High functioning lows and disfunctional highs

"Snap out of it. "

"You're too smart to be here. "

"This isn't you. "

Those are sentences I heard from someone I knew after I had been admitted to hospital for severe depression. Despondent, suicidal depression.

But all of those statements were wrong.
It was me. 

Intellect had nothing to do with it. 

There is no such thing as snapping out of it. 

In fairness, people saw what I wanted them to see- I hid everything in a fun flurry of distraction. But in truth, I was on walking life support. The outward appearance was a facade; a new paint job on a rotting house. An inside filled with chaos, papered with a smiling face. I had been like that for quite some time, functioning well on the surface, all the while crumbling at the foundation. And you can only patch and prop up for so long. 

I don't talk about that part of my journey often, partly because I want to leave it behind where it belongs. But also because, as much as there has been a movement toward acceptance and understanding, there is still a stigma that makes daily life a little bit more difficult to manoeuvre. 

I don't identify it because I don't want any of my decisions or reactions to be questioned or judged as not fully authentic. 

Those closest to me know, of course, but I don't offer it up. 

I've made peace with it. And with myself. Most days. 

But there is that fear. 

Fear that it will return in the form of light-eating shadows. 

When there is a low day, or a sad one, I must assess it. I have to be diligent and aware. Is it a regular sad or a slippery-send -you- down- the- hole- sad? I don't have that luxury of just mindlessly being in it. I have to make sure I know what it is first. I heard another line from the foot of my hospital bed all those years ago. 

"Everyone gets blue"

Ah, but there is a big difference between baby blue and midnight. A big difference and a thin line. 

Not all blues are equal

The lows aren't the only problem. They are easier to mask than extreme highs so I also have to watch if I'm too "up". Manic episodes are more dangerous. The body count is higher. With depression, you mostly harm yourself. When you are manic, everyone around is caught in the crossfire so there is a greater risk of casualty. It is difficult to trust a good mood, and even harder to celebrate it. Sadly, I must treat it with suspicion. 

Admittedly, there are times when I visit old resentments. There is regret about lost time and opportunities. More than once I've had to start from scratch and truth be told, it sometimes makes me angry; angry that I'm not where I should be at this point in my life. There is also anger because it is out of my control. It's like having an out of body experience while in a car crash. You know the wheels have come off and all you can do is hold your breath and hang on to the steering wheel. 

Each time I went skidding and crashing on that stony hard bottom, knowing the next step was nothingness, a nothingness that  I welcomed and wanted because to fight was just too much.  When you are at the bottom again, the climb back up seems impossible. Starting from scratch means your peer group passes you and you watch everyone that was on the same path, the same level, become successful in career and in life. Your success comes in the ways no one will know. While others were succeeding in getting great roles, great deals, great jobs, a success for me became the ability to take a shower, to put on clothes.

It's as easy to get caught up in regret as it is pointless. I remind myself that I should be proud of my rebirths and all that I have overcome. But it's hard not to think of what I may have become. I resent the reoccurring resurrection.

And so I remain the sentinel of my psyche, always watching for the enemy.
On the low days, I smile and laugh and joke, using those tools as the grand deflector. I make decisions, fulfil obligations, do what I have to in order to maintain order. And no one knows because I don't want them to know. I keep it from family so they don't worry, I keep it from my work so they don't judge. I keep my highs and my lows to myself until I know for certain that I have to put it out there and let someone else handle it.

It's a balancing act which constantly requires my attention and a good safety net. So every day I stand up, put one foot in front of the other and try not to look down.
Or behind.

bring on the light

Renovations

                             

I've changed the name and look of this blog.
Originally it was called "random ruminations and rants" but I've come to find that too heavy. The expectations are too negative.

So my attempt to put a bit of light into the world, I've decided to call it Swum Hell or High Water.
It seems lighter, floaty...
And it suits me more. Always swimming. So far unsinkable.

Not that there still won't be rants. Or ruminations. Or randomness.
But I've been navigating hell's high waters for some time now, and despite everything, I'm still afloat. As long as I keep coming to the surface, it's all good.

a house full of ghosts

Laila Lalami says "Writing a novel is like living in a house full of ghosts.."


I liken it to being schizophrenic and hearing voices, but I like her analogy better.


She continues


"— even when you ignore them, they’re still there, waiting to talk to you. "


It's true.

I've been ignoring my ghosts a lot lately.

I hear them, swirling about, whispering over my shoulder.. "what about us..?"


I will return to them. So I say.

But my excuses drive the wagon. It's almost summer. I want to spend all my time at the beach.

Fall is better.

But then I want to be outside taking pictures.

Rainy days are for Netflix. Sometimes I don't want to be the one to tell the story.

Winter. Winter for sure. I'll have the ghosts to keep me busy. But winters come and go and still I haven't given a voice to the voices.


"They have all the time in the world. No matter how much you avoid them, the time comes when you have to confront them. Hear them out. See what they have to say. "


Ghosts have all the time in the world.

I don't.

clean grief

I've been sitting with this for a while.
Partly because that's how it has to settle. It has to get in my bones until it doesn't feel uncomfortable any more. Then it is real.
And partly because I've been fighting what I've just said. Because if I sit on it, like it's a manhole cover, the sewage won't come bubbling up. Then it is really real.

My friend chose to die. He chose to die on his own terms as the law gave him permission.
My friend was terminally ill, but his decision was made many years before, as medical poison killed off cells, good and bad. He swore then if he survived he would never endure that treatment again. And twenty-two years later, when cancer invaded for another battle, Weldon Bona would not draw his sword.
Instead he chose to live what time was left as he had always lived. He lived like he was going to die.

weldon bona (photo by steve wadden) 

I knew something was wrong before I was told.
I knew it in the way that those with a long history of friendship know when a pattern has slipped out of place. There was a sudden silence; unreturned calls and messages. Friends who were on the ground told me "You'll have to talk to Bone". I feared what I didn't want to be true.

He wanted to tell us face to face. It was his story to tell and as Weldon did everything, he would do it in his way. I drove to Cape Breton to see him. Friends gathered, talking, questioning, crying. He had an answer for every inquiry, and let us know his plans were already in motion. He would die when he decided it was time.

That night I stayed with him, our heads coming together in the cushioned angle of the large sectional sofa, watching television. In the middle of Coronation Street I started to cry again. He told me "You should be happy for me. We're all dying but most don't know when. I do. The problem is, most people live like they are never going to die. But if you live like you're dying, you have a much richer life".

I carried those words with me, back across the Causeway on that early Autumn day. I carry them closer now.

Christmas came and then the New Year, and finally, the date was set. But circumstance and  the healthcare system had other plans, and when Weldon's case became a glitch,  he became a fly in the ointment, and gave the last fight of his life so that he could die. 

And then it was time.
He threw a party.
It was a gathering of about twenty friends, his inner circle. There was food, wine, champagne. He laid out the remainder of his medical marijuana and wanted everyone to partake. Many of us faked it, not inhaling because we wanted to be clear-headed for what was to come.
Weldon was in great spirits. He was happy that we were all with him, and he even pulled off one final practical joke on a friend. He had set it in motion weeks before, so he was thrilled with the pay-off that sent us all into tear-streaming laughter.

In the late afternoon, Erica, the woman who was going to perform the procedure, came to talk to those of us who were present. She explained what was going to happen.
There would be three needles.
The first would relax the body, and sending him into a very deep and peaceful sleep. That would be the last thing of which he would be aware.
The second needle would freeze the veins. Sometimes the third solution could sting and they wanted no discomfort at all.
The third would paralyze the organs, shutting them down. Shortly after that, his heart would stop.
Throughout the procedure, she would ask him at every step, if he wanted to proceed. He had every chance to change his mind. He assured her that he would not.

Erica asked him what time she should return and he told her 9 PM that night.
Friends continued to arrive and there was more talking, crying, hushed voices, loud laughs. Weldon sat or lay on the sofa, engaging with the group, or talking quietly to one person, or sometimes closing his eyes, maybe sleeping, maybe listening to his hive buzz around him.

At 8.30 I noticed the time and I felt sick. I mentioned to another friend "Oh my god, it's 8. 30". At the same time, I saw Weldon look at his watch and say "Oh my god, it's only 8.30". He was ready.

Erica was prompt. She came in quietly, and made her way to the sofa. Everyone gathered around, although not too close, as Weldon wanted only Erica to be next to him.  The process began with the insertion of IV lines. She told him that once the lines were in, he could take as much time as he needed to talk to his friends and say goodbye. He waved that suggestion away.
"No need. I've said all I need to say. Let's get 'er done. " He was ready.

There are two levels in the loft apartment, and we sat and stood staggered, but together. I was on the upper level, with people in front of me and people behind. Erica explained that she was going to administer the first needle. She asked if he still wanted to go ahead, Weldon said a resounding yes, and then smiling at his friends, he said good night. Voices called out "We love you Bone". "Safe journey, Friend". There was the sound of soft crying, of tissues being separated from each other and pulled from boxes. We waited as our friend drifted away from us, with a smile on his face.

As I sat there, looking at those around me, I was compelled to capture what I saw. I took my phone from my pocket and I took a picture.
This is not something I would have ever considered doing, and certainly not something I would have ever considered posting publicly, except for one thing.
As I sat there, looking at those around me, I realized: This is love.
Our friend slipped out of this world, carried away on our love.

this is what love looks like

It took a few minutes for his heart to finally stop. Erica confirmed his death and the funeral home was called. The only thing I knew I couldn't bear, was to see him leave the apartment. I didn't want to witness them taking him out of there, so a few of us went downstairs to the next level. Sitting on the floor of the hallway that joined the front of the building to the back, we were given a comedic gift that Weldon himself could have orchestrated for our benefit. We listened to the sounds of trying to get his body down three flights of not very wide stairs. The drunkest of friends, and those who didn't fake inhale, decided that they would help "take my buddy out of here". Hearing the discussion and strategy had those of us in the hallway laughing so hard we were sobbing, because your body can't tell the difference between hilarity and heartbreak sometimes.

In a strange way, the most difficult of times of our lives can also be some of the best. This experience was as profound and beautiful as it was heartbreaking. The only thing I can say is that it is the first time in my life I've ever experienced clean grief.

I've lost those I've loved suddenly, and I've watched others linger and suffer. 

In this case, there is a tremendous loss, but there are no "if only's " or "what ifs". There was nothing left unsaid. There is grief, but it is clean. 

The loss is lessened by the reminder that this was Weldon's wish and that while those left behind ache, we must also, as he said, be happy for him. 

there's something in a sunday

On the Sunday morning sidewalks

Wishing Lord that I was stoned

Cause there's something in a Sunday 

Makes a body so alone

And there's nothing short of dying 

Half as lonesome as it sounds

On a sleeping city sidewalk

Sunday morning comin down

                                                                  -kris kristofferson

That used to be my life. 

Well, not constantly, but there were days

Drinking days. 

As you did in those days.

Staying up all night until there was no more booze and the tunes drifted off to sleep. And the light put the darkness to bed. 

Walk of Shame home with my shoes in my hand. 

Ah but there was something in a Sunday..

The morning has a quietness unlike its six siblings. 

It also holds more promise than any other day. It is a day to be spent exactly how you like.. whether it is sleeping and reading, puttering around the house, going for coffee, strolling the market or taking a swim or a road trip.

I love that about Sundays.

It is a day of naps in rainy day beds or on sandy sunny beaches. It feels like a day of rest, compared to the rest. 

Now instead of going to bed as they day was getting up, we are in sync. I am awakened by the morning's first yawns and happy to get up and enjoy the quietest of times.

For many years most of my Sunday mornings have been spent with James Taylor. His greatest hits album has proved to be the perfect Sunday morning soundtrack. Sparkling guitar to accompany freshly ground and then brewed coffee. 

Ah Sunday.. how I love you like no other

Sunday Morning Sunrise (Halifax Clock Tower)