Sunday, November 7, 2010

Sandman Keeps Calling

“Now this makes sense…” was the subject line of a recent email from my psychiatrist. How rarely am I greeted by that phrase in general, much less by the Goddess of Good Health? I was positively giddy as I clicked on the message.

This email was a reply to a long back and forth Dr. T. and I had been having over the causes/solutions to my problem of excessive fatigue. I had developed a habit of looking forward to 8:00 p.m. so that I could go to bed, and then I would wake up at 8:00 a.m., reluctant to go to work because I was so exhausted. Yes, I was clocking in 12 hours of sleep at night, not counting any naps I might sneak in during the day. And yet I dragged. And snoozed, and snoozed, and snoozed.

I have to give myself credit. For the most part, I did not interpret my excessive somnolence as a sign that 1) I was a horrible human being or that 2) I was doomed to a life within the confines of my bed. I knew—sort of—that there was something “wrong.”

I say I give myself credit. It was actually just dumb luck that I didn’t experience a hard core depression in conjunction with the fatigue. Thankfully, I didn’t interpret or experience my life as being horrible; I knew it wasn’t. I knew that T. loved me and that I had friends that loved me, and I loved them back. My family was supportive. My house was a home. I knew that my job, although not always the source of great excitement, was rewarding and dignified. I wasn’t fat. I hadn’t started smoking again. Things seemed to be going well.

Except for the fact that I spent 50% of my days asleep.

What is the use of having a good life if you’re sleeping through it? As I said, though, I was on the ball enough to know that something was “wrong.” When I went to see my psychiatrist, Dr. T., I explained my predicament to her, and she was sympathetic, yet somewhat stumped. She was reluctant to boost my anti-depressant, as I have a propensity for experiencing manic episodes. Instead, she just tweaked my secondary mood stabilizer and asked me to keep her posted. She gave me a slip to get my blood drawn.

I can truly say I didn’t procrastinate on the blood draw. I had minimal free time—I was so infrequently awake--so I had to wait until a Friday, my day off, to get it done. Now, my doctor’s office is not the nicest in the world, but like every other health-related establishment in my life, they know me. The receptionist, J., greeted me cheerfully, and I sat down to wait.

The wait was severe, and my impatience grew to mammoth proportions. I eavesdropped on the guy-across-from-me’s conversation with his mother, where he talked about his globetrotting lifestyle, very different from my traveling-angst lifestyle. I was only sort of happy for him; the other part of me was envious that he was going to Barcelona on vacation. I wondered what he was “in for” at the doctor’s office. Probably a routine physical. He certainly didn’t have a mental illness…poisonous thoughts poisonous thoughts poinsonous thoughts…

“Wendy?” They called my name, just in time, too, as the grass in his yard had turned emerald green and was about to go neon, while my crab grass was withering away.

The gal that led me into the room was the one performing the blood draw, which didn’t enthuse me because I didn’t recognize her. I have spent many years being at the mercy of sub-standard phlebotomists, and the prospect of breaking in another one didn’t thrill me.

My instincts were correct: she flubbed the first stick. She told me that if she didn’t get it the next time that she was going to send me to the lab. I balked. The last thing I wanted to do was traverse Hillcrest in search of someone who could successfully take my blood when I had taken great pains to get here. Moreover, I had had to endure the cheery chit chat of World Traveler Dude. No, it was not to be borne.

I told the nurse that she could stick me as many times as she wanted, as long as she got it done. This seemed to help her relax because her next attempt was a go. Sighing with relief, I held my finger down on the cotton ball as she administered the bandaid. All done.

And all the pain (mainly the pain of waiting) was worth it because now, according to Dr. T, “it made sense.”

I read her email.

It turns out that one of my mood stabilizers had become toxic, and as a result, my thyroid wasn’t functioning. Both factors cause—that’s right—fatigue. Big time. I glanced through the email again. It was that simple. Subtract a pinch of this and add a pinch of that and voila! A recipe for success.

There was a lot of other medical gobbledygook in the message that I ignored. I was so happy that the problem was just going to go away.

Until I was at Borders the next day. I got a phone call—on a Saturday morning, mind you—from my primary care doctor’s office. There were some abnormalities with my blood work, and according to J., the receptionist, the doctor wanted to see me. In order to communicate with J., I had to blurt the word “psychiatrist” out in the middle of the graphic novels section, which was thoroughly embarrassing, I might add, but my stomach started to turn cold. When the primary calls on a Saturday afternoon, something is definitely afoot. The word “kidneys” came up in the conversation.

Kidneys? I have a mental illness. I’m not supposed to have problems with, you know, other stuff. The other stuff is supposed to be working just fine.

When I got home, I revisited Dr. T.’s email. Indeed, there was reference to “renal” somethingorother, and the request for tests. Tests. Apparently, the lithium I’ve been taking for 20 years affects more than just my brain. So when the Sandman came calling, this is what he leaves on my doorstep. Another date with the doctor’s office.

Maintaining mental health is a lifestyle, one that requires attention to diet, exercise, the right amount of sleep, attention to routine, practice of positive thinking, use of support, cultivation of friends, good therapy, medicine, and more. When I’m doing the drill, it’s hard not to be resentful when the medicines that are supposed to help begin to harm. Simply, it’s hard not to cry.

Of course, I’m jumping to conclusions. No one will really know what’s going on until I submit to the next round of tests, extremely annoying tests. Consequently, T. counseled me to cry after I knew for sure there was something wrong, but not before.

I don’t know. I might get some practice in before the real pity party, just to see how it goes.

Now, that makes sense to me.

Sunday, October 31, 2010

Future Self Makes Good

Someone on a committee somewhere at my high school asked us to write a letter to ourselves to be opened ten years later. My letter went astray, and so the current alumni coordinator sent my mother my letter 21 years after my graduation. Mom forwarded it on to me, and I opened it, reading my thoughts at age 17.

The letter is as follows, with the opening quotation appearing on the back of the envelope.

Who Wills, Can.
Who Tries, Does.
Who Loves, Lives.
--Anne McCaffrey

Well, my dear, here you are, ten years later. I hope life held about half of the promise you thought it would. I wonder if you could share with me a little wisdom…I guess I’ll share some with you. Laugh and the world laughs with you; cry and you ruin your makeup. Don’t forget to smile often, laugh heartily, savor the precious times, and cry when necessary. Are you still dreaming? I hope so. Are you sitting next to Gilbert right now? Are you content? Remember to love life…and don’t forget—I have faith in you!!

Love, wisdom, beauty, smiles, sunshine, teardrops, daisies, and starlight,

Your Young Self,

Wendy

The first thing that struck me was the phrase, “half the promise.” Half the Promise? How much promise did I think I had, and what would half of that be? I chuckled with Young Self, a cynic at that age, already assuming that life would not live up to youthful expectations.

Hmmm…Half the Promise. I don’t quite think Young Self had a vision of the future clearly laid out, but I know it was something along the lines of the American Dream – Classic Edition. I expected to graduate from college and get a “good job,” hopefully working for a magazine. I hoped to be sitting next to the spiritual equivalent of “Gilbert,” the name of the boy hero in one of my favorite novels, Anne of Green Gables. I’m sure that I expected have economic security and independence.

Did I get half of what I wanted? Well, I graduated from college, and I have a “Gilbert,” my man, T., who is a stellar human being. But I don’t have a “real” job, nor do I have economic security. I have neither children, nor a dog, nor a white picket fence. Hell, I don't even have a lawn.

It all goes back to this idea of expectations. In a way, Young Self is still at work in my head from time to time, still pushing for that American Dream, never quite content with the way things are. But then, my life has been much harder than I expected. Young Self probably knew that there was such a thing as mental illness but had only a vague idea of what that might be. Nowhere in the Grand Plan of Wendy's future did it involve manifesting a chronic mental illness, bipolar disorder, with catastrophic consequences attached. I was totally unprepared.

But Young Self basically had it right: laugh heartily, savor the precious moments. Keep Dreaming. I am still dreaming...I'm going to dream my way right into graduate school if I can help it. I may not be walking up the "primrose path," as Anne of Green Gables used to say, but I'm walking up my path, and the terrain is getting smoother all the time.

Young Self, after sober evaluation, I think I did right by you. I think I got more than half the Promise, and my glass is way more than half full.

Thanks for the vote of confidence!

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Forgiving the Fraud in Myself

I was at the NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) Inspiration Awards Dinner, and at the end of the evening, a speaker got up and raved about a NAMI program called “In Our Own Voice.” IOOV is a public speaking program on mental illness delivered by people who have mental illness. This is the signature “stigma busting” program in the organization, where a human face replaces the ugly stereotypes of mental illness.

Presenters were asked to stand.

Now, I have been a presenter for over five years and have given over fifty IOOVs, yet I was reluctant to stand. In that room of 200 people, I didn’t want to be identified as a person with a mental illness. This was even after the keynote speaker gave us a passionate call to action as advocates. Even at this event, when I was with “my people,” there was an unexpected tendency in me not to be made to “come out.”

Embarrassed, I stood along with a handful of other people, and the audience applauded heartily. I was not proud but uncomfortable, and as I felt exposed, I chided myself for feeling exposed. Was I not supposed to be the advocate extraordinaire? The poster child for mental illness? The Great Recovered One?

When I sat down, my sister-in-law next to me rubbed my back and whispered, “I didn’t know you did that. That’s cool.”

Yes, it was cool, but I wanted it to be cool on my own terms. I wanted the people that saw my presentations to see my humanity, see my strength and courage, and then never see me again. I still wanted to be a “normie” in my daily life.

Case in point: I had dressed carefully and thoughtfully for the occasion, sporting a jacket with a dragonfly motif. I wanted to be known as the woman in the dragonfly jacket, not as the one with the mental illness. I was tired of that. I thought I’d outgrown the “mentally ill” label.

Of course, it was the wrong time and the wrong place to be tired of it, to feel beyond my label, when all the people there that I knew, which were many, already knew my story. But was a little anonymity among strangers too much to ask?

This thought took me aback, for I had come face to face with my own hypocrisy.

My two closest friends at the dinner had already gone, and so there was no one to talk to about my conflicted feelings. They were men, besides; I really needed a girlfriend to talk to, but there was no one. And T. had strategically avoided attending the event in the first place, so I was alone.

I watched as a man at the next table over put money in a donation envelope, a donation that was going to sponsor the public speaking program. I didn’t put money in the envelope; I didn’t feel like sponsoring myself.

As soon as the evening was winding down, instead of mingling with the crowd, I bolted for the door. I called my buddy who had left early, chastising him. I didn’t mention that I was made to stand up, that I didn’t feel like being an example that night. I don’t know if he would have thought I was being childish or that I was being what I was: a sham.

On my way home, I had some time to do some thinking. I thought about my therapist and what he would say about all of this. He would talk about the spectrum, about life being lived mainly in the grey area. He would tell me that I didn’t have to be the perfect advocate all the time; I was allowed to choose another identity, even in the most ironic of places.

He would have told me it was OK if I had kept my seat, period. That it was my right to respect my own privacy.

As I mulled over some of this therapy philosophy in my mind, I remembered a woman at my support group once saying that she felt as protective of her identity a someone with bipolar disorder as she did with her credit card numbers, and she held her numbers close to her chest.

Now would she be a marvelous human rights advocate? No. But this anecdote served to remind me that I can’t wear my illness on my sleeve all the time, even in a crowded room of people who applaud what I’ve done, what I do. Being bipolar all the time is exhausting.

I think I just need a break, and when I’ve had a bit of a break, I’ll tell my story once again, and my audience will appreciate the challenges of living with mental illness, and they will applaud, and I will go on, living as well as I can.

Even sometimes as a normie.

Monday, October 4, 2010

Farewell, Benson & Hedges Menthol 100’s

It will be a month tomorrow that I quit smoking, but I realize that saying goodbye to smoking is like getting out of a bad relationship. We know it’s a bad relationship because we feel the often unspoken disapproval of our loved ones; we see the gnarly anti-smoking commercials on TV. (One of my favorite anti-smoking commercials had smokers turn into skeletons, and then the skeletons would fall off of a conveyer belt and onto a veritable skeleton mountain.) All smokers know that smoking is bad, but what non-smokers don’t know is just how good smoking can be. Hence, even a bad relationship is hard to get over.

There are several kinds of cigarette moments one can have, but I’m just going to illustrate a few:

Smoking to Get Away from Non-Smokers: Since to be a “polite smoker” you have to excuse yourself from non-smokers, this provides a perfect avenue for slipping away to indulge in your vice simply to indulge in a few minutes away from an onerous dinner party, etc.

Smoking to Meet Other Smokers: If you see an interesting-looking smoker, it is quite easy to find a segue into a conversation with that individual. Just ask for a light.

Smoking Socially: Smoking is extremely ritualistic in nature, and quite often you develop a social pattern with another smoker. The classic case in my life is T. We used to share coffee and cigarettes on Saturday mornings at the homestead, and I can no longer be a part of that. Similarly, I have a close friend who used to indulge in my sinfulness with me, and now we no longer share that. It makes me sad.

Smoking PeacefullY: Having a quiet cigarette to yourself is probably the quintessential smoking habit. It is a way to get away, a way to get a moment, a way to calm down. Last night, in fact, I had insomnia, and when I can outside on the patio, I was struck by the lack of cigarette in my hand. I just had to appreciate the fresh air, emphasis on “fresh.” The feeling that there was something missing was fleeting, but I felt the pinch nonetheless.

Smoking as Medication: Smoking to relieve stress is a classic reason people don’t quit. Smoking can be an antidote for anxiety, nervousness, boredom, any number of ills. Now I have to find new medicine, hopefully new medicine that isn’t food. I’ve taken up exercise.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m proud of myself for quitting. But I know that every so often I’m going to feel a pang or a twinge. And I’m going to miss that occasional smoke with my friend on the roof of the El Cortez, or miss that cigarette with a glass of the best red wine in the world on my friend’s lush patio. These are moments that can’t be substituted for anything else.

They say that a person with mental illness lives ten years less than someone without. One of the main contributors is cigarettes.

I would like to be one of the people who changes that particular statistic.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

I'm a Quitter!

I passed by the Ibis Street Market on the way to my therapist’s office, a ritual I engage in every Friday. The market is owned by a couple of Greek guys, one who is an outrageous flirt who tells me how beautiful I am when buying baklava. I also stop at the Ibis Street Market to grab an Aquafina, or a Gatorade, or an iced tea, and always a pack of cigarettes, Benson & Hedges menthol 100’s. The woman who rings me up always has elaborately painted finger nails, and she is a sweetheart. We commonly exchange pleasantries, and she knows my brand. I like that.

Last Friday, however, strolling by the Ibis Street Market, I was reminded of the cigarettes that I quit three weeks before. I wondered if I should go into the store at all. After sober reflection, I decided not to go inside and make do with the teeny tiny cups at the water cooler in my therapist’s office. Better than facing reminders of my old life. But something tugged at my heart strings when I walked by. The market was now tainted, but I missed my little ritual that the cigarettes provided. I wasn’t really ready to go in and be reminded of indulging in my vice, and it made me sad.

It’s been three weeks now since I quit smoking, and I won’t get any real props until it’s been a month, I think. A month is a milestone that people respect.

Granted, no one ever thought I could quit, including me. So how did it happen?

I owe it all to my psychiatrist, Dr. T. During the days when I was taking a summer school class, I was having trouble with my memory and concentration. Dr. T., as part of her treatment, prescribed the anti-depressant Wellbutrin.

Wellbutrin and I were made for each other, it seems. My memory and powers of concentration increased right away, so quickly that my reading level skyrocketed, and I had no trouble in the rest of the class. What I also was figuring out about Wellbutrin was that it took away the craving for cigarettes. I found that the amount of cigarettes I smoked was declining, as if by magic. Moreover, the cigarettes I smoked didn’t pack the same punch. The medication seemed to take the “reward” away.

I didn’t actually decide to quit smoking. I just stopped. My mother and step-father and T. and I went on vacation to Mammoth, and the first day up there, I just didn’t have one. And the next day I didn’t have one. And the next day…

Then I realized I was onto something, that I could be free of the poison. So I quit.

I realize what I miss is the ritual, not the cigarette. There was something comforting about having a cigarette after work, or after a meal, or with a friend, or with T. It was a pleasurable activity.

As I said, tomorrow it will be three weeks.

When it’s a month, I’ll remind you, and we can celebrate!

Sunday, August 22, 2010

P/NP: Not the Question

"Students," Prof. S. addressed the class, "Get out a piece of paper for tonight's Reading Quiz. Write 'RQ' #7 on the top of your paper. Do NOT forget to write your NAME at the top of your paper. There were TWO students who failed to put their NAMES on RQ#6. That is a way to FAIL the quiz. Eyes on your own paper. Question #1..."

The reading quizzes put the fear of God into the class. They represented a substantial part of the final grade, and to obtain a perfect score (which I only did once), one practically had to commit all the copious (and often dull) reading material to memory. (That week of the perfect score, we just happened to be reading Edgar Allen Poe, who I love, so I didn't mind reading the assignment 3+ times.) Whenever the reading quiz was announced, the class recoiled in fear and horror. Only one student aced them all, but he went to UCSD and was on his way to medical school, and he had to get an A. His future depended on it.

Really, it felt like everyone's future depended on it. But the quizzes were hard. The papers were hard. The in-class exams impossible. It seemed that I chose the absolutely worst class to have a disability in. Over half of the original students had already dropped and a handful of those left were poised to fail.

The miracle: I was passing. I had done well on my two take home papers, which was salvaging my grade, as I was tanking on the reading quizzes (like everyone else.) What I couldn't believe, though, was the change in my performance level. I could read and retain hundreds of pages worth of often tedious and difficult reading material. I was enjoying the in-class films and discussions. Essentially, I had morphed into a normal human being.

* * *

I'm just waiting for Prof. S. to email me my grade.

Now that I can read, concentrate, focus, sit still, stay plugged in, it's hard to look back and remember what a struggle it was at the beginning of the class. I had to remind myself and try to wrap my head around the word "dementia." Was I really that far gone? Could I really not grasp a minute and a half film? Did I feel myself separating from the rest of the world? Was I that profoundly disabled?

Of course the answer is "yes." If it were not for Dr. T. and her medical intervention, I would have dropped out of the class, feeling utterly incapable, and taken it out on myself until the end of time.

The real lesson of the class is this: Symptoms aren't personal, and they can be overcome.

And if I can survive American Literature 210, I can survive anything!

Sunday, July 11, 2010

You Aren't What You Read: Part II

Frugality. Order. Temperance. Justice.

I scrawled the words on the bottom of the page, my hands shaking from nerves as I took another one of Prof. S.’s grueling reading quizzes. I repeated the virtues over in my mind, four of Benjamin Franklin’s thirteen, wondering if I had any of them.

Frugality? Kinda. Order? Definitely not. Temperance? Forget it. Justice? Maybe…

In the first weeks of the class, I had seriously questioned whether or not I could withstand the rigors of its academic requirements. One concern was that I had difficulty reading material of any length or depth due to my lack of concentration and memory.

But I knew there was something else, something that was grievously wrong with me. It became clear when Prof. S. showed a minute and a half long film on Native American culture, and I couldn't follow it. He showed it again, and a discussion ensued. I realized that other people had watched the film. Other people understood the film. Other people were discussing the film. I was so disconnected that I couldn't absorb a minute and a half's worth of material. My anxiety was running rampant. It was then that the point was driven home: I was in trouble.

I should have called my psychiatrist right away, but instead I suffered on my own, taking my deficits personally. I knew that my lack of memory was a correlated to overall stupidity, that my inability to focus made me a marginal human being, and that my disconnectedness would relegate me to be a failure in every arena: school, work, friends, and home. I was permanently cut off from the world and what it had to offer.

When I finally made it to my doctor’s office, it was time to come clean. She showed me into the office, offered me a seat adjacent to the dog, Ralph, and sat comfortably with her laptop.

“So, how are you?” said Dr. T.

I began describing my symptoms, lack of concentration, memory, focus, disassociation, depression, and gave examples. Dr. T. looked at me, nodding her head. Then she administered a memory test. I was pleased that I could remember the presidents backwards to Ford. The numerical tests were not a success.

“Depression,” Dr. T. said, “You have depression induced dementia. Not to worry. It’s not permanent.”

Dementia! Did she just say dementia! The frightening part was that the term seemed to fit. I felt like she had accurately described the severity of my feelings, my condition, and reassured me that it was temporary, that she could help me. We spent the rest of the session discussing medication changes.

“If you can’t read in a week, then drop the class,” she advised. I was happy to have an authority figure giving me some concrete direction. If I had to quit, it would be Dr.’s orders.

I left Dr. T.’s office with a drastic medication change, but with hope that my mind would begin to clear in a short period of time.

It was only a matter of days before my mood began to change, and once again I was reminded of the fickle nature of the bipolar illness. My reading improved. I could sit still and focus. I could follow conversations. I could screen out unwanted noise. I couldn’t believe the change, and I had to remind myself once again that these deficits are part of the illness and don’t have to be tolerated.

Just because my mood was turning around didn’t mean I should stay in the class. What if I continued to fail the reading quizzes? What if I couldn’t concentrate on the in-class exams? What if I couldn’t even remember how to write a paper?

I answered this question by changing my status in the class from a letter grade to P/NP, which I felt would give me the breathing room I needed. I also decided to apply myself and work as hard as everyone else. (Apparently, I was not the only human being that struggled with the reading quizzes at first, either.)

I intend to stay in the class and pass, but if I don’t, it’s really a moot point. One way or the other, I am at peace with the outcome, knowing that I’m trying, knowing that I’m managing my illness to the best of my ability.

I may not have Benjamin Franklin’s virtues of Frugality, Order, Temperance, or Justice, but I do have the most important one back in my life: Tranquility.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

You Aren't What You Read: Part I

“Prof. S., can I have a word with you privately?” I asked with what I hoped was quiet dignity.

It was during the break of English 210, my American Literature class.

I trembled in anticipation of this conversation, one that would soon set me apart from all the other students. Isn’t that what I wanted? To have a legitimate excuse for my poor performance on the reading quiz?

Retiring to a space behind his desk, I shared in the lowest of tones, “I want you to know that I have…a disability. My performance in the class is going to be somewhat…patchy.”

Prof S. listened professionally, nodding at appropriate intervals as I shared that I would probably perform better on the take home assignments than I would on the reading because I had, again in whispers, memory deficits.

It was a blatant case of TMI, but I didn’t think my ego could handle a professor thinking I was merely stupid. I was merely operating under a curse of stupidity.

Prof. S. responded perfectly, advising me to go through Disabled Student Services to see if I could get more time to take in class tests, etc. He also suggested using SQ3R, a reading method that, as I interpreted it, required that you basically live with the text strapped to your body at all times.

This experience really wasn’t what I had had in mind.

See, this summer, I thought I would do something mind/life expanding and take a community college class. I thought it would be good practice for me to see if I was a candidate for graduate school, a way to ease into things. Put the big toe in the pool at the shallow end. Read some cool stuff. Meet some people. So, I enrolled in English 210, the study of early American literature.

I thought I’d be blissfully reading The Scarlet Letter in the cushy folds of my duvet. Instead, I was slogging through pages and pages of boring early American exploration narratives taken from a five pound tome called The Bedford Anthology of American Literature with tissue-paper thin pages. In addition, I had to read a bunch of Native American creation myths that blended together into an incoherent blob in my mind. And how was I to remember names like Wammeset and Wampinoag? It was flatly unreasonable.

But this class was deadly serious business; Prof. S. insisted on describing all this as LIHTRACHUH in his sonorous voice and administering brutally detailed reading quizzes.

So what I thought would be a kick in the pants was turning out to be was a royal kick in the ass.

When I enrolled, I was in denial. The truth was that since the days when I was a literature student at UCSD, my memory and retention of text, particularly unfamiliar and obscure text, had substantially eroded. It was not just that my mental faculties were on hiatus; to a certain extent they were just not there. As a result of many psychiatric episodes and the use of mind-blunting medications, I had undergone a version of mental amputation.

After the stressful conversation with my instructor, when I realized that the class was going to be a mammoth commitment of my time, energy, and would ultimately challenge one of my core deficits, my memory, I did what any intelligent disabled person would do: I decided to drop the class. After all, it was just a silly experiment anyway. It wasn’t fun, and therefore, of no value to me.

But then I did a mental double-take. What would it really mean to drop the class? It would mean that I couldn’t read, that I wouldn’t be able to read anything of literary importance ever again, that my cognitive faculties had shrunken to the size of a pea, that there was no hope of recovery. It would mean that I could not learn. Would never learn again. Would never be able to survive a graduate school program. Never.

Then there was the fact that I had developed a fondness for Prof. S. He was the King of Feedback. He had the masterful ability to take the most inane comment brought up by a student and rework it so that it sounded erudite. His brilliance massaged everything into cogent points.

He also was the King of Affirmation. When he first emphatically responded to one of my comments by saying, “good good,” I thought he meant my comment was good, when I learned later, “good good” merely meant, “uh huh.”

He was cool, and he was deadly earnest about the subject matter and ran an extremely tight ship.

Then there were the whippersnappers. I realized that some of them were not yet born when I graduated from high school, but that was part of the charm.

Was I really ready to quit? I felt like it was damned if I do and damned if I don’t. Drop the class: feel like a failure. Don’t drop the class: be a failure.

What was I to do?

to be cont...

Monday, June 14, 2010

Blue Bin Has Insight In Store

Per T., my significant other, I drove my newly repaired automobile to our storage unit, H106B, in Chula Vista. Upon opening H106B, I saw a mini-barbecue teetering on top of a box tall enough to house wrapping paper, labeled "Christmas" in T.'s choppy hand. At this juncture, I craned my head ceiling-ward, realizing that T.'s storage beautification goal was going to be something of a joke. The 6'x10' unit was crammed with all manner of crap.

After schlepping boxes and rifling through the contents, I found items including but not limited to: poetry written by an old boyfriend (which was not as brilliant as I had remembered), poetry written by me (whose brilliance had been forgotten), a photograph of my grandfather as a lifeguard (McNeills: good looking people), dozens of CD cases with no CDs (where were those CDs?), books by great authors (that I will never read), camping gear (that we will never use), Peter Gabriel concert tickets (big date with T.), photos of me (when I was all that), a Christmas tree stand (Awww…), etc.

Some items made it into the Goodwill pile; some were trashed; some either went back into storage or were tagged to come home with me.

I finally unearthed one of the largest blue storage bins, one containing T.'s old clothes. Examining them, I realized that this was quite a find, as all the fashions were defunct and hopelessly over-sized for T.'s athletic physique. One pair of cargo shorts was worth two of T. at his present weight, and I was delighted. I would be able to dispose of a slew of junk in one fell swoop.

Muscling the blue bin into the car proved to be another matter, and I practiced some Fengshuification in order to position it in the backseat. I smiled, knowing that Goodwill, and maybe even God, would appreciate me for practicing such generosity.

On the way home, though, I eyed the blue bin in the backseat, and I felt a pang of uneasiness. After all, a storage unit was there to house all the things that one didn't really need but couldn't bear to part with, and I thought I ought to get a green light before I went and gave away T.’s stuff, even though he had initiated the cleaning project to begin with.

Upon returning home, it proved that my instincts were correct. When I mentioned to T. that I had the storage bin in my car, he flipped out. “Don’t get rid of it! Don’t get rid of it! I just put that in there three months ago!”

I countered, “But you’ll never wear those clothes again!”

T. didn’t try to disagree with me. He merely said, “I thought that storage was a good first step.”

“OK, OK…” I acquiesced.

At first.

After all, he was the one that wanted H106B cleaned out. A good first step? Not enough of a step for me. I figured that if I was sent all the way down to the storage unit to face the past and start dealing with crap, the least T. could do to participate was get rid of remnants of his past in the bargain.

As any good woman involved in the process of persuasion, I waited a while before bringing up the topic again. In this case, it was through flattery and an appeal to charity that I hoped to bring about the desired change. I waited for an appropriate window in the conversation when I opened my mouth, “You know, you’ll never fit into those clothes again, and somebody out there might need them.”

“They’re my clothes,” T. responded.

Now, T. is a firm believer in finishing what you start in a decent time frame, but me, not so much. I didn’t run back to the storage unit with the blue bin, and instead flatly procrastinated. While driving, the bin loomed in the backseat, reminding me of my inevitable, onerous return to H106B.

T. was acutely aware of the procrastination dynamic and offered irritably, “Do you want me to go to the storage unit?”

“No,” I replied, but I still harbored a shred of hope left that I could liberate the contents of the blue bin at Goodwill and that the old clothes would not be languishing in the unit with all the other outdated and sometimes unwanted memories.

At this point, my hope had become toxic. I was still attached to an idea that wasn’t going to happen, waiting for someone else, in this case T., to change his mind when it wasn’t going to change.

I also clung to the idea that if I waited around, the blue bin would magically take care of itself, that I would get what I wanted simply by willing the clothes out of existence instead of dealing with reality. Reality had developed hard edges, and I wasn’t ready to give up my shred of hope, hope that promised convenience, ease, and deliverance.

The blue bin still sits in the back of my car. But now that I’m extinguishing my hope, toxic hope, my will to deal with my blue bin is mounting. My to do list has another entry, and though beautification of H106B is no longer the goal, and least I feel ready—mostly ready—to deal with what in truth is my own mess.

H106B and I have another date tomorrow.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

AAA Angel

“Hey, Miss McNeill,” said the AAA guy.

It was D.

D. was sitting in his work truck with a Mona Lisa smile on his face, appropriate given that my Honda Accord, named Champ, was pulled over on the side of the road near the semi-local coffee shop, its bumper lodged under the front wheels. A small group from the coffee shop had assembled, some with advice, but mainly just to gawk at my mangled automobile.

The accident was a classic case of driver miscommunication (mainly mine): I thought the driver of the white Ford Explorer was waiting for me; she thought I was waiting for her. We both surged forward at the same time, and CRASH! The SUV escaped with a wee scratch. My bumper was ripped off almost completely, and in the process of pulling over, I pinned the bumper under my car.

After getting out of the car and circling it, and circling it, and circling it, I finally collected my wits and called AAA. The crowd murmured, “She has AAA…She has AAA…She has AAA…”

Yes, I had AAA, a gift from my mother.

And here he was.

Approaching the truck, I saw D.’s familiar face. He was Mexican, with black hair tinged with the grey of a 40-something, clean-shaven, and wearing a work shirt and a gold cross. His brown eyes had a twinkle, at odds with what I was experiencing a grave situation: the crashing of my car.

Now, D. and I had met a month or so before for another automobile problem. My car was on the side of the road outside my condo complex, its battery dead. Like most people, car trouble fell into the category of the most loathsome kind of life’s inconveniences. I was in a state of minor distress.

Consequently, I was kvetching to D. about the state of my car, which extended to extrapolating on the ironies of life. As he was testing my battery, I was missing work. Not only was I missing work, but I had dressed in my work-a-day best, intent on asking my boss to be a reference for additional employment. Now I was absent.

“That’s too bad. That’s really too bad for you.” He continued slyly, “You still going to ask her for a reference?”

Well, yes I was, and she would surely agree…but that wasn’t the point. My circumstances had been altered. My plans thwarted. My day ruined.

But D.’s humorous remark gave me pause. Were things really all that bad? After all, it was just a battery, and the reference was still there for the asking…

D. and I kept chatting when in the midst the conversation, we witnessed a little dog run out into the middle of the road. Immediately, the dog was hit by an SUV.

The dog's last moments of life passed quickly away, and I looked on in horror. D. went about his business, saying, "I almost got killed last week by a Prius while I was doing a job on the freeway." He continued philosophically, "These things happen. They happen all the time. You just have to be thankful for every day you're alive."

When he was done, D. gave me the paperwork to sign and I asked him on impulse, “Are you a Christian?” “Yes,” he replied. “I thought so” was all I could say. At any rate, he wasn’t someone I would forget.

Remembering my last episode with D., I asked tactlessly, "Is the only reason you remember me because of that dead dog?"

He replied, "No, that's not the only reason." This time he grinned in earnest and then got to work.

D. assessed the situation with my car and removed the broken parts without any fuss. "You're lucky no one was hurt. This isn't bad. It isn't bad at all. It's just the bumper. You can still drive the car."

I could not be consoled. My poor Champ! Now he had another injury to show for his many years of fine service. Not only was the accident a waste of time and money, but it was further evidence that my level of anxiety was impairing my ability to function. Could I even trust myself to drive again?

D. interrupted my catastrophic line of thinking by saying, "You know, you're very lucky. Nothing really serious happened. You lost your bumper. No one got hurt. Accidents happen all the time. I see them every day."

D. looked at me significantly. "You're going to be OK," he said, handing me a pen. I signed my name on the paperwork, and then he left.

Shortly thereafter, T., my significant other, appeared with his truck, put the pieces of my car in the bed, and followed me home. The next day I took Champ in to get the repairs done, at the cost of a few pretty pennies.

While thinking of the damage I inflicted on my car, I tried to keep D.'s words in mind. No one was hurt. The damage could have been worse. Accidents happen.

But my anxieties could still not be held completely at bay.

Once I picked up my car and got back in the driver's seat, however, I realized how grossly inflated my fears really were. I felt the familiar purr of the engine, played roulette with my radio, opened the sun roof, and smiled as I put the car into drive. I was good to go. I recalled D.'s words and took a moment to appreciate the present. More than anything, though, I realized that Daniel had something precious that I was sorely lacking: perspective.

I found myself relaxing, and once again, I pledged not to let my fears run my life, particularly when the D.'s of the world were there to remind me to be thankful. After all, who knew that the universe would send a grief counselor, a gentleman, and a sage in a AAA guy?

Twice!

Saturday, June 5, 2010

My Pre-Marathon Jitters

It is 5:30 a.m., and I just dropped off T. at the start of the Rock and Roll Marathon. Today is his first race; he is running "the half."

This morning over coffee, T. admitted to being like "Whirl of Swing"--my nickname-- meaning that he was nervous despite having any real cause, as he has run "the half" on his own many times before.

For my part, although I'm not running anywhere, I do have the jitters. See, it is my job to pick T. up. In order to complete this task, I have to get from point A (home) to point B (the finish line), which involves a battery of my phobias, including but not limited to the following:

1) sharing the road with thousands of people (crashophobia)
2) parking in a lot crowded with cars (lameparkingjobphobia)
3) figuring out a machine to get a trolley ticket (machinelamenessphobia)
4) making it to the right stop (Carlsbadophobia)

Seeing this laundry list on paper, a bit of anxiety may seem "normal," but I assure you that the level of my anxiety is not. It is intense and painful, a manifestation of illness.

But why? What is the deal?

I've determined that the difference on a psychological level between my "phobias" and other "healthy" people is that healthy people cut themselves and the world some slack. I know that every human being in the world does not like to drive in traffic, or have to squeeze into crowded parking lots, or to figure out how to buy a ticket. What do they do to cope? They breathe. They take their time. They don't think the world is going to end if they don't do something perfectly the first time around. In short, they expect themselves and others to behave like humans.

I don't know the precise moment when I decided that it wasn't OK to behave like a human. I think it has something to do with trying to control the bipolar disorder by being a perfect person. Somewhere along the line, I stopped letting myself breathe, stopped letting myself be an amateur, and stopped having fun with the little things. Not only did I stop enjoying little things, but then unpleasant things became magnified into obstacles. They became magnified into burdens.

So, today is T.'s first race, but in fact, it's a race for me, too. Not a race against the clock, but an opportunity to see if I can jump through a few logistical hoops, not only without incident, but with a sense of accomplishment.

Let's Rock n' Roll!

Thursday, June 3, 2010

Doctor Gets a Break at Fantastic Sam's

Yesterday, I abandoned the traditional salon haircut experience and instead took a trip to Fantastic Sam's. This was not an original idea, I soon learned, as there were four people waiting when I arrived. All of them were concentrated on their phones, so I adopted the When In Rome pose and extracted my phone, pretending that I had pressing business at hand. (I did in fact have business, just none of it pressing.)

As I was minding my business, a 20-something kid walked in with a big, bushy head of hair and took the empty seat next to me. He wore a t-shirt that said, "Green is Uberkewl." He was listening to his iPhone and noodling around with it. I didn't know that people who looked like him really ever got their hair cut, so he was a bit of an anomaly.

Once I got in the stylist's chair, the anomalous guy ended up in the chair next to me. He immediately started giving directions to his stylist. He wanted his head shaved, "a number one." When the stylist showed some trepidation, the guy continued, "I just went through a break up. She always liked my hair long, so I want to shave it." The stylist asked repeatedly if that's what he wanted (he really had a lot of hair, I'm telling you), and he was adamant. I heard the buzz of the razor, and out of the corner of my eye, I watched as his extremely full head of hair fell to the floor in clumps.

"I need a fresh start," the young man continued. "I believe in clean break ups..." and he proceeded to share a laundry list of break up stories, but this one being the worst. "Besides," he added, "I don't have time for this. I'm a doctor. I work 70-80 hours a week."

A doctor? Did he just say "doctor"? Could this be true? And what if it was? Didn't doctors have the right to 1) wear "Green is Uberkewl" t-shirts, 2) have bushy hair, and 3) get heart-broken, and 4) shave their heads? Why do I assume that because someone is a medical professional they have an obligation to be a more "well-adjusted" person than anyone else, kind of a perpetual professional? Or just plain special?

More to the point: didn't this young man deserve my sympathy rather than my incredulity? More than my judgment?

The Head-Shaven Young Man reminded me to examine my stereotypes of others, as I am chock full. I know, though, that the very mechanism that causes judgment of others is also the one that judges the self. Maybe if I lighten up on the doctor in his quest to make a clean break, I can lighten up on myself when I need a break.

That is, without shaving my head.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Vigil a Tribute to Nathan Manning

On Saturday night, I attended a candlelight vigil for a young man by the name of Nathan Manning. At the vigil, members of the community came together under the Normal Heights sign on Adams Avenue to celebrate Nathan's life and mourn his passing. Nathan, who was a resident of Normal Heights, was shot and killed on Thursday, May 20, 2010, by a police detective. When Nathan was killed, he was experiencing a psychotic manic episode as a result of bipolar disorder.

Although I did not know Nathan personally, I was able to feel the emotion of those assembled, about 50 strong. I learned that Nathan was an avid guitar player and songwriter and also taught guitar to his young friends. He was well liked and well loved.

When I first arrived, I saw my friend, A., who had been close friends with Nathan. I also met Nathan's father and connected with another gentleman, Mr. R., who is a member of NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) North Coastal, who serves on the County Mental Health Board. Mainly, I stood by myself and took it all in. I felt sadness for the family, his friends, and for the horrible nature of the tragedy.

Holding our candles, we walked in procession from the Normal Heights sign down Adams Avenue to the site where Nathan was killed. At this point, a few young men brought out their instruments and began to honor Nathan with their music. I saw a friend from a bipolar support group. He had known Nathan and had talked to him the Monday before he died. He said, "Nathan was a good listener. He was a good guy."

A hush fell, and the music stopped, and a few words were said. Nathan's father, brother, and A., all spoke, emphasizing their love for Nathan. Mr. R. spoke as well, conveying the message that Nathan's death not be in vain, but that some positive social change can occur as a result of the tragedy.

The hope is that Nathan's death, given the passion of the people at the vigil, may prove to be the catalyst for policy changes within law enforcement. With additional training and perhaps change in basic practices, the behavior of people with bipolar disorder can be better understood and their lives truly protected.

The evening continued, a peaceful and respectful tribute to the life of Nathan Manning.

For more information about how to get involved with bipolar support activities, visit bipolarhope.blogspot.com.

Saturday, May 29, 2010

Normies Can Be Scary

Yesterday was my first and last day of jury duty. Beforehand, I had profound anxiety over the usual suspects, including the fear of 1) being inappropriately dressed, 2) getting lost, 3) getting dehydrated, 4) having to use restroom constantly 5) being restless and twitchy, and 6) seeming foolish in general or in specific. After all, there is nothing so ghastly in my mind as being obviously symptomatic or even slightly inappropriate in public, even while just doing one's civic duty with the mainstream of America. As one who has one foot in the bipolar fringe, the mainstream of America can be scary.

T. was kind enough to drop me off at the Hall of Justice, and so all that was required was the airport-esque security measures. I had to pull up my pants to show that I wasn't toting a knife. Then I got spewed into the Jurors Lounge, again, reminiscent of an airport, only much quieter. I took up residence at one of the few little round tables in the back, across from a young woman with a laptop. We were soon joined by two other women.

Over the course of the day, the four of us became "jury friends." To my left was the divorced mother of one, a charter school teacher now dating a Border Patrol agent, and across from me, an after school program administrator who moonlighted as a pet massage therapist, ran marathons in her spare time, and maintained a boyfriend in Orange County, and to my right, a graduate student in clinical psychiatry with attractive diamond facial piercings, single, with a cat named Carrie Bradshaw. In short: normies.

Two of the gals brought in some gossip and fashion magazines that became the centerpiece of the conversation. I was definitely the pop culture novice, and although I was responsible for the ice-breaking of the group in the first place, I began the slow spiritual retreat which so often accompanies the feeling that one is different. Yet I paged through "my" In Style magazine with feigned exuberance, until I found one advertisement that I genuinely found interesting. There was a nude model facing the viewer holding a ten foot long albino snake posed to cover her saucy bits. It was a fascinating photograph which I immediately shared with the group.

The girls recoiled in horror. Physically recoiled. Their responses resembled that of a cartoon. Conjecture ensued about how much money they would need to be paid to pose with said snake. The psychologist-to-be said she would need to be paid $500,000. The nudity part would not bother her, she said...and she paused ominously.

And this is a woman who is supposed to help people work on their inner selves and overcome their issues? My judgment reared its ugly head, and inwardly, I scoffed. I scoffed again.

In that moment, though, I realized that there are crucial difference between bizarre hangups like the fear of snakes, and the anxiety that is a manifestation of bipolar disorder, that is, fears that interrupt the daily acts of living. Once again, I became resentful of the illness. These other women seemed so...well-adjusted. After all, they didn't stress over getting here. All they are afraid of is a silly snake in a magazine.

After waiting, waiting, and waiting, the people waiting in the lounge were excused, so there was hooplah at our table as everyone packed their things. The pet massage therapist happily passed out her card. As she smiled her radiant smile, I realized that my feelings of alienation, about the whole day in general, had, as usual, been amplified and exaggerated. Nothing but positive things occurred. My feelings of anxiety were basically unfounded, and I emerged unscathed from the bureaucratic machine.

Not to mention, normies aren't so bad.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Dog & Pony Show No More

On Wednesday, I went to Barona Casino to speak for a crowd of their management and local law enforcement officers about what it is like to live with mental illness. There were four of us on a panel, representatives of NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness), and about 25 in the audience. The purpose of the training, like the many I have done in the community, was to raise awareness of mental illness and to humanize thinking about psychiatric disorders.

Basically, the panel was there to show that someone with mental illness can look like anybody.

Now, I have some funny stories of bipolar incidents under my belt. I have rubbed elbows with many sketchy people, had visions, been in car chases with cops, masqueraded as a federal agent to get into some guy's house, destroyed my piano, and much, much more. In short, I have stories that are very funny after the fact. I can always get a few laughs with my tales of mania. After all, mental illness, like any of the other tragedies of life, can be funny given the delivery.

So, it used to be in these trainings that I used my "material" to entertain rather than to educate. It was easier for me, I think, to make light of my experience rather than to actually relate it on a sober and thoughtful level.

When I made a decision to change my comedic style, I often said that I was developing scar tissue on my tongue for the amount of times I had to bite down. After all, being dead honest with people and admitting the seriousness of mental illness in my own life at first was just plain hard. Over time, though, as I kept at it, my courage built up, and I found that the experience of educating, rather than entertaining, was profoundly gratifying and appreciated.

I still crack the occasional joke when I am presenting, but I don't feel the need to put on a dog and pony show. I know that by being real, I don't have to get caught in the trap of having to perform all the time, and I can just let my experience speak for itself rather than dressing it up. It's a huge relief, as the Old Wendy would say, to "be boring," knowing that the audience doesn't need to be laughing. Instead, they're learning a little bit more compassion.

Cheers to that!

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

So Help Me God

Right next to me is the letter informing me that I need to report for jury duty this Friday.

I have already arranged my transportation with T., who is going to give me a ride to the courthouse early in the morning, as I have a profound fear of parking problems, particularly downtown. The preferred solution to the jury-duty-downtown-parking-issue would theoretically be to park at Horton Plaza--a nightmarish place to begin with, with parking levels distinguished by fruits and vegetables--but I just can't handle it. Once more, my phobias outweigh "common sense," and thus, I am getting a ride.

I'm semi-surprised that I even got a form to report to jury duty this year. Last year, I asked my therapist to write a letter with all the reasons I was unfit to serve. He took a page right out of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Psychiatric Disorders, Version IV, known simply as the DSM, and faxed it in. The letter contained a list of bipolar symptoms, so heinous that just one would have gotten me excused. I think "poor judgment" serves as an example.

But knowing the bureaucracy of our government, naturally, that letter never impacted me getting on the mailing list again.

Now, the question is: why am I going? Why not have my therapist send another letter?

For most, jury duty is simply an onerous civic duty. But for me, it makes me question the level of my disability. After all, now I can sit still; I can concentrate; I can evaluate in an unbiased manner. In the final analysis, what this means is that I can tolerate boredom just as much as the next person, so help me God. I won't claim that I'm normal, but for the purposes of jury duty, there's a chance that I might be normal enough. I won't know until I go.

Now, I have another pressing question...T., are you going to pick me up?

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Bees Are Cool

Yesterday, B. and I went for a walk in the great outdoors. Back in the day, I was not a huge fan of the great outdoors, being more or less an indoor person. Trying to broaden my horizons, I was on a trail in a canyon which runs parallel to the 52 freeway, its name unknown to me.

The trail was amazing. The trees were majestic, the sky a brilliant blue, B. a perfect guide for this little foray, as he is a horticulturalist. My horizons were broadening with each passing moment.

B. and I had walked about 3/4 of the way when I observed a bee. The bee was hanging out on a yellow flower, quite bumbling and happy. I showed B., declaring with gusto, "I like bees. Bees are cool." I don't remember being quite so enthusiastic about bees before, but it seemed appropriate out there in the great outdoors.

B. concurred. He used to have 9 beehives that he tended back in the day. As we kept walking, B. showered me with bee factoids, including some of their behavior when protecting a queen. Then, they're not quite as bumbling and cool.

We walked for a few more minutes when a buzzing noise became noticeable. We walked a bit further, and I saw the cloud, hundreds and hundreds of bees swarming in front of us, with a gigantic cluster of them in the neighboring tree. I promptly did what any girl in fluffy, white, unused tennis shoes would do: cower behind B.

Standing stock still, there was nothing to do except wait patiently, as we were on the periphery of the swarm. B. seemed to be tuned into how dangerous the bees might be, and finally instructed me to move forward down the path. I moved, oh, how I moved, and neither B. nor I got stung.

I sighed with relief when it was over, and laughed with B. over our bee adventure, thankful that we got out of the frenzy without any stings. For an indoor girl like me, I was delighted to have an adventure in the great outdoors that turned out well.

On our way back to the car, I thought about what had happened. Our bee-swarm-survival-strategy just proved to me that sometimes making the right move is to not move at all, but to stay still and be patient. Only then, by practicing patience, can I dodge or deal with the obstacle at hand, especially in a foreign environment.

If I can learn that patience pays off, maybe bees really are that cool.

Monday, May 24, 2010

More Feet than Achilles

On Sunday, I was at Lestat's coffee house in Normal Heights, an eclectic neighborhood in San Diego, to meet a new friend, A.

Now, I had already had ample opportunity that morning to consume a pot of the excellent Starbucks coffee that we have in constant supply in our house, thanks to my honey, T., so between my bipolar meds and the caffeine, I was shaking like mad.

At Lestats' register, I opted out of another cup of coffee and ordered a Sierra Mist (not just for the caffeine-free component, but because it was a beverage I didn't think I would need two hands to drink.) when I saw an old friend, J. Now, J. and I had been out of touch by virtue of drama, so I conferred with A. about whether or not I should say hello. Being sensible, A. had no opinion whatsoever except to say that it was my choice.

I approached J.'s table, and my tremors, now a mixture of caffeine, meds, and a major case of the nerves, made me shake from head to toe, like I was naked in the cold in front of 1,000 people. Totally vulnerable, weird, and embarrassed, I made a comment about having too much coffee that morning, and J. simply said, "I guess so..."

In my experience with bipolar disorder, I am used to vulnerable, weird, and embarrassing situations, so I usually go out of my way to be opaque, normal, and appropriate.

In this situation, I know it is true that the tremor-inducing meds and the anxiety would put anyone in a tizzy, but that a pot of coffee, coupled with seeing J., ramped the whole situation up. I also know that the caffeine consumption arena of recovery is an Achilles heel (I have more feet than Achilles) because I will not be giving up coffee anytime soon, in spite of the occasional moment of awkwardness.

So why the stubbornness? Or why not just switch to decaf? Hmmm...

What can I say, at least for now, I will be keeping Starbucks in business. And I can also say that Lestat's is probably in my future as well. I guess J. overlooked my shakes and agreed to meet me for what else...coffee.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Farewell, Ladybug!

Yesterday, T. and I went on a gift hunt for R., recent graduate of SDSU. In spite of my misgivings that stationary has fallen out of fashion with the young fry, we went to Kensington, an upscale neighborhood in San Diego, to visit my favorite stationary store, Ladybug.

Now, Ladybug is no Papyrus. It is criss-crossed with art supplies, over-sized sheets of natural papers, an unlikely array of stuffed animals, and the kicker: Any stationary purchased the owner would hand-monogram free of charge. I loved it!

Once in Kensington, finding parking proved to be annoying. (It seems that wherever I want to go, everyone in San Diego has the same idea and has beaten me to the punch.) However, with the car half a mile away from our destination, T. and I had the opportunity to take a nice walk, detouring at Starbucks for a Venti Bold with added ice (T.) and a Venti Americano (me.) Coffee in hand, we proceeded at a leisurely pace to Ladybug, where I felt sure we would find something cute for R.

When we arrived at the store, I was aghast. The gate to the entryway was chained and padlocked.

In that moment, I thought of all the times I had prowled around the store in a state of paper-loving bliss, and I waxed nostalgic, thinking of all the precious gifts I had bought at that store. I even had a soft spot for the eccentric owner, who possessed a bizarre hybrid of characteristics, being ingratiating yet slightly abrasive at the same time, who I would never see again.

I put my feelings of loss aside as T. and I implemented Plan B and C, to go to a used bookstore in our neighborhood, and then head over to another well-loved gift shop for the final touches on R.'s present.

In the back of my mind, however, I thought about the places in our lives, having relative significance, that take up space in our personal landscape. Though the departure of a favorite stationary store may not seem worthy of a eulogy, at least it deserves a proper goodbye.

Farewell, Ladybug! I will miss you!

Saturday, May 22, 2010

Stationary Can Be Dangerous

My friend's niece, R., a fabulous young woman, is graduating from college today, and I still need to buy her a gift. The fact that she doesn't wear earrings complicated matters, and my friend is buying her a necklace (can't be redundant). Now, I'm in the journal/stationary zone, both of which have the potential to be "dust gathering" gifts, especially in the days where almost no one puts pen to paper anymore.

Despite the risk of dust-gathering, I'm still leaning towards stationary, as R. will be studying abroad in Oxford, England, in a Shakespearean Theatre program. I assume that in England things have changed more slowly and that like me, people still value writing by hand.

In fact, it was just last night that I was getting razzed by T., my significant other, for having boxes of letters in our storage unit, at the cost of $65 a month. I argued that the storage unit was also filled with camping equipment (never used) and golf clubs (never, never used) and other T.-owned belongings. But it is true: a chunk of the items are indeed just boxes and boxes of letters, written by a number of my friends, one in particular a boy who studied at Oxford and is now a published writer and professor. I think the letters are brilliant.

Of course, I think all the letters in my possession are brilliant, jewels, in fact. Two of the writers have since passed away, and their letters serve to keep their voices fresh in my mind when I run across them. Some letters are written by girlhood friends that are like time capsules of the 80's, which remind me how things do and don't change.

After the dinner table conversation last night, I can predict that the pressure will be on to divest myself of my letters of friends or long-lost loves, but I can assure you that my precious documents will go nowhere.

After sober reflection, to be on the safe side, maybe I'll just buy R. some flowers.

Friday, May 21, 2010

CVS: Where Everybody Knows My Name

Although the line at CVS pharmacy is situated in order to protect patient confidentiality, there is still a degree of exposure for those picking up their medications.

As I stood waiting yesterday, I had nothing else to do but indulge in my idle curiosity. I checked out the guy in front of me, who I determined to be a "newbie." He seemed awkward and confused by the process and wanted additional information on his prescription. I think he was taking something like antibiotics. He had to be instructed to sign the yellow page in the binder with the medication's name, to verify that he received it.

Oh, how I envied this man!

After all, in the course of treatment of bipolar disorder, I, like all those in my shoes, have taken thousands of pills. In order to accomplish this feat, I have made hundreds of trips to the pharmacy. As my meds are not synchronized to be filled at the same time, I have to go in three or four times a month to keep myself stocked.

As a result, the staff at my pharmacy, CVS, know me by name. As I approached the counter, D., my favorite gal at CVS, immediately started rummaging through the medication area to pull out my meds. There was a medication omitted (another story), but she rectified the problem in less than five minutes. Then we did the beep of the bar codes, the swish of the card, the whoosh of the signatures, the click of the stapler, and the quicky review of the receipt. Debbie smiled, and I was out of there.

So if my transaction was so effortless and pleasant, why do I dread it so much?

It is because when I pick up prescriptions for psych meds, there is nowhere to hide. My disability is obvious.

If there is one place I shouldn't mind my disability being obvious, it should be at the pharmacy. Moreover, I know that I should be grateful that the medications work for me, after so much trial and error, and I know intellectually that without them, I would have no life to speak of. I am one of the lucky ones, and lucky a million times over.

But there is still ambivalence whenever I go to CVS, and I think it has to do with my resentment of the illness. Even at this late stage in the game, there is something inside me that wishes that it weren't true, that I wouldn't be the girl standing in line for mood stabilizers, that I could be that guy waiting for some penicillin instead.

I don't think these feelings are juvenile or immature. I think it's just one more reminder that acceptance is a daily struggle, but there are people in life, even the ones at the pharmacy, that do their level best to help me through with just a little bit more dignity.

After all, they know me by first and last name.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Good Advice Brings Love

This morning I got a call from my best friend, CJ, who lives in Pittsburgh, telling me that her little brother, M., proposed to his girlfriend last night. She said yes!

This was a welcome bit of news, as at the outset of their dating relationship, I prodded M. to make his move. He was somewhat gun shy at the outset, so in the role of older-less-conservative sister, I sent him text messages with advice such as, "Be the Cheetah to the Gazelle." My directive seems very juvenile now, but look where we are! It worked! This morning, I patted myself on the back for my small but crucial involvement in bringing the union about.

In fact, I have my own "sister" to credit with giving me some counsel at an important romantic crossroads in my life eight years ago.

My friend A., wise, beautiful, and full of life, is, like me, full of advice for herself and others. After a string of poor relationship choices, I asked A. to help me work on my "LIST." After almost no deliberation, she boiled it down to three things: He must 1) cook, 2) fix things, and 3) have life-long friends. At the time, this seemed a strange set of variables, but knowing A. and her infinite wisdom, I thought I would take her criteria out on the town and see what would happen.

One afternoon, I was having a pint at the local bar, Sparky's. I happened to be sitting next to a cute, conservatively-dressed redhead with an earring who looked about 30 or so. I struck up a conversation with him, and eventually asked him what he did for a living. "I fix *stuff*," he said, which turned out to be a euphemism for high tech surveillance cameras. Later on in the conversation, he told me a story about R., his friend "from 5th grade." I immediately followed up that anecdote with the question, "So, can you cook?" Not only can T. cook, he can cook like a pro.

To this day, I still wonder if A. is psychic. I also wonder what would have happened if I had just dismissed her input, thinking it the wild ravings of an ex-hippie. I also think about M., if that little bug in his ear might not have been, just how much farther down the line I would be hearing of his engagement.

Today it is in the arena of romance that I'm reminded to keep my ears open to the wisdom of others. Particularly as a person with bipolar disorder, whose ears have a tendency to close with the onset of symptoms, it is important to keep in touch with the support and guidance of others, whether I use the input or not.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

It's My Pizza Party

My work at the community college tutoring center had an end-of-the-semester pizza party, and all the students and tutors lined up in our congested space to get their share of the pies, which were stacked two feet tall. My boss, serving with a plastic knife, made a Herculean effort not to touch any of the pieces with her fingers. Consequently, the line grew longer and longer and longer.

As I stood there waiting for my slice of pepperoni, my thoughts grew solemn. This celebration was not mine; it would mean the end of my tutoring job until the next semester. I had anticipated for this fact, but the groups of students cheerfully consuming their free lunch between finals made me feel out of action nonetheless, a feeling that is a frequent aspect of reality when living with bipolar disorder.

Finally my turn, I got a serving and then made my way slowly towards the door. En route, I ran into an old tutoring buddy of mine that I hadn't seen in ages. I stopped dead in my tracks, now grateful that the line was almost at a standstill.

It was my friend G. Warmly, we exchanged hellos and hugs. Making a quick assessment, I determined that G. looked his age, as I look mine, which is "Older Than The Students." He still had his cherubic cheeks, winsome smile, and teddybearish aspect that I remembered so well. I asked him about his life, and his eyes lit up when he talked about Math, a subject that leaves me cold.

Once G. joined me outside, he shared about two dozen wedding photos that he "just happened to have in his backpack." We talked a bit about the future. His was crowded with possibilities, teaching at SDSU, going for a PhD, or maybe teaching high school. He and his new bride were flourishing.

After our yackity-yack, G. gave me his card, which I stowed in my pocket, and I promised to call to get together over the summer for dinner.

We said our goodbyes, and I headed back into the tutoring center, looking at all the students and their earnest expressions. Everyone was hunkered down for more work as finals loomed ahead. I looked down at my name tag, which I wouldn't be wearing much longer, and wondered if the future loomed ahead or stretched out with possibilities. Some looming, some stretching, maybe?

I took G.'s card out of my pocket and took a look. It was a card for math tutoring, with a solid, respectable photograph in high gloss. I thought of my own card, pretty, semi-floral, no gloss.

Could it be that it's just a case of "To Each His Own"? There's no way on earth I would ever be a Calculus teacher, just as there is no way that G. would write haiku for kicks. There is no way to trade my life for someone else's, G.'s, the students, my boss, so I might as well quit trying and quit comparing. There are possibilities for my own productivity, as long as I keep my mind and heart open.

Although I know these things, and I've been told them over and over, the universe must keep reminding me.

In the end, it seems the pizza party was for me.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Wrong Turn Turns Out

Yesterday, I was on my way to Fashion Valley to meet up with a couple of friends at the California Pizza Kitchen. Indeed not every San Diegan was on their way to Fashion Valley, but a good number of them were, so the traffic getting into the mall was fierce, the congestion oppressive.

I was turning left into the mall and had made a strategic error, putting me in the "right-left-turn" lane instead of the "left-left-turn" lane. As I sat there at the light, I contemplated my utter lameness and clutched the wheel tightly, berating myself for doing what no self-respecting resident of San Diego could possibly do: *mess* up getting to Fashion Valley. Irritation at my stupidity hovering in my mind, I thought about how to wriggle into the left lane.

I had my plan in place when the light turned green. I was going to slink between the two cars next to me and prepare to make a bold left turn ahead. It is what anyone would have done, only they would not have had an anxiety attack doing it.

As I was making my turn, preparing to wriggle, the car next to me drove into the lane on the other side of the median, that is, into oncoming traffic. The car behind it, lemming-like, followed suit so there were now two vehicles driving the wrong way, with drivers trying to exit the mall coming headlong in their direction.

I sat at my stop sign in disbelief--in the correct lane--and watched the scene play out. The oncoming drivers weaved; some stopped; the drivers on my side stared. The drivers at fault, contrite and panicked, tried to negotiate past all of the hubbub to make their way out of the fray. Thankfully, everyone seemed to be paying attention, and no one got hurt.

Slightly stunned, I made it to CPK without further incident, wondering what all my fuss was about. After all, it should be plain to me that other people in life make mistakes and simply muddle through. Somehow, though, I think that that person shouldn't be me, that as this stage in my recovery from bipolar disorder I should have worked hard enough not to panic over the minute details of life, or have learned to take things in stride, or be able to let things go, or in short, be a perfectly enlightened human being. On the road, I should certainly know where I'm going and how to get there.

Of course, this is absolute hogwash. Everyone makes mistakes, and as evidenced by the wrong turns of my fellow San Diego drivers, sometimes no one gets hurt.

Monday, May 17, 2010

Golden Donut Another Day

Yesterday, I had designs on a relaxing walk to the local donut shop, eyes on the prize of a leisurely Sunday stroll with the reward of some piping hot java and some sticky carbs. Instant satisfaction.

What can I say? Life got in the way. Not only did I not don my fluffy shoes and get to the Golden Donut, but yesterday, my life went catawumpus. I got a frantic phone call from my friend who was in a pickle, and it was time for me to be there, and be there in force. It was a testimony to Forrest Gump's pithy motto: you never know what you're going to get.

It's a good reminder for those days recently when I've been trying to plan my entire future in one fell swoop, as if coming up with a grand plan for the rest of my life is going to give me *control* over what happens to me. Not that putting my best foot forward is without reward, but it's helpful for me to bear in mind that grand planning has its limitations, just as bipolar disorder, with its tempestuous trajectory, often casts its limitations over my life.

Is it necessary to know everything in advance? In fact, it's a relief not to. I'm reminded that although my hand may be on the tiller, I'm still subject to the will of the weather.

Maybe today, in addition to wearing my fluffy white shoes, I'll wear layers, and although I'll try for a repeat performance on that donut at some point, I'll remember that I'm no Boy Scout. I can't be prepared for everything.

One thing I can be sure of: Mystery Ahead!

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Destination: Golden Donut

Today is my significant other, T's, 39th birthday. He is amusing himself by going on a run, almost a half marathon's distance, and he is doing this for fun, as well as for a sense of personal accomplishment.

I have trouble running down the block. In fact, in the category of general personal accomplishment, it's hard at times to take stock, lest I cringe. I am approaching 39 myself, creeping inexorably to the Big 40, where if your life is not together, it certainly *should* be on its merry way.

In other departments, career, education, money, it all seems like I'm developmentally delayed as a result of my bipolar illness, or poor decision making, which is sometimes the same thing.

I ask myself today and every day, when am I going to feel like it's OK to be where I'm at, to have this mental illness and still be a *happy* person? A *good* person? Isn't that what everyone wants?

Maybe just walking a few blocks is more my speed, and that's my personal best for the day. What I can do while T. is scaling Pershing Drive is to don my fluffy white tennis shoes, take a deep breath, step outside, and head to the Golden Donut for a piping hot coffee and an old fashioned. That's my kind of accomplishment!