Rain, rain, go away.....

..... come again another day.....

Here I sit in the middle of the Occupational Therapy room at Emerson Hospital, waiting for 1pm to arrive.  I have been here now for 3 weeks, and it looks like I'll be here for at least 4 before I'm allowed to go home for good.

1pm is when Paulie is coming to pick me up, and I have a pass home for 6 hours.  We are going to Momma and Dad's, where the rest of the Grande clan will be waiting to have a nice visit.

The interesting thing about this stay in the hospital is that I have some memory loss because of all the ECT treatments thus far, so I'm not sure exactly how my life will pick up again when I'm home to stay.  I know that I want to sing a lot more, as well as write, and that my thoughts will take some time to come back together. I have a sneaking suspicion, though, that this will all be for the better once I'm home, especially with the results of the ECT.  I feel like a million bucks the day after each treatment. The day of each treatment I don't, and I know that's because the medication they give me to sleep makes me depressed that day, but once it's out of my system I feel great.

I suppose there isn't much more for me to say.  I'm excited to see my family, and I'm hopeful that the treatments will continue to make me feel well and things will improve more and more.

Little Laura wants to play, Rain rain go away....

Lovely, dark, and deep...

I am keeping my promises.

Last week, an article came out in the Boston Globe about spouses and mental illness.  The picture gracing the beginning of the article may have been familiar to some of you. There we were, Paulie and myself, having a laughing moment in the Dracut Public Library, where I work.

That was one of the only laughing moments there have been of late.

I have been inpatient at Emerson Hospital for the last two weeks, as of today.  I will be here at least 3 more, as I am undergoing Electro-Convulsive Therapy (ECT, or "Shock Therapy" to those in the biz) for the foreseeable future.

I will receive these treatments every other day for the next 3 weeks.  I am wheeled down to a surgical unit, and an IV is started. A blood pressure cuff is placed on my ankle, and leads are glued all over my forehead.  The blood pressure cuff on my ankle is so they can see when the seizure in my body is taking place, the leads are for giving the electroshock current.  I am given a mask of oxygen to wear and breathe in deeply as the surgical staff do a "time out": they repeat my name, date of birth, procedure to be performed, and other relevant information to the procedure.  They lower the head of my bed and tell me the medicine will burn in my arm for an instant before I am asleep.  After I am asleep, they will administer a paralytic, so that when my body seizes, the only thing that moves will be that ankle and foot, below where they had placed the blood pressure cuff at the beginning of things. Once the seizure has taken place, I will "come back" into the room, awakening from anesthesia.  Then I get wheeled back to the unit, and I continue with my day.

There are those who may be horrified by the idea of what I've just explained, but the fascinating part is that this is considered one of the most effective, safe, and "miraculous" treatments for refractory (or "treatment-resistant") depression.

I live most of my days here in a feeling of profound depression.  I sleep too often, eat too little, and just want to go home. The woods of Robert Frost's "Stopping..." are lovely, dark, and deep, just like the sleep that washes over me during ECT treatments.

But I am keeping my promises.

My t-shirt

Another post, this time an assignment from my writing group:

My t-shirt is light, even featherweight.  It defies the laws of gravity.  The most stunning thing about this is its light weight even amongst the solid, even heavy things that comprise it.

The basis of this shirt is nothing more than the light golden threads of love.  They are incandescent, yet wholly grounding and a foundation of all I need.  Those ethereal strands give way to nothing, and are infused with more.  Purple threads are those of my belief in God, and all he has done for me.  I feel his unconditional support through everything in those silky purple strands.  Threads of red are of my fiery passion for life and all it has to offer.  It's time that I wear them to their fullest potential, and allow them to hold me up amongst the gold and purple.  Then comes the color blue, the true blue of my family and friends.  They are threaded closely to the gold everywhere, as their love and support shine forth, practically rivaling all in their path.  

There is a path of brown throughout, the dull brown of bipolar disorder.  The strands are confusing, zigging this way and that, with no direction, almost trying to pull the shirt apart.  And yet, the gold and blue and purple and red all fight and keep that shirt going strong.  It's the one shirt I have for the rest of my life, and it needs to stay together.  The brown cannot tear it, though it may try.  

There are other colors as well; the pink of hard work, the yellow of my nephew's smile, the green of my wonderful husband and his constancy in the face of life and all that those brown strands try to throw at me.  There are even black strands of suicide, but again, the rainbow of all that I have makes sure that they are thin and flimsy, never truly making a strong bind anywhere.  They never connect.

My t-shirt is complete. It knows the joy of success and love, and the hardship of illness and heartbreak.  It is completely me, with all the brilliance and dullness of a life lived.  

This t-shirt is my song of life, and I shall sing it.

Moving Along...

Hello, my faithful readers! Laura here, with another set of musings.  I sit here in air-conditioned comfort, watching an old episode of "Torchwood", and I can't help but wonder what's coming down the line.

I have been working hard on my "program", CBT and DBT skills mixed with a heavy dose of gratitude for all I have.  There are those so less fortunate; when I start to feel down or wondering what this silly life is all about, I force myself to remember all that is done for me on a regular basis.  I work hard to remember my skills and to USE THEM, even when sitting in a corner and just ignoring the world would be easier.  

In the "holy crap what a win" column, I saw a beautiful wedding this weekend.  I packed my carry on and boarded a plane for sunny Los Angeles. My dear friend Carrie married the love of her life, Akshay, in a wondrous Indian ceremony, followed by a kick-ass reception.  I was a little bummed that I couldn't squeeze every last drop of fun out of the evening because of med limitations, but that was a minor point compared to all the beauty and love that surrounded and infused the entire 3 days.  Akshay and Carrie are on the road now, on the road of that fantastic adventure of marriage.  And I got to be there to see it.  It takes the breath away to know that I was there for that awe-inspiring moment.  There's a new married couple in the world, folks, and wait til you get a load of them!

The other big thing that I am so grateful for from this weekend is that I got to spend the entire time with my beloved ASPs.  We are a tightly-knit group of friends from undergrad who still try to stay in touch as much as possible and make all these important life events.  They were there for my wedding, we were all at Snapps' and Lill's weddings, and now Carrie's.  We see each other for Christmas when we can, and have had a few "ASP weekends" just to stay in touch and be near each other. It makes me so happy to know that there are 4 other women out there who have my back through thick and thin.  They are unfailing in their love for me, as I am for them.  Heather was my roommate in college, and she is the friend that I can call and just blab about nothing with, laughing far too loud and being silly together.  The five of us just can't be beat; we are Alpha Sigma Pillow until the end!

I could go on about things in my own life, bellyaching or taking note of what I want to be different, to change about myself.  But for today, I choose to be a part of this great group of women, and enjoy the memories we share.  For today, moving along means remembering and enjoying, no strings attached.

Bucket List

The writing group I belong to was given a free-write prompt to write our own bucket list. I've never been one for those.  Seems to me your dreams and wants should just spill out and around as time goes by, but this was my attempt at one. 

I've never been good at following directions:

"I want to see a sunrise in each and every country, against every backdrop. I want to hear the sound of all the oceans, one by one. The Aegean will be peaceful, the Mediterranean will have a lilt to it. The Pacific will sound like an opera, the Atlantic like a rock concert. Each new body of water will sing to me. I want to see my husband's face light up at my arrival to a room. I want to be a writer, and a teacher, and a singer, and a reiki master, and a sketch artist, and an actor, and an absolute failure at something so that I can say 'But look at all the other things I do.'

And what of the bucket itself? What will I carry all these shiny list-items in? C'mon Laura, everyone knows that the bucket list is a list of all the things you want to do before you kick the bucket. Well I'm taking it a step further. I'm carrying around all the items IN a bucket. My bucket list will be carried, goddammit! It will be purple glass, the shade of purple that makes you smile startledly when the light hits it. And it's glass. Oh yes, it is glass; fragile and precious and to be handled delicately. Even though the shade of purple is practically brute in force, it is still a piece of glass. It is still so easily breakable that a gentle breeze could knock it to one side and destroy it. 

Please be careful with my bucket and its list. For it resides inside me, just under my left rib."

What's Next?

Anyone who watches "West Wing" knows that one.... what's the next thing to be tackled?  Who needs to be taken on?  How do we claim triumph over the next set of obstacles?

These are the questions I ask myself in a hospital room in Concord, MA.  By now, I figure I've lost at least half my reading audience.  I figure this mostly because I write about THE SAME SHIT OVER AND OVER AGAIN.  But I can't help it.  This is the stuff of life that eludes me, and I will continue to write about it until it makes sense. I swear, I'm not trying to bore anyone.  But this is the course of my life.  If you're bored with the monotony of hospitalization after hospitalization, can you imagine how I feel?????

I ask "What's next?" because I (and a team of highly-trained specialists) have come to a conclusion: Laura is very good at being bipolar.  Laura is also very good at singing & acting in high-pressure, high-level musical productions.  What Laura is NOT very good at is doing both at the same time.  Since kicking bipolar disorder to the curb doesn't seem to be in the cards right now, I am taking a hiatus from performance.

The thought of this makes me nauseous. This is not "ok, go do this difficult thing without a net".  This is "you've been doing this difficult thing without a net since you were three years old, now just fucking stop". The idea of it brings on waves of depression, devastation, confusion.  I feel like someone just pulled a rug out from under me and told me there was a floor to walk on, so just go do it.  But the floor is covered in tacks & nails.  How the FUCK am I supposed to walk across this new floor?  I don't need a net, I don't need a map; I need feet of steel.

I know that there's nothing telling me not to sing EVER.  I'm allowed.  My throat works.  I remember the notes and words and rhythms.  I just can't do it in front of anybody for the foreseeable future.

AND I AM PISSED.

I have some thoughts.  I won't stay away from music.  I'll continue to take voice lessons.  I'll continue to work on my piano playing (when the titanium screws in my right hand don't give me too much trouble), and I am hell-bent on learning to play the guitar.

But this feeling of not singing feels like someone is trying to pull my heart out of my chest... through my right eye socket.  It's a ripping and tearing that I can't even get my brain to comprehend.  I need some steel plates in my head and heart to go with those feet.  I need to walk across that floor.  How the hell am I going to get across that floor?

What's next?

A Reflection

But that's what these all are, aren't they? Reflections of a mind that is usually aware of itself, and sometimes on another planet.  Today, I'm somewhere between the two... and here's why....

Today is my 35th birthday. A birthday is always a time of reflection.  What has happened in the last year?  What has happened since I got to this planet?  Am I leaving it in a better place than when I showed up?

I'm not sure.

Everyone who reads this knows the struggles and battles I fight.  I am a woman with Bipolar Disorder.  I am a talented singer, writer, and hopefully a loving person of my friends, family, and fellow man.  But I am also a person who sometimes finds it easier to cut her own flesh than make it through the next five minutes.  

It's been 10 days since that happened. 

I'm proud of myself for that. I also dread the next time. Because I'm not foolish enough to think that it'll never happen again. I can only pray that I'll stave off the feelings for a long while. That I'll keep doing my nails and wearing bracelets and dreaming of the "scar tattoos" that I will never get. 

I am starting another round of partial hospitalization. I am hopeful, as always, that I'll fill my arsenal with more tools and weapons against the worst parts of the disease. 

I am starting to lose hope that the naturopathic care I'm receiving will do anything good for me. I ended up in the ER last week with a whopping part of gastritis. After they gave me morphine and at least 4 different stomach medications, they told me I might have the beginnings of an ulcer. I was instructed to discontinue my supplements by my naturopath. Now I feel better. Many thousands of dollars and supplements and ten months later, I find it hard not to throw inanimate objects randomly. I'm so angry. I feel a fool once again. Just like after the failed TMS and the failed ECT and the myriad of failed medications. 

I saw a new medication doctor last week. He was brutally honest, and I could have kissed him for it. He said "Laura, after reading your chart, I thought a mess would walk into my office. You're not a mess. You're a high-functioning person with a chronic illness, doing the best she can. I don't have a magic pill, or even a lot of ideas for you yet, but if you continue to be open-minded and use your tools, including the hospital, you will live well with this disease." 

It's all I can ask for. It's all any of us can ask for. To go forward and live to the best of our ability, whatever that is. 

So am I leaving this world better off than when I was brought into it? Am I doing my best? I hope so. I hope for better futures. I hope for things like peace and harmony in the world. I hope that the Red Sox will stop sucking. I hope that we will find a way to stop hurting each other and ourselves. 

I hope.