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.

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.

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.

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.

Floating a Little


And to everyone who responded to yesterday’s blog post with such generosity, kindness and compassion.  It is still pretty bleak in my world, but at least I took a shower.  And I feel something today other than done.  Thank you for that.

 

• Post Title and Inspiration:

Mary Oliver — Still, what I want in my life is to be willing to be dazzled–To cast aside the weight of facts–And maybe even to float a little above this difficult world.

Keeping Promises

When I started blogging in 2011, I splattered my illness onto the screen without much of a filter.  It was a relief to tell my story, to have a place to spew.  But, it didn’t take long to realize that approach wasn’t helpful to anyone who might be reading.  So, I made some rules:  I’d tell the truth (in as much as I knew it) and I’d wait until I got the Lesson until I posted about my latest wrestling match with bipolar disorder.

These rules served me well.  They kept me from reacting out of the capricious mood swings and distorted thinking that take my mind hostage.  The rules gave me some integrity.

I’m in such a bad place right now, I don’t know if I’m breaking my rules or not.  History tells me this suicidal-level of depression will shift, so I should wait before I write something that could make someone else feel bad.  But, there’s that other rule about telling the truth.  I started posting my Floating a Little series to be helpful, to be like Pluto, sending out a little Light or a chuckle, even if I can’t feel it.  The one I posted today felt like such a lie, even though I know that thought is the illness being in control.

I know the thing to do is to walk away from the blog until something fundamental in my brain chemistry shifts.  AND I need to reach out, to tell people who have said they care about me that I am not functioning well.  Am I breaking all my rules or taking care of myself?  I think the answer is YES.

One promise, one rule, I will never break is the one I made to Henry and Emmett after my suicide attempt in 2009.  I will never take my own life while one of them lives.  Emmett may be somewhere around 17 years old, but he’s healthy, and strong, and plans to bug me for a good long while.  He keeps me here when I want to check out.  He pulls me back from “the Raggedy Edge,” as Malcolm Reynolds would say.  I may not want to live anymore, but I do for him.

The longer I keep my promise to him, the more likely a shift will come.  I can feel a seed of truth there, and that’s shiny enough for now.

Sinking

Isolation and Mental Wellness…

…are incompatible. At least that’s what every Professional has told me since I was a wee Bipolarling . Self-isolation is one of the diagnostic tick boxes for clinical depression in the DSM–5. It can act as a harbinger of worsening symptoms and suicide.

But what happens when isolation, or Social Distancing, isn’t something we choose? If the studies about what solitary confinement does to a prisoner’s brain apply—even to a small degree— a different kind of crisis might be around the bend for those of us Around the Bend.  And perhaps for the Neuro-Normal as well.

Or not.

Maybe it’s just that I’ve had it drilled into me that being alone too much is BAD. Over the past two years, I’ve gotten used to not interacting with another soul for days. I’m finding that the less I interact with people, the less I’m able to interact, like the prisoners who suffered solitary confinement.  I can see and feel that socializing is a muscle that needs regular use to keep from being atrophied.  But my current therapist isn’t alarmed. I’m older now—geriatric—and she says solitude in that age bracket is normal.

Huh.

I’m not sure what to think about that. Do I actually have permission to stop trying so hard to make connections? It would be like ditching the bra when you get home—such a relief! Or is there something more subtle going on. Depression in the elderly is more common than most people think. So, could solitude and depression still be in play? Is some level of depression considered (by Professionals) normal for older folk?

My therapist thinks not.  She says elder folk suffer more situational depression from death of loved ones, loss of income, physical debilitation and the like.  In my mind, that’s a lot of depression— situational or not.

I don’t want to atrophy.  I don’t want the World Brain to atrophy.  But I know it takes a lot of work to push past the barriers of isolation—work that’s gotten harder and harder to justify in my own cramped mind.  Will the World be willing to work that hard when the pandemic fades?

 

The Pointy End

Most days, the amphetamine I take for Binge Eating Disorder lifts the depression end of my Bipolar stick.  It will feel like a Lost Day when I wake up in the morning, but then the Vyvanse kicks in and functionality returns.

Other days, like today, the drug doesn’t do a thing.

Weird that.  But drugs and their supposed effects are weird and ephemeral.  And there’s no accounting for the weirdness of brain chemistry.  Or the weather.  Or Mercury’s pull on the tides.

All I can do is shift my stick into low gear and jettison any plans I might have made.  Self-care becomes the priority.

The most important thing is to avoid beating myself with the Stick, and to keep the pointy end aimed elsewhere.  Let that be a warning.

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