Long Time Absent

I have been long absent from this blog. This recollection. This remorse. This repentance. This rejuvenation. Of a life.

These sentences and paragraphs hated and loved, unwanted and needed at once.

I feel an apology is in order. But to whom do I apologize? To me? To anyone who flatters me by reading or following? To the spirits that challenge me, if I am hopeful that challenges and fallow times are another step along an epiphany path?

No. I don’t think that an apology is needed; I’m wrestling with things outside my control. I am, like so many others, searching for understanding and a peace.

This post is my best effort to explain.

I have not been able to write. Like I have been in a lost jungle, under a rainforest canopy heavy with confusion. Feeling small, diminished. Without inspiration. No thoughts in a particular direction or cohesion. Just the excruciating feeling of a threatening depression.

Things have happened, are happening, that I haven’t been unable to process and I struggle. I don’t know how or where to begin. How to start. I can’t find necessary tools and my previous channels of avoiding depression have evaporated.

Recently I had a shock of uncovering of memories hidden away in a dead cavern. Incidents of parental violence from a locked box of childhood. Events that weigh me down like an anchor and scare the hell out of me.

If I have managed to cloak these memories for this long, for 4 decades, what other memories await? What will course through my vein of consciousness in the days ahead?

To put it flatly, my father was a drunk, violent man in my early years. In my later teen years, he was a dry drunk, grossly unhappy, who lashed out at easy targets. Verbal abuse, physical abuse his default reaction to his reality and, turn, mine.

A slap. A fist. A chase. Constant threats and reminders of how I failed in his eyes.

He probably projected his own inadequacies. I’d like to not care.  Except now I have to if I want to find perspective. My reality now is, though he died long ago, I still live with his haunting shadow. Damage done. Wounds that have not healed. Wounds that attack.

I very much question if I can heal. I don’t know hope.

I have been working with a professional, which helps while it feels dangerous. I am dredging deeply into these wounds. How do I close the door on unexpected pain?

I’m crying out for resolution, for solace, for a source of strength. My cries, my pleas are deafening silent. I can’t find satisfactory words to explain a parasitical, insinuating depression. I can hardly believe. At times, I feel so removed I’m looking down at myself—disembodied.

Safety in escape.

For years, I have hidden myself away. From my family, from the world, from me. This fortress I’ve constructed traps as much as it protects, leaves me lone in grey. Unable to find a way out no matter how much I crave release.

I was a kid, missing what kids are hard-wired to need from parents—unconditional love, unquestioning support, protection and encouragement parents should provide instinctively. The absolute parent-child bond that should be natural. Never nurtured. A bond severed, that can never be sewn back together.

Instead, I have hollowness. A consuming emptiness.

Underneath runs the river of living with bipolar disorder. I’m frightened this will lead to a serious, lasting downward spiral. So deep I won’t see light at the top. I won’t be able to hope that the light exists.

Is this inevitably going to lead to hospitalization? I have had my fill of hospitals. Perhaps, though, it’s the best choice. But it will mean two or three months. It will bring a false sense of security. The world is still beyond the walls and windows of the hospital. Problems still wait. It will mean juggling medications, something I want don’t again. Like the many agains in the past.

Who knows? Maybe hospitalization will become an absolute necessity. I hope, though, I can work through this with the professional help I now have. I guess I do have some slight hope. Something to try to hold on to.

What will I do now? Question, not answer. Hang on. Keep my head above water. Keep breathing. Look for little victories.

Ultimately, I have a singular goal.

Survival.

 

Peace and love, Terry

Ripped —- Apart

I have been avoiding writing this post for a while. At the same time, I watch days go by as my blog whither. I have been unable to wish or push these feelings away. They have and are wearing me down; taking away my confidence and the many positive changes I have worked so hard to forge.

I have recently stated that I want to focus on the good, on the helpful, on ways to bring transformation to people who are living with bipolar disorder. Right now, I cannot. I have already waited too long, searching, longing for a light. A way to avoid this creeping darkness.

I had no intention of writing about this but it is the only thing I can write about. So I am. I am hoping, selfishly, that this will help me get through this.

Today, I do not feel, instead I am. I am ripped—torn, shredded inside. Ripped.

About a week and a few days ago, I saw my psychologist as I do weekly. Each week I come away with something to think about and each week has felt like another building block. My ability to place context and perspective on my past has grown. I have learned how to understand my history and how to put it behind me, put it in its proper place.

However, not now.

Last week, I came home filled with anger and deeply saddened by what my psychologist and I talked about. It was the first time that I left with a roaring anger and a crevasse of sadness.

Abandonment. Inability to commit out fear of being left behind. Loss. A tangible hole in my spirit.

Why did she push so hard on an exposed nerve—raw and painful? I wonder if she purposely reopened wounds I do not want reopened. That I thought I had closed.

Despite my questioning, I will go back, foolish or dangerous or a new beginning. Somehow, I know, in some small and strong way, that she has my best interests at heart. I cannot lose this hope.

Is this part of a larger process?

Now I do not know how to feel, how to think. I know that I do not want to be in this place.

I am shaken.

Now I have many maybes.

Maybe I have resolved nothing, I am fooling myself.

Maybe I really do not know what I am doing in this life, with this life. Do I deserve this life?

Maybe I have fucked up too many things and fucked up too many lives.

Maybe I am tired of trying to wrestle myself to my feet, to shrug off these debilitating, unseen burdens that a few short weeks ago I thought I had put behind me.

Right now, I do not know why anymore. Why keep trying? It makes no sense—this morning, today, yesterday, last week.

Now I have the gnawing worry again. I am worried about drifting along—alone—not caring. Or plunging into a depression I will not be able to climb out of. Why try? What is to gain? Why should I continue when meaning eludes me?

Nothing is going to change. Nothing is going to get better.

I do not want to be part of anything or be with anyone. I do not want to be anymore.

I do not want to pretend. I do not want to live a fictional facade as I have lived behind protective, tall, thick and long-standing walls for so long.

I just do not understand. Again.

Maybe this life is non-fiction that I want to rewrite as my fiction.

I am another scar, skin translucent and thin, a pinprick from bleeding. Resources and resiliency have escaped. I have no healing balms or bandages, no sutures or medicines.

I have been reduced to nothing one more time. Again, nothing much matters.

I see the threshold. Is this the time I take the last, brave, relieving step?

Disabilities Hatred Mental Illness Guns

Hate Flyers Aimed At People with Disabilities

I could not believe this headline when I read it. My first, very fleeting, thought was this has to be a hugely disgusting joke or a horrible misprint.

It wasn’t. It was true. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry.

In Portland, Oregon, a beautiful city I’ve been lucky to visit, these flyers, strident in hatred, glaring in misinformation and outrageous in lies, were and perhaps still are being distributed. I refuse to quote anything so malicious, so dangerous. I will say it’s hate propaganda that easily fits under that dark of umbrella.

Vile, deplorable and sickening.

Even as a Canadian, and particularly as a person living with a mental disability, I find this unfathomable. I can’t make any sense of it. That’s a good thing. I do not want to be able to understand a person, or persons, who clearly think that people with disabilities are less worthy, less than a citizen, are lesser people.

I wonder how Americans with disabilities feel. Under attack? Voiceless? Frightened?

I have to scream my questions. What the Hell is going on? Who honestly believes that people will lie about disabilities to receive a pittance of money and the stigma of serfdom? Who can believe that people with disabilities have a remarkable, super human ability to subvert the entire American way of life and political system?

From my vantage point, this rattles me to the core. I wonder if anyone will stand up for common sense and tell the truth. I wonder if anyone will listen.

People living with mental illness are one part of people living with disabilities. But we’re joined. It appears the group of scapegoats is being increased. Scapegoats are singled out, blamed and persecuted when other immense and grievous issues aren’t being properly addressed.

What issues do I see? In the U.S., I believe it’s accurate to conclude they are gun violence and terrible economic conditions and injustice.

Can’t do anything about these problems? Find an easily targeted, misunderstood and rather silent group and point your crooked finger. People living with disabilities and mental illness are that group being singled out. The root cause. Sadly, this attitude is a gathering storm in the U.S. The ball began rolling after the horrible elementary school killings. Now it is rolling faster and picking up more people as it barrels through mainstream media and into mainstream society.

I don’t know how entrenched these opinions are in the United States but they seem to be the ‘go to’ explanation more and more often. Now are American citizens with disabilities going to stop identifying themselves and stop reaching out for help because these inflammatory words are often translated into real violence?

I don’t have answers. All I have is a wave of apoplexy. From afar, from another country, I have outrage. I hope fiercely that the winds of this storm don’t blow across the border into Canada, maybe they already have. I want to do something, at the very least, support Americans who raise their voices.

While I have more to say about Portland, a city that doesn’t deserve this, I can’t right now. Another mass shooting occurred less than 24 hours ago. Again in the U.S. Already questions about mental illness and person responsible are being raised. In fact, they aren’t questions anymore but preconceived conclusions. Mental illness has been contorted to the perception that it’s the real problem not the messy, contentious and, to a Canadian, ridiculous issue of gun rights. I believe this will continue to be the case the next time and the next time.

I don’t want to believe but have to.

It’s time Americans, in its self-proclaimed and self-defined glory as the world leader, stop bickering among themselves but act. It’s time Americans clean up their own woeful, inglorious s issues before it starts another ‘righteous’ war far from its own borders. The world knows America’s ugly secrets. We’re watching and wondering how Americans can stand on a pedestal declaring moral righteousness.

I’ll keep following these issues however but I’d rather not.

I’d rather watch Harry Potter movies. Ultimately it would be much better for my own mental health.

Peace and love—please Terry

The Changing Truth

I talk a good game but really I’m a falsehood. I’ve ignored facts of my life. I’ve lied to myself and, therefore, I’ve lied to anyone who has read this blog.

I didn’t set out to do this. I am surprised, even stunned, to reach this conclusion. I’ll try not to lie again, but how I viewed many years of my life has changed—dramatically.

Over the past few days, after getting through a serious medical situation and of course still living with bipolar, I have spent time reflecting. A few days of reflection that has shifted how and what I think. Some might call it an epiphany.  I can’t be that grandiose.

What I write is honest. My prime goal of this blog. Honesty, I see now, shifts through time and perspective.

I have been tumbling through life. Not in control. Not wanting to be in control. Just tumbling as the winds of this disease have pushed me this way or that.

I am struck forcefully that I was just breathing to exist, not breathing to live. I was letting my life slip out of my hands, just watching it slowly turn grey and turn to nothing.

Perhaps this was the only way I saw to cope. Perhaps it was a manifestation of my anger—no rage—I’ve felt at having a disease that has no true solution. Maybe I just gave up long ago and became used to having no power.

If I accept one or all of these suppositions then I have to accept my own irresponsibility. I have to take responsibility for where I am and the state of my life.

Simple, I was sorry for myself. Letting life batter me as though I had no defences. I wasn’t even trying to defend myself. I was standing still while my life went by.

And I liked it that way. It was easier to blame something else for ruining my life. In truth, I was a tag-along passenger and had no interest in driving. Without consciously knowing, allowing myself to complain silently and go on without thought or positive effort.

My life became nothing but bipolar. I’ve been hiding behind it.

Looking at some of the posts in this blog, I see a lot of words, a few interesting ideas and a lot of setting myself apart from myself in some way. The whole situation just saddens and frustrates me.

Positively, I’ve come to this realization. Now I have to make it real.

 

peace and love

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

Guarded Optimism – Part 2

One thing I believe most if not all humans do is ask questions. Frequently, we ask questions that have no absolute answers. We know this. The answers can’t be found, at least not in this life.

In fact, I don’t trust people who tell me they have the answers. Who are more than willing to tell me what the answers are. They don’t. Do they?

Safe to say, I live in perpetual fog. I’m one of the least absolute people you’ll meet.

I have now been in, for me, quite a stable period for quite a while. That’s good. A source of happiness and comfort.

I don’t trust it.

I’m living with one foot on the gas and one foot on the brake. Idling at high speed. Getting ready to release the brake, just trying to work up the courage to do it. To find the faith that I’ll stay on the road that might be ahead.

Might being the operative word.

Will guard rails be there to guide the way? Will they be strong and flexible enough to keep me going forward when I veer off course, one way or the other?

Like I said, I have questions. I don’t have answers.

I feel confident that the straight ahead I hope for won’t go smoothly. The well-worn saying, learn from history or you’re doomed to repeat it. For me, I believe that my history will repeat, no matter what I do.

I want this to be different, to change my mindset. How?

I know I don’t want the disappointment. I don’t need the crush.

Nothing hoped for, nothing lost.

But after these months of feeling well most of the time, receiving positive reinforcement from doctors and friends, I can’t avoid hope. I want to run from it. Everywhere I turn though, I see it.

Do I accept it? I can’t. I wish I could but caution is now my second nature.

Hell, it’s first nature. It’s primary. It’s a synaptic reality.

How hard do I try? How hard can I try? These questions I wrestle with. They weigh so heavily in so many ways.

Am I living the myth of Sisyphus? Like the mythological king, am I condemned to push the boulder of hope up a hill only to have it roll back down just as I reach the top? Forever?

I wonder. I can’t seem to allow faith to be part of my equation. I have to protect myself against hope.

Guarded optimism. The life I lead.

 

hope and love to all, Terry

loss and hope

Hope.

I remember that. Vaguely. It feels like years ago.

It feels truly alien. A foreign force. A language I thought I understood only to realize that I understood in the same way a blind person can see. Unfortunately, I have no white cane to help me avoid the bumps and falls. I have nothing memorized anymore to help avoid the pitfalls or climbing a ladder that I have no idea where it will take me, how long I will climb, how high it is.

I’ve had hope and understanding stripped away from me. Now moments are empty. I live with a devastating loneliness that is inescapably deep. It’s in my blood, in my DNA. It’s not loneliness that can be alleviated in the comfort of being friends or family.

This loneliness sits in the pit of my being, overwhelming my breathing, my body, my spirit, my soul.

I’m simply hollow. And today I can’t imagine finding a way out of this. I find myself drifting in the belief that this is all life has left to offer. I’ve used up whatever chance I’ve had for happiness, for fulfillment, for some sense of control.

This all wraps around the strong feeling of what is the purpose of going on. Why live in this place of terminally being apart from and not understanding people and the world I’m supposed to live in.

The truth is after 8 years of being seriously committed to treatment under the care of an excellent, compassionate doctor, I’ve never found a medication or combination of medications that have had lasting positive effects. Either I have immediately reacted badly (there’s a whole range of medications usually prescribed to people with bipolar that I cannot handle) or after a few months I’ve developed some negative side effects ending whatever promise I had for the future.

Now, I have no faith that this combination that I’m currently using will last and I will inevitably be devastated. Again we will have to start over. I’ve been through enough beginnings. I’m worn out.

I’m eroded.

This has been drastically impacted by last year, which was one of the worst of my life. I was hospitalized for 2 months. The position that was being held for me while I was on disability was eliminated as the Government of Canada vanished 20,000 jobs. So the little hope that lingered in the back of my mind that one day i could work was gone. I had serious financial issues to settle. I went through a very dark depression for 4 months in the fall. Last, due to a terrible reaction to lithium, I fell in the middle of a busy street, cracked my head open and again spent a week and a half hospitalized.

Hope.

I have none, certain that the dismal cloud of loss will return with torrential impacts. Raw and cold.

I started this blog determined to be ultimately positive, thought provoking and perhaps helpful.

But I think it should also be truthful. Maybe someone out there is experiencing the same. Maybe.

Hope.

It’s vanished. I’m lost and merely exist, breathing robotically, attempting to find a place to hide.

I do not know where that hiding place is, what it is. I do not know how to continue. I do not know how to walk this tight rope with the certain expectation that the next step will send me crashing.

Hope.

Where?

Hopelessness.

Inevitable.

terry