Category Archives: bipolar

alcoholism, bipolar, depression, Dreams, Goals, Humor, Mental Illness, Photos, poetry, writing

Dreams and Regret – It is never too late!

June 4, 2019 Sue St. Blaine 4 Comments

The picture on the left of the banner is me, 1993, 25 years old. The grey-haired woman on the right is also me, 2018, 50 years old. Several lifetimes have passed in those 25 years; some very hard lessons learned.

I started to write poetry when I was a child. When I was the young woman with the dark hair, I decided I would compile some of them, and I made a book I called “Life Songs – A Collection of Poems.” I did finish, but I put it away and fell into a pattern of self-destruction and failure that lasted for years. Life Songs died.

life songs 1 — Bound and ready, and forgotten.

But at 50 I began to wonder; what dreams have I let go? What are the seeds of regret?

My dreams of singing professionally were done, too much whiskey and smoke had taken its toll. That one hurts.

My paintings are unlikely to hang anywhere, my photography is hit or miss, and having a business to call my own died a premature death. Don’t go into business with friends, that’s my advice to you.

But there was one thing left, my first love, my greatest love, my sanctuary, my heart, my everything.

Writing. That I could still do.

It had been 25 years since I put Life Songs together, then I drank my muse away. I killed her with my hands around a bottle of Jack.

life songs 7 — My muse scribbled on scrap paper. I don’t remember drawing this.

I also made the grave mistake of majoring in Creative Writing and taking many poetry classes which put an inner critic in my head I had never had before. Everyone is different, but for me, this was a massive mistake.

Anyway, as I neared 50, I realized that I needed to complete Life Songs and get it out. So I read it over, all bright-eyed and optimistic. Then I closed it and stared into space.

Many of the poems were, well, let me put it this way, I separated it into chapters based on content, and I decided that each chapter heading would be a take on “Ten Definitions of Poetry” by Carl Sandburg. Trouble is, I’m not Sandburg now, let alone at 25, and it went…poorly. I will not be sharing any of those with you. Oh my, no. So I was stuck again.

Then on a warm summer night, after a lovely meal with dear friends, we began to talk about our projects. I never had anything to add to these conversations since I had no muse and no art in my soul. But this night I did. This night I talked about it, and as sometimes happens when thinking out loud, I had an epiphany. I am not the same person I was back then. So why not let the grey-haired lady speak to the dark-haired one? Choose poems that are relevant or particularly painful or funny and talk to her? Maybe I could find healing in that. Maybe I could help another reader find healing or hope or at least know they are not alone.

Maybe I really could finish Life Songs.

And then, just like that, my muse came home.

When I sat down to work, everything came back. The traumas and moments of life, sure, but that’s not what I mean. I mean the absolute and overpowering joy of writing, of moving my hands on a keyboard and making the words I want to say appear. I had forgotten what it felt like to write. It’s like forgetting what it is to taste ice cream or smell freshly mowed grass.

Many of my friends are writers. They post on Facebook, share funny memes, talk about their process and craft. I would be happy for them, but I would also burn inside. I was not a writer anymore. One can call it a dry spell for a while, but after two and a half decades, you’re no longer in the club.

But after I wrote a few pages, and after I started this blog, I was a writer again. I could respond to the comments, laugh at the memes, and talk about my process and craft.

I was a writer again. I was in the club.

I worked on Life Songs, I thought about it when I wasn’t, I dreamed about it at night. Then the first draft was finished. I celebrated with some non-alcoholic sparkling apple cider in a flamingo glass. It’s tradition.

Then the final was done. After twenty-five years, I was almost ready to publish.

Now, I don’t know Photoshop or anything like that, and I can’t afford a professional photographer, so I decided to stage and shoot my own photos. I had a good idea what I wanted it to look like and every single prop I used I already had, so I set up a photo “studio” in the dining room, complete with the lights with umbrella things and my husband’s Nikon D90, and got busy.

Two months and about 3,000 photos later, I got seven or so that I loved, and chose two for the front and back cover.

I sent them to the cover artist my mother-in-law, a professional writer, had recommended, and prepared to upload my manuscript to Amazon.

Then I typed up the title page

Life Songs – Discussions with an Angry Child

by – …….

And I froze.

Belle Chapin is a pseudonym. I started this blog under that name because I was afraid to use my real one. (Belle Chapin was my grandmother.) I was afraid of not getting a job, afraid of trolls, afraid of being so vulnerable. So I was going to publish Life Songs under that name as well.

I backspaced my real name out, and I typed

by Belle Chapin

And then I cried. And then I cried more. This girl is me. This is my life, goddammit. This is my life, my heart, my work.

It took some time with my therapist, but I finally came to a decision.

This girl is me. This is my life, my heart, my work.

I sat down at my laptop and I opened the title page.

Life Songs – Discussions with an Angry Child

by Sue St. Blaine

And then I closed my laptop.

The cover artist sent me the final product. I opened the attachment I cried so hard I nearly passed out. It was real.

I finished my life’s work.

life songs 4 — So happy I posed without makeup!

The way I’ve lived my life, the choices I’ve made have left many scars and regrets. I know there are things I didn’t do because I didn’t have the confidence, I was scared, I was drunk.

I was drunk. The seeds of regret are sown.

But it’s been a year since I published Life Songs. It is sitting on the shelf behind me. My heart fills as certainly as my eyes when I think about it. I did it. I finished it.

In a life full of mistakes, this is something I did right.

I wish that for all of you.

Abuse, alcoholism, Anger, bipolar, brain, Brother, depression, Family, Mental Illness, subconscious

Abuse and Memory – Finding Our Truth

May 22, 2019 Sue St. Blaine 2 Comments

My sister and I have a shared memory that one of us remembers absolutely wrong.

Bev is five years older than me, but we would still do things together growing up. One of the things we loved to do was put a record on the console hi-fi, (ask your parents) play a song and sing into hairbrushes, because hairbrushes are microphones, naturally. This would be to a song by The Beatles, or Journey, something we both liked.

I have a vivid memory of singing along to AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds,” a fairly graphic song released in 1976 about a killer for hire. Our mom came in disgusted that they were glorifying murder like that. Bev looked at her and said, “Three words, mom. Mac. The. Knife.” This is a fairly graphic song released in 1959 about a killer for hire. Realizing she had no comeback to this, she turned and left the room.

I told that story to a group of friends recently, Bev among them. We all laughed because the opportunity to zing a parent like that is very rare and very funny.

But Bev frowned, “No, that’s not what happened.”

“We were in the car singing along to The Beatles, “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer,” on the radio. Everything else is the same, mom said that, I said Mac the Knife, all that, but we were in the car, and it wasn’t Dirty Deeds.”

I was flummoxed. “It absolutely was Dirty Deeds. We were in the living room like we always were.”

Then Bev made a very excellent point.

“I hate AC/DC, that’s your thing. I would never have sung along with them.”

I do a lot of research for my articles. Sometimes it’s scholarly texts, sometimes it’s Facebook Messenger.

She is 100% correct, she does hate AC/DC, (on that point anyway, she is grievously wrong) so it is very unlikely my recall of this is accurate. But the thing that bothers me is, even after she described what likely happened, even after the completely reasonable argument of why it could not have happened my way, I still see it how I always have – living room, hairbrushes, AC/DC. One of us is simply wrong.

But neither of us is lying.

I am 100% certain that my version is right. I can see it, I can hear the song, our painful adolescent attempts to copy Bonn Scott’s un-copy-able voice, I can see the hairbrush in front of my mouth reflected in the living room window. I can see my mother pound into the room and angrily interrupt, and I can see Bev’s raised eyebrows and grin as she delivered the verbal body-blow that ended the argument.

I remember it exactly like that.

Except I am more than likely, 100% wrong.

It seems like a contradiction, but it’s really not. I’m not lying when I say I see that scene play out exactly as I describe.

In preparing this article, I spent some time talking to my psychiatrist about the implications of memory fluidity. I had to come to peace with my own issues around this before I could try to offer any comfort to you. But she has, as always, helped me work through it.

Because that’s really the thing, isn’t it? That’s the easiest way to dismiss an accusation, to devalue an experience, especially if it happened long ago, in childhood, teenage years, is to simply say, memory is fluid, you have a vivid imagination, you saw a TV show and made it real in your head, etc. until no one believes it, and eventually, maybe you don’t even believe it.

Memory is fluid, eyewitness testimony is one of the least reliable, that is a fact. But what does that mean for survivors?

I used the example with my sister because it’s funny, and I wanted to work into this a little gently. But it is also apt. I remember it exactly as I always have. I don’t remember being in a car. I don’t remember Maxwell’s Silver Hammer. I remember the living room, hairbrushes, and AC/DC. I am likely completely wrong.

But, and this is important, I am wrong about the details, the where, when, what song, but I am right about the important part of the story. A taboo song, a mother trying to shut it down, Bev winning the argument before it even started. We are in complete agreement about these details.

The actual, important event, is correctly remembered.

This is important to me because memory has played such a critical role in my “story” and even my identity.

I was abused by various people, including a brother, throughout my childhood. I have no memory of not being angry, of not feeling rage and fear and blinding, white-hot hatred, for him. I remember specific events.

I have identified as a survivor since my 20s. When the book “The Courage to Heal” came out, it was a revelation. I was validated, seen, and I was not alone. I remember going to an all-day event and watching women much older than me walking from lecture to lecture carrying stuffed comfort animals. I remember wishing I’d thought of it, and realized that I would not have had the courage to carry it in public if I had. Allowing myself the self-care I needed was nearly two decades away. But here I had a community, a large group of kindred spirits who had been victimized to one degree or another, all equally valid, all worthy of love and care.

I remember sitting alone at the lunch break and falling to pieces. All of these women are here for each other. All of these women are here for each other, because all of these women have been brutalized and broken, to some degree or another. I felt hurt, wounded, exposed, and heartsick.

In the coming years I came to terms with my alcoholism, my depression, and finally landed the correct diagnosis of bipolar II, which became bipolar I a few years later.

But the abuse, that was first. That was in the late ‘80s with the release of that one book, the first time I heard the term “survivor.” And I am forever grateful to Ellen Bass for that.

When my father confronted my brother after I’d spent a horrible afternoon telling my parents what had happened, dad asked him why he did it. Dad told me later that he hung his head and said, “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know.” These are not the words of an innocent person. The words of an innocent person are, “What are you talking about? How dare you! How dare you accuse me of something so horrific! So vile! How dare you!”

With that tacit confession, I should have no longer doubted what I recalled.

“I hate AC/DC. It was in the car, not the living room.”

It’s not only a single detail being confused here. It is the entire scenario. Except for the “punch line,” every single thing I recall is wrong.

Memory and doubt 8 — How would you describe this in 20 years? Are there stairs leading to a doorway? Chipped paint on the ceiling? What color was it, what color was the sky? But it took your breath away, that you won’t forget.

I have my memories, and more importantly, I have an admission of guilt and diaries and poems that go back to nine-years-old. I have “source material,” if you will.

And even still, I had doubts sometimes.

What of the women who don’t have anything but their memories? What of the women for whom this is a “he said/she said” situation?

What of the women who completely and utterly disassociated while it was happening, to the point that it’s a black nothing in their memory? Don’t think that’s possible? Here’s another story.

When I was 16, I bought my first vehicle, a yellow Toyota truck with a camper shell. I took it out for a spin with several of my friends, laughing and having fun in the back of what was basically a playhouse for teenagers.

I was on a four-lane street with a large grassy median.

Here’s what I remember next. A car swerved in front of me within inches of my fender. I remember seeing the jackass in the back seat turn around laughing as I tried to keep control. Next, I was on the median, the entire left side of my truck on the curb, my rims had bent and ripped my tires to shreds. My friends were trying to open my door and get me out. When I came to, when I started to get my higher functions back, my hands were so tightly gripped on the wheel that I could barely remove them, and I was aware very slowly of the shooting pain up my arms as I had apparently used them as shock absorbers during the crash. My friends finally coaxed me to unlock the door. I got out, lost control of my legs, fell to the ground, and just…shook.

My friends said I was amazing, I kept control of the truck, I had no choice but to crash the way I did, but I skidded along on my rims and came to a safe, controlled stop.

To this day, I have zero memory of any of that.

My brain simply went on some sort of autopilot, I guess literally this time. It was so horrible that my memory said “Well, I’m out. I’ll be back here with Smell until this is all done.”

This happened during a car accident. Imagine what our brains can do when we’re being raped, abused, beaten, molested, imagine how far away we can leave our brains and hide, or even rewrite, something life-shatteringly horrible.

Memory can get muddled, that’s a fact. Those of us who are survivors become extremely good at disassociation. I have been a pro since I was a child; it’s an escape, it’s a world you control, you are essentially a god. It can also make for a rich creative life.

But these things can be, and are, used against us. How do we know what is real? How do we know what really happened, was is AC/DC or The Beatles? Is it a total blackout from mental self-defense, did it spring from a vivid imagination?

I can’t answer these questions for you but I can tell you this.

My memories are real. Maybe not minute details, maybe not the room, the surroundings, the time of day. But the events – what actually happened – are drilled into my head. The more traumatic the event, the more likely we remember. Or sometimes it simply never writes to memory. Like my accident, that 3 or 4 minutes is not there.

I have the details surrounding the event wrong. It was The Beatles, it was in the car, this could not be more different from my memory. But the core of it, the actual, meaningful event, was correct.

Friends, men and women alike, if you have a memory of abuse, if that memory causes your heart to hurt, I suggest that it is probably correct. At the very least it should be examined, try to find a therapist to help you work through it. I’m including some resources you can use as well.

Please, do not let anyone tell you it’s not true, you are misremembering, or worse, that you are lying. If it hurts to think about, look at it.

Memory is foggy and imprecise. But it is not to be ignored because the curtains were blue and not yellow.

Please take care of yourselves. Be gentle with yourselves.

Carry a stuffed comfort animal if you need to.

National Helpline

SAMHSA’s National Helpline is a free, confidential, 24/7, 365-day-a-year treatment referral and information service (in English and Spanish) for individuals and families facing mental and/or substance use disorders.
https://www.samhsa.gov/find-help/national-helpline

Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network

Free, confidential, 24/7 support.

https://www.rainn.org/

National Suicide Prevention Hotline

We can all help prevent suicide. The Lifeline provides 24/7, free and confidential support for people in distress, prevention and crisis resources for you or your loved ones, and best practices for professionals.

1-800-273-8255

https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

bipolar, depression, Humor, Mental Health Month, Mental Illness

Mental Health Month

May 3, 2019 Sue St. Blaine Leave a comment

I know this is off schedule on a Friday, but since my goal with this blog is to raise awareness of mental illness, to support others dealing with it, and to kick stigma in the face, I really can’t go without mentioning it.

You know what I think?

My illness does not define me. It’s part of me, it always will be, but it is not the boss o’me! And yours isn’t either. I’m gonna fight and I’m gonna laugh, and I’m gonna spell words wrong because it’s funny to me.

I added a frame to my personal Facebook profile picture. I thought about changing the photo to something a little bit less…disturbing. But I did not because the picture is funny, and that’s what I’m going to do, I’m going to flip my bird at bipolar and live my life the way I do.

mental health month — I will make myself look ridiculous for the funny. Heck, I’ll hurt myself slightly for some quality slapstick.

Do you know how strong you are because you got out of bed this morning? Because you face each day the best you can and you keep going and you find beauty and laugh because there are goats? (That may just be me.)

You are a warrior, a lion, a superhero, whatever image speaks to you.

I am going to continue to laugh at pretty much everything, talk to people in my real life, and write this blog, it helps me and I hope others find something they can use here too.

Anyway, that’s about it. Be strong and when you feel overwhelmed, please seek help.

I’m listing some links for you from Mental Health America and NAMI where you can find information, resources, banners, and frames if you are comfortable using them.

Remember –

Hiding is exhausting, fear is debilitating, and shame is just plain bullshit.

http://www.mentalhealthamerica.net/may

https://www.nami.org/whycare

bipolar, brain, dream, Dreams, Mental Illness, nightmare, subconscious

The Monsters in Our Minds

April 29, 2019 Sue St. Blaine Leave a comment

I have heard there is a scholarly debate around whether “subconscious” is a legitimate or even helpful term.

I thought I’d peek at this from the viewpoint of an enthusiastic layperson, as pretty much a thought exercise. This sort of thing is fascinating to me, how the mind works, how my mind works, how to better understand and make friends with it. I’m curious what all of you think as well.

What started this was a terrible series of waking dreams and hallucinations I had for a few months last year. I was writing it up to be a three-part article but realized it was outside the scope of what I’m trying to do here, so I’m going to make it a short story instead. I feel that by writing it out, I take power away from it. Plus it’s just objectively scary, and I think it could make a good story.

Anyway, these visions stemmed from my own mind, from my own fears and loathing, a creature made real from my subconscious. It was from that dark, repressed place in the back of our minds where things we haven’t dealt with lurk and wait to leap.

It is part of me, yes, but not consciously, something behind that. Something I can’t control until it’s addressed.

“The unconscious contains all sorts of significant and disturbing material which we need to keep out of awareness because they are too threatening to acknowledge fully.”

https://www.simplypsychology.org/unconscious-mind.html

So I found that the term “subconscious” was being reframed in some circles. That the idea of a separate part of our minds that could hide dark or even dangerous thoughts was essentially the equivalent of “the devil made me do it” and needed to be removed as a concept. I don’t generally defend Freud, but I bristled at this right away.

sub mind 8 — **“You question me? I am beside myself!”**

Many years ago there was a fairly heated debate in one of the bipolar groups I was in, regarding how we refer to ourselves – “I have bipolar disorder” vs. “I am bipolar.”

Although I wrote this off as nit-picky, I do think they each made interesting points.

The pros and cons came down to this; “I have bipolar disorder” indicated that it was not who we are. We are standing next to it, maybe even holding its hand, but it is only part of who we are and does not define us. But those opposed to it felt it was being held at arms distance, that it showed a degree of shame, as in, that’s not really me, it’s this thing I won’t hold. This is dangerous, it was said, because it allows for “the devil made me do it.”

“I am bipolar” says I own this, it is part of me and I’m not ashamed. It is not arm’s length from me, it is part of my being. But those opposed to it felt it was making it too front and center, that it was made to be a defining trait that could become a crutch.

Honestly, I have no dog in that semantic race. I see the points on all sides, but I think it is a waste of our time. It seems like an excuse to not deal with bigger issues like, how do I get this creature out before it engulfs me, for example.

But I think that conscience vs. subconscious is valid to look at. It got me thinking about where our dark thoughts live, and how we disavow them.

This thing I saw even in the daytime, was a clear manifestation of my inner doubts and loathing, feelings of worthlessness and burden. I created it and gave it flesh. I figured it was those feelings and fears lurking in the box in the back of my rational mind that had been ignored for too long and burst out and had to be destroyed by, in my case, a ritual that involved my husband, incense, a symbol of success (my book) and screaming “Fuck you! I’m not worthless!” until my throat hurt. But everyone is different.

The debate around the subconscious, or the Id, as I understand it, involves the arms-length argument. If I keep my demons a separate part of my mind, I have no control over what happened, in any real way. In any way that I could stop.

The devil made me do it.

sub mind 9 — **My subconscious, generally speaking.**

I never felt that creature wasn’t part of me, I know perfectly well what it was. But I also don’t feel good about owning it. It was so horrible and so present that I was afraid I had lost my mind for good. I was afraid that it was the beginning of watching myself slip slowly into absolute insanity from which there was no coming back. I was starting to think that this “thing” would literally kill me.

It could not physically do so, but could I die basically of fright? And if I did, would it essentially be deniable suicide?

But if I embrace it, if I stop referring to my demons as my subconscious, if I remove that word and concept, would that be healthier? Or would it hurt me more, would it make it too present in which case it could stroll back in faster? And can that even be done, the way the brain is wired? We can’t keep all of our thoughts in the fore of our minds, it’s simply not possible, I don’t think.

I don’t have answers to any of these questions, as I said, this is really just a thought exercise.

So many thoughts are bubbling up, so many feelings are being addressed, but so few answers. I will, of course, run all this by my therapist, and I might write another article once we talk about it. But in the meantime, I want to see what you think about it. I’ve seen that some of my followers on this blog have initials after their names, I’m always excited to hear professional insight.

Whatever the subconscious is called, however it’s conceptualized, I hope that I have calmed it down for the foreseeable future. The thing that crawled up my bed, the thing I saw in the daytime, the thing that hated me with fire and wanted me dead, scared the hell out of me. I would very much appreciate never seeing it again.

bipolar, Humor, memories, Mental Illness, Travel

Travel – Bad Times Make the Best Stories

May 15, 2018 Sue St. Blaine 1 Comment

I love travel, I can’t recommend it highly enough. Experiencing new things, food, cultures, meeting new people, getting out of my comfort zone, all of these things.

I am an advocate for travel, and I recommend not doing a tour, especially in Great Britain, for example, where everyone speaks English, even the Scottish. No really, they do.

shutterstock_293309723 — This has nothing to do with that, I just love this picture.

Europe is dead easy, and you’ll get more out of it without a tour guide telling you where you can go and for how long. A friend informed me, much to my shock and horror, that their tour allowed only an hour for Paris. Paris! That is a crime against nature, is what that is.

So, my husband and I don’t do tours. We don’t do itineraries either; we have a basic idea of what we want to see, but that can always change. We generally fly by the seat of our pants. When I travel alone, I do the same.

Here’s the thing though, travel will never be perfect. Every vacation includes some bother. We have missed a few trains in Egypt, because we could not begin to read the ticket. On a train in Poland the lights sparked and crooked doors between the cars would close without warning and trap us. We have been stuck driving up mountain roads in Ireland barely large enough for our right hand drive car and, oh look at that, it’s a two way road! And we both got bronchial infections in India.

At the time, these things were unpleasant. Now they make the best stories.

The main advice I give to people who are traveling for the first time is, part of it will not be fun. There is no such thing as a “perfect vacation.”

Charles bridge — Also, if at all possible, travel in the off season. This is the Charles Bridge in Prague. It does not look like this in the summer time.

Maybe it’s better with a tour group, I’ve no idea. But let me tell you this.

If you are on a tour, you are missing out on one of the main reasons to travel because the people you meet are paid to be nice to you. You are not getting a real taste of the culture.

Let me give you an example.

My husband and I were in Egypt during Ramadan, 2004.

It happened that Ramadan ended in November that year, so we went to a shop and bought Christmas presents to take home. We spent around $200 USD, which to the young man working there was a lot of money. He was so happy he closed his shop and invited us back to his home.

When we got to the apartment complex, a tiny boy, just barely walking, saw us and was about to explode with excitement. He said “Hi!” and we said “Hi!” and he waved his arms at his sides like a play-pretend bird and made a sound like a balloon deflating. He ran with us the rest of the way to the stairs saying Hi! and giggling like a little Muppet.

When we got to the young man’s apartment his sisters prepared tea and Ramadan cookies for us. We sat and chatted and enjoyed the cookies and company.

Now, would that ever in a million years happen with a tour?

No.

I have so many stories like this. So many beautiful moments that would simply have been missed.

Egypt cat — Egyptian cat says “marhabaan.”

And sure, there were awful moments too, and when they happened, I scowled and vowed to never travel again. San Francisco is enough for me, dammit!

But I get home and tell all the stories and everyone laughs and then I’m planning my next trip a week or so later.

Next should be Thailand. I will give the elephants a bath!

And enjoy the stunning antiquities, delicious food, and amazing culture, of course.

But mostly elephants.

By the way – Please don’t ride the elephants. Don’t pay for places where people can ride elephants. It’s not good for them so please don’t give these places your money.

I’m going to go here and bathe an elephant.

https://www.elephantnaturepark.org/

Happy trails!

alcoholism, bipolar, depression, Humor, Mental Illness, Self Care

Verbal Free Writing – Finding the Gold in the Sand

April 5, 2018 Sue St. Blaine Leave a comment

When I am writing something, the forward in my book, a new poem, this article, sometimes I get stuck. If I’ve reached a point where my fingers hover over my keyboard and sort of wiggle in mid-air with no real idea where to land, I open a new document and start to free write.

Free writing means I simply type and do not stop. If I hit a wall, I write something like “damn I hit a wall what shall I write about now I had a carrot yesterday the color orange is funny what hell is Crazy Legs up to out there…” or just one word over and over. The point is to keep writing, keep focused, don’t edit.

Hidden away among those carrots and cats, I usually find something real, however small, since my brain did not have time to block it. It may be a creative idea to expand on, the break in the dam that sends the water roaring down.

Or it may be truly enlightening.

Alone with my thoughts, I can write nonsensical ramblings that only I will see. But there also may be the inadvertent slips of sometimes brutal insight.

Then I get to my therapist’s office.

It’s a quirk for me that I want to sound smart and well-spoken with the current keeper of the “I can send you to a 72 hour hold,” so I choose my words carefully. I’m so super smart! You don’t know how many thoughtful things I can say with my face-hole! So a lot of time is wasted on long pauses while I try to find exactly the right word, the cleverest turn of phrase. (I also feel weird if I don’t make small talk when I get there, but that’s just my usual neurosis.)

Anyway, I told her that I wanted to try an experiment. In order to get to the heart of the matter I was going to free write verbally, without a “watcher” in my head, an inner critic, any sort of a barrier to raw truth.

It goes like this, start talking, that’s it. Just open your mouth and say things with your lips. Do not edit for grammar or vocabulary or syntax, just talk. You will almost certainly hit on something. And when you do, stand up and shout “Eureka!” (totally don’t do this.) When you hit on something, stop and look at it.

The process of healing is sifting through the dirt until you find gold. You will find a lot of “fool’s gold” in the process, but if you can get through that dirt, if you can sift out the bugs and rocks, you can hold a nugget of gold in your hand and know you’ve accomplished something.

Therapy is old timey gold prospecting, apparently. I shouldn’t watch documentaries before I write these.

Prospectors — “So you see Jeremiah, if you sort through these dad-burn bugs and confounded rocks, you can find bits of evocative insight!”

Anyway, I encourage you to try it, both written and verbal. It cuts through the long pauses where we sometimes obsess about how to present ourselves in the best light. You don’t have to impress them. You’re in therapy, not on a date.

Also, you don’t have to make small talk. “Hi how are you?” will generally suffice. I’m still working on that one myself.

alcoholism, bipolar, childhood, depression, Humor, Journal, memories, Mental Illness, writing

Journaling – or – I Wrote this Whole Article and Forgot About a Title

March 10, 2018 Sue St. Blaine Leave a comment

There are so many good tools to use for self-care, like painting, hiking, meditation, cooking. These are all wonderful. They focus the mind on a single activity, put issues on a temporary time out, and provide goals to reach. I enjoy all of these minus the cooking. My husband keeps me alive with foodstuffs.

I want to focus on one particular tool, journaling. I have kept a diary (called a journal when you’re over 19 maybe 20, not sure why) since I was eight years old. I have many volumes of hand-scribbled books, with covers of puffy stickers to unicorns to Celtic designs.

I leaf through the pages and find the traumas I survived, some of which I don’t remember, many that I do, and I shake my head that I am still alive. There are joys I can relive, and little treasures I stuck between the pages. Some of them take me to a time and place, others had a meaning that is long lost. Whatever it was, younger me loved it enough to tuck it away, so I leave it where it rests.

See, it is your most private sanctuary, it is yours to express yourself however makes sense to you. Record the events of the day. Write your dreams. Draw pictures, watercolor, tuck things inside that are meaningful to you.

Can’t draw? Can’t paint? So what! Does the act of drawing or painting or whatever make you happy?

Do you see that picture right there? The blonde lady with floating bubbles and what appears to either be a yellow aura or she’s standing in front of a blinding light bulb? The one pained by someone who has apparently never seen a human body before? I painted that! That’s my painting! And it is objectively horrible! But I love it. I love coming into my studio, gathering my brushes, putting up a canvas and playing artist. It’s living a dream for me. It just makes me happy, and that’s enough.

What about you? Do you give yourself permission to play?

If a unicorn journal made you smile, would you buy it?

There is a truism I have found in life. People tend to restrict themselves with “I can’t because”…I’m an adult, I’m a professional, it would be stupid…I respectfully disagree.

Here’s the thing…I have a very large collection of a certain mouthless white kitty (I don’t want to get sued.) I get annoyed if someone refers to her as “it.” I have only one drawer left in a 6 drawer chest for clothes. I’m 50.

She makes me happy, and that’s enough.

So please, go out and do something that makes you happy. If you are in a depression this will seem Herculean, but if you can, walk to the sidewalk. Then another day to the end of the block. And celebrate each accomplishment. You are awesome! You did it!

If you can’t, truly can’t, then find a pen and some paper, and try to spell out what you feel. It really does help.

Or paint a picture like my malformed bubble lady, which I did while deep in the bowels of a pit. Because now it makes me laugh, it makes me happy.

And right now, at this moment, that’s enough.

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