Another 24 Hours.

I'm still here. Josh noted that when I am ill, my eyelids are smoother. This seems very strange, but I noticed it in the mirror. Are they swollen? Do I not open them normally? I don't know. 

I told Bruce that none of the seeds I'd planted over the previous twenty-four hours had seemed to do anything, but I'm still planting. Bruce said it will grow into something that can help me climb out of the way I'm feeling. I told him that most of what I did was really basic maintenance, what I have to do to be okay on a daily basis. I said I was looking for more I could do. So, I tried to do more. Intensive care.

• I asked Josh to make me Ramen instead of skipping dinner. It's not great nutrition, and I may have swallowed the noodles without chewing them, but I ate something.
• I hummed "Waltz for Eva and Che."
• I thought about the lyrics: "How can you be so short-sighted/to think no further than this week or next week/to have no impossible dream?" or something like that. It reminded me of the time I saw my thesis advisor at the college where I worked (he had come for a reading). I told him I was teaching full-time and I was pregnant, so all of my dreams had come true. He gave me a serious gaze and said, "Never."
• I sent my blog post to those three people again.
• I listened when Josh said that writing is who I am, and that to destroy my writing would deprive the world, and that this blog should be a book...even though I didn't believe it. 
• I asked Josh to rub my shoulders and talk to me.
• I grinned at my son and spoke sweetly to him, calling him by his little love names.
• I showed Josh the sticker books I ordered with Amazon Christmas money from my grandparents. Mermaids and pink and purple self-care.
• I drank Glacier Freeze Gatorade Zero.
• I cut my toenails even though I really didn't want to, and I hate the word toenails. But I also didn't want to see my uncut toenails.
• I took a shower and washed my hair with philosophy Pumpkin Icing gel. I could kind of smell it.
• I spent a few extra minutes in the shower, the water against my lower back, where I carry most of my tension.
• I opened a new deodorant instead of scraping my armpits with a nearly empty stick. I also hate the word armpit. 
• I fixed the blankets. This may not sound like much, but the blankets are heavy, one had fallen all the way to the floor, and I had to run around the bed a few times. But I can't stand messy blankets.
• I didn't make myself dry off (seriously? Too hard) after my shower; I just got in bed damp. Pajamas later.
• I started another blog post.
• I typed S into the tags space and saw so many topics I've written about on this blog.
• I looked again at the Studio Strand merch and filled a dream cart with bookstore shirts, magnets, stickers, keychains, and notebooks. Of course, I didn't check out.
• I reminded myself of the Studio Strand tote bag wedged between Josh's desk and the rainbow nonfiction bookcase. It holds my Christmas presents.
• I thought about the presents I will give Josh.
• I thought about our trip to New York City a couple of years ago. Josh described the memory, today in a long E-mail, as a magical cloak.
• I looked at the Cinderella print I love: Cinderella just transformed, still sparkling with magic against a dark blue night, on blue-and-white-striped matting in a white wooden frame above my dresser. I remembered that I found a tiny love note taped to the glass last week.
• I tried not to clench my teeth.
• I looked into my closet at all my pink tops and my three pairs of shorts with stars on them.
• I looked at my Madame Alexander Cisette doll Violette, who looks as if she just stepped out of the flagship Sephora on her way to a Broadway show. She probably has a swanky apartment. Her gray jacket is trimmed with faux fur and purple ribbon. Of course, she has a silver silk blouse and a gray brocade skirt underneath.
• I smiled (just a little) at the leaning tower of books, journals, and magazines by my bed, which Josh stacked in his attempt to vacuum my She Leaves a Little Sparkle Wherever She Goes rug. I'm messy, and a week ago, I had dreams.
• I did not feel like dumping all my pretty things in the foyer to gather dust.
• I remembered how Josh once said "The Perfect One" by Lit reminded him of me.
• I tried again not to clench my teeth. It's a real problem.
• I thought about Christmas. I'm still kind of looking forward to it, even if I'm still too physically sick to travel.
• I graded student journal entries, which didn't exactly put me in a good mood but was a good distraction.
• I took a bath--with Eucalyptus Spearmint bubbles this time.
• I messaged with Megan, who is also dealing with terrible illness and terrible timing. And she's hilarious and good at getting mad (or not, depending on my mood) on my behalf.
• I showed Josh a meme that made him say, "That's fantastic," which is one of my favorite things to hear. I ignored the fact that he was 90% asleep at the time.
• I took my night meds, NyQuil (I snore less), and Trazodone.
• I cleaned and wore my nightguard for the clenching.
• Though I could have done so much more, I turned off the light at 10:30.
• While I tried to fall asleep, I had a sad thought that wouldn't help me. I whispered, "I'm not going to think about that."
• I got up at 6 and sat with Josh. We rewatched my current favorite Key and Peele sketch. https://youtu.be/hhfHu6IHBiI?si=BIY_3Bw7bhzZZrA2
• I took ibuprofen, Sudafed, and my morning meds.
• I smiled, watching my cat, Starry, pawing Josh's leg for pets.
• I drank the iced peppermint mocha Josh brought home.
• I ate the last donut.
• I opened the shutters, positioned myself so the sun was in my face, and took a sunshine nap with Josh.
• I got a call back from my PA's admin and left an actual message for my PA.
• I watched the Key and Peele sketch again.
• I scribbled while Josh worked out.
• I showered before noon (this is a goal on my daily chart--remote worker stuff).
• I ate the turkey, gouda, and pesto sandwich Josh made me.
• I lay across Josh's lap while he tickled my back with both hands.
• I did marriage counseling with Josh.
• I spoke more than usual in marriage counseling. 
• I ate a Christmas tree cake and drank Dr. Pepper.
• I got back in bed with Josh and snuggled (Thursday has been our day together this semester).
• I set up an appointment with my PA for 10 a.m. tomorrow. 
• While Josh went to pick up Oliver, I lit three candles downstairs: Spiced Cinnamon Vanilla in the living room, Merry Cookie in the study, and Vanilla Bean Noel in the foyer, all so that the house would smell good when the boys got home.
• I scribbled in my Italian, black and gold, celestial journal while sitting on the pink velvet loveseat with Josh.
• I opened a new ink (#14--I'm actually on the right day!) from my Diamine Inkvent calendar: Rainbow's End, a chameleon ink that is purple with pink glitter.
• With Josh's help, I found 18 photos in which I'm truly happy (not just smiling for the camera--in some, I'm not smiling at all). They span the last 18 years. In many of them, I'm holding Oliver. In almost all of them, I'm smiling at Josh. He took every photo but one.
• Though my self-regard has not (yet) recovered, I haven't had any self-destructive impulses.

Today was better than yesterday. 

3-5 Things.

 "The world, she knew in her madness, was littered with shiny bits and precious pieces...She pressed, reached, picked, and gathered."

~Kelly Barnhill, The Girl Who Drank the Moon 143

Josh and I have each struggled with depression since we were teenagers if not before that. I've been having a good month with no depressed days so far. Josh has been having a harder time. We've been trying to get more time together and more rest. We took a week-long break from news and social media. And I suggested that we start telling each other about good little things about each day. I said I'd tell five and he could tell three. We've been doing that every day (and sometimes the next morning). 

At a time when I was rather insane (likely a manic period) many years ago, I started my blog Sparkle Scribbles to force myself to notice the good in each day. This had a major impact on me, so I wanted to share that with Josh. I don't know if it's helped him, but I know it's been good for me. I make a space for the list in my journal each day. It's one more little light against the dark.

One Year.

 This week hasn't been easy for Josh. Yesterday marks one year since I last went to the ER for myself. That was the night of my suicidal intent. I don't think of it as an attempt because I never took any pills or used the razor. But I think everyone else thinks of it as a suicide attempt, and I can understand that. I did write notes. 

I'm sorry. I'm sorry I all but gave up. Suicidality is a hard thing to forgive. I know this. And with fear, I remember how gone I was. I was all hurt and dread with no end. For those minutes, that hour, everything else was gone. Hope was certainly gone. Integrity was gone. Responsibility was gone. Even love was gone. It is the ultimate selfishness. I was no longer a person but a void. 

But I didn't hurt myself. I was still talking to my best friend, texting. He said GET JOSH NOW and I did. I showed him everything. He said, "You know you have to go to the hospital, right?" My friend came and took me there. My son was asleep.

I spent one night in the psych ER and two nights in the psych ward. I journaled with a blunt black crayon. I slept often. I went to group and individual counseling. I showed nurses my body, free of self-inflicted wounds or scars. I lifted my breasts so they could check underneath. 

That was a year ago. It hasn't been an easy year, but I've not come near where I was. I was deeply depressed through much of the winter, unable to do much but sleep. Showering was impossible some days. It's still hard. My son, most likely aware of my state, had major behavioral issues and anxiety. He hit and grabbed me often, leaving bruises up and down my arms. I couldn't fix myself. But I did not give up. My doctor prescribed a new medication. And another. And another. I took my meds, went to telehealth therapy sessions, dragged myself forward. 

I track my daily overall moods with colorful hexagon stickers. Last month, only two or three days were blue for depression. Only one day was brown for mania. My illness is in check. Josh and I are connecting better than we have in years if not ever. My son is now going to a school just for kids with autism, and he's now on a medication that dramatically decreases his anxiety and limits his meltdowns. He hasn't bruised me in a long time. 

I look out. I look forward. At least once a day, I just want to hide in bed. I buy too many pretty little things as if I'm trying to embroider the tatters and anchor myself to the physical world. I play loud music to distract me from the exhausting and anxious task of taking care of myself, of showering, of dressing, of putting on eyeliner on a good day. I show Josh my mood charts. I coach myself, often through writing, on every step of every day. Now, I can pick up my son from school. I can do a load of laundry. And I've been taking writing classes that show me I still exist, that I still have substance and intelligence and passion. I read books even though it's often like scraping my brain.

I'm not all better, and I probably never will be. But I am okay. I get many glimpses of better-than-okay. I get lonely. I get scared of what I have to do, whether it's an online meeting with Oliver's therapist or a trip to the grocery store. Sometimes, I wonder what the point is. The days keep coming on. But I don't live in dread anymore. I see hope and beauty and humor. I'm glad I'm here. Most of my days are pale pink for hopeful. 

We're all traumatized, and a chunk of that is my fault. Death has been an airborne infection. But I'm alive. I plan on being alive next year when this hard time comes again. I plan on saying I'm sorry, and I plan on forgiving myself. Forgiveness isn't a one-time endeavor. Forgiveness is a cycle, something I have to replenish, to choose again and again. I'm ever in a present progressive state of forgiving myself and everyone else. 

But I'm one year away from it now. 

Three Nights in Purgatory: Night Two.

I wished I had a yo-yo, some physical skill I could practice and master. I thought about doing ab exercises, but that seemed like a bad idea in my gown. So I sat on the bed and started stretching. My neck, bit by bit. My arms. My back. I rolled my shoulders. I stood and reached my feet. I pulled up to my tiptoes and down repeatedly, feeling a burn up the back of me. I paced. Anything that wouldn't look too bizarre on camera, the red light blinking from the ceiling. I stretched and stretched. The headache started to fade.

I saw a woman walk by with a security guard. Her fancy sci-fi mask and confident stride told me she was a doctor. I smiled. My psychiatrist had said "overnight." It was Friday, and Josh lets me sleep in on Saturdays. Maybe I wouldn't miss sleep-in day (how could I miss sleep-in day?). I could walk back into my life on the weekend and recover before Monday. It would be fine.

It wasn't fine. She was nice but direct, and I couldn't help the tears and the strained voice. I was also shaking. I felt a little embarrassed talking about my son's having autism and about my stress over his school work, but she seemed to think that was a lot to handle.

"I think you need to stay here for a couple of days. You look too anxious and too sad. I don't want to send you right back to that situation. You'll end up worse. You'll end up back here. Do you agree to stay here for a couple of days?"

"Okay." She was determined; I'd be staying whether I agreed or not.

"I'll work on the admission. Do you have any questions for me?"

"Yes. What was my lithium level?" A therapeutic lithium level is as close to 1 as possible. Too low means ineffective dosing, and too high is toxic. My body metabolizes lithium inconsistently, so my test results vary, and I've been on a range of doses.

"That's a great question." She took out her cell phone. ".54. You've missed some doses."

"That low? I've maybe missed one."

"You're on a good regimen of medication. I don't want to change anything right now. We'll get you back on your meds."

She left. I was frustrated; she thought I'd stopped taking my meds. I don't want to feel bad; I'm not going to stop taking my meds. I have no illusions that I'm better off without my medication. At this point, the disease has certainly progressed, and I don't really want to know who I am without meds. I definitely don't want to expose those I love to that person. 

But my mother says I'm the most compliant bipolar person on the planet, and the blood test went against my word.  At the same time, I now had a pretty good idea of why I'd started feeling so very bad. Lithium is a mood stabilizer; it regulates the brain, and it especially helps curb suicidal thoughts. 

My defenses were down. Way down. And right now, no one was going to build them back up.

And I wasn't going home.

The boredom and loneliness wrapped thickly around me. I didn't know what to hope for. I kept stretching. My body continued to unclench a little. 

Lunch came in another Styrofoam box. A nurse came in holding three small cups. Without thinking, I took two of them, and he let me. It looked like iced tea, which I've never liked, but I wasn't complaining. But no, it was ginger ale! Never my favorite, but sweet and bubbly...I couldn't believe my luck. 

I didn't expect much from the food. I found cut carrots (which I love cold but not cooked--yes, I'm picky) and mashed potatoes and a thick slice of turkey, both smothered in gravy. I've always avoided gravy. but it and the turkey were totally edible. I slowly cut the meat with the edge of my plastic spoon. I ate all of the turkey and potatoes and as many spoonfuls of the carrots as I could. Breakfast had been inedible, and dinner might be too. 

I had more bloodwork, this time to check my thyroid. Everyone always wants to check my thyroid, and it's always fine. It was fine this time too. 

A transfer nurse came in. "I already have a room number for you and everything, so we should be leaving soon." I knew that, if nothing else, the psych ward would be different from the psych ED.  She gave me a brochure and a list of rights and responsibilities. Written at the top was 5221, my code. Anyone who wanted to contact me would need that code.

A few times, someone would ask if I wanted the TV on. I said no; I couldn't control the channel or volume, and having those wrong would be miserable. Normally, I'd expect my mind to entertain itself. But my mind was a bare, chilly place. Except for those corners.

I slept a little to pass the time. I had no dreams, no treasured thoughts, no comforting images. 

"Please, Momma. Please, just let me come home. MOMMA. Don't be like that, Momma. Just let me come HOME. She's gonna call you to make sure I have someplace safe to stay. I swear to Jesus, Momma, I'm gonna change my LIFE. I gotta daughter, Momma. I gotta girlfriend, and she's pregnant. I've been here all night and all day just layin' in the bed, Momma. I'm not even suicidal, Momma. I don't know why I said that. She's gonna be back in a minute! Can I come home or not? MOMMA--"

This went on. And on. People told him he had to be quiet, but the desperation and volume increased. He was probably about my age. I felt for his parents. I kind of felt for him too. I could hear the anguished boredom in his voice. 

The transfer nurse never came back.

Dinner appeared to be exactly the same as lunch, which was okay with me. But the meat was actually chicken, which was tough and tasteless. I ate the potatoes and some of the carrots. I had politely taken only one cup of ginger ale, and I drank it slowly.

I was lying down when I heard a voice from the nurse's station. "If she's here, I'll have her call you." For some reason, I perked up.

A security guard appeared at my door, holding a phone and a cord. "Your husband wants you to call him."

The guard plugged in the phone in the hallway. I padded in my gray hospital socks and called the only number I have memorized besides my own. I've heard Josh's voice so many times when one of us was in distress. We've been together almost fifteen years. He was brave and positive, never making me feel guilty for being where I was. I was crying again. I told him what little I knew and gave him the phone number and code. I said I'd try to call him as soon as I moved. 

After we hung up, I went back to my room for that yellow sticky note that had somehow passed the inspection when I arrived. The guard was unplugging the phone, but I asked if I could call my mom. 

Mom answered after one ring. I was already back to crying. She asked how I was, and I said I'd never been more bored or lonely. I felt ashamed when I said, "I don't want to be here, but I don't really want to go home either." But Mom said that made a lot of sense. I gave her the code, phone number, and address for where I'd eventually be. She said, "I'm so sorry that this has to be part of your story." But she made me feel like I'd been good and responsible. 

I saw the "Momma" guy in his doorway, dressed and ready to go home.

Someone turned my TV on, so I had the low drone of football in the background. I realized that I'd been lying in the wrong direction on the bed the whole time, but I wasn't going to change. I wished for a shower and easy access to water. I asked for water, and a nurse brought me the big plastic cup again. I was so excited. 

A nurse with a familiar name told me that they were short-staffed, which was why I hadn't moved. I didn't have the energy to be upset about it. 

I went to sleep early (at least I think I did). Mom had said that I'd been in the hospital for over 24 hours. I was on my side facing the door when I heard someone in the bathroom and could tell that the door wasn't closed. I told myself to keep my eyes shut.

"You need to close the door," a security guard said. 

"You can't make me close the door," the man said. I thought he was the patient who threatened to "piss on the door." 

"Wash your hands."

"I don't want to wash my hands."

"It's for our safety and yours."

"Yeah? What about my ---- ain't dirty?"

I heard a struggle but was able to go back to sleep. 

I checked once and didn't see anything by the sink, but when I woke up again, breakfast was there. I saw two packets of ketchup and got excited--could that mean hashbrowns? I quickly drank the apple juice again. I found the same scrambled eggs and sausage but also something like chunky mashed potatoes. I put ketchup on the hybrid potatoes and ate them all. 

The nurse with the familiar name stopped in. "How did you sleep?"

"Better, I think."

"You were asleep every time I checked." I loved him for having a kind voice and a name I loved. 

I was still tired, deep-marrow tired but also light, pillow-headed sleepy. Who would care if I slept more? So I did.

A few hours later, four people blocked the light from from the hall. "Wake up, sleepy head. We're moving."

Compression.

My world is narrowing. I'm increasingly aware of what I cannot do, what I will never do or can never do again. I've broken my left foot and sprained my left ankle. Most days, I have some pain from that. I'll never really dance again. I know which movements would splinter me.

I used to believe that I could do anything. I'm different now. I've failed tremendously at a vocation that was right for me. Forget ED doctor and airline pilot.

I'm also realizing that sometimes, no answers exist for me to find. The people who, the books that, the websites that should know don't know. It's a dark and floorless feeling.

Oliver is sick with strep and won't take his regular medication. I've prayed and prayed. Still, he won't swallow the pills he swallowed so easily just days ago. He's throwing up everything, probably from withdrawal. This is the most doubt I have ever felt.

My eyes burn and ache. I press a cold, damp washcloth to them. This happens most days now. Tears aren't enough. The wet cloth fell on my notebook and feathered a list I don't remember making.

I feel pressure in my jaw, in my ears, in my shoulders, and under my collarbone. I don't know if I'm getting sick or just deep-sea diving into despair. This morning, I laughed great bubbling laughter at absurd Facebook posts. Now, that seems like a different person.

I'm not starving myself. I stuffed crisp leaves of romaine in my mouth some hours ago. I'm considering one of the eggs I boiled yesterday and the bit of spaghetti Josh left in the pot. A bone-deep tremor may signal that I need to take benztropine again. My breath seems to travel though a network of straws jammed into my throat and lungs.

I am sick in one way or the other.

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.

The Cage That Soars; The Cage That Sinks.

An image of a black cube of a cage came to mind as I was thinking of ways to describe bipolar disorder. I'll mix my metaphors at bit.

Mania is a cage that soars. The wind blows between the bars. The sunlight is blinding. The air is thin. But the prisoner can touch the clouds.

The person cannot escape what comes hours or months later: the drop. All the organs rise and fight for release. The beautiful landscape is coming too quickly.

And eventually, the cage is in the water. Maybe one fights at first, kicking and biting to escape. Or maybe one is just so tired from the flight. The slow descent shows iridescent and indifferent fish, like other people who are neurotypical and just don't know. The light fades. The bubble stop rushing. This is depression. There is no escape unless someone or something lifts the cage.

Medication can cushion and revive. The truth I'm learning is that medication puts me right on the dock, where I can peer at the sky or the ocean, where I can get sunburned or splashed. It's a parachute; it's CPR.

But I'm still in the cage.

Lies My Brain Tells Me.

One day, I was sick and discouraged. My mom told me on the phone, "You're my brain is lying to you." That was frightening and encouraging. I know now that I can't always trust my brain. Sometimes, it tells me,

• I'm not a good mother.
• It's my fault that Oliver has autism.
• I failed at giving birth, and that traumatized my baby.
• I'm a burden on all my family.
• I'm not pretty; people find looking at me unpleasant.
• I don't deserve love; I've made too many mistakes.
• I'll never be enough.
• Josh isn't attracted to me.
• I'll never be well.
• I'm not good at anything.
• I'm not safe and secure; betrayal looms.
• I'm generally incompetent.
• I have no joy in my future.
• I can't be disciplined. 
• My flaws are so obvious and memorable.
• I can't admit how I feel. It's risky, and no one wants to know.
• My mental health team cannot really help me.
• I'm useless.
• I will end up alone.

Wet But Thirsty.

No rain is in the forecast. The earth looks wet but thirsty. How often have I been that way? I may be knee-deep in blessings but unable to absorb any of them, soaked with love but unable to feel it. Depression does this. Someone can say, "So and so loves you," and "So and so needs you." A depressed person may well know this intellectually, but it doesn't penetrate the love-proof walls depression puts up.

I was deeply depressed for about three weeks. One of he worst parts was that I couldn't read (I'm still struggling). I was surrounded by good books but couldn't read them. I was surrounded by evidence of my personality (every last fairy art print!), but I couldn't gasp any sense of identity. I was wet but painfully thirsty.

I don't know the answer. I just hope that someone reading this feels less alone.