This is supposed to be manic season for me. Now, I do not have the extreme manias of
bipolar 1, but I have hypo-manias, and after spending 8 months out of the year
clinically depressed, with or without medication, I look forward to my little
manias. Now, let me clarify here by
saying that I am on medication and have been for 20 years, but contrary to
popular belief, I still experience depression and mania just not enough to
unbalance my life...for the most part.
So, I look forward to my little manias, because I tend to
have a lot of energy and get lots accomplished during that time and am much
more extroverted than usual. But this
year I have been robbed! No mania. I’m tired, reclusive, scattered, easily
frustrated, and often despondent; all manifestations of depression not mania. Mania medicated is the one perk I get with
this mess, and I’m not happy about this change in the program.
I think there is a perfect storm in play here; surgery,
stress, the change in professional output, and others things I am not at
liberty to confess here. I can
rationalize that perfectly well, but I am still not happy with the result, and
I am concerned that I am heading back down into the bell jar in a couple of
months and will not have had my little mental vacation.
Even so, I push on, because that is sometimes what has to be
done, and sometimes that energy expended to keep going robs you of your time
for other things. Fatigue is an output of this endless requirement I have placed
on my mind, and as a result, I am having panic attacks again. My brain just does not have the stamina to
maintain the anxiety.
As I am sitting here typing this pathetic little story of
mine, I am reminded of three words; comfort, grace, and hope. If you read my blogs regularly you know I
have pontificated about hope and grace a lot.
They are the words that draw me away from myself and deeper into what
saves me every day. My study and
contemplation of hope and grace have taught me more about my spiritual walk
than anything else. Comfort is a new
one, but rather than seeking to define it, I am looking to speak its language.
Reptile Gardens here in Rapid City is one of my favorite
places to go. When we went there this
spring, I went to see the kookaburra sitting in his little tree. Everyone was trying to get him to do his
funny little laugh by whistling and calling.
I read the little commentary on him and realized he responds to monkey
calls. So I sucked up my pride and began
to talk like a monkey. He turned on his
little perch, cocked his head, listened for a moment and then let out his very
unique sound. I was thrilled to
death. It was the highlight of the day
for me.
Comfort is like that kookaburra. I cannot expect to get it to speak to me by
hooting and hollering my distrust and skepticism at it. I have to speak the language of comfort to
receive comfort. What I am discovering,
much like that monkey call, I have to be willing to step away from my pride
(because cynicism is really pride in knowing that nothing will work out), and
choose to call out surrender and willingness.
I think that the comfort I seek right now, no human can
provide. I am in need of the kind of
comfort that only Abba can provide, and my spiritual walk is taking me through
a time of learning how to speak comfort into my own life and accept it. I am
not there yet, but I know I’m headed in the right direction.
I read on my FaceBook page about a lot of my friends who are
struggling with change and obstacles. We
could say that is part and parcel with life, but does it really help to
minimize it down to “the journey” when you are in the throes of storms that
will not give you a break? I think one
of the reasons I wrote my doctoral dissertation on change was because I
struggle so much with it on a personal level, and I know I am not alone in
that. Change is good for us, but when it
is thrust upon us through trauma, it is never comfortable, and comfort is a
foreign concept.
I won’t offer anything glib here to tie off this post. I have no answers, just thoughts, and often
they are not worth much to me much less someone else, but I offer that I think
you have to choose to look for that which can help. I know in my personal experience that when I
am experiencing what I am going through right now I have become very particular
to put positive, healthy sensory experiences into my memory banks. I have no real aesthetic sense of beauty at
the moment, but that does not mean I cannot see it, and as long as I find a way
to fill my tank with that which edifies, I will have access when I once again
begin to be able to appreciate beauty, laugh, and even be happy on
occasion. I am a woman blessed beyond
measure, and I know that. Whether the
chemicals in my brain are making an attempt to sabotage, I will continue to
endure, and I will have comfort.
L
