One Long Year Later

For the past year I have wrestled with demons, good times, manic phases…you name it. I have been trying to fly below the radar…keeps things that much easier. I want so much to be anonymous, but in today’s climate, that is virtually impossible. I hate the fact that my fingerprints are in the system (not that I plan on going out and committing a crime, mind you).

This past year was a hard one at my job (let me say this right now…I am blessed with employment!). I was still on a learning curve. But what soon became evident were the issues plaguing me during recovery. I still have short-term memory loss and we don’t know if it will be permanent. Things got so bad that I was put in a sort of probationary 3-month re-evaluation subject to my work performance. I’ve lost four accounts because of the mistakes I have made. However, that period soon passed once they understood it to be the cause of a medical condition.

Ironically, I have had a great month at work so far for January. I’ve shifted my focus. I now get up at the crack of dawn (0400, to log on to the employer’s VPN at 0700). That leaves me with 3 hours before I have to be at work. Now, every morning, I am drinking my hot tea while doing my devotions and Bible reading and praying. I am also starting to record Joyce Meyer so I can pause it here and there while I take notes. I figure that’s about the best way I can start the day.

My beloved little church finally succumbed to lack of attendance, so the Pastor chose to close the church. I have tried a few and I have come across one that I am going to attend a few more times before I commit to anything. This is a much larger church and is not affiliated with a denomination which I like. Their praise & worship is a little different from what I’ve become used to, but that can change in time. What’s nice is that my pastor from the previous church and his wife, one other couple and a single dad have decided that they really like this church as well.

There is so much I want to say and I don’t even know where to start. My mom celebrated her 90th birthday last September and she is feisty as ever. She mall walks everyday, plays bridge twice a week and attends several social butterfly lunches. You’d never know it to see her. I have this picture of my Mom and I with our heads together and we have the same colour hair considering I am 36 years younger than she is. I sure hope I come from her gene pool!

Unfortunately, my niece and all of the “precious” great-grand children came with her. She knows she smells like a rose and can do no harm. That pure bull. While she can smile and laugh with the best of them, she is quite devious underneath. Just remember that she is the one who refuses to invite me to the family holiday festivities. I am the only one not invited. Well, after everyone had eaten their dinner and was just sitting around the table in the restaurant, I pulled K outside to finally end it all and call a truce even though I still don’t know how I ever pissed her off that much (hell, maybe she’s homophobic, I don’t know). I pointedly asked her why had I been excluded all these years and she said, “but I only invite my family.” Heck, I am her Godmother and her Aunt. What part of “her family” does that not fit? So what am I, chopped liver…LOL?

My Mom once told me to rise above the circumstances. So, regardless of what K said, I still decided to send her a 5x7 close-up of Mom already framed and a framed wallet-sized photo of Mom and Santa. I also happened to send it to my nephew (her brother) and my brother (yeah, I know, surprise, surprise). Today is 13 January and I have gotten a thank you from everyone except K. Well, now I can wash my hands of her. The next time I will see her will most likely be at my Mom’s funeral. My intention after my mother dies is to make no overtures towards anyone left in the family. If someone calls me, then that’s a different story. But I am an adult and I don’t have time for such foolishness. The only person I can see having a loose relationship with is my older sister P. We have been on good terms, but she is so much like Dad was. Always offering advice when none is asked, and always reminding me of how I could have done something better. Come to think of it, my brother L has the same rock to stumble over.

And so it begins—a new year filled with possibilities. Last October and the ensuing months were the absolute low point in my life. I don’t wish to be faced with the same set of circumstances that led me to attempt suicide.

I quit seeing the therapist I was first assigned to because her available hours conflicted with my work schedule. So she graciously referred me to another therapist she had good words to say regarding her, but I went to two sessions with her and she was a tad bit over the top. Look, I don’t care what time of day it is, I cannot deal with chirpiness. She was just wa-a-ay to happy a camper. So, I called the office, indicating that the second therapist was not a good fit and could I return to seeing the first therapist. The woman who answered the phone said they would have to check my medical records and have the request referred to the nurse and someone would get back to me. Well, it’s been a month and I haven’t heard anything. Yeah, I know, I should probably call and follow-up; I just haven’t had the energy to accomplish much of anything.

I am still seeing my psychiatrist and now my visits are once every three months—more of a med and status check than anything. Nevertheless, he is quite concerned about my lack of attention, focus and my short-term memory issues that have had a measureable impact on my job. He wants me to go in for neurophysiologic testing to see if we can pinpoint either the cause of the problems or if it’s temporary or not (it’s been over a year now…sounds kinda permanent to me). My psychiatrist is worried that I may have caused some injury to my brain when I attempted suicide (God only knows what flowed through my veins that night). Then, after the results are in (I have no idea what tests they would be performing), I may have to do neurocognitive rehab. I have no idea what that is all about either.

Well, I’ve now had my car for one year and I am still happy with it. But get this, I only have 3900 miles on it. I just don’t have long distances to drive around the city. Almost everything I do except for grocery shopping is within walking distance. That’s my effort of getting off my lazy ass and generating some energy burn. I found out yesterday from my Mom that the Honda Fit made Consumers Reports their best value, and Car and Driver put the Fit in their top ten for five years in a row.

OK, shift in focus. Sunday night it began to snow heavily here (I live in the southeast US). We usually don’t get snow, but ice storms instead. At night, it was so serene and picturesque. It was like looking at a huge Ansell Adams mural. When all was said and done, we ended up with 10 inches of snow. I had so much fun. However, I did learn one lesson…don’t attempt to make a snow angel in 10 inches of snow. When you fall back, it’s a longer way down than it looks, and then, once you’ve landed, all the snow falls in and buries you (my most graceful move yet). 4 days later, only the streets are finally cleared, but all of our yards are still covered with the leftover snow. The fact that the temp hasn’t risen above freezing all this time is making it harder for the snow to dissipate. But it sure was peaceful and beautiful. That, most probably, will be our big storm of the season.

I can tell I am losing some of the ground I gained when I was in that outpatient therapy program for 3 hours a day Mon, Wed, and Fri that lasted for three months. I feel the BPD becoming an issue again. I am isolating again and at the same time having a pity party that I don’t have more friends, then I take solace in my aloneness (I prefer that to loneliness). When I really think about it, I love living alone so much that I don’t even entertain the idea of dating much less having a girlfriend move in. I love my privacy. I love not answering my door (unless I know already that someone is on their way…I make them call me when they get in my driveway). I had fun with the Census Bureau. I did not fill out the form and mail it in. I feel it’s an invasion of privacy despite all their protestations that ALL information will be kept confidential. HA! They started coming by the house, first one, then another for a total of five visits. I ignored them completely. They even went to my neighbours twice (they had already been coached to answer in such a way that it did not reveal gender and number of people living in my house). I just don’t want someone knowing my business. While I applaud the medical community and their HIPAA regulations, we could sure use some of that stringent guideline in the private sector. Face it. Too many people know too much information on everyone. All it takes is this wonderful Ethernet world.

I promise, I promise to get back into my blogging on a regular basis. I guess too many of you are sick of listening to Santana. I left it as my playlist for this past year. Today, when I post this entry, I will change the music (I promise). It sure is nice to be back again.©2011

Outpatient Therapy-Day 24 (Monday 14 December-AM)

I have been somewhat disappointed these last couple of days. I was doing so well last week. Since my short-term medical disability is only approved through December 16th, so I thought I would be ready for discharge from this group therapy program. The therapist recommended that I return today to wrap everything up, but after this weekend, I could tell that I was more depressed than last week. I do not know what the catalyst was, but I am glad I had the chance to return. My daily check-in sheet showed a marked decrease in my level to function since last week.

One thing that I am disappointed in is that there have been a lot of new admission over the last couple of sessions. I still cannot handle being around many people. When the entire group gathered this morning to fill in the daily sheet I sorta freaked out. I moved from my spot at the table to a chair against the wall in the far corner until everyone finished and the big group split. Unfortunately, that still left a lot of people in my own group. I miss the folks that were part of my original core group when I started, but with the exception of two other people, everyone is fairly new. I have no rapport with them. They do not know my history. When it comes to my turn to share what is on my daily check-in sheet, how can they determine my level of progress (or in this case, the steps I have taken backwards)?

Even though there were still a lot of people, once the group split, I assumed my seat at the table (I always sit in the same chair—the one closest to the back door leading outside if I have to escape for a short period of time). Luckily, the person already sitting there was part of the other group. The therapist asked who wanted to go first and I groaned because we go around the table and it was going to take forever to get to me. As much as I put forth when it is my turn to share, with all these new people I had no idea how long it would take them to get through their sheets. Some people have been known to go on and on about not much at all. Not that I am trivializing their plight, but to repeat the same scenario over and over again from one person can get to be a bit much.

Actually today, it was interesting to hear the new folks share. So many of them were in exactly the same mental space I was in when I first started. It gave me a new appreciation for the strides I have made even though I feel like I have taken a few steps backward these past few days. Then, finally, it got to be my turn. One of the things I processed was my interesting reaction to my first visit back to my church after a nine-week absence since I tried to commit suicide. Here I was anxiety-filled at facing all these people for fear of what they would all ask me about my absence. Sure, some of the folks knew the truth, but there were a bunch that did not. I can still remember how stricken I was standing outside at the front door for fear of what would happen once I went inside (see post below).

Once I described how lonely I ended up feeling after the service was over since no one approached me (I had to keep telling myself it was because they were respecting my privacy), the therapist thought it was quite oxymoronic.©2009

My Return to My Church

Today I am gong to try to go back to my church after nine weeks. I am feeling very anxious about this. The anxiety has been focused just upon opening that door after all this time. I plan to arrive after the service has started to avoid anyone ahead of time. I know people will notice when I come in and I am also anxious about what to do after the service. Do I leave early the same way I came in? With my cane, I am not walking as quickly as I could. What happens if someone comes out to the parking lot after I leave as I walk across the street back to my house? My exposure is greatest at this point. On the other hand, do I stay until after the service and just get it over with and let everyone welcome me back? I have 45 minutes before the service starts and I am trying to use my tools to quell this anxiety—stay in the moment and not try to project—take it 5 minutes at a time if I have to…

(later)… About five minutes before leaving the house, I decided to do some deep breathing exercise to calm me. That seemed to do the trick. I walked across the street and approached the front door having no idea what to expect. I opened the door and the service was late getting started, but everyone was sitting in their seats. When one individual noticed me, she said rather loudly, “Hi Alix,” and that was it. The service started and no one paid any attention to me. The message that the pastor preached was a good one for me to hear. It was all on how a mighty God we have. At the end of the service, I stayed for a few minutes and it was the dénouement. No one came up to me. I think I was a little bit disappointed, but I did not have to deal with anyone. Maybe everyone was just respecting my space. Therefore, I stood, put on my jacket and walked out the door feeling a little lonely. It is odd, while I had such anxiety about dealing with everyone, when everyone had the chance to say hi to me to welcome me back, no one did. Maybe next week will be different. But, I finally crossed that threshold.©2009

How I Handled Yesterday

Knowing I was feeling very depressed yesterday (see post below), I was afraid to be alone in my house for fear that my suicide ideation would begin. I decided to be proactive during the day. I already know that my front porch does not offer me much solace as it once did, so I decided to try the backyard. I sat in my camp chair (very comfortable with two cup holders) in the full sun while listening to my iPod for the duration of the day until the sun went down. It was 61˚F/16˚C and absolutely beautiful. I was still very depressed, but not suicidal. When the sun went down, I went inside to bundle up and stayed outside until the stars cam out and watched the moon rise. I was out of my house and safe, and that is all that mattered.©2009

How My Family Treats Me on Thanksgiving

How my family treats me on Thanksgiving—I am not quite sure where to begin. Usually, the feast is held at my nieces’ house with everyone in attendance, some of whom (as in my mother and my sister, the mother of my niece) have to travel about four hours to attend. I myself just live two-and-a-half hours away.

However, several years ago I found out that I was not welcome at my niece’s house. I just happened to call my nephew (who lived in the same city as my niece) to wish him a happy Thanksgiving where he, in turn, ask me what I was planning to do. I replied that I had no plans and he asked me to come with him to my niece’s house where everyone in the family would be attending (he seemed surprised that I knew nothing about it—while I knew my mother and sister would be attending, no invitation ever came from my niece). I told my nephew that I did not receive an invitation, but he just replied that that was nonsense and everyone was going to be there and wasn’t I part of the family? He insisted to the point that I agreed to meet him at his house and go with him.

When I arrived, my niece answered the door and when she saw that I was with her brother, she was clearly not pleased, but couldn’t say anything in front of all of the others. During the course of the appetizer conversation, it became evident to me that I was certainly not welcome by anyone, and my mother looked rather displeased as she must have known that I was not specifically invited. Of course, no one came out and said anything, but clearly, I was uncomfortable at my reception and the duration of the day.

Later on, the following day I queried my mother (the patron saint of protocol) and sister and asked them what the problem was. I was totally clueless. My mother said I shouldn’t have gone since I did not receive an invitation (it sounded as if she knew more, but didn’t say anything). Then I asked my sister and she replied in kind. I asked whatever did I do anything to my niece to warrant such treatment, and the reply I received was that my sister didn’t really know, but that it was my niece’s prerogative and that I should respect it. I was hurt beyond compare, not just at my niece’s reaction, but also by the fact that both my mother and sister appeared to support my niece’s position. On one Thanksgiving, it was actually held at my mother’s house instead (and of course, my niece and her family would be there). Stung by everyone’s long-standing support of my niece and her decision to completely cut me out, I told my mother I would not be attending if she was going to be there and my mother, fearing a scene, thought that would be advisable.

Thanksgiving has always been an important holiday to me as it represented the one time that everyone would be there. Even when my son was a little boy and travelling would make it hard to travel to my mother’s house, I always made a big deal about Thanksgiving, as I wanted to make memories for my son. We always made an ordeal about it from the cooking of the meal to our special outing afterwards to his favourite park he liked to play. I always took many pictures and was pleased that I was started my own traditions with him. As he grew up, we began to travel to my Mom’s house (five hours away) to be with the rest of the family (long before my niece had her own family).

Well, this year the holiday celebration is to be at my nephew’s house instead. I held out hope that maybe I would finally be invited, but no call ever came. I just cried, as it only firmly cemented the fact that I really don’t have a family outside of my son, who now lives on the west coast and celebrates it with his birth father and his grandmother. I cannot afford to fly out to be with them, although I know I would be welcomed.

I did receive a message from a couple at church to join their family at Thanksgiving, but having not attended church for quite sometime, coupled by the fact that her extended family (whom I really don’t know) would be there would make me very uncomfortable. I am sure, out of respect to me, I would not be peppered by questions as to my continued absence from church, but being around a bunch of people, some of whom I do not know is too much for me to handle right now. Following in my mother’s footsteps on proper protocol, I called back, thankfully to have her daughter answer and I just told her to give her mom a message where I thanked her very much for the thoughtful invitation, but I would be unable to attend.

So here I sit, all alone on one of the most important days of the year only to be reminded that I am not wanted by my family.©2009

Utter Contempt

This post was never meant to be. Late last night, with full resolve, I put into place my deeply rooted desire to carry out my intended plan so foolishly done with exacting ineptitude only five  weeks earlier. However, quite obviously, this did not transpire.

Instead, I have been up all night, in my castle without a drawbridge, inspecting and taking inventory of how fucking miserable my life really is. I am fuming, livid if you will that, I have been unable to carry forth my intent. I sat there looking at everything and just wailed at my utter, incompetent nature to go through this and curled up in fetal position and cried all this whole time, getting even more enraged at the stupid lack of action (spinelessness, my Achilles' heel) which only proliferated my feeling of being a total failure. Despite the fact that I actually carried out my intent 5 weeks ago, I am fuming that I was unable to go through this in view of the knowledge of the abject uselessness of my desolate life. I am quite numb at the moment, steeling myself from all other emotion. I cannot understand why the fuck I cannot go through with my actions now—so easily attainable such a short time before. I take back the feeling of being numb—I am enraged beyond all comparison. All I heard was this loud voice that kept yelling over, “Go ahead, kill yourself, I dare you to have the balls to do this, you inept asshole,” over and over, covering my ears and yelling at it to shut the fuck up as if covering my ears would make such a difference. I cannot believe, nor do I have the words, to describe the contempt in which I hold myself. My utter failure at my most piercing desire only proves to myself how stupid, miserable and useless I am.©2009

I Miss My Church

Gosh, today is absolutely beautiful outside. It’s 64˚. The sun is shining brightly with a piercing blue sky. I’m out here on my front porch just listening to the acorns pelt my roof and driveway (yeah, I know I should be out there sweeping them—they’re as dangerous as ball bearings as you try to walk among them. Here it is two weeks into November and only now the leaves are starting to turn.). There must be some truth about the sun’s effects on depression. I always feel more peaceful sitting out here, even with the noise of the steady traffic. If only I got suicidal during the daytime. The first couple of times I felt suicidal after I came home from the psych ward, I tried to retreat from inside my house to the porch, but the darkness was still around me. It’s a shame that my porch is only a safe haven for me during the day.

I’ve been out here most of the morning and afternoon. This morning I watched my church parking lot fill with cars. This whole issue about going back to church really has me confused. I want so badly to attend, but I still cannot deal with all of the people and the eventual greetings and questions. How I wish I could sneak in where no one would see me.

Even before my world came tumbling down around me one month ago, I had already begun to isolate. I’d still attend church, but I started planning my entrance just around the time praise & worship had begun. Most didn’t see me as the doors are on the side. They sat in front of the doors, so I wasn’t immediately noticed when I’d take my usual seat. Then I began the habit of leaving the building immediately after the service was over to avoid everyone. The last time I even sat further in the back to make the getaway a little faster.

There is a row of chairs right by the door I always use, but there are a couple of folks that sit there. I cannot sit next to anyone. If I sit back too far, it just takes that much longer to get away. No, I’m not ready to go back my church. So, here I sit on my porch watching my church to which I so much want to return.©2009 (continued above...)

Outpatient Therapy, Day 7, the Gift Bag at My Door, & My Attempt at “Radical Acceptance”

I do not have much to say about today’s session. The therapist is concerned that I am not eating except a small snack to take with my Geodon. She is also concerned about my insomnia. I did not have much to share. Not much had changed from Wednesday, but I was able to report that I was not having any suicidal ideation Thursday night. Very depressed, yes, but I was able to leave it at that. She pointedly asked me if I could remain safe through the weekend and I could only tell her that I have demonstrated successfully one tool, and that was all I could promise her. I also told her that my psychiatrist has requested me to call him for a check-in call on Saturday and Sunday. She seemed rather pleased with that.

In actuality, my blogging has actually helped me with the ideation Thursday night. I spent a good deal of time writing, reading others’ blogs, and keeping up with my LGBTQ-oriented Facebook account (OK, a translation for you straight folks: Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgendered, Queer/Questioning), along with my Twitter feeds.

Something weird happened at break. One of the folks in my small group came up to me and wanted to know why I ignored her after trying to say hi two times. I had to honestly tell her that I really had not noticed her (remember me; I am all about blinders around other people). She started crying and I did not what the hell to do as she did this in front of everyone. Then everyone stared at me. Well, I am sorry that I must have hurt her feelings (I can recognize that from classic BPD symptoms), but I am not responsible for her feelings, only my own. I felt, with everyone staring at me, that I at least had to apologize. I really didn’t want to have to interact with her at all, but what was I to do? It is not as if I go around intentionally trying to hurt someone, or be rude or uncaring. I just simply want to be left alone. Soon enough, break was over so I went inside where both groups join and found my seat on the far wall. I also asked the therapist if I could crack open the emergency door right beside me in case I had to leave the room (I do not want to make a spectacle of getting up and walking by everyone to leave through the normal door). She said that was fine (no alarm attached to the door)

I came home and found this gift bag by my front door inside my porch. Curiously, I picked it up and brought it inside. The attached note said, “For your walks around the neighbourhood…a few things I thought would come in handy.” It was signed from the only church member (outside of my pastor and his wife) that I had been relatively honest with about some things. Evidently she has been reading my blog and noticed my entries concerning with my dissociative states while walking or driving. Inside the bag was some pretty neat stuff. It contained an atlas with very detailed set of maps of my city along with a street index finder. I found my house (conveniently already marked with an icon as there is a large city fire department up at the corner. Nevertheless, I am going to put an X right where my house is anyway because with a past dissociation, the fire department’s presence did not mean anything to me. I’ve even post-noted my relevant pages). It also marks subdivisions and schools—things I pass by on a regular basis. In addition, there was a device with a red blinking LED visible to one km with a range of 180˚. It came with a strap and three batteries. I can attach this to myself to make me visible when I take my late-night walks. There was also an LED pen light with a magnifier lens that only weighs 38g and has a metal clip attachment. The last thing in the bag thrilled me to no end—a new tool. This seven-in-one tool is only 12cm long. Get this—it contains an LED light, compass, thermometer, clock, safety whistle, safety mirror and a 2X magnifier. It comes with a lanyard I can wear around my neck. Now I can be all decked out in LED!

OK, time for an honest reality check here—my perception vs. my reality. This person does want to be close to me—not because of the gifts, but because of the intentions behind them. I wrote her a long email thanking her (I did not feel prepared enough to actually talk with her at that point). In the same email, I told her everything. I even attached two documents on bipolar and borderline personality disorders to help her understand the effects these have on me. She responded with such a kind email; it gave me some contact with another person who now knew me the way I wanted her to know me—no pretence about anything. She let me know that she clearly knew what my boundaries were and that she was not going to be in my face, but essentially would let me make any contact. Fearing that I would lapse into my normative state of isolation, I told her that it was OK to call me, but if I felt I was not capable to talk, she could leave me a vm. I was OK with that, so after reading the email, I actually felt better prepared to call her. I am trying so very hard to reach out, but I can only take baby steps. I fear rejection; I fear abandonment.

Now, onto my next hurdle—trying to use “radical acceptance.” The principles are 1) solve the problem, or, 2) change how you feel about the problem, or 3) stay miserable, or 4) accept the problem. It takes away the “judgements” and removes the “shoulds.”

The hurdle—all of the anger and resentment I have felt toward my pastor for placing the 911 call and coming by the house to show the police my text message. My perception? That he was disappointed with me, angry because I did not call first and ask for prayer before I got in that state, and that he would think less of me. Therefore, I took a very deep breath and wrote down everything I wanted to say before I called him so I could focus and concentrate on what I really wanted to say.

I called his house and thankfully, he answered. I am not really sure what I would have said if his wife had picked up instead…I wasn’t prepared for that scenario. I told him who I was not knowing if he would recognize my voice. Then I told him I had something to say and would he listen to me without interrupting me until I was done. I asked him if he would meet me because there were some things that I needed to say to him alone, that we could meet in a public venue of his choosing as long as I would not be seen as making a spectacle of myself if I got emotional, and it had to be a place where I could smoke (damn these city ordinances banning smoking to even include many outside venues). We settled on standing in the church parking lot (right across the street from me) for this Tuesday at 1630. When I finished what I said, he asked if he could say a few things. I hesitated momentarily—this wasn’t a planned two-way conversation. I wanted to say what I had to say, set the time and place and get off the phone, but I ended up saying OK. He helped fill in some more of the blanks. Evidently there were already three or four police cruisers and the EMS there across the street in the church parking lot before he arrived (I had been told earlier by one of the first responder cops that they parked there with no lights flashing on purpose so as not to alert me in case it was a situation of “suicide by cop”). The cops asked him who he was and he explained that he had placed the 911 call as a result of my text message. They asked to see the text message, but they would not let him cross the street to my house at any point. He told me that the only reason why he came over was that he was very concerned and worried about me. He said he had tried to call me after receiving the text message and I did not answer. Again, the problem with my perception vs. reality.

Am I ready for this conversation? I do not know. I have to find a way to let this anger and resentment go. While it is by no means my only trigger, I have obsessed over this a lot—primarily because I have always respected him. He is a WYSIWYG (what you see is what you get for you non-computer geeks) kind of guy—shoots straight from the hip with no guile. From the very beginning, he has accepted the fact that I am a lesbian and never has judged me. I owe him the same respect.

Well, I still have two days to process this. I am also going to discuss during my group therapy session on Monday. I also have my second appointment with my individual therapist on Monday afternoon as well. My question is am I sufficiently prepared to handle this type of conversation at this point so soon after everything has happened? I need to protect myself and not set myself up for failure. I am trying so hard to reach a point in my life where everything is in balance, but I have to put my needs first—a concept that never existed in my “I don’t give a damn” mode.©2009

Appt with Psychiatrist Week 3

My calendar said that we had our second appointment on the 29th, but I don’t remember that one. I can tell my meds have changed because I found his instruction sheet. He always writes everything out because he knows I may not remember. This visit was on 05 November.

My meds have changed again. Now my Geodon has changed from 240mg at bedtime to also include taking an 80mg dose in the morning along with a new drug called Provigil @ 200mg in the morning to help sharpen my focus and concentration. Its primary use is for the treatment of narcolepsy, shift work sleep disorder and excessive daytime sleepiness associated with obstructive sleep apnea. Other potentially effective, but similarly unapproved targets include the treatment of depression, schizophrenia, and disease-related fatigue. I guess my disease-related fatigue is the insomnia due to the depression

His primary concern is that I can keep myself safe. He has always been the only one with whom I’ve been able to be completely honest. I have been seeing him since June, 2000 when I was first diagnosed with BP (BPD didn’t become diagnosed until 2005 after my previous attempt at suicide). Aside from wanting to keep me safe, he is very concerned over my lack of sleep. He told me that I couldn’t expect to see measurable progress until I can overcome the insomnia. He’s also concerned about my weight loss. I’ve lost eight pounds since 28 October because I’m not eating. The only thing I eat is a small snack when I take my two doses of Geodon because it has to be absorbed with food.

Today he increased my Lamictal to 200mg QD. My short-term goals are 1) work on severe depression with medication changes as needed, 2) directly deal with my persistent suicide ideation as depression lessens and while my coping skills are still effective, 3) work on my rage issues as my depression lessens, and 4) work on my isolation as the depression lessens. He knows I am in the OP Therapy program Mon-Wed-Fri, so I am to call his office on Tuesdays and Thursdays and request a call back so he can check in with me. He also wants me to call his service on Saturdays and Sundays for the same purpose. He wants to keep me safe, and feels with this constant monitoring, if needed, he can make a med change on the fly. I couldn’t ask for a better psychiatrist. He gets me. And he said that once my bipolar balances out, he wants to work on my borderline personality disorder. He is more than just a psychiatrist. The time he spends with me and what we talk about is better than any individual therapist I’ve ever seen. I’m very grateful that the circumstances back in 2000 brought us together.©2009

For Sharon—

Sharon, from the comment you made to my post below, I know you must feel that you mean well by passing along “the perfect scripture” and to remind me that the people at the church are my friends. However, while on the surface everyone is nice—and I acknowledge that they have been there when I have needed them during trying times by praying for me—as soon as I walk out the door, that’s it. Yes, A and I actually had lunch the Thursday before my debacle; she brought me my cell phone before I was transferred to the psych ward, and has texted me a couple of times since (which I have patently refused to respond). D did call once after I missed the second service wondering if I was OK or sick, or something; and no, I did not return her call either.

It’s not that I believe they don’t care. I believe there is an intrinsic obligation from Godly Christians to feel they “ought” to care because it is their duty. There is no friendship base there. There is no level playing field. I have nothing in common with anyone. I am the only single, queer, mental case of the lot. How could anyone possible begin to relate to me—to be able to truly “get it?” A friend is someone who is there no matter what whenever you need them. And I can’t operate with just one friend because, realistically speaking, one person may not be able to be “there” due to his or her own personal obligations at that time. Everyone at the church is married and has (or will be having) children. They are all wrapped up in their own lives and obligations. I am a mere blip on the radar screen. With the exception of A and D, there has never been any interaction outside of church (and those were limited at best and the one time A and I actually made plans, I had to initiate the action—something that I am extremely uncomfortable doing). OK, yes, A was truly there when I needed her as she did bring me my cell phone. But as with all of the couples, my only down time is after 1900 on weekdays and weekends—the time they all spend with their spouses/family. I feel as though I am an intruder taking away from their time together. And I don’t want to be the fifth wheel, either—easily the situation since I am the only single person there.

There are just too many people at the church right now. When I walk through those doors, I feel paralyzed for fear that someone will speak to me. I have felt, crossing that threshold of just wanting to stand there and quietly walk out the door, hoping that no one notices me. I can’t be myself, so I put on my façade and pretend that all is well. What should I say? That I am full of uncontrollable rage; don’t forget that I am queer and missing being a part of that community I so desperately want to belong; oh yeah, and by the way, I tried to commit suicide—and most likely will again (it’s all I think about. But have no fear, I will not make the same mistake I did last time)? I don’t want to have scripture quoted to me; I don’t want to be prayed for. I just want to be left alone. You see, that is the conundrum that bipolar and borderline personality persons face. I ache so much for contact, yet at the same time, I am repulsed by it. I can’t walk into a room full of people without feeling so full of fear and anxiety. I don’t expect you, or any of the others to understand that.

So, that brings everything back full circle. No one at the church can possibly understand what I am going through, much less know who the real “me” is. All interactions have been and would continue to be quite superficial at best. I am tired of the façade I must present every single Sunday. Sure, I let my hair down when I was facing that strike, being laid off, and that Six Sigma training I was terrified of taking—but those issues in and of themselves are also superficial. I won’t share anything about who Alix really is for fear that I will become someone to avoid so that they don’t have to deal with my “issues.” Then when that happens, everything has boiled to the surface and, once again, I will see their subtle detachment slowly begin to occur as I have seen with other people to whom I have attempted to reach out over the years of my life. Very simply put, I am tired of the rollercoaster ride—my life such as it is. I’m done with it all.

Surprised as I am, I appreciate the time you took to make the comment. I am not trying to trivialize your effort, but the simplistic approach of dashing off a scripture and telling me of course that I still have a group of friends only validates my perceptions, hence this post.©2009

Despair of Loneliness

Today is another off day for me. I actually set a goal last night. Laundry. Well, I’ve done that, along with moving all my summer clothes to my armoire. Winter, what a dreary thought. I hate the fact that we go back to standard time zone on 01 November. Crap, that’s this Sunday. Sunshine is important to me. There are periods of time when I will spend huge gaps of time on my front porch. Before I started working for my current company, I also worked from home. I can’t tell you the advantages of being able to work from home. Think about it: dress code (I am always in a tee w/sweatpants and barefoot), I can smoke (which probably explains why I am up to two packs a day), and talk about multitasking— I can pop in a load of laundry during the day, etc.. Anyway, at my old job, I did not have a company-paid business landline coming into my home. So, I snaked a patch cable under my office window that looks out onto my porch. I’d take my laptop, cordless phone and cell and just sit out there all day. It was wonderful. Whenever I had to unmute my phone during a conference call, the damn birds or a siren passing by would always give me away, but no one ever made a big deal about it. Hell, the birds were a pale intrusion compared to some assholes who worked from home and had constant barking dogs or a damn baby shrieking in the background.

I digress. I don’t even want to talk about work while I am on medical disability leave (for how long has yet to be determined). Getting back to today. It’s absolutely beautiful outside. Do I go anywhere? No. I can’t think of any place to go. I have no friends I can call up with whom I can make plans. I had one friend with whom I thought I could be upfront about my mood swings and I made the huge mistake of admitting to her during my last crisis earlier that afternoon that I was so depressed that I was feeling suicidal. BIG MISTAKE. She started crying and going on and on about how she couldn’t bear to lose me; think about all the people I’d be leaving behind who love me and care about me (I had no idea who she was talking about); how could I possibly do that to everyone. She never got it that she was my only friend). Then she told me that she wasn’t leaving me alone that day. Boy did that piss me off. As I got out of her car I told her that she could sit in my driveway all damn day, but she sure as fuck wasn’t coming into my house. Ultimately she calmed down and I finally got her to leave. (She was the one I thought had called 911 later that night). Then, not too much later she texted me and wanted to make sure that I was still OK, followed by a phone call which I did not answer. I texted her in all caps to leave me the fuck alone and not call back. Needless to say, I ended up with a bunch of texts and missed call entries that I had to delete.

I have quit going to my church (I’ve now missed three services in a row—something I’ve never done). One person had called and left a vm the other week that I just deleted. (What is nice about having an actual answering machine at home vs having your vm as part of your landline package is that you can screen your calls.) But, no one ever calls me. I’m serious. I have no friends. I had to use that one friend as part of my “safety list” upon discharge from the psych hospital to indicate that I had a support system. I actually used her and one person I knew at the church. I had to put in at least two names and phone numbers (no, they didn’t bother to call them to verify it; otherwise, I imagine one or both would have tried to contact me specifically about receiving that type of call). It’s ironic that, after three weeks now, she pinged me on my cell only twice (which I ignored) and hit my facebook account once (and I immediately blocked her). She actually hasn’t tried to call me. I hope she got the message finally. I don’t want someone around who feels they have to "fix" me.

So I am sitting on my couch once again (now listening to U2, the Stones and Jethro Tull) and there is absolutely no one I can call with whom I can talk. No one. I never understood just how much loneliness could hurt. I don’t have to worry about intentionally isolating myself. There is no one from which to isolate. And the most desolate part of all of this is that I have been like this for so long. Even looking at my past blog entries, I can see going back to April 2007 I made this entry.  So here I sit. All alone. Why bother?©2009

Joy in the Face of Circumstances?

Well, I did not throw up and I did go to church. I was sweating bullets through Praise and Worship while standing; I had no energy whatsoever and was hanging on to everything I had just to be there. My exhaustion is so overwhelming.

Pastor preached on maintaining your joy despite whatever circumstances you are going through. I’ve been there before. After I was laid off, I knew in my heart that the Lord would provide for me and just pressed onward. Sure, there were many times when I was curled up like a baby on the floor of my bedroom in utter agony not knowing what the next day would bring, yet I was still able to focus on all of the good things with which the Lord had already blessed me. That focus brought me the strength I needed to endure the unknown at the time. And that strength was my joy. Sometimes it was just enough to know that I could trust in Him to make it through.

The scripture referenced this morning was found throughout Philippians 4. Key points: 1) learn to avoid comparisons. There will always be others that fare better than you. This will inevitably spawn the “fairness” questions back to God. One comment that hit home is that the mortality rate for the human being is 100%. So, what do we do with ourselves in the meantime? What do we set our eyes upon? 2) It is a myth that I must be liked in order to be happy. Well, that’s a hard one with which to grapple. I am alone. I am unhappy. No, not everyone I will come across will like me. Truth be told, I easily piss off most people. And you’ve read my rave reviews I’ve received from my immediate family in Birthday Cards. Pastor said that all I should be concerned with is that I please God. Well, I’m in trouble here. I acknowledge that I am a lesbian (albeit celibate, although I’m not sure if that isn’t just splitting hairs). Certainly that isn’t looked upon as being pleasing (no, I’m not going to drag all the biblical references to prove that one). I also run right smack into the two verses that I have really tried so hard to pattern my life after. So, where am I really as far as the conforming and the transforming? Am I really just a poser? 3) Pray for what can be changed and accept that which cannot be changed Phil 4:6-7. Again, another sticking point. I don’t believe being queer is a choice, so what can be changed there? Also, what about the whole bipolar shtick? It’s not something to be cured. Do I believe that God has the power to heal? Yes, I do. Will He cure me? Who knows? All I do know right now is that I am bipolar which drives to the very heart of so much that is wrong with my life. 4) Learn to accept God’s power in that there are circumstances that I can’t face alone 2 Cor 12:9.  5) Learning to allow for God’s provision Phil 4:18-19.  Both points 4 and 5 I’ve experienced first hand. I have seen God’s fingerprint on my life in such a way that it defies all other explanation (see My Own Personal Miracle elsewhere in this blog). 6) God will give you all you need if you put Him first in your life Matt 6:31-33.  This point comes with that great caveat: IF you put Him first. Do I? I am consumed with the by-products of being bipolar. I am consumed with wrestling with the concept of being Christian and queer. Am I just wrestling with the concept of being queer? Is it internalized homophobia? No, I don’t think that’s it. If anything, all of my life I’ve been a radical, in-your-face butch dyke.

If I try to follow my heart, I know His word tells me that so much of what I am internalizing are just the lies of the devil, but the bipolar keeps getting in the way. I can’t keep all these racing thoughts straight in my head. So, I end up not knowing what’s real and what isn’t. It’s information overload. I am drowning in the sea of “oughts” and “ams.”—who I should be vs. who I am. Am I who I should be? Why can’t I answer that question?©2009

Suicide Watch #1

Please note, this carving action discussed in my earlier post was not a harbinger of things to come. As with past attempts of suicide, I would never cut my wrist. I know many folks who’ve survived. When I decide to end it all, I’m not going to simply OD on pills (note to self, I have well more than is needed to finishing it all off (which can theoretically be intervened with forcing that patient to down activated charcoal which causes many of the toxins to be immediately absorbed.).

No, this time, I a plan that is fool-proof (once before I was faced with these options and saw the red flag for what it was and called my physician which resulted in my immediate confinement to a psych ward). I’ve obtained injectable potassium chloride (KCl) which is third component of lethal injection (followed by Sodium Thiopental, a short-acting barbiturate, and then Pancuronium Bromide, a paralytic agent). I have also horded injectable insulin. Both of these drugs will certainly allow me to obtain the results I desire…with no turning back allowed. The upside is, if I prep everything just so because of the sudden reaction to the KCl and insulin, these drugs would not show up on a standard tox report if I were ever posted. No suicide action = life insurance policy for my son.


My suicide ideation is becoming a finely-honed. When the time does come, Ill be ready go. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I have severed all ties with the gay community and my family. My answering machine at home is off and I’ve disabled the vm feature on my cell. I’ve never had someone just pop over to my house; I only get one call from a friend of mine (who knows I am entering into this BP zone) from time to time. I work from my home office. Frankly, initially no one will miss me. My son hardly calls anymore, and since I had left the gay community, I have no strong social networking base. I could be dead for a week before someone would notice. That is what I am shooting for. No one will miss me except for one friend who had seen me through thick and thin this year. Yet, despite her many pleas to call her whenever I hit this crisis mode, I won’t. What folks don’t realize is that once your mind is made up there is no turning back. And the last thing I want to do is argue the unarguable.


It appears as though I am already embracing the task to end my life. I know in my heart that I can no longer handle the roller coaster ride and the abject despair and loneliness. This time I am going to be bold and set the motion is in play, whenever that moment comes to pass.©2009

Unimagined Sense of Loss

I sit here, unable to sleep even though I need to get up at the crack of dawn because I am so far behind in my work. And all of sudden I am hit by such a profound sense of loss... At the end of the day, I can take stock in my life and it really adds up to one big zero. I guess I’m not getting to experience the manic phase after all. Seems as though I am sliding right into the pits. It’s actually a mixed-phase for me. I can’t sleep, yet the wholly encompassing envelope of loneliness engulfs me, while at the same time of fighting off all these racing thoughts that never amount to anything. It’s as if my brain has been stuck in 11th gear with nowhere to go. The utter randomness of the racing thoughts are probably most disconcerting. It’s absolutely amazing that I can be in a room filled with people I know and still feel so estranged.

I feel that when I am in a room of people, especially those with whom I have a relationship of sorts, I am always on the outside looking in. I feel invisible. This is the beginning of my downward spiral, and I never know each time just how bad it will get. Suffice it to say, that now I am in this space, I will do nothing to extricate myself from it. I will only continue to burrow further down, keeping everyone at arm’s length. My rather cognizant brain has the capacity to tell myself that I can remove myself from this environment by choosing to engage with those around me. But, the sad fact is that there just isn’t anyone out there with whom I can engage. I really do not have a real friendship base.

The walls slowly begin to close in; my options slowly cease. I am left with nothing but the four walls of my house. Is this what I really have to look forward to as my life as I know it? I don’t know if I can survive my life like this one more time. I’ve been in this spot before and the solutions presented then to help me crawl up to the land of the living really didn’t offer me much hope. The majority of me is quite content to just sit in my four walls and never venture outside or interact with anyone else. And, at the same time, that realization causes me so much emotional pain. To feel all alone can be the most frightening feeling. Every day I find myself just slipping a little further from reality. My reality is what is inside these four walls and nothing else.

I feel myself slowly shutting down—distancing myself from everything. My answering machine is off; my cell phone vm is disabled. I have effectively begun to build my walls where I can keep everyone out. I have completely cut myself off from my family of origin to even include my son. I just simply want to be left alone. I find it to be quite an oxymoron. When there are those who are hurting at church, it’s all I can do to just want to take them into my arms and show them God’s love. In those moments, I want to give of myself to help someone else.

But my disease is invisible. No one can perceive the profound loss and sadness I feel. No one understands bipolar for all its implications and trappings. I just want so much for someone to see the pain I feel and reach out to me, but part of the façade is to never let anyone in. Catch-22. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

Maybe I’m just a phony. Maybe I really don’t have anything to offer someone who is hurting. I want to, but would it ever be received? As I sit here tonight, I feel hopeless, unable to help myself, unable to help anyone else, and most importantly, totally unable and unwilling to receive anything from someone else. What can they offer me? No one knows the dark corners of my mind, and the room dims with every growing minute.©2009

A Stupid Decision, Yet a Decision Nonetheless

Well, I have done the unthinkable yet again. I’ve had to wean myself off all of my bipolar medication. I have lived with this disease for more years than I care to remember; I know full well what the upcoming consequences will be. I will begin rapid cycling once again. To tell you the truth, I’ve missed the manic highs. No one seems to get that. I feel on top of the world. I feel like I can do anything. And sleep? Who needs it? I am always at my creative and productive best while manic. Everything seems so perfect.

Nevertheless, not too far away is the downward spiral that, for me, is catastrophic. We’re not talking about just dipping down to a depressive state. For me, I become totally intractable. I cannot function—the world ceases to exist. I pull so far inward that I see nothing that is going on around me. I completely disconnect from the outside world. While my job performance is at its peak while manic, the destructive forces that drive me when I hit rock bottom can seriously threaten my job.

Do I care? Certainly not when I am in this state. I lose all hope; I withdraw from everything completely. Last night I took the last doses I had left. I knew this was upon the horizon; I did not stop suddenly. I carefully measured out the dosings starting six weeks ago and carefully began weaning myself slowly. It was the best of choices knowing that I only had so much medicine left.

Medical insurance? Sure, I am covered through my employer. Once I meet the deductible, it’s a great policy—it covers 90% of most everything. The prescription part of my plan kicks in and I can obtain my medications at a reasonable rate. The only kicker here is that damned deductible. Mine is $1150. I am a very healthy person. I’ve had no need to see my own medical doctor in almost two years. Since I am so healthy, I will never meet the deductible. The nasty part is that I receive no discounts or caps on my prescriptions until that deductible is met. Just one of the three medications I take costs $800 for a 90-day supply. I simply don’t have that. Sure, one could argue that if I’d just pay the at-cost price of my medications at the beginning of the year, the deductible will be met, but the total for the three meds for a 90-day supply is close to $1800…and get this…it’s not like they charge me full price until I hit that $1150 ceiling and then start capping the remaining scripts left when I first send them in. I have to shell out the full at-cost price. Even if I sent then in separately, no one drug costs the $1150 deductible, so as long as there is any amount remaining towards my unmet deductible, I will be charged the full price. So, yeah, I have medical insurance, but what good does this policy really do me? I just plain don’t have enough money to shell out for the upfront retail price of the meds.

I’ve not even bothered to see my shrink. I already know what he is going to say to me—trust me, been there, done that. Besides, what’s the point? It’s not as if he’ll be able to do anything about it. Sure, he can give me some samples, but certainly not enough to underwrite all that I need.

So, here I sit just waiting for the cycling to begin. I can tell that I’ve actually started as the levels in my system have slowly decreased when I started weaning six weeks ago. I’m getting by with about fours of sleep each night. Soon enough, there will be no sleep and then I’ll kick into high gear.

And the really cruel function of my bipolar is that I can be in a mixed phase. I can be manic and feel suicidal at the same time. That’s not fair. I should be able to enjoy the manic side for its duration, then just hunker down when the spiraling begins. I’ve already begun withdrawing from everything. I’ve cut myself off from everyone. I turned off the voicemail feature of my cell phone and turned off my answering machine at home. CallerID is such a fantastic feature, isn’t it? The sad part is that I really don’t many calls anyway. Since walking away from the Gay community (discussed many times in previous posts), I’ve left behind my entire social structure. And I don’t have a relationship with my family of origin (think about that phrase—family of origin—I think that phrase was coined at the same time as the phrase “dysfunctional family”).

So, I’m left with pretty much nothing.

Oh, I have a good relationship with the people I know at my church. They have stood right beside me when I have gone through the darkest of hours this year when I was facing potential unemployment. And I know that I could reach out to any one of them if I needed to and they would be right there. But, in reality, everyone at my church are all coupled families. With the exception of one recent arrival, I am the only single person in this church family. While they welcome me with open arms, I feel as I am standing on the sidelines watching. I’m really not a part of everything. They all have their own lives they live and I never interact with any of them outside of church. When I was in the midst of the worst crisis I’d experienced, a few reached out occasionally. Nevertheless, when all is said and done, I’m the one who initiates any of the phone calls. I can’t remember when someone called me up just to say hi. I know they care for me, I really do, but I can’t escape this feeling of a separateness there that exists. I have nothing in common with anyone. There are no shared experiences. They all know that I’m a lesbian, even though I’ve walked away from that life, yet I can’t help but wonder if that might have something to do with it. I feel as though they just can’t possibly understand exactly how walking away from that life utterly took away from everything I knew to be true about myself—everything that defined my identity. It’s ironic. I can be at the church on Sunday and go through all of the motions of the usual greetings and pleasantries, but that’s as far as it goes. They don’t really know who I am. Moreover, I don’t think they have a clue as to how being bipolar defines me. The vast majority of the world looks at it as if it was just a bad case of having a bad hair day. They can’t see its crippling effect on my life.

I will admit that I have played a part in this feeling of isolation. They have home groups twice a month as a potluck gathering on Sunday evenings. For the most part, I couldn’t always go because I would end up staying past my bedtime and altering my carefully scheduled medicine dosing. But, truth be told, on the few occasions I did attend, I felt so out of my element. I would stand apart emotionally watching everyone interact and I just felt like I didn’t belong. I had no common thread with anyone. Moreover, I know that they have no clue that I feel this way. I mean, what would I say?

I know this isolation is a function of being bipolar. And I guess this is how I know I am entering into my crisis stage. It’s so easy for me to isolate. I work from home, so when I get off work, I simply walk out of one room and go into another. Aside from going up to the post office and picking up my mail or going grocery shopping, I can go weeks never leaving my house. I have nowhere to go, no one to visit—my castle without a drawbridge. My church is literally right across the street from me. And I am finding that I am coming through the door later and later just to avoid interacting with anyone, and at the end of the service I just pray I can get out the door without anyone stopping me. I am once again perfecting my façade of “Hi, how are ya doing, I’m fine, it’s great to see you, OK, have a great week, see you next Sunday.” Yeah, I’m beginning to cycle. I can see the signs.

How is it going to show its ugly face this time? How long will I be manic? Will it be a continual mixed-phase process, or will there be defining moments of absolute mania followed by abject despair and pain? There is nothing I can do to prepare myself. The last thing I am going to do is tell anyone about it; the deeper I fall, the more the charming façade when I cannot escape being around others. Yet, I’m not going to let this keep me from going to church (at least I am saying that right now). My purpose for being in church is personal, not social. I have the opportunity to praise and worship God where, during that time, it’s just Him, me, and no one else. I also want to hear the pastor preach. I am always fed by hearing God’s word, and I can always see an application to my life by what is being preached. During the week, I have my own personal time with God throughout the day, when I’m praying or reading His word. Most of the time it’s just the two of us having a continuing conversation. Yet, I still have the need to be in that church on Sundays. The praise and worship segment of the service is so very special to me. I wish they would sing more songs. Everything seems so scripted…4 songs, requests for prayers and praise reports, receiving the offering and the sermon. Sometimes I think the pastor is more time conscious than he should be. I don’t care how long the service lasts. I am there to meet with God. I wish there was more freedom during Praise and Worship. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if the Holy Spirit just wanted to take a service and spin it on its side…would there be room for that? There have been so many times when I just wanted to keep singing my praises.

My eyes are open and I’m gearing up for the battle I’m beginning to fight. While I have some shred of sanity at the moment, dare I wonder how it will end this time. The last time I went off my meds I ended up in the hospital (certainly not voluntarily. Had I refused, it would have been court ordered. That’s just because the person I was living with at the time came home far earlier than she was supposed to and found me unconscious. And I was so close that time in finally succeeding. Waking up in the ER certainly was not part of the bigger picture then).

My living arrangements are different now and are quite conducive to a successful final solution. I live alone. No one ever stops by my house to visit. No one ever calls me. Because I work from home, seeing my car parked in the same position in front of my house for long periods of time would raise no questions. No one has a key to my home. My neighbor has just move out and I am going to make sure I don’t get to know whoever finally does move in. And I don’t know any of my other neighbors. What a perfect situation. My absence will trigger no alarms with anyone. I like the way that sounds.©2009

Utter Confusion

Once I found solace in my work routine
An opportunity to escape from the isolation at home
But the seclusion from home is carrying over to the office
My door stays shut and spurns all spontaneous pop-ins

The customary workload has not changed
But the depression is not alleviated by the focus
The lines between home and work has become blurred
I fear the impact this will have on my performance

This depression has become the driving force of my day
I can’t help but wonder if it’s in the weaning from Zyprexa
But this drug’s propensity to cause me to gain weight
Has become an equally driving force to be taken off the drug

It’s been a frustrating road to travel
The drug, especially at the higher dosages, proved reliable
As I continue the weaning process, I see a marked decrease in my stability
And I am left with quite a quandary as to the best treatment

This lack of interest in my time focused on my career
I fear will carry over to my overall effectiveness
I am so drained by battling this itinerate depression
A depression that is becoming more the norm

I listen to others’ advice in combating the seclusion
But all of the offerings require energy levels that cannot be summoned
Instead of looking forward to coming into the office to escape the trappings of home
I instead prefer the desolation experienced at home—a familiar territory that exists

Will my bipolar ever come under control?
Am I doomed to be classified as treatment-resistant?
It has often been said that I never do anything half-assed
So why should this experience be any different?

I am grateful I have a door to shut in my office
Passersby are less inclined to pop in with the commonplace news bites
I find myself leaving my headset on to deter the would-be drop-ins
Leaving the impression that I am occupied on the phone

I’ve become the clock-watcher all of a sudden
Eagerly looking forward to the forlorn environment of my home
At least here, there is a comfort zone that is all too familiar
Despite the fact that the environment is far more bleak

When forced to attend social gatherings lest I appear noncommittal
I have become the master of the great façade
Where, once at church I decided to be real without the mask
Even there I find the ease to retreat inward

I’ve been informed that God works on his own timetable
And encouraged that when the time is right, He is always on time
But I grow weary of all the distractions that bring me down
What is considered “Right on Time”?

And it isn’t always circumstances that spawn the depression
I can wake up after a night’s rest and only want to stay curled up in my fetal position
It is most difficult to have nothing to blame the despair
What was once an ephemeral occurrence has become the norm

I wish wholeheartedly that Zyprexa was not such a weight-gainer
But after losing 250 pounds I am unwilling to give any ground
It’s enough that I’ve gained 25 pounds in an eight-week period
Which just fuels the depression with an incendiary force

Along with the depression I’ve managed to entertain the mania once again
Hence my ability to be creative once again with my words
To the world these poems my appear weak and without form
But it is I who derives the benefit from such expression

I am not tottering on the brink of suicide, at least at the moment
My focal point has been isolation and introspection
It is within this self-inventory that further feeds my segregation
A vicious cycle I am doomed to repeat relentlessly

In a perfect world, I would never need to leave my house
I would be devoid of all human contact that only drains my energy
The internet has opened up sufficient portals to conduct all my business
Even contact with the outside world, but at my choosing

I have one fatal conundrum that conflicts with all that I have expressed here
I am realizing that I do not want to have to face the rest of my life without companionship
A partner that I am equal to that can share my innermost self
However, with this self-imposed seclusion, chances are slim to none

I have been out of the closet for more years than in
I’ve enjoyed a rich life replete with partners that complemented my life
However, with the outrageous and heart wrenching end of the most recent
I sought solace wherever I could find it

For a while I forged this relationship with God
And came upon a peace I had yet to experience
But this was the same time my bipolar meds were most efficient
So, what was the source of this peace—God or the cocktail?

So, just who exactly am I at this given moment?
An answer as elusive as a butterfly’s dance
Will I ever know who I am, and if I did, would I like what I see?
Only time will tell—a concept and reality that I have in abundance.
©2007

My Castle Without a Drawbridge

The pain I feel is visceral
It tears at the very fabric of my heart
The loneliness has crept in and surrounded me
Before I had the chance to even sense its presence

The choices I have made for my life
Have always been dictated by some outside force
And in the end I’ve been left holding the bag
While the world spins around me without me

I keep telling myself that I want to be alone
When in fact that couldn’t be further from the truth
The human animal was never designed for isolation
But those are the cards I have been dealt

I am not living my life; I sit on the curb watching it spin around me
I want off this merry-go-round façade that everything is fine
It’s not and I’m too afraid to admit that to myself
If I speak the truth to myself, then all of a sudden it becomes real

I lie in wait of something to come by
Anything that will break me out of this mold
I grow weary of this lie that I call my life
When I can’t even orchestrate its finale

I am tired of being alone
And angry at the choices that put me here
I’ve been forced from the very heart of who I am
For reasons that no longer make any sense

So, in the end I am without companionship
No one to share with who I really am
Instead, I am locked away in this loneliness
My life in a castle without a drawbridge ©2007