Conquering The Beast

One more about crazy before moving on to lighter topics...

Now, I don’t want to sound too cocky because I know Bipolar can always take me off guard and show up with a vengeance, but after six long years of wrestling with the constant cycling of my brain, I think I’ve finally gotten the upper hand on him.

After years of trying every medication and every combination of medications out there, me and my most fabulous shrink seem to have found the right cocktail. And after years of resisting taking copious amounts of said psychotropic medications that wreak havoc with my mind and body (have you ever checked out the side effects of these things?!!) I have relented, no not relented, I have recognized that without my psychotropic cocktail, I would not function as well as I do. So I accept that my mind and memory don't function to the full capacity that I would like them to and faithfully pop my pills knowing that this is my ticket “stability” and my insurance against hospitalization.

I have stopped waiting to get better, to be fixed, to be “cured”. I have accepted that Bipolar isn't going away and that I need to get with the program and learn to manage it the best I can. Last summer, sitting in my shrink’s office, feeling depressed, angry and sorry for myself, he said to me “I don’t think you are clinically depressed. I think you need to change your thinking.” Ah. Yes. I immediately knew he was right. He continued “You need to accept that you have good days and bad days. When you wake up feeling good, take advantage of it and do things on those days. When you wake up feeling bad, accept it and just allow yourself to feel bad and accept that you aren’t going to do things those days.” These last words have become my mantra. I now live by these words.

I left that appointment determined to do the work to change my thinking patterns, to come to a place of real acceptance about my illness and the impact and limitations it places on me (despite the fact that I have thought a million times over during the past six years that I had come to this place!) I also continued recognize and embrace the gifts it gives me. Months later, I think I’m there. Well, maybe it’s a work in progress. It’s certainly a lot of damn work managing this thing. And I mean daily, never-ending work.

The important thing is that I have come to accept and manage my day to day, week to week cycles. I enjoy and take advantage of the good days. I accept the bad days without guilt. I set limits. I say no when I have to. I cancel things when I have to. I listen to my body and do what it tells me. I have started to recognize that my big cycles come every two to three months. And although I have always recognized them coming (for the most part) I no longer ignore the signs. It always starts with a high and instead of joyfully riding out the bliss for as long as possible, only to crash down hard, I reluctantly cut it short by increasing the dose of my most hated medication. (If you know me, you know this is BIG!) Cutting short the highs has been the most difficult part of the process. Understand - I live for those highs (see previous post). Those highs are to me my “normal”. They are the only time my mind feels clear and I feel “normal”. However, cutting them short results in a shorter mania, and seems to curb the low that follows. So, left with shorter "big” cycles of hypomania/depression, I have more time to just live with my regular cycling, which at this point is just normal to me. Score 1 for Ange and flip the bird to Bipolar! HA!

Rose Coloured Glasses

I originally wrote this about two or three years ago. The piece I am working on now will follow it nicely, so thought I'd post it now. Better late than never!

I have a pair of stunning rose coloured glasses. Well, they aren’t actually mine to keep, but when I find myself seeing the world through them, I am lucky to experience a short period of absolute bliss. It is as though I suddenly find myself with these glasses on and my entire world changes. Everything is seen though a pink haze and blazing sunshine. Every sense is enhanced. Perhaps it’s like switching from regular TV to HD TV. Only way better!

Rose coloured glasses make everything bright, happy and amazing. I am invincible, on top of the world and there is no stopping me. Life is grand. My mind is filled with grand ideas and my creativity is at its height. The world is my oyster. I can do anything I want with no fear of consequence. Everything is glorious.

These rose coloured glasses literally give me the feeling of seeing the world through a rose tinge and nothing can make anything bad or negative or grey. I am fabulous. The world around me is fabulous. Everything is better and better. I only see good, positive, exciting, thrilling. My mind swirls with brilliant ideas. I long to have my rose coloured glasses on for more than a week or two or three. The thrill of rose coloured glasses makes everything I know is coming (all the grey) seem utterly worth it when I am in that moment. I would never, never, never trade my rose coloured glasses by choice.

But rose coloured glasses are like red ruby slippers, they aren’t mine to keep permanently. Just as suddenly as I find myself wearing them, they are suddenly and instantaneously taken away, replaced by a grey coloured filter than dampens down every sight I see and every feeling I feel.

Depression, irritation, crankiness to the nth degree, loss of any emotional feeling, loss of desire, loss of anticipation, loss of motivation, tremendous guilt and enormous self loathing replace the grandiosity I was just feeling. There is no escape. Here I am drowning, suffocating. I am stunned. Inertia sets in. A decision cannot be made, no matter how simple. Each step, each conversation, each act requires a tremendous amount of energy, only encouraging the downward spiral. The simplest task becomes the challenge of climbing Mount Everest. It is easier to stay in bed. Just perpetuating the cycle.

And then I am angry, tired, exhausted, sad…it’s not fair and I feel like I’m being punished. I think I’m a good person and don’t deserve this, but I also see the truth…that when that deep grey cloud follows me around, I am evil, wicked, mean, rude, selfish, unthinking. I hurt people I love and even people I don’t know. I hurt myself. I hurt each experience I have. I long for control over these emotions and behaviours in the moment. But I can only stand aside or above and watch myself behave in ways that do not coincide with the person I believe myself to be.

And hurting others only leads to tremendous guilt and an inability to truly express apologies and ask forgiveness. There is no free pass. While I am able to accept that my behaviours can be forgiven with an apology, I continually struggle to find the right way and words to truly express how sorry I feel at times. It always seems impossible. A simple sorry is not enough. Expressing my deepest humility and feelings of guilt never feels enough. Finding what I believe is a good enough explanation to excuse my behaviour is hopeless. So guilt hangs on and on until eventually I begin to see clearly again and I can forgive myself and see that my behaviour is a result of my illness and not my personality.

Such a cycle it is. Even though I must pay for the rose coloured glasses by the grey cloud that follows, I still yearn and wait for the moment when they suddenly appear, savouring every single moment of experiencing life in an enhanced state of glory.

Above The Clouds

(View from the top of Sky Chair towards Bowen Island)

Lately Vancouver has been experiencing a weather phenomenon called an inversion. Now, I know this term and had an idea about what it meant (especially since I had just experienced both sides of it), but having forgotten the lessons of Mr. Barron’s 9th grade Earth Sciences class, I thought I should consult Wikipedia to refresh my memory on the subject before defining it here for everyone to read! Basically, when colder air is closer to the surface of the earth and warmer air is above it (the opposite of what is normally going on) it is called an inversion.

(View of the city...the "island" is Burnaby Mountain)

So last Wednesday while the city was blanketed with clouds and fog, Dave and I spent the day under nothing but sunshine and blue skies on Cypress Mountain. Looking down to Vancouver, all one could see was the layer of cloud/fog that covered up any trace that the city was even there. I guess it was sort of like being in an airplane, where you lift off and fly through the clouds and then reach a certain altitude beyond any cloud coverage. But it was really quite surreal and even somewhat discombobulating to not be able to see the city at all. I mean Burnaby Mountain poking out of the top of the clouds looked more like and island!

Even more surreal was that it was like we experienced a completely different weather day than anyone who wasn’t on the mountain. It was sunny, warm, and not a cloud in the sky. Driving down at the end of the day, we hit a certain point and that warm sunny day disappeared in an instant to be replaced by the cold grey day that had been occurring all day below us. Who knew weather could be so interesting and mind boggling!

(ABOVE: View of Vancouver - no that's not more snow on the other side of the ridge, it's the city's skyline blanketed in clouds)

ATTENDION READERS: NEW BLOG

Dear loyal fans,

As you may have noticed, the blogs have not always been coming as fast and furiously as they once did. Nope, they have definitely become more sporadic (last few days aside). I believe I've gotten myself into a conundrum. My narcissistic tendency of seeking out praise and then receiving same from all you fabulous readers has now left me feeling the pressure to perform. Yep, I think I may have a bit of stage fright.

This whole blog started out as just me writing whatever was on my mind, not really thinking that anyone would really read it. Well, okay, I expected a few people would read it, but didn't think there would be much response in the way of "love the blog" "why haven't you written" "when are you going to write?", etc. I certainly did not expect that people that I don't even know would take the time to read it (although I of course LOVE that this has happened). Now I find myself writing with the knowledge that I have an audience. And of course, Ms. People Pleaser Perfectionist that I am, I don't want to let the audience down. It is much more difficult to write to an audience than to just write. So often I don't write. Not good. I need to write.

So, in need of a new plan to get inspired to write more frequently, I've have come up with a new blog. Now don't panic people! I will still be sharing the stories of my crazy life with you on this one. But I will also be writing a new blog that is somewhat less personal, although will hopefully be equally thought-provoking and entertaining. It is in it's infancy, but I shall let you explore it yourself at http://whatififwhat.blogspot.com/

I hope you enjoy it as much as you enjoy this one and please, keep reading!

Your grateful and always praise-seeking blogger,
Ange

Mattress Warranty?

I have a whole new appreciation for mattresses. Well, actually not the mattress itself per se, although the new mattress I scooped up for myself ROCKS and I may never leave my bed again. But it’s the warranty that come with the mattress that leaves me dumb founded. I’ve always thought that once you buy something it’s your responsibility to take care of it and if you wreck it, well, too bad, so sad. Ah, but not with a new mattress.

First of all, I didn’t even know mattresses came with warranties. Second of all I couldn’t imagine what the warranty was actually for. Well, let me tell you. My new floor model mattress (hey – I’m looking for deals in any shape or form!) comes with a crazy 10 year warranty basically letting me off the hook for any damage, minor or major, that occurs. If I fall asleep while eating ice cream and it soaks through to the mattress (yes, this has happened) they will come to my house and clean it. If I pee my bed, they will come to my house and clean it (not that I pee my bed). If I burn a hole in it with my cigarette, they’ll come and fix it. If I knock over a bottle of nail polish on it, yep, you got, they’ll come clean it. If I rip it they will come and fix it. If I gouge a big hole in it, it’ll get fixed. If I dump my tea all over it, it will be cleaned. Oh the possibilities are endless! Basically, if I do anything to this mattress that makes it look imperfect, they will come and either clean, fix or replace it. This is a warranty made for someone like me…a clumsy, spilly, sleep eating and not always too careful girl. And what about when I’m in a manic rage? Well damn, I can take out the scissors and knives and go to town on the mattress and then call them up when I’ve come down from my insanity. It’s perfect! Whoever came up with this mattress warranty concept is both genius and obtuse.

Hi. I'm 36 and I Live With My Mother

For Loret...

Grown don't mean nothing to a mother. A child is a child. They get bigger, older, but grown? What's that suppose to mean? In my heart it don't mean a thing.

~Toni Morrison, Beloved

*************************************************************************

"Hi. I’m 36 years old and I live with my mother." A sentence a fiercely strong willed, independent and proud young woman such as myself shudders to utter. Given the fact that I’m also unemployed and my hair falls out at an alarming rate, visions of that Seinfeld episode in which George does the opposite and Elaine suddenly realizes with horror “I’ve become George!” come quickly to mind. However, such is life; sometimes you just have to suck it up and do what you need to do. What does Jagger say again? “You can’t always get what you want; well if you try sometimes you just might find you get what you need”.

The Coles Notes preface (can I actually give a Coles Notes version of anything??!!) to “I’m 36 and living with my mother” goes like this. After deciding to get separate apartments it quickly became apparent that 1. The ratio of available rentals far exceeded the number of needy renters (a gong show that is a blog of its own) and 2. There was no possible way I could afford any of said apartments anyways. Stressed out about the process of apartment hunting – showing up to a bachelor apartment with 50 other people (I am NOT exaggerating) all viewing the suite simultaneously and feeling despondent about my prospects (I’m pretty sure most of the other prospective renters actually had jobs and a real income!), I didn’t know what I was going to do.

One night while visiting my mom, lamenting about my situation and generally feeling paralyzed about the situation, she, God bless her, offered to take me in temporarily until we could sort out social housing or something. It felt like a huge warm hug and more importantly gave me my breath back. I applaud my mother for never severing her role as my parent and the responsibility that comes with that (in this case doing whatever she can to ensure I have a roof over my head). My mother does not see her responsibility as a parent ending when her children become adults. She strongly encourages our independence and holds us accountable, but would do anything she possibly could to help her grown children in times of need. I am thankful every day for her.

Okay, so where were we? Oh yes. For the past 3 months I have been living at Chez Loret. Chez Loret is a fabulous one bedroom apartment in the heart of the West End. Bright, 10 stories up, a block from the beach and views to the north, west and south. She graciously gave up her bedroom, leaving me with a view of the water and North Shore mountains – wonderful inspiration for writing. In my defense, I did try to insist that we trade off who sleeps in the bed, but she insisted she always sleeps on the couch anyways, and we all know you can only argue with your mother on issues such as this so much before giving in. I turned the bedroom into my own space, Loret insisting we pack away all traces of her belongings. Again, so important for me, especially in this situation that was so difficult for me to swallow.

While it hurt the ego to move "home", the situation has worked out wonderfully in many ways. Financially it has helped us both, as Loret gave me a good deal on rent and said rent was extra income for her. I’ve done the cooking and provided laundry service while Loret will always do the dishes and insists on doing the majority of the housework! I try to help, but it’s like I said, some things can’t be argued. I have even trained Loret to recycle so the earth is happier now! I think it has also been good for my mom to see what I am like day in and day out and perhaps this has given her more insight into my illness (not that I think she needed it). Most importantly, we have managed to maintain our boundaries as both mother and daughter and as friends. For that I am so thankful because I know it is my mom who respects those boundaries and knows how to ensure they remain intact. Living together, we have been roomies. She has only been my mother when I needed or wanted her to be my mother. She is incredibly gifted at taking care of the boundaries in relationships. I learn so much from my mom in this area.

So, while it is all good, ultimately, “I am 36 and living with my mother” is not rolling off my tongue with any more pleasure. We are two women living in a one bedroom apartment. I need my space. I am that person who likes to be alone. If I go long periods of time without at least 24 hours straight to myself, my sanity starts moving towards insanity. I treasure my personal space as if it were a rare antique – worth millions or billions but never worth enough to give up. I’m a girl who likes to be in control of her surroundings and ultimately in charge of what it all looks and feels like. Space equals freedom. And for me, having my own apartment is probably one of the few things I have left that makes me feel “normal” in comparison to my peers. And so it is that while living at Chez Loret has been good, and I am ever grateful to my mom for coming through for me at a time when I really needed a hand to pull me out of something I couldn’t pull myself out of, it is now time to think about moving on.

FOLDER OF LOVE

For Dave..."Our love is so real."

Okay ladies, I know you all think that men aren’t as sentimental as us women are. That while we save all the mementos of our love in a little box somewhere, our men are carelessly tossing those same mementos aside somewhere, possibly even just chucking them out! Being the eternal love optimist that I am, I just don’t buy it. I think men are just as sentimental as us gals, they just seem to feel the need to be more covert about it. Perhaps it is part of their cave man genetic make up. I’m not sure. But, over the years, over the past relationships of my life, I’ve found cards and notes I’ve showered on my loved one, along with other relationship memorabilia, in all kinds of places. Glove boxes (seriously!), underwear drawers, bathroom drawers, the backs of closets, laying around on desks with completely unrelated materials…well you get the picture. Maybe they don’t always keep it together, maybe they don’t always keep it all, but they do keep this stuff. Proof, I say, of male sentimentality. (I refuse to believe it is proof of male laziness or carelessness!) Maybe they don’t need a little box. Then again, you never know. Maybe they do have a little box full of mementos that you just don’t know about.

Yesterday, while Dave was re-formatting my computer we suddenly couldn’t find the Office software disc. While we “debated” where it was - Dave insisting I had it, me insisting he had it, I took it upon myself to start searching his place, since I knew I did not have it! In my search, I pull open a filing cabinet drawer and there it is, with all his other important files (work, taxes, etc), a file folder marked "FROM ANGE". My heart skipped a beat. I took a cursory peak and there it was…all the cards, notes and mementos of our relationship. I think he even had all the little notes that I tuck in his suitcase when he travels. It was a Folder of Love! While I’ve always known that Dave keeps that stuff, and while it’s no secret he’s an openly sentimental guy, it filled my heart with love to see that amidst work and taxes, the mementos of our relationship were important enough to warrant their own folder. It might not be as pretty as the box I keep all my mementos in, but the sentiment of that folder is the same.

So ladies, you just don’t know…your guy may have a file folder of mementos that you don’t even know about. And by the way, Dave did have the software at his place, proving yet again that I am always right!

Happy Boots Not So Silly

I have wanted a pair of gum boots for some time now. They are adorable with all their pretty patterns and designs. Never being able to justify spending money on them, I have only eyed them shoe store windows. This year, while in a blissful hypomanic state and rationalizing that it does rain a lot, I decided that I must have a pair. I had in mind exactly what my gum boots would look like – loud and happy. As I searched shoe store after shoe, I was beginning to think my perfect gum boots just weren’t out there. And then one day as I was trying focus on shopping for more needed items for my sparse wardrobe, but actually purchasing things that were most definitely not “needed” (but oh who doesn’t “need” an adorable pink satin pea jacket?!!) I passed a window where I saw them. Gum boots that absolutely screamed out my name. Blue, bright, covered in daisies – these were definitely loud and happy boots. Filled with elation and excitement I went in, ignored the price and immediately purchased my perfect pair of gum boots. Between my fabulous new boots and pink jacket I was on top of my shopping world that day and may have actually been skipping down the street.

I laughed to myself knowing that Dave would think them utterly ridiculous. And he did. As did my mother. However, I knew they were cool and could not wait for some rain so I could wear them. And wore them I did, every chance I got (getting many, many compliments from total strangers by the way!). Still Dave and my mom thought I was a geek. In fact, I think Dave shuddered every time he picked me up and saw them on my feet.

Then came the snow. While they aren’t meant to keep your feet warm, they do keep them dry, not to mention your pants. So while Dave and my mom were manoeuvring through deep snow getting their feet wet, trying to avoid big slush puddles at intersections, I was happily tromping through it all without a care in the world, my happy daisy gum boots keeping my feet and pants completely dry. At some point both Dave and my mom admitted that perhaps my silly boots weren’t so silly after all.