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.

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.