Fighting Indifference.

Apathy at least has something behind it, some rage, usually. But indifference has no substance. It's like powder tossed in the wind; it's nothing until it chokes you or stings your eyes. To me, indifference is dangerous. When I look at a stack of books and feel nothing, I know I have to get back to reading somehow. I was there for most of last year, and getting this far back in the right direction has taken determination, patience, and practice.

Sometimes, I feel indifferent about food, and I eat less and less. Sometimes, I feel indifferent about the way I look, and I don't put on makeup (I also can't engage in the fun of it). Any time indifference stretches its shadow over me, I know I have to do something, to escape.

With bipolar disorder, I often feel extreme, obsessive interest (mania) or apathy and despair (depression). So when my mood cycles reach a slump, indifference settles in. It's probably a way for me to rest between extremes, but it's not healthy either. I prefer the obsessions as long as the objects are books, writing, musical theatre, or something fairly healthy and actually me. 

I will fight indifference every day. I want to be engaged.

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

The Cost of Functioning.

At many points in my life, I think I have been both high-symptom and high-functioning. In my experience, this is a terrible combination. Most people assume that a high-functioning person needs little or no help.

As my illness becomes more and more apparent a few years ago, I was still going to work and trying to appear competent and present. I was well-groomed, fairly articulate, and mostly cheerful in appearance. I was functioning (according to others), but I was crumbling. Dissociation and hallucinations started. I started writing and saying things that made no sense, including grading comments to my students.

A few days ago, I chaperoned a field trip for Oliver's class. Driving to another city, parking, finding our way around, dealing with Oliver's mini meltdowns--it all felt completely beyond me. I did it, more or less, but the cost was great. I'm still feeling it.

Some days, even basic survival seems nearly impossible. I want people to know that though I show up and may appear well in a situation, it's possible and even likely that I'm sacrificing my sense of safety and my sanity for it.

Protecting My Peace.

This thought came from a Darling magazine article by Andrea Corp. What is peace? What threatens it? How can I protect it?

I think of peace as a cool, calm sensation in my chest and an absence of the singeing sludge of dread. Peace allows me to move through the world easily. It comes when I complete a major task (such as filing my SSDI appeal), when I pray hard for peace, when someone I trust is with me, and when I have nothing to worry about for a while.

So stress and dread are the main impediments to my peace. These arise in me easily, often without good reason. Taking care of a child with autism is highly stressful. Even the thought of driving stresses me out. I often dread interactions with people, even cashiers. Money stresses me out. Sometimes, reading makes me anxious because it's difficult, and I want to read so many books. I get anxious when Josh is anxious or upset.

To combat all this, I need faith and hope. Hope leads to peace. I need a peace that is not dependent on other people or outside circumstances. This is not easy, and I probably can't actually attain it, but I can work toward it. I can feel more secure by trusting others, forgiving others, and forgiving myself. Even small failures (saying the wrong thing, revealing my ignorance...) haunt me. I have to find a way to let those go. I need to find the roots of my fears. Panic disorder distorts reality.

I need to acknowledge the good in my life and in myself.  Life is hard, but I am not alone. I need to keep learning about autism and about my own disorders to combat the fear of the unknown. I need to practice courage. Peace is attainable.

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.

Sensory Distractions.

Two nights ago, I broke down. Oliver challenged me beyond my coping ability, and I started to cry and think dark thoughts about myself. Perhaps the scariest part was that the dark thoughts weren't scary--they were soothing. Josh got home from an errand, and I told him I might need to go to a hospital. Bruce was on standby too. Josh found information for the local crisis center.

Hoping to get stable on my own, I decided to try sensory distraction. Back rubs or tickles from Josh almost always help me, so I experimented. Josh had brought home a root beer, so I drank that while taking a bath with Epsom salts. Then, I read poems aloud. I didn't exactly feel better, but I felt sane. Bruce also wrote me an E-mail that reminded me that in many ways, I am who I want to be.

The next day, I kept up the sensory distraction. I saw my therapist and talked about my word of the year. I got a cherry Sprite from Sonic. I was driving a lot, so when I had a one-hour gap before I could pick up Josh, I stopped at Michaels. I pulled in the colors to paint my darkened mind. I looked at planner stickers and pretty boxes. The night was too cold for walking, so Bruce and I went to Barnes. I spent a long time in the journals and in the children's area. I liked that Barnes had a shelf just for Newbery Award winners. I flipped through Seventeen to look at articles on makeup. I looked at Victoria magazine (which I couldn't reach. Luckily, Bruce is 6 ft. tall). I sort of bathed in comforts and in reminders of my self.

I have to make good choices for my well-being. I need ways to combat the disease when it reaches to choke me. Bits of strength can change everything.