Whom I Tell...

My husband and I went to a clam bake. There, I met a woman who has hepatitis C. I told her I was bipolar. It's funny, we're both writing books about our disability.

Steve was a little upset that I told this woman about my illness. He wants it to be a private thing, but it's so much a part of me. I didn't see the harm in telling this woman who told me first about her disability.

I guess I'm not ashamed of bipolar illness. I'm hesitent to tell my students, but other than that, I'm not afraid to tell people. I mean, it is MY illness. I guess I need to speak about it. I can tell who's going to use it against me, and who's not.

This woman and I can help each other, I predict. She's a writer. I'm a writer. We're both disabled. We've both got children. There's the Rhode Island connection. My husband's from Rhodey.

She's an open person. I like her. She's considerably younger, by about 12 years. She's just about my emotional age, because I lost all those years to long periods of insanity.

Her name is Erin.

While They were publishing, I was having a nervous breakdown

So many of my classmates have published numerous books, and I haven't published any.

In my thirties, I was concentrating on my personal life. I was struggling. I found it difficult to go outside.

I guess they didn't have nervous breakdowns.

This is not an excuse. It's just a fact.

Insanity gives you new knowledge. It's not knowledge you welcome, but once it's come, it helps to add dimension to the personality.

So I'm just getting to logical resolutions in my stories. Logic. What's there on the page. Normal resolutions.

Once I wrote a story when I was ill. I went back to read the story when I was lucid, and I had no idea what I was getting at. The story made absolutely no sense at all.

Even though I lost some time while dealing with insanity, I have to think that insanity somehow enriched my life.

Pie in Face, "Can I Come in?" and Common Injury

My three-year-0ld son saw Pat Sayjak throw a whipped cream pie in Vanna's face. Then, Vanna got Pat with a pie.

This strange activity really made him think. He kept saying, "Pie in face, pie in face," in a questioning voice.

I tried to explain to him that it was humorous, that it was a joke. He did not get the cultural significance of throwing a pie in someone's face.

For him, it was a completely alien, if not crazy, action.
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Someone's starting a minority mag in Dayton, OH. The magazine intimated that it was for black people. I wrote the person and asked her if she included disabled people in her minority group. She wrote back and said yes.

I've been admitted to her minority.

I'm very happy.

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My mentor says that black people have something in common. They suffer from the same injuries--slavery and segregation.

No one says I'm Glamorous

Lithium acne.
Grey hair poking through "Medium Ash Brown."
Off white teeth–no patience for whitening stripes.
50 extra pounds.
Duck walk.
No make-up.
Glasses.
Thrift store clothes.
These things describe my look.
If I let my outward appearance dictate my glamour quotient, I’d be a negative 2.
For me, it’s not what I look like; it’s what I’ve done.
I traveled to Guatemala, a country in Central America, to pick up my baby son. I welcomed him, the tiny one, with open arms. I became a mother in a split second. This was glamorous–the travel, the culture, the smells and tastes of a foreign country. Opening my heart to a small heart in need. And my need. I needed a child. A mother at 41. Glamour is knowledge. Motherhood brings new knowledge. How to regulate one’s touch for such a tiny individual. How to wake up twice a night for months. How to hear the subtlest sigh. How to maneuver his arms into a little shirt. How to love another.
I’ve recovered from bipolar illness. I’ve been to the other side. Insanity. And I’ve come back. More traveling. God is glamorous. I dreamed I was God. But I was awake. It’s called a delusion. I was going to save the world. Instead, someone saved me from my own mind. He’s called a psychiatrist. And I’m back. Couldn’t have done it without the drugs. And lots of mistakes. Insanity is total bankruptcy. You’re broken into a million pieces, and must be glued back together. But you come back stronger. You are super sane. You are a little glamorous, only because of what you now know. Have experienced. Imagined.
I’m a writer. If people don’t think you’re weird, they think you’re glamorous. No one knows me. But I’m here. Observing, tasting, drinking the world. And spitting it back out onto paper. I am so lucky that I can do this. It’s a privilege. The creator said, "I’m going to make you crazy, but I’ll give you time to write." Thanks. I’m not bitter. When I have the slightest taste of bile, I swallow it.
I am a teacher. I’ve seen people literally learn to think. Due to my coaxing. More importantly, I’ve seen children learn to love. Themselves and others. Put themselves in others’ shoes. How glamorous is that?
And then, I’m a wife. I work so hard at loving my husband. I forget myself. More love. So glamorous is love.
I could go on.
This is a message to you.
Don’t judge yourself by your appearance. Judge by what you’ve accomplished. By what you’ve learned and know.
This is what really matters.
No one says I’m glamorous.
What do they know?

near miss

Dewitt Henry thought the voice in "How To Become a Writer" was "irresistable," but he did not "believe its urgency." In short, he ALMOST took the story. This saddens me because the voice is pure me. It's a bipolar illness story, a true one, set at a friend's wedding.

Well, maybe someone else will take it.

I told Dewitt in an email to believe in the urgency of the voice. How more sincere can I be?

Trilafon, Trilafon, Trilafon

This is a great little drug. It's an old one. But it can't do everything. Does not help obsessive compulsive disorder. Can't make a grilled cheese sandwich. Can't answer back.

It's a simple, white pill.

My husband is married to a bottle of Trilafon.

Not really, but it helps.

Ants and Babies

I was at the store today buying diapers and ant traps. As I was coming out of the grocery store, a stranger looked into my cart and said, "Ants and babies." Isn’t that just like life?
What I think she meant is when it rains it pours. The old adage. What else could she have meant?
This relates to bipolar illness.
When one is depressed, even breathing can be difficult. Let alone taking a shower. But for most people, life goes on. A neighbor knocks on the door. A husband wants breakfast. The car needs gas. There are no groceries in the house. Depletion.
When one is manic, you can’t seem to get enough of things. Either you want to buy, buy, buy; talk, talk, talk; have sex, sex, sex. It is pouring on you. Life. And this time, you can’t get enough of it.
Extremes. That’s what bipolar illness is about. Torrential rain. Then, drought.
Better have several essentials to help you survive the downpours and dryness.
Bipolar Essentials
A good friend, someone who will keep you from getting soggy and washing away. My good friend is Mary. Her father suffers from depression, and she from OCD. So she’s in the biz. The show biz called "mental illness." Sometimes, just talking to her on the phone shrinks my head. It’s her compassion.
A good bipolar cocktail. Medication is a must, I think. I myself am on four meds. Something for mania; something for anxiety; something for depression and something for a touch of obsessive compulsive disorder.
A good television show, something you can lose yourself in. For me, this is "Sex and the City." I never miss it on Tuesday nights on TBS. Those gorgeous shots of New York and those gorgeous women and gorgeous clothes.
A good psychiatrist. Let’s face it. Your doctor is your best friend. It helps if he or she is cute.
A good form of exercise. For me, it’s walking the dog and the baby. Around the block. Sometimes twice a day. Best done with a walking partner.
A good, supportive spouse. If you don’t have one, get one.
A good favorite dessert. Mine is the seven layer cookie bar. Melt butter; add crushed graham crackers; add walnuts, chocolate chips, coconut and sweetened condensed milk. Bake. Eat.
For women, good make-up. Lots of it. When I was in the hospital, there was a doctor there who thought that if a woman wore make-up, it was a sign that she was sane. This has rubbed off on me, and consequently, I always wear make-up. I’m a Clinique woman, myself.
A good car. People judge you by your car. If you drive a junker, they look down on you. Then, if they find out you’re mentally ill, the really shy away from you.
Good, nice clothes. Dress nicely. I went through a tee-shirt and shorts stage. No one took me seriously. And they didn’t even know about my mental condition.
A good pet. I have a beagle. He’s very nice to cuddle at the end of the day. I also like the smell of his feet. They smell like earth. Pets keep you happy. You take care of them, and they take care of you.
A good computer. Even if you don’t feel like going outside, with a computer and an internet connection, you can do a lot. Shop. Talk to friends. Research. Watch movies. Order stamps.
Write.
A good, supportive family. Don’t alienate them. I know it’s easy to do when you’re sick. Keep the channels open. They are your main life source.
A good, favorite restaurant. Even sad, depressed or completely high lunatics need food. My favorite restaurant is an Indian one. Raj Mahal.
A good job. This is perhaps the most important thing bipolar people need to survive the torrential rain. Something to do. I used to teach college students how to write. Now, I do freelance writing and teaching. You’ve got to have something to do with your time. If you’re on disability and can’t work, volunteer. Do something.
Boy, do I have a lot to do. I’ve got ants and a baby!
Not to mention bipolar disorder...and corns and shaving nicks and grey roots and bushy eyebrows and dry elbows and...