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?

Me and a tree

In the backyard there was a pine tree. 

  Where I used to sit on the roof. The tree is marked with an arrow. The pool was not there when I climbed it.

On the trunk, some branches had been cut off leaving protrusions that one could imagine as ladder rungs. Up about 12 feet there was a Y-shaped branch split that my neighbor, a guy a few years older than me, would climb up and sit on.

Just for reference, I was eight-years-old.

He would try to cajole me to come up.

“Aw come on,” he’d say. “It’s easy.”

“Well, I don’t know,” I’d say. “I don’t think my parents want me to climb up there and I don’t think they want you up there either.”

But if my parents weren’t home, he didn’t care what I said.

The bully kid a few doors down would come over and make fun of me for not climbing the tree. I guess it was a rite of manhood that my fear of heights was preventing me from passing. He was the kind of kid that would hit me in the head with a baseball when we played ‘running bases.’

So I as did then and do now, I stewed and ruminated until the whole issue got under my skin. 

You ever see weightlifters psych themselves out before a big lift? I saw this guy on TV walking around the barbell shouting about how he was not going to let this weight ruin his day. And then he lifted it. 

I was thinking the same thing about this tree. 

I waited until none of the neighbor kids were around and gingerly climbed up the first few ‘rungs.’ That was easy – I’d done that before. 

There were the last two larger tree branches and I grabbed one with both hands and went over on my stomach with an audible “oof!”

I had one more to go to the Y branch which was about a foot wide on both sides. I remember looking down. I remember thinking going up one more branch would be a lot easier than going down at this point. And then I could say I did it.

With one more heave, I did and sat on the Y branch with a sense of accomplishment. I imagined myself as the frog from the story that sat on the largest lily pad and “was the king of all he could see.”

That sense of accomplishment lasted about a minute. I looked down and all of the sudden the branches that seemed so doable going up now seemed so perilous going down. It was all a matter of perspective, another lesson I would learn that day. Looking up, the Y branch didn’t seem like such a high place. Looking down from it was akin to the observation deck of the Empire State Building.

So there I sat, trying to think my way out of this when the neighbor kid comes sauntering over.

“Hey you finally did it,” he said.

“Yep,” I said. “I made it.”

“So come on down and we’ll play catch,” said the neighbor kid.

“Ummmmmm . . . in a while,” I stammered.

“When,” he asked.

I looked at him and he looked at me and he knew. 

“You’re too scared to come down from there aint’cha,” he said.

I didn’t say anything. 

“OK look, I’ll help ya,” the neighbor said. “I’ll stand here under the tree and guide ya down. OK first slide down and put your foot on that one branch.”

I did and then froze.

“OK, swing your other foot over to the same branch,” he said.

Yep, I was stuck with my legs doing the splits, ass-side up in a tree.

To make an excruciating story shorter, gradually, other neighborhood kids came over to gawk at my ass in the tree, each one alternating between giving me advice and laughing at me. One kid, I don’t know who, just said “jump – “you won’t get hurt bad.”

Oh, that was all I needed to hear.

Then my dad came home. He looked around at his son making a spectacle of himself in his own backyard.

“Geez-us-Christ get down from the tree already,” was the first thing dad said. 

The neighbor on the other side came over. He went hunting with my dad.

“Well, well, well,” he said with that Southern Ohio drawl. “Your boy seems to be stuck in the tree.” 

So he stood under me and offered some advice. I managed to get my other leg down and now my hands were on one branch and my feet on another. Next was the tough part. I had to bend down from here and squat to get my feet to the next branch down. After that, it was only the smaller rung-like branches and I was home free.

But if I squatted, I was afraid of losing my balance. I was already embarrassed and I felt falling would add more embarrassment and a broken neck.  I’ve always feared the worst, as you know.

Eventually, dad got so frustrated with me; he stood directly under me and ordered me, as only a Marine can, to get down one more branch.

What I did was slither down vertically, shaking like a leaf in a, well, you know; doing a kind of half-sit until I was sitting on the lower branch. From there, I lowered myself and my dad grabbed me and pulled me to the ground.

Everyone had a good laugh and since the show was over, they left. I felt like Charlie Brown. I always wished Charlie Brown was real so I could commiserate with him.

I don’t remember what dad said. He wasn’t as mad as he was channeling a yet-to-be Hank Hill: that boy ain’t right.

I did the walk of shame back to the house. 

On the last day at the house after selling it, I went to the backyard as part of my ‘goodbye house tour’ and took one last look at the tree, remembering that humiliation from 42 years before.

It’s strange how we forget so much in our single digit years and the things we remember are usually moments of joy and triumph mixed with moments of shame and pain. I guess that’s normal.

What isn’t normal is this: I believe that tree, in all its innocence, started me down the road to being risk-averse. I guess that’s the nice way to put it.

I never climbed a tree again and remained scared of heights. There are folks who get an adrenaline rush from things like skydiving, motorcycle riding, bungee jumping and so on. I will never know that.

How I got through the obstacle course in basic training is still a wonder to me. Extreme peer pressure and a screaming drill sergeant will do that. In like for Ft. Jackson’s Victory Tower, – a tangle of logs to climb and ropes to swing from, one of the drill sergeants saw the fear in my face. 

“Hey you got one of your troops that’s looking a little too hard at that tower,” one drill told my drill.

I found myself on one side of the rope swing (over a net) and everyone was calling my name and it felt just like. . . you know. I had no choice -- I grabbed the rope and jumped. I didn’t quite make it and my jaw hit the lower log post with a resounding ‘thwack.’ I ate out of one side of my mouth for a week.

I remember that moment as I looked at the tree, cursing it and myself. Thankfully, one only had to do the tower once. The ropes gave me calluses I still have on my hands.

The funny thing is when I get a real good dose of hypomania, I’ll take all kind of risks with relationships, careers and money. But I still will not take physical risks. 

Some people wear their bruises, bone breaks and scars with pride. It is a sign they have challenged themselves and have no regrets. 

I look at them and feel small and wonder what part of life I have missed. 

I took one last look at the tree, sighed, took my wife’s hand and walked slowly back to the house and to the rest of my life.

Footnote: on this day in 1987, I shipped off to basic training at Fort Jackson, SC.Hua!

World Mental Health Day in the USA

Back in March, something happened in Seattle, Washington. A man climbed a tree and refused to get down. Here he is:

The man has a name: Cody Miller.

After refusing to get down from the tree, Cody became kind of a media sensation. People were making jokes and memes all over the world. The police were trying to get Cody out of the tree. This was all probably very confusing and frightening to Cody, because he is a paranoid schizophrenic.

His mother did not know for a long time that her son had climbed the tree an refused to get down, but when she did, she told his story and all the jokes stopped.

Thankfully, the police did not shoot him. I have no idea how they got him down but eventually they did. The police were not amused and instead of sending Cody to a mental facility, Miller was jailed following the incident and held on $50,000 bail. He was charged with malicious mischief and third-degree assault and ordered to stay away from the tree, which sustained $8,000 worth of damage.

Welcome to the place where so many mentally ill 'non-people' are taken for treatment - jail.

And then something happened. A legislator from Pennsylvania, someone whose staff I work with, Rep. Tim Murphy, got involved in this case from all the way across the country.

Rep. Murphy wrote:

Just look at this picture and tell me our mental health system isn’t a mess. It’s unbelievable! Recall that for 24 hours last week, Cody Lee Miller remained atop a giant sequoia tree in downtown Seattle. Since that time, there’s been a greater outpouring of concern over the tree than the plight of this young man who is so clearly in the throes of a psychotic break. He’s ordered to have ‘no unwanted contact’ with a sequoia, yet no concern over getting him into treatment. Such a sad indictment against an abusive system that would order no contact with a tree, yet remains silent on getting the mentally ill into care.

Cody's mom tried to get him help but since there are so few facilities that will handle Cody, even in Greater Seattle, and, Cody's mom is not a millionaire, she and Cody were, as we say in the Army, shit out of luck.

Rep. Murphy finished up with this plea:

Cody’s mom talks about his downward spiral and has made it her mission to be a voice for families who desperately want to help their loved ones but are blocked by federal & state laws that make it impossible to help mentally ill family members. Meanwhile, Congress is still stalling my Helping Families in Mental Health Crisis Act, HR 2646.”

The good news is that the House overwhelmingly passed HR 2646. The not so good news is that the  bill was read twice and referred to the Senate Committee on Health, Education, Labor, and Pensions, where it has been languishing since July 14 of this year.

You can follow the progress of the bill here and read the entire piece of legislation if you wish. Heck, call your Senator and ask them to support the bill. Nothing will happen until after the election, and who knows then? 

But on this day, I just want you to think about Cody and his mom and, as Bob Dylan sang, for each un harmful gentle soul misplaced inside a jail, and consider that just about every other civilized country treats their mentally ill better with better services than the US, that maybe we could do just a little better. Maybe we can do a little more to live out our creed, with liberty and justice for all, and promoting the general welfare, and all of that stuff we were taught in school.

Because everyone is a person has potential. Everyone can contribute. If we only can see them as human beings like everyone else and not as 'the other.'

Just think about that today. And you can tell about what we value by what we spend our money on.

Because from where I sit, America doesn't give a damn about its mentally ill citizens.

#ImNotAshamed

It’s a big day for this hashtag on Twitter.

You can find the movement at https://twitter.com/teamnotashamed

It’s designed to help young people speak out about mental illness and hopefully break down the stigma which leads to self-harm and suicide.

If you look at their face page you’ll see a panorama of smiling, young people staring back at you. I wish them the best. Maybe their generation will be the one to finally put stigma out of business. One can hope at any rate.

Many of them are from the UK (Team Not Ashamed is in NYC) where services, yes, even the NHS, are as shitty as ours but the big difference is there are FAR more non-corporate grass roots advocacy groups there than here. Here in US it seems, no one wants to do it unless they can get a corner office and an expense account (I’m looking at you NAMI).

In any case, I had a twitter exchange with a young lady from the UK this morning that basically had an ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude toward those who refuse to acknowledge her personhood.

Of course, she is young and can bounce back and find a great deal of grassroots support, as I have said, where she is. Not so simple in the US, as I have found. Copping that kind of attitude, as righteous at it may be, means usually a quick trip to the unemployment line, poverty, incarceration, even worse.

You know I’ve been there and I needn't repeat the story.

Am I ashamed?

Honestly, yes, I am. At least outwardly, I have to be. I live in a society where mental illness is still largely regarded as a personal moral failing and psychiatry has much the same prestige as quackery. While there are some parts of the US where the attitude is different, in most places, it’s still best to keep it to yourself and if you can’t do that, at least apologize for it if it offends anyone or gets in the way of making money.

In all honesty I would MUCH rather have the police called on me in the UK if I were having a mental emergency (or Germany, or France, or Denmark, or Norway, or. . . ) than in the US. Do I need to say why?

If I knew at 18 what I know I know, I would be in another country. Not because I hate America but because I would need to be in a society where people with my issues are more accepted – not necessarily more helped – but more accepted, especially in the workplace.

In the ongoing crisis with my Federal workplace, my union representative even cautioned me not to fall back on my condition for any reason even though the VA has programs for accommodating the hiring of people with various disabilities including mental illness.

“All they’ll hear is that you can’t do the job anymore and they’ll get rid of you for that,” she said.

But I can and HAVE been doing the job, and, I have been WORKING steadily since I turned 16. I’ve had a grand total of seven months of unemployment in 37 years.

Why now?

I ran into a group of people I should NOT have let my guard down with or been honest with in any way. I have this naiveté that people, especially in places like where I work, are decent and caring and helpful. I really have no one to blame but myself for walking into this and giving nasty people a sword to run me through.

If I am ashamed of anything, it’s that. I wish I could keep my guard up like other people. I don’t understand it, since I am usually a pretty paranoid person – just one who can’t keep from oversharing.

And I see a presidential candidate that can be counted upon to look at mental illness in the usual American way. You slackers won’t get any sympathy from Donald Trump. Hillary Clinton may be making false promises, but she’s at least being respectful.

So, for me, it’s not so much shame that’s the issue, its despair. And I think that’s a lot more dangerous. 

The Shame Game or how to lose a crappy psychologist in six sessions or less

This story highlights the fact that there are a great number of shitty mental health professionals out there:

9 women share horror stories about being shamed for their mental health — by doctors

I think it is my fate to have met most of them.

This is a big one

As I read this story, I recalled some of these things happening to me or variations thereof but for women, apparently, it's much worse since many in the 'caring professions' don't take them seriously.

Of course, this reminded me of the near shouting match I got into with my last dud of a psychologist. It was not the first time I have left a psychologist under less than cordial conditions.

And I offered a little advice about feeling out your counselor early in the sessions to see what their basic outlook on life is to include politics, religion, social values, etc. Because believe me, if you believe that being totally honest with your shrink and that honesty reflects something opposite of their belief system, you cannot trust that they will remain impartial.

Shocking, isn't it? No, not really. Many people get into the 'caring professions' because they are as fucked up as their patients. Many of them are social voyeurs and many of them also like the power trip of playing puppet master with someone's life. And, for the most part, it's relatively easy work if you're into that sort of thing.

The worst part, as always, is paperwork and paying malpractice insurance. Understand that it's incredible difficult to win a lawsuit against a psychologist because, well, they're good at obfuscation and the burden of proof is very high.

So my advice is this:

1. DO research your potential psychologist or psychiatrist online. Believe half of what you read from both the counselor's write up (my God how some of them lie!) and the reviews from patients. Remember the truth lies somewhere in the middle and it is up to you to make that call.

2. Take careful note of the kind of practice they have? Do they specialize in adult, senior or child psychology?

3. In the same vein, read what conditions they say they specialize in. This has become less useful as time has gone by since to practice build they need to pretty much list every condition they spent a chapter in school studying to get as many prospective clients as possible. Once you're on their couch they can wing it (books, Internet, etc.) You, nine times out of 10, won't be any the wiser. After all, you're in distress and they're the professional.

4. Forget about finding any lawsuits, board actions or any other sanctions. They aren't there.

5. For God's sake, make sure they accept your insurance before you go - and even then, double check it with your insurance company. I had a very nasty experience with one charlatan who flatly stated they accepted my insurance at 1 p.m. on the afternoon I finalized my appointment, but once I got on her couch, all of the sudden, I found out she didn't accept my insurance. She had four hours to call and tell me this but chose not to, instead, she tried to work out some kind of deal with me in the therapy room. It sounded like I was arguing with a car salesman and I literally fled the place.

6. Ever have a friend say to you I have such a great shrink - she'd be great for you - you must see her? Um, no. Don't. Each person is a whole different kettle of neurons and you don't want a friendship to come between you and a counselor.

Upon entering their office:

7. If they have 'Psychology Today' on the coffee table, leave immediately. No self-respecting therapist should read or foist that trash on anyone.

8. Note how you are greeted. Do they seem warm (remember how easy it is to fake sincerity though)? Or, do they seem distracted and treat you like another profit center? Shrinks who work for HMOs are notorious for this.

9. Don't be put off by the paperwork. They ALL have to have you sign disclosure statements. BUT if they drop them in your lap with a pen and don't go over them with you, that's a big red flag.

10. Set parameters of what you want to accomplish first. You have some basic issues and you're counselor should have some ideas about how to treat them. Make sure you are comfortable with their approach. Your gut is really the best judge. If things seem creepy and off, they probably are. What do you hope to achieve in therapy, is an honest first question. Tell me about your relationship with your mother, is not.

11. There is a delicate balance between talking and listening. The longer I saw my last psychologist, the more red flags went up in my head since I was doing 98 percent of the talking. I would come in, she would ask so how are you doing today, and then listen to me ramble on uninterrupted for most of the session. If you ask your counselor to respond to something you said, or you ask them a question and they turn it back on you or brush it off or give short non-answers, you have a problem. They're cashing your insurance company's check and you're providing entertainment.

12. If they're advice doesn't seem to make sense for your situation, tell them why. If they get arrogant about it, that's a good sign that it's time to leave. If at any time you feel you're being intimidated to accept any course of treatment - LEAVE! Just because you have a mental illness does not mean you can't trust your instincts. OK, sometimes, but rarely.

13. This should go without saying but nowadays one must: no touching, no suggestions of sex with you (don't laugh, the great M. Scott Peck has sex with his clients - he should have been thrown in jail not given book deals), I mean any violation of your personal space means it's time to leave - NOW! In some cases dealing with sexual abuse, certain probing questions about one's sexual practices may be fair game - but not when you're presenting for Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

14. Never commit to any number of sessions. Ever. If you feel you are being pressured to do so, leave. Committing to a number of sessions is a guilt trip mechanism designed to keep you on the couch long after you're so uncomfortable with your therapist the thought of going there makes you break out in hives. Basically, you're making their car payments.

15. If they're selling you their books, methods, tapes, keychains, etc. Leave. Not professional.

16. This one is going to upset some people but here goes: if you are a gun owner DENY IT if asked and don't ever bring it up unasked. With some counselors, at that point, you have been tried, convicted and sentenced in their mind as some kind of dangerous lunatic who either has a warped idea of manhood or is turned on by phallic symbolism. Or a Republican. Any which way, any useful therapy just ended and now you are a target.

17. Always remember YOU are the one in charge and YOU are the one determining whether is counselor is right for you (unless of course, you say you're going to kill yourself or someone else - don't do that). If at some time, a counselor says they are not right for you, don't argue - they are doing you a favor. BUT - if they give you referrals, never use them. It's just their friends passing people around. Go back to your own research.

Well, I'm sure I'm missing a few but these are based on my own decades of experience and your mileage of course, may vary. In any case, should you decide on seeking counseling, and you forget everything else I've written, remember this: let the first few sessions truly be a feeling out time where you determine your level of trust and comfort. When you're convinced you've reached that point, then you can go on about why you're bothered that your spouse allows the dog in the bedroom during sex.

Confessional

The relationship between myself and shrink 29 is over. 

After 35+ years of psychotherapy or whatever you want to call it, she convinced me that whatever happens now or in the future, it’s all my fault.

I have been weighed in the balance and found defective. But deep down, I knew that.

I realized some time ago when I looked back on my life that of all the problems I have had at work or in personal relationships or with organizations I dealt with, the only constant was me. I never denied it.

So I have tried through the use of therapy and introspection to find a way to stop being myself.

And, after all these years, I have come to the only inescapable conclusion: that this is impossible. 

My therapist drove home the point repeatedly in this session:

Regardless of what I have said or meant to have it taken in the incidents at work, it was my lack of self-control that caused the issue.

Regardless of the fact that I was never counseled, allowed to face my accusers or have the chance to apologize, as I have always done when I’ve found I’ve offended anyone, it was my lack of self-control that caused the issue. 

Regardless of the fact that I was almost killed in front of my wife by a very apologetic SWAT team last year, it was my lack of self-control that is to blame. 

Regardless of the fact that when I was escorted from my work premises three days before Christmas last year when even the investigating detective admitted in his official report that my rights as an employee were being violated six ways from Sunday, that it was only my lack of self-control that was responsible. 

Regardless of the fact that there are innumerable instances of my employer doing the exact same thing to countless employees, it’s my lack of self-control that is the only issue here.

I could go on, but what is the point?

There is nothing wrong with her analysis. Her conclusions fall within the mainstream of psychological practice and, just as importantly, fall within the mainstream of American cultural beliefs. 

Whatever demons I have fought against in my life, I have failed to conquer them. I have tried to overcome my defective personality to no avail. 

They say that at some point as an adult, you have to stop blaming what happened in your youth for your present condition. The problem with that coincides with the same issue we see in PTSD and other similar conditions. The scars we bear as kids that shape and mold our personalities, imprint on our consciousness, and stay with us for a lifetime. Some can consign these incidents to a forgotten corner of their mind and deal. Some can’t.

Those that can’t, no one really wants around. We aren’t in sync with the modern self-help zeitgeist that says you can heal yourself of just about anything. 

I have tried, believe me I have tried. 

Bipolar2, major depressive disorder, generalized anxiety disorder. Never mind, it’s all my inability to control myself . . . without a clue how to do it. My tripwires are injustice, incompetence, wanton cruelty, ignorance  and inequality. When I experience these things, I speak up, apparently, the wrong way. I am over sensitive which means if I think I’m being singled out for something I didn’t do, or treated unfairly, my mood spirals downward and I can’t get out no matter how mindful I try to be. 

I don’t fit in here. I have never fit in here. I never will fit in here. This whole thing was some kind of ghastly mistake. And it’s my fault for not figuring it all out. 

All my life I wanted to be someone else. Someone who is conventionally normal in temperament and sociability. Unfortunately, I keep being myself. All through the jobs, the marriages, the lost friends, the hurt and the anger, I tried and failed to be someone else because ‘being myself’ is what kept getting me into trouble. 

Perhaps stuck in childhood hurts and resentments, I never grew up emotionally. Or, I never developed proper emotional coping devices. To look and talk to me under normal circumstances, you would never guess. Maybe that’s a part of the condition. 

Shrink 29 is right. I should have realized it a long time ago instead of wasting everyone’s time.

Psychologists don’t care if you’re a hard case. That is one thing I have learned. It’s a job, patients are widgets, if they can’t be re-manufactured, show them the door and tell them they’re just not ‘ready for therapy.’ Or, like shrink 28, laugh at them for believing there should be a just world. Make them feel hopeless. 

Congratulations psychiatry. Oh, wait, sorry. You did not fail, I did.

From Jenny Lawson’s post yesterday:

“On Friday I saw my shrink and she told me that my Imposter Syndrome was out of control and that I need to stop beating myself up all the time and instead focus on the moments that make me happy.”

I wish I had her shrink. She seems nice. 

 “One year later I am still broken.  I am still furiously happy.  And I am still not alone.”

She forgot to add: ‘and I am sitting on a pile of cash which means I don’t have to work or interact with people I choose not to.’

There was only once in my life that I can point to and say that I fit in and did remarkably well.  Ironically, it was on active duty for training in the Army. I think the reason for it, was that my entire day was structured with activity. I didn’t have time to think. I didn’t have enough time to worry. My leadership demanded respect but they earned it. I was accomplishing things I didn’t think were possible and felt good about myself. 

At times, it was even fun. I got along with everyone. My drill sergeants thought very highly of me. 

I don’t know what would have happened if I had converted from Army Reserve to Regular Army. Perhaps it would have all gone to Hell eventually. All I know is I had a wife and child that had not signed on for military life. 

But that was then. This is now.

I am 53 and I can’t see any way out of this. 

No matter how hard I try, how much I try to use mindfulness tricks, no matter what inner source I try to conjure up including prayer, I will stifle whatever anti-social tendencies I have 99 times out of 100. But that one time will always prove my undoing. 

I’m tired of hyper-vigilance – it wears a person down; it’s no way to live. I’m tired of tip toeing through life like I’ve been doing the last six years. I’m tired of this feeling of fear and anxiety in the pit of my chest that’s like a constant companion. I’m tired of having lost interest in everything that used to bring me pleasure. I’m just tired.

So very, very tired. 

I confess, to you, oh God, and to you my brothers and sisters,
that I have sinned through my own fault.
In my thoughts and words; in what I have done and what I have failed to do.
And I ask the Blessed Mary ever virgin and all the angels and saints,
and you my brothers and sisters,
to pray for me to the Lord our God. 

I haven’t been to Catholic services for well over 20 years and I did not have to look that up. Some things you never forget.

One more:

    Between the idea
    And the reality
    Between the motion
    And the act
    Falls the Shadow
                                   For Thine is the Kingdom
   
    Between the conception
    And the creation
    Between the emotion
    And the response
    Falls the Shadow
                                   Life is very long
   
    Between the desire
    And the spasm
    Between the potency
    And the existence
    Between the essence
    And the descent
    Falls the Shadow
                                   For Thine is the Kingdom
   
    For Thine is
    Life is
    For Thine is the
   
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    Not with a bang but a whimper.
                                            —T.S. Eliot