” Individuals can be improved because they present themselves for treatment…”

20150809_180700 (2)I am reminded of James Hillman’s idea that we need to get therapy out of the therapist’s office and out into the world.  But what I have learned because of my journey with depression is that it is still so stigmatized that there is a tendency, even in my self, to keep the issue of mental health a private one.   There is a point in the meetings I attend where the following is said.  “There are those too who suffer from grave emotional and mental disorders, but many of them do recover if they have the capacity to be honest,”  There are a couple of us who raise our hands and sort of poke fun at the fact that everyone thinks we are the only ones who know we 20150823_063804 (2)suffer from the dis-ease that we get to label accordingly.

Yet, I see that we have a huge need to not acknowledge that we suffer collectively as well as individually.  Most would not be able to accept it  and more than anything, would not be able to work on that aspect of our selves that carries the tension of the opposites.

“….But societies only let themselves be deceived and misled, even if temporarily for their own good…”  I think I need not give 20150821_063716 (2)any more of an example of this than to look at those who are running for President.  I see it nothing more than a Caligula like reality, and all we want to hear is the violins playing.  We are willing to allow people to flat out lie to us, to sell us a bill of goods and to promise us something that none of them can deliver.  Security.
“…For what we are dealing with is simply the passing and morally weakening effects of suggestion.” The human condition, led by the monotheistic vision of lightness and no darkness, has controlled the paradigm so long that it is accepted, not even challenged in any realistic 20150804_063114 (2)way, the world being divided into two aspects.  The names of them are different but they are really the same.  I am seeing that there is more and more writing on race being only a convenient way to separate classes.  I have seen that my whole life.  My father first hated blacks, then Mexicans.  Why?  Because they were a threat to his status in the working poor middle class that he found himself in.

We are truly projecting our shadow more and more as we go on as a culture.  We are becoming more and more afraid that the pie is being divided and we are not getting “our” share.  When are we going to realize that we have been dividing a smaller and smaller share?

20150801_063116 (2)But yet I have hope.  There are politicians who are saying things that resonate with me.  There are people doing the work of trying to give people some hope.  We are not getting hope from our leaders any longer.  Politicians are not working for justice for all.  They are no more  than just glorified spokespeople for the people who support them.

Alright I am out of the therapy room and into the world!

The pictures are all from my deck at sunrise, except the first one, which was taken from 20150821_063536 (2)Calistoga when the Jerusalem fire broke out two weeks ago.

Quotes from Carl Jung, Letters Vol. II, Pages 217-221.

Fanatical Freedom!!

churchSometimes my mind is only filled with clutter and debris. It seems to grow bigger and bigger until it’s all I see.  Until I can’t breathe. Until I become short and irritable with others. Until I must retreat to a dark and quiet space.  There are certain times I can rationalize this behavior. But, other times, it seemingly comes out of nowhere. Just yesterday I had a lovely morning roaming around my hometown at a classic car show. Following that I went to the grocery store to pick up some favorite foods for breakfast. Skipping along in the store with no worries.  Issues at the register happened, but I pornwasn’t phased. However, once I arrived home the environmental cacophony of my house shook me. It was as if the hum of the ceiling fan, base of the stereo, meow of my cats, buzz of the dishwasher, and visual of ever building dishes in the sink literally came alive. They were choking me and robbing me of air, of communication skills. I was surrounded and could not move. I felt like a prisoner in my kitchen.  I snapped at my husband. He in turn snapped. I ran to thes_e12_RTX116XJ farthest room in our house, which doesn’t really exist in a 1100 square foot space.  It felt like if I didn’t find darkness and quiet I was going to explode.
I simply don’t understand why this happened in my home. Perhaps it’s just creeping into personal space. Similar scenario at work this week. Voices were booming from the hallwayIMG00282 and then crawling up the walls of my office. I could hear the printer, the copier, fast footsteps, phone conversations at rock concert level in headphones.  Mind you all these noises occur every single day all day a majority of the time and I barely register it.  Maybe this overwhelm happens to every last one of us, I don’t know.  Lately it’s bringing me tears and ultimately to my knees.  However, the one fantatics hairbright spot is that it lasts only 10-15 minutes.
The clutter and debris play out in real time. I was at a concert last night of my favorite artist. We positioned ourselves to allow extra space along a railing, a buffer of sorts. On the second tier I can take in the view of the crowd and the stage while allowing the music to penetrate me.  Eyes closed letting the words and beat reach into, eyes open taking in the artists every move.  All the while dancing. Letting go.
n2359Thor_mazlin900Sharp mementos when I realize how many people are there, how hot it is, how loud it is.  My eyes dart and pick out people, suddenly feel the railing against my body.  In front of me is a drunk woman stumbling. I am transported back in time when I was that woman. I see people staring, sneering at her.  That was me. I crawl into the guilt trap. Oh how many shows I must have ruined. How is it my husband is still here?  What a liar, manipulator I was.  Even not drinking, I have ruined shows in that Couple-dancing-photography5we couldn’t go because I was too depressed or had to leave because I had a panic attack.  What a fucking mess I am.
Back into the sound, the groove. Planted on the 2nd tier, above everyone, I feel like the spotlight is on me. She can see me, she is smiling at me. I dance harder. Will myself to get lost in the beautiful sound.  Will myself to leave the clutter and debris behind. Shove it in the back of mind. It will surely be there tomorrow.  Allow myself relief.  Join the masses and throw my hands up in the air.
navajo-creation-myth-john-stephens-poster2I did, I finally did. I was sucked into the magic healing of music. I swayed. I bounced. I laughed. I smiled. I listened.  She was singing to me.  I was singing with her.  Space was cleared for me to truly enjoy the moment.

stubborn-look1

Fanatic’s Fears of Failure

Eyes_of_fire_by_PSDtechI. AM. SORRY. I repeat these words sometimes on a daily basis. It’s not about humility. It’s about not understanding my place in the world. It’s about insecurity. Paranoia. Worthlessness. Essentially, I apologize for my existence. Far too many of my encounters with others begin with I’m sorry to bother you, but…
charcoal-sketch-lil-princess-geraldine-arlezaI don’t trust myself. Or maybe I don’t trust you. I’m not sure. I send an anxious email to my psychiatrist and I apologize for it. I think maybe I send one too many texts to a friend (A FRIEND!) checking on them and instantly backpedal with an apology. At work, I ask forgiveness for entering your office in a frenzied manner or for needing further explanation about something. The other night I thanked my husband for being willing to put up with me. It all seems like another form of saying  “please don’t hate me.”
Tuesday August 11th marks one year since Robin Williams death. IMG_0698 (2)Also on this date, I was pacing for 3 hours along a bridge with a serious plan of ending my life. I didn’t know about Robin until I saw it on the news in the hospital. I was profoundly affected by his suicide. I just thought if he can’t survive this, how in the world can I! Why do I even deserve to? He impacted many more lives with his witty candor than I ever would.  Past few days, well maybe weeks, I am sorry I didn’t follow through as he did. I am sorry to continually burden my husband, few friends, and my work. I’ve been unproductive, overly needy and absent in all arenas.
10576235_1478792175702340_1648178438_nSome days I just hurt. The hole in my heart expands w each breath and The blank space in my soul turns black. Some days the lies reach into me, bait me, define me, redesign me. I am left hopeless and become increasingly useless. On the couch I sit. Stare. Sigh with regret. I can’t explain what’s not tangible. I can’t explain what has no basis. After the third call of my name I turn to you. I look through you. Tears stream. I scream I am so very sorry. The dark chasm echoes over and over.
CP41782056Visions of the bridge. The sound of duct tape ripping. Cold wet air on my face. Cars speeding by.  The lonely walk down the pedestrian bridge. Splashing of frigid waters. The screaming echo of I’m sorry. Silence.  These intrusive thoughts are assaulting me. You see me navigate the world one foot in front of the other. But, for me I am the Tasmanian devil. Chaos. Complete disarray. Madness.  What is happening for me is invisible.
tumblr_luxczfdocB1qzxyqfo1_400I have a friend who asks me the tough questions. He said, how’s your suicidal thinking these days. I answered. I mentioned Tuesday. I don’t honestly remember what I said or how explicit I was.  I was most likely sarcastic and casting it off.  But it’s kinda serious. I immediately think I should apologize for that last sentence. It feels burdensome. I can’t seem to decipher truth from burden.  Perhaps I associate them. My truth will be too much for you, because I am not worth it.Screen-Shot-2014-08-15-at-5.32.15-AM

123 RV, SA, RW, JZ, JM, EP.  RIP Mork!

Fanatic Depth

white-crocus-flowerSome days
Some days I just hurt
Some days the hole in my heart
Expands w each breath
The blank space in my soul
Turns black
Some days the lies reach into me
Bait me
Define me
white-star-ajaytaoRedesign me
Some days I am so raw
I can’t bare your voice
Your touch
Your love
Some days I need you
More than I know
More than I can say
Some days I feel so alone
white-light-ajaytao1A wicked sense of disconnection
Of departure from society
Some days I need you to hear me
Without my saying a word
As my truth escapes me
Lost in the bondage of self
Some days I am straddling the edge
Scared and uncertain
Of the next step
white-beauty-ajaytaoSome days I think you are better off
If I were to simply disappear
Rid you of this burden
Set us both free
Today is that day

black-and-white-border-collie-pups

Footstep Fanatic

moniqueEach footstep was faster as I walked to therapy. My breath was heavy and on the verge of panic. I could feel all these emotions swirling in my body. Anger, sadness, shame, despair.  It wasn’t as if one dominated. They all took up space. I don’t usually walk, but today it was paramount I not drive my car. The call to jump off the bridge was loud and clear. I entertained it for several minutes as I sat in the drivers seat, key in the ignition.  My plan 20140708-182105-66065695.jpgwas to say goodbye to my therapist, say goodbye to my AA support group and disappear.
Enter thoughts of my husband. I love this man. He can certainly drive me crazy, but ultimately he has been there since day 1. I was just as issue ridden 16 yrs ago, it just looked a little different. It seems like I had a lot more strengths and skills than I do now. Whatever I brought to the table, he could see it.
It has really hit me hard how much I need him. Although I’m not sure in an entirely good way. I understand it’s okay to need people in your life to prop you up sometimes. However, my only reason for existence is him. I can find no inner purpose, no redeeming quality in myself that renders me worthy of taking up space. That’s sad in itself. What’s worse, at least in this moment, is he is out of town.  I am crumbling.
mischievous-smile-ajaytaoI push him and everyone else away. I think I can do this on my own. I think I am strong. I’m not. I’m so very weak.
How is it different when he is home? There is structure. I actually get up and go to work. I actually just get up, regardless of work.  These past few days I have slept til 2 in the afternoon.  There is a tone, a sort of expectation in the air to carry on. I follow that lead. Of course, if I absolutely can’t, it’s a different story.  I shower. I eat 3 meals. Things that are routine to him and general society go out the window.  I just stop doing anything. Mostly I cry and believe the world is better off without me.
When he is home there is some sort of distraction from the demons in my head. Right now, the demons are swallowing me whole.  Pick up the phone fanatic!! I just cannot seem to do this. I write this over and over. It’s no joke. I can’t. I have tried a few times. At a very desperate time, 2 yrs ago I called and was honest in the moment. It’s agonizing for me. The words just don’t come and then I feel guilt and shame for calling at all.
I am so black and white. So extreme. At work I grind away at being “the best” striving for some mysterious standard I have set. I claw my way toward some elusive top. I can never be on top or measure up because I am simply not good enough. I think ahead of my boss on some projects, over prepare, over organize. Not necessarily looking for accolades from her but to satisfy some inner longing to feel whole, necessary, significant. I beat myself into the ground til I’m crawling the halls speaking-eyes-ericrefusing to allow myself a break or a day off. Yet, here I am off work this week because I can’t perform melding into my bed. There is no in between. It’s killing me.
The shame I harbor about having bipolar and the limitations it causes me is painful. It’s not okay with me that extreme stress takes me out, while others still show up. It’s not okay with me I have memory loss and it affects my job performance. It’s not okay with me I sometimes have extreme agitation and cannot be in a work environment. These same issues affect my personal life. I can no longer share memories w my husband because they just aren’t there. I try so hard to conjure them up, but to no avail. Sometimes I can’t stand his voice or touch.  Sometimes I cry at baseball games for no reason.  Poor fucking fanatic!!
godafoss-waterfall-of-the-gods-iceland-pome-acroAcceptance. Perfectionism. Self compassion. What a long road it’s been. What an even longer road it’s going to be if I don’t work on some things. I’m stuck in a what’s the point loop. I’m cursed. I’m doomed. This is lifelong. No matter which door I choose, bipolar will be with me, as well as alcoholism.  That’s a fact.  Seems there is so much fiction wrapped up in all this for me, which fuels the loop and closes the door.

How do you find the strength to walk through the door each day with whatever is on your back?

Fanatic Find

baby-curls-ajaytaoI ended up chairing at my Depression in Sobriety meeting last night. I wasn’t necessarily expecting to. My heart started racing. My mind was yelling at me You have nothing to share. No one wants to hear from you.  My thinking was already tremendously disorganized and I didn’t know where to start. After a minute maybe two, I decided to really speak the truth. I have not said out loud to anyone that I had a full blown manic episode and suicide attempt in the same month last year. Sure, I’ve written about it, but not heard the words coming out of my mouth. At the time of mania in Nov 2014, I came quite close to drinking. I came even closer last month as I had a bottle in hand. Somehow I managed to put it down and leave the store.  I already know what would happen if I unto-oblivion-happy-machinestook a drink.
Afterwards, I couldn’t tell you what I said in the share. I went from Nov to present as the folks in that meeting know my previous history. I was nervous, but not. It’s an intimate group for the most part and they honestly air where they are at…suffering, pain, fear, shame. They speak my language. This is no ordinary meeting. We are real with each other and honor our struggles.
atlantic-puffin-massimilano-sticcaOne gentleman with a lot of time on the books was sharing that he feels like what he talks about is all negative”shit.”  I agree w him when it’s me who is sharing.  But when he is letting us in to his world and trusting us, it’s feels brave and honest and a special gift for us.  But I understand at the same time. Venting can be considered negative. But perhaps it’s just seeking relief from what we tend to keep bottled up for our safety.
get-attachment-13-e1379888216160Letting people know the real fanatic is not easy for me. I am scared of how you might respond. Believe I will be rejected. My very own husband, bless him, can react in the moment so harshly it triggers shame in me. I do try hard to have compassion for him as I know it’s difficult on the other side. Nonetheless it’s painful and confusing when the one you love the most reacts how I envision others would.
As the night wore on I began to breakdown every second of ??????????????????????my share. By the time I went to bed I was spinning. You could probably guess I didn’t get much sleep. I tore myself to shreds. I rehearsed what I should of said over and over.  Planned how I would approach it next time even though there may not be a 10526190_663600817069374_629758397495937339_nnext time. My dear friend was kind enough to send me a text following the meeting and told me my share was awesome because I was so unfiltered and honest.  Boy did my mind run with that and determine he just felt sorry for me and was trying to make me feel better.  The two other gentlemen, who usually chat with me in some fashion after meetings said nothing. My mind told me I scared them off, I shared too much, I was showing off.  It NEVER stops.  I’m exhausted and worn down.
Thinking about it this morning I discovered I did find some relief in those ceramic-pot-ajaytaomoments of truth and authenticity. I was supported by lovely people. I hope to carry this through my day. Yesterday I told a friend I might need to take medication to work. Maybe thoughts of support, friendship, honesty, and shared feelings will be enough.

night-owl

Reaching Fanatic

10524686_10204197707411535_290896542299414182_nReaching out
I beg of you to take my hand
I am drifting
I am lost
The chaos of my mind
Antagonizes
The words and sentiment I whisper to myself
Are nothing but hatred and disgust
I am everything wrong
10171639_848806071803122_213436708196433507_nThere is no space for me
No safe place for me
I search for the key
To let you in my chamber
But keep the door closed for protection
From who
From me and
from you
I am so afraid for you to peer into me
Know my broken insides
Truly see and hear my pain
10526190_663600817069374_629758397495937339_nYet I am so desperate to feel heard
To feel I matter
I belong
I have something to offer
Instead I retreat
Hide the key
Sit at the river alone
Pieces of glass pressed to my wrist
Relief never comes
So much confusion
10325552_663602220402567_4973155706202160451_nSo much desperation
I’ve lost sight as to how I fit
Into this big world
I suit up
Show up
And put on a show
All the while
I am dying on the inside
10526038_663870803709042_5332401051197838708_nI’ve played this game for awhile
Until overwhelm sets in
I cry in the darkness
I slowly shut people out
And implode

123 RV, SA, PA, PH, TL , SA , RW, JZ, JV!

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Fanatic Friend

387043_348007145280307_766454822_nI’m speaking directly to you
Dear friend
Many a memory is lost
Forgotten or
Hidden
All but the copious times
You have listened
Smiled
1393852_909291559087829_6429478004072054840_nlaughed or
Cried with me
Never have you judged
Sighed
Or rolled your eyes
As i fumble to express
This so called life
Never have you pointed
Yelled or
Told me what to do
10526038_663870803709042_5332401051197838708_nMaybe softly, gently
Suggesting
Passing on what you’ve learned
Hard lessons along the way
Lines of communication always open
Even when I don’t oblige or
Quite the opposite
Fielding my questions of existence
At rapid pace
We each have our dance
With the unrelenting devil
And yet you have carried me
To sacred ground
Time and time again
While I cant shelter you
10450103_623180327779579_4242309982438393607_oFrom your pain
I can offer to be
The same friend you are to me

dsc09494

Fanatical Mess

  10671220_10154590625980694_4020566138315393272_nI stared at it for a very long time. Closed my eyes and relished the taste. I picked it up. Put it down. Picked it up. Put it down. Third time I held it in my hand and carefully placed it in my basket.  Walking around the store nonchalantly as the battle in my head was growing louder.  A debate really.  Do it. Don’t do it. You have 2 years. You deserve relief. This will surely kill you. Is that a bad thing?
10349157_10204471369565137_6707722759914875666_nUp and down the aisles I pace for 20 minutes. Visual thoughts, like snippets from a movie play out. Scenes of me attempting suicide. The beast of Bipolar meets the beast of alcoholism face to face in the grocery store. Both feeding me lies to get their needs met. Both forever on my coat tails. Drinking alcohol in this state of mind is like assisted suicide. But today, I’ll take what I can get. Desperation at its core.
I have paced these aisles before with bottle in hand making sure no one from AA was around. Obviously during a relapse. If I did see someone I blues-vadim-shtrik1would put my basket down and quickly exit the store and go somewhere else. Finally I got the brilliant idea to buy out of town as I travel for work, sometimes on a daily basis. But that was 2 yrs and 3 months ago.  Today I am risking my life for a swig of vodka.
The emotional pain is undeniable, yet I deny it everyday.  My truth is not being heard because I don’t know how to express it. Shame holds me captive. Strong feelings and emotional reactions confuse me. I spin and spin wondering if how I feel is appropriate. Is it rational. Is it just. A friend once said to me any feeling I ever have regardless of the situation is okay, because they are mine. Great theory I cannot seem to implement.
8-10-13-rose-jpegFor example I was at the gas station and a man in a oversized truck wanted the same stall I was pulling into. As I was backing up to get closer to the tank he moved forward towards me. I assumed he was doing the same thing. Turns out he moved to block me from lining up to the pump. I stared at him and threw my hands up and he did the same. I was yelling at him from inside my car.  Finally I mouthed what are you doing. He pointed at the 10633331_10152624694602978_8948054382377946607_opump and shrugged his shoulders. I was so angry. I backed up and moved to the next pump over.  I started to get gas and proceeded to march over to him and started yelling. I told him how fucking lucky he was to be queen bee and own the place, among other things. In essence lost my mind. I was shaking. Got in my car and broke down.  I pulled over and called a friend which was a huge step, but I couldn’t talk to him. I told him I am a ticking time bomb. I hung up quickly and cried.  When my husband called I told him and he congratulated me. He said it’s okay to get angry over such an event. I just felt out of control. I don’t want to act that way. It’s confusing.
sunset-with-coconut-leaves-ajaytao1My desire to drink to rid myself of pain, to stop the spinning, to make that final jump off the bridge is the highest it’s been in 2 years.  In some sick way, my mind is thinking if I drink my husband will leave me (as he has declared he would) then it won’t hurt him as much when I’m gone. I am one messed up fanatic.

1546025_10151845590171426_728336535_nhues-of-nature

1393852_909291559087829_6429478004072054840_n

Fanatic’s Friend

moniqueIt seems so unfair to be accused of being manic because I had a really good day. I was motivated, funny, responsive, alert, alive at work. Came home cleaned the house, folded laundry and had music up loud. Even did a little dancing (but he doesn’t know that). True, this is out of the ordinary. True it’s a big swing in mood considering I was suicidal on Saturday(he doesn’t know that either). But I’m not sure it qualifies me as being manic.
mischievous-smile-ajaytaoIn the span of 10 minutes my husband became concerned, worried, anxious about the state of my mood. He asked me 3 times if I was “okay”..not manic. Poor guy doesn’t know what to do with me. He stated he needs to know what he is in for so he can prepare. Not sure if he has a manic disaster preparation kit or something.  Perhaps he wants to prepare his own mind for an out of control fanatic he constantly has to redirect.
I often wonder why he has stayed with me over the years. He revealed to me over the weekend he asks himself this very same question. I mean he had first-swim-delpeoplesto have me placed on a 5150 hold very early into our relationship. He would come over around 4 and I would have the curtains closed, drinking vodka and eating popcorn. I was anorexic at this time but became bulimic and a practicing alcoholic. I was not yet diagnosed with bipolar. I was a handful to say the least, but he continued to hang in there.
I was also fun, up for a good time, and open to adventures. We met on the job. I did so many things with him I had never done before. We hit it off right away. We would play tennis after work and go to happy hour almost everyday.  We had good chemistry and enjoyed sarcastic banter. We laughed ALOT.  At least until I dove into depression again.
malva-joanna-kustraI started to hit the bottle hard, but was still a functioning alcoholic for about 2 years. The 3rd year of heavy, heavy drinking I was not functioning. I was blacking out most nights and could not remember what transpired, what was said or even what I did. I started changing my lingo to cover up the fact I couldn’t remember.  We got into fights every weekend because of my behavior in social situations. One particular night stands out where I drank before we went out with friends, you know pre-party to help with anxiety. Not eat dinner because I never knew if the alcohol would hit me hard enough, then drink while we were out. I was very drunk by the time the show started. I knew I needed food right away. I stumbled next door to order church-burg-hohenzollern-adina-buligafood. He of course followed me. I said out loud..get away from me..several times. The bartender asked me if he was bothering me. I said yes.  I said YES. He was asked to leave. We barely made it through that episode.
So, the mental health piece. He has watched me deteriorate into a lifeless, despondent, suicidal mess. He has witnessed rage, spewing angry and hateful words. He has seen me psychotic. He has talked me down from a bridge. He has reassured me the devil is not trying to kill me, God is not persecuting me, my psychiatric team is not conspiring against me and I do not work for the CIA. He brought me clean clothes in the psych hospital, lesbian-lovedriving up to 2 hours away.  He read an email that said I loved him but I have to split town, not knowing where I was. He took every single call on my manic spree as I yelled nonsense into the phone pacing the hotel floor.  And he held my hand in the emergency room when I overdosed on pills.
When I put it all into perspective he is a saint. I really have no right to blame him for checking to see if I’m manic. He goes through hell just as I do. He is tired, as I am. I try to be conscious of this, but truthfully I can be selfishly immersed in my bipolar disorder.  He loves me so damn much. Least I can do is honor his fears and desire to know where I’m at w my moods. I’ve said this before and failed. I hope to change that.

finger-touching-nose-of-baby