Crazy for Life

Practical Mindfulness: The New Witness Protection Program

Victoria Maxwell — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 22:05:11 +0000

For about 3 hours now, I've been sitting cross legged on my green comforter, staring at the TV. Someone, a woman, with too much lipstick and over-plucked, penciled-in eyebrows squeaks and hiccups about the ‘greatest' buy shoppers could ever hope for. Something about this season's must-have girdle that sweats away fat. Oh gawd. I am watching... The Shopping Channel.

Then I notice that familiar feeling that's been sinking into my chest, dawning into my arms, and trailing into my legs. What I fear and respect most shows its edges: Depression.

But I've learned that doesn't mean I will spiral out of control, descend under its black sheet. If I gently albeit nervously invite the demons in for tea and watch them, the power they threaten to hold over me dissolves. Or at least lessens. I have learned this through the art of mindfulness.

As a nanny ‘minds' a baby with tenderness and care, attending to the needs of a wee bright being, so too is the practice of mindfulness. At its most basic, mindfulness is observing what is happening in the present moment.

Practical mindfulness, one tool I use to manage the emotional storms of my mood disorder, involves something more: a purposeful, ‘unconditional friendliness' and awareness towards the inner goings-on of my mind, the subtle shifts in my emotions and body, ideally, just as the microscopic changes from ‘normal' mood into depression begin.

Under this warm light of compassionate witnessing, unspoken, almost unbelievable, transformations start to take place.

Practicing this art daily, when things are going well or especially when they're not, increases clarity, compassion, patience, and allows well-being to unfold. Mindfulness is not a substitute for medication and intelligent counseling. It is however, a most potent ‘power tool' to maintain recovery and prevent relapse. Repeated studies prove this: MBCT "substantially reduce(s) the risk of relapse in those who had 3 or more previous depressive episodes (from 66% to 37%)". Teasdale, Segal, Williams, Ridgeway, Lau & Saulsby (2000).

Often associated with ‘Insight' or ‘Vipassana' meditation, a tradition dating back two and a half thousand years, mindfulness of mood, mind and matter is easily practiced without any of its Buddhist trappings.

"Mindfulness (in relation to preventing depression)," explains Jon Kabat-Zinn, Ph. D., founder of Mindfulness Based Cognitive Therapy (MBCT), "is based on the meditative view that change and health come about through acceptance of whatever is happening, no matter how painful, frightening or undesirable. Acceptance," he notes, "does not mean resignation, but actively coming to terms with things as they are and learning creative ways of working with one's situation."

I am still sitting slumped on my bed but with knees aching and back sore. Self-reproach, for reasons unknown surface. My thoughts are slow and menacing. I inhale; focus on the rise and fall of my belly; try to be aware, without judgment, of the whir of the ‘mean-mind' of Depression.

This is not easy: a massive understatement when fighting depression. Self-acceptance, I can barely remember, let alone practice.

Mindfulness...teaches how to make simple yet radical shift(s) in our
relationship to our thoughts, feelings, and bodily sensations
that contribute to depressive relapses. - Jon Kabat-Zinn

Managing a mood disorder requires us to know what warning signs. Mindfulness is a straightforward tool to help note even the slightest changes.

I shuffle towards the kitchen: dirty plates are piled high, coffee stains on the counter, pizza crusts from binges gone by. A familiar loop of potentially crippling remarks circle: "I'm so stupid...I'm such a loser...I'm so stupid...I'm such a loser..."

I do my best to stay present and observe as they dart and pinch the corners of my mind. I try to see them for what they are: thoughts and feelings only. Not facts about who I am or edicts of what I'm worth.

But they seem so real. Feel utterly convincing. I inhale, and continue watching. They are thoughts and feelings passing through me. Nasty, mean, horrible ones, but just thoughts and feelings. Not the Truth. Not me.

If I believe the story they tell me or try to wrestle them into submission I loose my center and loose myself. And I become vulnerable to the onslaught of a full depressive episode. So, I practice watching these demons and basement dwellers.

Using this ‘witness' perspective, I don't feel so suffocated. Mindfulness has this uncanny ability to shift distortion into discernment. Thoughts and feelings, which used to send me into tailspins, loose their draw.

This ‘witnessing' has literally become a ‘witness protection program' for me. The more I witness (with compassion) the malevolent thoughts, the more I am protected from falling deep into their clutch.

Common sense tells us though that feelings of inadequacy, anxiety or hopelessness will not magically evaporate with the skill of insight. But they often cease to escalate if the ‘fire is not fed'.

To stay awake to the ‘mean-mind' of Depression, to refuse to flee, fight or freeze takes fortitude and practice. It is, as Pema Chodron, Buddhist author and teacher calls it, a warrior's skill. It is also one I have learned over time. Years to be exact. Mindfulness is cultivated, not innate.

I'm at the sink now, rinsing sticky bowls. I step back in my mind, allowing thoughts of self-hate to float in and move about as they wish; noticing these rowdy characters jostle for attention. I watch with as much patience, as much kindness, as I can muster (which at this point, isn't a lot - but it is enough).

I swish a soapy dishcloth over plates, and the cruel thoughts and foul emotions begin ever so slightly, to soften.

A therapist I worked with, taught me to mentally catalogue my thinking patterns, note the most common themes. Anxiety and self-loathing? Despair and disdain? Then, like a teacher with an unruly class take role call: "Ah yes... despair ... oh and audacity and arrogance. There you are. Hmm...isn't that interesting. Haven't seen you guys in awhile." And so the watching goes.

Because mindfulness at its best is done with friendly curiosity, it teaches me to embrace my humanness, awkwardness and all. To welcome home my quirks, my warts, my shine. That brilliance and darkness we all possess, and all try to hide.

This arms-wide open position allows me to hold all my aspects. Those I hate. And those I love.
Even when I refuse to be kind to myself, demand I berate myself and whip myself into perfection, this too I can watch. Perhaps with less warmth, but still I can watch. And slowly, more light begins to creep in and more healing takes place.

Top Ten Bipolar Blogs 2009 from PsychCentral

Victoria Maxwell — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 22:41:33 +0000

Holy! Holy! I am honored to be listed as an honorable mention for PsychCentral's annual top Bipolar Blogs of 2009.

Sandra Kiume compiled a list of 10 stellar blogs. And what great blogs they are: witty, informative, controversial, personal, raw, intimate, funny, moving, incisive are just a few words I would use to describe the range and style of these Top Ten.

So to be listed in the company of these well established, well written blogs, I am truly excited (not that bad, over the top, gonna run down the street naked kind of excited - but just your good ol' fashioned happy to be living kind of excited). It feels so good to be part of this very honest, very important growing virtual community.

Here is the Top Ten List for 2009:

1. The Secret Life of a Manic Depressive
2. The Trouble With Spikol
3. Coming Out Crazy
4. Pax Nortana
5. All About Bipolar
6. In a tie: Furious Seasons and Knowledge is Necessity.
7. Raw Writing for the Real World of Bipolar
8. Caught in my Bipolar Burble.
9. Time for your Meds
10. Crazy Black Woman

Honorable mentions: Victoria Maxwell's Crazy for Life, Wellness Writer, Gus Greeper, Bipolar Happens, If You're Going Through Hell, Keep Going, Bipolar: Crazy Mermaid's Blog, and Patient Anonymous.

Thank you PsychCentral and Sandra Kiume.

Happy blog reading! What exactly do we call blog reading? Er...bleading...maybe not.

Does God Have a Place in Psychiatric Treatment Plans?

Victoria Maxwell — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 21:54:14 +0000

In 1992, my father drove (more like sped) me to the emergency of Lion's Gate Hospital. I was floridly psychotic. I ran from one end of the parkade to the other, shouting ‘I am one with God'. Neither of us knew what was happening. My dad describes it as one of the most terrifying experiences of his life, for me one of the most devastating yet liberating.

My diagnosis: rapid-cycling, mixed stated bipolar disorder with mild temporal lobe epilepsy and generalized anxiety disorder. Yeah, say that five times fast!

Over the next five years I had four further psychotic episodes, innumerable manias and suicidal depressions and five visits to the psych ward.

I feel lucky, for the most part I had incredible health care providers - from the psychiatrist I saw weekly, to the nurses and orderlies who helped me regroup in the hospital to the case worker I met with.

My treatment was fairly straightforward: medication, psychotherapy, group work, occupational therapy and vocational rehab. Accepting the diagnosis and treatment however, was a whole other bucket of fish.

And unfortunately the one discharge plan element, which could have helped me accept treatment more readily, was overlooked. My spiritual beliefs were not only ignored, but more accurately actively avoided. To some degree it was understandable. My psychosis involved images of God, the devil, allusions to birth and death and an intense focus on the nature of reality. Care providers were reluctant to discuss spiritual topics for fear of destabilizing my mood.

But this was a most heartfelt dilemma and conflict I needed to reconcile in order to start the healing process. I originally shot into psychosis while meditating deeply and within that altered state had my most profound spiritual experiences; ones that I still hold dear and affect how I am in the world today.

This doesn't mean all things that happened in the psychosis were significant or even remotely relevant. But my health care team only saw the psychoses as negative, never exploring with me what happened during them or what parts, if any, felt meaningful to me and why.

Because facets of my psychoses felt life changing, I was at odds with the medical profession. How could I label something of such significance as only pathological?

This is one of the most important points I wish to convey. I refused treatment and remained ‘non-compliant' largely because no one told me these two things were not mutually exclusive.

It was not until years after my initial diagnosis and visit to ‘Club Medication' that I met an exquisitely talented psychiatrist who helped me hold an apparent paradox. He explained what I went through could be spiritual as well as psychiatric, each profoundly affecting my life.

I can't emphasize this enough: if someone within the healthcare system had taken me aside earlier, told me that just because I have a mental illness doesn't negate the importance of what I experienced, I can guarantee I would have had less visits to the psych ward.

Ideally a doctor or nurse would have acknowledged the spiritual meaning and shifts I felt I had in the psychoses, asking what they were, how they were positive and why they were important to me. And explaining to me I would be able to look at them more closely when I my illness had stabilized.

Dialogues like these would have given me much needed validation, helping me see I could accept having a mental illness without abandoning my new life perspectives and realize the illness needed to be stabilized for me to effectively and safely integrate these insights and experiences.

Eventually my psychiatrist and I agreed we'd meet to monitor my medication and for psychotherapy sessions (often CBT with interpersonal therapy) and I would also meet with a spiritual counselor who could help me put the spiritual aspects I experienced into context. This created a beautifully effective blend of very traditional psychiatry and counseling with gentle yet very vital spiritual exploration.

When a discharge plan is being drafted for you, get involved. Say your piece. Or ‘peace' as it were. Don't underestimate your own power in the building of a rehab plan. And if it is important to you, make room for your spiritual life. Self-identity is unraveled by psychiatric diagnosis and so too is faith, a sense of order and place in the world.

A ‘spiritual action plan' is a map to help affirm purpose from something that appears to have none and establishes, for us as patients, reasons to recover; reasons to continue even while the going gets tough.

My trust in reality, in myself and in the Divine was deeply wounded when I was thrust through those emergency doors. Mental illness and in particular, psychosis, shakes the strongest of faiths. Whether that faith is religious in nature, or as in my case, a ‘life perspective', in order for the whole person to heal, spirituality must be addressed.

Without indulging my irrational thinking nor dismissing ideas I valued, a gifted nurse helped me start accepting treatment. I sat on the edge of my hospital bed, despondent and unclear as to how to reconcile accepting that I had a mental illness without abandoning my spiritual insights by calling them delusional. The nurse, who had been on shifts throughout my four weeks on A2, sat beside me, listening as I explained what had brought me there. Silence. And then with quiet confidence she said: ‘when you touch that limitless part of yourself, it can be overwhelming.' That's all I needed to know: someone in the medical field had heard how powerful and not completely negative my journey with bipolar disorder and psychosis had been.

I then realized that perhaps I could find others in healthcare who shared her same caring and inclusive view. I enlisted her help and she gave me the name of the psychiatrist who I credit with coaching me back to health.

Prt 6 - Mental Illness & Hypersexuality: A bad mix for a first date?

Victoria Maxwell — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 20:42:29 +0000

We're on this startling ribbon of beach a la Brooke Shields 'Blue Lagoon'.. Nick starts taking off his blue shirt. He's up for a swim already. Great! Me too!

I peel off my tank top. Under it, I'm wearing a one piece suit. I couldn't find my bikini. I explain to Nick - justifying the mass of material. In reality I am thankful.

No matter how much you want to seduce someone, first dates and bikinis never, NEVER go together. Not with me at least. I've never been comfortable with my middle, my tummy - even at my lightest I've always had a pooch - that indestructible belly bulge that won't go no matter how many or what variations of crunches you do. And on anti-psychotics and mood stabilizers, I am definitely not at my lightest. So: I play it safe - I wear a one piece. But one frickin' SEXY one piece. High cut, low back, lower front - LOTS of cleavage. Not even remotely functional for swimming. But who said anything about swimming?

I'm unbuckling my sandals, kick them off and I look up to see Nick. I discover, he too is taking off his clothes. But he's taking off ALL OF HIS CLOTHES! Not to his swim trunks or down to his scivvies, but to nothing.

He's standing there, hands on hips, bare-assed to me, inhaling deeply, looking out, over the water.

Now even though I am hypo-manic, meaning just below the threshold of euphorically manic and potentially psychotic. And it is true that I am also flamboyantly hypersexual, this - Naked Nick - I didn't count on. Not so quickly anyway. I expected sort of a build up to our naked-tude.

Even though I've been lusting after Nick since I saw his name in black felt on the hospital white board...I am dumbfounded.

I pretend to struggle with the buttons on my shorts, telling myself that ‘Nick's just in...fabric transition. Yeah, you know...he's just changed OUT of his beach wear and is about to climb INTO his swim wear. Yeah. That's what's happening. He doesn't know I am looking at him. It's all just a big awkward wardrobe mistake a la Janet Jackson.'

I look up again, holding my breath, hoping I've given him enough time to don his swim trunks.

He WILL BE wearing his swim trunks. And...nope. It's worse. He's now turned around, FACING me, smiling - buck naked, with all of God's gifts staring right back at me.

"Well," he smirks, "didn't I say it would get better?" and he winks. Oh God. I feel faint.

"Huh?" I stammer and look away as if I might go blind if I look at it, I mean, him, HIM, too long. Before I can say anything...

He levels a look at me: "What are doing in your BATHING SUIT?"

My brain doesn't understand the question. I am thinking, shouldn't the question really be: ‘Why aren't you wearing yours?'

"This is the ‘better' part..." and he motions with both arms, fanning them out, for me to take it all in...the beach, the beach, that is. He continues: "It's not technically, legally speaking, a nude beach, but everyone..."

(WAIT: Did he say other people are coming here?!)

"...but everyone who comes here, well there's just an unspoken agreement that it's a nude beach."

Yeah -no shit Sherlock, it's an unspoken agreement alright - no one spoke to me about it. Crimminy!

But I'm trying to look... you know, cool; the sexy rebel he stole away with from the hospital not the mortified prude I actually am.

Somehow I manage to cock my head (sorry, bad word choice, anyway), toss back my hair and say:

"Oh, no, this suit..." and laugh but it comes out wheezy, hiccupy kind of laugh, "...this thing, no, no... I just wore this in case we went to a normal place. I mean a regular beach. Well know what I mean..."

And then before I know it, my inner vixen, my inner drunken hypo-manic, vixen takes over. With my thumb, I lift up the right strap of my suit, hold it there in mid air, pause, give Nick a come-hither-to kind of glance and try to let it delicately fall off my shoulder. But because I stretched the strap too high and for too long, a sling shot effect takes place instead. It doesn't gently fall as I had hoped it would, but instead it forcefully snaps back, stinging my skin and out of my mouth comes not a sexy moan, but more of a yelp and curse word.

To be continued...

Prt 5: Hypersexuality, Bipolar Disorder & Hospital Hook-ups: A match made in heaven or at least Playboy Channel

Victoria Maxwell — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 20:50:42 +0000

Nick and I absconded from our mutual place of confinement - Club Medication about 90 minutes ago. He is hoofing it down the train tracks somewhere off Highway 1. The sun and heat, pelting our backs and me: trudging down those same train tracks, trying not to get my feet caught in one of the rail ties and look even more ridiculous than I already do.

Remember, I am drinking a Corona, on fairly heavy anti-psychotics, carrying two plastic shopping bags and a huge cotton laundry sack. I need both hands - so I guzzle the beer and toss the bottle. Logic, in this state of hypomania, is not my strong suit. So now I am tipsy, probably annoyingly giggly, carrying what feels like the weight of a small three year old under each arm.

Nick is I don't know how many yards ahead of me. He has said nothing and certainly hasn't turned to see if I've been eaten by the hoards of black bears, which at this point I know are lurking in nearby bushes, sniffing for stumbling, slightly drunk, over-heated and over-burdened runaway female psych patients.

Nick has proved to be less than a gentleman. But he has the uncanny ability or I have the uncanny (unfortunate) weakness to still find him attractive. Go figure? Obviously the therapy and self-esteem work I've done so far hasn't really taken hold.

I am about ready to collapse, when I see Nick motioning me to get off the train tracks. I think it's because a train, which I haven't noticed because I've been concentrating so hard on not falling, is rattling down the very track I am on. So I begin to run - okay more like a ‘lurch n' jog' to get off the path.

"No! No!" Nick screams as he waves me over. He's smiling. He's just trying to get me follow him down a trail leading off the tracks. "Over this way." And he disappears into the bush. Hopefully he is finding me endearing and not ridiculously out of it.

But I can't take any more hiking. Nevertheless, I push my way through the thicket of blackberry bushes, punctuating my movements and all the pricks from the thorns with a loud necklace of four letter fricatives.

I finally catch up with Nick, my fearless and indifferent leader. We cut through more brambles, and then I see where he has taken me.

We open up onto a gorgeous sparkling cove of water, an ocean bay bordered by a pristine, almost completely deserted, canopied patch of beach. My jaw drops, as do my bags. I am officially awe struck.

"Our own ‘Blue Lagoon'." Nick grins, assuming I am old enough to get the nubile and naked Brooke Shields reference.

He moves towards a log, looking like he booked it just for us. He sits and pats the surface of it for me to plop beside him.

"Whatdaya think?"

"Beautiful." I say, breathless - one, because I am so out of shape, and two, because it is one of the most stunning places I've ever seen.

"It gets better." He says nothing more. To be continued (soon)...

Goal Setting When Depressed Can Be Such A Downer

Victoria Maxwell — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 18:07:23 +0000

Does this sound familiar? I'll go to the gym four times a week starting tomorrow. Sure I will. I'll drive there, sit in my car, pound back an extra large Timmy Ho's ‘double-double' (that's Canada speak for coffee with 2 sugars and creams) while I wrestle with the elastic waistband of the new yoga pants I'm wearing. Who said anything about working out? Heaving jumbo coffee cups have gotta be weight training, right?

I make goals or ‘success steps' throughout the year. But what happens when I'm depressed or was recovering from a psychotic episode? Accomplishing goals when in the midst of mental illness is very different than when my mood's stable for some time or you've never wrestled with psychiatric disorder period.

From living with bipolar disorder and anxiety, and much trial and error, I now know I must keep these key points in mind if I'm to have a decent chance of reaching targets:

•Psychiatric disorders are illnesses. And like any illness, I must readjust expectations daily, sometimes hourly, in relation to my health and needs.
•Goals easily accomplished previously may be unrealistic, but perhaps not in the future.
•Tiny, tiny steps are crucial to achieving success, self-esteem and recovery.
•Address a hidden but significant barrier: my reaction to the 'smallness', the apparent insignificance of these first goals.

When I'm depressed, it's critical I choose goals I will likely reach. Otherwise, my quark-sized spark of motivation will kaput. Itsy, bitsy steps set me up for success and keep me going. Tiny equals big.

To go with the exercise motif: Aiming to walk to the end of the block and back might be the ticket. Sometimes (if I'm really honest) putting on my sneakers, staring at the door and dropping back down in the Barkalounger, is where I need to start. And in my case, it was. Sometimes my aim is to just get my workout gear beside my bed. Not so I feel guilty but to say: 'see...I am getting closer'. Then slowly, very slowly, I increase challenges as I'm ready.

Accomplishing these incremental objectives is rarely a problem. My reaction to them often is. I can harshly judge them and myself as stupidly small and meaningless. And give up even before I start.

A ghostly refrain creeps into my head if I'm not on my toes: "I should be able to do way more in a day. It's pointless. Why bother? These goals are embarrassing."

The hurdle becomes my negative self-talk, perfectionism and self-blame, preventing me from even trying. What helps? Compassion, gentleness, and reframing (which aren't easy even on my best days). My task then becomes (with the help of my therapist and Pema Chodron) to cultivate those habits simultaneously.

Something along these lines softens my hard hitting negativity: "Yup - it's true I've accomplished more challenging things before I wrestled with bipolar disorder. But that's it; I'm learning to manage an illness, which like other illnesses, changes my range of function."

This may be too ‘clinical-cognitive-behavioral' sounding even for me, but you get the picture. But... when I employ this slightly lighter hand, eventually walking through the doors of the gym and onto the treadmill become doable.

What would I expect from someone with acute back pain or recovering from cancer? Yes these are different maladies. But that's exactly my point. Mental illnesses are the hardest hit, by far, by derision, self-stigma and misunderstanding. So it's even more vital to allow ourselves to be toddlers in our steps toward recovery; to wisely perceive small actions aren't so small after all. To give ourselves credit, no matter how puny the victory looks. Because we know, intimately and irrevocably, the strength it takes to think, let alone move, when deep in the clutches of psychiatric illness.

And it's this self-care, this ‘unconditional friendliness' towards ourselves that allows us to progress, albeit slowly, but most definitely towards wholeness, health and harmony.

HOW TO START GOAL SETTING and AVOID GOAL FRETTING:

•Re-evaluate needs, values, strengths, limits
•Be honest & realistic
•Start where you are, go slow, pace yourself
•Re-adjust goals & expectations daily in relation to health & needs
•Create a plan & goals with these insights in mind
•Risk challenging yourself when appropriate
•Distract yourself from the ‘too' big picture
•Focus on accomplishments of small goals

A terrific resource with great tips from someone who knows, check out Julie Fast's book: "Get it Done When You're Depressed".

(Prt 4) Beer, Meds & Men Don't Mix - Or Maybe They Do

Victoria Maxwell — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 20:20:52 +0000

From my real, and not so imagined, life as a bipolar princess:

So Nick and I rip onto the highway, heading west. It's summer. Hot, scorching really. We're in his, what really should be an ‘off-the-road' vehicle. No, I don't mean an ‘off road' vehicle, but literally a car that should be impounded. Certain parts, which look to me as fairly operationally essential, appear to be held together by silver duct tape (and probably a lot of his spit and some crazy glue). It's a Ford Pinto - I think. Meaning either a bean or in Brazilian slang: penis. Really. Somehow very appropriate.

My fear of dying by spontaneously combusting is obliterated by my amazement of the audacity of the speed at which Nick is driving. Tail pipe's a-rattling, blue exhaust smoke a-puffing and Nick zigzags through Upper Levels traffic to our destination. Which if you've been reading these posts, I have no idea what that is.

"Did you?" He asks.

"Huh?" I can barely hear him over the rush of wind through the sunroof and the Harley-Hog like drumming of the muffler and stereo bass.

"Did you get the stuff I told you to?"

"Oh, oh," I adjust my thighs which are sticking to the sweaty vinyl and try to look nonchalant by leaning my face out the window to be cooled by the air. Instead, I bonk my head against the glass which I forgot I haven't rolled down. "Oh. Yeah." And rub my right temple.

I am both scared and exhilarated that Nick is taking me somewhere that is so out of the way we'll have 100% privacy and where no one could ever find us. Exactly.

When hurtling into mania, as those of you who've personally witnessed or experienced it know, skills to determine degrees of recklessness and discern safety are at the best impaired, at worse vanished.

The upside of this (sort of?) is our enhanced ability to enjoy said reckless and risky behaviour. This of course is the problem.

We zoom past Cypress Ski Bowl, past swanky Caulfield. Then Nick slows, reels onto the road shoulder. No signal. Who needs turn signals? WE are invincible. Then he cranks the wheel, gunning the engine, crosses the double line, just shy of an oncoming Hummer whose driver is mouthing and gesticulating vigorously and dives for the mouth of a dirt road that's thrusting itself onto the highway.

We barrel down this gravel lane into what opens up to be a secluded parking lot of sorts. There are no cars and just one sign: "NO TRESPASSING. Violators with be prosecuted with the full force of the law."

God, I love being a rebel - even when no authority figures know about it.

He drives straight past the sign and pokes the nose of the car under the leaves of a collapsing Maple (for shade, not camouflage, so he says).

He gets out, hoists his knapsack from the back seat. I grab my two plastic Safeway shopping bags and my massive draw string laundry bag that has the requested ‘stuff'.

"Let's go. It's down the train tracks - about 20 minutes. C'mon." He throws me a beer; cracks one for himself, swings his pack on and starts walking. There's something incredibly attractive about this man who doesn't turn to see if I'm following him. This makes me, well...incredibly...well, pathetic.

Now, did he say: train tracks? Like as in railway? I've got bad coordination at the best of times. In the heat, drinking Corona, lugging a laundry bag? I haven't got a chance. Oh well...it's all about having fun, right? Even when it's at my own expense - at least someone will be laughing.

To be continued...

Depression: No Laughing Matter - Or Is It?

Victoria Maxwell — Thu, 21 May 2009 19:46:25 +0000

Recently, I was standing at the check out line at my not necessarily so friendly local 7-11. I usually giggle at the Hollywood tabloid headlines: 'Oprah Delivers North America's First Alien Baby' or 'Brad Pitt Is Really a Girl'. But what happens? Nothing. Instead, I cop an attitude; surreptitiously buy 4 jumbo-sized Snickers bars and a family sized bag of Doritos so I can lay into a self-induced carbohydrate coma.

Then worse: I'm watching my favorite rerun of ‘Friends' - the one where Joey screams and scrams because Monica's dancing with a frozen turkey on her head. And I don't laugh. I always laugh when Monica has her head in a frozen turkey. Crap...I laugh if anyone has their head in a turkey. Or I thought I would.

My shrinking sense of humor is the canary in the coalmine - the alarm signaling clinical depression is slithering around me.

I have to get to work. Find humor in something, anything or risk falling into the ‘no laugh, no color, everything tastes like cardboard, not just chicken and who cares anyway' kind of zone. Because humor is my lifeline to my vitality, to hope, to the idea tomorrow will be better or at least not worse.

Interestingly, it's the foraging and fighting for my sense of humor that's the remedy. Not necessarily finding it. Rediscovering my sense of humor is a by-product of my willingness to look for it. Something about looking for ‘the funny', that act of faith there is some, somewhere, though I can't sense it, expels bits of cemented depression from within. The rummaging around allows a little light in, and slowly, very slowly, my funny bone moves back into place.

First? Seek out what I call 'memory or phantom laughs'. Those times when I know normally I'd be giggling but instead, I'm just remembering I would; that 'if I weren't so depressed I'd be laughing' feeling. Bittersweet insights, but helpful ones. Memories of laughing are better than no laughing at all.

Second? Size doesn't matter. I don't worry about the BIG guffaws. I'm on the lookout for anything making me remotely smile, just want to smile. What makes the corners of my mouth stir slightly; my cheeks subtly lift?

That's my body telling me I'm near my funny bone. And bones don't disappear; they just get weak. The solution? Fortify them, anyway I can.

So I rent my favorite movie: 'Big', watch ‘Two and a Half Men', flip through People magazine's issue of 'Worst Dressed Stars in Hollywood'. (How can anybody with that much money, dress badly - don't they all have stylists?)

When I do this, it doesn't mean things all of a sudden seem hilarious, but it's a distinct advantage over curling up on the sofa, listening to weepy Vince Gill songs about a cowboy who looses his woman, job and dog. That's definitely not a humor ‘honer'.

When I feel inklings of depression or even when I'm deep in its clutches, I set aside time every couple days to give myself a chance not to laugh outright, but to witness things I know are funny to me. Eventually the lighter side gets the better of me. Not right away, not for long, but it's a start.

Implementing this 'laugh-able' strategy doesn't eradicate depression of course; I'm not that naïve but it can make it more bearable.

Once I'm out of the darkness, I fortify that funny bone with some kind of humor every day. It may sound simplistic. But to this day, my relentless pursuit to find something, even marginally humorous everyday is one of my best coping tools to date. My sense of humor is as valuable to me as the medication I take and the therapy I do to stay well.

Dating in the Midst of Mental Illness (Part 3) – The Devil Made Me Do It

Victoria Maxwell — Thu, 07 May 2009 18:58:26 +0000

From my real, and not so imagined, life as a bipolar princess:

So Nick, with his Michelangelo's David cut cheeks (I'm talking about his face now...what were you thinking?), looks at me when he finds out I have a weekend psych ward pass. Weekend passes are supposed to be for going home or visiting friends in quiet, healthy, socially appropriate and psycho-social rehab sort of ways - not for partying, cutting loose, screwing up and messing around.

‘You want go somewhere?' He whispers. I don't know if he means meet like for a double-double at Tim Hortons or go like ‘clubbin' it on the town' kind of go somewhere. But who cares? Both options sound good to me. I can't imagine another weekend playing Scrabble and Uno with Jim and Tom. Both of them whine. And Jim cheats, though he swears he doesn't. We bet cigarettes - which is kinda of weird since I'm really don't like smoking.

‘Sure.' I say, still trying to sound nonchalant. Which I am so bad at - trying to act like I don't care. I have a MOOD disorder for cryin' out loud. If I could control my emotions I wouldn't be here. He smiles, like he's imagining how much fun I might be. I think he's confusing my anxiety for enthusiasm.

‘Let's hook up somewhere.' He leans in and whispers, ‘But you know,' and he pauses this feature-film-romantic-swept-away' pause, ‘we've got to be smart about this though.'

I just nod, very quickly as if this opportunity for approval will pass me by if I don't act on it now. I know this will take stealth, creativity and possibility a lot of alcohol.

We set our watches. Agree on staggered departure times. I drive to Ambleside beach, find overnight parking. This is dangerous and more. He will pick me up in front of the...get this: the police station at Ambleside. His audacity is downright seductive.

This is definitely not what my psychiatrist would consider part of a good life skills program. But no reason to feel guilty or nervous - we're not doing anything illegal. Not yet at least.

I slide into the passenger seat of his car. It's old, grey and beaten up. But man is it fast. Like me when in this state of rising hypo-mania. We peel out of the cop shop and turn onto Marine drive. He doesn't tell me where we're going. I don't even know his last name. Maybe Nick ‘The Psych Ward Guy'. Yeah. That sums it up enough for me. Who needs last names anyway? It's not like he's my ‘in case of emergency' contact.

Like many of my encounters over the past few years -it lacks a lot of concrete details. Hyper-sexuality (that's what it's officially called - however I was called other things) frequently comes with the territory of bipolar disorder. I just thought I had no boundaries and low self-esteem. To be honest I think it was a bit of both.

He takes the 15th street exit and blasts onto the highway. Windows open, sunroof popped, my long hair out of its usual ponytail. I even have on dark sunglasses. I feel like Uma Thurman in one of her movies (minus the to die for lithe and slender body). I've gained about 25 pounds since this whole push-me-pull-you psychiatric disorder started (a greasy result of mood stabilizers that may maintain mood but not my weight and part compulsive overeating).

‘Where are we going?' and I try to smile a coy smile.

‘You'll see...did you get the stuff I told you to?' He says, his left arm, tawny skin and all, resting on the car door while his right hand casually grasps high noon on the steering wheel. I feel like we could rob a bank...successfully. Don't worry we don't. We do something better.

To be continued...

Dating in the Midst of Mental Illness (Sex, Love & the Psych Ward - Part 2)

Victoria Maxwell — Fri, 01 May 2009 06:33:22 +0000

From my real, and not so imagined, life as a bipolar princess:

So Nick, you remember him, right? Dirty blonde hair, bulging biceps. From A3? (For those of you who haven't read part 1 yet - we're talking ‘A3', on the psych ward.) Well he does notice me! Dunno when he did, but he did. Process of elimination, I guess. There are slim pickin's on the psych ward. Not really much to choose from if you know what I mean. The only female choices are this jailbait Kleptomaniac and me on the ward. She's cute and all, spiral curls and tawny skin but way too young, even for him.

So Nick and me, we're back out in the smoke garden. I've bought my own pack by now. That makes me a ‘real' smoker according to Jim. He's this old guy with yellowy fingertips and dirty nails whose room is two doors away from mine. Jim keeps telling me that I: ‘Better watch it, better watch it, lung cancer you know' and then he explains he's got OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder) and repeats ‘better watch it' about a zillion times more. He's getting on my nerves.

So we're all here, me, Nick, Jim oh and this other guy: a quiet Japanese guy, who just stares into space, never in your eye. We're all sitting at this thin red card table. But it starts to rain. So Jim puts out his smoke, walks into the common room, grumbling about the rain and how they should let patients smoke wherever they ‘god-damn well please'.

The Asian guy, Tom, puts his cigarette between his teeth and then punches his hands into his cargo pants pocket. They let you wear you own clothes once you show some self-control. I'm still in the regulation blue hospital pants and pull on top. Anyway Tom, he moves away from the card table and leans close to a leaky drain pipe, away from the pressure of having to interact with those of us who are left.

So now it's just Nick and me. We both huddle on one side of this wobbly table, under the eves, hunching over our smokes, protecting them against the wet and the wind that's just picked up. Nick looks at me - huge Bambi eyes, flashing these spider web eyelashes (the kind women would kill for). And he says - like he's winking with his voice ‘Do you have an overnight pass for this weekend?'

And I know he's up to something. Not that that's bad - I'm always up for something when something is up, especially being in the hospital still high and all. Even more when it involves a cute guy with deer eyes and my new bad girl habit of smoking.

‘Yeah, I've got a pass.' I say trying to pass for relatively disinterested - which is really hard, because I am definitely interested.

To be continued...