Pick a fight

Each one of us is a unique and unrepeatable miracle of God’s grace. My wife is a miracle to me. My children are miracles.

But I do not always feel like an unrepeatable miracle of God’s grace sometimes. Unique yes. Much of the time I feel alone in this world. I mean after all, how many other people do you know who for years self medicated with alcohol and addiction and had an eating disorder, anorexia for six years and recovered from all and struggles with bipolar, migraine, Parkinson’s and dementia now. But more often I behave as though God puts up with me because He made me and now He is stuck with me. 

Logically I know this is false, but deep, and sometimes not so deep, inside it nags and gnaws at my heart, at the security and love I feel from not only others but also about myself. It creeps into my prayers, into my thoughts, into how I love and relate to my wife, to my kids, and to me.

Bipolar disorder is one of the most elusive illnesses we know of. The lives of those who live with are written like a bestselling mystery novels. The beginning opens in the middle of nowhere and every page is a twist and turn full of surprises never knowing what is going to happen next. Recognizing our thoughts are awry and our judgment is impaired is a risky business for anyone dealing with a mental illness. It all seems so sensible in our delusional state. We need to come to the conclusion there is an impairment in our functioning that prevents us from living life normally. Then again I hate that word, “normal.” Who says what is normal?

Sometimes life is the best teacher. Not an easy teacher. Just gets the job done when others can’t.

I’ve been stable from my bipolar since the fall of 2012 when I had electroconvulsive shock therapy and a new medication regimen. But now I’m on a quest. A journey. One that will take time. I didn’t get here overnight so I can’t get out overnight. And honestly I’m ready for it. I need it, yet I’m apprehensive about it. A journey to better maintain my dementia.

Incorporating demented behavior, into a recovery-belief system is a dilemma, perhaps the ultimate bipolar dilemma. What is good in our lives is often tinged with the excessive and grandiose things we think and believe that stay and linger long after an episode has us sidelined.

Am I crazy, or is there a place in our lives for a variation of what is often viewed as a delusion or fading vision of positive afterthought? Often, it is the stigma of being deemed crazy that forces us to let go of our more upbeat selves. What hits home worse is being stigmatized by the very health professionals who claim to be on your side and your own family.

How can we hang onto what feels at the time of an episode of fairy tales existence which ultimately drags us down? Is it possible to sustain some semblance of hope and acceptance, or am I just plain crazy? Many times we don’t want to let go. Who would want to let go of who you are?

As every stereotype has the value of truth captured within it, so grandiosity and seduction have their valued qualities. Often, black and white thinking, the antithesis of open examination, has us discard our more creative selves in favor of stability and survival. A killer side effect.

Do we need to discard it all for the sake of sanity? A lot depends on regaining some self-respect after an episode leaves us hollow and bereft. And I use “sanity” lightly. Because what is the opposite of dementia? And sane and insane is what I know in regards to bipolar so it’s easy for me to liken a demented episode to loss of sanity. Like when I have my blackout spells or loss of concentrations, etc.

There is a recovery period after an episode and that’s what I am looking for. A long term period. A better way to manage. A time when I may question myself or find it difficult to understand how I could have followed a line of thought and action to such excess.

Eventually, I want to come to a place of balance, recognizing what’s gained from a “brilliant madness.” That’s what I know is “madness.” I must admit I find some kind of relief that my mind will slip into a blissful unknowingly state some day. That one day I will be unaware of the dark suicidal depressions and the chaotic manias that have wreaked havoc on my own mind and the losses that I have endured by what has been stolen from me.

I’ve been in recovery before. It’s about second chances. Leaving the door of insight and openness ajar can help us retain what has value from even the most extreme and chaotic impulses.

Life is a good teacher. Sometimes the only one who can get through to us. The next time I’m ready to throw away every grit and particle of an experience because of remorse of letting myself go emotionally and intellectually, I have to remember to glean from my memory the biochemical facts of my diagnosis.

Gather in what I feel is true and what has touched my heart there is no need to judge myself harshly. Be kind to myself and from that place evaluate my extremes. Discern what mania offered me in the light of day and embrace those elements of true caring. Question what I cannot sort out and put it aside for the time being. Fullness of thought sometimes only comes with time. I have learned a lot from my own bipolar that will teach me how to handle my dementia.

And still I struggle.

Not only does God know me, He has always known me. He is the One who formed me. He is the One who knows intimately each and every detail of who and how I am.

I write about dark things in order to understand the Light. Most readers don’t get that. Perhaps this is what happens when good isn’t good enough anymore. Because of my illnesses I will never be good enough to certain people. Perhaps this isn’t what freedom truly looks like. Perhaps this is all He wanted from me in the beginning – to be myself, resting in His grace. Perhaps I am doing what He wants me to do. Perhaps I am using my illnesses as He would have me to. Not for my benefit but His and others.

I’m stubborn and hardheaded, there’s no doubt. I’ve picked fights. But it’s time I pick a fight with myself. Pick a fight with my way of thinking. It’s time to be willing to commit myself to battle my dementia in order to break free from the cycles of concessions that have enslaved me.

Am I outnumbered? Yes. Both internally and externally. In this world the odds are against me. I am every mistake I’ve ever made. I am every person I’ve ever hurt. I am every word I’ve ever said. I am made of flaws. But I’ve got a great team.

I’m also too positive to be doubtful. Too optimistic to be fearful and too determined to be defeated.

So it's time to pick a fight.