cynicism has me by the throat
screaming valid arguments
hot spittle striking my face
but my blank stare is unwavering
because I hold nothing
in my hands anymore
not today
nor in my heart
by 
choked
by by truth
the truth is
we do move on
after pain
we take the breath
that must be taken
we open
our hearts
our eyes
to the
new pure day
by Mental Illness: A Slippery Subject at Best
(This is an unedited essay from a few years ago)
Lately (for the past 20 years or so) I have been reading about technology and it’s effects. It all started with Jane Healy’s Endangered Minds; Why Children Don’t Think and What We Can Do About It. Times have certainly changed since I read that one, in ways I couldn’t have imagined. If you know me well, you probably know that I am not technology’s biggest fan. And yet here I am on FB. Perhaps the old adage, “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em”, applies.
To be honest, I often feel alone in my opinions, well, me and Nicholas Carr.
One thing I have come across in my recent study is the tendency (given?) for those of us (all of us?) on social media to have two selves. IRL is what you get when you are in my real-time face-to-face presence, and then there’s what you see online. Most of us, the tech books say, present only the prettied-up version for our online personas. For example, if I want to keep it to myself that I have gained 15 pounds in the last year (which I have), I can choose to only post older pictures of my thinner self. There are also ways to clean up (delete) the pics others might post of me without my consent. I’m not sure how these things are done and if you look, I’m sure you can find some pretty unflattering pictures of me on the WWW. Oh well.
I know I’m stating the obvious but I have a point. Sort of.
Deep breath.
Some of you reading this may know, or perhaps have guessed, that I have a mental illness diagnosis. Well, I have more than one actually, but that isn’t pertinent to this particular story.
I suppose you could say that my “main” diagnostic label is Bipolar 2. Some refer to it as Bipolar Disorder, Type 2.
BP2 is often thought of as “Bipolar Lite” which it most definitely is NOT; ask my close friends and family if you don’t believe me on this. BP2 is: Not. Funny. And I mean that because I have never, ever done that word-period-word-period thing.
Since my 6 weeks of outpatient treatment at a place called The Center last year, my life has eased a bit. I learned a boat-load of skills that have made a significant difference. When checking in with my psychiatrist this past February, he agreed that I was (finally) doing much better and I could therefore pursue a program of weaning off my medication. I dumped the benzo first because, yeah, I read that damn study about long-term use increasing one’s risk of dementia by an astronomical percentage (my dear sis has dementia, so this really hit home with me). So many well-meaning mental health blogs list the myriad of effects from “discontinuation syndrome” that can last for years!! I’m not sure if reading such blogs is really helpful. I’m pretty sure it’s not.
After that success, I was ready to taper off my mood stabilizer (sounds SO much better than “anti-psychotic” doesn’t it?). By early June, I was happy to be taking only supplements and hormones.
A few weeks go by. Things seem OK. Mostly. But I’m pretty irritable. And then I’m downright angry much of the time. Throw in a little paranoia and mix well. And my always precarious sleeping skills seem to go up in smoke. Some nights I’m getting maybe 3 hours total. If you have BP2, or if you’re human, this is not good. I become the magician, frantically putting my hand in the hat, trying to pull out a rabbit, but there’s nothing there. Don’t worry if you didn’t understand that last line.
A few more weeks go by and I find myself swearing a lot at people I love, mostly when they are out of ear shot. Not good. Not me. My illness has the upper hand. Again.
(Just in case you’re wondering, I’m crying as I type)
Oh how I resist accepting this reality. I really, really wish this wasn’t in my hand of cards. But here we are.
IRL
15 pounds
bipolar 2
medicated
still chasing sleep
The End
by ode to cancer
I dreamt of
entertaining
a tiger
in my boat
small table
stools
honey biscuits
and tea
he roars
I smile
his tail the rudder
my arms the oars
it’s just
this tiger
and me
by The Title of This Blog
I have so much that is good and beautiful in my life. To name a few: I’m married to an amazing man and we have the privilege of being the parents of 3 incredible kids; I have a sister and brother who love me unconditionally; I have a small but priceless group of friends who hold space for me with kindness; and I have purpose.
So why “The 8th Hard Thing” you might ask. Well, it’s a long story and I will piece it together in future posts. But for now, I will give you a summary.
A few months ago, the blog title “A Treacherous Path Called Life” came to me. And while the words certainly ring true, it was, I don’t know, a bit dramatic.
Recently, one of my siblings was diagnosed with a serious disease. Now, my family of origin is no stranger to such events, but it just felt- like so many things before- like TOO MUCH. Too much hard, too much sad, too much pain. And yet life is asking of us to add this to the long list of what has already been endured. Thus, “The 8th Hard Thing” (though the number 8 is a symbolic rather than accurate adjective).
Please do not hear me say that my list of hard things is any worse than yours or that of someone you know. It’s not ever my intention to compare, or to minimize the suffering of someone else. The world is truly filled with stories of human pain.
My intention is however, to share my experience here so that we can walk together. So you won’t feel so alone. And neither will I.
by The 8th Hard Thing
I decided to begin again, today. To start a blog. And then I came upon this, my old (very small) blog and a new decision needed to be made: start new or continue the old?
I don’t really know the right answer, like I don’t know much of anything, not anymore. So, here I am, adding a stream of consciousness post to my old (very small) blog.
There are many days when I believe I have nothing new to say. But there are also the occasional days when I’m sure that I do.
I sometimes write poetry that I sometimes want to share. Maybe I’ll continue to do that here. But I think it will be more. I think this blog will be, for me, a place to express in words, how life has been from my perspective. I probably need a place to do that, a place that’s mine, a place where I use my voice regardless of who is or isn’t listening.
I hope to motivate my mid-life brain to learn how to do this well, this online sharing in this particular format. So hopefully I’ll add a picture here and there and maybe figure out how to make my page look inviting.
Yet my goal is not aesthetics; I want for the odd human who stumbles across what I share here to not feel so alone, as if they are the only one. And if many visit and read and find solace, all the better.