There are as many worlds as there are kinds of days, and as an opal changes its colors and its fire to match the nature of a day, so do I.
-John Steinbeck
An Unexpected Bonus Life Skill
So the cats have been passing pink eye back and forth for the past couple of weeks which has been super-fun, because there’s nothing quite like risking life and limb to capture a cat and assault it with eye drops. Unless it’s getting to do it twice.
However, I believe that I am now fully qualified to be a chaperone at any middle school dance, because I’ve spent a huge chunk of the past two weeks yelling things like, “OK, guys, break it up,” “No touching, you two,” and, “HEY! GET AWAY FROM HER!”
I guess there really is a silver lining to every cloud.
And…Now I Am A Redhead
Bipolar Brain Part 2: Liar Liar Pants On Fire
As I wrote in my previous post, when I am seriously manic it feels as though I’ve reached the absolute heights of ecstasy, at least to begin with. But mania takes an incredibly heavy toll on my system, starting with the fact that when I finally plummet back down to earth, the contrast between my non-adrenaline fueled life and my mania-driven existence seems excruciating and unbearable. It happens so abruptly that it’s like slamming on the brakes when you’re going a million miles an hour around a track; you skid, you spin out, your brakes lock up, you strip all your gears, and you smash into all the other cars around you and then explode in a giant (metaphorical) fireball.
Plus, it leaves you with a hell of an emotional hangover.
It reminds me of the scene in “Top Gun” when Tom Cruise’s and Anthony Edwards’ characters have just buzzed the control tower in their really expensive military aircraft, and while they’re getting chewed out by their commanding officer he tells Tom Cruise, “Son, your ego’s writing checks your body can’t cash.” But in this case my maverick check-writer is my mind, and when it comes time to pay up there’s nothing left in my energetic, emotional, or physical bank. So I’m hungover and overdrawn.
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Then, as if that weren’t enough to cope with, when I’m in this raw and vulnerable place my old buddies, All-or-Nothing Thinking, Grandiose Thinking, and “I Am Special” Thinking rush in and spin a story that makes me feel even worse. Because, if you remember, they are giant hairy lying sacks of lies.
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The Seduction Of Mania, Or, Why Bipolar Mind Is A Big Fat Liar
Yesterday I was talking to my Partner-In-Crime, Lynne, and we had what seemed like the millionth session of working on my Bipolar, rapid mood-cycling stuff. If you’ve never experienced this yourself, I’ll just give you a quick description of what it feels like for me.
If you remember those spring and bar scales you had to stand on at the doctors’ office, then imagine that they represent our emotional range. Now, on those scales you can only move the bar so far in either direction before you hit the edges; this is how I picture a healthy emotional range. It goes from unpleasant emotions up to good-feeling emotions, but it has some governors on either end.
But on my emotional scale there aren’t any edges; there’s nothing to stop me from tipping over into emotional extremes, and then just falling off the scale altogether. Over, and over, and over, and over, and OVER. I might be able to pull myself back up onto some kind of middle ground, but when this stuff is really triggered I just slip right back down the other side into what feels like a bed of emotional nails.
I’m grateful that I don’t have the most severe form of Bipolar, but oh my gosh, what I have is so SO hard to manage, and I am one of the fortunate ones. I have good meds and incredible support, so I’m not alone; but then again, I am alone, because when it all comes down it is just me and my mind.
Generally speaking, I love my mind. I love to think. I love information. I love to take classes and learn something new. But when my Bipolar stuff is activated it’s as if my mind is betraying me, because the tricky thing about this illness is that Bipolar Mind lies. And if Bipolar Mind is the bully, then All-Or-Nothing Thinking, Grandiose Thinking, and You Are “Special” Thinking are its enforcer thugs.
[Read more…] about The Seduction Of Mania, Or, Why Bipolar Mind Is A Big Fat Liar
On Writing
I Suppose If I Were Going To Drive Him To Drink, It Would Have Happened By Now
Even though I dearly love my Kindle, I also still dearly love physical books. So when I received one in the mail the other day I was really excited, except for one small thing. As has happened with a few of the books I’ve bought lately the cover is made of some material that has a kind of film all over it, and since I have a lot of sensory issues related to textures, these kinds of covers are really a problem for me.
I was discussing this with Mr. CFG the other day and he said, “Can I make a suggestion? You know how when we were growing up we would sometimes make book covers out of contact paper? You could do that.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “That’s probably better than what I was going to do.”
A slight look of dread flitted across his face. “And what was that?”
“I was going to get some sand paper and sand it down.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” he groaned, covering his eyes in horror.
“Why not?” I asked. “I thought that was a great solution.”
“Because if something is destructive, it’s probably not the right answer.”
“Um, define destructive,” I said, not wanting to let go of my idea just yet.
“If it involves violence, like stabbing a knife,” he replied.
“Sanding is not violent,” I pointed out triumphantly.
“OK,” he said, thinking quickly. “If something is irreversible, it is probably not the right answer.”
“OK, fine,” I sighed, feeling the disappointment of every forward-thinker whose genius is not yet realized. “I’ll do it your way.”
Yet Another Reason Why I Should Not Have Any Human Children
It’s my fault, really.
I was feeling bad for Pip, our tiny cat, because unlike Tigger and Bailey, we had no reason to reward her with regular treats. Tigger gets treats because he is the only one who’s figured out how to use the cat door, and Bailey gets treats for letting us brush her, but Pip had nothing. I worried that she might be suffering from “middle child syndrome”, perhaps feeling left out and neglected. So when she started scratching on the scratching post I got really excited, because now I had a “reason” to justify giving her treats as well.
I’m sure you know what happened next. First, the fact that she was finally using the actual scratching post in no way stopped her from scratching the carpets, the furniture, the other cats, us, etc. Second, now that she’s figured out the Treat Rewarding Protocol, I swear that all she ever does anymore is harass me-running across my feet every time I stand up, walking back and forth over my hands as I’m trying to type, rubbing her entire body across my face as I’m trying to read a book until I’m suffocating from breathing in 7 cats’ worth of hairballs-in hopes of wearing me down until I surrender and give her additional treats.
We pretty much spend every day locked in this same power struggle, a struggle which she usually wins because, HELLO!, I am just one woman, battered and bruised by the storms of chronic pain and fatigue, and she is one determined cat with NOTHING TO DO ALL DAY EXCEPT FOR THIS. I started ranting about this to my husband the other day in hopes of earning some sympathy for the trials and travails I courageously face each day, but he just didn’t seem to get it.
“I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal out of this,” said Mr. CFG. “So what if she gets two treats?”
“I’ll tell you what the problem is,” I said. “First of all, it’s the principle of the thing.” (Although I’m not really sure what principle I was referring to. The Principle Of, We Shouldn’t Get What We Want? The Principle Of, Crap-This Is My Own Damn Fault? The Principle Of, For Some Reason I Think I Must Find A Way To Bend You To My Will Which is Ridiculous, Because You Are A Cat And You Will Always Win? ) “Plus, if she knows I will always give her two treats, then she really will just spend all day forcing me to give her more treats. And soon, all I’ll be doing all day long is giving her treats. And then we’ll have to start throwing entire bags of treats at her but she still won’t be satisfied, and then we will go bankrupt from having to buy so many treats, and we’ll end up living in a box on the street, which she will probably then steal from us to see if she can exchange it for treats, and then we will have nothing. IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?!”
(No, I don’t spend 10 hours a day alone with cats. Why do you ask?)
So, just to review:
–I decided that Pip needed some treats.
–I found a “reason” to give her some treats.
-She then did what cats do, and tried to get more treats.
-I got mad at her for acting like that cat that she is, which I imagine is akin to walking around enraged by the fact that, as a citizen of Planet Earth, I cannot escape the laws of gravity.
Clearly, I *&#%&*EINGNSGITNGIMNJPD “Oh, God, no, NOT THAT!”&#*(%Y@&*(%JVU(WO#(sounds of shrieking) (*gurgle*)EVERYONE PLEASE REMAIN CALM AND STAY IN YOUR SEATS. JUST PASS THE TREATS AND NO ONE ELSE WILL GET HURT.
In Which I Was Apparently Having A Really Bad Day
“Oh, man!” I heard my husband complain. “You know what’s really not good?”
“Hm,” I said. “The fact that my replacement Kindle was broken? The fact that I seem to be losing my hair? The fact that the medicines I need to help manage my illnesses are breaking down my body?!”
“No,” he replied. “When you’re in a battle with the skeletons, and your batteries die.”
Longing
Because my Inner Nerd just isn’t happy unless I’m taking some kind of class, I’m currently enrolled in an online class by Ronna Detrick called “Soulstice“. In it, she guides you in working through various stories of women in the Bible, and the story I’m currently studying is the Old Testament story of Hannah, one of whose themes is that of Longing. Hannah desperately wants a child, but has spent years and years unable to conceive. And while I don’t long for children, I am quite familiar with this flavor of desperation-tinged wanting.
Because I am just so tired of being sick. I hate this fibromyalgia, and I desperately long to be free; free of pain, free of exhaustion, free of having to live my life through the filter of illness.
I long to wake up in the morning without being in pain from the moment I open my eyes ’til the moment I fall asleep at night. I long for a day that doesn’t involve pushing against the Sisyphean boulder of chronic pain and exhaustion, trying to get things done, but knowing that it’s only a matter of time before it overpowers me, and then steamrolls me flat on its way back down the mountain of my day.
I long for the energy and capacity of healthy people. I long for a time when picking out an outfit and getting dressed does not feel like having to climb Mt. Everest. I just want to feel better.
But I know that for right now, as well as for the foreseeable future, I can’t have any of this.
I want, and the answer is no. And I know I’m not the only one. I know you’ve been here too.
We want. And sometimes the answer is no. And That. SERIOUSLY. sucks.
I really wish I had some zippy punchline to end with, but I don’t. But I do think I can offer us at least a tiny bit of hope.
Because somehow, we do still get up every morning. We do find a way through our days. We do experience moments of relief, of happiness, of contentment, and we do survive the awful. And I think this could only happen if, as we’re rolling that stone up the mountain, we occasionally stumble into a pocket or two of grace.
So let me wish for us, my friends: may these oases of grace and comfort run deeper and wider, and occur more frequently that we ever could have dreamed possible.
And you know what? I’m pretty sure the answer to that wish is most definitely, “Yes!”
