The Face of Wellness.

After my diagnosis a few years ago, I felt both enlightened and deeply confused. Part of me said "At last! I understand why I'm different and why so much of life has been so difficult and painful." But the rest of me only had questions:

• At what points in my life have I been sick?
• What does mania look like for me?
• What choices of mine were illness-driven-and for which choices can I forgive myself?

But though I had many questions about illness, I had even more about wellness:

• Am I capable of wellness if I do everything right? And am I capable of doing everything right?
• What does wellness look like for me?
• When have I been well in the past?
• What's me, and what's illness--and to what degree are these the same? Who will I be when I am well?

I know these are difficult questions. But I'm trying to identify symptoms, this time, of wellness.

• Low anxiety about ordinary actions like driving or checking out with a cashier.
• Engaged, happy reading.
• Moderate energy.
• Remembering to take my pills.
• Occasional, special shopping without compulsion.
• No desperate sorrow or exhausting happiness.
• Appropriate crying.
• Connecting with Oliver.
• Fluid thought.
• Fluid story telling.
• Regular writing.
• Smoother handwriting.
• Seeking laughter.

Radiate Joy.

These words were inside a decorative box Mom gave me for Christmas. I wonder if I've ever radiated joy. Maybe during a show. Or at a concert. Definitely when I held Oliver for the first time. Maybe on certain moments of Josh and my wedding day. Giving my mom a Madame Alexander Sleeping Beauty doll. Maybe just a little in front of Valentine's Day displays.

I'm probably more likely to radiate anything when I'm manic. Everything starts boiling over. But early mania, or hypomania, flood me with awareness--heightened everything. It can be thrilling or torturous.

But when I'm well? I can smile. I can keep my head up and make eye contact. I can use the moderate light in me to write, read, love. When I do that, it is visible. It burns just enough.

Tying the Ribbon Anyway.

--M. Moezzi

I don't remember the context of this, but I like its sound. It makes me think of wrapping  a gift. And even though the intended recipient is suddenly injured or worse, you finish tying the ribbon before rushing out. Maybe it's a way of preparing--a tiny moment of calm beauty.

Small, pretty things, like a curled ribbon or a wide satin ribbon, can calm or re-energize me. But if I don't pay attention, I don't always notice.

Glints of beauty are worth the effort even when and maybe especially when I'm quite ill. Even when everything seems pointless and dark, I can still tie a metaphorical or literal ribbon and plant a seed of wellness and contentment.