Nobody is who we see them as. Even M. Gandhi. Even Elvis. Even Mother Teresa. However these folks and others had biographies written about them...so the perspective we have on them is closer to who they might have been.
I, most likely, will never have a biography written about me.
I can't say the same about you.
Anyway...
I had a friend once who said to me, "You are not the person I thought you were." I know, tell me what you think of that.
Now, I'm going to give you a big one on me...use it for good, not for evil.
I am indeed not who you think I am.
Though I prolifically dispense much information about myself, you still don't know me. It is truly remarkable to me the extent to which I freely disseminate myself and my laundry with abandon. Well, that is the price I pay. It may eventually pay off too. See, as a writer, it is my highest goal to publish. I think of it as one of my callings. From childhood. For me, I can only write what I know and experience. Therefore, the price I pay to eventually publish is to really be seen (sometimes with my undies showing).
But no matter how much I tell you, I'm still not who you think I am. I will elucidate on the matter of who I am a little later. First, I have to give you excuses.
Manic depression by it's very nature causes somewhat odd behavior that does not seem to gel with a person's personality. Often they are assumed synonymous.
If you think of manic depression as a brain disorder --just like other organic events affecting the brain's workings, such as a stroke, low blood sugar, traumatic brain damage, and the like-- you can actually understand why manifestations of shifts in personality occur.
If my brain is compromised by an organic, i.e. physical, disease, I, like a person with brain damage have difficulty discerning my own brain's shifts and fluctuations. The very organ that discerns such things is broke. Sometimes it is easier to believe that I sign off on my own instability with a wanton flip of my hand. That I do certain things on purpose. I can safely say that I must be in control. But success in managing and controling my own brain is much harder than it is for you. Know this if you know nothing else.
Personality and the brain are intimately connected. We don't like to believe that. We like to believe that our personalities are something innate and attached to our spirit more than our brain. Traumatic brain damaged individuals and stroke victims often have marked changes in personality at the onset of the damaging event.
Notice the verbiage "damaged" and "victim" and the lack of such compassionate verbiage connected with manic depression. Note this.
I worked at a head injury rehabilitation facility. Most of the families, if the resident had any family at all involved in their "rehab" --for brain damage results are often irreversible--, indicated significant changes in personality. These changes are frequently intolerable for friends and family. The brain trauma changed who they were to those around them.
Often brain damage in trauma and stroke manifests in poor anger control, shifts in mood, and memory problems. This is a familiar list to me.
So, my point being, I have an excuse for not being the person everyone expects me to be. I don't use this as an excuse, it is just simply an explanation. If you expect anything less than frustrated expectations, if you insist on being black & white, lack insight and understanding, then you can persist in thinking you know who I am. I, on the otherhand, have to be very flexible with myself. Any other viewpoint is deadly.
On a lighter note, let's talk about me, so you aren't surprised when you find these things out, traumatically, in the future. Save you the drama and trauma.
1. I frequently stop at 7-11 and purchase a large blue raspberry Slurpee and three jalapeno Toquitos. I like that my tongue turns blue.
2. I like NPR radio. Talk radio that even bores my mother.
3. I flip people off on the road. My mother worries about this with great consternation as she envisions me being a victim of road rage. I assure her, "I don't do it very often," but that doesn't seem to alleviate her terror.
4. When you ask me what I'm thinking --which is rare because I've usually already shared everything with you-- I will tell you something like, "I was thinking about the Roosevelt administration and how amazing it was." When, in all actuality, I was repeating the last inane sentence over and over in my head (because I am pretty sure I am undiagnosed autistic --maybe borderline at least). Such repetitions may be something like, "the mustard bottle", Or, "crank the wrench." It's always somewhat relevant to what I am doing whether eating bratwurst or fixing the lawn mower. The rhythm of such repetition is often soothing.
5. I do not like brushing my teeth and I don't do it for myself or even to assure a future with teeth. I do it for you. You should be grateful.
6. I'm not as cool as people say I am. Most of the cool things I do are so that you will think I am cool.
7. I do as little as possible to get good grades in school. I also rarely stay focused on the subject. I tend to go in my own direction absolutely convinced that I am following directions. Most of my professors marked my papers, "You completely missed the point of the assignment. However, the writing was excellent." And they would either give me an A or a B. If you think I am intelligent, it has few practical purposes. In fact, I rarely follow directions. Keep this in mind so that in the future you can say, "Hey, she told me this would happen. Maybe I should refrain from assuming it is a direct affront to me personally."
8. Many people have called me "bright". This really irritates me. I always think of bright as being just a level above mentally handicapped.
9. For that matter, I used to think I was retarded and no one would ever tell me. I think I was in college at the time.
10. I like Survivor. I know this is profoundly disappointing. I am disappointed in myself.
11. There are few things that irritate me more than my own fat rolls. I think fat is a terrible terrible injustice. I also think it is an unjust consequence to lack of exercise and eating foods high in fat.
12. I love alternative music, the kind that makes me girate in my car seat and sing nonsensical words because I can't understand the real words.
13. I would like a gun. I like shoting because I'm good at it. I have great control and can hit my target frequently. It is understandable that a gun gives me a sense of focus and control I do not have in any other area of my life. I like that.
14. I like to talk and write. If you don't like that, then we probably shouldn't be pals. You can just read my book.
15. I do not like being manic depressive. I like it sometimes because I like being consumately creative. I'd like that creativity to extend to my odd and shifting moods & behavior. I don't like being manic depressive. I like the company I keep though: Churchill, V. Woolf, Lincoln, Jim Carrey.
To be continued...
Saturday, May 30
Thursday, May 28
my peeps & asking
While in the hospital, two of my 9th floor cohabitants were sitting in the window overlooking the city. Hands in my pockets (as I'd finally been given my street clothes in lieu scrubs) I walked up behind them, assuming the same posture of observing as they were. I saw nothing particularly strange outside.
"What are you looking at?"
"We're counting people," as if this was a common game.
"Oh," I said. Then I succeeded in convincing one of them that a game of chess was far more entertaining.
I was counting people too though. Not people out on the streets below our hospital perch, but people I knew. People who were on the outside of my mental lockup. People who were THERE in the best possible sense of the word.
I was, and am still, finding out that people want to help me.
I don't like asking for help. Who does? But let me tell you --and then a few other people I know will confirm this-- I really don't like asking for help!
It has always profoundly embarrassed me that I need help. Asking for help in some areas is mortifying. I try to get on my feet as soon as I can when things go badly, because to do anything other than that implies too much.
Staying down for the count implies that I am weak. It implies that I am broken. It implies that I want to be successful less than I want to be a burden. It implies that I am weaker, the weak link, the guy who gets voted off the island first.
The reality is that my condition, not unlike that of any other physical condition, requires me to seek help and assistance. I have manic depression, and I do need help. I just rarely ask for it.
But the simple fact, for all of us, is that there are always people who want to help and we're always in need of assistance. Fortunately for me, these are people I know. People who know me. They have waited, and waited (for years in some cases), for me to ask for their help and assistance.
That's the golden ring...asking.
I didn't go calling every person I'm close to. Mind you, I was in the psychiatric unit. My energy was limited, and my time was spent attending to my brokenness. Not every person who cares for me knew I was in the hospital. For the time I was in the hospital, that crucial time, I relied heavily on the care, advocacy, and concern of those who knew where I was and those professionals devoted to my getting better.
My peeps.
If I take all the essential elements of life into consideration, I am blessed and highly favored by the Lord God.
Again, my peeps.
Let's take my cousin for example.
Let us just call her my sister from here on out, since neither of us has siblings anyway. She was there to guide me, by way of listening to what I needed, from the moment I asked for help. She advocated for me in the ER. She called me every day. She visited me almost every day.
Mind you...I have NEVER asked her for help before. Not this kind anyway.
It wasn't easy for her either. When the ER psychiatric doctor came back saying he wanted me to go into outpatient care, I cried. Why? I wanted the security of a psychiatric unit! I knew I had looked too good...that maybe I should have acted more crazy!
She said to him, in her straight-forward manner, "Are you not admitting her because she seems less needy? Don't let her fool you. She's used to looking better than she is."
"Well," he said...and then tried to explain something that sounded an awful lot like they wouldn't admit me because I didn't have insurance.
"I'm sorry," she said in a less than apologetic tone, "did you just say that you won't admit my cousin because she doesn't have insurance?"
And then she said some more things on the subject that made the doctor sort of stammer and then excuse himself to go, "make a phone call."
When he reappeared at the door a half hour later, excusing my "sitter" (all psych patients are sure to get a sitter in the ER) he informed us that I was admitted into the hospital. I cried again, because they heard me.
We celebrated too, which, I guess is sort of an unusual response in these cases, as the ER staff looked at us strangely, not knowing whether to celebrate for us.
But it was a moment to be celebrated! I had asked for help and I was getting it. I was so scared I would not get the help I so needed.
That is precisely why I don't like asking for help.
My sister/cousin came and saw me almost every day. Even when I was nearly comatose she came and spent time with me...I think. See, her work was just down the road and she had literally picked that particular hospital due to it's proximity to where she was everyday.
I know that my stay took a toll on my family. I think they must have been scared. I know they would not have let me know that they were. But for the first time, ever, they were involved in my crisis and recovery. Their involvement was frightening for me! They could disown me, or question me, or not understand at the very least. But it turned out very well! They all supported and still support me.
Inside.
On the inside swarmed many a professional who cared, with a Socratic oath, that I get better. My doctor was a man who smiled and joked with me. He also gave me drugs that finally worked. Nurses, OT's, and social workers hovered around me with refreshing boundaries and appropriate sentiment. They laughed with me and told stories. They sat with me when I was hardly there and they played games with me when I finally came to.
You may never know what this is like. But for me they were life savers!
Who are your peeps? Do you let them know when you need help and assistance? Are you embarrassed by your needs in some areas? Let me be your star in this matter --as Emerson said to "hitch your wagon to a star". I don't know if I'm a red dwarf star or a super nova, but you can heed my words when I tell you...ask for help.
It may very well be the best move you ever make!
"What are you looking at?"
"We're counting people," as if this was a common game.
"Oh," I said. Then I succeeded in convincing one of them that a game of chess was far more entertaining.
I was counting people too though. Not people out on the streets below our hospital perch, but people I knew. People who were on the outside of my mental lockup. People who were THERE in the best possible sense of the word.
I was, and am still, finding out that people want to help me.
I don't like asking for help. Who does? But let me tell you --and then a few other people I know will confirm this-- I really don't like asking for help!
It has always profoundly embarrassed me that I need help. Asking for help in some areas is mortifying. I try to get on my feet as soon as I can when things go badly, because to do anything other than that implies too much.
Staying down for the count implies that I am weak. It implies that I am broken. It implies that I want to be successful less than I want to be a burden. It implies that I am weaker, the weak link, the guy who gets voted off the island first.
The reality is that my condition, not unlike that of any other physical condition, requires me to seek help and assistance. I have manic depression, and I do need help. I just rarely ask for it.
But the simple fact, for all of us, is that there are always people who want to help and we're always in need of assistance. Fortunately for me, these are people I know. People who know me. They have waited, and waited (for years in some cases), for me to ask for their help and assistance.
That's the golden ring...asking.
I didn't go calling every person I'm close to. Mind you, I was in the psychiatric unit. My energy was limited, and my time was spent attending to my brokenness. Not every person who cares for me knew I was in the hospital. For the time I was in the hospital, that crucial time, I relied heavily on the care, advocacy, and concern of those who knew where I was and those professionals devoted to my getting better.
My peeps.
If I take all the essential elements of life into consideration, I am blessed and highly favored by the Lord God.
Again, my peeps.
Let's take my cousin for example.
Let us just call her my sister from here on out, since neither of us has siblings anyway. She was there to guide me, by way of listening to what I needed, from the moment I asked for help. She advocated for me in the ER. She called me every day. She visited me almost every day.
Mind you...I have NEVER asked her for help before. Not this kind anyway.
It wasn't easy for her either. When the ER psychiatric doctor came back saying he wanted me to go into outpatient care, I cried. Why? I wanted the security of a psychiatric unit! I knew I had looked too good...that maybe I should have acted more crazy!
She said to him, in her straight-forward manner, "Are you not admitting her because she seems less needy? Don't let her fool you. She's used to looking better than she is."
"Well," he said...and then tried to explain something that sounded an awful lot like they wouldn't admit me because I didn't have insurance.
"I'm sorry," she said in a less than apologetic tone, "did you just say that you won't admit my cousin because she doesn't have insurance?"
And then she said some more things on the subject that made the doctor sort of stammer and then excuse himself to go, "make a phone call."
When he reappeared at the door a half hour later, excusing my "sitter" (all psych patients are sure to get a sitter in the ER) he informed us that I was admitted into the hospital. I cried again, because they heard me.
We celebrated too, which, I guess is sort of an unusual response in these cases, as the ER staff looked at us strangely, not knowing whether to celebrate for us.
But it was a moment to be celebrated! I had asked for help and I was getting it. I was so scared I would not get the help I so needed.
That is precisely why I don't like asking for help.
My sister/cousin came and saw me almost every day. Even when I was nearly comatose she came and spent time with me...I think. See, her work was just down the road and she had literally picked that particular hospital due to it's proximity to where she was everyday.
I know that my stay took a toll on my family. I think they must have been scared. I know they would not have let me know that they were. But for the first time, ever, they were involved in my crisis and recovery. Their involvement was frightening for me! They could disown me, or question me, or not understand at the very least. But it turned out very well! They all supported and still support me.
Inside.
On the inside swarmed many a professional who cared, with a Socratic oath, that I get better. My doctor was a man who smiled and joked with me. He also gave me drugs that finally worked. Nurses, OT's, and social workers hovered around me with refreshing boundaries and appropriate sentiment. They laughed with me and told stories. They sat with me when I was hardly there and they played games with me when I finally came to.
You may never know what this is like. But for me they were life savers!
Who are your peeps? Do you let them know when you need help and assistance? Are you embarrassed by your needs in some areas? Let me be your star in this matter --as Emerson said to "hitch your wagon to a star". I don't know if I'm a red dwarf star or a super nova, but you can heed my words when I tell you...ask for help.
It may very well be the best move you ever make!
Tuesday, May 26
prop 8
What a controversy!
I think I might have two minds with regards to the California court upholding of prop 8 (the proposition against legal gay marriage in California).
First, what a travesty! It is so disheartening to get so close to something so cherished only to have it snatched back by people who don't like us. Feels like high school.
Second, what developed today (5/26) is a true testament to the fact that democracy is alive and well and the courts are sound.
It doesn't mean it's right.
It doesn't mean it's right.
First, I cannot think of anything that makes us (the GLBT community --Gay Lesbian Bisexual and Transgender) more irritated and frustrated than watching states allow same-sex marriages only to recind the privilege later.
There was a sweet little caveat. California's court upheld proposition 8, but they did not dissolve those marriages that were officiated during the short legal window before the upholding today.
Still, the old switch-a-roo does feel a little sophomoric and high school'ish.
I remember high school all too well, unfortunately. I remember how, no matter how uninformed the rumors, a person's high school experience was determined almost entirely by his/her reputation (i.e. what people WANTED to believe). I didn't experience anything like that (that I know of!), but I sure participated. This really isn't much different. That is not democracy and yet in some cases that is exactly how our democracy works. Amazing. Need I build this illustration any further or did some of you go to high school in foreign countries?
Secondly, our democracy is alive and well. By upholding proposition 8 the court, in essence, upheld the voice of the democratic majority. Our democracy is working like a charm. I'm glad to know that, even in the face of passions on both sides, the court heard the people. The majority...I think that's the way it works in the justice system? Ummm...
Maybe not. I think that the decision, both by the people and the court, upheld injustice.
I have to remember that the mind of the country has yet to change. YET.
So, in essence, again, injustice IS justice in the courts of this land (in this case). The majority still do not see sexual minorities issues as civil rights issues. We, as a country, have not accepted the GLBT (Gay Lesbian Bisexual Transgender) community as being part of a long history of groups treated unequally unjustifiably.
"Liberty and justice for all." Remember citing that in school?
I took that picture of the nation's Supreme Courthouse just last Fall. In huge letters above it's massive marble columns it says, "EQUAL JUSTICE UNDER LAW."
"Justice" is ambivalent in this circumstance. Yes, justice was upheld when the court listened to the people. Yes, somewhere in the law it is pronounced that gays cannot marry (I don't know where to find it). Thank God we don't see interracial marriage like we used to, or voting rights for women and other minorities.
However, the term justice also means that the court could have done what the court has been given lawfully to do --change the minds of the people by demonstrably correcting unjust laws, and thereby societal behavior and beliefs.
Changing the laws isn't about popular vote. Changing the law is about serving justice. Entirely different in cases such as this one.
Let me correct myself on my second point above:
"Politics" is what we have experienced today, not "justice".
What do you do?
accepting what you CAN change
"A wise man should consider that health is the greatest of human blessings, and learn how by his own thought to derive benefit from his illness."
--Hippocrates, the father of ancient & modern medicine
I was given a unique opportunity recently. I was hospitalized. I was given the realization that I have an illness which is as real as any other physical pain. I have manic depression and I am going to learn a lot from it.
Up to this point I have learned very little from it.
The first thing I'm going to learn is to accept that something is actually wrong.
"You feel ashamed of the fact that your nervous system is weak, This is vanity. You are vain to expect that all your systems must be perfect. I have yet to see a human being that has only perfect systems."
--Dr. Abraham Low from "Manage Your Fears Manage Your Anger"
You see, as much as I seem to have accepted that I have manic depression (bipolar I), as much as I write and talk about it, I still act as though I can and should be perfectly normal (this is not an uncommon symptom in manic depression). As though I am just like most people I believe I can succeed if I just put my best foot forward.
I have lived as though my every next step will indeed NOT be extraordinarily abnormal and maladjusted, and instead be successful like all my friends and family. More often than I can count, however, these steps have ended with my face in the mud. The poor prognosis of my unchecked disease is a reality that we all need to acknowledge.
I need to acknowledge the extreme potential that this manic depression has to ruin things, relationships, jobs, perfectly good opportunities, possibilities, and potential.
So where do you come in?
The ancient Egyptians did not differentiate between mental and physical illness. Hippocrates & the early Greeks came to understand that mental illnesses were a result of biological (not spiritual or purely thought) malfunction. Is it possible that we are still behind?
Hippocrates went on to teach and argue that disease itself was not a punishment inflicted by the gods, but rather a product of environmental factors, diet, and living habits.
I know we say we believe these same things. But come on! Even I, a mental illness masterpiece, often believes that if I just think "better" and try "harder" I would not get myself into the situations that I do. I too believe mostly that God refuses to heal me because I'm not trying hard enough. How can I blame anyone else for thinking the same thing, even knowing myself the unequaled mental effort I put into most days?
"Understanding alone will not help and has not helped any patient that has developed a long term nervous problem. The only thing that will help the patient is training, persistent training."
--Dr. Abraham Low Manage Your Fears Manage Your Anger
I can't rest on my laurels by accepting that I have a mental illness.
"Oh, well, I did that because I have a mental illness," isn't the best part of accepting that one has an illness. That house is not where the party is!
The best part of acceptance is I now have the opportunity to get better!
It's the same when someone suffers pneumonia. If she doesn't rest and stop trying to keep up with life as normal, she will stay sick longer and thereby perhaps scar her lungs irreparably.
Accepting that I have a mental illness, that it is real, doesn't stop there. I have to work like I've never worked before. I don't know that I've done that.
I mean, I HAVE worked!! I've worked my ASS off! I work every day to look like I'm on the same successful trajectory as everyone else I know. Trying to be "normal"; trying to do the normal things like hold a job. Despite my limitations I have achieved a lot really. Yet my success is sort of like a woven basket full of gaps and holes. But, I watch you all and I see successful living in some way, shape, or form in nearly all of you. Baskets being woven with some integrity to them. I want it, I covet it, I desire it.
But I work to get it in the wrong way.
It's like the guy, that same guy that shows up in all the jokes, who is in a shipwreck and treading water to save his life. A boat comes along and they offer him assistance.
"Nope," he says out of breath, "I'm waiting to be saved."
A helicopter hoovers over and they offer him a rope.
"Nope, I'm waiting to get saved."
A ship throws a life ring. He doesn't take hold of it.
Gulping for air, "I'm waiting."
He finally drowns because the big hand in the sky didn't come down and save him.
My limitations are in my body.
I can't tread water forever, waiting for a big hand in the sky take care of all my resulting mistakes. However, my perspective is much like the guy treading water and doing his best to stay alive until he's saved. It's just that there are better sources of survival than treading water like your life depends on it.
I have worked so hard to blend into the world and to make a real difference before being taken out by my very real limitation. It always happens you know...that inevitable fall in the mud. Maybe I sound like I'm feeling sorry for myself, but that's the truth, deal with it...I am!
"Once you have accomplished a conquest over a nervous symptom, your victory is astounding. Ordinary people don't do it."
--Dr. Abraham Low
I like being extraordinary, so I like that quote!
Dr. Abraham Low died in '54. His primary body of work with "nervous patients" was done a couple decades earlier --thus the archaic psychological terms. It's refreshing isn't it?
He says "nervous problem" instead of "mental illness". The term "persistent training" is now "cognitive behavioral therapy" --meaning one must get a handle on mental disorders through the use of extreme retraining of thoughts and the will. He talks about the "nervous system" as being just part of the many systems by which we are kept alive.
Dr. Low is my new man. I didn't like him before now. The difference? I now accept and understand that in order to run a marathon you have to build up to running that far. I accept that I can do something.
I want to be better. Oh, how I need to have those moments of victory when I know I've overcome a devastating symptom of my manic depression! I want to know I've done something astounding that few people have had to do. I desire, covet, and want success of my will over the symptoms of manic depression. Oh, how I want success.
Do you want something that grand and simple at the same time?
--Hippocrates, the father of ancient & modern medicine
I was given a unique opportunity recently. I was hospitalized. I was given the realization that I have an illness which is as real as any other physical pain. I have manic depression and I am going to learn a lot from it.
Up to this point I have learned very little from it.
The first thing I'm going to learn is to accept that something is actually wrong.
"You feel ashamed of the fact that your nervous system is weak, This is vanity. You are vain to expect that all your systems must be perfect. I have yet to see a human being that has only perfect systems."
--Dr. Abraham Low from "Manage Your Fears Manage Your Anger"
You see, as much as I seem to have accepted that I have manic depression (bipolar I), as much as I write and talk about it, I still act as though I can and should be perfectly normal (this is not an uncommon symptom in manic depression). As though I am just like most people I believe I can succeed if I just put my best foot forward.
I have lived as though my every next step will indeed NOT be extraordinarily abnormal and maladjusted, and instead be successful like all my friends and family. More often than I can count, however, these steps have ended with my face in the mud. The poor prognosis of my unchecked disease is a reality that we all need to acknowledge.
I need to acknowledge the extreme potential that this manic depression has to ruin things, relationships, jobs, perfectly good opportunities, possibilities, and potential.
So where do you come in?
The ancient Egyptians did not differentiate between mental and physical illness. Hippocrates & the early Greeks came to understand that mental illnesses were a result of biological (not spiritual or purely thought) malfunction. Is it possible that we are still behind?
Hippocrates went on to teach and argue that disease itself was not a punishment inflicted by the gods, but rather a product of environmental factors, diet, and living habits.
I know we say we believe these same things. But come on! Even I, a mental illness masterpiece, often believes that if I just think "better" and try "harder" I would not get myself into the situations that I do. I too believe mostly that God refuses to heal me because I'm not trying hard enough. How can I blame anyone else for thinking the same thing, even knowing myself the unequaled mental effort I put into most days?
"Understanding alone will not help and has not helped any patient that has developed a long term nervous problem. The only thing that will help the patient is training, persistent training."
--Dr. Abraham Low Manage Your Fears Manage Your Anger
I can't rest on my laurels by accepting that I have a mental illness.
"Oh, well, I did that because I have a mental illness," isn't the best part of accepting that one has an illness. That house is not where the party is!
The best part of acceptance is I now have the opportunity to get better!
It's the same when someone suffers pneumonia. If she doesn't rest and stop trying to keep up with life as normal, she will stay sick longer and thereby perhaps scar her lungs irreparably.
Accepting that I have a mental illness, that it is real, doesn't stop there. I have to work like I've never worked before. I don't know that I've done that.
I mean, I HAVE worked!! I've worked my ASS off! I work every day to look like I'm on the same successful trajectory as everyone else I know. Trying to be "normal"; trying to do the normal things like hold a job. Despite my limitations I have achieved a lot really. Yet my success is sort of like a woven basket full of gaps and holes. But, I watch you all and I see successful living in some way, shape, or form in nearly all of you. Baskets being woven with some integrity to them. I want it, I covet it, I desire it.
But I work to get it in the wrong way.
It's like the guy, that same guy that shows up in all the jokes, who is in a shipwreck and treading water to save his life. A boat comes along and they offer him assistance.
"Nope," he says out of breath, "I'm waiting to be saved."
A helicopter hoovers over and they offer him a rope.
"Nope, I'm waiting to get saved."
A ship throws a life ring. He doesn't take hold of it.
Gulping for air, "I'm waiting."
He finally drowns because the big hand in the sky didn't come down and save him.
My limitations are in my body.
I can't tread water forever, waiting for a big hand in the sky take care of all my resulting mistakes. However, my perspective is much like the guy treading water and doing his best to stay alive until he's saved. It's just that there are better sources of survival than treading water like your life depends on it.
I have worked so hard to blend into the world and to make a real difference before being taken out by my very real limitation. It always happens you know...that inevitable fall in the mud. Maybe I sound like I'm feeling sorry for myself, but that's the truth, deal with it...I am!
"Once you have accomplished a conquest over a nervous symptom, your victory is astounding. Ordinary people don't do it."
--Dr. Abraham Low
I like being extraordinary, so I like that quote!
Dr. Abraham Low died in '54. His primary body of work with "nervous patients" was done a couple decades earlier --thus the archaic psychological terms. It's refreshing isn't it?
He says "nervous problem" instead of "mental illness". The term "persistent training" is now "cognitive behavioral therapy" --meaning one must get a handle on mental disorders through the use of extreme retraining of thoughts and the will. He talks about the "nervous system" as being just part of the many systems by which we are kept alive.
Dr. Low is my new man. I didn't like him before now. The difference? I now accept and understand that in order to run a marathon you have to build up to running that far. I accept that I can do something.
I want to be better. Oh, how I need to have those moments of victory when I know I've overcome a devastating symptom of my manic depression! I want to know I've done something astounding that few people have had to do. I desire, covet, and want success of my will over the symptoms of manic depression. Oh, how I want success.
Do you want something that grand and simple at the same time?
Friday, May 22
part II of "end game" -- analysis paralysis
"Seek God in everyone and in everything." --Mother Teresa of Calcutta
There I lay. Empty hospital room devoid of anything one could creatively use as a weapon against oneself. Literally. But figuratively I found the emptiness disarming. No phone. No computer. No trinkets, no bobbles, no nic knacks, nothing on the walls to fixate and obsess on. It was quiet. In my head it was quiet. Finally.
Nobody could get to me unless they knew the password. I couldn't even get to me for I had forgotten the password myself.
Still, I wondered. I wondered if I needed to analyze and strategize my situation. Did I need to wonder about the inevitable financial cost of my stay? Did I need to make calls? Did I need to think about what my family was doing with the reality that their child/niece/cousin had locked herself up in intensive psychiatric care? Did I need to think about anything at all?
The answer was "no." No, I didn't have to think. No, I didn't have to think of what others were doing with their reality. No, I didn't have to think about the financial costs of what I was doing. I didn't have to think about anything--not my next meal, or my meds, my clothes (as they were taken away), or anything outside my room.
In fact my family and friends were taking care of pressing matters.
A break. No pressure. Time to heal. I was finding God in nothing.
As far my mental health was concerned I was in good hands for the first time, maybe ever. Later, when I was more conscious, they told me I was nearly unconscious for going on 4 days. I see this time as equivalent to the inducement of a medical coma for patients who need the energy to heal from severe injuries.
The BRAIN is slowed to a near halt so the healing can have a chance. Our brains are powerful and the energy they take up requires we spend a 1/3 of our life sleeping.
While in that room I came to understand that I didn't have to think about anything in my past either.
I analyze my past. To clarify, I analyze everything. That makes me, in all truth, a good counselor and writer. But analyzing my own past has become quite toxic as I do it with sharp knives and hatchets with which to do harm to myself. I'm much more compassionate with my clients' pasts. It is my own life which "deserves" critical analysis.
Both the drugs and the environment I was provided gave me rest. I had not known the extent to which my mind had been racing or the confusion that had set in until my head was not steeped in it anymore. I was so tired.
"Analysis Paralysis".
It is a saying I learned in my Bipolar support group. Full of characters with quirky personalities, this group was my refuge for the past several months in Spokane, Wa. They loved me, and I always love people who love me. It seems narcissistic but it's really actually safe and smart. Let's just say it is better than loving people who are ambivalent towards you or hate you. That's another blog post altogether. And I digress...
The group was elated and a bit open mouthed that I'd never heard of "Analysis Paralysis." They insisted I implement it in my life right away. I didn't. Obviously.
But the point of the saying is that over analyzing leads to a complete inability to actually accomplish anything realistic. The manic depressive mind is overwhelmed with the rapid firing of brain cells. At a biological cellular level the brain short circuits with so much information passing between neurons. One would think this might be a great thing, but the speed eventually turns the brain into a blender of thoughts. Leaving you with a blended thought frappaccino.
The ultimate goal of the manic depressive person is to diffuse the biology with militant thought stopping. It is difficult because our neurotransmitters (the little messenger boys) are chemically predisposed to flying around at break-neck speeds only to bounce ineffectively off of calcium encrusted neurons. It makes for a lot of thinking that goes nowhere.
I liken thought stopping to pulling your own teeth like Tom Hanks in Cast Away.
My coma was an expensive but necessary step in the healing of my mind. Yet, as the coma wore off and I ventured into the curious and odd 9th floor community, I had to start thinking about not thinking so much.
Analysis is my M.O., thought stopping is my saving grace, my mental health hangs in the balance. Balance between the facts that I make a life of analysis as a writer and counselor, but my mental health success depends on my not going too fast, too far, too often.
"Seek God in everyone and in everything." Is it easier to find God with a lot or a little? "Don't look for big things, just do small things with great love."
In that hospital room I experienced a piece of what Mother Teresa might well have been talking about. Though I can be tempted to analyze to the minutia, I am more successful simply NOT being compelled to be too acute or obtuse.
Balance is what I seek. Please pray for all of us.
There I lay. Empty hospital room devoid of anything one could creatively use as a weapon against oneself. Literally. But figuratively I found the emptiness disarming. No phone. No computer. No trinkets, no bobbles, no nic knacks, nothing on the walls to fixate and obsess on. It was quiet. In my head it was quiet. Finally.
Nobody could get to me unless they knew the password. I couldn't even get to me for I had forgotten the password myself.
Still, I wondered. I wondered if I needed to analyze and strategize my situation. Did I need to wonder about the inevitable financial cost of my stay? Did I need to make calls? Did I need to think about what my family was doing with the reality that their child/niece/cousin had locked herself up in intensive psychiatric care? Did I need to think about anything at all?
The answer was "no." No, I didn't have to think. No, I didn't have to think of what others were doing with their reality. No, I didn't have to think about the financial costs of what I was doing. I didn't have to think about anything--not my next meal, or my meds, my clothes (as they were taken away), or anything outside my room.
In fact my family and friends were taking care of pressing matters.
A break. No pressure. Time to heal. I was finding God in nothing.
As far my mental health was concerned I was in good hands for the first time, maybe ever. Later, when I was more conscious, they told me I was nearly unconscious for going on 4 days. I see this time as equivalent to the inducement of a medical coma for patients who need the energy to heal from severe injuries.
The BRAIN is slowed to a near halt so the healing can have a chance. Our brains are powerful and the energy they take up requires we spend a 1/3 of our life sleeping.
While in that room I came to understand that I didn't have to think about anything in my past either.
I analyze my past. To clarify, I analyze everything. That makes me, in all truth, a good counselor and writer. But analyzing my own past has become quite toxic as I do it with sharp knives and hatchets with which to do harm to myself. I'm much more compassionate with my clients' pasts. It is my own life which "deserves" critical analysis.
Both the drugs and the environment I was provided gave me rest. I had not known the extent to which my mind had been racing or the confusion that had set in until my head was not steeped in it anymore. I was so tired.
"Analysis Paralysis".
It is a saying I learned in my Bipolar support group. Full of characters with quirky personalities, this group was my refuge for the past several months in Spokane, Wa. They loved me, and I always love people who love me. It seems narcissistic but it's really actually safe and smart. Let's just say it is better than loving people who are ambivalent towards you or hate you. That's another blog post altogether. And I digress...
The group was elated and a bit open mouthed that I'd never heard of "Analysis Paralysis." They insisted I implement it in my life right away. I didn't. Obviously.
But the point of the saying is that over analyzing leads to a complete inability to actually accomplish anything realistic. The manic depressive mind is overwhelmed with the rapid firing of brain cells. At a biological cellular level the brain short circuits with so much information passing between neurons. One would think this might be a great thing, but the speed eventually turns the brain into a blender of thoughts. Leaving you with a blended thought frappaccino.
The ultimate goal of the manic depressive person is to diffuse the biology with militant thought stopping. It is difficult because our neurotransmitters (the little messenger boys) are chemically predisposed to flying around at break-neck speeds only to bounce ineffectively off of calcium encrusted neurons. It makes for a lot of thinking that goes nowhere.
I liken thought stopping to pulling your own teeth like Tom Hanks in Cast Away.
My coma was an expensive but necessary step in the healing of my mind. Yet, as the coma wore off and I ventured into the curious and odd 9th floor community, I had to start thinking about not thinking so much.
Analysis is my M.O., thought stopping is my saving grace, my mental health hangs in the balance. Balance between the facts that I make a life of analysis as a writer and counselor, but my mental health success depends on my not going too fast, too far, too often.
"Seek God in everyone and in everything." Is it easier to find God with a lot or a little? "Don't look for big things, just do small things with great love."
In that hospital room I experienced a piece of what Mother Teresa might well have been talking about. Though I can be tempted to analyze to the minutia, I am more successful simply NOT being compelled to be too acute or obtuse.
Balance is what I seek. Please pray for all of us.
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End Game of Manic Depression
I recently found myself on the 9th floor of a local hospital. The Psychiatric ward.
"Found myself" is a bit misleading. The way a person usually ends up in the psych ward is not as glamorous as Hollywood would lead us lemmings to believe. We're not usually carried in screaming. Most of us enter in a non-eventful fasion, with little fanfare...but we leave behind us a series of destructive and remarkable events. Finally we enter into care voluntarily, a little subdued from our previous state of agitation or psychosis (not always), and smarting from broken relationships and a stinging pride.
Have you ever wondered what a hospital psych ward is really like? Sound scary? A bit uneasy about the idea? Especially the prospect of YOU being the committed one? I think it may not surprise you that I liked it.
Yes, like.
I have never checked myself into a hospital, though I should have on at least 2 other occasions. The idea of going into a psych ward, since my first psychotic episode, has never frighted me. If a stay in the hospital seems like a great idea as compared to the scary and evil you live in your head outside the hospital, then you're guaranteed to be a good 9th floor candidate.
Being admitted into the hospital doesn't look weird generally. No thrashing, muttering, and pulling your hair while rapidly shuffling around the ER with your bum hanging out the ill fitted robe. That is the exception, really.
Usually, our families are the one's who bring us in. Not always, but often they're the ones left who will help. I mean, manic depression drives people away. I don't drive people away. But I let my brain chemistry and what it does to me drive people away.
Usually we are cooperative because we know we aren't coping outside the hospital walls.
Washington is a voluntary commitment state only. I'm not too proud to say that I have needed to check myself into a hospital, even before this time. However, I AM too proud to have actually done it those two times before.
Perhaps it is my 43rd year of life that convinced me there was only something to gainby going in this time. Maybe it was the very broken and shattered relationship that seemed at stake. Perhaps it was the frightening effect of the things I was seeing...things that were not real but which I had to convince myself otherwise nevertheless. Whatever the reasons, they absolutely added up to my going WAY out of the box and becoming a ward of the hospital for a couple weeks.
"Found myself" is a bit misleading. The way a person usually ends up in the psych ward is not as glamorous as Hollywood would lead us lemmings to believe. We're not usually carried in screaming. Most of us enter in a non-eventful fasion, with little fanfare...but we leave behind us a series of destructive and remarkable events. Finally we enter into care voluntarily, a little subdued from our previous state of agitation or psychosis (not always), and smarting from broken relationships and a stinging pride.
Have you ever wondered what a hospital psych ward is really like? Sound scary? A bit uneasy about the idea? Especially the prospect of YOU being the committed one? I think it may not surprise you that I liked it.
Yes, like.
I have never checked myself into a hospital, though I should have on at least 2 other occasions. The idea of going into a psych ward, since my first psychotic episode, has never frighted me. If a stay in the hospital seems like a great idea as compared to the scary and evil you live in your head outside the hospital, then you're guaranteed to be a good 9th floor candidate.
Being admitted into the hospital doesn't look weird generally. No thrashing, muttering, and pulling your hair while rapidly shuffling around the ER with your bum hanging out the ill fitted robe. That is the exception, really.
Usually, our families are the one's who bring us in. Not always, but often they're the ones left who will help. I mean, manic depression drives people away. I don't drive people away. But I let my brain chemistry and what it does to me drive people away.
Usually we are cooperative because we know we aren't coping outside the hospital walls.
Washington is a voluntary commitment state only. I'm not too proud to say that I have needed to check myself into a hospital, even before this time. However, I AM too proud to have actually done it those two times before.
Perhaps it is my 43rd year of life that convinced me there was only something to gainby going in this time. Maybe it was the very broken and shattered relationship that seemed at stake. Perhaps it was the frightening effect of the things I was seeing...things that were not real but which I had to convince myself otherwise nevertheless. Whatever the reasons, they absolutely added up to my going WAY out of the box and becoming a ward of the hospital for a couple weeks.
Doctors, nurses, social workers, OT's, psychiatrists, all converged on me with great care and concern. That in itself was healing. I literally turned myself off for a number of days. In the controlled and compassionate environment my head began to mend.
I have, in the past, lay in my bed or just stayed inside and done what I could to stay alive during the days of suicide, depression, and rapid cycling of thoughts. I slept, walked, tried to do normalcy until the symptoms abated. It was not easy. It wasn't unlike squeezing dry super-glue through a tiny hole. Something like waiting out a mood may sound easy, but "easy" is NOT losing days of my life to the voracious appetite of the imbalanced organ in my head.
For the first 4-5 days of my hospital stay I received my care passively. I did, in fact, shuffle around the halls...when I wasn't sleeping. I was given medications to slow my brain down, and it slowed all of me down. I slept and slept and slept. I finally woke up not knowing the day nor caring to find out.
They were taking care of me. Waking me to give me my meds, waking me to eat, waking me to talk about how I was doing. "I don't know," was generally my reply at that point. I didn't care how I felt. I had stopped thinking. And that is a good thing for someone like me.
There were other people around me and I didn't care. I didn't want to have to care. I always care. This time it was about me being given a small period of time to find and do something extraordinary, different, and life changing...
2 B Continued...
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