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. 

Other Ideations, Other Attempts

I'm not having suicidal thoughts. I'm just thinking about the nature of suicidal ideation. For me, it has come, at least on one occasion, completely unbidden. Just images that I couldn't shut out, images I didn't ask to see, images I didn't feel the need to see. That was the first time I went to the hospital. I was afraid the ideation might stop just being an intrusive thought. I was afraid it might become directive, as it did the second time I went.

I didn't hear physical voices. It wasn't psychosis...at least not that kind. I do believe that one has to be psychotic to attempt suicide. I think it's psychotic to hold your breath until you pass out. I believe every healthy thought reaches for light and life, even in grief or pain. Hope springs...unless it doesn't. Then, you need help. I needed help. A whisper in my mind--again, not like hearing voices but also not like myself--told me what steps to take and what to write. It soothed me, told me how much better the world, their worlds, their lives would be without me there. Such lies. 

I may be an inconvenience regularly to a lot of people. People may get tired of hearing/reading me.  My husband sometimes wants to get away from me, wants some other voice, some other face as comfort. I can be impatient or numb with my son. But my death would rip a hole in the world. Some people would say, "Oh, her? That's sad." Some people would hate me. I've felt that hate. Sometimes, I hate myself for those selfish, deluded minutes when I listened to what I can only guess was the persuasive voice of evil, of absolute darkness. Not beautiful, intriguing darkness, though it can appear that way at first. It promises a cessation, a rest, a nap, an eternal sleeping in. And even if it hurts others, you won't be there to feel guilty, to see the pain. Some people would grow from my loss. But I'd chop them down first, and they'd lose so much height. Better new growth from existing branches, I think.

But I'm not having suicidal thoughts. I haven't at all in the last few days. No coercion, no intrusion, no desperation. Those are the three forms, I think. I've written about intrusion and coercion. Desperation is more automatic, the feeling that comes when you feel shockingly horrible or horribly shocked, in need of instant (and eternal) escape. I haven't felt that lately either, though I did have some of that about a month ago, the discovery. The unbearable that feels like it will last, in this tenor and shade and angle, forever unless you do something to stop it. 

It doesn't last, not with that intensity. But if pain automatically leads to plans, that's a problem. A sickness. Even if they're positive plans. The first step of dealing with pain is feeling it, acknowledging that it has changed you forever. I think of the Evita lyrics:

I'm not that ill

Bad moments come

But then they go.

I think of this less in the context of feeling pain than in the context of suicidal ideation. We say, hey, everybody feels that way sometimes, which I think is probably true...though I can't imagine it for some people. But it is a problem, a kink in the wiring. Those thoughts shouldn't lurk at the edges, waiting for an in. It can get that way if you ever think about it, if you ever have, especially if you've done more than think. It creates a pathway. 

So what do you do about that?

I think you clear other paths and make them more inviting, more...in practice. More trodden, more traveled. Other ideation. Other attempts, as weak as they may sometimes be.

Today, I can't see a good path ahead of me, but I have my back to the one I created, probably as a young teenager, when I hated myself--really, a black hole, and not in a cool way.

I'm feeling in the dirt. I'm dropping seeds. They're tiny, and right now, I have no faith that they'll grow. It's a drought: no sun, no water. But maybe I can cultivate the edges of these paths. These trails. Maybe I can dig up some rocks. All I've written may be senseless, obsessive, or self-indulgent. I'm terribly self-indulgent in my writing. But it's not just Shakespeare's whirling words. Here's what I've done in the last 24 hours.

• I switched from an ugly ink in a skipping pen to a silver-blue ink in my best pen.
• I've written through every mood swing, my way of holding onto myself as I change forms, snake and bull.
• I took a shower.
• I took a bath when I was cold. I didn't use bubbles, but wouldn't that be expecting too much?
• I lay still in the dark of my son's room because I didn't feel that I could move. When I felt like I could move, I moved.
• I cuddled the blanket I've slept with since I was a baby, even as I left my journal downstairs and my phone on the bathroom floor (after the bath).
• I filled my pill boxes, mechanically, but it was necessary.
• I made Oliver's lunch even if I forgot to put more Gatorade in the fridge.
• I put marshmallows, cups, and cookies in Oliver's backpack for his hot chocolate party at school.
• I took a Xanax when the fizzing in my chest got intense, like hydrogen peroxide in a wound that's really dirty.
• I took my afternoon meds even though I was late. I took my night meds.
• I took NyQuil.
• I didn't vaguebook. I'm actually not sure if that's good or not--I kind of shut down to others.
• I wrote a blog post and shared it with three people who aren't on FB and don't check my blogs.
• I wrote on this blog, acknowledging the shift.
• I didn't unplug the fairy lights.
• I told Josh I had the impulse to take down all my art, and I didn't do it.
• I ate a doughnut. Josh had brought them home, and I hadn't eaten dinner.
• I ate another doughnut for breakfast. 
• I took my morning meds. And ibuprofen. And Mucinex.
• I retrieved my phone when the alarm went off.
• I read my text messages and responded to them even though I wanted to ghost everyone. 
• I stayed awake to see Josh.
• I gave some guidance.
• I read my journal aloud to Josh even though I knew some sentences would sting him. I wanted him to see the progression of my mood.
• I drove Josh to work. I listened to "Chandelier" on the way home.
• I ate a Christmas tree cake. 
• I resisted another day of hypergraphia. Too much may be too much.
• I graded one class's rough drafts with plenty of revision notes even though I didn't feel like I could.
• I sent out an announcement to guide my students through these last days of the semester.
• I plugged in the tree in our room. 
• I lit a candle even though I'm too congested to smell it.
• I opened the shutters and let in some sunlight.
• I told Josh I had the urge to carry all my journals down to the trash, to have bare shelves. I didn't do it, not even when he was at work.
• I forgave my belly.
• I wore my favorite coatigan.
• I ate a turkey, gouda, and pesto sandwich.
• I made myself an ice peppermint mocha with whipped cream.
• I took my afternoon meds on time.
• I opened the blinds in the study.
• I skipped a shower and donned a bejeweled beanie without guilt.
• I listened to my December playlist, the songs of which I realized express my thoughts and feelings toward myself...or used to.
• I listened to Josh's December playlist, which is much more positive than usual, and read the lyrics.
• I asked questions about the songs.
• I chatted with Oliver's teacher at pickup.
• I sent Bruce a funny photo.
• I opened two used books that came in the mail.
• I told Josh I had the impulse to delete my blogs. I didn't do it.
• I left a message for my PA even though I have an appointment next week.
• I didn't expect anything, which could be good or bad.
• I wrote another blog post.

I consciously thought through what small actions I could take, like a person who has lost their faith but still practices the rituals of Judaism...because maybe they do mean something.

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.

What I Know about Myself.

• I try hard.
• I'm obsessive.
• I could be better.
• My expectations are often too high.
• I have bipolar disorder.
• I have panic disorder.
• I'm a terrible test taker.
• I usually seek undivided attention from those closest to me.
• I can live without soda, but I don't want to.
• I have a shopping problem when I'm manic.
• I'm smart, even if the tests disagree.
• I have a sweet name even though it has some bad associations.
• I'll be on medication for the rest of my life.
• I'll probably be in therapy for the rest of my life.
• I'm somehow both nicer and meaner (maybe fiercer is better) than I was ten years ago.
• I'm quite introverted. 
• I'm extremely passionate and need safe, healthy outlets.
• I became a pretty good dresser.
• At many points, I was a great teacher.
• I'm a picky eater.
• [Yet] I'm overweight.
• I may never again be as thin as I was before I started taking lithium.
• I have too much fear inside me.
• I'm much healthier as the stay-home mother and advocate than I would be if I had a job out in the world.
• I'm a makeup lover.
• I rarely expect products (conditioners, lip balms, acne treatments) to work.
• Glitter lights me up.
• I'm a believer, even though I don't go to church.
• I do most things to excess or not at all.
• Gifts are my love language.
• I can be a good gift-giver.
• I can be a good storyteller.
• I am full of stories.

What Makes Me Anxious.

I have panic disorder in addition to bipolar disorder, and I want to tell you some of the situations that, sadly and absurdly, can make me panic.

• Waiting for a table. I don't know what to do with myself.
• Ordering a meal--what if I break or stutter? Worse, what do I do if the order is wrong?
• Talking to a cashier. Often, if I only see one item I want, I'll just leave it. Only 2+ items are worth the studied friendliness and ease.
• Going to the post office. I hate having to ring a bell to pick up a package. Sometimes, one of the employees busts me for being in the wrong place.
• Ordering coffee or whatever. Will I get it all right? I try to appear competent. 
• Most books--getting started is a little stressful, even if I 'm excited to read the book. I see myself as a weak reader. I try to work through that with my "Bold Reader" posts on my other blog.
• Anything related to a car. Josh kindly makes sure I don't have to get gas on my own. Driving still stresses me, and I do it as little as possible.
• Taking Oliver out with no one else. Will he run from me? Will he melt down? How will I handle that in public?
• Getting distressed when Josh seems unwell. He's not very forthcoming, and I don't know what to do.
• Being a guest. I often feel like a nuissance, always in the wrong place, having no clue how to help or seamlessly enter a conversation. The discomfort can be so major that I sneak off to take a short nap or just lie down in a dark room. This recharges me enough to try a little harder.
• The possiblity of running into people I know (though that's sometimes good). What do I say? How to I explian where I am in life?
• Large dogs. I try to stay clear.
• Product writing. Am I at all capable? Will my ideas work? Can I focus?

These are some moments that can make me panic. I'll work on learning how to approach them in better ways. I have come a long way since childhood.

A Bit of What I Hate Most about Bipolar Disorder.

• The inability to remember much of what I read, both while I'm reading and after I finish a piece. Some of my GoodReads records are unfamiliar to me.
• Pressured speech, especially at a bad time. I'll be bubbling and foaming with ideas, doubts, memories, and whims while Josh is trying to go to sleep. It's happened in the middle of the night too.
• Hallucinations, especially if they are scary. I go into this drowsy, opened-minded place, and I feel my stomach and my brain tugging at each other. I come out of it exhausted. And even when I know a hallucination is not real, it can still be scary, both as itself and as a demonstration of my illness.
• I may have passed it to my child.
• It seems to contribute to a massive loneliness I sometimes feel even when I'm not alone.
• I get paranoid about getting into trouble for something I didn't do purposely.
• I sometimes withdraw--not good for relationships.
• Sometimes, I fiercely analyze my relationships, often in a paranoid or possessive way.
• I lose objects several times a day. A book, keys, a pen cap...
• Simple tasks require extreme motivation.
• Tin Man: I can't move for several minutes.
• I doubt my abilities.
• As Mom tells me, I have an inaccurate view of myself.
• Sometimes, I can't read or write.
• I'm not good at managing friendships.
• Some days, all I want to do is sleep. Escape, rest, relief.
• Understanding what I say can be difficult for others. I may speak too quickly, and I take detours.
• I struggle with sitting down and reading for a sustained period.
• I often hurt everywhere.
• I can become very insecure; then, I can become clingy. I doubt the love of others, and I doubt that I am interesting enough to be a desirable friend, partner, close family member, and so on.
• Getting ready and self-care are terribly difficult.
• I get overwhelmed easily, and I don't want to ask for help.
• I dissociate, which is frightening. Imposters show up in our family photos, posing as me or others.
• It lies. You are unworthy, you have nothing to offer, people just tolerate you, you should just give up in a million ways for a million reasons.

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

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.

Good Habits to Form.

• Mentally link something to my morning dose of meds. Maybe I can tie the thought to the first time I pick up a pen each day.
• Do one load of laundry and put away one load a day as needed.
• Put away clothes right when I take them off.
• Do more art time with Oliver.
• Read aloud to Oliver, including long books.
• Learn something new about my disorder and Oliver's.
• Try the Daily Bible.
• Read enough often enough to keep reading easy and thrilling for me.
• Clean my face every night.
• Touch Josh when I pass him.
• Light candles more often.
• Know when a book should stay or go to 2nd and Charles. Keep a box for this.
• Keep exercise sessions a week. 
• Find other mood-stabilizing exercise.
• Try for regular naps, so perhaps I won't be so tired all day.
• Tell other people when I have nice thoughts about them.  

Things That Shouldn't Be Scary.

• A person braiding someone else's hair in fast, distorted motion. White knuckles quick as spiders.
• Josh with a full beard.
• What I see out of the corner of my eye. 
• Pool toys that have sunk to the bottom.
• Dragonflies.
• Sunken boats in aquariums.
• Memories of giving birth.
• Staying overweight.
• People drinking.
• Not having a surface to write on.
• Certain extremely long books.
• The possibility that I am permanently no longer as smart as I was.
• Small gaps in my short-term memory.
• Chores to which I have a strong resistance that borders on fear.
• Mannequins (museums, not malls).
• The thought of teaching again.

How to Reset.

Reseting is an important skill for anyone. It helps the body and mind heal from internal pain or struggle. It also helps one face the world again.

Some people might do this with a glass of wine or a long drive. But for people with bipolar disorder, the reset may be much more complicated, and it's more critical because one can only bear the darkness so long. One might need multiple resetting techniques. Here are some of mine. I was diagnosed two years ago, so I'm just getting started.

• Listen to music and pace or dance. 
• Clean something (this can help take the energy out of a rage).
• Go to or watch a movie. I get totally distracted.
• Take a nap or just lie alone in the dark.
• Make happy lists like goals and wishes.

Staying Healthy.

What I'm Doing to Stay Healthy

Right now, I:

• walk twice a week
• read daily
• write daily
• listen to music
• cuddle with Oliver
• talk to Mom regularly
• cuddle with Josh
• cultivate a powerful friendship
• continue to avoid smoking, alcohol, and drugs completely
• practice trusting others
• go to therapy every other week

And What Else Can I Do?

I can also:

• read another book about BSD
• read another book about ASD
• watch uplifting movies
• walk 3 or 4 times a week
• swim
• get another case manager through health insurance
• finish my BSD workbook
• clean and pick up more (reduce chaos!)
• eat better
• cuddle more

My Best Reasons for Joy.

• Oliver is alive despite our terrible birth experience.
• I'm alive.
• My mother and I are close friends.
• My husband is kind, gentle, and patient with me. 
• He also seems genuinely to adore me.
• I got some good step parents.
• I have most of what I want, abstractly and concretely.
• I have a wonderful friend who is sensitive to my needs and challenges and who makes me feel good about myself.
• I have family friends who encourage me and my writing. They treat it as more than a hobby.
• Books! They exist, and I have access to them. 
• Easy access to clean water, especially since lithium makes me so thirsty.
• Easy access to movies ($3 on Amazon)
• A good ten years' worth (or more) of paper and pens.

All I Want Is.

• A psychiatrist who is always available and helpful.
• A bathtub full of Gelly Rolls.
• A 10-year anniversary date with Josh.
• For my brother to be safe and happy.
• Better reading stamina.
• To meet my first babies in heaven.
• A sticker store within walking distance.
• To sticker and stamp shop with Nanna again.
• More general energy and motivation.
• A better relationship with God.
• To lose 30 pounds.
• To watch more movies.
• To have writing dates at Coffee Scene.
• To have clear skin.
• To stay home without problems.
• To help Oliver effectively, whatever his struggles may be.
• Healthy hair.
• To go help my younger selves somewhere.
• An easier time with hygiene.
• Getting my self-worth some way apart from a job.
• A representative to set up all the appointments and do all the paper work.
• For  Prozac to work.
• Love I can feel.

Things I Learned to Love.

This reminds me of my six-word memoir: Said I wouldn't; glad I did.

• Nail polish
• Tons of water
• Teaching
• Listening to students' personal problems
• Having a best friend again
• Swimming
• Exchanging house visits
• Therapy (love may be a bit strong)
• Heavy text messaging
• Fayetteville, NC
• Contemporary poetry
• Reading several books at once
• Coke
• Talking on the phone in certain cases
• Cold shower
• Not working
• Step parents
• Merchandising
• Boiled peanuts
• Motherhood
• A red shirt
• Hard rain

How to Feel Less Lonely.

A disability can feel incredibly isolating. A room full of people may be wildly overwhelming and still not meet the need for conversation (especially about the illness), connection, affection, or intimacy. Here are some ideas for pushing through the loneliness.

• Connect more deeply with characters in a book. Always be reading something with characters you can bond with, even if you're also reading other books or magazines that have no such thing.
• Casually visit your bookselves. Remember the experience of reading a particular book. Remember that book for which your imagining was so expansive that you can revisit that setting in your mind. 
• Happen upon an exciting book you've been saving for no good reason. Begin. 
• Write letters. If letters are too ambitious, find some lovely postcards (a museum gift shop?) to send. This may rekindle a relationship or at least bring you a response.
• If you're not actually alone and if it's appropriate, ask for hugs. Josh and I realized we were barely touching during the day. Now, I just walk into him for hugs. 
• Communicate (letter, call, visit, chat, E-mail) with someone you have neglected, such as an old friend or an inquisitve relative.

Stability and Richness

For me, stability seems to requires

• structure
• little to no work 
• limited stress (difficult because I can get stressed about almost anything)
• limited clutter (difficult because I'm messy)
• reliable relationships.

Of course, none of these are easy to get or maintain. Josh's work schedule gives me some structure. During breaks, Josh makes a daily schedule so that I know exactly when I'll have alone time and when he will be away from home. I also have consistent activities with Bruce. Anything spontaneous is extra.

Stability and the elimination of chaos should create room for richness.

• Deep reading and scribbling during scheduled alone time
• True engagement with the people I love
• Deep and funny conversations
• The rediscovery of forgotten books, movies, plays
• Room for new blessings to rush in.

Wishes I've Not Made Yet.

It's okay to wish, to wish something will come and to wish something away. Wishes can be huge or can seem insignificant. So I'm wondering what wishes I've hesitated to make, maybe because I'm ashamed or scared or because they seem to selfish. Here are some that crept out of the dark when I let them.

• I wish to feel always useful or worthwhile, even if I end up being disabled.
• I wish to have pretty handwriting more easily. It's gotten difficult, and I sometimes don't recognize my own words. This may relate to medication or a particular mood cycle; I'll try to track it.
• I wish for survival this summer.
• I wish for pages that can handle markers and fountain pens. 
• I kind of wish I knew if I will end up in a hospital.
• I kind of wish we'd known all this earlier.
• I wish I could go swim in a deep lake.
• I wish I were a stronger reader.
• I wish I were better at tracking moods. 
• I wish my doctor were more available.
• I wish I could spend time with an expert on bipolar disorder.
• I wish I took learning about the disorder more seriously at least some of the time.

What wishes are waiting? Are they really so terrible or silly?

Love Who You Are.

I adore Papaya! Art, especially the spiral notebooks with their gorgeous printed pages. I've been writing in a rosy Papaya! journal/notebook that my mom gave me for Christmas. Some of the pages have banners that say, "Love Who You Are." This is how I reacted.

Do I love who I am? I could probably do a prompt on this, but it's also something I can continually revisit. For some reason, when I first discovered Papaya!, that line, Love who you are,  had such an impact on me. With everything I've read, experienced, and believed, this still seemed revolutionary. What does it mean? What could it mean?

• Like yourself, myself, and admire myself in specific ways.
• Nurture beginnings. Be my own mentor. 
• Be gentle with myself. Allow mistakes.
• Be careful with myself--allow for rest and recovery for illness, costly bravery, difficult decisions, and social overload.
• Cherish strange and excessive tastes as long as they are healthy.
• Move freely and fully in my body. Get strong. Get fit. Believe my body to be capable if not beautiful.
• Let others help me or take care of me. Ask.
• Next time, go ahead and buy the flowers.
• Take pride in my space. Work toward clarity. Make the space recognizable as mine. 
• Collect kisses.
• Dissect shame. Learn from it. Discard it.
• Celebrate even small accomplishments--finishing a book, not missing med doses, encouraging someone.