Mania Continued

Okay, so it was the Academy Awards, not the Emmy's. That's the Oscar's, right?

I'm still making my way around to the pudding...

I kinda felt like Hannibal Lechter, all strapped in, propped up at an angle on the stretcher. I was taken to Valley Medical Center in San Jose and checked in. It's strange, you think you know what's going on, but you don't, exactly. I have memories of things there-- people there. But the thoughts, racing as they were, twisted everything into a more psychotic cocktail.

The stupid thing was that they told me to just "sit tight" and wait. For what, I don't know. So my mind tried to figure it all out. Like it was a big game. I was the rat in the maze, and I had to find the cheese. Or the pudding.

I was shown to a large waiting area, like a cross between a hotel lobby and an airport gate. There were couches and chairs but no magazines or television. Not that I could have kept my attention on an article or tv program for more than 15 seconds.

Once I was in this "living room" of sorts I noticed a few other "inhabitants" who were standing, sitting, or lying down. There were workers walking through quite regularly, but they had purposes that didn't involve me. There was a security guard sitting at a desk to one side of the room, over by the entry door, which was assumed to be the exit as well. All of the patients were asked to stay on the far side of the black line that was painted on the tile floor in between the guard's desk and the "living/waiting room". Anytime somebody started to wander over the line, the guard would remind that person to stay on the other side of the line.

I started to recognize my cohabitants as people I had already met in my life. The woman lying down on the couch attempting to sleep looked a lot like the woman from the chiropractor's office I had been going to. A thought as innocent as this soon morphed into some elaborate relationship that involved us sexually, criminally. I thought the reason we were both here in this holding tank was because the authorities were sorting out all of the criminal details of the horrific transgressions of the madman-- as if I were Charles Manson and she was one of the minions. But as soon as these thoughts would develop, I was distracted by new thoughts. Nonetheless, all thoughts set up the possibilities to build upon later. And so it would happen.

There was another male that reminded me of a friend from grade school. My mind rapidly concocted that he was about the same age as me and could well be my old friend. I determined that he must be a detective-- he wore a badge, I think, but was in plain clothes. I tried speaking with him several times, but he was working on something that didn't involve me. I was overzealous though, and got too close to him such that he yelled at me. "Don't touch me, Michael! You gotta stop touching me!" I apologized but still held on to the idea that we needed to communicate. What, I haven't a clue.

As time passed, there was more and more activity. At least, it seemed to me. Perhaps it was just my mind cranking up and whirring like a top. As I got more information to augment my schemes, they interwove and rippled my reality. I soon thought that I had super powers, and I revisited the criminally insane scenarios. There were several authorities-- police, nurses, attendants-- and I would speak to any of them. And I would speak out of all sides of my mouth, trying to be discreet about the information that I knew they would be impressed with... That I was providing as an informant, someone on the inside, taking great risks to talk to them.

Nobody seemed duly impressed, but this didn't deter me. My vigor for my work was endless and voracious. I was the social butterfly of the group. Flitting from ear to ear, as if collecting and allocating nuggets of pollen.

At some point I caught the eyes of another patient. She didn't speak a word, only stared at me intently. I moved towards her, and she motioned with her head toward the wall to her right. There, where she had pointed, was a phone. It was as if she were showing me the way.

I moved to pick up the phone, but she then moved closer. Now she used her words. "You can use the phone if the nurse says you can." Or something like that, I imagine. What I remember isn't specific, but I think that I was swept up in the drama of my own thoughts such that I felt she was passing me a secret token that would allow me access to another dimension in this riotous game.

I tried talking to another attendant, drawn to him because, of course, he looked familiar. He was working in the medication booth. I asked if I could have some drugs. He said no, that I needed to calm down and get real before I would get any drugs. It was from him that I first heard the talk about me detoxing from alcohol. I didn't remember being drunk when I got in there, but he said that I was admitted with a blood-alcohol level above the legal limit (for driving, I guess. But I hadn't been driving. Or drinking, for that matter. I hadn't had a drink in over a day, and that had been just one beer...) So I was being treated like a detoxing alcoholic.

Now, I don't know to this day if they flubbed that; if they mixed up some of my records with somebody else's, or if they just figured that was what was wrong with me from the symptoms I was displaying. But it's an interesting piece of the puzzle that I may never figure out.

My psychosis advanced in this methodical, steady way. After some time, my active mind needed to get my body active. I began playing games, running around. I kicked off my slippers and tried to break dance. I still hadn't slept more than a few hours in the last several days, so things were coming undone. Thankfully, I kept the rest of my clothes on.

But the activity only brought more stimulation. I continued my "work" by following my mind's whim, identifying all people familiar, and imparting "knowledge" on anyone who'd listen. And even those who didn't want to listen.

I soon was acting in a way that was making other people uncomfortable. A team of attendants was called in and set forth on collecting me. They explained that I was making others uncomfortable and they assisted me to my own private room. I pretended to struggle and screamed for the audience, slipping in words for the staff at just the right volume and timing. I interpreted the whole scenario as a way to escape, or that I was actually being escorted out. All part of the game, again.

I was strapped into place on a bed and the lights were turned off. And soon, thankfully, I slept.


Next: Transferring to the Place of the Pudding

Mania, Part One

Most of all, I remember the pudding.

Okay, so that's not true. But the pudding was a cool "fridge" benefit. It was surely there for everyone and anyone who wanted some, but it felt like we had privileged upon it. It was located in the bottom drawer, almost a "hidden" drawer at the bottom of the fridge. Where you'd expect moldy vegetables to be languishing-- the "crisper" if you will. But it was full of individually portioned cups of chocolate pudding.

It's a good memory from a time when good memories were scant and unaccounted for. For this was a time when I had been hospitalized because I was a danger to myself and others.

I had been taken off of my regular medicine, the cocktail that I'd been taking for almost six years, because of an unwanted side effect-- my platelets level was dipping into much lower than normal territory. I had to watch any bruises or cuts while I ramped off of the Depakote and readied myself for a different medication. In the meantime, I continued to take my anti-depressant. This would prove to be a mistake.

After about a month of being off of Depakote, I slowly started to exhibit symptoms of mania. I stopped sleeping more than a few hours at a time. My mood was uplifted and uplifting-- I can be quite entertaining when I'm feeling the confidence that mania brings. I talked more, and more rapidly. I was much more active and willing to do things-- much more extroverted and socially interactive.

And I began to put a lot more stock in my thinking. But my thinking was starting to race, and it would lead to rapid crystallization of logic and magic. So magical and unexplainable morphed into apocryphal but understood. As though a higher level of meaning existed that wove the loose ends into a macrame masterpiece, one that would take too long to try and explain with our uncoordinated language.

We had gone to Santa Cruz, my wife and I, and we had a good time. I was charming and polite and under control for the trip, and even thought to take an extra Klonopin to help me get some sleep. It didn't work, unfortunately. When we got home, all Hell soon broke loose.

My wife wanted to watch the Emmy's, so we sat down to do so. We were hungry, so she started foraging for food. She brought me some chips and guacamole to munch on. I began eating the guacamole with my fingers, skipping the chips.

As I watched the proceedings, everyone showing up and walking out onto the red carpet, showing off their duds and beautiful bodies and cheek bones and sculpted eyebrows... I began to sense that this was all a villainous farce. Each person would flash their smile and squint off into the flashbulbs as somebody perkily powdered them with polite, superficial questions. I soon lost myself in this wretched scenario, sub-consciously concocting an elaborate conspiracy of wealth and power, brought to our homes by outlandish evil. So compelling was this mind-scene, this panoramic paradigm of the putrid, that I lost the intellectual and practical utilities of my mind and reacted. Violently.

I tossed the bowl of guacamole at the wall. It shattered and splattered. I leaped to my feet and lunged at the television. I grabbed it and pulled it out of the bookcase, then slammed the tube towards the floor. It's a wonder it didn't explode.

I was full-fledged manic now. And I don't recall the progression of events. I threw furniture, I screamed at the top of my lungs, I yelled about how I had been "F***ed by George Bush!!", among other things. I broke a chair. I ripped off all my clothes and threatened to run around the neighborhood. My wife tried to calm me down, figure out what to do, how to help. She followed me throughout the house as I rampaged. Soon, she dialed 911.

The rampage didn't last very long, thankfully, because I'm not in very good shape. So I was out of breath and collapsed on the floor in the living room when the police arrived. They helped me get into some sweats and helped me onto a stretcher. I can remember thinking that I was an undercover policeman, and that I just needed to tell the officer that I was "working" and he would understand. As if I were in a narcotics sting operation or something and was just under the influence as part of making the deal that would net our offenders. Or something.

They went ahead and strapped me to the stretcher, although not tightly. They were very kind about it all, explaining that they didn't like to use the straps unless they really had to. I guess I was a bit of a flight risk, just because I was so unpredictable.

This was my second manic episode. So my wife and I both were a little better equipped to deal with it. And still, it was a total tornado. But we did okay, we got me the help I needed.

Eventually.

NEXT: Mandatory 72-hour hold at the County Psych Ward

Don't Imagine You'll Wanna Hear This

I'm up late. Or is it early? It's both. It's one eleven pacific standard time. And I'm not sleeping. Should be, but I'm not.

Instead? Well, at least I'm writing.

Why do I write? Oh, let me count the reasons... There are so many. I write to produce something that I can look at and view as an achievement. I write because it gets my blood flowing, my brain going, my ego stroking (right now it's a four-stroke; hope to upgrade to a V8 later this month...)

I write because it heals me. It's therapeutic. It strengthens my resolve in facing my problems and challenges. It clears my mind of a lot of chatter and brings forth the important words, the ones that need to be expressed. Somehow, the process of writing de-muddles my mind.

So. Last year, kind of half-assedly, I managed to write a blog entry each month of the year. This is an accomplishment, yes. But I want to take it bigger. So this year...

Well, who knows? I'd like to write everyday, but I've already missed one. So. Instead, I will look to make at least 2 blog entries every month.

How's that for fried potatoes? Are we cookin' with fire?

So, to get to what it was that I was originally going to blog about... Well, you're not going to like it. I assume that this is not a way to win friends and influence people. But I'll leave that to Mr. Carnegie and his blog.

Truth be told, I've been having some suicidal ideation again. Maybe it's from the sustained feelings of wearing a leaded hair shirt with matching pants and socks. And the lack of passion for anything. The severe dislike of my job, my bloated body, my stressed clothes.

Maybe it's the lack of writing.

Could be. I could use more discipline, more structure in my life. Perhaps if I wrote for an hour everyday, whether it makes it here or the trash, maybe it would improve my life.

Because for the better part of two years now, I've been down. "I've been down so long, bein' down don't bother me..." You can sing that last part. I did.

Don't whip up the worry works-- I've been "passively suicidal" before. No attempts. That's a good record, in my favor. It may tell me that I'm not capable of suicide. But I don't want to get overconfident or anything.

No-- my intent here is not to worry my readers that my welfare is threatened. But the truth needs to be told. I'm battling depression, and it kicks my ass now and then. And I'm in treatment-- I see therapists and psychologists and I take medicine as prescribed. But this disorder that I'm labeled with-- bi-polar disorder-- is chronic and incurable. One can hope to manage the symptoms, but there isn't a vaccine or behavioral "trick" that fixes it.

When I was in high school, I'd often stay up all night, listening to music, writing, dreaming about a time outside of school... These may have been my incubating manic tendencies. In college, they were greatly pronounced at times-- like going nearly 48 hours without sleep when I first traveled to Grinnell. By this time I had started drinking, and by my sophomore year I was experimenting with drugs like marijuana. Only recently did I learn that there is a very common incidence of co-occurring conditions; that is, most people who are diagnosed bi-polar also have a history of drug use/abuse. The condition elicits self-medicating tendencies.

I had thoughts of killing myself when I was in high school. It wasn't born entirely out of loneliness or isolation. Rather, I had a curiosity as to what would happen. I have retained that curiosity to this day.

What happens to our thoughts when we die? Do they cease to exist because our body is no longer functional? Our thoughts aren't tied to any particular part of the body when it is functioning properly... Where is the mind located? "Oh, the brain is not the mind, and the mind is not the brain." Sing if you wish.

I don't know where this boat is pointed, but I suppose it's downstream.

So. It's not like I'm wandering around, looking for a death trap to fall into. But I get frustrated. My flexing wiry nerves get worn. I get sick of fighting. I fall down. And sometimes I lie there a bit. But I keep getting up.

I'm downright sick and tired of not being happy. I'm not asking for a zip-a-dee doo-dah and a lollipop the size of my head. I mean inhale, exhale. Contentment. Purpose. Direction. Passion. Without all these damn strings attached!

I hate the shakes. They wear at me. I can't pick up my pills. Then I can't hold them long enough to get them to my mouth. Blast! It's a conspiracy!!

When the little things start to anger me, I know my skin has worn thin. Deep breathing and centering skills help me find the auxiliary body armor.

I will not let this disorder conquer me. But I feel like I need me back. That all this fighting and struggling, through changes in medications and doctors, through quitting drinking and staying sober for over 600 days now-- that I've misplaced Michael, and am left with a dull, fragile shell.

Or maybe I'm standing to the side, holding onto this shell. But instead of a shell, it is my shedded skin.

I am transitioning, I know. It's just hard to note progress sometimes.

So thinking about killing yourself is somewhat necessary, I think, sometimes. Because you've got to die a little to shed that skin. It won't peel if it's still alive. What's alive stays with you.

I want to find peace again. For me, for my wife, my family and friends. So I'm working on it. And I'm leavin' no stone unturned. I may not find all the answers I'm looking for, but I have faith that I'll find the important ones.

Blessings to all who read this. May you find peace and thrive.

A Christmas Remembrance

The battle raged on violently and voraciously. Bullets and shrapnel whizzed through the air above the trenches. The din droned on like a dying train wreck.

They weren't sure how it had started. Rumors and parables abounded, but it had been far too long ago that it had started, at least a few weeks. Nobody could remember specifics.

Maybe it had been sparring corporations, vying for market "share" and the ultimate dominion in the "free" market. Maybe it had all started as a disagreement between a few shoppers at Wal-Mart, each trying to get best deal and save all of fifteen dollars, even if it cost people their lives...

Whatever the truth had been, it was lost. Lost now, to the present. The present moment was that of dissonance and discord. Jones felt the heat of an exploded grenade on his face as he stared into the thick abyss. Was it morning? Evening? So much smoke and glut in the air-- and he was so disoriented... He just couldn't tell. It had ceased to matter anyway.

But there was Haddy, with his silly contraptions and his hope. Haddy had fashioned a Christmas tree out of a few stray assault rifles and torn fatigues. Jones tried to tell him that it looked more like the devil's doorstop, but Haddy would have none of it. He believed in the spirit, and acted accordingly.

Any faith that Jones had had had been lost long ago. He only knew the crass and unforgiving ways of war, where no rules applied. There was no good or bad, only the dead and not yet dead. For him, there was no place in here for something like God. War was fundamentally wrong, messy, rude, filthy. The bumper sticker from his childhood had been right: War doesn't determine who's right; only who's left.

Jones was riding Haddy for days about his faith. Haddy seemed unaffected by the onslaught, and stayed focused on fiddling with his Christmas manifestations.

"You know it's March, no?" Jones would yell, salivating for a reaction. But Haddy only once looked up from what he was doing to lip the word "CHEER," with hyperbolic smile.

So when Haddy, after what must have been several weeks, finally said something, Jones couldn't help but be offset.

"Cover me," he had said.

Haddy climbed out of the trench into the horizontal rain of bullets, quickly shredding his uniform. Jones watched wide-eyed as Haddy stood, arms outstreched, unflinching as flesh was torn from bone. Jones was frozen. So seemed Haddy, even in the reign of violent terror that was being acted upon his body. As Jones stared, he ceased to fathom what it was that he was seeing.

Haddy stood as if crucified. Parts of his body began to fall away. As flesh collapsed, Jones blinked. Then blinked again. Haddy was still standing there... even though his body was collapsing. Haddy was standing strong, chest puffed up, arms embracing.

Jones would have rubbed his eyes if it wasn't such a cliche. Was he seeing things? Was it the Ghost of Haddy? Or an acid flashback?

The flurry of violent transformation if Haddy's body continued, but Jones could only see the... the... spirit? of Haddy? as it started to rise above the battlefield.

Jones wondered shortly if he was hallucinating. Soon he realized that others were witnessing the same thing, because gun fire sputtered and stopped. And for the first time in forever there was a light in the sky. And it was Haddy.

Jones lost the feeling in his legs and fell to his knees. He couldn't stop looking at Haddy.

"Merry Christmas, Haddy," he struggled, wiping tears from his cheeks. He reached out in a vain attempt to touch Haddy's aura--

His hand touched the cold granite of the gravestone. "Hadrick Walter Concepcion, RIP" was all it said.

"Merry Christmas, Haddy," said Jones.

When Once I Was a Best Man

I almost chickened out and let the rest of the folks who wanted to say a few words just fill up the time, take the stage, and make it as good as it needed to be. But then my good friend Irene came up to me, shook me encouragingly at my shoulders, and said to me confidently, "You're going to be great!"

Tom had said it was up to me whether I would give a speech or not. Lots of internal rehearsing, gathering of advice, and general hand wringing later, I was left with this moment. It really was my choice, and I had some things to say. And Tom and Melanie deserved it. So I got up in front of everyone, something I'm not real keen on doing, and heeded the advice of our friend Kathleen to "speak from the heart."

So I did, although I covered some ground that I had been considering covering... An old story that is familiar to a lot of people, recalling some road trip travails that Tom and I weathered.

What I really wanted to say was that they'd both been an inspiration to me. That they are both playful, creative, loving people with an amazing sense of wonder, grace, and gratitude.

So I say it here. Now.

I also wanted to talk more about Melanie, how she has accentuated Tom genuinely and completely, fulfilling his dreams and inspiring new ones. She brings a lot of game to this life, and this relationship. But I think it worked out, because the other speech deliverers kind of tended towards speaking about Melanie. So I somewhat inadvertently balanced the scorecard by speaking primarily of Tom. Seems that if you can learn to let go, you watch with wonder as the Universe helps out.

I'd originally conspired to do a "Mad Lib" around the theme of their wedding. Sure to be fun and full of laughs, right? Well, maybe. We'll never know for sure. I opted instead to get up and go-- let it rip-- and hope for the best. My intentions were good. So the speech was good too.

I got a fair amount of compliments from attendees; some of whom I don't really know. I hope it was more than sufficient. I think it did the trick. But I always view perfection in hindsight.

It's funny, I sense that Tom felt the same sort of let down after giving his speech at my wedding. The part of my speech that got the biggest laugh was about all of this speech giving business. I remarked that I thought about just repeating the speech that Tom had given at my wedding... but it wasn't that memorable.

But then I talked about how I remembered him saying to me, just after finishing his speech, as we hugged and shared a moment of our great friendship, that he had wanted to make it better.

"Well, he has made it better. He's made my life a lot better. And Melanie has as well."

I think that was the most effective part of the speech; a few people told me about being moved to tears at those lines. And it was unrehearsed.

The beauty of the heart, when it is allowed to flow without restraint, will always amaze.

To Tom and Melanie, all the best.

"May all your storms be weathered, and all that's good get better. Here's to Life, here's to love, here's to you." -- Shirley Horn

Life For Sale

Gander if you will at the beautiful new lawn in the front yard. Notice the fresh paint on the exterior of the home. As you step from your vehicle and onto the curb, feel appealed. You're gonna like this home.

There's a "fruit salad" tree in the back yard. Five different varieties all grafted together to form one tree. One apricot, two kinds of peaches, a plum, and a nectarine. Planted two years ago, about ready to have a bountiful harvest next summer, all elements cooperating. Fresh fruit from your own back yard.

And there's lawn in the back yard, too. Along with a young shade tree-- a Chinese Pistache, to be exact. There's also a lovely Japanese Maple flourishing outside the kitchen window. And you have gardening space to grow your own vegetables-- why, there's already an artichoke plant established and yearning to produce 'chokes for you next spring.

Once inside, you'll notice the care and hard work that's gone into this spectacular home. The living room features a fireplace and lots of space to roam, dance, or disassemble and reassemble a vehicle. Dream big, for your dreams can come true right here if you buy this house!

There's even a "grandparent's quarters" with it's own kitchenette, bathroom, and separate exterior entrance. So grandma or grandpa can come and go as they choose without disrupting you, but can still come down the hallway to visit very easily.

Or maybe you'd like to have your college student close to home, but still have them retain some of their freedom. This back bedroom/living quarters is a great fit.

The current inhabitants have been known to entertain guests here with regal fiestas-- back yard movie nights with a nine-foot by sixteen-foot screen, complete with cartoons at dusk (like the old drive-in movies used to do)... Art parties where the house was transformed into a gallery space featuring sculpture, photography, found art, mosaics, fabrics, and even silk worms... Holiday parties that brought friends and family together and produced exquisite soups and salads, brownies, cookies, chips & dip, guacamole, finger foods, and main dishes to die for... There were late nights spent around the fire pit, singing songs, roasting marshmallows and making s'mores, and laughing loudly at Chuck Norris jokes... Many an alcoholic beverage was enjoyed on this lot, be it beer, wine, mixed drink or hard liquor-- most by the current inhabitants, for sure. If you'd only been by on a recycling day and seen the bin overflowing with microbrew beer bottles... But I digress.

Many a sporting event was followed by television or radio here, while working in the yard or garage, or assembling jigsaw puzzles in the living room, a makeshift puzzle parlor created out of a card table and chairs and desklamp. There would be cursing when pieces wouldn't fit or couldn't be located... there was many an online song or music program listened to while struggling with the puzzles-- one of the favorites was Radio Free Wohlman, a series of hour-long episodes touring the archives of Dave Wohlman, a long-time radio guy and a master at weaving tracks together in fresh and interesting ways.

Ooops-- I am digressing again. Have you seen the main bathroom? The walls are "concordia" and the toilet is less than a year old. It's a "sure-flush" that could flush a dozen golf balls in each flush. I don't recommend trying it though. Who poops in golf balls, anyway?

Okay, so I've really driven the canoe over the falls now. But there's so much more to say, and we only lived here for six years! So much stuff! To tell about, to pack, to remove, to clean, to patch, to caulk, to repair, to redo. To move. Away.

If parting really is such sweet sorrow, I'm guessing Shakespeare had people who packed for him. Cuz I'm not sensing the sweet right now. Just the sorrow. And the aching muscles.

Quick-- September's almost over!!

Here are some words for my friends.

Y'all are great. Y'all rock. Rock, paper, AND scissors.

We've been getting a lot of help lately from friends and family, and I just want to say thanks.

Well, I want to say more. Hence the continued typing.

I want to thank Steve, brother-in-law, gardener extraordinaire. Helped me to dig up a dead lawn, pickax swing after pickax swing. And then, since that wasn't enough, he trimmed a major rosebush into submission. Thanks, bro. You're our favorite.

Other family has pitched in to clean and organize and help stage our house for potential sale. We're getting out of Dodge. Moving into Chevy.

We've decided to make a change and try to get our finances in order. Selling our house will do great work towards that goal, but won't solve all our problems. It won't mean I can quit my job any time soon.

Dang it.

But it will put us on a track towards paying down our debts and starting a savings strategy. And this downsizing may allow us to eventually get away from our jobs sooner.

But I mustn't get too far out ahead of the horse in this here cart... I just need to get a few words down so that I officially blogged this month. And then I need to consider going to bed. Because there's work, again, next morning. And I must go.

So I must go.

G'night.