What can I do?

That is what a friend messaged me tonight in response to me being honest about how bad things are: What can I do?

And the answer is, I’m not sure. However, I need an answer to that question since I know I need help.

I have been tracking my mood on a UK site that I love, Moodscope.com, for a while know. While I am sure two people could score the same and not be feeling the same, I have figured out what the numbers mean for me. So here is a guide, for anyone brave enough to be one of my mood buddies, of how the numbers break down.

90%+ = Manic. I am likely to take lots of risks and do very stupid things like unprotected sex with a bisexual heroin addict or spend the month’s rent on comic books.

90% – 70% = I am handling my shit fairly well. I will fluctuate in response to stress, but over all things are ok.

70% – 50% = Something external, like a deadline, is not going well and a little bit of help or space will help, but I am still pretty good.

50% – 20% = I need support because things are feeling hectic. Some practical, concrete help is needed. I may have trouble articulating it, but I would appreciate you offering before I ask. A phone call would be fantastic. Make sure I am still taking my meds.

20% = 10% = I really need some help. I probably still can’t ask, but if you can spend the day with me or offer to take over a responsibility (like making dinner), it would mean the world to me. I probably can’t handle a phone conversation as it is too much for me. And no matter how much I deny it, I need company, too. Sit with me while I try to get my shit together. I may start drinking or smoking to self-medicate. This is not a good behavior because of the meds I take. I may also stop taking meds, quickening the spiral.

-10% = An ER visit or hospital stay is probably going to happen. I might get into fights and say hurtful things I don’t mean. Or get in trouble with the police for disturbing the peace, theft, or shoplifting. Or I might start hurting myself, like slamming my hand into a wall or cutting myself or vomiting or starving myself. I may even slap myself or other extreme types of behaviors. I need help immediately. A hotline call might be too much for me to do on my own; I may fight it. But I MUST get to someplace SAFE right away and get back on my meds.

Some musings on friendship

Not that I am much of a Bible reader anymore, by thinking over the events of the last several months has me remembering the adage of Proverbs 17:17:

“A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity (KJV).”

I know I’ve not been easy to be friends with lately–isolation, irritability, and mood swings that pull at least 3 Gs. But I am surprised most by the ones who stuck it out and helped me the whole way through.

Like the phone call from someone I would have categorized as a business associate. I was so surprised, I used the cover story about my blood pressure being elevated. I mean it was, but doctors don’t usually keep you in the hospital for 5 days to monitor your BP, and certainly my sister’s message accompanying the number where I could be reached must have raised some eyebrows: don’t use her last name, just ask for Tiffany.

I’m also surprised by some of the traffic, small as it might be, of people commenting on my blog posts. For example, someone I’ve not seen in over 2 years, who I was pretty sure did not consider me a friend anymore, and who lives on the other coast. I guess the Apocrypha do have some valuable advice:

“Forsake not an old friend; for the new is not comparable to him: a new friend is as new wine; when it is old, thou shall drink it with pleasure. (Sirach 9:10).

Friendship is a theme today because the only blog I seem to be able to keep up with mentioned it, too. Jon Cousins wrote a blog entry entitled Where do you belong? today. The thought for today is to “[p]articipate in activities with people who share your interests.”

Of course, my interests have become rather narrow. Between my declining physical health and my unstable mental health, the immanent move and the unending packing, and the gobs of paperwork I need to fill out and send to various offices, free time is something I Still have to fight for. And I’m tired. I also have a head cold.

I have tried to invite friends to share in some of my recovery activities like cooking more, knitting, walking, etc. but with only limited success.

So while I am feeling better on the whole, I am still not really being a good friend. And I can’t help but become a little sad when my Carlow writer friends are displaying pictures of all the wonderful things I missed in Dublin and talking about packets with excitement.

So, while I am trying to do better, I can’t make any promises. I am staring a 1-2 year recovery in the face. If anyone wants to stick it out, I will be very glad of the company.

The early bird

At around 4pm on Wed. the 20, I decided to take a nap (after being up for 20 hours again). I wasn’t particularly tired, but my body ached a bit.

I woke up at 4am on Thurs. the 21. Nuts.

At least on Wednesday, I did find the insurance forms. Now I just need to find paper to print them out. No deadline was listed though, so that is a good thing.

This getting (or more usually being up already) for the early morning is quite beautiful. I am generally not the type to leap out of bed in the morning, so I usually miss the special qualities of the light coming into the world. Something about the quality of the air, the hush, the calmness of the dark after the sharpness of it earlier in the night, makes me particularly inspired and restful.

A restfulness of mind, which is so very hard to come by for me these days.

I feel more centered, more connected. And this only happens during my manic cycles since I am usually sleeping the morning away in a depressed funk otherwise. Ironic, isn’t it?

It makes me wonder if my poetry also comes from this place of centeredness, of connectedness, of burning in the womb, of mania. The poems I usually like the most are those that have a sizzle in them. When I look back at them after the initial fire of creation, I usually am surprised I wrote them. There is a sureness of voice, a strength, that I only feel in myself when I am manic. I feel like I am then a truer version of myself. One who is stronger. That is the one who survived.

Which makes the down times that much worse. Because that person is not the survivor. That is the damaged victim. Those halves are always present, but like id and ego figures, they assert themselves more at the highs and lows respectively.

Maybe I write Id Poetry–I kinda like that.

So I guess, what I’m trying to say is that I may be crazy, but I’m enjoying myself right now. Of course, in 10 days, the rent is due and I have $10 left in my checking account…

But I am working through that aftermath plan with baby steps. Today = kittens’ shots. Friday = a friend driving me around to the Social Security office and Human Resources to start the disability process and file for energy assistance, respectively.

All those offices used to be in the same building along with child services and food stamps, centrally located downtown near the main bus stop. Now you have to go to three different places all over town in a virtually bus-free town.

You’re only a conspiracy nut if you’re wrong…

My hope is that temporary disability and unemployment together will be enough to cover July’s rent. I’ll worry about August later.

Namaste

Coping with Multiple Writer Personality Disorder (MWPD)

Usually, my Thursdays this semester have been spent in a hodgepodge sort of way with errands and student appointments. I try to keep myself on the clock as much as possible or, at least, make the most of my time, but, invariably, the day ends with me having earned little in the way of money and accrued much in the way of frazzled nerves and stress.

This past Thursday started out rather typically. After an extremely short night of restless sleep (at one point I was standing on my precariously narrow bed, convinced a large rat was in my room. Sorry Ashley), I was off to campus for an 8:30 am appointment. To fill in the gaps in my schedule, I had stuffed my backpack with things needing my immediate attention. Finishing one appointment early, I decided I should go sit in the sun. Vitamin D is so important.

I sat for an hour, busily involved in returning phone calls, making future appointments, outlining my latest freelancing gig, making lists, and trying my damnedest to resist the green mountainside view on the lower part of campus. It’s hard to say what was louder—the buzzing of insects or the buzzing in my head. I had taken a perfectly good opportunity to relax and turned it into a detached moment of forced productivity. Friedrich Schiller would be so disappointed.

Finally, my thoughts (or I should say, my To Do List) turned to this week’s blog, yet I find the single-clutched shift from business writing and course prep to creative writing nearly impossible. While my ability to punctuate a sentence and creatively approach problems lay in a common pool, my business-self and expressive-self, more often than not, exist in two different oceans separated by continents-worth of subtly shifting moods. It is only after my subconscious tide has quietly ebbed in one direction or the other that I can truly work, producing pieces (or syllabi or spreadsheets) I am proud of in an almost Marxist sense.

So basically, that all boils down to “I’m screwed when working on deadline.”

By branching out into private tutoring and editing as well as freelance writing, not to mention six classes this summer and four this fall, deadlines have become a constant fixture in my life. In a word: Gulp!

To survive, I somehow need a way to double-clutch: shift out of one gear into a neutral space to allow easy shifting into an entirely different gear. Otherwise, I was going to burnout my clutch, er, nerves (maybe I should drop the extended metaphor here). In any case, Thursday afternoon, I was searching.

I found a labyrinth.

Several years ago, a labyrinth was built in a small glade near the ACM athletic fields. The design is not even remotely Bowie-inspired (not a Muppet in sight), merely pea gravel and sand-colored stones.

Walking in, the buzzing continued. Lines for this blog, since forgotten, tasks left undone, jokes and questions crowded my mind, flapping to get my attention. Forcing the thoughts away is like negative reinforcement: by focusing on the thoughts as thoughts you are only encouraging more thoughts.

Instead, I listened.

Eventually, my inner buzzing subsided. The rumble of the commercial lawnmower, the metallic clack of the baseball bats, the hum of traffic: the layers of sound were so complex and rich.

Finally, after saluting the four corners at the center and meandering back out, the layers of sound peeled away, and I was with my breath. In and Out. Sacred and Mundane.

I found my neutral gear.

I would not say the experience made me more productive or made me work harder. Besides that was not really the point in the end. I felt happier and clearer headed. And more aware. States that are valuable in and of themselves, which may also lead to better work. I do feel more relaxed and confident, but I also gave myself the evening off (Friday evening, too). I remembered to value the empty bowl. Do you?

*Note: This blog is meant for edutainment purposes only, and to that end, I may occasionally use some literary license. The author would like to apologize for the overly extended car metaphor (she can’t even drive a manual), but she is more than a little excited that the best little sister in the world gave her a car.