Fanatic’s Fall

If you could see me right now you might assume I got drunk and ended up in a fight. Or perhaps I am a victim of domestic violence. I suppose you might consider that I’m extremely clumsy. It might not occur to you I was lost in a mixed episode of bipolar disorder and that’s how I landed in the emergency room.  I have a very purple and very puffy black eye and stitches to go with it.  I think I look hideous. I’m full of shame.  I am reminded of what “out of control” feels like each time I step in front of the mirror.
It’s been going on for a week and gaining intensity as the days passed. The roller coaster is actually off its tracks.
A disconnection from my body and mind was starting to take form and I didn’t quite know it. Only when my coworker looked me dead in the eye and asked if the fanatic could please come back did I start to see. But, it didn’t really stick. My thoughts were far to fast and frenzied for his statement to truly matter. I had things to accomplish. Work to be done. I then became the most driven worker my agency has seen in the span of two hours. I was solving problems in the hands of  executives.  Having arrived at 7:15, my boss sent me home at 5.
What was unseen that day was my tremendous trips to the bathroom hiding a rush of tears, or on the verge of a panic attack. Have you ever tried to muffle yourself during a panic attack? It’s just as distressing as what’s actually happening.  After my brief intermittent meltdown I would return to my office w a joke or thick sarcasm to prove I was okay. On my way home, I was determined my day was not done. I now had errands to run.
I made it to the parking lot. Turned off the car. Gathered my purse. An implosion occurred. I burst into sobs best saved for the shower. All the days emotions hit me and I felt so out of control. If I let go of the steering wheel I might fly about the car. I managed to pick up my phone, which I NEVER do. I was terrified. I called 3 people.
t-h-r-e-e!!! No one answered. I sank. I didn’t know what to do. My husband finally called and he talked me home. I made the decision I was nowhere fit for work the next day. I left a long rambling message for my boss.
Next morning, I woke up at 3;30am. I went to my fitness bootcamp at 5am. I came home and tried to go back to sleep and rest. I was far too antsy. Far too uncomfortable. Far too manic. I decided to go trail running. I had a plan to slow myself down and not focus on beating my usual 5 mile loop time. It started out that way, but quickly got out of control.  I have not told anyone this next part. As I was descending down a hill and gaining momentum, I started jumping off things. I ran up the side of the hill, off the trail, to jump across the trail. At some point I heard the sound played when Wonder Woman began to run or do something heroic.  I came back to the trail and took off as fast as I could, making my stride as if I was flying. I could feel the wind on my face like I was a bullet train. I was quick, nimble, powerful. All in my mind. Meanwhile my body literally could not keep up.  Down I went. Hard. Very hard. Hit my head. Turns out it was my eye lid. Blood was dripping as I lay across the trail. Confused. Not like dazed, but rather questioning how I could have been stopped.
I picked myself up. No concept of how hurt I might be. I had to walk back up the hill I just flew down.  I pulled a lady aside and showed her my head. I asked her if I should go to the ER. she said, yes definitely. I walked another 1/2 mile to my car not entirely sure what happened.
I was restless and pacing at the ER. Scared. Alone. Cried into my hands several times. Not because I was hurt physically. Just unsure how I can continue to live like this. Or if I even want to. They patched me up “good as new” and sent me home.  Instead of going home, I went to coffee w my dear friend. I cried some more.  I don’t remember much of our talk other than I let some things out. Kept some things in.
Tomorrow I go to work w a helluva shiner on my right eye. You see typically when I have bipolar symptoms I simply disappear for a few days. I return when I am ready. But the scars from those episodes are on the inside. This time, I am returning w scars on the outside. I am worried about gossip, rumors..whatever else spreads like wildfire at an office. Very few people know I’m bipolar. I almost feel like I am faced with being open or face ugliness of office culture. I’m ready for neither, but I also dont know which is worse.
I plan to wear a hat. I plan to keep my head down. I plan to keep to myself. As I write these words I am sad. Bipolar is a part of me like it or not. Just as I will always be a recovering alcoholic.  I certainly don’t have to broadcast it. I wish I didn’t carry such shame around it.

123 Rhonda, Steve, Debra, Pam, Pat H., Terry, Tom S, Dwight, Virgil, Jill Z.M., Renee

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

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 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 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 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?

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 Calistoga when the Jerusalem fire broke out two weeks ago.

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

Fanatical Freedom!!

Sometimes 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 wasn’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 the 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 hallway 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 bright 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.
Sharp 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 we 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.
I 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.

Fanatic’s Fears of Failure

I. 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…
I 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. 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.
Some 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.
Visions 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.
I 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.

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

Fanatic Depth

Some 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
Redesign 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
A 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
Some 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

Footstep Fanatic

Each 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 was 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.
I 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 refusing 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!!
Acceptance. 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

I 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 took 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.
One 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.
Letting 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 next 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 moments 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.

Reaching Fanatic

Reaching 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
There 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
Yet 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
So 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
I’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!

Fanatic Friend

I’m speaking directly to you
Dear friend
Many a memory is lost
Forgotten or
Hidden
All but the copious times
You have listened
Smiled
laughed 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
Maybe 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
From your pain
I can offer to be
The same friend you are to me

Fanatical Mess

  I 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?
Up 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 would 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.
For 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 pump 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.
My 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.