Vera sat in the car staring out over the cliff, seagulls dipping back and forth on the breeze. She took the rest of her sandwich, broke it into pieces, and began throwing them out the window one piece at a time.

Soon gulls squawked and dive bombed her car. Vera quickly threw out the rest, and when the fighting started, she raised the window and numbly watched, not able to look away. Her intent to do a kindness, to feed some hungry birds had turned into a violent free-for-all as the bigger birds pecked at the smaller ones taking the food right out of their beaks.

Vera was sorry she came out here. Sorry to see the gray waves sloppily sloshing the shore. It reminded her so much of herself... gray waves. Not even waves, just gray. Gray like the dreams that didn't make sense. Vera didn't just feel it, she was the essence of it, like the heavy fog beginning to creep toward the cliff. She felt like she could dissipate and seep right into it like dust swept into the air. Except she didn't have the energy to move. Just sit and stare and be nowhere.

Vera knew she was depressed. She had been here many times before. Despondency... her old friend/old foe never went too far away, always lurking in the background of her life somewhere. "That's the way it is when you've got brain chemicals out of whack," she said to the last departing seagull.

The oddest things triggered her mood swings. It wasn't anything that Paul said. He could say the same exact thing ten days ago and it wouldn't pierce her heart, draining all the blood of her self-esteem away. No. It wasn't what Paul said. It was the brain chemicals.

Just a Bit of Diary Note

I had a back procedure (spinal epidural) last Monday which I thought I could recover from by Tuesday, but it went a little bit more challenging than I expected.

This Tuesday, I have no choice but to go to Stanford to see my shrink, who is helping with new medication issues. But, at least I'm not so depressed as I was in December. Hopefully, I wont have to return to the shrink next month.

I hate missing the one thing that brings me pleasure and makes me feel like a human being and that's my writing group/class.

Well, there is another thing that brings me pleasure and that is my cats. Posting here a picture of my calico cat, Buffy, and me. I fell asleep with my glasses on!

A Little Bitty Tear Let Me Down

The other day I visited my Rhematologist for a follow up on my Sjogren's Syndrome which had been bothering me considerably, including bodily pain and exhaustion. He had given me a prescription for prednisone, which has been quite effective in making me feel better. Though I am still bothered very much by dry eye. That might not seem like a big deal to those who do not have it. But, just imagine yourself going through life with what feels like sand in your eyes, with pain and sometimes swelling of the eyelids. Not to mention your appearance is reminiscent of a bad hangover!

In my visit with the doctor, I hesitated to bring up the fact that I was disappointed the Prednisone didn't give me a "High". Usually it does, and I had been hoping for the benefits of it helping to pull me up from my recent depressive state. We discussed the fact that perhaps my depression was deeper than just a side effect of my physical condition and needed to be treated with anti-depressants instead. This made me more sad. I do have an underlying condition, and it was time for me to face needing care. Tears formed and fell down my cheeks. He handed me some tissues and said, "At least you are producing tears."

That was reassuring. I'm glad he reminded me. I had been feeling so sorry for myself. Sometimes I forget to count my blessings! Afterwards, I thought about what he said. Then wondered. If I can produce an abundant quantity of tears for the sake of crying, then why are my eyes still dry? And, then I thought, if I could just have a good cry every day, perhaps it would help my tear ducts be healthier. Of course, I began searching for information that might back up my theory.

I found the following: "There are in fact three types of tear, two of which are rather uninteresting: basal tears which lubricate and protect the eye and reflex tears which flush out irritants such as smoke particles or onion vapors. The third type of tear is, of course, shed in response to emotion, and differs from basal and reflex tears not only by its cause but also by its chemical composition, being considerably richer in certain substances such as prolactin and adrenocorticotropic hormone."

So now I wonder if because emotional tears have a different chemical composition, the idea of purposely crying every day wouldn't be beneficial. Hmmm... Is this making sense? Or is it just the hopeful wishes of a patient who wants to be in the know?

In the same article I found this: "Damage to the ophthalmic branch of the trigeminal nerve renders the surface of the eye insensitive and thereby prevents the production of reflex tears. However, it is the parasympathetic division of the facial nerve that is actually responsible for making tears, and damage to the facial nerve, as in Bell’s palsy, can lead to a decrease in tear production. Reflex and emotional tears are produced by the lacrimal gland and drained through the nasolacrimal canal into the nose."

I do NOT believe I have Bell's but I wonder if my TMJ could have an affect. Even though I have positively been identified by specialists at UCSF as having Sjogren's Syndrome, I wonder if my TMJ problems contribute to the much more troublesome dry eye problems that I experience on the right side. Perhaps if I could get appropriate treatment for the TMJ, then some of the pain and discomfort I have in the right eye could be diminished! Is my logic off? Or again, is this just wishful thinking?

And now for a little bit of fun!

Living La Vida Loca (What's a Bi-Polar to do?)

The sun rises and the sun sets, but before it sets, the shadows start out ahead of her sneaking across the land, falling upon every plant and tree limb, every building, every face. Sometimes the full moon rises and brings back some light to make the night less foreboding, but mostly the night is dark, the only signs of hope, stars. But, then, there are the moonless nights shrouded in clouds.

My depressions start like that, slow and insidious even when I feel like the sun is still shining. Like a prowler, that shadow spirit haunts me. I feel uneasy, have trouble sleeping. Sometimes there are nightmares, grotesque faces, angry voices, and the moaning of pain. I toss and turn. I awaken exhausted, dreading another day. The sun hurts my eyes. I seek the shade of the trees. I stay indoors, close myself off from the world, sadness and grief my companions. There is no comfort.

Friends say, "Call me when you get to feeling blue. You can lean on me. I'll be there for you." That's the last thing on my mind. Reaching out is not part of shadow self.

"Just think happy thoughts. Watch funny movies. Focus on the positive," well meaning acquaintances say. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before. But find myself not reaching out. Who can reach out when curled into fetal position?

It's brain chemistry. It would be like telling a diabetic to produce his own pancreatic hormone by magically inducing healing insulin. Mind over matter stuff only works so far. Ordinary depression that everyone feels at some point in their lives is not a mental illness. It's not the kind of depression that takes over my life like an unwelcome overbearing relative. I was so grateful to science when I learned that I was not to blame for being crazy. It’s brain chemistry! Too bad I didn't know that back then.

Doing without medication to fix my brain chemistry is a big mistake, like an asthmatic doing without an inhaler. Things just get worse. Lives are in danger without psychiatric medication… especially my own. I’ve learned that the hard way.

Though, over the years I’ve also learned, if I can manage to pay attention and focus my awareness. I can remind myself that it's not permanent, that it will eventually go away. Everything changes. Rivers flow. Winter changes into spring. The sun rises and sets. But I need the help of brain chemistry changers to help me get through. Otherwise I'd be dead now. I would have continued to make attempts to end my life. Science. I love science!

Of course medication is not the be all, end all of the problem. Pop a pill and your well? Not exactly. But, at least life is more tolerable and can be productive. With bipolar disorder, which is what I have, one must learn to recognize the mania. By definition mania is "a state of abnormally elevated or irritable mood, arousal, and/ or energy levels". That's saying it mildly.

I like the elevated moods… feeling happy, especially the ones of my youth. I could go on for weeks like that, loving myself and everyone I met. Smiling and showering those smiles upon the world. Truly everyone loves me when I'm like that. I believe I can do anything I want. I succeed and accomplish whatever I set out to do. My brain is my high caliber engine, racing along, multi-tasking with perfection. I get things done. I am artiste extraordinaire! I paint pictures that sell. I am a genealogy researcher, I speak to large groups and teach history. I'm a musician, entertaining Saturday night clubs and blessing Sunday morning churches with my voice. That was me in my thirties and forties.

I'm also a bitch on edge, fighting off anxiety attacks, sweating and palpitating, afraid my heart will explode. A powerful desperate energy runs through me. I argue heatedly with my spouse. I criticize my kids, frightening the B‘Jesus out of them. I yell at strangers, that woman who took the last purple shirt during the sale, that young gangster guy who bumped into my car. I threatened him with my fist and flipped his hat back off his head. He could have killed me if he wanted. Even when manic, I challenge life to leave me, the Angel of Death grinning hopefully at my side.

I should count myself lucky, I guess. I've got what they call hypomania (Bipolar II). It’s not as obvious as full blown mania, exhibited on a grander scale than what I experience. That's why it took five decades before a qualified psychiatrist properly diagnosed me. I never saw a shrink when I was feeling manic. I thought I was well. I wasn't depressed. Why would I think otherwise?

True Bipolar I patients are a different story. I've seen them in the hospital those times I was there for depression and suicidal ideation. They pace. They cannot sit or stand still. They are not able to stop talking, changing the subject as though someone was constantly switching channels on a TV. Whenever I could catch what was being said by a fully manic person, their intelligence left me breathless.

For example: there was Irene. She had just returned from an exorbitant trip to China and gave me an valuable jade bracelet as a gift because I was her room mate in the mental ward we shared. She thought we were soul sisters within five minutes of meeting me. She knew that for sure. She had been looking for me all her life. She knew we would find others like us and begin our own community on an Island in the Pacific. Her whole trip to China and back, she had charged to her credit cards with no money to pay. When I met her, she was coming down off her expansive high.

Before I left the hospital I didn't recognize her. She had been given a drug called Lithium. We were no longer soul sisters. She was extremely calm. Her eyes were blank. She no longer had a personality. I was a stranger to her. When I tried to give her back the jade bracelet, she didn't recognize it as hers. At the time I didn't know I was a Bipolar, but I swore if anyone ever prescribed Lithium for me I would never take it and I’ve kept my promise to myself.

They used to say that the diagnosis of manic depressive illness was Schizophrenia because there was no medication to control it. That was the doctor told me when I first went for help after my second suicide attempt, at the age of twenty in 1965. He gave me that diagnosis because of the white light I saw when I had a near death experience during the birth of my daughter. It continued to manifest itself for a few months after. Hallucinations… he called them. I called them Visitations, yes, with a capital V. They were the only peaceful place in my life and I wanted badly to be with that light permanently. That’s the dichotomy!

Being the dutiful patient I took the two kinds of sleeping pills he gave me back then, and the tranquilizers, and the uppers to wake me up and get me going through the day. Truly I felt crazier than ever, and eventually flushed them down the toilet. I needed to tend to the needs of both my girls. I needed to hear my three month old baby, if she cried. I needed to know what my older girl was doing. A toddler climbing out of her crib, wandering about the house by herself, opening the door, going down the outside is not something any mother wants to experience!

With today’s medical wisdom we now know my diagnosis was partly post-partum depression. Maybe not the Visitations, though. I still think they were real. That Spirit Light is not something of this earth.

Flushing those drugs… that was a mistake. I didn't know you needed to go off those medications slowly. The mania came upon me then. I cleaned house from top to bottom, took my babies out for rides, buying and selling antiques. I packed up the house and drove 3,000 miles with my husband and kids. We made the trip in record time. He slept while I drove. I needed no sleep.

A few months later in the dead of winter, I was back to being immobilized, unable to take care of myself, let alone the girls. Arguing with my husband ended that day in the car when I opened the door and jumped out. Needless to say, that led to another hospitalization. That doctor said I was in no way a Schizophrenic. I was only despondent and suppressed by a bad marriage. "Get out of the marriage and your life will improve." He was right.

All the anger and irritation that had built up, dissapated and I was energized again, ready to take on the world. Splitting up was easy. Just like sweeping dirt into a dustpan and tossing it in the trash. I never looked back, got a job in a luggage factory sewing seams and zippers. I drove my car too fast, played the radio too loud, left the kids at the babysitters and went out and danced to Motown every weekend. Sleep? I didn't need it. Sitting at those heavy duty sewing machines was enough to put anyone to sleep.

Again there was that wonderful honey flavored life where I was the center of attention. I loved everyone and they loved me. It's not just an imaginary feeling. Studies show there's something about being manic that creates some charisma. People like a happy, magnanimous manic person. Even when irritable a manic can be quite convincing as to the reasons why. People easily overlook those outbursts as long as they are not with that person all the time.

During lunch breaks at the luggage factory, my co-workers would gather around me to have their fortunes told. In my teens I had read a book on palmistry once belonging to my grandmother. Suddenly it all came back to me with clarity as I pointed at lines on palms, the shapes of hands, noting their meaning and told people how many marriages and children they had, what their health and finances were, and even when they would die. I had full confidence I was right, and so did those whose palms I read, especially the woman who had four marriages and seven kids, three boys one girl, the one that had not survived her birth. I had gotten it right. They called me Gypsy.

One can only go sleepless for so many weeks playing the wise woman and  happy Motown dancing girl before one gets into trouble. I hadn't bother to pay bills, except for the babysitter, and before you know it I was evicted. I sold my furnishings, packed what I could in the car. I drove myself and my girls a thousand miles to live with my parents. That was a really big mistake.

A workaholic Dad, an alcoholic mom, a divorced older brother and two unhappy teenagers (my siblings) and a crazy woman with kids is a bad recipe for a healthy relationship.

From Personal Journal

I'm overwhelmed today. I woke up feeling sad. Didn't even have the sleep gone from my eyes and all I wanted to do was cry. Well, crying is not my thing. It's too hard on me due to my asthma. It just stirs it up and makes things worse. So, a long time ago I learned to suppress crying. Or should I say? Sobbing.

When my kitty died two and a half years ago I awoke every day with this same kind of feeling. Just before falling asleep the sadness arose every night, too. My grief was over the top. Eventually, after adopting four kitties, they have kept me so busy that morning/evening sadness left me.

So, here it is, again. Same feelings. Different reason.

Obviously it is finally hitting me. I've been too busy and stressed out, going through all the tests and doctor's appointments. Today I'll be by myself. Nothing to do. No appointments. No having to drive anywhere. No relating to other people. Just me and my cats. Naturally my body knows this and has triggered letting these suppressed feelings out.

So perhaps today I will wallow a little bit.

Down the Well of Darkness

I've been sliding through life in a gray zone for many months. It's a sticky kind of slide, though. It stops me in my tracks whenever I get some kind of momentum going in my thoughts or actions. Then I fizzle out and the numbness becomes the gray.


I asked for help from a professional who had connections. She pulled her strings and got me in to see a very important man who used the opportunity to have one of his students take her exam by having her do the interview. I accepted that. After all, his expertise and knowledge would be present observing both of us. 


I guess I appear too normal when I'm gray. My flatness indicated to him that I was stable and didn't need any help. He didn't tell me that himself. I only learned later.

I've lived long enough to know what comes next, and here it is born upon me again. It starts with diffuse dreams of sadness that prevent a full night's sleep. I awaken so early that I ask myself, "What are you doing up?" Before the realization hits me, I feel it in my body. I don't need my rational mind to tell me. There it is, that unrelenting greif that has no reality. 


When they speak of anguish, I think of some poor woman who's husband and child have tragically died. When she learns of it she feels her body turn inside out. That's what I feel, even though my loved ones are healthy and safe and all is well. Yet that inner twistedness wrings me out. It's a wet rag clotting my throat, squeezing out the moisture on the edge of my lashes with no release. If I don't guard my soul like a warrior, I would be on the floor curled, lifeless and dark.


I've learned to ride it out, just like the flat gray numbness. But, it's now flat. It sinks down. And so I hang on to the rope hung over the well of greatness about to swallow me up. Is it my grip on that rope giving me those sensations of ants crawling on my face? Or is it just my face reaching for the sunlight peeping lightly in the high distance? 


I know where this leads. I've been on this journey before, too many times. I want out. But, the slimy walls are lumpy and hard, too straight up to give me impetus to climb. I cannot let go of the rope. I must hang on.


I seek an appointment with the new family doctor. Only one intake behind us, will she believe the desperation I cannot explain? She does, but hesitates. Blood tests must be done first. I must hold on a little longer.

How I Stayed Alive When My Brain Was Trying to Kill Me

I bought the book but never read it. I really didn't need to, I'm sure. You see, I have the same disorder as the author.

Today is one of those days, when the brain chemistry has taken over. I have to fight it. In the past I didn't and followed the inclinations of it's power. Despondency was the key. It hits me now and then, even with proper medication.

For years the diagnosis was not recognize and life was pretty much a roller coaster of heaven, hell and numbness somewhere in between. Of course, in those early years, the diagnosis really didn't have a name as it was clustered within Schizophrenia. But, it is a separate condition and now treatable.

Still, here I am with overwhelming feelings of despair and unwarranted grief. My friends tell me to call them when I'm like this. They will help me. But, you see, that's not what I do. There is no desire to reach out for help.

Something that has helped me in the past has been journaling. I've got page after page of misery written down. There's something to letting it seep out of me into the pen onto the page, now transferred to the keyboard in these modern times.

I will ride through today as best I can. One thing I've learned that helps is to distract myself. Go to the store, a restaurant, the library, a ride in the car, up into the hills, down to the ocean. Sometimes I cry. But not anymore. Seems impossible now. If I cannot drag myself out of the house, which is not a good sign, I will crochet, paint or draw, make digital art, read, write, listen to music, or watch movies on TV while petting my purr babies.

I am going public with this because I haven't forgotten what it was like when it was unbearable, when the suicidal thoughts were invasive and all encompassing. I didn't have the internet back then. How valuable it would have been for me to find others in the same situation, where I could read that there was hope. If I can help just one person because of this posting, then it is worth it being out with my own history.

There is hope. No matter how desperate the situation, if you can ride it out, like the roller coaster, there is an end to the ride. Just hang on for dear life. And yes, there is value in life. There is value in your own life, even if it doesn't feel like it. Even if you feel like you don't deserve to live, you do.

Just hang on. Get help. Keep seeking help, even if it seems to not help, keep hanging on. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. Suicide is not the answer. I promise you.

Don't worry. I'm not suicidal anymore. I haven't been actively considering it for many years, though sometimes the feelings arise. The meds help with that.

But, here it is. The despondency is in the forefront of my mind, and like a sad old friend, I must take her hand and comfort her, distract her, and hang on!

How I Stayed Alive When My Brain Was Trying to Kill Me

Redemptive Creature of Pain

Deep within lies a slimy, pathetic Monster writhing in pain. We all know him. His own worst enemy, is he, only conscious of misery. He cannot see beyond himself. Pain lingers about him, like so many tangled wires jumbled in static giving off fumes.

Pain is his cousin who never goes away only to be dealt with in twisted anger, self victimized, ostracized. Unreachable, untouchable, unworthy of redemption, he refuses to break through his self-imposed barriers; believes he is helpless
against the invisible foe.

Pain is unacceptable, not a legitimate entity. Pain has planted thorny swords of barbed wire, preventing easy access. Pain wrapped in self loathing cannot move or grow. Tears of self pity, cover him like unshakable slime, his fears convincing him the pain will not desist. Self-flagellation wounds ooze thickly. He tells himself "it's all I am meant to be, just pain"

A most despicable Beast, unworthy and shamed,
is but one who needs tender love and healing nonetheless. Dear Beastie, I come to you, my hand outreached to comfort,
yet, you stab me with your lightning bolts, unwilling as a cowering porcupine. You can only unleash your pain yourself, I see. Did you know I was once like you?

By soothing voice, I sing to you. By soft-coated whispers, I encourage you to breathe, and unwind the chains you have wrapped about yourself. Hiding in the poppies to cover the pain, locked you further away from the truth of you, brought increased harm and alarm and no remembrance of who you are.

And so, I calm my mind, my aching heart, my stress-filled body to accommodate your need for undivided attention, your need for redemption from your false beliefs to embrace what I once thought was the enemy. Without your spiky armor, you appear quite harmless.

With your oozing wounds placated, your tears dried away, you are quite a cuddly creature and purr readily when petted.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Dedicated to the dark within us all.

My Personal Opinion

I think we are often lead, but do not always follow. Like a mother walking down the road with her child, there reaches a point where she has to let go and let the child walk without being clinging and fearful.

The child might get distracted by the pretty seashells along the way and hang back while mother stands aside and watches. She wants the child to follow, but also allows the child to explore the world, and then... oh no! the child has been scratched by a thorn! Why wasn't mother there to prevent it? But, she is watching and cares and wants the to learn what to value and what to be careful of. Sometimes we just have to learn the hard way to take care of ourselves, knowing that mother is not too far away.

I think that we have a path in life to take, like if you were to travel from Belgium to Spain. There are a lot of things to see on the way, a lot of interesting signs that say turn left at the corner and go down that road and you will see the amazing beach.

And so we go on those side roads, knowing we have a goal to reach, and maybe we have a flat tire or the car needs repair, but yes, we do gain something from our experience, and so ultimately we get back on the path.  I think there are so many signs along the way where we are diverted and gain experiences both painful and enjoyable and it is all part of what we do to grow.

I think the tragedies in our lives are part of the path. Sometimes we stumble a lot on those rocky paths. I look at depression as my going down a steep path with rocks in the way. And so, all I can do is hang on and try to keep myself balanced and composed as best as possible while I am sliding down, sometimes falling down. And at the bottom, there is my old friend, my old enemy... Depression. It's like walking through mud, so it is difficult to get back on the path to the original goal. We could just curl up in the mud and die, or we can keep trudging through it until we can find a foot hold to start climbing up again. It's very hard to climb upward on a steep path, but it sure does strengthen us.

~~~~~~~~~~~
I took the first three photos at Capitola, California and the fourth one in my own backyard. Destiny is collecting seeds from the dried poppies.

Cries with Cop

I started to cry while driving on the freeway. I have no idea why. It wasn't simply that sense of tears starting to spring that you can hold back with a tightness in the throat. No, this came from somewhere deep. Like a volcano wanting to break loose. Tears unbidden. Tears with plans of their own.

I knew I had to get off the freeway as soon as possible to avoid being a danger to others. I can drive while crying. I've done it before. Haven't we all? It wasn't even a matter of understanding why I felt so sad.

There was an exit up ahead a couple miles, but I had to pull over right there and then.  I had the flashers on so that other drivers would at least notice I was on the side of the road. Not wanting to break down sobbing, I was looking around for some tissues, and thereby noticed from the rear view mirror, a vehicle coming up on me  from the rear. A police vehicle. Oh dear, oh yuck, oh %^*&! Can I get a traffic ticket for having pulled over on the freeway without having a flat tire of overheated engine? I would soon find out.

Officers in this area frequently come up to the passenger side of the car to talk to the driver, because the danger of a high speed vehicle clipping them while passing too closely. Therefore when the officer came to my door, I opened it so he could lean in. It was just beginning to sprinkle.

He took one look at me, and I noticed in his eyes a flicker of recognition. He knew instinctively that this wasn't a stalled car problem. Maybe he was thinking, a crying woman, Oh no, oh yuck, oh %^*&!". But he said with concern, "Are you all right, Ma'am?"

I didn't know what to say. (I just started crying for no reason, officer, over nothing?) No, I didn't say that. I lied. Okay, maybe not a full lie, a little white lie. I told him my mother died last year... and a bit of overwhelming grief struck me while driving... and I thought it would be safer for me to pull over to calm down. He said some comforting words, and to get me out of danger of the traffic, he followed me to the next exit.

Maybe it is true after all. Maybe I am missing my mother. She was 87 when she died a couple years ago. She was my best supporter, and loved to me read anything I might have written. A letter, a poem, a story, one of my opinionated pieces or a journal page about my cats. She would have liked this posting to know a caring cop had stopped to help her daughter. She would have understood how tears and sadness come from nowhere, with no known reason. She would have understood my white lie.

Please note:  I love to take pictures of vintage cars. The last picture is of my Mom in our 1955 Nash Rambler.