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Posts Tagged ‘mood’

I know how it feels to be passed by. I know how it feels to allow someone else’s success to be my own failure. I know all too well how hard it is to battle a nasty inner voice.” @AmericaFerrera

america-ferrera-triathlete

Inspiration is all around us. I found a little bit of it the other day in the New York Times in an essay about training for a triathlon by America Ferrera: “How a Triathlon Helped America Ferrera Defy Her Inner Critic.”

With every step, stroke and pedal, I turned “No, I can’t” into “Yes, I can,” “I’m limited” into “Look what I’m capable of,” and “I’m weak” into “I am whole, healthy and strong.’” @AmericaFerrera

You’d think that someone who is as successful as she is in her chosen profession would be beyond negative self-talk. Especially with so many agents, publicists and studio execs kissing her (bad)ass on a daily basis.

But no, she does it too. It was also nice to hear someone who is in the public eye openly admit to being human and fallible. I find that refreshing and inspiring. I have to admit that blogging about my own psychological challenges feels a bit strange at times. I’m not one who likes attention, I dislike most reality TV shows, and I was raised not to “air my dirty laundry in public.”

BUT, if no one aired their dirty laundry, how would we know that how we feel is also how a lot of other people feel. We can only learn and grow by sharing what we know, by being honest. So hopefully you appreciate my contribution to the noise as much as I appreciate America Ferrera’s.

And who isn’t guilty of negative self-talk, even though we know it’s not good for us. And it can be as innocent as calling yourself stupid if you make a minor mistake. I’ve called myself that just for dropping something. And each and every one of those comments chips away (subconsciously) at your self-esteem.

I have to admit that I have tried to use positive reinforcement on myself, but it always sounds silly or lame. Or like Donald Trump. “I’m Awesome!” “I’m Huge!” “I’m a force to be reckoned with,” etc., etc… So even if I don’t do that, thank you America for reminding me not to do the other.

I finally got my answer to that question: Who do you think you are? I am whoever I say I am.” @AmericaFerrera

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When you think like a designer, when you are willing to ask the questions, when you realize that life is always about designing something that has never existed before, then your life can sparkle in a way that you could never have imagined.

designing-your-life

It’s been six years since I last posted something here. Inertia is a BITCH!

Life has taken a lot of twists and turns since then. I finally moved away from Northern California (and that damned mechanical turkey) (see my Nov. 24, 2009 post “Giving Thanks for an Epiphany“) and relocated to the East Coast. I’ve also begun to experiment with pharmaceuticals again, which I am not happy about. But with all of the stress that comes along with moving, and aging, etc., I felt that it was time to reach out to some new doctors and see if there were any new pills worth popping in an effort to stop a downward spiral. Yes. And no.

For a few months I was on and off some medications I had tried before. Since I couldn’t remember what I had taken, how many milligrams, and in what combination with what, I let the doctor convince me to try things I had already tried, like Abilify and Wellbutrin. When there was no luck with those, he was convinced that I would see some relief with Latuda, a drug I had never tried before but which I was aware of thanks to Sunovion‘s unrelenting TV advertisements. Since it seemed to be working for everyone else, why not me? Well, I don’t think I took it long enough to find out. I had to stop it cold turkey because it was making me want to crawl out of my skin. There’s an actual term for that side-effect. It’s Akathisia, which is also something I was quite familiar with.

On to a new doctor. And here I am, starting my second week with Rexulti, and upping the dosage from 1mg to 2mg.

I’ve also been seeing a counselor/therapist of sorts who has been trying to get me to try things like DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy). (He confessed last week that he didn’t think DBT would necessarily do me any good, but that having to adhere to the schedule might.) He also wondered, out loud, if perhaps my expectations were too high. “No,” I replied immediately. It wasn’t something I had to think about. “I’m trying to get from black to grey,” I said, “so, no, I don’t think my expectations are too high.”

Anyway, I’m at my desk writing again, so that’s something. And I feel it’s the only thing that keeps me sane, keeps me committed. The unexamined life is not worth living. But then neither is the over-examined life. But just by sitting at my computer THINKING about what works and what doesn’t, encourages me to keep trying. To re-establish all of those daily activities that have some impact, however small, on my mood-swings or depression; like eating right and exercising. And writing. So even if this new drug doesn’t work, I’m fairly certain it will be the last one I try, so I’m going to need something else to fall back on.

Be well, Marco

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I have a good memory. Actually, I have an excellent memory when you take into account all of the drugs and alcohol I’ve consumed to manage my moods over the past three hundred (or so it seems) years.

But there are times….

My significant other and I were doing a bit of purging the other day. You know, getting rid of clothes we haven’t worn in 10 years, bikes that are old and rusty, books (and more books)…things like that.

And there, sitting on the floor of one of the closets, still in the box, was a Rubbermaid Ironing organizer. In fact, the box has been sitting on the floor of that same closet for at least several years (or so it seems) right next to the ironing board that rests on the floor, and the iron, which sits on a table to the left of it.

I, in one of my bitchier moods, asked why it was still in the box and not attached to the wall as it was intended (and clearly wanted) to be. I was told that it was something that I had purchased, and then questioned as to why I hadn’t taken the initiative to install it.

Well! I would never purchase such an item. First of all, I don’t iron. I purposely by drip-dry shirts, wear sweaters even in summer, or pretend to be an aging Yuppie instead. Anyone who knows someone who has ADD and/or bipolar disorder knows that we would rather have a root canal than iron something. It’s just one of those chores (like making coffee or doing dishes) that makes us, dare I say, crazy. Or crazier.

But the truth is, the more I thought about it, I could just see myself (although I STILL don’t remember) in a frenzy at the local Bed Bath & Beyond, loading up a couple of shopping carts at once in an effort to get my life back on track, organized, simplified. I can see canisters and fussy little boxes, clip boards and pegboards, soap dispensers and paper towel racks spilling over into perhaps a third cart.

Did I purchase that odd little item? I don’t know. But what I now realize is that I shouldn’t have been so adamant about the fact that I would never have purchased such an item because when I’m in a manic state, even though I may seem, even though I may feel, lucid, it is a sort of delirium. And while I stand by the fact that 99 times out of 100, I will remember events correctly, I can’t be certain that 100 percent of the time, I didn’t do or didn’t say something that I just don’t recall doing or saying.

How is your memory?

P.S. Yes, this is my attempt at an apology.

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Does Abilify Cause Weight Gain?: Weight gain is a common side effect of Abilify® (aripiprazole). In studies, the exact percentage of people that gained a significant amount of weight varied from study to study, but most studies consistently showed that people taking Abilify were more likely to gain weight than people taking a placebo (a “sugar pill” with no active ingredient).

For two and a half weeks I’ve been following the advice of Timothy Ferriss. He has after all practically guaranteed (money back?) that if I follow his plan I’ll be down to 8 percent body fat in just a few days. Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating, a little, but dammit, if I’m going to survive on a diet of lentils, kidney beans, tuna and eggs, I want results. And I want them NOW.

And doesn’t a plan for only four-hours a week of anything seem like the perfect fit for someone who’s bipolar and has ADD? In fact, it feels like it’s taken me four-hours just to write this much of the blog. Why are we so impatient? Honestly, I can handle all of the mood swings, the delirious highs and the bone crushing lows, but the boredom, the impatience, and the irritability makes me, well…crazy. Or is it the other way round?

The main reason for my frustration with Mr. Ferriss’ claims is that, not only have I not lost any weight or dropped any percentage points in body fat, I’ve actually GAINED weight and girth.

And then I had a realization. About the same time that I started the “diet” (eating plan, life style, or whatever he wants to call it,) I also started taking ABILIFY® (aripiprazole).

Now, anyone who’s read this blog before, knows full well that I don’t do drugs. Been there, done that. That was the whole purpose of this blog when it began: exploring living a bipolar life without pharmaceuticals.

But here’s the thing: I reached a low point where I just needed something, anything. And vodka, while I’ve used it judiciously in the past, wasn’t going to cut it. At least not for the long term. Of all of the hundreds of medications I’ve tried over the years, Abilify was the only one that worked, albeit for a short period of time. So, while I was hesitant to begin ingesting toxic chemicals into my bloodstream once again, when you’re on the Titanic, and the water is rushing up to your chest, you grasp at anything that resembles a floatation device.

And so it occurred to me today that it was probably the medication that was keeping the weight on in spite of my dedication to the 4-Hour Body plan, right down to the blueberry pancakes smothered in maple syrup and the half-pint of Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk on those glorious cheat days.

So here is the sad truth about being bipolar: You can’t win.

But don’t you think that with all of that running and running just to stay in place that I’d have lost at least one of those extra pounds?

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I thought my life would seem more interesting with a musical score and a laugh track.”  Bill Watterson

As most of you know, I’m only in this for the money.  And of course the fame.  And the accolades.  And the….

Did you know that Comments cure depression?  Well, that’s not really true, but they can lift it temporarily.  Nothing brightens my day more than seeing a number or two lit up in the “comments” section.  No matter how old the post is, or how inconsequential you think your comment might be, leave it anyway.  Some days that’s my only reason for living.  Well, maybe not the only reason, but you know what I mean.

I’ve decided to keep it light today.  I’m still in a New York state of mind.  Still reeling from the culture and the cuisine, the noise and the theater, the museums and the cab rides.  I am operating on sensory over-load and loving it.

I thought that I would share a few more of the Calvin and Hobbes pieces that I love so much.

I adore his honesty, his self-centeredness, his unwillingness to change to suit other people’s expectations.

BUT, he’s also a good reminder of how we SHOULD be.  I like to think that I’m a good person.  I like to think that I do nice things.  And while I am and I do, is it really enough?  Being a good person means more than being moral and conscientious.  It means actually going out and doing something to make the world a better place.  I recycle, I’m kind to animals, I contribute to food banks and occasionally to pan-handlers.  But what am I REALLY doing to make the world a better place?

Okay, I promised I was going to keep this light.  Must be all of those New Year’s resolutions creeping into my subconscious.

Like it or not, Calvin is a child of our times, raised on the cusp of Twitter and Reality TV.  And he makes no excuses for it.

I like an audience as much as the next person.  Not as much as John or Kate or any of the newest of the string of celebrities for celebrity sake (e.g., Tiger’s female entourage climbing out of the swamp to get their 15 minutes.)  But I can also BE a good audience.  And that brings me to the Special Gift portion of our show.  My fellow blogger and mood-swinger, Sarcastic Bastard has given me many chuckles over the past year, and I am hoping to return the favor with, “The Ladies Who Brunch.”  It is a photograph I found years ago.  I have no idea who these women are, but it makes me smile every time I look at it.  And it reminds me not to take life so seriously.  I hope she, and YOU, enjoy it, that it puts a smile on your face as well, and that it encourages you to kick up your heels a bit more in the New Year.

"The Ladies Who Brunch"

And remember: YOU MATTER.  Well, maybe not to me, but to someone, somewhere…..

Thanks for playing.

Love, Marco

P.S. CALVIN & HOBBES FANS: See more at:  There Must Be More to Life!

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Genuine beginnings begin within us, even when they are brought to our attention by external opportunities.  It is out of the formlessness of the neutral zone that new form emerges and out of the barrenness of the fallow time that new life springs.  We can support and even enhance the process, but we cannot produce the results.  Once those results begin to take shape, however, there are several things that can be done.  The first is, very simply, to stop getting ready and to act.  Getting ready can turn out to be an endless task, and one of the forms that inner resistance often takes is the attempt to make just a few more (and then more, and again more) preparations.” “Transitions: Making Sense of Life’s Changes,” by William Bridges

I had a foul epiphany the other day.  Well, actually, it was more like a fowl epiphany.

I stopped off at a mall close to my house to run a few errands.  Being as I live in California, it’s an open-air mall, irrespective of the fact that it’s Northern California and several of the months here are more often than not, cold and rainy.  Anyway, the first thing I noticed was this twenty-foot high orange and brown wooden turkey with a bobbing head.  Now I wasn’t surprised so much by the turkey (it shows up every November and doesn’t depart until after the New Year) but I was surprised by the whole “Groundhog Day” effect that it had on me.

You see, this turkey is hollow.  It has a door in its side that opens up so that you can donate canned and dry goods to the local food bank.  It’s something I do every year.  Only this time when I saw that damned turkey I could have sworn it was only a couple of weeks ago that I had been shoving boxes of pasta and tins of tuna into its hollowed-out butt.

Now, here’s the thing.  I’ve been starring at that mechanical turkey every holiday season for the past twenty plus years.  I’m sick to death of that Turkey.  And it was a stark reminder of how boring my life had become.  How risk free.  How safe.  And I swear to you, the second I laid eyes on it I vowed that it would be the last Thanksgiving I would ever have see it.

I’m an East Coast person.  Born and raised.  And though I was transplanted to Northern California more than two decades ago, my roots never took.  Every year I vow to move away, back to New York or Boston.  Back to someplace that makes me feel more alive.  And here was this gigantic three-dimensional reminder that another year had passed.  Another year spent daydreaming instead of taking action.

When the time comes, stop getting ready to do it—and do it!”

What is it about the familiar that keeps us so chained to the status quo?  Why would we rather suffer in a toxic environment than try something new?  It’s one of the reasons (I repeat, ONE of the reasons) people stay in abusive relationships.  The “known,” no matter how detrimental, feels like a safer choice than the unknown.  I’ve seen videos of children screaming to be returned to their parents, even though their parents were abusive to them.  We crave, (consciously or un) sameness.

I had some relatives from South Florida visit not too long ago.  They borrowed my car and drove up to Napa for the day.  They were rather disappointed by the trip.  Seems that they stopped and asked several people if there was a “Bennigans” around.  There wasn’t.  They were 3,000 miles from home, in an environment that is nowhere near theirs, and yet they wanted to duplicate the same experience they have in Palm Beach.  They wanted the familiar.

Now, I’ve never really been one to play it safe.  Or so I thought.  But to tell you the truth, the idea of actually implementing a plan that would take me far away from that turkey, that would uproot me from everything I know, regardless of how boring it is, scares me to death.  Why is that?

But like I said in my last post, there are two different kinds of learning, and this one was the experiential one.  I got it on a gut level.  I would rather die doing something new than live forever doing the same old, same old.

And like they say in “Pippin,” “I want my life to be something more than long….”

“Corner of the Sky” from “Pippin

Everything has its season

Everything has its time

Show me a reason and I’ll soon show you a rhyme

Cats fit on the windowsill

Children fit in the snow

Why do I feel I don’t fit in anywhere I go?


 

Rivers belong where they can ramble

Eagles belong where they can fly

I’ve got to be where my spirit can run free

Got to find my corner of the sky

 

Every man has his daydreams

Every man has his goal

People like the way dreams have

Of sticking to the soul


Thunderclouds have their lightning

Nightingales have their song

And don’t you see I want my life to be

Something more than long….

 

Rivers belong where they can ramble

Eagles belong where they can fly

I’ve got to be where my spirit can run free

Got to find my corner of the sky


 

So many men seem destined

To settle for something small

But I won’t rest until I know I’ll have it all

So don’t ask where I’m going

Just listen when I’m gone

And far away you’ll hear me singing

Softly to the dawn:


 

Rivers belong where they can ramble

Eagles belong where they can fly

I’ve got to be where my spirit can run free

Got to find my corner of the sky.

Pippin: Music and Lyrics by Stephen Schwartz

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Choose to be HappyMastery of some of the most extraordinary things has to do with just being willing to do the dumb, boring stuff over and over again and to like it while you’re doing it.  That’s how anyone becomes great at anything.”  “Choose to be Happy; The Craft and the Art of Living Beyond Anxiety,” by Swami Chetanananda

 

I had one of those “Ahh ha!” moments recently.

There are two levels of understanding.  There is the intellectual level and then there is the gut level, the level where you actually experience knowledge in a new and enlightened way.

I save things.  I accumulate stuff.  I’m an information junkie and a bibliophile.  Then there’s the whole abundance issue where you can never have too much of anything because at one time in your life you never had enough.

Now, I’m not in any danger of Oprah showing up at my home any time soon with a cleaning crew and seven dumpsters, but it’s all relative.  Are the stacks of books sitting in piles around my house any less toxic than the bags of clothing or the boxes of canned goods lying around in others?

Anyway, I was on vacation recently.  Ten days away from home with only two suitcases and a carry-on.  (Of course I always over-pack because abundance issues apply equally to hotel rooms as they do to living rooms.)  But, it wasn’t until I returned home that I realized how stressful my environment had become.

Because of my mood disorder it’s hard to be “present.”  At home there are always things to do, projects to tackle, books to read.  The list is endless.  Those things gnaw at you without you ever really knowing it.  It works on a subconscious level.  Even if you think you’re enlightened enough to “know” that that’s what’s going on, there is a huge difference between knowing and experiencing.

It occurred to me that whenever I go away on vacation I’m a lot less likely to get depressed or to have serious mood swings.  Although I must admit that trips away from home do make me more prone to mania, if only by virtue of the stimulation to be found in new situations and in foreign surroundings.

But here’s what I discovered: the limits of a hotel room are not really limiting.  They are empowering.

At home I have what seems like ten thousand shirts.  On vacation, seven.  (Okay twelve, but who’s counting?)  And most of the shirts at home aren’t ironed, because, well, I hate to iron, and I have ADD, and anyone who has ADD knows what I’m talking about.  So whenever I go to get something to wear, I’m overwhelmed by the choices and then depressed and angry at myself for my lack of discipline (for not having ironed most of them) and for my lack of motivation (for not having the energy to iron them.)

I never leave the house without a book in hand; so then I am forced to make another decision.  Which of the thirty books I’m in the middle of do I take with me?  (Hint: it’s usually a lot more than one as well as a few more I want to start.)  On vacation, if only by necessity, I’m limited to a few (okay, six, but that’s not really the point.)  Same thing with food (too many items in the fridge and too much energy required to prepare any of them.)  Don’t you just love the brevity of room service menus and the simplicity of preparing breakfast by making a quick phone call while still in your pj’s?

So, three things happen repeatedly at home.  I am overwhelmed by choices, I am reminded by those choices of why my life isn’t working, and I chastise myself for my inability to limit, maintain or prepare my stuff.

Now, I know it’s a lot bigger issue than just a little de-cluttering of my environment.  I know that it’s going to take a huge amount of energy to resist bringing more and more stuff into my house.  I know that I have to hold myself accountable for each and every decision, for each and every purchase, for each and every justification I make to warrant those (reactive) choices.

I don’t think I’m alone in beating myself up for such things, for thinking I should know better, be stronger, work harder.  And I’m not alone in placing blame on a mental state that makes even the simplest of tasks (like making coffee) seem insurmountable.

But I do believe, as I have said before, that most us are guilty of accommodating our disorder to some degree.  We make room for it.  We justify it.  We let ourselves get lazy and complacent, which only adds to our discontent.

But perhaps that’s just me.  One of the hardest things about this disorder is knowing what’s real and what’s imagined.  What I’m capable of and what I cut myself too much slack for.  But I digress….

Oprah, if you’re reading this, have your producers e-mail me so I can tell them which address to deliver the dumpsters to.

 

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“A few observations about the complexity of an illness that is so much a part and parcel of one’s temperament.  But most importantly [about] the role of love in recovery.  Love as sustainer, as re-newer and as protector.”:

Jamison-An Unquiet Mind“After each seeming death within my mind or heart, love has returned to re-create hope and to restore life.  It has at its best, made the inherent sadness of life bearable, and its beauty manifest.  It has, inexplicably and savingly, provided not only cloak, but lantern for the darker seasons and grimmer weather.

I long ago abandoned the notion of a life without storms, or a world without dry and killing seasons.  Life is too complicated, too constantly changing, to be anything but what it is.  And I am, by nature, too mercurial to be anything but deeply wary of the grave unnaturalness involved in any attempt to exert too much control over essentially uncontrollable forces.  There will always be propelling, disturbing elements, and they will be there until, as Lowell put it, the watch is taken from the wrist.  It is, at the end of the day, the individual moments of restlessness, of bleakness, of strong persuasions and maddened enthusiasms, that inform one’s life, change the nature and direction of one’s work, and give final meaning and color to one’s loves and friendships.”   “An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness,” by Kay Redfield Jamison

I was brutally and viscously attacked this weekend.  Granted it was only a verbal lashing, but it was by a “supposed” friend while he was a guest in my home.  But it was the intense animosity and the volume at which it was hurled that has left scars far greater and deeper than any he might have tried to inflict physically.

I share this with you because of what it means to me as someone who suffers with a mental disorder.  Because, while his outburst about my mental state failed to make me feel stigmatized, his behavior did (does) make me feel marginalized.  And that is unacceptable.  Bordering on unconscionable.

No one has the right to stand in judgment of you or your mental capabilities.  Least of all someone who acts self-righteous, who professes moral superiority, who thinks they have the right to determine what is and what is not acceptable behavior.  Especially when they themselves act hypocritically, because, for the record, accosting someone while a guest in their home and then sneaking away without leaving a note or saying goodbye to the other members of the household is not acceptable behavior.

The truly sad part of this story for me is that I lost a 15 year-long friendship that I cherished.  Not with him, but with his wife who stood by and said nothing while he repeatedly insulted me. Would his behavior have been tolerated had he attacked someone in a wheelchair?  Someone with mental retardation?  Someone with anorexia?  Is abuse leveled on someone who suffers from a mental disorder any less reprehensible than an attack on someone with a more physically apparent disability?

But, even as I mourn that loss I am left with the feeling of being empowered, renewed, reborn.  It has reminded me of two of my favorite (and empowering) phrases: “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” and “Consider the source.”

I present this video as a gift to him.  To enlighten him.  Sadly he will never see it because as far as I know he has never read my blog.  If he had, he might have seen my mood swings for what they were, the unfortunate influence (or deficiency) of certain chemicals in my brain.  But the truth is, I make no secret of my disorder and he is well aware of (or at least he should have been) the fact that my mental state is compromised.

Personal Reflections on Manic-Depressive Illness

I can only speak for myself, but I have no doubt that most of us who struggle with a mental handicap (be it bipolar disorder, chronic depression, ADHD, obsessive compulsive disorder, etc.) struggle with low self-esteem.  The one thing that I feel is my saving grace is the gift of self-respect.  It doesn’t completely compensate for my disorder but it certainly makes it tolerable at times.  While I may not be the most successful or accomplished person, nor the smartest, nor the most humble, nor the bravest, I am a human being who deserves, no DEMANDS to be treated with respect.

And so I declared at the end of his tirade: “You and I are no longer friends.”  I chose the high road and did not stoop to his level of name-calling, etc.  Although I did slam the door rather aggressively on the way out of the room.  I’m bipolar, hear me ROAR.

That is my gift to you today.  Own that for yourself.  RESPECT.  Challenge anyone who dismisses you in any way, shape or form.  Confront anyone who dares suggest that your role or your contribution to life or society is any less valuable than theirs.  Do not take any slight or insult lightly.

Whatever your own personal handicap is, I guarantee you that you have other gifts that more than make up for any shortcomings or challenges you might face.  Stand up for yourself.  Refuse to be stigmatized or marginalized.  Never, ever, under any circumstance, allow someone to disrespect you.  Never let their ignorance and small mindedness affect how you feel about yourself.  I honor you.  Please honor yourself.

A mental disorder is biological.  Ignorance is not.

To all of my good friends and followers who remain loyal, who take the good with the bad, who love unconditionally, I am thankful.  I am humbled by your humanity and forever grateful for your acceptance.  Please feel free to add your comments here.  The support of my family, friends and readers has meant the world to me, and has been another, not so small, saving grace.  Please know that I am here for you as well.

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Applause I’m a thousand different people, every single one is real

I’ve a million different feelings, OK but at least I feel!

And I feel rotten, yet covered with roses

Younger than springtime and older than Moses

But alive, but alive, but alive!

“BUT ALIVE” (From Applause)

Lyrics Lee Adams/Music Charles Strouse ©1970

I took a road trip the other day, a few hundred miles up to the mountains.  I needed a little quiet, a little break from the noise.  A cabin in Tahoe where there is no Internet and no TV to speak of.  No updates on Sarah Palin’s “genius” career move.  No magazine subscriptions arriving in the mail containing partially nude photos of Levi Johnston.  No Michael Jackson retrospectives, no quick, but unfortunate glimpses of Rush Limbaugh, Dick Cheney or Governor Sanford as I speed date through five hundred channels. 

AHHHH!!!  Two days later I am a new person.  Refreshed.  Focused.  Ready to take on the world.  Okay, so I’m a little manic, operating on only three or four hours of sleep a night.  But the truth is, that’s all I need sometimes.  Why do I continue to try and live under other people’s circadian rhythms?  

From now on I will embrace the dark, working well past midnight, or dive into the day, even though it’s only four AM.  

Perhaps I am enjoying the mood because of a spell I was put under during the drive, thanks to XM radio.  I was tuned into a Broadway musical station for a short while (God there have been some bad shows) when they played Lauren Bacall singing “But Alive,” from Applause.  Now I loved it because she can’t sing for shit, but here she is, on the Broadway stage, in a musical.  The star of the musical.  (note: this might seem contradictory to my comments about people not deserving fame, but the woman “earned” her celebrity as an actress years ago.)  Not long after that they played some song from “Hairspray” with Harvey Fierstein on vocals.  Now I love Harvey, but he can’t sing either.  In fact, compared to Harvey, Lauren has a great voice.  (note: Harvey also “earned” his celebrity long before he was staring in musicals.)  But I digress.

My point (does there really have to be a point?) is that I was energized by hearing “But Alive.”  Not only is it peppy and uplifting, it’s got a great message.  A message that I also found hysterical.  Me, driving alone in my car trying to balance out my moods and listening to Lauren Bacall singing (rasping) about multiple personalities.  

If it isn’t already, I officially nominate it for the Bipolar Anthem, to be played at all conferences, seminars, meetings, therapy sessions, or any damn time we feel like it.

So, here are the lyrics.  Just watch the first couple of minutes of the video.  After that it gets kind of weird and requires all kinds of disclaimers about portrayals of homosexuals (kind of “Boys in the Band” meets “All about Eve”).  ‘Nuff said. 

I feel groggy and weary and tragic

Punchy and bleary and fresh out of magic

But alive, but alive, but alive!

I feel twitchy and bitchy and manic

Calm and collected and choking with panic

But alive, but alive, but alive!

 

I’m a thousand different people, every single one is real

I’ve a million different feelings, OK but at least I feel!

And I feel rotten, yet covered with roses

Younger than springtime and older than Moses

But alive, but alive, but alive!

 

I feel wicked and wacky and mellow

Firm as Gibraltar and shaky as Jello

But alive, but alive, but alive!

I feel half Tijuana, half Boston

Partly Jane Fonda and partly Jane Austen

But alive, that’s the thing, but alive!

 

This kaleidoscope of feelings whirls around inside my brain

I admit I’m slightly cuckoo, but it’s dull to be too sane!

And I feel brilliant and brash and bombastic

Limp as a puppet and simply fantastic

Frisky as a lamb, lazy as a clam

Crazy but I am … alive!

 

This kaleidoscope of feelings whirls around inside my brain

I admit I’m slightly cuckoo, but it’s dull to be too sane!

And I feel brilliant! Bombastic! Super! Fantastic!

Alive! Alive! Alive! Alive!

“BUT ALIVE” (From Applause)

Lyrics Lee Adams/Music Charles Strouse ©1970

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Lush LifeHe had no particular talent or skill, or what was worse, he had a little talent, some skill: playing the lead in a basement-theater production of “The Dybbuk” sponsored by 88 Forsyth House two years ago, his third small role since college, having a short story published in a now-defunct Alphabet City literary rag last year, his fourth in a decade, neither accomplishment leading to anything; and this unsatisfied yearning for validation was starting to make it near impossible for him to sit through a movie or read a book or even case out a new restaurant, all pulled off increasingly by those his age or younger, without wanting to run face-first into a wall.” “Lush Life” by Richard Price.

Nothing can ruin your day quite like turning on the television and seeing Meredith Vieira interviewing a friend of yours. But there I was, standing in the kitchen, hair still matted from sleep, eyes still waiting for that first cup of coffee before being truly able to focus, and a fresh bowl of Kashi GOLEAN Crunch cereal swimming in two percent milk, when Romi, looking every bit like a celebrity, pauses for a brief moment before answering one of Meredith’s questions.

True Confession: This person is really more of an acquaintance than a friend, but that distinction is further lost on me as I watch her interact with Hoda & Kathie Lee a few days later.

After the segment ends, glutton for punishment that I am, I turn off the TV, turn on the Mac, and Google my friends’ name. The result: page after page, link after link of websites, blogs, newspapers and podcasts, all about said acquaintance and her recent book tour. As I perused the websites, read the blogs and scanned the book reviews, I have to admit that I was genuinely happy for her.

But I know how the mind works. Our subconscious isn’t sub for nothing. While I sensed no obvious feelings of jealousy, never having been a person motivated by fame or fortune, there was, there had to be some underlying feeling of…what?

Can a person observe someone else’s success without being reminded of their own failure?

As a person who struggles with bipolar disorder, I find the concept of success elusive. The “manic” me applies to grad school without giving it a second thought. The “depressed” me is the one who actually has to show up for class and hand in assignments. No matter what I do, it never seems like it’s enough. “Manic” me builds sand castles not far enough from the shore and “depressed” me is left with the impossible task of fending off high tide.

True Mom ConfessionsTrue Confession: While it’s true that I have no desire to be famous, I do have to admit that, even though its not a motivating factor, I wouldn’t mind being rich.

We live in a competitive world where everything is constantly being measured and judged: the top ten…the six most…the world’s best…the biggest…the fastest…the cheapest…and on and on. If we are not the best or the fittest or the smartest, what are we? And while we can celebrate another’s success, congratulate them on a job well done, and really truly be happy for them, isn’t there something, somewhere, in the deepest recesses of our minds that leaves behind a residue that reads, “I’m not worthy,” that makes it just that much more difficult to extend the effort?

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