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...?