"Give yourself a chance."

So said my doctor.

---
The first song I heard today was this:

Against the Grain

by City and Colour

You need not to climb mountaintops,

You need not to cross the sea,

You need not to find a cure for everything that makes you weak.

You need not to reach for the stars when life becomes so dark,

And when the wind does blow against the grain,

You must follow your heart,

You must follow your heart.

When all your friends have come and gone,

And the sun no longer shines,

And the happiness for which you long is washed away like an ocean's tide,

When all the hard times outweigh the good,

And all your words are misunderstood,

When the day seems lost from the stars

You must follow your heart,

You must follow your heart.

If you feel you've paid the price,

And your wounds should cease to heal

And everything you love in life spins like a winding wheel.

If you should wake to find you're abandoned,

And the road you've traveled leads to a dead-end

When death creeps in to play its part,

You must follow your heart,

You must follow your heart.

---
I've been having a bad spell lately, mostly because...hell, I don't know why. Things just trigger this sadness, and before I know it, I'm practically swimming in it. But I went to the shrink today, detailing all the absurdities that have happened lately (the usual gamut: racing thoughts, anxiety attacks, restlessness, crying spells...). I was mentally and emotionally flagellating myself because I couldn't get a grip on my thoughts ("I thought the meds were supposed to cure me of this!" I said). He just listened in his usual Yoda way and after my blathering and his dispensing of prescriptions for my new (stronger) meds, he said, "Give yourself a chance."

That was the most personal he had ever gotten with me, and I was struck by what he said.

Okay, so I'm giving myself a chance. And the Universe's message for me today was to follow my heart.

Chance, heart, new meds. Here we go. The rest is up to you, Lord.

Doubt

One of the biggest annoyances (to put it lightly) about being bi-polar isn't the self-hatred (and there are many instances of those). It isn't even the exhaustion from the manic episodes. Nor is it the ridiculous amount we spend on my meds. No. It's the self-doubt.

Is this happiness I feel or am I just wired? Am I feeling sad or frustrated? Am I mad? Am I actually feeling something? Are my feelings my own or are they being manufactured for me by the great minds behind modern pharmaceutical science? Did that really happen or did I just imagine it? Was I a good teacher, or was I just being manic? Did I actually say that or did I just write it? Did I write this story because I'm a good writer or because my depression is feeding my art? Will I still be able to write well when I am, well, well?

I'm not even listing down the questions that I ask myself every day because...I'm not sure if those questions exist or should exist.

Someday, I'd like to own my own feelings. I'd like to find a way to function without my meds. I'd like to be able to be puyat and not have a bad day afterwards.

I'd like to hug my daughter and feel genuine happiness and not doubt its sincerity.

I'd like to be held by my husband without thinking I am unworthy of him.

I'd like to breathe deeply and feel the joy of being alive, un-propped up by drugs.

I'd like to think of the past events without being reduced to an anxiety attack.

...Needless to say, today was another bad day.

Cleansed

I've taken to jogging/power walking around the neighborhood every morning to help clear my mind (and well, keep being in this weight range). Most days, the streets are busy with cars and pedestrians, but today being a holiday and all, the streets were near empty. Another reason the neighborhood was a prime candidate for rolling tumbleweeds was that there was a light but steady drizzle falling all around me. I'm not a hardcore runner (please, I still detest extreme physical exertion), but I decided not to let the ambon faze me. Besides, I needed to walk off everything I ate yesterday. (Belated happy birthday again, Steph!)

When I arrived home, I was drenched. I didn't think that it was all sweat and sure enough, when I checked my mostly grey attire, I realized that I had gotten wet from the rain. I didn't realize that it was drizzling hard enough for me to get that wet.

Light though it was, the rain was steady. Unceasing. Silent. But unceasing. And the world around me got cleansed this way.

And so shall I.

Eloquence

I just made this long rambling post about me having had several bad days in a row these few days because of my racing thoughts which how my mania manifests itself and I read it and I realized how bad it actually was how things were all just jumbled and then I suddenly talked about how it wasn't all that bad because I'm working on a story that I want to get published but I ended up with this wall of words and now this is a run on sentence and so what if I just abruptly

4

The past two days were 4s (out of 10). The racing thoughts won't go away. I have congruent, tangential, perpendicular, multiversal stories, plotlines, scenarios, what-ifs, should-haves...my brain won't stop. My. Brain. Won't. Stop.

The doctor decided to remove some of my meds and I guess this is me adjusting to them. But, and in all my eloquence this is what I can muster: this sucks.

But.

I received a message that comforted me to no end. I had no idea that there were some people out there who actually, actually, care. Silently praying for me. Thank you. THANK YOU.

And for that, I'm going to try my best to make tomorrow a 6 or 7, at least.

Please, let it be a 6 or 7. I'm exhausted.

Precision of Language

“Even trained for years as they all had been in precision of language, what words could you use which would give another the experience of sunshine?” 

― Lois Lowry, The Giver

I have been told by several people that I am the strongest person they’ve ever known. I know it’s bad manners to deflect a compliment (because that was the spirit in which they paid it), but I might have to disagree.

I overcompensate, that’s what. I’m the poster child-woman for Napoleonic Tendency. I think. (Add that to the list of maladies, why don’t I?)

Either way, deflecting or overcompensating, these days, I don’t feel so strong. At least not when I’m alone. These days, my husband has been my source of strength.

I don’t know what people see in me, why people love me and stick with me even after everything I had done, but I’m quite simply, grateful. So this, this post-meds afterglow (for lack of a better term), this is me being grateful. Not strong. Precision of language is essential. Precision of meaning.

Meaning is greater than language. And gratitude is stronger than, well, strength.

Default

All this free time because my brain doesn't race as much as before is...boring. Which makes me wonder (uy, Sex and the City ang peg): What is my default state? Manic or depressed?

Half an hour on the treadmill and half an hour doing laps around the pool, all that time alone, and I still don't know what I should be feeling, or what my state of mind ought to be.

It's like I'm living through the lyrics of the songs I listen to.

Like looking at the mirror without really seeing myself.

Or, looking at a mirror with a mirror behind me and I can't tell if I'm seeing the reflection of my other reflection or is it the other around? (Okay, that was confusing.)

I'm supposed to see my shrink again tomorrow, so hopefully Dr. Yoda can enlighten me.

Blah. Oh gods and goddesses of Happy Mediumism, enlighten me.

Katinka 2.0

On my second stint at the basement (with barely a month in between confinements, dang it), I was constantly asked by the nurses and the orderlies, "Anong nangyari? Bakit ka pinabalik?" I couldn't  couldn't explain it since it was so complicated, so I just said, (sarcastically, natch), "It's more fun in the basement!" It almost felt like a homecoming. Like I was with my people (schizos, catatonics, and my fellow bi-polars). As it happened, the nurses and the orderlies were my only friends on my first few days back because I was still reeling from what, in fact, led me back to the basement.

(Aside: This was the conversation that prompted my return --
Me: I don't what's wrong. It's like it's getting worse! (Through mega tears yan a.)
Doctor (who looks and acts like Yoda): *deadpan smile* ---> [I swear, I know that's an oxymoron, but he really does always have that expression. Yoda nga e.]
Me: What should I do???
Doctor: You need to go back downstairs. I'm sending you to the basement again.
Me: What? When?
Doctor: Oh. Now.

And, scene.)

I couldn't quite explain what happened, but whatever it was, it was certainly getting worse ("it" being my depression).

I felt like such a pro on my second foray into the world of the behaviorally disordered. I already knew what was contraband, so I didn't even bother bringing them. I knew the routines such that taking my vital signs 4 times a day became a breeze for me. I also knew I could get away with not eating as much as I should, so I found a takaw buddy who ate most of my food for me.

The first few days were still horrible. I'd still have "spells" that rivaled the ones I actually had in the outside world. Eventually, they changed my cocktail of meds and I started feeling better (I'm on 6 different medicines, sana naman, diba?).

The great thing this time was that the nurses and doctors allowed me to have my real journal, provided that one of the residents got to read it. For the first time in my life, another set of eyes looked into my Moleskine. I felt naked and afraid at first, but it helped because the resident's daily therapy with me had more substance.

One of the nurses also noticed that I could actually draw. Now, now, I know I've been saying that I can't draw for sh**, but she said I had something when it came to the abstract. So she gave me a sketch pad and some materials and I discovered that...I love to paint! I had never really taken painting seriously, but it turns out I could. So, yay.

I've been out for a few days now, and I can definitely say I'm starting to feel like my old self again. Even Chad noticed it. I have moments of panic (especially with crowds), but when Chad is with me, I stay calm. In time, I want to regain my confidence in being alone. I used to be able to go off and do all sorts of things by myself, but now I feel so iffy about being among strangers.

No matter; I feel like I'm at the cusp of a new beginning. If only this visa application would go without a hitch, then everything will be okay. I need to start from scratch. Katinka 2.0.

Jump, high-five, freeze frame.

Aaaand, scene.

Photosensitive

I was out by the pool for close to three hours the other day. I needed some time alone, and I hadn't been out in the sun for longer than a few minutes. I didn't realize I was out that long though, until I got back from the pool.

Some people get sunburned, well, I got a rash, covering the entire area that was exposed to the sun; which is to say, a good portion of my body. From afar, it just looks like I have mad sunburn, but it's a rash all right. When I looked at the mirror, it looked like I was still wearing my swimsuit. My entire torso is hot to the touch, my shoulders are red as lobsters, and my legs look like they were stepped on repeatedly. (I've had this done to me before, so I know. Long story.)

Apparently, all that time I spent in the basement and fetus-like in bed (close to a month now) has made me intensely photosensitive. Who knew a month without any prolonged exposure to the sun could do that?

So, fantastic. I am now allergic to sunlight.

The rash will go away eventually. I'm hoping so will the photosensitivity.

It's like my body is one with my soul in rejecting all forms of happiness.

---

And so it has come to this: I am alone in this one. Utterly alone. And I would like to elaborate on that, but I can't. Because this has robbed me of everything. Addicts have rock bottom, I suppose the depressed also have theirs. I'm certainly living in mine.

---

All I wanted was a little sunlight. And now I have a rash. I hope it goes away eventually. I'm hoping so will the photosensitivity.

Update

What do you do when the worst that could possibly happen actually does happen?

I give up.

Praying Again

I am nervously awaiting news that could -- will -- change my life forever. My husband is there, taking care of it for me. Despite everything I've done, he is sticking up for me, defending me, protecting me.

I hardly know why I deserve it. 

Last night, he asked that we pray together again. We used to, every night, until things got...busy. Messy. Complicated. And now I find this, posted by the priest who married us.

I hear You. Loud and clear. 

I'm still just as confused, but I hear You.

"I am praying again, Awesome One"

(Ich bete wieder, du Elauchter)

You hear me again, as words

from the depths of me

rush toward you in the wind.

I’ve been scattered in pieces,

torn by conflict,

mocked by laughter,

washed down in drink.

In alleyways I sweep myself up

out of garbage and broken glass.

With my half-mouth I stammer you,

who are eternal in your symmetry.

I lift to you my half-hands

in wordless beseeching, that I may find again

the eyes with which I once beheld you.

I am a house gutted by fire

where only the guilty sometimes sleep

before the punishment that devours them

hounds them out in the open. 

I am a city by the sea

sinking into a toxic tide.

I am strange to myself, as though someone unknown

had poisoned my mother as she carried me.

It’s here in all the pieces of my shame

that now I find myself again.

I yearn to belong to something, to be contained

in an all-embracing mind that sees me

as a single thing.

I yearn to be held

in the great hands of your heart–

oh let them take me now.

Into them I place these fragments, my life,

and you, God–spend them however you want. 

-Rainer Maria Rilke