Daily Archives: April 14, 2016

May I Be Sent To Bed Early, Please?

Not yet 7 p.m. and I find that the day has ravaged my psyche to the extent that I so do wish I had a mom to send me to bed early. It’s not even that anything momentous or tragic happened. It’s the fact that try hard as I do, I can’t escape this current mind frame.

Least today I didn’t go back to sleep. Though it wasn’t a lack of curling up under warm blankie lethargy being present. Just more binge watching Judging Amy and hoping against hope that at any moment the “abyss” might fall away.

Another kitten died. I am starting to feel like a feline undertaker and it fucking sucks because there’s no discernible reason for the kittens to not survive. I swear I am toxic or something but only to kittens under 12 weeks. My sadness is further aggravated by the oh, hey, lithium won’t allow me shed a single tear so I have to bottle it all up and who knows when it will boil over and turn me into a drooling tin foil clad crazy lady in the intersection trying to clean windshields with mayonnaise?

My mother, of course, ninja’d me at 7:30 this morning as we were leaving, wanting to know if Spook could have a playdate. Of course, my attached-at-the-hip progeny overheard grandma’s voice and it would have been world war ten if I’d said no. I did however say “I’ll think about it” just to let my mom know she doesn’t have the upper hand.

When I brought her home after 2.5 hours, she was distracted, unfocused, uninterested in homework or reading. She kept goofing off, ignoring my admonishments. And I was guilted by mom to let her sleep Saturday at their house cos of Idget-not-related-to-us has a birthday. I am not impressed. I am also not sure I can rightfully deny though it sure goes to show how fickle my kid is. The other day she wanted a sleepover at dad’s, now forget him, let it be at grandma’s, but only if I don’t let her devil girls have a sleepover this weekend.

Meanwhile I am going under the surface and screaming inside yet silent on the outside because, who the fuck is even gonna listen? I am surrounded by a non support system and ineffectual mental health care. One should not have to threaten suicide just to get an earlier appt with their shrink.

I….need….to remember…to breathe.

I went on an outing today, just a small bake sale thing I always hit every year. I last ten minutes before being out in the dish and amongst its dwellers turned my stomach into gooey pretzels and I had to rush home to the bathroom.

Gross?Sure. But harsh reality.

I have at least an hour before I have any hope of getting her to sleep. Which means an hour of me dreading every breath I am forced to take simply because stupid science dictates that you can only hold your breath so long before it escapes involuntarily.

I. am. tired.

Tired of feeling this way, tired of doing all I can to combat it and getting nowhere.

One teeny tiny snicker (and no offense to the stick people family lovers.)

Jezebel needed some personality so I stopped trying to get into the wrong car.

0413161958-00

 


May I Be Sent To Bed Early, Please?

Not yet 7 p.m. and I find that the day has ravaged my psyche to the extent that I so do wish I had a mom to send me to bed early. It’s not even that anything momentous or tragic happened. It’s the fact that try hard as I do, I can’t escape this current mind frame.

Least today I didn’t go back to sleep. Though it wasn’t a lack of curling up under warm blankie lethargy being present. Just more binge watching Judging Amy and hoping against hope that at any moment the “abyss” might fall away.

Another kitten died. I am starting to feel like a feline undertaker and it fucking sucks because there’s no discernible reason for the kittens to not survive. I swear I am toxic or something but only to kittens under 12 weeks. My sadness is further aggravated by the oh, hey, lithium won’t allow me shed a single tear so I have to bottle it all up and who knows when it will boil over and turn me into a drooling tin foil clad crazy lady in the intersection trying to clean windshields with mayonnaise?

My mother, of course, ninja’d me at 7:30 this morning as we were leaving, wanting to know if Spook could have a playdate. Of course, my attached-at-the-hip progeny overheard grandma’s voice and it would have been world war ten if I’d said no. I did however say “I’ll think about it” just to let my mom know she doesn’t have the upper hand.

When I brought her home after 2.5 hours, she was distracted, unfocused, uninterested in homework or reading. She kept goofing off, ignoring my admonishments. And I was guilted by mom to let her sleep Saturday at their house cos of Idget-not-related-to-us has a birthday. I am not impressed. I am also not sure I can rightfully deny though it sure goes to show how fickle my kid is. The other day she wanted a sleepover at dad’s, now forget him, let it be at grandma’s, but only if I don’t let her devil girls have a sleepover this weekend.

Meanwhile I am going under the surface and screaming inside yet silent on the outside because, who the fuck is even gonna listen? I am surrounded by a non support system and ineffectual mental health care. One should not have to threaten suicide just to get an earlier appt with their shrink.

I….need….to remember…to breathe.

I went on an outing today, just a small bake sale thing I always hit every year. I last ten minutes before being out in the dish and amongst its dwellers turned my stomach into gooey pretzels and I had to rush home to the bathroom.

Gross?Sure. But harsh reality.

I have at least an hour before I have any hope of getting her to sleep. Which means an hour of me dreading every breath I am forced to take simply because stupid science dictates that you can only hold your breath so long before it escapes involuntarily.

I. am. tired.

Tired of feeling this way, tired of doing all I can to combat it and getting nowhere.

One teeny tiny snicker (and no offense to the stick people family lovers.)

Jezebel needed some personality so I stopped trying to get into the wrong car.

0413161958-00

 


Updated My Resources Page

Now that I’m one of WEGO Health’s 7 Bipolar Depression Patient Leaders You Need to Know, I decided that I would update my Resources page. Actually, the two have nothing to do with each other. Just promoting myself, thanking WEGO Health, and passing on the resources…

WEGO Health 7 Bipolar Depression Leaders You Need to Know

By Category

Source: Resources


Filed under: Bipolar Disorder, Depression, Disability, Health, Human Rights, Parenting Tagged: Patients Rights, resources, WEGO Health

No One is Coming

It was several years ago now; I was out on my bike in the countryside, I forget where, when I got a puncture. With a heavy heart I looked in my panniers for my puncture repair kit. There was none. Ironic, I know. Worse was to follow. I rang the phone directory services (this was in ancient times before smart phones.) My call yielded the inevitable news that I was equidistant from 2 bike shops. The bad news was they were each 6 miles away. And then it began to rain. Not hard, but just enough to encourage self pity.

How I made it to the bike shop in the direction of my home I can’t remember. But I do remember that it was part of a big chain of shops called Halfords – go on then, sue me for what I am about to say. They refused to help because I hadn’t booked an appointment. They were busy with pre – booked bike maintenance work. They couldn’t spare the time. I paid for a puncture repair kit and a pump, went outside and got to work. It took a while, my companions self pity, tiredness, anger and frustration stood by as I fumbled, cursed and tried again and again to prise off the tyre. Eventually I succeeded. Got back on my bike, said good bye to my companions, and rode home, chastened.

Viettos tears

I was full of righteous indignation. It would have taken no time at all to sort out that puncture. Were they not moved by the sight of a bedraggled cyclist coming in from the wet? Where was the camaraderie? Where was the plain, simple kindness, for Pete’s sake?!

Strangely, this episode did not teach me the simplest of cyclists’ lessons – always carry a puncture repair kit and pump! The patches, the chalk and the glue sat amongst dirty rags and various useful bike tools in the garage. Yes, from time to time I remembered to take the kit with me. But not always. Punctures gave me a wide berth, pretty much in the months and years that followed. If I did get a puncture and I didn’t have a kit with me – or I had the kit but not the pump – I was never far from home.

Recently I learnt an important lesson about the fixing of punctures. Not a better technique for separating the tyre from the rim. Not being more careful checking for stray thorns lurking in the inside of the tyre, ready to do their worst once I had fixed the inner tube and put the tyre back on. No, I learned this lesson whilst I was delivering a course on Self Esteem in my role as a Peer Worker. I was working alongside a colleague, Mike,  who had prepared the materials. It was the first time we were delivering this 7 part course. I was confident about the materials, we work well together. My self esteem? No problem. I’m helping deliver the course, teaching folks whose self esteem is poor. I am there to sprinkle the magic dust of recovery for the benefit of others. That was before Mike quoted Nathaniel Branden (1930 – 2014) whose book The Six Pillars of Self Esteem formed the basis of the course. He handed out a sheet headed ‘No one is Coming!’ The phrase made me gulp, it rattled my composure. I had read this material, we had discussed it in advance of the session. It was like I was reading it for the first time. The full quote is: ‘No one is coming to save you.’ What? Not my wife, my friends, not even my psychiatrist? And certainly not, for that matter, anyone from the bike repair shop at Halfords.

I present a course on Resilience – the ability to bounce back from adversity. In that course we explore our own inner mental resources, things that we can do for ourselves to promote and protect our recovery. It’s all about self reliance, what we can do for ourselves. I’ve got all the moves, say all the right things about what folks who attend the course could be doing to promote their resilience. The feedback sheets invariably are filled with garlands of praise, which only now I realise just serves to delude me further. I’ve been standing by the side of the road, a thorn in my front tyre, no puncture patches or pump in my pannier, thinking that the team car is on its way.

But I’m a middle aged man with moderate to severe mental health problems, 10kgs overweight, and no one else, it seems, is coming to put any part of that right but me.

Waiting for the Barbarians

What are we waiting for, assembled in the forum?

The barbarians are due here today.

Why isn’t anything happening in the senate?
Why do the senators sit there without legislating?

Because the barbarians are coming today.
What laws can the senators make now?
Once the barbarians are here, they’ll do the legislating.

Why did our emperor get up so early,
and why is he sitting at the city’s main gate
on his throne, in state, wearing the crown?

Because the barbarians are coming today
and the emperor is waiting to receive their leader.
He has even prepared a scroll to give him,
replete with titles, with imposing names.

Why have our two consuls and praetors come out today
wearing their embroidered, their scarlet togas?
Why have they put on bracelets with so many amethysts,
and rings sparkling with magnificent emeralds?
Why are they carrying elegant canes
beautifully worked in silver and gold?

Because the barbarians are coming today
and things like that dazzle the barbarians.

Why don’t our distinguished orators come forward as usual
to make their speeches, say what they have to say?

Because the barbarians are coming today
and they’re bored by rhetoric and public speaking.

Why this sudden restlessness, this confusion?
(How serious people’s faces have become.)
Why are the streets and squares emptying so rapidly,
everyone going home so lost in thought?

Because night has fallen and the barbarians have not come.
And some who have just returned from the border say
there are no barbarians any longer.

And now, what’s going to happen to us without barbarians?
They were, those people, a kind of solution.

C.P. Cavafy ( 1863 – 1933 )

 

 


No One is Coming

It was several years ago now; I was out on my bike in the countryside, I forget where, when I got a puncture. With a heavy heart I looked in my panniers for my puncture repair kit. There was none. Ironic, I know. Worse was to follow. I rang the phone directory services (this was in ancient times before smart phones.) My call yielded the inevitable news that I was equidistant from 2 bike shops. The bad news was they were each 6 miles away. And then it began to rain. Not hard, but just enough to encourage self pity.

How I made it to the bike shop in the direction of my home I can’t remember. But I do remember that it was part of a big chain of shops called Halfords – go on then, sue me for what I am about to say. They refused to help because I hadn’t booked an appointment. They were busy with pre – booked bike maintenance work. They couldn’t spare the time. I paid for a puncture repair kit and a pump, went outside and got to work. It took a while, my companions self pity, tiredness, anger and frustration stood by as I fumbled, cursed and tried again and again to prise off the tyre. Eventually I succeeded. Got back on my bike, said good bye to my companions, and rode home, chastened.

Viettos tears

I was full of righteous indignation. It would have taken no time at all to sort out that puncture. Were they not moved by the sight of a bedraggled cyclist coming in from the wet? Where was the camaraderie? Where was the plain, simple kindness, for Pete’s sake?!

Strangely, this episode did not teach me the simplest of cyclists’ lessons – always carry a puncture repair kit and pump! The patches, the chalk and the glue sat amongst dirty rags and various useful bike tools in the garage. Yes, from time to time I remembered to take the kit with me. But not always. Punctures gave me a wide berth, pretty much in the months and years that followed. If I did get a puncture and I didn’t have a kit with me – or I had the kit but not the pump – I was never far from home.

Recently I learnt an important lesson about the fixing of punctures. Not a better technique for separating the tyre from the rim. Not being more careful checking for stray thorns lurking in the inside of the tyre, ready to do their worst once I had fixed the inner tube and put the tyre back on. No, I learned this lesson whilst I was delivering a course on Self Esteem in my role as a Peer Worker. I was working alongside a colleague, Mike,  who had prepared the materials. It was the first time we were delivering this 7 part course. I was confident about the materials, we work well together. My self esteem? No problem. I’m helping deliver the course, teaching folks whose self esteem is poor. I am there to sprinkle the magic dust of recovery for the benefit of others. That was before Mike quoted Nathaniel Branden (1930 – 2014) whose book The Six Pillars of Self Esteem formed the basis of the course. He handed out a sheet headed ‘No one is Coming!’ The phrase made me gulp, it rattled my composure. I had read this material, we had discussed it in advance of the session. It was like I was reading it for the first time. The full quote is: ‘No one is coming to save you.’ What? Not my wife, my friends, not even my psychiatrist? And certainly not, for that matter, anyone from the bike repair shop at Halfords.

I present a course on Resilience – the ability to bounce back from adversity. In that course we explore our own inner mental resources, things that we can do for ourselves to promote and protect our recovery. It’s all about self reliance, what we can do for ourselves. I’ve got all the moves, say all the right things about what folks who attend the course could be doing to promote their resilience. The feedback sheets invariably are filled with garlands of praise, which only now I realise just serves to delude me further. I’ve been standing by the side of the road, a thorn in my front tyre, no puncture patches or pump in my pannier, thinking that the team car is on its way.

But I’m a middle aged man with moderate to severe mental health problems, 10kgs overweight, and no one else, it seems, is coming to put any part of that right but me.

Waiting for the Barbarians

What are we waiting for, assembled in the forum?

The barbarians are due here today.

Why isn’t anything happening in the senate?
Why do the senators sit there without legislating?

Because the barbarians are coming today.
What laws can the senators make now?
Once the barbarians are here, they’ll do the legislating.

Why did our emperor get up so early,
and why is he sitting at the city’s main gate
on his throne, in state, wearing the crown?

Because the barbarians are coming today
and the emperor is waiting to receive their leader.
He has even prepared a scroll to give him,
replete with titles, with imposing names.

Why have our two consuls and praetors come out today
wearing their embroidered, their scarlet togas?
Why have they put on bracelets with so many amethysts,
and rings sparkling with magnificent emeralds?
Why are they carrying elegant canes
beautifully worked in silver and gold?

Because the barbarians are coming today
and things like that dazzle the barbarians.

Why don’t our distinguished orators come forward as usual
to make their speeches, say what they have to say?

Because the barbarians are coming today
and they’re bored by rhetoric and public speaking.

Why this sudden restlessness, this confusion?
(How serious people’s faces have become.)
Why are the streets and squares emptying so rapidly,
everyone going home so lost in thought?

Because night has fallen and the barbarians have not come.
And some who have just returned from the border say
there are no barbarians any longer.

And now, what’s going to happen to us without barbarians?
They were, those people, a kind of solution.

C.P. Cavafy ( 1863 – 1933 )

 

 


(M)useless (a tritina)

I thought once that muses all danced at my fingers / Surprisingly winsome for all their dark beauty...

The Point of Sorrow

(NaPoWriMo Day 14 - a san san) From sorrow I seek solace, Enough of it to swaddle...

When we are ill, what do we need from our friends?

IMG_0522 RSCN6599 IMG_2554 DSCN4050 IMG_2082 IMG_1856 DSCN3663 IMG_1431 Leo and me 2

My good FB friend, Sal asked me to do a post about what mentally ill people need from our friends when we are in our ill phases.

A very good subject and I will discuss it as sincerely as I can.

Sal pointed out that when someone is in the hospital for a physical illness, people visit, they send flowers, it’s generally acknowledged that this person is ill. There is no “Hush, hush, don’t tell anyone about this” going on. In my experience, except for my very devoted boyfriend (now my husband) and my family, no one came to visit me in the hospital. My aunts sent me flowers the first time I was hospitalized. It certainly wasn’t as it would have been if I’d gone in for an appendectomy, many of my friends may have visited, many more would have called, and a few may even have sent flowers, chocolates…

Lets ask why it is that things are different in the case of a mental illness. Why? Well if you’re getting an appendectomy, your personality doesn’t really change, you may be grouchy and a bit frightened, but you are still you. When you are in some phases of bipolar d/o or many times in schizophrenia, you might be the queen of the Amazon, you might also have the cure to cancer and have evil people trying to kill you to get your cancer cure and take credit for it. In short, your personality does change, and the things you say don’t make sense, that makes your friends and others uncomfortable. I understand. If someone I know is very drunk and incoherent, making no sense at all, I cannot speak to them. I know they are making no sense, I know there brain on alcohol is not functioning properly, I know that the next day they won’t have any recollection of this strange and weird interaction with me. So I just walk away, unless they need help, then I try and help them.

So, perhaps, like a drunk person whom I don’t take seriously, my friends, and even my family, don’t really know what to do with me when I am in a severe manic phase and witches from Eastern Europe are trying to destroy my heart with black magic…

In this case, the only thing that helps is to go see my doctor, and increase medication doses so my brain pulls out of mania. Twice in my life the mania was so severe that I was out of touch with reality and I had to be hospitalized, and needed to say in the hospital (30 days, first time and 10 days second time) to get back down to earth and be and function normally.

So friends if you notice your good friend acting erratically, being overly emotional, talking about fantasies as if they were absolutely real, please encourage them to call their doctor. It is at this point that they have lost their insight and have no idea they are not in touch with reality. So, noticing this, as a friend, if you suggest to your ill friend that they call the doctor, this may be just the thing they need. Perhaps even call their doctor on their behalf (don’t know if this will work with all the privacy laws, but try anyway.) What your friend needs now is love, sweet love, yes to be sure, but also medical treatment, perhaps hospitalization to get better.

If your friend is in the hospital (psychiatric unit,) visiting them in visiting hours, and flowers, little gifts would be very welcome, just as with anyone in the hospital.

I know when depression strikes me, I become overly emotional, all dark emotions, thinking I am unworthy, unlovable, useless… If my friends tell me that I am wrong in my thinking, if they point out all the wonderful things I’ve done, all the great ways I am… that all helps, for a while, but depression is relentless, and it will steal your soul. So once again, support, love, understanding (to a degree) is very valuable to the depressed person, but the most important thing is to get them to contact their doctor. The depressed person needs medical intervention, a change in their medicines, or doses.

Just like you cannot cure diabetes with love and affection and understanding and support, you cannot make a person who is in a severe phase of bipolar d/o better with love, affection, and understanding and support.

Please don’t misunderstand me, love, affection, understanding, and support are all extremely valuable and very desirable things when someone is ill, physically or mentally. Since understanding is often times lacking about mental illness, since it is difficult to know what is going on in the heads of friends who have a mental illness, patience is also a great virtue. If you try to help someone, and because of their state of mind at the time, they cannot accept your help, be patient, and you never know, the next time you try to help them, they may be very open to and grateful for your help.

So of course love, understanding, acceptance, affection, support, compassion, and most of all patience, are all needed in dealing with friends who are in varying degrees of phases of a mental illness.  Compassion is big, the ability to feel or at least try to feel what your ill friend is feeling, walking in their shoes so to speak, will give our friends insight into what the mentally ill person is experiencing. And compassion is not pity, we don’t want your pity, we do and surely could use your compassion!  And of course, also encouraging them to contact their doctor is of paramount importance.

One last thing is don’t get involved with their delusions, for example when I thought the witch was trying to destroy my heart with black magic, and I told you this, do not become a part of the delusion by telling me you will help me fight the witch. But arguing with me in that phase would have been useless, perhaps empathetically discussing my delusional beliefs would be the thing to do. Saying something like “I understand how frightening this may be, (bait and switch hahaha) how about you give your doctor a call and see if he can help…”

The thing with me was that even in the full blown manic phase, I cycled through mania/normal/depressed phases 3-4 times a day. And when I was in my normal phase, I would say to myself and my family “It’s happening again, I’m going out of touch with reality again!” So I knew, for parts of the day that it was happening again and that both times, I needed to be hospitalized. So in my normal phase, I actually would have agreed with you and indeed would have called my doctor, and I did call my doctor and tell them what was happening and asked for hospitalization, especially the 2nd time.

I hope this helps.

Love and hugs to all my family/friends/readers.

 

 

 


It Rained

What the crap is wrong with me?!  Seriously.  I just don't even know.  I'm so lost.  I feel like I'm not connected to anything.  Just floating out in the ether somewhere.

As far as writing, I'm stumped.  I feel like I've lost a part of myself with my inability to write.  I just haven't been able to write.  I don't know how to explain it.  It's not writer's block.  It's not a lack of ideas or time or anything like that.  It's just a plug.  Like someone's put a stopper in, and my writing just won't flow.

I've barely written over the last year and a half.  (Maybe before that; I don't know.)  I don't know if anyone's even reading my blog anymore, except for people who happen here based on a search for a certain topic.

I don't know why I haven't been able to write.  There are many possible explanations.

I've been more emotionally healthy (on the whole) for the last while.  For a long time I wrote therapeutically.  I wrote to work through all the horrific emotional battles I was waging.  I don't have as many of those lately, so it hasn't served that purpose.

I've been exercising a lot more, becoming much more physically healthy over the last year.  I wonder if that outlet has supplanted this one.  Also, since my hysterectomy put me into instant menopause, I just don't have the multitasking abilities I used to have.  I have trouble focusing on more than one thing at a time.  So since I've been focusing on losing weight and feeling better, I struggle to focus on anything else.  Like, it's tough for me to make a menu and shopping list to keep my family fed.  It's tough for me to stay on top of the household money and making sure bills get paid.  Forget about cleaning the house!

Besides focus, there's also the energy component.  I just don't have the energy for much else.  Now, it's possible that's changing.  When I first started working out, just under a year ago, I was coming from a place of near inactivity.  Like, almost nothing.  And from a place of extremely low energy (which is related to not being active, but I'm not sure about which was the cause and which was the effect; I have lots of thoughts on that).  If I worked out, I was just too tired to do anything else.  Or in too much pain.  Sometimes that's not the case now.  I hope I'll be able to move past that soon.

But I'm afraid I'm also stuck in a pattern.  For almost a year my main focus of each day has been to work out.  I find I'm having to really put thought into making other things happen.  Oh, there's so much more to this than you know!  I feel like I'm just giving the tiniest bit of snippets to explain (because otherwise this post would be seventeen pages long).  But I need to get some of this out.  So even if what I've said sounds like I'm being lazy and not using my time or my life well, please know that I don't think that's the case.  Perhaps I'll be able to explain it further in the future.

For now I'll just hit on one other potential cause of my writing drought.  I wonder if it's been connected to my mood stabilizer.  I'm a mood writer.  I have to feel driven.  I have to NEED to write.  I have to need to get it out.  Almost like throwing up, it has to be forcing its way out of me to feel right.

When I met with my psychiatrist Tuesday I asked to reduce my meds by half.  That's what we chose to do.  This is the second day of that dosage.  Today I'm writing.  I can't swear those two events are connected.  Let's wait and see.

When we met, she also strongly pushed me to get back to things I love.  Writing is one of those things.  So I may feel driven because the meds are finally allowing it or because it's an assignment.  I don't know which.

But I truly don't care right now.  It just feels SO GOOD to write.  Like feeling the barometric pressure rise before the storm hits, or does it drop before the storm hits?  Either way, the air becomes uncomfortable, and my body aches for the rain.  Today it rained!

It Rained

What the crap is wrong with me?!  Seriously.  I just don't even know.  I'm so lost.  I feel like I'm not connected to anything.  Just floating out in the ether somewhere.

As far as writing, I'm stumped.  I feel like I've lost a part of myself with my inability to write.  I just haven't been able to write.  I don't know how to explain it.  It's not writer's block.  It's not a lack of ideas or time or anything like that.  It's just a plug.  Like someone's put a stopper in, and my writing just won't flow.

I've barely written over the last year and a half.  (Maybe before that; I don't know.)  I don't know if anyone's even reading my blog anymore, except for people who happen here based on a search for a certain topic.

I don't know why I haven't been able to write.  There are many possible explanations.

I've been more emotionally healthy (on the whole) for the last while.  For a long time I wrote therapeutically.  I wrote to work through all the horrific emotional battles I was waging.  I don't have as many of those lately, so it hasn't served that purpose.

I've been exercising a lot more, becoming much more physically healthy over the last year.  I wonder if that outlet has supplanted this one.  Also, since my hysterectomy put me into instant menopause, I just don't have the multitasking abilities I used to have.  I have trouble focusing on more than one thing at a time.  So since I've been focusing on losing weight and feeling better, I struggle to focus on anything else.  Like, it's tough for me to make a menu and shopping list to keep my family fed.  It's tough for me to stay on top of the household money and making sure bills get paid.  Forget about cleaning the house!

Besides focus, there's also the energy component.  I just don't have the energy for much else.  Now, it's possible that's changing.  When I first started working out, just under a year ago, I was coming from a place of near inactivity.  Like, almost nothing.  And from a place of extremely low energy (which is related to not being active, but I'm not sure about which was the cause and which was the effect; I have lots of thoughts on that).  If I worked out, I was just too tired to do anything else.  Or in too much pain.  Sometimes that's not the case now.  I hope I'll be able to move past that soon.

But I'm afraid I'm also stuck in a pattern.  For almost a year my main focus of each day has been to work out.  I find I'm having to really put thought into making other things happen.  Oh, there's so much more to this than you know!  I feel like I'm just giving the tiniest bit of snippets to explain (because otherwise this post would be seventeen pages long).  But I need to get some of this out.  So even if what I've said sounds like I'm being lazy and not using my time or my life well, please know that I don't think that's the case.  Perhaps I'll be able to explain it further in the future.

For now I'll just hit on one other potential cause of my writing drought.  I wonder if it's been connected to my mood stabilizer.  I'm a mood writer.  I have to feel driven.  I have to NEED to write.  I have to need to get it out.  Almost like throwing up, it has to be forcing its way out of me to feel right.

When I met with my psychiatrist Tuesday I asked to reduce my meds by half.  That's what we chose to do.  This is the second day of that dosage.  Today I'm writing.  I can't swear those two events are connected.  Let's wait and see.

When we met, she also strongly pushed me to get back to things I love.  Writing is one of those things.  So I may feel driven because the meds are finally allowing it or because it's an assignment.  I don't know which.

But I truly don't care right now.  It just feels SO GOOD to write.  Like feeling the barometric pressure rise before the storm hits, or does it drop before the storm hits?  Either way, the air becomes uncomfortable, and my body aches for the rain.  Today it rained!