Have a Little Faith

Faith is believing in something when there's absolutely no proof that you should.  It's putting your "better" judgment aside and surrendering yourself to the idea that the icon of your belief is really there.  Everyone knows what it means in the religious sense, but God (or whoever) is not the only entity in which we can have faith.

Recently, it was suggested to me by a counselor that I need to start looking beyond myself for help in dealing with my disorder(s).  He is a deeply religious man and his biblical quotes were slightly off-putting, but something he said struck me.  He told me that I needed to have faith in my family.  Often, I am the last to see the changes occurring in my own body chemistry.  My parents, especially, notice these changes right away.  I may be more agitated than usual; snippier, cynical, aggressive.  On the other hand, I also may be calmer and more at ease.  I'm active and can tolerate social situations that normally tend to send me running.  My moods may be affected by my medications or they simply may be due to the chemicals flowing incorrectly in my head.  Whatever is causing them, they seem 'normal' to me.  My brain, my world, making it difficult for me to catch or notice.  Therefore, I need to rely on others' assessments of my attitude and seek help when that attitude is faulty.  I need to have faith that their criticisms are correct.

And that's the problem - criticism.  No one wants to be criticized, even if that criticism is constructive.  I have a huge problem taking criticism, more than most, because I've always done things solo.  I had to!  Whether it be at school or work, people relied that I could and would handle things by myself.  I never knew what kind of response I would receive if I asked for help and, well, I didn't bother.  And so, being criticized meant the onus fell completely on my shoulders.  There was no one else involved to share the blame.

But times have changed.  The problems I've faced have grown far beyond what I can handle.  When I do try to handle them, I'm finding that I fail miserably.  I never believed that there would be something that I couldn't face alone.  Who wants to admit that their brain is short-circuiting physically?  Who wants to admit they can't tackle the horror show of addiction?  And who wants to admit that they're scared?  I've made great strides, but it feels like there's still a long way to go.

I don't feel that God is watching over me or that He'll get me through these troubles.  Strictly my opinion, I feel that, if there is truly a God that put us here on Earth, then He gave us strengths and limitations and said, "Go to it."  Therefore, my trust needs to be in my family and friends.  When I'm criticized, I need to take a breath and remind myself that they're only telling me these things because they care and want the best for me.  As the year comes to a close, faith becomes a priority on my resolution list.

Amen.

Extremely Split

I'm dedicating this entry to the clarification of a couple things - hypomania and depression.  Recently, I've had discussions with a few peers regarding how difficult it can be to explain to others, those without mental disorders, how damaging these can be and how little control we have over them.  "Normal" people simply don't understand and will never understand how physically and mentally debilitating it can be to experience mania or depression.  Compared to psychosis, they're more treatable, but I'd like to leave psychosis and the more ravaging mental disorders out of the conversation for now.  Very often, I look to the sky and give a silent Thanks for having been dealt the bipolar hand.

This is the best definition that I could find for hypomania, from Mosby's Medical Dictionary.

Hypomania:  a  milder degree of mania characterized by optimism; excitability; energetic, productive behavior; marked hyperactivity and talkativeness; heightened sexual interest; quick anger and irritability; and a decreased need for sleep. It may be observed before a full-blown manic episode.

I'll also add that this is seen in Type II bipolar, whereas Type I is full-on mania.  The reason I chose this definition is because it's the only definition I could find that gave both sides of hypomania - the good and the bad.  Being hypomanic is one of the best feelings in the world, I won't lie.  It's on par with a sexual climax, hands down.  While being around me during these episodes might be trying, I feel really damn good!  I don't stop talking, I interrupt constantly (and spend a lot of time apologizing for it), I could clean a mansion twice-over in a day, I don't need sleep, and activities are suddenly incredibly fun.  I'll play the guitar until my fingers bleed and then keep going.  Unfortunately, the downside is no fun at all.  If my energy is up and someone asks me to do something that wasn't on my agenda, my anger and irritability soars screamingly high.  I'm snide, sarcastic, and cynical.  If you aren't doing something my way, then you're doing it wrong.  WRONG, ALL WRONG!!  Worse, hypomania wants instant gratification, which is why people with bipolar disorder binge.  I overeat, I overspend, and I most definitely overindulge in alcohol.  It's not a thought - it's a feeling.  My body wants MORE and will do anything to get it.  One way or another, it's going to happen.  Also, if your energy shoots up and you don't do something to expend it quickly enough, then it can trigger terrible anxiety episodes that will mimic depression, below.  Essentially, you have so much stored energy that it disables your kinetics and you end up watching Netflix for twelve hours straight with two half gallons of ice cream and a bottle of cheap vodka on your lap.  It's no joke and no amount of willpower is going to get your ass moving again.  Seriously.

Depression:  a psychiatric disorder characterized by an inability to concentrate, insomnia, loss of appetite, anhedonia, feelings of extreme sadness, guilt, helplessness and hopelessness, and thoughts of death.

Of course, this is only one definition, found in the American Heritage Medical Dictionary.  Often times, people who are experiencing sadness or grief, feeling "low", say that they're depressed and they are absolutely right.  They are depressed!  The problem, in my opinion, is that it's so overused.  Yes, you're depressed, but are you crippled by it?  Are you lying in bed, unable to move, crying for no reason, wondering which knife in your kitchen drawer would make the best cut?  It's in this state that others are most likely to tell you to get up and get your act together, not knowing that it isn't physically possible to do so.  Depression doesn't just affect your mind.  It gets you all over, paralyzing your muscles.  You might think I'm exaggerating and, if you do, you're wrong (all wrong!!).  I consider myself very lucky to have only experienced a handful of major depressive episodes in my life, most of which were triggered by meds.  But I can tell you from firsthand experience that it's awful, wretched, and all-around sucky.

I suppose I wrote this as an analysis to myself, to see it in front of me and work out a few swirls in my head.  I must must must continue on the path that I'm currently on, take my meds without fail or modification, and be patient with myself should I stumble.  Medication will never cure the disorder, but it will prevent the extremes from occurring... meds soften the blows, so to speak.  Because it's so dynamic, though, it could take a year just to find the right combination.  And that's not to say that combination will be right for me the next year!  Thankfully, one of the biggest benefits of medication is that my awareness of these states is heightened, giving me momentary clarity in the worst of times that they're happening.  Finally, I can see it and my automatic thinking (basically, thinking without thinking) can be interrupted.  Sometimes it's 'too little, too late', but practice practice practice.  One day, I'll get it.  I know I'm rehashing a lot of this, but I have to.  I must.

Final note: if anyone knows Allie from Hyperbole and a Half (click the link, you'll love it), she wrote a humorous, yet very real, blog about her own depression.  Allie, you'll never read this, but I hope you're getting better...

Jon the Reevaluator

Ten bucks to the first person who gets that remarkably loose reference.  I think I have a monopoly board somewhere, though it might be the Star Wars version.  I hope Imperial dollars will suffice.

This is something that I had never really considered and was hesitant to do, but I realize now that it's important and healthy for me to reevaluate my friends and relationships specifically, not just life in its big picture.  Who has been sticking by my side through the years?  Who is willing to continue throughout my rebuilding?  Who seems to be around only when the times are good?  Who vents, but then never stands by when I need to do the same?  The list of questions to ask is extensive.  Actually, I feel badly about the latter example, because I'm guilty of violating it.  One thing I've never been accused of being, however, is a poor listener.  That is, if you can reach me.  If you can't, I'm having problems and probably in the hospital....... not something I'm proud of, but necessary.  Not only that, I might call or e-mail you twenty times in a week if I'm hypomanic, then zero times for a month if I'm depressed.  Sigh.

Back to friends and relationships (and I include family in this), some incredibly caring people reached out to me when they found out what was going on.  Others bit me in the ass, one in particular.  The ones who cared did so in ways that may seem minor to them, but are huge to me.  Whether it be a text message, Facebook e-mail, comment on a post... they all had the same underlying conveyance - I'm here for ya, buddy.  I was surprised with a couple of visitors while on MHU, as well.  When I heard that I had my first visitor, I almost broke my nose tripping over a chair trying to get to him.  These are things they didn't have to do.... they just did and it made a world of difference to my anxiety level on those days.  And for you friends who have sent me Facebook shout-outs over the last, astoundingly difficult year - THANK YOU.  I may not always respond or I might be quick, but please know that you're part of the reason I keep finding the strength to get back up.

Like I said, others have bitten me in the ass, and not in the "Ooooooo... naughty!" kind of way.  As mentioned in my last entry, where I went to mentally and emotionally, I don't wish upon the worst of my enemies (not that I have any... phew).  I saw a way out - not the way I wanted.  If I had awoken the next morning, gotten up and said, "AH!  All better!", then I might understand a few raised eyebrows.  But I didn't.  I was stuck down in that hole and I needed some serious professional assistance to climb out.  Now, if you're disappointed with that, then I can understand.  It must be so tiring for my family, especially, to deal with my absences over and over again.  But if you're a friend who's taking it as a personal affront that I landed in a psych ward and won't stand by me through that, then... well... you aren't a friend.  Not only are you not a friend, I don't WANT you as my friend.  You have nothing to offer me and I can't give you what you're after.

I'm tired, too, folks.  I don't know how much gas I have left in the tanks.  And if I don't have the stamina for MY drama, then I certainly don't have the stamina to be dragged into YOUR drama.  I look into the mirror and I see a guy who is now too old and too worn out for junior high antics.  I won't participate in them anymore.

Priorities change.  My energy needs to be spent on those willing to spend the same on me.  To those who have reached out or would reach out, you are truly in my heart.

The Importance of Being Earnest

When it comes to mental health, you need support.  Now you say, "Thank you, Mr. Obvious."  More importantly, you need to click with that support.  If you don't, then it's also your responsibility to seek additional resources.  I did not do that.  No, I gave my psychiatrist another chance because he has a good reputation and I felt badly about dumping him.  And that landed me in another mental health ward.

Several months ago, I was prescribed a medication regimen that finally worked.  Woot!  A month and a half ago, this man prescribed medication on top of the original cocktail that did not work.  Toow?  It was as if two worlds collided and formed a black hole.  Rather than help, it tanked my brain and sent me to a very, very dark place and I would strongly prefer not to revisit.  It was a place I never thought I'd see and it was shocking... SHOCKING.  Like, 'lock me up in this ward please' shocking.

Unfortunately, these things happen and it's one of the reasons Type 2 Bipolar has a 20% mortality rate.  20% sounds unbelievably large, and it is, but that's just one statistic and it factors in all sorts of things, including substance abuse and overdose.  Regardless, figure that one in five people with BP might be going out the hard way.  All it takes is a small tweak of medication and you're done.  For me, who is already sensitive to prescriptions, it was dumping a third mood stabilizer on top of two others and, rather than stabilize my mood, it tore it to pieces.  I'm not blaming that completely on the medication.  I think I was still adjusting to feeling good... which must sound odd.  It's alien to me.  Every time I start to feel really, really good, I do something really, really stupid.  And the additional stabilizer was like that first domino.  Tip.  Tip tip.  TIP TIP TIP TIP TIP TIP TIP.

I won't be seeing this psychiatrist anymore.  You can't prescribe medication in my case and say, "See you in a month and a half."  Bipolar (and many MH disorders) is dynamic... what's working one week may not work the next.  You need to be incredibly aggressive in its treatment, especially with people who are rapid cycling.  It's also up to me to learn how to recognize the subtleties in my own body chemistry and catch them before they become huge problems.  It's DIFFICULT.  Hell, sometimes it just feels like gas.  It scares me that I may have to go through this over and over again before I catch these things.  But I'm still standing, so far.

Finally, I learned more about intentions.  My intentions, as they've been for years, were pure.  Truly.  But my intentions are so skewed with this disorder.  I intended to take my meds everyday.  Hmm... though something was off.  So I intended to make good and not take my meds.  Oof.  But that's not right either.  So I intended to double my meds the next day, because that should fix things.  Ugh, now I'm on my floor crying.  What the @#%?!  Should I triple them now?  Or not take them for two days and then quadruple the fourth?

Phbbt.  How do you catch a feeling or a thought when it's yours and your light-switch-brain only has two settings?  My brain is either On or Off, when most brains have a dimmer.  I'm still working on it and my intention today is to continue.

Maybe I should write this on a card and stick it to my forehead.

My Two Dads?

Note: this is about the most influential men in my life and the only two people who, more than likely, won't read this...

Before I post my entry about my first, large bipolar 'low' since starting new medication, I'd like to share this.  It's going to be easier to write and it's been a long time coming.  It was prompted due to a recent, vivid dream... the kind that you have when you're withdrawing from a chemical.  They're sometimes scary, but always poignant and intense.

Six people were sitting in a fairly ordinary living room - me, my mother, my sister, my step-father, my real father, and his new, rather young son.

The conversation was terse and tense, with many pauses, and the specifics aren't necessary.  My father, who I haven't seen since my wedding thirteen years ago (one week will mark it), returned to the area from god-knows-where, to introduce his boy to the family.  In that aloof manner of his, perhaps he'd forgotten that we hadn't spoken in thirteen years or that he came to my graduation, but not my sister's.  Maybe he thought that his three failed marriages had no effect on his first-born children.  I'm sure the fact that he left my family when I was three and my sister had just been born had no bearing on the situation.  He certainly hasn't been around for my psych issues.  And, most important to me, he has yet to meet my son, his natural grandson.  No, he was there to introduce his other son - real in my dream, but I'm sure imaginary.

Again, the conversation specifics aren't important.  I pointed out the above and mostly slammed the man for abandoning my family and especially neglecting my sister.  Maybe he didn't know how to relate to her, but, damn it, you try.  While I seemed to be the star of my dream-show, I think the person who shined was my step-father.

Here's a man who's had a hard life, with parents that hated each other, living in a community that seems rather strange to me.  He drank early and had a tough run.  Picking up the pieces of a family that were left by another, he entered it as an alien and coped very poorly.  Frankly, he hurt us with those coping skills and they left scars, visible even today.  As I said, though, you try.  And try he did.  He worked years at a tireless, mundane job to support us.  He also supported us as his wife was sick.  All the while, attempting to fix his own past and similar mental health problems that plague me today.  He had good attempts and very, very bad attempts.  Those bad attempts were terrible for the family.  But he tried and we got through it.

The climax of this dream was when my step-father stepped forward and tore into my father, feeling that my own message wasn't enough.  He even went as far as kicking my father out and things got very heated.  I hit my step-father to stop him because I knew that my father was already leaving, hurt and confused.

I have been struggling for years with both a substantial mental health issue and alcohol abuse.  I've needed guidance and support.  Most of my family has given that support and I thank them immensely.  I'm trying my damnedest, for me and my own little boy.  I don't want him to go through what I have or see what I've seen.  It's a dark and horrible road to travel alone, and I need him to have a strong Figure behind him should, god forbid, he suffer similar problems.  I need him to have Dad.  Through everything, the one person that's struggled in support of me, seemingly, is my step-father.  Even though he's gone through it all, years ago, when I slip or make poor decisions, he takes it personally.  Sometimes he doesn't talk to me for a while, but he usually comes around.  Bottom line, he tries.  He's not always successful, but he's got the one, true quality that I've asked for in a father - he's present, for better or worse.

Today, when I say Dad, there's only one man I'm referencing.

Numbers... Incredibly Meaningful Numbers

Or 'Numbers... Utterly Meaningless Numbers', part two.

As I approach the first ninety-day sober mark that I've earned in almost a year, I decided this morning to revisit a post that I wrote in December 2011 regarding AA and their 'chip reward system'.  Those AA members with less than a year sober are encouraged to receive chips (like NA's key chains) for every month they have remained clean.  Personally, I dislike these chips because I feel the focus should be on living clean as part of a daily lifestyle and not on making it month to month.  I can't deny that it helps elevate group morale in meetings and gives newcomers hope, though.  My heart swells when I see friends stand up, knowing they've got another month under their belts.  Even the SMART program that I participate in has forum threads created specifically for those with 7-days, 30-days, and 60-days of sobriety.  However, these threads are all-inclusive, not exclusive.  No matter how much time you have, you can participate in any of these conversations.  The segregation is there because it's sometimes more helpful to talk with peers who are closer in consecutive days.  I love SMART.

And with ninety days coming soon, I admit that I'm pretty damn happy with the work that I've performed this year.  It's been rocky, for sure, and there were a few times I wanted to throw in the towel (rocky, throw in the towel... no intentional connection there).  Now that I think about it, I did throw in the towel - just for that round.  When the bell rang again, I realized the job wasn't going to get done unless I did it myself.  No more dickin' around, even if it meant exposing parts of me that were much darker than just alcohol.

'Just alcohol'.  I guess that's the bottom line in all this.  It's 'just alcohol'.  I have more important things to worry about.

I've been waking up EACH day with a sense of pride that I successfully managed yesterday and, therefore, I can do it again today.  From one day to the next lately, I have no idea which personality is going to hit the ground.  When I find out, whether good or bad, I accept that guy and adjust my plans accordingly.  How is my mood today?  How are my meds working?  Do I have the energy to deal with court, the job hunt, my unbelievable bills?  When's my next therapy appointment?  Do I have to call insurance or rehab for training?  Nothing on my plate is unmanageable or even difficult, as long as I know my strengths and limitations and give myself a lot more leeway than I have in the past.  I have to take it slow, as there is a lot of work to be done and wreckage to clean.

Have you ever seen a TV game show like this: two partners have to answer 10 combined trivia questions.  The first partner is given 30 seconds and answers... 2 questions... leaving his buddy to answer 8 questions in the same 30 seconds.  The TV camera pans to the second partner and catches him mouthing the words, "what the fu..."  Cut quickly to commercial.

That's how I feel about the old me.  I don't blame him.  While trying to answer the questions, he got Slimed, nailed in the head with a Plink-o coin, punched in the groin by a very small Asian woman, and mugged by Alex Trebek.  I think.  So, the new me has some catching up to do, but it can be done.

I want to write another blog soon based solely on my rapid-cycling, but for now I'll say that I'm happy to be bipolar.  It's added a new level of difficulty to the game, which is a blessing and not a curse.  Because I don't know what to expect from hour to hour, day to day, I have a real sense of accomplishment when I kick my feet up at night, even when the day didn't go well.  Truth is, though, most days are a-okay.

So, to know that I've almost strung three-months' worth of these days together... yeah, I'm happy with that.

(insert smiley face or something clever)

Power Struggle

About three years ago, I did something that people called stupid.  Like... incredibly stupid, even for me.  Based on my many 'issues', I signed away full custody of my son.  It was a gigantic blow to my ego, but I couldn't deny that I was an unfit father in the condition I was in.  It had nothing to do with finances and certainly wasn't about not wanting to be with him.  Should something happen to his mother, god forbid, it would leave me to care for him while also juggling my mental health.  On the surface, signing over custody probably was stupid.  You had to look deeper to see the whole picture.  And I don't plan on being without custody forever.  For now, it means not seeing my son very much.

Last week, my munchkin was sick.  It was nothing serious, though it kept him home for several days and his mom wasn't able to take time off.  Being home myself, I was asked to watch him at my parents' - a terrific opportunity, albeit at his expense.  It gave me a chance to be 'Dad' - to care for him, take his temperature, get him something to eat, make sure a full compliment of cartoons was available, etc.  We made scrambled jellybean eggs, watched Curious George, rediscovered the original Optimus Prime that I had stashed in the attic, and played Lego StarWars and Mario Kart.  I even showed him how to fart with his armpits.  What are dads for, right?

But this was all done at my parents' house.  I can't have him at my place because I don't have unsupervised visitation rights as part of the agreement I signed.  Strike one.  My parents also see him every day and I do not.  They're parents to him more than I am.  Strike two.  Finally, they're parents and I'm still a kid who doesn't know a lot about being a parent.  Strike three.

Can you see the potential for tension?  By day three, I was absolutely exhausted and had to get home.  By day three, my parents were absolutely exhausted and wanted me to get home.  Simple things like whether or not to give my son medicine became arguments.  "We're his grandparents and his throat hurts so give him medicine."  "I'm his dad and he told me that his throat didn't hurt so I'm NOT giving him medicine."  (Not a quote, but you get the idea.)

I think we see each side, as mediated by my sister (thank... you).  And I don't write any of this to vent about how my son received care!  I'm hoping my family can laugh as they read this.  I personally think it went well, but the situation stirred a lot of feelings for me.  This was my chance to feel like a real father for a few days, uninterrupted.  I haven't had that in years and it stings to look at how fast he's growing and to recognize that I've missed a lot of time with him already.  I'm usually not available to care and comfort him.

Also, as the tension rose, it was clear that the family was raising questions about MY wellness.  Was I getting aggravated because of a bipolar flare-up?  A little, yes.  Was I getting aggravated because of an impending relapse?  Hell no.  Dammit, I can get upset, just like anyone else!

I may be feeling better, but that doesn't mean life is better or where I would like it to be.  As I put more and more healthier days together, my desire to have "everything as it should be" grows (should, should, should).  My patience wanes and I get irritated more easily when I discover the trust in my relationships isn't at 100%.  That's not fair to others, though, considering how long they've been dealing with this.

I've made it this far.  I need to push these issues aside, as I can't change them, and simply continue to grow in health and happiness.  It's been damn hard work and I don't plan on stopping now.

And thank you, very much, to my family and extended family for helping with my son.  You have no idea how much it means to me.

Paint It Black

This really needed its own time and space.  I'll break from my usual babble and do something fun...

Don't dare me to do something just for the sake of being funny.  Don't dare me to do anything at all, ever.  It becomes personal and I will find a way to accomplish it.  Especially if your female.  My testosterone starts to boil, I make stupid ape noises and I have an overwhelming need to impress - even if that dare is to do something so incredibly anti-machismo, I'd lock myself in a closet once it was done.

Well, this came damn close, but I did it.  I learned quite a bit.  Actually, it says quite a bit about where I'm at personally and how few inhibitions I have left.  That tends to happen when you've spent more time in hospitals, rehabs or psych units than Scott Weiland.  Just kidding... he still has me beat.

What else did I learn?

1. I finally understand why cuticles are important to maintain.
2. The use of cotton balls or other items to separate one's toes is much more important than I ever could have realized.
3. If you are taking Lithium for Bipolar and your hands shake, even slightly, you should not be attempting what I am attempting... EVER.
4. This shit dries very, very, very quickly. Have a wet nap handy at all times.
5. There are two types of black, apparently - one with glitter and one without. Who knew?
6. If you have enormous toes, then you had better do yoga prior to painting. The sides are not easy to get.
7. Own a spotlight? USE IT...
8. Do not get frustrated and move quicker after the first foot is complete. Spread *evenly*. Polish globs and rolls around your toes when you are not looking.
9. Scratch the wet nap. Just bring a large, wet bath towel that you're willing to part with.
10. While it dries quickly, do not walk like an elephant after you're done. You will have NONE of the polish on your nails and ALL of the polish under your toes.

So, this is especially dedicated to my SMART friends.  I took it against the guitar so you could see the contrast and the shitty job I did.  Sorry about the gross feet.  But I told you I'd do it!

Breakfast at Tiffamy's

Here I sit on a rainy Sunday, comfortable with myself.  It's an odd feeling, to be content in one's own skin.  I don't feel like climbing the walls, nor do I feel like climbing into bed to sleep the day away.  I realized, as I was singing to music (sorry, neighbors), sipping coffee, and staring out the window at the clouds, that it's okay to do nothing once in a while.  Originally, I wanted to take a bike ride to another town and maybe break out my camera, but Mother Nature said otherwise.  It wasn't part of her plan.

And I'm a guy who needs a plan.  Everything has to be in perfect order and those elements must be prompt.  As such, my plans never work as I envision.  Never ever.  When they don't, which is always, I assume a mental fetal position and whine to myself that life isn't fair.  I very often feel like the world has collaborated to 'move my cheese'.  But, with the help of my professional entourage, efforts are being made to change my obsessive need for planning.  When my therapist wants to go hiking, she goes hiking rain or shine.  When she wants to zipline, she does.  When she feels like sitting on the couch, watching movies for a good cry while eating popcorn, she allows it.  She has no definitive plans because life changes in the blink of an eye.

My plans changed for the better on Friday morning.  I received a text message at 7:14am from my sister inviting me to breakfast and, rather than decline because I was groggy and it was unexpected, I said Yes.  It's been a pleasure hanging out with her lately because we haven't gotten along in roughly thirty years.  Around the time our step-father came into our lives, we began picking on each other mercilessly.  Granted, most of the picking was initiated by me and I think a lot of it stemmed from misdirected anger.  Since we couldn't fight back when our step-father was screaming at us or slapping us, we did what most people would do - take it out on someone our own size (or close).  Unfortunately, this continued throughout the years.  Nothing my sister said or did was right in my eyes and I would jump down her throat every chance I got.  I was right and she was wrong.  Most of the time, I didn't realize that I was even doing it, very similarly to how our dad acted when we were younger.  And this all culminated two months ago when she finally told me that she loved me, but that she's never liked me.  Hurtful, yet deserved.

So why the change?  We've worked to throw a cookout, hung out for hours on a Friday night, and now we're having breakfast with each other.  What gives??  I brought up that I felt like people have been treating me differently since I returned from the hospital.  It feels like the diagnosis has spawned empathy.  But my sister corrected me.  She explained that I'm being treated differently because *I* am treating others differently.  She said that she can breathe around me, finally... as if she had to hold her breath because she never knew when I was going to snap. 

When a person changes, they are often the last to recognize it.  I'm happy to hear that I seem more relaxed and at ease because I don't necessarily see it.  I do feel more 'even'.  It feels like I can breathe more freely, too.  Hopefully, this is the start of many mended relationships.  For years, I've wanted a sibling that I could be close to and it stings a little to know that, although I wanted to be close to my sister, I pushed her away.  So, here's to many more breakfast invitations.

Enough of that.  Entering my man cave again...

Excuses, Excuses

"You don't know what you don't know."  I generally hate this statement.  I think it's equal to "It is what it is", if not more despicable, but they're both perfectly true.  The latter statement doesn't tell you if "It" is good or if "It" completely, abhorrently sucks.  "It" just is.  And you can't argue with "It".

The first statement has been on my mind since I wrote my last entry.  "You don't know what you don't know."  To me, the quote says, in some circumstances, that ignorance truly is an excuse.  Being valid, it should relieve some of the guilt that I've felt for things deeply ensconced in my past.  I still have problems forgiving myself for things that happened years ago and some of those things weren't even my fault.  For example, I didn't know that my ex-wife was going to have a near total fucking mental breakdown and make a decision to leave me before our first anniversary, yet I blame myself for not being more aware (maybe?) and trying to make it work.  I suppose my abandonment issues fired up and I held on far too long.  Not knowing this would be the result, I shouldn't place so much blame on my shoulders.  I guess I didn't know how to cope.

This is especially true when I think of my drinking.  Every time I raised a bottle, I created problems for myself and others, whether they be family, friends or coworkers.  As much as it's been told to me that drinking is a choice, it hasn't been mine.  I never chose to drink so hard that I missed work or appointments.  I never drank on Monday to wake up Wednesday thinking, "Hey, where did Tuesday go?"  And I would never drink to put those closest to me in danger, emotionally or physically.  I didn't know these would be the outcomes.  However, the fact remains that I did drink to that extent and those things happened (and more).

I had a conversation with family a few nights ago regarding some of my feelings on being diagnosed with bipolar disorder.  I'm having a hard time accepting it for a number of reasons, not the least is that accepting it would feel like I'm excusing my actions over the past decade and more.  "Oh, remember that time I took a swing at dad?  Well, I'm bipolar, so it's not my fault.  And all those times I'd disappear for weeks, bouncing from motel to motel, not answering my phone?  Sorry, bipolar!"  I've already hurt people enough and I don't want to hurt them more by making it seem like I'm brushing away my actions with a diagnosis.

Because I was being open about this, my family raised an interesting point - this diagnosis is a reason, not an excuse.  Webster defines each as:

Reason: 1c - a sufficient ground of explanation or of logical defense;

Excuse: 2a - something offered as justification or as ground for being; OR 2b - an expression of regret for failure to do something.

They're pretty close in meaning and the two can be interchanged.  However, Reason is concrete and grounded in fact.  Excuse, the way it is often used, is an explanation having a connection to apology or forgiveness.  That's not what I want people to think.  While I am sorry for the things that have happened, I am not apologizing and waiving them.  Excuse would allow this, but Reason says, "It happened and this is why it happened.  Now take the consequences like a man."

That said, people seem to be accepting of bipolar as a reason versus alcoholism on its own.  All of those "get your head out of your ass" comments seem to sting a little bit more because of it.  I've been saying for a very long time that alcohol was just a symptom, but I didn't know what exactly was wrong.  Still, I'm welcome to this newfound reason.  It's as if someone finally gave me the roadmap that I started looking for twenty years ago.

Changing Seasons

Since I returned home, I've been doing a lot of analyzing, mostly of the last three years.  It's difficult because I don't want to relive it, but it's also helpful in identifying patterns of behavior and learning how to break these patterns when they start occurring again.  It's been ten years since I started drinking excessively, but the last three years that life has been extremely miserable.  I guess you could say I had seven bad years and three acutely bad years (i.e. three really, really, really, @#^! bad years).

What makes this process so difficult, and sad, are the nagging thoughts now stuck in my head.  I wish, more than anything in the world, that those years never happened.  I don't mean to imply that I want my friendships taken away or the special moments with my son to be forgotten.  For the sake of those who were caught within my funnel cloud, I wish I could take away the hurt feelings, anger and frustration.  It's not about relieving my own hurt or taking away my consequences for the things that happened.  I'd gladly keep those if it meant others would lose the memories of my actions.

I'm trying to reconcile the irritating idea that none of it had to take place.  It's like one of those annoying, under the skin itches that you just can't scratch and won't go away.  I've been seeing therapists and psychiatrists for years.  If ONE of these professionals had asked the right questions and treated me appropriately (rather than throw the latest drug du jour down my throat), then <poof>... a decade's worth of misery may have been saved.  Instead, I was putting something into me that made matters far worse.  I'm not trying to blame anyone, but it's also hard not to.  When a psychiatrist diagnoses you and the cardinal rule is to not prescribe an anti-depressant, but then prescribes one anyway... I don't know.  And I didn't know what questions to ask to prevent this, either.  I can't seem to wrap my head around the fact that one small change could've had an incredible impact.  I voiced my above wish to my therapist - "I wish the last three years never happened."  She replied, "I do too," and we both sat silently for a minute.  It looked like we were both going to cry.  She's the only person who really listened to me, but her hands were tied.  She isn't a prescriber and couldn't do much except voice her concerns to my psychs.  She's blaming herself for not catching this sooner.  She doesn't realize that I wouldn't have made it out of this screwed up, bi-polar cave without her help.

Sure, there were some good times over the years, but they always seemed to be followed by a bout of drinking.  I said in the last post that drinking was related to the depression, yet this isn't true.  My drinking usually occurred after the best days - incredible days with my son, wonderful vacations, time with special friends.  They coincide with my 'up' cycles, when I have annoyingly high energy and an over-eagerness to get out and do.  This is how I felt last weekend.  By Sunday afternoon, I was so emotionally sensitive to the positive things that happened during the two days, I was willing to scream from my porch, "LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL!!"  While this might be true, it was not characteristic of me, by far.  I had to rein my energy because of the danger that comes with it.  And that plain sucks.

Eh, I'm whining.  I know that I need to use my past as a tool to build a better future, but it's painful to think how easily the past could have been changed.  I don't want others to hurt because of me.  So, I'll try to work my ass off and the future will be brighter for it, hopefully.  These lyrics suddenly have a much deeper meaning...

"With all the changing seasons of my life, maybe I'll get it right next time."

The Roller Coaster Continues

It's been a long time.  Several people were asking what was going on, so I'll explain a bit of it.  Heeding the advice of my therapist, I stopped writing.  It helped to get everything in the open, but there were other things that I needed to focus on.  And with that, I'll shift focus...

I think that this is harder to write about than drinking.  For well over a year or two, my therapist has been mentioning that she thought I was hypomanic.  It was mentioned by my psychiatrist, as well.  My energy level tends to soar for a few weeks, but it's an energy level that's unsustainable.  I'm irritable, agitated, and I don't sleep well.  I set goals that are so high, I can't accomplish them.  I snap at people and I'm cynical.  It goes on and on.  And then... I crash.  Hard.  I get so depressed that I barely move.  I don't eat.  And, of course, I drink myself oblivious.  Worse, I don't think twice about any of it.  This has been happening for years - rinse, repeat.  I don't even have the "good" kind of mania!  I have the pissy, irritating, I'm-going-to-flip-out-for-no-reason kind of mania.  Has anyone noticed this?

Ahem... not all at once, please.

What I didn't realize is that this behavior is indicative of Type 2 Bi-polar.  I know this now because, after a few weeks of binge drinking off and on again (more on than off), I finally checked myself back into the hospital.  All I thought was, "Something is totally NOT right."  It didn't occur to me to stop drinking or call someone or do anything real helpful.  In turn, the hospital checked me into a psych rehab for dual diagnosis patients - patients who are experiencing mental health problems along with substance abuse issues.  I requested this specifically because I've freakin' been everywhere else at this point!  I'm so sick and tired of talking about drinking, even though it's such a large part of what's been going on for several years.  It's a symptom.  Something deeper hasn't been right for a very long time.  I just thought I was depressed!

Unfortunately, that's exactly what I was being treated for - depression.  For three and a half years, I've been seeing various psychiatrists and they've all prescribed me anti-depressants.  And for three and a half years, I've felt like I've been going nowhere.  It's been the hardest and most miserable period of my life, hands down.  Relationships get destroyed, I relapse over and over, I can't hold a job for any more than six f'ing months.  And since it's my mission to be as honest as possible within my blog (wait... I DO try to be honest everywhere... I try), I'll also admit that some of the meds I've been on have almost, *almost*, made me suicidal.  The thoughts were certainly there.  I finally told this to the hospital psychiatrist who interviewed me a few weeks ago and it was a load off my shoulders.  Turns out, if you give someone with bi-polar an anti-depressant (without something additional to stabilize his or her moods), then you make the situation even worse.  My psychiatrist should have know that.  Sadly, people with Type 2 BP do have the highest rate of suicide.  Fun facts.

Checking myself into the hospital and rehab must have been luck.  I don't think I had moved in the two days prior to it.  Maybe it was an impending sense of doom that made me pick up the phone this time... I don't know.  The rehab was wonderful and I felt like someone was finally listening to me.  My medication was completely readjusted and time will tell whether or not this is going to do the trick.  It's not a cure, by any stretch, but hopefully it will help.  Similar to addiction, bi-polar doesn't go away.  You can make it better, for sure, but you're never going to fully arrest it.  You can only hope to make the ups and downs less..... well, up and down.

Also, between the hospital, rehab, and therapist, I'm learning to identify my behavioral patterns.  I never realized I was acting like, um, such an asshole all the time... happy one minute, snapping the next.  It seems to happen over a period of two months or so.  Then I start drinking like an idiot, come to, and repeat the cycle.  My therapist went through my file and my relapse pattern is clockwork.  I blamed it on the 60 day "hump" that some AAers talk about (I wrote about it last December), but it has nothing to do with that.  My cycle is dictating my sobriety, not the other way around.  But I can see it now.

I guess I didn't have to write about this.  It's difficult to put this to virtual paper because it's entirely new to me.  Now that I know why I've felt and acted the way that I have, I'm more aware of my current state and can adjust it as needed - or ask for help if I can't.  I suppose it's important for me to write because this shit simply isn't talked about enough.  And I don't mean just bi-polar.  I mean bi-polar, OCD, depression, psychosis, etc.  There are some people I could tell and they'd be fine with it.  There are others who will look at me like I have three heads and a tail.  And I know there are family members and friends who have a "we'll see" kind of attitude about all this.  It probably won't comfort them much when I say, "Me too."

Lip Service

I feel like it would've been remiss not to write this evening.  I'd really like to get reading (I'm reading "Excuses Begone"), but something had to be mentioned.

I received an extraordinary e-mail from a friend today, someone who cares deeply about what I'm going through and only wants to see me better.  It said this, basically - "Get busy living or get busy dying."  It's my choice.  And, while the latter may not be approved, it would be respected.  But let people know so they can either a) help or b) get out of the way.

I got the e-mail while I was at work and it was a tough read.  It was tough because 100% was true, it was emotional, and it nearly made me cry.  When it's 2pm and you're trying to get work done, that's not easy.  There was also talk about grilled cheese and, God, I love grilled cheese.  So it was emotional.

(Btw, I'm watching Star Trek - JJ Abrams - and I always, always get teary at the beginning.  It was SO well done.)

Look, I can't promise that things are going to work out, but I can promise that I'm trying (even when it doesn't look like it).  I think what's really hung me up (wow, grammar) is that I do have a lot of residual feelings regarding how I grew up, my shitty marriage, my crappy jobs... and I hang onto all of that.  And I hang onto all of it because... they seem like good excuses to fail.

Right?  If I have excuses to be a failure, then I can't truly disappoint anyone.

The problem is this - I actually haven't disappointed anyone, except for myself.  I've always thought of myself as such (a disappointment).  Yet, would I ever think of my own son as a disappointment, no matter what happened to him or what he decided to do with his life?

The answer... is a resounding... NO.

My past is the wake of a boat.  It's there, but it cannot shift my course.  Therefore, I need to steer.  I can deal with that wake as I see fit, but it can't steer me.

I entitled this "Lip Service" because I almost feel like that's what I've been doing lately... paying my sobriety lip service.  I don't mean to.  My emotions have been up and down and I simply can't grip them.  But I don't have to... not all at once.  I have help if I just ask for it.

And for those wondering, the last piece of the puzzle has been placed.  I told the president of my company what I've been fighting.  I never thought I'd do that... I've admitted what's going on to my family and to you, my friends.  I never thought I'd finally tell my job.  You should've seen how caring he was and how much he wanted to help.  I left his office thinking, "Why didn't I do this sooner?"

Kirk just got the crap beaten out of him, but he's looking at a model ship and realizing his potential.  Time I do the same.

So Little Time For Such a Long Entry

I will preface this by saying, "If I were you I'd manage to avoid the invitation... of promised love that can't keep up with your adoration..."

I have so many topics to write about, I don't know where to start.  (Let's just say they're all dramatic... slight shot at the person who told me these were too dramatic...)  I've got weeks' of fodder.

First - I will NOT write, yet, about who or what I let take me down.  That's not fair - because that's me, not them, and this will not be the end people who I let into my life.  There's an entire line of context that needs to be understood, nearly a year long, and I can't do the emotion justice.  Not yet.  It will take writing and rewriting, edit upon edit, and still I don't think I could do it justice.  I need to, in some way, verbalize how integral this person has been without trying to badmouth.  Because there is NO badmouthing here.  It was a criss-cross of emotion and heart and... Christ, I can't arrange it all.  I don't think it's at an end.  It can't be.  Although, I did need to let it settle by doing something childish - ignoring it all.  And, when it comes down to it, it makes me realize that I've sooooo neglected others in the process.  All of those questions about who has truly supported me and how... they've been answered.  In spades.  They're people who have supported me all of my life, or tried to and didn't quite know how, but they tried!  They tried their fucking hearts' out.  We were on different pages, but they still tried so, so very hard.  It was in plain view, yet I think we were all a little blind.  And... that's okay.  God, dammit.  I realize, that's okay.

Second, happy mothers' day.  Again, I'm trying to condense a whole lot.  Happy Mother's Day to the mother of my son - the mother who, on day ONE of my recuperation, said Yes to meeting for breakfast so I could see my little one.  We only saw each other for an hour, but that wasn't a restriction.  It just happened that way.  My son was tired at 9am, needed a nap, still had a full day planned, etc.  There was no "you have one hour and I'm outta here."  That's not the way it went.  In fact, in my opinion... it was perfect and brings tears to my eyes.  I even saw them again this morning before our commutes.  To anyone reading, especially her family, I'm not writing a ton because I don't think she reads this.  She will always, always touch my heart.

Just so you know how special you are to me (although you probably won't read this) - I listened to "You Look So Fine" about forty times today.  That's been her ringtone to me for four years.

Second, happy mothers' day (no, that's not a mistake).  Again, I'm trying to condense a whole lot.  Mom, I love you and I could write pages about this, too - and I will.  I heard magic words.  Words that made me realize, even though I've heard them before, that life does not come with instructions.  I KNOW THAT.  But I was told that I was, at my own son's age, my mom's best friend.  And I finally, finally get that.  Because that's how I feel about my son.  He is, without any doubt, the best friend I've ever had.  When he's 35 and - married, divorced, rich, penniless, struggling, strong, willing to write or wanting to shut-in - he's my son and my best friend.  He will never, ever be a disappointment to me and I will always hold in my mind taking him to see Cars 2 or him wanting to watch ABC Trains a hundred, thousand times.  It won't change... not in my mind.

To add some context to the image that will stick in my own mind of my son... him sixteen inches long, snuggled on my chest as we both nap, with his mom behind the camera.  My favorite picture over any Norman Rockwell.

Third, a thanks to karma.  I have NO idea what's going to happen tomorrow morning, but I do know that the worst I expected today was not the worst that happened.  The funniest thing is this - two of my most ... I don't know ... most spiritually balanced friends wrote to me when I needed them most.  One of them I've reconnected with already and I love her with all of my heart.  The second was one who I haven't heard from in months (and months) and I love her with all of my heart.  I feel channeled with both and somehow, when I just needed a cosmic kitchen of hope, they wrote to me.  The universe amazes me.  I used to say "sometimes".  No way.  It amazes me ALL the time.

That second person, by the way, does more than amaze me... she baffles me.  We've barely touched (metaphorically), but she is the reason I'll grab the headphones tight to my ears when something truly profound hits me.  She's the reason I toss my head in-time.  And, although this sounds awful to those who are reading and don't understand, she's my "Prostitute".  There's just so much raw power and stripped emotion behind the song and it's about damage - damage that she made me see in myself.  Damage that I've been desperately working on.  I used to walk to work and listen to it over and over... thumping in my head, bobbing in tune.  "Look for a new beginning on you..."

Fourth, the Phantom Menace sucked the first time.  Things don't change when you refilm them in 3D.

I'm going to keep writing tonight and then I'm going to bed... soon.  It's not because I'm isolating or doing harm or anything.  I've already written several other entries today and I'm wiped - literally.  My eyes burn.

I have no idea what's going to happen tomorrow morning... or tomorrow night... or next week or year.  It simply doesn't matter.  What matters is now.  I went to work this morning and was turned around because I wasn't medically cleared to be there.  I nearly threw-up because of the anxiety.  But do you know what made it better?  I mean, 100%, unequivocally better?

Listening to a little Gnarls Barkley while remembering my son wiping his nose on my shirt at about 6:17am this morning.

To anyone wondering, I found my true support.  I may fall a hundred times over again, but I found my reasons to get right the fuck back up.

Dream Lovin'

Once upon a time, I met a girl.

I met a girl on a day that was beautifully ordinary.  The sun was shining and the sky was blue.  The air was neither hot nor cold and I gave it no notice on this day.  Everything was tame, so as not to distract me from what was truly important.

I don't remember the color of her eyes, though I know they were dark.  If I had to guess, I would say they were hazel, because I like hazel eyes.  They were a perfect compliment - to her and to me.  They accentuated an already lovely face and, at the same time, told me how special I was to them.  They saw into me, not through me, and made me feel welcome.

Her expressions were soft.  They were comfortable.  I could stare at them for hours and not get lost.  They put me at ease and let me know exactly where I was, safe and loved.  When I'm lost, I get anxious.  Anxiety vanished around this girl.  I could never be lost with her.

The smile she gave told me what I had wanted to hear my entire life.  I was with someone of the utmost sincerity and honesty.  Never again would I have to worry about hidden emotion or hurtful words.  Everything was in plain view.  I saw it all exposed without a hint of embarrassment, shyness or worry.  She was giving me all of her and I was happy to give her all of me.

We laughed together that day, but it wasn't the laughter itself that was special.  It was the way we laughed.  It was in our mannerisms, our breathing and the tilting of our heads in sync with each other.  It all seemed to pick up her hair and flirt with it, tossing it.  Long, straight, dark brown hair - it was ordinary and incredibly striking at once.

This girl was perfect in every way, but only for me.  Her dress was non-descript, yet captured her as it flowed.  Her hands were warm in mine and every time we took a step, it felt right.  No one else could hold her hands and feel the same way.  The reverse was true, as well.  Our hands were home in each other.

What I knew instantly was that she loved me for me.  I didn't have to worry about trying to be better or trying to be something that I simply couldn't be.  She only asked that I be myself while I was with her, incredible flaws and all.

I had this dream almost twenty years ago, yet I have never forgotten that day or that girl.  I've tried to force that fantasy on others, envisioning them as something that they could never be.  I wanted the whole package, the fairy tale.  In my search, I missed the pieces of the fantasy that were being given to me - the smile from one girl, the eyes from another, the laughter and sincerity from a third.  She may be in my life already, waiting for the right timing.

She's waiting for me in the same dress and her hair is perfect.  Her hands are folded in front of her, ready for mine.  One day, our eyes will lock and we'll know immediately that the search is over.

Going Up?

I've been thinking a lot lately about how to bring more positivity into my life.  As I've written, I know it's all about perspective and, usually, you can make it if you fake it.  I don't always believe in that, but it seems true when it comes to smiles.  "Smiling is my favorite."  If you put a smile on your face, then you're more likely to forget about what's twisting in your head.

This morning (Monday), I started my day and my week on a good note, thanks to the kindness of a stranger.  A cute stranger, I might add.  I pulled into the parking lot at the same time as another woman, though she was much closer to the building's door than I was.  She saw me get out of my car and grab my bag as she approached the entrance.  I started for the building and did a quick calculation... she was a mile away, already at the door and heading for the elevator, I presumed.  So I took my time walking, figuring I'd miss the ride up.  But as I opened the door, I noticed that the elevator was waiting.  I quickened my pace and, sure enough, she was holding the elevator door open for me.  Immediately, I thanked her and she chuckled, probably noticing the grin on my face.  As we approached my floor, I thanked her again, saying, "It's Monday morning and someone held the door for me.  THANK YOU for starting my week off right."

We all do those quick measurements... if you're ten feet from the elevator, then I'll hold the door for you.  If you're twenty feet, then I'm debating, though I'll probably hold it.  If you're thirty feet, piss off.  Grab the next one.  (As you're mashing the Close button...)

This stranger (this wonderfully, cute, blonde stranger) really outdid herself.  I was easily six or seven basketball hoops away from her, yet she held the door and greeted me with a smile.  And if I had to bet on it, I would've put fifty bucks that she would've let the door close instead.  I don't think I'm alone.  Our instincts tend to go negative.  It's a survival technique, I've read.  A person's reflexes are highly attuned for negative acts because those are the ones that are dangerous and we, therefore, need to react quickly to them.  But, man, what a downer those can be.

Last week, I was walking through the parking lot on my way back from lunch and traffic was fairly heavy as I crossed the road.  A car was rounding the curve near me and I started rolling my eyes instantly.  I thought, without a blink, "You son of a bitch... you're pulling out just to cut ahead."  I felt like a complete ass when he blocked the rest of traffic, halting those who were NOT going to stop, just to let me cross.  And he did it with a smile and a wave of his hand.  I was surprised, both at his act of kindness and my immediate condemnation of something that hadn't happened yet.  I jumped the gun.  I let myself believe that this asshole, who was possibly the nicest person I met that day, was going to run me down to get a better parking spot.

So it got me contemplating how much time I waste fabricating negative stories... stories about how my boss is going to bitch at me for not finishing a project, how a customer is only calling because they're too stupid to listen to my instructions, how someone in a meeting is going to drone on for an hour and say noooothing of interest, or even how my son is going to be bored with dad because dad doesn't know how to play right.  OR how that blonde woman is going to mash that Close button because she doesn't want to wait for a stranger on a Monday morning.

I guess by thinking the worst of people, I'm setting myself up for some nice surprises!  But it seems like I'm missing out.  Is it worth the quick surprises when I could have a constant level of pleasantry in my life by trying, simply trying, to believe that people are decent in this world?

Planned Chaos

I'm discovering that it's difficult to write in the evening if I've gone to the gym.  By the time I sit in front of the computer, my body is on the other side of the runner's high and it's hitting a 'tired contentedness'.  I'm mentally exhausted, my eyes are drooping, the light of the flat screen is irritating, and I'm ready for bed - and it feels wonderful.  I'm gaining plenty of reward by going to the gym, but it's forcing me to balance my time even more than I was previously.

It's another victory to be balancing my time.  Me, addictive personality, slight OCD, all-or-nothing... I MUST go to the gym every day!  But wait - I MUST hit a meeting every day!  Hold on - I MUST get to work early and stay late every day!  Yikes.  As far as I can see it, that's nearly impossible when you factor in commuting and nuisances like, say, eating.  Hungry, angry, lonely, tired.  It's not long before 3 of those 4 hit me when I try to cram all of that into my days.  So, lately, I've been doing what I feel like doing.  Gym tonight?  Sure.  Meeting tomorrow?  Okay.  Watch some Family Guy instead?  That works, too (in moderation, of course).

And that keeps it in the day.  By not planning everything into a completely unmanageable schedule or routine, it lets me enjoy the things I CHOOSE to do in the moments they strike me.  There's no tomorrow when I'm living in the moment.  With no tomorrow, I'm not planning my life too far down the line.

That certainly doesn't mean that life shouldn't include planning essentials - retirement, college funds, budgeting, blah blah blah.  I've just been going about those things all wrong.  Those are "set it and forget it" type items.  You should revisit them for fine tuning, but there's no need to dwell on them everyday, hoping that you've planned appropriately.  When I focus on them too much, I get discouraged and end up in debt, which is where I am now.  I say, "Screw it," and do dumb things, like buy new TV's.  Do I really need a 32" flat screen to write my blog?  No, but that's what I'm using.

I guess what I'm realizing is this: I'm a terrible planner!  It's simply not one of my strengths.  My OCD makes my body break out in hives when I don't create 50 checklists to control my day, yet those 50 checklists completely overwhelm me because I can't keep them freakin' organized!  I need a checklist for my checklists!!  You might think I'm joking, but I really did make a checklist when I was planning my whiteboard project checklist at work!  And then I sit there, perplexed, because I can't decide if one checklist is more comprehensive and, therefore, better than the other.  So I make another checklist!

Really, I suck when it comes to anything long term and I'm particularly happy that I'm admitting this, finally.  It goes further than the mundane, worldly matters.  I can't think of my sobriety long term, either.  To me, a year is forever.  Forever and a day.  My mind drifts to thoughts like, "I MUST make a year of sobriety," and my life shatters.  I cannot imagine being sober for a year... that leads me to start imagining being happy for a year.  I cannot imagine that, either.

It's a whole other set of issues, of which I am just scratching the surface.  Therapy has been causing my perspective to shift, especially lately - is it really that I can't drop my anger and depression or is it that I can't imagine myself being happy for any length of time, which is causing the depression?  It was brought up recently that it's as if I feel I don't deserve to be happy... that I expect to be punished and happiness is out of my reach.

That's another post, after more reflection.  "I need main-te-nance!"

Oh well.  I have my strengths and I have my weaknesses.  Acknowledge them both, use one over the other, and I'll be fine.

You Can Dooooo It

I'm finally ordering the Internetz (soon)!!  I should've taken it into my own hands right from the start.  This is one of those "courage to change the things I can" moments.  Each time I've called the phone company, the respective representatives have given me different answers regarding what I need to do to get my line active.  And my landlord didn't know what in holy blue hell to do, even though he was the person to say, "Oh yeah, I'll get that wired for ya."  Boosheet!!  I'm glad I did the wiring.  After prying open the frozen Network Interface on the side of the house, I saw that it was wired wrong.  Way to go.  I mean, you can't really wire one incorrectly (each line is just two wires), but you can make it frustrating for people by reversing some of those wires!  Whoever wired this house was drunk.  Drunk, I say!!

But hey, we're not all bad.  Occasionally, we drunks can throw a damn positive meeting!  Before I get to that, though, a little negativity - I hate the word 'drunks'.  I don't like it when people are trying to be funny by saying 'drunks' because it has such a stigma to it.  So... wait... then I should edit my previous statement.  We 'heavily problematic drinkers' can throw a damn positive meeting!

Tonight (last night, by the time this is posted), everything seemed to fall into place with its timing.  It was a slow day at work, so I got out on time... hit the gym, ran a few miles... commuted home in 40 minutes and walked right into a meeting.  Perfect.  And the meeting was a great lift.  We had, what we call, a 'gratitude meeting'.  It's where we express, um, gratitude.  Now, as a newcomer three years ago, I found these to be incredibly offensive.  I really didn't give a shit how happy your life was.  I was miserable.  Being miserable, it was very difficult to identify with those who were... happy.  I needed to hear dreadful stories to keep me coming.  By hearing how low others were - not at that moment, but when they hit 'bottom' - I felt less alone.  That's why it's important to hear the horrible drunk stories now and then.  I generally stay away from them when I'm sharing, but they're crucial for the newcomers.

Nowadays, though, I need positivity, even when I'm not feeling positive myself.  Sure, overly positive people still make me want to put hot pokers in my eyes on occasion, but I can respect how they're feeling and it's something that I do strive for in my life.  Peace, joy and harmony, even when those three make me want to vomit.

My friends reading Covey are going to have a few things to say about this entry, I'm sure.  And, yes, I've read the book, but my retention isn't what it used to be.  Anyway...

What I shared this evening was my gratitude for a little self-worth.  Although I've been in therapy for a few years, I wouldn't have gained a pseudo-positive attitude toward myself if therapy wasn't combined with a 12-step program (and SMART... RBT/CBT are wonderful for reversing negative behavior!).  I don't give myself a lot of credit for the work that I've done in the past few years, let alone my life.  I tend to focus on the negative and what I could have done better, rather than the things I've really shined at.  It's why I burn out at work.  Nothing is ever good enough and I'm always striving to make things better.  I rarely take a breather and say, "Damn, nice job!"  That kind of attitude may have prevented a few relapses, too.  If I had the ability to say in my recovery, "Damn, nice job," then I doubt those negative emotions would have gotten the better of me.  It's hard to dwell on anger and regret when you're smiling.

This especially applies to my relationship with my son.  It's really easy for me to sink into the 'woe is me' doldrums and regret not being with him as much as I'd like to.  I think about what would have been if I hadn't been following the darker road.  I need to remember that I wouldn't have him in my life AT ALL if I wasn't trying to put 'daddy's' health first.  It's been hard work - physically and mentally!  And to see him light up when I walk through the door... my God.  If that doesn't make me proud of the work I've done, then I don't know what ever would.  My little monkeybean!!  <insert hundreds of smiley emoticons shaped like monkeybeans>

And I'm not suggesting that I should be proud at the expense of humility.  I do acknowledge the support around me, but I also think it's important for every one of us to give credit where credit is due - even when it means patting ourselves on the back.  At the end of our coin presentations, we often say, "...and if you're sober today, give yourself a hand."  If you're struggling with substance abuse, then acknowledge it's a freakin' job and a half to stay clean for 24 hours.  If you've maintained that sobriety, then acknowledge you're a success.  And if you've stumbled, then acknowledge that you've tried your damnedest in the past and you CAN do it again.  Give it everything you've got because you ARE a success, just by virtue of trying.  I'm not naive enough to think this applies to everything, but - dang it! - we CAN do it!  (Thank you, SC... sometimes it takes one incredibly special person saying it to make it finally sink in.  I'm very glad I've got you in my corner.)

Hey, screw alcoholism.  If you're reading this, just had a bad day, but made it to the other side... then pat yourself on the back.  YOU DID IT.

Exposing My Crackers

Been a while!  I wanted to write about therapy this week because it was one of those rare nights when I left more confused than when I walked in...

I think I understand why I'm enjoying writing this blog and it goes back to an entry in December.  I wrote about the paradox of looking for support or love and then not knowing what to do with it once you got it.  I want to express myself to others, yet I don't want to talk about it.  By writing rather than talking, I can lay my feelings bare and walk away.  Many people have left comments and I truly appreciate it.  Please continue because you make me analyze all of this from different perspectives.  I do NOT want to talk openly about it, though.

There are only a few people that I'll allow myself to talk to and I can count them on one hand.  If you're not in that exclusive group, you shouldn't take it personally.  I'm just not comfortable.  Often, I don't know how to express myself anyway.  I'll sit down, try to talk and all you'll hear is, "Um, ur, well, I feel... um... grrr.."  And only a couple of friends have been able to say, "Don't worry.  I know EXACTLY what you're saying."

This is rehashing old news - it's not that the rest of my family and friends aren't supportive.  I know that you are, in your own ways.  You've tried extremely hard to understand what you can't.  In those cases, I wish you'd acknowledge that I'm a guy and I have my man-cave and all I want from you is a grunt and for you to turn the TV up.  I'm simply not very good at all this emotional crap.

I think this might sum up how I was feeling when I left:

"It's a joy to be hidden, but a disaster not to be found." - D.W. Winnicott

I want to isolate and lick my wounds, yet the longer I'm isolated the worse the wound gets.  Part of this is due to the fact that I've asked for help or understanding before and the results have been awful - from friends and family alike.  There are specific incidents of baring myself, only to find that my confidence was handed to the very people I would NEVER want it exposed to.  Or, just as bad in my opinion, I've found that the people I've opened up to were after this to use me.  Misery loves company, especially the company of those more miserable.  Support groups can be dangerous if you're not careful.  Learned that the hard way...

If not for these realizations, though, I would not be connecting with those 'new' people in my life.  The funny thing is, they've been around for years.  It's only recently that communication has increased and bonds are being reforged.  I never imagined that writing would kindle these relationships the way that it has.  I sometimes feel that I should have the balls to talk openly about it and that I'm avoiding confrontation by writing instead.  The reactions that I've received from other people have been the opposite.  It seems like people enjoy the fact that I've had the balls to write!  Yet, to me, making a public blog and exposing myself to hundreds of people is more cowardice than courage.  Funny how that works.  But there's no denying that it's doing me a world of good.

A question was posed to me a few weeks ago regarding my support group and how people would react if I relapsed right now... right at this very moment.  It was uncomfortable at the time.  I didn't want to think about that.  I didn't want to ask the question because I didn't want OTHERS to be uncomfortable.  But I guess this is me asking just that question - what would your reaction be if I relapsed NOW.  I'm not looking for an answer.  I've written for almost a month and a half, so you've got some idea of where I stand.  Most people that I know would have to resist the urge to slap the shit out of me.  Do you turn around and tell others about what's happening ("Omg, guess what he did?")?  Do you write to the world, "I wish he'd get his head out of his ass" (because that's happened)?  Do you say, "Well, he's a relapser... I expected it and everyone should keep their distance" (that one, too)?  Or do you just tell me that it'll be okay?

Just curious and I was told to put it on paper, so to speak.  This is me trying to do what everyone has been asking me to do for years - open up.  I feel like Harrison Ford in 'Regarding Henry' sometimes.  You ask me to express myself and I wind up painting a picture of friggin' Ritz crackers.  WTF...

But things really are good lately.  I've been doing a lot of work and, while exhausting, I know it's paying off.  It's been years since I've been able to sit down at night, turn on a little music or maybe read a little, and be comfortable *with myself*.

Waving Goodbye to a Suicide

I had a blog written and ready to go, so as not to disappoint those still reading it.  But it looks like I have to get something else off my chest.  This will be, I am sure, an unpopular opinion.

Being an alcoholic and attending support groups, and also having to deal with depression, I have seen my share of death.  It's incredibly unfortunate, but it goes with the territory.  There are some of us that will gather the strength and support to work through our issues, and others that will go the other way.  The grief and remorse may be too much to bear or they won't find the support that they need before it's too late.  They will find comfort in other, potentially deadlier, ways.

We simply deal with life differently.  Not knowing how to cope in a healthy manner, we do things that many people find insane.  Our symptoms manifest themselves through drinking and drugging, eating (or not eating), cutting, shopping or gambling or with sex (not deadly, of course, but harmful).  The list goes on and on.  Depending on which method is chosen, the situation may be worsened because of the stigma that's placed upon you for acting in these manners.  Alcoholics and addicts don't get a lot of sympathy because people see their actions as a conscious decision to use, no matter how much pain they might be in or if they simply cannot stop on their own.  Yet someone with an eating disorder will garner more sympathy because of how it manifests itself, clearly psychologically.  Cutting is far worse than an eating disorder, however, because... well... because cutting is just plain crazy!  Right??

Wrong.

It's amazing how far society has slipped into the "blame the victim" collective mentality.  I'm not here to say that you should excuse inexcusable actions on account of, say, alcohol or drugs.  But when you look deeper at what prompted these actions, depression is usually there.  And this is no more apparent than when you're talking about suicide.

I feel (*I* feel... remember that... just my opinion) that it's a huge slap in the face to the victim(s) of suicide to call it a selfish act.  Rather than judge the lifetime virtue of the person, we judge the person by the virtue of their final act.  Actions do speak louder than words, but I feel strongly that one action should not be an epitaph.  No one, NO ONE, considers suicide without being the victim of much deeper issues.  Whether the brain isn't working right because of a misfire, medication, depression... the choice to commit suicide is not a logical one.  It goes against our base survival instincts.

I know this may be difficult for many to understand, just like alcoholism or drug addiction or eating compulsions.  I've seen some really dark places and I assure you that I didn't journey down those roads willingly.  Disagree if you'd like.  And I'll accept that this next statement may incense and infuriate some.  I can understand a person considering suicide and thinking that it is the most SELFLESS act they could perform.

Remember, it's not logical thinking.  If someone has gone far enough down that dark road, then I can imagine the thought that suicide would save their family and friends a lot of heartache and pain.  "They'd be better off without me."  There's no seeing that the very opposite is true when you're sitting in the dark.

Religion has taught us that suicide is a one-way ticket to hell.  Society has us believing that suicide is the ultimate act of cowardice.  I'm certainly not saying that families and friends don't have the right to be angry in these unfortunate circumstances.  I won't invalidate their feelings by even considering that.  If the person truly was special to them, then they'll work through that pain and hopefully remember what made them special in the first place.

Just consider it.  That's all I'm asking.

~And I wish that I could help you
With what you hope to find
But I'm still out here waiting
Watching reruns of my life
When you reach the point of breaking
Know it's gonna take some time
To heal those broken memories
That another man would need
Just to survive~

Hindsight

It's been such a long week and I haven't felt much like writing.  Don't worry - I'm not slacking off.  I've felt displaced due to the apartment and lack of access.  By the time I get to sit back and write, it's 9:30 and time for this guy to get to bed.  Not only that, the therapy appointment really wore me out.  I haven't felt this tired throughout my day in a while.  It's persisted since Tuesday evening.

What I find interesting is that I haven't been less angry since the appointment, which was mostly about dropping anger... I've been angrier, if anything!  Though, perhaps anger isn't the right word.  I've been impatient and frustrated, but those may be in large part due to the mental exhaustion that the appointment caused.  I have, however, been made more aware of these emotions.  By making me confront anger with this new therapy, I catch myself losing my cool, causing me to say, "Woah, this isn't right.  Deep breaths."  Perhaps that was the whole point.  It's a real shot to the Ego to be told that you're - aggressive, brooding, volcanic, resentful.  These aren't endearing qualities.  And I think that most people who know me well can attest to these things.  I'm a pretty nice guy... until I blow my top.  I stuff, stuff, stuff, stuff, holding things in and then the volcano blows.  My elephant's ass catches fire and there's no stopping it until it's had enough.  If I vented appropriately when things were happening, then I'd save my blood pressure from rising into the two hundreds.

So I've been analyzing my behavior patterns the past few days - what triggers me the most and how I deal with these triggers.  I thought about my relapse pattern (which is no longer a pattern, right?  I WAS a relapser) and it made me go back to some journal entries just prior to November.  Here's a snippet from October 31st:

I’ve been stuck again.  Nothing new.  It happens a lot and then I relapse.  And I have been thinking about drinking an awful lot lately.

You'd think I would have done something about it or talked to someone...

I’m worried if I give in to the feeling of “just one”, then it won’t stop.  It’ll perpetuate again and I’ll ruin everything that I’ve earned.

Yep.  Almost did lose everything.

The past two weeks have been a mess because of ---...

I identified exactly what was bothering me, but I still didn't want to talk about it.

I’ll write more about it… I may have to.

But, unfortunately, that was the last journal entry.

It reminds me of a horror movie.  The kind of movie where someone finds a lost journal and it recounts the final days before the author disappears mysteriously.  It's not close to the truth.  It IS the truth.  This author disappeared, swept away by a sinister force that resides in his own head.

There was more to the days leading up to the relapse, but I'm not ready to expose that to the public yet.  I've shared it with those that needed to know.  While it may seem I'm baring my soul to the world by writing these entries, there are certain events that I like to keep a little closer to my chest.  I was grieving a bit, I suppose.  Also, GOOD things were happening in my life, as well.  Whether good things or bad things are happening in life, they still each produce stress and I haven't done a great job coping with it.

October through November is a tough period for me.  A lot of people have a hard time with Christmas and New Years and I'm lucky that these two holidays typically lift my spirits rather than bring me down.  Some pretty big things happened to me at the beginning of November... a long, long time ago.  One of these days, I'll have to let them go.  I'm not very good at that, either.

Next Halloween, do me a favor... tie me to a fence or something.  Don't untie me until Black Friday.  I'd really like to have a sober Thanksgiving for a change.

"The moment an individual can accept and forgive himself, even a little, is the moment in which he becomes to some degree lovable." - Eugene Kennedy

How Happy Are You... Really?

My first off-line entry (I wrote this Tuesday night).  It didn't occur to me that I could write an entry off-line and post it later.  I tend to think that I have more than one vice... and internet access is a biggie.  It's nice to live in a society where 100% of us are addicted to the same thing and, therefore, it's no longer considered an addiction.  It's a perfectly acceptable staple.  Not having internet access here is like being on a hunger strike, but for no good reason.  I have a feeling I will survive.

Now that I've been here a couple of nights, I can picture myself being comfortable in this place.  It's small, cozy and private.  My neighbors are nice, the landlord is accommodating (although oddly procrastinating) and I have a nice TV that I can't use, but looks good.  The apartment doesn't smell like 'man'... yet.  Also, I'm becoming a fan of WSRS and Delilah's nightly radio show.  It's paranormally soothing.

Mentally, I'm exhausted.  This is one of those nights I could have used a meeting.  However, I had a rather lengthy therapy session instead.  We're trying something new and I don't like it.  It's a technique aimed at changing a person's affective state.  I guess you can think of it as your baseline mood.  Are you generally happy or sad?  An optimist or a pessimist?  Tranquil or angry?  There are studies showing that affective state is determined primarily by your genes.  If you're typically unhappy or pessimistic, then you've lost the Darwinian Lottery (hmm... just made that up.  I like it).  If you're happy or optimistic, then you've hit the jackpot!  It's not that nature and nurture have little to do with it.  It's just that a good chunk of your happiness has to do with how your brain is initially wired.  It's a good indicator of how you'll deal with stress events in your life, too.  I'm big on 'avoidance'.  Although THIS part of my affective state was probably molded by how I grew up.

Side note - I find it interesting that my therapist decided to start this now, as I'm reading a book on exactly this subject.  I do believe she's psychic.

The good news is that you can change your baseline affective state, but it takes daily practice.  Part of this exercise, and it's a lengthy one that will take weeks to get through, is to identify the blockages in your life and then work to remove them.  Surprisingly, fear isn't one of mine, although anxiety is.  NOT surprisingly, anger is the largest block.

Have you ever sought to identify what's holding you back in life?  Before tonight, had you asked me that question, I'd answer with any of the following - money, career misdirection, alcohol, relationship choices, etc.  Those don't get at the root of the problem, though.  What's really got me stuck are my emotions and anger tops the list.  I could say, "From now on, I vow not to be as angry!"  But define anger.  There are so many different types and components!  Are you aggressive, defiant, rebellious?  Furious, brooding, vengeful?  My ego took a big hit tonight when I read the word explosive and thought, "Damn... that's me."  Until I hit the word volcanic.  Then I said, "Oh shit.  That's even closer."

There's so much to work through and it seems a bit overwhelming.  I was drained when I left the office.  Unless I drop the anger elements, I can't work on the affective state pieces that I really want in my life - like peace.  Peace and tranquility mean more to me than any external factors ever could.  Balance, fluidity... these are things I've only imagined to this point.  I want to be fluid.  I want the feeling of flow and adaptivity, the feeling that I can roll with any punch.  I want to close my eyes at any point in the day and breathe so deeply that it fills the bottom of my lungs and the weight on my shoulders disappears.  And, almost more importantly to me - if I can achieve this, then I want to part this upon my son. 

Because if it's true that most of your affective state is a genetic lottery, he's already got a few strikes against him.  That I cannot allow.  And I know the best way to set an example for my son is to practice it in my own life.  He's awfully observant.  I don't think any father wants to say, "I hope my son is never like me."

I've got a long road ahead of me, but it'll be worth the effort.  If you want to test yourself, then pull out a thesaurus and think about what's blocking you.  Anger, insecurity, fear?  Look up each one and meditate on which parts these elements play in your life.  Then look up what you strive for in your life and how you can practice them to become a better 'You'.  It's a lot to take in.

2011, You Were Something Else

Happy New Year!!

I posted yesterday on Facebook that I hope it's a happy, healthy and uneventful 2012.  Of course, I want plenty of fun and positive events to occur in my life and each day lately has been full of them.  But if I have to settle for uneventful, then I'll be okay with that, too.  May 2012 see a healthy, sober, joyous, new ME.  No hospital rooms.  No detoxes.  No broken relationships.  No unemployment.  Ironically, status quo would be an enjoyable change!

All of that worry about moving into a new apartment?  Completely gone!  I woke up early this morning and thought, "New Year's morning and I don't have a pounding headache.  I'll get a headstart on moving!"  I walked into the new apartment and...

Nothing is complete.

Not only is nothing complete, it looks like the landlord was busy having a few beers while working... which might be why nothing is complete.  Hey, no judgment from me.  I'm sure he was working yesterday on New Years Eve.  Still, all he needed to do was give me a call to let me know it wouldn't be ready.  I very easily could have arranged my plans and given him additional time.  Instead, I have no kitchen, I may have no bathroom, and there's an open 18-pack sitting in my fridge.  I moved a few things in, not many, and found myself cleaning beer cans off my window sills.

It bothers me to an extent.  I don't mind the 18-pack or the fact that he was drinking.  What bothers me is the behavior, which I can identify and I know I exhibited.  Cleaning beer cans from my windows?  That's a little irritating.  Bring them to the sink, clean them out, put them in the recycling... not hard.  The fact that he was drinking and didn't call me to alert me to the delay?  That's far more irritating.  I can't tell you how many phone calls I avoided and how irresponsible I was, even when I only had a couple of drinks in my system.  That's usually all it takes for people to say, "Baaaaaah, f it!  I'll give the guy a call tomorrow!"  And then tomorrow comes and there's still no phone call.

But I'm very grateful to have options.  See - it WAS nice that the apartment is close to my parents' home!  I have plenty of people who have offered me their assistance, either with moving or with a place to stay while this is getting sorted.  It also made me rethink exactly what I needed to move versus what I wanted to move.  You mean I can live without TV for a few days??  My God!  It was nice to move some furniture today and listen to the game on my clock radio.  There was something peaceful about it.

I knew I was going to need a boost with the changes occurring, so I got my tail back into the SMART Recovery forums, too.  SMART Recovery evolved from rational emotive behavioral training and is an entirely different way of looking at substance abuse when compared to 12-step programs.  They feel that we have the power to control our addictions by modifying our behavior alone, which flies in the face of many AA tenets.  It's simply a matter of reshaping and retraining our thinking, which I've mentioned many times.  I agree with the principles of SMART and use its tools every day to identify and stop irrational behavior (iB).  It's another support forum and I need all the help I can get.

But its lack of spiritual focus keeps me attending AA meetings.  I was immensely thankful to start my New Years Day with a meeting this morning.  There's nothing like walking into a room, a non bar room, and have everyone know your name.  The hugs and handshakes have no equal.  It's an extended family that I can call upon at any time.

You know... I started this entry by listing a lot of the 'bads' that happened in 2011, but I wouldn't trade it for anything.  I learned an awful lot from those experiences and I've made deeper friendships than I've ever had in my life.  2011 is the reason I'm blogging.  2011 taught me to open up a little more than I have in the past.  The year brought a lot of pain, yet also the pleasure of so many things.  2011 played an important part in my life, whether I liked it all or not.  My heart's bigger for it.

"A very small degree of hope is sufficient to cause the birth of love."  - Stendhal