Wishes...

Well, I guess we all have them, right? I remember an interview with David Duchovny back in the "X-Files" days; he said "My Dad used to say 'If wishes were wheels, my grandmother would be a trolley!'" LOL

I have many wishes. I wish I were 100 lbs lighter. I wish I were a world-famous opera singer. I wish it didn't take practically a US Army unit to get me out of bed in the morning. I wish I were a better cook and housekeeper. I wish God had given me body capable of having children. Mostly, I wish I were a better wife to my wonderful husband. 

I know part of the reason I wish this particular last wish is because my rape history sticks like a bad dream that just won't go away. Unfortunately, it wasn't a dream. I work at "forgetting", which is silly. I work at "processing", which I am learning is a life-long process. The typical rape victim issues and thoughts plague my brain on a regular basis: "I wish I hadn't worn those clothes...", "I wish I had not been so stupid & gullible...", "I wish I'd fought harder...", "I wish I hadn't panicked when his hand went around my throat..."  Wishes, wishes, wishes....

Well, Laura, none of these things will go away. You don't know his name, so you can't report it, even now, 15 years

later. 

What I can do is work hard. I can work hard at remembering to take my medication every morning. I can work hard at my therapy sessions. I can work hard at being honest and not shoving "things" to the back of my head. I can work hard at being the best wife, daughter, sister, and aunt possible. I can work hard to keep myself educated about the "fall-out" from this kind of trauma, especially combined with a bipolar diagnosis. 

And so now I will turn my wishes toward myself and my hard work. I have a strong brain, and it can take it. 

My wishes for a better existence can become a reality, starting today.....

Grateful for so much...

I often use this blog as a place to grieve over what Bipolar disorder has taken from me, or to face what I must deal with because of said disorder. 

Today, I want to take time to appreciate all that I have and am afforded because of, or in spite of, this illness. 

I have amazing family and friends, who check in with me on a regular basis and do the best they can to make me feel better. They include my husband, parents, siblings, singing friends, and even management of singing groups. They are all kind, curious, and understanding. Yesterday I was at a rehearsal. The conductor made me laugh while I had coffee in my mouth, and I ended up spraying it all over two people next to me. One friend was completely understanding and didn't think twice about just cleaning things up and not worrying about it. The other singer didn't really know me, so she was furious and gave me a ration of shit. I apologized profusely, but that didn't matter. She bitched me out, even though there wasn't much of anything spilled on her. She was really angry, and was pretty vicious yelling at me. My manager saw this, and texted to ask what was wrong. I told him, and he told me not to think twice about it. I couldn't help it; I started to cry. He saw this and made sure he gave me a hug and told me there was no reason to worry. He talked to me until I felt better, and made me laugh. He knew what I needed. There is another manager I work with who does the same. They both understand the nature of my illness, and try hard to make me comfortable no matter what. 

It's much like my wonderful husband Paulie, who can tell when I need a hug and kiss, versus when I need a good laugh. He does whatever is necessary to make me feel just a bit better. After last week, where I felt that 6 slashes on my left wrist was the only answer, these people have made it a goal to see that I'm not taking myself or life too seriously, and that I can still find joy in everyday life. 

I am so grateful to all these people, and that will not stop. As I said to a friend today, I should probably say something "Boston sarcastic" now, but I can't think of a thing. I'm just humbled and grateful to everyone. 

Hopefully I can make all these people proud. 

Star Trek & Robin Hood & Romance Novels...Oh my!

Today is July 20th. It's a Monday. I'm back home after a great vacation down the Cape with my family, getting ready for a typical week ahead. 

Unfortunately, my chronic illness has been rearing its ugly head for the last few days. I've been livid, agitated, sad, weeping, confused, and everything in between. All I want to do is sit on my couch, watch television, and go out for a cigarette once in awhile. There's house work and food shopping to be done, and I can't even think about it right now. 

Paulie and my family are wonderful, as always. They tell me they love me, make sure I take my medication, and text encouragement and cute videos when they are able. 

Tomorrow is Tuesday July 21st. Dad will take me to McLean for an ECT treatment. It just can't come soon enough. Although I loathe general anesthesia, I know that I will feel myself again after the procedure. Or so I hope. There's always that fear in the back of my mind that this time the ECT will stop being effective, that the crying and the agitation and the rage won't stop, and that the wanting to cut myself will push itself to the front of my brain, and spill out onto my wrists. 

The "distress tolerance" skills that I've been employing the past few days have been watching episodes of Star Trek:TNG, the BBC Robin Hood (yay Richard Armitage!), and reading romance novels. They help keep me focused on "fun things", even when this illness is trying its hardest to kick my ass into freaking out, or even hurting myself. 

Paulie and I had a talk this morning. We just kept saying "This is a chronic illness; it's going to do this once in awhile." 

And so I ride this wave, pray that ECT will help me tomorrow, and keep my thumb hovering over the Netflix remote, swapping between the USS Enterprise and Sherwood Forest......

Calming the seas...

As many of you may or may not know, I am a devout Catholic. Now, this isn't to say that there aren't a few things the Church could update their stance on, but that's for another blog post. Suffice it to say, I attend Mass every week and pray daily. Sometimes it's the Rosary, and sometimes it's simply an extended period of time where I pray to those saints who I feel I am in tune with. 

Last week, I was at Mass, and the gospel was the one where Jesus is awakened in a sinking boat, calms the seas, and admonishes the apostles for their lack of faith, assuring them He will always be there to "calm the seas", metaphorically speaking. The priest then gave a sermon on the idea that Jesus is always there, calming the seas and "making everything ok". I couldn't help it. I started to cry.

If Jesus is always there, calming the seas, why has my life been such a turbulent disaster in so many ways? Why was I always bullied as a child? Why was I raped in college? Why do I have this fucking disease that doesn't allow me a real career, or more than a few months outside a psych ward? Why has my body been made so that I cannot have children? I was furious, and find that I still am. 

When I talked to Paulie about it, and he is far more intelligent and religiously inclined than I am, he said "But that's not what the gospel meant. It's telling us that Jesus will always be there to watch over us and help us as is fit, not that we'll all have perfect lives."

I understand this, and I even talked to my therapist about it. She's Jewish, so we don't often talk religion, as we don't quite see things in the same light, but she said something that struck me: "Laura, Jesus is calming the internal seas of your soul as He can. It's not about justice in the outside world. It's about inner peace." I accept that, and know that that is what I must work on next. 

The thing is, and anyone with a chronic illness might say this, it's not just about "letting yourself get better". It's about constant hard work. I have been working my ass off since age 15. I work daily at mindfulness, emotion regulation, and so forth. I must remember to take my medications and supplements every day. I must look at the world in as positive a light as I can. I must pray daily. I must attend weekly therapy sessions. I must have shock therapy on a regular basis. Oh, and I must also live my life as fully as I can as well. 

I still take voice lessons on a regular basis, I work a few days a week, I do the laundry and the dishes and wash the floors and dust and vacuum. I attend functions and see my family and friends. I sing when I can. 

I suppose what I am ultimately saying is I'm looking really hard for Jesus in all of this, and trying to see what waters he's actually calming. I'm tired. I'm still working my ass off, but I'm tired, and so is my husband and family. 

Am I in the wrong boat? Am I looking in the wrong place? 

I simply feel abandoned, and I wish that God would give me some sort of sign that this is really what my life is supposed to be. 

Maybe I need to change boats, or I'm simply not looking hard enough, but I am so very tired....

"Life is a banquet....

....and some poor sons-of-bitches are starving to death!"

This is a quote from "Mame" that my mother often quotes when I'm not doing well, or turning in on myself, becoming more depressed. 

Lately, I've been feeling FANTASTIC, as the combination of shock therapy, medication, and vitamin supplements has really been working for me. 

I have been praying to the Blessed Mother and St. Dymphna (the patron saint of mental illness) to keep this streak going. While there's been a "bump" here or there I can say with much confidence that I've been doing well for awhile.  And thank you to the "many-faced god" for that. ;) (I'm only kidding, Paulie!!!!)

This blog post isn't so much about "profound discoveries" or the like.  This is really just a place to say "THANK YOU" for all the good I've been feeling in the last bit of time.  Thank you to Paulie, and my family, and my friends, and the strangers who say "hi" when I greet them in the grocery store.  Thank you to the store clerks who share pleasant small talk with me while I buy a few items.  Thank you to the priests who have told me how happy they are that I'm feeling better.  Thank you to the St. Michael Parish Choir, who treat me with dignity and respect and fill me with laughter each week.  And thank you Biggy, for your constant prayers to the Little Flower.  (She's pretty sure that's the real reason I'm feeling so much better. ;) )

I thank you all for following this journey of mine, and don't mind any good thoughts, vibes, or prayers you send my way as I try and continue this journey of "feeling good."

I'm determined to belly up to the banquet of Life, and refuse to be one of those starving sons-of-bitches!!!

Thanks, Momma.  I love you.

Who Am I?

Of course, the first thing I want to do is sing "2-4-6-0-1!!!!!!".  Ahem.  OK, now that my Les Mis moment is behind me, I'll get to the crux of things. This post was begun when I was in McLean, being held for suicidal ideation.  So this will go from feelings of a month ago to present day. I hope it's not too hard to follow. 

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I'm in the psych ward again, and this time is different.  Well, they're always different, but this one is really kicking my ass.  I have a lot of suicidal feelings, and the staff here are trying their very best to keep my body and soul in one piece.  God Bless them for it.

I've been struggling big time with the idea that my life is really for naught, that aside from my amazing husband and great family holding me up, I've done shit with my life.  I try to get pleasure and fulfillment from my job and relationships, but my brain is telling me that I should put it all aside and just kill myself.  This is the disease talking, and as my sainted husband always says "Don't believe the lies."  I'm doing my best to follow his advice.

Tonight, a counselor asked me "Who do you think you are?"

The answer is complicated.  Well, yes, thank you Captain Obvious, but what IS the answer?

The answer is I don't know.

The answer is that I'm still trying to figure it out.

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Now I've been out of McLean's Short Term Unit for about three weeks, but I've been going there two to three times a week as an outpatient for ECT, or electro convulsive therapy. I have now had 16 treatments this go-around...so far.

The wonderful news is I feel really good from the treatments. The not-so-great news is I have to go under general anesthesia every time, so my body has physically been through the ringer. I am very fortunate to have amazing family and friends who are willing to drive me to each and every treatment. Since I must go under anesthesia, I am not allowed to drive, and I usually end up sleeping off the meds the rest of the day.

Each session is the same. A nurse brings me to a waiting room with a stretcher. I hop on and she places hot packs on my right hand and arm, to help the anesthesiologist find good veins for the IV. My blood pressure and pulse are checked, and once the treatment room is ready, I'm wheeled in. An ECT doctor, anesthesiologist, and nurse are all present. An IV is begun, and I quickly lose consciousness. I wake up in a recovery room sometime later, and there I must be monitored for at least 45 minutes. Then a doctor meets with me, verifies that I am sufficiently recovered, and sends me home. 

So lately my brain has gone back to the question of two months ago: who am I? What I have decided for the time being is that though I may not be particularly proud of what I've become, I am a work in progress. I am a person who is feeling a little better with every passing day, and I can make the best of each moment. 

For example, I decided this week that I have not gone and seen my sisters and friends in NYC in ages, so I am taking the end of this week and weekend to do just that. I will walk the streets of New York with my head held high and my brain ready to have the most fun I can. I can't wait to see all my friends and family in the big bad city. 

I am going to have another treatment on Tuesday, but then I will board a bus on Thursday and take the big bad city by storm. I may not know exactly who I am, but I'm going to have fun while I figure it out.

A passing Thursday afternoon...

My Thursdays are kind of awesome. My good friend has a bookstore in downtown Concord (come see us at Barrow Bookstore!), and I get to come help out for the afternoon. Today as I was sitting and waiting on customers, the following came to me as a little spurt of creativity. Hope you enjoy, gentle readers. 

Untitled 

Snow like eyelashes escaped,

A door to keep it from me,

Surrounded by well-meaning paper,

And all I see is the probability. 

The probability of the slush on the ground,

The probability that the door may open,

The probability that some bit of dust will keep the paper company. 

Snow that smiles as it falls,

The door that stalwartly stands,

The paper questioningly waiting,

And all I taste is new beginnings.