between the broken places

(I don’t know why I wrote this – it just sort of wrote itself)

The snake pit of shame is where I retreat after my manic brain releases me from its clutches.  Most certainly, I have screwed up again; said or done something I should not have, surrendered when I should have been strong.  As the anxiety becomes overwhelming I spot the hidden door.  My self-hatred conceals the secret password until I am too far beyond resistance.  And with the mere thought of that loathing, the door opens and the pit sucks me into its deep, black belly.

The dead weight of me slams onto the cold, concrete of the circular room.  A whirling dervish of confusion, I am uncertain where to go in the room filled with so many doors.  So many options, so little time before someone notices I’m gone.  My eyes scan the room for a place to rest but one does not exist; this is not a place of comfort.

I crouch on the floor as winter’s wild breath whips through the cracks of the room.  My bones have turned to icicles, my heart temporarily to stone; I will break more easily now – all the better.  A vague thought whispers the promise of torment. I creep forward in the dark, not certain which misdeed has brought me to this hell.  Slinking towards a door an evil scream cackles out the name of some past transgression – bad mother, bad lover, bad me.

I do not have to force myself to reach for a doorknob; I recognize the need to feel this pain.  There will be no escape until punishment has been served.  It is shame and depression and I am to blame.  I have lost control; slowly given in, thrown in the towel and now I must make restitution in full.  I wallow in the snake pit as long as I can.  Lying to those around me; I’m fine just a little blue; I’ll get out of bed soon – if only they knew.  But understanding completely is lost on those who do not suffer mental illness.  Their imagination cannot find the road to this dank well and for that I am content.  I journey on alone; eventually finding the way out and sometimes no one is the wiser.  Secrets are important to my survival, what others don’t know can’t hurt me – much.

Do you remember when you were a kid and you could play without reservations?  When you still recognized your own sound and the rhythm of your body?  And without a second thought you would make a joyful noise every day.  That is exactly what I did during lunch today.

I have a friend named Annalies, she is one of the most amazing women I have ever had the pleasure to meet.  She and her man, Gregory are  the owners of Conduit, Center for Creative Change (http://www.conduitforchange.com/conduitforchange.com/Welcome.html)  They have classes to help people discover their creative potential in the art of play, music and movement.  I am on her mailing list and though I have always had an interest in joining one of her groups I suck at doing new things.  I am prone to opt in and then talk myself out of attending.  This is a bad habit that I am working hard to change ~ but change is difficult for me and my bipolar brain.

To help myself along, I emailed Annalies and told her that I was hoping to make her class (how very non-committal of me).  She wrote back and genuinely seemed excited that I might show up ~ way to hit my ego in the sweet spot.  So I was determined to not skip out on her or me.  And I did it.  I got up, took a shower, dressed and headed out.  I was even the first one there.  Annalies greeted me with a big hug and introduced me to Greg.  They are such a wise and creative couple that it’s hard to not be hypnotized by their sheer joy and positive energy.  They began the class with an ice breaker which had each of us turning to our neighbor and greeting them as a long lost friend.  We went around the room and hugged and chatted as if we’d known each other for years.  This was an excellent way to put everyone at ease.  Next we did a sort of egg toss which resulted in copious amounts of laughter.  We then got up to move, listening to music but also to our own rhythm.  We were each provided a drum and all joined in a drumming circle ~  something I’ve always wanted to do but was worried that I would not do it well so I just didn’t do it.   Silly girl, doing it well is not the point.  There were other activities that continued to open my heart and mind.  I was so happy that I didn’t talk myself out of going.  I went and I loved it.

Annalies and Gregory are on an amazing path helping others find their way.  Their ideas flow through the room as they encourage others to chime in.  I felt warm and accepted from the beginning of the class.  This type of gathering is perfect for everyone but especially so for those of us with bipolar disorder.  It’s important for our brain to take a break from the constant chatter or the lonely silence.  It feels wonderful to let go and not worry about what others are thinking ~ because they are struggling to let go as well ~ so there is no judgment.

Be sure to check out Conduit’s website there is lots of interesting information.  And remember to “Dance like no one is watching!” Remember how to listen to your body’s rhythm and make a joyful noise (it doesn’t have to be perfect ~ I said noise, afterall!)  This is good medicine for the soul.

I have some weird triggers.  They are small occurrences that send me over the edge and can lead me down a dark path of anger, anxiety, and guilt very quickly.  This may or may not be a “Bipolar” thing but it creates many of the same feelings that can last for weeks during an episode and if I’m not careful it can trigger rapid cycling.

One of my stranger triggers involves dinner.  Yes, that’s right, I hate dinner.  I have no problem eating dinner and honestly it’s not the making of dinner, it’s the deciding what’s for dinner.  Can’t stand it.  Who died and left me in charge of what everyone else in the house wants to eat?  I don’t want someone else deciding what I’m going to eat, so I don’t want to do it for others.  Yet, society states that it’s my job; my J.O.B.  I did not apply for this job and I don’t want it.

But who else is going to do it?  What happens to these people I live with when I’m away?  Do they stop eating?  I don’t think so.  Do they just scrounge for food? Probably.  I can hear the conversation now.

“Hey Kate, are you hungry?” My husband would yell up the stairs.

“Yeah, a little. “ Our youngest would yell down the stairs.

“What do you want to eat?”

“I don’t know. What do you want to eat?”

“I don’t know.”

And so it would go, back and forth until Kate would make her way downstairs and the two of them would begin to forage through the kitchen.  Eventually, some decision would be made and dinner would be eaten and viola, I would be nowhere to be found.  However did they manage?

I’ve explained this dilemma to my family.  I’ve done my best to make them understand that constantly picking out the dinner menu makes me crazy.  And yet the expectation still exists and it still makes me nuts.

Tonight my husband, who sometimes works from home, came downstairs around 5:30 and asked what we were doing for dinner.  I was on the computer, working on my website and my writing – my new job.  I told him that I hadn’t thought about dinner because I wasn’t hungry.  He began to bang around the kitchen, digging around for food and small containers so that he could consolidate the leftovers already in the fridge.  And that’s when my anxiety kicked in.  I could feel his annoyance at my lack of interest in dinner.  He grumbled; I panicked.

“If you’ll eat something small, I’ll make baked mac and cheese.” I tried to placate.

“I’ve got it, don’t worry about it.” He retorted.

Ugh, ‘don’t worry about it,’ the words that meant I should worry about it.  Shheesh.

I need to interject here because I’m making my husband sound like an ass.  He’s not and we’ve got an awesome relationship.  This is just one of those issues that he forgets bugs me and I can’t help but get bugged.

“Do you want me to run to the store and pick up a chicken?”

“That would be ok, but I’ll go get it.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve got it.” I grabbed my keys and stormed out.  I popped him the finger once I was in the garage.  Coward.  I grumbled the whole way to the store.

When I returned home I tossed the food on the counter, began to bang around as he tried to apologize.  He said he’d been grumpy and he was sorry.  Too bad I was pissed off now.

I have learned to reel in the anger; deep breathing.  I’ve also figured out that I can avoid the full onset of craziness by simply letting go; forgiveness.  And I do everything I can to not be so hard on myself; no guilt.

Now wait until I tell you about the joy I experience when my daughter asks me to go to the fabric store.

It’s not just a relapse, it’s déjà vu

Suicidal again, too dark to be blue

Dreams jumbled in nightmares,

or no sleep at all

Standing right on the edge,

trying hard to not fall

Unable to run, there’s nowhere to hide

Better hang on tight, just enjoy the ride