Deathmatch

Deathmatch

“Just my luck,” I thought, as I came within a quarter-mile of the Williams turnoff, “A frickin’ pick-up truck, that thinks it’s a hay truck.  Maybe I can blitz past and sneak off the exit in front of him.  Argh!  Oops, Sorry Dude.  That was close.  Crap, this means I am stuck behind him.  Maybe he’ll turn right and head to Colusa.  Dum de dum dum.  No way. Double crap.”

I was heading back to the mountain, from a quick run over to Sac, and there was no way to avoid the infamous Highway 20.  It could be the smoothest, quickest jaunt ever; or it could be a trip to the dentist, the one who has just acquired a new drill, and wants to try it out on you, for the next hour and forty-five minutes.  Today, it looked as though I were again the dentist’s chair, only this time the chair was actually a bed of nails, and the sound of the drill was amplified fifty times over by the best sound system.  Oh, and he forgot to administer the Novocaine.

As the dilapidated rig trundled along in front of me, maxing out at 45 miles per hour, weaving rhythmically back and forth between, over, and on top of the parallel lines on either side of the west-bound lanes, I started to get antsy.  I thought of the expanse of highway that stretched out in front of me, and how long it would take to get as fas as the edge of the range of coastal mountains that I would have to climb, in order to get back to Highway 101, the lifeline of the interior of Mendocino County.  I let out a tremendous sigh. then another, and then I started muttering to myself. 

Now I have been stuck behind Winnepiggos countless times; they annoy me but they also remind me that I live in a spot that others travel from all corners of the globe, to see.  I have been stuck behind big-rigs, spewing diesel smoke out of dual exhaust systems, and remained calm because I recognize that living in a remote place in NorCal, means that most of what I purchase locally, must be transported by big-rig.  Finally, I have been stuck behind little old ladies (the original lol) and not gotten impatient, because I may too be old some day, if I don’t do something dumb, and get my ass killed on the highway.  lol

But this clown was unique.  His pick-up truck was a relic left over from a bygone era, and the rust which permeated the undercarriage, indicated it had begun its sorry existence in a cold-weather climate, where they used salt to counter the effects of ice.  There were two bales of hay visible, that had been draped across the walls of the truck bed, perpendicular to the bed, so that a full foot of the two hay bales, stuck over each side of the truck.  The net result is that I could not see past the vehicle, and he could not see me, any possibly existing mirrors effectively blocked by the presence of a whole lot of hay.

Particles of this hay kept whipping back at me, bigger pieces lodging in my windshield wipers, further annoying me.  Because it was still before six in the morning, we had the highway to ourselves.  I do not know that it would have mattered, or if vehicles lined up behind me might have changed the way things turned out.  It does not matter now.

Instinctively, I knew it was a set-up for disaster.  I knew that I could never maintain my cool, or any semblance of rational thought, if this yahoo maintained this pace.  You know what I should have done, of course.  I think a preschooler could have figured it out.  I should have just pulled over, twisted up a little goodness, and proceeded to get high as a red-tailed kite, floating effortlessly in the heavens above.  I should have known that this was not a regular, run-of-the-mill trip to town for the local yokel, in the vehicle in front of me.

It was my own personal “dance of the dead,” my swan song, as far as dealing with the immutable forces of an uncaring, unfeeling universe, in the form of a red-neck vessel of sloth and ignorance, placed here on this highway to hell, just to fuck with my head.  I did not listen to the voice of calm and reason, which dictated that I climb back out of the ring, set my boxing gloves aside, and take five, or maybe fifteen minutes, to slow the pace down.

No, I could have listened, and should have done more than just listen, but that is all just so much water over the dam, and there is no retrieving it now.  Damn the torpedoes; full speed ahead!  Except that there is still the problem of the haybeater in front of me, and my unwillingness to ease to the left, far enough to see past that mountain of hay, to pass that gnarly, slightly lopsided wreck.

“Dude, you are giving me a headache!”  Instinctively I had blurted out my words aloud, demonstrating my unhappiness to the fly that was lazily buzzing around my head.  There was no one and nothing else to hear my words, least of all the jerk in the joke of a truck, that blocked my passage through to freedom.  

As I contemplated the situation, two miles and almost three minutes passed, during which the pressure cooker that my brain had become, began to really heat up, sending a red mist around my eyes, that made it more than optimum, to keep my vision focused on anything but the monstrosity in front of me.  It is difficult to drive, even at the slug’s pace of 45 miles an hour, when you do not want to look at the object directly in front of you.  

A sign floated by on the right, that warned that radar was used to detect those who chose to exceed the speed limit.  I even tried to draw some measure of comfort that I would not be receiving any tickets for excessive speed on this particular trip.  It was of little consolation, because the meter inside my brain, had just gone into the red.  This particular shade of red, was blood-colored.

I determined that I would have to take a peek around the left, to see if I was lucky enough to get a break in the oncoming traffic.  “I’ll just ease my way to the left here, slowly, and whoa!  Bad time for you to ease left too.  Gotta watch this bozo closely, cause he isn’t following the same script that I am.”

As we ambled along, the temperature inside the vehicle far exceeding that, which was outside, the bits and pieces of hay continued to whip into and past my windshield, further irritating my already raw nerves.  My hands tightened their grip on the wheel.  “This is so retarded.  This jaboney is rocking my world, and I gotta say, this ain’t working for me.  Time to do something about it.”  

Again I eased to the left; again, he did also.  How could he know when I went left, if he couldn’t see me?  This maniac was clairvoyantly evil.  Now we were down to forty, when he jerked back to the right.  Barreling at me, going hella faster than I, was a gasoline tanker.  Screaming incoherently, I jerked the wheel to the right, and my last epic carnival ride began.  Even at forty miles an hour, a sharp enough jerk of the wheel is going to produce an instantaneous technical problem, of immeasurable difficulty.

I sailed off the highway, summersaulting merrily into a three hundred-year-old live oak tree, in a manner that would leave my little sportster, a crumpled, twisted mass of fiber glass and steel, with little remaining of me at all, except for my stubbornness.  Plenty of that to go around, even if the rest of me went up in smoke.  That’s too bad because I won’t need it anymore.  

Down the highway continued the hay-laden old pickup truck, seemingly oblivious to the destruction behind him, his scythe conveniently mounted in the easy-rider-rifle rack in the window behind him.  The driver, garbed in black, had a pleasant smile on his skeletal face.

(9) You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD: Sonic Whispers

You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD

Sonic Whispers

Annie and I arose on the early side yesterday, and strolled out the door at 4:30AM, bound for Ione to see Lito ring the bell, after receiving his diploma at the Cal Fire Officers’ Training Academy.  This was the culmination of a six-week training camp, reminiscent of a military-style boot camp.  Forty men and women started out, and thirty-nine successfully completed the course.

For me the day was a test of my ability to travel five hours in the car each way, attend a public event, with a lot of pomp and circumstance, and not allow anxiety or mood to interfere with my enjoyment of this venue.  My attendance was an unqualified success, on all levels, and it began with our preparations.  We had run down a list of necessary components, including the decision to hold off taking my anxiety medication, because, frankly, there was no anxiety.  That in itself is a first.

Next Annie and I had a key discussion about where we would sit.  She said to me, “I want to sit close to the front so I can see.”

“Well, that sounds reasonable.  How close is close?”  My former students heard me tell them for years that I always choose the back left-hand side of any public venue I attend, because it allows for the best exit strategy, should I need to employ it. 

“I want to sit at the front, because I’m short.  Last year I couldn’t see anything.”  Last year we had come to this same location, to watch Benny walk across the same stage.

“Maybe you and Vanessa can sit up front and I can sit by myself at the back.”  The prospect did not thrill me, but neither did the idea of being in the center of a mass of humanity.  I have to be candid.  Sitting in the middle of a row of seats, with folks surrounding me, continues to be something that I cannot do.  Period.  There is no exception to the rule.  

I do not try to comprehend the source of my anxiety; I listen to the sonic boom that whispers in my mind, at even the thought of such a fool-hardy idea.  As it turned out, because we had had the foresight to leave our house well in advance of the time we calculated necessary, we were among the first to enter the hall.  Annie drifted instinctively to the left, and we found that the podium was off-center, and positioned closer to the side we were contemplating.  By snagging the outside three chairs, I could sit on the edge, and cope.  It was a perfect compromise.  People to the front, right (Annie) and people behind me.  But no one to the left.  OK, ready for action, ready for danger.

The trip was well worth the effort, already, before Bill Baxter, the battalion chief who runs the academy, noted Nathaniel’s name being called, by striding past the clasping of the badge on his chest, back to where I was standing, watching while Annie took a picture.  He approached me, holding out his hand to shake mine.  “I have had the pleasure of training two of your sons now.  Outstanding effort, on the part of each of them.  Outstanding.”  By going out of his way, to single me out for this acknowledgement, he made me feel as though I were a king.   I now better understand why Benny spent so much time, extolling his virtues.  I expect to hear the same from Lito.

As far as mood spectrum disorder having no effect on my participation, all I can say is, “Outstanding.”

Blue Blood

This is a long-overdue check-in with the San Francisco Giants.

Blue Blood

Has anyone but me noticed that the Dodgers have lost five straight?  That is just such a shame, you know, because that means that the San Francisco Giants just might actually have a chance this season.  Fans frequently have a hard time remembering that the baseball season is 162 games long, and that teams that get off to quick starts, must sustain their intensity for an entire season.  Otherwise, the hot air that they spew early on, provides a great deal of motivation for the teams in the rear-view mirror.

Right now, one-third of the way through the season, the Giants are four games above .500, matching a season high, and they have yet to see Timmy emerge from his funk.  If we can have made the adjustment to Wilson and Sandoval’s absence, and still been able to make progress, imagine where we will be, when Pablo comes back and Timmy gets on track.  I have said it before and I will say it again.  Don’t you worry about Timmy.

Examine just a few of the emerging components of the Giants 2012 team.  Start with my personal favorite, Gregor Blanco, the single most intriguing new Giant this spring.  He has seized control of the leadoff position, and is showing the league how it’s done.  This spot in the lineup is critical and it appears the Giants have scored big-time.  Gregor provides a spark reminiscent of Andres Torres, and creates havoc for the opposing pitcher, when he gets on base.

Secondly, we have Joaquin Arias, the player taxed with replacing the Panda.  The Giants tried several candidates for this slot, before Arias settled into place.  That’s the kind of depth a team must have, in order to be able to sustain its drive when key injuries occur.  Last year we were unable to plug that prominent gap at the catching spot, and we lost out in August and September.  This year, maybe not.

So why is Blanco more intriguing than Melky?  Because Melky is producing the way Sabean figured he would, albeit at a much higher level.  Blanco is still an unknown commodity, injuries and timing having played a key role in his career so far.  Now he has melded with an aggressive blend of teammates, to show the baseball world how it is done.  

Melky Cabrera set an SF Giants team record for the number of base hits in May, besting Willie Mays’s 1958 May effort, and Blanco was on the base paths in front of him, setting the pace.  Melky has more hits than any player in the National League, and is heading his team's charge.  Together with Angel Pagan, the Giants have furnished their team with a trio of fleet-footed outfielders, who are learning to patrol the unconventional realm of AT&T Park.  Listening to Angel at the plate last night, dropping that pop fly in, just in front of the onrushing Cubs right fielder, made me chortle.

Right fielders coming into our yard have to make a decision, every time a player steps to home plate.  Guard against a ball getting past and to the wall in Triples Alley, or guard the line?  One guy can’t do both, unless he has been there and done it before.  Nate Schierholtz has demonstrated how it is done, but is still struggling to establish himself as a force to be contended with every day.  Meanwhile, opponents get to have the joy of on-the-job-training in right field, with 40,000 fans screaming at them.

Finally, take a gander at Santiago Casilla, and tell me that we have not plugged one of the most gaping holes in our team’s effort to climb back into contention last season.  He has stepped up with authority, slamming the door in the ninth effectively, with a lot less drama than Brian Wilson.  Drama is OK if it gets the job done, but efficiency is more desirable.  Helps keep the “t” word out of the broadcast booth.  I do not associate torture with baseball.  Tension yes, because a good game always includes tension, but not torture.

The only torture I have experienced this season, has been listening to discussion about how the Dodgers were running away with the title.  I have great respect for Matt Kemp, but he is now experiencing technical difficulties.  It is a part of the game, and affects a team’s performance.  Personally, I look forward to the continuation of the season series, because the Giants are a team on the rise, not one trying to maintain its edge on a slippery slope.  

Torture?  Bring it on.  Just make sure there is plenty of popcorn, peanuts and cold lemonade.  I like to be fat and sassy while I watch our players administer the rack to a team that tortures me just by being on the same field.   I heard the Dodgers bleed blue.  I’d like to see that.  Let’s create a new version of the Black Sea, and make it a Blue Sea.  At the end of the season, they can rechristen it the Dead Sea, because that will be more descriptive.  Go Giants!

(8) You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD: Courage

You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD

Courage

Yesterday marked two occasions: thirty years up here on the mountain, to the day, and Ross’s birthday.  Ross is newly moved into the immediate neighborhood, and I could not be happier.  He brings great energy onto the ridge, and it will be fun to have him around.  So how could I not traipse down to his place for a little birthday celebration, when Casey was kind enough to provide me with the information, including the gate combo?  Bipolar people appreciate having the combo; it makes getting through the locked gate so much more convenient.

I have had several opportunities to reconvene on the social circle, but have not had the courage up until now.  Why does it take courage?  Rita’s post today on FaceBook says it all: “The mentally ill frighten and embarrass us.  And so we marginalize the people who most need our acceptance.  What mental health needs is more candor, more unashamed conversation.”  Everyone in my circle cannot help but know that I have been diagnosed with a mood spectrum disorder.  I have dropped off the face of the planet.  Now I am back.

As the poster suggests, mental illness is not a warm and fuzzy topic in our culture.  Of course we have to distinguish what constitutes “mental illness.”  Does depression fit under the umbrella of mental illness?  Of course it does, but it frequently escapes the stigma, because being “sad” is not the same thing as being nuts.  People’s level of comfort varies dramatically when you venture into the murky waters of mental issues, which always highlight the extremes, without there being an awareness that extremes represent the outer limits of an illness, such as mood spectrum disorder.

You hear about the bipolar sufferer who spent a lifetime accumulating a fortune, only to lose it all in a scheme to buy up 10,000 acres of swamp land, that proved to be no more useful, than say, 10,000 acres of desert land.  You hear about the outrageous mood swings, which leave members of the household reeling in their attempts to keep up with the whirligig of frantic actions on the part of the patient.  There is not enough awareness that the majority of mood spectrum disorder patients, fit somewhere in the middle of the range of possibilities, with the depressive symptoms infinitely more apt to create challenges, than the manic side.

The manic side of the picture may prove more disconcerting to family members, but in my case, the depressive side of the illness is the side to fear.  This is where the tangible evidence of mental issues announces itself with authority.  Whereas mania produces a flurry of activity, and can turn out to be quite productive, lethargy is not something that I can gloss over.  The inability to rely on my legs for 100% of what I am accustomed to, not only makes it impossible to work at any kind of normal pace, if I were actually going to try and work, but it makes for treacherous going, because my reflexes are seriously impaired and I can not respond to precarious situations with the same alacrity that I once could.  The result?  I fall a lot. 

Maybe I should arrive at the party, and announce, “Hi everyone.  I’m bi.  Polar that is, not the other.  Annie is still the only person for me.”  I did not do that, yesterday, at Ross’s party, choosing to make a gentle entrance, as I am accustomed to doing these days.  I decided to momentarily pretend that I am just the same as everyone else.  Of course, everyone I observed was having libations which included alcohol.  Now I can have a shot of Jameson’s if I want, and no one would say boo or Shinola to me, but still I held off.

I told Dr. Garratt in Mendocino a month or so back, that I was not keeping booze in the house these days;  I did not need him to tell me that drinking would not help my illness.  Dr. G. occasionally appears as an enigma to Annie and me, because he is not the take-charge, gung-ho kind of guy I might have thought.  He puts stuff out there, and he answers questions, but he does very little directing, preferring to allow the immediacy of any issues dictate the pace.

When it comes to measuring progress and growth, however, the evidence is there.  I have taken huge strides, despite the issues with my legs, in determining the best course of therapy for me, and so I am not going to question the good doctor’s role in this process.  It goes without saying, but I will say it anyway, that without Annie, I would still be back in the dark ages.  I would be mired in patterns of behavior, that defied explanation, and provided a lot of questions, the primary one being, how did I become estranged from most of my family?  Just asking.

(7) You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD: Good Twin-Bad Twin

You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD

Good Twin-Bad Twin

Annie and I went down to Ukiah yesterday to take care of logistics associated with the upcoming jaunt(s) over to the Central Valley. Never in the history of the universe has so much individual attention been given to one three-day period of time.  It’s a CAF situation because considering all factors is one way to avoid possible disaster.  Mind you, there are infinitely more ways for me to not only encounter disaster, but to embrace it warmly as a long-lost friend, even though it may have only been “lost” for an hour.  I didn’t invite this friend in the first place, so all I can do is hope that he is not feeling especially lively on any given morning.  Leave the potato chips and the party behind, puh-lease.

So yesterday served the purpose of warming me up to tomorrow’s trip to Ione, to see that nice Lito graduate from the Cal Fire Academy.  We were determined not to have a time element attached to our busy schedule.  I get agitated if I feel I am not adhering to an established time frame.  Therefore, I pushed that concept aside, as I carefully listed all the stops that had to be made in Ukiah, Willits and the Ville itself.  Down in Ukiah I scored slacks and a couple of shirts, and got a hair cut for the grand occasion.  In fact I got them all cut, except the ones on my chin.

All week I had been communicating with my first cousin, Kati, who was out in Cali from Virginia, and in our neck of the woods.  Of course we wanted to connect.  She had never been up here on the ridge and I hadn’t seen her since I was 17 and she was a sophomore in high school.  I knew one thing about her though; she flew jets in the military.  I have never met anyone who flew a jet and was not going to miss this opportunity.  She had a similar bent as far as time frame was concerned, so we left it open and figured we would communicate via cell phone.  

It actually worked to perfection, as we had completed all of our tasks in both Ukiah and Willits, and were leaving for Laytonville, when Kati called from Eureka.  Perfect timing, as it would take us an hour and a half to complete our journey home, including several stops in the “Ville, while it would take her fifteen minutes longer to get to our place from the North.  That gave us fifteen minutes to try and pick up the house.  Not feeling particularly up for that challenge, we shrugged our shoulders and figured that the house would have to pick itself up.  It proved to be a good decision, because Kati did not seem the kind of person who attached much importance to anything but visiting.

We had rendezvoused at Happy Days Farm, just up our driveway, and shown her around Casey and Amber’s organic farm.  It is always so impressive with its six greenhouses sprinkled around, providing the venue for fresh produce all through this past winter.  We proceeded down to our place, and sat out on the deck catching up, drinking ice-water from our spring.  It was the perfect way to complete a hectic afternoon.

When Kati had departed, heading down to Willits to stop in at Pauline’s, whom we had seen earlier in the day, Annie and I took time to assess the day.  I have been in this mild hypomanic phase this whole week, with my sleep limited to about 2/3 my normal rate.  I had acknowledged to Annie on the way down that I was definitely amping, but in what I considered to be a positive way.  We had been aware of this mild development in my illness, after my having had ten days of relative harmony.

Whether to attribute it to the upcoming weekend, or to place it under the heading of the “normal” spectrum of mood shifts, is unclear, but as long as it is all positive, and Annie is comfortable with my conduct, the rest is gravy.  It’s one of the perks of the illness, that boundless enthusiastic energy.  After dealing with the leaden lethargy in my legs all winter, I am thrilled.

And here I am at this morning’s literary destination: hypomania is the good side of the good twin/bad twin concept, if we can distinguish between the mild version I displayed yesterday, and the volatile brand promenading around this establishment last winter.  Yesterday: good; last winter: bad.  Nothing more to say on that.  But here comes the truly fascinating part, as opposed to all the rest of this scintillating narrative: In an “average” mood spectrum patient, the manic side of the illness presents itself only a fraction of the time, compared to its evil twin, depression.  Excuse me?

Research indicates that the average MSD patient suffers slightly more than half of the calendar year with his illness.  However, characteristics of depression dominate time period, an astounding 93 percent of the time.  Whether that figure is 93, or 87, or whatever, depression still remains the dominant element of mood spectrum disorder.  Do you realize the significance of this imbalance?

It means that many people are routinely diagnosed incorrectly, because their depressive symptoms are so overwhelming, that they are subsequently given the wrong medication.  While in the hypomanic phase, often the sufferer is fabulously productive and upbeat (like me yesterday) and everybody is happy.  But in the depressive state, it’s all bad.

The net result is that the medication these patients ingest, may or may not help.   It may “take the edges off” either end of the mood spectrum, but if there are too many times when the patient plunges down into depression, then it must be possible that the meds are incorrectly prescribed.  Meds don’t solve all problems, and indeed create some new ones, but demonstrating continuous symptoms of depression, while on meds, is not right.

As you may remember, I have grappled with the notion of medication,  and accepted the possibility that it is an option, if stabilizing the three elements of sleep, diet and exercise, does not provide the desired results.  We have the meds all picked out, and waiting on the display floor for special delivery to me, via the “Ville pharmacy, in the event they are needed.  They’re not my first choice, and they’re not even in the top ten, but at least it’s nice to have a choice, that does not involve the pysch-ward at the neighborhood mental hospital.  I’ve always been a fan of choice, especially when we’re talking “One Flew Over the Cookoo’s Nest.”

(6) You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD: Behind the Scenes with Annie

You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD:

Behind the Scenes with Annie

The time has arrived for me to write about something near and dear to my heart, something that I have been prevented from writing, by the very person, about whom I wish to comment.  I am speaking about Annie. When they say “for better or for worse,” the more cynical individuals usually assume the latter.  Annie and I have had a lot of good years, and we’ve faired well in our partnership.

However, the older I get, the more determined my mind is to establish its independence, as though it were a teenager once again.  First  I had to haul my brain down to Dr. Jill’s office, and have my panic attack syndrome removed.  Now I have some DJ up in my belfry playing 33rpm albums at 45rpm speed.  You remember what George Carlin said about playing Black Sabbath at 78rpm?  You see God.  

I have clung to that turntable, as it spun around at a ridiculous pace, and watched as Annie tried to simply keep up.  As the pace went from meandering to frenetic, and then back down, she began to realize that the music being played in my head, had a decidedly foreign tinge to it, and it wasn’t Spanish. 

When the gang up in my brain decides it time to party, and gets out the potato chips, it’s time for me to slow the pace down, and examine all factors carefully.  Annie has been seeing these characters establishing themselves in my brain with impunity, and she has had to grapple with a lot of debris from the parties that have been going on for the past 18 months or so.  Now that all of her work and determination is paying off, I want to set her up on a pedestal, and shower her with appreciation.

That makes her uncomfortable, because she does not like being in the limelight.  All of those years of working her magic in the middle school, and she would never let anyone acknowledge it, because she likes to work behind the scenes.  She demanded that the credit go where it deserved: to the kids.  

Now I want to bestow on Annie, the appreciation I feel, for weathering the storm.  I try to tell her how sorry I am, but she won’t allow me to beat myself over the head, because of circumstances over which I had no control.  We agreed that I could apologize for the pain I have caused, but that since there was no intent to harm, I could not be held accountable for it, if that makes any sense whatsoever.

So when I asked her how she managed to hang on to her sanity, while I was misplacing mine, and why she didn’t just get out of Dodge, she said, “Because I love you.”

“Could it really be as simple as that?”  I mean, I have seen a half-dozen different pictures on FaceBook of couples purportedly married for sixty or more years, and the post always makes a commentary on the reason for their marital longevity being that they were married in an era where things that broke did not get thrown away, they got fixed.  But that implies that whatever constitutes “for better of for worse,” is of the mundane “he said, she said” variety of marital spats.  They aren’t easy and they aren’t fun, but they are also surmountable, because there is an awful lot of good mixed in with the not-so-good.

But in the middle of all this discussion about what is expected or not expected within the boundaries of marriage, there is no discussion about a mood spectrum disorder.  There are a lot of things that are not mentioned, and I am sure we can find more heinous afflictions than a mood disorder, but ultimately, we are playing with the cards we have been dealt.  There, I have just likened my life to a poker game, with Annie as the dealer.

Right now, she is dealing me a wealth of information about my disorder, and how others handle it.  She reads me narratives describing different therapeutic approaches, and we discuss the merits-and demerits-of each.  It was her abhorrence of the side-effects of the original prescription from Dr. Garratt, that finally convinced me that she was an advocate, and not a foe.  I am ashamed to admit it now, but that is only one in a lengthy list of things that I would have to be ashamed of, if that was the way we were playing this hand.  

But Annie being the dealer, has made it clear that we don’t look backward, unless we can learn from it.  Otherwise the focus is on the mood chart and the future.  Who knows, along with the joker I’ve been dealt, there may be a full boat in that deck somewhere.  I’d even settle for a flush, as long as it wasn’t my face we were talking about, and I wasn’t doing motormouth again.

(5) You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD: Cause and Effect

You Call it Bipolar-I call it MSD

Cause and Effect

If I didn’t know better, I would say I have my mojo back.  My legs again allowed me to spend a solid four-hour block of time, over at my mom’s Sunday, weed-eating the driveway, from top to bottom, on both sides.  After Saturday’s effort, I awoke stiff and sore, but the problem with my legs has abated, allowing me to push forth, in an unprecedented manner.

As is her custom, Annie asked me about sleep.  I had been expecting the question.  Whereas I have been striving for at least seven hours per 24 hour period of time, I have gone five consecutive days with five or fewer hours.  Annie and I had the following conversation the other morning, as we walked up to Blue Rock and back, a 45 minute jaunt.

“So I want to know if I get credit for trying to sleep, if it turns out that I don’t actually get the desired amount.”  I started off the discussion.

“Credit?”  Annie looked at me blankly.

“Sure, credit.  Last night I went to bed at eight, and got up a few minutes after midnight.  I stayed up until 2:40, at which time I made myself stop writing, and went back to bed for an hour and a half.  Unfortunately, I did not sleep during that hour and a half. So how much ‘sleep’ do I enter on the chart?  I only slept four hours, but it’s not as though I didn’t try.”

“I see what you mean,” Annie began.  “But you and I are the only ones who count, so what difference does it make?”

“It’s just that if I write down four hours, and I do that every day for a week, then it makes it seem as though I am experiencing hypomania.  By listing that I tried to sleep, but could not, I feel that I’m indicating that I am not amping, and going off the deep end again.  I mean, my legs are strong, I am killing it over at Pauline’s, and I am not sleeping a whole lot.  On paper, it’s not looking too good.”  I was big on that mood chart, because I was hoping it would allow me to see patterns of behavior, that would become predictable.

“Well, how are you feeling?  Are you feeling like you are going back into hypomania?”  Annie asked the question, because I had made it clear, that if she asked, I would answer, and not try to pull the wool over her eyes.

“To be honest, I don’t feel a whole lot different, but the DJ whose running the record player inside my head, indicates that the 33 rpm records are playing at 45rpm speed.  That’s not as bad as 78rpm, but give me some time.  I don’t think I have ever worked so hard to earn a hundred dollars in my life, but I also don’t think I have ever been so happy to have earned it either.  I think it has something to do with how we are spending it.”

We had been struggling with the logistics of the upcoming wedding, being held the first Sunday in June, over in Placerville, about a five-hour drive from here.  Annie had announced recently that she did not see how we could afford to go.  I said finances should not play a role, because we could borrow the loot, but we could not have them make up the wedding, if we chose not to go.

I wondered if Annie was afraid that my illness would raise its ugly head, and cause conflict.  It did not seem fair, that she should have to hinge attending such an important event, on my mental condition.  On the  other hand, was it possible that the events of this weekend are the cause, while my seeming hypomania is the effect?  

There is so much still to learn, both about the disorder, and how it impacts me.  Recording the data, daily, on the mood chart, allows us to see how external events may impact my frame of mind, and vice versa.  If I awake on the day of the event, and too many red flags are out, then obviously, like any ill individual, I would gracefully retire to my sickroom, and not attend the wedding.  

Otherwise, for the first time in my life, I am anticipating an enjoyable venue for this wedding, even though I will know only a handful of people, and I have to drive a fair distance to attend.  Maybe it’s the hypomania side of me, but for once, I think I will just channel that energy into this event, and ride the crest of the hypomania wave to Placerville.  Drive on, James, er, Annie.