It was a dark and stormy day....

and now it is a dark and stormy night.  But it's dry inside.  I had the day off and I've been lounging in my bed with the sound of wind and wind driven rain in the background.  And I've not allowed any other sounds into my day.

I only looked at the clock once.  I think that time is moving at a slower rate today because it has to battle it's way through the storm.

It's cold in my rental room.  Staying in bed has been a treat and a necessity.

I've been off my morning meds for a few weeks and have had a rough few days of withdrawal symptoms.  The mediset is reloaded and I'm getting back on track.  I didn't miss my evening dose of the magic potion that strips away all those behaviors that used to keep me awake.  While I sleep, the brain maid comes in and tidies up.

Bits of paranoia and anxiety have found me again, but despite that, I challenged myself.  I drove on the freeway!  Not far.  Not fast.  But I drove at the speed limit and trusted that I would not panic when I saw cars moving down the ramp toward the highway.

But I feel overwhelmed about work, dealing with the bureacracy of exploring the possibility of obtaining some assistance in improving my work and living situations, and applying for insurance.  If I am working full-time, although it is detrimental to me, can I be classified as disabled?  I have to quit pushing myself or I will have another break.

The NAMI support group that I've been attending has not met for about a month.  I miss it.  Going to group allowed me to shed dead skin, shake off the worries and fears that had latched on to me, and, at least for a little while, feel safe and a little less lonely.

I've had very little contact with my tribe at the Unitarian church because I've been working on Sundays. I take my client to his church, a small evangelical congregation that is beginning a second life.  Most of the songs are foreign to me, but occasionally they include one of the old hymns that echo in the dark Southern Baptist corner of my brain.  Being off my meds allowed me to re-experience some of the vulnerability I felt when I was young, the fear of falling under the spell of those who wish to save my soul, and the deep sadness of knowing that no matter how much they called me forward, I would eventually be cast aside due to my possession by the devil as manifested by my continuing sorrow, fear, and inability to trust.  I wanted to control myself, not surrender control to another father that I feared. (There was a lot of smiting in the Old Testament!)

And, for the first time, I'm considering coming out of the mental illness closet.  If I don't take good care of myself, I may lose my footing and slide into another break which would throw the closet door wide open.  So I stay in my room today knowing that I will be stronger tomorrow.

I don't procrastinate, I'm just very, very slow following through

Once again I am trying to identify why I continue to refuse to seek out any form of public assistance.

There is a fierce spirit of independence that has surfaced in every generation of my family. No matter how bad things get, we endure, we survive, we give our place in line to others who really need help. We accept our situations, work hard, and just focus on survival.

Right now I'm surviving, but failing to thrive.

Each time I brace myself to wade into the bureaucratic swamp, I step back before my boots even get wet. In the support group I attend, I speak about my cold feet. The regulars have taught me that when we share, regardless of what we share, we are disclosing what is foremost on our minds or in our hearts. Week after week my sharing includes something about my reticence to seek help.

Then I was reminded of what happens when the care that is needed is not given.

During this past month, my car had a major breakdown (as opposed to my minor breakdown), and I have a hefty bill to pay. Fortunately, I received help in the form of support from people at church and friends. When I picked the car up, I learned that an anonymous donor had paid about a third of the bill.
I was overwhelmed with gratitude.

My landlady/roommate has been flexible with my payment of the rent as I've sorted out paying for my car repairs, but it looks like that is tightening up again. I am constantly asking for more hours at work, taking shifts that no one else wants. I'm not taking particularly good care of myself and I don't want to end up in the hospital like my car. Although I'd benefit from a tune-up.

However, no matter how many hours I work each week, I get more from my job than just a salary. Many of the clients I work with have exercises that they need to do and I exercise with them. They have special diets and, because we are encouraged to eat with our clients, I eat what they eat. Good habits and positive results. I can see that my presence makes a difference in the life of someone else and that feeds my soul.

I know all the things that I can't do. I think I know what I can do. Accepting limitations is actually setting healthy boundaries. And I've never cared for "limitations" or "boundaries."

I'm taking one step forward this week -- seeing my prescriber/therapist.

Boundaries. Limitations. Obligations to myself and others. Caring for myself first, then (in no particular order) my son, my friends, my church, my clients, other family members, those to whom I owe a debt, etc. Keeping UU principles in mind. Keeping recovery and support principles in mind. Keeping myself in mind.

July is going to be the month!

The month for what?

That's the question that I'm pondering.

Will it be the month in which I finally complete the process of applying for Medicaid? I certainly hope so. I'm not exactly sure why I've been slow to follow up on the previous application. I know that my financial situation has certainly changed since that application was submitted and I want to be sure that I'm responding with accurate information. At least that's the excuse I'm using right now.

I think it goes deeper though. There weren't many things that my father tried to impress upon my sister and me. The big one was never to seek out charity, accept charity, or give anyone the impression that help is needed. Of course, this is also the man who started a dinner time conversation by asking if we'd rather die from being too cold or too hot (we all agreed that we'd rather have our eternal slumber occur as a humansicle). He also told me that shooting into the roof of the mouth into the brain was a more effective method of suicide than shooting a bullet into one of the temples. He explained how a special bullet would further increase the odds of blowing out the brains rather than causing an injury that would only cripple. He was also responsible for the poster of what I believe was Custer's last stand that hung on my bedroom wall when I was very young. Scalps on the ground. Indian about to remove another one. It was a great source of nightmares.

Fear. Fear has been the driving force behind many of my actions. It's also been the weight that supported not taking action. I offered to submit a modified version of a previous post to our local NAMI chapter to be used in the bulletin. I was afraid it would not be good enough. I was afraid that I couldn't publish it anonymously. I was afraid to let it reach an audience, to no longer be safely hidden in the realm of published posts that go unread. Here there is the satisfaction of having said my piece, but the reassurance that no one will ever associate it with me.

I'm not ready for a cold eternal slumber. Besides July is not exactly conducive to that option. July is going to be the month I abandon inertia and start traveling at a snail's pace. It's the best I can do right now.

Stigma: Encouraging Words

Vice President Joe Biden

Patrick Kennedy

My words aren't as powerful nor as well crafted. Nor do I have a name recognized by every household in the country. I use a nom de blog because I have experienced stigma. I fear I could lose my job. I fear I might lose the relative peace and safety I currently feel. A relative peace and safety just discovered in my late 50's.

The most powerful words I've ever spoken were "Please make them stop talking about me!" delivered at my former workplace during my last break, just prior to my most recent suicide attempt, which was followed by my most recent hospitalization. Those words were stigmatizing. No way around that. But I know of at least one person who heard me that day and recognized that I was sick. Not crazy.

Forty years ago I had my first encounter with mental health care. Through all the frustrating years of seeking answers to my questions, seeking ways to eradicate the pain, seeking relief from the never ending ups and downs, I was afraid to speak up. I was afraid of possibly being warehoused in some facility. I was afraid of being ostracized. I was afraid my life would become a shambles. My inability to find answers, to find a way to treat my illness, contributed to my isolation, my pushing away everyone, my chaotic life. Effective treatment and changes to every facet of my existence have given me the potential for a life of peace, a life where I can feel happiness, and a life where I know how to care for myself. That doesn't mean I always do what I need to do. But I know how to do what needs to be done.

I'm grateful that these voices are being heard, but that doesn't mean we need to be silent.

NAMI(National Alliance on Mental Illness) provides me with community, education, peer and professional support, and tools to help me help myself. My peers have added their voices to this website. Stigma disappears when we speak boldly and listen with open minds and hearts.

Breaks

Meds. Psychotic. Faith. Confidence.

They are all tied together for me.

I work crazy hours, mainly because I just can't make myself do the necessary work to receive some public assistance. The stigma is ingrained. Deeply. Genetically. This is my current target. My paternal branch was poor and proud. Don't ask anyone for anything. Don't accept charity from anyone. Survive on your own or fail on your own. Never be a burden to anyone.

Crazy hours have contributed to my failure to take my meds as prescribed. I accept responsibility, but do have to admit that it was easier to comply when each day started and ended at the same time. Or when my shifts did not span two days. I can fix this.

I rent a room. I stay in that room except for the times when I am away working. I'm out briefly to do laundry, but usually choose a time when my roommate/landlady is out of the house. I subsist on junk food because I have yet to become comfortable using the kitchen. Her kitchen. I have privacy behind my door, but I am vulnerable any other place in the house. I even avoid the sunny patio (and the covered patio during typical NW days).

Some of my work situations, coupled with missed meds, have left me vulnerable to having a break. Simply screaming something profane, walking out the door, slamming it loudly, and hiding out until I can find the means to relocate to a place far, far away. That's my history. I understand it now, have tools to help prevent it from re-occurring, and have support if I will ask for it.

My life is small. The debris of good intentions litters my physical environment and my mind. NAMI support group saves me weekly as I hear someone share a story similar to my own.

It's become easier and easier to not attend church. There's a big hole in me. I feel like a stranger there. It has changed so much in the past year. I miss people who used to attend regularly. I especially miss a man who I just can't seem to get out of my mind. It feels like a sad place. I don't have the time, energy, or funds to participate on the same level as when I began attending a few years ago. I feel like the poor relative who people would rather not see. I feel like I no longer belong. I recently attended and found myself sitting alone in the pew. I'm not sure if I can make a joyful noise in that environment.

I am identifying false assumptions and trying to find what is true for me.

***My worth as an individual is not based on my ability to work. I am multi-faceted.

***Most life questions have multiple choice answers. No black and white.

I have had some good moments lately.

***Coming back to my room in the early morning hours shows me the beauty that is often hidden by constant activity. It's nice to be awake when everyone else is asleep.

***I have found a "clearing the cobwebs" spot. A tiny place that overlooks the ocean, seldom used during the hours when I go there. A place to watch my negative thoughts go out with the tide and hope come in the as the tide returns.

***I took a short early morning walk through the neighborhood. I felt good. I can do that again.

***I used Moodscope again. I need to do that each morning as I take my meds.

First comes getting back on schedule with meds, sleep, food, exercise.

And having faith in myself.

Ain't Mania Grand?

Yep, I'm not completely, perfectly, faithfully taking my meds. Today the sun is shining and I am attributing my hovering a few inches above the sidewalk mood to the weather. But I know the truth.

The truth is that today at church I became engaged in one of the most stimulating conversations I've had in decades. I've felt entrenched in middle-age malaise headed rapidly toward senior slumber.

I could use this blog to explore more issues related to mental health. I could use this blog to invite people into my mind, to form new connections, to fight atrophy and apathy. Time to broaden my narrow worldview.

The important thing is that today I experienced an awakening of a long slumbering part of myself.

(writing interrupted by panicked search for possibly lost wallet)

I think I'm on a pretty even keel today.

I've thought of becoming more vocal about the proposal to develop a list of people with mental illness as a tool to prevent gun purchases by individuals who are perceived as potential killers. The list would be very, very long. Such a list would have included my father who was in law enforcement and who only occasionally accepted help for depression. He may have killed in the Korean War, he was prepared to kill -- if deemed necessary -- in the course of his employment, and he kept a gun and special bullets that he used to kill himself.

Do I stay silent due to cowardice or just because fear is my old companion and therefore easier to embrace?

This post is taking an unusually long time to write because there is a parade of dog walkers passing by outside my window. Then there are these lovely hills that I can see just over the tops of the mobile homes that surround me. And I don't know what kind of bush it is that's starting to bloom outside my window and as much as I'd enjoy seeing that I'm worried about it blocking my view and adding to my feelings of being jailed. I want to go out, but really just want to curl up and dream while doing web searches of all the new things I learned of today. If I can remember all the words that sent me hovering. If I can shift into a slower gear without coming to a full halt.

And the mood shifts.

Is my brain growing or do I have a concussion?

I really did think for a moment that my brain might be growing. Well, one part of my head was certainly swollen. And the scalp was red. And hot.

Moving was a rough experience for me, but I had two friends who helped me through it. I also learned that walking backward while carrying furniture is never a good idea. Not a horrible fall, but one that left a hole in the parking lot where my head hit it....well, at least I don't recall seeing a hole there before my head hit the surface.

Bump growing larger. Head feels like it's in a vise. Sinus headache everywhere. Mild confusion. Vertigo when I looked down. Ditzier than usual. Based on my experience with prior head injuries, my self-diagnosis: Mild concussion. Plan of Care: Sleep. No elopements. Sleep. Reducing my workload (that hurt the workaholic node of my things that are bad for me zone). Sleep. Dark chocolate in moderation. Sleep so much that moderation not an issue.

Today my old head feels like the epoxy has set and I'm ready to take my brain out for a test drive. And that's what I did.

I went to church for the first time in over a month. My knee hurt, my jaw hurt, I had a mild headache, and people were nice to me. Damn it. I would have been okay if they hadn't been nice to me. After the first bucket full of tears, I realized that I missed taking my happy and stable pills many times over the past few weeks. However, I had been protected by my lovely night med, so all was not lost. I felt broken inside, but reassured that resuming my meds would help me get back to my safe zone.

Lot of paranoia right now, too. I have a roommate in my new location and, thanks to my very high stress level, hearing her in the distance becomes the seed for paranoid thoughts. And I'm hiding in my rooms (one for all my stuff and one for sleeping). I am not properly caring for myself. I have not yet used the kitchen, but I have eaten cold toaster pastries in the car. I will be extra gentle with myself and allow myself time to adjust to my new surroundings before taking any action...before running away. I am out of places to find shelter.

Not at point zero, but definitely at the lower end of the scale. Sleep. Rest. Eat. Breathe.

Stress and disorganization when moving

The title just about says it all.

This is the first time that I've moved since I was diagnosed and, as I stand back from the process, I realize the impact of being bipolar on this task.

I've attributed some of the reluctance to do the necessary work to the fact that I really don't want to make this move. I know I can no longer afford to stay in this apartment where I feel part of a community (although not much of a participant), where I feel safe, and where I selected to live even before I relocated to this city. Some of my moves were self-destructive in some respects, but each led to leaps and bounds in my growth and advancement as a person, mother, woman, girlfriend, friend, and every other role that I've accepted. I anticipate the same results this time.

This move involves significant downsizing again as I'm moving from an apartment to a set of rooms. I've made four moves that entailed crossing an ocean or crossing a continent. Each move meant that I had to assess the value of the objects in my life. The irony of the timing of each is that they occurred right about the time that things were pretty good and I had all the things I needed and some of the things I wanted. A pretty vase is not a necessity, but it can hold beautiful flowers that brighten a room and help elevate my mood. At my destination, I usually end up replacing most of the items I had to abandon. Sometimes it costs less to replace items than to move them.

I'm more aware of the move specific stress this time. Accompanying that is the stress of having a job with an irregular schedule and irregular salary. Money is already tight. Energy is already low. But I'll have a significant decrease in living expenses, be close to my two true friends, and be in a community of people near my own age. I'll have a non-family member roommate for the first time in decades. The scales don't seem balanced to me.

Then there is the cleaning. I know from my support group that I'm not the only bipolar person who has problems keeping a clean and organized residence. I wish there was a clean bomb -- a sort of bug bomb that eradicates the dirt and leaves a fresh clean smell after the deed is done.

The coffee overload doesn't help. Missing meds doesn't help. Forgetting to eat good food doesn't help. Time to use my whiteboard again and break this project down into bite-sized pieces and hope that I don't break. I've had a few of my warning signs, but so far I've been able to stay calm about them and that seems to help.

I have good support, but I won't call for help or accept help until I know that I can't go forth without it. I want to do this on my own and yet stay realistic about how much I can do.

I'll be fine as long as the stores don't run out of deep, dark, delicious, and medicinal chocolate.