Hero

I just can’t seem to stop fighting this episode.  I have things to do, chapters to write, events to attend, but the depression, agitation and convoluted thinking keep getting in my way.  It’s like wearing a hair shirt on the inside of my body—the itch and irritation only compound my already-agitated state.  I’m not helping myself much lately.

I lose myself in fantasy for comfort and distraction, but that’s a treacherous path.  What I need to do is pay attention, not drift off into Star Trek-land where “all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average” (thank you, Garrison Keillor).

This is a very old trope, almost as old as compulsive eating.  I leave the sadness and despair of my real life to create a fictional crisis where a hero Saves the Day.  Sometimes, I imagine a line up of potential heroic figures (Indiana Jones, Picard, Batman, Wolverine, etc.), and circle around each one like a fish monger, picking the Catch of the Day.  The winner gets to star in my mental melodrama.  I remember when Clark Gable was part of this line up back when we used to see Gone With the Wind in theaters every year.  I was in junior high.  That’s how old this form of distraction is.

But, like compulsive eating, it just doesn’t seem like a healthy or useful activity anymore.  It smudges the boundary between mental illness and creative storytelling.  It keeps me numb and blind.  And ultimately, it makes me even more sad, because there’s no finding those heroes in real life.

Today, as I churned up white water during my aerobics class, a tiny voice behind all that fantasy said:

You are your own Hero.  

My life gets interrupted all the time by this illness.  Projects have to wait.  Events get cancelled.  The “To Do” list gets thrown away.  Attention must turn away from those things and gaze upon the illness with compassion.  No need to fight.  No need to escape.  No need to be anywhere but here, treating myself the way I deserve to be treated.  Only I can do that for me.  I’m the only one who can save me.  I am the Hero.

Friendship Forward

I left a lot of good friends behind in the Twin Cities when I moved to Iowa.  I only stayed in contact with a rare few, mostly because it was too painful.  They belonged to a life abandoned and forever lost to me—I thought.  A big part of my healing as been reconnecting with these cherished treasures.

This trip I went to see two women who set up residence in my heart years ago.  I met Jinjer and Carol at Lake Harriet Spiritual Community.  We were all seekers, trying to find a meaningful way to the Divine.  Bright, soulful, creative, talented and committed to the Earth, these two women became part of my everyday life.

With Jinjer I learned to be a better writer, how to craft rituals that would honor the Divine in nature, and how to take myself and others to that still place of communion with the Universal Source.  With Carol I learned how to use sound and music to reach a new level of joy and spiritual experience, and a way of moving and being in the world with compassion and grace.  Together we laughed and cried, played, shared every holiday, and every important event.

For years, I spent time in their home every week, so to walk back through their front door after more than five years made me light-headed with the sense of homecoming.  The spicy, fresh-baked-bread smell; the familiar paintings and books; even their beautifully remodeled kitchen and bath felt right and familiar.  It was as if I’d never been away.

Our friendship seemed like an independent entity—a swift, tumbling river that swept below us and carried us on its waves.  I knew them, and they knew me, and we settled into that knowing immediately.  Our conversation tasted the same as always—complex, dark-chocolate-rich, and so satisfying.

And, as usual, spending time with these two beautiful women left me clearer, lighter and more grateful for my life.  Insights and healing always happened when we were together, and happen still.  We are good juju together.

With this trip, I reclaimed Jinjer and Carol as my friends.  Present tense.  I won’t let go of them so easily again.

Through the Ice Darkly

Tomorrow I leave for an excursion into the arctic north.  I’m spending the next ten days in Minneapolis, first to sit with a friend as she undergoes a simple, but scary surgery.  Then, to visit other friends—some I’ve not seen since my exodus to Iowa five years ago after I had ECT.

It’s a weird juxtaposition of memory holes and my different lives laid on top of each other like layers of ice on a frozen lake.  Some are Jasper-green and opaque with soft spots and groaning cracks, others sludge-gray with craters.  Others still carry bits of fish scale, algae, and ash from shoreline campfires of summer.  They stand rock solid even in the spring thaw.

Seeing these beloved friends again, touching them, will be like taking nourishment and starving.  Love and loss.  A life remembered through “the glass darkly.”  I hope to maintain my curiosity as broken memories crack the surface of consciousness, as my friends remind me of what we were together and what I was then.  I hope to hold them and myself with compassion, respecting our feelings and our words, watching the rise and fall of emotions without grasping, allowing myself to simply love them in the moment of being together.  I hope to remember my life now, who I’ve become, traveling like Frankenstein’s monster on a frozen floe with growing awareness and a spark of dignity.

It will be an interesting time away.

I will greet you all again on or around January 16.

Ding Dong Ditch

Earlier this week, I visited with my therapist about my ongoing quest to approach relationships differently.  I’d done a lot of pondering and journaling about this issue, especially after an incident with an alcoholic friend.

One thing I realized is that part of my tendency to ditch uncomfortable people is something I learned growing up.  I’d never connected the dots before, but once I started revisiting my family’s conflict resolution skills, I got the Big AhHa.  We never fought with people, we just never talked to them again.  Anyone who was perceived as different, difficult, needy, or pesky in any way was avoided.  Transgressions were “forgiven, but never forgotten.”  When I considered this learned behavior and added my bipolar bonus points of isolation, distorted thinking and emotional friability, I was grateful that I still had anyone to talk to.

I’ve said it before, and I suppose I’ll keep on saying it—people are hard.  At least they are for me.  They are scary, hairy creatures, and if they turn around too fast, I run for the hills.  At the same time I yearn to connect, to hear the words “I feel exactly the same way.”

Michelle, my therapist, couldn’t give me any tips or pointers (damn it).  As is her usual M.O., she acted as cheerleader, waving her pompoms in the direction of my successes.  She made a point of reminding me that setting boundaries is not the same as dumping someone, and that the act of setting boundaries can be done in a loving and respectful way.  Good distinction.  Maintaining boundaries is as hard for me as staying, but I see the difference.

What this all boils down to is yet another spiritual practice.  I can’t change my behavior if I’m not aware of how it works on me, so I must bring consciousness into play.  I get to watch how people make me squirm and then follow the squirmy bread crumbs back to whatever twisted thinking is at fault.  I get to watch my desire to bolt.  I get to unwind Old Truths that don’t make sense anymore (if they ever did).  Every disagreement isn’t a threat, nor is every misunderstanding a negation of my worth.  These are deeply ingrained.  With time, compassion and curiosity, I may yet work them loose.

Many of you weighed in on how to approach my friend and his abusive behavior when drunk—thank you.  I want to especially thank Kana at Kana’s Chronicles for her words of wisdom.  I ended up following her suggestions and was able to set boundaries with my friend without abandoning him.  I feel like I was respectful to both of us, and he seemed to hear what I said without taking offense.  Time will tell, of course.

The Lessons just keep on comin’.  I’m on an Adventure.

Burning Bridges

Some people illuminate their lives with the bridges they burn  —Anonymous

♥ ♥ ♥

People are messy.  Relationships can be both amazing gifts and back-breaking work.  Most of the people in my life provide me with incredible mirrors, endless opportunity to practice my spiritual work and to watch my illness push me toward self-destructive behavior.  I’ve torched a lot of relationships in my life—I’m just beginning to understand how many—and struggle to bring compassion and generosity to the ones I have left.  I try to be careful now.

But I have a friend who makes that hard.  He’s an alcoholic.  A few days ago he called and said shockingly hurtful things to me while drinking.  I knew that he’d talked like this to other friends and members of his family—I’ve watched him demolish the relationships in his life over the last couple of years—but I didn’t think he would ever do that to me.

I’m stunned and confused.  I’ve told him I love him, but that I can’t let anyone treat me that way.  I can’t live with the stress of it.  I told him I needed to talk to my therapist about what happened.  I also want to talk to some folks who are clean and sober for advice.  I’ve never been close to an alcoholic before, and I don’t know what an appropriate response might be.

My initial reaction is to run—never have anything to do with him again.  But, for me, that’s old behavior, and I’m not sure that it’s the best answer.  I don’t want to burn this bridge out of fear and self-righteousness, then regret it later.  I don’t want my illness to control how this goes down.

I don’t have many friends left.  I really don’t want to lose another.

A Gratitude Journal Page on Thanksgiving

Cultivating a thankful attitude can be a challenge with bipolar disorder.  The illness tends to shun the finer energies of love, compassion, gratitude, forgiveness and acceptance for the heaviest emotions.  It twists truth into lies and reality into gruesome Grimm fairy tales. It takes vigilance to recognize The Dark Voice inside one’s mind, courage to reject the falsehoods it whispers, and superhero strength to open the mind to Light and Life instead.  It takes hard work to foster gratitude.

This Thanksgiving, however, I’m finding it easy to be grateful.  I may be uncomfortable and limited from my recent surgery, but the tumor the surgeon removed was benign, and I can look forward to healing completely.  This holiday season comes so soon after my dad’s death that the rest of the family still orbits the gravity well he occupied.  I’m so thankful that we can talk about him without awkwardness, that we can experiment with new rituals to see what might hold meaning for us now, and that we love and support each other as we hold Dad’s absence gently.

These are big blessings in gratitude.  But, I find I’m even more thankful for the moments of grace that dot my bipolar existence.  The sudden release of depression’s grip, an easing of anxiety, the way my thoughts untwist like a coiled rope let loose, a deep breath that tilts my head up to see the stars.  Like the illness itself, these gentle turns come without warning and in spite of anything I might do.  I don’t earn these moments.  They are Grace’s gift, a Mystery.  I can only lift my face to the sun and say, Thank You.

Caught in the Whirlpool

Watching the energy of agitation during this bipolar storm is like noticing the color of the whirlpool as it pulls me under.  It’s not exactly top priority.  I’m dealing with two interpersonal conflicts right now, and what I’ve observed is that the agitation feeds my emotional reactivity.  I feel more offended, more wounded, more, more, more.  The urge to take action, to say something, pushes at me.  There’s an ugly kind of righteousness that bubbles up, and my mind creates bitch-slapping scenarios that spin and loop.

I’ve learned the hard way that when I get swept up in this kind of distorted thinking the best thing to do is nothing.  I cannot trust what my mind tells me.  And when I act on these urges, I end up destroying relationships.  Yesterday, the drive was so strong, the effort to wait so painful, I called my therapist for an emergency session.  I needed her to tell me what was crazy and what was real.

While we talked, I could see how the agitation shuts down my ability to love, to think about others and meet them with compassion.  This energy moves so fast and feels so much like drowning, self-preservation in the only consideration.

We put together a very simple, very gentle, plan of action for the immediate conflict.  For the older conflict, we spent time holding it, acknowledging that compassion was the only answer.

I was exhausted, and spent the rest of the day watching DVDs, sleeping, and working a bit on my “Bad Clowns” collage (oh, my, but it’s creepy).  Friends invited me out for pizza.  It was good to get out of the apartment, but hard to be social.  That crying-all-day hangover doesn’t jump-start a conversation.  There’s also a fragility to distraction sometimes.  Jiggle it too much with another form (conversation), and the nasty thoughts and feelings leak through.  (It’s like walking around with your butt constantly puckered.)  I felt like I could tumble into the deep waters again at any moment.

Still do.  It will be another day of DVDs—at least this morning.  The agitation is in full force, but with an ebb and flow today that promises more relief.  I’ll do my best to watch it, feel it in my body, and relax into the swirl.

30 Days of Gratitude: Day 12

I admit it.  I’m not an easy friend.  I don’t chitchat or gossip.  I don’t like shopping or care about make-up and manicures.  I dig into your personal life and snap open your psyche.  And if you don’t behave or think the way I think you should, I’ll set you straight.  Oh, and then there’s that bipolar thing that tends to annoy and exhaust potential friends before we even get started.  No, I’m not easy.

So, it’s a miracle that I can claim two (count ’em, two!) new friends since moving back to Marshalltown five years ago.  I met Matt at the Tremont, the cafe where I first reclaimed my ability to write.  He would come in for iced tea before going to his salon across the street.  Loud, outrageous, hilarious, he’d slide into my booth and we would spin off into endless directions, talking in multiple foreign accents and laughing until we wet ourselves.  Also suffering from clinical depression, Matt and I understood each other in ways others couldn’t.  We knew when to push and challenge and when to empathize and be gentle.  I don’t see Matt as often as I did since converting to Haven as my coffee-shop-of-choice, but when we do get together, it’s like we were never apart.  That’s the sign of a true friend.

Funny how those coffee shops keep providing me with a social life.  Joyce manages the “front” at Haven.   With her Betty Rubble laugh, she sees Haven as her Shop of Joy.  Her compassion and caring keep people coming back.  She and I connected from the very first latte. She’s someone I can go deep with, talking about our feelings, our fears, our dreams.  We share a love of crafts and thrift shops.  We laugh a lot and talk in a street lingo only white, middle class, middle-aged women would ever think hip (we down w’dat, sista).  As a Christian, Joyce carries her faith gently, never shoving it onto others, just letting it guide her actions and her choices.  I respect her deeply for this since our town seems choked with rabid conservative blowhards.  Someone who actually practices their faith by action instead of word warms my cockles.

I’m blessed to have found these treasures—complex, fascinating, loving individuals who consider me their friend.  Even if I’m not easy.

A Case Against Kindness

I’m not a kind person.  I’m not all that thoughtful of others.  I don’t remember many birthdays, and never send Get Well cards.  I could make a long list of the thoughtful things I don’t do.  This isn’t to say I’m bad or mean, or that I don’t appreciate kindness in others.  I think kindness makes the world more gentle and civilized.  It’s just not an arrow in my personal quiver.

I’ve been accused of being kind.  Usually in reference to taking on other people’s worries, or jumping in to fix a problem.  Once, at a huge gathering, my friend Steven announced, “Sandy has shitty boundaries.”  Yikes!  And I thought I was being kind!  Over the years, I stopped fixing, stopped being so available, stopped thinking about other people before I thought about myself.  I just assumed I’d become a selfish bitch—but in a good way!

Instead of kindness, I try to practice compassion.  In his book, Teachings on Love, Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh talks about it this way.

Compassion contains deep concern.  You know the other person is suffering, so you sit close to her.  You look and listen deeply to her to be able to touch her pain.  You are in deep communication, deep communication with her, and that alone brings some relief.

One compassionate word, action or thought can reduce another person’s suffering and bring him joy.  One word can give comfort and confidence, destroy doubt, help someone avoid a mistake, reconcile a conflict, or open the door to liberation.  One action can save a person’s life or help him take advantage of a rare opportunity.  One thought can do the same, because thoughts always lead to word and actions.  With compassion in our heart, every thought, word, and deed can bring about a miracle.

We need to be aware of the suffering, but retain our clarity, calmness, and strength so we can help transform the situation.  The ocean of tears cannot drown us if [compassion] is there.  That is why the Buddha’s smile is possible.

Compassion has an edge.  It can be a kick in the butt as much as a soft word.  This appeals to me.

I started thinking about kindness at our last Stamp Club meeting.  We’re working on a Gratitude Journal, and our assignment for March is to keep track of the kindnesses we receive from others and the ones we give out.  I knew one list would be long and the other one short.  I was pondering this today at the grocery store, when the elderly woman in front of me didn’t have enough money to pay for her groceries.  She was a little confused, and her words flitted from the price of strawberries at another grocery store to why she liked the cookies she had to give back in order to afford what was left in her cart.  The man at the checkout was very patient.  No, it wasn’t even a question of patience.  He listened to her as if she were the only customer in the store.  Gently, he guided her attention back to the problem at hand—which items to put back in order to pay for what was left.  She seemed to get stuck when there was only a dollar’s difference left.  She peered into her billfold, not quite sure what to do next.  I gave her a dollar.

There was no thoughtfulness behind what I did.  The woman needed a dollar.  I had one.  Problem solved.  But, her reaction surprised me a little.  She said she was embarrassed, could never take a stranger’s money. She backed away from me as if I threatened her.   I told her she would be doing me a kindness if she took my dollar, and then gave a dollar to someone else down the road who needed one.  She agreed to that.  I watched how strange the encounter was for her, and how she slowly came to terms with it.

Then, when it was my turn at the checkout, the cashier smiled and handed me back the dollar.  “I’ll take care of it,” he said.

Right there, in the front of Aldi, the three of us created a bubble of expansive energy that took on a life of its own.

My friend, Cheryl, likes to drive through Starbuck’s and pay for the car behind her.  While she practices this wide-open act of generosity, we both get giggly.  Joy bubbles out of her.  It enters me, the barista at the window, and I’m guessing the car behind us.  To me, this is more than an act of kindness.  It’s an act of creation.  It’s an acknowledgment of our shared humanness.  It cracks open any shell of lack or restriction that might be hovering around and replaces it with plenty and ease.

Perhaps I need to adjust my definition of kindness.  I’m willing to accept that kindness can include small gifts of thoughtfulness as well as universe-expanding acts of creation.  There’s room in my reality for both.  Just as long as I get to kick butt once in a while.

Burning

I seem to be angry a lot lately.  When my family worries about me, my reaction is to get angry.  I feel boxed-in, judged, doomed to be saddled with my past mistakes and crazy behavior.  Under that, I’m angry that I’ve given my family so much to worry about, and that they have every right to expect the irrational behavior to cycle around again.  I’ve racked up thousands of dollars of debt, left my husband, attempted suicide.  While I like to think that my spiritual practice and my daily tools for living have moved me beyond insanity, the impulses are still there.  I’m still sneaky about money.  I still bolt when situations feel too stressful.  Hopelessness and despair can still swallow me whole.

And that really pisses me off.

There’s no cure for bipolar disorder, so there’s no point in the future when I can say to my family, “Look.  I’m okay now.  You don’t need to worry anymore.”  There’s no endpoint.  No goal to reach.  There’s only this endless process of riding the Wild Horse, falling off, and getting back on.  The whole situation really burns my butt.

Buddhist teacher, Thich Nhat Hanh talks about anger in practicing mindfulness.

Our practice is based on the insight of non-duality.  Both our negative feelings and positive feelings are organic and belong to the same reality.  So there is no need to fight; we only need to embrace and take care.  Therefore, in the Buddhist tradition, meditation does not mean you transform yourself into a battlefield, with the good fighting the evil.  This is very important.  You may think that you have to combat evil and chase it out of your heart and mind.  But this is wrong.  The practice is to transform yourself.  If you don’t have garbage, you have nothing to use in order to make compost.  And if you have no compost, you have nothing to nourish the flower in you.  You need the suffering, the afflictions in you.

Mindfulness does not fight anger or despair.  Mindfulness is there in order to recognize.  To be mindful of something is to recognize that something is there in the present moment.  Mindfulness is the capacity of being aware of what is going on in the present moment.  “Breathing in I know that anger has manifested in me; breathing out I smile towards my anger.”  This is not an act of suppression or of fighting.  It is an act of recognizing.  Once we recognize our anger, we embrace it with a lot of awareness, a lot of tenderness.

Today, I breathe and feel the resistance in me.  I breathe and feel the wanting for a different life, a different burden.  I breathe and acknowledge that this is my life, my situation.  I breathe and visualize my anger as compost.  I breathe and visualize my anxiety as compost.  I breathe and visualize the delicate flowers of my creativity rising from the rich soil.  I breathe and visualize compassion sprouting.  I breathe and feel gratitude rise up from my belly—gratitude for my family and their endless love, gratitude for this illness and the opportunities it gives me to See.