Life Without Panic

Panic. We all understand its primal quality. It must be the flight part of fight or flight. It’s the overwhelming fear that goes along with catastrophe. The loss of control in the face of huge or small danger. We all have our limits.

All of have experienced panic once or twice. One of my moments of true panic occurred in a grocery store. My child wandered away. The panic was so true and hard that I could taste it. You can imagine the panic-ridden thoughts that raced through my head. Thankfully, she was just one aisle over looking at cookies. I had already broken a cold sweat and had an anchor of fear in my heart.

I’ve been considering panic, the concept of panic, lately. I’ve been trying to understand its place in mental illness.

I believe it has more influence than I realized. Of course, this is just my opinion borne of my own experience. Your opinion could very well be different. You may feel panic is irrelevant.

Last week, I was convinced, no I knew, I was heading for a substantial manic period. And I was frightened. My head was full of noise and formula one thoughts. Despite my fear, the episode didn’t send me into the stratosphere and a few days later I found myself again.

One thing that really helped in this instance was not a boost in medication but some time sitting still in the dark. No music, no television—pure silence or at least as close as I could get. Call it meditation. Call it a mindfulness exercise.

I can’t explain why I did it. It felt right. It helped calm my mind?

After I thought about panic. Thinking back as mania began to swell, panic began to swell. Panic came with, or was caused by, the spiral of mania and the plunge of depression.

For me, I’m convinced that panic is a contributing factor to the intensity of my moods. It’s part of the vicious whirlpool that I swim so hard against when I know that something is going to spin me out of control.

How much of a role? I cannot say right now. I have only put this idea together. I haven’t had the opportunity to find out if I can reduce panic and its impact on a major mood swing. I hope that I will never have the opportunity. It’s quite likely that I will though.

Maybe panic is out of my control. It’s worth the effort to try. And try I will.
Hope and love Terry

Hope as Faith

In the last few weeks, I have felt pieces of myself fall away. Like a snake molts, sheds dead skin. Like a sculptor chisels away stone to discover the inherent art.

Is this what a rebirth is? I have no experience but it’s the only word that comes to mind. Not a rebirth in the religious sense but surely spiritual. Not a ritual baptism, something more fundamental, more personal – a renewal of hope.

Let me ask a question, rhetorical but important. What if tomorrow we all woke up with past firmly behind, with a rejuvenated optimism and a startling new hope? How would this change your life and world, the lives of your friends and family, even change the world?

That change could be fantastic and open our eyes to a realm of endless possibilities. A change that could turn us away from the hurt, despair and misunderstanding of the past.

Sure, this is a utopian vision. Perhaps it’s hubris to suggest. But why shouldn’t we believe that a better life is possible, that a better world is possible. That compassion and understanding can prevail.

As recent days have passed, I have felt a new hope sweeping through me. A hope, or dream, that I have never encountered, never known.

I hope this hope is a permanent part of my life.

Many people find this same hope by having faith in a formal religion. By believing that everything, good or bad, happens for a reason.

For me, I have not found a religion that I can fully trust. Religions, in general, have been at the centre of so much injustice, violence, intolerance and war. This is only my opinion and I certainly am not denigrating anyone’s beliefs. I respect these convictions and sometimes I wish I could have the same.

But I don’t.

However, when it comes to my life and mental illness, I have to hold onto hope. For a fulfilling life, for proper treatment, for a cure. I hope this for all of us.

I choose hope. I choose love as my doctrine.

Hope as Faith.

Moving Forward, Looking Back

Looking back on many of my posts in this blog, I was struck by a couple of things. First, many posts were fueled by anger and confusion. Second, a good number of them were decidedly negative.

Recently, I have been spending time with a psychologist. It’s been a mind opening experience. I have realized that for years and decades I have carried around so much negativity.

It’s a heavy burden, an anchor, a wretched gravity that has left me stuck or worse losing ground. I have for decades defined myself by my past which, without going into detail, is best described as dysfunctional. By defining who and what I am by past hurt and wounds I have very effectively never broken away from the past.

I have never understood, perhaps purposefully, who I could or should be today, this moment. I really have never looked to the future with hope, joy and wonder.

And this has showed in much of my writing in this blog. It has been what I was feeling. Now I’m uncomfortable with that anger, that remorse and that sense of pervading loss.

This is not the way to lead a life. In fact, it exaggerates the already strong feeling of being a victim and being helpless. This is not leading a life; it is wallowing in how the past has conquered me.

I realize that only I can break that backward definition. I still have to put the past in proper perspective and I will always carry it. That takes work and it’s not a particularly easy thing to accomplish.

But it isn’t who I am, who I want to be. I have the power to redefine myself. To resurrect myself is not an understatement.

When I first began working with the psychologist, one of the first words she offered to describe me was resilient. I would never have even thought to use this word in relation to myself. However, to come this far in my life I am resilient and I have accomplished many things. The exact problem is that I haven’t given myself any credit; I haven’t let myself be proud.

I haven’t allowed myself to be happy and hopeful.

All this is a revelation, it’s an epiphany. I’m trying to cut those cords, allow myself to be who I want to be and what I want to achieve.

My goal is to recognize my strengths, my talents and that I can contribute to the world rather than a burden. I can’t promise that I will never get angry or lash out at an unfair past.

I can promise, though, I will do my utmost to look at myself positively, with hope and with a quiet pride.

 

 

Peace and love Terry

 

Lean On Us

Hi, it’s me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qb5w3pGhhQ4&feature=youtu.be

Time and Time Again

Do this. Breathe in and out slowly. One nostril, then the other. Feel your deep breath. Let’s meditate on time a while.

In this moment this is what I’m considering. I have this strong feeling that I have wasted a lot of time. Internally and externally, I bemoan this. I wonder how and why time has slipped away.

Why didn’t I notice?

Lately, I’ve thought there must be some purpose to this. Maybe this is my reality or something I’ve conjured to justify what I’ve missed. Perhaps I needed this time to gather myself for whatever is to come. Now that is mere justification.

What do I know? I can count the years I’ve been on the earth. I could give a fairly accurate estimate of many days I’ve been asleep or awake; at work or play. Unfortunately, I know how many days I’ve been in hospital; how much time I’ve been sick.

That’s a dull, wrong way to measure time. All it reminds me of is what I’ve missed, what I haven’t done. It keeps me in the realm of loss. It takes away hope.

Ultimately, it takes away life.

Words tell us much about how we think about time. Or how we ignore it as though we have an infinite supply. We constantly aware of time of appointments or deadlines but never take time to understand the reality of time. We move so fast, we don’t notice ‘the now.’

We say sometime or whenever easily but these vague words are meaningless. How many of us  have said ‘I’ll do that sometime’ and have never done what ever it was.

I know I’ve spent too many years thinking this will change in time, my life will be better sometime, maybe tomorrow or next year. I’ve just waited for something to happen. Honestly, I can’t even say what i was waiting for. Hopelessly waiting for hope?

But words like never or now or Tuesday at 3:00 p.m., even always an forever, in a certain context, are concrete. They help to set goals or decide that some things will never change. We need to pay attention to these words.

They give us power. They give us control. They are more definite, shift our reality, even bless us with hope.

I have written before about time, its effects and our experience. It’s been very much in my mind following a recent significant illness and facing the stark fact that the end of our time comes when it does. It’s beyond our control, except if we make the sad decision to end our own lives.

My point is I know I will have bipolar disorder the rest of my life, unless a medical breakthrough comes along. It will always be with me. I know that I love my children now and will forever. I believe that we as humans will always continue. I don’t know how but always.

I want to control my life now. Whether I choose to write this or poetry or go for a run or go back to school I want make choices rather than roll through life. Now or as many nows as it takes to understand the focus of my life. For too long I’ve thought, even promised, I’ll worry about this tomorrow or the day after.

That tomorrow never comes.

I’ve wallowed in the hurt and blame of yesterday. It carves black into my thinking and erodes the foundation of today and ‘now.’

I need to live moment to moment. I, and we, can live this way. I’m making progress though more slowly than I thought. I’m struggling forward, inching toward a better life.

Time moves with or without us.

Life is today is now. This brief time won’t come again. However, another moment is coming, ready for us to grab it. Another chance to try.

Let’s live and cherish now, the next now and all the nows to come.

We owe it to ourselves.

 

peace and love

What About a Mental Health Day?

Today is Canada Day. Our national day of celebration when in 1867 the seeds of Canada were planted.  We celebrate things like the discovery of penicillin, the heroic efforts of Canadians in war and the Canada Arm. We celebrate Canadian Prime Minister Lester B. Pearson who came up with the idea of United Nations Peacekeepers. We take pride in our growing multiculturalism.

But we don’t celebrate the achievements of the many Canadians with a mental illness. I think we should.

We should put faces on mental illness and let’s use famous faces. They lend weight and inspiration, whether we like it or not. Our society worships the famous so why not use their celebrity to call attention to the fact that most people with mental illness function and succeed. Famous people help normalise mental illness when they speak out.

Well known Canadians who live with mental illness is eye opening, wide-ranging and perhaps surprising.

Jim Carrey, and his elastic face, has struggled with depression and the effects of medication.

Robert Munsch, author of wonderful children’s stories says this.

“Several years ago I was diagnosed as obsessive-compulsive and manic-depressive. Those challenges have led me to make some big mistakes. I have worked hard to overcome my problems, and I have done my best. I have attended twelve-step recovery meetings for more than 25 years.

My mental health and addiction problems are not a secret to my friends and family. They have been a big support to me over the years, and I would not have been able to do this without their love and understanding.”

In fact, I have a number of his books memorized not because I admire his honesty but because my kids loved them.

Matthew Good, one of Canada’s best musicians, is open about bipolar disorder. Some songs from his album Hospital Music were written while he was in a psychiatric ward.

And I could go on.

A national day can’t hurt and could start a national conversation. Mental illness is still misunderstood. Too often it’s hidden away—by celebrities and ordinary folks.

The stigma remains, resistant to change.

I propose a mental illness day officially declared by the government to create an open discussion, reduce misunderstanding and perhaps increase research and care.

Call me crazy, and some have, but this makes sense. We have Family Day, Flag Day, Heritage Day and Victoria Day (that creates a May long weekend) so why not. A mental health week exists but hardly noticed and at best given lip service or ignored.

A Mental Health Day (of mental illness if you prefer) may be a symbolic gesture but it could be also kick start awareness. Why should anyone reject this idea?

I call on the governments of Canada, federal and provincial, to get engaged, show some leadership and put mental illness on the national agenda.

It’s the least they can do.

Peace and love.    

Story/Life

This is a story, a story that is difficult to tell. It’s about man, a woman, two children—a girl age 9—a boy age 6 ½. It’s about how this man and this woman came to each other, came to love one another, came to have children they loved and adored as deep as deep can be.

It’s about how this man and this woman eventually grew apart, even while living in the same house and then living in separate houses.

                It’s a story too true and too hard to capture in mere words and sentences. It’s a story about loss and grief. It’s a story about mental illness.

               This story is about understanding too late and tremendous guilt. It’s about sorrow and sorrys that again and again amount to nothing. It’s about apart and endings that never end.

This is a story about a man who was diagnosed as having bipolar disorder in his third decade but never accepted it. Didn’t trust doctors, didn’t believe their opinions and tests. A man who walked away from this diagnosis mostly because he didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand.

It’s about a man who pretended that he was above mental illness. Who didn’t want to accept it. Who believed that a mental illness was just another failure in his life.

This is about the same man who hid behind the facade of self-medicating. Who became an addict. Who realized too late that he needed help.

It’s about a man who, while getting help, finally accepted his damaged life, accepted his addiction and left it behind. A man who realized how many years he had lost and how many people he had hurt.

This is a story about a man and fear. A man whose beaten up childhood left wounds too long untreated and not understood for too many decades. Scars that may never truly heal but make sense in his life and actions.

A man who took the legacy of parenting left to him and turned it 180 degrees. A man who became so worried and convinced in dark nightmares that he would visit the same experiences of his childhood on his children that he scattered. Thought that no father was better than the father he grew up with.

This story is about a man who out of love so wondrous and fulfilling—a love he was convinced didn’t exist—turned his back on the only truly good thing he had added to this world. A man who knows today he paid an enormous price in the delusion of protecting his children. Who wishes he could reshape time, take what he knows now about his difficult journey, diminished self-esteem to the moment he decided that the only option was to leave.

This is a story about a man who dearly loves his children and regrets to the marrow of bones any hurt he has caused them. Whose fear of life drove him away from a potentially beautiful life.

A man who ran as a sacrifice to his children, who didn’t comprehend the cogs and gears of his mind, how it differed because of a disease. A man who for many years was cast away, floating on an empty sea.

This is a story about a man and failure. This is about a man gone, a woman strong, two children—a girl now 17—a boy now 15. About the passage of time and how the man looks at clocks but knows he can never go back.

This story is true.

Belief

I have questions that keep me awake, keep me thinking, keep me wondering and keep me searching.  I try to find answers and the trust that I need to believe in any answers. I have faith that there is some spirituality that unites us all.

Lately though I am questioning God or Allah or any other higher being. I question their existence. I know that many in this blogging community of sharing believe in their hearts that God, for instance, is the answer, the way forward, the light of life. Moreover you find great solace in this relationship as you struggle with or have come to peace with mental illness.

I am certainly not diminishing your faith or questioning your beliefs through my own misgivings. I wish I could be that certain.

However, I have never seen God. There was a time when I thought I was speaking to God and he was listening to what I was saying. I have tried to have a dialogue but for me it was one-sided.

I have never come face-to-face. Never sat down to explore how the world exists, why it exists the way it does. It all seems unfair in the truth of wars and hatred and disease. Why do these things exist?

I have wondered the same about other great religions. I have read the Bible and the Quran; both have a beauty and gentleness of their own.

I don’t consider myself a religious expert but words and phrases from these texts are memorable, meaningful and delicately written.

Three examples come to mind. From the Quran—Generosity is an easy thing. It is a smiling face and kind words. From the Buddha—You have no cause for anything but gratitude and joy. From the Bible—Gentleness and self-control. Against such things there are no laws.

But I don’t have much experience with these sentiments. I have not heard many kind words. I have had relatively little joy. I have not seen much gentleness.

I am plagued by the existence of mental illness and all illnesses. What is fair about this? Why is mental illness still cloaked in mystery and misunderstanding?

Why are some lives struck so hard while others go through life unhindered?

Where we have confusion many have clarity. Where we have unknown pain they live with a peaceful mind. Where we travel an unsteady path others make their way calmly.

I am not bitter or I try not to be but I ask myself why I should believe in God or Allah or any other higher being. Why should I take to heart shining words—I would rather see actions, see deeds. Unfortunately, I am still waiting for answers, for words to come to life.

I am still searching for solace and assistance as I wander through life with bipolar disorder.

The trouble is I do not know which way to look.

 

Lastly, I have noticed over the past weeks that more folks are following this blog. I’m grateful. When I started my only goal was honesty. I hope you find some morsel that is helpful.

peace and love Terry

Love and Understanding

Love and understanding are the best words I’ve heard yet – Blue Rodeo

I have been, as of late, curious and exploring different ways to treat and deal with, for lack of a better term, mental illness and in my case bipolar disorder. Mostly, I have been asking how meditation, particularly within Buddhism, and mindfulness can be a positive force in treatment.

As far as I have read, and I’m certainly not claiming to be an expert, I believe this can be a wonderful tool, I don’t think it precludes the need for medications and psychotherapy. Everything has to mesh together as we move toward the goal of leading happy, fulfilling lives.

As an offshoot of considering this, I also began thinking about a wish list. What could improve our lives?

For me, it comes down to two fundamental wishes. I could probably add on others but I think these two cover quite a lot of ground.

First, and most obvious, I hope for a true and full cure for all mental illness. A wide range of hurdles remain before this is reality. However, I think it’s important that we do not give up believing that one day this will happen.

Second, I want more love, understanding and compassion. This extends beyond mental illness. The world would be an immensely better place if compassion and understanding were the norm rather than the exception.

As I look at mental illness and consider love, understanding and understanding, I see a two-way road. We need more from the world. Undeniably. We need to treat ourselves with more love, understanding and compassion. This too is undeniable.

And this is where I think meditation and mindfulness meets medical treatment.

This excerpt from an article entitled “Buddhism and My Psychiatric Practice” by Charles Byrne sheds light on how he brings these two together.

At first I was concerned there might be some contradiction between my Buddhist practice and my work in psychiatry. I later realised, however, that fundamentally my work involves helping people and therefore is fully compatible with Buddhism. I do not tell my patients about Buddhism. But its philosophy helps me in my work and I tell my friends in the profession about its humanistic ideals. Buddhist theory has influenced the way I do therapy.

Buddhist beliefs ring with compassion and understanding. Isn’t it worthwhile to consider this? Why not.

If we can cultivate compassion and understanding as the general public and some public figures view mental illness, it’s not wasted effort. We should open windows on our world and how we live. We should consider how we can encourage the world to offer compassion, just as we need to find ways to be compassionate to ourselves.

Ultimately, let’s continue to hope. Without hope, we will be lost.

 

Hope and love to all

Terry

Hope in America?

Yesterday, I read a blog post about the difficulty, the severe difficulty, that Americans with mental illness have finding and, I imagine, funding medical care. As a Canadian, we are fortunate to have a universal health care system and very good, comprehensive insurance provided by provincial governments and added insurance that comes with employment in most sectors.

I cannot imagine not only having to cope with mental illness, particularly when in crisis, but also not knowing where to turn for proper care. Neither can I even begin to understand the labyrinth that Americans have to negotiate to find care so needed. In the case of this family, their daughter had attempted suicide a number of times; their final solution to receiving treatment for her was a facility 250 miles.

At 60 miles per hour, according to my not perfect math, that is a bit more three hours travel time and, of course, double for the return trip. I walk to my psychiatrist in about 30 minutes. I can walk to a wonderful hospital fully dedicated to mental health in about 45 minutes.

I found this article that speaks to this issue is understanding and helpful, even hopeful. Here are the addresses for both the article and the blog post.

 

http://blogs.psychcentral.com/depression/2013/03/god-bless-the-mental-health-care-community-with-cash/

http://morethancoping.wordpress.com/2013/03/10/when-a-mental-health-emergency-happens-can-you-find-help/

 

hope and love to all

Terry