Mar 12 2008

Evil Judy Garland…

Tag: In a dark wood, wandering...cerebralmum @ 10:25 pm

Ever had one of those days when you’ve slogged through some of the hardest things you have to do and then, when the sun goes down, you realise that you’ve gotten exactly nowhere? That’s today. Intellectually, I know things are step by step and today’s steps count but, to mix clichéd metaphors, it still feels like a house of cards and the road ahead is long.

Ever feel as though - if you’re the puppeteer of your own life - there are too many strings to manage and while one limb is dancing to your tune, the other is flailing? Somewhere along the line, things must get easier. I liked being young and irresponsible, able to just cut strings. Now, I have no choice but to arduously untangle them all, hoping nothing breaks in the process.

Ever feel like there is an evil Judy Garland in your head singing, It never ra-ains, but what it po-ours… in her chirpy little voice just to drive you insane? So what if all your troubles come in bunches, keep sticking to your silly little hunches…

And the sun will come shining through.

Yeah, right.

I’m a child of Nirvana. I need depressive music to cheer me up. So I’m turning up Lisa Germano and listening to Cancer of Everything.

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Jan 08 2008

What am I thinking ?

Tag: In a dark wood, wandering...cerebralmum @ 11:58 pm

Nothing.

I’m pretty sure I’ve thought about nothing today.

Well, not nothing of course, but nothing important. It’s been another day of speeding through distractions while responsibilities which need more immediate attention are ignored. Perhaps I need to stop letting that trouble me: It only makes me bury my head deeper.

At the moment, I feel a little spaced out. I can’t remember what day it is and time is making no sense. Today I gave Caspar lunch at 3pm. I don’t normally do that. If he’d been hungry he would’ve let me know, he would’ve stood at the refrigerator pointing or opened the cupboard and brought me a box of crackers, so I don’t feel guilty about it. Or, not much. I just feel something a little bit like tension, and a little bit like floating. I am disoriented.

Because I’ve had so many things going on, at least in cyberspace, I haven’t really stopped to see where my head is at. Who has time to do that anyway? That was what the counselling appointments were supposed to be for; one hour every couple of weeks away from my responsibilities with no one to think about but myself.

Except those counselling appointments never eventuated.

The day I was supposed to have the second one someone called to say that Counsel was ill and that she would call me tomorrow to reschedule. But no one called. And no one called the day after that or the day after that. It’s been six weeks now. The obvious question, of course, is Why didn’t I just call them? I don’t have an answer.

I’ve gone through a range of emotions about it, at low volume so that it’s only background noise and not screaming: Disappointment, especially after the optimism of the first visit, and a childlike sense of betrayal. Anger too, I guess, but anger isn’t something I understand very well. I’m not good at it. I’m uncomfortable with it.

Thinking about it now (Yes, I’m thinking. Would that I weren’t.) the strongest feeling is one that has coloured much of my life; that Orphan feeling which reveals itself as either, Why does no one ever take care of me?, or, I am an island.

I am an island.

Perhaps it’s an issue of trust. It’s not that I’m not a trusting person, I mean, the kind of person who is afraid, who doesn’t put themselves out there, who protects themselves at all costs from dangers unknown. I’m not like that. I’m brave, and daring and lay everything on the line. But underneath whatever risks I take with my thoughts or with my feelings or with my Self, being open about who I am and where I’m at, I think there is an expectation of disappointment which has too often been met. An expectation that regardless of how I value myself, my value won’t be recognised, or appreciated, or even acknowledged.

After a numb day, many numb days, writing this is bringing tears to my ears. Because what I’ve written might sound like the words of a petulant teenager but it feels so very true. I am far from being a cynic. In truth, I am a humanist, an idealist. But I am not hopeful.

I dive into life on principal because I think that’s the way we should live, that losing out on experiences because of fear or missing connections because of vulnerability is too great a cost to pay. Because the attempt, if not the chance, will always be worth more than the pain. I stand by that. I believe it’s true. But right now, what am I thinking?

I’m thinking perhaps the principal isn’t enough. I’m thinking that the failing in me is a lack of hope.

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Dec 13 2007

The only good thing about Facebook…

Tag: In a dark wood, wandering...cerebralmum @ 12:31 pm

Tomorrow, Caspar and I are going to visit an old friend I lost contact with years and years ago. Finding her, and others like her, is the only reason I maintain an account at Facebook which I otherwise would have no patience for, which, in fact, I actively dislike. In the last few weeks I have reconnected with a number of people who had disappeared from my life, both through Facebook and through The Cerebral Mum; childhood friends from Myrtleford and people I hung out with during my university days. Not a plethora of them, but the one’s I actually cared about.

I could write a tract on all the things I loathe about Facebook but while I think it’s a terribly shallow way to interact with cyber-friends, it is a useful directory for reconnecting with the real life ones you’ve lost track of. Given how denuded of people my world is, and that I have nobody who shares my nothings, I have to give some credit where credit is due.

Of course, visiting still isn’t easy. There is distance, and there is depression. I have cancelled 2 weeks in a row. But tomorrow, I am just going. In fact, I’m going tonight, sleeping over at my cousin’s in town because it will make the journey easier in the morning; less daunting, less exhausting and less avoidable.

I now have a deadline to get myself ready and get out of this house and there can be no more delays. I am not letting myself worry about going out when the house is a disaster area, or that the clothes I want myself and Caspar to wear are in the wash, or that I should pluck my eyebrows and straighten my hair, and try desperately to remove the stains from Caspar’s stroller liner.

Because, really, Ms. S is not going to give a shit what my hair looks like or think I am pathetic if Caspar looks like a messy boy instead of a glossy advertisement for the perfect mother. Ms. S has a little boy herself so she’ll know the truth of it anyway and we would never have been friends if she was the kind of person who judged others on those terms. I don’t care about those things myself so I am ignoring that voice that wants me to be ashamed of myself and I’m just going.

Even if I am a walking disaster area.

So, I have a lot of organising to do to pack a bag for an overnight stay. But thanks, Facebook, for getting me out into the real world again, in spite of the fact that your cyber-world sucks.

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Dec 11 2007

And now back to miserable… or not…

Tag: In a dark wood, wandering...cerebralmum @ 10:47 pm

I have had hellish days this week.  Truly dreadful ones, and the worst of it seems to ebb and flow like a tide.  I am so grateful that somewhere way back in the recesses of my mind there is a tiny voice that tells me the things that I am feeling are not real, or not rational, or not forever. Or whatever.

Because there have been hours this week when I literally wished I was dead.  When I understood how people could be moved to disappear from the face of the earth. As awful as that feeling is, all the longing to just be gone, or injure myself, or…, there is a line somewhere in me that has been drawn and and I trust that those feelings do not have the power to hurt me.  To drive me to hurt me.

That’s something.

In fact, that’s a big something.  It doesn’t fix this problem, or any of the logistical problems of my life at the moment that leave me not just feeling trapped, but actually being trapped. But it’s a sign of some resilience.

And I can’t figure out what to do right now, with this blog.  I want so much to make it a good one, but I’m all over the place and I cannot give it a coherent voice. Part of me wants to remove that little blurb in the sidebar and breeze through it as though nothing is going on under the surface. If I did, though, I would immediately feel out of control.

Another part of me feels as though that blurb is belied when I write about practical or trivial or abstract things.  But I can’t help that I guess.  So it is what it is.

If where I am right now breaks what I am trying to build, I’ll just have to build it again.

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Dec 06 2007

Checkmate…

Tag: In a dark wood, wandering...cerebralmum @ 11:04 pm

I don’t even know what to do any more. And I don’t even want to write this. I want to be doing a million trivial things but I can’t get a grip on any of them. I am physically restraining myself, sitting here, but I don’t know that I would be able to get these bees out from under my skin even if I let them go.

I don’t know how to deal with this. It’s different. It’s not like in the past when I had big, big pains too large to be held in; pains that I released in writing, that I cut out of me, literally and figuratively, that I starved and binged and purged myself to control. All of that made sense and none of this does. And it was so long ago. And nothing I learned seems to fit.

More and more, I begin to think that there is something “chemical” going on. It is not outside the bounds of reason, considering my previous lifestyle and a pregnancy. Maybe it is that simple. Then again, what is simple about that? I don’t like things I can’t understand. I don’t like feeling as though something is out of my hands. It makes no sense to me, philosophically. I can’t unify the knowledge of the biological nature of human thought (what little we have) with the metaphysics of it all.

I can’t let go of my ultimate responsibility, but I can’t avoid the knowledge that I cannot be right or be wrong. I cannot make a moral choice. So this is checkmate.

Oh, I know that the two are not sliced so cleanly. I know. Normally that knowledge comforts me. It removes the basis for all those ignorant hatreds in this world, removes the rights and lefts and radical oppositions. But it leaves more difficult philosophical questions in its wake. The same questions, yes, but the paths extending from them are multiplied and too entangled to unravel. Has anyone unravelled them? Are there any philosophers left?

I read an opinion the other day which I objected to.

A woman is not born a woman. She becomes one.

It pissed me off, this cheap sloganeering that insulted women while pretending to make them free. I did not even recognise it as a quote from Simone de Beauvoir, whom I respect. It was out of context, certainly, but it is also out of it’s time. This brilliant thinker has been reduced to an anachronism.

I know when I was writing Polar seasons… the other day, I wrote lengthy passages about genetics and society’s poor understanding of it and the ridiculousness of the nature/nurture dichotomy given what contemporary science is learning. (I think I removed most of it. I’m not sure. I couldn’t proofread it clearly, and still can’t. I don’t know what I was saying. I am worried that I said something offensive.)

I truly believe the line between biology and experience has all but disappeared, that each part has a powerful effect upon the other, that what we are and how we live is so closely intertwined that we can no longer see these things divided.

But I don’t know what that means.

I have strong views about individual responsibility. My concept of it is the foundation of all my principles. I loathe what Kant called our non-age. I loathe what Sartre called bad faith. I loathe what I call abdication. I rebel against “the unreasonable silence of the world” and strive for meaning anyway, strive for Truth in spite of what will be my ultimate and necessary failure.

Biology confuses all of this.

What about this is the product of my behaviour and thoughts? What about this is illness? How much has illness created my thoughts? How much have my thoughts created illness? These questions cannot be answered.

Some people are ill. Some people know that they are ill, and they are qualified to judge. Some people are too ill to make that judgement and someone else makes it for them, rightly or wrongly. Some people make themselves ill and absolve themselves of their responsibility. Some people have a greater potential for illness but remain free from disease their whole lives. Some people set off the chain of disease by their choices. Some people are made ill by events in their lives which they have no control over. Some people…

No. No answers can be found there. If I am ill because of my own action, I must take ownership of it. If I am ill because of my biology, I must disabuse myself of my responsibility. Everything in between is unsolvable.

I cannot untangle it.

I cannot.

I cannot.

I cannot.

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Dec 05 2007

Polar seasons…

Tag: In a dark wood, wandering...cerebralmum @ 2:15 am

Rosemary mentioned in her comment on Avoiding depression… that it sounded manic. And it is, and I am. So I’m going to write a little about Bipolar Disorder. I could write a well researched post with citations and such to clarify and support or counter what I have to say but I’m not going to. These will just be my thoughts about it in relation to me. I know that there are a couple of you reading who know far more about it than I do so if I’m mistaken about something, please correct me. I apologise in advance for the gaps in my knowledge.

I have always had seasons. Ever since I was a child. I have seasons when I am extraordinarily sociable and seasons when I just want everyone to leave me alone. Seasons when I am completely oblivious to food and seasons when I cannot eat enough. There are times when I have to be doing things constantly, when I am extraordinarily productive and extraordinarily creative. And there are times when I have stayed in bed for weeks just numbing my mind with trashy fiction.

Because of this, if I ever answer a questionnaire about bipolar or psychiatric illnesses generally, it always comes up as a probable diagnosis with recommendations to see my doctor. I never have talked to a doctor about it because I don’t consider it problematic.

I see my seasons as my balance. For outsiders looking in it may not seem that way. The only difference between me and them is that my cycles have a different length. They satisfy their social needs, their need for introspection, their need for stimulation, their need for peace, their need for productivity, and their need for rest in snatches of time that suit life as it is composed today. Life as it is composed today does not suit me well.

But is that necessarily a pathology? Is that necessarily a disease? I am quite sure that I could easily obtain that label, but I don’t want it. The reason I don’t want it is not because of the stigma, or because I reject help. It is because I like myself as I am. While I could easily be said to exhibit many of the “symptoms” of bipolar, the trouble with psychiatric diagnoses is that they are necessarily subjective. (At the moment anyway: There are small advances being made.) In the current climate, for “spectrum” disorders especially, I think we are in murky water.

All we have to do is look at the rates of diagnosis for things such as ADD and autism and, yes, bipolar in children to recognise that there is some cause for concern. The borders of “normal” are shrinking. There is no longer any room for temperament.

This is not to say in any way that there are not people out there with real illnesses going undiagnosed or misdiagnosed and untreated. There are. Too many. But at the same time, difference is becoming less acceptable. Behaviour is becoming medicalised. I think in part this is because humans seek order and this global environment we live in is chaotic. I think in part it is because we do not understand that in genetics and biology there are no absolutes. It will be a long time before we know the full truth of the organic causes and effects of human behaviour, probably not in my lifetime, and because of that, I echo the sentiments of The Last Psychiatrist: At this stage it may be worth, oh, I don’t know– conservative management?

As I said, looking at the diagnostic criteria I could easily get a diagnosis. But I just don’t think that it is as simple as that. My temperament has always been such that I lose myself in the world of my creativity and my ideas. It makes sense that I would make up for lost time and meet my other needs in larger blocks. I have to catch up, refuel, before I go back to doing the things that are important to me, to my identity.

And there are lifestyle factors which have also effected my cycles. Studying and working as a cocktail waitress both involve intense levels of energy, often in bursts and the sustained effort of them both disrupts normal functioning. I have held down two jobs, night and day while at university full time. I have worked full time at an office job while waitressing nights. I have done back to back shifts of seventeen hours over and over again in hospitality, requiring enormous levels of concentration and creating an adrenaline high it is difficult to come down from.

Do I do that because of my temperament or has my temperament been shaped by it?. Do I do that because of my seasons, or do they create my seasons? Yes, it is possible that there are organic causes. Almost everything we are is a genetic expression. At the same time, there are many events which have occurred in my life which have contributed to lengthy highs and lows. And we do not have the knowledge to separate the two.

That makes psychiatry a dangerous business. The definition of metal illnesses and disorders largely social. Genes, contrary to popular understanding, are not prescriptive. Society is and we do not live in a tolerant one. Psychopathology is a way of systematizing behaviour, categorizing collections of symptoms. But how do we define what is a “symptom” and what is a character trait? Those lines cannot help but be drawn, even if collectively, subjectively.

I am not saying, of course, that this means all diagnoses are expectations of conformity. As I said, there are people suffering and there are people for whom diagnosis and treatment helps. I am simply saying that at the edges the line is very fuzzy and the line for me, in the absence of definitive science, is this:

Are my seasons destructive or constructive?

Do they impair my ability to function in and of themsleves or do they impair my ability to function because they do not suit society? My answer is that society and I are not a perfect fit, but we are not enormously at odds. Everyone functions best when their work and responsibilities are cycling in tandem with their energy levels. For some people, there is a natural harmony between the two. For others, it is more difficult to shape their lives according to their temperaments and I am one of them.

Perhaps someone else can answer this, but it seems to me that I cannot be ill if my patterns of behaviour, when able to be expressed fully, are regenerative. It is highly likely that there are organic similarities between the way my brain functions and the way someone’s with bipolar does. Just as it is likely that the same function can be created synthetically by lifestyle choices. But how does a person with bipolar feel about their seasons? Do they feel overcome by them? Do they shred up their lives? Do they have a negative impact on those around them?

I don’t know, but my seasons are not like that. It is when my life is most in harmony with them that I feel most like myself, that I feel most comfortable. And it is then that I am most likeable.

Of course, much of this is moot because at the moment I have no balance and I am clinically depressed. And I could be completely wrong. I shall see my doctor and have her check how everything is functioning physiologically. Rosemary’s comment was not off target and I shall seek help where it is appropriate. But if there is one thing I have learned in life, it is that I am most depressed when I have ignored my seasons.

I sleep like a bear, not a cat. I have to live according to my design.

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Dec 04 2007

Avoiding depression…

Tag: In a dark wood, wandering...cerebralmum @ 1:23 am

Yes. I have been avoiding it. I’ve been moving furniture instead. And toying with the idea of creating a plugin for WordPress. That, of course, is a skill I need to learn right now. It is very important that I learn PHP and smart CSS tricks. That I fix holes. Or learn how to fly a plane. Or how to turn straw into gold.

It is almost 1am and I haven’t written anything particularly purposeful for days.  I don’t mean that I should be writing about depression all the time, but I feel very scattered and I can’t make sense of what I’m doing.

Actually, I know what I’m doing.  I’m creating work for myself.  I’m creating more burdens.  I am bombarding myself with new ideas and new responsibilities.  In a normal situation, that would be great.  It would be one of those times when inspiration floods.  At the moment, however, it just makes everything seem out of control. It’s supposed to, I guess.  Because if I was in control, my messed up head wouldn’t be able to force me to look at myself.

That’s why I am so suspicious of people who think you can just behave your way back to normal.  Pushing your behaviour is a part of moving out of this place, yes.  But not the whole of it.  If you don’t want to descend again, you have to face the ogres.  You have to really spend time inside yourself.  You have to listen.  All this pressure - this imaginary pressure - it is telling me to listen.

I just can’t hear anything yet.

Right now, I’m going through a crazy cycle.  Instead of feeling so exhausted that I don’t want to get out of bed, I really cannot force myself to sleep.  Instead, my head is throbbing and my whole body is aching and I am typing frenetically, doing everything frenetically, but I have completely lost perspective on everything.  If I stood up now, I think I would fall over.  Instead of not being able to concentrate, I am concentrating too intently.

I should go to bed.  I will make myself go to bed.

As I write that, my mind has already moved on to starting a new post.  Because this one is finished.  And the post after that is writing itself too.  It just won’t stop.  It physically hurts.

I. Am. Going. To. Bed.

If I didn’t have Caspar, that would not happen.

Caspar is a good, good thing.

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