A Kick in the Pants

I dreamt of H.E. Chagdud Rinpoche,a Nyingma master, last night. He was a child, but he looked the same as all the adult photos I've ever seen of him. It's one of those duality things that happen in dreams. Like when you dream of someone who is supposed to be your brother but really looks like the mail man? Only in this dream the duality was Rinpoche in both forms.

It makes sense. There were rumors about his rebirth a year or 2 ago. This dream I had was not a prophetic dream, there is nothing special about me that I would have dreams about Rinpoche that meant anything in the grand scheme of things. It was just a dream.

I have been struggling with faith for quite some time now. Since last August. When everything started to fall away, I began wondering what was the point? It was hard work, and practice kept bringing up waves of things I could not face or deal with. I no longer found practice as a source of comfort, a source of refuge.

It was much easier being a Protestant. Growing up, going to church once a week and major holidays. It was a cake walk. Only I did not believe was I was told. I could not make sense of a Father that I was repeatedly told would protect and reward if you followed the rules just right. I followed the rules perfectly; I was an ideal child. But I could not stop what was happening to me. I tried to intervene on the behalf of my youngest brothers, but it did not change things. How could I have faith in a savior that would not even help my 2 and 3 year old brothers? It was what broke my faith as I grew up. I still went to church until I was 17; I was expected to. But I could never regain the trust required to have faith.

I didn't come across Tibetan Buddhism until my late 20's. It was the missing puzzle piece for me, and I fully embraced it. I was so innocent and naive walking in, I had no idea how much work is involved. I didn't mind. The past 6 years helped to peel back and whittle away a bit of the obscurations I carried around. Yet the past 7 months has been one of the biggest challenges for me. As my practice struggled, I watched things slowly slide back. Small things. The things that first fell away when I began practice. It was a big red flag. It's not like there is a "point of no return," it doesn't work that way. But I've been feeling like I need to put up or shut up. That I need to make a choice either way and move on from there.

The dream of H.E. Chagdud Rinpoche last night. He spoke in Tibetan, I had no idea what he was saying. You may wonder why he would be so important to me. I am a lay practitioner, but I practice his lineage teachings. My Lama was a student of his. She is one of a handful of female Lamas in the U.S. The practice texts I use were either written by Rinpoche or brought from Tibet and translated by him. To me, he is the embodiment of Guru Rinpoche.

It feels like this was a proverbial "kick in the pants" that it's time to get on with it. So I am.

Dreams

They come from a swirling mixture of the day's events, thoughts that are being ruminated over and those things that ever secretive portion of the mind has filed away. They come in ultra color vision or those faded, washed out tints I see in photos that have spent too much time exposed to the sun.

He is a transient visitor during my waking hours. As time has passed he has slowly receded. Certain sights and smells trigger memories, but he does not consume me now the way he did most of my life. The sun I revolved around, singed by the heat and radiation. Him, patiently waiting when I could take no more. Again and again I was torn by the gravitational pull, struggling against myself, but always going back.

He has not taken a breath in years. Not a single knowing smile or a look that peeled me away to the core. He is dispersed, having washed up on the stream banks and made his way into a river that flows north.

In the daylight I go about my life. I cannot change what has happened. I cannot bring him back. The years have given me distance from the breathless grief, the things that should have been said, the things I can never take back. It took so long, but time is a salve I gratefully accept. He is not in the forefront of my brain. I tightly close the door when he wells up. I rarely speak his name.

Yet he has slipped quietly into the nightly subconscious pool.

I rejoice in the nights when my mind is a blank slate, or I simply cannot remember what tale my brain was developing. He is there in the dream scape, sometimes nightly, sometimes not for months. Sometimes the main character in the nightly yarn my brain spins, sometimes standing silently in the background. But when I wake it's always the same, even after all these years. For a brief second there is hope when I open my eyes and I have to remind myself he's dead. Thousands of times going through this. I used to sob early on, but now I bitterly get up and push him into a dark, cramped corner of my mind so I can get on with the day. Wanting to dig out with a garden trowl last vestiges of what my mind cannot let go of.

I used to bargain early on. Bargain away my arm, bargaining away anything and everything I had of consequence. But he never came back. And now I would give anything not to dream.

A Book MeMe

I pirated this from Missy. Paste the list into your blog, put READ next to the ones you have, WANT TO next to the ones you are longing to read and SO-SO next to those that you read, but could take or leave.

1. The Da Vinci Code (Dan Brown) READ
2. Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen) READ
3. To Kill A Mockingbird (Harper Lee) READ repeatedly...a favorite
4. Gone With The Wind (Margaret Mitchell) READ
5. The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King (Tolkien) WANT TO
6. The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring (Tolkien) WANT TO
7. The Lord of the Rings: Two Towers (Tolkien) WANT TO
8. Anne of Green Gables (L.M. Montgomery) SO-SO
9. Outlander (Diana Gabaldon)
10. A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry)
11. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (Rowling) READ repeatedly
12. Angels and Demons (Dan Brown) WANT TO
13. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (Rowling) READ repeatedly
14. A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving)
15. Memoirs of a Geisha (Arthur Golden)
16. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (Rowling) READ
17. Fall on Your Knees(Ann-Marie MacDonald)
18. The Stand (Stephen King) READ
19. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (Rowling) READ
20. Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte) READ
21. The Hobbit (Tolkien) READ, a favorite as a kid
22. The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger) READ
23. Little Women (Louisa May Alcott) READ repeatedly as a kid
24. The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold)
25. Life of Pi (Yann Martel) WANT TO
26. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams) WANT TO
27. Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte) READ
28. The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe (C. S. Lewis) READ repeatedly as a kid
29. East of Eden (John Steinbeck) READ
30. Tuesdays with Morrie (Mitch Albom) SO-SO
31. Dune (Frank Herbert) READ repeatedly
32. The Notebook (Nicholas Sparks)
33. Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand)
34. 1984 (Orwell) READ
35. The Mists of Avalon (Marion Zimmer Bradley) SO-SO
36. The Pillars of the Earth (Ken Follett)
37. The Power of One (Bryce Courtenay)
38. I Know This Much is True (Wally Lamb)
39. The Red Tent (Anita Diamant)
40. The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho)
41. The Clan of the Cave Bear (Jean M. Auel) READ repeatedly, along with the whole series
42. The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)
43. Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella)
44. The Five People You Meet In Heaven (Mitch Albom)
45. The Bible SO-SO
46. Anna Karenina (Tolstoy)
47. The Count of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas)
48. Angela’s Ashes (Frank McCourt)
49. The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck) READ - one of the most depressing books ever
50. She’s Come Undone (Wally Lamb)
51. The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver)
52. A Tale of Two Cities (Dickens) SO-SO
53. Ender’s Game (Orson Scott Card)
54. Great Expectations (Dickens) SO-SO
55. The Great Gatsby (Fitzgerald) SO-SO
56. The Stone Angel (Margaret Laurence)
57. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (Rowling) READ
58. The Thorn Birds (Colleen McCullough) READ
59. The Handmaid’s Tale (Margaret Atwood)
60. The Time Traveller’s Wife (Audrew Niffenegger)
61. Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoyevsky) SO-SO
62. The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand)
63. War and Peace (Tolsoy) READ
64. Interview With The Vampire (Anne Rice) READ -loved her vampire series
65. Fifth Business (Robertson Davis)
66. One Hundred Years Of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
67. The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants (Ann Brashares)
68. Catch-22 (Joseph Heller) READ
69. Les Miserables (Hugo)
70. The Little Prince (Antoine de Saint-Exupery) READ
71. Bridget Jones’ Diary (Fielding)
72. Love in the Time of Cholera (Marquez)
73. Shogun (James Clavell)
74. The English Patient (Michael Ondaatje)
75. The Secret Garden (Frances Hodgson Burnett) READ
76. Tigana (Guy Gavriel Kay)
77. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (Betty Smith) READ
78. The World According To Garp (John Irving) READ repeatedly
79. The Diviners (Margaret Laurence)
80. Charlotte’s Web (E.B. White) READ repeatedly as a kid
81. Not Wanted On The Voyage (Timothy Findley)
82. Of Mice And Men (Steinbeck) READ
83. Rebecca (Daphne DuMaurier) READ
84. Wizard’s First Rule (Terry Goodkind)
85. Emma (Jane Austen) READ
86. Watership Down (Richard Adams) READ repeatedly
87. Brave New World (Aldous Huxley)
88. The Stone Diaries (Carol Shields)
89. Blindness (Jose Saramago)
90. Kane and Abel (Jeffrey Archer)
91. In The Skin Of A Lion (Ondaatje)
92. Lord of the Flies (Golding) READ
93. The Good Earth (Pearl S. Buck)
94. The Secret Life of Bees (Sue Monk Kidd) WANT TO
95. The Bourne Identity (Robert Ludlum)
96. The Outsiders (S.E. Hinton) READ
97. White Oleander (Janet Fitch)
98. A Woman of Substance (Barbara Taylor Bradford)
99. The Celestine Prophecy (James Redfield) SO-SO
100. Ulysses (James Joyce)

Surfacing

It's not a surprise how much I love the water. I grew up in the mountains with a river a stone's throw away from my house and access to a high mountain lake. A beach of tiny pebbles, clear, cold, blue water and the occasional nip from a deer fly. The echo of loons in the morning and the swoop of small dark shapes at dusk, seemingly mute while bombarding the sky with ultrasound.

Diving in and swimming as far as I can with that single breath. My lungs bursting, swimming through the rays of light that reach the lake floor. Able to see the clouds above before I even reach air. One of my favorite swimming pastimes since I was a child. Who knew it was training?

I'm a strong swimmer, but I know what it's like to drown. Time and time again. I've been drowning for the past two months. The water is dark, and I kick and struggle. Lungs screaming for air, but not being able to reach the surface. I'm not even sure what direction the surface is at this point. So damned stubborn. Just one more kick, just one more arm stroke. I've done this so many times. It surely can't be that far away, can it?

Blogging for Books Winner!

Check out Jay Allen's Blogging for Books contest. The January entries needed to use the theme of time.

I was really happy I made the finalist cut, the entries were amazing. You really should go and check out the top seven. I was floored to be in such company. My personal favorites were Missy's Big Fish Stories: The Death Watch of My Mother, Magdalena's
Revenge: Wormholes in the Apples, and Put on Your Big Girls Panties: Time and Reorginization of My Soul.

I checked today to see who the top 3 were and I think I nearly wet myself.

Thanks, Jay!

Rabbits, dogs and horses, oh my!

Okay. Maybe one rabbit, one dog and horse in the plural. But you catch my meaning.

The dog and horses, particularly the horses, add a much needed structure to my daily life. There are so many tasks associated with just keeping the horses going, particularly in the winter. Feeding twice a day, medicating and supplements for the old pony. Checking their water tanks twice a day, to make sure the heaters didn't get hung up and the tank has frozen. Checking and repairing the electrical fence (the deer seem to take it down daily in the winter) before I can turn the horses out into the pasture on the days it's not a skating rink. Scrubbing out and refilling the damn water tanks in two feet of snow. But these are things that absolutely have to be done, no questions asked. Doesn't matter if I'm out there feeding in my work gloves and flannel pajamas...the horses don't care and the neighbors can't see. It's like the post office. Come rain or shine it is always done.

The grooming and training is done on an as needed basis. Ironically enough, for 3 years, I was the lead voluteer for a therapuetic riding program for the disabled. The changes I saw in the students were amazing. And now I'm sort of on the receiving end with these horses. The amount of focus required for working with hot thoroughbreds is intense. You have to be in the moment, but keeping mentally several steps ahead of the horse. And the pony, well driving cart is one of my favorite past times. There is nothing quite like taking the pony and a two wheeled cart down old logging roads in the middle of the summer.

The dog, well he's lower maintenance, but has to be walked regularly (not in pajamas of course...even in hicksville they give you weird looks for walking around in pajamas). Just adds to what must be done even if my sorry ass can barely do it. It always gets done.

And the rabbit, you ask? Well, he mainly adds entertainment and aggravation. He's a house rabbit. What's that? He lives exclusively indoors, is neutered and litterbox trained. I've been doing rabbit rescue for over 13 years. I really can't imagine not having a rabbit. They are sort of like very destructive cats (chew on baseboards, pull carpet, eat cords and phone lines) but they don't smell (as long as spayed/neutered). So you may wonder why I've had them for 13 years? Once they trust you, they are hilarious. It cracks me up how much ego is crammed in such a little body. My current rabbit is like dealing with a two year old child, even with everything being bunny-proofed. (And I've been around enough two year olds to know that the comparison is pretty accurate.) Everything is on their terms, and they can be complete smart-asses. I could go on and on.

In terms of animals being therapeutic, I think it's not only the bond created with them but also the structure it adds. I know the horses, and all the animals in my life, have been a tremendous help to me. Getting me out of my head for a while, giving me a break from me. Doesn't mean I'm thrilled about dragging myself through the "chores" on some days, but it gives me a sense of normalcy. I can be Jane for a while, and I like that.

I forget

I flew from Washington state to Kentucky in late October to see my brother and a good friend I've known for years. My brother had managed to get some leave, and he and his wife drove down from Clarksville (barely in Tennessee) to Louisville to pick me up.

Out of my 3 younger brothers, he was the baby, 8 years younger than me. I played a major role in raising both him and my 2nd youngest brother, since my mother spent most days as an "absentee." But that's another story for another day. Needless to say, so much time caring for the two of them them during their formative years created a close bond.

When I picture my baby brother, even as a grown man, I remember him relaxed and smiling. A warm, tight hug. Fluid conversations that last for hours. There's a easiness about him, like everything is right with the world. This is who I plan to see.

But I forget. I forget how stiff and quiet he is when he's freshly state side. He hugs me awkwardly as if I'm a stranger. He's only been back 3 weeks, I should have remembered. It was this way last time. Why did I not remember? Was it because I didn't want to remember? Wanted to pretend he wouldn't be affected like this, again?

The conversation during the drive to Tennessee is mostly small talk, and mainly carried by his wife. We chit chat about their dogs, about the weather, about their new house. It fills the space during the drive.

The visit goes well. The dogs are a good diversion and he seems to relax a little when we play with or talk about them. I watch him. There is an electricity about him that I can see he is struggling to control. He paces, he needs to stay busy.

It takes three days before he really talks to me. Really looks me in the eye and connects. I think he's trying to explain why it's so hard. He's a Staff Sargent, so he explains to me the policy. Mentions that after World War II, the Army quickly learned they needed to ease soldiers back into civilian surroundings. They found that if soldiers were put directly into partial work instead of being issued a large block of leave directly after coming home, there was a dramatic drop in the violence rates of the soldiers. This had never crossed my mind. I envisioned families happily reuniting, but he tells me that many soldiers go on benders when they come back. Spousal abuse, car accidents and fights were very common. But once they instituted immediate half days and working through the first few weekends, the violence dropped dramatically. It explains why he's been working half days at the base and this his first whole weekend off. They all have to do it this way at this base. I think this is a round about way of telling me he's trying to adjust.

So he's on light duty for part of every morning at the base, and comes home to work on projects. I know it's to keep his hands busy. He tore down a giant wood framed swing set/fort that came with the house, and used the scrap lumber (spending hours pulling out nails, etc.) to build a porch swing...without directions. He has made regulation horse shoe pits, which included putting 4 foot pipes into the ground so the spikes will always stay at the regulation 11 degrees, or something like that.

I've been watching him pace, watching the tension. And this is 3 weeks into his rehabilitation. We play horseshoe for hours. I know his wife has had meetings at the base with other soldier's wives, and they talk about this adjustment period and coping strategies. But actually seeing how different he is, compared to how he left, physically hurts.

I'm flying out of Louisville. On the drive down, he starts talking. He reminds me of the brother I had planned to see. He talks of the frustration, the bureaucracy, that after a 19 hour shift driving the hummer on mission in the desert, they had to hose off all sand before parking the vehicle. Because a commander decided he didn't like seeing the vehicles dusty and dirty. Even though sand storms are common in Iraq, and roll through regularly. Strange things that make a difficult job even harder. He doesn't talk about some things, and I don't ask. The most he's ever mentioned in that respect has been several mass graves, and only then, in passing. I figure he will talk when he's ready, he doesn't need extra pressure.

They talk about how war changes a man. It's self-centered, but I never paid much attention until it affected someone I love. I know there are ways he's fundamentally changed, but the easiness has finally come back. We have the fluid conversations again, I don't hear the hardness, the closed down-ness that I saw while I was there. He's mostly come back.

There are whisperings that he will be shipping again early Fall, once again for a 12+ month tour in Iraq. This will be his 3rd tour. God I hate our government.

I know this is cheesy, but I adored Sesame Street growing up. Try the quiz yourself. I'm not exactly surprised with my result.

You Are Bert

Extremely serious and a little eccentric, people find you loveable - even if you don't love them! You are usually feeling: Logical - you rarely let your emotions rule you You are famous for: Being smart, a total neat freak, and maybe just a little evil How you life your life: With passion, even if your odd passions (like bottle caps and pigeons) are baffling to others.

Thanks Puddlejumper for finding the site.

Dogs: Adding a spring in my step and a song in my heart

Everyone knows how walking the dog is supposed to lighten your mood, reduce stress decrease your blood pressure. Animals are supposed to add "unconditional love" and some structure to daily life.

I was thinking about this at the dog park today as I swore under my breath, trying to lure my dog back to me. My obedient, complacent, shaggy black dog. The dog who hasn't been walked in two days because it's been too cold to even breathe outdoors. 2 degrees F is my limit, the dog can settle with peeing on the snowbank and coming back in.

I know he's getting restless, so we compromise. I agree to take him to a giant fenced yard full of dogs and frozen dog crap, and he agrees (at least in my mind) to our standard contract of being his normally cooperative self.

He plays with other dogs, and we start playing a good game of fetch. Except he decides that he no longer needs to bring the ball back. I call him, he runs away from me, with the ice covered tennis ball. I call him again. He lifts his leg on the tree and trots farther away. The other dog park "parents" look at me. Some offer sympathetic smiles. I know what's running through their heads. "That dog needs some training/she obviously doesn't know what she's doing/MY dog would never do that/did you hear her YELL at her dog??/Tsk, tsk!"

All the while my dog, the dog that the shelter staff thinks is a good candidate for therapy dog training, completely ignores me. The dog that already has basic obedience skills under his belt, acts like he doesn't even know who I am. But I know what's really going on. He's giving me the finger. And there is nothing I can do about it.

He pauses, so he can start destroying the tennis ball. I try to walk up to him but he knows what's going on and races away. I here a few "parents" snicker. By the way, when did dog owners start referring to themselves as dog parents anyways? When dogs started getting health insurance and dressed up in cute little coats? (And yes, I did look into vet insurance, and my dog does wear a coat when it's 2 degrees out, but he's my dog. He's not my kid).

I digress. So I'm trying to just wait out this little game of "chase" which really means in dog language "your lazy ass can never catch me, so don't even try." I don't bother calling him, since he obviously is using selective hearing. He's been playing this game for about 20 minutes. I can no longer feel my face. I decided the best thing to do is to let him think I'm leaving him.

I get to the gate, grab his leash off the hanger, and call him one last time. He looks over his shoulder, and you can see him realize that I'm leaving. Without him.

He races to me, sits politely while I attach his leash. The whole time there is a little string of bad words trailing through my head.

Stress reliever, my ass. I think I need to renegotiate our contract.

A matter of minutes

This is for Blogging for Books:

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Life has so many options, so many decisions. To go or wait? The path veers, choose left or right? Do I tell him the things that have been left unsaid? Share those private monologues in my head, or edit and filter them for content before letting them escape? Maybe keep them locked safely where they belong.

Hundreds of choices we make through each and every day. Sometimes it takes only a split second; sometimes it's with a heavily weighed and long deliberation. But once it's decided and acted upon, there is no turning back. Only the push forward, and the ramifications of things we can never undo.

A matter of minutes. My life changed utterly and irrevocably over a few simple minutes. Minutes that on any given day, slid by with little consequence.

I was impatiently staring at the white ceiling as she continued to adjust her make-up. He was waiting in a bar not far away. I knew the longer he waited, the more agitated he would become. I kept prodding her, reminding her we should have been there by now.

"What's a few minutes? He can wait."

She continued adjusting and primping, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. I looked up at the ceiling.

We arrived and I couldn't see him among his group of friends at their regular table. I apparently had only missed him by a few minutes. I knew what he'd be like. Furious, disappointed which usually translated to a coldness punctuated by long uncomfortable silences. I could probably still catch up with him, but it was best to let him just be. I would talk with him tomorrow, filled with the requisite apology that always made things better.

The 4th was bright and sunny, an ideal day in July. I hiked around the mountain lake with the dogs early in the morning, enjoying the shade the trees provided. The sweat poured and I smiled, happy just being. Hours passed by. We were forced home as the heat rose. I was exhausted but relaxed. In my head I had worked out the conversation, some of the things that needed to be said.

The phone rang. I had the screen door open, letting one of the dogs out into the yard. I noticed that the flowering crab apple was swarming with honeybees again. A bead of moisture trickled down my forehead. I picked up the receiver.

"I don't know how to tell you this, but there's been an accident..."

I had always wondered about certain scenes in movies. People who stare in complete shock and need to sit down, or cry hysterically and hug the requisite cast member. Those reactions I could understand. And some fell to the ground, which I was dubious about. The script was obviously a bit over dramatic. In real life, who would actually do that?

My knees buckled and I dropped like a rock, screaming.

I threw up.

I never saw that part in the movies.

The rest of the week was a blur. Burning the dress I wore to the funeral because I could no longer bear the sight of it. Calling his machine, just to hear his voice. Being forced to drive past the accident site, and stopping. They had left the trail of sparkling shards, crushed remains of his CDs, scattered in the ditch. The swath was randomly punctuated by pieces of fiberglass and a twisted windshield wiper. Numbly following the trail of fluorescent orange paint sprayed on the pavement, which circled the tire skid marks and marked the suspected trajectory of the car that had rolled 6 times.

I think about how easily time slips by. The decisions that are naively made, assured that the next step would follow. Unknowingly forfeiting paths that could have altered everything. Yet time pushes forward. And in a split second it can come to a screeching standstill.

Idiopathic Intracranial Hypertension and Lithium?

I was one of the lucky few to develop Idiopathic Intracranial Hypertension about 3 years ago. It was the beginning of the end of my career in science. I had been on lithium for about 7 years and suddenly started having unbearable migraines that would not respond to traditional migraine meds. These progressed to severe daily, non-step headaches with the extra bonus of severe migraines through the week. This was accompanied by papilledema.

I had an MRI that found to my delight, a pituitary microadenoma, but no large tumors that would trigger the kind of severe pain I was in. So they did a lumbar puncture (I cringe at even typing the word) and found my opening pressure to be quite high.

I was put on drugs to slow down the production of cerebral spinal fluid, and sent on my merry way by the neurologist. No one knows what caused this, but the fact I was on lithium for 7 years may have been the trigger. Lithium is "associated" with IIH, but that's about all they can say. And IIH happens so rarely, that it's a pretty slim risk with lithium use. I guess I won the lucky jackpot.

The thing that does floor me is that my neurologist does not take my pain issues seriously, even though I have become completely and officially disabled due to the combination of the IIH and BP. The neurologist keeps telling me that my pain is really because I'm depressed, and she can't help me with pain management.

And of course, the psychiatric nurse says that the reason I'm not responding to my meds is because of chronic pain. Chicken and the egg anyone?

I've gone to different neurologists, but they say that that I'm just having regular headaches, since the pressure is somewhat under control with the CSF drugs I'm on. Basically no one knows what to do with me, so they just send me on my merry way. Funny though, when I'm taken off the CSF meds for 3 days and a spinal tap is taken, my CSF pressure has shot way up to abnormal levels. Go back on the drugs it comes down somewhat.

The psychiatric nurse I see has been talking about putting me back on lithium. I think he's f*cking crazy. There is *no* way I'm going back on it, when I already have high pressure symptoms. I never had very good coverage with lithium anyways.

Don't get me wrong, lithium works great for a lot of BP people, it just never did it for me. And even though it can be linked to IIH, there is no way to know for certain that was the official trigger for me. Even if it is, luckily the chance of IIH is very small for others. But if you do start having severe migraines while on lithium, please go to your doctor.

Finally a Shower

Well, it finally happened. Managed to drag my sorry ass into the shower today after a 3 day hiatus. One of those "symptoms" people don't talk about. I always think it's peculiar how such small things become so enormous in a deep depressive stage. I know it's a textbook symptom, but come on. How difficult can a shower really be?? Some water, some soap....and ta da, you're done!

Washed a load of clothes so there was something fresh to wear in preparation. Psyched myself up and it still took all day before I got in. And for some odd reason, getting out is just hard. Drying off and getting dressed is just too many steps sometimes, so I'm in the shower until I'm a prune, sometimes until the hot water runs out and I'm forced to get out.

It's one of those small signs to gauge how I'm doing. Other signs for me include crossing the street without paying much attention (unless the dog is with me, then I'm very careful). Too much/too little sleep. Wanting to drown myself in food or I can't even bear the thought of eating it. It's all the typical crap. Stuff I could work around reasonably well before, but has been amplified over the past year. Not sure why, but am still on the magical quest for the medication cocktail that is going to fix everything. I personally don't really believe it exists. I would be happy to be functional in a dependable way, that's all.

But hey, I got in the shower. I delight in the small victories.

Impulse control

Last year I was at the opthamologist. Getting my eyes checked. I was left in the exam room alone, with that crazy giant apparatus with the lenses that we peer through, and tell the opthamologist which is better...1...or 2. Click Click. 1 or 2. Click. Twist and flip. 1 or 2?

I have been fascinated with this thing since I started wearing glasses at the age of 10. I've mostly been a "good girl" following all rules and boundaries my whole life. So even though I would have loved to flip and click those little lenses, I have always left it alone.

But sitting there, in the exam room, no one to be seen. Should I? Of course not. I'm an adult. I can control myself.

I look at the clock. I look at my watch. They are taking too long. I've been in here alone for at least 30 minutes. They have surely forgotten about me. The door is closed, after all.

I reach out and flip the lens, just once. It certainly won't harm anything.

No one walks in.

So I threw caution to the wind (much unlike me when my meds are under control) and start twisting and clicking, flipping the lenses. I was like a child. It was the most fun.

No one walked in, I was not caught...a 30 year old something playing with this contraption. Such a minor thing....but if you knew me (Ms. keep my hands folded in my lap, very conscious of social etiquette) you would have been surprised. This is certainly only the very tip of the iceberg of the embarrassing things I've done. It was so very simple, yet gratifying. I guess even Jane-wannabes have to live it up some times.

de·fec·tive

Mirriam-Webster Dictionary:

defective. adj. 1a: an imperfect in form or function b: falling below the norm in
structure or in mental or physical function.

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I wonder sometimes if I really am defective. In some ways, yes. In some ways, no. I am certainly imperfect and psychologically flawed. And there are times when I am literally crippled by what is going on in my head, which is when definition b (above) applies.

I think most people are flawed in some way. But when does being flawed actually cross over into being defective? Is it when those personality and behavioral "quirks" reach a critical mass? Is it when you actually fit into a neat catagory of the DSM-IV? Is it when you don't respond to the standard medication cocktails, and the rollercoaster just never ends?

My life has changed in so many ways. Most things I have come to grips with. Some I have not. Particularly those things that make me less than "normal" and more "defective."

How will I ever be able to have children? The moral dilemma about potentially passing on this illness, and the more practical dilemma of the toxicity of the drugs. I have spent probably a total of 6 months unmedicated out of the 10+ years since my diagnosis. And that was early on in my treatment. Things are this bad on drugs....I can't ever imagine surviving long off drugs. I know there's the good ol' option of electroconvulsive therapy (shock treatments). I had even talked to my doctor about trying this last year during a very deep and unrelenting depressive cycle that was not responding to meds. He thought at best the effects would be short term for me, so we tried other drugs instead.

I'm too defective to work right now, too defective to be in a relationship, too defective to ever have children. Those were the 3 gospels I was raised with. Have a career, meet Mr. Right, have a family. And in the past year, all hopes of any one of these ever happening has just disappeared. Options I just assumed I would have. I guess the assumption itself was also defective.

On the upswing

You would think after 10+ years I would be an old hand at this bipolar thing. Even though cognitively I know that I'm getting ready to ride out the next swing, whether up or down, internally I'm always kinda surprised. What do you mean, I'm on the upswing? Shocked. Like it had never happened before. Even though this must be the hundred-thousandth time... or something like that.

Don't get me wrong, I used to love the upswing. So extremely productive at school or work, I could multi-task (at least in my mind) about 50 different things with ease. But then I become a little too happy, a little too aggressive, a little too much to deal with. And the eventual crash, well, it's just not that pretty. Trust me.

Standard warning signs. Not sleeping. If I am sleeping it's only for short stints with a lot of waking and tossing and turning. Agitation and irritation going up a few notches. I get to this fun stage where it literally feels like I have bugs crawling all over my back under the skin. (I don't really believe there are bugs under my skin, it's just the sensation I get.) But I get so many things done, at least initially. The things that have been put off during the big depressive swings. I certainly get a lot of cleaning done. And what better evaluation of a woman than a sparkling bathroom?

Middle ground would be nice. I know I could learn to be content with some middle ground. Nice, plain, boring, brown, middle ground. I could even love it. The things we long for. Some people want more excitement, more spontaneity...I would just like some stability, trusting that when I wake up the day will be a similar to the day before. Not wondering if I get to fight with being a ray of sunshine who seems to be on LSD, or rip-roaring bitch, or a puddle of nothing on the floor.
Yep. Plain would be great. I would happily change my name to Jane.

Quicksand

I'm a little surprised, a lot confused. I thought this journey was much more hopeful than it ever in actuality was. How many times can you crash and burn, and pick yourself up again? How many times? Dusting yourself off, trying the newest "cocktails" again and again, in order to even attempt to function?

It must be my ego, thinking that there are a few things in life that I have a "right" to. The right to feel like a human being. The right to be functional enough that I can contribute to society and support myself. The right to just be...without constant torment.Instead of being stubborn, I guess it was actually my ego that kept me trying, kept nudging me forward when I couldn't take another step.

10 years of doing what I'm supposed to...taking my medications, going to a therapist, staying completely away from alcohol and drugs, avoiding caffeine. Exercising regularly, trying to maintain a normal pattern of sleep, knowing what some of my triggers are, knowing what the early signs are for the next roller coaster ride. Learning what acts as a floatation device in my life, and grabbing on to it when needed.

This is pretty hilarious, if you think about it. The first year after being diagnosed bipolar, I struggled with the fact my brain was no longer on my side..if it ever had been. I adapted, I learned to live with it. I didn't whine a lot, at least to anyone besides my therapist. I just did what I had been raised to do...pulled up those proverbial bootstraps and kept slogging through the manure the best I could. And that's how I've lived the last 10 years. Trying to blend in and appear as normal as possible to my family, my friends and co-workers. When inside, I felt "as crazy as a sh*t-house rat" as my father would say.

And whenever an extra helping of crisis was thrown in, or an additional dump truck full of self-loathing, I exchanged the boots for hip-waders and I went on my merry way....with as little impact on others as possible. But I have learned recently that boots aren't of much use when you are up to your neck in quicksand. The more you struggle, the deeper you sink. I've been struggling long and hard over the past year and I'm exhausted. I'm treading quicksand, laughing at how strangely life can work and trying to decide what to do.

A bit of background

You might be wondering why I decided to write a blog about such a personal subject. I was wondering, too. Then I realized that nearly all of the people in my life pretend that this issue does not exist for me at all. Instead I'm just a little bit "odd" or "quirky" and "troubled" but I most certainly am not bipolar. Like many blogs, this is a way for me to talk about my experiences to a faceless stranger...maybe so someone can learn a little, or maybe to validate that this really *is* a part of my daily life.

I was diagnosed bipolar II about 10 years ago, after being treated for episodes of depression for about 6 years. I tend to have bottomless depression with periods of rapid cycling hypomania, and episodes of "mixed states" - severe depression accompanied by high levels of anxiety and agitation. To add some extra fun to the mix, there is definitely a seasonal component involved. Unmedicated, I rapid cycle with a strong emphasis on hypomania during the summer. I remember as a small child wondering if I had been a sun worshipper...summers were always the best of times for me. I felt smarter, faster, happier...even if I was pretty anxious.

Even as a 6 yr old, I knew there was something different about me. I was an avid reader and tended to get swept away in stories and had a very rich imagination...a little too rich. As my responsibilities and stress levels increased, I started to swing more toward depressive episodes. Crying at a drop of a hat. Feeling overwhelmingly responsible for everything. The first time I tried to take my own life I was 12. I knew that radiator fluid killed dogs, so I went into the garage and poured myself a nice big cup of it. My parents weren't supposed to be home for another hour. As I was getting ready to drink it, my dad's car pulled up in the driveway. I put down the cup and ran. He later found it, but didn't say anything. I guess he figured my younger brother had been playing in it.

Fast forward through high school and my B.S. in college. Severe bouts of depression caused me to miss a lot of class, but I pulled good grades. My symptoms continued escalate exponentially. During grad school, when I was formally diagnosed with bipolar, things were spinning out of control. I could barely keep up with anything and was in way over my head...trying to manage pretty severe symptoms and a very stressful, round the clock work load. Sprinkle in a few serious suicide attempts (overdoses) with resulting ER visits and a short stay in a psychiatric ward where I thought I would get help...but honest to god was asked to do macaroni art, and you can guess what happened to my master's program. It disappeared. I was unable to finish.

I worked in a laboratory for over 5 years. Was diagnosed with a non life-threatening, but severely painful syndrome (intracranial hypertension). When combined with bipolar, resulted in me becoming disabled.

"Gee, Mom. Can I grow up and become disabled?" I never remember asking that question. It was never a goal in my life. But here it is. And here I am.