Ego Mania and the Art of Choosing the Perfect Wind Chimes

All I could say was "o.k."  I wanted to scream at him, to blame it all on him.  To make it all about him and not me for just one god dam second.  He asked his kind questions and I gave my hidden answers:
"How do you feel?"
"ok" - I hate myself
"ok" - I don't know who I am
"ok" -I'm so pathetic
"ok" - I can't keep doing this
"ok" - I have no confidence
"ok" - I hate me
"ok" - I hate you
"ok" - Go to hell you can't help me                                                                                                                
"ok" - For just once could I not be the lost, emotional, ridiculous excuse for a human being that I constantly feel like!!!!!????  Or am.
I listen to those dam wind chimes on my back porch and am not quiet sure if I dislike them for being a potential disturbance to my neighbors or if I dislike them because I simply just dislike them, as a person, with an opinion.  Sometimes it seems as if I don't know what part of me forms thoughts and opinions based on my character and what part of me forms thoughts and opinions based on what I think I should and should not be thinking and feeling.  How terrifying to be a grown woman and not know if I like the sound of wind chimes.  But these particular ones are just so dam loud and disorderly.  It's too much.  So, no, I do not like loud and disorderly wind chimes.  Thank God-an assessment to call my own.  One down, 974 million to go.

Seriously though, I don't want to be indifferent.  If I did I would not be vying for a fight.  I just want the confidence that everyone around me seems to either have or successfully fake so gracefully.  Sometimes I compare myself to the everyday film, usually it's a dramatic comedy, they're easy.  And I try to pinpoint which character I would be, just to have something to compare to so that if I were an outsider, looking in, I could know what I would think of me.  I'm not aiming for the hero or even the lead role-though that would be a perk-I just want to be tolerable.  I mean I certainly don't want to be the character that everyone dreads having to stare at for another 87 God forsaken minutes.  So I wonder to myself, would you feel a sense of grace or humanity towards this person?  Would you be able to relate to her thoughts and feelings?  Would you forgive, love, or at least appreciate her existence?  Or is she the character you keep hoping will get hit by a garbage truck at the end of the film for the sake of comic relief?  Or worse, does my character not exist because the public is not interested in seeing that classification of crazy, because she's just too painfully annoying and pathetic to have to see on the large screen!  Fuck, I sound like such an ego maniac.  I guess what it comes down to is that I just want a happy ending.  You know the ones with the really awesome happy ending song, like Cat Stevens, If You Want to Sing Out Sing Out, and the audience all nodding their heads in grateful approval, thinking to themselves, now that's a character I would love to end up like.  Hmm, ok, so in this movie I am the lead role, I guess that was just a given.  Maybe I'm not even crazy, perhaps i just give too much credence to that petty, overly analytical head of mine.  Ya, right, I'm not so delusional that I don't think that every person doesn't tell themselves that statement at least once a week.

I just want confidence, even if it's over confidence.  AA, God, medication, meditation, sex, exercise, yoga, therapy, healthy diet, hobbies-check, check, check, check, check, check, check, check, check, check, check!  Where is the relief?  I want something lasting and hopeful.  Something that does not end in me, a garbage truck and a delighted applause from an amused audience.

My Fabulous Feet

I took a bath yesterday and stared long and hard at my feet and decided that they are fabulous.  They were definitely inspired by the stone age era.  Fred Flinstone's narrow-toed sexy older sister.  They are wide; solid as a rock.  No swaying or imbalance going on here.  A California earth quake couldn't knock this one down.  But I have a lovely arch, from my gymnastics days, you could slip and slide right under them with out so much as a giggle out of me (did I mention they are ticklish?).  Yes, they really are lovely.  My toes are narrow and I have perfectly proportioned nails, although they have no polish on them, I like to sport the little crustaceans Agrarian Style.  Although there's an inherent veinyness at the Dorsums which kind of resemble a dick, I still stand by my opening statement, my feet are fabulous.

The Battle Between Me, PMS, and the Boring, Narrow Minded Bitch in My Head

Yesterday Hunter and I got into an argument about who was more daring.  He seems to think, that of the two of us, I am far more cautious.  Then I asked him if he thought I was a narrow minded bitch-because I can be-and he said no.  So I asked him if he could understand why I would think he might view me as a narrow minded bitch and he said yes.  So then we got into another argument because I said that he accused me of being a boring, overly cautious, narrow minded bitch.  Hmmm, as you can see, Hunter didn't stand a chance. 

Friends Forever?

There is tension between one of my closest friends and I.  She recently blew me off with out so much as a phone call, something she has a tendency to do, but I love her and that's just one of her character defects, plus I know I'm not perfect either.  Funny thing is something similar happened with Hunter and a friend of his over the weekend and I just got off the phone with my sponsor who just told me that her and her best friend had a falling out yesterday.

It's so strange what happens to friendships as we get older.  The more depth they have, the more fragile they become.  One fight could sabotage everything.  In all it's strength and intimacy, in spite of the shared experiences and cherished disclosures, a few poorly chosen words could completely devastate all that it represented to begin with.  Really, a friendship isn't much different from a bar of chocolate in the sunlight; it's sweet, solid and easily dissolves if left beneath the heat for too long.  I remember when I was a child, I would get into fights with my friends and I would walk away or talk to someone about it and then, what usually happened is that we would both realize that the joy of the companionship simply outweighed the reason we were upset to begin with.  Perhaps it's the disillusionment that comes with too many broken hearts and promises; I suppose after enough pain, it just feels safer to let go of the friendship all together, but it seems that as adults, when we talk to each other about what a friend might have done, it's more or less for validation, not to be told what we did wrong, and when we walk away, it's usually for good.  I am a difficult person to be friends with and have had to work really hard to maintain, or sometimes, salvage what I have with the women in my life and sometimes it was better to let go but I can't help but wonder at what point in our lives did letting go become so easy?

The Taunting Memories of Mania

I've been taking some new supplements.  I don't think I can ever go off the Lithium but it's the Seroquel that I can't stand.  The sedation, the odd night time behaviour followed by my inability to wake up in the morning, but the worst part of it, the part that I hate more than anything, is the memory loss.  It's bad enough that I feel crazy 95% of the time but then stupid on top of that-really?  I was taking Provigil in the morning to help wake me up and get me out of bed but as a result I felt speedy, kept getting headaches and couldn't quit smoking, which triggered my chronic bronchitis.  Jesus.  So I started taking some supplements for my depression and constant fatigue and I feel wonderful, alive...happy.   But then I begin to wonder, am I too happy?  Am I manic?

I don't feel numb.  I don't feel speedy.  When I got laid off of my full time job on Thursday, my first thought was, how will I deal with this?  What will my plan of action be?  What are the worst case scenarios and how will I cope with them?  It seems pretty dam sane, really.  Yet, one of the girls today at my serving job told me I seem like I'm tweeking.  Yes, I feel giddy and silly and on top of the dam world, but FUCK why the hell not!  I've spent the last 20 years falling in and out of depression and living in blind fear of the next time it would happen again.  Is it so bad to want to enjoy this?!  Maybe I've simply become so jaded by this mental illness that I am just that much inclined to label happiness as mania.  Perhaps I am a little overzealous and unpredictable but there are worse things.  I have memories of my mania and not a day goes by that I am not mortified by them.  If I am manic, God help the people around me.

My Mother's Wedding, July 2000

I refuse to shave my legs, even if I am the maid of honor.  I have principals, she doesn't understand that.  I will shave my arm pits, simply because her and one of the bridesmaids begged me to, but that is as far as I'll go. 

Today she gets married and I will make it more special for her than anyone.  I'm going to help her feel as if my grandpa is still alive and that he is there with her today.  She is going to love it!  I made copies of all the pictures of him that I could find and even bought cheap frames so that they stand up nicely, as if he is looking right at her.  This will be the most memorable day of her life, I'll make sure of it.  She needs to know how much I love her.

Finally at the church!  I'm so excited!  I bring my bag full of pictures of my grandpa.  I have 9 total!  That should be enough to surround the entire room.  I walk into the dressing room where her and the bridesmaids are helping her get ready.  It makes me mad, I should be the one by her side helping her get ready.  I'm 19 and just because I was hospitalized twice this year, does not mean I am incompetent.  It's fine, let it go!  I have something better.  I start to run circles around the room placing framed photos of my dead grandfather in every corner and open space I can find.  I tell her he is with her and am sure she will cry tears of joy, then hug me for my thoughtfulness.  Then I stop.  I look around the room at the horrified faces and watch my mother put her freshly makeuped face in her hands as tears start to pull her mascara down her cheeks and she begs me to put them away.  Her bridesmaids stare at me in disbelief.  This is going all wrong.  What did I do? 

I don't want to go back to that, but I ache for a sense of happiness and commonality.  Like those people that walk down the streets smiling as if they are so thankful to be alive.  The people that shake off the negativity as if it were no greater of a threat than a butterfly on their shoulder.  They laugh at objectionable behavior and shed a tear for injustice, but go on their merry way in the end of it all.  The ones who have gifts and know what they are and embrace, nurture, and flaunt them.  Those in this world with one simple, beautiful thought at a time.  To live with out shame would be my greatest achievement and most commendable loss.  Well, perhaps I am on my way, but if not, at least I'll have a dam good story to tell.   

Narcissus Part 2

I wanted so badly to believe that I had found my Garden of Eden.  I was sober and in a relationship with a good looking man who could make me laugh until my sides hurt.  We were in love and already planning our perfect wedding.  Although his impatience and subtle demonstrations of disrespect seemed slightly crooked, I told myself the very words that every woman at some point in her life has found comfort in, This Time Will Be Different.

Prior to Narcissus and the one year I took to "be single and focus on my program"- a piece of direction I took very halfheartedly during that period-I had ended a 3 year relationship with a young artist and musician who had a heart of gold and an intimate affair with Irish Whiskey.  His name was Tom.  Last I heard about him, he had walked into an elderly woman's home in a black out, took off his shirt and than knocked over a lamp well he was trying to find a place to sleep.  Needless to say he was arrested.  I know I loved him.  In spite of how unhealthy we both were, we shared something simple.  Our relationship was characterized by the kind of love and acceptance that grows over time and is not easily compromised.  In so many ways that relationship was healing for me, but, like so many connections between two people that are plagued by alcoholism, it did eventually grow sour.  I wanted to get better and Tom just wanted to keep on drinking.  The end was dramatic, painful and filled with promises and ultimatums.  But the final days left me sick to my stomach and heart broken for the both of us.  Today I look back at that time in my life and know that, more than anything, I just needed to be on my own, but couldn't, simply because the idea of not having a boyfriend and facing, alone, even the most incidental moments that occur through out every day life, seemed unbearable.  I needed men just as much as I needed to drink.  I was a puppet attached to the strings of addiction-shopping, sex, alcohol, drugs, eating disorders-it didn't matter.  I couldn't function without the misguided direction of some form of physical distraction to pull me out of my own self-perpetuating, miserable reality.

So, it turned out, that Narcissus wasn't any different, maybe different wrapping but the same broken gift.  Really we were both broken, with me it was just so much more obvious.  For 9 miserable months we fought and I held on out of fear that this was my last chance, that if I let go I would destroy an opportunity for happiness and the world would never give me another one.  I didn't understand God's will for me in this broken relationship and I did not have faith that there was something better out there.  Fear of loneliness and rejection haunted me.  If our failed relationship was my fault and I let it go and risked losing what I thought was true love, than what would become of me?  I learned three valuable lessons in that relationship; one, that if we are constantly kicking and screaming, begging for happiness in the throws of darkness, than all we will ever find, is darkness; and two, that if my senses are telling me that something doesn't feel right and I keep looking for rightness through the one person who keeps delivering into the palms of my hands, a sense of wrong, than I will never feel balanced; and, lastly, that if I don't know who I am and what I want, I will never be able to share myself with somebody else.  So I said goodbye and it was not pretty, but it was real and it was a decision that was true to my heart and I did not ever have to question if I did the right thing.  I knew that if this relationship was meant to work out, it would.  So I let faith, my friends and family, and the people in AA carry me through one of the most painful experiences of my life.

Narcissus

I returned from Chicago late last night. It really was an amazing trip. I went back to my old home group (a term in AA that we use for our regular meeting that we commit to going to every week) and I had completely forgotten how much love existed between us.  When I first got sober 6 years ago, I walked through those very doors, hateful, scared and unwilling.  It was the last place in the world I had ever wanted to be and, seeing that, for a good portion of my life I viewed AA as a cult, filled with pathetic, weak-minded people who were all just victimizing themselves, I did everything in my power to avoid it at all costs   I tried desperately to appear as if I had everything together, yet, I was dying inside.  I can even remember what I wore that day, practically every woman does.  We can walk into those rooms with dark circles under our eyes, a sad inability to smile, 25 pounds under weight and, in some cases, flaunting the repercussions of our disease through our teeth, hair and swollen liver, but any of us would be damned if we were to show up to our first AA meeting makeupless in a T-shirt and jeans.  Yet, in spite of that, they welcomed me with open arms.  

One of the members of that home group once told me that if a person with a drinking problem takes away the alcohol, he gets healthy, but if an alcoholic takes away the alcohol, he's becomes crazier than ever.  That is how I knew I belonged in Alcoholics Anonymous.  I was selfish, self-centered, dishonest and utterly afraid.  It's said, and I definitely support this theory, that anger is a manifestation of fear, and, being that I wanted to kill everyone that both did and did not come near me, it was easily apparent that I was hopelessly consumed by fear.  I didn't have to be a member of that home group long before I received the nick name "Angry A___".  So I did what any terrified woman in recovery would do, I alienated myself from every female who tried to get close to me and viewed every semi-attractive man- although in some cases even that particular requirement wasn't a necessity-as an opportunity.  I suppose that to some I was the modern day Medusa and to others I was just an easy target.  Either way, I quickly found myself practically friendless and in a terrible relationship.

His name was Narcissus, he had 12 years sober and was very charming.  I actually did what I was supposed to do, I waited until I had a year and finished my 5th step.  Those were both mine and his sponsors terms if both of us wished to pursue a relationship with each other.  It was a mistake though, and if I hadn't been so desperate for a happy ending after so many years of sickness and insanity, I might have seen it.  A lot of people in AA say that people are usually considered newcomers for the first 5 years and, frankly, I couldn't agree more with that statement.  I might have had a year, but I was still out of my mind and lacked the tools I needed to, not only, choose a good companion but to be one as well.  The red flags were waving in all directions and I was high on ADSD, Ardent and Dysfunctional Self-Deception.

To be continued. . . 

Choosing to Live

I know that we all have those weaknesses and limitations that sometimes torment our sanity and threaten our hope for happiness.  I will never claim to hold a stronger knowledge of pain or sadness than others.  All I know is myself and the form the yellow wallpaper takes in my periphery.

I woke up this morning with 3 options haunting my every thought; overdose; go off your meds and leave the country; let them lock you up.  I was crying in what is now my old bedroom and thinking about how many awful memories that very room has been an accessory to in the past 20 years.  The sadness; the tears; it was horrifying.  How could one tiny, unimportant life be filled with such misery?  And if, after all this time, my solution is still limited to the same 3 options, how on earth can I ever claim happiness?  I remember the first time I tried to kill myself I was 10.  It was in this room.  I had a thin rope that was just long enough to wrap around my small, 10 year old neck.  I tried to strangle myself but instead walked away alive, with a cluster of  purple marks all around the skin of my neck.  I was a ten year old amateur who was too depressed to live and too scared to die.  I guess my will to live is much stronger than I give it credit for, because here I am, 19 years later, still contemplating death but unsuccessful to this day.  So I called my therapist and I walked out of my dreadful room.  That was the first step.

On the other side of that door was the familiar sound of my dear friend Joni's voice.  Her and my mom became tight in their 30's and I instantly took a liking to her.  A funny, beautiful, recovered alcoholic with amazing talent and remarkable wisdom, Joni had a way of making sense of the things I had yet to understand.  I had no idea I was bipolar and I certainly didn't think I was an alcoholic, but I related to her in a way I had never related to anybody.  From body image issues to male obsession, she always seemed to know exactly what to say.  So when she came over to pick my mom and I up for lunch the relief was almost instant.

 ". . . I still use you as an example whenever I talk to other women in the program who struggle with bipolar disorder.  You have never allowed yourself to be victimized by it.  To those who are still struggling, you are an example that it is possible to come out the other side.  You were bad, as bad as Jenn, maybe even worse, but you fought it and look at you now, you're living your life, you moved to California, you're in a healthy relationship, you're doing everything you said you wanted to do; you're amazing, you really are.  You're nothing like you used to be."

Funny, about 10 minutes ago, I was.  Jesus, I don't want to be that person again.  I've come so far.  So I pulled my head out of my ass and had a strange realization.  I keep looking for answers but I've been asking myself the wrong questions.  All this time I have been looking, with no success, for an example of a recovered alcoholic that is manic depressive, sane, strong and completely competent.  I've become so diluted by my own frustrations and sense of hopelessness that I have forgotten that that very example I have been searching for, is me.  I owe it to myself, and to the many other people that are struggling with bipolar disorder and alcoholism, to survive, to be a testament to everything we're capable of, and to be that very person that I have so desperately looked for.  All this time she was looking right back at me.