I'll Feel Better When....

I've lived much of my life in a state of almost perpetual dread. I didn't think anything else was possible for me. Every class, shift, table, drive, test, visit, restaurant, discussion, new outing...nearly everything, even what I loved, set my heart wild and twisted me in chains, sometimes days in advance. Some days, it was like someone pouring hot gravel into my abdomen.

Recently, I was preparing for a parent-teacher conference. I felt fine talking to Oliver's teacher every morning, but the relative formality along with the difficult news I was expecting brought on the dread. But for perhaps the first time, I forced myself to look past the meeting. How would I feel when it was over? I might feel sad, worried, or overwhelmed, but I'd also feel relief, and I'd have some time to myself in sight. Now, I tell myself, "I'll feel better when this is over," or some such hopeful thought.

Sometimes, too much comes at me at once, and I can't see a path. My inner voice is silent, and I know I'm alone. But I can seek out companionship. I can write my way through. I'm not wired for dread alone.

What Trauma Has Taught Me.

• I have no idea what people are capable of doing.
• I don't know much more about what I'm capable of doing.
• I needed to add to my relationships because it's healthy and so I won't be alone if one or two people leave.
• I'm stronger than I could have thought possible.
• I need to cry regularly, even though my ability to cry has diminished.
• I easily forget to eat when I'm under stress.
• Josh doesn't necessarily need my help.
• People can be incredibly generous if they know what one needs.
• Varying degrees of forgiveness exist.
• My brain is not trustworthy during or soon after a trauma.
• Memory is full of holes.
• "Some hurts never heal" (Next to Normal).
• Wearing my own clothes steadies me during a crisis.
• I need something to reach for, something that is familiar, at all times.
• Sometimes, I can do my best or even get everything right, and it's not good enough.
• I have to stay alive how ever I can.

Spotlight on Symptoms: Experiments.

Early in my treatment and again recently, I've had phases of bizarre actions, usually at night. One year, we were staying with Josh's family in a mountain cabin. I remember little about that trip. But Josh told me that I tried to start laundry, tried to go in his parents' room, and fell down the stairs, all in the middle of the night.

Once, at home, I put a foaming hand soap dispenser in the dishwasher. I have only a vague, detached memory of this. That's how it usually is. Later, I couldn't figure out why bubbles were pouring out of the dishwasher.

I often wore clothes inside-out or backward, This still happens sometimes. Josh usually notices before I leave the house. I'd send bizarre text messages; Bruce got used to it.

We found my winter coat spread out on the bed. I found Josh's deodorant and gum (I don't chew gum) on my nightstand. Josh found me trying to pour soda into muffin papers. He also find me trying to drink Italian dressing. And just a few days ago, Josh woke early and found his toothbrush in the kitchen and the hot water going full-blast (for who knows how long) in the bathroom sink.

Experiments bother me a great deal once I know about them. I feel beyond my own control as with trance writing. But we try to shrug it off as silly. I think it may be part of the bipolar disorder and not a side effect of medication.

Spotlight on Symptoms: Love Sickness.

I remember my darling friend Melissa giving me a red and white, pill-shaped soap that said Lovesick.

I might feel lovesick over an experience, an object, a memory, a person. A song may grab me by the neck, and I'm lost in those words and sounds for hours or days. The words line my throat. I want to watch the same movie on repeat, search the faces and memorize the dialog.

Sometimes, I have to stop myself from squeezing and kissing Oliver as much as I may suddenly want to. He's little, but his boundaries still matter. I ask for hugs, ask if he wants me to pick him up if he's scared or hurt.

I check out my husband and seek his touch. I wrote all about it.

None of this is bad, but I can feel the cross over when I suddenly can barely breathe, and what ever I love expands in my mind.

It's different from obsession because obsession is for something I seek out. Love sickness happens to me. Electricity down my arms. Pliers at my heart. A gaping, exhausting need for connection.

Love sickness usually comes or at least begins when I'm manic. It's a symptom. But I've experienced it in the dark too. Maybe it's worse then.

Love sickness burns. I try to reshape it, make it something that warms me.

A Glimpse: Strange Thoughts.

Josh took Oliver to therapy, which gave me some quiet time in bed. I've needed that so much more lately...just time to organize my thoughts or simple accept them. I don't know why that has become so important lately.

It's like floating on my back in a lake. Stars surround me, but they're not real.  The think seems to start automatically. Some of the thoughts--supposed memories, bizarre plans, and imagined conversations--slip through and seem fine.

My thoughts are already getting weird.

Turning a Coping Mechanism into a Coping Strategy.

I think of a coping mechanism as something that a person does not really think though. It's an automatic response to stressors. I think of coping strategies as pre-meditated, deliberate, healthier ways to deal with stressors. Using strategies requires a lot of self-awareness, courage, and practice. I'm thinking about some of my mechanisms and how I might change them to strategies.

1) Excessive silence and stillness. This can come over me suddenly, and I often can't break it. I call it the Tin Man--a sort of paralysis. Since it's not in my control, I have to build practices that will makes my body stop thinking that it needs the Tin Man to keep me safe or sane. So what can I do?

• Read. If only a poem or a piece of flash fiction. It will engage my brain and distract it.
• Talk. I need to tell someone that I'm getting frozen and why (if I know). 
• Trance writing. This was highly problematic when I taught, but at home, I can let myself write desperate nonsense until some clarity comes to my writing and my mind.

2) Soda. I love soda. I could chain-drink it all day. But I know I have used it as a distraction far more than is healthy for my body and my teeth. If I'm stressed or shocked, I reach for a Cherry Coke.

• Quit. I've done this a couple of times, hoping to break the habit and lose weight. I didn't lose weight. Right now, I buy the tiny 8 oz. cans.
• Substitute. I don't like diet sodas. I have milk, apple juice, and sometimes iced coffee. They can cause their own problems, but having beverage options helps.
• Drink more water. I can have as much water as I want. I like that feeling of abundance and gratitude.
• Have Icebreakers Cinnamon Sugar-Free Mints. They're good for when I just need some flavor.
• Take a Xanax. Sometimes, the anxiety is too strong, and I really need help that nothing carbonated can give me.

3) Shopping. I love shopping. I'm not indiscriminate unless I'm quite manic (buying three sets of coasters when we already have coasters. Buying almost identical T-shirts). I love finding new treasures that can become part of my life. I like seeing what people have made or dreamt up. I'm calmer when I know I have plenty of what I need (especially writing tools, books, and comfortable clothes). So how can I keep it under control? 

• Shop my house. I have some pretty decorative boxes above my kitchen cabinets, and I don't know what they hold. Stationery, letters, rubber stamps? I can take them down and see what I can use right now. My desk holds notepads, pens, and stationery. Again, I can dig around and find something to use right now. I can explore my wardrobe for clothes I've forgotten. 
• Window shop online. This one can be dangerous, but it can also help me have fun as if I'm shopping without actually spending any money. I go to a favorite site (Loft, Target, Amazon, Papaya!) and search it thoroughly and fill my cart, adding discounts I find (a bonus satisfaction). Then, I close the page and let it go.

If I have some money, the issue is not so much whether or not I spend it but how I will avoid buying something that isn't all that special or necessary. So I have some guidelines.

• Enjoy buying useful basics like a plain black T-shirt.
• Buy beautiful items. If the work, designs, colors, or details grab me hard, be it a sweater or a notebook, I'm going to pause. If it's also useful, I may make it mine. 
• Buy what's rare. If it's on sale at Loft with an extra 40% off, and I love it, it's probably going to happen. If I see something special and just know I'll never see it again (or never be able to afford it again), I may buy it. 
• Buy what will enrich life. A candle I burn while I take a bath. A pair of unbelievable theatre tickets. A big pink robe to wear when the boys want the AC on.
• Hold it. If I'm someplace like Target or Michael's, I'll hold my favorite items as I shop. I sort of feel out what owning these items would be like. Then, I put away the items that don't speak to me.
• Let it simmer. If I see something special at the mall, I'll continue shopping. When I'm ready to leave, I may go back for the item if I kept thinking about it. If not, I let it go.

I'm always trying to find and develop coping strategies. When almost every moment is a struggle, I need all the mindful coping I can manage.

Spotlight on Symptoms: Desert Mouth.

One of the most noticeable symptoms of the bipolar disorder experience is actually a side effect of lithium. Unlike other symptoms, desert mouth reminds me that I have a serious illness. Minute by minute.

I'd read about lithium side effects, so I knew desert mouth (as I now call it) might happen. And oh, it did. My mouth gets so dry that I can barely speak. My mouth seems to cave in like sand. My mouth adheres to my teeth. Eating can be a struggle. I get suffocating sensations in my throat and chest.

I became obsessed with water (you should see my Pinterest) in all forms. I struggled to teach and had to pause often to drink. I tried many water bottles (my current favorite is Pogo, which I have in hot pink and in teal). If I didn't have water access, I'd start to panic. One day, I kept track of my water consumption for 24 hours. I drank 7 1/2 liters of water. I was up at night, crazy thirsty. Having water with me was as important as having my purse and my inhaler with me. Those close to me are conscious of my thirst and make sure I have water and ice.

I'm drinking water right now.

Self-Censorship.

I think I've always censored myself to some degree. I guess everyone does. When I was a child, I periodically had bizarre, confessional sessions in which I would dredge up every flaw, every sin, every unkind thought. I lived wrapped tightly in guilt, but after those sessions, I'd feel light and clean for a while. I thought about my actions, knowing I would eventually reveal the bad ones. So I often stopped myself from taking candy from the pantry without permission.

Mental illness seems to demand major self-censorship. I don't tell people about every hallucination--some are not interesting; some are frightening. I don't talk about suicidal ideation--why worry others? I don't share my intense connections with and reflections on music or movies.

I don't want to bore, scare, or offend anyone. So I try to keep it down, keep it clean, and make it funny or intriguing. I don't know how well I do with that.

Spotlight on Symptoms: Trance Writing.

What I call trance writing has been one of the more unsettling symptoms of mania for me. My brain seems to shut off, but my hands continue scribbling, typing, texting. The writing makes no sense and does not seem connected to anything. My journal shows some struggles with trance writing and my trying to pull out of it but tripping again into nonsense.

It's okay in my journal. It's even a little interesting. But it started to appear in my teaching life. I'd have to cut (literally cut from paper) out essay comments that made no sense. I think one was about directions to McDonalds. I missed some, and my students were bewildered.

That's when I started to realize that I was getting too sick to work. I seemed to have no control over it. I had to check back over everything I wrote. Stress may be a major cause; I've rarely trance written since I stopped working. I have stress now but nothing like I had before. My brain just can't process stress normally.

I love writing. But I like to know what I'm doing.

Spotlight on Symptoms: Music and Movement.

Music has always been able to change, enhance, or express my mood.

I remember being ten or so when my mom told me that my dad and I have the same experience with music. "You want to get inside it," she said. My dad and I have bonded over music for most of my life. I sang along in the car. He bought me the CD (showtunes) when I'd only saved enough for the tape. He played his keyboard for me. We've gone to many concerts.

Music may seep into my mind or knock me flat. I can become painful when I'm manic. I have musical collages in my mind. A playlist tells a story. I have a Spotify playlist can "This Thorn" (referencing the new testament's Paul and his unspecified suffering), which tells a mental illness story.

When I am even a little manic, I feel especially drawn to music. I sing and dance more. I have to keep moving, either in a cerebral or a physical way. My own music videos play out with colors and images. I usually want to listen to the music on my own--I don't want distraction, and I'm especially vulnerable to any criticism or teasing. Often, I'll wear headphones to keep everything in my head.

Some songs become jars in which I can store my feelings or experiences, so they don't torment me when I can't handle them.

I tend to walk, sometimes outside but mostly in the living room and kitchen, when I listen to music. I walked all over my parents' house when I lived there.

I remember wearing earbuds and pacing around my friend's dining room table when I was 13, trying to calm a crushing crush. Nobody really acted like it was strange. But then that friend, Hannah, did tend to be tuned into my moods.

I see music and pacing as symptom and treatment. If you see me pacing with music, I'm probably having a mood swing. It can hurt, but it usually helps. I navigate between songs that are too much and songs that are just right. But music can also become accompaniment to dark thoughts when depression closes in and I'm suspended between moods. Too much Evanescence, too much Air Supply, too much Sunset Boulevard.

I listen. I pace. The other noises in my mind (especially the voice that tells me I'm always doing something wrong) clear out or at least get quieter. The burns on my brain stop sizzling. Life might be livable. I keep moving. I keep listening.

Spotlight on Symptoms: Obsession.

I've always been obsessive. As a preteen, I spent hours listening to showtunes, planning plays (most of which never happened), and watching the same movies over and over. I did almost nothing in moderation. I went wild for Irish step dance. I had a semi-dark longing to be an actor. I lost my mind over Titanic. I had an intense Harriet the Spy phase.

I've sometimes tries to disconnect the wires of obsession, but I usually just trip over them and fall hard. When I'm full-blown manic, obsessions take on a sharp edge and can be maddening.

Phantom and Sunset Boulevard were two of my strongest obsessions. The music made me feel a kind of pain and a joy of internal freedom. It cracked me open.

Some other obsessions have included stickers, conjoined and parasitic twins, American Horror Story, swimming, water in all forms, certain celebrities (currently, Ben Platt), Fun Home, makeup (recurring!), Betsey Johnson necklaces, texting Bruce (a million times a day for years!), and simply being Bruce's friend (quite complicated and difficult for me until fairly recently).

I made full use of Google and YouTube for all this, pursuing hard. It can be both exhilarating and exhausting. It takes up a lot of time and sometimes money. I try to determine what is fine or good and what is unhealthy. Mania, even traces of it, creates energy that must latch onto something.

Right now, I'm obsessed with Dear Evan Hansen and anything related to it. Though I have been a little manic lately, this obsession mostly just asks for time. It makes me happy, so we're letting it be.

As I grew up, I tried to avoid past and new obsessions because they overwhelmed me. But I'm trying to be open again. So I try to surround myself with what is beautiful and healing in the hopes that my next obsession will be a positive one (even if it's weird).

The Race.

One recent night, I wrote this in my journal: "My thoughts are spinning something that will keep me warm or smother me."

Racing thoughts often feel that way--good and bad potential. They can seem exciting and beautiful like golden sparks the sun gives to the pond outside my apartment. But they can often burn my brain, and I don't know what to expect.

Memories, especially mortifying ones, mingle with what-ifs. Some thoughts are like fragments of nightmares...as thought I'm in a terrifying haunted house and must find my own way out. Until I find that way out, that self-destructive part of my mind keeps working against itself and scaring me.

But sometimes, racing thoughts can be warm and sparkling, delivering delightful possibilities--hypothetical journeys and visits, a lovely future for Oliver, brighter versions of sweet memories.

I'm thankful that racing thoughts are the only mania symptom I have right now. Sometimes, my imagination can create such beauty; my mind throws it at me all at once. I just need a better filing system.

Facing Madness.

"It is better to face madness with a plan than to sit still and let it take you in pieces."

--Josh Malerman, Bird Box

This quotation from an excellent novel caught my attention. Do I sit still? Do I have a plan? How many pieces of me has madness taken already?

I think madness stole a lot of joy and darkened my memory. This happened especially when I was a child or teen and knew nothing about what I was facing (or not facing). I sat still, listening to showtunes on repeat, hoping the feelings that shook me violently would eventually go away.

Of course, they didn't. They haven't--not for any major length of time.

How does one face madness? And with what? Long ago on my other blog, I wrote a post about "Tools from Father Christmas." I like the symbolism.

And the plan? My a.m./p.m. pill box is a simple planning tool. I plan to take my medication, day and night. I plan to stay close to and open with The Council (Josh, Mom, Bruce), avoiding isolation (which can lead to dangerous thoughts). I plan on making pen and paper ever-present, for more planning or just relief and contentment. I have books, always nearby, for the same reasons. I plan to use beauty to set traps for madness; it usually weakens quickly if I deal with it directly. I plan to check my worst thoughts against someone else's reality, gaining perspective. 

I tend to look away at scary moments. I have to make eye contact with what is trying to destroy me.

Resistance.

I often feel resistant to what I love. As a young child, I was fully devoted and connected to my obsessions: musical theatre, acting, American Girl stories and accessories, Babysitters Club books, and my favorite movies such as Anne of Green Gables. I played with my antiques, dressing up and packing my little red trunk with antique school books, slate pencils, and more for my imaginary train journey. I had no shame. I subjected my friends to wild play pans, long sessions of listening to showtunes, and dressing up with varying degrees of historical accuracy. I wept in the backseat of the car while listening to Sunset Boulevard with headphones.

At some point, I either became a little embarrassed (this was around the time we moved from Nashville to Charlotte) about my obsessions, I got distracted (Irish Step dancing, a few crushes), or (most likely) I didn't feel capable of managing the way I felt. I side-stepped what had enchanted me most. My response was too intense--at least, I thought it would be.

Now, I have three different recordings of Phantom on my iPod. My main Spotify playlist is full of showtunes. I'm re-reading American Girl stories. I've been looking for movies and TV shows that engage me deeply. I'm trying not to hold a shield up against what could help me live more fully. I can handle it.

Lighting Candles.

"She would rather light candles than curse the darkness."
                --Adlai Stevenson about Eleanor Roosevelt

I read the book Eleanor with words and illustrations by Barbara Cooney, who illustrated one of my childhood favorite books: The Story of Holly and Ivy. Well really, it's still one of my favorite books. I wanted to have more of her books.

I have countless blessings, but darkness often surrounds me, and I have darkness within. I hope I am or can become "All that's best of dark and bright" (Byron). Candles won't eradicate the darkness, but they can be bright enough for me to see my own hands or see someone else's face. Enough candles can make enough light for a ball.

What candles do I have in place (but need to relight regularly)? What new candles can I light?

Simply reading Eleanor, an illustrated story, lights a candle. Exploring my small library of illustrated children's book (especially fairy tales) does it too. My childhood held many candles, and I can relight many of them. Taste can do it--apple juice, caramel iced coffee, a mix of white and milk chocolate. Literal candles and fires light up the darkness. Gentle touch can do this too. Diving into a book. Playing with makeup. Rare cuddling with Oliver. The often forgotten sensation of kissing.

The darkness is only one part of me. I can keep it at bay whether that's with a candle-lit chandelier or just a handful of tea lights in a glass bowl.

Having More.

I wrote this at the top of a page of my journal. I don't remember the significance or what I expected to write.

Unless one lives in poverty, I think that having more is largely a mental and emotional setting. What do I have? How will I use it? Why do I still want more?

I have been walking through illness and trauma for years. However, I am wildly blessed. I have a precious family. I have more books than I can read (probably), more notebooks than I can fill, and (maybe) more pens than I can drain. That feels great. It's part of the barricade I constantly build to shut out sickness and hopelessness.

I can be greedy. But sometimes, a beautiful object can distract me from my flaws and struggles and let me rest in faith, family, and that glowing trickle of light inside me.

A Small Bouquet of Thoughts.

I feel sleepy and cold, as if I might die of shivering.

I know my body needs more rest. My brain, despite the cold, is sizzling a little. Sleep is water, and I feel parched.

I've been drinking Cherry 7-Up out of a wineglass. What more can I do to make the ordinary more special?

I am deeply blessed. I need to remember that when the mornings and afternoons end too quickly, when I struggle to read, when I have errands and appointments.

Oh, and I did the dishes today. It's not much, but it seemed like a slight relief for Josh. He knows I'm doing it for him. Without that, I'm a half-frozen, half-starved, directionless child. At least that's how I feel sometimes.

Why is cleaning, specifically, so hard? The thought of cleaning a bathroom sort of terrifies me, and I have no idea why.

So much of my disorders is still a mystery. I can't fight what I can't understand or predict.

I feel so many shapes of guilt. Even saying that I'm tired feels wrong. Bruce assures me that I deserve and need rest. Josh is as generous with me as he can be. But sometimes, I feel like a failed experiment.

Tools and Strategies.

My terms don't necessarily match the popular or even correct definitions, but the terms helps me navigate the world inside and outside my head.

• Tools: something I find or fashion to deal with certain symptoms. It needs to be deliberate, and others should know about it. Thinking of it relaxes me.
• Crutches: something that temporarily holds me up in chaos. It may be somewhat secret. Thinking about it may makes me feel both thrilled and uncomfortable. This could also be an old habit that is no longer useful or an extreme version of a tool.
• Strategies: actions that I put in place to help me with mood swings, panic, and such. Not everyone will necessarily understand the strategy, but it is healthy for me.
• Mechanisms: automatic and often unhealthy. I probably don't want to talk about them. I don't like the use of mechanism as a positive. It's a thoughtless reflex. But I do like for strategies to become consistent, reliable, and safe as mechanisms sometimes appear to be.

Examples

Tools

• Pen and paper. I think everyone knows what powerful tools those are for me. A gift of pen or paper is a gift to my mental health. Having them around me makes me feel calm.
• Medication. Some aspects of taking medication are a major bummer, but I know it helps me and probably keeps me alive. People close to me know about it, and I let them know that I'm still compliant.
• Music. It helps me get ready, and it helps me while I'm driving. Right now, I'm listening to Michael Ball in the car, especially "Lift the Wings" and "Tell Me on a Sunday."

Crutches

• The Internet. It an be a great tool, but often, I do too much window shopping, clicking around on Wikipedia or IMDB, or watching funny videos. It takes up time and metaphorical bandwidth. 
• Soda. I love it and don't want to give it up though I have for short periods of time. Right now, I'm trying for moderation. I love the feel of the cold aluminum and the crack of opening the can...I could drink soda all day (and I often have).

Strategies

• Reading. If I'm not reading, I'm not okay. That's a cycle. I need to be deeply into books. They refocus my brain and give me a break from my symptoms.
• Putting on makeup. If I'm not wearing any or much makeup, that's a bad sign. I like to play with colors and finishes. It's a healthy sensory distraction. 
• Drinking water. I love not having to worry about drinking too much water. I get dehydrated easily, mostly because of lithium. But I can chug water and know that it's good for my body and mind.
• Writing. The more forms of writing are the better. My journal is first, and it covers ideas, blog post material, to-do lists, and more. Next is the blog. The blogs. Writing quiets my mind, and with the blogs, I have a chance to connect with others in a controlled manner. 

Mechanisms

• Shopping. Sometimes, I'm in great control, seeking and finding a special object or some basic tees. My fingers twitch now, probably because of some medication, and they sometimes place an order when I'm still pondering. That works pretty well as a metaphor too. I keep track of everything I buy so that I can appreciate and use it and take notice if I'm being indiscriminate. 
• Excessive cleaning. This is good is some ways, but it's a clear sign of mania and often anger. I clean doors and the inside of the trashcan. I can't stop until I'm completely exhausted
• Sleeping too much. Some days, sleep is all I want. I can fall asleep anywhere. Some days, my brain feels burned, and sleep is like water.

What terms help you understand your actions and experience?

The Impossible.

I'm amazed at how crippling (sometimes literally) mental illness can be. A trigger could be anything or nothing apparent at all. Who can win against that?

Some of these blows happen daily at any time, and some are less frequent but can be extreme. The scope of what's possible, what I can do or communicate or find, narrows.

Here is what often is or seems impossible.

• Showering. This often feels like a massive task involving too much of my body and too many steps. I'm in a better place with that now--music has helped. I have to reach out of the shower to find the right song, whatever that may be. And I may wash my hair twice because I'm not paying attention to what I have to do.
• Eating. I don't feel hunger pains often. When I do, I'm usually already sluggish and dizzy. Preparing food is hard, but the worst part is trying to find something that seems edible. I skip meals. Then, on rare occasions, I feel completely famished and much more motivated to eat.
• Putting on makeup. I love makeup, and I love playing with it. But some days, I can barely put on my foundation. If I have even a little glitter around my eyes, you can know that I am trying. But eyeshadow and eyeliner are the real tests. On a good day, you'll see lipstick, blush, and all-over sparkle. 
• Moving. When my symptoms are high, I sometimes experience what I call the Tin Man. I'm suddenly unable to move. I can usually move my eyes, but I can't speak or get out of an uncomfortable position. Josh will sometimes rearrange my neck or my legs for me. The Tin Man seems to leave on its own eventually. Josh thought the name meant one of us is heartless, but it's about not having enough oil, and I haven't discovered much about the oil I need.
• Gathering enough affection. Josh and I are pretty affectionate. Oliver is pretty dedicated to his own space. Bruce gives good hugs. Sometimes, I feel so hungry for love in any of the languages.
• Being with several or more people, even if I love them and they love me. I need an escape hatch. With breaks, I usually do okay. Most family is aware of that.
• Cleaning. I often don't notice what needs to happen, or the awareness almost paralyzes me. I try to do a little each day--some laundry, the dishes, picking up toys, tidying up some of my clutter. Josh takes over a lot of the work. I am trying, and I hope to improve.
• Feeling fully comfortable in my body again. I have little hope for weight loss; I'm just trying not to gain more.
• Life without meds. This is probably just true--I will take varying medications for the rest of my life. I may deal with changing meds and side effects every couple of months.
• Doing anything but sleep. My body and mind cry out for rest or escape.
• Reading. The resistance can get strong. I believe I can't do it, and I know I won't retain much anyway. But of course, reading is one of the greatest tethers tying me to Earth.
• Writing product. Luckily, I've been able to keep up writing practice most days for a long time. But I don't know if or when I'll write a product (story, poem, essay) let alone submit it.
• Living without dread. My brain seems always able to find something to latch onto. The absence of work is a massive help, and I believe I'm so much better now that I'm not working. Still, my brain wants to overload and send me fleeing or fighting nothing.
• Understanding my illness and myself. I've read books and articles and studies. I need to learn to ask questions of my therapist. How do I sort my feelings, thoughts, and actions? Do answers exist that I simply haven't come across yet? I know I need to learn more.

"I Kept Myself Alive." --Joyce Carol Oates.

I don't know where I got this or what the context was. I just found it written on sticky note in my last journal. The quotation makes me think of the movie Castaway, which I should probably see again.

Suicide attempts and mental illness bloom poison in my family. I've had to learn that I can't keep someone else alive. Nobody can keep me alive either, except briefly in a locked ward with restraints. I've never gotten there, and I hope I never will experience persistent thoughts of death or terrifying hallucinations that will drive me to such a place. But at that point, of course, I have to shout, "Help me! I can't keep myself alive anymore!" And that will pass my life onto that council member (Mom, Josh, Bruce), that intake person, that doctor, that paramedic. Yet even they will have limited power.

But as long as I don't get there, my main job is to keep myself alive. I have people whom I consider lifesavers, who are essential to my well-being. I have good memories to coat my brain. I have books and movies to make new ideas bloom and convince my brain that life is worthwhile. I have color to pierce the darkness. I have special objects (especially gifts) that help to tether me to the earth. I write to stay alive; I stay alive to write. As long as I have a tool and a surface, I will write, even if I have to write terrible words to purge my mind of its monsters. I have love. I have a child to whom I think I can be a good mother. I'm keeping myself alive.