Folk don’t want the messy truth. Not that I have seen, at least not my messy truth. They want uplifting tales of hope, poignant tales of sorrow, struggle and overcoming into victory and joy that carries them up with it, and a shiny list of tools to get there. I can’t offer that.
I remain trapped in the journey. I slog along in a morass of something beneath evolved, thrashing in some sort of swamp with no enlightened path shedding a glow of epiphany through the sagging webwork of moss and spiderwebs that is my mind. I present my sense of hopelessness.
There was a bridge over it for a while, a stable earthen construction bordered by smooth logs, lifting the pilgrim over the marsh but not too high, following the vagaries of life but not dropping too low, and it seemed worthwhile to try to be a better person because it appeared possible. But the things chased me, the memories, mistakes, all I’ve done wrong, the shame, and they wouldn’t stop. The earthwork ended, and I fell straight in. Now the things have me again. They surge behind, around and in front, darkening my mind, eroding my thought and eating the hopes and the goals in front of me. They are monsters that chew, swallow and dissolve my lessons and my resolutions without cease.
In 2001 the people in my life suffered my psychosis, which lasted years. At the end of it I was exiled. I was expected to be ashamed of and accept responsibility for behaviors I could not control but only scream at from a tiny cage in my mind as I watched in horror. I was/am so sorry for the lives that I affected in such bad ways. I was/am ashamed, too, but I couldn’t let go of the idea that I was sick and that it was so unfair to be judged for having a disease. I very much wished I was dying of cancer instead of going around with the Sword of Suicide dangling over my head. People would sit at my bedside and call me brave for surviving as long as I had. Instead they spit on me, and if I’d succumbed to my illness they would have spit on my grave. My attempts to make amends were laced with bitterness and, justifiably, every one was refused. The worst part is, nowadays when I have a relapse episode, the self-loathing and bitterness return. How self-centered it all is. The mixed episodes have been returning with greater frequency, the brain fog is overwhelming, and now I’m in crisis again, which has not happened to me in a very long time. Hence this post, probably.
Here is what I am doing. DBT tool: mindfulness. DBT tool: Opposite action. Other tools: Masking, since it seems to be the only way to get along. Focusing on gratitude, gratitude, gratitude. Lifting other people up and cheering them on whenever possible. Forcing myself to go outside and play.
Most of these things have worked for a while but are now falling apart.
So for today, I have no tidy conclusion. I was trying to write things with tidy conclusions but that made me quit writing altogether. It was no more than a feeble attempt at masking anyway, only on the page. Then I tried writing my messy truth and no one wanted it. But that’s okay. Why should they?
Authenticity all the way.
My wish for you is that you are secure in the knowledge that you are valuable, no matter how you feel. Have a wonderful day.
The Gold Run Bridge is eight rigorous miles from the highway. The trail consists of steep climbs, rocky passages, creek crossings, close, narrow tracks alongside the roiling whitewater, and precipice-edged climbs leading far above Bear Creek, a distant strip of white, blue or brown, depending on the season. It winds along the mountainside, in and out of forest and exposure. It feels like an epic journey, culminated with a descent to a grassy meadow, a campfire ring, and fishing protocol.
The bridge crosses Bear Creek in a gentle arc. Step off, and Gold Run Trail tugs you onward. Its effortful, steep ascent makes trivial all that has come before, where fire has opened wildflowers to the sky and scree fields cascade downslope like a vast gray river of stone across your path. Two mighty trails, two fragments of the Colorado mountains’ healing soul.
Today’s offering is a flash fiction story about feelings.
Difficult feelings, painful to acknowledge feelings, painful to process and face.
Samhain
A.C. Turek
I sit with Gail under a large oak tree near the sword booth. She twirls a red-slathered autumn leaf by its stem.
“Have you ever seen a leaf this huge?”
“It feels like we’re sitting in another Samhain cliché,” I say. “The fair, the witches, the pumpkins and squash.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “But for it to be a real cliché we’d have to get pomegranates and start setting out pictures of William Blake.”
I shift. “He’d like that except, there’s no trace of his spirit.” I’m not speaking of William Blake.
Gail looks down at her leaf, then up again, through narrowed eyes. “Maybe all that talking about it chased it away, or blocked your perception.”
That was not me. I’ve been stabbed. What the hell do you mean?
I said nothing at his funeral, and I should have. It’s a regret. Another knife-twist.
“I’m still so mad at him!” Gail says. “Selfish asshole.” She gets to her feet, limned in the green-gold sunlight. She gestures to the archers on the field. “I’ve gotta go hang with the boys.” With that she takes off, leaving me alone, my grief rekindled.
I sit here, staring through the bent bows, finely drawn silhouettes against deep blue sky. Death by suicide is not what people say it is.
A guy says something, chain mail glitters; Gail’s signature giggle strafes the field. It’s all very purposeful. A collarless dog runs past, brindled and skinny, barking after something. I push myself up to follow it, to find my own purpose, any purpose. I might have taken his dog, had I stood forward and offered. Had my offer had any chance of acknowledgement.
Two costumed knaves balance on a big log stretched across the irrigation canal, sparring with staves. Thick wheat grass cushions either end. A pony cart passes by, obscuring the contest for a few moments. The pony wears fairy wings, and the driver beams beneath her crown while a camera clicks all over them. It’s that literary dude with the long, gray ponytail, from the newspaper. The dog trots toward the pony, then thinks better of it.
A small commotion ensues at the balancing log. Laughter, rude words, clapping. The smaller man has fallen. His moccasined feet are sticking up out of the ditch, bicycling the air.
I realign myself with the dirt track ahead of me. It leads off toward the alley, edged by a weed-footed chain link fence. A faded wrapper hangs in a thistle. The air is flat and stale, and the dog has disappeared.
What comes first, I don’t know. Depression from helplessness, or helplessness from depression; I think there are arguments for both.
First off, I’m not a psychologist, and have no academic qualifications to address any psychological disorder. I haven’t done extensive research and have no scholarly citations to list at the end of this. I do not claim to have the empirically correct solution. I’m just here to share things that, through trial and error, ended up working for me after I lost practically everything to bipolar 1 mania and depression, and I learned helplessness.
When bad things that are out of your control keep happening to you, you eventually come to believe that things cannot get better and there’s nothing you can do to improve your situation or your outcome. Whatever you try leads to no escape and that is the law of your life.
People with learned helplessness lose their motivation, and just get washed along with the current, expecting they will end up in the swamp or the quicksand and sink. There is no point in trying to save themselves. They become hopeless, and even anticipate more bad things. Helplessess is the law of their life.
“Let go of what you can’t control and choose to be positive” is not a helpful piece of advice to someone in this state, so you just have to blow off people who scorn you for not being able to do it.
This quote (somebody threw in my face) from the Greek Stoic philosopher Epictetus is what got me to pondering on helplessness:
“Freedom is the only worthy goal in life. It is won by disregarding things that lie beyond our control.”
Okay. If you buy this, it looks like to win freedom from whatever, you just choose to ignore the things you can’t control, because if you disregard the things, they can’t control you. But it’s not that simple if you’re in a morass of learned helplessness and depression.
Don’t you at least have to acknowledge the things that are beyond your control? Will it really help you, avoiding thinking them over? What is actually going on? Is there a cause? If the cause is something you can’t control, ignoring that cause isn’t going to keep it from controlling you. Looking at it is the only way to begin to understand it.
To find freedom you must first accept the feeling or circumstance. Ignoring is just a way to put off acceptance, and therefore the power of change. One day, look at the circumstance objectively, and look at everything surrounding that one uncontrollable situation. Look at how it is affecting you. This can lead you to find something to change about yourself. Find something you can control. You can’t do that by disregarding the thing you can’t control.
Once you acknowledge and accept the thing that is out of your control, you can move toward finding a strategy to empower yourself.
Steps to self-empowerment:
They say you can control your attitude. Just snap your fingers and CHOOSE to be positive!
Okay, well, that doesn’t work for everyone. I suggest mindfulness as a starting point.
Mindfulness helps you to ground yourself in the moment. Feel the surface under your hand. What do you hear, see, smell? Label it. Describe everything to yourself. Even if you have to actually slam your hand down on the table and say “table!” Knowing where you are and what is around you is the beginning of control. It’s the beginning of viewing yourself and events objectively.
Your approach to the circumstances. Consider approaching the challenges differently (or at all).
One way is to try looking at your situation as containing a problem to be solved. You can make a shift from helpless complacency to being solution-oriented. This doesn’t mean you can control an uncontrollable circumstance such as weather or how someone else is acting, but you may have control over an effect or two on your environment or your frazzled brain. If you can’t spring immediately into a positive attitude toward things, still you can choose what action you take. If you can pick up one little aspect of your life and improve it, do it, and be mindful of that improvement, even if it’s just managing a smile or putting away a cup. Don’t belittle it or yourself. Don’t feel you have to put more effort into it than you can at the moment. As you get stronger, you’ll be able to put more effort in, and your attitude will improve. One little step at a time, you can progress into a solution-oriented attitude by focusing on those tiny adjustments, the things you can control.
Don’t forget to take care of yourself. Prioritize your physical and mental health.
This is another big topic in and of itself. You can’t take care of the helplessness as effectively if you don’t take care of yourself. The hardest thing can be taking the time for it. If you’re not in the habit of taking care of yourself, it’s looking like another big, overwhelming project. It doesn’t mean you have to embrace diet, fitness, sleep, and social time. You can find one thing at a time to improve. You might break it down, make a list, choose the first small thing you can do for your health that you haven’t taken the time to do.
Allow people to help you.
This is a tough one for some people, independence, bootstraps and all that. You can choose to accept help or not. But if you can’t accept help, you could be making the hill you must climb that much higher and steeper. I have little to contribute to the general idea, because it was difficult for me, but I know I usually made things a lot more difficult when I refused help.
Attend to relationships.
Do your best to nurture what you have with family, friends, coworkers. Find ways to reach out. Let them know they are loved and appreciated. Examine those relationships (objectively, as above, if problematic) and work on improving them in any way that is relevant to your situation.
A personal story of how I empowered myself
During a time of poverty that seemed so hopeless that I lost all motivation to care for myself or my surroundings, I got into the danger zone. My husband couldn’t find work, and when he did his clients took advantage of him. I was disabled due to severe bipolar episodes. I felt helpless to fight the disease. And I was sure we were destined to lose our home. There was no point in cleaning house, because it was too overwhelming. There was only so much we could do to maintain the place with no money, despite my husband’s skills. Furniture was left outside, and though I didn’t want it there, it was there, so there was nothing to be done about it. There was no point in trying to communicate with my family, because I was a bad mother, a worse wife, and there was no understanding between us. And so on. Little things and big things sticking together and rolling along, into a boulder of hopelessness. I was helpless. I knew I was powerless to effect any positive outcome, so I didn’t try.
One day I looked at a table that had been left outside, and it was damaged, and for some reason I picked it up and moved it. I have no words to describe what a big achievement that was. But that was the beginning. I learned that it didn’t have to stay where it was. Yes, it was neglected, but just because it was outside did not mean it was already too late for it. I could stop further damage because I had the power to move it. Wow.
It was not the thing that lifted us out of poverty, but it was an event that began my slow journey out of helplessness, which eventually became part of the greater process of ending the poverty. Despite the large proportion of circumstances that were out of my control, there were things that could be controlled, and it was a matter of teaching myself that I had the power to control them. Somehow, over time, one teeny thing after another, I able-ized myself.
These earrings personify the bipolar experience for me. When I am manic, I am like the skeletor face and when I am depressed I am the personification of the drooping mask…even though we are required to wear masks in our day-to-day life I don’t know about you, but it is nearly impossible for me to wear a happy face in all arenas.
For the longest time I was reluctant to wear these earrings because I thought they were too weird and Aztec pagan, but recently I realized they are the perfect expression of my personality. Someone from outside could look at these and think they are weird or cool. But no one but myself will know what they truly signify. And I don’t know about you but sadly being bipolar is part of my identity.
I think, from DBT class and a lot of other blogs, that bipolar shouldn’t define a person. You can use your social and behavioral skills to mask it and not rock the boat for anyone else. But, right or wrong, being bipolar is part of who I am. I cannot escape from this, no matter how acceptably I behave; no matter what positive philosophy I adopt.
And I truly do believe that these positive philosophies are the way to go. Bipolar DOES NOT own you. But for my part, though it doesn’t own me, it is still a part of who I am and I do get sick of all the “positivity” and “cheerleading”. Does that make me a person who gives up? I don’t think so. Being aware is OK. It keeps a person ready to think a moment before reacting to something.
Because you are aware. Awareness isn’t a failing. Acknowledgement is not a failing. Acknowledgement is important and really the best way to help yourself.
Acknowledgement is not the same thing as characterizing oneself. I have been guilty of this. Acknowledgement does not give the disorder its power. Its power comes from characterizing yourself.
You are more than your bipolar disorder. But acknowledging it, even gaining personal power from the knowledge and experience, are good things, in my opinion as a person who has struggled with self-hatred and inferiority from this disease.
So I do like my earrings. They don’t mean the same thing to everyone.
If anyone remembers the Macro Manic Day post, you might have wondered if the car ever exploded.
Well, the good news is it hasn’t so far, and I’ve been forced to drive it only once since my “I will never drive this car again” vow.
Our car is so special. It is a red 1991 Jeep Cherokee. The parking brake doesn’t work. The cassette player is on the fritz. You can’t pick up any radio stations at all around here because the country station is so overpoweringly strong (and the antenna is not connected to the radio. Apparently, it will take a lot of money to fix that). The air conditioner and the cruise control are gone forever. Our right back passenger door got caved in in some accident and was replaced with a white one that doesn’t open from the outside. Some crack-pot body shop. The right rear plastic that covers the taillight is broken. My son has the light itself held onto the car by electrical tape. These are the little things.
The bigger things are the oil leak, between the main parts of the engine. This can only be fixed by pulling the engine. So we drive around with a can of oil in the car at all times and a terrible stench of oil burning on the engine. At all times.
Then there are the doors. They are falling off. The welds that hold the door hinges to the car are breaking. Well, the driver’s side one already completely broke. The professional welder said it was impossible to fix, that no weld would ever hold. So this other guy hubby ran into, who was an amateur welder and didn’t know it couldn’t be done, welded it back on. There is a wadded up plastic bag stuck between the place where the door closes on the little button that makes the car go beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep when the door is open, because the door doesn’t close right and without the wadded up piece of plastic, it would just go beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee all the time while we were driving it (but never get to that terminal p), and run the car battery down to nothing when it was not being driven.
So that weld’s getting ready to go again; we don’t dare open the door all the way. The passenger door is starting to go too. We can see where the weld is starting to fail.
And two nights ago, we discovered what was probably the cause of the horrible stench and smoke coming out of the steering column that day. Because, ta-da! the windshield wipers no longer work!
So driving it in the rain is going to be a challenge.
Now, whenever I have to drive somewhere (which I avoid whenever possible because it usually results in a social encounter of some kind), I take the newer vehicle, the 1993 green-and-white GMC pickup I like to call “Truckie,” and which our ubiquitous friend refers to as “the Jimmy,” which drives me completely bonkers because it is NOT A JIMMY and he pronounces it “Jyyemmy” which takes about 15 seconds to say–Now the “Jyyemmy” is special too, because its windshield is a spiderwork of cracks, the window washer fluid doesn’t work, there is no stereo or radio, and I can’t use the parking brake because the release is broken off. There is a thingy down there that I can access and pull towards me while pushing on the parking brake pedal, but the brake won’t release unless I let go of the parking brake pedal while my hand is under there pulling the thingy so the pedal almost always smashes my hand. It just got a supposedly new clutch (new until the mechanic spilled the beans by telling hubby, “you’ll think it’s a brand-new clutch”). It makes a horrible noise which hubby says is meaningless. It has no functional spare tire and even if it did we don’t have a lug wrench in it or a good spot to place a jack. This makes it extra scary to pull horses (it’s already scary enough)…Also, the passenger side rearview mirror is broken and held together by duct tape and one of the rear tail lights is missing, and worst of all, the seatbelt things that you snap the seatbelt into are BROKEN! all but one. So, for passengers to be buckled in, it is necessary to pull the passenger seatbelt across your lap, then feed the center seatbelt up through it, and then put the center belt down through the driver’s seatbelt, and push it into the latch. So when two or three people are in the truck, we are all dependent upon the center belt fed through the driver and passenger belts. From the outside, it looks like we are seatbelted, but I don’t know if the seatbelts would pass inspection were an officer to look inside. The one good thing that can be said for the GMC, which cannot be said for the Jeep, is that the heater works.
There. I don’t know if I’m manic, depressed, enraged, or trying to keep my mind off something else, but you are now informed about our cars. You’re welcome.
I am very upset by today’s sermon. This was my SECOND time back to church in-at least-over a year, –after months of being immersed in scripture and praise– and now I have almost no inclination to return. I feel that the pastor said he condemns (or strongly implied that God condemns) people who lack self-control (are “out of control”) because they are crazy-makers. No argument there, but it was also directly stated that “people with no self-control are trying to defy God’s relational law of physics.” (read: purposly, frowardly spitting in God’s face).
So, because at times I lack more self-control than others, being bipolar, I am therefore worse than others. There was no tolerance expressed for people like me who cannot control themselves. At so many times. What am I to do, be grateful to God that I have to work 3x as hard as other Christians to do so?
Romans 3:13 was used “Let us behave decently as in the daytime, not in carousing and drunkenness, not in sexual immorality and debauchery, not in dissension and jealousy.” That was the scriptural basis for “OUT OF CONTROL: OUT OF BALANCE BECAUSE OF CONTROL ISSUES.” This was not a sermon to help people such as this. It was a sermon for how people can protect themselves from someone like this. I am not saying such a sermon is not important, or has no application, but I am saying that a sermon that blindsides people with problems and blames them for other Christians’ troubles is unacceptable to ME. A major example that was given was the difficulty of dealing with alcoholics, who just “CHOOSE not to deal with it” or are “in denial.”: Giving no quarter to anyone with an ADDICTIVE DISORDER. By extension, us who live with bipolar illness must only be exhibiting our symptoms because we just CHOOSE not to repress them and intend to use them to control others and/or are in denial. What about everyone else with mental/emotional challenges? Where is the compassion? Nowhere to be found here.
This is bullshit and may have just nipped my joyous returning to church in the bud.
There was also a lot of talk about setting up boundaries against people like me, even though no one seems to have the least iota of respect for MY boundaries. Galatians 6:25: “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ…each one should carry their own load.” I have been told more than once that this disease is my load to carry, not a serious burden that needs to be helped and shared by others. If this is true, well I suck at carrying my own load and should be “loved without rescue.”
Proverbs 19:9: “A hot-tempered person must pay the penalty; rescue them, and you will have to do it again.” Well all I can say to that is extreme thanks and appreciation of those wonderful people who have rescued me in the past and will do so again, because I need rescuing; I have not chosen for God to give me this disease; I am not in denial about it; and I am doing my level best to recover and not be a burden to others. So thank you for your superpowers of rescue, good loved ones, but by all means change your behavior now because this sermon has shown you that I am just a piece of crap who needs not to be helped but to be reprimanded: Matt. 18:15 ‘ir your brother or sister sins, go and point out their fault.” Otherwise, you will have to rescue me again and will be an enabler of my sociopathic behavior. Yes, please confront me and point out my faults, because I don’t know that I’m a sinner and I could give a crap that I hurt you. I just sin wantonly.
That I pray for forgiveness to God, and pray forgiveness of others, apologizing to them, confessing my sin, every time it occurs, is irrelevant, for now I find that I’m actually commiting these sins of bipolar illness on purpose, for I am a crazy-maker.
I do not want to go back and listen to this pastor’s crap anymore. this is the first time I have EVER responded to a sermon that “convicted me” without being pissed off. I did not choose this. I do not use my symptoms to control others. Every time I hurt someone inadvertently I apologize. I do EVERYTHING I can not to hurt those around me to the extent that I am able. And then at church to be treated in the sermon as one to be Boundaried against because I am a bad person is just too effing much.
So- I sin now with my bitterness, my tongue, my lack of self-control, and in coming to bed so I can “govern my tongue” against saying angry words makes me also guilty of the sin of sloth and not being a good woman who “worketh willingly with her hands” (Prov. 31:13) and “girdeth her loins with strength and strengthenist her arms.” (Prov. 31: 17)
Plus, I haven’t yet found a Word condemning this yet (but I know it’s out there), yet I have taken 2 whole clonazepam tablets, knowing full well they will NOT help me with my depression or anger, but after the desire to be knocked out so I will not be governed by my bitter tongue and cause further grief to my loved ones thereby, as I do so very often.
Now I thank God for revealing this stuff and clearing my head through his Word. I should be convicted in a constructive healing way by the sermon but I am just pissed off. I have begun, after weeks of being immersed in scripture, to harden my heart again.
Prov. 28:14 “Happy is the man thart feareth alway; but he that hardeneth his heart shall fall into mischief.” Yay.
That being said, I do not blame God, am not mad at God, and continue to immerse myself in his Word, both to become a better person in Him and to live gracefully with my bipolar disorder. But I’m back to “screw church” sorry.
Well this is fascinating. Just fascinating, to me, at least. I was about to commit hari-kiri on Facebook but I stopped myself just in time.
I find myself in a desolate frame of mind, trapped in my head by the pain of a stubborn migraine and what I can only describe as the fruit of rampant rumination…PARANOIA!
All I can think about is what a failure I am. And yet I don’t feel that this failure is my fault. For the first time in my whole life, I am starting to direct the blame for my self-destructive feelings outward. For the first time I am engaged in ideation of self-harm…but not because I hate myself. No, it’s because of THEM.
Them, them, them. The twofaced people, the enemies who are trying to take me down. I’m tired of worrying about the purpose of my life. They have sought to negate that purpose, to reduce everything I’ve accomplished in seven years of heartbreaking and crazy-making striving to meaninglessness. The good I’ve done is totally outweighed by my perception of their perceptions of my failings, (and my own confirmation of same). My mind tells me I’m being ridiculous. So does my husband, on a daily basis. But that changes nothing.
That doesn’t change my desire to tell THEM ALL to go to hell, and that on the way there THEY can CONGRATULATE THEMSELVES for destroying me and everything I’ve worked to do, all the little differences I’ve made in people’s lives reduced to nothing and invalidated thanks to the things that they’ve said. This is the first time I’ve wanted to kill myself not only to escape myself, but to SHOW THEM what THEY have done to me. I don’t know why this is. I wish I knew, precisely, who THEY are.
This is so weird. My anti-suicide checklist is in my brain too, and part of me wants it to shut up. A trusted family member says I should stop pursuing the cause and pay attention to my family. But what about me? I’ve already failed as a family member. And as far as my work goes, I haven’t succeeded in achieving anything significant to me since last April. So what use am I????? In comparison with the epic heroism of others, my efforts are a fucking joke. Why? Because I just can’t handle it any more. In practice, I gave up months ago. The helplessness of trying to operate in an environment that is so hostile. Last year’s newcomers to the cause, whom I trusted, but who were really just around to judge and find fault. They who think my family and I aren’t good enough to succeed in our cause, when we were succeeding just fine for six years before THEY got involved, THEY are the ones who have steered me, and my family, into crash-and-burn trajectory.
Thank you, thank you, thank you. You know who you are. You have all very possibly succeeded in removing another small resource from a population that needs all the resources it can get. And you have destroyed my family by destroying my life. Congratulations, you should all feel very proud of yourselves!
See, those are the thoughts in my head! Yuck! They are there all the time, but they don’t always enrage me. They simply make me vulnerable to frequent anxiety attacks, have headaches, and lose sleep. But everyone has people they don’t get along with, and all people who are trying to do something have challenges, people ARE assholes, and life ISN’T fair and never has been, to anyone, and there is no reason that all of a sudden I should be so filled with rage and hatred over it.
So I am trying to look at these weird, hostile feelings with interest, as a curiosity, because suicide and/or self-harm doesn’t hurt your enemies. It simply gives them more ammunition, and you are no longer around to prove them wrong. Meanwhile, it eviscerates your family and pisses off your friends. So it’s never a good idea.
And I can’t let go of the need to go on doing my small, miniscule, apparently meaningless good deeds, despite what my trusted advisor says. Letting go of the desire to help people and animals isn’t so easy as the people around me seem to think it should be. The very Idea that I should tell the few people whom I–perhaps mistakenly–believe depend on me, to go away, is causing me even MORE anxiety and self-devaluation. Don’t the people pressuring me to do this realize that if clients & volunteers are pushed away now “for six months,” they are NOT going to be lined up at the end of that time waiting to return? Because they are NOT! They will have hurt feelings at first, and then they will go on with their lives and find a more worthy cause to support. A “six-month hiatus for re-evaluation” will simply end our organization. I can’t believe that isn’t obvious.
What can I learn? What can I take away from this that will be useful to me, what to help me be there for my family, who apparently are supposed to benefit from this mutilation?
There is a lesson in here somewhere, if I only had the wit to see it.
Today I thanked God for my bipolar disorder.
I thank God because since I have this thing, it means I was meant to, and I thank Him for the lessons it has taught me, and for the lessons I will continue to learn.
And I thank God for taking away my bitterness over it and replacing that bitterness with gratitude, at least for today.
Siege of the Spirit 