Posted on by histrionicabutterfly

Inside Outside Upside Down*


Manic episode symptoms: The symptoms of mania include: elevated mood, inflated self-esteem, decreased need for sleep, racing thoughts, difficulty maintaining attention, increase in goal-directed activity, and excessive involvement in pleasurable activities. These manic symptoms significantly impact a person’s daily living.
Source: Steve Bressert, Ph.D., PsychCentral

“The light that burns twice as bright burns half as long… ”
~Tyrell

This will not be a tell-all of my escapades while in the grips of mania. Suffice to say they were not at all epic, in fact i’d say they bordered on the pathetic.
But of course that’s only in hindsight.

To me, the world had suddenly become more exciting, more enticing, and much, much more accessible. I was pretty and i was crazy and i was fun and i was hungry for experiences. I’d shut myself off from being very social for most of my life. It was difficult, and i knew i wasn’t very good at it, although i tried hard and with sincerity. Being shunted to the bottom of the social pile in nearly every school i attended taught me that i would never be cool. I didn’t have the family standing, i didn’t have the clothes or the toys, and i was never able to talk like they talked or act like they acted. I had nothing going for me and zero chance of getting any of it.

As i’ve mentioned before, once i got away from the judgmental hell of school, i did find some acceptance and favour in certain social circles. I could have more friends if i wanted, but i discovered a lot of life situations still foster an atmosphere that’s no more emotionally developed than high school. It was less acute, but there were still pecking orders and hierarchies in places like work and church. I still flopped and floundered around like the proverbial fish out of water a lot of the time, but it wasn’t the intense microcosm of human social behaviour that school can be.

Weight loss provided me with a little more attractive packaging, and mania dished me up a heaping helping of thoughtlessness masquerading as confidence, like eating a bowl of chili that you never know was actually made with TVP.** I went where i wanted and did what i pleased with whomever i wished. I overindulged in everything except food. I was -yeah, you guessed it- the life of the party, the centre of attention, the belle of the ball.
I was wanted.
I was liked.
I was accepted.
I was popular.

Of course it was all an illusion, brought about by the grandiose thinking and fearlessness i feel when i’m manic. Oh and if dissociation dulls self-awareness – mania makes the blade utterly useless.
It’s mania that almost cost me my children.
Not depression and suicide attempts, not anxiety or panic attacks, not PTSD, and not borderline agoraphobia. Because mania made me selfish, and it blinded me to the effects my behaviour was having on anyone around me – even, and especially, my husband and my children. I repeatedly put myself in high risk situations, doing harmful things to myself with dangerous people.

When the mania finally wore off i’d paid a terrible price. I’d lost loved ones and things that were precious. I was empty and beyond mortified and fully penitent. My thinking still wasn’t terribly coherent, but i knew i needed to stop and start over.

Sometimes a change in geography can help facilitate a cure of sorts.
A new town provided the emotional cytotoxins.
The depression irradiated every thought in my head.

I spent months hiding under my mother-in-law’s gentle and protective wing, and longer still in my brand new Little Crooked House, but my brain was percolating. I had no defenses left to protect me from either the truth of my upbringing, or what my brain had done in order to keep me alive. My brain got very full. Very LOUD. I call it “bursty”. I’ll tell you why. Because one day, my head got too full and i exploded.

I’d been drinking too much for weeks, months, trying to shut my head up. Trying to find peace and quiet. Trying to sleep. Trying to avoid the hangover the next day. Trying to laugh instead of cry. Well one day it all came crashing down around me and i wrecked one house, smashed in another, terrified my loved ones, attempted suicide, and got put away for a couple of months in a special mental hospital. Not a ward, not a floor, but an entire hospital dedicated to VERY crazy people.
I was in the big leagues.

I got help… kinda. I got more diagnoses and conflicting diagnoses and shrinks who would tell me the last one was wrong and take me off all the old medications and put me on new ones. I got thrown out of a couple of programs that the p-docs at the hospital signed me up for, and that’s when i started seeing the “You again?” look on the nurses’ faces.

I’ve been in and out of The Bin for the better part of 20yrs, but after this last big blow out that happened in front of my family, something happened inside me. I decided i’d had enough of running away from who i am and what i’d been through. So i made a 180 and instead, i ran right into it. I threw myself head first into whatever the hell was gonna happen. I’d had enough of trying so hard not to be fucked up and being fucked up anyway.

I slid around inside my head – not gone, but not totally there. I was so tired. Two and a half years of pedal to the metal mania will do that to a person. I was used up inside, emotionally and physically.

Then i lucked out and got a really good social worker. (It’s happened a couple of times – they’re out there.) She accepted my diagnosis and actually knew a lot about it. She treated me like a person and not a case. She helped me make a plan and set goals. Most of all she helped me feel good about who i was as a human and especially as a mother. She helped me get my feet underneath me and take more than a few steps in the right direction. I even had a little momentum going.

Eventually my husband convinced me to go out and meet people.
I don’t actually have much to tell you about that time.
I know we met people, but i don’t know who, or how. I think some of it happened through going to the bar and singing karaoke, but beyond that, i have no idea. I don’t remember very much. The problem was, i could feel another explosion building inside my head, and i was so afraid and still so very tired from the last one that i was dissociating to avoid… everything. Relationships, feelings, my past, my mental issues. All of it.

I already knew what i had to do in order to avoid yet another major meltdown. I knew that i had to disclose and i knew to whom. I sat my husband down and told him that i had to purge it all, that it would likely take a couple of weeks, that i would be a slobbering, jibbering mess throughout, and i was pretty sure that afterwards i would be useless at best and dangerous to myself and others at worst.
He said Okay, let ‘er fly. I’ve got this.
I was right and he was almost wrong.

Let me see the dark sides as well as the bright
I’m gonna love you inside out
I’m gonna love you inside out
Let me…
~Inside Out, The Chainsmokers

* The title is a reference to a children’s book by the great Stan and Jan Berenstain
** Textured vegetable protein. It’s actually great, and i use it in place of hamburger often.

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly

The Art of Broken Pieces

“When you write, you should put your skin on the table.”
~Louis-Ferdinand Celine

I’m afraid to write too often or too regularly, because i’m afraid of what might come out. I’ve made a firm commitment though, to share how i deal with how my brain works, and to deny it -even to hedge a little- would lead me to stumble on my path. I’m as committed to stumbling as little as possible, as i am to telling you about it when i do, therefore i must write. As much and as able as i am to do so, i will.

Even if all i end up being is an excellent example of what not to do. Heh.

So yes, i am feeling somewhat fatalistic today. Which is odd and also amusing when one considers that i don’t believe in fate at all. Not a whit. Maybe it’s not so much fate, as it is this feeling that comes over me when i’m at the keyboard – the feeling that i MUST do this. The caged bird singing and all that, how poetic, tralala. I’ve expressed myself artistically in other ways, but i was too dysfunctional to pursue any of the opportunities that came my way as an adult. As a child, my seethingly jealous and envious mother did all my sabotage for me. I don’t know if i’ll ever be any good at writing, but i know i have one thing going for me, and that is that i’ve found my voice. I may never bash out any fiction (the mere thought makes me perspire), but when i write anything about my own thoughts and my personal life, i am exactly me, myself, and i. Which is darkly amusing, because i am many parts making up a whole person.

What do i want to write about today? I guess i want to write about what i’m going through right now, which is pretty much what i always write about. About a month ago, something happened that is the worst thing to happen to me since i’ve gotten my mental health on track. I’ve got one full year of no full blown mania or depression, no police or judge involvement, no voluntary or involuntary hospital admissions, and manageable levels of dissociation. I haven’t had two months of that, let alone thirteen and a half, since i went off the rails in 2006.

So i am deep in the shit. I’m going to do everything in my power to maintain my streak, but the pressure’s high, and i know that i might fail. I know some people bristle at the use of such words, but the word “fail” doesn’t bother me at all. I understand that sometimes it can help to shift someone’s perspective in a positive way to use different words. For instance, instead of the word “fail” i could call it a “stumble” or a “learning opportunity”. If that’s what works for you, then you keep doing it. You’ve got to tailor your plan of personal growth to suit your personality. I find a tremendous amount of freedom in calling a thing what it is and just dealing with it head-on. For some people, calling something they did a failure could be detrimental to their health, and i get it. Try not to hurt yourself anymore than you’ve already been hurt. Because of my upbringing, i loathe euphemisms and pop psychology is tough for me to take. Calling a thing what i think it is, helps me stay real and honestly connected to myself and my surroundings. What i mean to say is, just because it would be a euphemism for me, doesn’t make it one for you. Yours may be more accurately called a “learning opportunity”. Geez, i hope i made some sense, there. Heh.

You call what you call it, and i’ll do the same, and neither one of us is necessarily wrong. Although you might be. (I need a smartass font.)

Another word that i use that can make some people uncomfortable -even my therapist doesn’t care for it- is “broken”. Maybe some day i won’t use that word to describe myself anymore, but i can’t see it happening. I was profoundly abused as a child, and i’m broken in ways that will never be fixed. I’ve spent the majority of my adult life trying to emulate what normal looks like to me, and despite my best efforts, i’ve never quite gotten the hang of it. Once the most important thing became to know myself and be myself, the first thing that was abundantly clear to me is that my childhood broke me, and i will never know what i could have been or done with my life had i not been so broken.

As with most things though, i do find that there is a line to walk with this knowledge. I’ve seen what happens when the freedom that comes from acknowledgment becomes an excuse not to bother trying to fix the things that can be fixed. I have dived deeply into the waters of self-pity and while i believe i needed/deserved to and i’m glad i did, there came a time when i knew it was time to get out, shower, and dry off. I will never be returned to my original state, but i can stitch the wounds and set the bones.

I see myself as a piece of Kintsugi, which is the Japanese art of fixing broken pottery using lacquer that has been mixed with gold, silver, or platinum. Instead of hiding my cracks, i decorate them with something beautiful and those mended bits become the most precious parts of me. It’s not to say that i take a perverse kind of pleasure in being this broken, it is more that what others might see as useless and throw away, i put back together. And not just in a utilitarian manner – i did so artfully, and now it is even more beautiful and precious than it was in its unbroken form.

Freedom.

I have been broken and i have failed and i am free.

I am currently repairing the chip in my bowl with gold.

“There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.”
~Leonard Cohen

Love and Peace to All,

~H~
P.S. Did you notice how i started out writing about stumbling and then got on to failure? I didn’t until i was proofreading. Welcome to how my brain works – she is an interesting bit of stuff. Heh.

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly

Just Don’t Shoot the Albatross

A mania is fast approaching, and i hope i’m able to weather the storm. My thoughts come so quickly, tripping over each other and tumbling around in my brain, crying out to be acknowledged. They’re hungry and insistent, much like the baby birds in all the nests i see around our place out here. I’m trying to describe what it’s like to you, and i have so many things to say to you about it, but i’m having great difficulty nailing down something solid. It’s like reaching into a bowl full of earthworms and trying to pull out the longest one – they all look the same in the bowl. And i can’t discard any of the others should i pick the wrong one; they must all go back in the bowl (“Back in bowl?” I just flashed to Steve Martin in All of Me. Heh.)

So i’m frustrated and tired. I’ve been trying to grab something tangible and get some traction, but it’s been a real struggle. I finally seemed to have some good word flow yesterday, and was a good 800 words or so into it, when my entire page just blinked out of existence. While i’ve now learned a hard lesson about writing my blog using anything but the format provided by my host, it caused an interruption in brain service. Like my engine suddenly flooded and now it won’t start. I tried to get ‘er going for a while, but it was only making it worse, so i took the rest of the day off and now here i am. I think i’m gonna have to do it like Karate Kid’s mom and push it for a bit until i can pop the clutch.

It’s not just the racing thoughts either. They’re becoming grandiose. Yay. By that i mean much of what i’m thinking strikes me as so deep. Like deep, deep. I’m such an intellectual, you just don’t even know. It’s like being on cocaine. Those first few toots where all your burdens fall away and you see everything with such clarity(!) Not those last few where paranoia has set in and you’re pretty sure you’re gonna die of a heart attack, but you just keep doing more…

And it’s not just the laser-sharp picture i have of my situation and what it’s like and how i’m doing in my life that’s so intense. It’s the fucking poetry. It’s the flowery, glowy, sparkly, fragrant, pink fucking gel filter that’s over all of it. It’s like babies giggling and angels singing. It’s a lush green meadow full of puppies. Goddamn puppies. I feel like i’m full of art, and every thought is so perfect. It’s heady stuff. It threatens to sweep me away -and i want it to do so- but i can’t allow it to happen. I’ve sailed that ocean many times before, but no matter how well i navigate the currents, there’s an albatross around my neck, and no lighthouse on the horizon.

And my desert island looks a lot like a hospital room.

Even describing that made all my neurons fire at once (hashtagnotrealscience). Fortunately, my kid came out to talk to me and it worked as a damper on me feeling how amazing i am. When i don’t use the brakes, these thoughts and feelings gain momentum quickly, and it doesn’t take long before risky behaviours don’t seem dangerous at all – they just look like fun. When i’m depressed, fear is part of what keeps me immobilised. When i’m manic, fear barely registers, and on the rare occasion it does, it impedes exactly nothing.

I removed some things from my life a couple of years ago, and they’re staying out for the foreseeable future. I don’t have access to money and i don’t drive. My husband has all the cards and cheques and bank accounts. My name is on the accounts, but to access the funds i need ID, which is in my husband’s possession when i’m manic. If i need money for something and he’s not around, he gives me cash. It’s always a small amount, so even if i used it for something other than what was intended, i (probably) couldn’t get into too much trouble. And the driving… Well, the world is a better, safer place without me driving in it, because my judgment is for shit. Not only is my mind too full and busy for the attention and concentration required to drive, but i think i’m 10’ tall and bulletproof, which is a terrible state to mix with drugs and alcohol. I’ve been on some epic benders when i’m riding a mania, and if i took an innocent life, i’d be finished, and i’d stigmatise my loved ones for the rest of their lives. So no driving. I was never particularly good at it anyway.

I guess i’ve prepared as well as i can. Maybe the storm will just pass me by.

I’m hoping for the best, and the really cool thing is, i’m not braced for impact.

Enjoy Your Weekend,
~H~

IMAGE: Fer Nando

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly

How I Laugh In Crazy’s Face – le HAHAHA!

Part I: Mania

Living with my mental illness isn’t always a trudging drudgery punctuated by moments of bombastic frenzy, not nearly. At least, not now. Sometimes in the thick of it all, it’s been a near-constant emotional upheaval with the only respite being occasionally gripped by a crushing despondency. So there’s been some breaks in the monotony. Heh.

Pretty flowery speech, huh? Yeah well, still with the mania here. It’s not an issue so far, but my brain is full of the beauty of words and pictures and sounds, tralala lala.

One of my favourite and most powerful coping skills is humour. I laugh a lot, and i’ve always laughed a lot. It may be part of the reason i flew under most people’s radar when it came to signs of abuse. It’s certainly a key reason why i survived it. I can laugh at just about anything. Anywhere, anytime, and nearly any circumstance. Yes, some of it is of the panicked or disconnected variety, but i’m not referring to that kind here. And it’s not a killer clown response either. I’m no Pennywise. I’m just able to find the funny in nearly any situation.

It’s occasionally cost me in relationships, i suppose. I’ve offended some, shocked others, and some are just put off, but when it comes to my sense of humour it doesn’t vex me. As one who’s been overly concerned with acceptance and approval, that’s kinda weird.

As i’ve mentioned, i’m currently dealing with mania. I’m not worried about it, because for one thing, there’s no point, and for another, the price is too high for so little benefit. I look at it like it’s a person. She’s fun to hang out with for a bit, but we’re not having a sleepover. She always sticks me with the cheque, and i don’t have much disposable income, okay?
I can see how finding things funny has saved me on any number of occasions.

I’m focused on cleaning my house. My brain, my body, my life. The main living areas are relatively decent, but they’re cluttered and disorganised, and my version of spring cleaning has been haphazard, at best. Now though, my improving health, coupled with an approaching mania is bringing out my inner Maria Kondo. My approach to decluttering goes some thing like this:

– remove everything from cupboard/area;
– scrub everything within an inch of its life, whilst making that ridiculous concentrate-y face (i hope i never see what i look like);
– take a few of the items and place them in a small container, repeat;
– take a few of the small containers and place them in a larger container, repeat;
– put them back in the cupboard.

As i do this i think of George Carlin and his bit about “stuff.” I giggle because it’s applicable and George was a funny man. My boxes have boxes, and my boxes’ boxes have boxes, which are all kept in other, bigger boxes. And all my boxes, and all my boxes’ boxes, and all my boxes’ boxes’ boxes are contained in another big box that i like to call my Little Crooked House.

The dissociative part of me is watching all my efforts and laughing her ass off. I look pretty funny i’m sure, scurrying around from cupboard to drawer to table, tripping around the temporary chaos, sweating and talking to myself, making funny faces, blaring music while i sing and dance.

As i’m sorting through all the items, another thing about mania becomes clear. I’m constantly losing shit because my brain’s going so fast i can’t remember where anything is, and i can’t concentrate long enough to figure it out. Wanna know how i know?

I now have 8 tweezers, that’s how i know.
I also have 5 nail clippers and 4 toenail clippers.
Oh, and more than one copy of any number of books, CDs, and movies that i particularly like. About a week ago i found a third copy of Prince and the Revolution’s Purple Rain. I just grinned as i wrote that and i’m currently telling myself it looks kinda like the one he has on his face when Apollonia is trying to wiggle back into her leather pants after skinny dipping in not-Lake Minnetonka.
I have enough Chapstick to make a candle.
And we won’t even go into how i get paranoid about starving and so i’m finding stashes of dry and canned goods.
How do you not find that worthy of at least a giggle? Or a lopsided grin with an accompanying snort?

Picture me sitting on the rug like i was on Friday, going through another mystery box from my bedroom closet, singing along to Stacey Q (80s one-hit wonder),

“Two of hearts, two hearts that beat as one
Two of hearts, I need you, I need you
Two of hearts, two hearts that beat as one
Two of hearts, come on, come on”

I’m wiggling my ass from cheek to cheek and tossing my ponytail from side to side, then suddenly cackling like Grizelda on the Hilarious House of Frightenstein because i’ve just found my eleventyfirst tube of lip balm.

Well, it worked for me. Heh.
~H~

IMAGE: Brandable Box

Posted on by histrionicabutterfly

Somebody’s Knockin’

Somebody’s knockin’
Should I let him in
Lord it’s the devil
Would you look at him
~Terri Gibbs, Somebody’s Knockin’

Yesterday as i was handling my business so well and feeling so normal and accomplished, my old party buddy Mania began to stir. She’s been sleeping off her last bender, but it appears she’s feeling better.

So yeah. And YAY. /sarcasm

I try not to anticipate some things, because the power of my brain can sometimes make things happen that probably wouldn’t have otherwise. You know, like, if you’re certain you’re gonna have a shitty day, you’ll find a way to make it suck. It’s not just a matter of perception, it’s also intention. It can be that way with my old friend. If i talk about her enough, she’ll see it as an invitation to come hang out.

I do need to talk about it a little, but just by way of acknowledgement. It’ll help me with awareness of the potential for crazy to come knockin’. *

I’ve been actively dealing with/working on my bipolar disorder since around 2006, and i’ve learned a few things. One of them is being able to see a mania on my horizon. I’ll try to communicate this stuff as best i can, but it’s guaranteed to fall short.

I’ve been noticing my body’s response to this early, warm spring, for instance. It’s an animalistic response. Like, i wanna roll around in the green grass and stick my face in trees and flowers and consume the smell. I’d eat it if i could. Being outside is incredibly invigorating. And my sex drive, which had been in a sleepy, winter lull, is fully energised in a way that’s similarly carnal. More a bodily imperative than an epicurean pursuit. Spring fever – i haz it. My appetite has increased, but strangely, i’m not tasting the food. I just want to eateateateateat.

I’m registering changes in my thinking. In a word, it’s grandiose. I’m getting philosophical too, thinking about the fundamental nature of things. Deep thoughts in and of themselves aren’t a bad thing. I guess it’s my internal response to what i’m thinking that’s the red flag. I’m very impressed with myself, you see. As i’m thinking these profound thoughts, i’m not only excited by them, i’m awed by them, and by myself, particularly. It’s not so much pedantic as it is enthusiastic, but…

You see? It happened right up there. In that very paragraph. I’ve always loved words, and have amassed a fair vocabulary. As i was writing that paragraph i got swept away with choosing the best words for what i wanted to say. I risk losing your interest as i gaze adoringly at my way with words. Heh.

Simply put: i can see my thinking turning towards the belief that i’m 10′ tall and bulletproof. Without the benefit of drugs. Just this magical, orchestral way of thinking that fills me with anticipation of the magnificent and the expectation of something epic. I will be majestic and my deeds, epic. That’s as far as i dare go to explain it to you, as my writing has just confirmed to me very well. Mania is awake, and she wants to know if i can come outside and play.

My current plan is to ignore the knocking and continue with my daily routine. It’ll bring some much needed serenity whilst i come up with a plan.

~H~

*NOTE: Yes, i use the word “crazy”. If you find that word troubling, then i do apologise, insofar as it’s not my intention to vex you. If reader response to my use of the word becomes visceral, i may write about it more, but for now i’ll sum it up rather simply. I would compare it to the woman who refers to herself using the word “bitch”, or the gay man who calls himself that word that’s slang for cigarette in the UK, or a POC who refers to themselves using whatever term we generally consider to be an epithet when coming out of anyone’s mouth who’s not of that particular ethnicity.

The word “crazy” holds no negative connotation for me. It serves me in a number of ways:

  • It is a familiar, often casually used word, that carries a humourous, almost cartoonish tone;
  • It acknowledges the truth of my mental condition in a way that lets un-crazy people know that i know it, i’m cool with it, and i’m approachable about it;
  • It reminds me not to make it such a huge deal all the time. It is what it is, and all that remains for me is how i wanna handle it.

While it’s historically been a pejorative term, it’s evolved to become a part of our daily lexicon with its meaning coming more from context than its intended definition in its strictest sense. I like the word and feel better about my mental illness when i use it. ‘Yeah baby, i’m crazy. Ain’t no thang.”

IMAGE: Anthony Rampersad