It's not wanting to get out of bed...
but staying in bed with my mind racing over various very stressful things, both real and imagined.
It's about making plans and not being able to show up.
It's about thinking for hours about taking my dog for a walk.
It's about finding the prospect of feeding my dog (browning burgers on the stove) overwhelming.
It involves not being able to figure out what to wear from a closet full of clothes.
It is about resisting the couch.
It is about reading the paper so long that the text begins to spin in front of my eyes. Reading so long to avoid having to decide the next thing to do, and to avoid the guilt about not showing up.
I'm writing now to try and center myself, to ground myself in the real, because writing sometimes does that for me.
Monday, May 04, 2009
Sunday, May 03, 2009
today didn't suck...
as bad as yesterday...
and yesterday didn't suck as bad as the day before that.
In depression world, this is progress.
I get points for making it to church today. I get extra credit points for hanging about after church today long enough to get asked out to lunch -- and then I actually went. Normally I slip out the door FAST, and I almost always come in late. Some days I just can't handle people being nice to me, and at Calvary United Methodist Church, there are always people who want to give me a hug or smile and say hello (oh, jeeeez). It's just too much to take.
The extra credit points are for CONNECTING, which does help me get out of my head (which right now is not a very nice place to be). The depressive urge is to ISOLATE, which feels safer, but actually is not. And lunch was a lot of fun. Which was good, because I wake up with a lot of fear about what the day will be like. Ok, yah, I made it to church, but what will happen after that? When will the anxious ugly scary brain take over?
In her sermon, Pastor Laurie took us through the loving kindness prayer today -- one version is to pray for health, happiness, wholeness, and something else (I know there were four) first for yourself; then for a person you feel neutral towards, then for an enemy, and then for the whole world.
To be depressed is to be self-involved (in my opinion), but even so -- the worst enemy I could imagine was my own depressed brain. I'm so angry and scared by this depressed part of me that to pray for it felt dangerous. I'm not sure I would have tried it alone, but I was in community, so I gave it a go.
There wasn't any miraculous healing (now that would have been a good story) but prayer doesn't necessarily lead to obviously miraculous results. I'm still figuring out who is this "I" that tries to fight/work with/outwit my depression -- who fights and fails, or struggles and has moments of ok-ness. At lunch I may have even felt good for a bit, which is no small thing.
So after lunch, I walked my dog, and then went with my parents to see The Soloist -- the movie about the homeless schizophrenic brilliant musician befriended by a LA Times reporter. Great movie, if a little intense for me at this time. The connections between brilliance and mental illness are perhaps a bit overstated; where is the movie about the average musician with schizophrenia? You know he or she is out there.
While I might not use the word brilliance (though my mother certainly would) it is difficult to separate out what of my creativity, drive, passion is connected to bipolar illness. I've written and thought a lot about this idea lately -- bipolar disorder as a part of me, something that cannot be cut out without losing something else about me, something of value?
Time to watch the hockey game. Go Hurricanes!
Saturday, May 02, 2009
depressed girl has her say
In this moment I am wearing the same shirt and t-shirt (1996 Atlanta Olympics) that I have worn since Thursday evening. It is Saturday at noon. Needless to say I have not showered. I didn’t really sleep on Thursday night, so that made Friday difficult. Finally could close my eyes yesterday around 5:30 p.m. Missed hockey play-off game and dinner with parents in spite of much phone encouragement from both.
I just hit save on this document. I am writing instead of crawling back into bed. So hello depression here we are again. You are depressed, says my mother, who should know because she came over on Tuesday and Thursday to get me moving. Your father thinks it’s acute she says. He wants to come over and help you with your yard. For some reason this idea makes me weep. He wants to help. Why can you let me help you and not him? It’s not that. It’s just that I don’t want to be helped. I want to be 38 years old and able to keep my own yard under control. 38 years old and able to keep my kitchen floor clean.
I have only just left the house long enough to put Kacey dog on the leash and take her out to pee. At 3:30 a.m. Thursday night/Friday morning, I took her for a little walk. I was up. I can’t really be seen like this, in this t-shirt and shorts, so 3:30 a.m. is good. The pavement outside my house is brand new, black and shiny. I walk in my bare feet. I walk around long enough for Kacey to do her business; I feel a sense of accomplishment. I am also feeding her. This is good. All I ate yesterday was oatmeal. Could I finally be one of those depressed people who lose weight when they are depressed? That would be so great.
See, I can still make myself laugh. And then cry a little, too, but not huge desperate wailing sobs, so that’s good. I guess the good news is that I finally believe that I’m only going to write the book, this book, from exactly where I am in a particular moment: that bipolar girl depressed girl is going to be the one who writes it, not wellness girl, or miraculously healed girl or never depressed again girl or victorious girl or any version of totally together, keeping it together etc. etc. etc. No we are keeping it real here at Bipolar Girl central, and right now real kind of sucks.
My mom meant it matter-of-factly, you are depressed. She never every meant it as an accusation, just ok, you’re depressed so now let’s fix it. Then I started crying so she felt bad. I feel like this massive failure, falling back into depression. Here I am with the great therapist and the weekly support group and access to medicine (though maybe not exactly the right medicines) and my parents paying my $540 a month for health insurance while I try to be an artist and find a sustainable way to live my life in alignment with what I feed called to do in the world. I got an email this morning from a woman who read my blog and felt like it helped her. In spite how I feel right now, I do believe that there is something I have to offer the world from this shitty, shitty set of experiences. So as cheesy as it sounds, thanks Teresa, you’re why I’m writing right now instead of hiding under the covers of my fabulously comfortable bed. I have the softest sheets in the world, and what my friend E. and I call the single girl’s bed – four pillows and a body pillow.
What I struggle to write about is how depression, bipolar, the whole mental illness gig intersects with the rest of Dawn. So, my therapist said – and though I pay her, I believe she means this – that I posses “vitality, passion, and creativity.” Ok. I think so too. (Parenthetically, I just opened the shades to my office to let a little light in. I think this is a good sign.) So, how do I piece out the parts of me that are depressed? How do I differentiate my enthusiasms from mania? Is my depression chemical, a moral failing, or some combination of both? Is it a spiritual condition? Is it paradoxically because I’m moving closer to being in the world how I want to be, and so the old mechanisms are tearing back to visit, in a gasping stand against progress? And how the hell am I supposed to think about all of this, and what the hell am I supposed to do?
A trip to the psychiatrist, and a physical, says my mom. She knows it’s not that simple, but it’s a concrete place to start. I put in a call to a new psychiatrist, and I’m waiting to hear back. My mom and my therapist (the ace treatment team) think it’s a good idea to try someone new. I can talk to anybody, and I find it hard to communicate with my current doctor. It may be time to change my meds. I hate thinking about changing my meds. I’ve been on basically the same for almost five years and I’ve basically been ok. Basically.
I’m terrified at the prospect of making changes, because that’s what kind of started this wave of shittiness in the first place. We added Drug X to counter racing thoughts. Might be helping, can’t be hurting is what I said to my doctor. She yelped. Don’t let Drug X manufacturer hear you say that. Either stop taking it or try a higher dose. So I tried the higher dose, and the racing thoughts stopped. Mostly because I was asleep all the time. The drug knocked me out. And then I accidentally doubled my dose of Drug Y. Which went all toxic on my system. My body felt terrible. I couldn’t sleep. I slept too much. It was a relief to get back to just the generally crummy ache that I associate with being depressed.
I have a new question. What does depression really look like? Is it the numbness and tiredness a means of protection? A safeguard against the howling fear, the deadly sense of inadequacy, the hopelessness that threatens to take over unless I move very very quietly. Which is it? The numbness or the howling? Would it end quicker if I howled more?
My parents are coming over in an hour or so. I’m grateful and also kind of scared. Compassion is frightening, because if I let myself feel too deeply I might fall apart; encouragement brings up fear, because what if I can’t do something, anything; offers of help bring up self-contempt because I should be able to do it myself, to function as a normal. As yes. The hovering normal adult. The Dawn without bipolar. Without depression. She’s married to her college sweetheart and has two children. She’s not needy. She’s traveled to other countries and worked with NGOs on children’s literacy. She is not relying on her parents for money.
But what does she do? Is normal Dawn the vibrant girl that the college sweetheart fell in love with in the first place? Is she – me – creative, an artist, a writer? If so, what would I be writing about? I kinda hoped I’d be writing this book with a little more distance between me and the subject matter. Between me and my life.
Back into my life: I want my parents to stay away; I want them to be here. I want to be alone in my filth (it’s not really that bad); I want to try and shower and step out into the day. I am on this edge all of the time. Can you imagine how incredibly tiring it is, each micro movement being considered so closely? Each possibility weighted with – here, you’re fighting depression! Here, you’re giving in! Maybe tiredness emerges from depression as a protective mechanism. Asleep I don’t have to feel, consider, be. Depression as the anti-is-ness: is it a good idea to just be in the moment when in the moment I sometimes feel like I’m dying? Still, it’s better to be in the moment than to consider the next one, to get caught up in thinking this way of not-being is all there is and all there will be.
Yet even in my current state of broken-down-ed-ness, I can see slivers of hope. I close my eyes and I see a showing of hands waving across a wide sea. And I’m writing, so I must believe in something. And I'm sharing my writing, so I must believe in something more.
I just hit save on this document. I am writing instead of crawling back into bed. So hello depression here we are again. You are depressed, says my mother, who should know because she came over on Tuesday and Thursday to get me moving. Your father thinks it’s acute she says. He wants to come over and help you with your yard. For some reason this idea makes me weep. He wants to help. Why can you let me help you and not him? It’s not that. It’s just that I don’t want to be helped. I want to be 38 years old and able to keep my own yard under control. 38 years old and able to keep my kitchen floor clean.
I have only just left the house long enough to put Kacey dog on the leash and take her out to pee. At 3:30 a.m. Thursday night/Friday morning, I took her for a little walk. I was up. I can’t really be seen like this, in this t-shirt and shorts, so 3:30 a.m. is good. The pavement outside my house is brand new, black and shiny. I walk in my bare feet. I walk around long enough for Kacey to do her business; I feel a sense of accomplishment. I am also feeding her. This is good. All I ate yesterday was oatmeal. Could I finally be one of those depressed people who lose weight when they are depressed? That would be so great.
See, I can still make myself laugh. And then cry a little, too, but not huge desperate wailing sobs, so that’s good. I guess the good news is that I finally believe that I’m only going to write the book, this book, from exactly where I am in a particular moment: that bipolar girl depressed girl is going to be the one who writes it, not wellness girl, or miraculously healed girl or never depressed again girl or victorious girl or any version of totally together, keeping it together etc. etc. etc. No we are keeping it real here at Bipolar Girl central, and right now real kind of sucks.
My mom meant it matter-of-factly, you are depressed. She never every meant it as an accusation, just ok, you’re depressed so now let’s fix it. Then I started crying so she felt bad. I feel like this massive failure, falling back into depression. Here I am with the great therapist and the weekly support group and access to medicine (though maybe not exactly the right medicines) and my parents paying my $540 a month for health insurance while I try to be an artist and find a sustainable way to live my life in alignment with what I feed called to do in the world. I got an email this morning from a woman who read my blog and felt like it helped her. In spite how I feel right now, I do believe that there is something I have to offer the world from this shitty, shitty set of experiences. So as cheesy as it sounds, thanks Teresa, you’re why I’m writing right now instead of hiding under the covers of my fabulously comfortable bed. I have the softest sheets in the world, and what my friend E. and I call the single girl’s bed – four pillows and a body pillow.
What I struggle to write about is how depression, bipolar, the whole mental illness gig intersects with the rest of Dawn. So, my therapist said – and though I pay her, I believe she means this – that I posses “vitality, passion, and creativity.” Ok. I think so too. (Parenthetically, I just opened the shades to my office to let a little light in. I think this is a good sign.) So, how do I piece out the parts of me that are depressed? How do I differentiate my enthusiasms from mania? Is my depression chemical, a moral failing, or some combination of both? Is it a spiritual condition? Is it paradoxically because I’m moving closer to being in the world how I want to be, and so the old mechanisms are tearing back to visit, in a gasping stand against progress? And how the hell am I supposed to think about all of this, and what the hell am I supposed to do?
A trip to the psychiatrist, and a physical, says my mom. She knows it’s not that simple, but it’s a concrete place to start. I put in a call to a new psychiatrist, and I’m waiting to hear back. My mom and my therapist (the ace treatment team) think it’s a good idea to try someone new. I can talk to anybody, and I find it hard to communicate with my current doctor. It may be time to change my meds. I hate thinking about changing my meds. I’ve been on basically the same for almost five years and I’ve basically been ok. Basically.
I’m terrified at the prospect of making changes, because that’s what kind of started this wave of shittiness in the first place. We added Drug X to counter racing thoughts. Might be helping, can’t be hurting is what I said to my doctor. She yelped. Don’t let Drug X manufacturer hear you say that. Either stop taking it or try a higher dose. So I tried the higher dose, and the racing thoughts stopped. Mostly because I was asleep all the time. The drug knocked me out. And then I accidentally doubled my dose of Drug Y. Which went all toxic on my system. My body felt terrible. I couldn’t sleep. I slept too much. It was a relief to get back to just the generally crummy ache that I associate with being depressed.
I have a new question. What does depression really look like? Is it the numbness and tiredness a means of protection? A safeguard against the howling fear, the deadly sense of inadequacy, the hopelessness that threatens to take over unless I move very very quietly. Which is it? The numbness or the howling? Would it end quicker if I howled more?
My parents are coming over in an hour or so. I’m grateful and also kind of scared. Compassion is frightening, because if I let myself feel too deeply I might fall apart; encouragement brings up fear, because what if I can’t do something, anything; offers of help bring up self-contempt because I should be able to do it myself, to function as a normal. As yes. The hovering normal adult. The Dawn without bipolar. Without depression. She’s married to her college sweetheart and has two children. She’s not needy. She’s traveled to other countries and worked with NGOs on children’s literacy. She is not relying on her parents for money.
But what does she do? Is normal Dawn the vibrant girl that the college sweetheart fell in love with in the first place? Is she – me – creative, an artist, a writer? If so, what would I be writing about? I kinda hoped I’d be writing this book with a little more distance between me and the subject matter. Between me and my life.
Back into my life: I want my parents to stay away; I want them to be here. I want to be alone in my filth (it’s not really that bad); I want to try and shower and step out into the day. I am on this edge all of the time. Can you imagine how incredibly tiring it is, each micro movement being considered so closely? Each possibility weighted with – here, you’re fighting depression! Here, you’re giving in! Maybe tiredness emerges from depression as a protective mechanism. Asleep I don’t have to feel, consider, be. Depression as the anti-is-ness: is it a good idea to just be in the moment when in the moment I sometimes feel like I’m dying? Still, it’s better to be in the moment than to consider the next one, to get caught up in thinking this way of not-being is all there is and all there will be.
Yet even in my current state of broken-down-ed-ness, I can see slivers of hope. I close my eyes and I see a showing of hands waving across a wide sea. And I’m writing, so I must believe in something. And I'm sharing my writing, so I must believe in something more.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
anxiety
I want to post every day but I didn't yesterday, but here is something I wrote yesterday, so I think that counts.
Bipolar Episode 14
I am walking around the house wearing just a bra. I empty three quarters of the dishwasher. I obsess whether or not the recycling truck will pick up three weeks of my newspapers, milk cartons, and aluminum cans. Have I done something wrong? Are my cans and newspapers organized improperly? Maybe I should finish getting dressed. Maybe I should eat. I call a friend and talk for an hour. We’re both dealing with anxiety. Neither of us likes it. Is it chemical? Is it because I’m not Zen enough and need to meditate more? I’ve been trying to get outside and mow my lawn for two hours now. I’ll check my email. I’ll search the web for something that seems very important. I’ll move and dust the boxes under my bed so I can vacuum my bedroom. I’ll dust the shelves, but barely. Did the truck take my recycling? What will I do if they didn’t? It looks like my neighbor’s recycling is still there. I’m going to mow my lawn, so will I just move it to the driveway? And then what? For the last several weeks it’s been too much to get the recycling out there. Dragging it all to the curb feels like a moral victory. After talking to my friend I felt calmer. Not so much now.
Racing thoughts. That’s what my therapist calls them. I took my pills. I had this one pill that really helped with the racing thoughts. It also made me dangerously, completely tired. I’d hit one in the afternoon and it was no longer safe for me to drive. When I try to slow down and focus I see these little spots of light in front of me. It’s true that I’m less anxious when I’m asleep, but that is not a good long-term strategy. I have this little pill, just .25, hardly anything at all, that helps, I think. But I resist taking it because I want to be able to fix this myself. I want to not be anxious. I want to be productive in a slightly less manic way. I want to be able to have some sense of what I have accomplished, which is hard to do because I’m working in an altered state.
Ok, that’s it. I had to go outside and check if my neighbor’s recycling had been picked up. No, and not the next house over, either. I can hear the truck now, outside of my house. It’s beautiful out, a North Carolina spring day, sunny and not too warm. My yard is a disaster, so I think, ok, I’ll take it one step at a time. Mow the lawn first. Use the weed wacker. The other day I took my weed wacker to Home Depot because I followed the instructions to re-thread the unit and it got stuck. All I wanted was to buy a replacement piece – please, sell me something – but the guy was on a helpful kick and fixed it, but I know I won’t be able to do that again because his hands were really big, and mine are not. And nobody knew if these replacement pieces would fit my machine. And it was 3:55 when my mother called me and I was supposed to be at my therapy group at 4:30 p.m. and I needed to take a shower. Thank God she called and talked me down and out of the store, but REALLY, when someone wants to buy something, why would a salesperson block the transaction? Should I have to beg, please let me spend money in your store?
Back to the yard. I plan to use a completely un-organic means to kill the weeds. I don’t have the energy to research other options. I already have to research whether or not the replacement piece at the Home Depot will fit my machine. At some point, I’ll borrow my grandmother’s thing-a-ma-gig to trim my bushes back from over the sidewalk. I’ve been trying to get outside to work in the yard for several hours now. Actually, several days, even weeks. I’ve had three men come to my door and offer to mow my lawn. One of them stopped by twice. This is a sign.
It takes so much energy to hold myself together, I said to my friend, who is also anxious. What would happen if you didn’t hold yourself together? I don’t know, but I’m clearly not able to consider that question at this time because it’s frankly not possible to consider because I am working very very hard to keep moving and not stop moving because to stop means that I might stop for a really long time and not get anything done at all. I can go to sleep at 5 p.m. and not wake up until morning, and feel very guilty about my dog who is incontinent anyway, so I don’t feel as bad because then she just pees in the house, and only in the guest bathroom which is incredibly considerate, she’s always been that way, and now she is sixteen, it’s hard for her to keep food down, and she’s seriously slowing down, and it’s likely she’ll die soon and then I won’t have the sweet comfort of another being in the house, the sound of her breathing while she sleeps on her dog bed right next to my bed. Though I won’t miss cleaning up pee and vomit, I have to admit that is true.
Is anxiety about repressed anger and emotions that cannot be expressed so they twist and turn and become this other thing? Am I just a bit manic? It feels like all I can do is to keep trying to get to the next thing. Dishwashing, emailing, washing clothes, sorting clothes, making lunch, getting dressed (eventually putting on the rest of my clothes), planning to bring up my summer clothes and putting away my winter clothes which makes sense because I can carry the plastic bins down the back stairs outside when I go down to mow the lawn.
I had this whole month or so where I tried the new medicine, the one that put me to sleep, and I also screwed up and doubled my dose of another medicine, and I was shaky and my mouth tasted metallic and I couldn’t really function all that well. I feel like I lost a month or more, more even because then I had to catch up on all I didn’t do in a month, like pay bills or respond to emails, or mop my kitchen floor which is really pretty gross. And getting my sleep back on track – with the sleeping during the day I wasn’t so much sleeping at night – took even longer.
If slamming my head against the wall would make this racing stop I would do it, but unfortunately, it only works for a minute. My body is vibrating, my skin itches, I’m wearing the loosest possible clothing because otherwise I might tear it all off and end up nekked.
Did I mention I need to go to the mall to return those shirts my mother gave me that don’t fit? And mail back that bathing suit that doesn’t fit, which makes me sad because I’d really like to get it together and start swimming laps again. Getting it together enough to leave the house is a bit intimidating, though.
I’ll try. Try to notice my feet in my pink Crocs pressing into the floor. Try to be aware of my body in space, of each movement. Try not to spin off into the anxiety vortex. Stay. In. This. Moment.
Hungry. Smoothie and peanut butter on toast. Finish emptying the dishwasher and load the dishes on the counter. Leave the laundry alone. Mow the lawn.
At least they picked up the recycling.
Addendum:
And so this is what happened. I sat in the sun, present to the warmth on my skin, and I got terrifically sleepy. So I went to bed to take a nap around 2 p.m., skipped an evening outing, which it would have been really good for me to attend, lots of folks that I like and who like me. Then I slept until 10:30 p.m. and woke up and had cereal. It was hard to go back to sleep after that and so I dosed in an out all night. Got out of bed at 7:30 a.m., made eggs for me and my dog, and now I am bound and determined to do ONE THING AT A TIME: eat, vacuum, mow lawn. I feel pretty calm in this minute. We’ll see how it goes.
Bipolar Episode 14
I am walking around the house wearing just a bra. I empty three quarters of the dishwasher. I obsess whether or not the recycling truck will pick up three weeks of my newspapers, milk cartons, and aluminum cans. Have I done something wrong? Are my cans and newspapers organized improperly? Maybe I should finish getting dressed. Maybe I should eat. I call a friend and talk for an hour. We’re both dealing with anxiety. Neither of us likes it. Is it chemical? Is it because I’m not Zen enough and need to meditate more? I’ve been trying to get outside and mow my lawn for two hours now. I’ll check my email. I’ll search the web for something that seems very important. I’ll move and dust the boxes under my bed so I can vacuum my bedroom. I’ll dust the shelves, but barely. Did the truck take my recycling? What will I do if they didn’t? It looks like my neighbor’s recycling is still there. I’m going to mow my lawn, so will I just move it to the driveway? And then what? For the last several weeks it’s been too much to get the recycling out there. Dragging it all to the curb feels like a moral victory. After talking to my friend I felt calmer. Not so much now.
Racing thoughts. That’s what my therapist calls them. I took my pills. I had this one pill that really helped with the racing thoughts. It also made me dangerously, completely tired. I’d hit one in the afternoon and it was no longer safe for me to drive. When I try to slow down and focus I see these little spots of light in front of me. It’s true that I’m less anxious when I’m asleep, but that is not a good long-term strategy. I have this little pill, just .25, hardly anything at all, that helps, I think. But I resist taking it because I want to be able to fix this myself. I want to not be anxious. I want to be productive in a slightly less manic way. I want to be able to have some sense of what I have accomplished, which is hard to do because I’m working in an altered state.
Ok, that’s it. I had to go outside and check if my neighbor’s recycling had been picked up. No, and not the next house over, either. I can hear the truck now, outside of my house. It’s beautiful out, a North Carolina spring day, sunny and not too warm. My yard is a disaster, so I think, ok, I’ll take it one step at a time. Mow the lawn first. Use the weed wacker. The other day I took my weed wacker to Home Depot because I followed the instructions to re-thread the unit and it got stuck. All I wanted was to buy a replacement piece – please, sell me something – but the guy was on a helpful kick and fixed it, but I know I won’t be able to do that again because his hands were really big, and mine are not. And nobody knew if these replacement pieces would fit my machine. And it was 3:55 when my mother called me and I was supposed to be at my therapy group at 4:30 p.m. and I needed to take a shower. Thank God she called and talked me down and out of the store, but REALLY, when someone wants to buy something, why would a salesperson block the transaction? Should I have to beg, please let me spend money in your store?
Back to the yard. I plan to use a completely un-organic means to kill the weeds. I don’t have the energy to research other options. I already have to research whether or not the replacement piece at the Home Depot will fit my machine. At some point, I’ll borrow my grandmother’s thing-a-ma-gig to trim my bushes back from over the sidewalk. I’ve been trying to get outside to work in the yard for several hours now. Actually, several days, even weeks. I’ve had three men come to my door and offer to mow my lawn. One of them stopped by twice. This is a sign.
It takes so much energy to hold myself together, I said to my friend, who is also anxious. What would happen if you didn’t hold yourself together? I don’t know, but I’m clearly not able to consider that question at this time because it’s frankly not possible to consider because I am working very very hard to keep moving and not stop moving because to stop means that I might stop for a really long time and not get anything done at all. I can go to sleep at 5 p.m. and not wake up until morning, and feel very guilty about my dog who is incontinent anyway, so I don’t feel as bad because then she just pees in the house, and only in the guest bathroom which is incredibly considerate, she’s always been that way, and now she is sixteen, it’s hard for her to keep food down, and she’s seriously slowing down, and it’s likely she’ll die soon and then I won’t have the sweet comfort of another being in the house, the sound of her breathing while she sleeps on her dog bed right next to my bed. Though I won’t miss cleaning up pee and vomit, I have to admit that is true.
Is anxiety about repressed anger and emotions that cannot be expressed so they twist and turn and become this other thing? Am I just a bit manic? It feels like all I can do is to keep trying to get to the next thing. Dishwashing, emailing, washing clothes, sorting clothes, making lunch, getting dressed (eventually putting on the rest of my clothes), planning to bring up my summer clothes and putting away my winter clothes which makes sense because I can carry the plastic bins down the back stairs outside when I go down to mow the lawn.
I had this whole month or so where I tried the new medicine, the one that put me to sleep, and I also screwed up and doubled my dose of another medicine, and I was shaky and my mouth tasted metallic and I couldn’t really function all that well. I feel like I lost a month or more, more even because then I had to catch up on all I didn’t do in a month, like pay bills or respond to emails, or mop my kitchen floor which is really pretty gross. And getting my sleep back on track – with the sleeping during the day I wasn’t so much sleeping at night – took even longer.
If slamming my head against the wall would make this racing stop I would do it, but unfortunately, it only works for a minute. My body is vibrating, my skin itches, I’m wearing the loosest possible clothing because otherwise I might tear it all off and end up nekked.
Did I mention I need to go to the mall to return those shirts my mother gave me that don’t fit? And mail back that bathing suit that doesn’t fit, which makes me sad because I’d really like to get it together and start swimming laps again. Getting it together enough to leave the house is a bit intimidating, though.
I’ll try. Try to notice my feet in my pink Crocs pressing into the floor. Try to be aware of my body in space, of each movement. Try not to spin off into the anxiety vortex. Stay. In. This. Moment.
Hungry. Smoothie and peanut butter on toast. Finish emptying the dishwasher and load the dishes on the counter. Leave the laundry alone. Mow the lawn.
At least they picked up the recycling.
Addendum:
And so this is what happened. I sat in the sun, present to the warmth on my skin, and I got terrifically sleepy. So I went to bed to take a nap around 2 p.m., skipped an evening outing, which it would have been really good for me to attend, lots of folks that I like and who like me. Then I slept until 10:30 p.m. and woke up and had cereal. It was hard to go back to sleep after that and so I dosed in an out all night. Got out of bed at 7:30 a.m., made eggs for me and my dog, and now I am bound and determined to do ONE THING AT A TIME: eat, vacuum, mow lawn. I feel pretty calm in this minute. We’ll see how it goes.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
i'm a little taken aback...
by how much my post from December 09 still applies. Lots of the same issues going on...
I want to post a little each day on this blog, just as writing practice.
Today has been a jangly day. I sent out an announcement about my new documentary project consulting business (yay!); sent out a no to an opportunity to write a newspaper article (not thrilled about that, but at least I was accountable; paid most of my bills; completed a consulting project (yay); and thought very hard about tackling the foot tall weeds in my yard.
This description doesn't sound so bad, actually, but it leaves out the anxiety so intense that I can actually see little dots of light in front of me. My mom visited this morning and that was a tremendous help...
Perhaps my most important accomplishment of the day was updating my Netflix queue to reflect who I actually am (intelligent comedy, vampire series, and misanthrope doctors) vs. the films that have sat by my DVD player for a month (foreign drama and a very bad "This American Life" tv series). I was going to quit all together, but I'll give it another chance.
I also took out my recycling, which was a major accomplishment as it had been a few weeks. It felt like a real moral victory, which should tell you something about how I've been lately.
g'night.
I want to post a little each day on this blog, just as writing practice.
Today has been a jangly day. I sent out an announcement about my new documentary project consulting business (yay!); sent out a no to an opportunity to write a newspaper article (not thrilled about that, but at least I was accountable; paid most of my bills; completed a consulting project (yay); and thought very hard about tackling the foot tall weeds in my yard.
This description doesn't sound so bad, actually, but it leaves out the anxiety so intense that I can actually see little dots of light in front of me. My mom visited this morning and that was a tremendous help...
Perhaps my most important accomplishment of the day was updating my Netflix queue to reflect who I actually am (intelligent comedy, vampire series, and misanthrope doctors) vs. the films that have sat by my DVD player for a month (foreign drama and a very bad "This American Life" tv series). I was going to quit all together, but I'll give it another chance.
I also took out my recycling, which was a major accomplishment as it had been a few weeks. It felt like a real moral victory, which should tell you something about how I've been lately.
g'night.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
sitting down to write
I'm embarking on this journey as a working artist - which means, to me, that I'm stating through word and action that my writing and my documentary filmaking are my real work. The job that does-not-quite-support me is simply income. Even my cocktail conversation -- my answer to the what do you do question -- has changed. I'm working on a book, and a documentary film. And I do this internet/print marketing gig for money.
At a party, I mostly leave out the fact that the woman I work for refers to me as a "personal assistant." I don't actually mind being called a personal assistant. I'm getting paid a decent amount of money, and part of my learning around this job is that I don't get emotionally invested in what I do, or the people I work for. That doesn't mean I don't care -- I do. But craziness exists in EVERY workplace, and this is practice for me to keep my head and my heart out of it. When my income producing job was also the work-of-my-heart (as in my time at the Center for Documentary Studies) I got completely wacked out on office politics. Any reasonable person would have, to be sure, but I chose to let it crash over me like a North Shore wave.
In certain circumstances, I'm just fine if folks don't ask me "what are the book/documentary about?" I can live without going into the details of bipolar disorder with an almost stranger when I have a plate of sausage ball in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. On the other hand, even at my parents' holiday open house, I found myself in more than one deep conversation about depression, mental illness, and struggle -- while standing next to the fridge, or on the couch. By then, I'd switched to Diet Pepsi.
I hope my penchant for intense dialogue won't stop you from inviting me to your party. I'm a lot of fun, and I looked really pretty in my sparkly holiday garb. Lots of people said so -- not just my parents.
Ok. Not unlike what happens when I sit down to write, now I'm going to get to the idea that got me writing this afternoon.
I am in transition. With this whole trying to be a working artist, there are so many steps. First was finding a part-time job that didn't suck out my soul. Done. Actually, first was to decide I wasn't going to jump back into a full-time job; instead, I am working to keep focused on my identity as a "community based, mixed media, conceptual artist/activist" that was so nurtured at Pendle Hill. I am going to remain spiritually grounded (that's only going ok).
I'm getting screwed up with verb tenses, here. I will, I have, I am. None of it is working. I have a whole 'nother post -- actually, I have a chapter, gosh forbid -- that I want to write about the dangers of not only negative predictions, but of the potential tyranny of positive ones.
Here's what I wanted to say when I first started writing. That in order to write, I can't just say, ok, there it is, on your calendar: "Write, from 8 p.m. to 10 p.m., Wednesday." No, it starts back with getting to sleep at a reasonable hour on Tuesday night. And getting to work on time. And maybe exercising. It's a whole life I'm trying to construct -- a life I want to be present in.
I'm tempted at the cellular level to write from 10 p.m. until 3 a.m. I'd get a lot done. But the next day, I'd be sick with emotion, not to mention how my body would feel. If I fell into a pattern like of late night/early morning and then sleeping much of the day, not only would I lose my job, but I would also be dangling bloody meat before the ravanging wolf of bipolar disorder. Here, kitty kitty kitty.
I'm having to learn a whole 'nother way of being a creative person, one that does not involve painful sprints and abrupt, muscle tearing, screeching halts.
I don't feel sweet about having to learn a new way of being. It's not entirely new -- when I worked in clay at Pendle Hill, I created and presented art without the sprint. Not without angst, but without the crazy. I was, however, living in community. I was being fed three meals a day. I was hanging close to God, and I had the best teammate EVER in launching the exhibition. I wasn't so dang alone.
The alone, well, I need to work on that. While to say that my Mom totally rocks is an understatement, I looked at my social calendar this week, and it was like, "Mom" three times. That was it. Now, that's my own fault. I now have two additional engagements, neither with family members. But I just haven't reached out to the amazing community here in Durham the way I need to. I have friends, I just need to take the initiative and get out there...
In summation: my first job isn't being an artist. My first job is being present, being well, having a LIFE. I'd like to skip that part and get right to being a writer and a documentary filmmaker. Frustratingly, that won't happen, not for any sustainable period of time.
I feel so jangly, in pieces all over the place. But in this moment I'm writing. And in this moment. And in this one...
At a party, I mostly leave out the fact that the woman I work for refers to me as a "personal assistant." I don't actually mind being called a personal assistant. I'm getting paid a decent amount of money, and part of my learning around this job is that I don't get emotionally invested in what I do, or the people I work for. That doesn't mean I don't care -- I do. But craziness exists in EVERY workplace, and this is practice for me to keep my head and my heart out of it. When my income producing job was also the work-of-my-heart (as in my time at the Center for Documentary Studies) I got completely wacked out on office politics. Any reasonable person would have, to be sure, but I chose to let it crash over me like a North Shore wave.
In certain circumstances, I'm just fine if folks don't ask me "what are the book/documentary about?" I can live without going into the details of bipolar disorder with an almost stranger when I have a plate of sausage ball in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. On the other hand, even at my parents' holiday open house, I found myself in more than one deep conversation about depression, mental illness, and struggle -- while standing next to the fridge, or on the couch. By then, I'd switched to Diet Pepsi.
I hope my penchant for intense dialogue won't stop you from inviting me to your party. I'm a lot of fun, and I looked really pretty in my sparkly holiday garb. Lots of people said so -- not just my parents.
Ok. Not unlike what happens when I sit down to write, now I'm going to get to the idea that got me writing this afternoon.
I am in transition. With this whole trying to be a working artist, there are so many steps. First was finding a part-time job that didn't suck out my soul. Done. Actually, first was to decide I wasn't going to jump back into a full-time job; instead, I am working to keep focused on my identity as a "community based, mixed media, conceptual artist/activist" that was so nurtured at Pendle Hill. I am going to remain spiritually grounded (that's only going ok).
I'm getting screwed up with verb tenses, here. I will, I have, I am. None of it is working. I have a whole 'nother post -- actually, I have a chapter, gosh forbid -- that I want to write about the dangers of not only negative predictions, but of the potential tyranny of positive ones.
Here's what I wanted to say when I first started writing. That in order to write, I can't just say, ok, there it is, on your calendar: "Write, from 8 p.m. to 10 p.m., Wednesday." No, it starts back with getting to sleep at a reasonable hour on Tuesday night. And getting to work on time. And maybe exercising. It's a whole life I'm trying to construct -- a life I want to be present in.
I'm tempted at the cellular level to write from 10 p.m. until 3 a.m. I'd get a lot done. But the next day, I'd be sick with emotion, not to mention how my body would feel. If I fell into a pattern like of late night/early morning and then sleeping much of the day, not only would I lose my job, but I would also be dangling bloody meat before the ravanging wolf of bipolar disorder. Here, kitty kitty kitty.
I'm having to learn a whole 'nother way of being a creative person, one that does not involve painful sprints and abrupt, muscle tearing, screeching halts.
I don't feel sweet about having to learn a new way of being. It's not entirely new -- when I worked in clay at Pendle Hill, I created and presented art without the sprint. Not without angst, but without the crazy. I was, however, living in community. I was being fed three meals a day. I was hanging close to God, and I had the best teammate EVER in launching the exhibition. I wasn't so dang alone.
The alone, well, I need to work on that. While to say that my Mom totally rocks is an understatement, I looked at my social calendar this week, and it was like, "Mom" three times. That was it. Now, that's my own fault. I now have two additional engagements, neither with family members. But I just haven't reached out to the amazing community here in Durham the way I need to. I have friends, I just need to take the initiative and get out there...
In summation: my first job isn't being an artist. My first job is being present, being well, having a LIFE. I'd like to skip that part and get right to being a writer and a documentary filmmaker. Frustratingly, that won't happen, not for any sustainable period of time.
I feel so jangly, in pieces all over the place. But in this moment I'm writing. And in this moment. And in this one...
Saturday, December 06, 2008
this morning, I write
Last night at 4:30 a.m., I woke up with words ready to be put down on paper. I thought about getting up, and then thought harder about falling back to sleep. I'm serious about working on my Bipolar Girl Rules the World memoir -- a real honest to goodness book -- and the feeling of that early (too early) morning desire stayed with me until after I had eaten my oatmeal, drank my coffee, and put aside the New York Times Sunday Styles section.
So I've written for at least a couple of hours on what I imagine to be the Introduction -- I know that I've written long enough to get hungry again, and to do three loads of laundry. I was pretty grossed out by what I was writing when I started, so it was a moral victory to continue onward. I'm going to take the radical step of stopping now, and giving myself some credit for getting work done. I even have a calendar I use to mark out the work I do on my own creative projects, to show progress, and to present evidence when my emotions lean toward catastrophe (you never, you won't, you can't, how dare you believe).
I think I'll post essays as I go along, and I would obviously LOVE any response to my writing. Right now, I'm working on three sample chapters to submit to agents. At the North Carolina Writers Network fall conference, I took a step past the slush pile with two NYC agents, and was asked to submit a proposal for the BPG book. So I guess I better write the darn thing. But I'm building up good support team -- an editor to read the chapters when I'm ready, a possible writing group, and an ex-Random House editor to vet the whole proposal when I'm ready. None of this (except the writing group) is free, but it feels like the right people are lining up to help get'er done.
So I've written for at least a couple of hours on what I imagine to be the Introduction -- I know that I've written long enough to get hungry again, and to do three loads of laundry. I was pretty grossed out by what I was writing when I started, so it was a moral victory to continue onward. I'm going to take the radical step of stopping now, and giving myself some credit for getting work done. I even have a calendar I use to mark out the work I do on my own creative projects, to show progress, and to present evidence when my emotions lean toward catastrophe (you never, you won't, you can't, how dare you believe).
I think I'll post essays as I go along, and I would obviously LOVE any response to my writing. Right now, I'm working on three sample chapters to submit to agents. At the North Carolina Writers Network fall conference, I took a step past the slush pile with two NYC agents, and was asked to submit a proposal for the BPG book. So I guess I better write the darn thing. But I'm building up good support team -- an editor to read the chapters when I'm ready, a possible writing group, and an ex-Random House editor to vet the whole proposal when I'm ready. None of this (except the writing group) is free, but it feels like the right people are lining up to help get'er done.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
this is what normal feels like...
Abandoning the idea of "what is normal?" for a moment (we can define it, possibly, as the land of "not depressed"), I'm finding myself thinking the following on a fairly regular basis:
"So, this is what a cold feels like, you know, to normal people" (just a cold, not an indicator of moral failings or a harbinger of doom because I have to stay in bed more than I'd like).
"So, normal people sometimes don't keep their kitchen clean when they have a cold because it takes all of their energy to get done what absolutely needs to get done" (not, I am committing a deadly sin of sloth, and therefore, the rest of my life will fall apart and I'll be drooling on the floor before you know it).
Just for example.
I think catastrophizing is a pretty common technique for us bipolar girls. It's a learning process to know that sometimes, a cold is just a bad cold (and miserable, but not, you know, all defining of my character and such).
"So, this is what a cold feels like, you know, to normal people" (just a cold, not an indicator of moral failings or a harbinger of doom because I have to stay in bed more than I'd like).
"So, normal people sometimes don't keep their kitchen clean when they have a cold because it takes all of their energy to get done what absolutely needs to get done" (not, I am committing a deadly sin of sloth, and therefore, the rest of my life will fall apart and I'll be drooling on the floor before you know it).
Just for example.
I think catastrophizing is a pretty common technique for us bipolar girls. It's a learning process to know that sometimes, a cold is just a bad cold (and miserable, but not, you know, all defining of my character and such).
how much longer can I say I'm in transition?
hello, y'all...
This is a letter I sent to my Pendle Hill friends (edited a bit for this blog)...posting here to give you a sense of what the summer was like...
I wrote this in August, after months of isolating myself (somewhat painfully) for a couple of months upon my return home...
In the letter, I refer to a possible job at Pendle Hill -- I did get offered a job with the hospitality team, but it wasn't possible to make accommodations for the Kacey dog, so it didn't work out. Which worked out fine, because being home has been really good (ultimately!).
You can see many of the images I'm talking about here...
*****
I have moved my computer and printer to the kitchen table in my lovely house – the kitchen gets lots and lots of light, and besides, my office hasn’t quite recovered from my move back from Pendle Hill earlier this summer. I have my screen-saver set to pull photos from the couple of thousand I took while I was a Pendle Hill, and so I’m caught by images and memories as I walk by on my way to fill the dishwasher or do laundry. And I literally am caught – my breath jumps and I remember the crucifix and belly cookies, or Julia and Mary Elizabeth quilting and knitting (respectively) at the Academy Awards party…or, or, and…
Ok, and honestly? I look at some of the photographs and say, wow, those are really good. I took my computer to my therapist’s office last week and showed her some new work I’d done, of driftwood and oyster beds off of Bogue Sound. I cried as I forced out, “these are really good, aren’t they?” I’m not getting out of this one: I want, need, and would be doing the Spirit a disservice if I don’t keep up my creative work. Besides, I want to live up to my title of “spiritually grounded, community based, mixed media artist/activist.”
SPEAKING OF WHICH: I turned in a GRANT PROPOSAL for Bipolar Girl Rules the World and Other Stories!!!! Just yesterday!!! Obviously, I hope I get the money ($5000 to put towards an animation sample) but most importantly, I feel like I announced to the universe, “ok, I’m really serious about this project!”
I was surprised to learn that my fall would not include a return to Pendle Hill as a member of the staff; it wasn’t the right time for me and my dog Kacey (who is nosing my leg as I write this) to head back north. I feel some sadness, of course, but also, some clarity about building in the supports and structures I knew I would find at Pendle Hill and creating them in my life here in Durham. What surprised me about not coming to Pendle Hill this fall (where I imagined taking a job that would allow me to follow my creative callings) was an awareness of the strength of my call to be a conduit of radical hospitality. So I’m trying to figure out where hospitality fits – a deep desire to offer the grace of God to others, in down-to-earth and practical ways – in figuring out my next steps.
Although I have spent a great deal of time this summer with my extended family, I am quite isolated in my day-to-day life. I am lonely; that I haven’t been in a place to connect with my Durham folks. I’d say I’m about 60% positive and hopeful to 40% numb and despondent. That’s not a bad percentage. (And in this moment, I’m fine!). I feel like I’m struggling with real stuff, not made up phantoms. So I’m doing some of the work to reach outward, and make commitments to see people again.
In some ways my life looks very much like pre-PH, but it is different. I’m struggling, but with a level of self-acceptance that is new to me. I’m seeking a way that my next steps – creatively and otherwise – can bubble up out of me, rather than being beaten out of me through self-judgment and despair. A friend succinctly summed up what I think was one of my most important Pendle Hill learnings: I want to live my life out of love and not out of hating myself – creating a life out of a desire for self-expression and overflowing spirit, NOT out of a sense of inadequacy or “not enough.”
That said, I absolutely MUST find a writing teacher, and some photo/film comrades as well. I’m planning on turning one of my basement rooms (a garage, really) into an art studio, where I can paint on the walls. I also want to paint my kitchen. Some of the being alone time has been nesting. And letting go of stuff. I have at least ten large garbage bags of stuff I’m taking over to Goodwill. It is SO the right time to empty my life of things that weigh me down, make my life more complicated. It feels really good.
I think I put off some of my mourning for Pendle Hill in early June because I though I would be coming back. Of course, each of you wouldn’t have been there, so I much have been fooling myself. ☺ I miss you, truly – my heart aches for y’all. I have loved reading your missives – please keep writing! And sign-up for the work weekend in the spring, like Mary said. I’m going to, and I am totally and completely broke right now. I’m living off of a minute settlement from a car accident almost two years ago! The timing of the check was just right, though…I’ve forgotten the pain and suffering, and now I’m just grateful for the cash!
This is a letter I sent to my Pendle Hill friends (edited a bit for this blog)...posting here to give you a sense of what the summer was like...
I wrote this in August, after months of isolating myself (somewhat painfully) for a couple of months upon my return home...
In the letter, I refer to a possible job at Pendle Hill -- I did get offered a job with the hospitality team, but it wasn't possible to make accommodations for the Kacey dog, so it didn't work out. Which worked out fine, because being home has been really good (ultimately!).
You can see many of the images I'm talking about here...
*****
I have moved my computer and printer to the kitchen table in my lovely house – the kitchen gets lots and lots of light, and besides, my office hasn’t quite recovered from my move back from Pendle Hill earlier this summer. I have my screen-saver set to pull photos from the couple of thousand I took while I was a Pendle Hill, and so I’m caught by images and memories as I walk by on my way to fill the dishwasher or do laundry. And I literally am caught – my breath jumps and I remember the crucifix and belly cookies, or Julia and Mary Elizabeth quilting and knitting (respectively) at the Academy Awards party…or, or, and…
Ok, and honestly? I look at some of the photographs and say, wow, those are really good. I took my computer to my therapist’s office last week and showed her some new work I’d done, of driftwood and oyster beds off of Bogue Sound. I cried as I forced out, “these are really good, aren’t they?” I’m not getting out of this one: I want, need, and would be doing the Spirit a disservice if I don’t keep up my creative work. Besides, I want to live up to my title of “spiritually grounded, community based, mixed media artist/activist.”
SPEAKING OF WHICH: I turned in a GRANT PROPOSAL for Bipolar Girl Rules the World and Other Stories!!!! Just yesterday!!! Obviously, I hope I get the money ($5000 to put towards an animation sample) but most importantly, I feel like I announced to the universe, “ok, I’m really serious about this project!”
I was surprised to learn that my fall would not include a return to Pendle Hill as a member of the staff; it wasn’t the right time for me and my dog Kacey (who is nosing my leg as I write this) to head back north. I feel some sadness, of course, but also, some clarity about building in the supports and structures I knew I would find at Pendle Hill and creating them in my life here in Durham. What surprised me about not coming to Pendle Hill this fall (where I imagined taking a job that would allow me to follow my creative callings) was an awareness of the strength of my call to be a conduit of radical hospitality. So I’m trying to figure out where hospitality fits – a deep desire to offer the grace of God to others, in down-to-earth and practical ways – in figuring out my next steps.
Although I have spent a great deal of time this summer with my extended family, I am quite isolated in my day-to-day life. I am lonely; that I haven’t been in a place to connect with my Durham folks. I’d say I’m about 60% positive and hopeful to 40% numb and despondent. That’s not a bad percentage. (And in this moment, I’m fine!). I feel like I’m struggling with real stuff, not made up phantoms. So I’m doing some of the work to reach outward, and make commitments to see people again.
In some ways my life looks very much like pre-PH, but it is different. I’m struggling, but with a level of self-acceptance that is new to me. I’m seeking a way that my next steps – creatively and otherwise – can bubble up out of me, rather than being beaten out of me through self-judgment and despair. A friend succinctly summed up what I think was one of my most important Pendle Hill learnings: I want to live my life out of love and not out of hating myself – creating a life out of a desire for self-expression and overflowing spirit, NOT out of a sense of inadequacy or “not enough.”
That said, I absolutely MUST find a writing teacher, and some photo/film comrades as well. I’m planning on turning one of my basement rooms (a garage, really) into an art studio, where I can paint on the walls. I also want to paint my kitchen. Some of the being alone time has been nesting. And letting go of stuff. I have at least ten large garbage bags of stuff I’m taking over to Goodwill. It is SO the right time to empty my life of things that weigh me down, make my life more complicated. It feels really good.
I think I put off some of my mourning for Pendle Hill in early June because I though I would be coming back. Of course, each of you wouldn’t have been there, so I much have been fooling myself. ☺ I miss you, truly – my heart aches for y’all. I have loved reading your missives – please keep writing! And sign-up for the work weekend in the spring, like Mary said. I’m going to, and I am totally and completely broke right now. I’m living off of a minute settlement from a car accident almost two years ago! The timing of the check was just right, though…I’ve forgotten the pain and suffering, and now I’m just grateful for the cash!
Saturday, March 01, 2008
this morning...
I cast the belly of M. in plaster. She is 87 years old. The experience was a holy one -- rubbing the Vaseline on her belly, pouring the plaster in her belly-button, and then laying down the plaster strips and burlap, all the while marveling at M.'s trust, and how open she is to new experiences.
M.'s presence has been an enormous gift to me this term. She reminds me of my father's mother, the grandmother I call Nana.
This morning, M made a comment about how hardworking I am, and I was caught surprised -- surprised but pleased, because a comment about hard work from someone who is 87 years old is no small thing.
So I thought, is that true? Do I work hard? Anne Lamott said that we often lose the ability to see our lives clearly, that it is sort of a security measure for when it just isn't safe too see things the way they are -- because we are too vulnerable (as with children) or just don't have the capacity or skills to deal.
So part of me says, yes you are a hard worker, of course you are. And part of me says, really? Do you thinks so? And another part says, we'll, there is one way to find out. You could, you know, observe, track, pay attention.
I want to learn how to live with out this breathless feeling of lack. Those lillies of the field, they neither toil nor spin, yet God loves them. Mary sits at Jesus' feet while Martha runs around getting everyone cups of tea -- Jesus tells Martha to chill out and do what her sister is doing (I always thought that Martha was just doing the best she could)...
So is the question, "Am I a hard worker" not even all that relevant? Is it a different question, "Am I serving God with all my heart, or as much of my heart as I can?"
I mean, who gages hard? Do I want to ever work 60 hour weeks in dysfunctional environments ever, ever again? No! I want to fight against the dizzy tide of fast and faster still. I want to keep God at the center, my center. I can't serve if I'm ragged and distant.
If I'm having fun, does it count as work? If I'm not worn out and exhausted, am I working enough? If I keep my priorities in order -- God, community, creativity, service -- and live of those commitments and I feel healthy and satisfied...if I decided to live without the guilt of never enough...what would happen then?
Well, what would happen?
M.'s presence has been an enormous gift to me this term. She reminds me of my father's mother, the grandmother I call Nana.
This morning, M made a comment about how hardworking I am, and I was caught surprised -- surprised but pleased, because a comment about hard work from someone who is 87 years old is no small thing.
So I thought, is that true? Do I work hard? Anne Lamott said that we often lose the ability to see our lives clearly, that it is sort of a security measure for when it just isn't safe too see things the way they are -- because we are too vulnerable (as with children) or just don't have the capacity or skills to deal.
So part of me says, yes you are a hard worker, of course you are. And part of me says, really? Do you thinks so? And another part says, we'll, there is one way to find out. You could, you know, observe, track, pay attention.
I want to learn how to live with out this breathless feeling of lack. Those lillies of the field, they neither toil nor spin, yet God loves them. Mary sits at Jesus' feet while Martha runs around getting everyone cups of tea -- Jesus tells Martha to chill out and do what her sister is doing (I always thought that Martha was just doing the best she could)...
So is the question, "Am I a hard worker" not even all that relevant? Is it a different question, "Am I serving God with all my heart, or as much of my heart as I can?"
I mean, who gages hard? Do I want to ever work 60 hour weeks in dysfunctional environments ever, ever again? No! I want to fight against the dizzy tide of fast and faster still. I want to keep God at the center, my center. I can't serve if I'm ragged and distant.
If I'm having fun, does it count as work? If I'm not worn out and exhausted, am I working enough? If I keep my priorities in order -- God, community, creativity, service -- and live of those commitments and I feel healthy and satisfied...if I decided to live without the guilt of never enough...what would happen then?
Well, what would happen?
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