Checking on my Comfort Zone

Recently, a friend introduced me to a site called Superbetter. It's all about making yourself better - more resilient, more optimistic, more motivated. It's filled with games but not like flash games or xbox games. These are quests and you face challenges, gain allies, learn skills, and fight off bad guys. It intrigued me and, since my friend signed up for it, I figured I would sign up, too. I don't play everyday. Honestly, I haven't been to the website in weeks.

While working through my quest I got stuck. It's my own fault, too. I was faced with a challenge and didn't do it. I haven't done it yet. I started to but it was uncomfortable so I set it aside with the intention of returning to it the next day. I did return to it but I didn't do anything about it beyond rereading the description of what I was supposed to do. What did I get stuck on, you ask? It's silly, really. All I needed to do was write a journal entry answering this question:

What is your current relationship with your comfort zone?

Fortressed within it?

Always busting through it?

See what I mean? It's simple. Yet, it's so complex. Formulating a reply has been troublesome and it's been weighing on me.

Source: Get Out of Your Comfort Zone

My comfort zone is always changing. It varies with my mood - how manic or depressed I am or if I'm neither. My level of anxiety plays a big role in defining what I enjoy doing or what I'm willing to try. Likewise it determines what completely freaks me out, it draws that proverbial line in the sand which I cannot cross. What feels impossible for me one week is second nature the next and vice versa.

Source: Clinical Junior.com

My healthy self, if I know my healthy self - which is dubious, is bound to be somewhere in the middle between manic and depressed. That's only logical. She must be more cautious than the manic version of me and must also be more relaxed than the anxious version of me. Surely she is, or at least believes herself to be, more capable than the depressed version of me.

So, today? At this moment? I feel good about myself. I believe I'm good at my job and I enjoy it. I feel good about my relationships with family and friends. Calling my best friend is not a stretch today even though the same activity yesterday was distressing and I couldn't bring myself to do it. I feel like I have something worth sharing on my blog and I'm able to adequately answer the Superbetter question.

Will I feel the same tomorrow? Who knows.

If you're curious, here's a little about Superbetter from TED Talks.

Don't Judge Me (POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNING)

NOTICE: This post may be a trigger for you.

I think I manage the anxiety I experience rather well. Most days I can keep my darker emotions from ganging up on me and I've done a great job of successfully beating them off. There is a certain threshold, though. Somber turns to despair and I feel defeated, crushed beneath the weight of my own sick brain. Grumpy morphs into a full blown rage and the catalyst will be something ridiculous. Discomfort becomes humiliation and shame as my brain brings to the forefront of my conscious mind everything it believes I've ever done wrong. What happens beyond the threshold is not anything I'm proud of.

I scratch and cut myself. It makes sense to me in the moment. I've done it enough throughout my life that I no longer carry sharp things with me when I feel the stable ground beneath me tremble, a sign that a terrible fissure threatens to open under my feet. Leaving the pocket knife at home interferes with my attempts to cut myself. Most of the time, the appeal of cutting fades away before I can gain possession of an object capable of drawing blood. Sometimes cutting is so terribly seductive that, unable to access anything sharper, I resort to using my fingernails. They don't cut per se; they scratch well, though. They become claws that scrape at the skin of my thighs in moments of desperation.

I don't know if it's seeing the stripes or feeling the sting that helps me keep my demons at bay. I guess it's both. I make more cuts and scratches when my distress is more intense. The more my efforts fail to ease my anguish, the more ferocious my actions become. The physical pain is probably the larger part of it although the blushing lines swelling on my skin do create an odd feeling of satisfaction - gratification blended with disgrace.

Don't judge me for this behavior. I know it's messed up. I don't need to be reminded. I don't even want to talk about it most of the time because the people I confide in almost always focus on the action and make me feel even more ashamed which isn't helpful. The problem isn't the cutting or the scratching. They are symptoms, physical manifestations of the dark hurt and anxiety that have escalated beyond my ability to fend off in a manner deemed healthy by the normal people of the world. Let's deal with the emotions I can't handle and the scratching will go away.

Don't judge me for this behavior. Other peoples' actions are mesed up, too. Making an 11:00pm run to the stop-and-rob for a cheap six-pack of beer because you can't slow down your mind enough to go to sleep is damaging to the body, too. It's just not exposed. Is harming your liver somehow more nobel than injuring your skin? I'm not even referring to alcoholism, just the occassional "had a rough day" gin and tonic. What about smoking when stressed? Over-eating? Going on spending sprees? All of these have consequences.

Don't judge me for this behavior. We all have our coping methods and mine usually heal within a few days.

A Little Gratitude Please

What are you grateful for?

The usual answers include:

• My family
• My friends
• My health

Other common answers are:

• A good home
• Healthy food
• My pets

The answers are all legitimate and I'm sure most people are being truthful in giving them. They aren't unique, though. They are so common as to be cliche and, like any old adage, the words fall out of our mouths without a moment of consideration. The thoughtlessness of it all only registers when the words land with a heavy thunk across the top of one's left foot. Saying "I'm grateful for my family" has become an antiphone that doesn't require the least bit of contemplation. "I'm grateful for my friends" is an automatic reply, a reflex similar to the startle response we have when someone sneaks up behind us. It just happens.

"For my dog" or "for my health" are comfortable replies when playing the I'm Thankful For game round-robin style with people we might call friends but we're not particularly close to. They are safe, true statements and, most importantly, they don't even hint at the intimate matters living closer to our hearts. I get it. Don't get me wrong. I use those standard answers, too. I think I've even gotten pretty good at the Sincere Smile which dresses up the shallowness of my randomly chosen, standard answer with the guise of heartfelt earnestness.

All of this begs the question, what are you grateful for? Peak into all the little crevices in your brain to find something particular to you and your life. When you're being candid with your real self, who and what rise to the top of your Grateful List.

Me?

I'm grateful that a certain someone picked me up after work one day, like always, and took me directly to my doctor. We did not pass go or collect $200. This person told me s/he was scared for me, told me I was sick and I needed to get help. This person got me the help I was incapable of getting for myself and promised to stand strong for me until I was able to stand for myself again. That event took one hour out of one day and changed the course of my life.

Silence

A few years ago I attended a women's retreat. I shared a little of that experience with you not too long ago. One of the "rules" (really more of a recommendation) was to spend a certain amount of time each day in silence. Attaining that goal meant more than not talking. That was the easy part. It required being alone and away from a million little things. Phone, TV, music, the obvious stuff. Once I eliminated those things I realized that my surroundings were far from silent. The ceiling fan and fridge whirred and, without other noises to conceal it, they seemed loud. I left my room expecting to find a quieter space outside, perhaps on one of the gentle trails or on a bench beneath the sprawling branches of an old tree. I had to share the trail with other people and, although they were quiet in the normal sense of the word, they still made noise that filled my ears. Even when I was alone on the trail, the gravel beneath my feet crunched with every single step I took. Silence, true silence, was eluding me. Eventually, I returned to my room and decided it was quiet enough. I was able to exist with my thoughts, my journal, and my pen.

Several years before that, I went on a spiritual journey of sorts. This was long before I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder and I was desperately grasping for something, anything, that would give me some peace. Upon arriving at the spiritual retreat center the first evening, I was instructed to be silent until a specified time the following morning. No talking and no turning anything on to listen to. Being alone with myself like that was unnerving. I didn't much like myself at the time and I definitely did not respect myself. I was trapped in an illness I did not know I had and the silence outside my body made the noise inside by body seem that much louder. My thoughts jumped from one traumatic experience to another while my inner critic picked apart every little decision I had made, proving to me how bad my choices were and how terrible a person I was. My skin crawled with tension and my stomach hurt. I did the only thing I could think to do. I wrote. I had no watch or clock so I have no idea how long I scribbled in my journal. I continued until all the jumbled mess in my head was transferred to paper and until I had described all my emotions and body sensations as well as I could. Finally satisfied, I carefully closed my journal. I felt lighter. I still needed to deal with the awful things I had written but, for the night at least, they lived in the journal and not in me.

1000 Paper Cranes

Legend says if you make 1000 paper cranes then you can make a wish and it will come true.

A much more recent story, one about a little girl growing up in the toxic world created by the Hiroshima bombing, is attached to the paper crane legend. The little girl's name was Sadako Sasaki and she developed Lukemia when she was a child. She started folding origami cranes with the goal of being able to make a wish. Some stories say her wish was to be well again while others say it was for world peace. Some versions say she finished 1000 cranes before she passed away at 12 years old. Other versions say she didn't and that her friends and family finished them for her. You can read one version of Sadako's story at 1000cranes.com.

I suspect the little girl was originally wishing to be well and that the wish morphed into one of world peace as she succumbed to the illness. I'm a grown woman and I would wish to be healthy again. Forget world peace; I want to live. Maybe I'm just selfish. Of course, maybe she really was a child of the light, mature beyond her years, and destined to help usher in a change in this world.

Would I wish to be free of my illness?

Bipolar Disorder comes with a lot of ugly characteristics. If I were to make a chart listing the pros and cons of living a life with Bipolar Disorder, I suspect the cons would far out number the pros. The pros, however, include some amazingly positive things.

• increased confidence
• increased creativity
• more outgoing
• higher goals
• increased intelligence
• better performance

If you live with Bipolar Disorder, though, then you know those things are not permanent. It's a terrible truth and it often feels like a curse. I can taste success and then the mania wisks me away in an updraft, a tell-tale sign of an impending storm. How high I go reveals the strength of the storm and the level of destruction it will do.

What if the legend is true? Just pretend for a moment and believe with 100% certainty that making 1000 origami cranes would allow for the granting of one wish.

Here is paper crane #1.

Reflecting on a Post about "The Monster"

I read a blog post the other day criticizing a couple of musicians and the lyrics of a song they perform together. It struck a chord in me. Maybe it was a nerve that got hit. Either way, her post has been rolling around in my head for a few days. It's called "Don't Sing About Mental Illness" and it was written by a blogger named Maddy. The entire blog post can be found at http://chattymaddyhealth.blogspot.com/2014/06/dont-sing-about-mental-illness.html. She focuses specifically on "The Monster" rapped/sung by Eminem and Rihanna.

If you've never heard it, here's a link to the video. Warning: he uses some foul language.

This next video shows the lyrics as the song is being performed. It only shows lyrics and the explicit language is still there.

One part of Maddy's post discusses the chorus.

I'm friends with the monster that's under my bed

Get along with the voices inside of my head

You're trying to save me, stop holding your breath

And you think I'm crazy, yeah, you think I'm crazy
That's nothing

She writes,

First of all, "voices inside of your head" is a sign of psychosis, which is associated with schizophrenia and bipolar I disorder. As someone who has experienced voices in her head and knows how terrifying it is, I can assure you, you don't want to be "friends" with them. It's an experience that will leave you shaken and confused. 

I appreciate what Maddy is saying here and Maddy, if you're reading this, thank you for being so honest and sharing this part of your experience. She's right. Auditory and visual hallucinations are not necessarily the greatest experiences in the world and they are certainly symptoms of a number of serious mental disorders that need to be addressed. I've flown from my own dark bedroom to a fully lit kitchen or living room more than once because of such experiences. They are just part of my condition, my illness, and I've had no choice but to accept them into my life. They are a few of the many monsters, demons, issues, problems, beasts, symptoms, creatures, whatever you want to call them that hide in my surroundings. None of them are friends in the sense of "Hey, wanna go to a movie? We can share a popcorn." They are, however, friends in the sarcastic sense of being an undesired familiar thing like the heartache that comes to visit after a relationship ends. Saying two people are friends also means they accept each other and they've established a relationship that allows them to move on with some grace and dignity - most of the time at least. The beasts that wander through my life fall into that category. We are companions but not buddies. I'm not always thrilled that they travel with me but I've had to make friends with them in so far as being able to play nicely together.

She goes on to say,

Some people say the line isn't literal, but instead referring to self talk. I still have a problem with this because those aren't voices in your head. That's YOU speaking to YOURSELF. You shouldn't try to refer to a mental illness to describe something that is in fact NOT a mental illness.

That's an important distinction to make and most people don't (in my experience anyway). Lumping auditory hallucinations and self talk together undermines the significance of having hallucinations. I can't help but wonder how many people, trying to deny that they are sick, have avoided getting help by calling the voices self talk.

Regarding the line "And you think I'm crazy, yeah you think I'm crazy, that's nothing" she writes,

People are desperately trying to remove the stigma that surrounds mental illness. One of the most painful words you can say to someone who is struggling with one of these disorders is that they are "crazy". It's hurtful. Period. And again, since Eminem and Rihanna are both people who have experienced this, they should understand more than most of the population that this word can cut deep. So why are they referring to themselves as this?

I've already expressed my feelings on the use of the word "crazy" in a previous post: Go Ahead. Call Me Crazy.

When it comes to the last two words in the chorus, "is nothing," the blogger says,

They are implying that "crazy" doesn't even begin to cover what kind of emotional state they are in. Again, why? They are further stigmatizing mental disorders and painting us in a horrible light.

I don't understand this critique. I don't see how this final piece of the chorus is stigmatizing. Why would it be wrong for me to tell someone they have no clue how I feel? I don't see that as stigmatizing but rather revealing, almost educating. Conveying intensity of feelings opens people's eyes to the broad spectrum of human emotion and human beings are capable of higher highs and lower lows than most people will ever experience first hand. That's important to understand. That's why "pick yourself up by your bootstraps" is sufficient advice for some and impossible for others. I need to be able to tell someone that how they are describing my emotional state is correct but woefully inadequate. It's the difference between bumping your head against the back of the sofa when you plop down too hard and getting a concussion after falling down the stairs.

One final quote from Maddy,

Music is powerful. It should be a tool that is used to help those who suffer from mental illness. ...[W]e need to spread awareness that Eminem and Rihanna's song "The Monster" is NOT okay.

I agree 100% that music is powerful and it can be used to help people deal with their mental illness. It's a valuable strategy to consider including in our individual mental illness toolboxes. Should all music help people who have mental illnesses? Absolutely not. Creating music isn't about helping others, it's about expressing ourselves. It's a form of sharing and it helps us when it resonates with our own lived experiences. "The Monster" resonated with me. It's not a pretty picture but I connected with it. 

A couple final notes.

While reflecting on Maddy's post and the song, I came across a website that I found to be interesting and informative. You might like it. When you click a line in the song, a short commentary about that line shows up in the panel to the right.

and

I've never been a fan of rap music. It's not my thing. Grappling with this song, though, I must admit that it is poetry - something I never thought I would say.

Go Ahead. Call Me Crazy.

I am a middle class woman with a middle class job holding onto a middle class life. My money and my time are limited. I need to thoughtfully decide how to use those resources and be intentional about when and where I engage the larger community in a conversation about mental illness and stigma.

Stigma is definitely a problem, one that is well known among people with mental illnesses. We, meaning me, worry about the consequences of the wrong people finding out about our, meaning my, diagnosis. Whether it's fair or not is irrelevant when the job, custody, or respect of peers has been lost. The damage is done and it can't be undone.

Patsy Cline singing "Crazy" written by Willie Nelson

Stigma must be addressed. People must be educated. I get that and I agree whole-heartedly. How to address it, though, that's the million dollar question.

Recently, I've come across a number of blogs and facebook posts that focus on the use of the word "crazy" and, invariably, the writers are upset about it and are insisting that it should be removed entirely from our language. They are vehement about it, almost as if they were fighting against using words like "nigger" or "retard." I mean no disrespect by writing those words here. I would never use either of them to describe anyone. I'm only making the point that those two words are exponentially more offensive and hurtful than the word "crazy." "Crazy" isn't even in the same league.

Unlike the other two words, "crazy" has a lot of nuances, meanings, and connotations. The derogatory interpretation is just one of many. The word isn't the problem so much as the context. Who is saying it? And why? I don't care if my sister is calling me crazy as a synonym for being goofy or if my best friend says I'm crazy because I did something that she can't imagine doing herself. I see no harm in saying things like "I'm crazy in love" or "crazy about going to the concert." Patsy Cline does not offend me with her song titled "Crazy." It's actually one of my favorite songs of all time.

Just to be clear, certain uses of the word "crazy" cut to the bone. Those five little letters have been thrown at me a time or two (or more) by loved ones who were angry with me. It makes a great little jab when disagreements turn ugly. Saying I'm bleeping crazy as a synonym for demented, psychotic, or delusional can bring me to tears, especially if it comes from someone who knows about my mental health battle. Most of the time, though, it's just not a big deal. I'm actually more offended by being called "sweetie" or "hun" (short for "honey" in the south).

I'm sure it feels like I've gone off on a tangent in this post but I haven't. Returning to the fact that I'm middle class with limited resources, I must ask myself if I really want to spend my time fighting against the word "crazy."

You Understand? Really?

My friend expressed some concern about me not long ago. She is a newish friend and does not yet know much about having a bipolar brain. She knows even less about my particular brain and the life experiences it initiated and stored in its memory.

"You're not quite yourself today. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. I'm just in a funky place right now."

It's a good answer. Most people accept it easily and we move on. More importantly, I avoid thinking at a level which would prompt tears or temper. My friend, however, didn't like it. She pressed the issue. I don't remember the exact string of questions or my answers but I kept trying to politely and nonchalantly redirect the conversation. The only way to make her interrogation stop was to be direct and probably rude.

"Look, there's nothing wrong in the world around me. My bipolar head is just screwing with me. It's illogical, it happens, and I'll be fine."

What else could I possibly say? The 15 minutes we had together before going to work was not enough time to explain the meaningless anxiety churning in my gut or the darkness I was walking into. I didn't really want to explain anyway. I wasn't ready to share the very personal, raw details she was trying to elicit and her aggressive, albeit well-intended, poking for information has made me less inclined to share in the future.

Then she said, "I understand." The conversation could have, should have, ended there but I laughed and shook my head. It was a knee-jerk reaction and it was stupid.

We pulled into the parking lot at work. "Really. I understand."

Northern Goshawk

My mind commenced to spinning as a result of her audacity. Thoughts. Feelings. Images of "understanding" eyes full of pity. Memories of "understanding" voices telling me to suck it up. It all moved through me so fast that the only knee-jerk reaction I had was stunned silence and the inability to move. Long moments passed.

I scoffed and stepped out of the car. As we walked into the building we work in she continued looking at me. Her eyes oozed just how pathetic I was to her. She looked at me like I was a sad, little, wounded sparrow even though I felt much more like a Goshawk whose territory had just been invaded.

Those not initiated into the pain, euphoria, confusion, and chaos that bipolar disorder gifts to the fortunate sick and the people who love them do not understand.

A Weekend with Friends

Manic. Margie pegged me. She saw it before anyone else -- including myself. Here I thought I was acting normal and she says, "How many drinks did you have?" She wore a big, goofy grin.

"What?" I asked incredulously. "None. I had a glass of apple juice." I made the decision before going on that trip that I would not drink any alcohol. It's bad for bipolar disorder, a condition which had only recently been diagnosed in me.

"Girl..." She let the r hang in the air for a moment and shook her head, "You're as tipsy as I am and I had three glasses of wine!"

I was a little stunned to hear that. "You're buzzed."  I teased.

"So are you!"

"I'm not." I retorted. "I'm fine. Just enjoying myself and the show."

"No." She drew out the word again, shaking her head again. "You're acting high. Buzzed. Lit."

I considered her statement, took stock of my behaviors over the last couple hours, and realized she was right. The mellower me was being usurped by an overly spirited, bubbly me. I hadn't noticed it in my own self. Someone else had to point it out to me.

Later that night Margie, Kristine, and I took off for a walk around the retreat property. I thought it would burn off some of the energy in me and bring my slightly manic mind and body back down to earth before they had enough fuel to spiral out of control. It was quiet time so I had to whisper. That helped. It was dark, so I had to pay attention right around me. It helped me focus and bring my mind back to me. The quiet and the dark kept my senses from being stimulated as much as they had been during the show. The energy in that room had apparently been electrifying. I thought I was reacting at a level comparable to the other audience members. And maybe I was. Maybe they were simply able to come down to a normal level of happy and satisfied when the show was over whereas I was not.

We wandered along wide pea gravel paths for almost two hours before going to Kristine's room. She shared her room with Gayle, the friend who had taken the lead in making this little weekend happen.

"I have pictures taken of me when I was manic," Gayle remarked before I had time to close the door. "My eyes were so big ..." she held her hands up to her eyes, curving her fingers to pantomime binoculars. "My eyes were so big that you could see the whites of my eyes, all the way around the colored part." She pointed at her eye, tracing a circle in the air around its iris. "I see that in you." Gayle giggled.

She can read me like a book. I don't mind though. She has Bipolar Disorder, too, and has been managing it longer than I have. She's honest with me so I know I'll get genuine feedback and support. I guess she's almost like a mirror. She reflects me back to me and then I see the symptoms.

We sat on the little balcony attached to their room and visited for a while. When the time came, we said our good nights and gave hugs all around. "Sleep tight," I said as I opened the door to go.

"I will," Gayle chuckled. "But you'll still be awake."

She Speaks - Washed and Whipped

Hot water slid down my back. I leaned my head against the shower wall using my crossed arms as a pillow. The fissure inside me grew wider. All joy and contentment spurted from an emotional wound, like blood from an artery. Misery and pain slowly clotted the hole. Memories of everything I ever did wrong, real and imagined, played on a giant screen in my mind’s eye and I was powerless to turn it off.

Water washed down my spine splitting at my hips into tributaries that rolled down my thighs and calves. Focus on the water. The heat. I wanted it to help but it did little to carry my distressing thoughts into the drain. Make it stop. I pleaded with the universe which yielded nothing in return.

My mind slipped from the moment and into a space I knew to be imagined and real at the same time. I held a bullwhip in my hand, poised in desperate readiness to use it against my enemies. Who were those foes? I didn’t know. I only knew that I temporarily forestalled their attacks.

The bullwhip disappeared. Rope restrained my wrists and pulled my arms over my head. A whip struck me from the darkness. Confused by the pain and lack of control, I stared into the gloom searching for my attacker. A strap of leather lashed out again, beating me like Jesus or a slave. I cringed.

“I’m not a savior! Or a slave! So why are you doing this?” I cried.

Another crack sounded and the whip landed surely on my back.

“Am I so terrible that I deserve such punishment?”

A woman’s voice in the darkness said, “If you are going to use a whip, you should know what it feels like to be on the receiving end.” She was calm, not the slightest hint of anger in her tone.

Even though an infinite shade limited my sight, I knew the woman’s voice had a body and companions.

A length of leather braid smacked my back and she said, “You never know when they’ll hit.”

Another lash, harder than the last, burned my shoulder blades. “You never know how hard they’ll strike.”

I heard a loud snap in the air to the left above me and felt a strike from the right. “You never know when they’ll miss or where they’ll come from.”

The beating continued from all around and, just as she told me, I could not predict if, when, or where I would be hit next. I could not tell how much pain would be inflicted or who was controlling the whip. My mind, intoxicated by so much pain, held up who as the most important information to have.

The woman provided the answer before my pain-soaked brain fully formed the question. “Sometimes it’s others, people you’ve wronged. Most of the time it’s not.”

A dark haired woman in a long crimson dress stepped into view. The whip reappeared in my hand and I stood outside my own exhausted body. I used it on the tied woman, myself. I couldn’t stop torturing the part of me that a rope still held in place. She rolled her head weakly and looked at me. I helplessly turned my attention to the woman from the shadow.

I pointed to the bleeding woman. “Why are you doing this to me?” Tormented tears dropped from my burning eyes.

“I’m not. You are.” She looked at me through steady green eyes reminiscent of the undisturbed surface of a pond. The woman’s companions gradually emerged from the darkness.

“But I’m not, I couldn’t,” I stuttered. “I wouldn't do this to myself. Something or someone is making me.”

She shook her head, “You are beating yourself, punishing yourself for things you believe you should be punished for since no one else will do it.”

I handed the whip to one of the woman's companions, the featureless person nearest me. It was a shadowy thing, a stark contrast against the brightly lit and blood-striped body in front of me. I watched as the unidentifiable person whipped her, me, further. Others joined it and they took turns beating and abusing me, spitting at me and occasionally kicking me. I looked at the crimson woman again. “Why are you letting them do this to me?”

“I didn’t give them permission. You handed them the whip. You’ve stood here idly watching them assault you.”

Standing beside the woman at the edge of the shadow, I cried from the guilt of persecuting that person hanging limply from the rope. Returned to the delirious body I started in, I cried from the physical pain inflicted on me but stayed without a struggle because of the disgrace I felt. A chill moved down my spine.

My everyday self leaned face first against the shower wall using my crossed arms as a pillow. Cool water washed down my back, burning as it rolled over my spiritual wounds. I slid slowly to the shower floor, my face turned to the wall, and wept.

Normal or Nuts? Or Angry!

Dr. Phil.
Then Brian Williams.
Now Dr. Oz.

I struggle against stigma. I fight it, one way or another, every day. These guys sure are making it difficult!

Spiritual Abuse - Atheist Style

I was reading a blog about spiritual abuse called "Led2Truth" recently. It struck a terrible nerve in me and sent me on a little research journey. It prompted a little soul searching, too.

Most people, surely, can relate stories of bad experiences in one church or another. I certainly have a few but I've come to terms with them. I've grown up, made my spiritual decisions, and I'm content with them. Why, then, did this blog about church experiences hit so hard? I'm prone to empathizing, easily taking on the emotions of the people around me whether they are physically with me, on-line, in print, or on television. It's rather annoying sometimes. This was different somehow. The posts triggered something from my own past.

When I found this site http://www.micsem.org/pubs/counselor/frames/spiritabuse.htm and this list, I understood.

Point #1. "Abusive church leaders in abusive churches are into power and control. Enroth writes, "The spiritual autocrat, the religious dictator, attempts to compel subordination ... [and] dominate-submissive relationships."

• My experience with this sort of abuse was not at the hands of Christian church leaders. It was at the hands of an atheist, an atheist I trusted, and I didn't recognize it for many years. The Atheist did an amazing amount of damage to me before I caught on. I'm horrified that I could be so blind and still feel guilty from time to time.

Point #2. Abusive church leaders in abusive churches are into dichotomous thinking. With them everything is black-white, either-or, this-that, us-them. Dichotomous thinking is generally expressed in overt or implied terms such as "we the true followers of Jesus" versus those others "who are not as spiritual as we are." Of course, dichotomous abusive church leaders are the judge and jury on who is or who is not spiritual, who is or who is not fully walking with Jesus.

• Same atheist. Comments I made, discussion we had, often ended with him being right and me being ignorant. He pitied me and explained that I was still under the control of a religion I no longer claimed to be part of. Scientists, which we were both trained to be, did not believe in any sort of higher power. If they did then they were not true scientists. Over time these discussion eroded my sense of self. Without a solid core of who I was, I relied on him for my opinions.

Point #3. Abusive church leaders in abusive churches are into legalistic perfectionism and perfectionist legalism. Again, legalisms are not about holiness; they are about power and control....

• Apparently atheists can fall into this trap, too. Rigid adherence to particular secular philosophies is just as damaging as doing so with spiritual ideas. His philosophies were right and mine were wrong. My views were explained away and after a while I started to believe the explanations. Certain traditions were done away with in his secular legalism. Do I bow my head, at least out of respect, with the rest of my family when my father says grace over Thanksgiving dinner?

Point #4. Abusive church leaders in abusive churches have a tendency towards isolationism. Some of this isolationism may be more social than physical. Abusive groups will not mix with the impure or with the unholy....

• We hung out with a particular crowd and had a rather elitist attitude. I didn't realize it at the time but we did isolate ourselves from certain people and certain world views. I'm ashamed to admit that I went so far as to cut long-time friends from my life because The Atheist did not approve.

Point #5. Abusive church leaders in abusive churches are obsessed with discipline and even excommunication. In some abusive Christian circles, to question the church leader(s) means questioning God Himself. Abusive Christians are so certain that they are right and that they have the mind of Christ that they can be extremely punitive if they are not obeyed.

• This one may not apply exactly. The Atheist never hit me or yelled me, if that's what is meant by punitive. He did shame me, though. If I didn't see things his way then I was just not as intelligent as he was. I was less mature, more like a child than an adult. Maybe my character had not fully developed yet? Truth be told, my character was dissolving away and I was less and less capable of trusting myself. 

Point #6. Abusive church leaders in abusive churches discourage church members' having contacts with people outside the fellowship, including family members. Obviously, church leaders that tell young people "Do not listen to your parents, listen only to us" should be suspected.

• Check. The Atheist did this, too. We didn't use the word "fellowship," of course. My contact was limited to certain people, people we considered friends. Family was definitely left out of the loop on many things. I saw them on a pretty regular basis, but some topics were not to be talked about. Their side of topics were explained into nothingness as coming from weak-minded, closed-minded, or uneducated people. 

Point #7. Abusive church leaders in abusive churches install surveillance systems (read "pastoral care") within their fellowships. Of course, for abusive church leaders a surveillance system is all about a spiritual concern regarding people's souls and how to best pastorally and brotherly look after the sheep of the flock. However, these surveillance systems go way beyond pastoral care. They are about power and control.

• Towards the end of our relationship this sort of behavior started. I was thoroughly cut off from any of the people who could have helped me see what was happening. The people who were in my life, fit squarely within The Atheists view of what life should be like and gladly reinforced his opinions when he was not around.

I get it. Now I understand why her blog bothers me so much. My relationship with The Atheist lasted for years and years. When certain traumatic events were occurring, my mind was so shocked that I finally saw some of the truth of our life. I weighed less than 100 pounds and my personality had disintegrated so much that I thought it would turn to dust. If it died so did I and I was well on my way.

Blog for Mental Health

I pledge my commitment to the Blog For Mental Health 2013 Project.

I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others.


By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health.


I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma.

D.J. Haswell, blogging A Midlife Adventure, pledged me. It's a fantastic blog. Thoughtful. Honest. Touching. Most importantly perhaps, it's helpful. D.J. gives me one more reminder that I am not alone.

Hind sight is 20/20. I think the short version of my story is best told backwards. My first, almost brave steps, came when I met D (for the sake of anonymity). This was the first person I ever met that was bold and outspoken about having a mental illness. Honest and upfront about having bipolar disorder, D opened a small box of courage inside me. I felt like I could finally admit to myself that something was wrong inside me.

Even so, I didn't seek professional help. The risk was too great. If the wrong people found out, all the therapy and medication in the world wouldn't be able to put my life back together again.

Ultimately, someone near and dear to me hijacked me. Under the guise of meeting my new general physician, I was driven to the doctor to get help. I was angry at being set up like that. It was a short-lived emotion, though. Talking to my gp about what was going on and how I was feeling, a strange kind of relief washed over me. The air around me didn't press down on my shoulders and back quite so hard.

After ten years of manic anxiety that made my skin hurt when someone touched me... ten years of nothingness depression that made me sink to the floor in uncontrollable tears... elation... rage... desperation... and everything mixed together.

Like so many others, my story is much longer than this. The point right now is not to write an autobiography or memoir. The point is, while my fears were real and I was taking a genuine risk, the improvements in my life are almost surreal. I have a shot at a real life. Finally.

I could not have done this on my own. It sounds cliche, but its true. D stepped up. I must respect that and step up, too. How many countless others only need to see someone, like D, like me, stand up?

I am pledging five of my fellow bloggers who have stood with me, and have proven their mettle in my eyes as mental health bloggers.

1. Hope for Life
2. Aaron's Journey For Mental Health
3. Anxiety in General
4. Laugh Now, Cry Later
5. Haru Haru
6. If you happen upon this without being pledged, I pledge you, too.  Feel free to take the pledge!  Promote awareness!

If you take the pledge please take the following steps....

1.) Take the pledge by copying and pasting the following into a post featuring “Blog for Mental Health 2013″.

I pledge my commitment to the Blog For Mental Health 2013 Project.  I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others.  By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health.  I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma.

2.) Link back to the person who pledged you.

That's me.

3.) Write a short biography of your mental health, and what this means to you.

4.) Pledge five others, and be sure to let them know!

5.) And, as something novel for 2013, Lulu and I [at Canvas] ask one more thing of you.

To introduce Blog For Mental Health 2013, and really build a sense of community — and show everyone how many of us there are, and how strong we are, coming together — we are launching a Blog For Mental Health 2013 Official Blogroll!  So, in addition to linking back to the person who pledged you, please include the link to this original post in your piece.  As this gets passed along, click here and leave a comment containing the link to your pledge, and we will put you on our Blog For Mental Health 2013 Official Blogroll page!

Show the world our

strength,

show them our

solidarity,

show them

what we are made of.

Take the Blog for Mental Health pledge and

proudly display the badge on your blog!

And may we all have a happy, healthy 2013!

Anxiety Strikes Again

I hate it. Straight up. I hate anxiety.

I appreciate that it is hardwired into the human creature. We need it for survival. It warns us of potential danger and primes us to fight or to flee. I get it. When it works properly, triggered at appropriate times, it's great. But then there are the other times....

Getting a lump in your throat because you need to walk down the street to get the mail sucks. It makes no sense. The walk is only a single block and the neighborhood is safe so going to the mailbox should be a nice, leisurely stroll. Instead, I'm driven to keep a close eye on everything around me and my entire body is pressuring me to hurry up and get back home, back to safety. Logically, I know this is unreasonable, unwarranted, and I feel a little embarrassed but I can't help myself. I want to return to a state of comfort.

In the not-so-distant past I thought I was having heart problems and went to a cardiologist about it. A series of tests revealed my heart was just fine. If the problem wasn't with my heart, then what the heck was going on? I'm a little dense I guess because it took me a while to decide I was having stress related anxiety problems. Maybe I was just in denial. The stress in my life at that point was unreal. At times I could barely do my job because my hands would go numb and my fingers would curl up. Other times I could feel and hear the blood whooshing through my ears with each beat of my heart.

I was light-headed and got dizzy if I stood up too fast but I chalked that up to poor eating habits. Skipping lunch was the norm. My workload was just too heavy to stop for something like lunch. It was a bad idea and I knew it but I did it anyway. I didn't have a choice. Well, technically I did and as far as my employer was concerned they were not pressuring me - I was deciding to work straight through my lunch time. It was terrible. In hindsight it was just flat stupid.

The real doozy was my hair falling out. At first it seemed normal - like the little bit of hair that gets tangled in your brush over time. After a while it was a quite different. Rinsing the shampoo and conditioner out of my hair left hair tangled in among my fingers. It just slid right out of the rest of my hair. I thought for sure I would go bald.

I am really glad that many of the symptoms I experienced then are not happening now. I still have anxiety issues on a daily basis but I'm keeping my hair.

Coffee Bites

Waking up late this morning meant I had a raging headache. Since I’m typically up and moving by 6:45am, I’m typically drinking my first cup of coffee by 6:46am. Don’t talk to me until I’ve had a cup of coffee in the morning. I refill my rather large coffee mug 2 or 3 times during the 45 minutes I’m getting ready for the day and then one more time before I climb into my car.

Yep. I have a caffeine problem. I’ve gotten better, though. The coffee pot at work used to be 10 steps away from me and I refilled my mug all day long. It was so easy to do and, come lunch time, I didn’t feel hungry. The lack of hunger pains was a good thing, in a way. My work load was excessive and I worked right through lunch because I felt like it was the only way I could possibly complete everything that was expected of me. Fortunately, the coffee pot is much further from me these days. Unfortunately, my work load is still ridiculous.

I’m a spoon-full-of-sugar-in-my-coffee person. In an attempt to wean myself off of so much coffee I’ve been skipping on the sugar. It worked for a little while; I drank 1 or 2 cups while getting ready and didn’t finish the cup I took with me. I’m developing a taste for unsweetened coffee now, so my brilliant strategy isn’t so brilliant any more.

More recently I made a trip to Goodwill with my over-sized mugs. I’m drinking out of little mugs, the little white ones frequently found at pancake houses. The idea is to drink the same number of cups and since the cups are smaller I’ll drink a smaller volume of coffee. It’s totally psychological. It’s working, though. I can’t finish an over-sized cup of coffee anymore. It get cold, that nasty room temperature, before I can finish it which is strong motivation to not drink so much.

I’m still getting headaches if I don’t get to my coffee early enough in the morning. Clearly, I still have a caffeine addiction.

A New Challenge and Meditation

New goal: I’m going to write 500 words each day for the rest of May. Hopefully I’ll be successful with this personal challenge. I didn’t quite make it for the Blogging from A to Z in April Challenge, although I am going to finish it. I’m almost done - I’m down to X and K. I didn't do well in the NaPoWriMo challenge at all. Poetry is hard for me. All in all, I am proud of the poetry I wrote, I just didn't write a poem each day. I didn’t even get close to the 30 poems goal. I’m thinking I can be more successful with a challenge that is a little more flexible.

I’ve decided that I’m going to participate in a meditation group that is starting up soon. It’s structured to be more along the lines of shamanism than Buddhism. Buddhism is about clearing your mind (right?) and that is something I am simply incapable of doing. Some people disagree but they are not able to crawl inside my brain to experience, first hand, what my brain and thoughts are like. I’m not a Shaman in any way, shape, or form, but shamanism is more suited to the workings of my mind. It allows, even encourages, the thoughts, feelings, and images that arise during a meditation. They are part of who I am and, if I can avoid directing them or filtering them, they can help me understand myself and come to terms with all aspects of myself.

Thoughts, images, and feelings pop into my head all the time. I keep myself busy as a way of managing all the popping – it’s annoying at best. Horror movies and other graphic media are anathema to me. They foster thoughts that make me feel afraid and anxious. Certain places and activities do the same thing. Worry washes over me and I cannot enjoy myself. I won’t make a list in case your brain works like mine and the list itself will create feelings of anxiety.

The meditation group will have time for journaling, an activity I enjoy profusely. It’s helpful in the moment and interesting to look back on later. I can see where I have grown, where I have stagnated, and where I have withered. My journal is like a good friend complimenting me on the good things I’ve done and willing to smack me in the face for the things I messed up.

The last feature of this particular group is that we will have time to discuss our experiences. What helped us meditate? Hindered us? What did we experience during the meditation and what might it be revealing about ourselves? A great deal of trust will be involved because not all experiences are about unicorns and rainbows. They aren’t all beautiful because we are not perfect. The meditations will certainly reveal those things that I don’t like in myself and in my past. Sharing some of those things will be difficult. I don’t know yet if already knowing someone will make sharing easier. I’ll find out soon enough.

I Love Photoshop.

I think the title says it all. Well, most of it. The picture below says the rest of it.
Please support me and NAMI by making a donation at http://namiwalks.nami.org/Jennifer.

Jennifer Clark (c) April 28, 2013

Y is for You

The photo was taken by my cousin Amy. I made the modifications by playing with Photoshop.

NAMIWalks take place all over the country. To find one near you go to http://namiwalks.org/

X is for Major Arcana X: Wheel of Fortune

I have a tendency to think about some things in terms of opposites. Life and death. Right and wrong. Up and down. Manic and depressed. Placing the ideas on the flip side the same coin organizes them quickly and easily. That approach to thinking is so prevalent that I am compelled to believe it's human nature to do so. The coin system works great for a lot of things but it's sorely inaccurate for many others. The 10th card of the Major Arcana always reminds me of that fact.

This card has two wheels on it. The obvious one that's the focus of the card and another one tipped over on its side at the very top. Do we make our own future, our own destiny, or are those things determined from above, from the divine? The artwork on the card says the answer is both. The lighting bolts in the background, the power from above, are always hitting our lives from one direction or another. The other wheel, with the Sphinx, the monkey, and the crocodile is the destiny we create for ourselves. The swirling pattern farthest in the back is the motion our lives add to the world around us - the proverbial ripple in the pond.

I don't dare speculate about the wheel at the top. After all, who can really know the mind of the divine or the rules from beyond the veil that govern the physical and spiritual universe we live in.

The wheel in the front I can talk about because it is my own life and its movement is the result of my own choices, good, bad, or indifferent.

The ape on the left is riding the wheel up to the top. It represents creation, initiation, those things that are coming into being in my life and they are not necessarily positive  things. The ape could let go if it chose to. It could refuse to allow the emergence of the next thing in life. I could refuse and at times I have.

The crocodile on the right side is riding the wheel down, to its lowest point. It's tied to the wheel with absolutely no choice but to experience the destruction that occurs in life. Or does it have a choice? The tie is loose, there's no knot. The crocodile could let go, just like the ape. In letting go though, it will fall none the less. Perhaps something wonderful is being destroyed causing pain that we cannot escape from. Of course, something causing us great pain might also be disintegrating.

The Sphinx at the top is balanced. The wheel turns easily so maintaining that balance is difficult. It looks back into that space between the wheels, between how we influenced our own lives and how the higher power influenced it. If we are to learn anything, it will be from trying to merge the what and why of our past. There's no point in looking forward for the what and why of the future, because we cannot know what lighting the universe will throw at us next. If the Sphinx turns to peer deep into the future, the balance will be lost and the wheel will resume its movement. People being people, turning to look is inevitable.

I guess I should tell you why this card always reminds me that life's things and events are not represented on the opposite side of a coin very well. After all, that's where this post started.

The wheel of life does not flip. It does not have heads or tails. It revolves around a hub. The animals, representing creation, balance, and destruction, do not sit on one face or the other. They ride the rim, diminishing and expanding continuously - never appearing or disappearing in an infinitely small moment in time.

Life is not, can not, be the opposite of death. The wheel is the very representation of life and it turns, not flips. Health and sickness are not opposites either. Getting sick happens over time, so does regaining our health, and maintaining it is a balancing act. This is no more apparent than in trying to live between mania and depression. Is it possible? Absolutely. Is it permanent? Absolutely not. I will make some choice that will start the wheel turning. Lightening, far beyond my control, will strike. Do I hold on to the wheel, trust that it will not stop at the bottom? Will the momentum of its movement be enough to carry me through the low point?

I've lost count of how many times I have been so afraid of the motion that I have tried desperately to climb back up to the top. When I was on the downward side, trying to climb back up only made the wheel turn faster and faster until I couldn't hold on anymore. I had no more control. My fate was dictated by the powers from above and it was my own fault. Learning to hang on is one of the hardest and most painful lessons of my life. Riding the wheel is hard, that's true. It hurts and I selfishly think sometimes that it hurts me more than others. The wheel keeps moving and it always brings beautiful things with it along the way. They are not permanent but neither are the ugly things. There's one exception to that. Letting go.

Letting go meant I was always at a low point, lower than the wheel would have taken me if I had only held on. I could have closed my eyes and screamed in terror. Instead, I let go and screamed a silent sort of terror. I could not close my eyes. It was as if my eyelids had been torn away. I was ignorant of how far I would fall, when and if the divine would finally pull me back up within reach of my life, and what the divine would put me through next. My life stopped, suspended in that terrible space I should never have entered. The swirling motion of existence continued without me because I was stuck in a single moment. That which should have disintegrated, what should have fallen from the wheel instead of me, stayed there. It left no room for that which should have developed in my life.

There I remained, experiencing the pain and anguish created by the enormous power from above and the choices I made in response that lightening and thunder. Angry, desperate, screaming in pain, I learned what hell truly was.