Changes

I just finished reading a book called Tricks written by Ellen Hopkins. The book follows the stories of several teenagers who end up in the sex industry through different pathways in their lives. One sentence that really stuck out to me was "Why reach for a dream when you're at ease within your nightmares?" This thought has come to me many times throughout my lifetime, especially when I am going through some type of change and searching for some sense of direction in my life. Things are better for me now. Better than they have been in several years. But now a change is about to occur - a change I don't want.

I've written before about how I'm an "all-or-none" kind of person. If one thing is going to change, why not change everything else as well? For the good or bad, what the hell, it doesn't matter, just do it. Well I'm finding myself in that position again. Last week I found out that my therapist is retiring. I am used to starting over with new therapists. There is a lot of turn over in that field. And I knew that would be coming soon because she is at a "retirement age". But that doesn't make it any easier. This is especially difficult because she has been the one I have had the strongest connection with and really felt safe and supported by her. She has also been the first therapist that I have had who has asked about and encouraged me to think about my dreams. The problem is that I have been allowing this one little change to throw my whole life into a state of chaos. My mind screams out "CHANGE DOCTORS TOO! STOP TAKING YOUR MEDS! GO BACK OUT AND DRINK! PACK UP THE KITTIES AND RUN AWAY, FAR, FAR, AWAY! LEAVE YOUR FRIENDS AND FAMILY BEHIND! GIVE UP ON TRYING TO FIGURE OUT YOUR PURPOSE IN LIFE! GIVE UP ON YOUR DREAMS!"  That's just a sampling of what is running through my head right now. I am tempted to return to, or maybe more accurately feel pulled towards, returning to my "nightmares" rather than move forward with my dreams. I have been so comfortable being "sick" for so many years that "healthy" is scary for me. Physical health would be nice, but mental health seems out of reach much of the time and I flee when I feel it coming on.

I do not want to continue to go down that path anymore. I do not want to remain comfortable in my nightmares and quash my dreams. I want to go out on the limbs and taste the fruit before it falls to the ground and rots. I was at a support group meeting a week ago and one of the gentleman looked over at me and asked "What is your dream? What gives you a sense of meaning?" and my immediate response was writing. I didn't have to think twice. It is what I am feeling pulled to do. And that is one thing that I owe in part to my therapist. I have always journaled. Lots of therapists like clients to do that because it's "therapeutic". But my therapist has encouraged me to expand my writing and reach beyond what has been holding me back and to go for it. After all, what have I got to lose?

So, there will be some changing going on. I will be meeting a new therapist. And I will not throw the baby out with the bathwater and yell "screw it all" as I run away, flipping the bird behind me as I go. I will stick it out and see what I can learn from these changes. Who knows, maybe that will help me to move forward with my dreams as well. We shall see. I still don't think that I can say that I am fond of change with a straight face but at least I'm willing to try today.

Changes

I just finished reading a book Tricks by Ellen Hopkins. The story follows the lives of several teenagers who end up working in the sex industry. One of the lines in that book that really stuck out to me was "Why reach for a dream when you're at ease within your nightmares?" Well, that kind of describes where my mind has been over the past week or so. Or if I am to be truly honest, over most of my life.

I do not like change and yet I seem to throw myself into a whole tornado of change if one little thing is out of order. I take one change and create an environment of chaos where I feel more at  ease. Last week I found out that my therapist is retiring in a month. I was not totally surprised by this but that doesn't make it any easier. After I left her office that afternoon and drove the 3 blocks to my apartment I had decided that I was going to change everything. "I'M GOING TO GET A NEW DOCTOR! I'M GOING TO QUIT TAKING MY MEDS! I'M GOING TO GO BACK TO DRINKING! I'M GOING TO PACK UP MY KITTIES AND RUN FAR, FAR AWAY! I'M GOING TO LEAVE ALL OF MY FRIENDS AND FAMILY BEHIND! I'M GOING TO GIVE UP ON FINDING A PURPOSE IN MY LIFE!" You get the picture. That has always been my immediate response. And for the record, it has never worked out well for me.

I know that I am in a better place this time though. Those thoughts came and went several times but did not linger or send me running off to Utah (that is a whole other story!). I think this shows some progress on my part. I know that my physical health is starting to improve again but perhaps my mental health is as well. I am going to miss seeing my therapist. I felt she was a good "fit" with me and I always felt safe and supported with her. But beyond that, she has given me a little extra "gift" of encouragement to seek out and follow my dreams. I don't remember how it came about, but at one of our sessions I shared some of my writing with her and she has been encouraging me to write ever since. Now I know that a lot of therapists encourage clients to journal as it can be very therapeutic. But she has encouraged me to go a little deeper and explore writing in many new directions. The night after I learned that she was retiring I attended a support group and one of the gentleman asked me what my dream was, what gave me a sense of meaning and purpose. My response was immediate - writing. It felt good to say that out loud and not feel that that was a wasted dream because I didn't major in English in college or haven't published anything. For me, that's not what the writing is about. It is about expressing and sharing some of my thoughts and ideas and experiences with others without fear of being judged. That is what my therapist has encouraged me to do. She has never told me to think of a "better" or "more realistic" dream. She simply has encouraged me to write whatever is on my heart.

So, I will be meeting a new therapist soon. I will do my best to approach this change with an open mind. And I will not throw the baby out with the bathwater and change everything about me. I think that just maybe I'm ready to reach for that dream and step away from the uncomfortable yet familiar nightmares I stroll around in. Perhaps I am changing as well, little by little.

When Darkness Fills the Heart

Today is a beautiful fall day in Lafayette, Indiana. The sky is blue, the clouds are white and fluffy, the yellow, orange, and red leaves brilliant against the mid-afternoon sky. The air is crisp and there is a breeze blowing through the trees. But right outside my backdoor is a black cloud of sadness and despair.

Yesterday afternoon I returned home after having lunch with several good friends to find my apartment house surrounded by police cars and two large utility vans with "Aftermath" written on the sides. They were from a hazardous materials clean-up service. My neighbor from apartment 1 was standing on the sidewalk and came over to me and asked if I had heard what had happened in apartment 3. She then told me that the 26 year old college student who was living in the apartment above mine had put a shotgun to his head and pulled the trigger, killing himself early Saturday morning. I didn't know what to say. I had just spoken to him earlier that day and now she's telling me he is gone. All that came out of my mouth was "How sad". But thoughts were racing around in my head faster than I could process them.

I wondered why, what had led him to make the decision to end his life. And then I realized that all it really boiled down to was that he had to have been in a pain deeper than he thought he could bear. I know this because I too have been to that place. I have attempted suicide on more than one occasion. One particular attempt landed me in a coma on a ventilator for several days. When I reflect back on those times in my life, all that comes to mind was that I was hurting and wanted the pain to stop. Nothing else mattered. A pain that deep is hard to describe to someone who has not felt it.

I did not know him well but he always spoke to me on the way to the mailbox. He offered to carry my 35 pound tubs of cat litter up the steps and into my apartment. He was kind and considerate, frequently checking with me to make sure that his music was not too loud. He talked about his cats and listened to me talk about mine. He always had a smile on his face. When we spoke on Friday afternoon we wondered whether or not Purdue would beat Michigan on Saturday. I wonder if he was thinking about what he was going to do 12 hours later that night. Was he having second thoughts or was he relieved at having made the decision to end his life? I do not know if he struggled with depression or drugs or alcohol or strained family relationships or financial difficulties. I do believe that he felt alone in his pain and  that he must have felt there was no other option to ease whatever was tormenting his soul. This was true for me and it is what I have heard from many others who have attempted to take their own lives. No one makes this decision lightly and without great despair.

I am grateful that I am not in that place today. It is a very lonely, sad place to be. I am grateful that I have been given another chance at life and that I had friends, family, doctors, and therapists to help me get through those times when I felt I could not go on and when I did not want to go on. I think about all I would have missed out on and what my family has gone through watching me struggle. I don't want to visit that place again. And so I will pray for all those who loved C. and who will miss him greatly. As I am writing this I have a copy of his obituary with his picture next to me and looking at the picture with his big smile would not have guessed his heart was filled with darkness. I'm saddened to think that he was hurting so deeply inside. There is so much joy to be experienced in living. I know that now. I wish he could have seen that too. I'm going to miss him.

At the Fire Hydrant

From where I am sitting
I can see her.
She has set up camp right on the corner
of 10th and Ferry on the sidewalk
by the fire hydrant.
Her backpack is stuffed so full
it stands on its own
and doesn't tip over
under her weight as she sits down
on the ground and leans back against it,
stretching her legs out in front of her
as if she were sitting in a Lazy Boy recliner.
Her two trash bags of what
I assume to be her other belongings
sit off to her side.
Through the open window
I hear her talking
to no one around
in what sounds like nonsense to me.
Passers by step out into the street
to get around her,
avoiding looking her in the eye.
Although it is 93 degrees outside
she is wearing a long sleeved
green and blue plaid shirt
over a tattered black t-shirt.
Blue running shorts and brown work boots
complete her outfit.
At the end of May she is already sporting
an August tan on her legs and her face.
A blue baseball cap covers up
her dirty blond hair.
As I leave to walk out to my car
I think I understand why no one
is getting close enough
to say hello to her.
She is surrounded by a pungent cloud
of body odor, dirt,
and the smell of stale cigarettes.
It's hard not to acknowledge homelessness
exists in my neighborhood
when the stench hits me in the face.
Stereotypes and my own biases
stop me from offering her a couple of dollars.
She'd probably just buy a
40 ouncer or more cigarettes.
I reassure myself that she can get a hot meal
at the day shelter in just three more hours if she wants it.
And I too walk on by,
not looking her in the eye.
After all, she's not my responsibility, is she?

New Year's Resolutions?

It's been a while since I've posted anything. Guess I've been caught up in a bit of a "dry spell". Oh well, that happens on occasion!

This year I made no new year's resolutions. And so far, I've kept all of them! In the past, I continued to come up with a half dozen or so things that I wanted to improve upon in the upcoming year. So, I'd make these sweeping proclamations on New Year's Eve of all that I was going to do "right" in the new year. Then I'd spend three or four days white-knuckling it through, determined to keep my word and turn my life around before giving up. That always left me angry and frustrated with myself and waiting for new years to come around again so I could start over. Well, not anymore.

I still have things that I'd like to improve upon. Like maybe not cussing out the old lady who cuts me off in traffic or the bus driver who doesn't smile and say "hello" back to me when I board the bus. Like eating two Oreos instead of four. But rather than making these sort of changes all-or-nothing absolutes, I'm looking at them as small stepping stones to living what I hope will be a more contented life. I have decided that my goal will be to try to make each new day a little better than the day before, even if in only a small way. Sometimes all I can muster is a change in my attitude, looking for the positive in a situation rather than focusing on what it is that I don't like about it. So far, that seems to be working much better for me and I don't find myself kicking "me" in the butt at the end of the day. Everything else is gravy! No promises I can't keep. No promises I don't want to keep. No promises I make only to please others. Just asking God to guide my decisions and to help me do my part every day of the year, not just the first three days!

Christmas Eve in the "Ghetto"

My brother Ben has told his oldest son Aiden (age 5) that I live in the "ghetto". I don't. I live on the edge of the "not-so-nice" neighborhood! Anyway, here is my own version of the classic "Twas the Night Before Christmas", with a couple of extra stanzas added because I am verbose! So, here goes:

Twas the night before Christmas and all through my pad,
my kitties were being, well, quite simply, bad!
The stockings I hung on the wall with such care
are gone, disappeared, to I don't know where.

I had been nestled all snug in my bed,
my hair going which way all over my head.
I was wearing my sweats and my red Christmas socks
and lay there wondering if I'd locked all my locks?

Because out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
I ran to the window, not graceful at all,
and stuck out my hands to break my big fall.

The moon shining down on my grass dead and brown,
"Oh why no snow now?" I thought as I frowned.
And what to my bloodshot eyes did appear,
but a grocery cart pushed by a man drinking beer!

He was old and hunched over, not lively or quick
and I prayed "Oh dear God, don't let him be sick!"
Beside him his dog, quite ugly and brown,
was jumping as the old man yelled "Dammit, git down!"

"Now Bruno? Now Boxer? Now Jimmy? Now Spritzer?
You know damn well who I'm talking to mister!
Git up off the ground and climb up that wall.
And hurry it up 'fore the cops she does call!"

The dry, rustling leaves were swirling around
as that poor dog tried climbing up off the ground.
Up towards the roof, now that was his goal,
and he almost did make it, God bless his poor soul.

And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
the prancing and pawing and barking "Woof woof"!
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
drunk stinky man came tumbling down!

He was dressed in a coat and had two different shoes
and pants with deep pockets to carry his booze.
A bag of old cans he had flung on his back,
and looking at me, he put down his red sack.

His eyes, how they watered, his vision all blurry,
his cheeks were bright red and his speech was all slurry.
His small wrinkled lips were pinched tight and were pursed,
and he picked at his beard as he yelled and he cursed.

The cigarette butt held so tight in his teeth,
the smoke circling 'round his head like a wreath,
his face was quite dirty and his gut stuck way out,
he's not one of my friends, of that there's no doubt!

He was grimy and sweaty, a sticky old elf,
and I shrieked when I saw him in spite of myself.
He was blinking his eyes and turning his head
when I briefly envisioned how I would look dead

here in my humble, lowly abode,
here with my kitties and no one would know!
He still had not spoken much more than a word,
as he sifted through trash and I thought "How absurd!"

This man didn't come here to kill or to maim!
No, not that at all, that wasn't his aim.
But rather to scavenge some drink and some sup
for himself, his imaginary friends and his pup!

And as he tripped and fell flat on his face,
and before I did comment on his lack of grace,
it dawned on me that we were one in the same,
and that three years ago, that too was my game!

I was once dirty and stinky and messy,
and drunk and slobbering, to that I'm confessing.
So I say "Thank you" to God for bringing that elf
and for reminding me that, all by myself,

I am just as lost as that little old man,
and despite his appearance, he is part of God's plan!
So I grabbed him a blanket and covered him up,
and at the foot of my bed made room for his pup!

Merry Christmas friends, family, brothers and sisters...

Kris(ten) Kringle

Just Another Manic Monday!

Well, I've already written about being depressed, so why not write about being manic?

I have been fortunate to have been relatively stable for the last 3 years or so with only a few minor mood episodes. And definitely not anything lasting for more than a couple of days each time. My past experience has been that episodes of depression or mania last for weeks at a time. I've learned something new. Well, new to me. A manic episode can start and snowball in a matter of 4 days! That was my experience a week ago and it was beyond out of control. The "fun" part lasted two days, I think. Then it progressed to anger, impulsive behavior, and then some, in a matter of hours. I had a brief manic episode back in May but got it under control with the help of my therapist and psychiatrist before it got to the point where I couldn't stop the ball from rolling. But not this time. Last Monday, in a 24 hour period, I got my nose pierced, got my tongue pierced, added a little navy blue coloring to my hair (actually, it doesn't look too bad!), had 14 debit transactions totalling approximately $1000.00, used up a whole tank of gas without leaving town, literally threw away half of my possessions (this was not in a suicidal frame of mind) so that I would have less to clean and organize in my apartment, convincing myself that I was just going to live "simply" from now on. I even pawned some jewelry and electronics for next to nothing for some fast cash. That about covers it, as best as I can remember, or care to admit to, anyways.

After much resistance, I agreed to go to the hospital to get re-established on my medication regime. I was angry. I have not had a psychiatric hospitalization in three years now. For me, that is a record. I know the "nut houses" all too well. Also, this episode was not the result of deciding to say "screw it" with my meds and be my own doctor as has been true of me in the past. After a few restless nights and sleep disturbances that had started weeks ago, I lost track of when I had taken my medications and out of a fear of accidentally taking too much and overdosing, I panicked. By early Tuesday morning, I was frantic and decided that maybe it would be best to get rid of my medications - all of them - even non-psych meds. I have overdosed in the past and although I wasn't suicidal in the least, I was worried that people wouldn't believe me so (and my apologies to the environment, water supply, and raccoons) I threw everything away. Within that 4 day span, I could not recall when my last doses of anything was and I was already going through significant physical withdrawal. I had uncontrollable muscle spasms. I had not slept at all for five days or eaten anything for at least three full days. I was lightheaded. My vision was blurry. My hands were shaking uncontrollably. One minute I was melting, the next I was freezing. I could not physically sit still. My speech was pressured and loud. My thoughts were racing and seemed to me to be like a word-association salad of some sorts. And I was scared and confused.

I am now trying to put the pieces back together. My apartment is a disaster. I still do not know what all I threw away or donated to charities in a flurry of activity. The amount of destruction that took place in just a few short days has left me angry and frustrated with myself. This wasn't supposed to happen anymore. But it did. And it may again some day. I can't worry about that. I do not know what tomorrow or the next day will bring. I have friends who also have bipolar disorder who have been stable for more than ten years. They still tell me that they do not know what the next day holds in store for them either. The course the illness takes is different for each person with this diagnosis. It is not very predictable and there are no guarantees. Now, one week later, my sleeping is getting back on track. My thoughts are coherent and cohesive. I can sit still. I am grateful to be coming out of this "mess" now. Although I did some out of control things, it is nothing that can't be straightened out with time. I stayed sober through this. That in itself is a miracle. I did not hurt anyone else or myself. That is a miracle. I have many friends who were there for me, saw the worst of it, went above and beyond to help me get to the hospital, take care of my cats....and loved me through it all. They reassured me that everything was going to be okay and they did not leave me to struggle on my own. They answered the phone each time I called, they listened, they cared. I so desperately needed that.

This isn't something I have ever shared much about. I have spent so much time trying to "think" my way out of having bipolar disorder. Unfortunately, more than 8 college and graduate school courses in psychology did not make me immune to this disorder. I still struggle to see this as a "legitimate" problem, because I'm smart. And I'm smart. And I'm smart dammit! Well, smart or not, I need to acknowledge that this is a significant part of my life story. There is still so much stigma attached to having a mental illness. How can I expect that to change if I continue to walk around, ashamed to admit that I do have a mental illness? I am finally realizing that it is only a part of who I am. It will not define me unless I let it. So, now you know, perhaps more than you wanted to. God bless you if you are still reading this. My reasons for sharing are a bit selfish. It is therapeutic for me and it is an act of acknowledging what I am working so hard to adapt to. Today, it doesn't have to kill me. I don't have to "fix" myself, for that implies that I am broken. My attitude has switched from curing to coping and living my life fully. That is perhaps the greatest miracle of all!