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I like to communicate.  Up until my marriage started to fall apart, I used to pride myself on being a good communicator.  I could talk to anyone, at any level - from CEOs to farmers to random people in line at the grocery store.  I love talking, listening, hearing people’s stories.  It’s rare that I am speechless.  Perhaps I should be speechless more often. 

I got a weird package in the mail today from Apple.  It was an oddly shaped package, wrapped similarly to the way Amazon.com wraps their books.  I was distracted - it was dinner time.  I pulled it out of the packaging and at first I thought someone had accidentally shipped me a MacBook - it was white and flat and very Apple-like.  I pulled the cover off:

It’s weird pulling a book out and seeing your own mug on the front cover.  I had no idea what was inside it - naked pictures from Vegas?  Much better, actually.  The pages look similar to this one:

Way back when I met my internet friends*, I had no idea how much a part of my life they would become.  Though we are scattered around the world (literally), these women have been rocks to me (just like the one I broke my cocktail glass with at Nobu).  They are, as a whole, the most non-judgmental, diverse, intelligent, well-spoken, strong and opinionated group of women I know.  We get in tiffs from time to time, but the core group is still hanging together more than 2 years after we met online.  We’ve watched eachother’s children grow, gone through pregnancies, miscarriages, marital issues, family drama, fights, a few trolls, and a lot of alcohol when we’ve met in person. 

When I was hospitalized, one of the first people I called was Amanda.  She had everyone else’s phone numbers and is Ms. Efficiency, so I knew she would get the word out so that my absence wouldn’t cause any worry as we check in with other daily.  It should be a testament to the strength of those relationships that she was one of the first people I called.  She kept in touch with Mike, sent notes out to everyone, fielded phone calls, and generally made herself available.  When I got home, Jess refused to take no for an answer and called and called until I finally answered the phone.  They continue, as a group, to reach out to me, even though I’m a total crap friend these days who doesn’t return phone calls or emails and rarely checks in on the forum we have set up.  They seem to ignore my boring, monosyllabic responses and they continue to love me regardless of how unpleasant I am these days. 

Apparently, Cathy came up with the original idea.  Cathy, who lives in Hong Kong, who has very young baby and a very active boy, somehow coordinated and put it together.  The book is divided into sections.  Each section has two pages, each set written by one of the women in the group.  There are pictures of us together.  There are lists of ways I have affected their lives. Funny memories of phone calls, emails, or our rare meet-ups. There is poetry and some of the nicest things that have ever been written about me. 

Today was one of those days where I don’t answer the phone.  I spent a lot of time being angry that one of my medications IS.NOT.WORKING.  I’m over feeling like shit every day, I’m tired of crying, I’m tired of being a mess inside and putting on a happy face in public.  I’m tired of hurting my husband, and I’m tired of hurting period.  When I opened that book, and forced myself not to focus on how fat I was in some of the pictures (old habits die hard), I got a very timely glimpse of the person I was.  All these days and months thinking that I’ll never be the same again, or be loved again, or be enjoyed by others - well, I will come out of this.  Under the sadness and depression and fear, I’m still there, clawing my way out, trying to redefine myself.  My friends articulated things about me that I haven’t dared think about, let alone say.  They took time out of their own crazy lives and did this thing for me, and I was completely and utterly speechless.

After I cried (this time because I was so awestruck over what they had done), it took me another 30 minutes to try to thank them for what they did and tell them how important they are in my life.  Words really failed me - there is no good way to express the amount of feeling I have about what they did.  I tried, though - and I’m trying again here. 

My family has supported me through this time.  My husband, whom I’ve devastated, has supported me.  And without them, I wouldn’t be surviving.  Equally important, my friends have surrounded me, called me, written me, pestered me, bought me coffee and wine, and beat me until I cracked and bled.  They beat the truth out of me, then helped put me together again.  I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve the people who have formed a very warm and protective circle around me, but I am truly and completely grateful. 

I realize this may seem unnecessary, but I started making this list out in my head and I realized how many people have really and truly been there for me during this horrid stinky time in my life.  Writing it out was physical proof to me that I am the luckiest person on earth.  Thanks in particular to the following people, and please give me a break if I forgot someone because my medication messes with my memory:

Internet Freaks
Alicia
Amanda
Annita
Cathy
Christina
Jenni
Jess
Julia
Kate
Kristin
Melissa
Sara S.
Helena
and Jae, even though she’s left us for the moment (I love you Jae - come back!)

Twitter Peeps (many of whom are now real-life friends):
TheCheckoutGirl
WxDan
JasonKenney
KnownHuman
Snarketta
TrevorDickerson
Napkins
SheDrivesAJimmy
RichmondMom
MsMaladjusted
NewRose
RiverCityGal
Horhey
KindnessGirl
AnaRVA
CarrieFleck
KatieSmithRVA
UVALeg

Friends Met Through “Normal” Channels:
Susan.  I need to say it again.  Susan.  SUUUUUUUUUUUU-SAN.
Sara B.
Laura freakin’ P.
Julie R.
Julie “Restaurant Week” P.
John, Karen & Emma N.
Kimberly H.
Charlette M.
Dee R.
Rick W.
Pat W.
Brent R.
Chris M.
Amanda W.
Chris C.
Tricia H.
Julie P.
Allison E.
Philip & Mary L.
Michael M.
Bill P.
Ellen M.
Wynne R.
Jill B.
Helen B.
Kathy C.
Jennifer D. (my therapist - and she’s awesome)
Henry S.

My Crazy Family in its Entirety, but Particularly:
Anja
Sally
Risa
Mom and Dad
Dave and Beth
Aunt Paula

To each and every one of you:  thank you for being exactly what I needed, when I needed it. 

*i say this in a tongue-in-cheek way - at Bradley’s recent SMCRVA presentation, he said something to the effect that internet friends can be just as real, if not more so, than our flesh and blood friends. It was validating, because everything Bradley says is unequivocably true. 

I recently had the pleasure of meeting, live and in person, the infamous and city-renowned Kate Hall from Richmond Mom.  If you use twitter, you can also follow her @richmondmom.  Her tweets often make me spew water out of my nose or snort loudly in public, both good things (if not slightly painful).  Kate’s my hero, and I really fell in love with her after we carpooled to an SMC event and she sat down in my car with a purple Solo cup full of red wine.  The woman can rock it!  She also understands completely that just because you own a website doesn’t mean you’re rolling in the cash.  We both work hard, and understood immediately the challenges of being both mothers and business owners.  It’s not all that glamorous, but the good thing is, I get to meet women like Kate because of my job.

Kate is also my hero because she’s a published author.  And she wrote an amazing book for children entitled Richmond Rocks.  In a nutshell:  Richmond Rocks is a brief glimpse into the amazing history that Richmond holds for its little learners. Three Richmond, VA kids discover Richmond’s past by journeying through some of its many historical landmarks and sights, with the help of their mom.  On this fabulous journey, they learn that Richmond really does rock!

As a non-native to this area, one of the things that struck me my first year of living in Richmond was how saturated with history the streetcorners and cobblestones are.  My kids are growing up in a historical environment, but are clueless because we mostly hang in the sterilized green-grassed lawns of a suburb.  There ain’t nothin’ historical about the Starbucks on the corner, or the strip malls.  Head 15 minutes east and slightly south and you’re surrounded by history.  Kate recognized the story idea would be an excellent way to introduce the 4-8 demographic about their hometown. 

One of the things I loved best about the book is that it is all Richmond, 100% through and through.  The author and editor, the illustrator, the photography, and the publisher:  all local.  It’s awesome.  I’m super proud of Kate, and encourage you Richmonders (Richmondites?  Monders?  RichmondPeeps?)  to purchase the book.  Or at least go to her site and send her a message of love and support.  She deserves it. 

As I write this, I can hear things being kicked and thrown upstairs.  Every once in a while, I’ll hear an ear-piercing scream followed by a stomp.  Arden’s upstairs, making her face bright red and freaking out in general.  Everyone always wants to know what sets her off, so here you go.

I’ve been wanting a neti pot for a while now, but after reading that sinus washing can help eliminate flu risk, I figured it would be fun (remember that I said fun) to take Arden to Walgreens after I picked her up from preschool.  I had a prescription to refill anyway.  As soon as I told her we had to pick up something, she started asking what she could buy at the store.  First candy, then a toy. I said no to both and calmly explained (for the 80th time at least) that every time we go to a store doesn’t mean she’s going to score something.  She started whining as soon as I got into the store.  When she realized I was serious, she literally sat down on the floor in front of a Barbie display and refused to speak, but was making her pre-tantrum noises, which are a mix between Chewbacca from Star Wars and a rabid dog growling.  Sometimes she sounds like those Gremlins from the movie.  I knew I was doomed.  It’s only 10% of the time, once the growling noises start, that I am able to break her out of a tantrum.

I managed to grab a neti pot and made a dash for the pharmacy, literally pulling her behind me.  Of course, there was a long line, and Arden’s growls became closer together and louder.  I had promised that we could go on a bike ride to the park today, so I told her if she kept up the whining and asking me for everything (including a pack of Nicorette gum), she was going to lose that privilege.  Guess what?  The growling became more pronounced.  I waited until we were at the doors, exiting Walgreens, to tell her there would be no park today.  Good thing, because the first thing out of her mouth was her world-famous, death-blow-dealing scream.  In the middle of the parking lot.  This was followed by trying to buckle a screaming, kicking 5 year old into her car seat.  A few minutes later, shoes were off, being thrown at the windows, then the socks.  In the span of 15 minutes, she lost her bike ride, and 5 days (a world record for Arden) of book reading at night. 

I really subscribe to getting away from the 1-2-3 warnings.  They don’t work with her, and they’ve made her worse.  She just blows me off.  Then I started telling her one time that her behavior was going to result in a punishment, and I gave no further warnings.  Today was a prime example.  It’s really hard to get through it because I know she’s going to freak out and turn into exorcist child, but I have to stay the course.

Her rages freak me out too, because now I’m wondering if I’ve passed on my ultra-emotional states to her, and doomed her to a life of wondrous highs and devastating lows.  Then again, she’s 5.  And I put it into perspective. 

I have found one great side effect to serious depression:  I’m pretty calm.  While I’m irritated easily still, I don’t fly into a rage or scream and yell quite as much. It takes too much energy to get that upset.  When Arden freaks now, I tend to find myself entering some weird, calm zen-like place in my head.  I’m able to sing along with the radio and ignore the raging angry red-faced child in the backseat, until a shoe hits my head or the snot dripping out of her nose burns through my gross-out factor.  I’ve been looking for anything positive out of how I feel, and this is definitely a plus.  Depression makes me tired, somewhat irritable, but a lot better able to handle the stranger my child becomes when she flips out.

Everytime I experience one of her rages, I tell myself that soon, this too shall pass.  But I wonder.  It never really passed for me, and I’m 38.  I just learned to deal with it much better, and I’m hoping I have the patience to guide her to a more peaceful stage.  If not, we’re both going to end up deaf from all the screaming.

I’ve met some great people through Richmond’s Twitter “scene” (if you can call it that).  One of them is the unofficial mayor of Short Pump, Trevor Dickerson.  If you don’t follow Trevor on Twitter, he’s @trevordickerson.  Though he tweets VERY frequently (but never about his bathroom habits, thank god), they’re mostly interesting. 

Trevor lives near Wisteria Lane, and he’s written a couple of funny blog posts about it.  More interesting is that if you think I’m jaded because I’m old and crabby, you should know that Trevor is a mere 21 years of age, and he even thinks it’s screwed up.  Enjoy!

GET ME OUT #1
GET ME OUT #2

Additionally, I stumbled across a hilarious website poking fun at the Short Pump area.  I was laughing so hard I was asked to leave the Daily Grind.  Not really, but I should have been.

It’s 1992, and I’m insanely smart - or at least I think I am.  My boyfriend thinks I’m smart too and spends hours discussing literature and theory with me, editing and scribbling all over both my school papers and my fiction.  He loves his red pen and it doesn’t surprise me years later when I find out he’s gotten his PhD in English and is teaching in some erudite university in the Pacific Northwest. 

This is the year that I will always look back on as my “peak”.  The time when you think you are the smartest, prettiest, funniest, most charming, most things to offer.  Everything after the peak seems downhill, not as glorious, not as bright and definitely not as shiny. 

I don’t sleep much that year.  I’m too busy writing and careening back and forth between East Quad, Catherine Street and Packard Street, where my boyfriend lives directly over the room of my ex-boyfriend.  Sometimes the three of us end up sipping coffee in the kitchen, awkward silence surrounding us all.  Looking back, I can count the episodes now, they make sense to me, they are clear as day.  Looking back I know that not sleeping has been a major trigger for many behaviors.  Over the years, not sleeping has poked the sleeping monster in my belly and my brain, usually manifesting itself in an ugly episode of anorexia or bulimia.  Later in life, it manifested differently - insidiously - in a form that to me seemed perfectly normal.

That year, I am a full-blown anorexic girl.  I don’t need sleep and I certainly don’t need food - well, not much.  A few crackers here and there, the random noodles my boyfriend picks up from an Asian market down the street, a nibble of a lemon poppyseed muffin as I sprint across campus, not wanting to be late.  I work in a lingerie shop (but not a skanky one - we cater to women who’ve had mastectomies or reconstructive surgery).  I make a bowl of takeout soup last two days.  I am a senior in college. I am writing a story for the Hopwood Awards.  I am in a high-level fiction workshop with 5 other people.  I work, write, run around, drink at Del Rio, consume far too much caffeine, eschew sleep.  No need for it.  Wonderwoman, superwoman, sprinting around in my workout clothes in January, freezing to death, slipping on icy patches on uneven pavement, listening to massive amounts of Tori Amos and burning the few calories I allow myself to take in.  The less I weigh, the more powerful I feel.  The less I eat, the more crazy energy I have. 

I wake the boyfriend sometimes, chattering in his ear, writing story ideas on the pad of paper next to my bed.  For the first time in my life, I have a large group of friends - so many because, at the time, I’m funny and “vivacious” and “interesting” and, well, a little boisterous, a little impulsive.  Want to to go Canada on a Wednesday night at 10 PM?  I’m in!  Let’s GO!  Clubbing in Detroit til 5 AM? Sure, as long as I can make it back in time for my 8 AM class.  Like most college students, I’m a study in excess, but my excesses surpass everyone else.  I don’t talk about these things with my family.  Sometimes I lie about where I’m going to the boyfriend, or I drag him along, kicking and screaming about deadlines, studying. I am very persuasive.  No one can usually say no to me. 

Drinking makes me tired and boring, so I do it rarely.  Instead, I abuse food, buy clothes on a credit card, and spend time wandering around the streets of Detroit trying to run into my “other” boyfriend.  Somehow I manage to get my coursework done and somehow, even though I feel like my brain is crackling with energy/exhaustion, I manage to keep going. 

In the spring of 1993, I graduate. The end of the energy comes with the graduation.  The bagpipers lead us into an auditorium for our commencement; I cry as I walk across the street.  I cry a lot that spring.  I go see a doctor about my “depression”.  They prescribe more Zoloft.  I don’t remember much of that summer, other than a cross country road trip.  My short-term memory is fine, but my long-term memory is shot. 

As I float through the next year of my life, I can clearly remember only a few things.  One of them is how I feel like I’m swimming in oatmeal every day.  I am so placid and complacent, my boyfriend stops loving me long before he tells me.  He needs me to pay my half of the rent. He can’t kick me out.  He needs my money; I’m the only one working full-time.  We move 20 miles outside of Ann Arbor, and it’s a summer house, drafty, ugly, but on a tiny lake.  I don’t feel depressed.  I don’t feel anything.  I quit one job, start another.  The company goes bankrupt.  One day I wake up and I have gained 45 pounds.  I have no job.  My boyfriend tells me he no longer loves me.  My parents show up a few days later, dump the bulk of my belongings into U-Haul, and I leave Michigan forever.  I cry and sleep most of the way to North Carolina. 

Now, I wish I could talk to the ex-boyfriend, fill in the gaps, find out what I was doing, what happened to me, apologize for my drugged-out persona mixed with violent mood swings.  Genevieve’s wedding.  On the way home, screaming and crying because he wasn’t going to marry me.  Hating him, not wanting to get married, but begging him anyway.  Then quiet apologies later, a fancy dinner, buying him a mountain bike on my measly non-profit salary. 

I go back through my journals from that time and it’s all glaringly obvious to me.  Because I spent so much time on the depressive or sedate side of the poles, I kept getting anti-depressants.  They kept from me the darkest times and I am grateful, but they did nothing for my moodiness, my irritability, my impulsivity, and my many unhealthy and frankly destructive behaviors, not the least of which was the eating disorder.  The problem:  when I had what I would now consider a hypomanic episode, I felt like I was on top of the world and invincible and just flat out healthy.  I didn’t notice how an episode was always followed by dark despair and puking/starving, or my other favorite behaviors I used to distract myself.  I just thanked god when I felt “good” that I was, and enjoyed the ride while it lasted.  I don’t remember ever feeling balanced.  The majority of my life has been spent swinging from one extreme (relationship, friendship, you name it) to the other, barely breathing between the two.  Break off a 14 year relationship and 1 month later meet my future husband.  Feel safe, fall in love, let’s get married. White dresses, anorexia, anxiety, obsessing and controlling myself and every detail I could, not sleeping again, freaking out the day before we got married, crying in the garage of our first home because, well, I had no idea why. 

I hid my depression from as many people as I could.  Mike saw it, my parents have seen it, my sister and a few very close friends.  On the days I couldn’t hide it, I would reintroduce myself the following day with a smile and my cheerful (and fun! oh so fun!) persona and say that everything was okay, I just had a bad day.  Sometimes, those bad “days” lasted a few years.  I always thought, “I’m not that bad, I’m not that depressed, because every once in a while I’m totally, ridiculously happy and euphoric.  The birds sing, the sun is out, and the wind in my hair is enough to keep me going for at least another week.  Depressed people stay in bed, they moan and groan.  I’m not depressed.” 

I was, but it wasn’t the only demon.  Average age of diagnosis of bipolar II:  nearly 40.  Average age of first episode:  25 years old.  No wonder 15% of people with the illness off themselves before they can figure out what’s wrong. 

This really hit home with me:  (read the entire article here - it’s well worth the time)

Is there a test for bipolar disorder? Can you be sure if you have it or not?

This used to be simple. When “manic” only meant one thing (classic mania) one could ask “have you ever had a manic episode?” and many people knew what was being asked:

  * Mood much better than normal
  * Rapid speech
  * Little need for sleep
  * Racing thoughts, trouble concentrating
  * Continuous high energy
  * Overconfidence
  * Loss of contact with reality (delusions)

As you now know (start this section on diagnosis afresh if you came from elsewhere), this list looks for obvious mania.  It misses all the complexity we have just discussed. What you might be wanting is a “no way!” bipolar test.  Something to provide a clear statement, like: “no, you don’t have it, or anything like it”.  Or you might be looking for the opposite: “you definitely have bipolar II”.  Sorry, that is not possible, but please read on. 

On other websites you’ll find a test called the Mood Disorders Questionnaire (MDQ) which is supposed to give you a “yes or no” answer.  But another test came along after the MDQ which is better suited to looking for subtle versions of bipolar II. 

Think about it:  if by this point on this website you’re saying to yourself “that’s me!”, which some people do, then you really don’t need some test to tell you that you should go ahead and consider treatment.  Or that the diagnostic basis for that treatment should include a consideration of bipolar II.  On the other hand, if someone else thinks you might have it, but you don’t think you do, is a test result going to make a difference to you?  If so, go ahead and take one of these tests. 

Family or friends could “take the test”, answering as if they were you, on the basis of what they’ve seen you do or heard you say.  And then they could gently wonder out loud if perhaps the test might mean something, who knows, no one can tell for sure, but darn it sure seems like your life is a struggle sometimes, wow, what if there was a tool out there that would make life a bit smoother sometimes, not even necessarily a medication treatment, oh well, just thinking about this, of course you’d want to decide for yourself, not for me to say of course, etc. etc. (there’s a technique like this called Motivational Interviewing, if you’re interested). 

Many people don’t like being labeled.  It’s hard to handle, that label, the stigma, the embarrassment.  But for once in my life, things make sense to me.  I just finished a couple of books about Bipolar - and although the cases I read make my symptoms look like a balmy spring day, I could relate to nearly everything.  I have had similar, or in some cases, exactly the same experiences.  One of these people, before being diagnosed with Bipolar, wrote a book on anorexia and bulimia.  She was diagnosed with depression - it didn’t help.  Writing about her eating disorder didn’t really help either, because the disorder was covering up the root cause of her problem.  She was a blazing drunk too - thankfully drinking has never been my schtick.  Knowing what I do know about drugs and alcohol combined with Bipolar, I’m swearing off any amount of alcohol permanently. It’s plainly not worth the risk.  Because of this, I don’t mind the label, as long as I can get the therapy and medication to help. 

I feel terribly guilty about the people I’ve hurt. I feel bad for Mike for having married me.  The divorce rates in people with Bipolar are DOUBLE the normal divorce rates, which hover around 50% as it is.  It’s because we are a pain in the ass.  But I’m also going to stop for a moment and commend myself for not having given in during the dark periods, for getting help when I desperately needed it.  Reading the suicide rates scared the bejesus out of me.  I’m strong, I guess, or my will to live and be healthy is stronger than my desire to erase myself.  I made it through 38 years being treated for the wrong stuff, but I still made it, held jobs, got married, had children.  If you met me on the street, you wouldn’t think I was crazy.  You might even want to hang out with me, depending on the day.  I’ve managed, somehow, with or without the eating disorder to numb it.  In a strange way, I’m really proud of that. 

What can I say other than this: the weekends are hard.  The weeks are crammed full of activity and keep me hopping from one distraction to the next.  Last night I was so in my head I actually had to hit the Xanax to sleep.  First time since I’ve been home from the hospital.  My brain would not turn off, and I was literally pacing around the third floor trying to burn off some energy and fall asleep. 

Yesterday we had a babysitter come for Lily and Arden while Mike and I drove to Charlottesville to see some friends of his from law school.  I really like both of them, and am especially appreciative of them because Mike has confided in them as to what’s going on, and they have both really been there for him.  I’m lucky in that I have a lot of different friends, and one is always available if I need something.  Mike has a much smaller, limited set of people he can turn to and sometimes you don’t always want to talk to your family about your issues.  I wanted to tell his friends how much I appreciated them, but I never got a moment alone with either of them.  We ended up eating, then walking all over UVA’s campus.  Someone had just gotten married and breezed past us in her strapless gown (it was only about 54 degrees yesterday), a cloud of perfume following her.  It made me tense, being that close to someone who just got married.  I felt like she could almost smell the ruins I’ve made of my own. 

We had a good time, and for awhile, I think both of us felt “normal”.  We were hanging with other married friends, sauntering around a beautiful campus on a weekend, driving in the same car, having small talk mixed with more serious discussions.  Apparently later, though, it took a toll on me.  Acting “normal” requires a lot of effort on my part these days, and probably on Mike’s as well.  He spends his time walking around me like I’m going to either break or explode, depending on the day.  It’s got to be rough.

I did manage to get the Halloween decorations out with Mike this afternoon before I met up with Bradley for coffee and inspiration.  It’s been on my list, but I’ve been so completely unmotivated, which is very unusual for me.  We pulled down the boxes and braved the cold weather and wind to put everything up.  The girls were really excited, which made it all worth it. On nights like tonight, when there is a fire going in the family room, the house is clean and the laundry is folded, it’s easy to imagine just falling back into the safe bed that is my regular, standard life.  If only I could wrap my head around the person it used to be, make all the pieces fit where they are supposed to - it would just be so much easier, so much more comfortable.  In the meantime, we spend a lot of time talking - to doctors, to friends, and sometimes even to each other.  Sometimes I feel like I need to sleep for about 3 days; other times sleep just seems like an impediment to all the things I could be doing.  The key has been finding the tenuous balance between both that keeps me even-keeled and functioning at the level I need to.  It’s a very, very difficult balance for me to find. 

I’ve got a major aversion to the phone these days, but thankfully my friends and family sense the smoke signals I’m sending them silently and continue to call, or ask questions, or offer to take me out somewhere - anywhere - to relieve some of the pressure in my head.  I’ve noticed that Sundays are the most difficult night of the week for me, so I try to do something relaxing and just for me every day and especially on Sundays.  I keep reminding myself that it’s only feelings and they will blow through my mind, but I don’t have to be rocked by them.  That’s a completely foreign concept to me but I’m trying to believe I can change my reactive, impulsive nature.

I’m reading three really good books right now:  Marya Hornbacher’s “Madness”, “Hurry Down Sunshine” by Michael Greenberg, “Moose” by Stephanie Klein, and “An Unquiet Mind” by Kay Redfield Jamison.  I was already fully aware of my own issues with food when I read Marya’s first book “Wasted”, but she scares me because she’s a much more extreme version of me.  Her life has paralleled mine in many ways I don’t like to think about, and I find myself reading the book while trying to look away.  Alternately I am thankful that I’m “not like her”, even though we share many of the same issues.  It’s kind of painful to read, like a big red warning sign that says “Take care of yourself or this raging mess of crazy could be you, too.”  “Hurry Down Sunshine” is written by a father with a very sick daughter - mentally ill, that is, and it’s fascinating.  I just finished “Moose” this weekend and any person with weight or body image issues should pick it up. I’ve been doing some reading of “An Unquiet Mind” while drying my hair in the bathroom - I’m trying to get through too many books at once, but I’m a little insatiable with a few topics these days.  All of them have been helpful in various ways. 

I’ll be honest:  the fashions this year drives me a little crazy.  The tight, camel-toe inducing high-waisted acid-wash jeans.  The double or triple belt look originally made famous by Madonna.  The giant, bug-eyed sunglasses.  The big flannel t-shirts and your boyfriend’s sweaters.  All of them immediately make me smell our rancid cafeteria and remember the sweaty boys trying to grope us during high school dances.  All of them make me slightly nauseous.  One thing that never has made me nauseous is the music from the 80’s - and truthfully, the music was worse than the fashion. 

Last night, I stopped by #hashbrownnetworking to say hi to a few people and to beg for free Wordpress help from @jasonkenney and @trevordickerson.  They’re working on the Write Club RVA site so it will eventually be usable.  I didn’t stay long, but I did stay long enough to stick Jason with the bill for my iced tea (thanks, J!).  After I met up with one of my new favorite people from the Twitterverse.  She’s also kind of anonymous - writes a pretty snarky food blog, so I’m not planning to use her name.  Instead I’ll refer to her as SFB.  (note:  she’s now the second “anonymous” friend I have - gets kind of tiring remember to refer to them publicly by their twitter or blog names. In fact, if I refer to The Checkout Girl by her real name, none of my family members know who I’m talking about, so she’s just called TCG).  We met at Nations, a gay bar down near the Science Museum (I can already hear my mom groaning as she reads this).  On Thursdays, they host the Drag Race - a bunch of Drag Queens lip-syncing their way around the stage.  Some of them are a little scary, evidenced by this tweet:

Come on, pretty baby, kiss me deadly . . .

Anyway, Snarky Food Blogger introduced me to her many gay friends, all of whom were exceptionally nice, funny, and bending over backward to make me feel welcome.  The commentary from our table on all things spandex and tucked was quite interesting.  I think SFB and I were one of 4 women in there (plus the queens, of course).  The one straight guy in the bar (although why a straight guy would come alone to a gay bar is sort of beyond my comprehension) kept trying to hit on SFB, but she rebuffed him like a pro.  I had new boots and some funky tights, so the boys kept examining the textures of the tights and commenting on my overall ensemble.  At first I thought they were making fun of me - it’s been a long time since I hung out with a group of gay men - then realized they were 100% serious.  DO NOT ask a gay man if you look “fat in these pants” because sugarbuns, they will tell you.  And you may not like what you hear. 

We stayed at Nations for most of the drag race while I practiced memorizing names:  Vito, guy with good glasses.  Peanut, beautiful black man with good hat.  William, stepped out from Glee with a voice to match.  Sam, some sort of doctor, good pants.  Everyone smelled good.  There was a lot of hugging and laughing, which reminded me of my old friend Ed, who used to play with my hair and help with my outfits when I was still in high school.  He was the best date for a movie because he was gorgeous, would hold my hand, and safely deliver me to my doorstep every night with no pawing or drooling.  Excellent. 

Next we headed to Cous Cous to listen to a friend of SFB spin.  I’d never been to Cous Cous but it’s beautiful inside, especially with the weird Federico Fellini-esque movie playing over our heads. That dude had some wacky visions.  I was put off when the pierced and gauged waiter told me that even though he’d handed me a menu, the kitchen. was. CLOSED.  Apparently he wanted me to check out the menu to get hungry so that I could be denied. 

And all I wanted was a little saganaki.  Pfffttt.

Although the music was good, Vito was itching to go dancing, and I was falling asleep in my water. I can’t sit still around midnight - that’s nighty-night time for the middle-aged.  SFB’s man showed up for a while and we compared iPhone apps before boring the rest of the table to tears.  He left soon after, and the three of us headed to Mars Bar.  Apparently, said SFB, their 80’s dance night was a must.  I was wearing high heels and feeling uncomfortable, but determined to have fun, so I went along for the ride.  I’m really glad I did.

The high point was a slightly overweight guy, at least as old as me, wearing a black t-shirt, tight jeans, a sparkly glove, and the infamous MJ red leather jacket complete with all the zippers.  Depending on how goofy you felt this guy was, you could say that unfortunately Billie Jean was blasting and he was completely rockin’ out.  “Rockin’ out” included crotch grabs, leg kicks, and a lot of break dancing hand gestures and robotic movements.  The dancefloor was packed, and SFB was actually hit on the back of her head from MJ Lite.  I nearly was kicked in the face later as he jammed to “Take On Me”.  Other than that, being surrounded by a bunch of happy gay men who can really shake their moneymakers was a lot of fun.  I haven’t danced that much since 1996.  Even though most of the youngsters could sing all the lyrics to Toni Basil, no one but me (and possibly SFB) knew the proper refrain shouted during the quiet sections of Billy Idol’s “Mony Mony”.  I realized this unfortunate fact after I shook my fist in the air and screamed, “Get Drunk, Get High, Get L…” oops.  I was the only one yelling it.  Maybe it was just a Michigan thing. 

We danced for about an hour, then SFB dragged me by the hand onto a frigid street in Shockoe Bottom.  We went across the street to another bar, where of course she knew the bartender.  One of the straight boys from Mars Bar “ended up” there and starting chatting with us.  SFB is most possibly the friendliest person I’ve ever met - she will talk to anyone, anywhere, and they started playing a word game on the bar’s computer.  I was fairly certain he was trying to get up the nerve to get SFB’s digits, but we blew out of there before he’d finished the second set of word games.  Not sure what it is about SFB but she makes those boys go crazy.

SFB and I were starving, and what else do you do when you’re hungry and it’s the middle of the night?

(I still managed to lose a little weight this week despite the delicious cheesy bread stuffs I inhaled last night)

I headed home soon after.  It’s amazing how fast you can make it out of the city in the middle of the night.  It’s not something I will do often, but it was a lot of fun, and the first time in nearly 3 months I actually stopped thinking about all the other crap for an extended period of time. I used to love dancing - and although I don’t love all the smoke and the college kids groping each other, it was definitely good for me. I can’t drink while on this new medication I’m taking, so it’s easy to stay awake and focused and not worry about driving.  I’m a barfly’s dream partner:  a permanent designated driver for the foreseeable future.  I’ve gone out a lot since all this stuff happened, but normally I swing drastically between blissful “unawareness” and sudden drops into a reality I wish wasn’t mine.  For whatever reason - whether it is the medication’s effects or just a stroke of good luck - I was able to go out, conversate (I love that made up word), laugh, have fun, and be safe and healthy at the same time.  It was way worth the exhaustion I’ve had today from staying up far too late. 

Arden’s 5th birthday was fairly low-key this year, which is mostly my fault for going crazy at the end of last month, which put me behind in scheduling the big 5 year extravanganza my brain wanted me to.  Turns out it was probably for the best.  Arden really wanted to go paint pottery, so we headed off to Color Me Mine.  Lois came as well, which was nice.  We all painted our pieces.  Arden’s was quite interesting - a polka-dotted dolphin in a rainbow of colors.  We all had a good time, even my father, who isn’t really the artistic type.  His mug looked good before it was fired.  Mike embraced his metrosexuality and painted a bud vase, and I painted a tart warmer since I’ve broken the one I have. 

After a couple hours of painting, the girls were ready to eat, so we headed to Friendly’s.  I personally hate Friendly’s - not because of the food - but because it’s never busy and yet it always seems to take 90 minutes to eat there. When you have kids in tow, anything more than 30 minutes starts to cross into crabbyland.  As we sat down and looked at the menus, I noticed a woman with three children sitting behind me.  Her kids were pulling the shades open and closed rapidly while she stared into space.  Every time they opened the shades, we were all blinded.  The waitress came over and shut them again, shooting the kids her best threatening look. The mother didn’t seem to notice. 

A few minutes later, I saw the same waitress run toward her table. Her little girl, who looked to be about 3 years old, was standing barefoot on the table, opening and closing the shades again.  She was wobbling and looked like she was about to fall, so the waitress was telling her that she couldn’t stand on the table.  The mother said nothing.  After she left with her brood, the waitress told us she has come in with a can of Heineken (open) and usually is on some sort of drug.  It was actually really sad; the kids normally destroy the bathroom, throw food or just badly.  Not their fault - the mother seems be oblivious.  Even more scary - she drove in that state. 

Aside from the wacky, drugged out mom moment, we had a good time.  It still took forever to be served, but Arden and Lily BOTH ate, which is a miracle.  It was worth the 90 minutes.

After we had cake at the house with our neighbors, and made Arden go to bed still reeling from her sugar-induced high.  She loved the entire day which made me feel less guilty about not having a full-blown party. 

*note:  in preparation for NaNoWriMo, I’m dusting off some old stories that need work and writing some of the new ones that have been itching to get out.  I need to practice if I’m going to attempt to write 50,000 words in one month. 

Jack picks me up after 9.  He’s running an hour late, which is better than his usual 90 minutes.  The irritation in my throat rises, but I swallow it down and grin widely.  It’s not a night for arguments. 

Summer in the Carolinas is humidity-fueled heat by day, cooler breezes and pollen at night.  My hands have been shaking all night because I haven’t eaten.  I’m in a state where a glass of wine could calm me, but my county is dry and I don’t feel like driving 20 minutes to Mecklenburg.  Jack blows into my house smelling like pine, smoke and wood.  I’m already dressed as appropriately as I can for where we’re going.  Even though it’s still a balmy 82 degrees out, I’m wearing my heaviest pair of jeans, socks and boots, and a leather jacket from college.  It barely fits.  I’ve pinned my unkempt hair with a tiny barrette to keep it off my face.  I’m wearing no makeup and I suddenly feel incredibly exposed, even with the layers of clothing making me sweat and squirm. 

Jack does his usual, which includes a quick hug that feels more like he’s strangling me and the jovial, brotherly slap on the back.  He doesn’t know his own strength and usually ends up delivering a bruise or two before our evenings conclude. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he huffs, and I just nod.  I feel my eyes begin to roll, but I command them to pay attention and stay focused straight ahead.  He pulls a helmet from a pack and lobs it through the air at me.  Normally graceless, I am lucky and manage to catch it before it hits the tiled floor.  “So what’s up?” he says as I struggle to put the helmet on.

“Not much,” I respond, muffled by the visor.  He grows impatient, watching me fumble with the straps. He slaps my hands away and deftly tightens them under my chin.  He bumps the back of my helmet with this palm, as if to say, “Let’s go”.  I shake more vigorously.  “Ready,” I say, and move toward the front door. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Jack entered my life much like he did everything else:  loudly, expectantly, and somewhat rudely.  I was climbing a new route on King’s Mountain and having trouble getting a foothold in the slippery rock.  Jack was with a group of loud boys, but despite their volume, they were much better climbers than me or my friends.  Jack stood right next to my belayer and began shouting orders to me.  “No, not that place.  Look to your left.  If you put both your toes on that lip, you’ll reach that ledge up there.  See?”  Admittedly he had some good advice, but my legs were already shaking and no amount of chalk could keep the sweat from my fingers.  A spider darted out from behind a loose rock and that was it for me.  “Falling,” I yelled, and my belayer quickly picked up the slack in the rope so I hung like an overstuffed piñata 10 feet above their heads. 

I heard Jack’s barking laugh and felt the heat in my cheeks that either signifies embarrassment or anger.  I slowly dropped to the ground and kicked off my climbing shoes, and shot him a glare.

“No, I wasn’t laughing at you.  But the look on your face when you let go - well, it was just funny,” he cackled.

‘It was a damn spider, and I don’t like them.” I spat. “By the way, who ARE you?”

Introductions were made.  He was climbing with three friends, me with four.  We all came from various areas around Charlotte.  He’d been climbing for 3 years - me, just finishing my first.  He asked if I minded him taking a shot at my route, and I made some comment along the lines of, “I don’t own the mountain.  Go for it, Mr. Mountain Master.”

Climb he did.  He made everything look effortless, like he could be smoking a cigarette with one hand, reading a book with the other, and telling a joke.  He climbed like he talked - cocky, self-deprecating, and beautiful.  He blew past my sticking point and made it to the top, then jumped back into his harness to be lowered down.  “That part was a bit dicey,” he said, but I knew he was just trying to make me feel better. 
Later, after I’d finally conquered the route and one of my friends had twisted an ankle hiking to the next climb, we sat down together in a group and shared beers and trail mix.  7 pairs of climbing shoes sat precariously close to the edge, getting a perfect view of the valley.  We sat in the sun and smoked, talked about the climbing gyms in Charlotte, where we worked, and what kind of music makes the best background for a solo climb.  Jack stared at me unapologetically. When I met his eyes, I was nervous and agitated.  He annoyed me.  But he was whip-smart, so I kept talking to him. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Of course, Jack drives an old pickup truck.  It’s dented and rusted, and the inside smells like 10 wet dogs and something else, like a camping trip or rainwater.  A hint of his soap hangs in the torn fabric.  I ride around with him that summer, mostly quiet, listening to his soundtrack and trying to figure out what it says about him.  He’s intense and asks me lots of questions. Sometimes I feel like I am a bone, buried deep in the ground, and he is a frantic dog, digging and digging until he roots me out.  Rapid-fire questions about childhood, men, my friends, my intellect, my fear of spiders and my love of rocks. He reads heady, intellectual stuff, a lot of it about Buddhism.  He tries to explain it to me but I often grow bored and start spinning my own stories in my head.  He sometimes notices that I’ve tuned out, but it just makes him try harder.  “Seriously.  You have to listen to this.  It’s amazing.”  I nod my head and try again.  He makes me feel smart, but follows it up by reminding me I’m actually quite stupid in his brash way.  “I can’t believe you haven’t read this already.  Where have you been?” Chastised, I look out the open window at a meadow full of flowers and bees, and tell myself to be more disciplined. 

Jack’s truck is a way to get places when it rains or sleets.  Any other time, he’s on his bike.  It’s a nice bike, primarily because he constantly works on it.  We’ve been riding it whenever the weather permits or he gets the inclination, which is frequently.  The first time I rode, he asked me if I wanted to go to South Carolina with him.  I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I said yes because it was Friday, warm, and I had nothing better to do than to try to read Buddhist literature I didn’t understand. 

I didn’t realize he had a bike until I heard it in the driveway.  I thought perhaps Jack was asking me out on a date; I wasn’t really sure where we stood.  Normal dates in Charlotte consisted of freshly washed sedans, pressed khakis and various expectations.  When he blew through my front door, he had a helmet on and another one in his hand.  “Put it on,” he commanded, “But you won’t need it for long.”  Normal dates in Charlotte did not normally involve a motorcycle, a helmet (god forbid you muss your hair!) or a guy who didn’t act chivalrous, at least on the surface.

He didn’t ask if I liked to ride or if I was nervous.  He just pointed at the bike, got on it, and motioned for me to join him.  The last ride I’d taken was with a hardcore Objectivist follower in college; he had tried to talk during the trip and kept looking back at me.  I dug my nails into my palms and couldn’t wait to be rid of him or the Rush he constantly played - being that Rush was the only “true Objectivist band”. 
I wasn’t sure what made South Carolina a motorcyclist’s version of heaven, but I found out.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Now, our motorcycle expeditions are more frequent. They are not “dates”, but they are intimate nonetheless.  It’s hard not to be when you are pressed against each other, in the dark, going fast and balancing together.  There is no small talk - it’s too loud for that. Our close physical proximity to one another makes it feel like marriage without an engagement.  Tonight, he takes a different route.  As if on cue, the clouds part and the moon spills its light on us.  We’re close to South Carolina - you can almost smell the poverty and trailers near the state line. 

He pulls over on the side of the road and removes his helmet.  I do the same, and shove them into a bag.  We don’t speak.  I throw my leg up and over the bike after he gets on, and we take off.  South Carolina has no helmet laws, lots of bumpy, dilapidated roads, and plenty of wide open spaces.  It’s a real fantasy for the irresponsible and foolish, of which we are both. 

I haven’t had a haircut in two years because I am poor and I like the way my hair feels on the back of my neck.  Now, it feels like the air is going to rip my hair from the roots and toss it into the earth.  Jack’s got short hair and it barely moves.  I put my face between his shoulder blades and feel his bones.  I turn my head so my right ear rests against him, tighten my grip around his waist, and use him as a shield against the wind.  All around me, I hear insects buzzing, occasionally hitting us as we speed down another nameless country road. 

We pull off again, near a pasture that has been abandoned. The weeds are burgeoning and the skeletons of rusted farm equipment look beautiful instead of scary. That is the wonder and magic of moonlight.  We wander around, but I can’t help thinking about ticks and the one that crawled up my leg last summer.  Suddenly Jack is right behind me, his hands on my shoulders.  For once he isn’t rough, and he turns me toward him.  I fully expect him to say something like, “You really need better boots if we’re going to keep doing this”, but he doesn’t.  He kisses me, in a friendly, light, teasing way.  He puts his palms on my collarbones and gives me a tiny shove. It’s over before I can react.  He saunters back to the bike, and cocks his head to the side.  He’s waiting for me, but I’m stubborn and I take my time picking the flattest route back to the still-warm bike seat.  By the time I do, I have regained my aloof approximation of composure.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

My hair is whipped into the white-girl approximation of dreadlocks.  I’m fairly certain there are bugs strangled by the strands, and I’ll be brushing it out for 20 minutes when I get home.  At the moment, though, I don’t care.  Jack is warm and I can feel him breathing against me as he goes faster.  I don’t want him to stop and I realize my hands are cold, but it’s distant, like someone else’s body.  I hold myself more tightly against him, and put one hand over the other to get the blood flowing again.  Later, I will understand the reasons the moonlight looked so perfect, why I could literally feel the vibrations of the insects in the trees, or how the smells of that night burned themselves into my brain – the smell of peace, of contentment.  In the moment, I breathe out and feel suspended.  There are no cars in view, no airplanes above.  Jack keeps driving south, halfway to Columbia, and I don’t care.  Go farther, I urge him silently.  I dig my heels into the side of the bike and squeeze with my thighs, the old memories of urging a horse faster coming back to me.  The bike feels like the smoothest canter.  I sniff the air like a dog and breathe deeply.  I close my eyes and concentrate on leaning as Jack leans, curve after curve, burning through miles like lemonade on the hottest day. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Later, I will learn that Jack is actually kind of a jerk with a mild tendency toward alcohol-induced arguments.  There will be scenes in parking lots, and a particularly memorable shouting match at the base of a mountain in Georgia.  There will be a time when he becomes so frustrated with me, he will actually throw his climbing shoes at me and I will laugh hysterically until I cry and come dangerously close to wetting myself.  The shoes will miss me and roll down a large hill, and he will spend the next 30 minutes cursing me and the mountain because he’s covered in briars on his retrieval mission. There will be camping trips and one “vacation”, all of them disastrous.  We will spend our time together pushing every button the other has, over and over again, each time a little harder than the last.  Eventually we will break each other, and not speak, just to spend hours composing angry letters that are dropped on our respective doorsteps or mailed. 

In the heat of the anger and dismay and disappointment, I will go back to our dark rides and think about the tenuous connection we had with each other before we opened our mouths.  I will be both saddened and amused that our most intimate and connected moments with each other happened when we couldn’t speak, or when Jack’s back was turned to me.  With my hands on his waist and my hair blinding me, being smacked with lightning bugs and moths, in the bowels of South Carolina, we were more together than any other time.  It was in those long silences with only the music of the engine to soothe us that we liked each other enough to be close, without armor, barbed words, or sarcastic insults.  The helmets came off, and we simply rode, directionless and without intent, those evenings a study in the perfection of wind and noise. 

Last night, I tweeted this status: 

I was on the phone with an old friend, and I hadn’t actually spoken to him - live and in person - for probably 18 years.  We got in touch with each other about a year ago through the miracle that is Facebook.  We sent messages back and forth, catching up on mutual friends, our marriages, what his life was like in the pacific Northwest, what mine was like in Virginia.  During one such exchange he mentioned that he had been diagnosed Bipolar about 5 years ago.  I was a bit shocked, because at the time, I didn’t really understand what Bipolar was.  To me, my friend was alway a party animal, always laughing and doing crazy things, dating the best looking women, living in cool spaces, having cool jobs, just basically defining the word “cool” for the rest of us.  He was the one you wanted to be around.  When he shined his attention on you, you felt warm.  Even last night, having his full attention for the short time I did felt like a gift.  He was intense and a writer and knew a lot about books and more about music.  In retrospect, and looking back over the stack of letters I retained from earlier times, I could see his dark depressions.  I didn’t think much of them at the time since I was always swinging back and forth between hating myself and my life and living it up as much as I could.  In my artsy circle, he was pretty normal.  I mean, he never bled all over my car or screamed at me in the middle of the night or threatened my life when I dated his roommate.  Normal.  Yep. 

Listening to the bits of his story he chose to share with me last night was nothing short of amazing.  A couple of things I took away from the discussion:

- Don’t trust or act on your emotions.
- Take care of the situations you put yourself in, and avoid those that are not healthy (more on this later).
- Find some close friends you trust enough to allow them to tell you when you’re acting crazy. 
- Realize that although you may may mourn the highs, or euphoric times your medication takes away, those times when life seems to fit in your hand and is easily shaped, the lows and the risks associated with those lows are not worth it. 

He was quite frank with me and answered my questions truthfully.  He reminded me that every day I take my meds,  I am making a choice to be healthier and to be there for the people in my life.  He reminded me that I’ve been raising two kids and so far haven’t ruined them, and I’m fortunate in that respect.  So many people suffering cannot hold a job or a relationship and will spend the rest of their lives fighting without knowing how to win.  When I feel overwhelmed, I remind myself of this.  The medication is starting to work, and though I don’t particularly care for the way it makes me feel, it’s better than being dead.  He said, “We are people attracted to drama.  We run toward the things that are not good.”  Suddenly I remembered one single night where I was unable to stop running toward that bad thing, the thing that made me sick.  The knowing doesn’t change it, but it finally answers some questions for me.  For years - literally, more than a decade - I’ve been asking myself and the other person involved to explain the “why” to me.  Suddenly I have the answer to the why.  Though it doesn’t change any of the things that have happened, or the bad decisons, unhealthy choices, or addictions I’ve chosen, it gives me a tiny bit of wiggle room in which to forgive myself. 

If I’m looking back honestly, yes, other people have wronged me.  But I wronged them too.  And for those of them that loved me, back in the heyday of my illness, they took a lot of crap and took a ride on a very bumpy road as they tried to be a friend to me.  I’ve tried to make amends to those people. Some have forgiven me, others have not.  Being close to me was an invitation to become part of the collateral damage.  For many of those around me today, it’s bumpy again.  I’ve dragged Mike along too, though good things have come out of that.  Sometimes it’s very easy to just feel like the world’s most horrible person for putting the people I love the most through this.  Other times I almost believe that like any other disease, I can’t help it and I’m doing the best I can by working on myself and dealing with the issues. 

I have a lot of guilt and shame right now, but I’m working through it.  I know that I’m not a terrible evil person, and mixed in with my dark days were plenty of good ones.  My friend told me, “Not everyone is thinking about you, contrary to what we may believe.”  He meant that although I may have felt the crazies for a good portion of my life, most people are too self-absorbed to notice.  What I may think of as obviously weird behavior may not have been obvious to others, just like my friend’s behavior wasn’t odd to me.  It was just part of him, and I loved him, and I accepted him.  The good times more than made up for the bad. 

My goals for the near future are to make sure the situations I put myself in are healthy for me (see bullet 2).  This means taking a hard look at what makes me “happy”.  It also means that some of the things that made me happy in the past may not necessarily be healthy.  Feelings float; they change.  Years in OA taught me that the quick fix is generally the wrong one, and the same holds true for life.  It’s hard work, but that doesn’t mean I still can’t have fun.  Learning to not be ruled by my emotions is going to take some time - I’ve got 38 years of that to unlearn. 

For those of you coming here expecting the update from yesterday, I will write about Arden’s birthday and post pictures tomorrow, when I’m not being so lazy I can’t be bothered to find the cable for my camera. 

Five years of Arden, the ultimate Daddy’s Girl.  Click link below for a sappy slideshow of life with Arden. 

Arden is Five.

My sister had some good advice, which was to avoid labels.  She’s had plenty of experience with labels in her life, and has eschewed them for the most part (yay! I finally got to use the word “eschewed” in a sentence!).

Since I heard the dreaded “B” word, I’ve fluctuated between “a-HA” moments when I realize that so much of my behavior, held against the Bipolar II context, finally makes sense.  Then comes the overwhelming feeling of despair as the label and the word sinks into me, and I wonder if I’ll ever be able to admit it without some shame or embarrassment.  Being that I’m already a bit insecure these days, adding another layer of “Reasons Why Cristina Sucks” doesn’t help.  And even though I know I’m different, I can’t get the image of my bipolar college friend out of my head.  I loved her, and I knew she had problems, but when she went batshit, she was BATSHIT.  She was scary and intense.  She was really fun at times.  Even back then, at my most liberal and open-minded, I remember so very clearly watching her take her lithium and judging her.  “I hate the way it makes me feel,” she said, and would often flush full pill bottles down the toilet in a fit of rage.  “They make me flat.”  I wasn’t sure what she meant, because when she was “flat”, I didn’t get screaming phone calls in the middle of the night.  “Flat” was good, in my opinion.  I was also embarassed for her.  I had plenty of dates in college, but she never could hold onto a guy.  She was either sleeping with half the university or swearing off men forever.  There was no middle ground for her.  I felt superior.  I didn’t have the stigma of medication or the episodes of, well, craziness.  I was smart, cute, and funny - she was smart, pretty, and totally screwed up.  I felt pity for her. 

I agree that labels can be harmful.  If the medication helps me, it doesn’t really matter WHAT label is slapped on me.  Thankfully clinical depression is so mainstream now, no one thinks anything of being on an antidepressant.  Unfrotunately when you cross into the bipolar land and the types of meds used to treat the symptoms, it’s not as widely accepted.  I don’t know the stats on how many Americans suffer from depression, but only 2-5% of them suffer from some kind of bipolar disorder.  And as my sister also said, in 10 years the powers that be may decide that bipolar never existed and slap a new term on it.

What I will say, as I’ve devoured everything I can get my hands on relating to Bipolar II, is that it’s oddly comforting to see my life written in descriptions of a disorder.  The intensity I’ve always felt, even as a child.  The incredible irritability or rages I had that were only tempered by antidepressants, and then, they only worked in a half-assed manner.  My impulsive or utterly decisive behavior, where I would make a decision without really thinking it through and follow that path to the ends of the earth.  Many people with bipolar disorders suffer from substance abuse.  Thankfully I’ve always hated the way drinking makes me feel, and any illicit or illegal drug I ever took just put me to sleep.  I’m quite sure, however, that if alcohol made me numb the way food does, I’d be a raging alcoholic by this point in my life.  Instead, I just carried around an extra 60 pounds for nearly 7 years.  Somehow that was better.  At least you can’t be pulled over for driving while fat. 

And honestly, there are other behaviors I’ve played with in the past that I choose not to discuss here or anywhere other than with my therapist.  I remembered today why therapy makes you feel worse before you feel better.  Most of us are seriously flawed in one way or another, and having to poke around in those old wounds is not fun.  It’s draining, exhausting, and terrifying.  Talking about things I’ve pushed down for 20 years frankly sucks.  Taking a long, hard look at my past relationships with both men and women and facing the reasons I stayed in some of those relationships, even to the detriment of my emotional or physical health, is taxing.  Even if now I have a label, or a diagnosis, to explain some of my behavior, I still have to live with aforementioned behavior.  I’ve been stuffing that behavior down deep inside me for a very long time, and I swear that the longer you repress something, the bigger, uglier, and stinkier it becomes. 

In the meantime, all this weirdness in my life has opened up the proverbial floodgates in my writing. I literally cannot stop.  I’ll probably lose a good 50% of my readers here because I post so much, but whatever gets me through the day.  And if you happen to meet me in person, and smell something funny, it’s just my rotting past coming out.  No worries. 

Tonight a friend took me out for dinner at the relatively new Water Grill that opened where Karsen’s used to be.  It was a beautiful fall night, and we were able to snag a table outside. 

Food critic I am not, but I had a fabulous dinner.  We split two appetizers - the fried buffalo oysters recommended by @rivercitygal and the edamame hummus.  Both were delicious.  For the main event, I ordered the seafood pasta, which was served over whole wheat linguine in a tomato broth with shrimp and mussels.  I loved the fact that I could get whole wheat pasta at a restaurant (it’s all I eat at home).  My friend ordered a pork chop in a cranberry glaze with a poached pear stuffed with bleu cheese.  I drooled over the pear.  We splurged and got dessert - a hazelnut toffee torte and lemon sorbet.  Hilariously enough, the sorbet came out in a martini glass and had two round lumps.  Two blueberries perched on the lumps.  My friend exclaimed, “Oh look, titties!” when they came out.  It was a big hit with the gray hairs next to us. 

I’m no restaurant critic, nor is my palette refined like WhineMeDineMe, but I loved the entire experience and really appreciated a dinner out with a friend I haven’t seen in at least a year.  Especially when I didn’t have to pay   So nice to just forget about everything and indulge in good food and conversation, two of my favorite things.

I’m reading a book my therapist recommended. It’s by Lynette Triere with Richard Peacock and it’s called “Learning to Leave”.  It sounds more negative than it really is - it’s really an explanation of what women go through during a separation, divorce or reconciliation.  These two paragraphs really struck a chord with me:

...for many couples, it is not a question of finding new solutions to a building list of conflicts.  With some women and men, there is a fundamental difference in life goals, ways of communicating, belief systems, rhythms of living, temperment, and concepts of pleasure.  Faced with such basic incompatibility, women are now breaking out of their more common conservative roles and have become more frequently the initiators of divorce. 

But this realization is usually not an immediate one and the decision to leave is rarely hasty.  The very idea of divorce is so radical that some women refuse to even consider it at first.  In fact, stages of awareness can be outlined in the average movement of a woman toward leaving a relationship.  First, many women report that they only “subconsciously” felt the stirrings to leave, that these feelings would never be articulated even to themselves.  A surprising number have said that they harbored the secret for five years or longer before moving to the next stage of privately but deliberately thinking about leaving.  These thoughts might take the form of fantasy, the dream of living in another place alone or with another person, the desire to break out into a new style of living, the pursuit of a challenging career, perhaps a passion for travel.  This stage can be a consuming one.  A few women get stuck at this point and become permanent daydreamers.  But most will move on to relate their desires to a close friend, often a sympathetic woman who has experienced a similar situation.  They may at this stage seek out a professional therapist to confide in, or take the bolder step of seeking an attorney.

Not sure I agree with classifying seeking an attorney as a “bolder” step - it seems to me a premature step.  It’s also unfortunate that I am not alone in having been unable to express my true feelings firstly to myself, and then to my husband.  Had I been able to do that 36 months ago, we might be in a different place today. 

My goal set during Write Club RVA was to continue to blog through this haze and fog, and not shy away from the truth.  It’s very hard at times (like right now) to really find the strength to express my feelings in a way that others can understand. 

That being said, today has been hard.  I wish my medication would work, dammit, and work fast.  I know better than to expect it to erase all the pain and uncertainty and general angst I feel inside, but feeling hopeless day after day is pretty much a complete and total drag.  I even sat outside in the sun this afternoon soaking up some Vitamin D in the hopes it would snap me out of this horrible nightmare I can’t wake from. 

At some point, you have to start telling your friends and family you are fine, even when you don’t feel fine.  No one wants to hear, “I’m the same brand of shitty I was yesterday” day after day.  It’s depressing and boring.  I’m certain Mike feels the same way, though he puts on a good front for me - which is yet another example of why he’s a much better person than me.  He still worries about me, even though I’m in the process of dismantling and analyzing our life together that he thought was very solid.  I’ve made everything creaky and decayed with my words, and it’s an unsettling place to be - for both of us.  I do try to focus on my high moments:  pilates this morning, with sweat pouring off me, erasing any other thought than holding myself up on an elbow.  Arden’s face as she walked toward my car.  Cuddling with Arden, and stroking her hair.  Watching Lily drawing this afternoon.  Meeting a friend for a dinner in Carytown. 

In between those moments, I swing wildly between “WHAT AM I DOING?  I’m a horrible mother and wife” and “GET ME OUT. GET ME OUT.  GET ME OUT.”  Par for the course for me, there are no gray thoughts.  Perhaps that’s why I’ve been buying a lot of gray clothes lately - it’s a visceral reminder that there is such a color, and it’s not a bad place to live. 

On a happier note, I finally narrowed down my NaNoWriMo topics to two, and I’m going to force myself to pick one tonight.  Hopefully this weekend will get me working on the outline.  It’s been interesting to note that anything other than blogging has been impossible for me to write - my brain can only process my reality.  Fiction is a tall order these days. 

(By the way, it took an extreme amount of maturity not to make a bowel movement joke in the title of this post. *golf claps*)

Today has been a full day of questions I can’t really answer and a lot of introspection.  First, Mike and I had our initial marriage counseling session.  I liked the therapist and am convinced of one thing:  she will help us figure out what direction we are going in.  I can’t tell you what direction that is, but we started down the path and I’m glad to be moving instead of mired down in my own personal version of hell:  inertia. 

At 1 pm, I went off to see a psychiatrist my therapist recommended.  (note:  so this is what it’s like to be old - doctor’s appointment after doctor’s appointment!)  I liked her a lot but I was a bit shocked when she slapped another diagnosis on me.  I heard murmurings of it while at Poplar Springs.  She confirmed that I was having panic attacks, but thankfully I have had none since the afternoon I got out of the hospital.  She prescribed Xanax for any time in the future I feel one coming on and recommended keeping it in my purse.  I’m a regular drug pusher now.  “So what’s in your purse, Mommy?”  “Oh, just the essentials, girls;  you know, a tampon, some lipstick, face powder and Mommy’s little helper, Xanax!”

She diagnosed me with Bipolar Disorder II.  I immediately did what all nerds do:  I googled it on the world wide interwebs.  It was pretty shocking, because a lot of it made me say, “Wow, um, that’s me.”  I always assumed you couldn’t be bipolar if you didn’t have the mania with it - I didn’t realize there are many versions of Bipolar.  Here’s an excerpt from the article: 

Symptoms during hypomanic episodes include:

  * Flying suddenly from one idea to the next
  * Rapid, “pressured” speech
  * Increased energy, with hyperactivity and decreased need for sleep

People experiencing hypomanic episodes are often quite pleasant to be around. They can often seem like the “life of the party”—making jokes, taking an intense interest in other people and activities, and infecting others with their positive mood.

What’s so bad about that, you might ask? Hypomania can also lead to erratic and unhealthy behavior. Also, the vast majority of people with bipolar II disorder experience significant depressive episodes. These can occur soon after hypomania subsides, or much later. Some people cycle back and forth between hypomania and depression, while others have long periods of normal mood in between episodes.

Untreated, an episode of hypomania can last anywhere from a few days to several years. Most commonly, symptoms continue for a few weeks to a few months.

Depressive episodes in bipolar II disorder are similar to “regular” clinical depression, with depressed mood, loss of pleasure, low energy and activity, feelings of guilt or worthlessness, and thoughts of suicide. Depressive symptoms of bipolar disorder can last weeks, months, or rarely years.

It’s also considered a very mild form of Bipolar which means I’m only mildly crazy.

I’m joking about all of this, but I’m a combination of relieved and upset.  I’m relieved because I’m on a new medication that sits on top of my antidepressant and will hopefully level me off more permanently.  Even though my antidepressant is working better, I’m still very moody. I can handle that, but I literally go from full-on moments of joy to the very depths of despair in less than 10 seconds.  It’s the speed of that rollercoaster that makes me sick and tired of being me.  I’m upset because damn, seriously?  Depression is bad enough, but you can act like it’s a temporary thing.  Like, “Oh, I’m having a rough time right now - but this too shall pass, bless my heart!”  Bipolar has a scary, straightjacket-and-padded-room sort of feel to it - at least it does to me.  This is partly because a close friend in college was plain ol’ Bipolar and her brand of crazy scared the crap out of me.  There was one particularly memorable wrist-slashing episode resulting in her bleeding all over my car as I rushed her to the hospital, and another where she overdosed on Lithium all the while screaming at me over the phone.

It’s hard feeling normal and likeable these days.  In many ways, my ego and self-esteem has hit an all-time low.  In other ways, I feel pretty good about myself - mainly because I’m finally dealing with some ugly stuff inside of me.  Finding out I have yet another wart on my psyche bums me out, but at least I can treat it.  Hi, I’m Cristina - your lovable eating-disordered, bipolar depressive.  Wanna hang out?