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photo © 2010 marc falardeau | more info (via: Wylio)

My heart feels empty, like an empty vessel, waiting, just waiting for guidance or approval, or both. And fulfillment, as in waiting for something cosmic to fill it's painful emptiness. My heart aches at the reality of  this existential solitude. My living experience is my own ~ mine alone and no one else's. The fact the some things ~ lofty temptations, disjointed feelings and incomprehensible thoughts ~ are mine alone to bear fills me with a cavernous sort of loneliness. I sometimes catch myself longing for the old life ~ a life lived only for the next reefer. And sad as this thought feels, the fact that I've had it renders me even more sad. My heart feels confused about where it's loyalties should lie. That leaves it feeling wretched ... ungrateful and wretched. I feel unworthy, and somewhat unreal. And sometimes, even purposeless. I tell myself that, this too shall pass. And so, I do nothing to drown out this disconcerting emotional thinking. And I just wait. And I just hope. For my self to return.

Point of Inflection

I imagine that my mood disorder defines a curve between two poles, hence the name, bipolar. Well, right now I find myself at this curve's point of inflection. That means I'm neither up nor down, just .... straight, as in baseline. I think I so rarely find myself at this place called baseline, that I feel uncomfortable living and breathing here. I feel alien, and also, as though awaiting something unknown, unseen, unheard, yet a great and grand something which could rescue me from this dreary place called "normal." For I suppose that's what baseline is, right ~ normal? I don't like being here, it's like the blur in the image below. I almost don't know what to do with myself.

Thankfully, I have the minor distraction that a good book provides. But, in this state, one ~ a restless one, at that ~ can only read so much, And that's when I attempt to live vicariously through others via Facebook, Blogger and Tumblr. I can't take my mind off of the writing of my book. Where did I put that big stick, again .... it's time to beat myself up with that, my big stick. Gah! I have writer's block. At least that's what I'm calling it. When last I spent time writing in my manuscript, (several days ago) I surprised myself by revealing some deep truths. They're somewhat ugly, in that I very much would rather NOT look at them.

{SIGH} ... And so it goes.

Round and Round It Goes ...

Moody, mercurial with depression that smoulders, hidden at its very roots ~ that's me.
Bipolar type 2 sometimes makes me a thing of air and passion, frivolous, whimsical and then, suddenly, grim and contrary. A type of rare quicksilver, am I. Most mornings, upon my waking, That Heavy Thing presses its darkness into me, trying to vanquish all the light in my soul, until I feel so very listless and downhearted. And so I languish, dragging myself into activities of the day; sometimes I can do nothing but languish. Until nightfall comes, and lifts That Heavy Thing away from my spirit, which then becomes rapt with joy, and resistant to slumber, knowing that, sometime in the darkness of my sleeping, That Heavy Thing will visit, and sit itself stubbornly upon my heart. And thus, the cycle repeats itself.

Moody, mercurial with depression that smoulders, hidden at its very roots ~ that's me.
Bipolar type 2 sometimes makes me a thing of air and passion, frivolous, whimsical and then, suddenly, grim and contrary. A type of rare quicksilver, am I. Most mornings, upon my waking, That Heavy Thing presses its darkness into me, trying to vanquish all the light in my soul, until I feel so very listless and downhearted. And so I languish, dragging myself into activities of the day; sometimes I can do nothing but languish. Until nightfall comes, and lifts That Heavy Thing away from my spirit, which then becomes rapt with joy, and resistant to slumber, knowing that, sometime in the darkness of my slumber, That Heavy Thing will visit, and sit itself stubbornly upon my heart. And thus, the cycle repeats itself.

Zoloft, That Heavy Thing, and a Doc Who Listens

A sense of isolation descends upon me in the mornings, the moment I open my eyes. At first I'm unsure as to the presence of That Heavy Thing. In the twilight between slumber and waking, some perceptual disconnect lingers. Lingering disconnect.

As I proceed through waking, toward awake, anxiety ~ that familiar, tattered shroud ~ cloaks me. In some ways this comforts me, while filling me with a sluggish and terrifying sort of dread: That Heavy Thing. Instinctively I wage war against It. An unpleasant battle ensues. Unpleasant, because, war causes the dread to grow heavier and painfully more unwieldy.

Rationally, I know the ineffectuality of waging war against That Heavy Thing. I also know the effectuality of diversion, as an alternative course of action. Diversion, as in, diverting my efforts and attention toward an activity, and/or a sensory experience. Diversion, as in diverting my attentions away from the suffocating grip of crushing dread, and the gaping emptiness it leaves within me.

Still, it takes a certain amount of rebellion against myself to overcome the inertia of That Heavy Thing. When That Heavy Thing looms large overhead, rationality tends to escape me. Strange, that some amount of comfort resides within the inertia of wallowing in one's own depressiveness ~ as in becoming the despair and hopelessness. This leads me to consider being as the outcome of a battle between the instinct to survive and the deep-seated urge for self-annihilation. 

Relief! Zoloft returns! How cool, that I have a psychiatrist who listens to me, considers my POV, my perspective. She listens. And that, I really love. It leaves me able to focus on achieving balance and stability. I spend little or no time fretting over a perception of malpractice, or even just poor practice. What peace!

I realize my amazing fortune, having encountered a great psychiatrist and also a wonderful team of mental health professionals. Each day, I meditate my thanks for my awesome nurse practitioner, who made it all happen. I no longer feel like human detritude ~ broken and readily disposable. How I wish everyone could experience this feeling of worthiness and inclusion.

On the Wings of Lily

Jamie Ridler asks her wishcasters, What do you wish to invest in? True to form, I've answered the question before realizing it, before knowing the questions. I wish to invest in my Self ~ as in finding my lily.

The picture itself, is just the tip of the iceberg.

~ Sebastiao Salgado, Photographer

I've stumbled upon a jewel, a pearl, even, of a book. It's certainly a near crime that I paid only $2.00 for such a treasure. Here's what I think so far of Finding Lily. So far, as in, I will surely write more about this book, all Richard Clewes'  bittersweet revelations, and their impact upon the spirit me ~ my Muse. (N.B. ~ italicized words belong to Richard Clewes ~ you can find them in Finding Lily.)


I don't know my own story, or even if I care to write about it. Perhaps because for some, their stories weave through the stories of others, those we love so much? Perhaps because of how difficult it truly is to write the story which a quilt, or a tapestry tells?

I saw Erin's mania and depression - and how it emptied bank accounts and vapourised love - and managed to look right through it. I don't say that I didn't feel its sting; just that I gawked at depression's fury. Can eyes which have witnessed this be trusted to see? I mean, at what point do our physical senses betray us? Could we see relief out there, if it did indeed exist? Her depression was a mobile, 24/7 vortex pulling everything into a thick chaos. [Wandering] around the property and circled our house one last time [felt] like walking through the killing fields, haunted by so many buried dreams and secrets.

There was no one to talk to about it ... obfuscation became a kind of remedy. ... we'd go back to saying as little as possible  about the Heavy Thing. Yes, that Heavy Thing that sits on my chest, atop that spot where my heart lives, that sometimes makes me afraid to fall asleep, sometimes makes me afraid to wake up. That Heavy Thing which J.K. Rowling personified into a creature called Dementor. It routinely threatens to suck out from me, all the joy that holds my soul together. That Heavy Thing, with such indomitable power it will crowd out all that makes me, me ~ an individual, if I let it. And leave behind the crumbled remains of a character ~ bits and pieces that no one can fuse together, for all the pieces than no longer exist. 

The weirdrest part of bipolar disorder is that while its victims swing back and forth, spouses try to keep their own head from being chopped off by the emotional pendulum. This, truest statement breaks my heart, for all the walking wounded that reside within it. Including my very own wounded soldier.

How is it that I can wield such a lethal weapon, without really ever wielding it? That, I suppose, highlights the virulent, refractory nature of my friend, that Heavy Thing. There is no cure, only a spot where we have learned to make room for all those things from which we seek escape.

Mixed, or Mixed Up?

Back again. To mixed. Yes, mixed. And to my favourite, rapid cycling. Gah! Grrrrr.

Zoloft, Wherefore Art Thou?

Zoloft stopped almost a month ago. Raging PMS has metamorphosed into just raging, with some obsessiveness and depression thrown in, for added flavour. Ick. Waking up to a psyche that’s drowning in despair, fixated on the absent, the unattainable. It’s like … fighting with a powerful monster. And feeling uncertain of victory.

Or, rather, feeling the certainty of defeat like an incredible, emotional ache shimmeying just beneath my chest’s sternal wall. Hovering about my psyche like an violent dementor. And I reflexively think of doing something, usually drastic, to chase it away. I become emotionally pre-operational. Unable, on most levels, to reason with my perpetually egocentric, emotional self. Unable to grasp perspective. At risk of becoming my emotions. Tearful. The kind of tearful that provides a release valve when the sadness and despair build up to radioactive levels within the psyche. Constrained, by a most virulent depressive mood, to a very primal level of being. Grrrrr. Just not prepared to put up with this. Unwilling to put up with this, particularly when the solution lies easily within reach.

Note to Self: next appointment with Shrink, request Zoloft.

What it Feels Like Being Me

I have bipolar type 2. Type 2s experience hypomania, rather than full blowm mania. The hypomanic phases provide temporary reprieve from the crushing depressive phases. Like an elevator that stops momentarily and unexpectedly on its way down to the dark basement. Living with bipolar disorder essentially feels like the psychiatric equivalent of driving a car with a seriously fucked carburetor ~ think, combustion regulation: impaired ... then, zero. Or, imagine driving with a sticky clutch.

The depressive phases unfold slowly, erosively, insidiously. Silent destruction. I have felt such unrelenting anguish that sends me contemplating my own demise as a final escape. At times no one around me knew, or could even imagine my suffering. Anyone who's endured depression will tell you it's a room in hell with only your name on the door. Imagine waking up feeling afraid that you will live.

Welcome ... to my inner realm.

Ain't No Four and Twenty Blackbirds

I awoke at 420 Sunday morning. A cheeky irony, considering that I’d only just run out of weed the day before yesterday. Restless. An unquieting sort of restless. It coated me, like some insoluable, immutable slime. Did this restless feeling almost resemble anxiety? Wanting the comfort of deep sleep; unable to get there.

I glimpsed my Self on the cusp of unnerving unease and stirring agitation. The stirring,  insatiable monster that lives inside. I tried the scalding/steaming-hot-shower method of relaxation ~ once … twice … three times … four times in five hours! Unquieted … unquieted … unquieted. And then, after the fourth shower, a mild serenity. The insatiable monster went back to sleep. And so did I.

The initial comforting sedation I felt when I first started the Seroquel XR has waned somewhat. I miss it. Is that deviant? I’m not sure, one way or the other. The psychological stress of distancing myself from weed makes me feel a pinch of unease – despite the Seroquel XR. I keep it company the best I can. Acceptance, not resistance.

My creative muse continues stuttering and sputtering in the wake of my recent psychiatric biochemical storm. Words, projects, stories live and breathe inside my head. In fact, they’re dancing and singing there, as I write this post. They seek their own external expression. Relentless, in their quest to taste the world, tasting them. I find myself in a sort of surreal creative labour – engaged in a birthing of creative forms. Forms with differing periods of gestation.

I want to begin considering my limitations and vulnerabilities seriously, in the context of my talents and skills. I can make a contribution to humanity. I feel like I haven’t, these past two traumatic years. I will not play broken wing. Instead I will ask myself the questions demanding my asking. What can I do? What do I want to do? What must I do? Like many other aspiring writers, I have relied too heavily on episodic binges of intense inspiration, and have discounted the benefits of regular writing practice. I have pondered, contemplated, wondered for so long. Could I really accomplish, creatively? I’ve long doubted, wishing for immediate surity.

Photo: Penelope's on The Drive ~ taken 24.03.09


{3  goals i have set for myself}
daily writing practice ~ storytelling ~  maybe even an ecourse

Take a risk, Roxanne!
It’s time for you to reach up, reach beyond, reach out.
It’s time to surpass yourself.

A Welcome Impasse

I find myself at an impasse with my Self. A welcome impasse. Frictions created through the intricacies of my illness have quieted themselves. A calm certitude replaces extreme desperation and exuberance. In this, I feel quite alien. Disquieted, almost. Creative expression that flowed so fluently from the depths of chaotic and episodic illness, has tempered; now, it only germinates from the seeds of contemplation and consideration. I long for the joyful, sated experience of a really good book. This makes me wonder, does a bipolar in remission miss the hypomanic episodes? I feel inclined to answer yes. Where does the line exist, between happiness and hypomania? Can those of us on the inside see it just as clearly as those on the outside? I don’t think we can. That’s what defines us as “insiders.”

Disquieting Balance

I’ve reached a disquieting balance. Uneventful. Intensity-free. I feel far removed from just about everything. This new, pharmaceutically-induced balance has crippled my creativity. I feel a sort of void, emotionally. Not depressive; quite numbly neutral, actually. It’s as thought I’ve not much of an opinion about anything, really. It’s cold and brightly overcast today. The icey fog of past days has cleared. I see no outward signs of growth. Only a sort of silvery stagnation. And, no clear view to what’s inside. That’s where I must look for what I seek – inside.

Perchance, is this what normal feels like? Because, it feels quite strange.

Chemical Reactions

I wondered if I was just the sum of my brain scan, little dots clustered in my frontal lobe. Is that where the poems came from? The desire to destroy myself?
–Betsy Lerner, Food and Loathing

Have you ever wondered like that? I sometimes like to lose myself in the thought that I am merely a culmination of various chemical reactions occuring at the cellular level of my body. What directs these chemical reactions? Is that where individuality resides? When I consider pharmaceuticals and their effect, it can make sense - chemical reactions fueling existence. Perhaps the Seroquel XR I'm taking bridges some cellular, chemical gap or deficiency. The perceived effect being an insular stabilizing of my mood. Does it all seem a bit too simple? Can we really distill life down to a few chemical reactions?

I wonder. Perhaps, then, divinity resides within those chemical reactions?

What is This Thing?

Bipolar type 2, said the psychiatrist, when she discussed her impressions with me. Not a surprise, really. Nonentheless, a welcome confirmation of my gut suspicions. We take comfort in diagnostic answers, don't we? They appeal to our drive to conquer the unknown. But, now I wonder. Has finding a name for this thing I experience answered any unknowns? What, exactly, do we mean when we say  bipolar? Conceptually, I think of it as the mental/pyschiatric equivalent of diabetes. Regulation of blood sugar levels defines the focus of diabetes. Regulation of mood levels and intensity define the focus of bipolar.

I combed through google, in search of definitions for bipolar. None quite satisfied me. So, here's my own definition of bipolar disorder.

A psychiatric mood disorder in which the individual experiences vast and rapid mood fluctuations - from extreme euphoria to deep despair. Associated with an inherent inability to modulate emotion.

It's definitely a start.

December 24th

Seroquel XR. Insulated. This new medication cocktail gives me a comfortably numb feeling. The monster has released her harrowing and oppressive grip. I feel less un-real. The sun came out today. The inertia seems smaller, less formidable, today. Everything I had on my external hard drive - all my photography files, etc - has vanished. Everything. And, so I face yet another lesson in detachment.