to all of you that cared, thank you. to all of you that worried, do so no longer. to Dancer, Dream, Sarah, in particular, you went out of your way, you took time of your day, you made sure i was OK.
to a l l , the Merriest, Happiest, Most Joy-Filled Christmas possible.
a brief sinopsis: my previous post finally made it past the Save as Draft state. in keeping with the cinematographic theme, what you read is the "theatrical release." perhaps some day you shall read the "Director's Cut."
12.24.2006
12.20.2006
Cycling, Rapidly, Cycling
Surely, there are many ways in which risk-taking behavior related to hypomania could manifest itself. A patient could have been reared in a strict family setting during formative years (nurture?), and/or needed to exercise absolute control of both bipolar states due to the nature of employment. Specific to hypomania, and based on such environmental factors, the manifestation could appear controlling, or controlled itself.
Rather than “running credit cards to the limit,” “engaging in risky sexual behavior,” et al, pushing physically to endurance limits, could be a potential sign of a patient’s hypomanic state. While I have developed this theory on-the-fly, it is likely the subject of doctoral theses defended.
I am writing this, head propped back on my Aeron (a small self indulgence—we all have them—my idea of an object of beauty (I did not get a bag, car, or what-not)), eyes closed as I do. Edits will likely abound, but the moment this is, and seize it I must.
stuck in traffic, not quite rush hour, after all, it is close to holidays and working stiffs that we all are, except the lucky few who need to burn the vacation time they have accrued rather than loose it (never mind, that the paternalistic enterprise sees it fit to institute a " vacation bank,” to “donate time to fellow employees who may need it." As thoughtful a gesture as this is, the root may be less altruistic—you feel encouraged; you can guiltlessly work yourself to oblivion™, not take the time off, and donate the balance to some worthy cause. How is that for slogan of the day? I need to trademark it.
So traffic, yes. Turn the curve of the off ramp and think, “there is my trail. I must go run”. I exit the highway, I turn to the park. All this unplanned until 50 seconds back.
When I arrive, it is dusky. I peel off work togs, put on exercise ones. It becomes duskier as I strap my Polar to my chest (courtesy link to dispel some of the mystery of my writing). “Wait. I forgot. I have new shoes: brand new Pumas Even better!
I decide not to stretch (oopsie!), to compensate for growing duskiness, absorbing nightfall. I strap my ‘Pod to my arm (today, I want a director, a guide, someone to keep pace with). I begin. But alas, what is this? My shoelace undone! Thirty seconds into a run, full bore (wait, you shall see, for there is more). I tie. Done. Go.
Four hours earlier, I am yawn-yawn at my place of employ, now this. Full bore. I mean, four-foot-stride-run-like-a-Texas-dust-devil full bore. This is not leisurely. This is brutally, but not really, since I am doing it for fun, for need. I need to do it. I have to.
With upbringing in which a patient exercises control, and later in life, work environs that demand utmost control, for to flinch could mean death, or to reveal, guaranteed loss of employment…
As you can see, flinch quite often, I do, but controlled, concealed—I hope. My main hypomanic risk-taking manifestation is this push-to-the-limit-thing—well, driving insanely fast at times and small other things like that aside. No shopping sprees, hyper-sexuality, credit unruly. Just this. This silly little thing that actually may be good for me, non?
[...A minute thirty into the run, my 'Pod acts up. think "roadie tripping on the main amp's power cord at a death metal concert:" silence; then, uncontrolled anger, followed by expletives. many; I throw them out there. oh! right..."there is no one here but me. deer? I saw them last time. Raccoons?"
So I manage to fix this technical issue on the run. and I bound, and leap, my arms, breast high, my hands not fisted, half-open, grabbing-like, the air in front, as if I were pulling myself up a rope; then...not again! I must...] be delirious: my shoelace unknotted. So I stop the watch, tie the culprit up, get back on track.
the dark gets darker, night's door closes on me, and I on this trail, perhaps minutes before the park closes (dusk, it says: "park closes at dusk." A winter thing (Winter Solstice in two days)). Dark as it is, I see.
I see ahead. I am in tunnel vision mode. Totally absorbed, unconsciously running (quite interesting, come to think about it). Luckily, I know this two mile trail. Except of course, pebbles move, mud, yes, delightful mud grows like a canker on the trail.
The canopy changes now from deciduous—oaks mainly—to a small patch of pines, and then the open before the next stretch. I can see. I can see for a minute or two. I can see that there is mud ahead, and no way around it. But I do not care. How could I? Why should I? It is not the mud per-se, it is not the upcoming new-shoe-baptism-by-mud. “How deep is it?” “What does it hide?” “Will I twist an ankle?”
The tunnel blinders come off when my shoelace becomes loose yet again. My feet tell me they are wet with the squishy-squishy voice. They are far from happy. It is 43 Fahrenheit. I am not equipped for this run. All I have is two layers of t-shirts, and shorts (Brrr!)
Now the uphill. I keep the banshee-like running up. I look at the Polar’s screen, which intriguingly has no backlight, and accidentally turn the stopwatch off. Frustration. Expletives. Numerous. 8:08 it reads before it resets.
Start it again. Run.
but perhaps that is why the patient fears it, fears "losing" self to it. The patient could be frightened to "falling prey" to the greatness that this driving force could push to achieve, and become "worried as much as elevated." A feeling such that the patient could not break free, a “Mein Kampf.”
Much, much darker now, as I enter the forest again. But I look back because, in front of me, I can almost see a shadow. Is there a moon? No, only clouds. I am now almost there, to the trailhead. Lungs a bit challenged, for the air is cold and the earth uphill. I look back again; eerie glow. Moon? (Hmmm...)
The trail turns its final bend. "Shadow?" "Again?" As my body motions, my brain theorizes: "there is a moon indeed, and it is behind the clouds." I drop the thought at the 300 yard marker.
There. Done. I add the time to the 8:08. Two miles, cross country, in the dark: 14:49. No physical damage.
Rather than “running credit cards to the limit,” “engaging in risky sexual behavior,” et al, pushing physically to endurance limits, could be a potential sign of a patient’s hypomanic state. While I have developed this theory on-the-fly, it is likely the subject of doctoral theses defended.
I am writing this, head propped back on my Aeron (a small self indulgence—we all have them—my idea of an object of beauty (I did not get a bag, car, or what-not)), eyes closed as I do. Edits will likely abound, but the moment this is, and seize it I must.
stuck in traffic, not quite rush hour, after all, it is close to holidays and working stiffs that we all are, except the lucky few who need to burn the vacation time they have accrued rather than loose it (never mind, that the paternalistic enterprise sees it fit to institute a " vacation bank,” to “donate time to fellow employees who may need it." As thoughtful a gesture as this is, the root may be less altruistic—you feel encouraged; you can guiltlessly work yourself to oblivion™, not take the time off, and donate the balance to some worthy cause. How is that for slogan of the day? I need to trademark it.
So traffic, yes. Turn the curve of the off ramp and think, “there is my trail. I must go run”. I exit the highway, I turn to the park. All this unplanned until 50 seconds back.
When I arrive, it is dusky. I peel off work togs, put on exercise ones. It becomes duskier as I strap my Polar to my chest (courtesy link to dispel some of the mystery of my writing). “Wait. I forgot. I have new shoes: brand new Pumas Even better!
I decide not to stretch (oopsie!), to compensate for growing duskiness, absorbing nightfall. I strap my ‘Pod to my arm (today, I want a director, a guide, someone to keep pace with). I begin. But alas, what is this? My shoelace undone! Thirty seconds into a run, full bore (wait, you shall see, for there is more). I tie. Done. Go.
Four hours earlier, I am yawn-yawn at my place of employ, now this. Full bore. I mean, four-foot-stride-run-like-a-Texas-dust-devil full bore. This is not leisurely. This is brutally, but not really, since I am doing it for fun, for need. I need to do it. I have to.
With upbringing in which a patient exercises control, and later in life, work environs that demand utmost control, for to flinch could mean death, or to reveal, guaranteed loss of employment…
As you can see, flinch quite often, I do, but controlled, concealed—I hope. My main hypomanic risk-taking manifestation is this push-to-the-limit-thing—well, driving insanely fast at times and small other things like that aside. No shopping sprees, hyper-sexuality, credit unruly. Just this. This silly little thing that actually may be good for me, non?
[...A minute thirty into the run, my 'Pod acts up. think "roadie tripping on the main amp's power cord at a death metal concert:" silence; then, uncontrolled anger, followed by expletives. many; I throw them out there. oh! right..."there is no one here but me. deer? I saw them last time. Raccoons?"
So I manage to fix this technical issue on the run. and I bound, and leap, my arms, breast high, my hands not fisted, half-open, grabbing-like, the air in front, as if I were pulling myself up a rope; then...not again! I must...] be delirious: my shoelace unknotted. So I stop the watch, tie the culprit up, get back on track.
the dark gets darker, night's door closes on me, and I on this trail, perhaps minutes before the park closes (dusk, it says: "park closes at dusk." A winter thing (Winter Solstice in two days)). Dark as it is, I see.
I see ahead. I am in tunnel vision mode. Totally absorbed, unconsciously running (quite interesting, come to think about it). Luckily, I know this two mile trail. Except of course, pebbles move, mud, yes, delightful mud grows like a canker on the trail.
The canopy changes now from deciduous—oaks mainly—to a small patch of pines, and then the open before the next stretch. I can see. I can see for a minute or two. I can see that there is mud ahead, and no way around it. But I do not care. How could I? Why should I? It is not the mud per-se, it is not the upcoming new-shoe-baptism-by-mud. “How deep is it?” “What does it hide?” “Will I twist an ankle?”
The tunnel blinders come off when my shoelace becomes loose yet again. My feet tell me they are wet with the squishy-squishy voice. They are far from happy. It is 43 Fahrenheit. I am not equipped for this run. All I have is two layers of t-shirts, and shorts (Brrr!)
Now the uphill. I keep the banshee-like running up. I look at the Polar’s screen, which intriguingly has no backlight, and accidentally turn the stopwatch off. Frustration. Expletives. Numerous. 8:08 it reads before it resets.
Start it again. Run.
but perhaps that is why the patient fears it, fears "losing" self to it. The patient could be frightened to "falling prey" to the greatness that this driving force could push to achieve, and become "worried as much as elevated." A feeling such that the patient could not break free, a “Mein Kampf.”
Much, much darker now, as I enter the forest again. But I look back because, in front of me, I can almost see a shadow. Is there a moon? No, only clouds. I am now almost there, to the trailhead. Lungs a bit challenged, for the air is cold and the earth uphill. I look back again; eerie glow. Moon? (Hmmm...)
The trail turns its final bend. "Shadow?" "Again?" As my body motions, my brain theorizes: "there is a moon indeed, and it is behind the clouds." I drop the thought at the 300 yard marker.
There. Done. I add the time to the 8:08. Two miles, cross country, in the dark: 14:49. No physical damage.
Trailer
I cannot believe they screen trailers for films due out next summer:
"Spider-Man 3, coming summer 2007."
As much as I dislike this practice, here is my own:
...a minute thirty into the run, my 'Pod acts up. think "roadie tripping on the main amp's power cord at a death metal concert:" silence; then, uncontrolled anger, followed by expletives. many; i throw them out there. oh! right..."there is no one here but me. deer? i saw them last time. raccoons?"
so i manage to fix this technical issue on the run. and i bound, and leap, my arms, breast high, my hands not fisted, half-open, grabbing-like, the air in front, as if i were pulling myself up a rope; then...not again! i must...
Read "Cycling, Rapidly, Cycling" coming soon to a blog near you.
I must go now to learn tennis.
"Spider-Man 3, coming summer 2007."
As much as I dislike this practice, here is my own:
...a minute thirty into the run, my 'Pod acts up. think "roadie tripping on the main amp's power cord at a death metal concert:" silence; then, uncontrolled anger, followed by expletives. many; i throw them out there. oh! right..."there is no one here but me. deer? i saw them last time. raccoons?"
so i manage to fix this technical issue on the run. and i bound, and leap, my arms, breast high, my hands not fisted, half-open, grabbing-like, the air in front, as if i were pulling myself up a rope; then...not again! i must...
Read "Cycling, Rapidly, Cycling" coming soon to a blog near you.
I must go now to learn tennis.
12.19.2006
energy potential ad infinitum
Yves Deruyter leads prayer.
inner peace burns like fire.
my mood, a live wire.
may now never expire.
i do not endure; this is no ill.
dare i ever inquest this thrill?
inhale, suffuse, degust at will,
or instead avoid getting my fill?
stigmata: my ears bleeding.
intensity, thunderous beating.
heresy! you accuse seething.
my body, my mind, time: meeting.
how else to convey,
what words cannot say.
feelings that i must obey,
or be swept by the fray.
chemistry peaking.
subduedness, meds preaching.
should i be weeping?
the end, incessantly creeping.
why should i fear?
of this, i feel dear.
yet, trouble lurks near,
that is painfully clear.
The rest all around,
do not make a sound.
Will my secret be found,
Or forever be bound?
Repose, reach me slowly.
my feelings, so holy;
crash, I fear, I will, strongly.
this fear, a figment? Imagined only?
inner peace burns like fire.
my mood, a live wire.
may now never expire.
i do not endure; this is no ill.
dare i ever inquest this thrill?
inhale, suffuse, degust at will,
or instead avoid getting my fill?
stigmata: my ears bleeding.
intensity, thunderous beating.
heresy! you accuse seething.
my body, my mind, time: meeting.
how else to convey,
what words cannot say.
feelings that i must obey,
or be swept by the fray.
chemistry peaking.
subduedness, meds preaching.
should i be weeping?
the end, incessantly creeping.
why should i fear?
of this, i feel dear.
yet, trouble lurks near,
that is painfully clear.
The rest all around,
do not make a sound.
Will my secret be found,
Or forever be bound?
Repose, reach me slowly.
my feelings, so holy;
crash, I fear, I will, strongly.
this fear, a figment? Imagined only?
in structure lies solace
structure for me is a tally of days until my next swing .. .. .. solace ?
Jane Eyre is but over ; such a moving affair .. .. .. solace -- temporal .
as days have grown dark , erstwhile this present , my presence among you , unworthy mirage .. .. .. structure ? solace ?
structure desired is not structure real .. .. .. no solace .
structure , honey through fingers ; solace , breath exhaled .
i have no structure . i find no solace .
your ardor exemplifies structure ; your words embody solace .
Jane Eyre is but over ; such a moving affair .. .. .. solace -- temporal .
as days have grown dark , erstwhile this present , my presence among you , unworthy mirage .. .. .. structure ? solace ?
structure desired is not structure real .. .. .. no solace .
structure , honey through fingers ; solace , breath exhaled .
i have no structure . i find no solace .
your ardor exemplifies structure ; your words embody solace .
12.14.2006
¿Is It JuSt Me?
i recollect a statement from MDOC as he prescribes me the second of a number of meds: "you live at a time when mental illness is understood."....................*in classic Brontë style* i tell you, gentle reader, to interpret each period as a second past, for such is the length of my silence and disbelief.
i now recollect a statement to PDOC "why this? why me? why do i not have a physical mark of my illness? why is my scarred--activity-amucked, cortex-lightningroded, dendrites chemically-burnt--brain NOT visible to the naked eye?" it is easier(?) in this manner."
i dislike "whys;" i know better.
i hide this; i h i d e t h i s f o r s o l o n g ; i have to; i have NO choice because,____________________.
admit, there are such situations.
"out of the closet," an idiom familiar to most, is antonymous to my situation. i am not one who garners respect and admiration for honesty and spokesmanship, recognition and advocacy, of/for bipolar disorder--grateful i am for those who do--and for their perception-altering effect on the lamentable collective.
only a select few know about my mental illness: close family; and even so, and for reasons unrelated(?), i regret the excess of my communication. if by previous posts not apparent, i am one who relies on self.
now, i close my eyes. it appears, dear reader, i am on my +way+. maybe darkness forestalls all.
i now recollect a statement to PDOC "why this? why me? why do i not have a physical mark of my illness? why is my scarred--activity-amucked, cortex-lightningroded, dendrites chemically-burnt--brain NOT visible to the naked eye?" it is easier(?) in this manner."
i dislike "whys;" i know better.
i hide this; i h i d e t h i s f o r s o l o n g ; i have to; i have NO choice because,____________________.
admit, there are such situations.
"out of the closet," an idiom familiar to most, is antonymous to my situation. i am not one who garners respect and admiration for honesty and spokesmanship, recognition and advocacy, of/for bipolar disorder--grateful i am for those who do--and for their perception-altering effect on the lamentable collective.
only a select few know about my mental illness: close family; and even so, and for reasons unrelated(?), i regret the excess of my communication. if by previous posts not apparent, i am one who relies on self.
now, i close my eyes. it appears, dear reader, i am on my +way+. maybe darkness forestalls all.
12.11.2006
gracias
. .. . .. .i feel thanks to you. you share and open my eyes. i asked about how to manage. i was told "group." i am not "group." i have found my support. i thank you and hope to help you in some way. .. . .. .
12.10.2006
Was there a moon?
i used to fear staying up late at night, not out clubbing, but home, home sitting in front of a Google home page clicking "I am Feeling Lucky" until i could not stand it any longer, or opening a Word document and writing, and editing, and writing some more, and then deleting it all.
i would look at the clock as it passed my usual crash time, i would feel unhealthy, worry that tonight was a school night, and that i would pay for it in the morning, and i would look up again and see that some time, long or short, had passed, and i would dread the time when the sun would rise, and the cycle would start anew
do not anymore. no fear. pad around my living space. do the same as before. not worry about it. night is an extension of day. a time to let life pass. same demeanor as day. same outlook as day. after ten days i collapsed. i could not think. i could not see clearly. i pushed myself. it felt good. i was in control.
should i worry?
i would look at the clock as it passed my usual crash time, i would feel unhealthy, worry that tonight was a school night, and that i would pay for it in the morning, and i would look up again and see that some time, long or short, had passed, and i would dread the time when the sun would rise, and the cycle would start anew
do not anymore. no fear. pad around my living space. do the same as before. not worry about it. night is an extension of day. a time to let life pass. same demeanor as day. same outlook as day. after ten days i collapsed. i could not think. i could not see clearly. i pushed myself. it felt good. i was in control.
should i worry?
1:41
i have no reason to be here now.
i have no reason to be now.
i have no reason now.
i have no now.
now.
i have no reason to be now.
i have no reason now.
i have no now.
now.
spheres
apogee reached, newtonian physics take over. reentry. smoother than anticipated, but reentry nonetheless. now the mundane overcomes, which i must strive to overlook; details that make me loose hope in life. "welcome back to our society rampant with wasteful practices," they clamor, as tereshkova-like i emerge from my capsule"
i have witnessed death, decay, destruction of such magnitude, those who have survived it, live in it still, would nourish on the moldiest of our scraps, quench with our most fetid sewer dregs, rejoice in a find from our worst landfill
disheartening as it is, i turn a blind eye; i must. i focus on my small sphere of influence, the small difference i can make in someones life, which in turn makes a difference, whether i actually see it or not, whether today or in another life, in mine
i have witnessed death, decay, destruction of such magnitude, those who have survived it, live in it still, would nourish on the moldiest of our scraps, quench with our most fetid sewer dregs, rejoice in a find from our worst landfill
disheartening as it is, i turn a blind eye; i must. i focus on my small sphere of influence, the small difference i can make in someones life, which in turn makes a difference, whether i actually see it or not, whether today or in another life, in mine
12.09.2006
Charlotte and Jane
i cannot recall the last time i derived such pleasure from sensory input as of recent. hearing. Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre narrated by Josephine Bailey. the name fell into my lap somewhere, and it stayed with me for a while. i was not aware of her bibliography or biography.
tragic life her and her sisters lived--mine pales in comparison. i do not take solace in this fact. i cannot comprehend how a woman can endure such pain and create such splendor, yet i have always known there is beauty in darkness.
i am grateful to her for giving comfort, meaning, for i thirst for more as the day wanes languidly...
tragic life her and her sisters lived--mine pales in comparison. i do not take solace in this fact. i cannot comprehend how a woman can endure such pain and create such splendor, yet i have always known there is beauty in darkness.
i am grateful to her for giving comfort, meaning, for i thirst for more as the day wanes languidly...
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