A New Venture

Today I opened my Etsy Shop—Sandy Sue Altered.  It took about two days to list the cards I have in stock and figure out the system  (If you can blog, you can certainly set up an Etsy shop).  It cost about $13 for the listing fees and to have Etsy handle credit card orders, which seems wonderfully cheap.  I think I’ve covered everything, but who knows—there may be surprises ahead.

I have zero expectations.  No delusions of becoming the Bill Gates of collage art handmade cards.  But, it feels like I have to take some kind of action to get the Universe’s attention.  Hey!  Buddy!  Throw a little moola in this direction!

Please stop by and look around.  If you’ve liked the artwork I’ve used in these posts, you’ll probably enjoy yourself.  Let me know what you think.

The Second Elephant on my Chest

This pneumonia business is taking its sweet time clearing out.  I’m still having trouble taking a deep breath.  It’s like the proverbial elephant sitting on my chest.  But this morning I realized there’s another pachyderm squatting on me as well.

Last night I had an opportunity to go shopping with my girlfriends.  But I only had $40 to last me until my next Disability check comes on October 3.  That $40 had to cover groceries, gas for the truck, and any other purchases.  So, I did a rare and scary thing.  I asked my sister to let me take $200 out of my emergency fund (which she controls).  My sister is a gentle guardian.  She always sends me the money I ask for—no interrogations, no judgments.  When the check came in the mail, I put $100 in my checking account and kept $100 in cash.

Even though I’ve been too depressed to think clearly, I was giddy last night.  I actually bought myself Halloween twinkle lights ($5) and two new spiral notebooks ($2 each)—one with The Dark Knight on the cover and the other with The Avengers.  I felt deliciously decadent and rich beyond measure.  While my friends shopped for clothes, I wandered through the racks.  Such gorgeous fabrics!  Such flattering designs!  It was a visual feast.  When I checked the price tags, I just couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing.  One top cost as much as a week’s worth of groceries.  Clearly, I’d taken a misstep somewhere.  I felt dizzy and couldn’t catch my breath.

Poverty is the second elephant pinning me down.  Last night I let loose and stocked up on spaghetti and soup at Costco, but normally I fret over every dime.  When my bipolar compulsions push me to “throw money away,” it’s usually to buy a pizza or get take out from the local Chinese restaurant.  We’re talking $15 at the most, but that’s enough to make me park the truck for the rest of the month and walk everywhere I need to go.

There is no margin in poverty.  There’s only shuffling around the few dollars I have.  Do I pay the doctor bill this month or try to whittle down my VISA bill (which I use to pay for gas)?  Can I afford coffee today, or do I need to stick to ice water?  Can I make myself cook a meal when I’m so depressed I’m afraid to turn on the stove?

I don’t write this for sympathy or as a plug for donations.  Most of the time, I manage just fine.  I’ve learned to live very simply and to mediate my bipolar splurges.  It’s just when the elephant eases up a little, like she did last night, I see how heavy she really is.  Money, or the lack of it, colors every interaction with my family and friends, it determines my activities, my diet, my grooming—every choice there is to make.  I’ve become a person who relies on the generosity of my circle—someone who has gotten comfortable accepting gifts.  Pride is a thing of the past—well—I still worry about looking like a homeless person.  Maybe that’s because I’m so close to being one.

I don’t know what to do to make this situation any better.  I’ve tried going back to work—several times—to disastrous results.  I’ve applied for all social assistance programs.  I try to keep my expenses to the bare minimum.  The only thing I could think of today was to research Etsy and try to sell my greeting cards online.  So I worked on that for hours.  In a few days, I’ll have a “shop” up and running, but I can’t think much money will come pouring in.

All I can do is put the Word out to the Universe—I need more abundance in my life.  Since this is the cusp of the Autumn Equinox, it seems fitting to be setting an intention for balance and plenty.  I’m well aware that the Universe answers in unexpected and startling ways.  I’m ready for whatever answer comes.

Mental Meltdown of the Pneumonia Mind

People said I’d go stir-crazy.  Being sick and incapacitated for weeks will mess with your head, they said.

Oh, my.

I’ve officially rounded the bend.  I’ve spent all the money I have left for September, mostly on food and DVDs, which destroyed months of work at losing weight.  I charged up my credit card so that I could put storage shelves in my bathroom—a project on Saturday that left me exhausted and overrun by my own mania.  I feel humiliated, and desperate, and absolutely out of control.

I’ve tried several ways to slow the train down—walking around the track at the Y, walking outside, napping.  They help in the moment, but as soon as I stop moving or wake up, the frantic scrabbling in my brain starts up again.  Every day I start out vowing to “do it different,”  to shroud my TV and do something else.  And every day I end up too tired, too bored, too lonely, too sick.

What I’m hanging onto at this point is that my body is starting to recover.  The lungs are clearing.  The voice is coming back.  I will return to my water aerobics class this morning to splash around if nothing else.  And as my strength returns, I can shift back into my routine, which will give my bipolar claws something else to grab onto.

It’s not like this is new material.  The compulsions, the frantic behavior, the way this illness blows up my life are all reruns of my personal sitcom.  It’s just that adding physical illness squeezes all margins out of the script.  The stress, the disruption of routine, the discomfort run the lines off the page.  I’m not making much sense.

But, there’s a balm in being able to admit the insanity.  Confession always starts a healing.  Lack of insight and secretiveness are part of this illness, so naming names is a good sign.  I’ll hang onto that today.

The Exciting Life of a Sick Girl

The cute guy at the Y’s information desk asked me how I was doing.  Since I sound like Harvey Fierstein (Broadway actor) and look like Harvey Pekar (underground comic book writer), I counted that as exciting.  Even if the guy who carries his oxygen tank around with him passed me on the track.  Here’s a sample of my currently lovely singing voice.

The pest control guy came in today and sprayed his monthly poison.  I guess that could be exciting to the silver fish living in my file drawer.  I still can’t smell it.

I got groceries.  That’s only exciting to my checking account since I spent all of next week’s allotted allowance.  I sure get tired of being poor sometimes.

Coughing too much can give a person a headache.  Is that breaking news?

Did you know Ben Affleck played Jack Ryan?  Huh.  I thought Tom Clancy’s hero was either Alec Baldwin or Harrison Ford.  Does it matter that I fell asleep watching Sum of All Fears?  I promise it wasn’t a criticism.  My decongestant just kicked in.

Emmett and Henry don’t really care if I come back to bed or not, but I like to think they’re waiting for me.  I am, after all, the most exciting thing in their lives—the sudden bark-cough that startles the food right out of their mouths, the thrilling naps, the flying Kleenex wads.

Life doesn’t get any more wild than this.

Why I’m Grateful for Pneumonia

My ears are plugged.  My breathing sounds like some kid shaking up his marble bag.  And I cough up a fester of frogs.  But, I can’t help but feel grateful.  On so many levels.

I’ve gone ten months without a respiratory infection.  Miraculous!  I could count on at least one a season, maybe more, that might turn as ugly as this one.  Then, I met with an allergist who told me I had asthma and an allergy to dust mites.  I credit his instructions (and my faithful following of them) with my ability to beat back the many throat tickles since then with Zinc and a cheap decongestant.  It became my new Super Power.  Who needs magic Amazon bracelets or a green lantern when you can banish cold viruses at will?  Even Batman needs a Kleenex once in a while.  Gratitude Count Number One.

Unlike my employed and familied friends, I can take as long as I need to get well.  I remember the pressure of Sick Days and Family Medical Leave, watching that span of safety rope grow shorter and shorter until one either goes back to work sick or loses the job altogether.  Stress on top of stress.  I remember the demands of keeping a house and while I never had children, I watched my friends who did.  Parents can’t afford to get sick.

Living on Social Security Disability income may put me 200% below the poverty line, but it does mean I have all the sick time I need.  And as long as I have cat food and litter, my family makes no demands on me.  No one cares if the vacuuming doesn’t get done this week, in fact, I think Emmett would be grateful for that.  Gratitude Count Number Two.

While my body is this sick, it seems to leave off the bipolar business.  There’s sleeping, and coughing, and slurping soup.  There’s watching TV at three in the morning and cooking water in the microwave for tea.  There’re visits from my mom and friends with supplies, and calls from others with concern and love.  But, there’s no depression or mania.  While my body fights this virus, the bipolar ogre sleeps.  Gratitude Count Number Three.

It’s so dang easy to catastrophize.  Oh, woe is me!  I’m at Death’s Door!  But, really, if it wasn’t this particular ailment, it would be something else, right?  An unexpected bill.  A nasty confrontation with a friend.  A dead car.  Bad weather.  Pimples.  You name it.  It’s the human condition.  Life is a shit-storm if we look at it that way.  But, we do have a choice.  Bemoan the feces raining down or hoe it into the garden for an amazing crop of tomatoes.  Takes a little work, a little creative thinking, and willingness to get poopy, but I’ll opt for tomatoes every time.

A Cautious Step

A cautious optimism seems to be creeping up on me.  The last couple of days moved through with less frenetic, spastic energy; less explosive mood changes; more moments of quiet joy; more tolerance.  It’s too early to tell if this is a shift out of the mixed state rapid cycling I’ve been experiencing, or just another variation of it.  When all the bipolar symptoms get thrown in a bag and shaken up, moments of relief are bound to stick together once in a while, too.  So, the practice is not to name it, not to grasp it, but simply Observe.  And then take appropriate action.

“Appropriate” is a moving target, just like my symptoms.  What I’m capable of doing changes with each shift.  So, just when I sit down to make cards, I’m suddenly unable to tolerate being in my apartment.  Or when the urge to eat bends me over the bakery goods at Panera, I feel the compulsion vanish in an instant.  I guess it’s not surprising that I’m experiencing a lot of vertigo.  These jumps from one state to another to something combined make me a little loopy.  Lots of starting and stopping.  Lots of whipping around and muttering, “What?”

Even in this weird, stuttering place a few constants remain.  I can always exercise.  The pain that comes with the depressive symptoms may make weight-baring exercise more difficult, but there’s always water and my new friend, the recumbent bike.  And there’s always writing.  No matter how crazy I get, I can always write. It may be crap, but I’ve learned that crappy writing is a gift.  It starts the trek to the real story.  A crappy first draft or hideous turn of phrase marks where the story isn’t.  It’s a pushpin in a map.  With enough pushpins, I can see just where the path leads.  Even if I’m crazy, I can still read a map.

Exercise and writing give me a little foundation.  Whatever else I try to do with my day starts and ends there.  So, today I’ll stand on my foundation and cautiously pick up my Bad-Ass Training, knowing I may have to drop it if this moment of relief ends.  I’ll check to see where I’m leaking energy or money.  I’ll reach out to my support network.  I’ll take care of chores that have been abandoned.  I’ll shroud my TV.  I’ll do what I can in each moment to get ready for that moment to shift.

And while I’m getting ready, I’ll listen to my music.  Because that makes everything easier—like Eurythmics’ Miracle of Love.

Back in Tune

As the depression gradually lifted yesterday, different parts of me started to come back online.  I made some cards for my sister that only the day before seemed like an impossible task.  I walked the seven blocks to the post office, mailed some bills, walked to my coffee shop, journaled and walked home.  Moving again felt like heaven after avoiding the Y on Friday and skipping TOPS on Thursday.  Moving with pain, still, but moving nonetheless.

I tidied up the apartment, did laundry at my mom’s house, and considered how I would manage this last week in May with little in my cupboards and $20 in my billfold.  After two long depressive episodes this month, the financial well is pretty dry after bolting in my truck when I didn’t really have money for gas and all the take-out I brought in because I couldn’t force myself to cook.  Then, there were all the movies I went to in order to distract my twisted brain from thoughts of self-harm.  Even with help from my family for medical bills and an overhaul on the truck, I’m at less-than-zero.

There’s no despair in that.  I know I’ll be fine.  It’s just the way this illness works in me.  It doesn’t matter how intelligent I am, or how many coping skills I accumulate.  I train and prepare the best I can, tuning my instrument for the Dark Concert to come.  But, when it hits, I can only play for so long before going flat.  Strings break.  The lip gets tired.  Notes run together.  Then, I just hang on and wait for the coda.

As always, it’s in the silence once the music stops where I can effect change.  I adjust.  I fire up any other parts of me that have shut down and put them back in service.  I start practicing for the next Performance.

Last night I got to practice with a friend I haven’t seen in over 30 years.  When Therese walked through the door at Perkins, I felt like me, not the slow, despairing creature I had been for the last week.  I felt my heart expand from a brittle nub of contraction.  I felt music moving through my veins.

Band Divas—Sandy, friend Julie, Therese and Therese’s dad, who was our band director in 1973

Therese and I met at swimming lessons the summer before we started junior high.  She was a part of every happy thing I did in school—band, speech club, foreign language club, and all those slumber parties.  We were part of the same gang—smart, talented, teen-aged girls trying to figure out who we were.  She’s still smart and talented, an accomplished woman moving confidently through the world—just like we hoped we’d be back in junior high.

Catching up on each other’s lives, talking politics, laughing, we both remarked on how much we were the same as those young girls.  The essence doesn’t change.  The song of our soul seeps to the surface, no matter what tries to silence it.

I’m grateful for the chance to practice with Therese last night.  Like a tuning fork, she helped me find my pitch.  It’s always there, but gets lost sometimes in the cacophony of my depression.  Thank you, my friend.

There’s Gotta Be a Pony in Here Somewhere . . .

What a week.

I’m workin’ it, though—trying to ferret out a few gifts and bright bobbles of gratitude in the crap-storm that has yet to let up.  Seems important to mark these to keep some sort of perspective.

1. I’m grateful that the worst of the pain from physical therapy let up on Wednesday.
2. I’m grateful that my mind sent me on a little fantasy vacation with Captain America, in a New York city loft that needed its windows reglazed, with Linda Ronstadt’s rendition of “Someone to Watch Over Me” playing in the background.
3. I’m grateful for my Mom handing me $40 for no reason.
4. I’m grateful for my friends at TOPS who understood why I just couldn’t step on the scale yesterday.
5. I’m grateful for the way the Y’s pool buoys me up and makes me feel strong and graceful regardless of the storm.
6. I’m grateful for the moments when my mind lets go of the internal horrors, for the psycho-spiritual muscle I’ve grown that enables me to wrench my brain away from the monsters for a time.  I need those breathers.
7. I’m grateful for my sister.  Even though she has her own crap-storm to deal with right now, she’s always there for me.
8. I’m grateful to have a vehicle.  When the urge to bolt takes over, I can.
9.  I’m grateful for another day.  Sometimes I’m not, so being able to find the gift in today is gift enough.
10. I’m grateful for this platform, for readers who feel like intimate friends and the kindness they practice on me.  Meaty, sustaining kindness.

I am grateful.

Yes, I am grateful.

The Bad-Ass is Back

After almost three weeks en-episode, the Dark Visitor who took up residence in my head drifted on to other haunts today.  It felt exactly like a someone opened a window in my brain and aired the place out.  Colors brighten.  Sounds sweeten.  The body breathes a sigh of relief.

My first hint came while ripping through the deep water this morning.  There’s nothing like karate kicks and ab crunches to bring the Bad-Ass grin to a girl’s face.  I may take up double space on land, but in the water I’m a svelte powerhouse with Zen control.

At our TOPS meeting, I was shocked to find I’d lost weight this week.  After three weeks of relentless compulsive eating, I expected another week of gains.  I chalk up the loss to Grace and a balancing of the gain I had last week.  A person can’t take the numbers on the scale too literally—the body is always in flux.  But, I was reminded of why I joined TOPS last December.  I wanted a place to rest and receive support during episodes when I couldn’t control what I put in my mouth.

And when those episodes ended, I wanted folks who would help me jump right back on the horse.  My group does just that.  They’re the best wranglers in town.

Later, I drove to my mental health clinic to chat with my therapist and pick up my medical records.  The HIPAA regulations seem simple enough—any patient has the right to request a copy of their medical records.  A fee may be levied.  Unfortunately, therapy notes aren’t covered by the HIPAA guidelines.  And third-party records (another provider’s information that may also be in the chart) cannot be copied.

Luckily, my current shrink and the therapists who have taken care of me over the past six years decided I could handle reading my therapy notes.  So, I received copies of those.

And Michelle, my current therapist and head cheerleader, sat with me and figured out how I could contact all the hospitals, clinics, and former docs who hold the rest of my mental health history.  I left the clinic feeling clear and sharp.  I had a plan.  I always do better with a plan.

Bipolar episodes are never easy, but this last one seemed particularly grim.  I’m getting used to them lasting longer.  I’m getting more skillful at separating myself from the grue in my head. But there’s always a point in the battle when things can’t seem to get any worse—and then, they do.  This time is was the maintenance on my dad’s truck that totaled over $900.

But, my sister and brother jumped in with their swords drawn and slayed that beast for me.  Thank the gods for the folks who’ve got my back!  I’d forgotten basic Action/Adventure plot structure or I would have seen them coming.  The Crew always pops out of nowhere in the nick of time to keep the warrior from getting hacked to pieces.  My Sibling Cavalry.

So, with a deadly roundhouse kick, a spirited steed, a savvy crew and a plan of attack, the Bad-Ass is definitely back.

Echoes of Another Life

I went shopping for my party today.  I don’t remember the last time I stepped into a liquor store or a fancy gift shop.  But, I did remember the feeling—picking up and sniffing pretty candles, recognizing wine labels, touching lush fabric.  It was as if ghost images of my old life bled through today’s snapshot.  But, they were someone else’s memories—a very different me.

And while I enjoyed myself—found pretty napkins and nice Champaign for the punch—I don’t miss that life anymore.  Living 200% below the poverty line has made me much more careful and practical about money.  Even with my propensity for compulsive spending during bipolar episodes, I can usually live within my means now.  I’ve learned there’s very little I must have.

I thought celebrating the finish of Callinda in style meant spending enough money on a party to feel normal (i.e. not poor and not crazy).  I’m grateful to my mom for gifting me with the funds to make that party a reality.  But, I discovered today that part of that drive, that need, was an echo from a life that no longer exists.  I really could have been happy with M&Ms and cheap punch, because that’s who I am now.  I am poor.  And I am crazy.  I don’t need to prove that I’m anything else.  And the party would have been just as joyful.

Somehow, this understanding makes me feel sweeter and expansive about the party coming up on Saturday.  My gratitude seems to spread out like melting ice—a slow seep dampening everything around me.  In this moment, I am perfectly content with my life.  With the poverty, with the challenges and gifts my illness gives me, with the support and love of my family and friends, with my sore fingers from crafting presents for those who want to celebrate with me.  In this moment, I’m most grateful for the fading influence that those ghost images hold over me.  Slowly, slowly, I’m setting myself free.