved from my coffee excursions.  I sent them off to arty friends, but kept one for myself.

I’m turning it into a love letter to the coffee shop.

The drive-through is one of the few places I can talk to a live person without wearing a mask.  They are kind and funny, and they give me delicious succor.  I know I’d be lost without that little bit of contact and a way to pamper myself.  Making a journal seemed like a fun and different way to thank them.

I colored the pages by adding a few drops of ink to wet coffee grounds.  I made little pockets out of arted-up coffee filters to hide little treasures like this repurposed gum box.

Mostly, I’m making little collages, incorporating pictures I’ve taken of the shops (drive through and sit down) and the staff.

I’m working in miniature, which I love.  Laying down this poem with itty bitty letters saved from magazines took a whole day.  But the result was so worth it.

Expressing thanks helps shove the Black Dog off my lap for a while.  And working in miniature keeps my mind distracted from his whining.  Any relief, no matter how brief, from his weight and stinky dog-breath is a blessing—a chance to breathe and maybe take a sip of something yummy.

I’ll be making more of these little blank journals in the not-so-distant future, so if you’d like one, let me know.

Using It

I didn’t know what to do with the agitation after voting in our primary this morning, so I made the Glue Card for tomorrow’s challenge. The prompt just happened to be “Protest.”

Now I think I can get on with the day.

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