In The Limelight With The Puppet Master

 Good morning faithful reader(s), I awoke this morning after a long, refreshing night’s sleep with a clatter (wondering what was the matter)—and I’m sitting here chuckling. I’m remembering when I gave a reading of a Christmas poem with Colleen Duffy at the CSG Holiday dinner my senior year. There I was, bedecked in a peach lace top and taffeta skirt (?), purchased by my loving late grandmother Virginia Snook Tell in Palm Beach I believe, though my memory is dicey. Anyways, I came downstairs and thankfully no one had fallen, nor was there a thief in the house, it was just a dog gate that had toppled over.

So as is my usual morning routine, I made some coffee then settled in to my recliner and turned on my trusty (small) iPad to Google YouTube, and my, off we went to the races with much going on to entice me into a world of great possibilities. Basically my first thought was if we are going on said journey, I would like Michael to metamorphosis into Johnny Depp—though I’m sure there are other endless possibilities of who might accompany me (special preference to Tip O’Neill Jr.). 

But being ever so cautious and a touch wary, as is my nature, I must report that I do now feel a bit of “Who’s Zooming Who” as I weave my way through my foray back to creating art (hey, who wants to make money anyways?). When I felt like the Puppet Master might be afoot at Google, I immediately turned to good friend T. Boone Pickens, someone I never met (though I did meet Daniel Yergin who wrote, “The Prize: The Epic Quest for Oil, Money & Power”), but have always deeply admired and felt excited when I heard about his adventures and machinations. 

Alas, many have forgotten about Boone, but let me tell you he was a force to be reckoned with, and humorous to boot. Ah, those characters of the Eighties, true legends, and I’m curious why Generation X has apparently given up for the most part (just biding their time til they get a meager inheritance from the folks?). Me, as you know I was abruptly sidelined by the pharmaceutical industry, and I won’t be resentful (covered that yesterday) though perhaps some kind anonymous donor might kick some funds over to J&J or Eli Lilly or Merck so future generations of bipolars might have an easier road to traverse than me.

But Tis The Season for joy, and I’m absolutely thrilled my creativity is back. Perhaps today I’ll go hunting for my lime green teddy—Michael needs a little vavoom and I’m gonna try to get this menopause body to cooperate…I think.

It Can Happen

 Greetings all, another early to bed early to rise (this morning around 3:30), and I find myself just tickled pink that something quite wonderful, almost inexplicable is happening: my artistic “eye” is now fully open (along with my brain) and at long last I am back to making art again! I have long known that many, many bipolars are blessed with creativity—for those needing a primer, see Kay Redfield Jamison’s “Touched By Fire.” Yesterday was a toe-dipping exercise of creating a piece of macaroni art for husband Michael (at his request); quite simple really, just some Barilla elbows, newspaper clippings, Elmer’s school glue, glitter, and some glass shards collected by Michael that had been left in the alley, remnants of the Rumpke recycling truck.

But it was this morning, December 13, that a real breakthrough happened—and upfront I give quite a lot of credit equally to Google and my Basset Hound Miss Lily. A strange marriage of the two happened, and I won’t, rather, can’t (at this juncture) explain how this happened. Suffice to say a blessed Union occurred and it was captured on my trusty (smallish) red Apple iPhone which I’ve decided to never part with. At this point, you, faithful reader, may be wondering if I’ve tripped the light fantastic again, but as someone who is intimately familiar with bipolar manic psychosis, I can assure you I have never felt more sane in my life. So there.

But who am I, just a broke, unemployable weirdo, so I guess what I’m going to do is ride this artistic wave and see where it takes me. Back to this morning’s breakthrough, I am going to begin work pronto on a new piece that is loosely titled, “It Can Happen” (hat tip to the awesome band Yes), though I’m also toying with another title, “The Puppet Master.” The latter refers to a moniker that often came to me in past psychotic “delusions” where I would have a strong sense that someone/something was manipulating me. But at the time, it didn’t bother me in the least; actually I felt quite exhilarated that someone, anyone saw some worth in what I was seeing. I have a piece of art I did during true psychosis where I tried to marry a quilt with a collage, and there is a big black eye along with black figures around the edges. Perhaps some of the themes I was trying to capture in “Manic Quilt” will find their way into “It Can Happen” (winkedy, wink).

Speaking of strange bedfellows, did I tell you about the time—I believe I was a junior in High School at the illustrious Columbus School For Girls (harumph)—-that I married an American Eagle quilt pattern to a Wang computer? And Dr. Wong still had the nerve to give me a B- (or was it a C?) in Algebra. Just another brick in the wall of my rejection to Dartmouth College, though I harbor no resentment towards them. The sweatshirt Dad bought me from Hanover when we visited in ‘83 still fits, so I’ll wear out maybe the next time I’m at Burger King.

Perhaps though I should examine what I’ve been feeling a slight touch of lately: resentment. I know Webster’s has a concise definition of the word, but I’m looking for an emotional answer to it. Sure, we can all rush to Google and look up the word, but what does resentment mean to you? I think to date the best answers I have heard come (again) from A.A. meetings I have attended. Unfortunately, I cannot relay what I’ve heard as such meetings are intended for anonymity. But here, I can say that my resentment leads only to bitterness; bitterness leads only to a hardening of the soul; this hardening leads to despair; despair leads to the drink (or the pills or the weed or whatever you choose to escape your demons).

So when I start to feel resentment, which admittedly I have a few times over the past few days, I try to immediately switch gears and look squarely at what makes me peaceful. This morning, that is my two Basset Hounds, Miss Lily and Sir Little Legs, sleeping soundly on their respective “beds” (Lily’s a black, furry dog bed from Amazon) and Legs, a weirdly-shaped blue couch from the old Lazarus Department Store downtown. And of course, I know Michael is having bizarre dreams in the dented, cheap $450 full mattress from that furniture shop on E. Main Street in Whitehall.

The other thing that helps me through resentments is laughter. I’m immediately taken back to the movie “Animal House” (yes, based on Dartmouth) and Faber College’s quote, “Knowledge Is Good.” I’ll leave you with that to ponder today. Me, I have to figure out a way to get to the East side AGAIN without Michael getting suspicious….to be continued.

A Touch Of Gray

 Good morning dear readers, Happy Holidays/Merry Christmas (or wherever you stand), I come to you this early morning feeling somewhat in the dumps. Now this is not the mood state I’m comfortable being in, mild depression, and I don’t normally hang out on this side of the pole anymore. Being one somewhat obsessed (?) with analyzing my moods, I’m tempted to try and think my way out of feeling the blues, particularly given that’s it’s Christmastime and this being my favorite time of year, I so desperately want to be feeling good.

I’m no stranger to depression, having first come up against it oh, around the time I first got my period at age 12 and realized a big change in me was happening that I wasn’t quite prepared for yet. I think, for me, my depression is in some way tied to hormones, but alas I’m no doctor and don’t understand these things too well. I guess my current malaise can’t be pinned on the monthly curse seeing as I haven’t had a period in six years come January. No, I am out of sorts I think perhaps because my husband Michael is out of sorts—and being so tightly enmeshed with him, if he swings one way, I tend to swing with him.

Maybe some discussion needs to be had on the critical role the spouse of a bipolar has in keeping us stable and functioning our best…I don’t like to shout from the rooftops about some of the troubles my husband Michael and I have had over the past 21 years of marriage, yet suffice to say my weekly therapy sessions with Fetter are more and more dominated by discussion about conflict. Me personally, being the middle child raised by one alcoholic and another a heavy drinker, I absolutely HATE conflict, having witnessed some terrible fights as a child, running to my room in tears, and absolutely praying to God that my parents would not get divorced—something I saw as absolutely catastrophic. Fortunately for me, my parents held it together, one got sober, and they remained together until death did they part. And as to be expected, it was me who fell apart when Dad died, drowning my sorrows in wine, tinkering with my meds again, and yes you guessed it, ending up in the nut hatch for the umpteenth time.

When will they ever learn?

Perhaps this time around, my malaise is somehow tied to getting away from gratitude—I know from A.A. teachings that the topic of gratitude, and reflection upon it, serves to bring about an inner peace and brings stability when things get “squirrely.” Maybe making a gratitude list can serve to entice this Gray Lady Day mood to move on (seriously, Christmas is coming!). So here goes, a crude attempt at said list, here at 6:37 a.m. on Monday, December 12:

1’m grateful for:

1. A (leaky) roof over my head

2. My sobriety 

3. My treatment team (Mom, Michael, doctors, therapist)

4. Friends and family

5. Sense of humor

6. Ability to write, maybe read, maybe create art coming back

7. Sleeping well

8. Optimistic good things are coming

9. Made donation to Mid Ohio Food Bank

10. Developing self esteem

***

I purposely left off my gratitude for being able to cook—a true love of mine—and I attribute this to this time last year when I was horribly attacked on social media over a Christmas ham I was planning to prepare for Michael. The attacks left me scarred for months—I don’t think I’m even recovered yet—and maybe this leads me to another item for today’s list:

11. I’m grateful for the (temporary? Who knows) break from social media—I now find myself open and aware of new possibilities in my hunt for a purpose in my life!

So now my gratitude list for today is done, and I am feeling a touch better. I’ll take that. Perhaps you try a Gratitude List, eh? Tis The Season, after all!

Back to Basics

 When one is learning to write again, after decades of being in the dark, you are faced with several intriguing questions of where to go…me, I’m going to try and seek out my old book of Bartlett’s “Quotations,” maybe just randomly open it up to a page, close my eyes and slide my finger down the page, and see where it lands. I know for sure I am not getting an eBook or any such thing like it. I’m all about books—God forbid they disappear (did the New York Public Library completely store all their books away and switch over to digital or did some wise scribe stop that?). There was an unfortunate day many years back when mom and I purged some beloved books from my personal collection, but fortunately I have managed to hold on to the true gems, including a worn, old paper book copy of Machiavelli’s “The Prince.” Still hunting for my copy of “The True Believer” plus some choice works of Noam Chomsky.

I’m eager to just head to the attic and plunge headfirst into all the literary treasures up there…but again, wait. Let’s not spoil our appetite, shall we? No, I think we go back to basics and start with some ancient saws to guide me along this new, exciting (?), perhaps scary (?) journey I am undertaking.

I would like to state firmly and emphatically that none of this would be going on if I had not completely broken away from the clutches of social media (guilty parties shall remain nameless). Perhaps I might return to social media someday but from this point forward it will be on my terms. I’m realizing that I was down a “rabbit hole” for not days, but years—and to say I’m somewhat seething would be an understatement. But be that what it may, I hope you’ll join me on this exploration of what books I currently have in this abode—and of course what books I plan to acquire in the years to come!

Keep On Keeping On

Greetings again, readers, I am back after an extremely long period away. Much has happened, that I’m not at the moment up to explaining—suffice to say, I’ve had my medication drastically adjusted and suddenly I’ve had an exciting improvement in my cognitive abilities which I’m absolutely thrilled about reporting! What has happened is my mood stabilizer, Depakote, has been decreased whilst my antipsychotic Risperdal has been increased. This new concoction, along with a lower dosage of my non-habit forming anti-anxiety med Gabapentin, has me actually multi-tasking (surprise!), reading the Wall Street Journal, dialoguing with husband Michael about current events, watching streaming services, listening to a wide array of music, and back here ever-so-slowly learning to write again. Could it even be possible for me to pick up a book and actually read it?!? One can only hope.

Now, I’m currently sitting here, very early in the morning (again), thinking about a number of things. First, given everything I have gone through over the past TWO decades with cognitive impairment most definitely caused by the medication I have been prescribed, is it any surprise to anyone that people diagnosed with bipolar disorder and put on these medications would resist taking these said medications?! Um, hello, can I accurately explain how painful it is to be surrounded by books you once loved to read but can no longer get through one page of text? It’s frustrating, you feel stupid, you feel like you are missing out on this wonderful, thought-provoking world that everyone else can enjoy. This, in turn, makes you want to flush said medication down the toilet. 

But wait.

Those who have read through my blog know this is the juncture where I try to feebly issue the warning that not taking your medication (exactly) as prescribed can lead to a series of very, very unfortunate events—some quite expensive (buying cars, houses, etc.), some quite unnerving (wandering through dangerous places in the dead of night), and some just entirely unexplainable with current words in the English language.

But secondly this morning, I’ve been reflecting on the conversation I had with my therapist yesterday, where I mused if I even was bipolar. Yes, after all these years I still remember quite clearly the conversation I had with my former psychiatrist, where he came oh-so-close to saying he doubted I had bipolar disorder—and I latched on to that with such unabashed hope that maybe, just maybe, I could be free of the dreaded medication….

So here we are, AGAIN, at this juncture of To Med Or Not To Med, a street corner that I often come to time and time again. Waiter, pass me my pill tray.

Thirdly, I have spent a little time this a.m. researching the effects of marijuana (I’m talking street-grade here) on psychotic events in bipolars, and as expected there is nothing available to date. I’m doing this because I’m harboring a suspicion that perhaps it was extremely powerful marijuana that led to my first psychotic break, which led to my hasty bipolar diagnosis. If true, might we argue that continued abuse of street-grade marijuana led to repeated psychotic breaks (and hospitalizations), not “bipolar mania” run amok? Alas, one can only hope, though I guess in my current position, age 56, on bipolar medications for 20 years, I am left with just trusting the psychiatrists and taking whatever pills they deem appropriate for whatever I am cursed with having. I will try hard not to get too down, too frustrated. I will continue on my sober journey, continue doing the Next Right Thing. Keep pushing towards better functioning. 

Keep On Keeping On….right?

Emerging From The Pit

 So here I am, back attempting to write again, clawing my way out of the pit of writer’s block that I have been trapped in for the past, oh, 4 1/2 years? Perhaps longer? It’s a pit created strictly by bipolar disorder medication—which I faithfully swallow every night, 7:00 p.m. sharp, knowing all the while how it destroys my ability to do something I have always loved. 

But never one to completely give up, here I am back trying again to communicate with the written word in a way that will inspire someone…maybe just me? Actually, I’ve come here because I’ve been dealing with a lot of anxiety lately and a Google search for anxiety distraction techniques brought up a list of things to do and writing/journaling was on there. So voilà, here I am.

It’s now February 2022, and much has gone on since my last post, most notably the global Covid pandemic which came to the United States exactly two years ago. I won’t go into a big exploration of what this has meant for my country, except to say it has had a significant mental health impact, and people are feeling both anxiety and depression at alarming rates. I’m amazed and thrilled I have not had any episodes or hospitalizations since Covid hit, and I attribute this to a.) my outstanding psychiatrist Alan Levy and his medication management; b.) my talk therapist Dick Fetter and his wise advice; c.) staying completely sober from alcohol and any drugs; d.) my husband and family; and e.) support from friends.

Tragically, I lost my best friend Andi Jeney in January of 2021 to alcoholism and drug addiction. It was a huge blow, and her final decent into the disease sent me running to a 12-Step fellowship for support and guidance. I joined Zoom meetings bringing alcoholics from around the world together to discuss our disease, new ways of living, and ways to find peace and serenity. This has helped make my friend’s passing a little easier for me to process—I mean, I do carry incredible guilt that I am still here standing while she is gone, but I have learned alcoholism is a terrible disease that takes the lives of many. 

I’ve had a chance to think about what’s really important to me now, what I want to do with my life. For years I have been driven by this crazy desire of wanting to write some best-selling book about living with bipolar disorder and alcoholism/addiction—but now I’m just wondering if maybe I accept my limitations and seek out a more simple life of lower expectations, writing only for my pleasure or to process emotions that are troubling me. I’m coming to grips with the reality that I was thrown into high-achieving educational institutions and subsequent jobs, but where did that get me? Breakdowns, hospitalizations, alcohol and drug abuse. Being a housewife now, in a very low stress living situation, is actually quite appealing, in retrospect. Maybe if I take the stress out of wanting to have the crispest, cleanest, sharpest writing and just LET GO and let things flow as they may I might gain some sort of benefit.

I guess today’s entry is sort of free-flowing, but that’s how I am now. I’ll always wonder if the botched ECT session at OSU in October 2016 led to some sort of brain damage in me, though Dr. Levy says that’s not the case. Regardless, I have limitations now in my writing abilities and that’s ok. The point is I have always loved to write and I’m going to continue to try and do so. So this is it for today. Michael wants to walk our Basset hounds together so off I go for some afternoon exercise. Until next time!

Cooking With Gas!

Dear readers I made it! A few days ago, Dr. Levy gave the green light to reduce to 2 mg./day Risperdal, my goal for so, so long, after years waiting, Im finally here! Im already starting to feel more clear-headed and thinking about my writing and I just feel so optimistic. I'm excited where I'm headed, after feeling cognitively impaired for such a long time. I had to muster the patience of Job to get to this point. Dr. Levy is so conservative, and I was so frustrated at times but finally here we are. Hooray!

Now, my dream has always been to write a book about having bipolar disorder and being an alcoholic  in recovery. I have amassed a whole heck of a lot of wisdom over the past 17 years dealing with this situation. I've been in the nut hut nine times, I've met countless people with bipolar disorder, and i want to craft a story of hope for those struggling with this mental illness. I know it will take a lot of time and effort to get this accomplished, but I'm going to give it a shot.

I just need to move forward slowly and methodically. I will use this blog as practice while I continue to chisel away at this writers block. One step at a time. I got this.