A Broken Heart

I'm not sure how to start this one. I had a bit of a 'life scare' recently regarding my health that, for once, didn't relate to rehab or a psych ward (though... nevermind).  I couldn't sleep about a week ago and, mid-night, started to feel a little off.  It started in my back, like small spasms.  That's nothing new, as I've had chronic back problems for years.   But then it floated around to my shoulder... then my jaw... then my chest.  To be honest, it was all pretty subtle and my man-instinct told me to let it go, try to sleep and, "Eh, it'll be gone in the morning."

But, hey, I couldn't sleep anyway, so why not bother the EMTs, once again (they know me by name, which is embarrassing).  By the time I put on a shirt and shoes and walked down a flight of stairs, it felt like The Rock was giving me a bear hug.  15 minutes later, I was in the ER.  2 hours later, I was transported to another hospital's ER.  2 hours later, I was admitted.

Turns out, it was nothing serious - I think.  No one could ever tell me specifically what was wrong (something about my pericardium being all sacky and inflamey, probably due to a viral infection).  But a very sadistic nurse told me on Day One that my enzymies were high and I had a heart attack.   I said, "How high? High or Very High?"  And she said with a grave, you're going to die, voice, "Real High."

I wasn't really bothered by it.   Two thoughts went through my head - 1) I wanted to make sure my mom was informed and 2) I wanted one more hug and a kiss from my son.  Sadly, except for those two things, I didn't really care.  I think I may have said "This is scary" a couple of times, but that was it.

Really, I was thinking about my familial lines, what risk factors the people around me might have, what I'm passing to my son.   I was more interested in the tests they were performing on me than what they actually meant to me.  With all that I know must be special about life, I didn't much care.  I'll even go so far as to say that I was disappointed when the tests came back IN my favor.  I was hoping for some defect to be detected, forcing me to stay in the hospital.  Isn't that disgusting?

God, I hope this changes one day.  I hope that medication doesn't make me "flat" or depressed or angry or a host of other negative feelings.  Depression sucks every ounce of wind from your sails and nothing, absolutely nothing, brings enjoyment.   To the point where you don't care whether or not you just had a heart attack.  Except for that final kiss from my little guy, I didn't care how things turned out.

And that's why you can't tell someone suffering from depression to snap out of it.  The odds just aren't in your favor.  And with the mortality rate so high for people with mental illness, a heart attack looks pretty inviting, minus the pain.  Wishing for a heart attack is really no different than having suicidal ideations.  It's just letting nature pull the trigger for you.  I'm guessing that's ideal for a good chunk of people.

We drink, drug, eat, cut, slice, and even wish for illness.  To the extreme, we overdose, jump, hang, shoot... Therapy will never cure it, nor will medication.  It's intense, it's real, and the chances are good that any one of your friends has it, but hides it.  We're everywhere.   It's everywhere.  And it has so many faces, all with curled, sinister lips. It loves you and makes you hate yourself.

Boiled down, it feels like a broken heart.  But don't get me wrong - my family and friends were certainly concerned.  I received phone calls and visits and that showed me just how special relationships can be.  I truly love you all.

Also, a very big thanks to the nurses and doctors who made my hospital stay... hospitable!

Best Unsent

I trust we all have moments in our lives that we wish hadn't happened or that we'd gladly take back.  It might be that I trust this only to lessen the burden of my own wrongdoings.  I know I can be hard on myself, but I do often feel that things are my fault for not doing them differently.

Unfortunately, in the past few years, there have been many other incidents that certainly were my fault.  Although my bipolar disorder and substance abuse can be fairly linked, one cannot be used as an excuse for the other.  True, it's pretty clear that drinking eased in my mind the fluctuations of my moods, which ranged from 'fun-loving' to 'total asshole'.  That's how I viewed it.  In reality, the alcohol was enhancing these moods, leaving me rapid cycling between hypomania and depression - screaming, laughing, crying, and recently near suicidal, all at the same time.  And woe were you if you had to deal with me at those extreme moments.

One such incident occurred five years ago and left a scar on myself and, I know, others, all to different degrees.  It's especially unfortunate that this occurred at a time when things could have gone very 'right' for several lives.  My anger, agitation, irritability, and depression all culminated into the worst emotion of all - fear.  I let fear control me.

This incident has affected every aspect of my life and I feel my heart sinking and the tears welling even as I write.  I'm jobless and penniless, soon without a home, and at a loss for half of, what could have been, a family.  This family had actually been friends of mine for years and I felt as though my integration was seamless.  But in one fell swoop, I betrayed their trust and earned disdain.  I'll carry this always.

And so, I wrote a letter.  In it, I say much of what I wrote above, but I do not ask for forgiveness, nor do I expect it.  That would be selfish.  Given this, I'm wondering if the letter is worth sending.  Would the letter only make matters worse?  I don't believe so, but I don't want to reopen old wounds.  Would it really bring any closure?

Parts of me are so self-hating that I don't even think I want to be forgiven. This self-hatred results in depression and anger, two emotions that are all I've known for a very long time.  I try to smile through them, but drop the act when I'm alone.  As my dad says, he and I are good at wearing masks.

My therapist said there are some letters that are best unsent and this may be one of them (I have others).  Deep in my heart, I'd like to take a shot at amending this.  I might miss the mark, but at least I can say I tried.  I mistreated good people and I'd like to say, "I'm sorry."

Dude!! You're Sick!

I've been having a harder time again reconciling that I do have a mental health disorder.  Some days I don't even blink at the thought, while other days I pretend that I'm perfectly 'normal'.  I take quite a bit of medication, so the doctors must be prescribing it for a reason.  Overall, I still feel the same 'normal'.  So am I really sick?  Do I have a defect?

I have several favorite scenes in Silver Linings Playbook, one of them being Pat and Tiffany's Raisin Bran date at the diner.  Tiffany accuses Pat, rightly, of thinking she's crazier than he is... and he doesn't deny it.  In fact, he shrugs at her like it's a simple matter of fact.  And if you plopped me back in a mental health unit right now, a mere three months since my last visit, I'd shrug and tell you the same thing.  I'm not crazy - you are!

Insulting, totally.  I'm just having a rough time with it.  In my own space, I only know that I feel a) not quite right, but b) that's normal.  And to have other people tell me, nicely, that I have a something wrong with me is kind of hurtful.  Yet, all the signs of problem living are around me - injured health, no finances, substance abuse, broken relationships, anti-social tendencies, pure stubbornness about almost everything... none of which is in any particular order.

So, I suppose this is good and bad.  The bad is pretty obvious.  If I don't listen to my counselors, deny that I'm an "unstable" bipolar (one who has yet to be treated appropriately, as I was recently told), and push away assistance, then I'm going to continue to have everything I listed above.  Nothing is going to change and I'll be swept under even quicker than I thought I was sinking before.

The good is that it can be treated, but it's going to take a lot of trust on my part.  I need to let go and trust that, when five doctors tell me that I have a disorder, I have a freakin' disorder.  'Normies' don't have to take their Lithium, Depakote and Geodon before bedtime (among other things) or track their weeks by how many therapy appointments they have.  When they're having a meltdown, I bet their first thoughts aren't of packing a bag so they have it if the ambulance arrives to take them back to the hospital.  Normie meltdowns pass and are usually harmless.  I'm not trivializing them, but they are different.  My meltdowns are Dangerous.

Everything happens for a reason, but I contest that the reason is not always good.  Regardless, if the reason is true, then I can't stop taking my meds and I can't pretend that the doctors are wrong, as much as I'd like to.  And when I have days where I feel like it's all in my head, I should know that I'm right.  All the more reason to continue treatment.

I tell you what... I wouldn't want to be one you Normies reading this because we in Bipolar-land are ridiculously difficult to figure out.  Sheesh.
 

Zero to Sixty

I can't seem to do anything moderately.  I feel like a broken appliance - you have to stick a paperclip in just the right place in order to activate a happy medium.  It's frustrating and it makes disposing the appliance more tempting than fixing it at times.  I'm being melodramatic.

When I initially tried to get my life back on track, I felt like I had suggestions coming at me from all directions.  "You need to go to AA."  "You need to make new friends."  "You need therapy."  And the message being projected was that I had to take all of these suggestions.  Some people might tell me that's incorrect, but that's what the majority of people I encountered were telling me.  My first instinct when told I have to do anything is to put up my fists, cry bullshit, and tell you why you're wrong.  I put my mind in Low and I failed.

When I tried again, I heard the same thing. "You have to take the suggestions."  Since I failed in Low, I decided to try High.  I jumped into them with both feet and did everything that I was told to do.  In a matter of months, I was going on AA commitments, studying to volunteer, reading all of the self-help literature...  I was overwhelmed, way out of my comfort zone, and I failed.

Then I heard, "Take what you need and leave the rest."  This defied the idea that I should pick and choose only the elements that were right for me.  You're made to feel selfish sometimes if you take this path, but I also can't get behind what makes me feel wrong inside.  I don't want to change my life with religion.  That's not how my God works.  I don't want to do 12-steps.  Why?  If I'm living life the way that I morally feel is correct, then I shouldn't have to work out resentments or make amends.  Life takes effort, but shouldn't be about effort.  Live, laugh, love - with yourself and others.  And when I do these things, I become content... peaceful... level.  There's no pressure.  I'm making progress, but I'm not moving quickly enough to trip over my own feet.  A nice Medium setting.

Maybe this is coming from new medication changes and my brain is trying to find a happy medium of activity.  I'm doing my best to concentrate on the 'little' things that I can work on, like simply healing.  For example, because of my medication, I've gained a substantial amount of weight in a very short amount of time.  So, today, I did twenty minutes of exercise.  An hour was impractical because of an injury and the heat, but I also didn't let those reasons stop me completely.  Physically, I won't see that effort for quite some time.  Mentally, I feel better today and just today.

So, I'll try to stick to small accomplishments and be genuinely happy with the results.  If I don't set the bar as damned high as I usually do, maybe I won't be completely crippled.

Fly Away

Two steps forward and three steps back.  It feels like I've been struggling really hard for the past six months.  Every time I pick myself up, I fall flat on my face.  "Ask for help," I'm told.  Ask for help from whom?  The people rolling their eyes because I stumbled yet again?  That doesn't exactly seem safe.  Neither does asking for help from people who caused me to build the four foot steel cage that I cherish around me.  "Break down your walls!"  No.  No, thank you.  I built these walls to protect myself from people like you for thirty-plus years.  They aren't coming down anytime soon.  And, seriously, telling me point-blank that the "cycle continues" is a) uninformative and b) completely unhelpful.

For those who have read this blog in the past, you must be able to tell how up and down things have been for a year.  One blog might be upbeat, two blogs might be rambling messes.  I'm finally starting to understand the chemical components to this disorder and I try not to beat myself up for the way that I behave.  But don't misconstrue that - I beat myself more in a day than any of you could do in a lifetime.  My words are harsher and the scars I leave are deeper than you could ever dream.  The next time you want to roll your eyes at me, save yourself the energy.

 I have such a fondness for the song "Hate Me" by Blue October.  I honestly wish that I had the capacity to do something so hurtful that people walked away, never to look back.  There would be no more frustration, no more tears, no more sadness... just hate me today so I'll stop dragging you down.

But the song that's in my head tonight is "Fly Away" by Poe...

Fly away, sweet bird of prey

Fly, fly away

I won't stand in your way

Sweet bird, if you knew the words

I know that you'd say: fly, fly away

 I suppose it doesn't matter any more.  "Did you hear?  He's in the hospital again."  "Yeah, figures."  People will always be waiting for the other shoe to drop and I can't change that.  Though, if ignoring those comments and those people means I'll keep my head on straight, then I guess the choice is pretty easy.  Sad, but easy.

 

Phoenix Rising

Permit me to be overly dramatic.  The subject has come up several times in the past few days (coincidence?) ...

Everyone knows the tale of the phoenix.  It's simple, yet powerful, and the imagery is often enough to spark the motivation for change.  The mythology weaves through a variety of cultures, from Greek to Roman, Egyptian to Japanese.  Early Christianity used it extensively, often to symbolize the resurrection of Christ.

The phoenix was an ancient bird with brilliant red and purple plumage, with regenerative and restorative powers, depending on the tale you're reading.  It lived for hundreds of years.  At the end of its lifespan, it would build a nest - some say of cinnamon twigs, others say with fragrant berries - which it would then ignite in a fearsome blaze.  The phoenix would burn alive, taking with it everything around, until only fire and ash remained.  And from that fire and ash, a phoenix would rise, beginning new life from old.  A fresh start.

For me, the symbol of the phoenix is one of strength and hope.  In a shattered sea of chaos, we can climb out, begin anew, changed and tempered.  But...

The phoenix incinerates its old self, including its nest.  Only the phoenix can escape its own destruction.  Its resurrection comes at a steep price and reminds me of the heartache that we face as we struggle to change, sometimes leaving what and who we knew behind.  As we with mental health issues work to become better human beings, risen from the shells that we were trapped in, we sometimes have to make sacrifices that are extremely painful.  We're changing, starting over, but this doesn't mean that those around us are willing to do the same.  We burn our homes, our securities, our relationships, all our bridges...  it hurts so deeply that it feels like there's no escaping the flames.  Everyone seems to suffer.  Everything seems to disappear.

But eventually we rise, hopefully with fresh eyes and a wizened perspective.  It's certainly scary, losing it all and being born again.  That's why it's important for us to look around for a fellow phoenix.  Only a phoenix can know how another is feeling emotionally and understand how it felt to burn.  Intense connections can form in a matter of days, hours, or even minutes.  We empathize, not just sympathize, and can lean on each other as we build new lives.  Again - build new lives, NOT rebuild.  Our old lives are gone and I wouldn't want to rebuild mine anyway.

And so, I dedicate this to my fellow phoenix who have been lifted from their own hurt to start life again.  You've provided me with support, understanding, and (most of all) a non-judgmental shoulder to rest my head upon.  Because of you, I'll keep rising.

And a Happy New Year

2012 was less than stellar.

Easily, the past year was one of the hardest I've ever had to face.  I saw the loss of my license due to seizures, legal problems because of the former, the loss of a wonderful job, numerous (and I mean NUMEROUS) hospital stays, my first surgery, psych wards, and a difficult to face mental health diagnosis that brought with it a roller coaster ride of medications.  Top it all off with hurt feelings, disappointment and heartache and you have a major suck-pill of a year.  So when people tell me not to dwell on the negative, it's hard not to tell them to shove it in inappropriate, naughty places.

But I'm still standing.  Within all that negativity, there was some shining positivity...

• I AM still standing.  To be honest, I'm surprised that I am upright.  After countless hospitalizations and mental health wards, I'm here and ready to tackle 2013;
• I was finally diagnosed correctly.  Years of unspecific diagnoses and incorrect medication and I finally met a few doctors who got it right.  Now that I know what I'm up against, I can make a game plan to tackle it;
• If not for one seizure, snowballing into job loss, I wouldn't have found out that I have bipolar disorder.  The job was incredible, but I'm useless if I don't get healthy first;
• New friends and old!  I met some truly amazing, strong people in 2012.  I have people in my life that understand, truly understand, what I'm going through.  Whether it be by phone, text, or e-mail, I ended the year with a team of friends that will listen to me and give me the kind of true support that I need.  Better still, I love being an ear when they need help, too.  One in particular texts me on a regular basis, just to check in, and it makes me smile every time I hear that message chime; and
• Kinship with my family... who I know I've hurt more than once.  When I look back on the previous year, the first thing that comes to mind isn't the bad.  It's the nighttime bonfire, the fun cookouts, going to the movies with my sister, the breakfasts, and walking that long walk into school with my son's hand in mine.  I couldn't ask for more.

What's next?  I have absolutely no idea and it scares me a bit.  Maybe school to find new direction?  Possibly some volunteer work to let others know that they're not alone in this mess either?  I'm not sure.  What I do know is that, if I'm to survive this, there will need to be a lot of change and pride swallowing in the upcoming 365 days.

With that, I wish everyone a very Happy New Year and I thank you for all of your support.  May you and your families find health and wonderful happiness in 2013.

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.