This is where I ask you, my wonderful readers, for some audience participation There are certain goals that are contingent upon others to make this happen. And, I’m ready to get back up on the horse, and make some serious gains on my list.
Ask 20 friends to suggest one book, and read them all
Ask everyone I know to recommend me one song and make a CD (or CDs) of them, no matter what they are
So, what are some of your favorite books and songs? Twenty books in one year is some heavy reading, so I need to get started ASAP!
Firstly, I’d like to apologize to my readers. I have not be a good blogger, and I have not been able to keep up with other blogs at the moment. My emotional life has been chaotic, at best.
Lulu's Recent Moodscope
I’ve had a couple of 60’s and 70’s. But, I’ve had many days that were in the blue. I noticed what the defining factor of my highest days was. Exercise.
Training is exhausting, but I absolutely love the run. It does take a lot of my time and energy. I’ve realized that I need to work on me for awhile. Without this work, I will crumble beneath myself. It is imperative that I start cementing my own foundation. I find it crucial that I start defining myself in different ways, through expansion and reassigning attributes. I find the need to grow beyond what I am at this moment.
In fact, I am reprioritizing my blogging and my life in general. Where these things make the top ten, in importance. I’ve realized that mental health blogging, and mental health advocacy through blogging are extraordinarily important in my life. I have not been giving them a great deal of priority as of late, and I find it incredibly unfair to others, including myself.
Shorting myself is something that I seem to be painfully talented at. It is too easy for me to become complacent and put the needs of others before my own. In my personal life, I need more freedoms. I need more alone time.
I need to stop begging, borrowing, and stealing time.
I have to stop feeling like I owe things to people, and get trapped in a self-perpetuating cycle of obligation and manipulation. As far as I’m concerned, I have paid my debts. The rest is for me.
Selfish or not, that’s the way it is.
Again, I am too passive. I am too complacent and find myself working too hard to keep the status-quot when I am completely dissatisfied with it. My foot is down, planted on sturdy, firm ground. I am taking a stand.
Instance:
We took a brisk, early morning walk to our local pharmacy. It’s not too far, about a mile or so.
I had warned C.S. that it may take more than a few moments for them to fill my prescription. Sometimes, I have to wonder who is the woman in this relationship. He huffed and puffed, and we moved around the store. I picked up some essentials, and have been craving new writing pens.
(I will have them.) They just didn’t have the ones I liked. But, a frivilous purchase, although I am a school teacher, was out of the question.
The pharmacist asked me what I’d like to do with my b/c script. It’s not due to be filled until the 9th. Except, for some reason, I’m early. It would have had a co-pay that day, as opposed to not having a copay if I could wait it out two days. I turned to ask C.S.’s opinion. I do need the medication, but not that badly. I can make up for missed pills.
He sat there, with our son and hassled me. Get the pills. Let’s go. Beast is starting to get fussy.. I turned to him and said firmly, “I am making decisions about my health and our finances. If you or T.D. is having a problem, then kindly take him outside and wait.”
The walk home was difficult. Not in the sense that it physically bothered me. I’m in fantastic shape, putting a many miles under my feet. I went on this tirade. “It is not your mind, and it is not your body. It’s none of your business.”
To which he replied, “I’m paying for it. It is my business.”
“It’s not. You don’t live inside of me. You don’t know what goes on in there. You have no interest in it either. Butt out.”
I despised that phrase, “I’m paying for it. It is my business.” On two fronts. I pay my contribution toward the severe detriment we suffer due to my extensive medical needs. I commute and hour each way to do so. It is not as if I am laying around a sofa all day, spending all of our bank account. Don’t portray me as so.
I had pointed out at one point that he was not my legal guardian, and no living will exists to proclaim him my proxy when and if I become incapacitated. Damn fine move on my part.
He plays no role in my treatment. I have signed releases that he has full access to my records. He has never spoke to my doctor about any troublesome symptoms. In fact, as much I hate to admit this, I would be likely to declare my indecisive mother a medical proxy. She’s done so well with the rest of the family.
I am pulling in the reins. This carriage will not continue until I say so. It is my life too, and I feel like I’m being completely left out of it. This is my stand.
But, verbally sparing and expressing emotion is a tricky engagement in my household. So, pulling in the reins is more than taking full control over own life and those dealings. It is pulling in the reigns of my marriage. I am pulling back. Plans change to suit him. I am disappointed. Therefore, I am pulling back. I don’t depend on him for my happiness.
I want to, I want to be someone else or I’ll explode.
Radiohead - Talk Show Host, most commonly known from Romeo + Juliet
Something happened today. There was no click, or anything that proceeded it. It came as a light trickle from an empty well.
I felt inspired. I started generating original thoughts again. The dense fog dispersed, and I could see once more. I awaken from an inky, dreamless slumber that lasted millenniums. The breaths I took were like the first out of a dim room with recycled air. The clouds parted, and the sun warmed my face, rekindling the fading fire inside.
I am still within the forest. But, the sun has penetrated. The path seems more defined. I may be on my way back to civilization.
I feel the synapses in my mind sparking. My body is energized. I am not yet with brilliance. It still filters in, trickling slowly through my veins, pumping eagerly through now beating heart. My shackles anchoring my soul loosen. The chain lengthens, and there is hope.
The bright, white, shining hope embraces me, and I nestle into it. It has
There is a light in everyone's life that beckons.
been nearly two months since I was enveloped by shadows cast around my world. I was sinking, anchors tethered tightly, nearly choking the very life around me. I wasn’t living. I was merely surviving from day to day. Moment to moment. Nothing else could possibly exist in this world, for it was too overwhelming to even consider that the next second could contain such misery.
I crawled, belly on the ground. I could not stand; the weight was too incredible to bear. It prevented me from resuming life as myself. It began to nibble away every morsel of my existence. I took refuge in the shadows, receding into myself, folding once, twice, thrice over. Until I was nearly a speck.
It, the shadows, the creeping, seeping darkness, took possession over me. This horrible, unseen monster made the attempt to claim me. Whispers. Sever from this. Sever from the world. Retreat into me, and you shall not have to bear these incredible burdens.
I stood, breathless. Tortured and tormented. The air was in my lungs, but would not vibrate through my throat to create words. I dared not refuse, but I hesitated to accept. I refused to leave all of this, the wonderful people, community, and life I had built for myself.
Finally, I stood defiantly. You are the burden that tears at my existence! You are the shadow that blinds me! And I refuse you, as I cast you away!
No longer do I feel oppressed, hopeless, and helpless.
It’s not as if my life has mended. The circumstances are much the same. My grandmother is coming home, despite the fact that she is practically an invalid. My mother has been on a long bender.
I have $5 dollars to my name, and have been subsisting off of cup o noodles, doctored with some spices, accompanied by the last vegetable in my refrigerator. One more day. Just one more.
But, no matter. I am better than surviving, actually thriving in the puckered, sour face of stress and anxiety. I am conquering, planting flags in remembrance of my victories, reclaiming my mind, life, and body. It is truly an incredible rush.
Invigorating, in certain moments. It provides the momentum to traverse these woods, and climb that mountain to take my place at the top. Though the mountain is large, it is solid. I walk once again upon solid ground, even if I am slipping on rocks that give. I cling to the earth, determined to pull myself back to a vertical position.
I feel nearly free. The shadow has diminished, and I stand without it’s ominous presence. I am far from where I started, from in the beginning, still further even in these two lost months. I have not backdrifted as much as I have deviated course.
Yet, a new path lies ahead. It is forward, north and true. Perhaps one day, it will cross my original path. But, which will I choose to remain on?
My eyes weren’t even open yet. The pain was exquisite. My belly ached with hunger.
Good. That means it’s getting smaller.
My muscles were raw and sore.
Good. They’re getting stronger.
I opened my eyes and peeked at the clock on my Blackberry. 8:45AM. Seven hours. Plenty. It’s doing better than the nine or more. Sleeping, the perfect escape from consciousness. Nobody can get to me in my sleep.
But, I’m sick of it. I’m sick of that life. I’m tired of being stuck in my head with all of this mess. And I’m disgusted with myself and my body.
I am disgusting.
I always have been. At one point, I thought I had excepted and celebrated what I look like. Until, I hit 140lbs.
Most of my jeans were almost too small. A few pairs wouldn’t actually close. I looked in the mirrors at the pounds of flesh I attempted to cram into clothes that were just plain too small.
Sausages have neater packaging than me.
I jiggle and wiggle like jello from every flap and fold. I can feel every inch of my flesh move when I move, and continue moving when I stop. It’s revolting. The idea that I will become obese to the point of immobility, if I don’t get a handle on this, was too much for me.
I choke on the bile that rises in my throat every time I envision my rolls growing into flaps.
I have never wanted to be “skinny”. All that I have ever wanted was to be within the healthy BMI range. I’ve never made it under 25. I have tried, and tried.
Every single diet you can imagine. Crash diets, healthy diets, calorie diets, and portioning diets. No meat, no carbs, not fat, etc. And none of those alone or in any combination was enough.
There is one thing I haven’t tried. Food diary plus exercise diary. Mood charting. A chart for everything in my life imaginable. Because unless I cut it open and dissect it, I may never be able to understand it. I may never understand me.
And I will never have control.
Running. There’s nothing that feels better than that searing fire in my lungs. I am jogging for the first mile, and walking the second. By the last half a mile, I am crawling. Sweat pours down my face, and I am gasping for that one breath that will stop this feeling of dying.
Dying. For one moment, I have a reason to suspect that there’s an external cause for that gnawing sensation I feel at the edges of my soul.
Endorphins. If I can’t cut, and I’m too sad to laugh, then what is a person to do? Run. Period. The ache of the muscles the next day, it’s exquisite. The satisfaction that I am doing well for my body and it hurts is enough for me.
The satisfaction that I completed 5.5 miles in one day. Anticipation of pushing that further. Lulled by the extraordinary exhaustion. Peace and clarity of the mind. And the excitement that I shed 2lbs in a week.
The best part? I am doing this by adopting healthier habits. Smaller portions. Less soda. A person cannot run and smoke at the same time. I have two different trackers for my mood. Sleep. Medication. I can’t control everything. But, that doesn’t mean I can’t monitor it.
As it stands, one can find me within the wardrobe amongst the coats, between the real world and my Narnia. This is not the Narnia as others know it. It is the absolutely surreal, ever shifting landscape, containing both horrific monsters and beautiful, majestic creatures. All of that world is tucked away, within a wardrobe, in an innocuous cranny of my home. Many unsuspecting people could stroll up to it, jam their coat in, and never give this unassuming wardrobe another thought.
Lunaria
But, this world is not meant to exist tucked away. This world lives inside of me, wrapped up in an old world map, tied with a satin ribbon. It waits to unfurl for all of the world to see.
Snapshots of this map are contained within every word, in each piece that I carefully create. Some have been privy to view them, scanning the terrain, gazing upon the horrors and magesty. Others have been lucky enough to set foot on the Terra Amici, The Land of Friends, specifically set aside to welcome guests who have braved the Sea of Aliquim. And others, those closest to me, have journeyed through the deepest, darkest places of Lunaria.
I dream of the day that I allow Lunaria to emerge from the wardrobe. This is the day that the earth will quake around me to birth Lunaria from within. I will invite others to explore at will, without the requirement of the confines to Terra Amici. To brave the fiery mountains, volcanoes spewing molten rock,shifting and shaping the landscape daily. The mountains grow higher, only to be whittled away by the erosion. Bask in Bad Wolf Bay. Peer deeply into Mare Demersi, but still fear to tread too closely. Lose themselves in Vac Saltus, and navigate the sullen, sunken lands of Val Mergullado.
All of this, one day will be accessible to all. Lunaria will rise. I can openly narrate the tales and history of Lunaria without fear of persecution and ostracism. I hope to accomplish my quest of bringing this all out of the wardrobe. I want others to see what my world, one world of a woman with Bipolar Disorder looks like. It possibly connects to other places, to weave a global patchwork of personal worlds, connecting us all, to encompass every single person who has been hiding their own Narnia.
I hope to have a voice that can bring this all to the world. And I hope to build the strength to do it.
A few days ago, I started a project I call Blog for Mental Health 2012. I suppose, by now, the greater majority of mental health bloggers are aware of it. I am amazed by the overwhelming response to it! In this small amount of time, I have received a great deal of feedback, as well as the spread of it around the blogosphere. I am nearly in tears by the enormity of it!
Thank you to everyone who is participating. Through every writer’s participation, we are spreading awareness through our dedication. We are openly saying that we support mental health awareness and are working our hardest to erase the stigma for every person who carries a diagnosis worldwide. I am proud to carry a diagnosis today. And I hope everyone who carries this badge is proud of themselves and / or someone else, too.
In addition, I’ve decided that I wanted to keep an active blogroll open to index bloggers who support Blog for Mental Health 2012. If you would like to be on the blogroll, leave me a comment and I will be happy to add you to the list!
Again, if I missed a blog, please leave me a comment. If you’d like to take the pledge and display your badge proudly, just leave me a comment with a link to your pledge page.
Again, thanks to all who took the pledge and continue to put the word out there!
Tomorrow marks another year closer to three decades of my existence on Planet Earth. Admittedly, there is, and always has been a strong contradiction between the number of birthdays I’ve celebrated, the age of my face, and the age of my soul. If everyone in the world forgot the year I was born, I would be very confused about my age.
A few months ago, I gazed in the mirror one day to see my first noticeable signs of aging. Before that, I had a face as smooth and white as a baby’s bottom. A baby face, that took at least five to ten years off of my chronological age. When I was pregnant, people gazed at me in shock and horror, as if I were a teen mother. I went to complete paperwork at the bank for my name change, and the teller was taken aback. “I swear, I wouldn’t have thought you were old enough to get married.” I got that, a lot.
Tick - tock.
Quite the oddity, I was actually excited to see the fine lines across my scarred forehead and around my mouth. I may be the only woman on the planet that was excited to see my face start to catch up with my chronological age! I despised my youthful appearance. I have never felt as if my chronological age fit, nor did I take it as a compliment when someone thought I was a teenager.
I will make an admission; I am one of those people that typically loathes their own birthday. Yes, I find it absolutely pretentious. Except, I do not detest my birthday for the same reasons that everyone else does. As previously stated, I like the aging process. I have always been excited about gaining more numbers. My birthday just falls in a bad time of the year.
Growing up, I secretly envied peers that had birthdays during warmer months. Pennsylvania has reasonable temperatures between March and November. My friends would have all kinds of fun parties, because they weren’t all trapped in the house, buried in four feet of snow, and huddled around the heater in subzero temperatures. Camping parties, pool parties, outdoor parties, indoor parties where we could run around the yard, parties in the park, and every other conceivable party I couldn’t have.
As an adult, the problem grew worse. In the last ten years, I have had two nice days on my birthday. My 22nd and my 24th. Neither of those birthdays had anything planned. I can’t plan a party. Every year I have tried, I was doomed for especially bad weather. My 23rd had to be moved to the weekend of Superbowl Sunday, when the Steelers were playing. Living in Pittsburgh, the Steelers in the Superbowl is more important than anything. When they win the Superbowl, the city gets shut down for two days, because everyone is too busy celebrating to go to work. If they’re not going to work, they sure as hell aren’t going to my birthday party.
People don’t want to come out in January if they don’t have to. I have been cursed with ice storms, heavy snow, and subzero temperatures. So, I stopped planning parties. I stopped planning anything, actually. Because each year, I have been brutally disappointed. Those disappointments mounted into resentment for that day.
Not this year! I don’t especially care what the weather is like. It does not matter if my friends or family notice the date on the calendar or not. I like my birthday. I am celebrating me, and everything my life has amounted to. I am happy with myself, and all that I’ve created and become. There is no need for anyone to justify my thoughts or emotions about me.
I love that it’s on a Saturday, because there are no expectations. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. And, I have all of the time in the day to do anything I do want to do. I will go out and have a lovely dinner on the house. (I already have the voucher). Then, I will buy myself the things that I actually want for my birthday. No expectations, no disappointments.
This past year has been one of the harder ones, but not the hardest. I have made so much progress in all aspects of my life. I am managing my physical and mental health well. My marriage is solid. My career is taking root. And my son is growing. My family is happy and healthy. I am happy and healthy. Those are all of the things I’ve ever wanted. This birthday, I have them all.
The best birthday present ever is the pride that I have in myself. I have walked through fire to get to this point. I may not have done it all gracefully. But, I made it out stronger, wiser, and better for it all.
It is a stressful and moderately sleepless period of time for me. It always is before a show.
My official job title is Music Director. Any and all things musically related go through me. This includes the winter and spring musicals. In fact, the explicit purpose of hiring me was 1.) To serve as a musical director for all productions and 2.) To fulfill a Keystone Stars Requirement.
Since, my duties have expanded exponentially. I am a substitute for general education. I have taken all things surrounding fine arts. I am partially a drama teacher. I do some office jockeying. And now, I’ve taken on graphic media and design.
I wish I could post my latest masterpiece, but I’d out myself so fast. It would be one thing if someone else stumbled upon this, as it is. There is still a considerable shadow of a doubt. There are dozens of programs like mine in the city. I could be anyone. Even as I watch Lulu and Em bounce off of each other, there is still no overlap. Not yet, and hopefully I won’t ever have to worry about it.
And this flash in my mind is among the scattered puzzle pieces that leaves a hint: At this point, so what if anyone made the connection? Puh. Yeah, I’m so sure that will be my thought while I’m watching my life go up in flames.
I spent my entire Monday night slaving over that program. I spent all of Tuesday fiddling with the format, stapling the prints, and making handwritten corrections on all 100 copies. Meanwhile, I was lugging a stapler the size of a tripod with me, and two hundred pages of paper.
My mind and my body should be spent.
My hands and my arms hurt like hell. I’m sucking down Ibuprofin and benzos. And yet, I find myself taking on more, and more projects!
In fact, in the last week, I’ve taken on more than I have in the last six months.
I interviewed for a second job on Friday. That went amazingly well. A new grocery store chain is opening up, and I wanted to try to get in on the ground floor. I have a cumulative three years in retail, two and a half in two competing grocery stores. I know my way up, down, and sideways – from registers to stock to pricing. I never thought it would amount to anything, because I’ve always been at the bottom of the food chain. But, this manager wanted me bad. “I could use a person with your experience and education.” Who knew?
I am now officially a Sunday School teacher again. My aunt is having surgery and passed the torch.
I’ve been marketing for a second-hand shop.
And today, I’ve taken on advising and web administration of a fledgling music site of a friend.
Hypomania? Again?
Atypical at best. Overly ambitious. Check. Social. Check. Sexual. Check. Sleepless? No. I was so done last night that I apologized to C.S. for checking out so early.
I can’t make heads or tails of it. And I’m anxious at the thought of exploiting this.
Also, I want to offer my profound apologies to anyone or anything I’ve neglected. And an explanation to go along with it.
In Bricked, I detailed how Tallulah, my Blackberry Curve 9300, took a dive. It required me to completely wipe the device and reinstall.
What a pain in my thumbs! I’ve had to reinstall all of my apps. Everything was going fine until I went to install the Gmail app. Apparently, they stopped offering it in October!
What’s the problem? – you may ask. Well, I lead a double-life of sorts. More like a triple-life really. I have two personal emails and a work email that have always been hooked up to Tallulah. Lulu was through the Gmail App. It made everything very accessible and clean. Now, I’ve had to hook Lulu up to Tallulah, and divert it to a different folder with different alerts. (I get a lot of emails in a day).
In hooking it up to my device, I have only received new emails since Sunday evening. I have a lot of loose ends. Apologies if you are currently under the rug. I’ll get it taken care of throughout the rest of the week.
When I attempted to make the graphic media additions to the Original Graphic Media page, I made a discovery. It wasn’t practical to showcase my graphic media in a hidden page anymore. It had outgrown the tiny mention on Pendulum. It was time to build a new home for all of my graphic media.
A new home for Lulu's original graphic media
All of my graphic media will eventually be moved to the new site Bipolar Inspirations. As avid fans of Pendulum, you may have noticed many posts have graphic media associated with them. That will not change. However, if you have a longing to know the stories behind the pieces, Bipolar Inspirations may be exactly the place you’d like to visit.
Shameless self promotion alert: Don’t forget to hit the “Follow” button at the top!
Thanks to you all for following Pendulum! Posts will still remain frequent on Pendulum, but may be a little less frequent on Bipolar Inspirations.
Thanksgiving will hopefully be a day of thanks. It marks two weeks since the LEEP procedure. Since it falls on a holiday, my doctor’s office was kind enough to squeeze me in on Wednesday, Nov. 23. I’m sure the scheduling nurse I spoke with was aware that I’d have a Sword of Damocles hanging over my holiday table. It was kind of her to be so considerate. (Note to self: Be thankful for considerate, compassionate people).
The Healing Process
I was briefed after the surgery about care and restrictions. No worries – this is not going to get graphic. I’ll admit, it was not quite as I expected it. They likened it to a colposcopy with a biopsy. I know there is a huge difference between the two. One is a little snip and the other is more akin to taking a sizable section. Like trimming the hedges versus pruning a tree.
They under-exaggerate when they describe the more unpleasant parts of post-op care. I was in nearly constant, serious pain for the first four days. I would wake up in the morning in severe pain, because a full bladder likely pressed against the area. The more I moved, the more the pain increased.
Mothers will especially stand this next part. It is more akin to the physical sensations to about a week after labor and delivery. My bottom half was sore. It was pain like a T, across my hips through me, and into my back.
They don’t tell you the real story on a lot of it, although they are still defined within the parameters of “typical healing”. To sat the least, it was a lot more intense than I predicted.
The healing time takes longer than I predicted too. The doctors assured me that I’d be back on my feet, doing my daily activities in a few days. But, those activities are not to include any aerobic / strenuous activity. I haven’t been able to do any housework. No stairs, so I have to limit my use of them at home. It’s frustrating to leave something on a different floor.
I’m still not quite back to normal. I always feel like the doctors overreact when they give you restrictions. Possibly, it is because they know patients will not follow them to the letter. But, they weren’t kidding here. I’m moving better, but I am still in pain. I need extended time sitting. I’m tired.
The biggest thing they don’t tell you is the emotional rollercoaster that follows. I don’t know if it’s hormonal, but I have been completely out of whack. I described some of it in With This Pill. Manic Monday touched upon the subject in 2.5.
This is a conversation C.S. and I had on Friday.
I swear. A lot.
I thought I was on the cusp of a depressive episode. Mobility is difficult. It is irritating and frustrating to be at the mercy of others. I am a control freak. I like things done my way, and I like to be an active participant at all times. But right now, I feel like a useless invalid watching life pass as I’m bound immobile, as much as possible.
I feel useless. I can’t take charge of classes because I have to meet them in their classrooms. I must have children assist me in classes by passing out lyric sheets and retrieving items for me from across the room. I hate asking people for help. Then, I start to feel like an inconvenience, a burden, if you will.
Tomorrow’s Follow-up
I was under the impression that they were going to poke in there and assess my healing. Then, they were going to report how much had to be excised, and what my chances of having more children is going to look like. What they failed to mention is that tomorrow is also the delivery of the results from the sample they took. What I thought was going to be a completely benign appointment turned malignant fast.
What the doctor is looking for is are Clear Margins. Essentially, if the tissue they collected has both the cancerous cells and a margin surrounding it of healthy tissue, then we can be assured that all of the cancerous cells were excised. However, if the margins are not clear, then cancerous cells still remain and pose a possible threat.
The course of action after that is typically to wait until the results from the follow up Pap smear come back. If they are positive, then we visit colposcopy land to see how bad it is. And, there is a possibility of yet another procedure.
You guessed it. This poses a greater threat to my future pregnancies. The more cervix that is removed, the higher the risk of miscarriage and pre-term labor. I have a plan, but I need to get C.S. on board. If the issue is forced, I want to make the Hail Mary pass in order to conceive another child before I would have another surgery. We have two months to make a decision, because after that, it’s do or die.
I really do want another child, even if it’s not at a great time. If I have to do it and take some risks, I’m willing to do that. However, C.S. has not expressed a great deal of enthusiasm about another child. I don’t want to come to blows over this. But, if there is a serious disagreement, I know it’s going to turn into a serious problem.
As the Pendulum Swings 