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#239; To sleep, perchance to dream.
This hasn’t been a good week for my sleep cycle. Post-Thanksgiving saw work rather forcefully punch me in the gut, holiday parties to be planned, a conference demanding my attention 24-hours a day, my surviving grandparent very suddenly in the hospital, and so many friendship/personal conflicts pop up that my head is spinning from the sheer volume. Needless to say, even with the help of more than one cocktail Tuesday night, I haven’t had a solid nights’ sleep since South Carolina.
When I lack sleep, the consequences are immediate and obvious. My mood turns sour no matter who I’m near, any concentration and memory retention (which I have problems anyway) disappear entirely, I feel aggressive and angry at the drop of a hat, and I have no balance in my battle with Bipolar Disorder. Fighting such a disorder on a daily basis requires concentration, energy, and calm. I have none of those things, and so I tend to throw my hands up in defeat and tell the BP “Okay, have fun, run free for a few days, I give up for now.” I continue to do my work (both at my job and outside of it in my volunteer roles) to the best of my ability, I get out of bed in the morning (which is an extreme challenge with those Chemicals running amok), I try to be supportive of friends and family, and I put what little energy I have leftover into my attitude, because if I break down and yell at my boss in frustration and exhaustion, I’m in deep trouble!
#224; a long time ago, in a land far far away
I once wrote (I miss this feeling): I’m in love. I’m tired of thinking love has to be something that constrains you and makes you obligated. Instead, I’m in love with the music. The sound of a banjo in a dive bar back room, a kid with an amazing set of pipes just wailing on his acoustic as if there’s no one in the room, the rockstar life style of up all night every night random drives through the city lights… I’m in love. It’s addictive. It’s scary. Nothing feels like this. No high, no drink, no kiss… I love the people who have become part of my life because of it, I want nothing but this.
#220; hey soul sister
I know, it’s been too long. Due to internet woes of the server sort, vacation, and then my temp assignment in being ended (I’ve been on extended vacation for the last week) – I simply haven’t been motivated to write anything of any kind. Yes, I’ve spent the last week unemployed and with nowhere to write on the internet. Poor me. Though I did not use the time to work on other writing projects as I’d hoped, I did do a bunch of reading, spend some time with wonderful new friends exploring Boston, actually digging into the tumblr platform and G+, and cleaning the apartment. Thrilling life I lead, isn’t it?
In my Boston wandering this week, I’ve had the pleasure of trying some new things that I’d been wanting to do since moving here in March. Indian food, for example. I love Indian food. There are few dishes in the world I love more than saag, and living in Southern Virginia there was a noticeable lack of certain ethnic restaurants (I suppose only noticeable if you were looking for them, but I absolutely was). I craved curry, Afghan kabobs, saffron, late-night Chinese take-out (not one take-out place that didn’t serve pizza stayed open later than midnight). Needless to say, it felt a bit like the food Sahara (not that the food they have down there isn’t amazing – I would give up a few toes for a Brickhouse calzone most days!). And now I’m in Boston – land of Irish dinners and hookah bars, Little Italy and Chinatown. And I’d only had Indian food once since moving. Friday I had the worst craving for chicken saag, curry, jasmine rice! Dragging the boyfriend away from the comfort of home, we did our research and ended up in a gorgeous window table at Mela in South End (an area of the city I only know thanks to friends’ homes, I don’t know much about the theater district or happy hour score there). I don’t know that I’ve ever had better saag, and thanks for Foursquare I got to try their mango lassi for free! Yogurt, juice, ice… Tasted like a melted mango creamsicle, and it was perfect. A split bottle of wine and way too much food later, my exotic craving was finally down to a dull roar and I got to check something else off of my Boston list!
As a child, I spent time in the Boston Common at Christmas, checking out the Nativity scene and the Christmas trees – I always loved the place. As an adult, I spent hours in Dupont Circle, lying in the grass reading, writing, chatting with friends, listening to music. In DC, I always pictured the same thing happening in Boston, but had never had the pleasure. Yesterday, due to much frantic Facebook planning, I met up with a bunch of friends and had a picnic in the Public Garden. Hours spent in the shade, by the water, watching ducks and talking books, eating good food with a wonderful group of people. I wish I could that feeling of peace into words, but as we packed up and headed to a German bar for beer and dinner, the feeling swept over me and I reveled in the idea of doing it again over and over. Another Boston-centric wish checked off my list.
When I moved here I was so certain I would have the life I’d always wanted. Intellectual and involved, successful professionally and personally. It didn’t start out that way, though, and I found myself frustrated and depressed. How did it not just happen the moment I moved? It had never taken more than a couple of weeks for me to find my niche in a new place. Europe, DC, even Newport News. I made these places home as someone collects DVDs. Lined them all up in my heart as things I loved and needed and people who surrounded me with support and laughter. But here, it’s been taking work, and that was a new experience. Now that it’s happening, that I have people I can text when I’m bored or go see a movie with on a whim, people who are getting to know me and bartenders who know my name… it feels amazing. It feels like home is a concept that requires earning, as opposed to just sweeping into the room and making it my own. It feels good. Boston feels good.
#215; in gratitude
In November, I wrote a list out of things I was grateful for, from the small to the profound, and I find that it’s a wonderful way to boost your confidence in the everyday. This list included the phrase: “Knowing that Boston still stands & I can always go home.”
I have a bad habit of mentally longing for easier places to live – places where I already know the social & economic landscape (Maine); or where I have the comfort and familiarity of family and friends (South Carolina or Southern Virginia); places that miss me as much I miss them (DC); places that afford me a no-strings-attached approach to life (Rome or Paris or some other exotic, impossible locale). I have trouble, mentally, internally, giving Boston enough credit. And so here we go, after the jump, a list of things I’m grateful to Boston for, to get me through this short-week version of a hump day:
#191; a particular kind of pain
“There is a particular kind of pain, elation, loneliness, and terror involved in this kind of madness. When you’re high it’s tremendous. The ideas and feelings are fast and frequent like shooting stars….But, somewhere, this changes. The fast ideas are far too fast, and there are far too many; overwhelming confusion replaces clarity. Everything previously moving with the grain is now against–you are irritable, angry, frightened, uncontrollable….It will never end, for madness carves its own reality.” – Kay Redfield Jamison
Last week, when news broke that Catherine Zeta-Jones had sought treatment for Bipolar II Disorder, a dear friend sent me a BBC article before the news had even hit my Twitter feed. It’s not often someone of international prominence comes out and announces that they suffer from a mental illness (perhaps with the exception of addiction). It’s even more rare that someone announces they suffer from a mental illness that I also live with.
While CZJ has been diagnosed Bipolar II, as has 18 year old Disney star Demi Lovato (talk about brave – an 18 year old girl coming out as receiving help for eating disorders, self harm, and Bipolar II, that is some serious courage on her part), I have lived with Bipolar I Disorder* most of my life. Diagnosed with Panic Disorder & Bipolar I as a teenager, I was incredibly proud of both ladies last week for opening up about the disease and, whether they meant to or not, starting a dialog about mental illness. According to WCVB Boston, the condition is underdiagnosed in America, but some celebrities have ‘come out’ over the years to increase awareness:
“…celebrities like Jane Pauley, Carrie Fisher and Linda Hamilton have helped to raise awareness and decrease the stigma. There has been much speculation that actor Charlie Sheen could have the condition.”
So, why is it, that I’ve never spoken about it here at atlimbo? My friends and family have all known for years, I’ve struggled with medications, addictions, relationships, focus – it’s not a very easy secret to keep, and so I just never tried. But to write about it so specifically, so personally, here where everything will live forever in Google cache… It’s daunting. Scary, in a way. I admire these women, I believe that Charlie Sheen desperately needs to see a psychiatrist, I keep up with the news coming out of NAMI and I participate in online communities for people with these illnesses. I’ve been educating myself about BD, schizophrenia, sociopathy, depression, addiction, obsessive compulsive disorder, self-harm, and all manner of other chemical imbalances since I was a kid. And yet, I don’t know how to write about it in any real way. I don’t know how to tell the story of my diagnosis, my trials and errors with medication and other treatments.
I know that in many ways I’m lucky. My family has never been anything but supportive and while Bipolar I has a higher instance of hospitalization and suicide and yet here I am, nearly 27 and I can keep a job, have a conversation with a stranger, keep my own home in order, and I’m slowly but surely learning how to sustain relationships. This last one is my biggest struggle. There are a lot of stories online about failed attempts and outrageous statistics. I’m contemplating therapy in my new hometown and my boyfriend is as supportive and understanding as they come – he’s seen me through many of my phases in the nearly ten years we’ve known each other, and that comes in handy when I don’t know how describe what’s happening in my brain. He knows what I mean without my even having to say it.
But none of this is really getting to the point. Which is this. Why can’t I write about it? Why is the point so damned convoluted for me? I know that the disorder is a chemical imbalance. I know that there are a multitude of causes and the real 100% cause isn’t even known – for now it’s considered a mixture of genetics, chemical flow in the brain, physiology, psychology, stressers… I know all of this. I’m glad to say I don’t buy into the social stigmas attached to the disorder or the idea to simply medicate it away… And yet, I can’t write about it. I can’t tell my story, despite my being proud to trumpet others who have done exactly the same with their own.
* Bipolar I Disorder is considered the more severe of the two including higher, more sustained jaunts of hypomania and a less consistent depressive side – for more information and a general overview of the disorder, click here.
