Bipolar Dementia Art Chronicles

Houseguests Take a Lot of Energy

We just had a good friend visit from Saturday to Wednesday this past week.  It was a whirlwind of activity compared to my usual life.  We went on hikes, visited the local art museum, went to a movie, ate out, played ping-pong.  I cooked lots of great meals, made a blueberry pie, and drank more wine than I should have.  In between I tried to slip in a little work here and there, like at least answering my email and making necessary phone calls. But I never had time to read the Sunday New York Times.

Now I am kind of in a daze, trying to find some equilibrium.  Oh yeah, I’ve got to do laundry—forgot about that.  My mind is a sieve lately.  We are also on “chicken duty” for our neighbors who are away for four days—feeding and watering, picking up the eggs, locking the chickens in at night and letting them out in the mornings.  It’s fun, but one more task on the agenda.

Is it because I’m bipolar that I don’t do well with these transitions between work and holiday?  Or because I’m a workaholic?  Either way, it takes me time on both ends to get myself together.  When I’m not working, I feel that I’m getting deeper and deeper into a hole I’ll never get out of. 

Staying up later than usual, as we do when we have houseguests, is also bad for my bipolar condition.  And the size of the breakfasts!  One morning I made huevos rancheros with left-over chili, eggs, cheese, salsa and corn tortillas.  I thought I would die after eating a plate of that, and had to spend half an hour playing Dance Dance Revolution Extreme II in order to straighten myself out. 

Should I give myself a break and take it easy for a couple of days?  No, I’ll feel better if I dig deep into my “to do” list and make a sizeable dent.

"That's Funny, You Don't LOOK Bipolar!"

Recently a bipolar friend wrote about a problem many of us have experienced.  People around us don’t see how we could have a “mental illness” when we look normal, speak well, and have been successful.  The fact that I have a PhD, have published books, had success with my art, etc., may make people say I have nothing to complain about.  Look at all you’ve accomplished, my family and friends say. 

What they ignore is the price I’ve had to pay:  two small business failures and personal bankruptcies, failed relationships, taking twelve years to get my B.A. because I kept changing majors and schools, bouts of depression that add up to years’ of misery—I could go on, but you know the routine. 

I suppose if we’re not drooling, blinking compulsively, and wearing a dirty sweatshirt, we don’t fit people’s preconceived image of someone with “mental problems.”  Being neurotic is OK because Woody Allen made neurosis a badge of honor.  If you weren’t neurotic, you were just boring, or grew up in the heartland.

Neurosis makes people interesting.  Bipolar disorder, on the other hand, means they’re crazy.  If they stop taking their meds, they could jump off a building or smash up your windshield with a bat.  The guy who ran off an airplane and was shot by security guards recently was said by his wife to be “bipolar.”  He evidently didn’t take his meds. 

It took me a long time to convince my husband that I am bipolar.  The fact is, I have had symptoms since I was a teenager, but wasn’t diagnosed until my forties.  When I got the diagnosis, it explained so much of what had gone wrong in my life.  It also explained the “drugs-sex-and-rock-and-roll” lifestyle I often engaged in when I was younger in an attempt to self-medicate. 

My family likes me when I’m hyper, as long as I’m not too hyper.  When I’m down in the depths, they don’t understand why I don’t just “get over it.” 

I don’t know if we’ll ever convince those around us that we do have a serious mental health problem and that we have to treat it seriously and take care of ourselves.  If we can educate them and they’re willing to learn, great.  If not, we still have to treat our illness seriously and take care of ourselves.

New Meds, Old Meds, No Meds

I suppose for some of us there is a perfect medication regimen that works steadily day to day, week to week, year in and year out.  But I fear many more of us do not find the perfect solution.  We experience side effects that are intolerable for one reason or another.  We miss the old zip in our lives, that hypomanic edge the meds have taken from us.  Or, even when we’re good little boys and girls and take our meds conscientiously, we still have episodes of mania and depression. 

There are many ways meds can disappoint, just as there are many valid reasons for taking them.  For most of us, some form of medication is vital to managing our lives, but they are just one piece of the story.  If we do nothing to manage our lives in other ways, the meds will most likely not provide the fix we’re looking for.

That’s one reason I think it’s just as important, if not more so, to deal with our psychological issues, our health issues, and the management of our daily routines.  It’s not very sexy to focus on going to bed and getting up at regular hours, getting enough exercise, and eating well.  But if we study ourselves, we soon learn what makes us tick.

I know, for instance, that I need to take a walk every day if possible.  When I neglect to get outside and get some exercise, I can feel the difference.  When I overeat or drink too much alcohol, I have trouble sleeping at night.  When I let negative thoughts take over my brain, I can slide too easily into despair.

We wish there were a magic pill we could take that would simply make us feel great, but life is more complicated than that.

Weekend Wallowing

It’s Sunday morning.  The weekend always presents me with vague feelings of dissatisfaction.  Since I don’t have a “real” job, I tend to just continue working on the weekends, but in a more relaxed way.  I sleep later, and sometimes we go out in the afternoons—take a long hike or go to a play at our tiny local theatre. 

I have this idea that everyone else is having fun on weekends—going out to see people, or entertaining them at home.  Why are we the only ones watching Netflix on Saturday nights?

Yesterday it was cold and rainy most of the day, so that discouraged me from going on a hike.  Around four o’clock it cleared up and I felt we must get out of the house, so we went downtown to our local co-op gallery to see the latest members’ show.  The work of one new artist excited me, but most of the other stuff was as expected, and in fact, a step down for some of the members. 

I am such a phony—I know several of these artists, and I am always complimentary to their faces.  But the work I saw yesterday was definitely not their best.  I suppose a group show brings out the worst, not the best, in people. 

Well, forty-five minutes later, we were back home, ready to have supper and watch Netflix.  So much for Saturday night.

As I sit here feeling sorry for myself, I realize it’s these thoughts that are dragging me down.  Do I do that because I just like to wallow in it sometimes?  Could be.

Who Are You?

Do you ever go through times when you feel you are losing a sense of who you are?  I had my worst experience with this when I was eighteen and a student at the University of Southern California living in a dormitory. I looked in the mirror one day and could not recognize myself.

Since then, this feeling has popped up occasionally when I am under a lot of stress or going through a difficult transition or relationship.  But today I noticed myself writing in my journal about having that feeling right now, when there doesn’t seem to be any reason for it.  My life as an artist and writer is pretty much on track.  I’m happily married and enjoying living near my daughter and her two children.  There are no big goals looming ahead of me other than the usual fantasy of “rich and famous,” which I don’t take seriously any more.

So what’s the scoop?  Sure, aging can take away some of our sense of ourselves.  When we look in the mirror, we no longer look eighteen, even though we might feel it on a good day.  As we age, we do lose pieces of ourselves—our hair or hair color, our strength and stamina, our sex appeal. 

But what I am feeling today is an inner sense of loss, not an outer one.  It’s as if I am going through the motions, living a life I’ve been programmed to live, instead of acting authentically.  I feel like I am living in a glass bowl and people looking in can tell I am a phony. 

Well this sounds crazy, and I’m beginning to scare myself.  Maybe it’s just that I ate too much last night and couldn’t fall asleep until almost 3 a.m.  Or is the reason I feel this way that we spent some time with neighbors this past weekend and I acted like a phony then?  When I’m with people I don’t know very well, I pretend to be who I think they think I am rather than WHO I AM.
   
That explains it.