Early Morning Blues And The Recovery Arc

 Well hello there, reader(s), I’m up again in the inky hours of early morning, having arisen at 4:30 a.m. Ah yes, the early morning wake-up, how I despise you, though gratefully you don’t happen all the time. Perhaps this was caused by my falling asleep in my recliner around 8:30 p.m. last night—all I remember is listening to some Big Book reading on YouTube then bam, I drifted off to sleep. I guess no surprise there. Fortunately I don’t recall having any bad dreams, so there’s relief on that front. 

Apologies for not writing as frequently as the days in months past. I’ve slipped into some low-level depression, which makes it very hard for me to tap into my creative energy. I’ve also had a lot of stress I’ve been dealing with over the past few weeks and that has further drained me. I’m just no good with stress, it sets off excruciating anxiety and obsessive worrying over things I cannot control. To alleviate my discomfort, I’ve turned to my AA Zooms and AA community, taking refuge in meditation and the fellowship. Sometimes it helps, sometimes not.

Seeing as I’m up now, here in early morning, I’ll be able to join the 7:00 a.m. AA First Things First meeting. Haven’t been there in awhile, wonder what the group is up to? I think on Tuesdays they discuss the Big Book, so that’s good. We talked about the importance of staying in the Big Book last night on Shawn’s sponsee Zoom, and friend Jesse was the one who let me know about the YouTube Big Book readings (which is really, really helpful to me because cognitively I have trouble with reading). I also asked the group to discuss what the Serenity Prayer means to them, how they use it, troubles they have with it, etc. A good discussion followed.

I want to make sure I have a record here on my blog of the arc I typically go through with my bipolar disorder. Let me write it out as a list, for easier reference:

1. An episode/incident builds up over a fairly short period of time. I lose touch with reality in a manic high, get extremely confused, ask to be taken to hospital. A 1-2 week stay typically occurs.

2. I am released from hospital, meds adjusted (most likely antipsychotic jacked up), calmer. It takes 2-3 weeks to get back to baseline level of functioning.

3. For the next 4-5 months, I have been known to occasionally slip in and out of low-level “blushes” with some psychotic thinking. There is a huge amount of creative energy inside of me, which may come out in art production, creative writing, and more complicated cooking projects.

4. Around the 6 month mark, post hospitalization, I experience a “click” and become firmly rooted in reality. No vestiges of psychosis remain. At this point, I may slip into some depression, though it is not deep clinical depression, thanks to the Depakote mood stabilizer I take. I am not sure how long the depressive cycle can last. 

5. Eventually things level out in some semblance of normalcy. How long this lasts is still really a work in progress. It used to be, when I was using alcohol and weed and tinkering with my meds, I would be back in the hospital every two years. But this last run, sans substances and in total med compliance, I made it 5 1/2 years between episodes. Perhaps now I’ll have an even longer run, now I am on 4 mg. Risperdone. It’s anyone’s guess, I hate to call it a crap shoot, but maybe that’s what it is. Acceptance is the key, that’s what AA teaches me. 

***

So the sun is rising now, a new day is on the horizon. I still have my stressors I could fret about, but I think I’m going to take a break from that for the time being. It’s now when I need to turn things over to a Higher Power, and realize nothing, absolutely nothing happens in God’s world by mistake. Everything will work out the way it’s meant to be as long as I keep my side of the street clean—work on honesty, and making amends where they are due. I know my way through all this. One foot in front of the other, slowly but surely.

Have a good day all. Remember to breathe. Deeply.

Writing Prompt #5: The Hairy Man

 Prompt: Describe a person, real or fake

The Hairy Man

When I was a wee 4 or 5 years old, I went to bed one night upstairs, only to wake up in the early morning hour on a floral couch in our downstairs living room. Now, the obvious explanation for this is I slept-walked, but at the time I was absolutely convinced I was carried from my bed by a tall, Bigfoot-esque “Hairy Man” creature. I can close my eyes now, here in middle-age, and I still see this Hairy Man, who, by the way, doesn’t scare me at all. I laugh at all the fantastical things a young child can invent, flying rainbow unicorns, talking cars and the like, and wonder what prompted me to dream up a creature covered in hair. My brother, to this day, often jokes about the Hairy Man, obviously my tale made an impression on him. I guess a good thing is I never saw the Hairy Man again—though I did find a VHS tape on Bigfoot for sale at a Blockbuster Video store in the 1980s, and bought it. I still own it to this day.

Today, at age 57, all I contend with at night are extremely vivid dreams that startle me awake. One of the worst ones was on early Thursday morning, I dreamt that I was being suffocated by a huge black boa constrictor, which had wrapped itself around my head and neck. I know it was an anxiety/stress dream, as I’ve been contending with major stressors all week. I don’t do well with stress these days, and I try to avoid it like the plague, carefully planning my days in predictable segments that keep me calm. But this week didn’t go like that, and I’ve been a wreck, both in waking and non-waking hours.

I’m trying to recite the Serenity Prayer, quietly in my head:

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.

Early Wake-Up

 Just awoke with a start at 2:00 a.m. from a very vivid dream. Could not fall back asleep, so I came downstairs and took 1/2 a Simply Sleep and I’m waiting for it to kick in. I absolutely loathe these early morning wake-ups; haven’t had one in a good long while, and I consider that to be fortunate. Fingers crossed I can fall back asleep, I really, really need my sleep. The art show is tomorrow and there is much to do today to get ready! Granted, Michael has the outside cleaned up, I’ve got all the pieces in the parlor ready to go. There are just some last things to do like make a sign, “Art For Sale” and sign a few things. Also need to pick up something to eat for brunch that day.

My anxiety was pretty high yesterday morning, filled with worry over the lingering altered thinking from December through March of this year, post-hospitalization. Dr. Levy said on Wednesday I was definitely having psychosis, and I guess it’s hitting me full force that I will most likely experience psychosis again—I may go another 5 1/2 year stretch between episodes, but it always seems to come back. This knowledge rattles me, I had thought if I remove the drugs and alcohol I had a good shot at never getting manic-psychotic again. But this is apparently wrong. So right now I am right squarely in the face of my bipolar with psychotic features diagnosis, and fearing it, hating it, anxious over it.

I probably should read over all the entries I posted here since December of last year, looking for clues of erratic behavior. But I really don’t want to, at least right now. I mean, I’ve got all this art here clearly illustrating a mind slightly, err, off the rails. I’m wondering, if I weren’t experiencing some grandiosity earlier this year, would I even be having this show tomorrow? Probably not. Ah yes, bipolar grandiosity, it has been with me again, and here I was thinking that I had some special “insight” into things that no one else had.

Jesus, I feel like a fraud.

Part of me is secretly hoping no one comes tomorrow; another part wants to get lucky and sell a few things. I think this time spent leading up to the sale is the worst—all this self-doubt creeps in, this questioning of my motives, this constant, ever so constant self-analysis, which really tires me out. It’s almost 3:30 a.m. and I can feel the Simply Sleep kicking in, thank God. So I’ll leave things here for now. Sweet dreams.

Ch-ch-changes…

OK so thoughts, dear readers, or rather continued reflection on my current state of affairs: I feel blocked, the words aren’t flowing easily anymore. I don’t know if I’m preoccupied with the art show in four days; the Risperdal has taken hold; the Morning Pages longhand exercise screwed things up; or if it’s my new focus on my creative writing circle. Whatever the reason, I am having incredible difficulties with keeping my morning journal here going and it has me upset.

Maybe I’m preoccupied with my session with Dr. Levy coming up in his office in a few hours. I haven’t seen him in person in six months—we’ve been doing FaceTime because he was down in Florida. I’m nervous, heck I always am, and I’m not sure why exactly, it’s just always been that way. I don’t know how I can accurately explain everything that’s been going on with me in just a 20 minute session; I think I’m going to just say I’ve had this “readjustment” and I now feel fully anchored in reality, I feel recovered, and ask why it took six months to finally get to this point.

I think I am going to need some extra Gabapentin to get through this session. There’s nothing wrong with that, I don’t feel ashamed that I need some help with my anxiety. I’m leaving plenty of time to drive up to his office, don’t want to be late. The trash man is here, emptying our can, that brings some relief, as I had two bags of old clothes in there I wanted to get rid of and now they are gone.

I’m meeting sponsor Shawn today after my Levy appointment, to continue work on my Step 4 moral inventory, which is going slowly and I want to speed it up. I think Shawn’s time is spread thinly, he has many sponsees and I’m not entirely sure he has time for all of us. But be that as it may, I do enjoy my time with him, and I’ve been making some progress on my serenity. I think what’s been slowing me down is my lingering cognitive impairment caused by the meds, but I’m trying my best to work around it.

OK, time to call mom, have her calm me down some, pop more Gabapentin and get dressed for the Levy appointment. It’s a beautiful morning, chilly but bright, perhaps signaling that good things are to come today? I hope so.

Long, Strange Trip It’s Been

Good morning, dear reader(s), I continue to reflect on where I’ve been in these past six months, indeed, in these past 22 years that I’ve been dealing with this bipolar disorder. What I know for sure is I go through these “creative artistic bursts” in writing and in art that push the limits. Then when the “click” happens and I kinda wake up and shake myself and think, What the hell was going on? I feel shame and disgust with what I created and want to throw it out. Right now I’m thinking my God, what a strange bird I am, keeping going on this blog that no one reads—what’s the point? I fear that there will be another long gap in the entries here, that a writer’s block is coming. Oh, I hope not!

I’m still on 4 mg Risperdal and it feels like a heavy, sluggish weight on me. I see Dr. Levy tomorrow and I’m tempted to start pushing him for a reduction; but once I tell him the click back to full recovery only recently happened, I know he will be hesitant to change anything in my med cocktail. We only have a 20-minute session, that’s all the time I have to relay what’s going on, I feel pressured plus nervous to finally be seeing him in person after six months. Oh, I feel strange today, not myself, yet maybe the self I’m supposed to be?

My writing seems pressured right now, forced, when it used to flow so easily in the morning. I’m wondering if it’s those handwritten Morning Pages I was doing that contributed to this change, or the Risperdal taking hold is to blame…I just feel out of sorts, lost, definitely not relaxed. Why don’t I laugh anymore? I am feeling the full weight of bipolar disorder today, how it twists reality for me, how it affects my moods, my feelings, my being. I do not like it at all.

I am though grateful that I have my cooking, that stays consistent, whether I am “tripping” (or whatever we call it) or not. The art show is coming up in five days—rain is projected, so there goes the crowds, I guess I was getting nervous for nothing. I’ll still put my stuff out on the porch at 8:00 a.m., maybe someone will come by with an umbrella? Oh well, at least I tried, who can control the elements. 

I’ve got a dental appointment today, teeth cleaning, and I need to talk to Dentist Dan about my cavity in my lower front tooth. I know he wants to give me a crown in my front right tooth, but I’m holding off on that for awhile. I need to do laundry, but I don’t want to do it. But maybe I’ll force myself. It’s so hard for me to do chores, I wish I understood why, it’s much more than “No one likes to do chores,” rather, it’s a motivational block I can’t explain. It makes me feel inferior and worthless, like indulging in self-pity, but that doesn’t do me any good. At least I can keep the kitchen clean, that’s something.

OK, I can’t write anymore today, this has been hard. I will hope for a better product tomorrow.

Finally Tethered?

 Good morning, dear reader(s), I come to you today feeling grounded—really grounded—in reality. I’ve been hinting in several posts that ever since I got Covid back in late March that there has been a readjustment in my mental state; I’m fumbling for words to adequately describe how I’m feeling, but basically I finally feel 100% normal since that hospitalization last November. So it took 6 months to fully recover, which I guess is standard for me.

Now, during this six month period, we saw a return to writing here on a consistent basis; we saw me create pieces of art. I was able to cook almost every night, I was able to meet with Shawn and have coherent conversations. I began reading again. Yet I always felt I was under observation; that messages were coming to me through the TV; like I was some actress in a play; being watched; recorded? There was some grandiosity, I took to ordering assorted hats from Amazon, didn’t go too crazy with the spending but did spend some money. I never let on to Michael that I thought people were watching us, never let him know what I was doing with YouTube (why?!) in the early morning, never told him I was talking out loud in the car.

Dr. Levy doesn’t know about any of this either, and I’m scared to tell him about it at our in person session next week. I absolutely do not want my Risperdal increased, but I know he’s my doctor and I have to be truthful in relaying what has been going on. I explained everything fully to Fetter in therapy yesterday, and he was firm that I be honest with Dr. Levy. He did though tell me I have a choice when it comes to a possible increase in the medication. 

I’m not saying what I went through in the past six months was psychosis, yet there were blushes of it (for lack of a better term). I guess I’m just tired from trying to figure all this out, but I wanted to have this recorded somewhere that I’ve gone through the “click” (as I call it) and I’ve come out the other end and now I feel normal. I know I need to spend some time reading back through everything I’ve written here since last December. Did it make sense? Was I going in and out of reality? 

OK, this is all for today. We shall see where my writing goes from here. 

Writing Prompt #4: Escape

 Prompt: Create and describe a scene, and situation of said scene.

ESCAPE (DRAFT)

My husband Michael asked me last Sunday if I wanted to go to BrewDog bar, in Franklinton, for artist neighbor Ryan’s fundraiser. A popular muralist, Ryan is painting his cartoony “Space Dog” on a brick wall outside of BrewDog, and is selling Space Dog t-shirts at the bar to support the Humane Society. Alcoholics in recovery, neither my husband or myself had been in a bar in over 6 years. But I wanted to support Ryan. I can handle this, I thought, and hastily put on some lipstick and grabbed a straw hat.

It was a warm, humid afternoon, in the high 70s, hinting that summer is on its way. My husband steered the car out of German Village, through downtown and over the Rich Street bridge into Franklinton, which looked like a sea of new apartment construction, interspersed with boarded up houses, and large dirt-filled lots. The streets were empty. Ghost town? I wondered, then I spied the busy BrewDog. Suddenly my stomach tightened and I became extremely uncomfortable.

Michael maneuvered the car into a spot down the street from the bar. On purpose, I walked slowly behind him towards the entrance and I was tense when we arrived. I first noticed women sitting in clusters at the bar, sipping mixed drinks. I eyed the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar, looking colorful, as always. I found myself wondering who amongst this crowd boozing on Sunday afternoon is a budding alcoholic, yet chastised myself for casting judgement when I, in my 20s, frequented many a place like this for afternoon cocktails with friends. Then I remembered my last drunk, when I was alone drinking at a bar just like this one, miserable, confused, spiritually bankrupt. Suddenly I felt afraid.

Michael spied Ryan out on the patio and we went over to exchange pleasantries. I bought a pair of hoop earrings he had made and a black t-shirt with the Space Dog logo. Ryan, somewhat boozy from the two beers he had, tried to make excuses for his sloppy behavior when he drinks. Yup, sounded familiar. I tried to explain that I don’t drink anymore, I went through that rodeo and retired, but I felt nervous saying it. Why?

Ryan walked away and Michael motioned to me to come join him at one of the tables outside. I noticed they were playing horrible music which sounded flat, repetitive, boring. I sat with my back to the bar, on purpose, looking straight out onto Town Street where all I saw were vacant lots and two more bars, one not-so-wisely called “Rehab” where I spied a guy with a neon green winter hat, drinking a beer. Lonely, this all felt lonely, I felt lonely.

Get me out of here, my mind screamed silently. Why did Michael want to linger here? It was time to go! Danger, Will Robinson, Danger. We don’t belong in this type of place. “Its not safe here for me,” I finally muttered to Michael under my breath. “Take me home.” We located Ryan, said our goodbyes, and I almost ran back to the car. As we weaved our way home, out of Franklinton, through downtown, and back to German Village, I found myself silently doing a Gratitude List in my head, with my sobriety being Number One.

When we parked in front of our house, I was firm. “No more bars,” I told Michael. “That ship has sailed.”