Holidays are usually a big mess for a lot of people from an emotional perspective.  I was relieved when i realized that others suffered with the holiday blues like I’d done for many years.  A problem shared is easier to process then a problem kept in solitaire.

A situation came up that involved travel plans, one that would change the dates of visitors from out of town.  I was not pleased especially with the short notice.  I struggled with it, making my partner aware of my displeasure in the most diplomatic way that I could.

Having a few days to process, I tried to figure out why this was a problem for me.  I phoned a friend who suggested that I just suck it up and ride it out.  I responded to her that I was so tired of sucking it up and riding it out, REALLY tired of that.  I wasn’t angry with her about it, and I did call her because she has personal insight into the situation and she doesn’t sugar coat stuff.

Shortly after that call, it dawned on me what my opposition was really about.

There are so many situations in my life right now that I have absolutely zero control over (beyond typical issues).  I realized that I am trying to grasp for something I can actually control however small it is.  As a recovering person, I learned that I am powerless over most situations, which isn’t to say that I do nothing with my problems.  We do what we can, but sometimes there is no action to take.  And, worrying about it over and over only serves to enslave us to the problem.  It’s no easy feet, this acceptance for what is and taking my hands off the wheel.   I have to tell you that this actually works pretty well, when I am able to pick it up and use it.

I know I am not alone in this desire to have some form of control in *some* way.  People  do the craziest things in order to cling to some sliver of control.  This is why people develop eating disorders, addiction, compulsive gambling, self harm, and in many cases behaving like the child within that most emulates the loss of power at any particular time in the formative years.

I guess the key to receiving an insight, is what I actually do with it.  My aim is to try and find the balance.  Don’t go too far to the left or too far to the right, try and find the just right spot for it.

If I’m really paying attention, then I hear it when my assistant says “Aren’t you Miss Polly Productive” when I leave him an enormous pile of dictation tapes, written motion and discovery work, and all the other legal detritus. If I look at my time sheet, I can see that I’ve billed a week’s worth of work in three days, though there’s no need to—I’m just blowing through everything, double time. It’s good work, too. Productive, concise, and necessary. The air’s clearer, the brain’s faster, and I feel more creative—am more creative. I write really well, and a lot, because I sure as hell only need about three hours of sleep.

If I miss that sign, then the next one is this. I’m still Polly Productive—except I’m now Misanthrope Polly Productive. I hate everyone—they’re all out to get in my way, talk with their whiny, annoying voices, bother me with inconsequentials. Every Little Thing They Do Is Enraging. I have road rage. I hate every cashier in every store everywhere who doesn’t blow through the things on the belt with superhuman speed. My critical voice snarks on each person’s shoes, haircuts, grocery selections, each one more worthy of hate than the last. My family and my husband bug the crap out of me, and I can’t understand Why Won’t They Leave Me Alone. There’s no objective perspective on why I’m so irritated.

The physical sensations start as I’m just about to crest from Misanthropic Polly Productive to Downward Spiraling Deirdre Depressed. The strange crown-like feeling on my forehead. That pushing sensation under my sternum. And the sweat. This is weird—but after three or four of these post-diagnosis, post medication episodes, I’ve realized something. When I’m in a high mixed state, and just about to start the long, long slide to the bottom? I sweat. Profusely. And it smells strongly. And my feet stink to high heaven.

Yes, that’s more about me than you want to know, really. But it’s a sensory sign—one that’s so weird that I notice it, even as I’m in the process of that catatonic withdrawal into my head, when the extreme productivity, the crazy irritability, slide by. Crazy has a smell for me, a clear, last-ditch signal. I might not be able to follow my mind all the time, but I can follow my nose. I wouldn’t have noticed it, maybe, if I hadn’t been serious about writing EVERYTHING down in my symptom notebook, but after talking it over with my shrink when I had my lithium toxicity episode, she said… tell me more about the sweating thing. Would I recognize that as a physical sign, even if I’m ignoring the emotional and mental ones? Turns out, I can.

Animals can smell fear. I suppose it’s not as weird as it could be that crazy has a smell that can wake up my animal brain, can trigger that self-preservation instinct that crazy makes it so easy to otherwise ignore. That smell says hey, put the brakes on this thing, slow this roller coaster car down– right now. I should be looking and listening and feeling for signs—but I’ll take the smell if that’s what it takes.

They’re pretty, on the tree and on the ground. We like to admire them where they fall—they’re pleasing to the eye, a reminder of how as time marches on, there are some things you can count on, like colorful leaves in the fall, and memories of how they were when they were younger

The leaves of late fall are a different matter. Dried, leathery white oak leaves, bloated indistinct shapes like a brutalist artist might draw—those leaves are dull brown and tough. The other leaves, other types, are now dried up, their colors faded, their supple texture lost. These memories are no longer malleable. They are what they are, and you’re stuck with them. They must be cleaned up, or the things underneath them will rot, fail to grow, fail to thrive. It’s only after you’ve cleaned them off, scratched the surface underneath, that new, better memories can be made. These dried up old leaves smell almost like urine as they become sodden and wet with November’s cold rains. They bog down, hold in dirt and detritus, unpleasant flotsam and jetsam of the past and the present intermingling with their breath stealing layers, their weight. Leaves and memories are ephemeral, we like to think—they shouldn’t be so heavy, so permanent. We should be able to rake them up handily, and throw them away. But who hasn’t been surprised, shocked, even, by how heavy a seemingly simple bag of wet leaves can be? If you overload it, don’t clean up carefully, assessing the weight of the memories as you clean them up, measure them out into their proper receptacles, then the bag, the bough, the bin breaks, and all the work that we’ve tried to do to clean up spills back on the pavement. The sodden, malodorous memories spill all over our shoes, into the edges between our pants and our socks, all over the area we’ve just cleaned.

There’s no magic leaf blower, no all encompassing rake that will haul these old leaves away with a single, cleansing pass. There’s no old leaf killer chemical to make them dissolve in an instant. Instead, we have to rake each individual leaf with our small, handheld rakes, combing carefully to make sure we get them all, and put them into piles that we can then gather into their proper final receptacles. There’s nothing for it. Each individual leaf has to be dealt with on its own terms. Sometimes they’ll gather with others under the gentle pressure of the rake. Others will yield to more forceful scraping, gathering with the other stubborn, ground clinging leaves once more attention is brought to bear upon them. Some, though, will require us to stoop over, inspect the individual leaf from the ground, pick it up with our bare hands before we can be rid of it.

Putting our now-raked leaves in piles isn’t enough, though. We need to protect the piles, deal with them as we work, rather than leave them alone, trusting as we move on to another pile that the last one will stay organized. There’s no guarantee. Some person with no regard for all the work we’ve just done will come along and jump right into the pile while our backs are turned, scattering all our hard work and leaving us to clean up after them, because we let them in by not keeping an eye on the pile, or cleaning it up before they could come along and do damage.

Predictable, inconvenient, boundary-ignoring, work-disrespecting, pile-jumping people aren’t the only thing to worry about. Random strong gusts of wind, out of nowhere, unpredictable, uncontrollable, are always an option—maelstroms of unexpected force coming in, snatching the leaves out of their piles and scattering them, whirling them into a cyclone that blinds us, obscures our view of what’s in front of us and the work that needs to be done in the future. The swirling, scattering leaves in great masses make it impossible to move forward, to do more work raking leaves until the wind has passed again. And when it does, the leaves are scattered all over again, leaving us to look on in dismay at the scene now before us, once things calm down again. All that hard work, scattered, and now we have to start over again, though our hands are sore from the rake handle, our backs and the backs of our thighs tired from leaning over to stuff armfuls of leaves into receptacles, our hands and feet muddy from digging up the stubborn, smelly wet bits.

It’s harder to rake up leaves that second, or third, or nth time, if we don’t learn our lesson about taking the time to dispose of each pile of leaves as we go.

One agrees to shelter the other from the storms of life.  They will prove their love by fighting the others battles, standing up to the monsters and vowing to never leave their side.  Loyalty becomes an extreme sport.

You’ve heard their history, their stories, the failed relationships in the past and you know without a doubt that you can be the one person they can count on.  You will be the one to fix them.

In that very moment, the ones who are willing to seal the deal, in blood if necessary, in order to prove themselves, do so without one word spoken.

This is an agreement made without specific words from the other person involved.  The agreement is made through body language, hopes and dreams, whispers of love in the heat of passion.

Sadly, neither party realizes this at the time, they do not realize that in reality, they are crippling the other person.  Cutting them off at the knees, not allowing them to fully realize their own human experience.

I suspect we are not meant to be aware of such things, why else do we experience the release of heavy chemicals from our very own bodies during the early stages of love.

You do not realize, until years later there actually were red flags but something in your brain pushed them to the side.  They were there, they are always there.  They are best viewed using your hindsight lenses.

We seek to protect our beloved, believing it to be the honorable thing to do, in order to prove ourselves to them.  In order to prove just how much we love the other person.

Until one day you are sitting in a comfortable chair telling someone the full story, not understanding how it came to this.  Realizing that you can no longer carry their burdens, and it was never your job to begin with.

The love you used to cloak your intended with was merely a reflection of your very own lack of needs.  You realize that those brave promises you made for the one you loved, were in reality the proclamations your heart longed for.  You, were the one that needed saving.

We project all of this onto our partners, our husbands, and our wives.  We act out the very role we wish someone would provide for us.  We love them in the manner in which we want to be loved.

And, they do the same.

I know, full well, that chemistry doesn’t always effect a cure. And I took high school and college chemistry. I know, intellectually, that in order for a chemical reaction to come out the way it’s supposed to, you have to set up your experiment carefully. Maintain the controls. Measure your ingredients carefully. And keep an eye, at all times, on how the experiment is doing, once you’ve set it in motion. There’s a reason why the good professors make you take careful lab notes every step of the way. Even today, if you set me in front of a lab bench, with instructions of ingredients, order of steps, and possible things to watch out for, I’d watch every step, take careful notes, be meticulous in observing this external reaction, from start to finish. If something went wrong along the way, I feel pretty secure that I’d see it early on, and seek help to stop things from boiling over, or evaporating, or exploding, or turning into a rock hard lump so melted to the crucible that I’d have to throw everything out. I’d know that if not watched carefully, the whole process will be spoiled, and I would have to start over again.

And yet knowing that, I still fall prey to ignoring the process when it comes to myself. Moving the experiment from the lab bench, where I can see it, objectively, to my brain, doesn’t translate the way it ought to. I don’t have the right frame of mind. I still want it to be a miracle cure—not an ongoing experiment that if carefully watched, may succeed at maintaining its slow, nurturing boil for a while. But I still need to watch it. These compounds and chemicals run out of steam, and new inputs, like changes in diet, stress, sleep, the amount of sunlight, the seasons, all affect the reaction. If I stop keeping my lab notebook, meticulously, then I can miss the early stages of a downhill reaction, and don’t recognize it until it’s too spoilt to step in and fix it, salvage the reaction, achieve the same result after some tinkering with more or less of the initial ingredients. I let the Bunsen burner of stress burn too hot, don’t take that extra ativan when I stop sleeping so well, don’t call my doctor after the third night of anxiety dreams, because I’m not following the proper chemistry protocol.

The chemical reactions are only as good as the chemist watching them. It’s time to go back to school.

This happens every year. My mania starts to go up and up and then I find myself looking for ways to reinvent myself. I’m on medication this year so it’s not as bad. I keep reminding myself - this year is not as bad. But I think so much about what new tattoo I would get. And where I would put it. And I wonder if it’s a ’safe’ or ‘accepted’ way to self-harm and mutilate.

I’ve started quite a few new projects. I made 120 pieces of jewelry and 22 hats and then put up each item in an Etsy store. It took hours. I hope I sell enough to offset the amount of money I spent to get all the materials to make all of it. I was compulsively buying hundreds of dollars of findings and beads and chain (because I NEEDED it) and then staying up all night making things. And then I started writing a new book. And revising a children’s book I wrote 9 years ago. And organizing all the tiny jewelry parts into tiny containers according to color. No, wait. According to size. No, wait. How about by type?

The difference this year is that even though I’m starting a bunch of projects, I’m actually being able to follow though and finish them. And that is really different.

What about this place makes me so uncomfortable?

The chair I sit in is hard and slanted, almost like it’s trying to push me out of it’s lap. I look around to see if perhaps I should just sit on the floor.

I remember the last time I was there, I was in a comfortable yet slightly broken recliner.

It’s not my seat, maybe it’s the guy sitting next to me shaking so much I fear he’ll come apart before our eyes in the crowded room where people are sharing their experience, fear, and hopes.

I look around and feel unsettled, again with the sliding feeling as if I’m being pulled gravitationally down to the floor. I look at the floor for a nice spot, and notice it’s dirty and dusty. Why would that matter to me? It’s not like I’m wearing nice slacks. My yoga pants and a fleece jacket were the best I was able to put together. Even before I arrived, I was uncomfortable about going, not knowing until I was there. In the slanted wooden chair.

I push the chair back, I cross my legs. Shortly after, I uncross them and cross the other way. No, it still isn’t working. Surely people can detect my anxiety. Perhaps they understand all too well that this chair, the last open one is not a welcoming chair but a menacing evil ride that has no intentions of being an actual chair.

What happened at the time the wood was chopped down? Could the tree have resented being chopped away, and then striped, sanded, and painted into something a person would use only to put their fat butt into? I can’t blame the chair, I’d rather be standing tall in the woods myself. Not piled into this cramped room with dirty floors listening to the inner thoughts of injured people.

Focus on the topic, focus on why I am there. Focus on why this room makes me uncomfortable. Focus on that. The people? The set up? The chairs? Maybe I could re-arrange the room some time before any of the others showed up? Put a little feng shui on it, make it more inviting and comfortable.

I would definitely vacuum the floors and wipe away the dust. and put out a diffuser to help create a peaceful smell. Diffusers are safer than the candles that burn, or incense. Lest a person forget and leave them burning, burning the place to the ground. That would be bad.

It’s my turn to speak, I have nothing coherent to say so I pass.

Everyone speaks and there is still time left. Before I realize what is happening words are coming from my mouth. Nothing makes any sense. I wrap it up, knowing that I’ve managed to speak words that are of no value.

The last person begins to share.

I finally realize what the problem is with the room. It’s not the people, the dirty floor or the dust.

The room resembles a room from my childhood. The one located at a church that the older men would get together in and watch the latest “game” on television. The room was lined with recliners but much bigger than the room I was currently in.

One day, I happened to have walked into that room taking a break from the church chorus. A man waved me over and greeted me. My back to the wall, hidden from anyone else. He puts his hand into my shorts from the back so that no one could see.

I stand there frozen, unable to move and not understanding what I’d done to allow this to happen. Panic, anxiety, fear and anger are swirling around in my six year old head. Why is he touching my privates and how did I end up in that room? Why did I ever think it would be a good idea to walk into this TV room? I have no idea who any of these men are and this one, acted as if he knew me.

As a predator, he did know me. He saw my sadness, the stamp on my forehead. He knew that I was one that wouldn’t tell. They always know.

Thirty three years later, it still makes me uncomfortable even in a room with others that would understand.

My only hope that the man in the recliner is resting peacefully, twelve feet under in a wooden box his remains being ravaged by worms and insects.

That push is so hard, and so narrow, trained on whatever the current, manic obsession is, that everything outside that focus is meaningless noise. Things you like to do, like blog, or write, or take photos, or cook, or go for walks, or laugh with your husband over whatever silly thing you’ve bantered between you—no longer important. Social interactions with friends, family, and spouse are irritating, infuriating interruptions. Don’t they know that you HAVE to finish whatever it is that you’re doing? Or keep doing whatever you’re doing, in perpetual emotion, because if you stop? Well, you’re not sure what will happen if you stop (except that you’ll have to face life again, but you push that thought aside quickly each time it arises, stomp it like a cockroach, in fact), but you know it will be bad.

It’s not just in your head—it’s an overall physical feeling. Your eyes are strained hard on whatever you’re doing. Staring things into submission, until they lull you into a calm state, as long as you can keep up with your latest obsession. There’s a hollow place under your sternum—it’s not like hunger, but it’s close. It’s a need to fill yourself with your obsession—to keep the other, less comfortable thoughts at bay. It’s a push– keep going forward. Not in the right direction, you’ll realize later, but at least you need to keep moving.

Sometimes it’s euphoric, and your perceptions of the pesky interruptions of life are of amused tolerance. “If only they knew how important it is, what I’m doing,” you think. Other times (like this last time) it’s more mixed. If people don’t stop interrupting you, you’ll scream in rage. “Don’t they know that you’ll die/ cry/ never get to sleep/ fall apart if they keep interrupting you?” is the thought that occurs when you’re trying so hard to put them off, so they leave you alone with your focus.

Of course, at the time, it all makes perfect sense. It’s only later that you shake your head at yourself, disgusted all over again that you missed the warning signs. You feel sorry for yourself, maybe even lonely, or abandoned, that someone didn’t see through your lying protestations that you were fine, to grab you roughly by the shoulders and shake you, frog march you to your psychiatrist. Later, you know that they were trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, to let you take care of yourself, since most of the time you’re fine, independent, perceptive, funny and lucid. Everyone is entitled to low periods, even the crazies. It’s just a steeper slope down for you from “low” to “seriously messed up and getting worse every day.” It only takes a little push to go falling, head over heels, ass over teakettle. You end up dented at the bottom, wondering if you can push out the damaged areas and work the same way again. If you can push through it again, back to normal. Where push is evened out by the pull of your usual interests, outside of your head. And where you can ask for help, ask someone outside your head to give you a push—in the right direction.

I should note that while this is written in the present tense, the description of the sensation is several weeks past, now.

What Can You Do To Help?

We invite you to visit the website - letsfacethis.ca - and post a photo and message on the “Tree of Support”. With each new photo added, the “tree” will grow, symbolizing growing awareness, education, fundraising and hope for those suffering from mental illness.

Let’s Face This reminds us that mental illnesses, like depression and anxiety, are not the result of personality flaws or character weakness, but, like other illnesses, are biological in nature. And like other
medical conditions, respond to treatment and care.

I invite you to join me and countless others confront the stigma of mental illness.

Let’s Face This together and confront the stigma of mental illness.

Also, take a look at the Canadian Mental Heath Association’s website.

Since I couldn’t figure out how to embed the video, you can watch it here.

Enjoy!