Structure

I’ve long imagined the joys of retirement; I’ve dreamt of sleeping late, lingering at coffee shops, and being outdoors when the sun shines. Reality proves, however, that I am not to be trusted with large amounts of unscheduled time. Research on bipolar disorder reveals that I am not alone. We’re known to fritter away valuable time lounging in bed, watching television, entranced by social media, or even staring into space.

Since returning to my home state two years ago, I have been rebuilding my life. I arrived with no job, no home of my own, little to no social network and before long, a spanking new diagnosis of bipolar disorder. Fortunately, I have a college education, parents who allowed me to live in their home, family in town, and health insurance – all of which cushioned my fall. Within days of leaving the hospital, I found a NAMI support group and instantly became a regular.

For most of the first year and a half, my time commitments were limited to endless job searching, medical and therapy appointments, occasional visits with a compassionate and patient friend from college, and periodically cheering on my nephew in his sporting events. Since I was restless and bored, I walked a lot; but without my usual passion, my pace was quite slow. Through it all, I've had NAMI.

At last, all that job searching paid off – first a four-month contract and now, thankfully, a rewarding temporary position that just this month turned permanent. The job is not just a paycheck; it’s 40 hours per week that I know where I’ll be, when I’ll be there, and what is expected of me. It’s not a social life, but there’s enough social interaction that I schedule lunchtime alone. A job also keeps me to a regular sleep schedule. My personality has returned.

Filling personal time to my satisfaction remains a work in progress. It took me two months to realize that a regular commute by bicycle is not going to happen. Living alone challenges me in cooking, cleaning, and managing paperwork. I now volunteer my time with NAMI but nothing else. Sometimes I overreact with regret and harsh self-talk. Eventually, I remember I am learning and mistakes are just part of the process. This makes room to shift my thinking. I’ve started evening and weekend walks, take some chores “on the road” (to a coffee shop, for instance), and search patiently for another volunteer gig that’s just the right fit.

I envy those who excel at time management and master ambiguity. As for me, I need structure and consistency – within reason. For instance, I’ve decided to commit to blog posts as time allows. Helpfully, that occupies slow times but without the pressure of deadlines. So I plod along at roughly one post per month.

Likewise, my workplace allows flexible scheduling. Most co-workers opt for 9-80, which means fitting 80 hours into 9 workdays followed by every-other-Friday off. Instead I choose to arrive late on Mondays, enjoy quiet and abbreviated Fridays, and fill in the difference mid-week.

To compare myself with others is dangerous territory. When I read this post, I feel embarrassed that someone of my age knows so little. Through hearing other stories and validation from both my therapist and a friend whose opinion I value highly, I feel pleased that I’ve come far in two years and keep making progress.

My Manic Story

Friendship was my anticipated topic for this post. However, two things changed that. My recent “Family of the ‘Patient’” post already includes a discussion of “chosen family” and other friends. I also have a blog follower who is kind enough to respond with comments; as I began to reply to one of her comments, I realized I had enough material for a stand-alone post. So Isyss, this one’s for you!

I’ve actually had two hospital stays for one manic episode. The first occurred literally as I was moving from my previous home city to the current one. Apparently when I’m manic, I like a good story – where I’m the author, director, and star performer. Once at the airport and due to a series of events that seemed connected to me, I attempted to get the attention of my two step-daughters (who weren’t there). As might occur in a film or play, I saw myself as a good parent seeking a last-ditch effort to salvage troubled relationships. I shouted with all my might to let them know at which gate to find me. I also insisted that the airline representative contact one daughter by phone. The result was that the airline refused my boarding the plane and instead called airport security. As it happens, the driver was someone I knew from living in a former town. This only fed my being convinced that a story was being played out, that he was driving me to see the girls. As it turns out, the destination was a hospital room. I was still under the delusion that I would meet up with the step-kids if only I proved worthy or convinced them that I was serious. Their mother D and I drank a lot of tea; my joke was that peppermint tea solves every health problem except leukemia (from which she died). So I thought if I insisted on “lots and lots” of tea, they would know that was their code to find me. At the hospital, I noticed another resident, asleep and facing the wall. To me she looked like the oldest step-daughter, so I tried to sneak into the room to take a look. Of course, that didn’t sit well with the hospital staff, who directed me back to my assigned room. Upon leaving the hospital, I hadn’t yet given up hope that the girls would meet me at the other end – until I wound up at the psychiatric unit under a 72-hour hold. Reality hit, and I worked to get out of there as fast as possible, which meant convincing the staff I was no longer a threat to myself or others.

At the end of my stay, I was in communication with my parents and ready to head home. They were told by their local mental-health staff that I would receive better care where I was at, so they tried convincing me to stay. (Later I discovered just how much more difficult it is here to find a psychiatrist willing to take on a new patient, even with ample health insurance.) I thought surely they were wrong and frankly, I was hurt that they were dragging their feet. The psychiatric unit confirmed my previous diagnoses of generalized anxiety disorder and ADD, adding one akin to “temporary severe emotional strain due to grief.” They relayed to my parents that the unit was for short-term stays only, and I boarded a plane home.

With an incomplete diagnosis, another episode was eventual. About five weeks later, I found myself amidst another story line. This time I deluded that I was meant to improve upon weak areas in my parents’ marriage by way of more “magical thinking.” When I verbally shouted and phone texted in nonsensical ways, my dad became stern and his face turned bright red; I added his blood pressure to my list of concerns. I was surprised when two police officers arrived at the door. (Remember Isyss, my family and I are white; the police, for the most part, are perceived as helpers.) After a brief discussion, I was standing near the officers. I paused first and then went for it; I tried to slap one of the officers in the face. (My dad later says that was a completely lame attempt.) Again reality struck; in a blink I was taken down. Fortunately, I was not charged with disorderly conduct or any other criminal offense; instead I was taken by ambulance to the hospital. As a supporter of civil rights, it amused me that I had gotten away with trying to slap a cop but, thanks to bruised ribs that took weeks to heal, a life experience I find unnecessary to repeat.

My blog friend Isyss asks why my hospital stay was as long as three weeks. I have only my own story, so I didn’t realize that was atypical. Certainly at the time, it felt like forever! Anyway, first I was brought to a part of the hospital to be checked medically. Two memories stand out. I wondered whether the blinking light on the ceiling was staff observing me or worse, causing me some harm. On one occasion, I tried to kiss another patient gently and lovingly on the cheek; I was met with a sharp slap to the face, an irony not lost on me.

In a matter of hours, I was moved to the high-security unit of the mental-health wing. I lived a week or so with minimal privileges – I had to ask, for instance, for crackers and peanut butter or any reading material. I was allowed brief phone calls at allotted times and no one came to visit. Since I was bored silly and high-strung (anxious and manic?), I spent a lot of time pacing in the limited confines. There were regular visits with my assigned psychiatrist.

Eventually, I was moved to the more general mental-health wing. At first, I was pleased with the improvement in conditions. There was a food room, where at any time I could access goodies like tea and oatmeal. Rarely used by others, the exercise bike near the television became my favorite hangout. There were scheduled events such as gym or craft time and, upon approval of the psychiatrist and my personal favorite, escorted walks outdoors. I attended all of it, if for no reason than to pass the time. Hours and accessibility to the phone improved. I was allowed visitors and eventually, absences from the hospital with allotted times and escorted by approved friends or family. I was fortunate that a friend from college was generous as my visitor and approved escort. I soon became bored with the routine. In regular visits with my psychiatrist, I attempted to figure out the best way to convince her it was time for me to go. Finally in her absence, I met with her peer, who approved my release. My parents came to the hospital to pick me up, with the understanding they would meet with my psychiatrist; she kept them waiting literally for hours and I received a verbal diagnosis of bipolar disorder. However, nothing came in writing and I was offered no follow-up care except to meet with my regular medical doctor.

Two years have passed with no more episodes. Apparently, it’s unusual for someone with bipolar disorder to receive no diagnosis until age 46. As long as I can remember, (generalized) anxiety has been a part of my life. But given the dramatic nature of my manic episode, I honestly can say I never had one before or since.

Family of the "Patient"

Recently my family celebrated two birthdays; my niece now is 3, and my nephew is 23. So family is on my mind as I write this particular post.

My family was aware of the great changes I experienced – from widowhood in 2009 to a change in cities and jobs in 2010. But the geographical separation limited their intimate knowledge of my experience. Until 2013, when I relocated again – this time to my childhood home. Diagnosed with bipolar disorder weeks after my arrival, my family has witnessed my adjustment in the intervening two years. The drama of my manic episode was played out in my parents’ living room; their phone call to the police department led to my 3-week stay in a local hospital. Despite my being middle aged, I lived in my parents’ home for the first year. They had front-row seats as I adjusted and re-adjusted to medications and insomnia, while also struggling with the fears of unemployment and job searching.

My parents and siblings attempted to be supportive without enabling. They tried to impress upon me that my situation was merely temporary, a belief I had trouble sharing. I am told that after my phone calls to one sister where I expressed my fears, she called our other sister to express her frustrations with my poor attitude.

My mental-health status is far from a family secret. Extended-family were privy to my adaptation. While describing my attempted altercation with the police, a favorite second-cousin reminded me that another relative had been killed by police after a domestic-violence call. During one rough patch when I found myself unable to drive home safely, I ended up at the home of an aunt for about a week; another aunt transported me for an appointment during that stay.

My NAMI Connections support group has become a “chosen family.” With very few exceptions, I have attended my favorite NAMI support group weekly since my diagnosis. They have seen me through fear, mania, depression, and hope. They have offered boundless assistance – from offering the name of a psychiatrist who is taking on new patients to suggesting recruiters who hire accountants. Best of all, they can relate to the experience, which isn’t always rational.

As I improve, I imagine my families look on with guarded optimism. Since acquiring temporary but regular work several months ago, I’m feeling more like myself. My sense of humor has returned. And I’m able to look and act beyond myself; I’m now a partner within my families.

Making Peace

While filing documents at my job one afternoon, I started chatting with my deceased partner D. A few years ago – when we conversed regularly – that hardly would have been noteworthy. (I joke that now I win all the arguments.) However, it’s been some time since I felt or heard from her. Only when her presence returned was I reminded how long had been her absence. Not surprisingly, I enjoyed the exchange and a sense of peace.

The thought came to me that I had been too lost in my own fear to recognize her presence. I had returned to my home state without D after 20 years away, was almost immediately hospitalized and diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and spent nearly two years seeking a job and trying to make a life in a new location (albeit my childhood home). You know – fear.

The good news? Nowhere to go but up.

Mental health is a lifetime project that requires self-advocacy. Two years ago, I left a stay at the psychiatric unit of a local hospital with a diagnosis of bipolar disorder. I was released without any professional bothering to put my diagnosis in writing. Despite the insistence of my parents and me and aside from a few prescriptions, no referrals or resources were offered. Although this state prides itself on quality of life, the need for psychiatrists is greater than the availability. (Ironically, in the scarce population of my previous town, I had an easier time getting an appointment with a psychiatrist for a diagnosis of ADD – attention deficit disorder – than I had getting a psychiatrist in this metropolitan area for a diagnosis of bipolar disorder.) It took several weeks to find a psychiatrist who was willing to take on a new patient; and I found him after a referral from another person with mental illness. Fortunately, the therapist from my last locale referred me to the therapist I’m seeing now.

Since then, I’m on my second psychiatrist, a nurse practitioner whose level of care far exceeds the first. In the language of the mental health world, I am “stable on my meds;” after experimenting with different psychotropic medications from a list known to help patients with bipolar disorder, anxiety, and maybe ADD, the combination I have been taking for months are proving effective without undesirable side effects. In the first year, I attended two groups meant to support and advise people with mental illness, the second of which relied upon DBT (dialectical behavior theory), which basically means that if a certain behavior causes pain, then do the opposite. For example, while depression can make it hard to get out of bed, it’s also true that staying in bed longer than needed for a healthful sleep can deepen depression; so get out of bed although it’s emotionally difficult at that moment because it’s emotionally rewarding in the long run. Weekly appointments with my therapist where I cry, self–blame, and report that “I want to give up but don’t know what that means” have evolved into less frequent appointments where I share successes, joys, and meeting goals. (For instance, starting two days ago, I’m commuting to work by train and home by bicycle. Obviously, today I’m back to composing on this blog after a long absence.)

Struggling with a new mental-illness diagnosis complicates an already long and painful search. One critical resource that my therapist recommended was a local Workforce Development Center, where I was assigned to individuals who specialize in working with people who have learning, physical, or mental disabilities. They taught me that a cover letter is just that – a letter – and advised me how to match my resume to the job description. I also worked with recruiters who are unaware of my mental-health status. In two years, I’ve had a handful of gigs lasting from a few days up to two weeks; I was “let go” twice. At times I cancelled interviews or took breaks from job hunting while too “out of sorts” to follow through reasonably. For ten weeks or so, I clerked at a corporate grocery store where a customer noted from my vocabulary that I must be overqualified. Fortunately, that job was followed by five months in a professional position where, from week two I was promised to be hired permanently; unfortunately, the employer failed to follow through on that agreement.

Gladly, my career has improved. The job I’m now in is contract-to-hire. In other words, if I do well, I get to stay! As I expressed to my therapist at our last appointment, the work culture suits me – introvert accountants, engineers, and computer specialists; extrovert project managers and sales reps. The job keeps me engaged, the Director of Human Resources has treated me “like a person” from the beginning, and with the exception of one negative but manageable Nelly my immediate co-workers are patient, kind, and no-nonsense. After her return from a long weekend, my supervisor asked how I had made out with the deadline from the week previous. Quite literally, she said she was impressed – that is, I had exceeded her expectation. Although not revealed by her, I had been my supervisor’s second choice to hold the position; no one would know it from her professional way of managing me. After five weeks, the job is going well.

As expected, making friends takes time. From law school, I retained one friend who no longer practices either; as an introvert, she is great company but not much help in meeting new people. I frequently visit my parents and nephew, who live six miles from me. One sister and I speak regularly by phone; on occasion, her husband or I make the three-hour drive. Every now and again, I visit a second cousin and his hobby farm. Also infrequently, I enjoy dinner or a group gathering with one college friend. Thankfully a very busy friend from a past home is able and willing to stop in for occasional layovers; two weeks from now, for the third time she’s coming for the weekend. Until recently, one good friend from yet another residence was an invaluable character in my life, including serving as my caregiver while I cared for D during her 20 months with leukemia. Another friend “had my back” during and after the hospital stay, but I see him seldom now. I participate in MeetUp groups (organized and RSVPd online; attended in person), which typically are enjoyable but so far, no friendships have developed. Throw in a few more relatives, their acquaintances, and Facebook – and there’s my social life. In no way do I want to understate my love and gratefulness for all in my life. It’s also true that this social creature needs more to sustain me.

Friends and friendliness can come from unexpected places. Within the week from departing the hospital, I found myself at a local NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) support group. Although there were locations nearer to my parents’ house where I was living at the time, for some reason I chose a meeting that took two hours via three bus rides one way; I was motivated! That choice proved to be divine intervention; it’s the first NAMI peer support group I tried and by far the best one in meeting my needs. This group has become my anchor of sorts. Week after week, they have seen me through two psychiatrists, a number of changes in medications, fears that a professional job was never destined to come my way, the difficulties in mid-age of living with parents followed by being asked to leave, regret and pain over difficult relationships with step-daughters with whom I no longer communicate, the loneliness of an insufficiently fulfilling life, and even the inability to sit still for an hour and a half. Our discussions cover topics both related and unrelated to mental illness – from the frustration of being treated like a patient by family and friends to the sadness of a friend’s wife placing her husband in a long-term facility. In addition to the peer who advised me about an available psychiatrist, an accountant in the group offered advice and referrals in accessing work and upgrading skills in my field. One peer and I routinely spend winter Saturday mornings walking around a local lake. Another peer – a gay man who came out of the closet at an older age – started asking my advice as he rejoins the dating world. Although our NAMI group is not among the two in the area specifically designated to support LGBTQ adults with mental illness, the concentration of queer peers in our group far exceeds the 10% estimation of the general society. (When I asked why that might be, my therapist responded that stress tends to push the predisposition of a mental illness to its manifestation and diagnosis.) After a weekend of training, for the first time I officially co-facilitated the peer group along with a woman new to our group who thankfully suits our unorthodox style. She also happens to be a poor black lesbian with multiple mental illnesses who writes poetry, is direct, and has a sense of humor; something tells me she has a lot to teach.

And now D is back. Not in body but in the ways that count.

Peace is a creation – a gift to and for others and ourselves. Quite literally, peace brings love. I imagine the same applies to living beings.

Bipolar Disorder and Unemployment

After some encouragement (thank you, friends!), I am back to writing. Hell it beats word puzzles, yucky paperwork, or freaking out about ... whatever.

I'm still unemployed and living in my parent's basement. (My mom dislikes that description because she thinks it sounds like she's relegated me to the cold, dank cellar.) So after nearly 9 months, I'm still unemployed with my bedroom in the my parent's heated and furnished lower level. The housing situation is explained by my being without a job. The unemployment - well, it's not from a lack of trying. Although I must say that the first 6-7 months involved getting a diagnosis of bipolar disorder, freaking out about my future, and then recovering from both these things.

Job hunting sucks under any circumstances. Add an unavailable spouse (due to her death), a dizzying relocation, and a lousy economy; thinks get wiggy. The diagnosis of bipolar disorder doesn't help, but it does mean I qualify for services at Vocational Rehabilitation due to a disability. (Great people, by the way, so keep this in mind should you or a loved one require their services.) The downside is that bipolar disorder is an "invisible disability" - typically best not shared with a potential employer. So a hiring preference or a reasonable accommodation is unlikely.

This week no fewer than three professionals told me I'm "doing the right things." I'm eating, sleeping, and exercising. I've got my resume and cover letters down to a science. I'm meeting people. I've been told to "network" (although in my experience, when strangers hear I'm out of work they respond with the equivalent of "good luck"). And I"m upgrading my skills in an attempt to make myself more "marketable." But still no job. This week in particular, I've felt discouraged.

Yes, I've enjoyed a few upsides. I sleep past 7:00 nearly every morning. I drink tea and search job listings in my pajamas or in an overstuffed chair at a local coffee shop. I decide the length and timing of my commute. I work at a pace that suits me. If, like today, my dad could use help shoveling snow or my mom could use help getting a box of books to the used bookstore, I am available at a moment's notice. Until recently I lived out of state for 20 years, so it's only fair that I lift a shovel or carry a box of books once in a while.

But it's amazing the hole in one's life without the presence of a job (retirees and stay-at-home parents excepted). Paid employment supplies not only a paycheck and an identity but also structure, purpose, a means of meeting and interacting with people, an opportunity to learn new skills, and of course all the things, services, or events that the paycheck can buy. Paid employment also supports the ego and offers a terrific distraction from other responsibilities. Best of all, paid employment greatly lessens the need to job hunt! Or am I crazy?

Walking in the rain helps ...

Tuesday evening I had an enjoyable discussion with a great friend. But the next morning, I awoke comparing our lives. Of course, by comparing her strengths and successes with my weaknesses and disappointments, I came up short.

After whining to myself a bit more about what I couldn’t do¹, I decided to take a walk in the rain. It was warm rain, after all. Not long outdoors before the tone of my internal monologue changed; I began to focus on the positives more than the negatives.²  I took a photo and, as I watched a gaggle of geese cross the path before me, found myself thinking how fortunate I am to be in nature rather than impeded by a silly old job.

As it happens, Wednesday is the evening of the bi-weekly NAMI meeting in my town. Next I watched a 6 minute Ted TV video in which Joshua Walters describes the benefits of “just enough” bipolar disorder.³ Saturday, I biked and bussed my way to yet another NAMI meeting. Sunday I found myself at a local coffee shop, where I struck up conversation with two men with motorcycles, at least one of whom is a veteran of the Vietnam Conflict.

When in a fog of self pity, I find it helpful to walk in the rain, whether that’s literal or a figurative walk with fellow human beings.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

¹ The medicine is making it very difficult to focus on reading or driving; It’s raining out, so commuting by bicycle is a drag; Without a job, I can’t get what I need or want out of life; and Blah, blah, blah.

²  I’m  walking in warm rain; it’s not cold rain, snow, or desert. Some people have to deal with the hassle of a wheelchair, and here I am with the easy fortune a leisurely stroll. Some women can’t talk a safe walk alone or even alongside a male person. And etc.

³ http://www.ted.com/talks/joshua_walters_on_being_just_crazy_enough.html

Bipolar Disorder: Variation on a theme and then some

Disorders

• ·      The most recent diagnosis – Bipolar Disorder – coupled with two psychiatric hospital stays (the first to get me stable enough to re-board the plane as I was relocating to my original home state; the second for identification of a diagnosis and to begin treatment) and preceded by three progressively bold delusional (manic) episodes, caught my attention.
• ·       A year ago, informed that ADD (Adult Attention Disorder without the hyperactive) applied to me, I set out to find out what that may mean for me without allowing a diagnosis to limit my dreams. I also grieved the loss of decades challenged by unidentified ADD.
• ·       For a decade or more, I have been treated for hypothyroidism. My strained thyroid was noticed when I gained 40 pounds in 4-6 weeks (normally I’m lean and my weight fluctuates by only 3-5 pounds) after my thyroid “burnt out” (an assumption shared by my M.D. at the time).
• ·       For several years I’ve also been treated medically for anxiety. Growing in seriousness to match an increase in adult responsibilities, anxiety has been with me for as long as I can remember. At the beginning, it accompanied significant events, happy and sad alike, but soon was associated with frightful events only. I’ve long associated anxiety with scary events, but I’m left to wonder how many potentially happy events from which I’ve self diverted and how I might remedy those situations.

Medications

• ·        I am loathe to take medications; natural remedies strike me as the logical choice. As mentioned, Bipolar Disorder caught my attention, so without hesitation I now take one medication to reduce mania, one to balance my mood, and a third that helps with anxiety, nausea, sleep, and pain. If Bipolar Disporder wasn’t identified and treated soon, alcohol abuse was looming as a conscious option of last resort, although I am a light drinker (my dad teases me for tossing a beer that I’ve nursed all day). For several months, I took an ADD medication that now is ceased. For a decade or so, I’ve taken thyroid hormone to keep me at a natural level. And I’ve taken various forms of anti-anxiety medications for several years; prior to that time, Vitamin B-12 (and later, B Complex) was identified accurately as a help. Dairy products are my lifelong means of self-medication (a glass of whole milk sits next to me as I write); the body knows, so recently I’ve added a healthy dose of Vitamin D to my daily supplements.

Bipolar Disorder: Two Differences

• ·         One difference, this time I find myself challenged with reading and writing; my concentration is challenged in a way I’ve never before experienced. I must say, I’m frightened as I search for reliable explanation(s). An old standby, voracious research, doesn’t seem an option for now. As mentioned, my ability to concentrate on written materials is hampered. Although I can organize my thoughts, albeit a bit more slowly than formerly, I am challenged in organizing the words that appear on the page.
• ·         A second difference I call “part of the humor of bipolar disorder.” This time one of the medications seems to slow down the pace at which I can talk, think, and act. In the past, mindfulness and other approaches recommended one task at a time. Something tells me to take seriously this message.

Fear of Conflict

I have a terrible fear of conflict.

Yeah, if only it were spiders. Those I could avoid and yet live my life. But by attempting to avoid conflict, I have sacrificed way too much of myself.

As a child, mainly I met expectations. I was a good daughter, sister, and student. Pleasing people offered rewards of good grades, a good reputation, and plenty of harmony. I had poor abilities in relating with peers, so I avoided them, tolerated unkindness, and did my best to perceive myself as superior.

As a young adult, I attended law school, thinking assertiveness would be in the curriculum. Instead during a course in trial practice, I found myself in the hospital with intravenous sugar water after suffering without food, sleep, or managing my life.

Next I found myself in a relationship with a generous, loving partner. We both offered more than we thought capable. We shared our strengths to ease the burden for the other. However, when dissatisfied, I capitulated, criticized, or attempted to change her mind or behavior. I ended up angry, resentful, and living a life that didn't suit me.

Sadly, it took her death for me make some changes. And the learning curve is quite big. Sometimes I'm proud of myself as I take baby steps to move forward. Sometimes I've overwhelmed by what is before me.

Clever idea!

My smart phone now has an alarm that talks to me. It's meant to tell me the time and temperature, but I can replace the text with anything I like. I've converted this alarm to make it ADD-friendly!

First thing in the morning, it tells me that I want to get out of bed to work on my priorities and make the world a better place. Thirty-five (35) minutes before I leave for work, my favorite alarm reminds me that I've been working on my priorities one day at a time, so breathe and keep moving forward. On weekends, the morning alarm tells me it's time to get up and enjoy my weekend. At work, I choose not to disturb or amuse co-workers with these verbal alarms, so I set them to pop up visually. After work, I have more alarms that remind me to return to priorities, get ready for the next day, and "Turn off the computer and go to bed. A well-rested Frances is a happy and productive Frances."

Friends, of course, laugh and ask, "What is that?" when the alarms go off during dinner or discussions. Yet I find these alarms useful and kindly motivating. The grief group finds them absolutely wonderful, too. As it turns out, ADD isn't the only thing that challenges the memory!

Community

Since we met two years ago, I have enjoyed the company of J, who is smart and fun. For ten months, J and I have shared living quarters. For the last 2-1/2 weeks, she has been out of town. Even on vacation, she is ridiculously productive. If there is something called anti-ADD, she has it.

For the first several days of J's absence, I felt free to pursue my own interests without with or around her concerns. As time passed, I missed her presence. I also noticed that my productivity level at home plummeted. Although my intentions were good and the tasks were things I could do on my own, I found myself unable to concentrate. Craving company, I turned to social media, leaving most of my tasks yet undone.

Exasperated, I called friend B who lives nearby. I asked if she could just sit with me while I went through paperwork. She agreed, adding that she would even be willing to file! With B's help, I put the most urgent and emotionally laden papers into order. She offered that she would return in the New Year, bringing colored files to replace the manila ones I have been using. She stayed a bit longer to chat while I managed other tasks on my own. She asked if I needed her help with the dishes. I laughed and said no, I'd be okay with those.

As it happens, B is part of a small group of us who continue to meet weekly for coffee before work (months after I started the group as a way to distract myself from the feeling of dread for too many difficult tasks in the day). Along with other friends, I was invited to the home of B and her spouse for Thanksgiving dinner. I had a wonderful time eating, laughing, and enjoying their company. When I mentioned to B that I needed more "community" in my life, she said, "They're called friends."

Thanksgiving is my favorite of holidays. A day set aside specifically for gratitude, along with food, family, and friends is meaningful and wonderful. By telephone I spoke with family and friends who live in other towns and states to wish them a happy day of thanks and to express my gratitude for them in my life.

Friday again brought meager attempts at "getting stuff done." Yay, J arrived home Friday night! I talked with her about this post, which by then, was partially written. She reflected on past feelings of self judgment for her dislike of being alone. And I stated the obvious. Human beings are social creatures; we need one another.

Saturday afternoon, while J worked, I met with B and a few others for coffee and a discussion around having closer, more connected relationships with neighbors and friends. Ironic because we drove an hour to get there! Great discussion and some baby steps made.

It's late Sunday morning, and I still have plenty of tasks before me. But J is here, B and I were on the phone briefly this morning, and one of the members from Saturday's discussion is joining me for more discussion and a walk of my dog this coming week.

As I sit here, watching with guilt as J cleans the kitchen from top to bottom, I'm left with a few thoughts. Like most things in life, community is fluid. Sometimes we feel that we have too much and sometimes too little. At some point, being alone becomes overwhelming because I become aware of all that needs to be done without the ability to manage it all. I have many gifts which become only more meaningful when I notice, honor, and appreciate them. Frustrations and disappointments are temporary conditions that I can observe, experience, or change.

Frances and Frannie

It can be amazing to look at my life in hindsight.

For as long as I can remember, anxiety has been in my life. Aware that anxiety is an uncommon response to stress, I assumed that anxiety "happened" to me under certain circumstances. In response, I developed coping mechanisms that "protected" me from facing certain fears. Not surprisingly, the fears and anxiety increased over time. Clearly, something needed changing.

When my partner D was diagnosed in January 2008 with Acute Leukemia (fast-growing blood cancer), one of my first thoughts was, "It's not about me this time." Cancer clearly is more serious than any trouble I faced or feared facing, and I rose to the occasion. During her 20 months of treatment, anxiety came about for me on only two occasions.

As D's family caregiver, I could not be in her presence if I developed something as simple as the common cold; her diminished immune system couldn't manage it. When my nose began to drip or my throat began to itch, I suffered great fear that I had been a carrier of a cold. I head to the nearest medical provider, who relieved my guilt by assuring me that I had an allergy, which is not contagious.

Since D's medical care was enormously expensive, the insurance company was persistently cruel in their attempts to avoid payment. This meant a legal conflict with vast amounts of documentation and the hope that we would prevail. My anxiety level skyrocketed. Despite knowingly facing the end of her life, D led the charge to secure the financial future of her heirs, of which I am one.

When I began to face some challenges that I had been avoiding for the two years since D's death, anxiety re-appeared, undermining the courage and wisdom that I had gained as her caregiver and then as her widow. For nine months, I met with my therapist, spoke with loving family and friends, read from Pema Chodron and other helpful books, and faced the challenge one day at a time. Despite my pride and satisfaction in facing fears and making progress toward practical goals, the anxiety did not lift and I found myself in a downward spiral. Which led me to hypnosis, as described in my post three weeks ago on October 21, 2012.

Since then, I have become more trustful of the world and myself. To increase my self confidence (not to be confused with arrogance), I remind myself that I must care for myself. Hence I must rely upon both Frances and Frannie within me. Frances is "the strong one;" Frannie is more "sensitive."

For many years, Frances and Frannie offered their strengths and vulnerabilities to loved ones, but they neglected one another. Now I am aware that I am at my best when Frances and Frannie cooperate. Frances requires peace - calm, trust, and appreciation. Frannie requires nurturing - time, attention, adventure, food, exercise, meditation, and sleep. Now Frances encourages and attends to Frannie who, when heard and valued, then supports Frances. Together they create structure, patience, resolve, passion, persistence, and joy.

Frances and Frannie - two names for different parts of me. Together they are me!

Hypnosis!

If you've read my recent posts - or for those "fortunate" enough to be around me lately - I have been a mess! My anxiety level was through the roof. I was in a "loop;" I was overwhelmed and "stuck." Luckily, I recently started a small coffee group before work once per week - as a way to coax myself out of bed without resentment. One member, a few years into retirement from a more conventional job, has been certified in hypnosis. Nothing else was working and, luckily, I'm open to trying things outside of western medicine. So I scheduled an appointment for last weekend. And a second appointment for this weekend.

Now when I feel my stress level rising, instead of worrying, complaining or crying, I simply rub two fingers on my left hand together and get on with my day. And when I feel myself judging myself or others or beginning a string of useless worry, I simply watch a virtual penny bounce into a virtual wishing well and get on with my day. Yesterday, while walking the dog, I caught myself beginning to worry, "Uh oh, what will happen if I don't worry." Oh, for goodness sake! Another penny into the well as I laughed at how ridiculous my thoughts can be and how ridiculous that I had been believing the worst of them.

Important realizations I've made in the last week are that I must trust the world to hold me up and I must trust myself to do the same if I'm going to be a healthy, happy person who makes a contribution in this world. Each of us is so much more than we can possibly imagine.

Dopamine Privilege

If you've studied the social sciences, you probably became familiar with the concepts of male privilege and white privilege. In brief, the majority culture has no reason to understand or value the minority, so they don't. Ever talk to someone in Asia, Africa, South America, or even Canada? They know US history, culture, politics, and geography - often times better than we. But quick, without checking the Internet, what is the capital of Zambia? Can you find it on a map?

So it is with those of you who happened to be born with an abundance of dopamine. It makes you productive and focused, things you apparently value. Which is great. Those are wonderful values! But so are mine!! I value compassion, cooperation, patience, and intimacy. And my ADD brain just happens to provide me with those traits.

An abundance of dopamine puts you in the majority. That doesn't make you right; it makes you popular ... common. It also means that society values you and rewards you. Me, I get a "diagnosis," a label, drugs, judgments, lists for how to "improve," and a small paycheck.

If you're in the majority, don't make assumptions about me. If you must, when I make a mess in your world, offer to help me clean it up. Better yet, join me in my world on occasion. You might learn something.

Away but not gone.

I have been away ... from posting. No vacation. The easy joke is that someone with ADD is empassioned easily and then, just as easily, is distracted from a commitment just made. Which, in my case, can be true. But this blog is no whim for me. I enjoy communication - reading, writing, talking, delivering speeches, dreaming, meditating, and laughing - as a means to process thoughts and feelings. Words are my art.
The break came about for two reasons. First I have been considering what direction to take this blog. Since adult ADD is not the only challenge in my life, I was wondering whether I wanted to  broaden the scope of my story. But adult ADD impacts my vision, which is why I write this blog. So I choose to deliver my story through an adult ADD lens.
Second, people I care for have died, the most recently just weeks ago. Despite living in a culture that prefers to deny death and loss, I engross myself in processing my feelings and, hopefully, healing from loss. As most experts suggest, journaling is a wonderful means for working through thoughts and feelings. I'm also aware that private journals and public blogs serve different purposes. So I took time from the blog until I could write with some clarity.
My life partner "Diane" died from Acute Leukemia at age 50. This week, the third anniversary of her death, I reflect on our 16-year relationship. Among other challenges, we both faced the anxiety and then not-yet-identified ADD that I brought with me. Although we did the best we could, I find I carry residual anger and resentments at the places where we tried but failed. And the places where we gave up.
Four months after Diane's death, our son in-law "Greg" died by suicide in his early 30s. I had shared in the joy of his marriage to Diane's older daughter "Anna" and the birth of their amazing son. Anna moved into the house that Diane and I shared in a small, isolated town where I no longer live. Just last week, Anna and I ended up in court to sever this malfunctioning business relationship. My anxiety over managing the house and the relationship brought me to begin treatment for ADD four months ago at age 45. Naturally, Anna feels abandoned by Greg, as do I because she was happier and our relationship more satisfactory with him in our lives.
Less than two months ago, I received a phone call from the teen son of my good friend "Nancy" that they were at the hospital because Nancy had suffered a heart attack (not her first). The doctors were "trying to keep her alive." Later in the morning he called again to report, "She did not make it." Until they moved to her childhood home, Nancy and her two adopted children were frequent visitors at the home that Diane and I shared. Nancy took a flight to visit us near the end of Diane's life. My dog and I drove 12 hours each way to visit Nancy and her extended family for the week of New Years following Diane's death and just prior to Greg's. Days before her death, I learned that Nancy too faced the challenge of ADD. When she died, I lost a confidant.
I am grateful to learn that adult ADD explains some of the challenges my life because now I'm learning ways to face these challenges head on. At the same time, I am disappointed that this knowledge didn't come until mid-life because 45 years has strained relationships with myself and others, some with whom I can now only relate in the spirit world.

Death ... and Paperwork

In the last three years, death has come to three people very close to me - my spouse, my son in-law, and just last week a dear friend I consider a sister. My heart grieves the loss of their love and laughter.

The well known phrase about death and taxes is so very true. Loved ones die but paperwork keeps coming. In fact, death brings an onslaught of paperwork to those left behind. When she was in hospice care, I asked my spouse to take the computer and our paper files with her into the afterlife so she could continue this grievous task. Her response: "I'll try." But darn, it hasn't happened yet. So for three years, I've been managing on my own. So far, no dire consequences. But still I long for peaceful acceptance.

Today I dealt with vast amounts of it. While applying for a job online (deadline today), I discovered that my copies of college transcripts have vanished. In preparation for filing legal documents, I discovered that I mailed an envelope via delivery confirmation, rather than registered or certified mail as required. Ugh .. more paperwork.

Paperwork is a necessary evil that belongs to neither my heart nor my soul. To the credit of myself and all my supporters, today I grieved only for loved ones lost.

But I'm so smart!

From what I've read from reliable sources, it's common that adult women with ADD have high intelligence. I'm left wondering whether high intelligence is common for women with ADD generally or if it takes a highly intelligent and persistent woman to finally get labeled (I reject the term, "diagnosed") with ADD at middle age.

When I called my mom to tell her that I was being "treated" for ADD, her immediate response: "But you did so well in school." Hence one reason that adults in my life missed knowing that ADD might apply to me is because I'm book smart and, as a child, compliant.

I was reading by age three and considering which college to attend by age four. As long as I can remember, I've received accolades for being smart; it's a strength I enjoy and upon which I self identify.

Like any strength, intelligence can be over-utilized at the expense of other strategies in life. Social conventions, for instance, often confuse or slip past me, unless a book or friend convinces me to my satisfaction that I might care, describes in detail the nuances involved, and then helps me practice and provides feedback as I learn.

Sometimes I confuse experience with an ability to learn patiently. Let's say I don't know how to change the punctured tube for my bicycle. My perception that I should already know this skill can interfere with a willingness to be creative in finding out how. My assumption that it must be quick and easy (because it is for those who already know how) interferes with my willingness to be patient in learning. And if I overlook steps or am missing appropriate tools ... well, forget it!

Sometimes I under-estimate what's involved in reaching a goal. "How hard can it be?" Oh, realizing that I need to shop for groceries before I can cook a meal is insufficient. I need to know what ingredients work well together, remember or note what ingredients I have on hand so I can purchase the others, and begin making the meal before I'm hungry and ready to eat.

Now that ADD has been discovered as relevant to me, I see that it's been a lifelong challenge. Of course, I've only lived life as me, so honestly it's possible that I can be confusing consequences from ADD with other factors. But isn't that what my life is for? Learning about myself and the world for the purpose of living here more mindfully.

Goodness!

Yay, having a good day!

In fact, these come more often than the blog may imply. This may be the way the ADD/anxiety combination works - at least for me: strong feelings. And when I'm feeling good, nothing can be better!

I worked hard this week to get here, which may be part of the joy. I meditated in earnest. I reminded myself that I am loved - truly loved. I spoke with kind and loving friends, hopefully without being too much. I told myself to "get it together." When anxiety came, I perceived it as a call to action but not my essence. And I reviewed my "life accomplishments" - an emotional/spiritual resume of the choices and challenges through which I have persisted, if not with perfect courage or pure intent, at least with the best I could muster at the time and with some interesting experiences and stories (another blog?) as a result.

In addition, a high school classmate passed from this life as a result of Leukemia. And J found herself with family at a funeral. Sometimes I find that perspective turns into guilt, but this time perspective was ... perspective.

Best of all, I reminded myself to be patient and persistent. What I truly desire manifests. A thought can be the beginning, not the whole deal. And I'm a work in progress. If I were done, I wouldn't still be here among the living.

I'm not prone to traditional addictions, but my 12-step friends got it right. One day at a time. And I'm enjoying this one.

Relationships with myself and others.

Executive Function: That's how the ADD experts refer to the boring routines of life that tend to get me and others like me into trouble. It means that tasks like laundry, bills, and cooking may get done but not necessarily timely or well. As my therapist explained, it takes more stress as compared with others before someone with ADD gets moving. But it takes less stress by comparison before we're overwhelmed. In other words, tasks that others find dull or distasteful we find difficult or abhorent. And problems that others find inconvenient or disagreeable we find horrible or disastrous. The result in my experience is that I can procrastinate or avoid tasks that at some point end up resulting in anxiety. And it sure is difficult to manage life - the responsibilities and the fun - when I'm feeling anxious.
Needless to say, this situation can create difficulties in relationships - with myself and others. Luckily, my bills get paid and I don't have addictions. But it can seem to others that I don't take responsibilities seriously, that I overreact to life's bumps, and that I am self absorbed. Of course, I don't enjoy the experience. I also try hard and get disappointed when I fall short. Which means I often disappoint myself and others.
I am well liked. I'm working toward respect.

Mini meditations and moving forward!

I like the idea that life moves forward in my comfort zone. Or if I'm going to be challenged, in ways that invigorate me without actually scaring me. No such luck. Well, life does move forward - whether I join the party or not. One of the lessons is patience with the overall flow. I'm learning - or perhaps, more accurately, re-learning - to take mistakes, hurts, and fears less personally and to live in the reality of the moment. I'd been allowing my feelings around a personal challenge to take over too much of my life, as evidenced by my inability to enjoy a Saturday in nature with a friend without being distracted by worry.

On Monday, I meditated while riding the bus home from work - about a half hour. I could feel my nerves calm! When I arrived home, I had some tasks I wanted to complete before bed. Often I look at a list of tasks as something to dread, resent, and rush through. This time I meditated before each task long enough to feel my nerves calm - typically 2-3 minutes - then began the task at hand while reminding myself aloud, "We're only" washing dishes, bathing the dog, or whatever. Whenever I felt my patience run thin or nerves fray, I stopped for another "mini meditation." I noticed that I completed the tasks with attention, enjoyment, patience, and vigor (and as my dad might say, not "half ass") and, despite the frequent breaks, was willing to work all evening and accomplish much.

On Tusday, I meditated on the way to work. Before 9:00 a.m., I'd thought of a way to move forward on the personal challenge in a way that regret, worry, and fear could not produce. I felt pride and got right to work!

I like to call life a bunny hop - two steps back and three forward. Tonight J sent a text and asked me to let her know when the dishes were done. I washed the dishes but without a mini meditation first and hence, no real focus. Not long after J arrived home, I heard water running in the kitchen. "Hmm. Oh crap, she is re-washing the dishes, and she doesn't look happy." Too late to meditate before the dishes. But I meditated so I wouldn't over-react to her feelings. I wonder how long I'll need to meditate before deciding whether to propose she read today's post.

Reality.

I live in a place where warm and sunny is best embraced while it's here. Hence several days of sunshine have led me to delay my usual weekly posting. I'm comfortable with this choice. I'd like to say I immersed myself in the moment. I was out there enjoying myself, but I also polluted the moments with worry.
This is the most difficult of my posts to date. Difficult in both content and construction. Content because I'm facing truths about myself and the world that I'd rather not. Construction because the unpleasant feelings are challenging my confidence in writing.
I have long professed that the purpose of life is to learn and grow. After an important life experience three years ago I modified it: "My purpose in life is to learn, grow, and be there." And I mean it - when the growth opportunities are of my choosing or feel manageable or better yet, are fun.
This is not another blame session. I've learned that blaming others is an escape but solves nothing. I'm learning that I deserve that same respect. I've come far; I'm doing the best I can; and I have faults just like everyone.
And there's the rub. Life is messy and unfair. There are no absolutes, no black and white. Nature is beautiful, life-affirming, unpredictable, and sometimes unforgiving. People are clever, loving, and persistent; they're also ignorant, greedy, and lazy. Even the best spiritual leaders offer guidelines, nurtured through their own experience of making mistakes and trying again, that must be viewed as a collective, applied with perspective, and can be modified over time.
As for me, I can get much of what I want from life. But life also presents choices, challenges, and consequences. Sometimes I behave with courage; sometimes I manage okay; and sometimes I try to cope through avoidance, rationalizing, or other wishful thinking. I wish to live with acceptance and reiliancy, and sometimes I do. I can see that I'm happier overall when I can keep life in perspective, and I can't say that I prefer my perspective lately.
I've discovered a habit of self sabatoge that comes up even when I'm attempting a healthier alternative. It's repetitive and pervasive but subconscious. I'm sure I mean well, but it's out of hand and no longer serving myself or others. My intention is to work on it while keeping the perspctive that it doesn't define me. It's causing problems, so I'm opting for it to leave. Because the phone rang while I was writing this post, and I did it again!

Turned it around!

Was feeling awful for a few days. Not sure why. But I picked a fight with J - about mopping the stairs, for goodness sake. I also burst into tears while at lunch with longtime friend E, who suggested an appointment about menopause. Oh, goodness! Okay, scheduled that for next week, two days before I see the psychiatrist. Had a quick call from the therapist, who told me (politely, of course) that I need patience with the process/myself.
Dinner with a few women friends scheduled at our place last evening. I was home early from work because I needed a break between events. Have I mentioned that I am a sociable introvert? It turns out the extroverts put me on the hot seat. I was oh-so-lovingly challenged to respect myself more, to meditate regularly (self-affirming meditation was suggested ), and to exercise more patience (hmm, that again) to reduce the perspective of "pressure."
This morning J sacrificed her intended motorcycle ride to make me an omelet because she knew I hadn't been eating, a side effect when anxious. Then she drove us to a local coffee shop and dropped me off at work. Fabulous! I appreciate the support from others. And clearly, a gentle morning, although necessitating arising earlier, is far preferable to grudgingly dragging myself out of bed at the last moment with only a list of tasks on the horizon. I made a conscious decision to replace the "grumpy messages" in my head with happier ones. Best day in quite some time! And I scheduled early morning coffee with an acquaitance for two days from now, to hold me to the commitment to an enjoyable start to the day.

Lows and Highs

Sadly, Bug made some appearances during vacation. What a waste of precious time away from work and with loved ones.

Back to work yesterday. I had a heck of a time getting myself out of bed. It was feeling like everything I was looking forward to in the day were things I'd rather avoid or should magically resolve without me. I consulted a dear friend L who could relate. She sent me an e-mail essay, with a graphic description of an unreal and invisible but heavy suitcase that I might be carrying around. The suitcase contains the rules and mistakes from the past and fears for the future - put there by myself and others. Hence, she encouraged me to let go of the handle and live in the present moment.

For some time, J has been talking about how she listens and responds to intuition. Yesterday I was able to see that the times from the past that I regret are when I acted in conflict with the intuition - although I could hear it - out of fear. So the lesson isn't that I need to condemn or repair the past, but rather to learn from it and respect intuition over fear. The intuition will lead me now and into the future.

Additionally, it has been pointed out how I abuse myself mentally and emotionally. Yesterday I realized my habit has been to send loving messages to others but none to myself. How wonderful to begin telling myself: How far you've come; You are doing the hard stuff and making progress; You are wonderful; Sometimes life is difficult but not always or forever; You are doing well and just need to keep doing your best.

I just tried turning those last statements to "I am" and "my." For some reason, "you are" and "your" are making a preferable impact for now.

Visiting the Parents

As my title indicates, my age is 45. So I'm an adult child, visiting her parents who live in another state. I've brought "the girl" J with me for the first time. Since I average one trip per year here, I prefer to focus upon family interaction over seeing the sights. Since she is recovering from an illness, J has been patient in sticking close to the house and meeting quite a number of relatives. My family knew my longtime female partner, so there's no drama regarding whom I date. And no matter my age, my parents continue to offer me their comfort. All is going well.

Except that I have this nagging stress - let's name it Bug - that insists upon sitting with me no matter how much I prefer it to leave. I have some challenges in my life that I helped to create or allowed to fester. Not intentionally, of course, just from misguided intentions. But there they are. I've begun the hard work to resolve or re-route them. But Bug is much too loud, making the job harder and pooping on the good stuff. The silver lining, I suppose, is that the messes belong to me.

So I see that I need to develop new habits which, it has been said in many ways, will create new patterns and the new life I seek. And I've begun.

• I've stopped focusing on the shortcomings of others so that I can see where I need to grow;
• I'm asking others to show me how to do things, rather than taking care of it for me;
• I'm sitting longer with frustration when confused and learning to solve problems myself; and
• I'm facing big challenges and despite the discomfort, tackling them one step at a time.

Most of the people who love me plus my therapist have all said that the parts of my life I regret have come about because I was busy trying to rescue or please someone(s) else at the expense of myself. My dad today threw in the irony that caring for myself is the best way to care for others so they don't need to care for me and I can truly be there for them. Great advice.

What I want myself to know is that the challenges are there, no matter how I feel about them, so stop listening to Bug's chatter. Ignore the fear and live in love.

First Entry: My feelings today about ADD and anxiety.

Today I'm feeling sorry for myself. But I'm also seeing it as a break. I'm asking myself, "Now what?"

After several years on anti-anxiety medication, I started one recently that is meant to assist the symptoms of ADD. I burst into tears of joy when the pharmacy called, after so many years of waiting and struggling. I was surprised to feel differently already after only 20 minutes of swallowing the first pill. In the last 18 days, I have celebrated my fortune in health insurance, therapist, psychiatrist, and availability of medication. I've also arisen by 7:00 a.m. on the weekend, walked for a fundraiser to prevent suicide, volunteered at a local park renovation, and announced to my loved ones my intention to inspire or otherwise assist others who struggle with mental illness.

Yet today I called in sick to work; delayed climbing out of bed until my current lover and roommate J insisted the dog needed out; and ate only because J is home with pneumonia and invited me along to go get a sandwich. When I lay down on the sofa to zone out, J reminded me that I wanted to start a blog about my experiences with ADD and anxiety, offered to create it for me, and stated this was a perfect time and venue to describe what I am feeling in this moment.

Like many of us who struggle with our minds, I've been seeing a great therapist for many years. I'm a good person. I try to be loving, kind, patient, and supportive of others. I listen to good advice about how to be happy. I read books, practice meditation, eat healthy, exercise, and pay my bills on time.

But still I struggle. I want to be that person who appreciates my gifts, sees the silver lining, and celebrates the joys in life. I want to embrace the moment without distraction. And I do - sometimes, for a while. And then I go right back to regretting mistakes from the past and fearing what the future might bring.

Over the years, my mind has found creative ways to seek peace but avoid pesky details. I've learned to avoid or placate "mean" people; I have a large financial debt from multiple degrees; I'm the landlord for an adult child of my deceased partner in a geographically isolated town where I no longer live; and I have a job that keeps me employed but does nothing to feed my soul. I have a hell of a mess to clean up and possess a mind that adds to the challenge. If only I lived in a time or place that valued my differences.

Instead I want to embrace this perception - feel it and live it. I'm good at surrounding myself with kind and helpful people and I've gained skills in working with those I find difficult; I've had the opportunity to study multiple subjects while continuing to keep myself housed, dressed, and fed; after 17 years with a special woman in my life, I've moved to a city I prefer and I'm learning landlord skills; and I'm gainfully employed with outside options to feed my soul. I've learned much along the way, and there's more to come. I live in a time and place where I can cope with my differences.

This is the first post of my first blog, following the psychiatrist's suggestion I try my hand at art. I've started scribbling with colored pencils on the bus ride to work. On occasion, I sketch still items, but that tends to encourage more self consciousness. I've enjoyed memoir writing and public speaking for many years. I'm hoping this blog is therapeutic for me, helps leads me other places I belong, and offers recognition, comfort, knowledge, or inspiration among anyone who stumble across it.