Birhythmic Hands

Forever Lost/Richard Davis

I've missed being here. I've been gone for a period of time, rationing my energy and withdrawing my vulnerability, as I waited for a storm to pass. I closed my eyes and turned my face away to be alone with my thoughts. I wept as I struggled for sleep, mumbling chants, and praying that God would love me enough to interrupt and further disorder the bi-rhythmic hands scraping, scraping, scraping at the thin walls of medicine protecting my mind.

I was medicated beyond normal functioning and grateful for the physical inability to leave my home and interact with others, to challenge the lazy pulse of what I retained. Some days I poured out all five bottles of my medicine on the side table by my bed and forced myself to recognize and admit the resentment that I had, and that I have now, for the amount of sickness that resides in me. I was created and born in a way that would prove insufficient, although not incorrect. My illness was predetermined by a loving God, and I love him still.

Now, I scrape the crust of prescribed answers from my eyes and the crumbs of self-treatment from my mouth. I see the debris and isolation of my latest survival. They are consequences of retreating and binging through the passing storm, of depriving my body of the warmth of touch. The hands are still scraping but their disorder has surpassed my own. I have acquired peace enough to rest before their rhythm tears again.

I speak again, here, to witness the release and recapture of my thoughts on this page. I will look for footsteps and hope that I have contacted someone outside of myself and granted them a small and rare bit of "knowing" what it is like to be bipolar.

Symptoms of Disordered Eating

"Fork Forest" Michael Woloschinow

The world that surrounds my disordered eating is in many ways much more private than that which surrounds my bipolar II struggles. This world is a place that I created, that I maintain, and that I appease in the way that any dependent partner in an unhealthy relationship would. While my binging may occur in this secret place, my obesity bears witness to it; it is a public sin and I bear it with shame.

As with my bipolar II diagnosis, disclosure of this struggle to those that love me always brings innocent protests. I am told that I am simply being too hard on myself, that allowing such a label will only make me feel worse, and that choosing to think positive about myself, my life, and my body will solve any issues that I have convinced myself of having.

Due to commonly experiencing others' disbelief regarding my "self-diagnosis," when I met with my current therapist (whom I will call Dr. S.), I was very direct with her regarding the direction of my treatment. "Okay," I said "I'm coming here to work on my eating disorder. I've gone to many counselors to work on this and they have gotten lost in my depression; I'm bipolar and my depression will never go away however I believe my eating disorder can." Dr. S. stated that she both understood and was confident regarding the possibilities of our working relationship. I felt pressure that day to begin our therapeutic relationship backwards and to share my worst symptoms first before establishing "adequate trust and rapport." I will do the same for you.

Binging- I sometimes have so much food in my mouth that my brain loses track of where it is and I end up biting my tongue or chewing on the sides of my cheeks until they bleed. I have eaten so fast that I have inhaled food and had to blow it out of my nostrils when it became stuck and began to burn. I've consumed food that was still frozen, that was expired, and that wasn't mine and then lied about it. I've eaten things such as an entire package of hot dogs while talking to a family member on the phone, muted the phone to throw up, and unmuted it after to finish the conversation. Everything has been my choice and every result has been due to my actions.

I systematically disclosed these symptoms to Dr. S. because I didn't know her well enough to be embarrassed and wanted to save myself from discomfort down the line. I am telling you these same things to demystify my ED, and to invite you in to a private world that functions best while secret. It is meant to be a purposeful disruption of my mind, a reason to panic, reorganize, and replace what is a very unhealthy coping pattern involving food. As always, you are welcome here.

The Present Stage of Diagnosis

"Hacia Acuario"/Remedios Varo

With any diagnosis, be it mental health related or otherwise, there exists a certain life cycle of events as organic as the disorder or disease itself that are survived in order to begin a process of restoration. Even then, the end goal is always different from the point at which we started.

This painting connects deeply to the stage that I am now experiencing. As with any surrealist art, the symbolism that I acknowledge and the interpretation that follows is as personal as my smile or the expression I make when my mind has decided that a conversation has run its course and should be ended.

Here I see my natural self sitting within the cloak of my medicated self. My natural self  presents in a more familiar form, vulnerable and desiring rest from exploring a world of obstacles. This self is at best haphazardly prepared to navigate without support; it has no shoes but wears a hat when there is no access to the light of the sky, and its physical scale does not match the height of the thorny boundaries that surround its path. While reclined, this self appears anxious as one hand grips the fabric that shapes its seat and the other is enveloped in the grip of its caretaker.

My medicated self is recognizable solely through abstract characteristics. It travels on the same path with the same direction but does so with a crown of stardust, an aggressive breastplate, and while carrying "like a staff of power, a key, perhaps, to the only way out" (Ovalle et. al, 1994). Indeed, for me this symbiosis is the only way out, the only way in, and the only way on.

So far, I have survived the revelation of my diagnosis, the rejection of it, and the denial of its impact on my life. Future posts will cover these elements as I am ready. For now, I am at the point of accepting some type of relationship with treatment, both chemical and interpersonal, and view it with both disgust and appreciation on equal terms.

The Bipolar Invasion

 I talked to my father tonight about my new therapist and the work we have been doing together. As I have my master's in clinical psychology and he has a doctorate in psychology (ironic I know) we were able to talk about the models of therapy being utilized in my sessions. He seemed to think that writing in this space was a good idea. It's funny that I have yet to use it to focus on my presenting issue, the reason I first scheduled an appointment for treatment, with that being that I have an eating disorder (ED). My therapist specializes in working with ED clients, however, just as my bipolar diagnosis tends to invade every aspect of my life it has done the same here and in my sessions.

The running hypothesis at this point is that my ED developed as a way to survive/cope with various dysfunctional events of my childhood. Alternately, I was born hardwired to be at risk of unconsciously fusing stress and depressive symptoms into a bipolar diagnosis without adequate intervention for such symptoms. Throughout my teens and early 20's interventions came and went but none were sufficient to suppress it. Explaining my current state in such a technical way creates a type of out of body experience. I feel like a clinician with a clipboard looking at myself as a client in a hospital bed sleeping the type of sleep only possible with sedatives and hypnotic prescriptions; the type of sleep that is full of strange dreams and colorful interpretations of my various anxious memories.

At present, I wonder what type of interaction I would have with myself in these roles, if I would receive the same type of responses that I have had from those around me in my real life. For the bipolar diagnosis, there is empathy, surprise, comments about how I am and my symptoms are "so different from xyz bipolar person" that they already know, and unprompted promises from them to "keep it between us." I have grown tired of updating those that care that, "Yes, things are still the same but have no doubt that I am still trying," that "I am still hopeful," and "am trying xyz  medicine on xyz dose," to "get stabilized yet again," and that "If I feel really depressed I know what to do, where to go, who to call."

After disclosure of my ED to others, they remind me of my physical beauty, the "obvious" and "unnecessary negative influence of the media," on my mind, and the possibility of self-healing my disorder by simply "learning to love myself," or "digging into scripture." These relationships, and my interpretations of their urgent advice, are only made more complex by my history of failed attempts to self-diagnose, self-heal, and reabsorb my disorders through prayer, education, positive thinking, and therapy.

Tonight, the twofold conclusion is that firstly there really isn't room in my mind to allow other people to live there, regardless of the veritable stampede of positivity they might bring. Secondly, I remain grateful for access to the voices and the listeners of the blogging community. (:

Patterns of Reaction

Last week during therapy, I read my previous posts to my therapist. She smiled but didn't offer feedback which is probably just as well. I assume it had to do with my tendency to want to please people; the need for outside approval to be proud of my work. I only made this connection tonight as I was asking myself why I hadn't written anything for a time. In tandem with my commitment to this process I deactivated my facebook account to create a greater space to pull me here and to write without regard to the reactions of friends and family. Most are unaware of my disorders and those who have knowledge are only allowed shallow access.

A few years ago, I had a male therapist tell me that depression wasn't contagious and that treating myself in a manner that suggested infection was counterproductive to treatment. I disagree with the first premise of his statement and agree with the latter. Unfortunately I am unable to separate the two. Those that are closest to me, those that are emotionally invested, tend to follow distinct patterns of reaction to my disclosure of  disordered symptoms. The first would be observation, questioning, empathy. The second would replace empathy with platitudes. The third would replace platitudes with rejection. Receiving empathy brings me guilt, platitudes turn to disappointment, rejection is met with a sigh of familiar acceptance. All bind me tighter within myself. I find no comfort in transferring my pain to others as it is followed by worries about how they will process what I have shared and undue pressure to convince myself by the time of our next meeting that I am in fact better for having spoken.

Having explored these concerns, there is a strange freedom in this page for me. Those that choose to read need not continue and those that venture on are not prompted by relationship, duty, or proximity of any kind. It's a welcome feeling to be so alone yet aware of the possibility of being heard.

Rhythms and Disorders

I thought of writing this morning as I was drifting to sleep after I had just gotten home from my overnight shift at work. Due to an oversight, I was without one of my "hour of sleep" medications. My mind focused on sounds in the house as I strained to keep my eyes closed: the sound of my Siamese eating cat food in the kitchen, the sound of our dog adjusting his body on the bed and sighing as if he had completed his bravest day. I wished for the crashing waves of the dishwasher mid-cycle and was only able to drift away having created its rhythm in my mind. Now, as I write, I am at work again and the sound of the dishwasher has brought me back to this page.

Wiki defines Rhythms as such: A movement marked by the regulated succession of strong and weak elements, or of opposite or different conditions.

As I process the definition of my mood disorder- My God, it makes me start to cry just typing those words in any sort of way that suggests unhostile ownership-... Again, as I process the definition of my mood disorder, I think that it sounds so much more artistic and evenhanded to consider a person Birhythmic rather than Bipolar. 

Bipolar : A psychiatric diagnostic category, previously called manic depression, characterized by mood swings between great energy (manic) and clinical depression.

One acknowledges pattern, intensity, and power through the words of an observer, a listener, a being in the presence of another. The other describes a being as they exist within their symptoms, their opposing walls of emotional dysregulation. Ah there, now I see it...dysregulation versus regulation. Well, my chosen definition could easily assimilate the two.

Birhythmic Disorder: A movement through life marked by a dysregulated succession of strong and weak emotional elements that are characteristically expressed through moods of great energy or sadness.

 
In rereading this post I can see how obviously my disorder interacts with my writing.   

I guess I will keep taking my meds.

Racing Memories

As I was falling asleep last night I considered all of the things that I wanted to capture on this blog, all of the memories that I needed to share in a space that was unforgiving but separate from my own mind. These thoughts raced aggressively in my immediate consciousness as if they were competing with both each other and my present for escape.  Over the next hour of fighting for sleep, I soothed my anxiety by reminding myself that if these memories have lasted this far in my life I wouldn't lose them overnight. Furthermore, after hindering and blocking my previous attempts at excision, through various other psychological and spiritual methods, this time they must be treated with a unique type of respect. As it stands this morning, nothing has been lost but much waits impatiently to be told.

Awakening

Last week I was strongly urged by a trusted mentor my therapist to begin an anonymous blog to "help me process." I declined at first with a litany of excuses such as being too sensitive to criticism, feeling indebted to anyone who expressed appreciation for the words that I shared (and in turn feeling anxious with every day that passed without my posting an update), and being unsure how to begin such a thing without the online presence of friends and family to support and encourage me.

It seems the easiest way to begin a thing is without giving myself enough time to grow suspicious of my own intentions. This post begins the awakening of my online presence, naked and bare. Perhaps it will serve as a personal journal alone...?