What it's like to have bipolar disorder

i've read some cool stuff about bipolar and learn more and more about it which is a great relief.

it's not just the high highs and low lows that we all think of.

yes, i have bipolar disorder. i work (sort of), and i put up a good front
i like to talk about it and dismantle the sigma.

but here’s what i want everyone to know. here’s the reality. here’s what happens beneath the armour of the tin (wo)man (yeah, the one that, in the past, had no heart, but is now busting open inside).

Bipolar. Disorder.

it's the most fuckin winding and unpredictable roller coaster that you can imagine
a straight jacket and a wild party all in one

one minute i'm crying, the next witty and charismatic and bopping around in Nia class, and the next angry and belligerent (but i do my very fucking best to keep that locked up inside)

it happens that quickly
moment by moment

i’ve tried to slot myself into a category of “high”, “low” or “mixed” state, but for me, it doesn’t work that way
because it is all happening at once
i don’t care what anyone says, it IS
happening all at once, that is

i’m primed to fight and willing to give in all at the same time
i long to win and fervently beg to lose in the same instant
i fight with myself – having the desire to achieve, people-please and self-destruct all at once
“should i stay or should i go” – it’s a constant battle, and i’m getting tired of watching the tennis match that no one ever wins and no one ever loses

it's tiring trying to level myself out

like when Ii'm sitting across from a client thinking "what are you complaining about?" because i feel like regurgitated oatmeal
and simultaneously i’m fuckin’ chewing myself out because i know better than to compare suffering
our suffering is all valid, no matter what

or when i’m teaching a class with a howdy doody smile plastered on my face
trying desperately to choose joy, i do try, i do
like Lina said “fake it til you make it”

or like when i have to mask my fuckin' raging energy so i don't get myself in trouble
because there are about a ga-zillion times a day when i could easily publicly or socially humiliate myself because of my passions or convictions or anger or downright horror about how the world is these days

i have to say that the auditory and visual illusions are the most disturbing
things you think you hear and see, but know afterwards can't be possible
i know that they can’t be real, but still i see and hear them, i do….

mostly when i'm in this place i feel guilty
that i'm not the over achiever that i used to be
that i'm not as disciplined as i was
that i can't produce and kiss ass like i did before
that i just can’t fucking sort myself out and be normal
jennifer elizabeth hicks was normal once
i swear, she really was.

Sunday Scribblings #28 - Mis-spent youth

The glory days
The carefree ways
Spinning-round-invoking-haze
The deliberate "I'm unbeatable" phase
Oh me, oh my, I'm in a daze!

A triumphantly mis-spent youth.

An evil gaze
A hurtful phrase
Sleepy, pimply, angry days
The "you just don't understand me" craze
Oh me, oh my, I'm in a daze!

A dazzlingly mis-spent youth.

Whispering, gossipy, "I'm ugly" days
The "I've invented BETTER ways"
A daring, never-ending maze
Our very own one-act plays
Oh me, oh my, I'm in a daze!

A naively mis-spent youth.

The "there's no point in listening" craze
Avoidable maturity delays
Those "I have no purpose" days
A mind-altering substance haze
Oh me, oh my, I'm in a daze!

A collosally mis-spent youth.

A growing up and out phase
Where breaking rules never pays
No more wasted self-hate days
A kinder, gentler, more respectful phrase
Oh me, oh my, welcome happy days!

An vital but mis-spent youth.

Hip art for dancing hearts: A collage and Nia dance workshop Sunday Dec 2, 2007 9:45-11:45am

Spend your Sunday morning expressing yourself through collage and Nia!


We will use collage to learn about the self healing principles of Nia and then practice these principles in a full length Nia class!
(*bring a friend and the 2nd person pays ½ price = $18.75 each)




Date: Sun Dec 2, ‘07 Time: 9:45-11:45am
Location: The Union Yoga Center
242 Carlton (at Parliament)
www.theunionyogacenter.ca
Reason: Fundraiser ~ to support community programming at The Union




Cost: $25* materials included
Hosted by: Jennifer Hicks,
Nia Instructor
4.461.3008
jenniferhicks@rogers.com

“The natural language of the soul is the image, and through the discovery of
our own unique forms we can find access to an inner guidance that is truly remarkable”
-Douglas Gilbert

No Fat Chicks - Terry Poulton

Why did I spend so long fighting fat? Um, duh.... it was because the world taught me to!

With the advent of Weight Watchers, ours was a diet, body conscious household. Worse, during my vulnerable adolescent years, I yo-yoed and enjoyed the favourable endorsements of my "slimage".

The battle against myself continued because I was shamed into it and felt I didn't measure up if I didn't meet the measure. I'm so angry, yet so relieved that I don't look through someone else's lens on life anymore.

Women like Terry Poulton, who write about the truth, are my inspiration.

An excerpt from her most amazing book, "No fat chicks" is below (which, by the way, is available for borrowing through the Toronto Public Library.


Terry Poulton
No Fat Chicks

“The other side of the coin, in terms of what the “billion-dollar brain-wash” has wrought, is the intense anger so many people feel towards Fat Chicks. Certainly, other minorities face deplorable prejudice. But, when you’re overweight, the hostility feels more personally directed. After all, nobody is told flat-out to switch religions, or to change the colour of her skin or the shape of her facial features. The disabled aren’t ordered to walk, and those with diseases aren’t told simply to snap out of it. Society has finally evolved to a point where alcoholics, drug addicts, and the mentally ill are treated with compassion instead of contempt. But the overweight are still regarded as deserving of abuse and exclusion.

The fact is that we have been deliberately conditioned to be repelled by the very sight of a fat woman. And this knee-jerk reaction is constantly reinforced in the media – both information and entertainment – by means of the hundreds of images that surround us during an average day. Yet a stroll through any traditional art gallery will confirm that this is a conditioned, rather than a primary response, and that it is of very recent vintage.

Oddly enough, however, appearance per se isn’t the most significant element of the taboo against obesity, according to many psychological authorities. Rather, the hostility has more to do with the presumed breaking of rules that others feel compelled to obey. Given that most women are not naturally skinny, especially as they age, achieving this body image takes prodigious effort and self-denial. Yet only rarely do we hear such women characterize this as the extreme sacrifice it is. And when they do hint at it, they blame themselves instead of the ruthless pressure to accomplish the impossible. In fact, it’s often as if a societal ventriloquist is at work when they alternately apologize for eating and concoct absurd rationalizations for consuming even innocuous amounts (as Fat Chicks also often feel compelled to do).”

pp. 115-6

Sunday Scribblings #27 - I carry

I am the means by which something passes, or is inspired to flow or move,
from one place to another.
Sherpa.
A term of endearment that my husband uses.
"Why won't you let me carry something for you?", he often asks.

I am alive, protected and safe.
But only if I am carrying something.
Usually that means a change of clothes.
Or maybe it's the groceries.
Likely it's my macbook.

When I'm walking, I carry a big heavy backpack.
It weighs almost 20 pounds (I weighed it on the Jet Fuel scale one day).
Here it is:












My network chiropractor just laughs when she sees it.
I wonder how I balance on my bicycle with that thing.


In India, it's perfectly normal to carry your life and livelihood on your bike.
I really "get" that.
I really do.




Can you see the bicycle under all those cans?





My therapist once pointed out that when I was really ill,
I carried tons of bags with me.
Funny how illness exacerbates our idiosyncracies
to the point of being considered dysfunctional.
I guess that means that I'm never too far from the
edge.

I carry 12, 732 days with me.
I carry 10 years of elementary school,
5 years of high school,
4 years of undergrad,
and 2 years of grad school.
I carry 21 years of formal education!

Currently, I carry some sort of virus that is attacking my oto-pharyngeal constituency.
It is causing me pain, fatigue, muffled hearing and dysphonia (voice disturbance).
I carry a motion: "be gone, virus!"
All in favour?
Motion passed.

Too often, I carry guilt.
I once carried shame.
No longer.
Yes, I no longer carry disgrace or dishonour.

I carried Andrew when he was only a few minutes old.
I do not know what it is like to "carry" a child (in the literal, maternal sense).
I used to try to carry my cat Pekoe, but that was disturbing for her so
she'd wriggle out of my hold all seizure-like and fall to the ground.

I have carried life, I have carried death.
I carry labels, but I don't live up to them.
Or at least I fight them.
And try not to give in.

You know what?
I'm grateful, because I CAN carry.
I can carry.

To serve and protect

I’m still trying to figure out just what I witnessed this morning. Cycling home from a doctor’s appointment up Parliament Street, I got cut off by a police officer making a U turn. After narrowly missing me, he pulled over, got out of his car (which was still idling), and walked over to a panhandler sitting on the sidewalk.

I stopped to see what was going to happen.

_____ is someone I often chat with and offer smiles and meals to. When she’s not asking for change, she sometimes yells “get out”. Other times she just moans loudly. Some people find it annoying. I hear people laughing and smirking around her all the time. That’s all about fear, that’s what that reaction is. My reaction is different because I know there’s a person in there. Someone who could easily be my mother.

Who is she talking to when she yells “get out”? I asked her once. She said she’s afraid of getting hit again.

People say she’s an addict. I don’t doubt that. But you don’t have to be Sigmund Freud to recognize that her addictions are probably just a symptom of something greater. Something that all the finger-pointers are trying desperately not to admit. Yes, as my therapist says, “there’s a little bit of madness in all of us”, and that’s a scary realization for most people. It’s much easier to call other people “crazy” or “lunatics”. Those other people who could easily be their mother.

“Come over here ______, I want to talk to you”, he said.

She got up, and he got back into his (still idling) car. I couldn’t hear what was being said as she leaned into the open passenger side window. But I could tell she was answering the questions being asked of her respectfully. She then moved away from the car and sat down on the rain soaked sidewalk for about 10 minutes while the officer idled his car. She just sat there, obediently, waiting.

I guess he called her name, because she got up, now with a rain-soaked bottom, and leaned over into the open passenger window.

He handed her a piece of paper.

“What is it?”, she asked after saying “Thank you”.

I couldn’t make out what the officer said, but I heard her response.

“Awwww”

Then, the officer raised his voice,

“You can’t stay here anymore”.

“Ok”, she said as she walked away.

I couldn’t help but wonder what he had given her. Maybe the name of a shelter? Or a phone number and 50 cents to make a call? Or maybe he had given her the name of a social service agency that could help her find greater independence. “To serve and protect” – I was hopeful that that’s what he was doing.

I walked up to her, as I have many times before, and smiled.

“Hi _____. What did that police officer give you?”

“A $100 ticket” she said.

Now, who is that serving? And how is that protecting anyone? This woman has a fixed income of $500 per month. She is unable to work because she was asked to leave work to go on disability, has had a stroke, and I’d be willing to bet that she is challenged by mental health issues. In essence, she was fined for having a disability. For trying to supplement her income, for doing the best she knows how to do.

In the time that that police officer took to write up that ticket (which, who are we kidding, is never gonna get paid), he could have easily driven her to a nearby community health centre or shelter. All those exhaust fumes (which, by the way, were blowing directly into her face while she sat waiting on the sidewalk) could have done less harm had he just used his “law enforcement skills” to honour the most basic law of all: showing respect and kindness to everyone.

The problem is not panhandling. The problem is that we punish the ill for something beyond their control. We have laws that penalize our unhealthy brothers, sisters, mothers, aunts, grandmothers, cousins, nieces, fathers and grandfathers. There’s something really, really wrong about that. Really wrong.

Sunday Scribblings #26 - Left and Right

Throw salt over your left shoulder and you'll hit the devil.
Don't expect it to work if you use your right shoulder - the devil stands to your left.

Southpaw.
I am right because I'm left.
Left handed people are the only ones in their right minds.

If I have a left hemisphere stroke, will I lose my language?
Or will it be preserved?
I worry about having aphasia (an acquired neurological language disorder).
How would anyone test a Speech-Language Pathologist with aphasia who knows all the tests for aphasia?

I'm hoping I have bilateral language representation.
Then I won't have to worry about stuff like that.
They say that 50% of left-handers do.

I'm left handed, but right footed.
I kick with my right foot in soccer.
Yet, I step up and down stairs with my left foot first.
So am I really right footed?
I shoot right in hockey, I thread a needle with my left hand, I use a right-handed mouse.
I prefer to sleep on my right side, and I have a lot of left handed friends.

My dominance seems to run along a continuum.
I grew up in a left-hand-dominant household.
I have a left handed mom and a left handed twin sister.
I think I just wanted to "fit in", so I became left handed too.

Annie Lennox
Hans Christian Anderson*
Leonardo DaVinci
Jimi Hendrix*
Helen Keller
Matt Groening
Michaelangelo
Edvard Munsch*
Lewis Carroll
Marie Curie
Carol Burnett
Jim Hensen

All left handed, some have bipolar disorder too (just like me). Coincidence?

Geneticist Amar Klar, Ph.D., at the National Cancer Institute, developed a theory based on yeast research. YEAST research? Hmmm...

Amar that suggests that people who are "non-right-handed" (so, left handed or ambidextrous), have a threefold higher prevalence of schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. Some studies of families with several members who have either schizophrenia or bipolar disease suggest abnormalities related to hemisphere asymmetry. In particular, the affected family members with psychoses seem to have brain hemispheres that are more symmetrical in terms of their functioning, with language processes present in both hemispheres.

That was pretty tangential, but factual.
But see, maybe I do have language in both my left and right cerebral hemispheres.
Whew...I'm relieved.

I feel so scatter-brained. Never mind left or right brained.

a complicated kindness by Miriam Toews

I love recording excerpts from books. They give me ideas and strength and something concrete to relate to. It used to be that I'd copy things out in my journal or save them as word files. I'm ready to start sharing them in blog-land now.

So here's one from the book I'm currently reading.
The book is called "a complicated kindness" by Miriam Toews.
I'm really enjoying this book about a teenager trapped in a Mennonite lifestyle just aching to burst out of the ultra-religious microcosm she's been born into.

Here's my favourite excerpt.

"There was a little kid, maybe three or four, walking down Main Street by herself with a doll's stroller strapped to her butt. Every few steps she'd stop and sit down in it for a rest and then get back up and keep walking.

From the back all I could see was the stroller and two little legs. I wondered what she was thinking. I wonder what three-year-olds think. I wonder if somebody had told her she was too big for that stroller. I wonder if she felt the way I did about people who told you something that you knew was just not fuckin' true and if she felt like screaming at them and hurting them and plunging herself into a chemically induced oblivion.

I admired this kid for keeping her cool. She just strapped herself into that doll stroller and took off walking, probably without a word. All the way down Main Street. She'll show the whole town that no, in fact, she still fits into the damn stroller." p. 133


STRAIGHT UP SISTER!

Sunday Scribblings #25 - Money

"Knowledge is like money: the more (s)he gets, the more (s)he craves."
Henry Wheeler Shaw

Dough
Moola
Bacon
Dinero
Dollars
Bread

Coin.
I hate thinking about it.
I wonder why I have such anxiety when it comes to cash.
The discomfort runs so deep that I take a flight or fight approach to money.
That means that usually I just avoid thinking about it, and end up not fully considering my financial options.

On the one hand, I'm super frugal. I buy all my clothes second-hand, and ride my bicycle everywhere I go to avoid paying for gas and car maintenance. I do my grocery shopping at a discount supermarket called "No Frills", get free haircuts by being a hair model at Vidal Sasson, don't buy fancy gadgets or electronics and skimp on any unnecessary expenses.
But whenever I need to make a major purchase, I freeze.

I crawl out of my skin with impatience at the idea of having to think about parting with lots of money.
My strategy? To make impulse purchases. To just buy the first thing I see, without doing any price comparisons. Yes, it's an awesome way to get taken, I'm fully aware. At least I'm aware. Awareness is the first step towards change, correct?
My lack of research drives my husband crazy, so often he takes over and does the "paralysis by analysis" thing by obsessing over the "best" price (yes, he has his own money-related issues, easily summed up as 'net worth = self worth'). I haven't quite gotten to the heart of my own financial neuroses yet. Funny how it's easier to sort out other people's problems than your own....

Money was always quite a secretive topic when I was growing up.
We used to get these boxes of envelopes at church. You had to look on a table full of boxes for the one with your name and number on it. Each week we were to bring one of those 52 envelopes with us to church, sealed with our "offering" inside. I think the church kept a record of how much cash you dropped. The more dollars and cents that were in that envelope, the closer you were to heaven. It was a kind of money-buys-godliness type of a deal. Yet it wasn't ok to talk about how much you were giving with anyone else. These were private matters. Between you, the financial secretary, and God.

I used to wonder how much money my mom made at work. It really couldn't have been much - she worked for the Salvation Army as a Social Worker. I would ask her occasionally, and her response didn't change. "That's personal", she would say.
Ok, so that reinforced that money was not to be discussed. The secrecy linked money with a certain evil. If it wasn't ok to talk about, then perhaps it was a bad thing?! And yet, if it was such a bad thing, then how come it was linked with such saintly-ness in the church? I still feel like that 6 year old asking about money and then feeling like a sinner for doing so. My little brain is not able to sort that message out quite yet.

I'm also reminded of the concept of "self-denial". There was a certain time of year, I think maybe each spring, where we were to deny ourselves of things so that we could raise more cash for the church. The envelopes were not enough during this particular campaign. In addition to regular giving, we were encouraged to renounce some other worldly thing so that we could beef up someone's bank account. Well, that's how it felt. It really was forced giving. I didn't have a choice. I didn't get to say, "yeah, this is a good idea". I can remember questioning this, even at such a young age. Nonetheless, I was shamed and peer-pressured into it because it became a contest. Funny how that early life lesson somehow instilled a sense of lack of entitlement. It seemed I interpreted this process of actively witholding pleasure as a sort of punishment for being happy. That I should deny myself of self compassion. I'm not suggesting this was what the church said to me. My innocent and impressionable mind just felt that way about it.

I can remember times when I was quite fixed and rigid about my bank account. It was when I was doing my undergraduate degree. I was working part time for a bank, and my bi-weekly paycheck was $300 and change (wow, I don't think I make that much money now!!!). I diligently split those earning in thirds; saving in my RSP, saving in a mutual fund account, and allowing for some spending money. Those were very calculated ways. I wonder where those habits went?

Remember allowances? My allowance seemed to be a tool for reward or punishment. Be good, and you'll get $, be bad, and it will be with-held as punishment. Complaining too much bought me total financial autonomy at a certain age. When I was about 12, I became quite fussy about my clothing. Fed up, my mom gave us our "baby bonus" (a dependent's stipend offered by the Canadian Government back in the 70s & 80s), and had us buy our own clothes. I still remember that $33.33 being carefully spent at the end of each month on things like Jordache Jeans, Polo Shirts, Beaver Canoe sweatshirts and boat shoes.

Money.
I've been witness to the dissolution of relationships because of it. The legal system exists because of it. It drives a lot of people. It makes people suffer, it can be addictive, and it can weigh your wallet down.
I'm not a big fan, but I don't much have a choice.
I can't pay for my Jet Fuel lattes or my bike tune-ups or my oatmeal 'n bananas without it.

p.s. Buy nothing Day is November 23, 2007
http://adbusters.org/metas/eco/bnd/

His Holiness the XIV Dalai Lama - Roger's Centre, Toronto, October 31

Yesterday afternoon I had the most honourable priveledge of being surrounded by beautiful Tibetan women wearing their best Chupas and aprons. Miniature tibetan flags were abundant and age-old mudras (sacred hand gestures used to express wisdom) reminded me of the sacred traditions held in the space.

I sat, in my unassigned VIP lounge booth (!), with my dear friend Trixie, and soaked up the wisdom (and I mean wisdom) of one of the newest honourary Canadian Citizens.

His Holiness the XIV Dalai Lama started his talk at the Roger's Centre with a giggle. This endearing introduction was followed by "So...(with a rather long pause)..". And then, he exemplified self-compassion. I don't think I understood the "Self before others" mantra before seeing him embody it.

Before starting, explained that he needed to feel comfortable. He took off his slippers, crossed his legs, and settled back on his couch before speaking. Oh, and he put on a visor, too. I guess that was to keep the bright lights out of his eyes, but it made me chuckle. From the neck up he resembled a poker shark, a guy who might be driving around in a newly restored 70s Cadillac. Below the neck, he was unmistakeably the Dalai Lama, clothed in burgundy and gold monks robes and wearing his prayer beads.

When I bought the tickets online, my inner skeptic had me expecting a lecture or a sermon about how much of a sinner I am. That's the message I've been accustomed to hearing from other religious leaders.

But you know what he told that audience of 30,000 people? Not to expect anything from his talk. In fact, he made it clear from the start that what he was going to tell us was pretty straightforward stuff.

You know what? Tenzin Gyatso (the DL's real name) won me over right there and then. That's respect, folks. Those words dissolved any potential power differentials, levelling the playing field. His approach honoured our inherent inner wisdom and I felt he was relating to his audience with humility and truth.

His message was almost formulaic, which made it simple for my analytical mind to grasp. He didn't wrap his message up in fancy words or by quoting other's works. I guess he knows what I learned about in first year university English class - B.B.B. (Bullshit Baffles Brains).

Messages I took home? Simply put:

1. a calm mind + compassion + warm-heartedness = happiness

2. affection leads to inner peace; inner peace = world peace

3. inner peace --> confidence --> inner power

4. War is outdated!

5. Teaching children compassion and communication = 21st century can be "The Century of Dialogue"


He made some other points that really resonated with me.

He spoke of secularism. He declared that secularism is not a "rejection of religion", but rather, it is an acceptance of all faiths and all beliefs. I can't tell you how much sense that made to me. I can't tell you how validated I felt to hear that it was ok to be curious and open about ALL spiritual belief systems, organized or not. His proclamation reminded me that he truly does feel that we are all the same. I mean, the guy is a Buddhist, but not once did he endorse his beliefs as THE beliefs. At no point did he pull out a persuasive card to "win us over". Truly refreshing.

The DL also responded to a question with a plain "I don't know". I love that response to a question. It means that the questionee is being honest, not only with the questioner, but also with themselves. What was even more exciting for me is that "I don't know" was his response to a question about depression. I was impressed that he didn't just dismissively tell this person with depression to "snap out of it" or to "just be happy". I was thrilled when he pointed out the multitude of factors that goes into why a person might be experiencing depression. That was HUGE. HUGE. It refuted the all too pervasive "mental-health-issues-are-not-genuine-illnesses" belief.

In the end, I'm so glad I went. His Holiness proved me wrong. I did not feel judged. I only experienced peace and compassion. That's a hell of a deal for a $40 ticket, wouldn't you say?