Present Day, October 24, 2017

The other day someone called me Grumpy. Not like, “Are you feeling grumpy today?” Or “You’re acting kinda grumpy.” More like, “You ARE grumpy.” And the truth is, I agree.

I could make all kinds of excuses. I’m dieting. God knows that never helps. I exercise every day, and hate every minute of it. The weather has been pretty gloomy recently. Life’s schedule has been pretty hectic as of late. I suffer from a number of areas which seem to be chronic pain. And oh, by the way, I am bipolar and seemingly constantly battle depression.

However, truth be told, I think it is more ingrained in me than that. I think it goes back further than that. I have always been known as a very intense individual. Often accused of taking much of life and what it throws my way too seriously. Throughout my years the label pessimist has found its way to my side as people get to know me and spend time with me. My parents have this old black and white Polaroid picture of me that they would always refer back to. I’m less than a year old. Laying on my belly in the grass. ProppedĀ up on my elbows. And I have this look on my face that some major life challenge in need of a complex solution is rattling around in my little brain. Or if you look at it from another perspective, I look like a grumpy old man.

I FEEL grumpy, which I am sure doesn’t help. I have times of laughter, joy and being entertained with life…but they aren’t the majority. I daily think about and miss my adult children. I constantly fret over my weight but feel the addicting pull of food. I miss things like camping and attending pro sporting events. Yet I am simultaneously consumed with financial concern and worry. My negative thoughts far outweigh my positive and I’m left feeling grumpy. Or not feeling…just…am. I AM grumpy.

After my psychiatric hospitalization last year I noticed a sensation inside of me. I felt like a shell of who I once was. Other events in my life have robbed me of some of that essence, but this experience left a noticeable sense of emptiness. A feeling of never again being able to quite be who I once had been. Maybe this is part of the process of becoming grumpy. Of evolving into this grumpy old man that I find myself seeing in the mirror.

Hopefully, life changes will help. A new job with reasonable hours and quality benefits. Losing weight. Camping. Staying connected with the kids through modern technology. Maybe this grumpy man doesn’t have to become a grumpy OLD man.

But for now, that person was right. I AM grumpy.

Present Day, July 12th, 2017

Quality of life.

An improved quality of life.

Sitting in my therapist office, reflecting on his traditional opening question (“So, what are we going to talk about today?”), I found myself giving that answer. Because that is what I had reflected on recently. That is what my mind had been on during the drive over. That was what I had come to believe needed to be a significant goal for me going forward.

As the one year anniversary of my hospitalization (and subsequent release) approaches, I have been faced with the reality of having survived the breakdown. Since the first week of September last year, I have avoided any episodes along the lines or magnitude of that horrific week. It has not been easy. At times, harder than hell. But I have managed. I have given intense focus to the big three (Sleep, Therapy, Medications), and have tried to consider most other things the minors to those majors. I have attempted to reward myself more, punish myself less, recognize small accomplishments, and let other takers be my worst enemy rather than fulfilling that role myself. But that all has left me with the question, “Now what?”

That is what has been stuck in my craw (because in Kentucky, we use phrases like that). Now what? Or, put another way. Possibly a more negative way. The question might go like this: “Is this really as good as it gets?” Is this the way I need to anticipate living the rest of my life? Is this the best I can do? This combination of drugs providing this baseline of emotions just this side of depression. This cycle of sleep merging nights and naps and zombie like periods of awake. This week after week battle to get out of bed and knock another seven days off the calendar.Having survived the big scare, it seems logical that my attention might shift to the year after. And dare I venture to let my mind explore the possibility not merely of having survived, but now attempting to find a way to thrive.

Having survived the big scare, it seems logical that my attention might shift to the year after. And dare I venture to let my mind explore the possibility not merely of having survived, but now attempting to find a way to thrive.

I have set some goals as to what this might look like. First, I have more than five months left in the insurance year with my out-of-pocket limit reached. Therefore, I will be meeting with my medications coordinator next Tuesday and asking her if we might experiment a bit. Venture away from the only cocktail I have utilized since leaving the hospital in an effort to find something that leaves me a little less comatose. A little less down. A little less fat!

Second, the employment situation simply does not seem sustainable for the long haul of my life. The doctors in Chicago didn’t think it was. The team at home seems to question whether it is. My own physical and mental stability seems to doubt it. Granted, for us bipolar, few employment situations seem sustainable for the long haul, but I do think there are three standards I can improve on: a) a later wake-up time than 3 a.m., b) weekends off, and c) the ability to accrue some paid time off (i.e. vacation). Seems reasonable, right? In four more weeks, I will have two children living out-of-state, and I need the opportunity to visit them. This job simply does not afford that. Financially, or time wise.

Finally, and this one is so hard, I have to lose some weight. I’m up 20 lbs since leaving the hospital…as the staff there suggested it would be easy to be. I’m up 30 lbs since losing almost 50 roughly three years ago. It takes a toll on me physically, emotionally, and motivationally. So as much as I disdain working out and dieting…I have to lose weight if I want to improve my quality of life.

For much of this, I have less idea of how to make it happen than I do the need for it to happen. But this is the next year before me. A year of quality of life. A year of improved quality of life. As long as I’m going to stick around, seems like I might as well enjoy doing so.