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.