Agitation

I woke up this morning feeling like a troll. I haven’t been showering. I spent much of yesterday intentionally absorbed in other worlds and times. No yoga means my lazy posture is back. And I had onions on my sandwich yesterday.

My sleep pattern is tricky again. Rather, I find it difficult to let go of the day when a responsible bedtime rolls around. So I don’t, despite knowing that if I am not asleep before midnight, the next day will be lost. Somehow, I convince myself that it’s okay not to fall asleep just yet, even as I lament my lack of productivity that day and make (over)ambitious plans for tomorrow.

It is difficult to make healthy decisions. But being aware of this does not mean I make better decisions. I am just aware of how weak I am as I am arguing myself out of practicing yoga, or eating half a bag of corn chips before dinner. Self- control is eroding.

Somehow, I am even more socially inept than usual. (How is that possible?!) Or maybe it’s just increased paranoia that makes any interaction more fraught. I couldn’t even finish cognitive function testing last week without becoming combative with the test administrator. I have been ordering our groceries for my partner to pick up because I cannot manage my head in a crowd for the time it takes to select my groceries.

I can’t place the origin of my descent into whatever state this is. The school-to-summer transition. Change in routine. Limited time to myself. Anniversary of my father’s death.

Or maybe my withdrawal from the world is a preemptive correction of the agitation and potential mania of summertime. When the temperature rises, my blood begins to boil. Historically, I would drink more wine and tequila. We do this, don’t we—us folks with bipolar—to suppress rising feelings of agitation. We think we’re putting out the flames but we are lighting a fire within that spawns uncontrollable rage. I no longer drink alcohol. But these days I wish I could. This, combined with my current tendency to make unhealthy decisions, is a scary headspace to be in.

It seems that only a month ago I felt differently about myself. I liked myself. Things made more sense. I had a purpose. I had ideas and plans, and I could even remember some of them. And now, this. And from where? Very likely it is just my natural cycle. And no medication is sufficient to disrupt this cycle, it seems. Though I do sense that there is a net just above rock bottom that wasn’t there before. Perhaps that will break this fall, though there is every possibility that I will simply get tangled in it.

Alone. This neuro-eccentricity can make us so alone. Of course it sets us apart, but in such a state as this, when even accessing ourselves is a struggle, we are incapable of connecting with others. And, as connection is central to mental health, it seems mental illness is inevitable.

After half a year of wellness, my neuro-eccentricity is revealing my limits to me once again. And I am hoping that my family and I can survive it this time.

Stress

My stress level is dangerously high. I know this not because I feel it—I generally have no sense of how anxious or stressed I am until I find myself hyperventilating behind a mannequin in a shopping mall. This time I know I am stressed because I have broken out into a rash.

My first explanation for the rash was the Lamictal—my doctor is easing me into a therapeutic dose slowly so as not to cause the rare but fatal rash that some folks get from the medication. So, of course I thought that was the cause. But I prefer Lamictal to lithium so much that I searched for and found another potential cause: that new soap I used for the first time that morning. Or maybe it’s the weather—like living in an armpit. Or lack of sleep—my partner has been away again, which always throws me back into mama sleep (up every hour or so to check on things which seem completely unimportant the next day). Or perhaps dehydration.

But only later, much much later, I remembered that time before my first solo art exhibition. Everyone had remarked on how serene I seemed, and I felt serene too. But the day of my exhibition, I woke up with a nasty full-body rash. And then I knew that I was not at all serene, but falling apart from the inside-out. Very much like I am doing now.

I was surprised to discover that the extended family dramas I have been living in for weeks and months, one of which is now coming to a head, could have turned me upside-down. I felt in control. I had things under control. Didn’t I?

I think I have talked about and worked on little else than these two big family problems for the last two weeks. It’s like an emotional seesaw: one day, the problem of alcoholism and abuse preoccupies my thoughts and engages my actions, and the next day the problem of child abuse and neglect and a teen pregnancy (coming to term today) requires my deepest consideration.

I have been making lists of ways to help out with the first crisis and working through the list one item at a time, and mediating between warring factions of my family for the second (I will be traveling with my sleeves rolled up in less than a week to get to work physically on this last one). Not to mention the psycho-spiritual crisis I have been having about how to love unconditionally folks who behave in detestable, life destroying ways. It’s so much easier to push these people out. It’s so much easier to hate. I am immersed in the most challenging of human emotions on a daily basis.

I have not been feeling triggered, particularly, but I think I have established how little my apparent feelings reflect what my mind is experiencing. So, when all is said and done with my extended family crises, no doubt the hauntings will begin afresh.

The only way I can think of to manage my stress in the meantime is through meditation. So, today I set out on a path of intensive daily meditation. When I can’t sit for 30 minutes, I do active meditation for as long as I can when I am alone. (I’m sure there’s a fancy name for it, but I don’t know it. Basically, I go about my business, but slowed down so I can mentally acknowledge every action–turning on the tap; taking the soap; washing hands; rinsing; etc.) It’s been a few hours of that now, and my mind is quieter. Also, it has taken the place of my talking to myself, which is an unexpected but welcome side effect. I shudder to think of how many hours a day I waste in one-sided conversation.

I’ve written before about the intimate relationship between stress and mental health. I am glossing over how my stress level recently has impacted my mental health. But it undoubtedly has. That too was unknown to me until my children started looking at me differently. Children are a great barometer, more sensitive to subtle changes in a carer’s mood than most adults. Anyway, now that I know, I can protect against the potential for a bipolar/borderline episode. I can be more aware of where I allow my thoughts to go and how they impact my behavior towards my nuclear family.

This mess would have been a whole lot messier (at least from my side) had I not had Buddhist teachings to fall on. A long-standing atheist, I could not have known how immensely grateful I would be to have this spiritual structure to lean on, to guide me through these difficult interactions. But the work is still mine to do. And I will do my best to achieve Right Speech and Right Action in the process, rash or no rash.

Belonging

I am preoccupied with thoughts of my eldest child. But hers is not my story to tell, so I’ll talk about Sunny and belonging—two topics which, on the surface, seem completely unrelated.

Sunny is my most fussy chicken. She’s a fancy French breed with a noisy call and five toes and feathered feet. She reminds me a bit of a country music star—yodeling, fringed, and spangled.

The days are lengthening, so Sunny is trying to make her unfertilized eggs hatch. She has spent three days cooped up in the nesting boxes, taking only a few minutes each day to scarf down some peas, gargle some water, and shout at the other girls, who are not so shaken up by their hormones. Today, I locked her out of her nesting box for the morning, and returned to the chicken yard to find that she had flown the coop—into the children’s play yard.

I can only say that I am incredibly grateful that my fence is so high, so that nobody could watch the spectacle of me trying to round up a temperamental, broody hen. In short, she’s back in the chicken yard, the nesting boxes are open for service again, and I have no idea what I will find when I next make it through the orchard to chat with the chickens.

Hormones make us crazy. I’m sure that’s a loaded statement, but I mean to discharge such a load. Hormones make us so blind to how things really are that we can view a loved one trying to help us as an assailant trying to cause us harm. They can make us obsess fruitlessly until our feathers are dull. They can reveal aspects of our personality that we don’t even recognize as part of ourselves. And all the while, everyone watching from afar knows what it is and that it will pass, though we do not.

I have read and watched many biographies of folks with bipolar, and there are a few common threads among all those fraught stories: namely, the age of the first (albeit, mild) episode and the feeling from childhood of being apart, an alien, or in the wrong family—basically, of not belonging.

I’ve covered the first in my Sunny illustration. The doctors believe bipolar first reveals itself at adolescence. But you ask any parent or sufferer, and they will likely tell you that the turning point was closer to nine or ten. The flood of hormones that occurs at adolescence only amplifies the potential that has been there for years.

The second is significant because I believe you cannot achieve mental health without a sense of belonging to something, someone, or someplace. This is the relational connectedness I talked about in an earlier post. And folks with bipolar seem predisposed to feel that they do not belong—and in fact, our difference unfortunately makes it so in so many cases.

I remember a time a few years back when I was in corpse pose following root chakra yoga. There came a point in the deep relaxation of all of my muscles when the instructor said something like relax into the Earth; know that you are welcome; know that you belong; know that you are home. I burst into an ecstatic fit of tears, grieving for my poor lost self that had struggled for so many years, and elated that I had found my place; I had inhabited my place all along.

That new sense of belonging to this world was crucial for my awakening (or maybe a result of it). In any case, I felt reborn. I had spent so much time fighting against everyone and even myself, and all because I felt I did not belong, that no one wanted me. And once that sense of belonging was intact, I was free to begin building my life, truly, for the first time. Previously, I had been going through the motions, and then regularly tearing down all that I had built. Belonging meant I could now build with stones instead of paper.

My worry is that you cannot bring another to a sense of belonging. Perhaps you can offer her comfort or respite along the way. And hope she doesn’t succumb to oblivion-seeking behaviors in the meantime. But there is no magic word, no perfect touch to help someone realize that she already belongs. I make a habit of saying to my children that they belong to me, to our family, to our community. That they have an important role to play in this world. That they could have come into existence at only one point in the history of the universe, and that makes them magnificent beings with significant work to do here—that we need them. And I hope, with skin-tingling, hand-shaking effort, that those words find their way into their bones.

My eldest child’s struggles are by no means new. But it is the first time she is experiencing them. And it is deeply troubling to come to this point, after decades of personal struggle and suffering, and still not be able to give her what she needs to find her way. We can inherit our parent’s shame, but not their wisdom. It seems that wisdom is something we can only gain through first-hand experience. And with hormones beginning to mold my child into an adult, I once again find myself battening down the hatches in preparation for an incredible storm.

Being

Years ago, before I was a mother, back when depression offered no possibility of joy within the darkness, an acupuncturist from China suggested that I simply fix my mind on positivity when I woke up in the morning. He was treating me for depression. At the time, I thought he was crazy, or that maybe people in China don’t get depressed.

Fix my mind?

But somewhere along the way, perhaps during the period of awakening following my breakdown, I began to understand his meaning. Because nothing is as it seems, everything can be something else. That is to say, my daughter’s rejection of me yesterday was in fact a natural step along her path. It was not a rejection at all for her, but an acceptance of the magnetic pull of the external world. My job was and is to let go.

Fix my mind.

I chose—yes, chose—not to descend. I did make it back to the school to have lunch with my younger child. I deleted my dragon game (all games, for that matter) from my phone. I made it out this morning to collect my meds. I planted out some sad plants that had been crying to extend their roots. I rubbed sandalwood oil on my third eye point. I meditated. I laughed to myself that my doctor—so square he’s a cube—prescribed daily yoga and meditation for me, out of respect for the things that he knows keep me balanced. I opened my heart.

I am fixing my mind on positivity. I am focusing on one task at a time. I will make my children dinner this evening—a dinner that doesn’t involve the microwave or leaving a tip. I am choosing to smack that black dog on its ass, and laugh as it runs, whimpering, back to the shadows.

At least I hope that’s what I’m doing. But if that Chinese doctor is to be believed, if Buddha was really on to something, perhaps it is a simple matter of fixing my mind and seeing things as they really are. Ending suffering by not suffering.

Black dog

My anxieties are up. I’m afraid of too many things to name, and the fear is paralyzing. I haven’t been out of the house much without my crew (partner and/or children), and have consequently racked up a fair number of jobs that are waiting to be done.

They’ll have to wait another day because it seems my resilience is also at an ebb. I went to my children’s school today to have lunch with my girls, first my neuro-eccentric eldest, and second with my affectionate youngest. I set my alarm so I would be sure to stop whatever I was doing and get in the car at the right time. I packed a bag of dried mango (I’ve not had much appetite lately) and a can of fizzy water. And I set off, excited to surprise my girls, who seemed disappointed when I told them earlier that I thought I couldn’t make it to lunch with them today.

Long story short, I was at the school for 20 minutes, just long enough to watch my eldest eat a small portion of her lunch and pretend to be someone else. Who was this child who had swallowed my intensely empathetic little girl? And then, she dismissed me. She said that it wasn’t every day that she got to have lunch with her mates, and wanted me to pack it in so she could hang out at the soccer goal with the boys.

I couldn’t force her to be with me if she didn’t want to, so I left. It was a full hour before the lunchtime of my youngest, so I knew I wouldn’t make it to lunch with her. I knew I wouldn’t make it to the pharmacy afterwards to pick up my meds. I really just wanted to go home. I needed to be home.

It’s not the sadness that hurts as much as the burn of invisibility or unimportance. My fears force me to withdraw and then I’m upset by the fact that nobody can see me and that nobody cares.

I know what this is. This is the start of a nasty depression. It’s just so strange how my depressive episodes have changed over time, allowing me now to feel joy and even positive emotions for a time, allowing me to think I’m doing well or at least on the right track, before sending me swirling down into bleak contemplation of my nothingness. So, these days, I almost don’t know when a depression is descending. I can still laugh. My heart can even soar (this, most often with plants). And so I fail to see it coming.

But then: Did I hurt your feelings, mama? Yes. Oh, well, bye then. Yes. Bye. And–oh!–here we go again.

By the time I recognize it, the black dog has got its teeth sunk down to the bone.

It will be interesting to view this through a Buddhist lens. But on some other day.

Routine

I am just emerging from a haze induced by three weeks of disrupted routine and augmented by oblivion-seeking behaviors involving a dragon video game. I am rediscovering the value of routine in helping me to manage myself emotionally and practically.

My partner replaced our  fence on his three-week holiday from work. Which means that there were at least three days when our private lives were completely exposed. I had not realized what an intensely private person I am, how much I perceive exposure as a danger. I banned the use of all overhead lights at night. I found myself retreating to my cave of bedcovers day and night. (It occurred to me at the time that the bear is my spirit animal.) I became super sensitive to everything; anxious in all situations outside of my curtained room. And I lost the fight against my oblivion-seeking self.

It didn’t help that there was disruptive news from extended family. Deeply troubling, and particularly upsetting to me with no routine to anchor me to this life. I floated away.

No yoga, meditation, writing, or painting. My third eye closed. I kept up only with my plants, perhaps more as a way to feel I had accomplished something at the end of each day. Or maybe just because I felt most comfortable with plants. Anything or anyone requiring more than a gentle chat and a watering felt like an awful lot of stress.

My cognitive functioning is a wreck. I am misplacing words and names in almost every sentence. I am hearing music again in white noise—samba from the vacuum cleaner; a violin ensemble from the spring winds. I am smelling stale piss, burnt garlic, and dog shit, and removing things from the house which seem, at the time, to be the source of the odors. Of course, the odors are merely hallucinations. I refuse to take anti-psychotics ever again, but that means that reality can get pretty squishy in high-stress situations. Without a routine.

And maybe that’s where our tendency to seek out oblivion comes from: maybe folks with bipolar are trying to slow things down, quiet our minds, grow some skin—in short, manage our stress before the rush of mania or psychosis sweeps us off our feet. It seems counter-intuitive that we should choose activities that ultimately make us lose control (drugs, alcohol, dragon video games) in an attempt to take control of ourselves. But maybe it’s not really about control, but about having a buffer between the world and us. Because, at such times, we are skinless–we feel everything with excrutiating intensity. And we just need it to stop. Bear in a trap. No time for thinking things through.

At least with oblivion-seeking behaviors we have chosen our outcome. And we no longer notice so acutely all the noise in our heads. Yes, self-medicating mental anguish, and all that. Not condoning, just explaining.

Anyway. The importance of routine. Bipolar tendencies for oblivion-seeking behaviors. Disruption and skinlessness. Stress. It’s all connected.

Recantation

I just finished a phone conversation with my mom, during which she asked if I was talking to someone else in the room as well as her. I was alone.

I had just been telling her about a message I received while I was meditating this morning, suggesting that some of the odd symptoms I have been having were my body’s way of informing me I was not supposed to be medicated any longer. She laughed quietly in all the right places that could not possibly cause offense. I had given her those opportunities, I suppose. Opportunities not to take what I was saying very seriously. This is an old habit of mine—wanting folks to take me seriously but making it very very hard for them to do so. I think that would be classified as borderline.

You see, I was making my breakfast and having an imaginary conversation with my doctor about how the real problem with psychiatric medicine lay in the fact that it is secular and does not allow much room for spiritual inquiry. I don’t think anyone can accurately explore mental wellness and illness without maintaining for themselves some spiritual connection that guides them in their studies or frames their perspective. Of course, this should also allow room for the patient to explore his or her own connection to spirit/universe/god, and for that exploration to be considered valid and not a sign of madness. What spiritual practice folks choose is of no consequence—only the fact that they have one. Anyway, the imaginary argument was much more involved, and ultimately led me to feel that I have an important contribution to make to Western psychiatry, that my own connection to the universe is a valid way of receiving information about the human condition.

And then, I finished my breakfast and called my mom back, and apparently held multiple conversations at once with who knows how many entities.

Well, that’s one perspective anyway. Mine is that we had a bad connection (I do believe my phone has been hacked), and she was distracted—listening while doing something else (as she often does) and so not following the (I’ll admit) rather erratic line of argumentation. She laughed politely and, instead of suggesting that I needed medication (and possibly more than I am currently taking), claimed instead that I was having a simultaneous conversation with some unseen party. No doubt she hoped I would get the hint. I got it.

There are two people in my life who feel very strongly that I should be on medication: one to whom I was born and the other whom I chose as my life partner. (Yes, I chose someone like my mother as my life partner, as it turns out. And, yes, I know there are no accidents in the universe.) They are both atheist pragmatists, who have a clearly defined sense of what is normal. I am oversimplifying, of course, since just knowing me for all these years has undoubtedly shaken some of their assumptions.

My point is, they are both excellent individuals on which to try my latest theories. Or rather, to test the strength of my conviction about my latest theories. And perhaps if it weren’t for that damn borderline personality disorder knocking around in my system, I might not back down so often. But with the situation as it is, if I experience a metaphorical gasp when I present the fruits of my recent meditations, I generally laugh and blame hypomania or lithium’s imperfect correction of my faults.

In case my partner is reading this from abroad, please know that the fire of this idea and the self importance it presupposes has most certainly died out now. Forty minutes of my mother’s tonic of secular reason has flattened the message to the extent that I can no longer recognize what key it was in or even hear it very well. So, don’t worry. All are safe.

After over a decade of stumbling about in the dark—perhaps in part because of my reactions to resistance—my partner and I have finally found a way to head off any uncomfortable discourse before it begins. And by that I don’t mean that we should avoid. I mean simply that the way that we speak to one another requires guidelines. So, I created the following to avoid my partner triggering a borderline response from me and so that we could both be heard with the respect we deserve.

I would say this arrived to me in a message if I thought that would make it catch on faster. But in fact, it’s just a step-by-step breakdown of a mindful handling of a relationship challenge. Anyway, I present it here as a gift, universal wisdom rendered practical. (I suppose this is an advantage of having folks like my mother and partner in my life—they require me to bring my thinking down to Earth.)

New strategy for managing conflicts in our home, written on the kitchen door. Hopefully the change will be more permanent than chalk on a blackboard.