Mick Jagger Bogarted My Meds

I know it’s been a while since I’ve written anything.

I may have mentioned it before but there are stretches where I’m literally incapable of writing anything. It’s not that the muse isn’t present, it’s just that the will is weak.

For me, writing used to be easy and fun. Now I have to be in the right frame of mind and physically up to do it. So it comes in spurts.

Anyway, I’m in the process of switching meds. My psych is switching out my Lexapro for Cymbalta. And it just took me two minutes to remember the name of the drug. Hell, I’m just popping pills so much I can’t even remember what I’m taking!

I’m on the one week weaning which is always a fun time when you’re taking two SSRIs at the same time. How have I been feeling? A weird kind of mellow is how I would put it.

I’m mellow but confused and forgetful. And, I’m dropping almost everything I touch.

Still, mellow like a hash buzz is better than the Midnight screaming meemies. For those of us who have been trying to find the right med combination for decades, the period between switching one to the other is partly opening the presents on Christmas morning and partly dread. You don’t know the longer lasting effects until weeks pass.

Why Cymbalta? The psych feels it will give me more energy, less lethargy, perhaps an appreciation of golf on TV, I have no idea. I remember I was on it once but I don’t remember why I got off it.

Such is life in the Wide Wide World of Psychotropic Medication.

Good points:

Occasional Zen-like moments of introspective tranquility – even at work

Better sleep

Bad points

Appearing and feeling occasionally drunk; balance issues.

Loss of extemporaneous speaking prowess.

Weird points

Zen state causes me to stare at inanimate objects and contemplate their existence. Staring at a lock on a door: “Wow, always wondered just how locks work with the keys and all that. Fascinating construction. Wonder what metal it’s made of? Beautiful man!”

Earwigs – the songs you hear or just appear in your head become mantras that last a long, long time. Currently, walking down the hall:

Laughter, joy, and loneliness and sex and sex and sex and sex
Look at me, I'm in tatters
I'm a shattered
Shattered

Cool beans bro.

No I’m just groovin’ to the morning vibes. Don’t ask me how I drive. Man alive, thrive on jive.

I’m a cool poppa, 54 going on 21; what the Hell, it beats curling up in bed hiding from the world, shaking and sweating into the sheets. God love Big Pharma.

Rats on the west side, bed bugs uptown

I’m a creative. I write. I’m in control of my brain though I’m feeling my emotions drain. It’s vanilla shit but the vanilla beans are fresh and I’m satisfied.

Spacing out at the keyboard, wondering how long this will last

My brain's been battered, splattered all over Manhattan . . .

Shadoobie, my brain's been battered

my brain's been battered;

brain's been battered;

battered;

shattered;

Shadoobie;

;

OK, So I Lied

I've been nicely strong-armed back to a blogging group on Facebook in which we work to increase each other's blog awareness.

I've never been a part of such an effort but the people who run it, run it like schoolteachers. To wit: you get an assignment every Monday to link a FB post to this FB page. Then other members read and comment and like and well, I'm still trying to grasp it completely, but I thought it would push me in a more positive direction and keep me writing.

They are strict - do the assignments, don't fake it, or you're kicked out.

Writing is hard work. For me, it used to be a breeze but depression knocks the winds from your sails in many ways, especially bipolar depression and my traveling companion, anxiety. So it's very tough for me to write regularly - the muse comes in spurts. Heh heh (forever 12).

Anyway, I had a great time in New York City but when I came home I crashed very hard and am still not in a good place. The sick reason is that I was having so much fun I completely put work and all other troubles out of my mind.

You may think that's a good thing - but the way my mind works, when I came back on Wednesday, the shock of going back to work was too much. You see, when I worry, I'm prepared. Yes, I count the hours until I get back to work but it prepares me mentally for whatever may happen.

To forget my troubles for four days invites a sort of mental illness tsunami in which ALL of the worries come back at once. It's easier for me to deal with them continuously. As a consequence, I told my wife we'll probably not take a vacation like this for a long time.

Yeah, it sucks big time.

In addition since coming back, I've been having heightened anxiety and work flashback which have really thrown me for a loop since I haven't experienced those in many months. I see my shrink on Wednesday and we need to talk about this. The Ativan isn't working like it should - I'm taking more - and I feel like I'm on the verge.

Being 'on the verge' is not a good place to be, believe me. I even departed FB for the weekend because I realized beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was harming me. How? When I get really angry, anxious, worried or lonely, I post things that I should not - I'm trolling for attention and I become one of those people I dislike on FB. It also feeds a bad spiral that causes me to become more depressed, anxious and mad and post more.

I think it's therapy - it's not. It's coming apart in front of a small audience of friends, many of whom do not know how to take it, And I'm putting those friends in an uncomfortable situation. Facebook is a drug - it can be good or bad but when I'm in a serious state it's a bad drug.

Twitter seems different but that's because I try to avoid getting into flame wars and only deal with people in my interest circles. Yes, it's an echo chamber (so is FB) but people like me can't, and I really need to stress this, can't let their emotions drag them into something they regret. And when my emotions are on a hair-trigger, that is not a good thing to exhibit on a forum more public than Facebook.

I recently finished binge watching '13 Reasons Why' which will be the subject of another blog post.

PS: I told you all that my writing would reflect the mood I was in on a particular day and I wasn't kidding.

Boring Man Goes to New York

There are, it seems, 10,000 blogs in English talking about various mental illnesses. Mine is one of those.

Of course, I want to talk about other things as well, with an emphasis on sharing my experiences in midlife dealing with bipolar2 and anxiety issues.

I don’t think I’ve been doing a very good job of it. I’m not good at self-promoting. I feel I have something to say but, really, are my experiences any better or worse; is my writing better or worse than the other 10,000 bloggists? I read some incredible blogs, some that literally want to make me stand and cheer.

I look at what I write and it seems flat.

I really used to be better than this. I was a columnist for two daily newspapers. I’ve been a journalist most of my life. I used to get a lot of kudos for my columns and it kept me going. I enjoyed writing them. I am acutely aware, right now, that my short sentences must sound like a jackhammer on the brain.

In the last several years, I have forced myself to write through the illness for my own mental health. This does not always produce entertaining or enlightening material. And let’s face it: no one wants to read vanilla blogs.

It is a great sadness to me that writing only comes when it comes. Several days go by and I just can’t do it, even though I have something to say. And when I do, it all seems so flat; sort of the writing equivalent of a flat affect personality.

Is it the medication? I think that plays a part. When I miss the highs and lows I also miss a lot of the creative spark that could send my writing flying in all kinds of exciting (and dangerous) directions.

Am I more afraid? Perhaps, but I’m getting over that. Pretty much everyone who knows me knows what I’m dealing with. There are certain things and people I can’t write about, family being one of them.

I think it is possible that I fear wasting the reader’s time. I’m probably doing that right now.

Author David Foster Wallace worried extensively about his medications hashing his creativity. A switch in medication led him into a downward spiral resulting in his suicide. Considerations of dropping medications for the sake of creativity are not to be taken lightly.

As much as I miss a lot of the old me, I understand why I must stick to my medication. The mania that was so self-destructive is held at bay and the depression, well . . . it’s handled as best as can be expected.

My psychiatrist has suggested subbing Celexa for Lexapro when I get back from New York. I doubt it will make me feel like a ‘new man’ whatever that means, but I’m more willing to experiment (with her supervision) than I would have been two years ago.

The basic problem is I can experience all the lows but the highs bring with them a certain glib silliness without the energy and creativity I would like to experience again.

My psychiatrist said I should mentally prepare myself for our (my wife and I) upcoming trip New York City. I told her that I was doing that by imagining every terrible thing that could happen to us.

Why do I do this? Simple – it’s insurance for the anxiety. If I go through every bad thing that might happen, if it does happen, I’m mentally prepared for it and it’s less of a big deal than being surprised. If nothing happens and I have a good time – it’s a bonus.

This is the typical thinking of people with anxiety issues. It’s why so many of us find it hard to relax and have a good time. Going to New York is me pushing myself far out of my comfort zone on the off chance that I will actually enjoy myself. It beats sitting on the couch wondering: what if?

My Story in 'My Life and Mental Illness'

Here's the link: https://mylifeandmentalillness.wordpress.com/2017/04/20/keiths-story/

Here's the main page: https://mylifeandmentalillness.wordpress.com

I'd like to thank Maria for including my story in her blog. I am one of many people who are telling their stories in the fight against the stigma surrounding mental illness. These stories show that we're your friends, co-workers, family and people you meet everyday.

May, by the way, is Mental Health Month. Follow that link to find out all about what's being done to raise awareness and fight stigma. Also, a major point is that awareness is not enough - services have to be available and affordable or society will continue to pay the price.

I recently found out that in parts of rural America there may be one psychiatrist or psychologist for an area containing 50,000 people? And even if people find a mental health professional nearby, many times they don't have insurance - you know the drill.

In a way, mental illness touches everyone - probably someone you know. Like any other illness, it is treatable and people do recover and are productive members of society.

I am very lucky to have such a supportive wife and Facebook friends that put up with my screeds. Many people don't have such a support system and that's what this month is really all about.

I hope you'll take a few minutes and read these stories and look at some of the materials linked above.

I Am (not) A Rock

Part of the life of most bipolar people is regretting not living the life they could have lived. In most respects this is caused by the illness – the inability to make a keep friends, jobs, other social contacts.

But environment plays a part too. If one has strong ties to neighborhoods, friends, parent’s friends and school mates, that can go a long way towards ameliorating the effects of bipolar behavior. In short – they already know you’re kinda weird and they accept the good with the bad.

I recently felt this little sting of regret when I saw a reunion of the eighth-grade class of one of the Catholic schools that fed into Lake Catholic where I went to high school.

They aren’t the only Catholic grade school to hold such reunions. There were a lot of Catholic grade schools in the 70s that had large classes (it was the height of the enrollment boom) that sent the majority of their students on to Lake. Now, many of them are struggling to hold on and some have had to close.

My elementary school I attended beginning in November of my kindergarten year, still exists. It grew a little and became more exclusive and expensive than it was. The nuns have pretty much disappeared, giving way to lay teachers. It is in many way, a shadow of its former self. Which is a good thing.

About six miles to the north is St. Mary’s Chardon where most of the people I rode the buses with went to school. It was a bus transfer point for Notre Dame’s students. It was also my family’s parish where we went to church.

But my mother (who was the sole decision maker here – the only time in our family she was allowed to make unilateral decisions, perhaps because she was a cradle Catholic and my dad was not) refused to send me there. Her story, passed down through the years, was that a teacher at St. Mary’s told her that if she wanted the better Catholic education available, to send me to Notre Dame.

But Notre Dame has the beginnings of what would become a long waiting list to get in, as the entire school from K-8 had room for less than 400 students. So, I went to a public school, Park Elementary (strangely enough with some kids that would transfer later to St. Mary’s) until November of my kindergarten year when I was unceremoniously yanked out of what I thought was a fun school and delivered to the tender mercies of the Sisters of Notre Dame.

To say this was a shock to my system was putting it mildly. I will skip details; I’ve discussed some of them earlier in this blog.

But the real mistake was probably made earlier when my parents decided to move from Mayfield Heights to Chardon. I was on the verge of kindergarten when they moved (August 1968) and was set to go to my neighborhood public school in the Mayfield system, one of the better and later, best in Ohio.

It was also the system where my mother taught second grade – not in the school I would have gone to, mind you. But there would have been some familial clout later when she because the teacher’s union president.

I often stare at the ceiling at 3 a.m. and wonder what my life would have been like to go to school with the kids I knew in my neighborhood, without ever having to be subjected to the ritualistic humiliation suffered at the hands of the nuns, largely for two reasons – my parents weren’t rich and I was a willful and smart kid who didn’t want to hide it.

Even though my mother would never admit, I was in the worst possible situation I could have been placed in. Even she would later admit that I learned almost nothing in school relative to what I taught myself by reading. Several years into my 8 ½ year sentence, even my father was making the case to my mother that perhaps I should transfer to St. Mary’s. If you knew my father, or have read about him here, you know that his objections were significant. Usually he didn’t care if I was suffering if it would ‘toughen me up.’ But he had seen enough of the nuns’ behavior and what went on in the halls that even he was disturbed.

I got off easy. We literally drove some kids right out of that school through bullying – kids that entered in the fourth and fifth grade. And yes, I participated lest they pick on me. And I was picked on enough being a fat kid with a funny last name, a geeky intelligence and a family nowhere near the economic level of the most popular kids. And there was nowhere to escape when you spend almost nine years with the same 26 kids (more or less) in the same room.

An aside: I often wonder if it ever occurred to her when she sent me to my first shrink between seventh and eighth grade, that my school environment would have had something to do with it?

But mom held fast. First, as I said, it was the only decision she had ever been allowed to make unilaterally in our family and second, she was one of these people who believed that once you committed to something, you should stick it out no matter what the damage or regret. After all, she didn’t have to be exposed to the nuns on a daily basis, she didn’t have to stand in a lonely outfield on a hot day waiting for the occasional fly ball that I would inevitably drop.

She also didn’t have to attend the Cub Scout pack comprised of people from the local elementary schools I didn’t go to when the majority of my Notre Dame classmates were part of the pack at. . .yep. . . St. Mary’s.

I KNOW this sounds like whining and I get that. But she couldn’t have devised a childhood to fuck me up more. I was surrounded by people I couldn’t bind with. And my insecurity as I got older just got worse as the mental issues took hold. Chicken or the egg? Causation or correlation? I’ll never know.

When I was paroled from Notre Dame and went to Lake Catholic I was very intimidated at first. But the people I met were not like the kids at Notre Dame. They seemed far more accepting. There were more people like me. And a lot less snootiness. After about a month, I was in smoothly and greatly relieved.

It wasn’t perfect but for me, no environment is ever perfect. But, although it isn’t the same most people, high school, looking back, was some of the best years of my life, especially after what I had gone through.

The years immediately after high school were full of effort on my part, to retain those friendships and connections. Eventually, slowly and sometime painfully, eventually, we all drifted apart.

I guess that’s why I was so jazzed about my class reunion last year – our 35^th. Of all the friends I had known, these were the people I had gotten closest to. I was very curious whether I could make friends again and possibly keep some.

The reunion went very well. I thoroughly enjoyed it and re-connected with some people. Unfortunately, for some of these folks, my own posting about religion and Trump have undone some of these connections. To their credit, most of my classmates are still nominally Catholic, many seriously so. Catholicism and I parted company some time ago. I do miss the feeling of belonging to a community, having something in common with people and the strangely comforting rituals of the Mass. But for many, many reasons, I simply can’t go back. They have their rules and I respect them but I don’t think it can ever be again.

As for politics, the heartbreaking thing is in another time, this would not have been an issue. Unfortunately, we only had a small grace period before the election would tear some of those bounds asunder.

If we can’t find a way to get beyond it, and we probably can’t, I probably won’t go to the 40^th reunion. I still have Facebook friends that I am trying not to lose or push away for various reasons. I hope they understand that I was always just a little – maladjusted. But I mean well.

When the elementary school classes of 77, whether they be St. Justin Martyr or St. Mary’s Mentor get together, I feel that tinge of what might have been. Although I recognize many of them who went on to Lake Catholic from the Facebook photos, I know that is not my tribe. I had four years with them – they had 12 and many grew up just streets away from each other, attended the same sports and social leagues and hung out at each other’s homes.

There were only four of us from Notre Dame that went to Lake, absorbed into a freshman class of 375 students – all boys, no girls.

And many of them still have friends and family in Northeastern Ohio. I’m two hours away in Pittsburgh so I can get up there if I want, but it’s not the same. I only really interact on Facebook.

Strangely, one of the guys I went to school with at both Notre Dame and Lake Catholic lives here in Pittsburgh. We used to be thick as thieves at Notre Dame. He won’t respond to my friend requests yet he is friends with some of our mutual friends at Lake Catholic. I would be lying if I said it didn’t hurt just a little.

I realize that a set of circumstances led me to where I am today – some I had control over, some I didn’t. I love Pittsburgh. I love my wife. But one should have friends outside of their spouse. My wife does – she’s tight with both her former classmates and all the friends she’s met in her knitting hobby.

My effort to do the same at work, at the Mustang club, at the local NAMI branch, at the improv school all have ended in either regret on my part or simply not being a good fit with others. But I have tried.

It’s difficult to talk about being lonely when part of the fault is mine. Most people who know me online don’t know how hard it is for me to go to work every day and when the day is over, I’m all out of spoons and find it difficult to leave the house for socialization. In fact, on my days off, I find I almost always have to work up the nerve to leave the house at all.

I try to be someone I’m not to make friends because I’m always worried that people won’t like the real me. And to those who always say, ‘be yourself’ I can go over my track record where that has lost me enough people in my life. And besides, this three-page whine has gone on far too long.

It just hurts.

Notes from the Schlub

Ah, a book I need

What do you do when you think your life is somewhat on borrowed time?

The WaPo reports this morning that Jared Kushner is being give wide powers to restructure the Federal government with their first sites set on the VA.

I’ve been a worrier all my life but I’m trying not to let this get to me. I have a job today, I’ll have a job tomorrow and I don’t want to live my life as if the roof is about to cave in any second. There’s been too much of that in my time on Earth.

And I’m also feeling guilty about worrying about me when there’s so many people around the world worse off. And there are a lot of good people right here doing their best for our country’s Veterans. They deserve better too.

In any case, war could break out in several places tomorrow rendering a lot of extraneous worry moot.

We’re lucky. We’ve been lucky. Perhaps it’s cosmically just that the luck, my luck, runs out at some point. But when I look at the horrible disparagement of income in the country, compared to what it was when I was a young adult, I feel less justified in guilt. There is plenty of pie to go around – for everyone. What has happened to many people is nothing less than economic violence. I’m afraid it’s going to get around to formerly lucky ones soon. If not, then robots will do our jobs. I’m waiting for the first fully mechanized McDonalds. I don’t think it’s too far off.

***

I’ve been a little rough on my psych doctor lately. It seems that the luck of the draw is the day I see her, something bad has happened and I’m in a downward spiral. She lets me vent, reminding me this is the place for it, but in fairness, she doesn’t deserve it. No one does really. I guess the measure of venting effectiveness is if you feel better afterwards. I don’t; I feel guilty.

***

There is something to be said for being electively bald. I recently had my head shaved as part of a fundraiser for St. Baldrick’s Foundation which helps children with cancer. The shaving party was at a local bar and I had an uncharacteristically fun time. But I also wanted to see what my large noggin would look like without hair, plus a beard that I was re-growing.

I knew the beard would come in mostly grey and I was prepared for that. I think it looks pretty good, my wife will get used to it but surprisingly, many of my FB and IRL friends like it too.

Two of them have said I look a little ‘BA’ (bad ass). I don’t think that’s a term that has ever been used to describe me in my life and I’m not sure how to take it. I hate being ‘lifestyle-ish.’ That is, someone who tailors themselves to a particular lifestyle (and associated look) whether it comes naturally to them or not. I’ve always been ‘me,’ which is to say, something of a schlub (and yes, I know my Yiddish).

Not saying I’ve never exhibited streaks of talent and lucidity but always within the framework of schlubbiness. I’m not sure I could pull off a new persona for even a week. 

Spoon issues

Spoon theory, for the uninitiated, is a way for people with a host of behavioral issues to explain how they deal with stress.

You are given a certain amount of spoons every day from the great spoon-giver. Each spoon represents the amount of social interaction or physical activity a person can expend before the need for what we’ll call regeneration.

Regeneration usually, for most of us, means spending time alone with our thoughts to process the situation and regain emotional strength to go out into the world and interact again. Those of us who live with social anxiety use spoon theory as a simple way to explain what we go through but we don’t really expect people to understand it. At least I don’t. It’s impossible to empathize unless you can feel it.

Anyway, I have problems on weekends recovering from work. It’s really starting to piss me off, perhaps more so now that it’s so obvious. When things were bad, weekends melted together with workdays since the level of stress and hyper-vigilance was constant. 

Although the ‘bad times’ I experienced are receding into the past, the emotional scars remain. I feel them every time I drive onto the property at work. The subdued, yet ever-present feeling that I am always one word away from having the moon and stars fall on me again is always there. 

But the overt threat of losing my job or being shot by the police in a botched ‘health and safety check’ is gone and now weekends should be a time for me to ‘do’ and enjoy more than sit and worry.

And yet, Saturday morning arrives and I make it to the couch and find I have a monumental task trying to raise myself back up again and get on with the day. Other than the bed, the couch is my ‘safe place.’ 

Yesterday I went to the cast dinner for the performance of Listen to Your Mother, an event I have been very much looking forward to.

But yesterday morning I felt entirely empty of strength and filled with worries. It took everything I had to get ready for this happy event. The cast had lunch at Lidia’s and read our written stories to each other. My worries included how I, as the only man in a 12-person cast would be received, and the usual fears about driving downtown exacerbated by the St. Patrick’s Day parade being held at the same time.

As usual, my fears were groundless. Listening to everyone’s stories was literally a transcendent experience.  Being around such creative and intelligent people was like breathing pure oxygen for me. 

And yet, when I got home, in no time flat, the feeling of excitement and stimulation drained quickly and I was back on the couch, dog tired, wired and fried.

And mad.

I am so sick of this. 

I should be over this. But I should have realized long ago that my conditions, which have waxed and waned my whole life, will be with me always. Thirty years of meds, shrinks, zen training, ‘lifestyle changes,’ weight loss and exercise have not exorcised this beast. I will carry it to my grave. 

It is my shadow. I can, under certain conditions, banish it for a period of time or land up in hypomania – where I’m in a fun and creative period making everyone else’s lives miserable.

But it always comes back.

I vent to my wife but she’s heard it all before and I know that my moods affect hers. So I try to keep the feels to myself.

“Why couldn’t this feeling last just a few hours longer,” I asked my wife and the universe. 

Why indeed? Would it be so much to ask to at least go to bed feeling the warm afterglow of an enriching, life-affirming experience?

But that’s not the way things work. Every day is a fight, sometimes easier than the day before, sometimes not. Two days are never the same and the differences in mood and energy from one day to the next can be so stark as to be scary.

I must realize that getting angry at the situation or getting angry at myself for not being able to maintain a steady mood state will get me nowhere except more frustrated. 

Somehow, at this late stage of a lifelong struggle, I must learn to accept the situation with grace, appreciating the good periods as well as the bad. 

Easier said.

Ruinations on Bipolar and Life

It's taken me the better part of my life to realize that I have always carried this disease of the brain and I shall take it to my grave.

It has been the catalyst of a series of up and down mood swings which have largely determined the trajectory of my life. How much control did I really have? How much control does an alcoholic have? A drug addict? There were times I felt I was totally in control. Those were the most dangerous and destructive times of my life.

So sometimes I think that when I am feeling my most down I am the safest. I am aware totally of what is happening to me and even though the feelings suck, to put it mildly, I am well aware of my capability and liabilities under this conditions.

When I have been at my most confident is when I have taken leave of my senses - sometimes partially and sometimes almost totally.

Of course as years go by and my memory becomes like a sharp knife poking at my conscience, I look back and wonder how I could have made such destructive and hurtful decisions. The terrifying thing is that it all seemed like a good and exciting idea - at the time.

Bipolar people are good at apologizing. One might say that when we come to our senses, we are the masters of drawn, out, maudlin, emotional apologies. This is not to say they are not genuine - they are for we are not psychopaths. It's just when we are moved to apologize for past acts we're in a state of 'thoughtful depression' and more succeptible to grand, moving spectacles of 'I'm sorry.'

After awhile, the apologies pile up over the years and our memories torture us with the things that might have been had we, somehow, been able to seize upon some kind of will and behave with rationality, empathy and compassion. We tend to leave a lot of broken and dazed victims in our wake, especially those we love.

I don't have the answer. This blog for instance, is one I cannot write continuously. I write, not only when I feel the need to, but when I mentally and physically can. You can talk about spoon theory but there are other things at play. The brain fog, the apathy, the belief that no one gives a damn about what you have to write and whether the medications are working better than usual.

Writing, work, family relations, sociability - it's all the same. Sometimes our interactions operate smoothly, like a well-maintained car. Sometimes we can get by with the engine sputtering. Other times, it's crash and burn. We try to anticipate, read our own bodies and minds and take medications when we feel we need them. It is the ultimate inexact science.

I think the older one gets, the danger is that one becomes battle weary. I know I fight that every day. It gets harder to cherish the good days because they seem futile. We know the bad days will at least even them out. It's just a matter of time. It's like being being in a nice prison with plenty of food, recreation and creature comforts. Just every so often, for no reason at all, you get thrown into solitary confinement. Maybe for a day, maybe for a week.

I often wondered how I would do in solitary confinement. I have the ability to stare at a wall for hours and live in my head. Hopefully, I'll never find out.

This essay was inspired by a meme I saw on twitter this morning. It read "describing your mental illness is like trying to describe color to a blind person."

I though about that for a little while. I have tried every way I can from when I was a child to a young adult to now to provide an explanation that would make sense to the normals. The best thing I can come up with is this: other people are competing for space in my brain.

I sit in my living room, the cat is cozied up to me and late afternoon light is streaming through the front window. The only sound, other than my typing, is the tick tock of the cuckoo clock - the one that was a wedding present in 1984 from a long lost sister-in-law. She had good taste. It's a nice clock.

But I become very aware of the silence otherwise and my need to say something, regardless of how mundane or ponderous my prose might be. I feel that I can't say much anymore. I am marked at work and can no longer try to seek understanding. I still find it incredible that I must have apologized a couple of hundred times for what I said but my employer could not bring themselves to apologize even once for what I was put through. Not even for almost getting shot in front of my wife.

As John Wayne said - it's a sign of weakness. And weakness is not tolerated unless you have rank and status. So it is with my employer. But I will write anyway. If they lay claim to my words, I will burn them. They have already laid claim to my behavior and my livelihood - they will not have my words. Never again.

No one realizes how incredibly difficult it is for someone with my condition to function in a system where they are not respected. Every day I feel like I am being treated with kid gloves no matter how professional my work and behavior may be. Zero tolerance, zero humanity.

I guess that is why I sit here and listen to the clock tick and wonder what it all was for. It has been a ride to be sure. I wish I had not left so much wreckage in my wake. Wherever death takes me, I am sure that will be levied on the debit side of my account. I want it not to be over just yet. Even though everything seems to be winding down slowly, I would like just a few more adventures; a few more grand things to look forward to before the brain fog closes in for good.

I was in the Costco today. For some strange reason, I became sad. The same way I do in the halls of the Home Depot. I remember a going down similar halls on my last great adventure a decade ago - a grand achievement made during my last great manic period - and a great disaster that cost me a marriage.

Ten years before that, there was another grand manic period that accomplished the same thing - a great return to my career and a shattered marriage.

But during those times, the senses were heightened and the fire was in my belly. The air smelled different, the sun shone brighter, I had energy, enthusiasm and drive. I could do anything I set my mind to.

Such great accomplishments aside such great tragedies, such is life, I suppose for people like us.

I would like not to feel the chain-weights of depression and lethargy; of hopelessness and dysthemia. But the only other option is another flame out. As exciting as might seem, I would rather be this morose medicated mess that the streaking star that leaves eventual regret.

And the clock ticks and I think - is that all there is now? Why can't I have one last spurt of creativity and energy without the resultant destructiveness? Why does it have to be one or the other?

I don't know. Such is my and many others lot in life, I guess.

Does any of this make any sense?

Reflections on the day after Christmas

Not a thing in the US. But it could be.

About half of everyone I know gets some kind of sickness or injury around the holidays. My wife has the eternal cough and I am fighting what may be some insidious form of bronchitis. It’s the kind when just when you think it’s gone it returns like a Trump tweet.

We had a nice Christmas in that is was without issues. I guess it was kind of an introvert’s Christmas. We went up to the ex’s and saw the kids, exchanged gifts and headed home – 8 hours max outside the house. But my wife’s cough was an issue and I didn’t want her too far between breathing treatments. And then I started up with the wheezing.

I make strange noises when I wheeze. I woke up with it today. It’s like there’s a little mouse inside of me tweeting. It’s almost funny.

I won’t go to the doctor. I was there earlier in the week and while they were very nice (gave me tea) I’m not going to waste any more time or money to be told things I already know. My lungs were clean then; they are not now. Hot showers are the best treatment.

Back to Christmas. It’s always mournful to remember the festivities of my youth and when my kids were little. My wife and I, I must reiterate had a very pleasant time together. All was calm, all was bright. We had a nice ham. It was probably for the best that neither of us has big extended families to deal with.

I read a number of Internet message boards both Facebook and others. A lot of angst and marital strife is engendered when couples fight on how to parcel their time between each other’s families. 

This really gets serious. I don’t have to worry about that. 

And yet.

Something’s missing. Even my wife messages her cousins remembering how making the ham and such reminds her of Christmas was a long-deceased Aunt. I remember the way our family home was decorated. We have no tree now because we have a cat.

I put up lights the first two years we lived here but not the last two years. I just don’t feel like it and I have nary the energy anyway. 

We have an 18-inch pink tree on top of a bookcase. Other than that, you’d never know that it was Christmas in this house. We enjoy other neighbor’s light displays. 

Again, we had a VERY pleasant Christmas together. I don’t want to give anyone the wrong impression. We enjoy each other’s company more than anyone else’s. 

And yet.

I know I’ve made this observation before but I must again for this is my blog and a peek into the lives those of us lead with various mental conditions, mild or otherwise. 

I have four relations left that I am aware are still alive. Due to various family disagreements, none of us are speaking to each other and no one make any effort to do so, me included. One thing I have yet to learn, but am working on, is that some doors, in fact, most doors, are probably best left shut.

You open those doors at your peril. Life is not a Hallmark movie. Instead of forgiveness and warm feelings, more often than not, all the anger and bitter resentment you’ve tried to forget gets dredged up again.

Of the remaining relations, two are cousins on my mother’s side who are still nursing grudges having to do with old family spats between our mothers. One re-connected with me and then broke it off relatively quickly when I failed to be Christian enough for her. One I cut off for the sake of my own mental health. 

Everyone else is dead or long dispersed and lost to history. One I suspect who is still alive, would rather remain alone in his eternal grief. I feel great sorrow for him but I respect his right to live in his own world. When he dies, I’ll probably not know. Those two cousins on my mother’s side? When their father (my uncle) died, they didn’t even bother letting me know. I found out months later googling his name and finding his obituary. 

Don’t ever let anyone tell you that Facebook is not a drug for many people. It allows one to look into the lives of others and, for the most part, measure your life against theirs. We all try (well, except me, but I’m crazy) to put our best face on the book (see what I did there?). But everyone’s different and the luck of the draw can be very destructive to some people and their families through little fault of their own. 

These are the people who should stop looking at Facebook and the Internet in general at the holidays. 

But I can’t. I like that people are happy with their extended families this time of year. Their pictures bring a smile to my face. 

But also, they bring a twinge to my heart. I try to pin it down what exactly I’m missing and what I come up is the feeling of togetherness, of belonging. 

Even those Christmas Eves when there was family intrigue going on that as a child I was unaware of, I had the feeling of being part of an extended family where all the kids were accepted as God’s gift to everyone. We were doted on, we were spoiled to an extent but more than that, we were home. Whichever relative’s house we were in, we were at home. It was a wonderful feeling. 

I suppose that’s why I don’t leave my home much anymore. This is it – I feel at home here. It’s like the last outpost. My wife and I are here in a home we love. Since moving in, in the last three years, we have entertained guests exactly twice and one was my wife’s work friends. It’s not that we don’t want to – we just don’t have anyone around here that lives close enough and are friendly enough with.

So we have this house, with a basement for entertaining, one that I once decked out for Christmas with authentic 1950s aluminum tree that would be perfect for the kind of holiday family get togethers I used to know and. . . we have each other. 

It seems like a shame. 

I wonder if the excitement of throwing a party, which I used to know, would gain me the energy to do it – to clean and ready the house for guests; to have a big party and a wonderful time. I used to. I was quite a party thrower. 

Surrounded by all the memorabilia of my past in the basement, I do feel like I am entertaining the ghosts of my past. It’s probably why, for all my pride in creating this space, I spend so little time down there alone. After a while, it’s discomforting. I could pour myself a nice drink and stare at pictures of my dead parents, my high school classmates and my original name tag from McDonalds. 

Perhaps I fear if I do that too long, I’ll land up in my own Twilight Zone episode. 

And so it was Christmas and everything was sedate. No drama, no worries over getting the right gifts or burning the dinner or whether uncle so and so would go on a drunken tirade, etc. 

In my present state of physical and mental health, I am grateful. 

And yet.