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.