It’s The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year?

 Well Merry Christmas Eve 2023 everyone. I woke up at 8:00 am this morning, made my coffee, and have been spending my time gazing at the Christmas tree, which now has some presents underneath it. Michael has the Christmas music playing now, and I’m gearing up to make some corned beef hash for brunch. I was going to go to Shawn’s church for a service but I scratched that idea. Just not organized enough to make a visit to a house of worship. Oh well.

I’ve been reflecting on how different this year is from last year at this time. Last year I was definitely experiencing some psychosis (which I didn’t realize at the time), even though I was on the 4 mg. Risperdal, like I am now. Last year I had energy and the creative juices were flowing; this year I feel sedate and trapped in this recliner, dealing with anxiety and regrets that I am missing out on life. I keep thinking about a comment my friend Alison made to me back in September: What is it that you do all day? And the answer is really that I do nothing but ruminate about anxious thoughts. This is no way to go through life, and I’ve got to do something to change this.

***

Well it’s now Christmas Day, I awoke at 3:30 am and after trying to fall back asleep and failing, I’m now up sipping coffee. So now I’ve got to make it through this very long day with very little sleep, oh this is so typical but at least it’s not like last Christmas when I was sick with an upset GI tract. The First Things First 7 am AA meeting will be on Zoom in a few hours, I can go to that, I think it’s Meditation Monday which is something nice to start the day. Shawn will be there running the meeting, I can always count on him to be carrying the message. If I were organized, I’d be attending the meeting in person but I’m not and I guess that’s OK.

I read over a few entries here from last year at this time and it’s kinda hard to see that I was dealing with mild psychosis at the time. I know now that I was, I lived through it, and I guess I’m frustrated, saddened and fearful that the 4 mg Risperdal wasn’t controlling things like it should have been. It just goes to show that the medical community doesn’t know how to handle manic psychosis all the time, and I’m talking about the type where you aren’t angry and violent, you’re actually good-natured and often funny, though entirely in your own world and in my case, thinking you’re in a movie being filmed. I guess I’m pretty good at fooling my doctors that I’m ok when I’m not, maybe fooling everyone around me, including myself?

What’s with this, me obsessing on manic psychosis here on Christmas, surely I can table this stuff just for a day and focus on happier thoughts? Maybe I do need to go to the AA meeting in person, or at the very least, write out a Gratitude List:

I’m grateful for:

1. My sobriety 

2. I’m sane and stable this Christmas 

3. My husband, hound Lily and I are all healthy

4. My loving extended family and friends

5. A roof over my head

6. Ample amount of food I lovingly prepare

7. Excellent psychiatrist, therapist and other doctors 

8. Supportive AA community

9. Coffee and nicotine gum

10. Presents under the Christmas tree

***

I’m feeling better, though I know I’m gonna be dragging later on today. Oh well, just another imperfect Christmas, just goes to show best laid plans often go astray. Merry Christmas to you and yours, here’s hoping sanity is here to stay. 

Writing Prompt: Tis The Season

 Prompt: Describe a favorite gift you’ve received or given.

Tis The Season

I absolutely love Christmastime, and particularly giving presents to loved ones. I always strive to give the most perfect gift, something surprising but absolutely loved by the recipient, who most of the time is my husband, Michael, an eccentric character with Willie Nelson braids, sporting leopard print pants from Nike, and turquoise Air Jordan’s when he’s out walking our Basset Hound Lily in the neighborhood. 

Michael will drop hints of what he wants for Christmas, for example this year he said he wanted a “hip sweater with a skull.” I have no idea where that came from, save we have a black dog sweater with a skull and crossbones on it, and maybe my husband wants to match Lily this winter? So off to Google I went, typing in “men’s skull sweater” and lo and behold numerous items popped up. 

The selections ranged from a high-end Saks Fifth Avenue number for $1,000 to some truly awful designs hawked on Amazon for $19.99. After scrolling through many pictures of sweaters, I came across a black Kohl’s sweatshirt with a large, grinning white skull on the front, priced at a reasonable $35. It wasn’t a sweater but it honestly looked very cool, in my opinion, so I went ahead and bought it. Fingers crossed my fashionista partner approves.

I remember one Christmas many years back, my husband had asked for a smoking jacket—no, he doesn’t smoke—and I ended up getting him a grey silk paisley robe with matching grey silk pajama pants. He absolutely adores them, so I think there’s a good chance he will like his skull sweatshirt in lieu of a sweater. If he doesn’t like it, it can easily be returned, along with the other gifts I got for him from L.L. Bean. I’m cool with that, heck it’s the thought that counts, right? Right. Happy Holidays, everyone!

And So It Goes

 So it’s after 4:00 p.m. on a Tuesday in mid-December, I’ve been staring at our beautiful Christmas tree, nicknamed “Mort” (shortened from Mordecai), who I’ve lovingly decorated with all the ornaments I’ve been collecting over the years. Michael is playing ambient music, no Christmas tunes til Christmas Day, but I listen to those on the car radio when I’m driving around. Things have been so-so, there’s been some stress and anxiety dealing with elderly family members, but Michael is steering the ship and I’m trying my best to just be an emotionally supportive wife. The catastrophic thinking has been rearing its ugly head but I’m managing it as best I can with my Gabapentin and of course talking to sponsor Shawn and therapist Dick Fetter.

I’m so friggin grateful I have all my faculties right now, and I continue with my rigid medication compliance and sleep schedule to keep the bipolar episodes in check. Honestly, I don’t think it’s possible to live a lower stress lifestyle than the one I currently have—I don’t work, I have no children, our finances are in order, I’m extremely fortunate. My moods have been stable for quite some time, the only real issue I have is catastrophic worry about unknown future scenarios I dream up when I am sedate in my recliner (which is most of the time). 

I guess my psychiatrist Dr. Levy has done a good job with my case, although I’m left sedate with breakthrough anxiety particularly in the morning hours. But I’m surviving, I’m still here, I was dealt with the blow of bipolar and alcoholism and I’m recovering from both, one day at a time. Tonight is the Tuesday night AA meditation meeting and I think I’ll go, taking some time to just breathe and let my mind unwind from anxious thoughts. Thank God for AA, I still haven’t completed the Steps, maybe I never will, but I belong to the AA fellowship and for now that’s enough.

So back to Christmastime, I’ve ordered all of Michael’s gifts and now I’m just waiting for them to be delivered. Cross that off my list, I’ve planned a special treat for myself on Thursday, I’m getting a massage after therapy with Fetter. Then Michael is taking me out for dinner. I’m so spoiled. Shawn is having his annual holiday party Saturday night, with all the tasty food and his lovely view of downtown Columbus. Santa Claus is comin to town…hooray!

Writing Prompt: What If?

 Prompt: Pick a “what if” scenario and write about it.

This week’s assignment was to write about a “what if” scenario. I thought it would be easy at first, pick something whimsical to write about and just let myself be taken away. I was going to write about “what if I won the lottery” and regale everyone with my lottery fantasies, but something stopped me dead in my tracks. 

At first I couldn’t put my finger on it, why was I suddenly encountering difficulty putting together sentences about hitting the jackpot? I started to fret about it, wondering if I was encountering writer’s block again after a year of writing freely. I have been feeling a touch depressed lately, maybe that might explain my difficulties? But no, that really wasn’t it.

Then suddenly this morning it hit me: I actually do think about “what if” scenarios all the time, but it is always, always in the context of crushing, anxious catastrophic thinking about the future. For example, what if I find myself old and alone, with no one to help me? What if my meds stop working and I’m propelled into manic psychosis again? What if I find myself alone and broke and living on a park bench? Yes, it’s those age old fears of being alone, broke and insane that rear their ugly heads and thwart any attempt at being positive in my writing today.

I try to think back to when I was an innocent child, or a fearless woman in her 20s, basking in the hopefulness that a “what if” scenario could bring. Why is it that now in my 50s, hope has been eclipsed by fear and anxiety, is that a product of my sobriety, or is that the kind of world we now live in, thanks to social media, mainstream media, and everyone walking around with an iPhone recording things? I’m frustrated that I can no longer equate “what if” with something positive, it just defaults to something that makes me uncomfortable and afraid.

Perhaps my problem is I have outlined my fears in Step 4, but have yet to move beyond to the other Steps, so I can experience a spiritual awakening and finally find peace. I wonder if there are others who are in a similar boat as me, struggling with a fear response when thinking about “what ifs” or anything that might involve future scenarios. I wonder if I can force myself into positive thinking but alas, right now, my mood is kinda down. But at least I managed to cobble a few paragraphs together, giving us something to reflect upon for a bit. Here’s hoping I might once again find the whimsy in “what if.” Perhaps some day. Perhaps some day.

Status Check

 So it’s the last day of November, the Christmas season is upon us again. I’m amazed how differently I feel from last year, when I was elevated and didn’t realize it, and wouldn’t be right again until April. How grateful I am for my sanity, my stability! Yes, I have to put up with the side effects from my mood stabilizer and antipsychotic but some things are going right for me. I can read again. I can write coherently. I may be struggling more with the cooking but I’m still executing. I am still very fearful about a catastrophic future but if I stay in today like AA has taught me I do okay. 

Right now I have a roof over my head, my finances are in order, I am in good health, I have an excellent treatment team, I have a loving husband and family that supports me. I’m involved in my AA community, I have many friends, everything is as it should be. Soon we will get our Christmas tree and I can decorate it, one of my favorite things to do. Everything is fine, I am safe, I keep telling myself that when the anxiety creeps in, as it does sometimes. 

I didn’t ask for this bipolar disorder, didn’t expect it, but I think I’m doing a good job managing it. I’m sober, I take my meds religiously, I have an excellent sleep schedule, today my mood is normal. I may not be able to have a traditional job but I’m productive in my own way. I guess that’s all I can ask for, and today I’m content. So my status today is good. I’ll take it. 

Pandora’s Box?

 So good morning, dear reader(s), I awoke early today for a change, which I must say I like. I’m still staying up late reading romance novels so I probably haven’t gotten as much sleep as I need, but that’s ok. It’s a chilly, rainy morning outside, and as usual I’m here wrapped up in blankets sipping Joe. The house is quiet, I like it this way, and I know I’m stable because I’m not blaring ‘80s music on YouTube through my headphones first thing in the morning.

 I abruptly stopped listening to YouTube way back in April, dropping it like a hot potato upon realizing that things had not been “quite right” for me all last winter. I’m a little tempted though this morning to take a look at it to see what exactly I was listening to—though that may turn into something akin to Pandora’s Box if I’m not careful. I guess I’m wondering if it’s possible for me to throw myself into manic psychosis simply by listening to certain types of music or starting up some art projects again. Maybe I ask Dr. Levy what he thinks? 

I mean, I don’t want to sit here living in fear of music, of art, heck, even sometimes I’m afraid of the television because I honestly thought it was talking to me last winter. I guess I’m just uncertain as to what stimuli are safe for me to experience, so for the most part now I cut everything off, save listening to classical music when I’m driving or the jazz playlist on Pandora when I’m in the kitchen. But for some reason this morning I want to investigate just what exactly I found so intriguing on YouTube last year…maybe some high I was chasing?

***

Ok, I listened to a few songs on YouTube, don’t feel elevated. Just 80s and some 90s stuff. It’s an absolutely miserable day out today, I’m just gonna shower and stay inside today, read a book to pass the time. I’m feeling OK for the most part, just need to take things slow. 

***

Well, it’s Wednesday morning now, I got up early again, but after going to bed early last night. No more YouTube for the time being, don’t want to poke that sleeping elephant, I just feel nervous about it. I’m just not sure if I can throw myself into mania or not, perhaps I need to consult with Dr. Levy at our session next Monday. Over two decades dealing with this bipolar condition and I still feel like I’m at the mercy of it. My mood is turning sour, time for a readjustment, Thanksgiving is tomorrow after all. Time to call mom and find some laughter. I’m tired of being afraid.

Checking In

Well I awoke early on this Sunday, came downstairs and took my meds and brewed my coffee, and now I’m bundled up in blankets sipping Joe, trying hard not to get overly anxious with catastrophic thinking. I wonder if I’ll ever get a break from this anxiety, probably not, yet I do find when I’m in the kitchen cooking the angst seems to slip away so I guess that’s good.

Not much to report right now, save I’m stable and that’s such a relief compared to last year at this time, when I was released from the hospital and getting amped up. I know now regardless of whether I am on a high dose of antipsychotic it will take months for the episode to fully break, and I guess that scares me all the more, though this last go around wasn’t too terrible, I didn’t wander too much. I was frightened of the highways, and I seemed to just simply entertain myself with loud music and wandering through the grocery store. Oh, let’s not dwell on the past psychosis, it just gets me upset and ashamed.

Thanksgiving is coming up this week, mom, Michael and I are going to Lindey’s for their feast. Wednesday night Michael and I are going to a hockey game, even though the team is terrible (again) this year. And Friday I’m back at Lindey’s again for lunch with friend Stephanie, it’s our annual tradition, so I’m excited about all this activity coming up. Just got off the phone with mom, she helped me process some of the anxiety I’ve been feeling this morning and I feel better.

Writing is kinda hard for me lately, I definitely don’t feel the creative juices coursing through my veins. It’s why my number of entries here has dropped off, but I guess that doesn’t matter seeing the only person reading this nonsense is myself. Perhaps I kinda miss last winter when I had a flurry of writing going on and I even managed to get some graphics onto these pages to make things interesting. Oh well, the tide turns, I guess that’s the nature of bipolar disorder. 

So onward I go, onto a pancake brunch and then Sicilian Beef Ragout for dinner. I know how to deliver the goods when required. My life isn’t too terribly bad and for that, I’m thankful. Bring on Thanksgiving 2023, it should be a good one this year. Cheers to stability. 

Early Morning Musings

 So good morning, dear readers, it has been a looooong time since I wrote an entry here which wasn’t just a prompt for my writing group. I attribute this to being fully anchored by my medication, most notably the 4 mg of my Risperdal antipsychotic which makes me feel lethargic a lot of the time. I’m seriously concerned about my sedentary nature, as undone chores pile up around me. I continue to complain to Dr. Levy but he keeps my medication dosages the same for the most part, the only slight adjustment being a month ago when he lowered my mood stabilizer Depakote down to 625 mg/day from 750 mg. 

Dr. Levy is telling me to push through the sedation yet I feel like I just can’t. Then I think of those people coming back from paralyzing injuries and I beat myself up for continuing to sit in my recliner like a zombie. My husband is good about trying to pick up the slack around us, but that makes me wonder if maybe he is getting tired of a wife who doesn’t do much except cook and do the dishes. Maybe I do a few other things too, yet there is so much more to be done. 

I want to be careful going down a woe is me path, so this morning I am comprising a list of tasks to do this week. First up, I am going to organize my clothes, finally putting away the summer stuff and getting my Fall/winter items together so I have access to them. Fetter is always telling me to start small and set the expectation bar low so this clothes organization is all I’m going to do today (besides my usual cooking projects).

Tomorrow I hope to organize some kitchen cabinets and drawers, in preparation for the arrival of a new refrigerator in 5 days. I think I just have to slowly set some small tasks to do each day, and push, push, push. Maybe I’d benefit from a little CBT goal-setting, I dunno, but I just know I’m motivated to show Michael and myself that I can do things around here besides sitting in a recliner all day. I’ve just been thinking a lot lately about what it is I do all day, and lately it’s just been a whole lot of nothing—so let’s turn this ship around and get headed on a productive course.

I can also reflect today on the fact that it is approximately one year since I was last hospitalized. I’m so, so grateful that I am completely stable now, no manic psychosis, everything is calm and manageable. Granted, I’m not writing here as much, the creative energy has been tempered, but I’m thankful for that. I’m not up at the crack of dawn listening to loud music on YouTube, instead I’m sleeping in and getting close to 10 hours of sleep a night. I’ve shelved the art, realizing that when I do the art projects, it just gets me excitable and potentially triggers psychosis (though I’m not completely sure about that). I’m not trolling the alleys looking for trash like I was last winter and I take this as a good sign (at least I’m more hygienic now).

So today, November 5, 2023, I feel solid and I’m looking forward to the holiday season approaching soon. I think I will read back on some previous entries and see how I was doing, I know 2023 has been a somewhat challenging year for me, what with recovery from an incident/episode in 2022, and adjustment to Dr. Levy’s strategy of now keeping the Risperdal at a higher dosage and the Depakote on the lower end. My anxiety seems well under control, not really much of an issue now, save the rare attacks in the morning hours consisting of me building catastrophe out of an unknown future.

I guess this is all for now, one foot in front of the other and all that. On to my chores, no perfection required here, just make a start. Adios.

Writing Prompt: The Ukulele

 Prompt: Describe a person, place or thing.

The Ukulele 

When my grandfather Papa died years ago, the family went to his Florida condo to look through his belongings and give the grandchildren a chance to select a few items to take home with them. I was immediately drawn to an old, wooden ukulele tucked away on the top shelf of his closet off the family TV room. I didn’t know how to play a string instrument (still don’t), yet I wanted this ukulele so badly. Fortunately for me, no one else paid attention to it, so this prize was mine to keep.

I don’t know the story behind the ukulele, where it came from, and whether or not my grandfather ever played it. I never saw him with it when I visited him, though he did play once the banjo he had from his days in the 1920s performing with Benny Goodman and his orchestra in Chicago. Although my grandfather would go on to become a lawyer and stop performing, he loved music, and instilled that love in my father, who was a talented piano player and our house was filled with jazz music played on the stereo. 

Back to the ukulele, once I spirited it out of Florida to it’s new home in Columbus, it took up residence in a place of prominence on a shelf in one of the tall bookcases in our den. It rests majestically in front of a line of assorted books including “Bartlett’s Book of Quotations,” “Horse Soldiers,” “The Invisible Man” and “The Biggest Book of Hockey Trivia.” When I’m sitting in my recliner sipping my morning coffee, I’ll often gaze upon the ukulele and smile at memories of my grandfather, and wonder if this ukulele ever got played in front of an audience.

I did bring it out once—only once—when I had my first (and sadly last) dinner party here in my home in December of 2001. It was right before I fell apart under the grips of bipolar illness, and I had invited 6 girlfriends to my place for a roasted duck dinner. We sat around the long dinner table and after we had finished the meal, I stood up, walked over to the bookshelf and retrieved the ukulele. My friends looked at me bemusedly, wondering if I was going to play it, or if I had something else in mind. 

I returned to the table and gave the following instructions: We will pass the ukulele around the table, and when it comes to you, hold it in your hands and tell the group your worst time and best time of the year. I’m not entirely sure what the point of this exercise was, or whether or not the ukulele had magical powers to stir up excited discussion. But I do know here some 22 years later my girlfriends still talk about this dinner party and my ukulele. 

There are quite a few whimsical things tucked away in corners and shelves in this old house of ours. But Papa’s ukulele is by far one of my favorite pieces. I’m tempted to pick it up and try to play it. Maybe this old dog can learn a new trick? Guess I won’t know unless I try. So here goes! 

Writing Prompt: A Night On The Town

 Prompt: You get an unplanned yet highly welcomed day off from work. What are you going to do?

A Night On The Town

I get a certain thrill when my husband turns to me and says, “You’ve been working so hard in the kitchen lately. Why don’t you take a night off?” For as much as I love creating my masterpieces for us every night,  so too do I enjoy hanging up my apron on its hook and excitedly donning evening attire and make up for a night out to sample someone else’s food—with the added plus that they will be doing the dishes.

I had the chance this past week to have a night off to enjoy an interesting meal out at an Italian restaurant in Bexley with two girlfriends of mine. Thanks to some gnarly rush hour traffic I uncharacteristically arrived 30 minutes late, but my companions didn’t mind. As I sipped my Pellegrino with lime wedge, I eagerly perused the menu, immediately deciding upon a beet salad with shaved Parmesan and the chicken ravioli in cream sauce, a favorite. Sounds from a live acoustic jazz band started to fill the air, and I smiled to myself, grateful that I had this opportunity to get out and do something that I enjoy.

Conversation flowed easily, I realized I do best when I’m in a smaller group, where people aren’t throwing back cocktails and getting louder and louder as the evening progresses. Sure, each of my girlfriends had ordered a glass of wine, but neither finished their glass. Could that have been me in my drinking days? Never! I’d have downed a whole bottle by myself, and most likely ordered an after dinner drink to boot. Thank God those days are behind me.

As we ate our meals, we shared stories about our families, groused about being a woman in her 50s, got serious and discussed current world affairs, giggled about High School hijinks, took a selfie to remember the night. I was a clean plater, enjoying every bite of my meal, and sipped a decaf coffee after we were through. Outside the restaurant, we hugged each other goodbye, with a promise to gather again in the near future. 

Back to reality the next day, as I slowly made my way through Kroger with a cart piled high with items for a week’s worth of cooking projects, my phone pinged with a message from one of the gals. “Free for dinner November 14?” I wasted no time replying. “Yes! Let’s check out Grandview!” So it’s back to the grindstone, but a treat isn’t too far off in the distance. Yeah, I can live with that. 

Writing Prompt: A Romantic At Heart

 Prompt: Write about a piece (genre) of literature and how it influences the way you look at life.

A Romantic At Heart

I wish for this week I could regale and astound you with an impressive selection of literary masterworks that blew my socks off and set me on a course of great action. But instead I’d like to share with you some more of my story, specifically the great pain I went through having the world of books shut off from me for nearly two decades, thanks to psychiatrists who doped me up on strong dosages of bipolar meds that caused significant cognitive impairment. 

What happened to me was I would attempt to read a book and would experience actual pain in my head as I tried to absorb the information on the page. I’d throw down the book in despair, cursing that I had to take these meds, constantly complaining to the doctors about my limitations, and then in an act of desperation started tinkering with my med doses on my own, only to get extremely sick and have to be hospitalized. Repeatedly. It was a horrible period in my life, and to make matters worse, I was literally surrounded by mountains of books here at home, as I was a voracious reader before I was put on meds at age 35. I’d stare at the bookshelves longingly, wishing I could read them, wondering if they would be closed off to me permanently.

But last year, something dramatic and ultimately wonderful happened. The dosage of one of my meds, Depakote, was cut in half by my psychiatrist, and soon I found myself writing again. By summer, I found myself joining my niece and delving into some contemporary romantic fiction my mom bought for us—nothing special, I just started with this book, “November 9” by the author Colleen Hoover who I had never heard of, but this was a start. Before I knew it, I was done with the book in two days, and eagerly plowing through five other Colleen Hoover romance paperbacks my mom had bought on Amazon.

On I would go to the Columbus Metropolitan Library downtown, where I checked out even more Colleen Hoover books, and asked a librarian to suggest additional authors specializing in contemporary romance. She gave me five names, and for the past three months I’ve been tearing through everything romance I can get my hands on. Yes, I think I may be reaching my limit with this rather mindless, guilty pleasure genre, but I’m honestly thrilled that I can now make it through an entire book without physical pain. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine getting both the writing and reading back, I’m ecstatic.

So when I’m asked to reflect on a piece of literature, or in my case the genre of romantic fiction, and how it influences my way of life, I can honestly say these types of books are opening a door long shut to me, and I’m eager to step inside and see what else awaits me in my rediscovery of the written word. My romances give me hope that I might return to the meaty fiction and nonfiction works I devoured so long ago before I fell so ill. I guess it’s all about starting with baby steps when you are learning to walk again, and being grateful for whatever progress you make each day. Right now it’s Easy Does It. And honestly, I’m enjoying this ride.

Writing Prompt: Nothin’ But A Heartache?

 Prompt: Describe an heartache.

Nothin’ But A Heartache?

With the season of Fall comes football, and as a rabid Ohio State Buckeyes football fan, every year I step onto the rollercoaster ride which is their season. I cannot be described as a “casual observer,” having been groomed since birth to accept nothing less than every single game won by a comfortable margin, something impossible to attain, but I expect without fail each and every year. When you set such high, unobtainable standards for perfection, clearly you’ve gotten away from the AA golden nugget of “It’s progress, not perfection.” And you’ve set yourself up for something reoccurring all the time: excruciating, never-ending heartache.

Earlier this year, ESPN announcer Kirk Herbstreit said about 15% of Ohio State’s fan base is psychotic. Initially I took umbrage with that comment, having gone through actual bipolar psychosis in the past and I didn’t think it was appropriate to throw around the psychotic term like that. What I think would be more appropriate to say is a lot of people setting impossibly high standards for Buckeye football are having their hearts shredded every week so maybe they might think about a slight “attitude adjustment.” Or something like that. Yet I know how very difficult it is trying to right-size your expectations, particularly when you have tasted the triumph of the undefeated Bucks winning the National Championship. (Even though the last time that happened was back in 2002.)

To make matters worse, what I seem to go through is intense anxiety coupled with re-occurring heart-shredding every time my team fails to complete a perfect set of downs, or God forbid falls behind in scoring. Last week against Maryland, when we fell behind, I just up and left the house in the middle of the game and went to Starbucks, only returning home when OSU had managed to claw back and go up by 13 points.  I just found I was getting so emotionally distraught I had to remove myself from the premises, you know much like seek out sober faces, sober faces, I fled to a place where there wouldn’t be a 60-inch TV mounted to the wall. So much for sticking around during the tough times, though maybe in this instance it was self-preservation.

Call me someone with an intense emotional disposition, though it’s interesting to me that I don’t get nearly as worked up over Columbus Blue Jackets hockey, which I also love. Guess this re-occurring heartache of mine is reserved solely for the Buckeyes, so pass the Starbucks coffee, looks like I’ll be hanging out there more frequently on Saturdays. Sure, I can pop the extra Gabapentin for my anxiety, but I need something entirely different to help manage the pain caused by unreasonable, stupid perfectionism. Any experience, strength and hope? Lord knows I need it!

Writing Prompt: “Work in Progress”

 Prompt: what does “work in progress” mean to you?

When I hear the well-known phrase “work in progress,” I immediately think of my life as it has stretched out before me, both past and present, at times painful and others extremely happy and content. It means reaching milestones, putting in the work, whether to confront my demons and make drastic life changes, or simply implement routines to reach a serene existence. 

I guess “work in progress” means effort, and God knows I’ve put a lot of effort into bettering myself, healing myself, particularly in the past six years I’ve been in total sobriety. Twenty years ago, I had to come to the major realization that I had a dual diagnosis of both substance abuse disorder as well as bipolar type 1 disorder, and this would require tackling two things head on with rigid med compliance and complete abstention from all mood altering substances. At first, that was no easy task, and I struggled for years to find some semblance of sanity in all the chaos.

 I have some major regret that I didn’t fall into line until I was age 50. So many wasted years spent fighting and tinkering with my meds and chasing a marijuana buzz to quell anxiety that would have been handled if I just took my meds properly. But I guess this was just the “progression” of the work I had to do, and all I can say is thank God I finally cleaned my act up before it was too late. I’ve lost friends who also had a dual diagnosis, and it’s oh so painful to attend a funeral of someone gone before it should have been their time.

Today I devote my time to working on my Steps with sponsor Shawn, working with my treatment team to stay med compliant and in a healthy mental state, and working with my family, friends and AA fellowship so I feel supported and understood. I still have some bad days, but the vast majority are good, and I’m so grateful to have this sobriety I have worked hard for. With my life as a work in progress, that sort of indicates to me that new challenges might very well emerge in the future, but today I feel equipped to handle whatever comes my way. For with past work comes experience, with progress comes strength.

Writing Prompt: Better Late Than Never

 Prompt: Write about a victory in your recovery.

Better Late Than Never

I guess that turning 50 could be considered a milestone birthday, and for me that was especially true. For it was at age 50 in 2017 that I finally, finally set aside both alcohol and marijuana and committed to living a completely sober lifestyle. I had made that completely tragic mistake of thinking I could exist on the marijuana maintenance plan, without booze, and I did that for over a decade but all that got me was repeated hospitalizations and a nearly destroyed marriage. It even led me to an alcohol relapse, but what was I expecting? But when I was 50, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was time to get off this roller coaster and face the music.

I wish I could tell you it was easy setting all the substances aside, but unfortunately for me it wasn’t. I was hit with a crushing wave of anxiety, so fierce that I knew I needed to consult with a medical professional to get medication to help manage it. That first year of sobriety was brutal, probably made more so because I hadn’t yet returned to AA for the critical support I needed in my sober journey. I made do with some mental health support groups I had joined on Facebook, but honestly I wish I had made my way to an AA meeting instead.

I would eventually find my way back to AA in 2020, during the height of the Covid pandemic. After confronting my fears of the new Zoom technology that overtook the world in a storm, I got up the nerve to join a Sunday night German Village AA Zoom meeting, my very first Zoom and no small victory for someone extremely nervous about rejoining AA and also petrified of Zoom bombers and the mysteries of this new technology I didn’t understand.

I can’t remember if I kept my camera on or off when I logged onto the meeting, probably off because I was terrified and I know I definitely didn’t speak. But I was immediately comforted by the format, it was a two topic discussion meeting, and I felt bolstered by the fellowship which always comes through at an AA meeting. I no longer felt isolated and alone in my attempt to stumble through recovery, setting aside white knuckling it as I had been for three years for the warmth of a group of alcoholics and addicts trudging along the road together. 

One person on the meeting said so many things that resonated with me. His name was Shawn and he posted his telephone number in the Chat. I wrote it down, too terrified to contact him initially, but wanting the number just the same. I knew from my prior experience with AA over the course of two decades that having phone numbers was key to recovery. Finding this Zoom meeting and finding Shawn, whoever he was, seemed very important and in hindsight I know it was my Higher Power looking out for me.

So for me, it was certainly a Better Late Than Never scenario whereby I didn’t clean up my act until I was 50, and didn’t make it back to AA until I was 53. I meet recovering individuals much younger than me and get protective, I want to help them avoid making the mistakes I made with marijuana, save them from all the wasted years I had. But I guess we all have our own journeys, filled with pitfalls and victories, no matter how small. I’m now completely comfortable with Zoom technology, and Shawn is now my sponsor. I’m extremely grateful for my sobriety, and keep movin’ along. One day at a time.

Writing Prompt: Fall-ing

 Prompt: Write about your favorite season.

Fall-ing 

I woke up slightly chilly this morning, grateful that I remembered to sleep with a quilt over me last night. That’s when it hit me—Fall is in the air, and I felt giddy with this knowledge. Call me an indoor cat during summer, I hate the heat and hole myself up inside in the AC all throughout June, July and August. But here we are, I made it to September, and temps are now in the comfortable 70s and I’m ready to burst out of the house. Fall has always meant relief for me, relief from the blazing hot summer, as well as opportunity for my creativity to come shining through. 

Yes I’m Fall-ing, and that means taking Basset Lily for long meandering walks down the streets and alleys of my neighborhood. I can enjoy going to parks with my husband. It will soon be time to start making soups, buying apple cider and making apple pies. I may buy a pumpkin and decorative gourds to display on our porch. Out come the long-sleeve t-shirts, light cardigans, and other comfy clothes to relax in. I love it all.

Fall also means football, and I’m an emotional, quasi-lunatic fan of the Ohio State Buckeyes. Brainwashed to be rabid at birth by my parents, I am heavily invested in every game each Saturday, to the detriment of my nervous system should my team lose a game. I expect perfection, never get it, and make meaningless promises to myself after the game is over that I will not be so emotional in the future. Sure would be nice if I could just Let Go and Let God do his handiwork; it would save me a lot of grief and anxiety over outcomes I can’t control. 

We discussed turning it over in our sponsees’ Zoom this week, and I think for me my obstacle for doing so is Trust. I get worked up because I don’t trust the football coaching staff knows what they are doing; and likewise I don’t trust that God will handle things for me. Maybe though this particular Fall I’ve made some progress, maybe my continued work on the Steps is bringing me closer to the serenity I seek. Sponsor Shawn directed me to Chapter 11 in the 12 and 12, told me to read about prayer and meditation when I asked how I might strengthen my relationship with my Higher Power. That’s my assignment for this week, and I’ll get to it hopefully before Saturday’s football game.

In the meantime, I’m getting ready for a morning walk with Lily, I’m finishing off my coffee and getting ready to lace up my sneakers and head out. The air is crisp outside, I’m excited, I’ve got energy again and I’m happy. I quietly recite the one prayer I know by heart, the Serenity Prayer, as I prepare to head out and enjoy this beautiful Fall morning:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. The courage to change the things I can. And the wisdom to know the difference.

Growing Up

There has been a dramatic shift in how I’m now interacting with my 83 year old mother. I realized a few weeks ago that I can no longer use her as a dumping ground for my anxiety attacks; she just doesn’t have the energy to walk me through my fear anymore, she doesn’t want the anxiety I cause her weighing on her anymore. I told Fetter last week I have no choice but to grow up, and quickly. He gave me his copy of the classic 1970s book, “I’m OK, You’re OK” which I’m going to read to learn how to parent myself. God knows this was coming, I’m 57 years old, and I’ve had 6 years contending with anxiety substances free. I’m in AA, I’m on Gabapentin, I have an excellent talk therapist, I’ve got the supports to muddle my way through. It’s time to let go of mom, and indeed I need to prepare for caretaking her now.

I’m scared though, in a way, worried again that I’m alone, that I don’t have the strength to manage my affairs. I know my husband is here, yet I don’t trust that we are safe; I had terrible nightmares last night that we were victims of crime and I awoke, heart pounding, upset, swearing I wouldn’t watch the news anymore. Got my morning dose of Gabapentin in my system and now I’m feeling somewhat better, and wondering if I just had something to occupy my time, like a volunteer job, maybe I might feel less stressed…but then again probably not.

It’s cooler this morning, signaling Fall is coming, and I’m relieved I made it through another uncomfortable summer. I’ve got plans to meet friends for dinner this month, I’m even going to a concert! Peter Gabriel, I’m thrilled to go hear songs from my youth, but I’ll be careful to watch out for getting overstimulated and if it gets to be too much I’ll leave early. I’m relieved that I’m going to this show completely sober and stable, no mania making me act inappropriate. I know my cohorts will be in their cups, but no, not me. 

I guess I’m ok with my medication, still feeling a little muddled and blunted from the antipsychotic but I’m tired of pushing for reductions Dr. Levy doesn’t want to give. Oh well, just stay the course Melissa, enjoy this stability even though you’re sedentary. I can read, I can write, my memory isn’t too good but I can live with it. I’m cooking, that gives me incredible pleasure. Things could be better, but things could be much worse, so I’ll accept where I am as the way things were absolutely meant to be.

OK, that’s it for now. Just call me someone going through growing pains. Yeah, I guess that fits.

Crossroads

 I feel like I’m at a crossroads, down one street is a life of fear and anxiety; down the other is serenity and peace. I want certainly to be firmly headed down the peaceful path, I just wonder if that will always elude me? I researched on Google if this Risperdone I’m on causes all this anxiety and some article says it can—yet when I asked Dr. Levy, he quickly dismissed that, said it was false, so I guess what I’m left with is I have a co-occurring anxiety disorder, and damn, that just makes me angry.

I must admit though my anxiety hasn’t been too bad over the past week or so. I’m back to meeting with Shawn and Fetter, we are approaching September and my favorite season of all, Fall. My moods are stable, I’m firmly grounded in reality, the farther away I get from the mild psychosis last winter, the more I feel safe and comfortable. Michael kinda irritated me yesterday, but that was because I’ve been plowing through these romance novels and wondering why he couldn’t be like some 30-something wooing me; I’m laughing now because we did have that when we were that age, and maybe I might want to expand my reading selections to include something more intellectual. 

All in good time. All in good time.

I’m truly amazed I’m reading again, and what’s this, actually writing! People take these things for granted, not understanding the sheer agony of having it ripped away. As I think I’ve mentioned before, I’m furious at the psychiatrists that kept me on 2,500 mg/day Depakote for so long. Why did it take two decades to get me down to 750 mg? Why did I have to suffer through years of cognitive impairment, why didn’t anyone seem to know or understand how to adjust my med dosage cocktail to give me some semblance of a life? I have to try very hard not to be bitter, bite back all the frustration I feel. But I guess I be grateful I’m down to the 750 mg Depakote now, at least I made it here. Now I can read. Now I can write. Finally.

***

Talked to mom on the phone and was just bitching about the meds and how mad I was at the psychiatrists and she said no more, she’s had enough hearing me vent about all this. I realize it’s getting old, I need to adapt, move on, no more grudge matches. Acceptance is the key to all my difficulties, I must remember that! Things played out the way they were meant to, treatment of my illness is complicated, things happened but at least I finally made it to Dr. Levy six years ago and I’m on the right track.

I guess it’s forward I go, cautiously but with certainty. Maybe I’m just on the road I’m meant to be on, and it’s headed towards serenity and has been all along. Deep breaths, Melissa, one day at a time. 

Writing Prompt: Lessons Learned

 Prompt: Go back in time and meet your younger self.

Lessons Learned

If I could go back in time and meet a younger me, I know exactly where I’d go. I’d go straight to where I was at age 35, newly diagnosed with bipolar with psychotic features, sitting on my back patio in the depths of serious kickback from psychotic mania and trapped in deep, dark tarry depression, the likes of which I’d never experienced. I’d sit with that crumpled me and just hold her, for as long as she wanted before the call of the bed became too much for her.

A place to hide. A place to try and quell the suicidal ideations, which were relentless, with sleep.

The psychiatrist in the nut hut, where that me had received the bipolar diagnosis a few weeks previously, was a real asshole, delivering the news of my diagnosis without a trace of compassion or understanding, to someone in the throes of her first psychotic episode, in her first hospitalization (of many to follow). It’s no wonder I found myself post-hospitalization confused, deeply ashamed, concocting scenarios for offing myself but lacking the guts for the follow-through.

I choose to sit with this 35-year old me not only because she was suicidal and scared. It’s because I know this mood would eventually shift, the depression would lift, and I want to be with her when that important transition happens. Because then, right there, is when the bad decision-making started. Decisions that damn near cost me 15 years of my life, spent in and out of hospitals, failing at employment attempts, almost losing my marriage. 

“The medication brought you to this stability,” I’d say, after the suicidal thoughts drifted away. “Stay on it and you will most likely never have suicidal ideation again. Now let’s head to CVS for something indispensable for you: A pill tray. Trust me, without one, things are going to get royally fucked up.”

Yes, I’d interject myself right back into this 35-year old’s life, and give her what she needed most: knowledge and wisdom about medication management. We’d have much to cover, particularly circumventing Bad Decision Number One: thinking it’s ok to “tinker” with the meds when you’re feeling better. Skip a dose for a few days. Cut a pill in half. Stop one med on your own all together. Um, I’d tell her, that’s a hard NO! Together, we would fill up the pill tray, carefully making sure to thoroughly read the prescription bottle labels to ensure morning meds were in the AM chamber and evening meds were in the PM one. You’d think simple organization like this would be intuitive, but unfortunately for 35-year old me, flirting with denial of my condition, it wasn’t.

Next, it would be time for discussion about Bad Decision Number Two: thinking it’s OK to completely ignore the warning on the pill bottle, “Do not mix this medication with alcohol.” For me, mixing meds with alcohol means the pills can’t work, which leads to episodes and ultimately, you guessed it, the nut hut. I’d explain slowly but seriously that the dance with booze was over. For good. I’m not sure how active alcoholic me would receive that, or if she’d immediately start grasping at Bad Decision Number Three: if you can’t have liquor, reach for the weed. If so, I’d have to emphatically state that any mood-altering substance was now off the table, and there would be no going back.

I don’t think anyone but my 50-something self could deliver this information to the 35-year old me and have her accept it. I was just too ill-equipped back then to understand the seriousness of my illness, how it was wrapped up in my dual diagnosis of alcoholism and weed addiction, and how the two situations needed to be addressed with religious med compliance and a 12-Step program. The situation demanded an older, wiser me leading the confused, overwhelmed youngster through the land mines of a debilitating scenario I was not equipped to handle. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen, and chaos reigned supreme for the next 15 years.

I sigh deeply now, closing my eyes and reflecting upon all the mess I endured. I hurt for that 35-year old without a pill tray, wrapped up in dirty bedsheets, crying over her uncertain future. Maybe that’s why I want to write a memoir so badly, maybe save someone from the sheer hell I’ve been through. Ah, to go back in time and correct mistakes. Mis-steps. If only. If only. 

Writing Prompt: Rusting In Peace

 Prompt: Write an obituary to a car.

Rusting In Peace

Michael’s beloved, red 2002 “pocket rocket” GTI Volkswagen passed away peacefully in front of the house one hot summer day about 6 years ago. Cause of death was most likely the battery coupled with the engine, which hadn’t been right ever since the car got stolen once and some joyriders inflicted damage before abandoning the car near Scioto Audubon Metropark where wife Melissa chanced to stumble upon it and quickly notified the authorities.

Obtained by Melissa for her husband during her first manic spending spree in the winter of 2001, Michael came home from work one night to find the red VW roadster in front of the house with a big red bow on it, courtesy of Byers Volkswagen on Hamilton Road. He fell in love with the car at first sight, sliding into the black leather driver’s seat, firing it up, and blaring the stereo. As they cruised around the beltway that night, laughing wildly like teenagers, everything felt so right. 

Unfortunately with the souped up car came the monthly car payment, which frugal Michael groused about but dutifully paid every month. Off he would go to his job up on Busch Boulevard, driving like a speed demon to and from work, his favorite part of the day. Michael would often get comments on his car wherever he went, the pocket rocket’s fire engine red exterior drew lots of attention. He kept the car spotless, it was his baby, and he only allowed Melissa to drive it on the rarest of occasions.

After the car theft in 2012 or so, and a sketchy mechanic in Whitehall brought the car’s engine back to life, the car’s AC eventually went out and Michael decided not to get it fixed. By that time, his office had relocated to space downtown, very close to home, and he only had a 5-minute commute to and from his work. By 2017, Michael had inherited his mother’s Honda CRV, and firmly in middle age, he parked his GTI in its current resting spot in front of the house and it hasn’t moved since.

Who’s to say when the red car finally gave up the ghost, but battered by the seasonal elements, not driven, now two tires are flat, and the exterior looks dirty and faded. Melissa started protesting in earnest earlier this year that the car should be donated to the local Classical music station for a tax write-off, but Michael insists he can sell the dead car to some obsessed vintage VW collector.

Meanwhile the pocket rocket sits, silently gathering dirt and now some rust, but gratefully never ticketed by the authorities for reasons unknown. Perhaps the neighbors have taken pity on Michael and Melissa and not reported the car, or perhaps Michael promised a passing cruiser that he would get the car running again and didn’t tell Melissa. 

Does Michael want to get rid of his little, red GTI? Most likely not. Melissa has temporarily stopped protesting, trying to let go and let a Higher Power orchestrate outcomes. So for now, it’s dear pocket rocket, rust in peace— at least until some lucky new owner tries to bring you back to life.

Fear Itself

 I’ve been struggling with a lot of fear lately, fear of the unknown, fear of the future, fear of my surroundings, fear of being alone. I’m meeting with sponsor Shawn today, and I’m glad I have him to discuss this with, maybe get some direction on how to get a grip again and not be so debilitated by everything. I’m wondering if this is just a phase I’m going through as part of my recovery process from the hospitalization last November? Or maybe the fact that I haven’t seen my talk therapist for three sessions now? A lot of factors are in play, I need to remember that.

I’m angry at Fetter for being unavailable to meet in session, he has never in our 6 1/2 year history left me for three sessions in a row, unavailable for zoom and basically unresponsive to texts. It makes me wonder seriously if at 77 years old he is in a position anymore to provide me with the level of care I need and expect from my treatment team. I realize he has me on a sliding scale, I’m not a top-paying client, so maybe my expectations need to be readjusted accordingly. But I’ve been a mess without my consistent weekly therapy, that’s a fact, and I’m left wondering what to do about it.

Mom has been helpful in our morning phone calls, I know she wants me to be independent, but I’m growing tired with the explaining that I’m far too anxious and fearful to stand on my own two feet. Why don’t the people around me understand this, why can’t they see clearly my limitations, my disabilities that are so glaringly apparent to me? 

Lord knows I’m sick of being afraid all the time, I’m wondering if I’m in a constant state of PTSD, brought on by the repeated manic psychotic episodes? I keep trying to find information on this but there’s nothing out there, and that makes me frustrated and angry and sad all at the same time. Maybe if I was able to be employed I wouldn’t have all this time to think about trauma and fear; but I can’t work and this makes me feel trapped. Oh well, pass another mindless romance novel, anything to distract me from my miserable situation.

I think before I meet Shawn I’m going to go to the library, get some more books to read. I could go to the Zoom with the Y swim group, but I need to escape into my reading. I’m gonna try to turn things around, get reoriented into some positive thinking. OK that’s it for now, time to get moving. Fear, I can’t stand you!

Debilitating Panic Attack

Yesterday morning I had one of the worst panic attacks I have ever had. I want to record this here so I have something to look back upon if it ever happens again. I awoke with this crippling fear that Michael was dead; which led to what in the world would I do if my husband was gone. I saw myself becoming destitute, going insane, and ending up on some bench downtown, alone and lost. I felt absolutely debilitated, trapped, I couldn’t see a way out. 

I took extra Gabapentin to try and calm myself, but I felt severely impacted by this attack all day. Even after talking with mom, who assured me the family will always take care of me. Michael tried to soothe me when he woke up, assuring me he was alive and well and he would always take care of me. I texted with my social worker friend Katie, who explained morning anxiety happens, it has something to do with the sleep/wake cycle, and I probably had a bad nightmare that carried over.

I spoke to sponsor Shawn on the phone in the afternoon and he helped to calm me and to discern the fear from the facts. I basically realized I have a fear of being abandoned, and an even greater fear of getting sick again, even though the facts are none of this is going on. When I finally got to the kitchen around 4:00 pm and started in on my cooking project for dinner, I completely forgot about the attack, my body relaxed, I felt so much better. I read some of a romance novel after dinner and that further helped to distract me from my troubled day. I also went to a meditation AA Zoom, and the fellowship was extremely helpful.

Today has been basically good, I cut back on my morning coffee amount and had a massage at 11:00 am. I had a twinge of feeling out of sorts after dinner, thinking back on the panic attack, and I wonder if that’s because I’m drinking decaf coffee at night. I have plans to stop that habit soon, and also to give up the nicotine gum. I’m going to take some extra Gabapentin before bed, see if that helps me sleep through the night. I had trouble with waking up in the middle of the night last night.

I guess these panic attacks happen, what helps is:

1. Talking to someone and getting reassurance I am OK

2. Gabapentin 

3. Distracting myself with an activity

4. Cutting back caffeine/nicotine 

5. AA Fellowship

***

I’m relieved the attack is over, it was a doozy to be sure. I wasn’t really able to complete the assignment for this week’s writing group, but that’s OK. I’ll go and provide support to the others. I love the fellowship and sharing. OK, I’m going to go up to bed soon. Sleep tight, all.

August Psych Appointment

 So today is my monthly appointment with my psychiatrist, 9 months since my last hospitalization, 4 months since those last vestiges of psychosis. For this particular appointment, I am meeting Dr. Levy in person and I have also forwarded to him a bulleted list of notes outlining what’s going on with me right now. Honestly, it’s just a rehash of where I was 4-5 years ago, when I was on 4 mg Risperdone and contending with the side effects of this particular medication. They are as follows:

Great difficulty speaking when in group

Excessive fatigue and sedation

Breakthrough anxiety

Weight gain

Sleeping 10-11 hours a night

Problems with motivation

***

But there are some good things I’m doing and I noted that on my list as well:

Rejoining Y this month

Reading entire books

Cautiously driving highway again

Involved in creative writing group

Started walking in the morning

***

So I’m going to tell Dr. Levy I don’t want to sound like a broken record, and honestly I’m torn about this Risperdone, on the one hand I want relief from the side effects and to have the dosage reduced but on the other hand, I’m frightened of having another psychotic episode so I’m willing to stay with the 4 mg. I’m sure he hears this stuff from plenty of other patients, I’m not alone. I’ll bet he already knows how this session is going to go today, I think deep down I know too, we need to just stay the course, I need to put up with the side effects, such is my lot in life.

What I maybe want to say is the side effects disable me, and I don’t think that’s fair. Of course I know if I don’t take the meds I’ll end up nuts, so I won’t go down that path, but I’m left feeling despondent and not such a fighter sometimes. One thing I’m maybe not considering is I don’t like the summer heat and perhaps that’s been why I’ve been struggling more lately? Something to consider.

So I guess I’m going to this psych appointment not expecting too much, just grateful that I have an excellent psychiatrist who I trust. We all have our crosses to bear, mine are the med side effects. But let’s stick with what I’m grateful for, certainly I’m pleased and relieved that the psychosis is gone, I’m sane, back firmly in reality. Lord, I don’t want to get manic psychosis again, if that means I have to stay at 4 mg Risperdone then so be it. Maybe I just keep it short and sweet with Dr. Levy, say yeah, I sure hate these side effects but the medicine is exactly where it needs to be.

Back to acceptance again, Melissa? Aren’t we always? Oh sigh and sigh some more. 

Postscript: So the session went well, yes, we are staying at the same dosages of my meds. Time to hunker down and accept the 4 mg Risperdone, at least the Depakote was lowered last year to 750 mg and I have experienced great cognitive improvements. One foot in front of the other, I can do this. I will adapt. And accept.

New Beginnings

 OK, so I’m thinking I need to implement some changes to my routine, particularly in the morning, to start cutting through this worry that I want so much to bring under control. I’m not going to reach for more Gabapentin, because that leaves me sedate and further trapped in my recliner. My plan is to get dressed in the morning and go for a walk in the neighborhood; building up to joining with my husband in his morning walk and run with Lily in the park. Yesterday clearly showed me that if I can get more movement, my anxiety disappears completely. I’ve been mostly sedate ever since the pandemic in March 2020–that’s over 3 years! Something needs to change, and I have to have the courage to change the things I can.

I dream of the time when I’m feeling relaxed, good and optimistic again. I know the key is to break this rumination cycle I’ve been trapped in for so long. I’m the fourth side of the square of bipolar stability—Me, meds, therapy, and family and friends support. I’ve been dealing with this rodeo for so damn long, I know what to do. To add in some fun, I scheduled a massage and hopefully a hair cut next week. I know what I need to feel good. OK, I’m gonna check my weight and take a shower before lunch and the movie. Today should be fun. Catch ya later. Onward!

Evening Reflections and Update

 Good evening, dear reader(s), I come to you later in a day filled with a lot of fear—what’s been happening for a stretch of days is I wake up extremely fearful that I am not OK in my present situation here in my cluttered home, and I spend the morning and afternoon not doing anything to bring more order to my environment, rather spending hours ruminating about how awful things are. Now this couldn’t be further from the truth, I have a loving husband, family and friends; I am mentally stable (besides the breakthrough anxiety); I have Dr. Levy and therapist Dick Fetter, AA sponsor Shawn and many AA friends. I am not homeless living under a bridge. 

Maybe the problem is Fetter has been on vacation for two weeks, so we haven’t had the last two therapy sessions. Plus Shawn has been on vacation in Thailand during the exact same stretch of time. So two key components of my support network haven’t been in place. I’m pretty sure that’s the issue here, so I just have to keep telling myself everything is gonna be OK and these people will be back seeing me regularly next week.

I’m sitting here shaking my head because 6 months ago I wasn’t contending with anxiety, I was out in manic La La Land, it’s so confusing and maddening to me how everything can completely flip and change course. I’m not saying I want to be back in manic psychosis, absolutely not, I just think I’d be handling things better right now if I didn’t have to contend with this fear issue every day. But there was a bright spot today, I had water aerobics this afternoon and the exercise completely eliminated the anxiety I was feeling. So I think I need to be doing a lot more of this!

My sleep has been very good, knock on wood, and that’s a great relief. My eating is good and very healthy. Basically my overall health is very, very good, nothing to worry about there. I’m trying to bathe more and Michael always reminds me to brush my teeth. My clothes are clean, so when it comes to hygiene I’m in good shape. Things are definitely not dire, I just need to tackle my living space, which has been an issue for years. I asked Michael to help me, he said he would, so soon I will start on the guest bedroom. Small steps, I can do it.

I completed my writing assignment for this week’s group, on travel, so I’m looking forward to a discussion on that on Saturday. Tomorrow we are going to see the movie “Oppenheimer” with mom then out to dinner afterwards. Should be fun. I guess I need to treasure these times when the anxiety is at bay, right now I’m feeling relaxed, actually. I don’t know if this is because I took my bipolar meds 2 hours ago, they are fresh in my system, or maybe it’s night time and I’m winding down? It’s just fingers crossed that tomorrow morning I’m not fearful again, I wonder if I can somehow train myself to stay focused on the good things going right for me?

It may be time for a Gratitude List again, perhaps I log one here tomorrow. OK, that’s it for now, I’m gonna browse through some old entries to get some insight into my “manic mind” with hopes that I can become less afraid of what might happen should I get sick again. Sleep tight tonight, Melissa, take it easy on yourself. Stay in today, dammit.

Writing Prompt: Starry, Starry Night

 Prompt: Write about travel.

Starry, Starry Night

I believe it was 2008 when my husband and I took off on our first road trip together out West. I had frantically run all over Columbus buying camping supplies, including a cheap Coleman tent for $50 bucks, an inflatable queen size mattress and a small, portable cook stove. We had quite an impressive itinerary, drive through the Midwest out to South Dakota, into Montana then down through Wyoming and Colorado then back home. Ah, to be younger with wanderlust again.

After packing our Volkswagen station wagon to the seams, we set off with me at the wheel. I did all the driving back then, I was fearless, and I had also made the somewhat reckless decision to stop taking my antipsychotic medication, which made me feel fatigued and unmotivated. So I was plenty jacked up, and my husband was excited too. That first day we did twelve hours straight of driving and made it all the way into the far eastern side of South Dakota. I remember pulling into a gas station and buying a six pack of beer and trying to drink one in the car before we got to our motel. My husband lectured me though, so I screwed the lid back on the bottle.

Now, South Dakota is a very looooong state to drive, if you didn’t know. And it’s mostly barren and flat, the only thing you see along the interstate is the repetitive billboards advertising the Wall Drug Store located out near the Badlands National Park where we were spending a few days camping. We must have spent seven or eight hours traversing through South Dakota, with me uttering in frustration, “When will we get there?!” and “Wall Drug Store better have something for me to buy, dammit!” But I remember squealing with joy when we finally approached the utterly majestic Badlands mountains. Striped rust and tan formations almost too difficult to describe, that absolutely gleamed in the setting sun. 

I had made us a reservation at a quirky little place called Badlands Ranch and Resort, located just outside the park in a town called Interior with spectacular views of the area. It was a little run down, but there was space for RVs, tents, and there were small cabins you could rent. It wasn’t too crowded so we set up our tent next to an electric outlet typically designated for an RV so we could plug in a small CD player we had brought with us. I remember my husband setting up our flimsy, cheap Coleman tent and inflating the mattress, then he fired up his “Best of Ray Charles” CD and we toasted each other sitting on a picnic bench. I probably cooked us up some awful canned chili or something like that—I hadn’t mastered gourmet camping cooking yet (that would come later).

The two things we hadn’t planned for was the heat in the region in August, and that the owner of Badlands Ranch and Resort kept horses on the property for trail rides, which attracted huge, biting horseflies. Our poor little Coleman tent filled up with the flies so we had to make a run to a small neighboring town to get a fogger to clear out the tent. We cracked another beer and just laughed about it, with Ray singing “Georgia” and “Stella By Starlight” and other memorable classics. We had hoped to perhaps hike around Badlands National Park, but with temps hitting 105 degrees we had to suffice with driving around the park in an air conditioned VW, snapping photos out the window. 

We had an absolutely magical experience late one night when we crept out from the “resort,” walking down a dirt road for a bit until we found a dimly lit light post and a grassy knoll to sit down upon. We stretched out on our backs and stared up at the sky, taking in awe the vast black sky filled with countless stars, some of which were shooting towards the ground below. I wove my husband’s fingers through my own and told him it was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen, and he softly kissed me. We lied there for awhile, just taking in the starry splendor, enjoying the moment.

Yes, we did make it to the Wall Drug Store, where we stopped before leaving the Badlands and heading to Mt. Rushmore. I bought a way too overpriced Western leather purse, which I still have and occasionally use. We continued on into Montana and then Yellowstone National Park and Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming, which I loved, but our experience at the quirky Badlands Ranch and Resort remains a treasured memory. I Googled whether that place is still around, but I think it may be closed now. What a shame. Who knows, maybe my husband and I may go out West again but I think this time we will fly there. I’m feeling too old for 12-hour driving shifts. I just fired up Pandora and started playing some Ray Charles tunes. Ah, memories. 

Writing Prompt: Nothin’ Left To Do But Smile, Smile, Smile

Prompt: Write about what makes you laugh.

Nothin’ Left To Do But Smile, Smile, Smile

Full-out belly laughter comes hard to me these days, thanks to the potent mix of medications I’m on which have a side effect of making me feel emotionally flat. But I can and do certainly smile, and a little more broadly than Mona Lisa so that’s saying something. Lots of things make me smile, for instance what comes to mind is my husband Michael’s food belly, which has been lovingly constructed by me through the elaborate meals I make for him every night. I deliberately serve him heaping portions, it’s how I show my love, and I am delighted to see his (nearly) clean plate after eating. 

Speaking of bellies, my beloved Basset Hound Lily has a big belly, because she’s getting ample table treats from all the food I’m serving. That makes me smile too, happy hound, happy home, and all that. Perhaps we all have a weight problem here, but we’re smiling so I call that a win.

Now, the biggest belly I’ve known to date belonged to my father, who always said he had a body built for comfort, and a belly that was “bought and paid for.” His stomach was so comforting to me, I found it equally humorous and endearing, that rotund Jolly St. Nick extension was such a big part of his personality. I’m smiling thinking of Dad asleep in his recliner during the afternoon golf match, hands folded atop his belly, contentedly snoring away. Rest in peace and comfort, dear Daddy.

Yes, bellies make me smile, and the famous bellies made me laugh, like those belonging to John Belushi and Chris Farley and John Candy. Who can forget Chris Farley posing topless in black Lycra pants doing a Chippendale’s dance off with Patrick Swayze? I absolutely love that sketch, I hope you’ve seen it, if not, tune into the Best of Saturday Night Live Special every year around Thanksgiving or Christmas time.

No, I may not belly laugh anymore, but I can certainly sing, so allow me to regale you with the chorus of a famous Grateful Dead song. It’s a mantra I live by these days, here moving past middle age into aging and all that entails. I’m trying to take it easy, enjoy the slower pace of things, live in the moment. And when things get me down, try to remember: “Nothing left to do but smile, smile, smile.”

Acceptance

 Mornin’ and all that, got up at 7 a.m. after a restful night’s sleep. I’m moving into acceptance of my situation, the med dosages, I guess I’m just grateful that I’m here firmly tethered in reality and taking it easy. Fetter and I had a good session yesterday, where he coached me on looking at the bright side of my situation, saying I had a superior intellect and ability to condense large chunks of information down to the essence of meaning, and I thanked him for pointing that out. Certainly my cognitive skills have improved and I’m very pleased about that. 

I could tell that Fetter does not want me using the word “disability” or “disabled” rather saying “limitations” if I need something to describe what the side effects of my meds do to me. He also does not want me texting or emailing Dr. Levy begging for a reduction in my Risperdal—we talked about it and I guess we decided that I’m best off accepting this 4 mg dose because it protects me better should another episode occur, which is probably likely, maybe not for another 5+ years, but honestly let’s get real, the manias come and I just need to accept that.

I’m scared of the episodes, even though when I’m in them I outwardly can appear totally normal. I actually can enjoy them when they are happening, it’s like I’m being filmed for a movie, maybe I enjoy the grandiosity of it all. Perhaps it would be easier for me if my bipolar did not have the psychotic features attached, I wouldn’t feel the compulsion to wander, that’s what scares me now, that I might wander into a dangerous situation and get into trouble. Thank god Michael can track me through my phone, and through credit cards so he knows where I am at all times.

I’m sitting here kinda fearful and I don’t want to be this way, but it’s hard when I think of my past episodes and what they entailed. Maybe I use this fear to throw myself into acceptance of the Risperdal, side effects and all, for the rest of my life, however long that may be. I’m just so glad this last incident/episode is over, good riddance, I’m safe, I didn’t have any wild spending spree, I didn’t wander into a random church, I actually just occupied myself with my blog here so I have a record now of my thought patterns from December 2022-March 2023 when I was in that manicky/psychotic state. I haven’t read back over those entries, I’ll do that at a later date. 

I’m not going anywhere today and actually I’m kinda glad. I just want to stay here safe in my home. Michael is going to be out on errands and I don’t like being alone but it’s OK I can handle it. I’m going to do laundry and take a shower, have lunch and read another romance novel mom got me. Mom is on her way to Boston right now for a funeral in New Hampshire but she’ll be home tomorrow night. I have my writing group tomorrow and I’m looking forward to that. Everything is going to be OK. 

I just try to keep telling myself I’m safe and keep things calm and predictable. Sometimes that’s hard. I wish I didn’t get so anxious all the time. I’m so dependent on Michael and mom. Gotta stand on my own two feet. Why am I feeling so insecure today?

Motorin Through

 Had a rough night’s sleep last night, up and down, nightmares about the dogs getting out, just anxiety dreams, yuck. So I’m dragging this morning, and wouldn’t you know I have a Zoom with my Smith pals, which I wanted to be up for, but now I’m running on fumes. I would love to be back in bed but I’m a terrible napper, so I guess I just suck this up and move forward the best I can.

I’ve decided if I just have to be sedentary in a recliner so be it—at least I’m reading again, and I’m writing, and I text people and read and write emails on my iPad. Thank God I’m done with Facebook for the most part, that social media rots your brain, what a rabbit hole that took me down! Good riddance, I’m back to books, I’m inching closer to going to the Main Library and seeing what’s going on there.

***

Ok, so it’s a few days later, I’m sleeping better now, working through one of the romance novels mom got me and it’s light, enjoyable reading that I’m pleased I can do! I’m shifting my thinking and attitude towards look, this high dosage of the Risperdal makes me disabled in some ways, and that’s ok, focus on what I can do, maybe start walking more even though it’s summertime and I hate the heat. I’m going to try and be productive today, do some laundry, maybe put some clothes away, maybe take some things out to the trash. But not going to push it, I want to read this afternoon, and make a beef casserole for dinner.

I wish I could come to peace with this 4 mg. Risperdal dose, it’s my last hurdle to face, why do I keep fighting it, it’s so tiring fighting all the time. I guess I want to be back to the free-spirited self I was before all the meds, but I was much younger then, not 57 years old like I am today. Let go, Melissa, stop fighting, move into acceptance and realize this is all part of a Higher Power’s plan for me. My life is not awful, I have many, many things going for me, I’m blessed. 

Michael thinks I analyze too much but that’s just how I’m wired. I’ve been keeping journals since I was a young child, I find solace in words, I’m a thinker and a communicator. I’m so glad I have this blog here to read back over and see my thought patterns over the months—clearly there’s been a shift in the number of entries since that manicky period over the winter died off. But importantly I feel calmer now, less charged up, moving slowly but that’s FINE. I’m going to get dressed and take Lily on her morning walk, get moving, get out of my recliner. 

Feeling AOK right now, which is nice, stay in today and all will be well. Off I go, thanks for listening whoever you are. Oh yes, that’s myself.

Writing Prompt: What Are You So Afraid Of?

 Prompt: What are you so afraid of?

Dismantling Fear

Ask me what I’m afraid of and I’ll pull out a piece of paper where I outlined my three major fears: That I’ll be a) alone; b) broke; and c.) insane, assuming all of these three things will be going on together, with no hope in sight. But wise AA Sponsor Shawn had me make this list, with the added instruction write underneath each fear the FACTS about where things stand today. What followed was an eye-opening exercise which left me feeling confident, definitely less fearful, and yes, optimistic that I was indeed going to be safe and OK. So let me go through this piece of paper I have, giving voice to the facts that keep me grounded in today, not a catastrophic unknown future.

Fear #1: I am alone.

Facts: I have a loving, loyal husband by my side. I have extended family all over Columbus, including my mother, brother, sister, and numerous nieces and nephews. I have numerous friends all over this town. I have my AA family, including Sponsor Shawn, my Creative Writing group, and other individuals in the recovery community. I may join a church, and find a new church family. So in other words, I am definitely not alone!

Fear #2: I am broke.

Facts: My husband and I are not broke. We have ample savings and financial security throughout retirement. We own our house. We do not live a lavish lifestyle and stay within a budget. My husband is frugal and an excellent financial planner. Everything is going to be OK. 

Fear #3: I am insane.

Facts: I have bipolar type 1 with psychotic features. I may have sporadic episodes but they are managed by one of the best psychiatrists in the city. I take my meds now as prescribed, religiously. I am completely sober from all substances, and have been for over 6 years. I get anxious I will go off the rails, but I have a safety net of doctors, family and friends around me. I know what to do if an episode starts to take hold, who to call and where to go, the hospital if need be. Every one of my episodes has a beginning, middle and end. They do not last forever. Today I am sane—and I’m like this most of the time! Can you even call me in an episode insane? Does this label even apply?

When I think about my base fears, I can see that they are rooted in this feeling that I am not going to be OK, or safe even. Sponsor Shawn said to me, Am I practicing faith that everything is going to be OK? I think about this a lot. According to the facts, my fears have no merit. Isn’t it time to let go and see my Higher Power has got me, has ensured I’m safe, I’m protected. Put your faith in the Higher Power and rest easy. Everything is handled. And that’s a fact.

Psych Appointment

 Just keeping a record here for me, this morning is my FaceTime with Dr. Levy, to discuss how I’m doing, and a chance for me to make any requests for tweaks in my meds. I didn’t sleep well last night, so I’m extremely tired but also always fearful of getting manic psychotic again. This doesn’t stop me though from desiring a reduction in my antipsychotic Risperdal, because the side effects are so onerous and I desperately want relief. I guess I’m confused as to how to approach this session—do I request to drop down from 4 mg to 3.5 mg or just throw my hands up in the air and say help, I’m unhappy, we are right back where I was 6 years ago, feeling stuck in tar and I can’t stand it. 

My cooking is suffering, the dishes are not up to my standard, and it’s a little harder to write. I’m posting fewer and fewer entries, and I’m concerned about that. I did though have two victories yesterday: got the sheets cleaned and beds made and read half of that chick lit book mom gave me. So I can do some things, I’m not completely disabled, I just want more relief from the emotional flatness and fatigue and struggles with more motivation. I’m fighting like hell to convince myself this will not be my lot in life for the rest of my days, yet sadly more and more I’m believing that as long as I need an antipsychotic, which is til I die, I will suffer. I want to scream, “This isn’t fair!” but I know there are many, many others much worse off than me, so I need to pick myself up and keep moving forward.

I’m in that terrible space where I have a lot of self-pity, hating my situation, feeling like my life has been a waste. What’s maddening is I swallow these meds every night, exerting my own free will, knowing that they may keep my moods stable but they wreck havoc on my life. I wonder if Dr. Levy can help me today, or if everything will stay the same? Will I start sending him lengthy emails again, begging for my life back, demanding some different course of treatment, but ultimately getting nowhere? Is this current state my new normal, will my cooking go to hell, oh what is to become of me, I wish I knew.

***

OK, just had my session with Dr. Levy, and he gently but clearly explained that we are holding all of my meds exactly where they are, no changes in dosage amounts, this is my new normal. I have to learn to push for motivation, force myself out of the chair, challenge the side effects, if that’s possible. No more dreaming of lowered Risperdal, I’ve been hospitalized 10 times, my brain wiring is damaged and I need the protection of a higher dosage. It’s just that simple, no more, no less, this is my situation. So I’m going to suck it up and move forward, find my way through this, grow and adapt. I’m disappointed but at least I know what I’m dealing with now.

Slogging Through The Tar

 So here I am, 8 months post-hospitalization, 3 months post-last vestiges of mild psychosis/somewhat manicky art creation period, and I’m feeling blunted by what I’m guessing is the 4 mg. Risperdal I’ve been on this whole time. I feel emotionally flat, struggling with motivation, always fatigued, no energy and I’m pretty sure this is all a side effect of the Risperdal. I have a FaceTime with Dr. Levy tomorrow morning, and I’m torn between seriously pushing for a Risperdal reduction or just accepting my state of affairs because I’m frightened of going nuts again. Maybe I just let go and tell Dr. Levy I’m miserable, then see what he says about it. 

I did manage to get dressed today before noon, and get all the bedsheets in the washer this morning. I’m going to spend today trying to read a light, chick lit book my mom gave me, just to get some practice with reading, which has been so difficult for so many years. I’m sensing that I’m really going to need to push myself through all the disabilities caused by the medication side effects—but it’s tiring, and I encounter road blocks, and I often just want to give up. I know oh so well why people don’t want to take these meds, who wants to feel like they are in tar?

But I have been completely med compliant going on 6 years now, sober too, and I’ll continue on this path. I just wish I didn’t feel like my life is slipping away; and this makes me wonder if maybe I’m feeling a tad depressed, but then who wouldn’t be if they had to take the meds I have to. Michael is being an angel, putting up with my sedentary ways, my flatness, oftentimes it’s just him doing all the talking whilst I sit here, mute, doped up, is this any way to conduct a relationship? Will it be this way for the rest of my life, or will some new medicine cocktail come down the pike? Why do I have to be on such old meds—oh, I know, I tried all the newer meds and just ended up nuts.

I’ve got to break away from all this self-analysis, and just get down to the task of living. Michael is going to bring me some ice cream to have as a treat tonight, and I’m going to prepare a roasted salmon Niçoise salad for dinner, should be tasty. I have sponsor Shawn’s AA zoom tonight and I’m looking forward to that. It’s hot outside, summer is here, not my favorite time of year to be sure but I’ll muddle through as best I can. Yes, I hate my meds but it is what it is, just keep livin and all that. Ok that’s all for today, onward I go to making beds and attempting to read. Small goals, baby steps. As always.

Writing Prompt: Following Frost

 Prompt: Pick a phrase important to you and write about it.

Following Frost

Robert Frost in his seminal poem, “The Road Not Taken,” ends the piece with the following: “Two roads diverged in a wood and I, I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.” I love this poem so much I had my brother read it at my wedding, knowing this notion of “I took the road less traveled” had been so key to me throughout my life, as I stood there at the altar 22 years ago; and indeed it remains woven in my life today.

When I was a young child, I always felt like I was marching to a different drummer. Outgoing, creative, always performing, my mother says it was like the oxygen was sucked out of the room when I was on one of my energetic highs. But then I would have these dark, low periods that no one seemed to understand, least of all me. As I entered my teenage years, I discovered booze and cigarettes, which I found I could use to manage all the angsty turmoil inside of me—somewhat.

I had no idea that what I was experiencing was the beginning of a serious mental illness, bipolar disorder. I saw no therapist or psychiatrist at the time. This was the early 1980s, I was living in a small, privileged suburb of Columbus, Ohio, where no one I knew was under the care of a mental health professional. I was left to my own devices to muddle through as best I could, drinking way too much than I should have, not really noticing that I drank twice as much as my friends, though that would become glaringly apparent when I enrolled in a small, elite women’s college in Massachusetts in the Fall of 1984. There I tried to rally mostly meekish, library-bound women into joining me on nightly forays out to smoky taverns, only to encounter resistance from most. So I learned to drink alone.

Fast forward to my mid-twenties, when I was living and working in Washington D.C. and I met and fell in love with a much older man, who ended up convincing me to quit my very rewarding career with the federal government and move across the world to Almaty, Kazakhstan. I had complete culture shock when I arrived, it was a run-down, dark and dirty testament to failed Communism, with large, empty cement buildings, outdoor gathering places where people had stolen the wood from the benches to burn for firewood, a place where I ate horse meat and once drunk on too much vodka almost ate a piece of dead goat’s head offered up by the town’s mayor to me at a neighborhood gathering. I quickly realized I was drunk, miserable, and homesick and soon left the country and the man.

Not knowing where else to go, I returned to my family in Columbus, where after a few sessions with a wise therapist, I was convinced to enter the Talbot Hall outpatient alcohol and drug rehab program. I was 28 or 29, I cannot remember exactly, but I know I was young, the only one of my friends giving up alcohol and weed at the time. I embraced AA with ferocious energy, driving to meetings all around town, drinking the coffee and chain smoking like there was no tomorrow. But I fell back in with my high school buddies, and started smoking weed, rationalizing that was OK as long as I didn’t touch alcohol. I would meet my former punk rocker husband at this time, and we fell in love listening to jazz on the porch of my home the summer of 2000. In a way, he was a lost soul like I was, and we had found one another at last. 

We married in the Fall of 2001, a month after 9/11, and stopped by New York City to see the World Trade Center wreckage during our honeymoon travels. I dunno, it just seemed like the proper thing to do at the time, pay respects to the fallen. Then in true road-less-traveled fashion, I exploded into my first manic psychotic episode four months later, finding myself strapped in tightly to a gurney being wheeled down an emergency room corridor to a waiting ambulance, screaming for God while my husband stood by watching, tears streaming down his face. Welcome official bipolar type 1 diagnosis.

I’ve been on a road ever since of managing a dual diagnosis of alcoholism and bipolar disorder, meeting some similar souls along the way, me always trying to model a picture of resilience even on dark days when I feel highly frustrated with my condition and want to head down a path of self-pity. I have had numerous substance abuse relapses, but snapped to in 2017 when I was 50, giving up marijuana and alcohol for good and soon coming back to AA and earnestly starting to work on the 12 Steps. I recently celebrated my 6-year sober anniversary, something I’m very proud of and continue to build upon, one day at a time. My bipolar still flares up, despite rigid medication compliance by me, but I’m lucky to have an excellent treatment team and supportive family as a safety net.

I don’t know where my unique road plans to take me, I’m just staying in today, taking things as they come. I do sometimes fall prey to anxious thoughts about catastrophic future scenarios, but I’m learning to better manage that with my AA program. Yes, I’m on a dually-diagnosed road less traveled, but that has indeed made the difference. I view the world more compassionately today, with an inner wisdom bourn out from years of suffering. Easy does it is my mantra today, as I sit here at age 57, getting closer to 60 and all that entails. I may have stumbled and fallen down many times, but I’m currently back on my road, walking. And I think right now I’d call that a triumph. 

Writing Prompt: Raft of the Medusa

 Prompt: Write a piece inspired by a work of art.

Theodore Gericault’s “Raft of the Medusa” (1818-1819)

What was it like to be one of the desperate people crowded on a rickety raft of 149 passengers from the shipwrecked Medusa in July 1816? Or better yet, what was it like to be one of the only 15 survivors that were eventually rescued by a passing vessel after enduring thirst and starvation under extremely harsh elements? French Romantic artist Theodore Gericault, obsessed with the true story from his day, chose to focus on the raft survivors, showing us his depiction of the state they were in upon first sighting the rescue ship. Parallels to a recovery from alcoholism through AA can be drawn, which will be explored in this piece.

When your eyes first see the canvas, they seem to be drawn immediately to the two barely clad, pale figures nearly slipping off the raft and into the sea. One looks dead but what about the other? Is there some still-smoldering ember of life that he can somehow hold on to for just awhile longer? Similar to an alcoholic on death’s door, can one make their way through the AA meeting doors, will their legs hold out to propel them forward, or can they get to a detox facility or hospital soon enough and surrender? It’s a crap shoot, oftentimes, perhaps the Higher Power is calling the shots; and in Gericault’s painting, a pensive, seated figure to the left is firmly holding on to this figure teetering on the edge, almost willing him to hang on. An allusion to God?

As your eyes make their way along the raft lifting up in the sea to the right, you first see several figures in the center, under a billowing remnant of a sail blowing in the wind, holding up one another, and reaching upwards to support a dark-skinned figure on the right standing on a barrel, who has mustered up enough energy to wave a red kerchief to signal the rescue ship in the horizon. Might this remind you of the fellowship of AA, lifting one another up towards recovery from a rock-bottom? The rescue ship can be seen as the AA 12-Step program, offering a blessed solution to a hellish situation, that one seeks to escape from but needs help. There is even a figure on the raft waving a piece of white cloth, a sign of surrender, which is so intertwined with AA’s Step One. 

Taken as a whole, the figures on the raft illustrate the ravages of being adrift, but also the exhilarating advent of hope when salvation is spied. One need only think of an AA meeting room, where individuals in all states gather under the sign: Hope Is Found Here. In the rooms, the downtrodden individual can find a smile, and eventually laughter; something we might wish for those on the raft still alive to be rescued to ultimately experience again.

Adjustments

 Ok, I’ve been way too sedate for awhile now, today was particularly challenging, I’m having incredible difficulty writing and even the cooking now is in jeopardy. Started today dialing back the Gabapentin by 400 mg, just to see if I have a slight improvement in my situation. I didn’t text Dr. Levy for guidance, I think I have latitude to make this small adjustment on my own. Perhaps some anxiety might come back—I have been feeling none, but I’m so sedate and flat that I can’t do anything, and this is no way to go through life.

I feel at the mercy of these meds, always looking for the perfect combination and dosage to improve my lot. It just doesn’t exist, it’s a give and take, accept some things, maybe push back on others. But I absolutely cannot lose the writing and cooking, I can’t keep sitting in this chair staring off into space. So let’s try this anxiety med adjustment, see what happens, Fetter was suggesting it over a week ago. I was tempted to call mom to analyze the whole situation but fortunately I held off. Let’s give her a break. I can handle this, let’s just see how I feel tomorrow. Baby steps. Writing is hard so I’ll sign off for now. Later.

Check In

 Hello there reader(s), it’s a Saturday morning in June, and I’m feeling completely relaxed, though a tad sedate from the extra dose of my anxiety medication. But I’m coming to peace with my sedentary nature as of late, heck it’s hardly surprising given everything I’m taking these days. Michael has been picking up the slack by doing cleaning chores and I’m deeply appreciative of that. Without him I’d be screwed, or maybe I’d survive some way but it would be exceedingly difficult. I’m wondering if I should question Dr. Levy about possibly lowering this elephant dose of the antipsychotic Risperdal I’m on—but I’m so fearful of going manic psychotic again that I’ll probably say nothing and stay where I am.

I’m coming back again and again to acceptance of my difficulties and current situation. On the one hand I’m feeling extremely sedate and fatigued and unproductive; yet on the other hand, I’m firmly anchored in reality, feeling “normal,” and I’ve got complete relief from the anxiety, which was a true bitch to deal with these past three months. It’s kinda like Dr. Levy has got me fine-tuned on the medication available to treat my specific diagnoses of bipolar with psychotic features and the anxiety disorder; but it’s left me kinda flat and numb and not feeling much emotion at all. 

Fetter mentioned on Thursday that my affect was flat. I explained it was due to the extra Gabapentin and he suggested I might want to dial it back. But I’m just not sure I want to do that. Having relief from the anxiety means a lot to me. Plus I know unchecked anxiety leads to a ramp up in mania—I have the history, I know what has happened to me in the past, I believe every one of my past episodes involved escalating anxiety spiraling out of control, leading me to seek refuge in mental wards, which themselves are traumatic. So I will sit here and accept a flat affect, knowing I am safe, relaxed, and hopefully back on a road of stability for awhile.

So I guess here I am, still analyzing my situation, my moods, my mental state. I definitely don’t feel very creative right now, save for what comes out of my kitchen every night. I do have my writing group this afternoon and I’m looking forward to that. I’ve written a piece on my Claddagh ring Michael gave me 23 years ago. It’s poignant. That’s it for now, until next time, easy does it.