Instant Replay

Do you ever have days that you'd like to do over?  You know the kind, a day in which nothing goes right, the littlest things get on your nerves.  Most of my yesterday was like that.  Since there are no real do overs in life,  I've decided to do a little instant replaying during my daily Just 10 of some of yesterday's low spots, just like the sports' guys do.

I had two problem areas that really affected my overall game performance yesterday:

1.) I discovered I'm allergic to pineapple.

2.) My children have been terrible at not following through.

First, number one. I was convinced that I was not allergic to anything.  The "mighty"  (you can insert the foolish here if you want) has fallen.  My head knew you can develop an allergy at any time in life.  I just didn't believe it would happen to me.  Boy! was I wrong.  No, there were no hunky paramedics and a ride in an ambulance but after eating nice bowl full of fresh pineapple at lunch, it wasn't long and my throat got really scratchy, I started to cough.  My upper lip started to swell slightly.  I wanted to scratch my eyes, nose and mouth right off my face.   I took some generic Benadryl which eased the symptoms slightly and went about my day, hoping to forget about it.   The itching subsided with several hours but the gastrointestinal aftermath has still not disappeared entirely and was rude enough to wake me several times last night.  A little online research this morning gave me some answers and hopefully knocked a bit of sense into me as well.

(Please don't do this at home.  Allergic reactions can be life threatening.  I was too cavalier about my reaction and was really lucky.  This past school year, I watched a student have an allergic reaction.  Things started to go bad very quickly.  Paramedics were on the scene in time and several weeks later, I ran into a very fortunate and grateful student who  filled me in on the details of what happened once at the hospital.  The student had an allergic reaction to something most people would never suspect to be a danger.  Allergies can develop suddenly.   The first reaction is often less intense than the reaction may be in a subsequent exposure.  The body has time to recognize the "enemy" and can really revolt against it when you are exposed the next time.   If you have an allergic reaction, check with your doctor immediately.   Don't do what I did.)
 
When I apply the instant reply to my fumble of yesterday, it's pretty clear what I'd do if I could do it again.  I would call my doctor's office.    They'd probably have told me to go straight to the ER.  My poor performance in the field has left me shaking my head.  Next time, I will perform better.  Remember,the game ain't over 'til it's over.  Even the pros can learn from their mistakes.

The second "agony of defeat" from yesterday feels like parenting failure.  It's time to drop kick that thinking and develop a new strategy so I'm better prepared for the next team crisis.  The problem is a simple one.  My lovely children are acting like children.  They would rather play and do their own thing that follow through with their chores and responsibilities.   Doesn't sound too different from what I really want to do which is probably why it really "kicks me in the keester."  Lately, I'm a broken record of nag.  "Did you brush your teeth?  Did you pick up your stuff?  Did you put that away?  Did you take out the dog? They don't pick up their end of the work and our game suffers.  I forget we're on the same team and we develop an adversarial relationship. We end up losing the game. 

Now to apply a little mental instant replay and examine my moves with an eye toward improvement.   Micromanaging my youngest team members puts too much stress on me.  We're going to use the consequence program.  If you fail to pick up the slack and do your part for the team, then you're going to be spending time on the bench.  In other words, the fun stuff will wait until you do the work stuff. 

These two team members are also failing to take care of their gear.  Time for a bit of tough love.  Gear not retrieved and stowed appropriately is going to go in "gear jail."  I hope I can find a big enough locker.

Now that I've applied instant replay to analyze the "footage" with an eye toward improvement, yesterday doesn't seem nearly as bad.   I plan on using the instant replay technique again.   Tomorrow is another day.

No Happy Place

For the last few days, it's been obvious that then worm of discontent has been eating at my husband.  I finally asked him why.  It wasn't really a Just 10 moment but some days, you have to take what you can get   To my surprise, the truth seemed to fall out of his mouth.  Inside him, the seething volcano of dissatisfaction spewed the lava of truth.  "I want things to be easier.  I want a break.  I want a little happiness."  To that, my own hot spot of dissatisfaction said a silent, "Amen."

After several moments pause, I found the well of my own inner truth gush to the surface.  I said to him, "Happiness is not a place, or a thing.  It's not a commodity or a prize that can be attained.  It is a state of being, Grasshopper."  I added the Grasshopper for a touch of  levity in case my statement was not well received.   I also knew my "Grasshopper" would get the reference to David Caradine's show, Kung Fu.  That bit of TV nostalgia combined with martial arts might make what I had said more easily digested.  I knew I needed to speak in testosterone to be better understood.   I don't know if my metaphorical round house kick met his metaphorical solar plexus but it was worth a try.

So I thought about happiness on my walk this morning. In the last week,  I've run across several references to a book called, The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin.  Apparently, the universe/God (however, you define that which is beyond our knowing)  is trying to tell me something.  I've read a little about Martin Seligman and Authentic Happiness.  I like the idea of Positive Psychology of focusing on coping skills instead of the pathology of mental illness.  I've been thinking about all those things and more.

My thoughts didn't seem to have a connection at first.  I remembered a video I watched yesterday of Elizabeth Gilbert giving a talk on creativity.  You can view the approximately 20 minute video here:


She speaks of the ancient idea of genius, not as something a person is or has but as something that a person allows to flow through them.  It occurred to me that this is also true of happiness.  Maybe, my thoughts which had seemed to be a mental soup filled with flies, wasn't that at all.  Maybe, this was great soup.   I was ready for the main course.

This idea of being a conduit of sorts for creativity for genius, for happiness brings me great comfort, dare I say joy.  It's not something I have to look for or achieve, it's something for which I need only to be ever ready, ever patient and ever welcoming.  How many times had I chased after happiness to only have it escape me?   How many times had I looked for it in all the wrong places?  How many times have I cursed its absence when it was really only waiting for me to prepare the room?

I have confused happiness with things it is not.  It is not the companion of wealth or success.  It not something I can earn or even deserve.  It's not really an emotion.  It's not an end result or a reward.  I can't find it in a place or a person and yet, it is all around us, all the time.  It is a gift to be enjoyed and shared.  All that is required of me is to get out of the way, to open my eyes and recognize my guest, my genius, my own piece of happiness.

Constantly Unexpected

Son and I like to haunt the local Goodwill Outlet.  One day, he finds these party hats.  He calls, "Mom.  Look I'm a pinata."  He is the master of the unexpected.

This morning, he wanted to join me on my walk.  Before we left our driveway, he asked,  "Can we have our Just 10?"  I reply, "Sure."    I know that this will be the perfect time to have our talk, to tell him what we share in common.    I started by asking him how he was doing.  I told him I know that yesterday was a hard day for him and did he have any idea why?  He said,   "I don't know why but I couldn't get to sleep the night before.  I was up until 11:30 p.m."  He goes to bed at 9 during the summer.  The old-school mom in me almost gets caught up in a lecture or at the least an admonition about getting to bed earlier but I know that his trouble sleeping is part of his constellation of symptoms.  I put scolding on a shelf, a shelf so high I can't reach it.

Since, young Mr. A was in the room the day of his school eval, I asked him what he remembered about that day and what was said.  He knew that he had really improved in the social skill department and felt pleased. He also knew he still qualified for educational support.  He understood some of his challenges perfectly and articulated them to me.  He didn't have a clue what bipolar meant.  Here was my opportunity.  I tried not to let the weight of the discussion crush me. 

I, who hate the confinement of a label, gave him a quick and simple definition.  I explained that his low feelings were more intense than the average kid and that his silly times were a little zanier than average.  I explained that the medicine he takes morning and evening is to help balance out the sad and the silly.  And then I took the leap and said,  "Andrew, I have it too.  I take medicine to help me balance my moods just like you do."  He responded with, "Really.  You do?"   "Yes, really" I replied.

He was quiet,  letting the words sink in.  I gave him a bit of silence and then asked, "How do you feel about what I told you?"  He said, "Curious."  Then he quickly asked,  "Is it bad to have this?"  I had the tiger by the tail.  What I said next could really matter.  I took another leap.

"Well, this can be a challenge.  We feel things more intensely.   Sometimes, we can get stuck in thinking that how we feel about something is also the way things really are.  Feelings are not the whole truth.  They can mislead us especially because they feel so strong.  We have to learn how to talk to ourselves inside so we can make good decisions even when we don't feel like doing so."  I told him that our "sads"can feel a lot worse than other people's normal "sads" but that we can also have some incredible fun because we can get an extra dose of happy sometimes too."    I told him that I wanted him to come to me and tell me if he ever finds himself  feeling really bad.  He said, "Ok," and nothing more.  I asked him how he felt about all this and he said, "I think it's interesting."    I said, "Yes, yes, it certainly can be."

We said more than recorded here but not much.   I'm relieved to have opened the door on what I hope will be future dialogue.  When Mr. A asked, if it were something bad,  I found myself taking a hard look at the inventory in my own mental arsenal.  I answered him as simply and as truthfully as I could at that moment.    My life for all its ups and downs (mostly downs) has been exquisitely rich, a beautiful tapestry of vivid experiences.   I have often lost sight of this beauty especially when the view is clouded by depression.  My experience has taught me this:  by hanging on, by choosing to believe that things will change,  one day I awake to the promise of sun.  Age has brought me many gifts.  Some I'd like to return to the author of this life.    There are others, like the wisdom born of time, experience and yes, suffering for which I am forever grateful.  May they serve me well as I try to guide my son.  He is a fascinating and delightful mixture of darkness and light.  I wouldn't trade him and all that he is for any other.

A Bug's Last Stand

On my Just 10 walk this morning, I swallowed a bug.  I didn't notice it going in.  Apparently, I failed to use my teeth as an effective grill to screen out my unwanted morsel.  I might have missed his entrance completely if this bug hadn't made one valiant struggle to live.  Its' tiny legs and fragile wings flailed against the soft tissue of my uvula before falling down the inky black tunnel of death, also know as my esophagus.   This isn't the first bug I've swallowed.  I'm sure it won't be my last.  I'm a hopeless mouth breather.  My mouth has an open invitation to many of my flying insect friends.

Notice the word, "friends."  I've made peace with many inhabitants of the insect world.  I've been playing with potato bugs and caterpillars as long as I can remember.  I also had enough sense to leave centipedes and suspicious looking spiders alone.  My children don't share this affinity with insects.  If my son had swallowed the bug, he probably would have returned his breakfast to the earth, choking up his revulsion.  I pondered my peaceful acceptance of my bug morsel this morning.  My mind had been a whirlpool of thought.  All right.  For a few moments the word, "cesspool" may have been more descriptive.  I was still feeling very vulnerable after my last blog entry.  Despite all the wonderful encouragement and support, I still feel exposed.  I'd found myself in an undiscovered country of emotional candor.  I am a bit lost.

It hasn't helped that our womens' book group has been reading and loving, Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love.  We all love her candor, her ability to capture feelings we experience with her wonderful use of the English language.  I want to write like she does.  I would dearly love to have a New York Times Bestseller, not to mention a movie based on a part of my life  (The convent years have great movie potential.  Don't you think?)   That would sure end our financial worries.  I compare myself to Liz Gilbert and I find my writing almost juvenile and inane.

Ah, I recognize that voice.  It's the childish voice of my ego.  "Hey, I thought I showed you the door the last time you showed up here."  It replies,  "I found an open window.  Get used to me, Baby.  I'm here to stay."

But, I digress.  Let's get back to my bug.   My mind kept returning to it as I walked.  Obviously, part of me wasn't as nonchalant about its' ingestion as I'd like to think.  I wondered if its' death was pointless.  I also wondered if my writing really had a point as well.  Almost instantly, I got my answer.  The bug and I were doing what comes naturally.  The end doesn't matter.  It's all about the journey.  It's about being true to who you are.  It's about me sharing the simple truths in my life for the joy of the sharing, not for recognition but for the pleasure of writing.   (That would be great by not necessary. . . immensely helpful though.)

So, like my little friend the bug, who made one last stand against a seemingly senseless death, I will not curse the darkness or the fact that I am not Elizabeth Gilbert.  I will honor my truth until the end and I will derive pleasure in the simple act of writing, the sharing of who I am.

I pay tribute to the bug.  "Bug,  you did good.  You were all bug.  You lived a simple bug life.   You fought with your little bug honor to hold on to that life.  You taught me how important it is to hold on to mine."  Thanks, bug.

Coming Out

Since this blog relies on my candor as its life blood,  I am compelled to venture into areas of my life that I am still somewhat hesitant to reveal.  Over the years, it seemed best not to be too candid about some aspects of my life.  Recently, I've begun to wonder if it isn't time to reveal one of those secrets.  I believe there is a greater good to be served.  My candor may be helpful to my son.

Andrew was diagnosed with Aspergers when he was three.  I always knew that he was atypical.  He was atypical before he was born.  During amniocentesis, he reached up for the needle.  It really shook the doctor who was performing the test.  For me, it was just a a sign of something I already knew.  I was oddly calm about my unborn child's gymnastics. 

When he was born, he had managed to not only tie a knot in the umbilical cord, it was also wrapped around his neck.  He wasn't born as alert as his sister.  With a little oxygen, he was soon responding as a newborn should.  I sometimes wonder if that indeterminate time of little oxygen made a difference.  My intuition is that it really did not.  His genetic makeup was already set. 

Since our son was diagnosed at an early age, the team of specialists admitted that they didn't have a concensus as to what to attribute his "specialness".  At that time, they were split between ADHD and Aspergers.  They went with Aspergers because it opened more doors to learning support.  I am eternally grateful that they did.   He has had wonderful teachers and the social support he received has been invaluable.  Yet, over time, it was apparent Aspergers or ADHD didn't explain what we saw in our son.

Some years ago a trusted psychiatrist gave our son the diagnosis of Bipolar II.  He felt that it more adequately captured his particular constellation of symptoms/behaviors and thought patterns.  Inside, I have not wanted to accept it as true.  Somehow being bipolar seemed more final, less hopeful.  I hadn't wanted our son to define himself by a label whether it was Aspergers, ADHD or Bipolar.  I've been afraid that he would use the diagnosis as an excuse to justify his behavior and to stop striving for optimal functioning in a world that often seems too much for him to handle.

This year at his school evaluation, the team said he no longer qualified for educational support due to Aspergers.   He did still qualify due to his being Bipolar.    His lack of focus, his oppositional behavior, his inability to handle frustration, his sometimes inappropriate silly spells,  point toward a bipolar pathology.   I have to agree with the team.    As I watch him this summer, I know it's true.  It's also time I tell Andrew that I am Bipolar also.

As much as I understand that the bipolar diagnosis does not mean that I have a weakness of character or personal defect, it feels that way.  I rarely admit to having this illness.  I've carried this label largely in secret over the almost 20 years, it has been assigned.  I like to think that I function well.  A psychiatrist once told me with an air of grave finality that "you'll never be able to handle stress."  That made me angry.  I'd like to think that if he were in my shoes today, with all the stresses life has brought me, he wouldn't be doing as well as I.   Most of the time, the less I think about the label and all that it carries, the better I function.  I take medication to manage it and it usually works very well.

I've also had the benefit of years of living with depression and the occasional hypomanic episode.  I have learned to observe my moods and feelings and understand that they don't necessarily represent reality.  This hasn't been as easy as it sounds.     Help is available and I've learned to seek it out when necessary.  Has it affected my overall functioning in life?  Yes, I'm sure it has but when it's all said and done, I've had a full and interesting life.  I may not be a stellar success by the world's standards and I may never know all the ways that depression has limited  opportunities but what is, is.    I am who I am today in large part because of the unique blend of talents and handicaps that are at play inside me.  I am who I am because of who I am.

Even with my personal experience, I have wanted to spare my son.  Books on the bipolar child found their way home with me on a recent library trip.  I avoided reading them until a few days ago.  The first book I picked up was The Life of a Bipolar Child by Trudy Carlson.  Trudy lost her son, Ben.  When he was 14, he shot himself in the head.  There are many parallels in the life of her son and mine.  I believe that my son's condition isn't as serious as hers was but that doesn't mean things won't change. 

As much as I don't want my son to define himself or burden himself with a label,   I have to be realistic and be willing to help him learn how to cope with the particularly dark way he can view the world.  He still believes his perspective is reality.   The time has come to put my own experience to use and help show what I have learned and how I've learned to cope with bipolar illness.  It's time to come out.

Low Rider

Low  Rider seemed to be the theme for the last few days.   It was one of the songs that Goatshank,  the band, played on the July 3rd picnic. Fellow band groupie and friend,  Debbie and I were amused how the meaning of the lyrics was probably escaping the largely upper white middle class crowd at the picnic.   Honestly, they escape me too and I'm not upper middle class.  Feeling low class is often a source of shame for me even after all these years and after all my life experience.   I've been feeling very low class.   Low also describes my mood.  The two lows seemed to be connected.

Going down to Mom's to celebrate the 4th and her birthday left me with an all too familiar empty feeling on the ride home.  My biological family and I are not close.  For the most part, we have a distant and usually polite acquaintance and little more.   There are rare moments when one or more of us might really connect as siblings but that is often followed my years of avoidance and awkwardness.  My mom will be 83 tomorrow and we still don't really feel comfortable with each other.

Over the years, I've tried to bridge the gap in a variety of ways.  Mom hasn't known how to build the bridge to meet me and so I've had to resign myself to what is.  It's no surprise that I don't do intimacy well which is why Just 10 has become so important in my own life and in the lives of my own family.  I want something different for my own children.

Which is exactly why I made time for Just 10 with my daughter several days ago.  She has changed so much in the last few months.  I've been hard on her.  When I remembered what it felt like for me to be 12, how much I wanted understanding and approval from my mother, I knew that I had to reach out to my daughter and be open and honest with her.  I needed her to know that I really like and value the person she is.  I needed her to know that it's hard for me to let go of the little girl that I knew, the one inside me and the one that's inside her.

Most importantly, I needed her to know that I do love and care for her but that sometimes I will fail to be the supportive and understanding parent that I want to be.  My daughter was obviously touched by my candor.  It also made her uncomfortable.  That is a feeling I know well, so I spared her further deep sharing and we chatted about songs on the radio.

Today, I began my walk with a heavy heart, threatening my neurotransmitters, telling them to kick the endorphins in high gear,  "I have a day to power through and I want to spare my children a grumpy mom. Get busy."  I took off for my Just 10 walk like a bolt out of  H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks.

I couldn't run from how I felt so I had to run through it and review the events of the last few days.  I remember how on the ride home, I'd suddenly asked my husband, "Do you remember the last time you felt care free?"  His response, "Wow.  It's been so long ago.  I must have been a very young kid."  His answer was identical to my own.  I thought of how difficult the job of being a grown up is.  Part of me has been in serious rebellion against accepting the job.

Then I remember, the car talk with my husband, from the day before.  I shared a sudden insight.  As we passed under the 130th Ave. overpass, I blurted out the following,   "As long as I fight against the simple truth that life really is a series of problems, one after another, the more miserable I make myself.  If I just go with the problem scenario, every thing gets easier."   I didn't know where that came from but apparently, I needed to hear it under the130th overpass.   It was something my head has long known but something my heart has struggled to accept.   I was still dealing with  the vestiges of that struggle on my walk this morning.
 
I kept up a vigorous pace.  I quickly arrived at my turning point.  The endorphins were beginning to lighten my mental burden.  I was sweating out some of the anger and frustration.  Simple resignation was slowly seeping through my veins.  And, then the final low rider analogy came to light.

As I passed the high school baseball fields, I became aware of an unusual sensation.  An article of clothing was no longer where it should be.   The article of clothing I wear closest to my body on my lower half was slowly, but surely heading south.  My first thoughts were "Oh Oh, now what?  Do I dare attempt to return it to its former position in public, in plain view of the other walkers, bikers and the traffic?  If I ignore it, will it soon hobble my walking?  Can I stop thinking about it?  Should I stop thinking about it?

Just as quickly, I came to the conclusion that such a wardrobe malfunction was evidence of my white trash nature.  This hurt.  To soothe the hurt, my better self came to the rescue.  I reminded myself that I was the product of centuries of simple, hardworking, salt-of-the-earth-type people.  They were not nobility but many had found nobility by embracing the simple realities of their lives.  I need not feel any shame at being peasant born.  I could feel proud.  So I did, low riding underwear, and all.  I returned home with a smile.

The Triad of Death

Death has touched my life three times this week.

1.) The Demise of Mrs. Doodles.

My son's pet crayfish, Mrs. Doodles surprised us by dying this week.  She was suddenly discovered, scary legs and claws reaching for the heavens.  Son was devastated.   While son regrouped in his bedroom,  Dad and I discussed interment.  Dad wanted to flush it down the toilet.  Mom argued against it.  What if in the rigor of death, the claws and legs splayed out against the plumbing and formed a trap for all matter coming after it? Chagrined but not convinced, Dad took Mrs. Doodles outside and dumped her in an empty bucket.  Way to go, Dad.  Our dog, the neighborhood cats and one sad little boy are all aware of her bucket tomb.

Mrs. Doodles was the crabbiest of pets.  She spent her days hunkered in her artificial cave, coming out only at night to climb on the stones in her bowl.  If we removed, her cave, she'd threaten us with her claws.  Now, I actually miss her clunking and her silly threats.  My son blamed himself for her death.  I reminded him of a fact that he had taught me,  "The average crayfish lives to be only a toddler in human years.   It may just have been her time to die."  I reminded him of the crayfish in his classroom and asked him how many had died.  He said at least half, most met death at the hands of another barbarous crayfish.   He'd saved her by freeing from her from the threat of other crayfish.  She'd lived a good life. 

2.) Cat with  Legs Akimbo

Midweek, on my morning walk, I saw a cute, black and white cat laying, crumpled by the side of the road.  Its' little body, lay across the white stripe at the edge of the road, its' legs raised in impossible angles.  It was alive no more.  I hoped that no young children were awaking to the loss of their pet.  I thought about the folly of forgetting cat's curious natures and their thirst for adventure.  If you let them out at night, they will roam.  Some times, they won't return.

3.) Mouse of Eternal Peace

I wasn't aware that death had come calling in it's bizarre trifecta until I discovered the mouse.  As I walked, briskly on the trail, I looked down to spot a still and peaceful mouse.  For a fraction of an instant, I wanted to tenderly pick up this mouse and lay him off to the side of the trail.  Fortunately, practicality and the fear of some hideous disease, was at the helm.  This peaceful mouse looked like a cute stuffed toy that was stitched in the posture of sleep.  It pierced my awareness and I remember the belief that "death comes in threes."  I remember the cat and then Mrs. Doodles.  Three it was!

Why had this mouse gotten through my hard outer shell?    Then, I remember the "Summer of the Mouse."

During the summers of my youth, the field mice that lived in the field behind our house liked to move into their summer home, our home.  Little mice teeth made a big hole in the carpet at the bottom of the stairs.  It was a tunnel to their expressway through the downstairs closet and kitchen.  Some times, they ventured to the second floor, making nests in the dark corners of our closets out of the pages of a treasured book.  As cute as they were, they were the enemy.

So, one day, when my brother, Dave and I cornered one small mouse in the upstairs bathroom.   We were full of blood lust.  We enjoyed the hunt.  Stuffing a towel under the door to prevent escape, we stomped after the tiny little intruder.  It's last moments were filled with terror.  When we discovered that we had indeed killed the little mouse, we were flooded with feelings of shame and remorse.  We looked at each other and said, "This wasn't a good thing.  Let's never do this again."   I have not.

One of the things I said to reassure my grieving son was "Death is a part of life."  This morning a cute, tiny and dead little mouse reminded me that there is no escape.  Life and death are hopelessly linked.  You can't have one with out the ever present possibility of the other.  And so, to the trifecta of death, I say, "thank you.  You make me more alive.  You remind me to honor life and to accept the reality of death with dignity and grace.  You bring me back to what is essential.  Sleep on Mrs. Doodles, pretty kitty and tiny mouse.  Some day, not so long from now, we'll join you.  Until then, I've got a trail to walk, a life to live and people to love.  Peace.