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.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
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...
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.
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!
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!
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.
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.
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.
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