Rocky Mountain Low

What Rule #1 of Abnormal Psychology *should've* been at the beginning of the semester, while the professor was telling all of us not to diagnose ourselves with every imaginable potential disorder? (That turned out to be an utterly useless proclamation, because I walked into class the first day already having been diagnosed with half of the psychiatric disorders on the syllabus.)

My rule: "DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, TELL ANYONE YOU'RE STUDYING FOR A DOCTORATE IN PSYCHOLOGY, BECAUSE, WHILE YOUR OWN THERAPIST IS LEFT SCRATCHING HER HEAD AT YOUR SHOP TALK, THE GENERAL POPULATION WILL ASK YOU TO DIAGNOSE EVERYTHING."

I overheard the strangest conversation in the elevator going to therapy yesterday:

African Man w/Undistinguishable Accent to an Asian woman "Haven't we met before?"

Woman: "No, why, do think all Koreans look alike?

Man: "I swear I saw you with a mask on."

(Exit elevator. Rats.)

Largely, African or African-American people incorrectly assume Caucasian people alike, and the reverse is also largely true, unfortunately. But for an African man with a heavy accent to a Korean woman that question, it's very non-stereotypical, though it sort of overtly was. It just all struck me as very strange and I wished I could've listened to the rest of their conversation, but alas...

So the news is slowly emerging on the mass murders in the Aurora, CO theater during  a midnight screening of the new Batman movie. Killing a dozen (or more) and injuring (I've heard conflicting reports on whether it was 50 or 70 people) countless others, a man by the name of James Holmes, a 24-year old on a PhD track in neuroscience, who had been been skipping class a lot, and was about to be expelled, when he withdrew from classes last year. It was reported that he couldn't engage in dialog in class, while deemed a pretty "good guy," no one he knew comprehended WHY he committed such a heinous crime.

We know from his family and friends that he had an affluent upbringing, had a 2-parent household, was sort of a loner, particularly introverted, and had kept to himself, but was proficient in sports and academics, and had, obviously, put careful planning into this horrific venture. Reportedly, he booby trapped his apartment with explosives if the authorities were to arrive. He lashed out at the movie theater crowd donned in a bullet proof vest and other protective regalia, finished his spree and went to glibly stand by his car, awaiting the arrival of the police. He was found with 4 guns and thousands of rounds of ammunition, which he all legally purchased online. That said, my impression of law is that premeditation would disallow him from pleading not-guilty by reason of mental disease or defect when he goes up for eventual trial regarding the homicides.

Expectantly, my friends on social media asked me to weigh in as to what mental disease Holmes might have, while others kept insisting "The guy's just crazy." The more I hear it in relation to the mentally ill, the more it grates on my nerves. That leads me back to the awkward exchange in the elevator, as odd as it was. Calling Holmes a plain "crazy" as a reason why he went on a shooting spree, is no different than calling me crazy, or anybody else who's mentally ill. Note that I'm not condoning Holmes' actions on the basis of mental illness. I'm purely trying to educate my readers who chalk the whole event to Holmes being a "crazy lunatic."

There was a comment thread on my friend, Sree's page, in which Sree felt remorseful having allowed his 7-year old twins to have a water gun party last weekend for their birthdays. I told him (and all of our mutual friends) that I completely allow my 12-year old to buy and play with toy guns, rifles and whether they shoot Nerf darts or BB's, I don't frown upon it, as Craig also doesn't.

Upon seeing a news clip, one of Sree's friends who doesn't know me, said this:

some of the smartest people do tend to have a bit of crazy. Some can manage it and use it for good. some not. I haven't read this though, but seriously- they are scarily tied closely sometimes.

Well, as long as we're talking "crazy," which is an outdated, derogatory misnomer, another friend of Sree's offered this:

My guess is that "crazy" follows the same distribution of smarticles as the general population.

Totally, statistically, untrue. I was getting irked by that point at all this "crazy talk," I felt compelled to offer the following, since so many of our friends were asking for my layperson's psychoanalysis of Holmes:

As a PsyD student in psychology, a writer/musician AND comorbidly clinically insane, I take issue with the deeming of ANYONE under the generalized umbrella of "crazy." It's an outdated, derogatory misnomer. It's statistically true, as Denise implied, that the characteristic of brilliance or "genius"--be that academically, creatively, scientifically, etc--has proven to be disproportionately linked to the incidence and prevalence of a wide range of severe mental disorders (Simona, you're incorrect). The onset of an individual's first "psychotic break" in major personality or mood disorders most commonly occurs in late adolescence to early adulthood. (I, myself, was symptomatic of bipolar disorder, major depression & anxiety disorder in college. I wasn't properly diagnosed & medicated successfully until my mid 30's, after self-medicating with drugs and/or alcohol for decades.) Based on the (very limited) information that I've heard about James Holmes, if I had to provisionally diagnose him, my guess would be paranoid schizophrenia, antisocial personality disorder or legitimate psychopathy. I'm most inclined to go with the latter.

When you think of a genius with schizophrenia, John Nash might come to mind, on who's life "A Beautiful Mind" was based. But schizophrenics, by and large, still, even if paranoid or otherwise disassociative, have some semblance of a CONSCIENCE and while fueled by hallucinations, delusions, etc lose their grasp on reality in those psychotic moments, out of my 3 possibilities, they show the most favorable probability of having remorse and comprehending right from wrong, and if consistently medicated, show the most favorable overall prognosis, which doesn't mean they won't go through hell and gone on the road to stability, which often eludes them during their entire lifespans.

Antisocial personality disorder usually follows earlier-life oppositional defiance or conduct disorder symptoms (which is more the grouping I'd diagnose the Columbine killers) and that mental illness is typically noticed by parents/teachers/doctors far earlier than the mid 20's. ASPD is really hard, sometimes, to distinguish from psychopathology. So removed from the gravity of the reality of a crime such as the CO shooting, a clinical psychopath would have literally no concept that what he did was, in fact, murder multiple people, that it was, in fact, a punishable crime (nor would he care--it would actually "pride" the criminal at having succeeded in an act so dastardly) and had he not been apprehended, future psychotic episodes or lengthy symptoms would make this murder spree a mere precursor to escalating incidences of violent crimes. 

News reports of Holmes' crime would seem to indicate he had a high level of premeditation, e.g. booby-trapping his apartment in the event the authorities were to arrive there, procuring his arsenal of guns and ammo, costuming himself, and taking his actions out in a public place, which would all defy any plea he might plan of "not guilty by reason of mental disease or defect." PSYCHOPATHS HAVE ZERO CONSCIENCE. He's SMILING in his mug shot. 

I don't know quite what to make of his mother/father in all of this yet. Still working on her involvement. I will say this: Ted Bundy still turned out to be TED BUNDY, even though his childhood and adolescence were, for the most part, stable. HE was a psychopath, as was Dahmer, who also had a clinically insignificant upbringing. Bottom line: Most of us don't irretrievably "fuck up" our kids. A ton of biopsychosocial factors go into *how* a serial killer becomes a serial killer. So Sree, quit thinking that the twins' water gun b-day party was an error on your part.

I felt that, on my own Facebook, since I was being torn apart for my son's fascination with guns and weaponry, I'd simply offer this:

When asked for a statement, Ms. Miklasz, a clinically insane woman who hates the word "crazy," said, "Not all geniuses are crazy people and not all crazy people are geniuses." When questioned as to why she allows her preteen to play with toy and replica guns, she said this: "Luke is a bright, gifted, affectionate, mature and highly creative pacifist who enjoys the company of his elder cousin and a few close friends. He's been intrigued by weaponry for years, which has frankly never concerned us, nor is it a remote precursor to him developing clinical psychopathy or homicidal ideations when he's older. He's resilient, spiritual and witty, yet not perfect. The most damage he's done with a gun was to his father's lamp shade and one of his mother's dressers. HE HAS A CONSCIENCE. Psychopaths and antisocial personality disorder-types don't, so chill the fuck out, ya'll."

It's a lot like African-Americans being socially acceptable in calling one another the "N" word, my opinion is that "crazy people" should be the only people allowed to use "crazy" in the context of either themselves or other mentally ill people they know themselves. "Crazy" and "Evil" were the two most prominent descriptions of Holmes that I'd universally read yesterday. In "psych speak, ""crazy and evil" are described as "pathologically ill with no compassion, remorse or sense of right vs. wrong." 

Was Holmes a genius? Quite possibly. Is he a remorseless social miscreant criminal? Undoubtedly. Speaking earlier about Ted Bundy, I learned that his upbringing and family atmosphere was, in reality, much more stable and less tumultuous than my own son's, though Bundy became a mass-murderer. Unlike Holmes, Bundy was a gregarious, smart, attractive and engaged individual who participated in multiple political campaigns, was active at school and wasn't a stereotypical loner who was universally liked. But was he pathological? Clinically, definitely.

The same can be said of Jeffrey Dahmer's upbringing, which was stable, but on the other hand, Dahmer had a fascination with killing things from a very early age, usually animals, was kind of a loner, wasn't terribly successful at school or work, and also showed no guilt or remorse for his crimes.

 Luke's upbringing, on the other hand, suffice it to say he's seen and experienced much more than the average child because of our divorce, my mental illness and addictions and is still a pacifist who happens to enjoy guns, while having a genius-level IQ and being very creative. I STILL maintain that none of his personality traits, which my ex-husband and I watch vigilantly, are leaning us in the direction towards Luke being or becoming mentally ill. Yet I found myself on the defense yesterday over and over again. 

While not condoning Holmes' actions, by any stretch, I said over on Twitter:

I'm not pro-guns. But I'm not anti-weaponry. I'm, however, inclined to go anti-psychopath, pro-peace & champion mental health rights.

Pastor Dave learned how to use guns in the Army, among other weapons. Does that make him clinically insane or pathological? Hardly. The truth of the matter is, while the country really, really needs to tighten the gun-availability standards, laws and practices, it's not the amount of guns flying about that lead to mass murders. It's the psychopathology or antisocial personalities of the individuals who commit horrible feats of destruction.

It'll be interesting to watch this case unfold and what "excuses" Holmes' lawyer come up with in regard to his mental condition. What do I believe? Being anti-death penalty, I would advocate he spend life in prison without the possibility of parole. Perhaps he'll be in seclusion and won't be likewise murdered in the clink like Dahmer was.

Whoa, Misjudged That One. And That One.

Guess who surfaced last night, out of the secluded darkness I cloaked as the end of our friendship?

Yawp.

I didn't take his phone call, rapidly firing away last night's hypomanic school blog amid the thunderous humming of the courtyard's air conditioning units and my iTunes, intent on finishing my thoughts and ideas before attempting to read my homework (which I never did finish, which I have all weekend to finish...) before actual thunder, lightning and a severe storm would drown the drought for a few hours last night, as we lost electricity (and internet! Damn!) for about half an hour. (Naturally, the power was restored right after we'd lit candles and located all the flashlights.)

Not leaving a voice mail when he called, I texted Guy Friend later that I saw that he called, but was unavailable and too busy to speak with him. "Sorry to hear you're stressed out. Grad school is a ton and a half of work," he replied. I told him that "stressed out" was a kind but inaccurate description of my state of mind, told him that I'd been worried about him and was assuming the worst case scenario, e.g. that he hated me. "We have to catch up since I'm never on the computer," he said.

Admitting he was "totally guilty" for not finding time to call me, he once again described my life as a "soap opera," though he hasn't read any of the blogs in which he's been ripped a new asshole recently. I honestly told him that he wasn't being a good friend to me, admitting that I hyper-reacted, and that it was perhaps best he stay off the computer. (On this, I think we can all agree.) I reiterated to him that Luke would be out of town all next week, and that it'd be nice to get together.

Avoiding making plans to make plans to make plans, which he is wont to do, he told me he wasn't upset and didn't want to see me upset, and that he'd been working 24/7 with no free time and hoped I'd get some rest. Thus, he missed all my "upset" in the last week which was publicly voiced for the masses, I apologized for "lambasting" him (or worse, I should've said "I totally castrated you on the internet.") and told him I was glad he wasn't mad at me. (Which, if he was mad at me, would be too damn bad, because I was honestly justified in my feelings, which I think my legion of friends would wholeheartedly agree.) It seemed fruitless to chastise him for not having the common, friendly, polite courtesy to take 30 seconds off his harried clock and fucking text me that he was frantically working. Hare Krishna, that's just plain rude.

What Guy Friend said back in May rang in my head once again, "I'm glad (or was it "grateful"?) you don't stay mad at me for long." I don't know what it is about that Guy, but no, I can't find it in my big ol' heart to bear a grudge against him (lest we forget, he FIRED me from my JOB!). I'm a chronically forgiving and accommodating woman, most of the time, with men, whom I love. On the other hand, have a woman piss me off, and I can hold a grudge for YEARS, my most vile claws will surface and it isn't a pretty sight, because, with the exception of my close circle of girlfriends, I really don't like women very much.

None of this news will come as a surprise to Best Male Friend, but it also won't make him very happy. It could be worse, Best Male Friend. I could likewise be, well, married. Ain't that a hole in the boat?

Luke just left for Dad's house, packed up for his mission trip/work camp for next week, parting ways with me as if I'm sending him off to military school, when in reality, he'll see me at therapy in FIVE HOURS. (It's after THAT we have to say goodbye until July 29th.) That whole regression into calling me "Mommy" and telling me how sad he was, while I was sympathetic and hugged him tightly, was overkill, don't you think? I told him to man up, called him "Lucas," which he hates, and made him lug his own suitcase to The Other Grandma's car. I'll miss My Little Preteen Caretaker fiercely, but I will enjoy the independence, it's anybody's guess how I'll get to bed without his shepherding, yet will have an unadulterated respite from the rigors of motherhood (read: sometimes it's hard to feed myself, much less Luke). 

At school this morning, we were delivered our cumulative scores and overall percentages for the class thus far. With the assumption in my mind that I was stumped in a D-level pit out of which I was begging my research paper and The Gloriously Insane and Hugely Entertaining Presentation would pump me out from, I was actually quite surprised that I am, in fact, presently getting 85% in the class, a solid B. It's vital to note that my paper & presentation haven't yet been factored into my overall grade. Each worth 150 points, the point equivalent of an exam only 80 total points, if my (frequently incorrect) math is right, I could verily be getting an A by Monday, when the professor reveals those grades. 

The test last week on my resident expert topics (to review: depression, bipolar disorder, drugs, alcohol & eating disorders), which I really didn't study for at any great length? I missed an A- by 3/10 a point, getting a B+, my best test score yet, which damn well should've happened. Without seeing the exam or what I got wrong, I can only assume it was on matters of statistics or theories, or specificity in the minute details of anorexia versus bulimia or the foreign idea of "binge eating," because I sure as hell know my dope, booze and loony. 

Next week's test is on four lengthy chapters, including the plethora of confusingly similar personality disorders (like schizoform vs. schizoid personality disorder vs. narcissistic and borderline personality disorders etc), sexual disorders and dysfunctions, as well as all the different types of therapy and legal an ethical issues in the field of abnormal psychology. Read: Some confusing fucking shit.  *IF* I come to find out I'm, in actuality, getting an A, the grade on THAT test will be relatively insignificant, over which I shan't tear out any hair, and will likewise exempt me from having to take the "optional" final, which I'll only endure if I'm stuck on the fence between an A and a B, is cumulative on the entirety of the course, and would prove to be utter torture, though it can only enhance our grades, not count against anything. You with me?

In any event, after next Thursday, I can kiss Abnormal Psych goodbye for the time being and walk into my appointment with my Adler School admissions counselor Friday morning with my head held high, and tell him to BRING IT ON. You're all, I'm sure, thrilled to hear I'll be on academic sabbatical for another couple of months and can refocus on my creative, artistic and intellectual ventures and proudly add another successful notch in my psychology belt. If, however, I come to find that I need to take statistics this fall, all bets are off and I'll no doubt completely break down and shove anti-anxiety pills rapidly down my throat. (There's a good chance, like I've said before, that I can simultaneously take graduate courses while throttling haplessly through what the community college calls "Elementary Statistics," though how "elementary" it is, for someone like me, translates to "An Epic Adventure Into the Land of Sixteen Weeks of Perpetual Cardiac Arrest.") Friends? If you're local and know more about math than my son, on whom I will rely, CALL ME. Guy Friend was all like, "Take nursing statistics or psychology statistics." I would do that, if such a thing existed, trust me. Meh, I shouldn't get my Victoria's Secrets in a bundle just yet.

I informed Guy Friend last night that What's Left of The Who, Minus Ox and Moonie, are coming in November to play the entirety of "Quadrophenia" & "Other Hits" at the arena Steven nicknamed "The Airplane Hanger" when I saw him there a couple of years ago. The announcement must've went over Guy Friend's head, because if there's any wagon on which he'd jump, it's that of The Who. I ran it past Steven's Douche-o-Meter yesterday, and with tickets at $129, he said "Man, no way." (While still cheaper than Roger Waters' uberdouchery of "The Wall," at $250 a pop, I think if given a choice, I'd rather twist Guy Friend into going to see my crush, Lou Barlow's, band, Sebadoh, at Schuba's or my 2nd generation crush, Dhani Harrison's, band, thenewno2, playing a Lollapalooza after-party at the Logan Square Auditorium on August 3rd, my wedding anniversary and Dad's birthday, which is, at least, free.) While Steven and I might doubt Guy Friend would enjoy either show, HE OWES ME ONE. 

Why do I have a decades-long crush on Lou Barlow, you ask? Because I am a Generation X alterna-gal. I don't know any woman similar to me (Steven admits to having a mancrush on Lou himself, especially between 1996-1999.) who aren't in lust with Lou. If you want a visual of Lou, skip back to the blog "Free to Go" from a few days ago, featuring a video of a song by one of Lou's offshoot projects, The Folk Implosion. If you require further proof of his inherent adorability, he has a toddler, Hendrix. He lets Hendrix sit on the dining room table and fill his mouth with paper napkins, just because he finds it humorous, then posts pictures of it online. I found it downright AWESOME, and something I totally would've let Luke do when he was 2 or 3, uh, if Craig wasn't home. Don't all call DCFS at once.

Prophetically, I posted this to my Facebook feed yesterday, and low and behold, he called, as I mentioned above:

Because:

I guess I should get back to reading my psych work while I'm still conscious, before dinner and Luke's therapy, since the Entire Pot of Coffee AND Starbucks Triple Shot of Espresso haven't crashed me yet. I didn't get through the whole sexuality chapter, and please, Professor, we all turn Japanese. There's no shame in discussing it like adults, even if you did have nuns tell you it'd make you blind in grade school.

It Was Nothing If Not Colorful.

You all know me. I'm ALL ABOUT educating the emerging generations of impressionable young people by imparting upon them the wisdom with which I've been blessed (and cursed) through my rich and vibrant life experiences.


That's part of the reason why I think I'll make such a good therapist, especially to people with mood disorders, addicts and alcoholics, because chances are, either I've done it, had friends who've done it, relatives who died doing it, heard rumors about it, read studies on it or otherwise figured it all out, and while I do try and see the pot of gold at the end of any given individual's complicated rainbow, my Bullshit Radar is as sharp as a diamond cutting glass. 


This accelerated summer semester of Abnormal Psychology has been an exercise in divine chaos that I can safely say is reminiscent of the frantic pace with which I approached life BEFORE I was medicated for bipolar disorder. The pace has worn me thin (mentally...Physically, I've put on a few pounds.). The sheer amount of material to read on a daily basis is more than The Offbeat Drummer reads in a typical YEAR. Studying for and passing the lengthy exams has caused me to question my preconceived level of intelligence at the cost of being duly deemed "learning disabled" because I went to such great lengths to self-medicate my insanity in years past. Out of all of the course requirements, however, I was relatively certain I would have little difficulty successfully executing the following: the research paper and the class presentation.


We all bring forth different strengths and weaknesses to class every day. While Katie, the young woman who sits 2 seats away from me (no, I never *did* move seats or float around the room as the professor requested at the beginning of the semester, for I had little interest in acquainting myself with All The Young Fledglings) takes detailed, massive handwritten notes on the lectures, does well on the exams and was one of *those* students who started reading the book before the professor even showed up the first day, I effortlessly achieved in about 3 hours (including simultaneous research) what took her 10 days, writing the research paper. (If my memory serves, Katie did her paper on depression and her presentation on holistic remedies for depression, which, while not a snooze-fest, also wasn't sincerely, constructively, revealingly stunning. I should hope that the populous collective didn't need time devoted to the ineffectiveness of St. John's Wort.)

Listen, chickie babies, dissecting your own mental disorder(s) in a clinical, scientific context, using yourself as a case study, while delivering a dry interpretation of DSM-IV-TR officially-sanctioned data about what's wrong with you isn't everybody's bag and was intellectually more difficult than it sounds, though I raced through citing studies, seamlessly streamed through the etiology, prevalence, diagnosis, treatment and prognosis of Bipolar II, and was so prolific (though tightly woven and relevant) that I had to reduce the font of the paper twice in order to fit the information into 8 double-spaced pages, which the professor would ding you on negatively if you didn't follow.

Instead of conforming to a format of bullet points and boringly delivered clinical factoids, sequentially proper, with the case study (of myself) at the end, I creatively interwove all of the required clinicals, citations and statistics within the realm of my mental life story. After all, the professor didn't say we couldn't. While it wasn't originally intended to be a creative work of scientifically significant prose, that's how it turned out, and with it, I was very pleased. Only after I vomited out the 8 pages did I actually READ it to see if it made ANY sense whatsoever. It all did, so with a decent-enough cover page attached, my APA citations all correctly, numerically in order, I put it to rest.

Perhaps calling my case "befuddling" was too-English-majorish, and talking about myself in the third-person was, frankly, odd, but if you asked my (former) psychiatrist, whose monotone babbling was as notorious as that disturbing Icarus falling lithograph in his waiting room, HE wouldn't be able to come up with a more appropriate term. (My experience? Doctors + Extensive, Artistically-Expressed Vocabulary = HIGHLY unusual. My professor, a clinical psychologist, can't even utter the word "autogynephilia" without tripping her scientific tongue. If you, yourself, don't know what that condition is, totally Google it. Fascinating. Men are fucked up.)

Fortunately, now available, for the bipolar car enthusiast, there's a "Jekyll-and-Hyde" 1968 Chevy Camaro to drive around. Seriously! This isn't Photoshopped:

Our class presentations were to be of a specialized, narrower spectrum based on our research papers. Well, duh, it seemed only befuddlingly befitting to localize my statistically-rare blend of Bipolar II with Mixed-Mood Episodes, which I've blogged at length about during the course of the semester this summer. Hell, the whole reason why I'm symptomatic and have been for the last 6 weeks is because of the fucking class. (Yes, I explained that external stressors can precipitate or induce the onset of my symptoms.) Three dizzying days of listening to veritable barely-legals randomly chosen to present a garden variety of subjects ranging from caffeine's effects on the body to physical ramifications of anorexia nervosa (incidentally, if any of my medical team happens to read this, all that pancreatitis? Ding ding ding! Though none of you associating the correlation of starvation to pancreatitis had occurred to me either, so ain't no thang) before my name was finally called. Mispronounced repeatedly, but called nonetheless.

What I lacked in visually bland but voluminous Power Point slides, the computer program largely unfamiliar to me, I totally made up for in oral delivery thereof. Plus, none of the other students freely inserted "fuck" or "shit" into their slides like I did, nor could any of them lay claim to personally experiencing an illness that they were astounded to see, via my slides, afflicted literally hundreds of influential artists, writers, musicians, politicians, poets, actors and actresses, who's names I had to make tiny to fit onto the slides but were no less indicative of the prevalence of bipolar disorder in the famous and infamous. It seems that the only textbook "famous" cases of bipolar are in those who have committed suicide, such as Ernest Hemingway, Virginia Woolf, Del Shannon, Sylvia Plath or Vincent Van Gogh. But what about those who are still alive and kicking, like Ben Stiller or Sting? How about Peter Gabriel? Or Robert Downey Jr?

While most students cowered behind the professor's computer in the front of the room in order to segue their slides using the mouse, I took it upon myself to stylize my Acutely Hypomanic Overload using the professor's slide remote control, pacing around the front of the room, pointing out highlights of the text of my slides with anecdotal musings from What I've Survived. Typically shy and historically introverted in front of a crowd and not having taken anti-anxiety medication this morning, you'd think I would've elected to situate behind the computer too, as I do by sitting behind my drum kit, out of harm's way. That, dear ones, is one of the actual benefits of being hypomanic: imagined but invincible grandiosity, a gift for gab and an inflated mood. They caught me on a lucky day, I suppose, or is it the other way around?

Given 8-10 minutes during which to present my specific mental maladies, and including a 3 minute Paul Weller piano-version of "My Ever-Changing Moods" (to which I provided the class the lyric sheet), the presentation rounded out with a required Q&A period, which was to be part of our overall grade. My professor had, by then, finished scribbling notes about my talk, went to stand in the back of the room, and unleashed me and my experience to my extremely curious classmates whose attention was, as has been the case when I've spoken the whole semester, doe-eyed and piqued. (The Q&A periods up until my presentation had been sparsely vocalized generalizations, in which I tried to ask probing questions for my own education (or edification, depending), with the knowledge that it was partly to augment my classmates' point values.)

I let Paul Weller's piano fade out as I meekly raised an eyebrow and said, "Questions?"

Hands went up in the air feverishly,  putting me on the spot and while prepared to field questions about bipolar disorder and thinking I'd explained mixed-moods well already, it's safe to say I didn't expect their onslaught: I had to give an addict's tutorial on what a bummer it is when you're addicted to narcotic painkillers (in the late 90's), your 3 doctors who are all Rx'ing Vicodin, Lortab, Ambien and Restoril to you piece together your puzzle, cut you off abruptly and you withdraw (that time) cold turkey, the reality of which, as with all of their questions, I gave an honest, frank and detailed answer. The professor actually clinically deemed my combination of psychoactive meds as a "cocktail" professionally that psychiatrists Rx. I told the class the meds help curb symptoms from escalating into a psychotic break requiring hospitalization, that I don't have. I was surprised--I'd been calling it my "cocktail" for years without therapeutic prompting.

They wanted to know why and how I became an alcoholic. I was questioned about the amount of sugar I consume (generally very little), whether or not I get any pleasure out of eating food (not really), if anyone in my family was bipolar (I strongly suspected my late father was, and explained why, and that segued into his addiction/death), if I've ever felt weird about having my disorders (loud and proud!), the dangers of impulsive promiscuity with strangers (which leads to 3 years' worth of Chris), what I do behaviorally to maintain sanity (write "Rhythms," play drums and go to cognitive behavioral therapy), if I get tired of taking all my medications (yes, but I know it's a life-long deal), how my 12-year old "centers" me (he's a resilient rock), what it was like to detox/rehab in a psych ward (terrifying), what my favorite Pink Floyd album is ("Wish You Were Here"), if I would give it all up to be "normal" (not in a million years), why I like to read philosophy for recreation ('cause it's badass!), I vividly showed them all how I used to slice up my right arm and why I got a tattoo, and admitted that when the entire pot of coffee I drink in the morning fails to wake me up adequately when asked about my caffeine consumption, I get a triple-shot espresso from Starbucks and, while I had gone overtime of my limit, worn out, the professor let the students finish with their questions.

"Wow. Thank you, Andrea," she said. I was sort of like, "You're most welcome. Now somebody go grab me a gin & tonic and about 9 Norco." I was only half-kidding.

Quite possibly the most flattering part of the presentation equation was, as I was returning to my little cloistered seat, one of the students asked if she could quote me. Nobody's ever asked to quote me in person before. She'd half-written down a comment I'd made about being a loser, and wanted me to repeat it. I used it to illustrate how I felt in a depressive episode.

The hypomanic slide said (among many other things), "I'm a creative genius and if you don't think I am, fuck you."

The depressive slide said (also among many other things), "I'm still a genius, but I'm also a loser. But I'm a better loser than all of you other, average losers," which I think I said first here some blogs back.

Are my bipolar delusions of grandeur that out of whack, that I actually believe I'm a genius? No. Hardly. Creatively gifted? By the grace of God, yes. Am I an utterly ridiculous buffoon? Frequently. Sinful? All the time. Human? Yes, just like all the rest of us. When my former therapist, Erin, asked me if I really wanted to open myself up and expose my illnesses to my whole class, and what the potential negative outcomes of that might be, I told her that I honestly didn't find any. Do I honestly give a shit as to what my classmates think of me, personally? No. I think I made that obvious today. I enlightened those young people in a way that the professor, for all her clinical experience, data, and patient anecdotal knowledge, cannot. If any of them are using or abusing drugs, maybe they'll stop. If they think drinking is great and wonderful, it's not. If they think that mania is desirable, I squashed that myth. Again, it's all part of what will make me a successful therapist.

God led me down desperate paths, dangerous paths, and challenged my belief in how my Savior could love me and still allow me to endure a life that too many people pity and by which too many people are frightened. When I question God as to why, God says "Because I love you. Because you can handle it."

Katie walked out with me today, the students not letting me zoom out quickly like I'm accustomed. She wanted to know more about my blog. I didn't give her the address for some reason, and not because I foresaw criticizing hers or anyone else's presentations to be arrogant. My life is so public, yet there's still that little bit of me that wants to remain anonymous. Fuck, if the students a) misspeak my first name and b) have no idea what my last name is, it's unlikely they'll stumble upon me. I felt that if I just opened myself up enough to reveal my darkest struggles in vivid detail, leave me my little sanity saver, you know? I joked with Katie about the zany, insane things people Google up and land here, and what perverse enjoyment I get out of knowing that kind of stuff, though.

Barring utter biopsychosocial failure on my part, and in the unlikely event I *don't* end up being a therapist, let's face it, I have a better career path in my destiny than, well, this woman, for example*:

*I, too, have reliable access to pharmaceuticals, CAN spell literacy correctly, attend to personal hygiene not only by request, but cannot, however, put any child to sleep, most significantly, my own. Yes, I also told the class that half the time, Luke puts me to bed with brute force when I resist the impetus to sleep either out of mania or stubbornness. PS--if I look this haggard when I'm only 43, put a bullet to my head.

Now, to finish reading about sexual disorders and dysfunctions, which the professor has a great deal of trouble discussing, she says, due to her Catholic school upbringing. She's a fucking doctor. If she can't say "clitoris" aloud without embarrassment, I'm ready to overtake the asylum.

"Then Go in Peace, and Laugh on Glory's Side."

Wayne Coyne is perhaps the person I know who has the most consistently positive disposition and outlook on life. So when he speaks, as he did in the above video, I try to listen to and absorb as much as I can from the lessons he's learned in life. Apart from the other-worldiness that is The Flaming Lips as a rock band, Wayne's universally thought of as just an all-around good guy. A loyal friend. The first time I met him in 1994, unlike his trademark salt-and-pepper curly mop, he had stringy, dyed neon orange hair. I journaled my immediate impression of him, as I did of the whole band. My initial take on Wayne? "Hot, but acts like a rock star." He's still hot (even hotter!) and is still like a rock star, but he's also been very, very kind to me (and Luke, who I joked has so many pictures with Wayne over the years, that we could make a growth chart out of them).

 Anyway, Wayne aside, I said last year:

"I learned a very important lesson this summer: When you have friends, friends you love dearly, you hold them in high regard. You keep your plans with them. You get together, even if it's in dribs and drabs. You keep promises. You stay in touch. You check on your friends' well-being. You take the time out of your own busy life. If you love someone, you tell them. Frequently. You give a lot of hugs and kisses. You help them help themselves. You insist on it."

--Me, September 17, 2011

That was the lesson I learned forcefully last summer. In the ensuing year, I've become a better friend to people. I've reconnected with old friends, enhanced acquaintances, maintained relationships with those close to me, and created new joy with new friends, while missing the wisdom and company of friends I've lost to situations as widely-spectrumed as untimely death to the ridiculous incapacity of individuals to accept me for being mentally ill.


 She was ready for it, and pretty much anticipating the inevitable, but SuperJuls lost her grandfather during the night last night. Teetering on whether or not to travel to the East coast a couple of days ago, we talked about how, after a fall and a brain bleed rendered him in a coma, in all likelihood, her grandpa wouldn't know she was there, but I told SuperJuls to go if she *wanted*, for her own peace, to say goodbye while he was still alive. She decided to remain in Chicago for the time being, though now has to make that difficult journey with her dad and sister, in order to meet her grieving mother. Juls said to me, "There is much to take joy in, but I'm still sad in this moment."  I understood her feelings completely. 


On Facebook, she simply posted the following:


"With your final heartbeat kiss the world goodbye.
Then go in peace, and laugh on Glory's side." --"Untitled Hymn (Come to Jesus)" by Chris Rice


Tears today. Actual tears. To be honest, I can't remember when I last cried, much of it being a by-product or side effect from being on so many mood-altering or leveling-out medications. Even engulfed in the depths of sporadic but deep depression, crying just didn't happen, though I kept *wanting* it to. I figured a "good cry" would've done my soul a bit of good. I chalk it up to, if nothing else, sympathy pains I was feeling for my son, who was crying in his room this afternoon. 


Somehow or another, Luke's entire YouTube channel, which contained over 200 original videos he's created since the age of 8, and over 1,000 favorited videos, a pride and joy of Luke's so deep that he had custom-made t-shirts advertising his channel...gone and irretrievable. We don't know, and the site has been very unhelpful, what happened exactly. He was able to log into it last night at his dad's house but it was gone this afternoon. It's tantamount to me losing the entirety of my blog, which, like Luke's videos, aren't backed up and are site-specific, not to mention linked to the Monster of Google. I am heartbroken for Luke. I am heartbroken, period.  


Inspired by remembering my dear friend, Mico, I wrote that quote at the top of this blog on his birthday last September. It still rings true and is something I've done my best to live in principle and practice since then.


The mood of melancholia is lurking in my senses and expressions today. Today marks a year since I received that nauseating phone call at work that Mico had been found dead. While I held myself together to round out my early evening at work, I sought out and was comforted by Guy Friend that night by phone, not saying anything at work. I distinctly remember not having cried over Mico that whole first night, my system too shocked, I think.  Grief and reality finally caved me in, however, and while the experience was an unexpected trauma, life did go on, though I can't say the year since his death has been necessarily easy nor particularly happy for that matter. Sure, there have been milestones, happy occasions, and unexpected treasures, all of which I wish Mico was here to enjoy with me, but there have also been defeats, disappointments and dismay that he likewise would've lent a shoulder to hear about.  I slap myself for having taken him so for granted during our friendship. For letting too many calls go to voicemail. For consistently putting someone who loved me with protection and ferocity of a brother perpetually on my back-burner. 


 At present, I'm waiting for my brain chemistry to even out, subject to the extremes of emotion, as a manic-depressive, that most normal individuals (luckily) will never face. I've been over bipolar disorder enough on my blog to save my readers a further, redundant explanation with regard to the challenge and difficulty of being acutely symptomatic while maintaining function.  For anyone still seeking an analogy beyond the stereotypical "high-highs and low lows," I can only offer you this: I feel all the same things YOU feel, both good and bad things, only my brain's interpretation of and my body's reaction to all of those things is greatly exaggerated and amplified in polar opposite directions, when what I crave the most is an increasingly elusive even-keel. 


When bipolar is active, and symptomatic, it can be an exhausting, debilitating, obvious struggle of emotional management and erratic prioritizing, like a stubborn pimple you simply can't leave alone, is filled with pus, and threatens to infect and scar your face if it pops. When bipolar's in remission, it's like having a stubborn but unobtrusive pimple: you know it's there, you know it's unattractive, but apart from putting a little makeup on it when you go out, it's not something that interferes with your life and certainly, your friends and loved ones don't cast you out because they can't bear to look at you because of it, or exert you a sympathetic but exasperated hug along with a tube of benzoyl peroxide.


In an uncharacteristically public, open discourse over a blog I wrote last Wednesday, some of my close friends and I tried to dissect the mystery of the seemingly completely, suddenly disintegrated relationship between Guy Friend and I.  After a short email he wrote me Thursday, in which he indicated he'd call me over the weekend, he didn't, and despite my many attempts to contact him, he's gone completely MIA. In that blog, I hypothesized that Guy Friend was ejecting me from his world because of my mental illness, but that it was an experience I was growing used to and implied that if that was, in fact, the case, I was sorrowful but I understood. In Guy Friend's brief email, he did make mention of what my mood might be should we talk on the phone. Via text yesterday, I directed him back towards that blog and the lengthy comments thereafter. 


 Most prominently featured in the discourse of comments are the utterly subjective, deeply intense thoughts and opinions of Best Male Friend, who makes no bones about his feelings for me and has been longing for the day when Guy Friend would exit the bigger picture, my AA sponsor/friend agreeing with him, his best friend trying to lift my spirits, as well as the musings of a couple of commentators who chose to remain anonymous, and have been since ruled out as anyone in my close circle of friends. Whomever the anonymous people were, though, felt they knew me well enough to judge my medication doses and compare Guy Friend to my ex-husband, which, if they DID know me, would know that Craig vs. Guy Friend is apples vs. oranges (Anonymous 1), and the other, who called me "sweetie," implied that my friendship stretches Guy Friend too thin, and while I played nicely with them in my responses, they offered me zero construction but plenty of criticism.  Here's a hint: If you feel you know me well enough to call me "sweetie," you damn well better be on The List of People I Would Hug. Otherwise, I interpret that as being talked down to. Thanks.


My best friend, Kate, chose not to publicly weigh in, but read all of the comments as we tried to piece together not only Guy Friend's lack of communication but also who the two anonymous know-it-alls were. 


Naturally, the subject of music came up in the comments and I told my friends that I'd not only been listening to a particularly downtrodden mix of music in the car, but that I'd texted some vague lyrics to Guy Friend last week that were from a song on that CD, which, later on, Best Male Friend suggested I use to physically behead Guy Friend. After I'd revealed what some of the other songs were on the CD, Best Male Friend offered alternatives with which to further assail Guy Friend in the event I, against his better judgment, broke my "radio silence."  Best Male Friend's best friend asked me if I made that mix of music to give to Guy Friend. I said no, but that he "inspired" it.


There's something about listening to music in your car. While it's distracting to a certain extent, and you really should be focused on the road, the traffic, etc, music in the car fills a void and makes you think, makes you feel. For me, anyway, it's a source of focus-time and metaphorical gear-shifting, driving. The anxiety I have driving a car, literally anywhere, is sometimes all-consuming, as one of my many neuroses. Music helps calm that. Like Wayne recounts in his video essay above, he was just puttering along in his car, listening to music, when he saw the two people who caught his attention at a red light enough to inspire a sudden appreciation and warmth in his soul for how happy he was and how fortunate he truly is. Wayne doesn't say what he was listening to at the time. 


Against advice, I played the morose mix again in the car today, when a version of this song played, recorded live in Australia:

Specifically, this line stood out: "It's sad, so  sad. It's a sad, sad situation and it's getting more and more absurd." Absurd is a really apt word for this whole clusterfuck. As a woman of many mixed emotions, I'm trying to employ logic and while my loved ones all made perfect sense, my heart's unsettled.

While the theme of the song is the the difficulty in apologizing and the frustration of unrequited love, running themes in honestly, all of my life, I truly feel if I *do* owe Guy Friend any type of apology, it'd be for annoying him to death, jumping to drastic conclusions in many directions and hyper-impatience. That's if I ever hear from him again. If anything, he owes me an explanation as to why, if it's something as simple as busyness, he can't shoot a 30-second text or, if I'm indeed on the exit ramp, an admission that he gave me a ton of highly conflicting signals, physically and emotionally, and at least have the courtesy to tell me to politely go fuck myself. Otherwise, if something significant happened in his life, e.g. the death of a loved one, or, like, gangrene in his leg that had to be abruptly amputated, DUDE. We're friends. I want to know this shit. 

If, for some reason, putting me on the back burner, like I did to Mico, because his shit interfered with my own shit at times, gives Guy Friend a clear conscience on which to sleep at night, then we're wound tighter than a magnet's coil that leads us straight back to the quote on friendship I coined in September and the fact that Guy Friend, himself, has friends he's lost prematurely and who should learn to appreciate the gift of friendship as opposed to emotionally reducing me to the role of an albatross worn around his neck just like his stethoscope. 

I saved Mico's texts. I don't remember what Facebook post Mico was referring to in our last text exchange, but it had something to do with my final break from the torture of Chris. Mico said, "I'm proud of you, Boobela. Think you hit the hammer dead on the nail on your post last night. You ok with everything?"

I replied that I was both heartbroken and very relieved (very common dual-reaction), but that I was fine with it. I assured him I was safe.

Mico responded, "Good. Methinks you'll improve mentally over this, thus your physical health will get better. :) You need anything...open ear, some pica de' Mico, etc...you know where to find me."

I simply replied, "Thanks."

Mico had passed away by the time I was diagnosed with PTSD. He would have no idea that I'd nearly go completely insane continuing to work at the medical practice and missed much of the medical drama. But he was right...my mental and physical health have since improved (this acute near-psychosis aside). 

It's the last sentence that haunts me...."You know where to find me." His loyalty as a friend was unparalleled. I'll never get that time or those opportunities back. I'll continue to be reminded of the preciousness and happiness in life that Wayne so deeply appreciates, and will try not to dwell on Guy Friend's abrupt ship-jump. I do know where to find Mico. He's everywhere and anywhere I need him. 

 In closing, Guy Friend? Remember how I gave you the demo of this song and hoped I'd never have to play it for you out of anger?   Now I think you're ready for the more dramatic studio version of "Run of the Mill."  "It's you that decides..."

Free to Go

Where did you go? Did I make you leave?
Another thing I didn't know
Nobody ever believes. They just leave, they just leave
And they'll see you on their own sweet time
They just leave

--The Folk Implosion, "Free to Go"

Guy Friend, that's for you. Not that you'll check in. 

But you have to admit it's perfect.

And Happy Birthday, Lou Barlow!


"It Makes No Difference":

An important life lesson learned:

My sentiments exactly:

What I DID learn this week thus far:

Not topical for me personally, but a shared feeling:

A girl can only take so much:

Dinner Outta Here!

After the Contemporary Service last night, I had the pleasure of going out to dinner with Luke, Ma, Jenny (my friend and sponsor), Pastor Dave and his niece, Chloe (who sings in my band). The resulting? None of us are very steady with the camera after we've had a lot of bread with olive oil and cheese, drunk with yumminess.

Jenny asked for a little more ice for her iced tea. You know, just a little. So they brought her a pitcher:

A great picture of Jenny and I together, in which I look marginally sane:

My mom, Pastor Dave and Chloe, giggling it up (all Dave does is giggle):

Then Luke decided to Lego everybody. Dave:

Chloe: 

Jenny, Lego-fied:

Luke and I, looking ghastly, where Luke was like "Please don't touch me, Mom."

A much-needed giggle fest with people I love to pieces. For the first time in days (a week? Two?) I felt neither manic nor depressive. I felt stable. Didn't stop me from getting like 5 hours of sleep, waking up at 6:30am, having half a pot of coffee before getting the bright idea that since I was falling asleep on that coffee, to head to Starbucks for my crack mixture. (I was running out of half and half anyway, and it's in the same store...) Should Master Professor Bingo Smartypants decide to wake up, I am baking cinnamon rolls! Then it's off to Research Paper Crank Out Writing Session. Be back later, fools.

All Men are Liars

...and that's the truth....