Beautiful Nightmare

“It is not good that the man should be alone…” Genesis 2:18

Last night I dreamt. I dreamt a shining, beautiful nightmare.

I dreamt of a woman. I can recall no face, no features, nothing much in particular actually, other than a general impression of her. But I do recall one fact vividly, burned into the walls of my memory like a flash-burned shadow remaining after a nuclear explosion. She loved me.

Not the me that might be. Not the me that should be. Not the façade I place before the world, or the quiet lies I mumble to myself in order to justify my own existence. She looked into my core and loved me.

And then I awoke.

Now I think I have some small idea of what it is for an imprisoned man to dream of freedom; for a starving man to dream of a feast; for a blind man to dream of colors he has never seen. The magnitude of the ecstasy during the dream pales before the raw power of the crush of reality upon waking.

Now it is 5:30 the next morning and I cannot sleep. Probably because part of me fears to dream and then to wake. Probably because another part of me fears not to recapture the dream at all.

A Heroic Effort

Back at the beginning of this little journey I've found myself upon, I thought that my manic episodes were the normal state of affairs. As a result, when I would attempt to pull myself out of the depression, I would try to pull myself up into a mania. Now, I begin to wonder if the opposite might be true. If it seems that a depression is the 'norm' to be sought.

I have been fearful of late that I could be in a manic swing. While my energy has not been high, in fact it has remained quite low, I seem to find myself fixating on small, irrelevant matters while much more important things go unattended. It seems that the endless navel-gazing continues; am I depressed; am I manic. My wife says I should try going forward as if neither were the case and maybe I would find that I am neither. There is probably a lot of truth to that way of thinking. Now just to force myself off the dime.

My sons were with me this weekend and I was once again forcefully reminded just how much I miss being with them all of the time. The youngest had his first tooth come out while at church and was so excited. My third-grade son practiced for his class play (and also shoved sticky sucker sticks and used gum into the crevices of my couch! Grrrr!). My oldest is turning into a young man so quickly. And of course, when I returned the boys I saw my wife. I miss being with her most of all.

Now, only to reorganize my life so that these greatest matters -- my family -- recieve the precidence in my life as they do in my often impotent thoughts. Despite my normal inclination, I am making myself go to bed earlier and earlier in hopes that I will have greater energy during the day. I am attempting to bring order to my home, so that it is not a reflection of an inner turmoil and more of an inspiration toward a regular life. But I know that these changes are pretty much cosmetic.

I cannot afford to let myself be depressed or manic. I must find the razor's edge and balance upon it. Its odd, when Neil Armstrong steps on the moon, when Edmud Hillary ascends Everest, even when Luke destroys his Deathstar there is a cheer and general celebration. But so many navigate the howling gales of difficulty in their private lives with no hope of celebration or even a true end. The mental disorder, the physical challenge, the lack of education -- any number of personal challenges can demand a heroic effort to overcome. One thing remains the same between the two types of heroic efforts: failure cannot be an option.

I have newfound empathy for babies with ear infections

Man oh man! Last week I spent a few days home with Matthew and/or Nathan as they contended with the usual first bout of exotic germs brought together by the first days of class. By Friday I had a bit of a sniffle (possibly allergy, who knows for sure) and by Friday I had minor ear infections in each ear.

So, I did what you are supposed to do, soldier on with Tylenol and such and wait for it to go away. The right ear seemed to be clear by Monday, but the left ear kept getting worse and worse. By Tuesday evening it felt like someone had taken a syringe and shot a tablespoon of peanut butter behind my left eardrum. This is the point at which you become acutely aware that most of the ear is safely encased inside your skull, otherwise you would gladly rip it out (you have another one, right?).

When I got home Tues night I took my temp and it was 101.8. Yuck! Today I saw a PRN and she told me that my right ear still had fluid and that my left eardrum was nigh unto bursting. I got some antibiotics and am praying that they will kick in soon. So, now as I was getting ready for bed I took 3 large Depakote tablets, 2 Tylenol, 1 Lamictal, and 1 Amoxicilin. Don't think I will need to be getting up for a midnight snack.

Day 2.5

I have no idea why I am posting so much here today. Perhaps a manic swing now? Yea!!!

Well, I ended not going to Church for a couple of reasons. First, I am pretty sure that I now have an ear infection in each ear. This would not be surprising since I spent a few days home with my youngest son this week who also had an ear infection. So, long story short, my ears are driving me nuts. Second, I am just not ready to play the whole "everything is fine" game.

You know the one. Heaven forbid that you should answer the question of "How are you?" with anything other than "fine". Sometimes I am not ready to say "Fine" while I think "slowly bleeding to death internally, thanks". I'm just not ready for that game today.

Day Two

It never ceases to amaze and somewhat frighten me just how much I can sleep during one of these hits. I slept a bunch yesterday and thought I'd have to take some sleeping pills to manage to go to sleep last night. Instead, I laid down in bed at about 9 pm and slept through until about 10 am. I do feel better at the moment, but ye gods the hours of sleep I have logged in the last two days.

I am still in bed right now, but I will likely get up soon. I have enough enthusiasm to make some toast and take my pills (always have to take-a the pills). I will probably manage to muster enough momentum to make it to church later (one of the benefits of going to a meeting that does not begin until 1 pm). It will give me a reason to get cleaned up and a chance to be around some people.

Maybe I will watch the MDA telethon later. Maudlin songs, crippled children being rolled out, and the sweaty, inchoherent babblings of a comedy star from the 50's ought to make me feel MUCH BETTER. (heh)

Anatomy Of A Depression

Sadly enough, it began with hope. That is usually the case, actually. In the past I had thought about looking into truck driving as a living, and the thought struck me again as I drove my mother to the airport the other day. So, I began to investigate.

The work would not be the easiest: eleven hour driving days; spending 3 to 5 weeks at a time away from home, and so forth. That didn’t really matter, though. It would mean making enough money for myself and for me to take care of my children, at least to an extent. The worst part of the whole journey for me has been that I cannot provide. I am a drain, not a provider. I see my wife struggling to support the children and their household on one income, and I feel the pain.

Now I had hope once again that I could overcome this situation.

I looked into the matter further – there are trucking companies that will train you from scratch in return for a one-year commitment. Sounded good. The pay wasn’t the greatest in the world, but it would be enough for my needs.

And then I investigated the requirements for a Commercial Driver’s License. All sorts of medical conditions can be waived: poor eyesight, high blood pressure, heart disease, diabetes… But what condition cannot be waived? You guessed it – any psychological disorder, even if controlled or managed with medications.

I had been doing well. Not the greatest, necessarily, but I had been doing well (which is probably why I have not been writing on this blog – heh). Getting up in the morning. Exercising some. Generally “taking care of business” in small ways. Then this hits. The weight of the “Scarlet B” stitched on my shirt drug me down once again. What was worse was that I saw it coming. I said to myself, “Here comes the depression that follows disappointment.” Sure enough, like the tide rolling into a narrow bay, here came the immense wave of despair.

I was supposed to have my sons this weekend, but I just had to pass. They deserve more than a father who does little but lay in bed all day. I came home at about 5:30 after learning about the license and was in bed by 6:00. I slept through the night. Today I have intermittently lain in bed or listlessly played minesweeper. I did force myself to take a shower at about 4:00, which is more than I usually manage. I also made myself eat a couple of bowls of cereal this morning and a few ounces of cheese a little bit ago. It’s not that I am not hungry – it’s just that the effort hardly seems worth it.

It is Labor Day weekend, so everyone else is involved in family events. I have nowhere to go really, and nothing to do if I go there. So, I just stay here. Yes, I know that I am not supposed to just stay in my apartment, but there really are no practical options.

Slob, Get a Job!

(With apologies to Dr. Seuss and Sam-I-Am)

Would you, could you
Get a job?!
Don’t sit around
And be a slob!

I can no longer practice law
I messed that up -- Haw, Haw, Haw.
I cannot work in oil & gas
Each time I try I get the pass.
I cannot stand to sell Slurpees
Because of pain beneath my knees.
I cannot drive a great big truck
DPS says my brain is muck.
But chances are when I apply
For SSD they will deny.
A great round peg, all holes are square
I do not fit in anywhere.

I simply cannot hold a job!
And that is why I am a slob!

Life In Slow Motion

Everyone has experience it. That horrifying feeling when the independent observer in your brain watches as your body moves against its will. Your finger clicks the mouse just as you realize that you have not saved your work. The glass of juice slips through your loose fingers. You begin to fall only to realize your hands are filled with groceries, helpless to do anything but watch. In movies these moments are always depicted in slow motion, the victim emitting a prolonged “nooooooooooo!”

This is the state of my life. My observer screams a thousand admonishments every day only to see my recalcitrant self failing to act upon any of it. With ever greater velocity I slide toward the brink of destruction and see myself making no effort to prevent it.

The inevitable has been delayed time after time, but cannot be cheated forever. One way or another this must end soon.

What is to be done?

One year ago today I was on day five of nine days in a crises center. Today I resigned my license to practice law.

It came as no surprise. It’s been in the work literally for months. At least I managed to have five counts of alleged negligence reduced to three and avoided an indefinite suspension due to mental incompetence. A pyrrhic victory if ever there were one.

Well, now what? It is said that in Russian history there are only two great questions that consumed society, “Who is guilty?” and “What is to be done?” I really do not know who is guilty, if anyone. I have rolled that question around and around in my mind until it is become a smooth marble running on a well-defined groove. Ultimately, that question is futile. Blame will do nothing to repair my current state.

So, what is to be done? At present I seem to be back-pedaling at an enormous rate. Three years of education and ten years of practice – thirteen years of my life – expunged with the stroke of a pen. Friends I once had as a younger man scattered to the winds, never replaced over the intervening years. My fifteen year marriage appears to be slowly dissolving before my eyes, one bit at a time. My three sons stand as the only permanent marker in my life and I fear that I do them more disservice than service as a Father.

How far do I resign? How far do I slide down the sandy dune that is my life before my feet catch hold? I scramble at the crumbling wall until exhausted then ride its flow back down. Each attempt leaves me lower than before. Profession – gone. Friends – gone. Marriage – going.

All of the feel-good “you can do it” “how to fix your life in 40 days” types talk about climbing the ladder only to find it is against the wrong wall once you reach the top. Maybe that is what I am experiencing. Maybe. Climbing down the ladder to put it up to the right wall, so I can climb it again. If so, it sucks. If not, well, it also sucks.

And then... six months later.

Yeah, six months. I do not know how to describe the last six months. In early January the contract job I had was not renewed. Since then I have spent months trying to find work between bouts of some pretty crushing depressions. Living alone and being unemployed is probably a worst-case scenario for depression. There is no need to do anything for anyone. Sleep patterns become disturbed as you nap for two hours here, four hours there. One day merges into the next, always with the intention of getting your act together 'soon'.

As my therapist would ask, "Why now?" What has happened to make bring a change from the prior condition? Well, quite simply it cannot go on any more. I have expended what meager savings I had. My creditors are at the door. I have drawn upon the good nature of my siblings. The position of inaction is no longer tenable, unless I care to be homeless.

So now I work at a 7-11 whlie I try to find something better. At first I thought I might just stay there, living the low-stress life of a clerk. But a few weeks of working have reminded me of a few things. Number 1, I am no longer in my 20s and Number 2, I weigh about 100 pounds more than I did the last time I worked in a convenience store. Simply, I do not think I can take standing 8 hour shifts for many more days. Every morning I shamble out of bed like a 90 year old man and limp out to the car. I just do not think it will work.

I do finally have some prospect of another 'office job' and some more leads. My fear there is that I will start another job and end up messing it up as well. My hope is that with the help of a therapist as well as meds that I might be able to handle such a position better.

Time will tell. Time will tell.

Rapid Cycling

There is nothing that I cannot do,
Except that I find everything too difficult
My fierce ambition and driving pride
Are wrecked upon the jagged shoals of despair
Short lengths of flotsam once again connected as a ship
For the hull to be pierced once more on the breakers

Stray thoughts careen drunkenly through
The tangled, unsuitable field of my brain
Leaving a wake of wretched seeds of doubt –
That are destined to flourish
And scaffolding for towering pillars of ambition –
That are doomed to collapse

The common man falls on his face
To wail at his bloodied nose and stand again.
I rise up to the heights as a Phoenix, until my Prometheus wings melt
I hurtle from on high to the uncaring ground, crushed
From the painful depth I gather myself, crumb upon crumb, ash upon ash
Until once again I fly, destined to taste afresh the ashes of oblivion

(Not to worry, I am not in this place so much right now. Just call this a memoir and some-time spectre.)

Flying under the radar one minute, busted the next.

A few days ago I was hanging around with a few new friends watching a reality TV show. The discussion turned to the actions of one of the participants and one of my new friends noted that "he is crazy, he must be manic-depressive!" Everyone laughed, except for me. "He acts really nice one minute then is such a bastard the next. He's crazy!" I just kept my smile fixed. There is no way that anyone there had any idea of my bi-polar disorder. I just smiled and flew under the radar, but the statement shook me. Especially when I see on the news last night where, once again, there is a push to 'share' mental health records with the FBI so that the diagnosed mentally ill can be put on the list preventing them from buying firearms.

I do not care if you never want to buy a pistol and think that firearms are evil incarnate. If you have a mental disorder this sort of talk should have you afraid and outraged by turns. The fundamental proposition is to classify people by status without judge or jury. I could rant on about this, and probably will in the future, but this is as much as I have the stamina for today. :)

As for the busted... Yesterday I had my regularly scheduled appt. with Dr. Feelgood to do the medication thing. One of the things that has been going on is that I have been gaining weight on top of an already, shall we say, well-rounded figure. This has probably been caused by the Depakote, which increases appetite. It is also one of the important mood stablilizers that I am on.

So, the Dr. talks to me about it and says that I need to up my Depakote dosage but is worried because it may induce me to eat even more and gain even more weight -- especially with the holiday season coming on. So, the Dr. gives me the stern talk that they must be required to memorize at medical school about increased risk of diabetes, heart attack, stroke, so on and I make the obligatory promises that I will do my best to eat better and get more exercise. The visit with the Dr. ended at close to 5, and so I decided to go to dinner.

I live in a city near the town where my Dr. has his office. It is in the college town where I lived with my family, but I no longer live there since my separation with my wife. (I keep going there in case my wife and I are reconciled, I'd hate to have to change multiple doctors). In the town there is a fantastic restaurant that sells the best Gyros sandwiches ever known to man. They are friggen incredible. They are also about 3/4 of a pound of meat on a pita bread and topped with yougurt/cucumber sauce. A 'small' serving of fries there is sufficient to feed 3 people. So, since I rarely make it down anymore, I decided to get a gyros before I headed home.

Just as I sat down to my artery-clogging meal who should walk in but... you guessed it, the very doctor to whom I'd made promisess of being a good boy with my eating not fifteen minutes before. It's a small restaurant and I knew that there was zero chance of being avoided, so I just waited until he caught sight of me and smiled.

Thankfully, he was getting a 'to go' meal so he wasn't there too long. Actually, he sat down at my table while he waited and didn't really rail on me about the meal (it turns out that he gets a 'to go' order from there about once a week himself). Nonetheless I must say that I felt well and truly busted.

Adjustments

I'm not alone 'cause the TV's on, yeah.
I'm not crazy 'cause I take the right pills every day and rest.
-- Jimmy Eat World, Bleed American

Just a few adjustments I've made recently:

Taking a hand-full of pills morning and night religiously.

Learning to cook for one again.

Having a set "bed time" (usually, still working on it).

Rediscovering the true art of belching. Not the wimpy little burps mind you. I'm talking from the diaphragm, throat relaxed, booming off the top of your esophagus belches.

Listening to the music that I want to, when I want to.

Being comfortable at home by myself (with the TV on, yeah). I probably walked around Wal-Mart and the Mall more in the first few weeks of being on my own than I ever did in my entire life before that.

Making new friends and realizing that some old friends are weirded out by me now (I'm not as troubled by this as I thought I might be, it's caused me to realize that some of my old friendships might not have been as healthy as they might have seemed).

Generally, beginning to accept who I am and to get over myself.

Becoming One of the Few

I would not say that I have been callous. I wouldn't even say that I have been unaware. I grew up in one of the few integrated schools in a rural area of my state. Growing up, I saw first hand the hateful epithets hurled at my friends. I have a mother, sisters, aunts… I have seen each struggle for respect of their skills and abilities at one time or another.

I wasn't callous -- but I also was not one of them. Growing up as a white male I can say that neither my gender nor my ethnicity served as a significant stumbling block. Don't get me wrong, I am no fan of affirmative action. I feel that such a system only serves to divide people who should be drawn together. Unfortunately, like democracy, it seems that affirmative action is the worst solution to the problem of discrimination except for all of the other solutions that have been tried or proposed.

But I digress…

My position was sympathetic but a bit uninvolved. An issue which concerned me only tangentially. Only a small, extreme element argued that my very existence posed a threat to civilization -- a small group with no real power or voice. That was when I was one of the many.

I find that has changed. Legislators appear on television and propose that my Second Amendment rights be curtailed without judge or jury because I am a "danger". Talking heads posit that I should have the scarlet letter of "bi-polar" placed in my school records or in my work files. Others suggest that registration is in order, allowing people in the community to know when and where I live -- like a sex offender.

Now I am one of the diagnosed. One of the "certifiable". One of the few.

A Cloudy Day

Clouds linger on a day predicted to be mostly sunny, both by the weatherman and I. Recent days seemed good. I got my first full paycheck, always guaranteed to make one more amenable to a new job. It even seemed that I made progress in learning the myriad intricacies of an out-dated legacy computer system and the parameters of my job. Then dawned today.

Half of my work from yesterday got e-mailed back to me from an accounting center at the home office, humiliatingly copied to my boss. In my fluster to fix the problems, I sent corrections that turned out to be incorrect. Finally, my boss came to me and asked that I take my time to fix all of the errors then present them to her before sending them out of the office. It is a new process that I am learning, so the errors might otherwise be forgiven, but several of them were simple typos – sloppy work. I have a good boss and she has never yelled, spoken with clenched teeth, etc. But she has made it clear in the past that the cardinal sin of this work is inaccuracy. Time is not relevant so long as your end product is 100% correct.

This is about a 175 degree shift (not quite 180) from my prior profession. As an attorney, time was always of paramount importance. Minor errors could be excused and forgiven when the larger picture was correct. The important thing came down to how much time it required you to complete a task. As a result, I still get flustered when a project is taking “too much time” and have a tendency to panic. Now I must school myself to calm down and work the problem.

But I didn’t do that.

And now I feel myself on the ragged edge of a stall. “How could I make these stupid mistakes?” I berate myself. I know that I must avoid allowing myself to become trapped in a depression that may take days or weeks from which to claw myself free. But isn’t it normal to be upset, and even a little depressed, when you feel like you have screwed up royally on your job?

Damn! Damn! Damn! Self-awareness and self-examination are not all they are cracked up to be. Churchill described Russia as “riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma”. Trying to pin down your own true emotions and motivations are ten times worse.

The true kicker is that the several days before may have been a mild mania. I felt good – really good – but it did not seem inordinately so. Sure, I did have trouble getting to sleep on time, but that was not such a big deal I reasoned. Now I wonder if I got a bit manic over the few days before, resulting in my flurry of hurried and incorrect work.

Should I have recognized the difficulty sleeping as a sign and been more cautious. Can’t I make a few mistakes without it being a manic episode? Maybe. Surely not every screwed up day in my life has been due to mania. But again, what if it was? Even worse, can’t I have a few good days in a row without it being mania? DAMN! DAMN! And DOUBLE DAMN!

I did have an appointment to see my pill pusher tomorrow, but I have to move it a week because I was subpoenaed to appear at a hearing for the guy who backed out into my van about three months ago. One of the things we are to check is whether my Depakote blood levels are right. Over time the body can adjust to the Depakote, and it may be necessary to up the dosage – especially since I started at a low dosage and am not the smallest of men. So I wonder, is the Depakote not having the full effect right now? I hope that is it. I hope that if I am beginning the see-sawing again that a minor adjustments to my medication can help. Of course, all if this may just be my own boneheaded mistakes.

Meanwhile, I have got to get to sleep on time, or make myself go to bed a little early. I have got to expel fear, hopelessness and self-doubt from my mind. Without fail, I must implement those mental and physical procedures designed to keep me on an even keel.

The weatherman is calling for sunny skies tomorrow. Me, I think I will go with mostly cloudy, and try to relish the odd sunbeam that manages to break through.

Obligatory Cell Phone Screed

Recently while shopping at a not-to-be-named mega store, I noticed an unusual trend. Not only were about half of the customers wandering the aisles with cell phones glued to their face, but all of the personnel stocking the shelves that I saw were on THEIR cell phones, and even a “customer service” associate or two as well! I could rant on the fact that these people, ostensibly there to help the customers, were wrapped up in their own little worlds on the clock, but to me that is not the question. I just wonder, is there really THAT much more to say now than there was before cell phones?

I can still remember it well, when “dialing” meant sticking your finger in a hole on a little wheel (i.e. a “dial”) and turning it to the desired number, then watching and waiting as the dial returned steadily to its original position before entering the next number. The farthest you could range from the sturdily mounted base unit of the phone was as far as you could stretch the cord on the handset. Sometimes a call might be made to shoot the breeze, but generally speaking the telephone served a utilitarian purpose. By and large, speaking with your friends took place in person and sometimes one had to wait to tell another person something!

It is no secret that the explosion of cell phones causes an exponential increase in the time a person is available to make or receive calls, and has therefore led to a similar increase in the amount of time spent on the phone by the average American. But is there an imperative that availability must immediately correspond with action? Is there really that much more to talk about? As I walk among the masses of phone wielding masses catching hints and pieces of the conversations the only answer that I can arrive at is, “No”.

Invariably it seems, when someone begins a conversation with their distant friend, the first question is “Where are you at?” soon to be followed by a description of where the caller is at – vital information, this. Finally one party or the other inquires of the activity of the other, to which the response generally is “Nothing much”. Afterward, general trivialities are exchanged, usually involving one party loudly exclaiming “I know! I know what you mean!” followed by laughter reminiscent of a hen producing the largest egg of its career. Other callers argue with a spouse or significant other as they go about their activities, denying themselves and the other party of a chance to calm themselves before speaking further. Of course, even though the argument proceeds in angry whispers, invariably the reason for the argument becomes apparent to those around the speaker.

The callers go forth, usually oblivious of those around them, splattering the banalities of their trivial existence in the aisles of the supermarket like so much mayonnaise oozing from a dropped glass jar. Only, unlike the mayo, one never hears the announcement, “Clean up on aisle three, man arguing merits of his fantasy football picks.”

My solution is quite simple, really. I do the unthinkable – I pay attention. If someone feels the need to stand near me and blather on about the latest sale at Kohls, the exploits of their in-laws, or what they will be cooking for dinner, I actively listen. When the person on the phone glances my way I make eye contact, with a smile of course. I make it quite clear that I am politely listening to every word they say (and perhaps what the other person is saying as well, depending upon how loud they have their receiver set). It seems that nothing is more disarming to these people than the fact that someone standing nearby might have the *nerve* to listen in on their conversation. At this point the person on the phone will typically move away from me as quickly as possible.

This suits me fine.

The Devil I Knew

Yes, I hated my profession by the end. Actually, I hated my profession quite some time before the end. But, there was one advantage to practicing law – when I could force myself to do it I was a damn good lawyer. I know it sounds conceited, even arrogant, to say it in that manner. But it is the truth. Other attorneys, some quite senior to me, would often pop into my office and bounce ideas off of me. Usually, I could add to what they had already come up with. Where other attorneys came to a stumbling block, I could often point out a theory or case that would allow them to at least have a fig leaf of an argument if not a winning case. This was, perhaps, the only aspect of practicing law that I did not completely hate. Not that it did myself or my clients much good.

I could help others with legal theory, but especially at the end, I could not bring myself to do so much as make a phone call, or even answer a phone call. The other attorneys in the building would drop by and I would offer sound advice on their cases, then immediately go back to navel gazing. But, in my heart, I knew that I could do it. My competence was in no way in doubt.

Then all of that changed. Regardless of the “prestige” of being a lawyer, I recognized the need move on from the law. Now that change has arrived, I find myself again at the foot of a steep learning curve in my new profession. Perhaps it is a bit of an exaggeration to say “the foot”, but I do have much to learn. After having achieved a high level of competence in my prior profession, this can be difficult to take.

At each misstep or error, which happens more often than I’d like when dealing with math, the critical voice inside my head goes into overtime. Perhaps you have heard this voice as well, the one that tells you, “You are a fool” “You will be fired” “They’ve seen through you now”, etc. ad nauseum. No, again not an actual voice, thank God, but feelings of doubt, low self-worth, and pure fear. The fear is the worst part. It is the part of my mind that unleashes the primal monkey in my brain and makes me want to climb chittering up the nearest tree and hurl feces at passersby.

All of this is coupled with the damnable self-examination to which I must constantly subject myself. “Am I being manic, or is this a normal reaction to a stressful situation?” “Is it normal to feel this frustrated at the end of a difficult day at work, or am I sliding into a depression?”

Someone asked me the other day if I missed practicing law. I answered honestly that I did not miss it one teeny tiny bit. I still believe that to be true. I am still relieved not to deal with the problems and emotions of others (dealing with my own are enough, thankyouverymuch). But what I do miss is the feeling of absolute competence. The feeling of mastery of a profession. The positive part of my mind tells me that I will learn this new profession in time as well – perhaps becoming as fluent in this as in others before. But at present this is cold comfort. No matter how it galled, how much it burned, I miss dancing with the Devil I knew.

Strange and unique things I have done recently

Started a blog.

Made a batch of salsa from scratch for the first time (hummus is next).

Knocked on the door of the house where my children live and that on the deed of which my name appears before entering.

Found a long-lost friend from high school who lives in the area.

Broke a board with my bare hand (thanks, Lori!)

Bought a car and leased an apartment in one day.

Started a job that requires the regular use of mathematics (fortunately only fractions, but teeny tiny fractions that are turned into teeny tiny percentages out to 9 decimal places).

Re-discovered about 100 books that I’d forgotten that I have.

Started burning candles on a regular basis. I started because one or more of my neighbors smoke and the smell filters into my apartment. I continue because of the smell, and also because I find it calming for some reason. Yeah, I am weird.

Why I would give money to bums now.

In the not too distant past I, like most Americans, would drive past the sign-toting bums standing at a prominent intersection pleading for money. The justifications are familiar: "Lazy bums"; "They will just use it to buy beer or drugs"; and/or "My taxes already pay for welfare programs". Now, I am not so sure.

I will not necessarily give them something every time, but if I have a free buck or two I will. In these individuals I see a possible fate averted, or perhaps yet in the future yet.

How can otherwise intelligent, educated people fall into the well of homelessness, addiction and the indignity of begging? It is a question that many have asked. Now, having stood at the yawning brink of insanity I feel now that I have an answer to the question. Thoughts of suicide plagued me for some time, even the exact plan of how I would accomplish it. In the end, though, I realized that I could not kill myself. At least, not in one go.

What I could do would be a much more slow form of suicide. Part of the appeal of suicide is to spare your family and loved ones from the torture that you have inflicted upon them. The realization that if you were gone that most of the many problems would go with you. So, you could simply dissappear. Dissappear from the family, knowing that your parting would cause passing trauma but not as severe as if you killed yourself -- probably. Your absence would certainly alleviate the problems you caused in the family. Finally, you could hide from yourself in the haze of addiction.

Maybe it enables these souls in their quest of self-destruction to give them the means to accomplish it (and who knows, perhaps some of them are actually just desparate souls needing help). But I cannot feel that by 'enabling' them, if that is what I am doing, I am respecting their decision to take a path that I consiered and ultimately set aside.

Surgically Bombing Your Brain

The term “surgical bombing” refers to situiations when an aircraft places a single munition directly on the target rather than flying thousands of feet overhead and dropping dozens of bombs in the hope that one of them will hit the intended target. By definition a surgical strike puts “warheads on foreheads”. [Warning! While not graphic (i.e. no blood or gore), the following link leads to a video that includes the explicit war death of several individuals from one precision guided bomb. Viewer discretion advised.] For example, see this video where a precision munition changes targets after it is released from the aircraft to engage several moving targets. However, even in a “surgical strike” with a bomb composed of 500 pounds of plastic explosives so called “collateral damage”, or unintended damage, is likely to occur.

Medications can be the same way. Modern American life includes advertisements on prime-time television for everything from Aspirin to Zyrtec, each of which includes a long list of possible side-effects. Side-effects, or collateral effects, are usually fairly benign – dry mouth, fatigue, etc. All of that tends to change when the medication is designed to “surgically strike” the chemistry of the brain. Most would think that the collateral effects of mood stabilizers or anti-depressants would be clear and severe, like so. [No warning needed this time :) ] But, just like the subtle distinctions between a mentally ill person’s actions and inactions, the subtle collateral effects of medications that affect the brain can be difficult to detect or determine.

Changes to libido (increases and decreases) are not uncommon as collateral effects, but such ‘hot and cold’ periods are really not so uncommon among the non-medicated. Increases of risky behavior, such as gambling or aggressive driving can occur – but so can mid-life crises as well. High blood pressure can be the bane of many in our society, but one medication that I took in my quest for the right balance caused my blood pressure to soar until I suffered persistent headaches. By the time I got in to see the doctor, my blood pressure was something like 160 over 100.

All of the foregoing is once again complicated by the presence of diagnosed, or misdiagnosed, illnesses. If a heretofore shy medicated depressed person suddenly becomes very sexually active, does this indicate that the person is suffering the collateral effects of the medication, or a perhaps a manic episode from previously undetected bipolar disorder?

And just how does the doctor go about determining which drugs to prescribe in what amounts. Pretty much trial and error.
“Did you feel better for the last couple of weeks?”
“Well, I think so…”
“Good, then we will up your dosage a bit and see if that helps more.”
Or, worse yet:
“No, I still feel depressed.”
“Ok, lets try something different then.”
There are no blood tests, no x-rays, no objective standard for determining if you *are* in fact getting better – only your ill, possibly misdiagnosed and improperly medicated brain to inform the doctor of you subjective feelings.

Changes to medications usually mean weaning you off the first drug and then slowly upping the next. This process can take weeks. If there is anything worse than starting the medications, it is weaning off of them. – dizziness, nausea, fatigue, confusion – all of these have happened to me while changing medications.

The only thing worse than the medications is to not have any medications. I must say, having finally found a good balance for myself that the collateral effects fade over time and the renewed ability to address life is worth the trouble. Despite all of my groaning and moaning, the long journey of finding the right medications has been worth it.

What does strike me as odd, however is the universal condemnation society places on those who have been prescribed these medications and refrain or refuse to take them. The person with a diseased heart who refuses medication or surgery and has a heart attack while driving, killing others, is not blamed – there is no mention in the popular press about this person’s irresponsible maintenance of health. Those diabetics who choose to eat themselves into an early grave and burden the insurance and medicare system getting self-propelled carts at “little or no expense” to them are rarely mentioned with ire, only sympathy. And yet if a mentally ill person does anything negative – from loosing a job to committing a murder – the first question asked is whether that person was on their medications. If the answer is “no” there is much wagging of heads and clucking of tongues by all, with perhaps the odd call to make sure that some further control is made on such people to keep them on their medications.

Medications: Damned if you do, committed if you don’t.