Fighting Indifference.

Apathy at least has something behind it, some rage, usually. But indifference has no substance. It's like powder tossed in the wind; it's nothing until it chokes you or stings your eyes. To me, indifference is dangerous. When I look at a stack of books and feel nothing, I know I have to get back to reading somehow. I was there for most of last year, and getting this far back in the right direction has taken determination, patience, and practice.

Sometimes, I feel indifferent about food, and I eat less and less. Sometimes, I feel indifferent about the way I look, and I don't put on makeup (I also can't engage in the fun of it). Any time indifference stretches its shadow over me, I know I have to do something, to escape.

With bipolar disorder, I often feel extreme, obsessive interest (mania) or apathy and despair (depression). So when my mood cycles reach a slump, indifference settles in. It's probably a way for me to rest between extremes, but it's not healthy either. I prefer the obsessions as long as the objects are books, writing, musical theatre, or something fairly healthy and actually me. 

I will fight indifference every day. I want to be engaged.

Days of the Week Mats.

Many years ago, I made long daily visits to the hospital. I noticed that large mats in the elevators had the day of the week on them. At first, I found this silly and weird. But as days passed, those mats became an anchor, an offering of normalcy--simply knowing the day of the week calmed me when nothing made sense, and times seemed like dust on a breeze.

Here are some of my current mats:

• Stickers. Tiny bits of beauty, color, and glimmer are scattered in my journals and are sparks that remind me who I am.
• Josh's big smile. I remember whom I love and who loves me.
• Oliver's calling me Mama still catches me by surprise and gives me a sense of purpose.
• Massages or tickles from Josh. These always make me pause and come out of my fevered mind.
• The Phantom of the Opera music. It reminds me that I can tap into relatively healthy obsessions and find healing.
• My mom's voice. On the phone with her, I either calm down considerably, or everything that needs to come out comes out.
• Reading. It settles me. Pain cannot reign where stories dwell.

Wanting to Live.

What keeps us alive and keeps us wanting life seemingly ought to be the big concepts: faith, love, family, friendship, and such. But I've found that, especially when I'm ill, I can't process anything so large. Instead, small bits hold me to life. Here are some of those:

• Oliver's dancing
• My mother's voice
• Josh's touch
• A nearly-full bottle of ink
• Dancing with James and Mom
• The Touchdown Squirrel 
• Dad's playing the piano
• Bruce's laugh
• Glittery pens
• Glitter in general
• Shane's crazy-long hair
• Michelle's Stitch (her dog) voice and character
• A Facebook comment from Keely
• An E-mail from Melissa
• The funny Jigsaw video
• Double-ended markers
• Sierra Boggess
• Button's (Mom's small rabbit) cleaning her stick-up ears
• Pink glitter makeup
• Organization by color
• Making Dad laugh
• Oliver's love of books
• Shane's worst-case reassurances
• Fresh sheets
• Hot baths
• Love notes
• Popcorn with Bruce
• Singing showtunes with James
• Mom's being excited to see me
• Something coming in the mail
• Dr. Pepper
• Sonic's cherry Sprite
• Musicals
• Josh's big, laughing smile
• A new or upcoming Francesca Lia Block book--one on writing comes out May 1...preordered!
• Pouches full of pens
• Cozy pants
• Wild violets springing through dead leaves at the park
• Mom's crafts
• Testing pens at a store
• Oliver's finishing a puzzle
• Writing a poem
• Kissing