Perspective of Life and Disease

Perspective is a powerful force. Not many of us realize it or have stopped to think about. We toss the word around like burnt popcorn seeds. Most times it’s a mask for saying we don’t agree.
To me, perspective shapes the world we live in. It helps define who we are. It influences how we judge other people and the situations we find ourselves in.
Too often we are trapped by our perspectives and can’t see the bars and locks. They become roots. They become beliefs. Or we believe they are our beliefs.
Unfortunately, changing a belief, particularly one that we have held onto for years or more, is immensely difficult. So onerous, it’s impossible. So we believe. Or is that just an ingrained perspective?
It is possible to alter our perceptions, perspectives and beliefs. It’s not easy but possible.
If the perspective you have is that mental illness is an indefatigable, unending shadow that will always loom over and control your life, your perspective is a telescope and you’re looking in the wrong end. You should, if you can, seriously ask and consider is this reality. More importantly, is this the reality in which you want to exist.
Perspective molds our perception. All too quickly and silently, perception becomes reality. It is self-perpetuating. If this is so, we should make every effort to change all of this.
Perspective can be seen as a story, a myth. Not necessarily the truth.
If we see ourselves as people who struggle along, barely managing illness or not managing it all, this is truth. We may view ourselves through the perspective of being in control rather than being controlled.
Certainly, many people do not have the luxury of choosing between these two perspectives (or a third or fourth). They are simply overpowered by their illness. I have been in this state and it becomes hard to remember why you are breathing let alone attempt to understand how you see yourself stunts recovery. No amount of positive thinking can change this reality.
Many of us, further down a healthy path, can change our perspective. We have the ability to make this important shift.
Perspective is ultimately subjective. No one can state this or another perspective is absolute and right. But as people, if we can pull ourselves back for a moment, we can gain a more objective vision of that subjectivity.
Perspective is much more than the idea of seeing the glass half full or half empty—pessimist or optimist.
These trite clichés are a meaningless short hand to draw beliefs in the broadest strokes possible. They do not arise from deep and real self-examination; they simply fall from our lips with the gracelessness of tumbling down a flight of stairs.
Can anyone honestly be glass-half-full person all the time? Can you be a perennial optimist no matter the circumstances befall you?
Absolutely not. It’s a delusional to think so and a superficial conception of the human condition.
Perspective, viewed in the light that I am trying to shine, is much more cogent and demanding. We must be truly introspective, look not at our facades but at the structures these facades hide. It’s the foundation of our beliefs about ourselves and the world that needs to be placed in the crucible of examination.
As I mentioned, perspective is subjective. It’s a creation. It becomes intertwined with our self-esteem and worth, too often with our lack of self-esteem and worth.
The unfortunate truth is many of us living with mental illness accept the perspectives defined by outsiders, by the world with its many biases and misunderstanding.
Changing our perceptions or perspectives is about self-awareness.
Perspective is about power, a power that we can claim—the power to define yourself, the power to separate myth from reality and the power to take charge. Changing perspective, positively, will lead toward the reclaiming control. Turn away from our automatic vision of ourselves we begin to see a different, more honest view of who and what we are. Negative perspectives become positive.
Our perspectives are what we see when we think we are facing reality. It’s time for us to blink and blink away at our perspectives. Question them. It’s time we put our backs into the hard work of creating a self-perspective that is positive and encouraging.
Even if we are the only ones who recognize our changed perspective, this is no reason to stop. Altering negative perspectives to positive is selfish. It can only be accomplished alone, though psychologists and counsellors can help, and it is accomplished only for ourselves.
Perspective. Change. Ourselves. Better health. That is what matters.
And who else should we be concerned about.

peace and love, Terry

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.

Who Am I?

Recently I read an article by Linda Logan that was linked by a thoughtful blogger (http://www.nytimes.com/2013/04/28/magazine/the-problem-with-how-we-treat-bipolar-disorder.html). While it was essentially about how bipolar disorder is treated and how bipolar disorder changed the writer’s life, to me it became more.

The article struck a deafeningly loud chord. It resonated deeply. It made me examine the years that have passed since I was first diagnosed. The changes that, in truth, I was forced to accept, to adapt and find a way to live with.

Here I am. Or am I? I don’t know anymore. What am I? Who am I? Why I am?

I’ve realized that I’ve have lost myself. My sense of being, reason and purpose. Through the years, each role that used to define me has fallen away.

I no longer a father in the way I wanted to be.

I’m not a husband anymore.

I’m not a colleague, and employee who was admired and rewarded for the quality of work.

I’m not the same kind of friend I was. In fact, I have slowly lost many while I wasn’t paying attention.

Has this been a long erosion? Is this a response to recent events that have cemented a real finality to a chapter of my life? Am I responding to fear, to despair, to the loss of health and control? Is it just that my thinking has coalesced?

I can’t answer these questions yet. They’re existential and demand hard, honest internal debate. I do know I have to find some way to cope, to re-emerge, to find purpose.

Still I wonder when did this happen and why I wasn’t aware. Was it gradual or sudden? Hidden from my perception. Blindly.

Or should I accept this as what it is. Move forward. Find a path. Resurrect myself.

A butterfly from a cocoon.

Below is the beginning of a poem I’m writing.

a day

long ago

I disappeared

falling without knowing

that I was losing

my core

my ‘who am I’ shedding

like dying snake skin

heard the furious

unknown rattle

pierced by fangs

now mine

 

that day

I became

a foreigner in

my own land

 

hope and love terry

Mental Illness & Civil Rights

Two events captured my attention this week.

First, a pro basketball player announced he is gay. While he is relatively unknown, at least to me, he is the first active athlete to do this. Ground-breaking certainly. I respect his decision to open about his happy lifestyle. I applaud him. He deservedly received significant and important support.

Second, Catherine Zeta Jones entered hospital for treatment of bipolar disorder. I’m not one to pay much attention to the travails of celebrities so I dismissed this as another entering some kind of rehabilitation program.

Yesterday, I learned it was actually for treatment of her bipolar disorder. I am not sure how this became public, whether she issued a public statement or not. Still, I’m glad that it is public now. At that same time, it saddens me that no outpouring of support seemed to follow this.

These announcements raised a question in my overactive brain (at this point in any case).

Do people with mental illness need to be more public, make announcements about their life with these range of illnesses, make it a part of the public agenda? In much the same way, the gay community is doing. A particular example is the debate, mostly positive, over gay marriage in the United States.

Again, I point out that I am Canadian. This is a non-issue in my country. In fact, it was legalized across the country in 2005. And the world didn’t end. So called traditional marriage has not been threatened or diminished.

I wonder, no I believe, accepting, understanding, supporting and treating mental issue should be a civil rights issue. Plain and simple. Couching mental illness as a matter of equality, in particular, makes good sense to me. This would change the conversation about mental illness; frame it in a much different way.

Canada is a very pluralistic, culturally diverse nation. Not perfect, but multiculturalism has long been a source of pride for Canadians. However, a prejudice, spoken or not, exists about mental illness. I can’t comment with certainty about America but anecdotal evidence indicate it the same south of the border.

How many people with bipolar disorder or depressive illness have been reluctant to bring this to the attention of potential employers? The fear, of course, is that they wouldn’t be hired if the employer thought this rendered them unreliable, would cause poor judgement and frequent absences. And I very much doubt that anyone would divulge a history of hospitalisation.

How many of us are reluctant to be forthright about mental illness when meeting a new person. I’m not advocating that we introduce ourselves as having bipolar disorder. But a natural point in a growing relationship would arise when this would seem appropriate.

I am quite open about living with bipolar disorder and I like to believe that I not bothered by others knowing. I have to admit I find myself in situations when I pull back from this. Protecting myself. Not wanting to have to again explain that when my medication is effective I lead a relatively normal life. I can contribute to society.

At times, I am just fatigued by the prospect.

To remove the stigma surrounding mental illness, it’s time to continue, encourage and contribute to an open, honest conversation about society’s views. We need to keep pushing for progressive, positive thinking and change. Framing this as another civil rights issue, an equality of opportunity issue would change the debate.

This is my opinion. Maybe, I’m dreaming under a rainbow. But maybe this is an appropriate strategy. I can’t predict if this change will happen and if it does be effective. I believe it deserves consideration.

The onus on those of us with a mental illness is to be public, heighten awareness, push hard for action. Let us be open. Let us be courageous.

The stigma remains. We need to find effective ways to put this behind us. We deserve equality. It’s time.

It’s a responsibility that we need to take on.

How We Spring Ahead

Spring has come. Finally. Rather meekly in these parts.

Rather tempered in my heart.

Like many, I see spring as rebirth, as the time when new possibilities bloom. When the world open itself once again. This, of course, is seen through the lens of a northern climate where winters are snow and cold and dark.

In an all too real way, the snow and cold and dark lingers with me. While enjoying these moments as I can, I cannot help but look back at the last spring and the struggle that began for me. A struggle that lasted the rest of 2012 and this past January. It was the most frightening time in my life. And that’s a bold statement.

Only now am I gaining a real perspective on lengthy hospitalization, lengthy bottomless depression and a suicide attempt.

How did I ever go through this and come out on the other side. It’s baffling and remarkable. I haven’t figured this out. Maybe I never will. Maybe I shouldn’t spend time trying.

It amazes how we can rebound from desperate times. It also amazes me how long it takes to recover.

I know that I’m still recuperating, in fact, still struggling to feel the health and wellness that I’ve had in the past. I know, without doubt, that’s where I want to be again. Only months ago, I couldn’t have said that.

Is this change real? Truly solid answers float somewhere in the air, nearby but not fully in my grasp. The idea of this change I keep close and hold tightly now. Because I know how precarious it is.

It’s spring. It’s a time of hope. I’m finding what I can. For me, though, it’s also a time to remember fragility and the slippery balance between good health and the other side I don’t want to consider. But I do. For now, remembering is good, is valuable and keeps me doing what I need to do.

Spring. Let’s enjoy it.

 

Hope and love to all.

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

Reason Is Not Enough

I am well. Happy enough. Better, in fact, than I have been for a long while.

Why then do I have the lurching feeling this is temporary?

I should smile, shouldn’t I? Allow myself to feel some joy, relief, shouldn’t I? At least, enjoy these moments of tranquility, stability.

Shouldn’t I? Reason tells me I should. But I don’t.

I should. It makes sense to live in this moment.

I should enjoy this.

I am not. Or, more accurately, I cannot allow myself to follow reason, logic and wisdom. It is true that I am happy for these moments. Only to a degree though.

I remind myself to live moment to moment – the future does not exist, the past is gone. This is my stated goal to which I remain committed. Obviously, I have work to do. I still believe this will be a significant step, or process of steps, on the path to real, lasting wellness.

Walls. I have built walls that remain even as I have removed some bricks. Walls that I have raised. Walls that I must raze.

So many things to cherish now. Emotional stability that should be celebrated, at least in small ways.

I do not trust these moments. That is the harsh truth, it is difficult to admit. Frankly, I am anxious about feeling this way. I question. It causes me distress that, in the end, could be the cause of the end of this moment.

This is a positive place and time. Again, hard truths find daylight. I do not know how to accept or believe in the positive, the happiness, the rewarding and satisfying. The possibility of change being good.

I hang on to what I have experienced. Since being diagnosed, I have gone in one direction, been pulled in another and found myself following a third. It has been long years of trial and error. Mostly error. I have gone through days and months of relief and belief that I am under control. All have ended, some in desperate ways.

Why should I have faith that this will be different?

I am afraid. In my core of cores. In the hidden shadows of my protective walls. Too used to the negative. To watching what I cannot control crawl out of the shadows.

Sad, I know. I do not want to pull away, need to guard myself. Sure that happiness is fleeting.

It is a strange paralysis of anxiety and dread.  A finality will come. The stars illuminating my sky will die. Embers will fall, covering me.

I live in an unpredictable world populated by well-known, slumbering ghosts. A grievous expectation washes over me.

I need a resurrection of spirit. An epiphany of confidence. A redemption of faith.

For now, hope is tenuous. I am waiting, despite all I am attempting to make this last, not lost.

It is reasonable that I look to the stars, smile under their light.

Reason is not enough, even in this fine moment.

Wind in Heart

The wind in my heart. That refreshing breeze that sweeps away the anguish, hurt and confusion. And like the eye of the hurricane, you find yourself in a calm place amid the whirling world your mind can be.

Sure, I might be pulled into the swirl of hurricane winds but for now I enjoy the calm and, I suppose, the stability.

The days of struggle. They’ve come to an end, which in hindsight, after the maelstrom, is the natural turn of events in the life of one who has bipolar.

I don’t say this with much confidence though. However, I do take solace in today. I think that I’m making progress in accepting each day as it. Moreover, I want to really take charge of bipolar disorder, to hold the reins and steer my own direction.

I recently read an interview with Lama Yeshe on Buddhism and mental illness. He said, “There’s no way you can understand your own mental problems without your becoming your own psychologist. It’s impossible.” I believe he is right. We each have this responsibility.”

Even in the darkest moments or the soaring highs, I think we have this ability. We may not know it. We may need help to find it. We may need time to understand it and put it in use. But I think it’s there, We can act as our own psychologist or psychiatrist, and take power over our disease.

In writing this, I am not in any way dismissing or undermining the value and need of a good psychiatrist and proper medication. The vital importance of support. Knowing that when we are overwhelmed we can reach out and someone will be there.

I’m saying that we can take charge and still work in concert with medical expertise for support.

After the struggling and frightening period I went through, I wasn’t able to do this. I have not grasped he concept fully nor do I yet have the tools. I want to develop and learn though.

Today is a good day. I’m thankful for these moments.

I’m also thankfully, incredibly so, that when I believed I had nowhere to turn, I found the help I was searching for. Not permanent but what I needed to get through.

Where I live, Ottawa, the capital of Canada, there is an excellent support. A high-quality hospital only dealing with mental illness populated by fine and dedicated doctors, nurses, social workers to name a few. Having had stays in this hospital, the level of care and knowledge is astounding.

Also, two or three crisis lines are available 24 hours a day. In the lonely and desperate hours of the morning, when all I wanted was more darkness, I somehow thought of these. Perhaps I paid attention to numbers lying on the table within my reach.

More importantly, I called.

In the past, I had hesitated or even avoided these services. My bias? Not wanting to admit to needing crucial help? Yes to both.

What I found on the other end of the line – non-judgmental support and understanding. Advice and hope.  A tender ear, reassuring voice.

The crisis line worker eventually decided to send help to my home despite the hour. A fellow came and simply sat with me a while. He convinced me that he should call for medical help. I spent two days in hospital. It was the right place for me to be.

The final outcome? Saviour? Realizing I wasn’t alone in the bleakness? Help just a call away?

All of these.

I’m grateful.

 

Hope and love to all

Terry

Defining Me

So often I have encountered people who do not understand mental illness or bipolar disorder. They may have misgivings. They may have no desire to understand. They may think they know what it’s all about, hold on to their bias, without ever meeting a person with mental illness, picked up a book or attempted to educate themselves.

For me, this is incredibly frustrating. I have decried this misunderstanding, to be kind about it. I have been angry. I have been exhausted. I have come to expect that most people will continue or think that I am bipolar not a person with bipolar disorder.

Recently, I have had a startling epiphany. I realized, shockingly, that for many years I have done exactly what I want to stop.

I have defined myself as bipolar. As though this is the only part of me that counts. I have believed that this is the only way that people see me. In my mind, I am bipolar first. After I’m a father who loves and supports his children, a friend, a writer, an artist and someone who can contribute to my community and society.

Woe, what’s happening here? I’m smarter than this. I know this isn’t true.

Sure I do. And tomorrow I’ll win a lottery for which I have not ticket.

I have my own bias that I have held on to. I have to lie down for a while and let this wash over me. Sink in. How can I understand this?

Eyes are bugging out of my head. I can’t believe what I’m thinking, what I’m doing to myself.

Self-esteem? What self-esteem. What self-worth.

I have been beating myself relentlessly for far too long. How could I have been so ignorant?

Well, the first step is to admit the problem before any change can happen. As least I have recognized that I have been so unfair to myself.

I must stop no question. Even as my subconscious has embraced these thoughts. I have to turn away, turn around and leave it behind.

A 180 degree shift in my thinking, in how I define myself. I hope that this will rebuild my self-esteem, give me a real, not superficial, feeling of worth.

I see now this has hurt me, disrupted my recovery and likely led me to give way to the swing and sway of bipolar disorder. A mind in disorder can’t think rationally. It can carry a lie around for a long time. I’ve been a charlatan.

This is extremely deflating but I have to accept myself. I have to believe that I am more than bipolar. I have to take charge and be vigilant about how I see myself.

Nice words, huh. Nothing but words.

How will I do this? I don’t know. Can I do it alone? No.

I need help.

Hope and love all

Terry