24. Feel What's Real

I’ve been going through a stage for some time now where I feel very calm. Overly calm in fact, almost feeling nothing at all at times, but not in a bad way. Not in the way depression robs you of your feelings and leaves you empty. It’s more like I’m happy inside because there’s nothing bothering me, no stress in my life, I’m not worried about any big decisions. This is odd because I do have all of those things to think about but I’m loving the peace this state brings and therefore I don’t want to question it too much.

I confided to my counsellor that despite wiping out all the stresses and strains I usually experience, this state has also robbed me of the feelings I have for my husband and I’ve been doubting whether I should be with him. Since she’s gone through our ups and downs for the last 2 years along with us she reminded me that when my hubby and I are together and working well, we’re VERY good together. I agreed. She then said that it’s difficult to tell what feelings are real when you go through ups and downs in mood on such a frequent basis. I agreed… then burst into tears. Don’t worry, I do that a lot.

She talked me through some of the different moods I end up experiencing thanks to bipolar. There’s this one, where I feel very little but am in an ok state and relatively happy. There’s the one where someone else takes over and I’m not in control, that one I don’t like. There’s the well of depression, which I like even less. There’s the edge of mania where Janice sits, beckoning me to join her. And there’s the actual hypomania. I described that to her in the form of a pizza, ie, if you order a pepperoni pizza from your favourite pizza parlour you’ll get the same thing every time it comes. You order a box of mania and you’re likely to get a new set of gremlins bursting out of it every time. I think she got the idea.

Then she asked me what I thought was really causing me to feel this way about my husband and as is the way when you start talking about something you’re not even conscious of, a lot of stuff came out which surprised me. The upshot was that I was protecting myself.

We’ve been through a lot in the last few years since my diagnosis. I haven’t always felt able to be totally open and honest with him about everything that’s going on with me. Sometimes that’s because I’m protecting myself and other times it’s because I need to protect him. And most of us can say that I expect. Honestly ISN’T always the best policy in my world. If I went around telling everyone I do contract work for that I have bipolar and would really love it if I could get one of my hallucinations to clock in every day when I fancy a day off, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be invited back.

But equally, to not be able to talk about these things makes them seem shameful. As if the disorder we carry around with us and have to deal with every day is ours alone to live with. And even for someone like me, with a loving husband, I still live with it and deal with it, on my own for the most part.

So what am I protecting myself from? Rejection? Pain? Hurt feelings? Someone who I can never expect to fully understand what I deal with every day? I’m pushing him away so that when the day comes that he decides he’s had enough and he can’t take any more bipolar surprises, I won’t have committed my entire being to him. I can walk away knowing that I pulled back before he could and therefore protected myself. And in the meantime I’ll live in a half fulfilling relationship, with a man I only allow myself to get close to when the mood takes me. And I see the flaw in my plan, I really do. But I never said I was good at all this emotional stuff.

My counsellor advised me that this state I’m in now is not one in which I should be making big decisions like filing for divorce or moving to New York to start a new life. She says that my feelings are lying to me. Clouding what’s real. Like depression clouds emotion and only allows the worst through, this state of calmness coupled with my underlying fears about my condition are causing me to question my feelings for my husband.

This is where logic needs to come in. Large decisions require logic and a bit more logic. Because any decision I make now I might regret later on.

23. The Bi-POscars!

Excellent films which, in my opinion, are about bipolar people:

1. Labyrinth – There’s no doubt that the goblin king has a strange sense of fashion which can only be born of individualism, however, he’s obsessive and goes out of his way to get what he wants, despite the consequences to those around him. Plus, delusional. Hello! In the final scene where Sarah runs to the door of the castle you can clearly see 2 bottles of milk on the doorstep. Now either all those ickle goblins are lactose intolerant or he has severely underestimate the porridge needs of an army. Not even a hazelnut yogurt in sight. And I’m pretty sure he’s prone to mood swings. You can’t tell me that the day after Sarah rejected him he wasn’t slumped in his throne surrounded by empty cartons of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey.

2. Groundhog Day – Focusing a lot more on the depressive side of bipolar, groundhog day is almost a parody of depression. The same things happen day after day with the monotony of life leading inevitably to bad thoughts about your own existence. It’s only when we change our behaviour, learn from our mistakes and take a positive outlook on life… or a Citalopram… that we can begin to make things better and get ourselves out of the Groundhog Day of our own lives. Did that sound good? Did it?

3. The Incredible Hulk – A seemingly ordinary, intelligent man most days, he tries his best to integrate himself into society by keeping a low profile. He doesn’t advertise his flaws. But oh brother, what flaws! Mood swings, irrational behaviour, destructive tendencies, an inability to communicate feelings effectively. Classic case! Classic. I think I once mentioned in this blog that when I’m down I can’t write. However, never has my vocabulary diminished to the point where ‘Hulk, smash’ was my only outlet. Hey, I guess some have it a lot worse than me.

In fact, proof that if you dig deep enough you can probably make a case for ALL Marvel superheroes showing bipolar tendencies.

Lithium Links
Silver Surfer
The Silver Surfer has got to have something to do with lithium and my guess is he was originally going to call himself ‘Lithium Ion Man’ but Iron Man beat him to it. Grrr!

Irrational Behaviour
Wolverine
We’ve all had days when we feel like ripping someone’s face off for saying the wrong thing and you try to get me to shave my legs on those days… there’s a definite Wolverine element to bipolar is what I’m saying.

Delusional
Superman
Underpants on the OUTSIDE aside. How delusional are you if you think I’m doing YOUR laundry, dude?

So the next time you see one of these films on the shelf and you’re having a shakey day, you just ask yourself ‘Am I supposed to be the nutter here?’ and move on with your head held high, my friend.

If you can think of a fitting film or character for the Bi-POscars Category please comment below but remember to give your reasons. We all want to know! ;0)

22. Bipolar Super Powers

I’ve been preparing a blog on superheroes lately and it got me thinking. What is your bipolar super-power?

I sometimes think that with all the weird and wonderful symptoms that bipolar gives us, how are we supposed to know which character traits can be attributed to the condition and which are truly us?

I know one thing I’ve worried about losing due to the ups and downs of bipolar is my humour. I think I’m funnier when I’m going through a hypomanic episode but I’m also more anxious with it, making me doubt myself and my ability to be funny. Like I might over-use my funny bone and wear it away.

But what if it’s actually the other way around and I’m only funny during these episodes? Am I living on borrowed funny during the down times? I know when I’m depressed I can’t write for toffee. The words are stunted, they don’t flow and to read my writing back is painful.

I started writing a novel during my worst and longest period of depression. I suffered with depression for years and years to various degrees (before I was being treated with lithium). The novel was about life in limbo, about a woman who works in admin processing people’s applications into heaven. I struggled on with this novel because I thought it had a lot of potential but nothing I did made it flow or made the funny drip out onto the page. I realised after many years of trying and retrying that actually there was no point in trying to be creative during that time. That the reason I could only write about dead people is because I was feeling dead inside. They say ‘write what you know’ but I didn’t realise just how much I was taking that sentiment to heart.

If you asked superman, 'What would life be like if you lost your ability to fly?' The first thing he’d think of would be that he wouldn’t be able to save people, and that would be disastrous for a man with so much responsibility on his shoulders. Then he’d probably wonder how he’d get around quickly during rush hour and finally he might think ‘wouldn’t that be nice?’ To be normal for a while. To lose the pressure of responsibility that flying brings.

So is my Bipolar superpower my humour? Does it get me through the highs with flair? I don’t know. Maybe I was born to want to make people snigger but equally, if you were to take away the bipolar in me, what else would I lose that I cherish? That being said, I’m sure that relying on Christmas cracker jokes to make up my repertoire in exchange for a normal, calm life wouldn’t be the worst fate either!

21. Over The Bills And Dales

Wandering into Lynmouth the next day we were still smarting a little from the bill we’d received from the art gallery trying desperately to justify it by reminding ourselves that we haven’t had a holiday or weekend off in over a year.

On our way down the hill from our hotel we noticed a sign for another hotel, tucked away in the woods like a little fairy-tale cottage. It looked lovely so I suggested we walk down the long, winding, tree-lined road to the hotel and check it out for our next visit. Half way down the lane it turned cold under the shadow of the leafy trees and it started to feel as though we’d walked out of our own space and time and into a creepy fairy tale. To get to the cottage you had to follow a path which descended into the woods and the closer you got to the building the more it loomed above you. It was looking less like a cottage and more like a small castle by the time we reached it. Turrets strutted out from its rooftops and inside we could see grandly decorated veneered fireplaces surrounded by plush high backed chairs and shelves of old books.

We wandered to the front of the building where a balcony overlooked the hillside down to the sea and that’s when it happened. The large door to the castle opened slowly and with a loud and ominous creek. Both my hubby and I turned to see someone peering at us through the dark crack in the door.
‘You rang?’
I swear to God that’s what he said!
‘I’m sorry?’ I asked.
‘You rang for cream teas?’
‘Oh. No, we’re just looking around,’ I said and we both stood in silence as the large door creaked to a close again.
My husband turned to me and said ‘Welcoming.’

We practically ran back up the road to civilisation, all the way joking that the man’s mother would have asked him to invite the nice people in and put them up in the guest wing but that she’d turn out to be just a voice in his head because she’d actually died 50 years ago. And not like the nice voices in my head that encourage me to buy ice creams and giggle when people trip. She’d be the kind that makes him feel bad about standing over your bed at night watching you sleep, as he tries to hold himself back from touching you!

When we made it back to our own century we eventually happened across a small combined pottery studio and artists workshop. We went inside, weary from our short walk down a bit of a hill (what? We’re on holiday). And inside were some more beautiful things! Paintings of spitfires, boats, landscapes, animals. A whole variety all in different styles and then I realised that a picture of a hare with the most amazing expression on its face was one I recognised from the gallery we’d been in the day before. In fact it was probably the ONLY picture I didn’t buy, even though I wanted to.

The name of the artist was Dale Bowen and looking over at the artist at the workbench I said ‘I love this guy. We just bought some of his work in Linton.’
The artist mumbled something I didn’t really hear and so I carried on, as I do.
‘I like his pictures of rams in spaceships.’ What? I do! Art is subjective, people.
‘Yeah, that’s me,’ he mumbled a bit more clearly this time.
‘Say what now?’
‘That’s me. I’m Dale.’
… silence… awe… shock…
And then it was like meeting three people all in one body. He was Billy Connelly, mixed with some bloke from Stoke on Trent mixed with Michael MacIntyre. He wasn’t just A character, he was several characters. All of whom were very nice guys.

He showed us his work from when he was working for Wedgewood and when we told him we have family in Portsmouth he proceeded to tell us about the time he was asked to make and decorate a plaque for the Battle of Trafalgar 200 years celebrations at Portsmouth Naval Museum. The plaque was to be presented to her Majesty The Queen onboard HMS Victory. He was allowed to bring the plaque in and set it but was then escorted off the base by two burly sailors. The rest of the story mostly involved being in the pub while he waited for his train and being bought pints by all the nice people he met there.

Once my hubby told him he’d owned a bike shop they were both happy as Larry comparing bikes and stories of riding trips. It was, all in all, a very pleasant afternoon and I was sad to leave. Of course I did buy the hare picture and Dale kindly signed a card for me which had his ‘Through The Treetops’ picture on the front. He even drew a pom pom fuzzy creature on it for me. I was chuffed.

Meeting Dale made my entire weekend. I know, it was a close call between him and Mr No Pants, but I think Dale just inched it… euw, I think I’m going to rethink that line.

20. Mr Starey And The Case Of The Missing Pants

My hubby has decided that we need a break (a holiday break, not an ‘I’m leaving and I’m taking the hamster’ break) and so he has booked a weekend away for us in Devon. Now I’m quite geographically challenged so if the place I describe sounds more like Weymouth, don’t be surprised.

We decided that Linton was the place for us. We’ve been before, about twelve years ago and loved it, partly because it’s sleepy and relaxing out of season and partly because it has a fantastic art gallery which very kindly takes lots of money off of us in exchange for beautiful things which would be pointless in a flood. Not sure why that’s relevant but my thinking is that sometimes you have to have beautiful things in your life, even if using them for kindling in an apocalyptic situation might break your heart. I guess it’s them or the cat and I’m not sure the cat would make good kindling. If you ate a cat would it taste like Whiskas? Just a thought.

Anyway, Linton is a great place. It’s a secret St Ives in my opinion. Years ago St Ives was a place artistic types could go to be inspired by the sea, make pottery and remain drunk or stoned throughout high season with everyone else being far too busy to notice. I’d say that between 50-75% of the business owners, artists and residents that we met in Linton fell within the category ‘child of the sixties’. I’m not sure I had an entirely sensible conversation with a single one of them.

The hotel played awful fifties music at breakfast which was, thankfully, the only time we were there to endure it. I honestly believe that songs with the words ‘Gee’ and ‘Whizz’ should probably be reclassified as offensive and never played again except by old people, in their own kitchens, at home. If grandkids call round there must be a strong cease and desist policy lest they be charged with child abuse and if the neighbours can hear it because the oldies have their back door ajar, a complaint should be sent to the council and the couple considered for immediate eviction.

It was worse than when we went to Bulgaria around 10 years ago. There they played Eminem morning noon and night. Eminem at breakfast. Eminem at dinner. Eminem in the lifts. Eminem in the public loo. I’m not sure if he was paying them or they were paying him but there was some sort of underhanded deal going on.

We quickly found the gallery we love and decided, as you do, that we were only going to look this time and if we bought something it would be one picture at a sensible price. Two hours later we found ourselves shoe-horning 4 extremely large pictures into my Toyota Aygo which has a boot the size of a postage stamp. We considered we may have to leave the suitcases behind but I can buy clothes anywhere. This is ART!

The first evening there we booked into a Spanish restaurant which had about 7 tables squeezed into it. The buzz of the place was nice but when you’re sitting elbow to elbow with people you’ve got to hope they’ll be nice, normal folks.

To my left I had a man who wouldn’t stop staring at me the entire night. I don’t think he was looking at anything in particular, he just seemed to want to peer into my soul and choke it to death with his cold, dead eyes - that’s all.

To my right was a man wearing flesh coloured trousers and a red jumper, which was equally as disturbing as Mr Starey simply because whenever I caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, it looked as if he was wearing nothing BUT a red jumper. I kept wanting him to get up so I could wipe the seat down.

As the night went on Mr Starey proceeded to develop a cold or perhaps an allergy to sanity and sneezed loudly into his own hand on several occasions. This wasn’t so bad because it did mean he had to take his eyes off me while he wiped said hand on his khakis. Relief from one awful habit was followed only by the taste of my own sick as another revealed itself.

The food was actually very nice. We had a selection of tapas. Meatballs, lemon prawns, crostini, pork skewers and olives. All of which were lovely. The lemon prawns in particular reminded me of those wipes you used to get in a small metallic wrapper. You take them out, wipe your hands and invariably somehow get the taste of lemon soap in your mouth. Yes, very reminiscent of flights to Amsterdam.

End of day one.

19. Hanging On By Ones Fingertips

Today I was reminded just how easy it is to feel as if your whole world is falling apart. Yes, another one of the many fun and fabulous side effects of bipolar Type 2.

Last night my husband and I had a row. Not a big one. Nothing was thrown, ripped or left in a shape different to the one it had before the row started. You know you’ve thrown one too many hissy fits when you lob something across the room in a rage and not even the cat flinches. One thing that did happen was, my husband mentioned he thought I was going to leave him. And the thought of that scenario didn’t scare me. Which scared me.

I spent the whole following morning in a bit of a flap. Did I want to stay? Could I move out? Where would I go? What about my job? I looked at flats briefly on the internet, not sure what I’d be able to afford. Then the panic seeped out onto Facebook and I started showing a few manic signs. My posts became a little strange rather than the funny I was going for. The thought of finding another husband who would put up with the sort of things mine does seemed impossible which led me to feel even more desperate. Was it really worth carrying on at all, I wondered.

I was so concerned with sorting myself out a new life plan that I didn’t notice my phone ringing at lunchtime. When I finally picked it up it was my hubby calling to tell me he’d booked us a weekend away. And it dawned on me that I was leaving, but I wasn’t leaving without him. And suddenly life calmed down again. The bubbling stress that clouded my vision slowly dissipated and everything began to return to normal.

The moral of the story? When you’re arguing with someone with bipolar don’t deviate from the current reality. If you do you may find you come home from work one day to find your wife has moved out and taken ALL the cutlery, except the spoons!

18. Just Who’s In Charge Here?!

Apart from finding myself in situations where I’ve given in to my irrational feelings and behaviours, I also find it very difficult to figure out who, or what, is making the decisions in my life sometimes.

The most recent example I can think of is my last contract. The one at the IT company came to an end recently. That was the one where I dared to call 2 of my team mates old women when the workload got a bit frantic and they started flapping about one week. I politely advised them to join the Women’s Institute, and was never able to live it down with the rest of the team. From then on, every time I received an email request for software it would usually be accompanied by an order for raspberry jam. Anyway, before my contract actually ended they offered me a job... and a scone.

All the while they were talking about the job I was very excited and determined I was going to take it when they made the offer official. My hubby kept telling me to consider my options and think about the benefits of contracting and how much I like the freedom of it, but I told him this was a great IT company and it would stand me in good stead for the rest of my career if I took the job.

Then they actually offered it to me and I suddenly felt bored by the whole thing. I couldn’t be bothered to read the spec, stopped trying too hard, lost my motivation and eventually decided I really didn’t want the job at all. By which time my hubby was trying to convince me to take it because a week ago I’d been extoling the virtues of a career with a steady pay cheque. Poor guy doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going.

It’s this massive swing in opinion, desire, direction, call it what you want, that drives him a little potty. He never knows which me is talking or when the scenery might change. Can you imagine decorating a room with me? You’d start in pink only to find me crying on the stairs because ‘when I said pink I wanted yellow.’ How does anyone stand a chance?

How can you ever be sure that your decision isn’t based on a dip in mood or the fact you forgot to take your pills yesterday or even a bad night’s sleep? And if I can’t answer that, being the one who experiences these swings, how can I expect anyone else to? My counsellor (yes I’m lucky enough to have access to one) told me that when I’m going through an episode of any sort I need to use my feelings to direct me, but not in the actual decision making process. What she was explaining was that it’s useful to analyse your feelings and moods, decide whether you feel you’re in a rational or clear frame of mind based on those feelings and then decide whether now is even the right time for you to be making any large decisions. If you feel you’re capable of making one you won’t regret then you should include logical thought and facts in the decision making process and not let your emotions lead you entirely.

I should think that a lot of us will find it hard to fight the impulses that bipolar sends to our brains but what she is also advising is that we slow down and take our time over decisions. This is good advice I feel. Whether I can do it or not is down to me and the discipline I will need to muster.

My manager once said to me that when dealing with a bully you have to stay calm and outwit them. Bullies work on emotion. Their arguments are based on it and therefore logic doesn’t come into their thinking. This struck a chord with me. Not that I class myself as a bully, but the thought that irrational and aggressive behaviour is born of emotion makes total sense. Emotion has no tether after all, no desire other than to be calmed and the only way to do that is to reason with it.

So there you go. Reason with emotion.

Good luck with THAT!