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.

Writing Prompt: Circle of Love

 Prompt: Describe an inanimate object that’s precious to you and the story behind it.

Circle of Love

I’m not sure if you can see it when you look at my box on Zoom, but around my neck is a thin gold chain, and on it is a golden ring. Now, this is not any ordinary ring, it is an Irish Claddagh ring, a ring with two hands clasping a heart with a crown upon it. So it goes, the hands represent friendship; the heart represents love; and the crown is a symbol of loyalty. Combined, these three virtues form the ideal relationship, one based on friendship, love and loyalty. Dating back to the 17th century, Claddagh rings are a cherished symbol of Irish culture and heritage, and are often used as engagement and wedding rings.

I received my Claddagh ring 23 years ago, a gift from my Irish-German husband Michael, before we were officially engaged. We had been living together for a few months, falling deeply in love rather quickly, when he came home from work one night with a ring box for me. I recall being terribly nervous before I opened it; I didn’t know what was inside, or how I was to respond. But when I saw it was a Claddagh ring, everything suddenly felt so right. “This is my promise ring for you,” my husband said, indicating we would be “engaged to be engaged.” I don’t remember how I responded, probably hugged him tightly in gratitude that he would be making an honest woman out of me, knowing my antiquated father who disapproved of me living with someone outside of marriage would certainly approve.

Michael would go on to give me an engagement ring, followed by a wedding band a year later. But I still wore my Claddagh ring on my right hand, feeling a part of an Irish “tribe” valuing loyalty and love. I liked that. But then the unexpected happened. My bipolar blew out, and I was put on medication that caused my thin, slender hands to swell. Suddenly, my beloved Claddagh ring didn’t fit, so I put it away in a jewelry box, where it sat. For 20 years. Yup, two decades passed by before I came across the jewelry box and opened it, and rediscovered my precious ring.

Lots had transpired during those past 20 years that confirmed my husband Michael was dedicated to friendship, love and perhaps most importantly loyalty. He had stood by my side through my 9 hospitalizations, many worsened by my alcohol and marijuana use. He had lovingly supported me as I moved in, and out, and back in to AA. And Michael has always been my friend and confidant, spending countless hours listening to me moan about my insecurities and anxieties, and offering up wisdom and reassurance that everything is indeed going to be OK. This is not to say he doesn’t frustrate me at times—Oh, he does! But we have a solid relationship, and my delicate Claddagh ring captures the essence of it so well.

When I located this ring again in my jewelry box, and tried it on but found it wouldn’t fit, I thought for a minute how I might be able to have it close to my heart, and suddenly devised a plan to wear it on a chain around my neck. For Christmas last year, my husband got me a gold necklace, and I slid my Claddagh ring on it and it hasn’t left my neck since. This “Promise” ring in many ways is more precious to me than any other piece of jewelry, anything else I own, actually. It symbolizes my recovery journey with my loved one, walking our own road less travelled. Dearest Michael, thank you for this golden circle of love.

Relaxation

 Well Top ‘O The Mornin’, dear reader(s), I report I am doing so much better! I feel calm and relaxed now in the morning, the worry and anxiety has pretty much completely diminished, and I must say it’s a great thing to be feeling this way! I was extremely productive yesterday, putting clothes away, showering, clearing the clogged tub drain, did two loads of laundry and cooked a marvelous spaghetti dinner. Today I plan to fold my clothes, put them away, go to the drug store and the grocery, and perhaps start work on organizing one of the bedrooms here. I’m going to take things slow, work in reasonable chunks of time, just put one foot in front of the other as I do. 

Mom and I are planning to go on a road trip to a merry go round with my niece and her two kids in two days. Mom wants to ride one, and I’m delighted by the prospect of seeing her enjoy the ride. We are stopping for lunch at a diner along the highway, and after the merry go round we are going to a wildlife sanctuary where you can see and feed birds. The kids will love that. I’m excited to spend time with my family, and take a little trip which gets me out of town. Maybe some day Michael and I might take our own trip somewhere, with Lily of course, perhaps to a cabin in the woods or some place like that.

I’m feeling deeply grateful for my sobriety this morning, thankful for how my life has opened up since I ditched the booze and weed and joined AA and met sponsor Shawn. I see peaceful possibilities now, I see my marriage saved, indeed I see my life saved. I know those who didn’t make it, those who died young, and it just makes me grab on to life more. I will continue my search to find new friends who respect and understand how important sobriety is to me, and who also understand the strength and perseverance it takes to manage a dual diagnosis of alcoholism and bipolar disorder. That’s my full time job, actually, managing my conditions, and I’m going to give myself a pat on the back for a job well-done.

The birds are chirping outside and it sounds cheery and welcoming. I think I may send Dr. Levy a text thanking him for all his wisdom of managing my anxiety so I can function again and have relief. I’m truly blessed to have him as my psychiatrist. OK, I’m off to start my day. Later, folks.

Healing

 Good morning, dear reader(s), it looks to be a beautiful Sunday here in my corner of the world. I awoke at 8:00 am, after a long sleeping session and I feel calm, thanks to the rest plus extra Gabapentin I am taking for anxiety. Sometimes I wonder if I am sleeping my life away, but I know it is just my brain healing from these past manic episodes. It feels comforting to be back here in reality (though I miss the creative energy). There are pieces of my art cluttering up the parlor and I want Michael to take them up to the attic; but he likes having it around, so I guess it is all staying downstairs for now. I’m feeling this strong urge to throw a lot of stuff out, but this always happens in my recovery trajectory. 

I’ve been attending my Writer’s Circle and really loving it. It gets my mind thinking, and I get to exercise my writing skills, which had been almost nonexistent for such a long time. Plus there is the comraderie of me and the guys in the group, which I treasure. I’m not sure how long this little group will keep going, but I hope we can sustain it for awhile. I have a deep gratitude to Shawn and our “leader” Andy for setting this group up. It came right at the time I needed it, when my medication had been adjusted so my writer’s block was broken. I guess maybe that hospitalization last November wasn’t such a bad thing, I got the Depakote dosage cut in half and my cognition greatly improved. So now the writing is possible. 

I’ve had problems with motivation again, doing chores like keeping up with the laundry and putting things away. I do though keep the kitchen spotless, always have, so that’s something to hang my hat on. I think CBT techniques, like completing a worksheet every day for chores would be extremely helpful; maybe I’ll try making my own worksheet, though I don’t know if I can stick to it. I guess I’ll just say that I’d like to try and do some laundry today, maybe two loads, which is not too much to accomplish. I’d also like to take a shower, that would feel good. Push through, Melissa, push!

I know it’s the medication that makes things so difficult for me, I get so tired trying to explain this to everyone. Maybe I just be content with the knowledge that I know what’s going on and leave it at that. Oh, how I fantasize that I had a housekeeper to take care of me, my home environment, make it clutter-free and orderly. Oh well, that’s not to be, so I should move into acceptance and realize that things could be a whole helluva lot worse. Today, let’s just deal with small steps. Shower. Two loads of laundry. Cook spaghetti and meatballs dinner. AA Zoom. Keep it simple. That works best.

OK that’s it for today. One foot in front of the other. I got this.

I’m OK, You’re OK?

 I’m amazed, dear reader(s), at how much time I spend ruminating in my recliner, fretting over whether I am OK or not. I know the root of this is my constant fear that I will go manic psychotic again, and lose touch with reality and do things like wander around towards downtown or to some other destination. I’m working extremely hard in therapy to realize I’m OK right now; and that I will be OK for awhile. Maybe it’s even possible to see that I can be OK through the vestiges of the post-hospitalization period, where the psychosis can still hang around for a bit. 

I had been contending with crippling fear and anxiety—particularly in the morning hours—but had a FaceTime with Dr. Levy earlier this week and he increased my morning dose of Gabapentin. That change has really helped me. He explained that a long period elapses between my evening dose of Gabapentin at 7:00 pm and my morning dose at 8:00 am and that is why I’ve perhaps been struggling so much. I feel a great sense of relief right now, here on Friday morning in June 2023. I think if we can just get my anxiety under control I can do OK. 

I must tell you, dear reader(s), at this point in time I have absolutely no faith in the medical establishment that their medication can keep me from having another manic psychotic episode in the future. I don’t know when it will happen again; maybe in five years, maybe 10 years, who knows, but I honestly believe it will happen again and that scares the shit out of me. Yet I don’t want to live in a state of constant fear. That doesn’t do me any good. I guess I just say today I am OK, tomorrow I will be OK, and go on from there. I’m on a whopping 4 mg of the antipsychotic Risperdal; my moods are stable; I’m sleeping 9-10 hours every night. My mood stabilizer Depakote dosage has been reduced to 750 mg and my cognition is drastically improved, so I can now write again and take steps towards reading. A plus!

Knowing I’m OK is really, really important to me. Also knowing I’m “safe” whatever that means; I guess not in manic psychosis, however mild it might be. I guess my cross to bear is I will always, obsessively, be analyzing myself and my mood states, sitting in my chair ruminating. I’m going to push today to get out of the chair and do some tasks…walk Lily, make some beds, put away clothes, stuff like that. I continue to have trouble with motivation (thanks Risperdal) but I’m going to push myself. Michael has been a big support, he puts up with so much, I’m deeply indebted to him. 

Today I’m OK. I’ll take that. 

Writing Prompt: Deserted Island Books

 Prompt: Which three books would you take to a deserted island and why?

Survival Stories

When I’m asked what three books would I bring with me to a deserted island, I’m first tempted to list a medical/first aid book and a survival guide, but I know this is not the point of this exercise. Plus I want to have a little bit of fun here, and further introduce you to myself and my interests. Show you what makes me tick. So here’s a list of three books that mean a lot to me, written knowing there are MANY other books I could choose!

Book #1: “Art: A History Of Painting, Sculpture & Architecture” by Frederick Hartt

This massive, art history “Bible” used in many a collegiate Art 100 class offers such a compelling and sweeping overview of the greatest artists and artworks of all time. I’ve been lugging this book around for more than 35 years, and love looking at all the pictures and reading the accompanying text. The book has 360 color plates—so inspiring to me to look at, particularly during periods when I experience trouble with reading (this happens due to my medication). Hartt is a wise, gifted teacher, gently nudging me to explore the questions, What is art? And What makes certain works great, others less so? Perhaps it’s odd that I should choose a college textbook as my #1 book I would bring to the island. But the choice reflects my deep love of learning, being open to constantly being taught by the classic masters, and my deep love and appreciation of the arts. Plus with a whopping 1,087 pages, this book will certainly keep me occupied for a very long time.

Book #2: “Howard Finster, Man of Visions: The Life And Work Of A Self-Taught Artist” by J.F. Turner

Yes, it’s another art book I’d bring along with me for my prolonged stay solo on an island. This biography of a now deceased artist I deeply love was a gift from my mother when I was going through a particularly intense artistic period of my own. The Reverend Howard Finster was a true phenomenon: part gifted self-taught artist; part visionary minister of the Gospel; part eccentric man. His art is powerful and witty, something I’ve strived for in my own art. Finster created as a way to convey religious teachings; I’ve experienced a “calling” of sorts to relay Christian themes as well. I’m actually a proud owner of one of his pieces, a depiction of the first gas car (show group). Turner wrote this book when he was employed by ABC News. He spent a lot of time interviewing Finster for this book, which is written in an extremely interesting interview-type style. Yes, there are numerous color plates of Finster’s works, which I find inspiring and entirely relatable. I find Finster amazing, this man who only finished the sixth grade and now has pieces in the National Gallery of American Art in Washington and the Museum of American Folk Art in New York City. 

#3 “Oil!” By Upton Sinclair

The third book I’d bring was really difficult to choose. I wanted to pick an author that made a huge impact on me, and certainly muckraking socialist journalist Upton Sinclair fits the bill. I would choose his “The Jungle” about exploitation of workers in 1900s Chicago meat-packing facilities, but that work is so damn depressing I’m not sure I could stomach repetitive re-readings on my deserted isle. But “Oil!” Is a little more tolerable, describing a father-son duo involved in the 1930s Southern California oil industry and the perils of capitalism and how the son ditches the business for a socialism calling. I love Sinclair’s battle cry to embrace socialism, even though I do see some merits in capitalism. I was a political science major in college, choosing a socialist Advisor to counsel me through my course selections and planning for my future. In addition, my family members worked in the oil industry, and enjoyed all the wealth trappings which i ultimately rejected in my later years. The seeds of Sinclair were planted in me at a young age, and I’m interested in him even though he was writing over 90 years ago. I think everyone should read some of his works, to understand political and business corruption, America’s systemic flaws, and the search for possible solutions.

Difficulties

 OK, so I am now about seven months out from my last hospitalization, and I have been experiencing such crippling anxiety, particularly in the morning hours. Spoke with Dr. Levy and we increased my morning Gabapentin dose, which is helping to take the edge off of the worrying. I find it very, very interesting that for the first four or so months post-hospitalization I had no anxiety and was perhaps on the manicky side of things; then dipped a tad into mild depression, and now it’s the anxious state. I cannot seem to catch a break, I don’t say this looking for pity, rather I’m just observing my situation and writing it down here so I have it for reference.

Another thing about this last hospitalization is I went into a “confused”/quasi-manic(?) state without the use of any mind-altering substances, I had not been drinking or using weed, and I was perhaps lulled into this false sense of security that my sobriety would somehow steel me from any more episodes. Alas, that was not the case. I’m slowly coming to accept the reality that I will most likely have another episode, but the good news is I went almost 6 years between episodes this time; and I learned if I limit my social media use and also watch my obsessive dieting I can perhaps go for a longer stretch of time. My goal would be to maintain stability for 10+ years, and I realize that’s a little lofty, but we can only hope.

Mom suffers too from anxiety and I told her we are wired with overactive brains and it’s just our lot in life to contend with this situation. I think of her still contending with anxiety in her 80s, and wonder if that will happen to me when I’m her age. I would hope that maybe I’ve found some peace by that time, but who knows. I’ve turned to medication to try and manage it, and that does help. I wonder how long this anxiety will plague me, will it be years, I guess I have to consult with Dr. Levy and get his take on the situation. 

So it’s Thursday and I have therapy at 12:30. I’m going to discuss this “recovery arc” I’ve been going through, and inquire if the trauma of going through the psychotic state is what is causing all this anxiety; and then ask some really hard questions about whether I need to pursue CBT or DBT to manage this, or whether a more “narrative” approach is satisfactory for me. I guess all I’m asking for is relief from the crushing, obsessive worrying and self-analysis. 

OK, I’ve got to run. Til next time. Adios.

Writing Prompt #7: A Chef’s Life

Prompt: Write about your job.

A Chef’s Life

It’s frustrating, sometimes maddening how life can hand you curveballs when you least expect it. That is what happened to me in 2002 when my career as a newspaper reporter was suddenly, rudely derailed by an explosive psychotic mania episode, resulting in hospitalization and my diagnosis of Bipolar Type 1. I resigned from my job and entered a world of debilitating medication, alcohol and weed use, repeated episodes and thus more hospital visits. The thought of ever working again in a “traditional” job slipped away, and even the federal government seemed to agree, by granting me disability payments every month, which I applied for and was approved for right off the bat, no lawyer required.

Yet it’s somewhat compelling that although I was no longer in the workforce with most others, my desire to produce a product, to have it be the best I was capable of doing, and for it to be something I loved raged inside of me, and I quickly switched gears that summer of 2002 and threw myself into a new project: cooking. I mean, here I was, at home alone while my husband was schlepping at a job he hated at Nationwide Insurance, me in the kitchen in a red plaid bathrobe chain-smoking and drinking coffee, thinking what the fuck am I going to do now? And I just looked around me, at the pots and pans, and thought, “I can do something with this. I can create.” And thus a new vocation was found.

Looking back now, 21 years later, I’m not surprised that someone blessed with bipolar creativity would be drawn to the wonderful world of cooking. It taps into so many different levels of creative and technical thought. What tools are you going to use to slice, dice, mince and chop? Welcome to the world of knives. What temperature and timing is required to cook your meat and vegetables properly? Are you roasting, steaming, grilling or frying? What condiments enhance your meal, what vinegars and oils elevate your marinades, dressings and sauces? Then there are spices, something that has taken years to master, and I’m still learning. Cumin, paprikas, turmeric, curry powders, allspice, nutmeg, coriander and star anise, to name but a few.

I’m fascinated by herbs, and all vegetables, the way they look and how they feel when I touch them. And their taste, how they interplay with one another. Pastas and grains, all types fill my cabinets, some specially ordered online. I’m constantly looking for new ways to use them, be it in a salad or casserole or whatever, anything is fair game. Dairy figures prominently in my meals, this is a butter, cream, yogurt and every variety of cheese you can imagine household. Fortunately neither my husband or I have any allergies, so pass the pecans, pistachios, or perhaps some pepitas, if you please!

My kitchen has become my office, and I suit up in my apron and show up every day. About 10 years ago, we had our kitchen gutted and completely redone with gorgeous red cabinets that stretch up to the 12-foot high ceiling, and a Carrera white and black marble countertop, like you see in some ice cream parlors around town. I feel fully enveloped in a creative workspace when I’m in Melissa’s Kitchen. Sure, I’m surrounded by my gadgets, like a Cuisinart blender and food processor, an air fryer and a Kitchen Aid mixer, all which make food prep much easier. But no rice cooker or Instapot for me. Somehow, those time-saving devices feel like cheating to me.

If you ever wondered about that phrase, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” I’m here to tell you it’s entirely true. One of the rock solid foundations of my 22 years of marriage is my consistent, elaborate ability to wow my husband with different gourmet dinners every night. With each bite, our love grows deeper, and my husband is always sure to compliment me after every meal with a big kiss. He constantly tells me I do a wonderful job and have a great reputation in my abilities. “You keep us alive,” he often says, and I laugh, but secretly love hearing this.

Like many households, I keep an assortment of whimsical magnets on my fridge to liven things up. One magnet I’m planning on ordering from Amazon will have an old, Irish proverb: “You gotta eat, so it might as well be good.” That’s the credo I now live by, working away in my kitchen office here at home. I’ve found a purpose, and isn’t that something we all strive for? I think so. I may have a disability but I’ve worked my way around it, and I’m proud of myself. Life hands you lemons, make lemonade. Guess that’s another magnet I need to get.