Who Am I?

 So good morning, dear reader(s), I am feeling better right now, having taken a detour into shame after reading a few chapters of Rachel Aviv’s book, “Shattered Minds.” Let me explain. She devotes chapters to individuals with serious mental illnesses, and unfortunately I am one who reads myself into what I am reading, so I was ending up feeling great fear that I would get sick again, coupled with great shame that I have been diagnosed with bipolar disorder and I will always be a loon who stopped making sense eons ago. Fortunately I called mom this morning, who graciously gave me permission to stop reading the book, which is a great relief. We decided everyone has an element of “crazy” and also I told her I’m acutely aware of my environment right now, and this is why I’m trolling the alleys, looking for trash and shards, trying to piece together some semblance of myself and the world around me.

Mom gave me my title for the teacup piece I will next start working on, “My Mother, Myself.” I absolutely love it, and find it perfectly fitting that I’m blending this info from mom about that popular 1970s book with the cup she gave me and the shards and trash I find. I’m pretty sure I’m going to affix some of that yellow Caution tape on to the work (if there is room). I’m dealing with delicate subject matter, and I want the viewer to be respectful. I saw on PBS this morning a segment about how early Egyptians used to worship around a circle with shards of rock in the middle, and I found that most compelling and timely to my construction of this art piece.

So back to this question of “Who Am I?” All I can tell you is I’ve been in therapy for three decades, hospitalized 10 times, obviously I have no friggin clue who I am, and it appears I’m headed down the same path as mom, questioning myself to the end. I am though wondering if this awareness of my environment, most likely brought on by the reduction in Depakote, is going to be something I just have to adapt to? I can only explain it as heightened senses, and I guess I’m wondering if that automatically classifies me as crazy. Now, I don’t think so, I don’t feel any urge to wander around aimlessly, or talk to myself, save sometimes when I’m in the car listening to music. But Fetter told me many people talk to themselves, so I’m taking comfort in that right now.

All I know is trying to read that (acclaimed) book about mentally ill people made me really, really uncomfortable, fearful, doubting myself, doubting my AA serenity and spirituality quest, I dunno, it kinda made me feel like I did when I read that BP Hope article about bipolar creativity. Bad reaction, upset, felt misunderstood, felt labeled and classified. So I will do as mom says and set the book aside, thanks to Michael for procuring it for me from the library, mom has ordered a copy for herself and it will be in her personal library if I wish to revisit it.

I’m now having a somewhat lazy time, slow start to making the Red Flannel Hash and Eggs for brunch. Michael slept in late, and we’ve got Classical 101 on the radio. Lily is busy burying her rawhide bone in the couch, light snowflakes were falling earlier on this cold Saturday. I really need to do some laundry today, been putting it off for quite some time. March Madness basketball is on TV, I don’t pay much attention to that typically, but maybe this year I will give it a closer look. All in all I feel OK, just sensitive and aware like I said, and I’m not sure how long this is going to last. Still recovering, I guess. Patience, Melissa, patience. Stay the course, One Day At A Time. Stability through routine, sometimes repetition, sometimes free-floating thought. Who Am I? Just call me experiencing. Yeah, I guess that fits today.