Category: Mental Health

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Enough

I’m thinking enough is possibly the opposite of perfectionism. I’m not sure yet.

I’ve been doing quite a lot of thinking and writing and reading and talking about perfectionism recently. It is, as Anne Lamott puts it, the oppressor and the enemy of the people. It has certainly been the enemy in my life.

I find myself wanting to make sense of this subject and at this point it’s simply too overwhelming. I am trying to trust that as a friend told me this morning, “I think you’re ready for this level of understanding “. I may be ready but it’s painful and still hard to wrap my head- let alone words- around. I’m raw.

Maybe I can start here: what makes me, or anyone, enough? Seems simple. And it is when I apply the query to others. Just existence, that’s it. That’s all it takes for a human to be enough, to be imbued with value and worth. But for myself, the answer doesn’t come so effortlessly. It’s complicated. Theoretically I may concede that the same is true for me if it applies to every other human like I believe it does. Yet getting something from theory or acknowledged truth to the heart can be quite a challenge.

So I sit in this middle place (the one I despise) of not knowing, not having the answer, not having it figured out. (Not that this place isn’t well known to me, I definitely find myself here often enough.) This is a big player in my life, this battle with the enemy of perfectionism and the deep life-long yearning to believe that I am really and truly enough. It makes this middle place not just uncomfortable but almost excruciating.

I hear the call to be authentic, coincidentally (or not) there were 2 articles in my email this morning about this very thing. But what does that really mean? I think I have stuck my toe in the water of vulnerability and showing up as I am, only to be lambasted by the truth that I have been editing every step of the way. Am I really that fragile? I’m not sure I want to know the answer.

If you are one of those who are truly, unapologetically yourself, know that you have my deep admiration, mixed with a good dose of jealousy. It’s possible I’m on my way but the going is pretty rough, believe me.

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Again, or What it Feels like to Dance with Depression

It’s been a rough day at the end of a challenging week. The end of Summer tends to be a difficult time for me; I’m usually ready for cooler weather and less daylight before it happens. I was listening to a podcast yesterday and a question stayed with me: “Can I be with this?” In other words, can I let go of even a small amount of my resistance and have the intention of acceptance. Can I be with this weather that’s uncomfortable, the long days?

I wonder how many days have been like this for me (yet I probably don’t really want to know), filled again with a sense of hollowness, futility and something that feels very close to despair. Most of my day has been spent going through the motions, doing the things I know I need to do to keep myself from the always lurking edge. That’s what I do on days like this. In DBT it’s called Opposite Action. At times it feels like life is on an endless Repeat mode, that I am, again, hip deep in some sort of psychic mud just trying to take one step. But those are my feelings and I tell myself, again, even though they’re real it doesn’t mean they’re true.

I told my psychiatrist recently that the truth is, this whole thing is a lot of work. I’m well aware that this is true for many. And it is. Getting off the sofa, doing a single load of laundry, brushing my teeth. Back to the basics, again. Frustrated that so many things from this week’s To Do list will get moved to next week. Kicking myself that I didn’t have what it takes to call my dad, again.

Having Bipolar Disorder (Type 2) is tricky to manage. My hypomanic symptoms are adequately controlled with 2 mood stabilizers, but the depression remains something I attempt to manage without the assistance of medicine. Sometimes I agree to try a medication, usually one I’ve tried before, but I am quickly reminded that untenable side effects for me are pretty much a given. And around it goes, again.

So, as with the weather, I ask myself, can I be with this? This reality of my cycling, shifting moods? The feeling that I am a burden with not much of value to contribute. Again and again the negative thoughts and old beliefs come, and all my attempts provide only a slight distraction. But I keep trying. Sometimes it’s all I can do.

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Choosing Real

A few evenings ago, a friend and I attended a National Alliance for Mental Illness (NAMI) family support group. Groups such as this one exist to provide peer support for people who are living with the mental illness of a family member.

My friend and I were the only two in this group of ten to share our own mental health diagnoses. Thus, throughout the meeting, others turned to us, repeatedly wanting to know some version of what it’s like. I don’t blame them. they really want to have some inkling of what goes on in the mind of their daughter, son, wife, sister.

Some of the questions asked were, “what’s mania (or hypomania) like?”, “What has helped you?”, and “How did you come to accept your diagnosis?”. We answered them all as best we could, wanting to help, wanting to give hope,

Choosing Real: it’s hard. I can feel my face growing hot, turning pink. I wonder if I’m saying too much, if it’s safe, what others are thinking. Will they leave this place and talk about me in the car or over dinner, some sort of disappointment- or worse, judgment- in their tone of voice? It’s possible, I know. Yet it’s my story, a part of me.

I am reminded of these words from poet Linda Hogan :

Even the trees with their rings

have kept track

of the crimes that live within

and against us.

We remember it all.

We remember, though we are just skeletons

whose organs and flesh

hold us in.

We have stories

as old as the great seas

breaking through the chest,

flying out the mouth,

noisy tongues that once were silenced,

all the oceans we contain

coming to light.

I am no longer silent. The oceans I contain are coming to light. And it is my truest hope that my choice to be real will make a difference to someone else.

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Broken Open

A teacher says “we are broken or broken open”.

Life has broken me open.

Open to more beauty and joy,

more darkness and sorrow,

more awareness and presence,

a greater depth to love,

compassion.

Open to a desire to live intentionally, fully, vulnerably, as if I have nothing to lose.

A want to slow down, to relish what is precious and fleeting,

a need to slow down, to be here, fully present, fully myself.

Broken or broken open?

The challenge is to stay open, to not live as if I am merely broken- lying around like shards of glass, ready to inflict pain on any who come near.

Because I often feel very broken. Just broken. And I want to go away somewhere, be alone with all that hurts, soak in it for awhile.

Yet redemption of the pain, of my brokenness, is birthed from the opening.

Rumi said, “The wound is the place where the light enters you”. I believe it can also be the place- the opening- from which the light shines out.

So mostly my heart remains painfully tender and I continue to be who is left after life has chiseled so much away, has broken me open.

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Summer Poem

tiny flower

pushed through

hard earth

grew

lifted its face

to light

to life

tiny flower

beautiful

blooming

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Reframe

If you know me well, you know how much I dislike Summer. I really do. I remember as a child, begging my mom to let me stay indoors rather than sending me out to play in the heat. My mom was the only other member of my family who felt the same way about the heat, so she sometimes relented and let me stay in. For much of my life I have felt apologetic about my dislike of Summer. It’s not the norm; most people look forward to the season of heat and light, barbecues, picnics and vacation. Not me. Heat makes me feel ill and long days with lots of light send a message to my sensitive circadian system that I don’t need to sleep when, really, I do.

I am coming to a place of acceptance of my feelings about this popular season. I admit it, talk about it and feel less guilt than I used to. Maybe the guilt has something to do with having siblings who are always cold unless it’s over 90 degrees. Or possibly from being married to a guy who handles discomfort without saying much about it. Regardless, I am coming clean about my true feelings for (almost) all things Summer. In other words I’m accepting that the way I feel is the way I feel. Full stop.

And I’m changing my thinking. Yep I’m doing that too.

It occurred to me recently that maybe I can think about this season differently. I’m not talking about pretending I like it when I don’t, but rather reframing it so that I can be a little less miserable.

It’s similar to how I approach walking the dog, our dog anyway. When I’m walking, what I want to do is walk. Not Libby. She wants to sniff. Everything. And her sniffing gets in the way of my walking. Sometime in the recent past I realized that instead of standing there, pulling on the leash and muttering at her under my breath, I could look around and notice the beauty of Nature. This may sound silly to some but, let me tell you, it has made a huge difference in how I feel during and after a walk.

In applying this practice to Summer, I have decided to notice a few things everyday (usually three) that are beautiful. Often it’s stuff like the way the sun gleams on the back of a black horse, or the pure green of the aspen leaves. It really doesn’t matter. It’s been helpful for me to change my focus enough to see that there are some things I truly like about Summer. Not many, but some.

I do want to make reference back to the fact that my acceptance of my feelings about Summer is foundational to this practice of finding the good in it. Too often, in my opinion, we attempt to change our unwanted thoughts or emotions as soon as possible. I have found acceptance to be a critical first step in any process of change. When I reject an emotional experience, because I’m uncomfortable with feeling the way I feel or because I’m unpopular for feeling the way I feel, my options seem quite limited: repress, pretend, and the like. Yet when I turn toward the emotion and accept that, yep, this is how I feel, I have more options.

In paraphrasing something I learned from Kristin Neff, one of the founders of Mindful Self-Compassion: when I am rejecting myself in some way (usually with judgment and criticism), I am both the attacked and the attacker. When this happens, my fight or flight system kicks into high gear and the adrenaline and cortisol start pumping. But how can I get away when I’m the attacker? Good question! I can’t. Another interesting thing I’ve learned is, that when we are in such a state, the areas of the brain that help with motivation and change became inactive. After all, the brain is more concerned with survival when I feel under attack, not with figuring out how to exercise more. The flip side of this is self-compassion (think of it as turning the kindness we show to others, inward). Self-compassion causes those same parts of the brain to light up and become active, thereby promoting motivation, change and growth. Sounds like a little acceptance is a pretty good deal.

So, Summer. I don’t love you and I’m okay with that.

How about you? What’s something you dislike or struggle with that you then are hard on yourself for? Please share! I’d love to hear your story.

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Oh Yeah

Two words. They were in a text I received and felt like a splash of cold water in my face. For the second time in less than a week, I was experiencing one of those “oh yeah” moments. It’s so easy at such a point to turn and berate myself for losing sight of something (2 somethings, actually) so integral to my wellness. But I am human and I forget and get distracted and carry on as expected, until I can’t. Then, I remember.

This time though, life itself sent me reminders before I found myself in a full blown free fall.

A few days ago, I had a hard conversation with one of the few people in my life I feel safe enough to have hard conversations with, my husband. Afterward, I found myself on the sofa because it had been a long day and my pain was front and center. Within about 2 seconds I found myself weeping and lost in the grief of life. I am learning to let my emotions be present and move through me (that’s the hope anyway), so I continued to rest and cry, as memories of one hard thing after another rolled over me like waves. I wasn’t crying from the physical pain, but I think it’s often the vehicle for stripping me of my very last “I’m ok” mask- the one that feels so familiar I usually don’t realize I’m wearing it.

Later, as I was catching up on some reading, I found myself reading an article about a woman’s experience with Bipolar 2 and that’s when it happened: “oh yeah, I have that.”, and then, “Maybe it’s contributing to my current emotional chaos”.

Now this particular writer just happens to have what’s commonly referred to as Rapid Cycling, which I also have. Plus, she put her finger on what it’s like to live in Mixed States, another nuance of this disease that applies to me. As I read, I felt so much relief. I mean, so much! First, just the reminder that I’m not alone in this living with mental Illness thing. But more than that, it gives me a hook to hang my life experience on, a container it fits into, and that helps my brain to rest. Believe me, my brain at rest is highly sought after yet seldom experienced.

So for those of you who may be thinking something like, those words (Bipolar, Rapid Cycling, Mixed States) are just labels and labels cause damage or add shame, or something similar, let me clarify. Labels are just words, and while I do believe strongly in the power of words, I think the “power” attributed to mental illness labels has more to do with stigma and shaming that comes from culture. In my opinion, a label is an explanation not a definition. The labeling words I use to describe my own experience of mental illness help me in the process of self-understanding and self-acceptance, and they can make it more likely that I will get the help and support I need.

My second “oh yeah” moment occurred yesterday and involved the text message I referred to earlier. The two words? High Functioning. In this particular text, those words were not about me, but they are. I have a friend who has a similar struggle with Bipolar 2 and is also considered “High Functioning”, and we have had many conversations about the consequences of being so put together and capable. Really! We both agree that showing up and doing life as expected (and often more) day after day, month after month, while you simultaneously feel like you’re dying inside or going crazy because your brain is in overdrive, makes it really hard to get the help and support needed to maintain stability. Looking good on the outside turns out to work against us.

I’m grateful for these reminders. Please don’t hear me say I love having this illness, as if I’m trying to silver-line this cloud. But, as the saying goes, “it is what it is”, and my life is much better in every way since I have (mostly) accepted my diagnosis. I’m enduring my least favorite season with a little less dread and a little more medication rather than suffering through it like I normally do. That only can happen because I accept my illness and work within its parameters to be as healthy as I can be.

Bipolar Disorder is not who I am but it is a part of me. It brings gifts of many kinds and my intention is to keep my hands open. I don’t want to miss the gifts.

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Really Real

A few years ago I chose to enter a residential program in order to access help for deep depression that just wouldn’t budge. At the end of each week, on Friday afternoon when therapy and groups and classes are over for the day, a ceremony takes place as residents who have completed their stay prepare to return to “real life”. Everyone in the group (between 35 to 40 people), has the opportunity to say something to the individuals who are leaving. It’s a touching time, filled with heartfelt best wishes and affirmations.

Eventually it was my turn to transition back to the real world. I remember only one thing that was said to me: Eric said he appreciated that I was “really real”.

And yet.

I just finished telling a friend that I’ve found myself returning to my default mode of swallowing my truth, my opinions, my thoughts, my feelings, because I fear hurting others or rocking the proverbial boat. Plus there’s always the chance that if I show up with all of me I’ll be rejected.

In other words, these days, I’m not being really real- at least not the way I want to be.

Because while defaulting back to this old way of being (nice, quiet, “good”) seems easier, the truth is I pay for it in really big ways. When I don’t “use my voice”, the discomfort of having something to say and not saying it doesn’t just disappear. It builds up inside of me. It turns into resentment and loneliness. It hurts my soul because I am, in a very real sense, invalidating my own truth.

My therapist has asked me repeatedly why it’s ok for me to hurt myself in order to avoid the possibility of hurting others. I don’t have a good answer for that. I don’t think there is a good answer for that.

It’s an old pattern, formed in childhood, hard to break. I’ve repeated it in my marriage, with my children, and with my friends. Almost as if there’s a constant directive running in my head “be good, be nice, be quiet…be good, be nice, be quiet.”

The ugly side is, I teach others to do the opposite of this. I believe in doing the opposite of this. I know what to do, I just find it almost impossible to actually do it. It takes an enormous amount of intention to change decades of doing life in a particular way. Enormous. And much of my intention has been going to other things lately. I’m tired.

I firmly believe that awareness is the first step to change. (I may be plagiarizing that from someone.) I’m aware. Now it’s up to me to choose what to do with my awareness: rock the boat or stay quiet? Be nice or be Really Real?

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The Rest of Life

Poet Mark Nepo wrote: “The presence of the rest of life when I’m in pain is healing”.

I love his words. I am in many kinds of pain.

This day was about as perfect as a Spring day can be. Against the protestations of the one who loves me best, I insisted we keep the family Easter tradition and picnic in the forest. We stopped for sandwiches and iced tea and headed west, not even needing to decide on the spot. Pulled by the magnet of memories.

I found myself (as planned) lying on a blanket in the dappled sunlight, listening to the scraping call of nuthatch and then watching as they venture close, bug-hunting on pine bark. After a time, the voices of my family become soft murmurs as they go for a walk and I am left alone.

Slowly, as I open, I am almost overwhelmed by the “rest of life”. There’s the terra-firma against my back, reassuring in its solidity, its strength; and I feel held. White gauzy clouds move quickly across the brilliant blue of sky, reminding me that things pass. They do. I open more and ask to hear. The pines move in the gentle wind and I am cradled, a child in need of comfort, circled by these mothers who lull my spirit with their swaying.

I have been taking pills for days and it is in this place I find reprieve from pain.

I have been sleeping all week and it is in this place I find rest.

Hand on my heart, I say, “Things are hard right now.” They are.

And then, “I am not alone in my suffering.”. In my imagination I open my hands and my soul to those I know who are also suffering, and then to the many I don’t.

Finally, “What do I need?”. This, just this. The rest of life.

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I cup my soul

to hold this pain

it makes no sense to me

thought I flew

but didn’t know

twas drowning in the sea

sorrow sorrow

weighs me down

while lying on my bed

fear and hatred

gyre around

like tantrums in my head

thought I flew

who knew? who knew?

twas drowning in the sea

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