Showing posts with label rapid-cycling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rapid-cycling. Show all posts
1.06.2008
as i read Jane Eyre again
i reach the part where mental illness is referenced as ¡lunacy! ¡depravity ¡madness! Brontë's writing consumes me, but in doing so soothes, for no longer is mental illness defined as lunacy, depravity, madness.
1.07.2007
scarcely holding grip
obtuse Freudian slip: scarcely phonetically begins with scare. i may be. crags indeed, about which i posted yesterday. today, i am rock-climbing these crags, scarcely holding grip.
why am i climbing? (traditional off-the-cuff answer: "because it is there") there is really nothing up there that i want--not this time. i have sensed this 5.1b ascent for a week now. delayed reaction to my revelation?
my fingers grip basalt, which cuts me, does not draw blood, but makes me lash out in anger--controlled by my meds (on belay), and knowledge gained through many PDOC sessions (focus).
am i competing with you, spectator? supporter? am i at an unknown Patagonia mountain face, just me and my belayer? let it be the former...
why am i climbing? (traditional off-the-cuff answer: "because it is there") there is really nothing up there that i want--not this time. i have sensed this 5.1b ascent for a week now. delayed reaction to my revelation?
my fingers grip basalt, which cuts me, does not draw blood, but makes me lash out in anger--controlled by my meds (on belay), and knowledge gained through many PDOC sessions (focus).
am i competing with you, spectator? supporter? am i at an unknown Patagonia mountain face, just me and my belayer? let it be the former...
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.
11.30.2006
Survival Mode
-00:47:00
Sit through meeting I declined but to which I was “re-invited.” Know its outcome beforehand; know it will devolve into what it does: commiseration.
-00:24:00
All agree on what has to be done, yet cannot do. I, operating on three hours of sleep, burst out the futility of the meeting.
-00:20:00
Leave room. Immediately regret. Print four copies of “sorry” note and place on attendees desks.
00:00:00
Hope I can rely on my [Jane’s-Addiction-]-“Ritual-[-de-lo-Habitual”] to cleanse myself through physical energy departing my body, my mitochondrion, doing their best to convert into ATP whatever glucose my bloodstream carries, so that my muscles can mindlessly but purposefully burn it. But I have so neglected myself as of late. Depress Start.
+00:08:00
I shut my eyes.
+00:16:00
In the middle of a DJ Shah mix these words fade over the pulsing:
“…It's touching life, it's touching life, it's touching, and it's touching life,
Imagine the silence of light,
Full of texture, full of color, starry lights,
As the moon suspended in the night,
See it, finally everything.
It's breathing life, it's breathing life, it's breathing life.
Looking through the window glass,
I see a glimpse of heaven,
And it’s so beautiful, I want it.
Looking thorough the window glass,
I see a glimpse of heaven,
And it’s so beautiful,
That I want it inside of me,
Of me, of me, of me, of me. I want it.
As if on cue…
+00:17:00
…this is not happening. It has been so long….and I have longed to touch it—at least—enter it if I am worthy, deserving: the zone. I do. Briefly. Once, twice, thrice…
+00:20:00
In full automutilation mode; throb of music through my veins; eyes shut still; motion in balance, no degradation. I have kept balance while stepping as I have learned to do. Chug, once, twice. Return drinking vessel to its receptacle.
+00:30:00
Reverse direction, increase slope x 6. Reduce resistance x 2. I usually alter settings more often, but today is “special.”
+00:31:34
Shift speed as the beat transitions from one song to another, masterfully cross faded by Shah. An unfortunate glimpse reminds me I am still here. EFX display reads 175 Watts (2 x 60 W E26 Medium Edison Screw light bulbs, 1 x 40 W ceiling fan E26, and 1 x F25T12 Fluorescent lamp (I usually power 2x100 W flood lamps +/- a handful of E12 Candelabra-Screw nightlights).
+00:38:00
Have entered and exited the zone at least eight times for a total duration of one minute and a half. Not the zone core, not full consciousness/loss of consciousness of self, but satisfying nonetheless. I can feel it: my facial muscles have relaxed from a frown to an incipient smile. Been too long without it, longed for it so, have I. Do not believe myself to possess an addictive personality, but this is beyond addiction: this is biological need. Although I feel so, I still lapse, behavior shifting to the opposite extreme—total disregard for self.
+00:41:00
Hear myself think “nothing matters, nothing matters, nothing matters” at half the tempo of the music. Nothing else occupies my mind. This is it. Just my voice and silence. The zone. I am my own church. church, my religion I am. LaVey-Satanic as it sounds, I know this is more like what Buddhist chanting, the rosary prayer, the Allahu Akbar (Allah is Great) mantra accomplish.
+00:46:00
For crap’s sake! Eyes shut still, I depress Reset in error. EFX display flashes workout stats as I frantically attempt to restart. Opt for Quick Start. Litre bottle is now empty.
+01:04:00
EFX display reads 1.80 miles, 195 kcal, 18:00 Min, I think. Music has stopped too suddenly for me to transition coherently to reality. My Polar reads HR 154 BPM aver., 172 max. Interpolate for missing values and determine totals to be approximately 5.5 miles and 600 kcal. Respectable, considering.
+01:27:00
Walk to work in a smiley, happy daze. A tinge of plantar fasciitis awakens in my left foot. Pain will linger through the day, despite meds. Irrelevant; actually it is good to feel.
+01:42:00
Nipples are sore. Did not anticipate such long a session. Had I known, I would have worn poly instead of cotton.
+01:42:49
Ouch! Should cover them with Band-Aids (flashback - 7 years when I covered nipple piercing during physical exam—glad piercing was out + 3 years for an MRI!).
+02:00:00
Two litres of water later… no food. Pee very yellow. Feel life.
+02:50:00
Three bananas later, 800 mg Ibu., and half a litre of water more, I feel partially replenished, but am still peeing yellow. Must continue to push water through.
+03:23:00
Ibu. kicks in. Left plantar fascia ceases to bother. Feel the urge to run my favorite x-country trail later. No music this time, just the quiet, layered with my breath and remixed with my heartbeat…and if I am lucky a redrum track of percussive rain on leaves, resampled and looped with the sub-range neuronal electric activity thunder of my gustatory papillae signaling to my brain the saltiness of rain + sweat mix.
+03:30:00
Ravenously devour a slice of whole wheat bread. Rain falls lightly outside. Two more hours.
+03:42:00
Brita-filter another litre of fluoridated swill into my reused PETE bottle. Almost there, almost time.
+04:15:00
Pee is less yellow, still not clear enough. Chug more water. Take a sip of leftover cold decaf. Clean-up. GTG.
+05:00:00
Suck down the rest of the decaf. Go pee.
+5:30
b y e .
Sit through meeting I declined but to which I was “re-invited.” Know its outcome beforehand; know it will devolve into what it does: commiseration.
-00:24:00
All agree on what has to be done, yet cannot do. I, operating on three hours of sleep, burst out the futility of the meeting.
-00:20:00
Leave room. Immediately regret. Print four copies of “sorry” note and place on attendees desks.
00:00:00
Hope I can rely on my [Jane’s-Addiction-]-“Ritual-[-de-lo-Habitual”] to cleanse myself through physical energy departing my body, my mitochondrion, doing their best to convert into ATP whatever glucose my bloodstream carries, so that my muscles can mindlessly but purposefully burn it. But I have so neglected myself as of late. Depress Start.
+00:08:00
I shut my eyes.
+00:16:00
In the middle of a DJ Shah mix these words fade over the pulsing:
“…It's touching life, it's touching life, it's touching, and it's touching life,
Imagine the silence of light,
Full of texture, full of color, starry lights,
As the moon suspended in the night,
See it, finally everything.
It's breathing life, it's breathing life, it's breathing life.
Looking through the window glass,
I see a glimpse of heaven,
And it’s so beautiful, I want it.
Looking thorough the window glass,
I see a glimpse of heaven,
And it’s so beautiful,
That I want it inside of me,
Of me, of me, of me, of me. I want it.
As if on cue…
+00:17:00
…this is not happening. It has been so long….and I have longed to touch it—at least—enter it if I am worthy, deserving: the zone. I do. Briefly. Once, twice, thrice…
+00:20:00
In full automutilation mode; throb of music through my veins; eyes shut still; motion in balance, no degradation. I have kept balance while stepping as I have learned to do. Chug, once, twice. Return drinking vessel to its receptacle.
+00:30:00
Reverse direction, increase slope x 6. Reduce resistance x 2. I usually alter settings more often, but today is “special.”
+00:31:34
Shift speed as the beat transitions from one song to another, masterfully cross faded by Shah. An unfortunate glimpse reminds me I am still here. EFX display reads 175 Watts (2 x 60 W E26 Medium Edison Screw light bulbs, 1 x 40 W ceiling fan E26, and 1 x F25T12 Fluorescent lamp (I usually power 2x100 W flood lamps +/- a handful of E12 Candelabra-Screw nightlights).
+00:38:00
Have entered and exited the zone at least eight times for a total duration of one minute and a half. Not the zone core, not full consciousness/loss of consciousness of self, but satisfying nonetheless. I can feel it: my facial muscles have relaxed from a frown to an incipient smile. Been too long without it, longed for it so, have I. Do not believe myself to possess an addictive personality, but this is beyond addiction: this is biological need. Although I feel so, I still lapse, behavior shifting to the opposite extreme—total disregard for self.
+00:41:00
Hear myself think “nothing matters, nothing matters, nothing matters” at half the tempo of the music. Nothing else occupies my mind. This is it. Just my voice and silence. The zone. I am my own church. church, my religion I am. LaVey-Satanic as it sounds, I know this is more like what Buddhist chanting, the rosary prayer, the Allahu Akbar (Allah is Great) mantra accomplish.
+00:46:00
For crap’s sake! Eyes shut still, I depress Reset in error. EFX display flashes workout stats as I frantically attempt to restart. Opt for Quick Start. Litre bottle is now empty.
+01:04:00
EFX display reads 1.80 miles, 195 kcal, 18:00 Min, I think. Music has stopped too suddenly for me to transition coherently to reality. My Polar reads HR 154 BPM aver., 172 max. Interpolate for missing values and determine totals to be approximately 5.5 miles and 600 kcal. Respectable, considering.
+01:27:00
Walk to work in a smiley, happy daze. A tinge of plantar fasciitis awakens in my left foot. Pain will linger through the day, despite meds. Irrelevant; actually it is good to feel.
+01:42:00
Nipples are sore. Did not anticipate such long a session. Had I known, I would have worn poly instead of cotton.
+01:42:49
Ouch! Should cover them with Band-Aids (flashback - 7 years when I covered nipple piercing during physical exam—glad piercing was out + 3 years for an MRI!).
+02:00:00
Two litres of water later… no food. Pee very yellow. Feel life.
+02:50:00
Three bananas later, 800 mg Ibu., and half a litre of water more, I feel partially replenished, but am still peeing yellow. Must continue to push water through.
+03:23:00
Ibu. kicks in. Left plantar fascia ceases to bother. Feel the urge to run my favorite x-country trail later. No music this time, just the quiet, layered with my breath and remixed with my heartbeat…and if I am lucky a redrum track of percussive rain on leaves, resampled and looped with the sub-range neuronal electric activity thunder of my gustatory papillae signaling to my brain the saltiness of rain + sweat mix.
+03:30:00
Ravenously devour a slice of whole wheat bread. Rain falls lightly outside. Two more hours.
+03:42:00
Brita-filter another litre of fluoridated swill into my reused PETE bottle. Almost there, almost time.
+04:15:00
Pee is less yellow, still not clear enough. Chug more water. Take a sip of leftover cold decaf. Clean-up. GTG.
+05:00:00
Suck down the rest of the decaf. Go pee.
+5:30
b y e .
10.28.2006
two hours and 20 minutes
the drive. the why. the fortune of sound. absence of else. rain, it did not stop. the day (morning?) before, up until three. the rain did not stop. low clouds. splatter on the windshield, droning, and in the dark, later that night, refracting any light, breaking it down into 32 bit color depth. yet with my 16MB-video-card-memory state of mind, making it hard to see, think. worry. worry for safety--why not: today is not t h e day. blurry. blurring. my mind, my vision, my perspective, my feelings.
the fortune of sound. the absence of else. softer than usual. it seemed appropriate. softer in level, harder impact. i lie: it always hits hard. impact. bass. consciousness lost. consciousness at the edge. battery. hocico. amduscia. blutengel. so many, so different. so, not what i remember. the days of love spirals downwards, calva y nada, coil, sisters of mercy. evolved. like i.
the fortune of sound. the absence of else. softer than usual. it seemed appropriate. softer in level, harder impact. i lie: it always hits hard. impact. bass. consciousness lost. consciousness at the edge. battery. hocico. amduscia. blutengel. so many, so different. so, not what i remember. the days of love spirals downwards, calva y nada, coil, sisters of mercy. evolved. like i.
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