I hardly recognize myself. Twelve days of clear skies and mental calm seas. Fourteen days since the last time my illness made me jump in the truck and escape to the movies. I get up, go to the Y and come home to my own table with my own chai. A few weeks ago, the thought of living without a coffee shop would have made me weep with grief. Now, it’s nothing. Nothing.
I come home and journal with my own chai, work on my manuscript as easily as I type this. No angst, no sharp hooks of remembered pain when I enter the old journals. Just typing.
I prepare a hearty lunch of sautéed vegetables and pasta. I cook every day. Cook with pleasure. A few weeks ago the idea of cooking filled me with terror. Now, it’s nothing. Nothing.
There’s a bone-deep satisfaction in all I’m doing, how I can choose to stay home, prepare my meals, walk to the Y. I’m saving money. Me. When only a few weeks ago I didn’t know how I would survive to the end of the month. The strangle-hold of poverty let go. In this place of gentle weather, I have enough, and I can make this choice to set money aside for my car fund. A choice. I have a choice.
In the afternoons, I go back to the Y and walk with my iPod. The music pulls the day together—the work, the pleasure, the satisfaction all flow into my feet and my swinging arms. Here I am.
I go home to make a card, blend a fruit smoothie, and sit with Jane Austen. The cats gather. Night grows deeper. We listen to the music singing us, so quiet and calm. And it’s nothing. Nothing.
In an unusual stroke of magnanimity, the Bipolar Gods (Bill and Ted, I think) have granted me a little respite. Nine days since my last urge to bolt. Nine days of saving money instead of spending it. Nine days of reacquainting myself with my inks and papers. Nine days of reading quietly in the evenings with Missy Higgins on the stereo and Emmett providing a nice head rest on the back of my chair.
It’s not until the cycling stops that I can see I’ve just passed through Hell. As I’m going through it, I always feel I’m managing pretty well, keeping my head down, stepping carefully through the lava and acid. I take short sips of breath to keep from burning my lungs. I brace myself for the demons that jump out of the dark with their pointy teeth and pokey tridents. I squeeze into the tiniest target possible.
But when I pass through the Gates, the relief is so shocking—fresh air on scalded skin, the ability to uncurl and stand upright. This time I realized I hadn’t taken a deep breath in six months.
And once the shock wears off there’s so much to do—salvage, and reconstruction, and reinforcement of the structures that will carry me through the next Descent. But, there’s joy in the ability to do instead of survive. And moments of pause to feel the delicious weightlessness of No Mood. Always knowing this, too, will pass, but appreciating every hour Bill and Ted grant me.
My friend, David, at Live & Learn introduces me to amazing music every week. I found Missy Higgins through him and want to share this lovely music video of hers. It might help with whatever is burning you today.
As with most things I do when I’m stable, I’m totally rocking my Smart Car Quest—walking to the Y, saving all my errands for one trip, eating at home, keeping a list of things I want in order to delay gratification. And just as I hoped, the Universe is conspiring to assist. Yesterday, a friend offered to let me use a spare phone she just happens to have on her service plan. She may also have a little job for me keeping a website up to date. And as I promised, I’m staying open and accepting of the gifts coming my way. With gratitude.
It feels so good to take back some control over my life. Even if this is as fleeting as my mood, a few days of determining my own destiny helps me remember that being bipolar doesn’t have to equal being helpless. Or alone.
Here’s a shot of my front door, where I stick all things inspirational. Bruce is still coming to me in my dreams. And I’ve added my own version of the typical work safety sign. I’m aiming to put that puppy into the double digits. Because…
The mental weather finally cleared. Time once again to take stock and adjust accordingly. This time the task seems even bigger, but here goes.
The pattern of my life over the past several years has been one of survival, doing whatever I needed to get from one crisis to the next. When disaster struck, I slapped on a band-aid and crossed my fingers. I worked with my compulsions, hoping I could loosen their grip, but only managed spotty success. Compulsive eating and spending still sabotaged any effort to make lasting changes in my life.
But, I have to keep trying.
Living in crisis mode and learning to live in the Now blocks thoughts of the future. Most of the time, this is a good thing. To survive, one needs to focus on the immediate threat, not on planning the post-battle celebration feast. Living in the Now keeps fear at bay and allows for gratitude in what’s happening in the moment. Moving with the flow of life and recognizing synchronisity are spiritual tools I need in order to dance with the wild swings of my bipolar disorder. But, I think I need to do more than dance in a circle.
My friend, Rob, who visits here sometimes, said something a while back that stuck with me. He and a friend were talking, and his friend said, “It’s kinda foolish to set goals but makes sense to head off in a direction and see where it goes.” I love this gentle approach. And I think it’s time for me to point myself in a direction.
I drive my dad’s 15-year-old Ford truck—a huge, sturdy, gas-inhaler. It won’t be long now before it’s old innards start needing more resuscitation than I (or my family) can afford. It’s still spry and agile, but the last time I got the oil changed, my mechanic mentioned gaskets and seals in an off-hand, “not-to-worry” way. I immediately shoved the information aside. I’d slap a band-aid on that when the time came.
But, what I’d really like to do is get a new car—a small, inexpensive, fuel-efficient one. I’d like a car that didn’t cost me $70 every time I visited the gas station or was ready for the four-wheel nursing home. Specifically, I want a Smart Car.
For someone who lives from Disability check to Disability check and relies on regular hand-outs from family and friends, this seems like a true fantasy. I tried living without a vehicle for one summer, and I did all right while I was stable. But as soon as I started to cycle and the walls closed in around me, I needed a way to escape. Running down the street didn’t seem to work. I know I need a vehicle of some kind to keep the heebies from jeebying off the charts.
So, how do I do this? How do I save money when my illness can push me to spend every cent I have?
Yesterday, I sat down to map out a plan, knowing full well that in a day or two or three, said plan might as well be written on toilet paper. Bad-Ass Training gave me a little hope, though. I’ll do the best I can wherever I am on my mental spectrum, try to put some structure in place that can carry over to the crazy times, and take a few definitive steps now.
The first thing I did was cancel my cable and telephone land line service. This will give me $70 to put in my car fund each month (once I pay off the termination fee). I’ll go back to walking as much as possible (spring is bound to come soon, right?) to save on gas. But, most importantly, I’ll focus my awareness on my compulsive spending and the impulse to bolt. Not that I haven’t tried this before. But, in order to save money, I have to try not to spend it. And where I spend most of my money is on those rabbitty bolts out of town. I’m hoping that having a goal to focus on will help. And maybe coming up with some other options. I will see my therapist on Wednesday, and we’ll brainstorm.
I have no idea if this will work. But, I have to try. Like Rob’s friend said, I’ll head off in this direction and see where it goes. Maybe I’ll find some synchronisity and flow along the way. I’ll let you know, because really…
I hardly know how to function in this quiet place.
For the last couple of weeks, there’s been no drama, no hysterics, no uncontrollable urges. I get up and go about my day, paying attention to what I eat, making sure I work out morning and evening, working on my manuscript. I volunteered to be on the program committee for our UU fellowship, so I’m thinking about what our group wants in the way of spiritual substance. I show up at the meditation groups I host and listen to what teachings might be called forward. I touch base with my friends.
Anxiety still rises at times. My Bad-Ass Training kicks in and, for now, it’s enough to keep me from spiraling. Yesterday, I sat at the Hy Vee cafe in the light of the big windows with my iPod crooning in my ears. The urge to bolt came on strong—Get Out! Go to Des Moines! I wrote about it in my journal, then went out into the grocery store for Veggie Sticks (think healthy Cheetos) and a couple of movies from the Redbox. I spent $10 instead of $60 and stayed home. I felt like a warrior.
I tell the folks in meditation that developing consciousness is about holding tension—doing something that’s a little uncomfortable because it’s the right thing to do, then doing it again and again. Soon our capacity for doing what’s difficult grows. When my illness is quiet, I can practice what I preach.
Well, that’s not exactly true. I hold tension most of the time, but when I’m ill, my capacity is very small. And if there’s too much tension, my illness snaps like a rubber band in reaction. That’s a learning, too, to be aware of that point of no return. So, in this quieter place, it’s a little scary to challenge those urges to give up, eat, run, spend, relax or whatever my ego might prefer. After months of being very gentle with myself, I’m not used to pushing hard.
So, today, again, I get up and go about my day—watching, testing and holding a little more tension.
It’s been a few weeks since I started facilitating two different meditation groups in town. One meditation group would be a miracle. So what does it mean that I’ve been blessed to play host to two of them? An abundance of riches, it feels like to me.
The folks who gather at Lite for Life, a weight-loss center, are all new to meditation (except for my friend, Kim, the center manager). Some have never tried it before and are a little nervous (Is this a cult? Will we levitate?). Some are testing the waters, dropping in a time or two, then leaving. But since the group hasn’t met for very long, all that is in flux. Which is right and proper. It’s thrilling for me to help these folks learn a simple practice of mindfulness. I’m honored to hold the space for them and field their questions. That’s the one thing I’ve learned as a teacher —the teachings will rise naturally from the students’ experience of meditation. There’s never any need to “prepare” a lesson. Every session is new and different, and perfect for the people who are there.
The second group is an Unitarian Universalist Small Group. We formed this more intimate group to gather each Sunday before the larger fellowship in order to meditate together and support each other in our spiritual search. So far, the folks who have chosen to attend are all experienced meditators and have been practicing on their own for some time. Sitting together in a group is new to most, and the differences and benefits have surprised and delighted everyone. Again, I’m humbled and honored to be chosen as the facilitator—at least for the time being. I imagine we’ll start passing around the leadership fairly quickly, as all these folks have so much to offer.
Grateful doesn’t begin to encompass what I feel about these two groups. Teaching meditation is a calling. When I told my psychiatrist that I was about to start this, the first question she asked me was, “How much are you going to charge?” That shocked me. But since I’m always going on about how poor I am, I thought I’d better take a look at that question. Around the same time, a friend and I took a tour of the Maharishi University in Fairfield, Iowa.
I was a little shocked to learn that it costs $1500 to be properly trained in Transcendental Meditation. I understand that there are different methods and practices, but that seemed extreme to me. I understood then why my shrink thought I should be charging money for teaching. But, in my tradition, meditation is taught freely. It’s a practice and skill that is so beneficial to one’s body and mind, that everyone should have access to it. At least that’s what I was taught. And it settled my mind to make that clear.
Teaching and facilitating meditation groups is a skill I’m privileged to provide. I enjoy the practice of teaching as much as the sit itself and know that I’m good at this Work. What a blessing to serve and be part of a community again.
I’ve been struggling to hold my compulsive behaviors at bay, which is like telling the ocean to be still. When the bipolar tide comes in, there’s no arguing with it. Silly wall of water! You just go back out to sea where you belong! Sure, I could scold all day long. Trouble is, I’d still drown.
When I’m severely agitated, I bolt. I can’t make myself stay in my apartment or even in town. I have to get in my truck and drive. Usually to a friendly coffee shop in Ames or Des Moines where I can sip and write in my journal. This soothes me. This allows the anxiety and hysteria to ooze out until I can once again function like a human being.
I used to be able to moderate my rabbitty behavior by going to a coffee shop here in town. But, Haven closed, and all the other cafés or bakeries or restaurants have too many strikes against them—too expensive, too loud, too dark, bad food, bad coffee, bad service, and the worst—uncomfortable chairs. I have no middle ground anymore, no place where I can get away from my apartment without driving at least 45 minutes.
This is not an ideal situation for someone with no money. I have to charge gasoline to my credit card, but can’t pay the balance. So it grows. And if I try to pay more on the balance each month, I have no cash and dip into the tiny cushion of my checking account. So that’s shrinking, too. As I sink deeper in debt, the stress of trying to physically rein in my symptoms and the squeeze of lack triggers more agitation, depression and manic flights of escape. This morning I could not see a way out of this loop. And the undertow of hopelessness pulled me under.
I talked to my mental health clinic about payee services in my area. Could I find someone to help me manage my money? But the thought of turning over my credit card or trying to “budget” my flights out of town made me sob out loud. I thought about what else I could eliminate from my expenses. I thought about asking my mom for money. Everything seemed penny-pinching and ineffective. The only real solution is to be mentally stable. Silly old mental illness! Just go back to whatever genetic pool you came from and let me get on with my life!
I’m too poor to be bipolar, that’s all there is to it.
Hysteria is never helpful. I recognized this as I sobbed into my napkin and the other patrons at Panera tried not to stare. Yes, my compulsive behaviors are active and overwhelming at present. Yes, I am in debt. But, I have people who love me and won’t let me end up sleeping in my truck. This season will pass.
I don’t have a solution. My view is too narrow and constricted right now. But, that actually seems okay. There are just some things that can’t be fixed. Like bipolar disorder itself, maybe this is another partner I have to write onto my dance card. I don’t know. Not knowing is terrifying, but I can relieve myself of the burden to fix this situation for now. That helps.
It’s like floating. When the ocean seizes a person, they can fight and exhaust themselves, or they can float and save their strength. For now, I’ll float and dream of life rafts.
Awake at 4:00. Panic and sinking despair. Read email and blogs to calm, calm, calm. But the discomfort like gravel under the skin, ants in the brain. Go! Go! Go! Dash water on our face and find clean underwear. Enough grooming. Go! Will jump in the truck and Drive. To the Forbidden City. Starbucks. A movie later.
Another voice. So quiet. *wait.
Check billfold. $45 to last two more weeks. Not enough. Check movies and times. Ah, one we haven’t seen. Print out the free soda coupon. Check bank account. Balance on the Visa is HighHighHigh. Nothing left in checking.
*don’t do this today.
We lay on the floor to listen better to the quiet voice. Want to bolt. Need to bolt. But can’t squeeze past the facts. Have to. Have to. Can’t stay in town. No proper coffee in town anymore. No proper writing place. Can’t come back to the apartment-prison. Can’tCan’tCan’t. Go now.
*wait. can you hold the tension?
No. Too much. Drowning.
*think of it like an experiment. try, and see what happens. try one thing.
On the floor with Henry watching from the chair. We can go to the Y. Ride the recumbent bike. Walk.
*yes, then what?
Then, we’ll see.
*good.
We walk to the Y. Ride the bike. Moving through syrup. Pain. Exhausted before starting. Stumbling tired after.
*what now?
Experimenting and holding the tension of flight or fight.
*can you stay? *can you keep from spending money today?
We will stay in town. We have a gift card for the movies here. Maybe go later. Forget going to the inadequate cafe. Make our own chai. Need almond milk. Forget going to the grocery store. Too tired. Too much pain. Make a meal from what we have. Healthy, but too much. Staying, but eating. Can only hold so much tension. Drop into eating and watching a movie. Then, drop into full sleep. For hours.
Wake up like a drunk. Out on the sidewalk with the iPod and an apple. Walk. Eat a proper snack. Feel the breeze—sun-warm on the top, October-cool on the bottom. Shuffle through drifts of leaves. Plodding, plodding. Still, the gravel under the skin. Still, the ants in the brain. Feet are platters, swollen and sore. Body feels huge, bloated. FeelFeelFeel. But, the urgent voice is quiet. Only the Other voice is here.
*breathe. turn your face to the sun. yes…
We miss our street concentrating on putting one platter in front of the other. Funny. At home, we pound a nail and hang a picture. We need a companion for this picture. TensionTensionTension. Online we find one. Not too expensive. And we need double-sided tape. And…and…and… Tension stretches and snaps. Running free. Almost. Remove items from the shopping cart. DeleteDeleteDelete. $35 spent. Not too bad.
*come back to holding the tension. be curious. can you keep coming back?
Daylight fades. Henry sits at the window watching the street go dark. Time to shroud the TV. Time to write. Time to breathe. In and out. Like the tension. Like the experiment. In and out.
“Cautious Bad-Ass” sounds like an oxymoron, but that’s how I’m feeling. I’m back in training—shoring up the battlements this last episode weakened, cleaning and loading all my gear, digging out the shrapnel. But, there’s no steam snorting out my nostrils, no fury driving the calisthenics. This was a bad one, and I worry that the physical and mental toll from suicidal depression on top of pneumonia took something vital out of me. I took a hit to the spirit.
But, then I think of Bruce Willis, especially in these “mature” years. I watched him in Looper yesterday—not just his character, but the man. Confident in his skill, but contained. Ready and able to take incredible risks, but only when required and only at the right time. A finely tuned instrument with focus and power.
Holding this version of Bruce in my mind, I know it’s okay to re-enter my training quietly. It might even be prudent. I’ll do what needs to be done in a measured way, step by step, letting the rhythm fill my depleted stores and realign the broken bones. No sudden moves unless required. So, what will that look like?
Clean Eating. I’m grateful that even though I binged through most of the last six weeks, I had no compulsion to return to animal protein. I have no idea what that means, so I’m trying not to attach magical properties to it. My task now is to return to the good habits I had started—keeping a food journal, attending TOPS, paying attention to portions, and spending my grocery money in the produce section.
My friend, Kim, manages a franchise for Lite for Life—a company that focuses on balancing blood sugar as a way to get healthy and lose weight. She offered me a scholarship for the program, which is an incredible gift. I’m not sure yet how this will fit into my plan of “no sudden moves,” but Kim is more about spiritual healing than pounds on a scale. I have a feeling this will be an adventure for both of us.
Strength & Stamina. I’m weak and congested. It will take time to get back to my fighting form. But, I’m already walking everywhere I can, and I’ll keep that up into winter. I’m taking it slow in my water aerobics classes. Yesterday I got back on the recumbent bike and kept up a good pace, but I was exhausted afterward. Slow, slow, slow.
Gather Accurate Intel. I have to be honest with myself. Well, it’s always important to watch for delusion and distorted thinking, but getting back into training requires brutal honesty. I can’t ignore my current physical limitations or block out observations from my team. I can’t blow off stressful situations. I can’t talk myself out of doing whatever it takes to come back to myself.
Plug the Leaks. Compulsions and old patterns drained my bank account, my energy, and my cupboards. Before I can Lay in More Supplies, I have to stop the hemorrhaging—pay my bills, attend to proper sleep hygiene, allow my friends and family to support and assist. I took a fearless accounting of my money and adjusted my budget to one that was more reasonable. I won’t be able to pay down my credit card for a while, but I’ll be able to eat properly. First things first.
While my new Etsy shop is exciting and fun, I know it won’t be a big source of income. It’s more a place where I can put my work on display—the irreverent, naughty, and unsettling stuff I love. But, it was telling to me how much the sales this past week let me breathe a little easier. Just knowing a few more dollars were coming in made all the difference. And God bless the folks who pushed that Donation button! The world is full of generosity and love.
Which leads to Setting Priorities. My Work right now is to get back to my Bad-Assery manuscript and make art. Writing Captain America shorts keep the words flowing while I’m swinging high and low, but I’m committed to this memoir. And while it’s sometimes painful to write, I can’t let that keep me from it. To the front of the line it goes.
I have images and captions pulled together for a batch of Christmas and blank cards. I want to work on those every day and list them on Etsy. There’s a collage starting to coalesce in my brain, too, but that’s farther down the road.
Secure Back-Up and Down Time. Spending time with new and old friends will help me relax and feel real again. Hosting the meditation sit this morning at our UU fellowship will feed my spirit and my sense of competence. Being sick for so long, both mentally and physically, can make a person hold their breath on many levels. Now it’s time to breathe.
I’ve always used images of strong women in my discussion of Bipolar Bad-Assery. It’s a comfort to me to identify with those gun-toting, sword-wielding, no-nonsense gals. But, Bruce fits better today. Not because he’s a hero, but because he reminds me that I’m one, too. I imagine us both on a battlefield as the smoke clears, surveying the wreckage, then glancing across the mess at each other. We’re ready for what’s next.
For the last six weeks, I’ve been hearing the dreaded question—What can I do to help?—many times a day from the blog-o-sphere, from cards and letters, in phone conversations, and in face-to-face connections. Usually, I have no answer, or the answer I give leaves folks frustrated and itchy for a better answer. Finally, I think I’ve got it.
My blog accepts donations.
I added a Paypal donation button to my sidebar. As I’ve said, pride is dead here in Sandy Sue Studios. Since my strict, German/Irish work ethic of putting my head down and slogging no longer functions, other options must be considered. This is one.
I hardly recognize myself. Twelve days of clear skies and mental calm seas. Fourteen days since the last time my illness made me jump in the truck and escape to the movies. I get up, go to the Y and come home to my own table with my own chai. A few weeks ago, the thought of living without a coffee shop would have made me weep with grief. Now, it’s nothing. Nothing.
SandySue Altered
A Mind Divided 