I think a lot. I think about serious topics, like politics, feminism, religion, healthcare. I write about serious topics, seriously. My mind buzzes with alliteration and double meanings. I think, think, think.
Sometimes. And other times, I don't.
Today is a non-thinking day, with items on my list such as, "laundry, wash and sort," "dishes, load and unload," "crafting, costume renderings and jewelry," and, "tea, as much as possible." I've got a lot on my mind, as always, but I've begun to enjoy the days when I do nothing more than the necessary steps, tidying and fiddling with wire and figuring out what I'll wear when G and I go to Las Vegas in March.
For so long I thought that my current work would be like giving in, a blow to the face of my feminist identity, a regression, a 1950s approach to what women should do - what I could do. And I thought that being a writer would be financially disastrous, self-indulgent, a little girl with big dreams - admirable, but essentially impotent. I was scared; I rejected any realization of my goals, and I worried that being a housewife would be the end of my power as a woman.
And I entered a career which was challenging, important, demanding. A career which I loved, but which was killing me.
I don't know why I was incapable of continuing on in such a noble and beautiful job, a job where I was surrounded by dedicated educators and good friends, a job where what I did made a difference. Sometimes I wonder why I suddenly realized my unhappiness - a weakness of my will and of my heart - and called a (much-needed) end to a career to which I was inherently unsuited.
It's hard, my doctor said, to make the right choice. Just because it's the right choice doesn't mean it won't hurt.
Now, I'm adjusted to a different life - less intense, less painful, more truthful, more free. I take care of the house. I try new things, making jewelry, writing posts and working on my novel, playing through Ravel's Sonatine. Some days, I think about the important stuff; some days, I focus on bleaching the counters and tofu marinara and separating lights and darks, hots and colds.
I have nightmares that I'm back at school, and the children need me, and I can't escape.
I wake up. I make coffee. I realize that now, I can't quite remember where I would have been at 10:00 in the school day. My novels sits, waiting for me to type out a few more chapters. I make wire loops with blue crystals and clear beads. I put away the laundry.
I am profoundly happy.
It doesn't matter that the label, housewife, has so many negative connotations, and it doesn't matter that my career, writer, is a creative and not necessarily lucrative one. I'm a woman who knows who she is - who is that woman, other than a feminist? And who, really, is out there, the imaginary judge of my life and my choices? And why, for so long, did I believe that I was responsible for other people's happiness, for their opinions of me, while my happiness and my opinion of myself were lost?
Today is one of those meandering days, and honestly, I meant to post in more detail the actual humdrum life I live - the homey smell of Tide detergent, all the housework before I watch Jean and Lionel at 2:30 on PBS, the way I haven't quite figured out those last three pages of Ravel, my chocolate and peppermint tea. I meant to write about how I found $211 of clothing for $50 at Forever 21, and how I'm sketching out my outfits for three days in Vegas. You know, the boring stuff.
The boring stuff is so good, though, because I've figured out that elusive joy of living. I'm so lucky, because at 26, I'm able to be healthy and whole. I'm eternally grateful to the people who have helped me get this far - my husband, my family, my doctors, and yes, my former coworkers and the children. All of those people have made me realize who I am.
I'm a housewife. I'm a writer. My life is blissfully boring.
Time to do the laundry.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Loss
Mom and I are driving through the rain.
It's just after ten, and the sun is setting in that glorious burn which only happens over the city skyline - rain is falling, unnaturally heavy rain, and it's me and Mom in a car, trying to get home. We've just had Christmas dinner; it was a rich meal, too filling, and the heat from the fireplace shimmered in ice and crystal, tinsel on the tree.
Everyone had been there - my three grandparents, all four parents, my sister, Auntie Glo - everyone but my husband, who didn't exist. Hugs all around, hugs like the low blue flame over firewood, hugs of happiness and holding on to the past and remembering how good it used to be, before I grew up and could see.
Outside there was an Englishman with a beard and a cigarette, waiting to audition for some play, the long history of my life, the Shakespeare of the every day - I wanted to say hello. He didn't see me.
In the car, I explain to my mother how the sun stays up, well into the night, and how life doesn't start until ten o'clock, when raucous music bursts out into the streets, wild and unfettered. We pass a church, and I consider stopping the car right there and kneeling in the rain, outside the doors, until God lets me in again.
I say, "If I could, I would live here every day of my life."
My mother, driving in the rain, says, "I know."
It's a longing like hunger in me - so much so that once I week, in my sleep, I return there and try to find all the places I remember: a gold and chestnut restaurant on the river, a mountain where the fairies live; a bar filled with students on trad night, a market of fresh eggs and meticulously butchered meat. When I sleep I try, panicked, to get back there - I'm in an airplane looking over the impossibly green patchwork of grass, or I'm walking down the hill and past the river to Patrick Street, or I'm in a play of prophetic poetry and I can't remember my lines.
There's a part of me, a part I miss like a phantom heartbeat, which is always there.
Yeats wrote many well-known poems, and the following is one of the most famous, perhaps for its pureness, a simplicity, an image with which we can all identify, a longing for solitude and home. The poem, "The Lake Isle of Innisfree," was beautiful when I first heard it, but now it holds a double meaning for me, a beauty and a truth. It's that hunger, the gnawing of a belly half-full, the meter of the tide, the thrumming of bees, the purple and bright midnight.
Dreams say so much, in myriad of frightening and confusing ways, and what my brain does when my body switches off is as much a part of my reality as my waking hours. Along with my enduring love and longing for Ireland, I know that there is fear in me - a fear that, even if my husband and I manage to get there, it won't be the same.
Yesterday I wrote about hanging on to the past, and how destructive it can be. That's good advice, and true - but no, I will never give up, I will never release, I will never come to terms with that part of my soul which is there with red flowers and sunset, with music and dancing, with magic and God and that feeling of explosions of faith and identity so ripe that I can taste it.
Don't leave me, don't leave - in my dreams I seek and seek, and I'm there, but I can't find myself. And sometimes when I'm awake I feel that way too, as memories of childhood resurface and then fade, empty.
Missing Ireland is the way I miss being little - a time and a place where I didn't understand the bad things and could put them in a box of ignorance, a box of, I'll open you later. Missing Ireland is the bronze cast of the afternoon sun on the hardwood of my parents' apartment - something warm, delicious, and sad.
It's Christmas dinner without my Grandpere, but with his shadow in the corner, untouchable. It's a stage where I've forgotten how to act. It's driving through the too-heavy downpour and realizing that my heart spans an ocean.
So much loss in love.
My mother and I are driving through the rain, and it turns to snow. Home is waiting - my sister, still small; my stepfather, patient and understanding; a family of parents and grandparents and icicles on the tree.
It's snowing. I'm not there, yet.
It's just after ten, and the sun is setting in that glorious burn which only happens over the city skyline - rain is falling, unnaturally heavy rain, and it's me and Mom in a car, trying to get home. We've just had Christmas dinner; it was a rich meal, too filling, and the heat from the fireplace shimmered in ice and crystal, tinsel on the tree.
Everyone had been there - my three grandparents, all four parents, my sister, Auntie Glo - everyone but my husband, who didn't exist. Hugs all around, hugs like the low blue flame over firewood, hugs of happiness and holding on to the past and remembering how good it used to be, before I grew up and could see.
Outside there was an Englishman with a beard and a cigarette, waiting to audition for some play, the long history of my life, the Shakespeare of the every day - I wanted to say hello. He didn't see me.
In the car, I explain to my mother how the sun stays up, well into the night, and how life doesn't start until ten o'clock, when raucous music bursts out into the streets, wild and unfettered. We pass a church, and I consider stopping the car right there and kneeling in the rain, outside the doors, until God lets me in again.
I say, "If I could, I would live here every day of my life."
My mother, driving in the rain, says, "I know."
It's a longing like hunger in me - so much so that once I week, in my sleep, I return there and try to find all the places I remember: a gold and chestnut restaurant on the river, a mountain where the fairies live; a bar filled with students on trad night, a market of fresh eggs and meticulously butchered meat. When I sleep I try, panicked, to get back there - I'm in an airplane looking over the impossibly green patchwork of grass, or I'm walking down the hill and past the river to Patrick Street, or I'm in a play of prophetic poetry and I can't remember my lines.
There's a part of me, a part I miss like a phantom heartbeat, which is always there.
Yeats wrote many well-known poems, and the following is one of the most famous, perhaps for its pureness, a simplicity, an image with which we can all identify, a longing for solitude and home. The poem, "The Lake Isle of Innisfree," was beautiful when I first heard it, but now it holds a double meaning for me, a beauty and a truth. It's that hunger, the gnawing of a belly half-full, the meter of the tide, the thrumming of bees, the purple and bright midnight.
Dreams say so much, in myriad of frightening and confusing ways, and what my brain does when my body switches off is as much a part of my reality as my waking hours. Along with my enduring love and longing for Ireland, I know that there is fear in me - a fear that, even if my husband and I manage to get there, it won't be the same.
Yesterday I wrote about hanging on to the past, and how destructive it can be. That's good advice, and true - but no, I will never give up, I will never release, I will never come to terms with that part of my soul which is there with red flowers and sunset, with music and dancing, with magic and God and that feeling of explosions of faith and identity so ripe that I can taste it.
Don't leave me, don't leave - in my dreams I seek and seek, and I'm there, but I can't find myself. And sometimes when I'm awake I feel that way too, as memories of childhood resurface and then fade, empty.
Missing Ireland is the way I miss being little - a time and a place where I didn't understand the bad things and could put them in a box of ignorance, a box of, I'll open you later. Missing Ireland is the bronze cast of the afternoon sun on the hardwood of my parents' apartment - something warm, delicious, and sad.
It's Christmas dinner without my Grandpere, but with his shadow in the corner, untouchable. It's a stage where I've forgotten how to act. It's driving through the too-heavy downpour and realizing that my heart spans an ocean.
So much loss in love.
My mother and I are driving through the rain, and it turns to snow. Home is waiting - my sister, still small; my stepfather, patient and understanding; a family of parents and grandparents and icicles on the tree.
It's snowing. I'm not there, yet.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Ready, Set -
My sister is, and always has been, a delight.
She's growing into herself, right now, just on the edge between childhood and the beautiful, mysterious future of growing up, and she's discovering so many things with a kind of freshness and joy - seeing the world for the first time. Sure, there are hardships involved, like understanding shifting relationships at school, saying farewell to the children's menu, developing distance and aloofness and trying not to depend on adults. But the closing of her past is what enables her to seek out the shining moments of self, of being new, of a growing perspective and maturity.
And I, I want to make the world a better place for her, so that when she goes out - with friends, in her first car, without us - she can find a world of music, of earth-shattering films and plays, of a community of art.
My sister has always lived in Columbia. I, who moved here at twelve, have been slowly (and sometimes, reluctantly) adjusting to life in the suburbs. I know that I fell prey to the concept that Columbia was not a real place - I was stubborn, unwilling to adapt, and even now reject some suburban notions, such as the constantly irritating lack of sidewalks. My sister has none of that; this is her home. She is safe here, walking to school, sledding in the back yard - and she is happy here, with theatre camp and band practice, with friends she made in elementary school. All of that is a part of her, important, and I do not begrudge Columbia for the gifts of my sister's childhood.
But for me, big sister, former Baltimorean, lover of city parks and changing landscapes - I think we deserve more.
As my mother said, Columbia is a verb. Let's get moving.
Mentioning Symphony Woods can bring mixed - and emotionally charged - reactions. I am not unsympathetic when some deny change to a place they love, in fear that it might never be the same as it was in their youth, in their memories. Attachment to memory is a part of all of us, and it forms, sometimes, the basis of who we are and how we identify ourselves. It stems from love, I'm sure, but it can lead to something else - a stagnant and still refusal to see reality, a grove of trees disused but for two times a year.
We can't make time stop, or reverse, or forever preserve the things we love. We can't let our memories stop us from committing to a wider future of new possibilities and yes, change.
Seeing the plans for Symphony Woods, I had a strong reaction. I began to hope. I began to see the seeds of a city, a broader presence in Maryland, an inspiration for growth. Creating a space for more culture, more art, more music and theatre and playfulness - that is an amazing endeavor, a chance to say yes to a Columbia which can be a part of the world, can be a center for ingenuity, can be more than just memory.
And in holding on to our past, don't we deny my sister her memories of a Symphony Woods filled with song and sweetness? Of sculpture and performance? Can we reject - the way I rejected Columbia, at twelve years old - a future which might change and evolve and make us better, a future of concerts and plays, restaurants, of light and sound filtering through trees and giving a voice to us, all of us, the Columbia which will not fade?
My sister is learning that growing up is hard, sometimes. I'm learning that growing up means finding change, in myself, in giving up my limitations. And we are all growing up, all the time, from moments of love and birth to the sadness of saying goodbye - moments of seeing something new.
We all change, every day, every moment, and where we live and how we find delight should change with us - and is changing, whether we choose to see it or not. Columbia is more than our memories. Columbia is living.
So let's live, here, in our home of birth and memory and songs sung to the trees.
Let's go.
She's growing into herself, right now, just on the edge between childhood and the beautiful, mysterious future of growing up, and she's discovering so many things with a kind of freshness and joy - seeing the world for the first time. Sure, there are hardships involved, like understanding shifting relationships at school, saying farewell to the children's menu, developing distance and aloofness and trying not to depend on adults. But the closing of her past is what enables her to seek out the shining moments of self, of being new, of a growing perspective and maturity.
And I, I want to make the world a better place for her, so that when she goes out - with friends, in her first car, without us - she can find a world of music, of earth-shattering films and plays, of a community of art.
My sister has always lived in Columbia. I, who moved here at twelve, have been slowly (and sometimes, reluctantly) adjusting to life in the suburbs. I know that I fell prey to the concept that Columbia was not a real place - I was stubborn, unwilling to adapt, and even now reject some suburban notions, such as the constantly irritating lack of sidewalks. My sister has none of that; this is her home. She is safe here, walking to school, sledding in the back yard - and she is happy here, with theatre camp and band practice, with friends she made in elementary school. All of that is a part of her, important, and I do not begrudge Columbia for the gifts of my sister's childhood.
But for me, big sister, former Baltimorean, lover of city parks and changing landscapes - I think we deserve more.
As my mother said, Columbia is a verb. Let's get moving.
Mentioning Symphony Woods can bring mixed - and emotionally charged - reactions. I am not unsympathetic when some deny change to a place they love, in fear that it might never be the same as it was in their youth, in their memories. Attachment to memory is a part of all of us, and it forms, sometimes, the basis of who we are and how we identify ourselves. It stems from love, I'm sure, but it can lead to something else - a stagnant and still refusal to see reality, a grove of trees disused but for two times a year.
We can't make time stop, or reverse, or forever preserve the things we love. We can't let our memories stop us from committing to a wider future of new possibilities and yes, change.
Seeing the plans for Symphony Woods, I had a strong reaction. I began to hope. I began to see the seeds of a city, a broader presence in Maryland, an inspiration for growth. Creating a space for more culture, more art, more music and theatre and playfulness - that is an amazing endeavor, a chance to say yes to a Columbia which can be a part of the world, can be a center for ingenuity, can be more than just memory.
And in holding on to our past, don't we deny my sister her memories of a Symphony Woods filled with song and sweetness? Of sculpture and performance? Can we reject - the way I rejected Columbia, at twelve years old - a future which might change and evolve and make us better, a future of concerts and plays, restaurants, of light and sound filtering through trees and giving a voice to us, all of us, the Columbia which will not fade?
My sister is learning that growing up is hard, sometimes. I'm learning that growing up means finding change, in myself, in giving up my limitations. And we are all growing up, all the time, from moments of love and birth to the sadness of saying goodbye - moments of seeing something new.
We all change, every day, every moment, and where we live and how we find delight should change with us - and is changing, whether we choose to see it or not. Columbia is more than our memories. Columbia is living.
So let's live, here, in our home of birth and memory and songs sung to the trees.
Let's go.
Friday, January 18, 2013
A Thank You
Wow.
I have to admit that even during writing my blog post last night, I was worried about the reaction it would bring. To say I was pleasantly surprised is a massive understatement - I was so lucky to receive messages of love and support from my family, from friends new and old, and even from my wedding photographer!
I feel very hopeful about this. I think it is necessary to get the message out there that mental illness isn't shameful, a secret to be hidden, a death sentence. When I was diagnosed it was a relief to me, because my troubles suddenly had a name and, more importantly, a treatment plan.
But that isn't the way it is for everyone. I know that bipolar disorder, along with other conditions, is a label which can imbue a life with fear. Mental illnesses, left untreated, can be terrifying to both individuals and their families. I know that when I was diagnosed, despite the great aha of relief, there was an undercurrent of dread - how can she live a normal life? Will she go in and out of hospitalizations? Will this end any concept of who she is, without her illness?
I'm very lucky, again, in that I'm a success story. Despite - and maybe a little bit, because of - my medical issues, I have a joyous life of self-reflection, bolstered by a supportive family, a loving husband, and an emerging career as a writer. I have access to healthcare. I have doctors who understand me.
If only we could make that true for everyone! Meeting so many people in group who had long histories of hospitals and mistreatment, of family abandonment and abuse, of struggles with self medication, made me realize even more that healthcare in this country isn't what it should be. Fortunately, therapeutic programs do exist. But what can a person with a mental illness do without health insurance or the money to pay for fair, accurate treatment?
I see so many comments online in response to health care articles and blog posts, asserting that other people's health issues are their issues, and those people should deal with them (if only we could get rid of this "bootstraps" nonsense!). I think, what a sad world it is, where we are bad neighbors, where we keep our heads down, afraid to look people in the eye, living in a place of otherness. And why, why should we fight against fair treatment for all? Why should we reject health care solutions just because we think they don't apply to us?
If I didn't have health insurance - if I hadn't been covered by my parents until the age of twenty six - my medication would have set me back by thousands of dollars a month.
This is the world we live in. We should make it a better place - a place where everyone can have the loving support which I am so lucky to enjoy, where health care is available to everyone. I hate to mention the obvious and the incredibly painful, but maybe, if we as a country were more aware of mental illness and appropriate, accessible care, we wouldn't let young men storm into school buildings. We could prevent death - death by suicide, death by overdose, death by a mother's irresponsibly stored collection of firearms.
Mental illness doesn't equal violence. But mental illness, left untreated because of poor access to health care, can destroy a life. Can destroy others' lives.
In the end, I know that I have so much to be thankful for. I am thankful for a health care bill which provided me with the insurance to pay for therapeutic and pharmaceutical treatment. I am thankful for my mother and stepfather, who figured out that I needed help and found it for me. I am thankful for my husband, who knew me before I was diagnosed and still loved me, still loves me. I am thankful for my group of friends - coworkers, former teachers, people I barely know, who took the time to read my post and give me their support. I am thankful for a group of women and men who taught me how not to be ashamed.
Thank you. And now, let's give everyone the same support system.
Let's be better neighbors.
I have to admit that even during writing my blog post last night, I was worried about the reaction it would bring. To say I was pleasantly surprised is a massive understatement - I was so lucky to receive messages of love and support from my family, from friends new and old, and even from my wedding photographer!
I feel very hopeful about this. I think it is necessary to get the message out there that mental illness isn't shameful, a secret to be hidden, a death sentence. When I was diagnosed it was a relief to me, because my troubles suddenly had a name and, more importantly, a treatment plan.
But that isn't the way it is for everyone. I know that bipolar disorder, along with other conditions, is a label which can imbue a life with fear. Mental illnesses, left untreated, can be terrifying to both individuals and their families. I know that when I was diagnosed, despite the great aha of relief, there was an undercurrent of dread - how can she live a normal life? Will she go in and out of hospitalizations? Will this end any concept of who she is, without her illness?
I'm very lucky, again, in that I'm a success story. Despite - and maybe a little bit, because of - my medical issues, I have a joyous life of self-reflection, bolstered by a supportive family, a loving husband, and an emerging career as a writer. I have access to healthcare. I have doctors who understand me.
If only we could make that true for everyone! Meeting so many people in group who had long histories of hospitals and mistreatment, of family abandonment and abuse, of struggles with self medication, made me realize even more that healthcare in this country isn't what it should be. Fortunately, therapeutic programs do exist. But what can a person with a mental illness do without health insurance or the money to pay for fair, accurate treatment?
I see so many comments online in response to health care articles and blog posts, asserting that other people's health issues are their issues, and those people should deal with them (if only we could get rid of this "bootstraps" nonsense!). I think, what a sad world it is, where we are bad neighbors, where we keep our heads down, afraid to look people in the eye, living in a place of otherness. And why, why should we fight against fair treatment for all? Why should we reject health care solutions just because we think they don't apply to us?
If I didn't have health insurance - if I hadn't been covered by my parents until the age of twenty six - my medication would have set me back by thousands of dollars a month.
This is the world we live in. We should make it a better place - a place where everyone can have the loving support which I am so lucky to enjoy, where health care is available to everyone. I hate to mention the obvious and the incredibly painful, but maybe, if we as a country were more aware of mental illness and appropriate, accessible care, we wouldn't let young men storm into school buildings. We could prevent death - death by suicide, death by overdose, death by a mother's irresponsibly stored collection of firearms.
Mental illness doesn't equal violence. But mental illness, left untreated because of poor access to health care, can destroy a life. Can destroy others' lives.
In the end, I know that I have so much to be thankful for. I am thankful for a health care bill which provided me with the insurance to pay for therapeutic and pharmaceutical treatment. I am thankful for my mother and stepfather, who figured out that I needed help and found it for me. I am thankful for my husband, who knew me before I was diagnosed and still loved me, still loves me. I am thankful for my group of friends - coworkers, former teachers, people I barely know, who took the time to read my post and give me their support. I am thankful for a group of women and men who taught me how not to be ashamed.
Thank you. And now, let's give everyone the same support system.
Let's be better neighbors.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Shame
There's a certain inescapable madness to black eyeliner and pearls.
If I haven't already made it clear - my Vincent and the Doctor post certainly hinted at it - I have a problem. No, not a problem - not an issue, not a peculiarity, not a even just a diagnosis; not the eccentricity of tonics and potions at bedtime, of regulated eating patterns, of social avoidance; not a thing which makes me brilliant or a thing which makes me laugh wildly like the edge of a broken mirror.
I have a mental illness.
I am mentally ill.
You might wonder how the hell I think it's a good idea to put this out on the Internet, especially following my previous post, in which I described how a life lived publicly is a life judged. You might wonder if some future employer will stumble across this blog, or if some grandma or great-aunt somewhere will wish I had kept my mouth shut, or even if I, tomorrow morning, will delete this post. All of those worst case scenarios could come true.
But I think it's time to speak honestly about mental illness - don't you?
I'm a real person. Some of you know me only through this blog, though most others I think are friends and family members. And being a real person, disregarding any online persona, I have to face the every day life of being a young woman with a chemical imbalance which makes me cry like Van Gogh and smile like the Mona Lisa. It makes me play the piano with the wet cough of Chopin; it makes me immobile, sometimes, with perfectionism and fear. These are my mornings and evenings, my afternoon teas, the way I fall asleep and the way I wake up at 7:23 craving a cup of coffee.
And I'm not alone.
Bipolar disorder is the most commonly misdiagnosed. I first entered therapy with a diagnosis of depression - a diagnosis far too common for young people who present as depressed but who have magical periods of wellness and happiness and achievement, mania. I was lucky - two bad semesters at university and I was able to meet with a wonderful psychiatrist, who took one look at the shaky, too thin, glittering me and said, "Yeah, you have bipolar disorder." But let me make it clear that I was nineteen at that time - almost six years after my doctor started to tell me about depression. Six years of anorexia, of bingeing, of not knowing what the hell was wrong with me. Of theatrical debuts in which I skipped pills so I could feel something, anything. Of self medication, so easily dismissed as a part of the teenage experience.
It took six years. And I was lucky.
I recently was admitted to and then exited a group therapy program. It was a wonderful experience for me, because I was able to meet and speak freely with others who had mental illnesses. The age range was wide, and the economic backgrounds varied, and race and religion and other particulars completely unimportant. These were brave, strong, admirable men and women, and I was there amongst them, myself, not lying. When we talked about how to discuss our mental illnesses with others, most said, "I'm not ashamed."
I was the voice of shame in the group. I, who had been diagnosed at a fairly early age and had been living a "normal" life for six years. I, who had never taken the final step of admitting to myself that I needed and deserved care.
I, who was still so angry.
Maybe if we could stop words from having so much power - maybe if we could put an end to labels and definitions and judgements - maybe then I would have felt that being bipolar was something that I could talk to people about. Here I am, now, discussing it openly, and whatever the consequences may be, at least I can say that I am honest with myself.
I remember being at work, and a coworker described a friend as being bipolar, a pejorative term for unreliable and unappealing. I remember going home, restless, and crying in the bathtub.
And I'm not alone.
How much longer do we have to live in a society when mental healthcare is only relevant in response to horrible crimes, mass shootings, murders? How much longer will I have to hear people use my diagnosis as an insult, when the reality is that you might as well be saying, that Alice, she's so blue-eyed? When will my genes stop being a topic of joking and insulting conversation?
When will we address the real healthcare issues in this country, when we know that as mental health facilities have closed, prison populations have increased? When will we accept that it isn't mental illness which makes people truly ill, but a lack of care, and a lack of love?
When will people see the world as I see it as valuable? All through history, in your art textbooks, in the annals of the American presidency, in your sheet music, in your literature class - in those places we are willing to accept the vague idea that people with mental illnesses can affect great change. But here I am, and here are so many others, in that place between your world and the fairy world, in that place of wine bottles and bitter laughter, in that place of medications and therapy, in the moments of makeup and glitter and pearls, in those moments when you can barely breathe with some thickness in your belly between the end of the world and birth -
Here I am, living.
My name is Alice, and I'm a writer. I'm twenty-six. I have four parents, three grandparents, a sister, and a husband. I spend most of my time cleaning, writing genre fiction, and baking cakes without key ingredients. When I do my makeup I use glitter; when I wear jewelry, I wear pearls.
I have bipolar disorder.
I'm not ashamed.
If I haven't already made it clear - my Vincent and the Doctor post certainly hinted at it - I have a problem. No, not a problem - not an issue, not a peculiarity, not a even just a diagnosis; not the eccentricity of tonics and potions at bedtime, of regulated eating patterns, of social avoidance; not a thing which makes me brilliant or a thing which makes me laugh wildly like the edge of a broken mirror.
I have a mental illness.
I am mentally ill.
You might wonder how the hell I think it's a good idea to put this out on the Internet, especially following my previous post, in which I described how a life lived publicly is a life judged. You might wonder if some future employer will stumble across this blog, or if some grandma or great-aunt somewhere will wish I had kept my mouth shut, or even if I, tomorrow morning, will delete this post. All of those worst case scenarios could come true.
But I think it's time to speak honestly about mental illness - don't you?
I'm a real person. Some of you know me only through this blog, though most others I think are friends and family members. And being a real person, disregarding any online persona, I have to face the every day life of being a young woman with a chemical imbalance which makes me cry like Van Gogh and smile like the Mona Lisa. It makes me play the piano with the wet cough of Chopin; it makes me immobile, sometimes, with perfectionism and fear. These are my mornings and evenings, my afternoon teas, the way I fall asleep and the way I wake up at 7:23 craving a cup of coffee.
And I'm not alone.
Bipolar disorder is the most commonly misdiagnosed. I first entered therapy with a diagnosis of depression - a diagnosis far too common for young people who present as depressed but who have magical periods of wellness and happiness and achievement, mania. I was lucky - two bad semesters at university and I was able to meet with a wonderful psychiatrist, who took one look at the shaky, too thin, glittering me and said, "Yeah, you have bipolar disorder." But let me make it clear that I was nineteen at that time - almost six years after my doctor started to tell me about depression. Six years of anorexia, of bingeing, of not knowing what the hell was wrong with me. Of theatrical debuts in which I skipped pills so I could feel something, anything. Of self medication, so easily dismissed as a part of the teenage experience.
It took six years. And I was lucky.
I recently was admitted to and then exited a group therapy program. It was a wonderful experience for me, because I was able to meet and speak freely with others who had mental illnesses. The age range was wide, and the economic backgrounds varied, and race and religion and other particulars completely unimportant. These were brave, strong, admirable men and women, and I was there amongst them, myself, not lying. When we talked about how to discuss our mental illnesses with others, most said, "I'm not ashamed."
I was the voice of shame in the group. I, who had been diagnosed at a fairly early age and had been living a "normal" life for six years. I, who had never taken the final step of admitting to myself that I needed and deserved care.
I, who was still so angry.
Maybe if we could stop words from having so much power - maybe if we could put an end to labels and definitions and judgements - maybe then I would have felt that being bipolar was something that I could talk to people about. Here I am, now, discussing it openly, and whatever the consequences may be, at least I can say that I am honest with myself.
I remember being at work, and a coworker described a friend as being bipolar, a pejorative term for unreliable and unappealing. I remember going home, restless, and crying in the bathtub.
And I'm not alone.
How much longer do we have to live in a society when mental healthcare is only relevant in response to horrible crimes, mass shootings, murders? How much longer will I have to hear people use my diagnosis as an insult, when the reality is that you might as well be saying, that Alice, she's so blue-eyed? When will my genes stop being a topic of joking and insulting conversation?
When will we address the real healthcare issues in this country, when we know that as mental health facilities have closed, prison populations have increased? When will we accept that it isn't mental illness which makes people truly ill, but a lack of care, and a lack of love?
When will people see the world as I see it as valuable? All through history, in your art textbooks, in the annals of the American presidency, in your sheet music, in your literature class - in those places we are willing to accept the vague idea that people with mental illnesses can affect great change. But here I am, and here are so many others, in that place between your world and the fairy world, in that place of wine bottles and bitter laughter, in that place of medications and therapy, in the moments of makeup and glitter and pearls, in those moments when you can barely breathe with some thickness in your belly between the end of the world and birth -
Here I am, living.
My name is Alice, and I'm a writer. I'm twenty-six. I have four parents, three grandparents, a sister, and a husband. I spend most of my time cleaning, writing genre fiction, and baking cakes without key ingredients. When I do my makeup I use glitter; when I wear jewelry, I wear pearls.
I have bipolar disorder.
I'm not ashamed.
Monday, January 14, 2013
The Mad Puck Goat
Every morning, after I've woken up and poured myself an earthenware mug of French press coffee, I do a few things - I check Questionable Content, I check Jezebel, and I read my horoscope.
I think I'm something of a horoscope addict - not that I take it very seriously, but I have to click through Yahoo's daily, career, love, and Chinese astrology posts in order to know what to do with myself. It's probably pretty silly, considering that I'm a big fan of free will and agency, but it's nice, you know, to have a set of guidelines, to get a minuscule piece of advice on an otherwise lonely day. Somehow I feel that I have a connection - to Yahoo, to other readers, to the universe - when I click determinedly on these snippets of what the day might bring.
This week, my horoscope is telling me to write, pretty specifically, on Tuesday and Wednesday.
I do have a novel brewing, and it is somewhat reassuring to pretend that, for two days this week, I'm really going to get stuff done. My horoscope is a catalyst for further exploration, for my creative endeavors, and I love the simple words of confirmation - you can do this.
I don't feel bound by astrology, and whether or not it is accurate or made up or written by someone making five cents a word doesn't particularly matter to me - I think what matters most is that feeling that someone out there is thinking of me, and that I have, however probably false or possibly true or simply invented, a dialogue with someone I can't see. And I feel that I have solidarity with the other Capricorns who wake up and need a little boost to get through the day.
That's the thing about the Internet. More often than not, being online is being a part of a conversation.
Having this blog has opened me up to a lot - I get reblogged by my parents, I have a creative presence on facebook, I get emails from old friends with comments and collects and, most often, support. All of that is wonderful, because sometimes I feel like I'm whistling in the dark, that my private thoughts, made public, come off wrongly, clattering, made ungainly by vocabulary or alliteration or how young I am. And I know that I'm young, and that my opinions are characterized by naïveté and a desire to shout out - like the Whos down in Whoville, I want to say, I am here, I am here!
And sometimes, that's a problem.
My post yesterday was a good example of me stating my opinions and initially not caring one way or the other how they would be received. Fortunately, something in the way I discussed football and second chances appealed to most of my audience. I feel grateful for that. But what I wasn't aware of, at first, was how incendiary my opinions could be.
Last night, after assessing the various responses to my work, I sat on the porch with my husband, holding my head in my hands, regretting my writing and the way I feel and the fact that I opened my heart, in that loose way of Internet conversation, to the possibility of not being liked very much. Over football!
Maybe I read my horoscope not only for the simple reassurances of my talent and ambition. Maybe I read my horoscope because it can't tell me, directly or indirectly, that I'm wrong, and that I shouldn't have woken up and guzzled my gingerbread coffee in the first place. Maybe my horoscope doesn't make me feel like I have to apologize for my opinions.
I guess having an Internet voice is a responsibility. I'm not going to start censoring myself, but I think I need to be aware that what I write can be taken amiss, can be manipulated into something it is not. Let me say it, here and now - my opinions are just my opinions. My beliefs are my beliefs. I never think that what I say is the rubric for other people's lives, because what a boring world that would be, where everyone thought the same things as I do, where it was a universe of Alices, all screaming into the sky, we are here.
This morning, along with the horoscope and the indie web comic and the feminist commentary on the Golden Globes, I checked my email and found a beautiful poem, written for me by my mother. I won't publish it here - it is her work, and the content is private - but the images that stick with me are first, a snapshot of picking off the insects of the past, and second, the relief of standing up and going out into new life.
I think I need to do both.
The problem with the Internet (as if there were just one!) is that it's so easy to put up your heart and soul, damning the consequences, and then bearing with the criticism, with the doubters, with the offended and indignant and (perhaps) hurt. I'm not going to say that people who disagree with me are bugs to be picked off, and if my writings are unintentionally insulting or hurtful, I don't mean to squash the offended like maggots in breakfast cereal. That's not me. I don't do that.
But I think it's time for me to just let go. My post yesterday was supposed to be about that - not about football, exactly, but about letting go of burdensome negativity and trying something new. Sure, I was super excited about the Ravens win, but what was more exciting was that I wasn't weighed down by the past. I need to live like that more often. I need to rush out, charging, Capricorn horns sharp and strong and unyielding.
I need to stand up.
My horoscope doesn't talk back when I make mistakes. It lets me live up to Tuesdays and Wednesdays when I don't quite make my word count, or when my prose is undeniably awful and I despair of ever becoming an author. The dialogue of the Internet isn't like that. The Internet makes me hold my head in my hands, rubbing my eyes in fatigue, thinking, what did I do wrong?
I start to flick the insects from my skin. I stand up, feet temerous in my worn flip-flops, shoulders tight and aching, the hair on my arms standing up in a battle between fear and exhilaration.
I write. My heart is open. I read my horoscope.
I try again.
I think I'm something of a horoscope addict - not that I take it very seriously, but I have to click through Yahoo's daily, career, love, and Chinese astrology posts in order to know what to do with myself. It's probably pretty silly, considering that I'm a big fan of free will and agency, but it's nice, you know, to have a set of guidelines, to get a minuscule piece of advice on an otherwise lonely day. Somehow I feel that I have a connection - to Yahoo, to other readers, to the universe - when I click determinedly on these snippets of what the day might bring.
This week, my horoscope is telling me to write, pretty specifically, on Tuesday and Wednesday.
I do have a novel brewing, and it is somewhat reassuring to pretend that, for two days this week, I'm really going to get stuff done. My horoscope is a catalyst for further exploration, for my creative endeavors, and I love the simple words of confirmation - you can do this.
I don't feel bound by astrology, and whether or not it is accurate or made up or written by someone making five cents a word doesn't particularly matter to me - I think what matters most is that feeling that someone out there is thinking of me, and that I have, however probably false or possibly true or simply invented, a dialogue with someone I can't see. And I feel that I have solidarity with the other Capricorns who wake up and need a little boost to get through the day.
That's the thing about the Internet. More often than not, being online is being a part of a conversation.
Having this blog has opened me up to a lot - I get reblogged by my parents, I have a creative presence on facebook, I get emails from old friends with comments and collects and, most often, support. All of that is wonderful, because sometimes I feel like I'm whistling in the dark, that my private thoughts, made public, come off wrongly, clattering, made ungainly by vocabulary or alliteration or how young I am. And I know that I'm young, and that my opinions are characterized by naïveté and a desire to shout out - like the Whos down in Whoville, I want to say, I am here, I am here!
And sometimes, that's a problem.
My post yesterday was a good example of me stating my opinions and initially not caring one way or the other how they would be received. Fortunately, something in the way I discussed football and second chances appealed to most of my audience. I feel grateful for that. But what I wasn't aware of, at first, was how incendiary my opinions could be.
Last night, after assessing the various responses to my work, I sat on the porch with my husband, holding my head in my hands, regretting my writing and the way I feel and the fact that I opened my heart, in that loose way of Internet conversation, to the possibility of not being liked very much. Over football!
Maybe I read my horoscope not only for the simple reassurances of my talent and ambition. Maybe I read my horoscope because it can't tell me, directly or indirectly, that I'm wrong, and that I shouldn't have woken up and guzzled my gingerbread coffee in the first place. Maybe my horoscope doesn't make me feel like I have to apologize for my opinions.
I guess having an Internet voice is a responsibility. I'm not going to start censoring myself, but I think I need to be aware that what I write can be taken amiss, can be manipulated into something it is not. Let me say it, here and now - my opinions are just my opinions. My beliefs are my beliefs. I never think that what I say is the rubric for other people's lives, because what a boring world that would be, where everyone thought the same things as I do, where it was a universe of Alices, all screaming into the sky, we are here.
This morning, along with the horoscope and the indie web comic and the feminist commentary on the Golden Globes, I checked my email and found a beautiful poem, written for me by my mother. I won't publish it here - it is her work, and the content is private - but the images that stick with me are first, a snapshot of picking off the insects of the past, and second, the relief of standing up and going out into new life.
I think I need to do both.
The problem with the Internet (as if there were just one!) is that it's so easy to put up your heart and soul, damning the consequences, and then bearing with the criticism, with the doubters, with the offended and indignant and (perhaps) hurt. I'm not going to say that people who disagree with me are bugs to be picked off, and if my writings are unintentionally insulting or hurtful, I don't mean to squash the offended like maggots in breakfast cereal. That's not me. I don't do that.
But I think it's time for me to just let go. My post yesterday was supposed to be about that - not about football, exactly, but about letting go of burdensome negativity and trying something new. Sure, I was super excited about the Ravens win, but what was more exciting was that I wasn't weighed down by the past. I need to live like that more often. I need to rush out, charging, Capricorn horns sharp and strong and unyielding.
I need to stand up.
My horoscope doesn't talk back when I make mistakes. It lets me live up to Tuesdays and Wednesdays when I don't quite make my word count, or when my prose is undeniably awful and I despair of ever becoming an author. The dialogue of the Internet isn't like that. The Internet makes me hold my head in my hands, rubbing my eyes in fatigue, thinking, what did I do wrong?
I start to flick the insects from my skin. I stand up, feet temerous in my worn flip-flops, shoulders tight and aching, the hair on my arms standing up in a battle between fear and exhilaration.
I write. My heart is open. I read my horoscope.
I try again.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
A Big Win
Now, before I get excited about last night's insane Ravens win, I have to admit -
I used to hate football.
And I didn't stop at hating it, no, but found it a sport to be derided. In fact, I was pretty vehemently anti-sports, having been subjected to too many field hockey and lacrosse lessons, having no innate physical skills, and being an ardent pianist, actress, and writer. I felt that sports took away from other, artistic endeavors (it is rare to see so much jubilance at the symphony, so much rowdy pleasure at Center Stage). And with all of that in mind, I concluded that athletic activities were just plain stupid, and so were the people who followed them, delightedly, on the field or on their televisions.
This is an attitude I grew up with, in a household of musicians and artists, and I think some of it is born of that simple and slithering demon, jealousy. I don't think that my parents or I would ever trade our artistic talents for a great arm or epic yardage, of course - it seems that the jealousy comes in when so many appreciate a talent which we will never have, and that that talent is somehow worth millions of dollars and sponsorships and your face on a Big Gulp. And it was a pretty bitter fight, sometimes, between what we considered valuable and what the world adored. I think we all asked how people with physical skills became so important, with so much more inherent worth, so overshadowing the work and performances of pianists and singers and actors and painters. Why, we asked, does it have to be this way?
So maybe it isn't jealousy - maybe it is a cry to be recognized for all of the invisible Herculean efforts of artistry. And those do, absolutely, deserve to be lauded. Modern artists are the future's gods. But still, when that cry turns into something ugly, we have to wonder.
It is easy to be open-minded when you can decide what to open your mind to, when there are limits. I thought of myself, then, as a very liberal and forward thinking person - as long as that didn't apply to sports, republicanism, and light beer. Though I'm still working on the last two, the moment I decided to throw away my colossal heap of judgement and derision and watch a football game was one of the most eye-opening moments of my life.
Gosh, it was fun.
And all of those people I had chosen to judge because of what they did in their spare time - watching a game - were so wrongly criticized by me, and furthermore I felt a great sense of community, cheering for the same team, sharing stats and quips and shouts, living in moments of silence before a big play or a field goal.
And then I realized that judging football players was equally as ridiculous, and I threw that out too. My negativity will never control how much they are paid. I still think it is somewhat criminal that all of this money goes to athletes as opposed to public schools or city infrastructure or the arts, but my teenage, nasty little voice of condemnation has nothing whatsoever to do with the reality of the situation. And beyond that, there are very real consequences of having an athletic career, such as frequent and repeated injury, and whether or not I'm totally on board with that, one could argue that a footballer's salary is, partially, his hazard pay.
And, at the root of it, who cares? Whining about the reality of unequal and (to some) unmerited pay isn't going to make anyone want to pay me more for being a writer. It just won't happen. And why is it, then, that I ever felt the need to judge others by their skills and what their skills were worth, when I could have actually been sitting down and writing a novel instead of complaining? And why should I ever judge, then, what makes other people happy, especially knowing that as an artist I have to face other people's unwanted criticism?
What gives me a right to judge someone by their career or their pastimes, when I feel that other people wrongly judge me for my career or my passions? In the end, narrow-mindedness is a double edged sword which is better left sheathed and forgotten in the umbrella stand.
Let's get back to last night - a game which went into double overtime and made me so nervous I had to leave the room. We had friends over, and if anyone wants to be negative about watching football from the comfort of your couch I can say without shame that football was an occasion to spend time with friends, and that even if I didn't enjoy football it was a good excuse to see people I love. Not everyone last night was into football - one friend started watching only last week so she could chat about it with coworkers, and her wife cheerfully checked out in the fourth quarter and did some online jewelry shopping. George played football in high school and only started watching when I asked that we could follow the Ravens. And I started watching because, a few Christmases ago, I sat with my in-laws and decided to stop judging and start paying attention.
Change is a good thing, especially when you decide to (forgive the euphemism) remove that stick from your behind. Due to the very welcome influence of G's family, I have changed, and changed for the better. And, what's more, I think I am able to enact change in my own life and in the people I love because I'm just happier. It isn't just watching football, but the willingness to try new things and find new joys which makes me a healthier person, more ready to smile, to gasp in surprise at Smith's gazelle-like legs, to swell with pride as Lewis makes a tackle as smooth and perfect as ink on paper.
My dad got me a Ravens toaster, and he posted on Facebook regarding last night's epic game. I don't know how much my new love for football impacted his decision to watch last night, but I do know the joy of being able to share happiness.
I want to be that joy as much as possible, and it doesn't have to be about football, but it does come with a pretty serious disclaimer: please, stop judging, because it isn't worth it, and it isn't fun. It took me 23 years to start looking at the world in a new way, but the decision to have fresh eyes and wonder can happen in a moment.
Opening your eyes is a big win, and after last night, anything is possible - even if it's just sitting down, listening up, and trying something new.
I used to hate football.
And I didn't stop at hating it, no, but found it a sport to be derided. In fact, I was pretty vehemently anti-sports, having been subjected to too many field hockey and lacrosse lessons, having no innate physical skills, and being an ardent pianist, actress, and writer. I felt that sports took away from other, artistic endeavors (it is rare to see so much jubilance at the symphony, so much rowdy pleasure at Center Stage). And with all of that in mind, I concluded that athletic activities were just plain stupid, and so were the people who followed them, delightedly, on the field or on their televisions.
This is an attitude I grew up with, in a household of musicians and artists, and I think some of it is born of that simple and slithering demon, jealousy. I don't think that my parents or I would ever trade our artistic talents for a great arm or epic yardage, of course - it seems that the jealousy comes in when so many appreciate a talent which we will never have, and that that talent is somehow worth millions of dollars and sponsorships and your face on a Big Gulp. And it was a pretty bitter fight, sometimes, between what we considered valuable and what the world adored. I think we all asked how people with physical skills became so important, with so much more inherent worth, so overshadowing the work and performances of pianists and singers and actors and painters. Why, we asked, does it have to be this way?
So maybe it isn't jealousy - maybe it is a cry to be recognized for all of the invisible Herculean efforts of artistry. And those do, absolutely, deserve to be lauded. Modern artists are the future's gods. But still, when that cry turns into something ugly, we have to wonder.
It is easy to be open-minded when you can decide what to open your mind to, when there are limits. I thought of myself, then, as a very liberal and forward thinking person - as long as that didn't apply to sports, republicanism, and light beer. Though I'm still working on the last two, the moment I decided to throw away my colossal heap of judgement and derision and watch a football game was one of the most eye-opening moments of my life.
Gosh, it was fun.
And all of those people I had chosen to judge because of what they did in their spare time - watching a game - were so wrongly criticized by me, and furthermore I felt a great sense of community, cheering for the same team, sharing stats and quips and shouts, living in moments of silence before a big play or a field goal.
And then I realized that judging football players was equally as ridiculous, and I threw that out too. My negativity will never control how much they are paid. I still think it is somewhat criminal that all of this money goes to athletes as opposed to public schools or city infrastructure or the arts, but my teenage, nasty little voice of condemnation has nothing whatsoever to do with the reality of the situation. And beyond that, there are very real consequences of having an athletic career, such as frequent and repeated injury, and whether or not I'm totally on board with that, one could argue that a footballer's salary is, partially, his hazard pay.
And, at the root of it, who cares? Whining about the reality of unequal and (to some) unmerited pay isn't going to make anyone want to pay me more for being a writer. It just won't happen. And why is it, then, that I ever felt the need to judge others by their skills and what their skills were worth, when I could have actually been sitting down and writing a novel instead of complaining? And why should I ever judge, then, what makes other people happy, especially knowing that as an artist I have to face other people's unwanted criticism?
What gives me a right to judge someone by their career or their pastimes, when I feel that other people wrongly judge me for my career or my passions? In the end, narrow-mindedness is a double edged sword which is better left sheathed and forgotten in the umbrella stand.
Let's get back to last night - a game which went into double overtime and made me so nervous I had to leave the room. We had friends over, and if anyone wants to be negative about watching football from the comfort of your couch I can say without shame that football was an occasion to spend time with friends, and that even if I didn't enjoy football it was a good excuse to see people I love. Not everyone last night was into football - one friend started watching only last week so she could chat about it with coworkers, and her wife cheerfully checked out in the fourth quarter and did some online jewelry shopping. George played football in high school and only started watching when I asked that we could follow the Ravens. And I started watching because, a few Christmases ago, I sat with my in-laws and decided to stop judging and start paying attention.
Change is a good thing, especially when you decide to (forgive the euphemism) remove that stick from your behind. Due to the very welcome influence of G's family, I have changed, and changed for the better. And, what's more, I think I am able to enact change in my own life and in the people I love because I'm just happier. It isn't just watching football, but the willingness to try new things and find new joys which makes me a healthier person, more ready to smile, to gasp in surprise at Smith's gazelle-like legs, to swell with pride as Lewis makes a tackle as smooth and perfect as ink on paper.
My dad got me a Ravens toaster, and he posted on Facebook regarding last night's epic game. I don't know how much my new love for football impacted his decision to watch last night, but I do know the joy of being able to share happiness.
I want to be that joy as much as possible, and it doesn't have to be about football, but it does come with a pretty serious disclaimer: please, stop judging, because it isn't worth it, and it isn't fun. It took me 23 years to start looking at the world in a new way, but the decision to have fresh eyes and wonder can happen in a moment.
Opening your eyes is a big win, and after last night, anything is possible - even if it's just sitting down, listening up, and trying something new.
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