So I'm wondering today if everything I do is viewed through the bipolar lens, or if I'm just a regular guy that has bipolar moments in his life.
Comments?
*cricket sounds*
Okay. How about we talk about Jersey Shore?
*insert din here*
I've looked back, not today, but before, at some of my posts and re-read them, with the thought of "I wrote this while I was manic," or "I wrote this while I was really depressed." And I'm actually surprised by the writing. It seems that through all the disabling feelings of depression and mania, I'm able to have a voice. And it comes through regardless of how I'm feeling when I'm writing. So it seems.
So press on, and do the work, regardless of how you feel. It will show when you're feeling better. There are some speedbumps and potholes, sure, but the over-arching theme of the work will come through, radiantly.
Or maybe I'm just manic now.
No. I am hungry though. So maybe that distracts and distorts my experience. Do they have a pill for hunger yet? Something I can take with my daily medication so I don't have to bother with all of this chronic eating?
Just kidding, of course. I don't want to rid myself of the pleasure of eating. But I do want to slow down and get a hold of myself when it comes to eating. I could stand to not gain any more weight. I'll be flirting with the 300lbs. mile marker if I keep on like I've been.
I really can't afford to eat the way that I have been. Grabbing meals conveniently (read "fast food") just isn't convenient long term. I can't afford it financially or physically. And I pay a mental price, too. Having a good nutritious diet is good medicine.
So for lunch today, I'm going to go out for Chinese food.
Hmm.
What was I talking about?
Showing posts with label manic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label manic. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Monday, March 12, 2012
The Start of Mania, part 3
I missed my medication Saturday night, and forgot to take my Sun. night pills on time. I'm back on track, having taken my pills with an early breakfast this early morning, but that might have a little to do with the whole not sleeping thing. I've got to stay on track with the meds. The calibration is crucial.
Just as important as the meds though, is sleep. I'll have to catch a nap sometime today. Three hours is not enough fuel in the tank to go a whole day, after being up the whole of the early morning hours, mind running, humming along at a pace, like the cruise control is set at about 70 miles per hour, just humming along on the interstate... Multi tasking, organizing, facebooking, blogging... all of these things, I'm doing when I really should be resting. Seems that my sister is up early this morning too. If we lived closer together, we could meet for an early coffee or biscuit or something. Perhaps a scone.
It's not any one thing that causes the mania. It's a bunch of things. A body needs rest; so does the mind. Sometimes I dream so vividly in the daytime even, visualizing in great detail. But that is not mania. This is not mania. I know that, and I'm comfortable with it. I am confident that I'm still calmly in control. I can get some sleep later today. For now, I'm allowing the vibrant energy that's coursing through my brain to manifest. It's what needs to be done.
Must be hyper vigilant when I'm feeling good, and I think I'm doing the work. And I've got a lot of important support from family and friends-- they're looking out for me, too. So I'm blessed in that regard.
Just as important as the meds though, is sleep. I'll have to catch a nap sometime today. Three hours is not enough fuel in the tank to go a whole day, after being up the whole of the early morning hours, mind running, humming along at a pace, like the cruise control is set at about 70 miles per hour, just humming along on the interstate... Multi tasking, organizing, facebooking, blogging... all of these things, I'm doing when I really should be resting. Seems that my sister is up early this morning too. If we lived closer together, we could meet for an early coffee or biscuit or something. Perhaps a scone.
It's not any one thing that causes the mania. It's a bunch of things. A body needs rest; so does the mind. Sometimes I dream so vividly in the daytime even, visualizing in great detail. But that is not mania. This is not mania. I know that, and I'm comfortable with it. I am confident that I'm still calmly in control. I can get some sleep later today. For now, I'm allowing the vibrant energy that's coursing through my brain to manifest. It's what needs to be done.
Must be hyper vigilant when I'm feeling good, and I think I'm doing the work. And I've got a lot of important support from family and friends-- they're looking out for me, too. So I'm blessed in that regard.
The Start of Mania, part II
It's 1am and I've just gotten out of bed and taken a shower. The shower was kind of a religious experience. Cleansing of the soul, I took inventory. It's not normal.
Not the shower, not the being up at one o'clock in the morning. But then, what is the normal for me? I've been going to bed around 9:30 to 10:00pm and sleeping through the night, with just a few pit stops, and getting up about 8am or so. The last couple days I've been on edge because my mood is quite elevated. I'm starting to see some warning signs. Saturday night, I was having trouble sleeping, so I ended up taking a sleeping pill. That helped my mind to finally relax and I slept for a while-- several hours-- and got up with my wife in the morning. Now tonight, I slept for about three hours and woke up (got worked up) completely and couldn't get relaxed for sleep again. This isn't mania, but it's a warning sign.
My wife had the good idea to start a blog or spreadsheet of this pattern, or deviation from the pattern. Just so we can keep track of all that's going on. I'm having grand ideas of going out into the world today and making things happen. That's not to say that I'm having grandiose thinking. That would be another sign that mania is coming.
I'm up early, but I'm under control. My thinking is logical and relaxed, not racing. I do have a lot on my mind, but it's not at breakneck speed or relentless. There's a grace to it. A serenity. I'm on the right path, I sense.
So much about managing this disorder is being in touch with your feelings and emotions, being mindful. Being mindful is a soulful, spiritual practice. It allows you to be who you are meant to be.
So I know that I'm making my wife nervous with this behavior. Hell, I'm making myself nervous. But I am checking-in with myself and I feel calm, collected. Under control. I'm not spiraling or groping for great truths. I'm just living.
I really enjoyed Angels in America (we finished watching it this weekend). It's "haunting" my mind, its dialogue replaying on loops. There are lessons there, as there are in many things. Most things. When the conditions in your heart are just right, anything can be a learning opportunity.
Not the shower, not the being up at one o'clock in the morning. But then, what is the normal for me? I've been going to bed around 9:30 to 10:00pm and sleeping through the night, with just a few pit stops, and getting up about 8am or so. The last couple days I've been on edge because my mood is quite elevated. I'm starting to see some warning signs. Saturday night, I was having trouble sleeping, so I ended up taking a sleeping pill. That helped my mind to finally relax and I slept for a while-- several hours-- and got up with my wife in the morning. Now tonight, I slept for about three hours and woke up (got worked up) completely and couldn't get relaxed for sleep again. This isn't mania, but it's a warning sign.
My wife had the good idea to start a blog or spreadsheet of this pattern, or deviation from the pattern. Just so we can keep track of all that's going on. I'm having grand ideas of going out into the world today and making things happen. That's not to say that I'm having grandiose thinking. That would be another sign that mania is coming.
I'm up early, but I'm under control. My thinking is logical and relaxed, not racing. I do have a lot on my mind, but it's not at breakneck speed or relentless. There's a grace to it. A serenity. I'm on the right path, I sense.
So much about managing this disorder is being in touch with your feelings and emotions, being mindful. Being mindful is a soulful, spiritual practice. It allows you to be who you are meant to be.
So I know that I'm making my wife nervous with this behavior. Hell, I'm making myself nervous. But I am checking-in with myself and I feel calm, collected. Under control. I'm not spiraling or groping for great truths. I'm just living.
I really enjoyed Angels in America (we finished watching it this weekend). It's "haunting" my mind, its dialogue replaying on loops. There are lessons there, as there are in many things. Most things. When the conditions in your heart are just right, anything can be a learning opportunity.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Celebrate September 12th
Whereas most Americans recede into a deep, somber remembrance mode at this time of year, I don't.
Not because I don't mourn the tragedy that was visited upon the world, drastically changing the meaning of "9-11" in our lives.
Not because I'm politically antithetical to the current establishment and administration, their policies, their actions, their rhetoric, their combative and destructive elitist morality, among other things.
Not because I don't believe the official story of what occurred on this date, now six years ago. Not because I feel no grief for the victims-- those who lost their lives, gave their lives in service of others, their families, or anyone horrified and haunted by the images that played over and over and over on channel upon channel for hours, days, weeks after it happened. Not because I am skeptical of our leaders' alibis and denials of complicity in missing warning signs, not reacting sufficiently or rapidly or decisively enough, both at the time of the incident, and the ongoing "War On Terror."
No. None of that.
While it may be true that I have opinions and beliefs that run counter to the pervasive, collective mythology that surrounds and reinforces the way most people continue to characterize the events of September 11, 2001, it is not at the root of why I feel a great disconnect from the memorials, the moments of silence, and even the celebrations commemorating heroism and selflessness.
I empathize with the victims, their families, the first-responders-- all those who suffered so greatly on that day, and continue to suffer since. I'm not looking to take anything away from them, or purport that I understand what any one of them has gone through, or continues to go through; Nor do I wish any ill-will or mean any disrespect whatsoever to any human being that was affected, directly or indirectly, by the ghastly, horrific events which unfolded beginning that morning, and continue unfolding and rippling through the collective consciousness to this day.
I'm just being honest. I wasn't really there. Not all the way, anyway. And now, six years later, I'm still trying to put the puzzle back together...
You see, I had experienced my own personal "9-11" of sorts, a little more than a month before "9-11" was a distinct, iconic, gravely descriptive term.
I had gone on vacation, off to Greece with my wife and an old friend and several of his family members and extended family members and friends. And near the end of the adventure, I had my own catastrophic collapse that changed my life. Forever.
Only I experienced the trauma, every aching second, dismally and utterly alone.
There were no images broadcast throughout the world, or even to friends and family, or people in my close vicinity. Yes, others were traumatized, as I was, by what I was going through, not the least of which was my wonderful, steadfastly supportive and loving wife.
But six years... and I still grope for words. I have recollection; I remember emotions, some specific events and some horrific interpretations, hallucinations, and discomfort. I remember wild, dynamic, fantastic images of grandeur; scenarios that my mind played out, and presented to some conscious part of me. I wrestled with random thoughts, madly weaving hyper-psychotic threads into patchwork garments of broken logic. Somehow, I was there (wherever that was), experiencing these things along with my mind, my body, my perceptions... But I was also somewhere else.
All of the tools that I usually had at my disposal to assist me in assessing my well-being, my sense of self-- my very location in the space-time continuum-- were at least malfunctioning, if not completely broken. I lost track of Who I was, Where I was, What I was, What I was doing, What I had done-- all context was suspect. And thus, anything and everything was believable, somehow logical. Anything and everything was possible.
This is the hyper-astounding, thrillingly perilous double-edged sword of an experience, which was later diagnosed (much later, in fact) as a manic episode.
What would follow, after hospitalization, stabilization, medication, and a return to the familiarity of coming home, would be a deep clinical depression, lasting for the better part of two years.
So forgive me if my perspective differs from yours.
Not because I don't mourn the tragedy that was visited upon the world, drastically changing the meaning of "9-11" in our lives.
Not because I'm politically antithetical to the current establishment and administration, their policies, their actions, their rhetoric, their combative and destructive elitist morality, among other things.
Not because I don't believe the official story of what occurred on this date, now six years ago. Not because I feel no grief for the victims-- those who lost their lives, gave their lives in service of others, their families, or anyone horrified and haunted by the images that played over and over and over on channel upon channel for hours, days, weeks after it happened. Not because I am skeptical of our leaders' alibis and denials of complicity in missing warning signs, not reacting sufficiently or rapidly or decisively enough, both at the time of the incident, and the ongoing "War On Terror."
No. None of that.
While it may be true that I have opinions and beliefs that run counter to the pervasive, collective mythology that surrounds and reinforces the way most people continue to characterize the events of September 11, 2001, it is not at the root of why I feel a great disconnect from the memorials, the moments of silence, and even the celebrations commemorating heroism and selflessness.
I empathize with the victims, their families, the first-responders-- all those who suffered so greatly on that day, and continue to suffer since. I'm not looking to take anything away from them, or purport that I understand what any one of them has gone through, or continues to go through; Nor do I wish any ill-will or mean any disrespect whatsoever to any human being that was affected, directly or indirectly, by the ghastly, horrific events which unfolded beginning that morning, and continue unfolding and rippling through the collective consciousness to this day.
I'm just being honest. I wasn't really there. Not all the way, anyway. And now, six years later, I'm still trying to put the puzzle back together...
You see, I had experienced my own personal "9-11" of sorts, a little more than a month before "9-11" was a distinct, iconic, gravely descriptive term.
I had gone on vacation, off to Greece with my wife and an old friend and several of his family members and extended family members and friends. And near the end of the adventure, I had my own catastrophic collapse that changed my life. Forever.
Only I experienced the trauma, every aching second, dismally and utterly alone.
There were no images broadcast throughout the world, or even to friends and family, or people in my close vicinity. Yes, others were traumatized, as I was, by what I was going through, not the least of which was my wonderful, steadfastly supportive and loving wife.
But six years... and I still grope for words. I have recollection; I remember emotions, some specific events and some horrific interpretations, hallucinations, and discomfort. I remember wild, dynamic, fantastic images of grandeur; scenarios that my mind played out, and presented to some conscious part of me. I wrestled with random thoughts, madly weaving hyper-psychotic threads into patchwork garments of broken logic. Somehow, I was there (wherever that was), experiencing these things along with my mind, my body, my perceptions... But I was also somewhere else.
All of the tools that I usually had at my disposal to assist me in assessing my well-being, my sense of self-- my very location in the space-time continuum-- were at least malfunctioning, if not completely broken. I lost track of Who I was, Where I was, What I was, What I was doing, What I had done-- all context was suspect. And thus, anything and everything was believable, somehow logical. Anything and everything was possible.
This is the hyper-astounding, thrillingly perilous double-edged sword of an experience, which was later diagnosed (much later, in fact) as a manic episode.
What would follow, after hospitalization, stabilization, medication, and a return to the familiarity of coming home, would be a deep clinical depression, lasting for the better part of two years.
So forgive me if my perspective differs from yours.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
What of this "Tripolarity," Anyway?
For those about to rock...
It was a seemingly enough amazing vacation plan. We’d go to Greece
It all had come together so dramatically—like a tightly written chapter in a biographer’s masterpiece. I would be ending my tenure in Engineering, one that had become increasingly more and more stressful, for the dream vacation with my wife and a friend I hadn’t seen in many years (as well as many others). And upon returning to the mainland, I’d slide into my imagined idyllic job in the Finance Department.
But just when all seemed set, and paradise found, the unfathomable, unexplainable, unplanned major fork in the road curve ball fly in the ointment outta nowhere kick in the head derailed all storylines, all realistic visions of the future.
Or so I’m told.
Yes, this is my story; but I’m still making sense of it.
If there’s sense to be made.
******************************************He and I had attended college together; we were "Dormmates" Freshman year, "Floormates" our Sophomore year, "Housemates" our Junior year, and thus, lifetime friends. We shared in the experiences of growing up, being on our own, living and studying and trying to find the ever elusive perfection of love, wherever she was.
We had many shared friends, and even more shared experiences-- Winter break trips to Chicago and Valparasio, grand drinking excursions and loud parties, both hosted and attended. We shared a love like brothers, persisting through disagreements, arguments, and the necessary mistakes which bring great learning.
But by the end of our time in Greece together, I would be left scrambling within my mind, wondering if he was one of my best friends, or the greatest foil I'd ever ran up against.
And by no fault of his. Who knows what reality was. It didn't matter. I was living inside my head. And it didn't make sense to me.
Even though it felt like it did. Fleetingly... it was a fluid lucidity; making sense in the moment. And as time passed, context was forgotten, replaced.
I'm guessing that there was just too much coming in to make sense of. Sensory overload.
So that's what I've been trying to do over the course of the past six years-- organize, rehash, vocalize, chronicle, and analyze my recollection and tell the story that I've lived through.
Get comfortable. This could be a rough ride.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
