Seven- This week's lucky number

Seven. It’s the number of days in the week, the number of colors in a rainbow, a Christian symbol of completion and the number of weeks left I have in my pregnancy.

With only seven weeks left I feel like my life has become consumed by numbers and doctors appointments. Thirty-two, the number of weeks I am into my pregnancy. Thirty, the maximum number of carbs I can consume at breakfast. Forty-five, the maximum number of carbs I can have at lunch and dinner. And 110, the level my blood sugar should be two hours after these meals.

Before my husband and I pulled the goalie, I made sure we were both ready to handle my pregnancy with my bipolar disorder. I made sure I had the support I needed to be healthy throughout pregnancy. When it came to my mental health, yes I was prepared and that preparation paid off.

What I wasn’t prepared for was a gestational diabetes diagnosis.

I have known several women who have gestational diabetes. It even runs in my family on my dad’s side. I knew that this wasn’t the end of the world and that my baby would be fine.

But I also knew I had a history with disordered eating. There was once a time in my life where numbers and food consumed my brain. It started out as something as innocent as trying to keep my grocery bill within budget. I was in an urban ministry program where we had $21 a week per person for food. I think this was the food stamp budget at the time and the budget was partially intended for us to really see what it’s like to live in poverty.

Our household of five had $105 a week to spend on food. To put in comparison, that is about the same amount of money a week I currently spend on food for myself, my husband and our Jack Russel.

Growing up where frugality was next to godliness I was determined to make this budget work. And I was also determined, as all my teammates were, to eat healthy, lean meat and fresh produce. This meant weekly trips to Aldi’s and portion control for my Midwestern appetite.

The further I was into this year-long ministry program the more I cut back on eating. And the more positive affirmation I received. I didn’t own a scale so I wasn’t accountable for any weight lost. For me, it was never about the weight. It was always about this search for purity, perfection and and above all else control.

But at some point I realized I was no longer in control, but rather a slave to the numbers and food and obsessive thoughts that circulated my mind. I had lost almost 16 percent of my body weight when I reached out for help. At the time I hadn’t been diagnosed with bipolar disorder and there was so much going on in my mind that I couldn’t explained.

I gained back my weight before I came home and haven’t really talked about my disordered eating to many people. I certainly don’t talk about it in detail because I don’t want to create a how-to guide for anyone struggling with this.

But the thing is, I know that there are other people out there who struggle with eating disorders and disordered eating. And I know that there are other people with bipolar disorder who struggle with obsessive thoughts that lead to neurotic obsessive behaviors.

To those people I want to say, you are not alone. We are not alone.

Right now I’m back in the ring, battling these numbers, wrestling to gain control through food. I’m trying to eat as much nutritious protein and fats as possible and keep my carbs within the bounds of my diabetic diet. But my blood sugar continues to be unpredictable. With every high or low reading I fight the urge to obsess. And honestly, I just need to tap out of this fight.

I’m not sure that I can learn how to stop obsessing about these numbers in the next seven weeks. Lord knows I’m trying.

What I do know is that this battle will come to an end in seven weeks. I only have seven weeks left. Just seven.

Rainbows, gummy drops and my weekend with Jennifer Knapp

This past couple months I’ve been MIA in the blogosphere. In part because I’ve been busy with freelance stories and event promotions, and in part because my mood has just been too stable to have anything noteworthy to share. (Medication- it works!)

I tend to get inspiration for blogs from trials and turmoil. While I did have my share of trials this summer, the majority of my time and energy has been spent preparing for the upcoming birth of my first child and organizing a Jennifer Knapp concert for my church.

While I have to wait until January to meet my baby daughter, this weekend I had the opportunity to meet and host one of my favorite artists. Jennifer Knapp came to Lawrence to preform a free show at Plymouth Congregational Church and share her story as gay person of faith.

This show has been my pet project. I started working on it early in the year and saw it through from beginning to end. From getting approval for the funds through the church counsel to making sure the last light was turned off after the show on Saturday, I was there.

The concert was important to me on many levels. I think it’s important for people like Jennifer to share their stories to give hope to others who may feel like the church has turned their back on them. I think it’s important for churches who are open and affirming like Plymouth to provide a safe place for people to share their stories. I think it’s important to invite the community into these conversations, to provide a peaceful place to discuss and share stories, rather than debate and declare stances.

But at the end of the weekend, as I watched Jennifer Knapp preform her Sunday show at the Jackpot, I realized that my weekend with Jennifer was about more than sharing the message of Christian inclusiveness. Having the opportunity to break bread with her on Friday night with my new friends from Plymouth and then have some of my closest friends from college join me to hear her perform on Saturday helped connect my past to my present.

I grew up in a conservative Evangelical home. Just as the Apostle Paul considered himself a Jew among Jews, I was a religious right winger among religious right wingers. My views started to shift after I spent a year in the inner-city during what would have been my junior year of college.

After a severe episode of depression, followed by mania and an inpatient stay in the psychiatric ward, well, let’s just say my faith had been shaken too much to ever go back to the confidence required to be in the Evangelical community I had once embraced. I no longer felt at home in the church.

But my faith was something I just couldn’t shake. Eventually I started going to an emergent church called Jacob’s Well, where the community focused on questions more than answers, on the journey rather than the destination.

When I got married and moved to Lawrence, my husband and I stubbled onto Plymouth Congregational. From the first week we were there it felt like home. We go to a contemporary service where they play Bob Dylan covers and the young children dance around the stage. We hold hands at the end of the service as we sing a closing song. It’s the kind of church any hippie would gravitate towards. It is home.

And it’s at Plymouth that my two faith worlds collided. Jennifer Knapp told her story about working in the Contemporary Christian Music scene and leaving that scene to be honest with herself when faced with her sexual orientation. She chose love over dogma and expectations.

As I prepare to meet this beautiful little girl growing inside me, I hope that she will always chose love over dogma and expectations. I hope to teach her by living out this truth in my life.

Life is not always rainbows and gummy drops. Rainbows are accompanied by storms. And gummy drops inevitable create a sticky residue in the pot in which they are created which I’m sure is a pain in the ass to clean. I can’t protect my daughter from life’s storms or sticky situations. She won’t always be safe in my womb.

But what I can do is show her how to cultivate safe spaces. I can show her how to seek out places to be her sanctuary. In a way, that’s what the Jennifer Knapp concert was for me. I prayed that it would be safe space for people to share their stories about LGBTQ issues, but it ended up being a safe place for me to reconcile the faith of my past with that of my present.

Reboot your mind, recharge your soul

This summer my husband and I have done a lot of traveling. From the plains of Nebraska, to the Rocky Mountains, to the Caribbean, we've been just about everywhere this summer, except home in Kansas.

I love to travel, because it has an almost magical way of putting things into perspective. I always come back with a greater appreciation for the things I love most about home and insights into any challenges I face. For me traveling is the equivalent of shutting down and restarting your PC at work. That reboot seems to fix all that ails you.

I wrote this blog on the plane headed home to Kansas, feeling fresh and rebooted. These past two months I have gotten behind on my blogging and have lacked the motivation to pursue freelance. But I think a little time hiking in the mountains and swimming in the ocean has given me the motivation to get back on track.

A couple weeks ago, we went to a concert at Red Rocks in Colorado. Looking at the beautiful rock formations reminded me of my rock climbing days in college. (Side note: while you can climb rocks that are red in Colorado, you cannot climb at Red Rocks. Doing so will get you a huge-ass fine.)

I love rock climbing. The thrill of getting the top of a rock will give a rush comparable to that of Colorado's finest dispensaries. The exercise is more mental than physical. When you are stuck in a spot with no where to move your brain must think of all of the possibilities. Could turning your hip up and to the left enable you to get the foothold that you need? If you grab on to that tiny indentation will that give you enough leverage to pull yourself to the next foothold? When your on the ledge of a rock and you feel stuck you can't dwell on that feeling. You are forced to think of your next move. You are forced to envision how you will get to the top.

Living with bipolar disorder is much like rock climbing. Depression can leave you feeling stuck, as though you are on the middle of a rock, while mania can give you the sensation that you are free falling out of control without a rope and harness.

The secret to successful bipolar treatment is to always, always envision you next move. See yourself at the top of that rock. Name that rock. Because the stability you'll experience at the top is yours and you should own it.

I go to Colorado at least once a year. I love the mountains. They remind me that the journey is not over and that the rock/mountain/depression that I'm currently climbing will be conquered.

Chronic frustrations of chronic illness

I’ll likely never reach a point when I don’t feel embarrassed about the bipolar outbursts I have from time to time.
 

You’ll notice I said “outbursts” and not “episodes.” A depressive or manic episode can be awful, don’t get me wrong. The progressive lows that lead you further and further into depression and the unpredictable flights of thought and paranoia of mania, can certainly leave one paralyzed. But it’s the outbursts that occur in the midst of these episodes that I find truly embarrassing.

It’s the little things that put me over the edge. Most recently my husband complained because I bought a spicy chicken sandwich from Wendy’s for dinner and didn’t bring him back one. One small comment about how he didn’t appreciate my fend-for-yourself attitude toward Sunday dinner sent me off on a tirade.

You might just chalk this off to normal female hormones. But it’s not. When I say I began raging like a lunatic, I’m unfortunately not exaggerating. Imagine Daniel Day Lewis in There Will Be Blood.

Fortunately no one was physically harmed in what I am now referring to as the Spicy Chicken Tirade, but its still not much of a laughing mater. When you experience depression, mania or a mixed-state your frontal lobe doesn’t function properly. The frontal lobe is the part of the brain that enables one to think rationally and see beyond the current circumstance. Without a fully-functioning frontal lobe, I’m left with no way to see beyond my most recent rant and the memory of me raving like mad, un-medicated women.

 

According to my most recent lithium levels, I shouldn’t be surprised by this weekend’s outburst. For reasons that I won’t go into on this blog, the level of lithium in my blood had decreased despite the fact that I was still taking the same dosage. My levels were too low to be therapeutic.

My doctor had told me this. She told me that I would need to increase my lithium levels soon, and yet I waited until I had symptoms that showed that I needed more lithium in my blood. This may seem silly. Why not just trust the lab work? Well, because it’s summer in Kansas and with heat indexes edging toward triple digits I struggle to stay hydrated on 900 mg of lithium a day. Adding an extra 300 mg in the summer scares me a little. In fact, many things about bipolar disorder scare me a little.

 

But the reality is that I need a therapeutic dose of lithium. An extra pill a day washed down with lots of Gatorade and water will get me back to normal. For this I feel truly blessed.

The thing about having a chronic illness is that you always have to be monitored and adjustments will always have to be made. That is, after all the definition of chronic.

 Realizing that I am in need of chronic care is humbling. Accepting that I am in need of chronic care is life saving.

 

Power of a Powerless Prayer

I’m a planner.

I’m the kind of person who has a one-year plan, a five-year plan, a 10-year plan and a slew of contingency plans in case anything unexpected that may “disrupt” my plans occurs.

But as the saying goes, “if you want to make God laugh, tell her your plans.”

Sometimes life throws curve balls for which even the best of us can’t prepare. When you suffer from mental illness or addiction this happens more often then not.

In those times when life seems to hit me with a sucker punch, I find myself crying out to God in the most primitive sense. I don’t seek God to take away my pain, or fix the injustices of my life. That would be great, but when I pray to the unseen God in which I believe what I really want is to know that I am not alone.

What I really want, is to know that there is source of energy out there that is bigger than myself, bigger than my circumstances, and yet capable of entering into my pain, capable of being present during my suffering. What I seek through prayer is not a solution, but solace in knowing that I am not alone.

In times of turbulence and stress I often calm myself through prayer. When I do it’s as though I can hear God’s still small voice saying, “this too shall pass,” and reminding me that I am never alone.

And that is when I see the power of my powerless prayers. 

Fighting stigma one story at a time

In January mental health jumped into the forefront of America’s political and media dialog after a gunman shot and killed 26 people, mostly children, in Newtown, Conn. The gunman, Adam Lanza, reportedly had Asperger’s.

As someone who has a mental illness that, unlike Asperger’s, has been associated with violence and psychosis, I am not thrilled when politicians rally around mental illness because they fear the next mass shooter might be “one of us.” In fact, four months after this incident, I worry that the attention it gave to mental health may have caused more harm than good.

In reality, most people with mental illness don’t shoot up schools, or movie theaters, or bomb marathons. People with mental health conditions are more likely to hurt themselves than go on a shooting spree. And much of this violence could be prevented if society didn’t attach a stigma to mental illnesses.

It took seven years for me to become comfortable enough with my bipolar diagnosis to write about it. Seven years.

I can relate to people who don’t want to take their medication after they are diagnosed. I was one of them. I can’t tell you how many people told me to just eat healthier or take St. John’s Wort to get over my bipolar symptoms. Just a couple months ago I had a friend suggest I try a chiropractic treatment for my bipolar disorder.

At first I thought these people might be right. When you are diagnosed with a severe mental illness doctors initially over medicate you and then tapper down until they find the medications and dosage that work for you. This process is long and hard. And when you have a handful of people saying the medications aren’t necessary, well you decide to stop taking them.

Fortunately for me, I had people in my life who had been through this process before or were in the mental health field and encouraged me to stick with the medications. Eventually my doctors did find the right dosage for me.

Once doctor’s tapered down my medications to the right amount of Lithium and eliminated the other pills they had me on, I felt back to my normal self. A new normal self, one that was just as creative, funny and engaged as I had been before. 

I’m writing this because I know that public policy can’t eliminate mental health stigma. But I hope, and pray, that the stories of those of us who suffer from mental illness can. 

It's spring.... just kidding

Last weekend my husband and I planted our garden.

This is something we do every Spring. We started the garden at our house the day after our wedding. I loved the idea of planting a garden on our first day of marriage.

This garden symbolizes our new life together, I thought. While other people spend their first day of marriage on a plane to some place tropical, we spent ours doing manual labor. Because we are deep people, I thought towards the beginning of the process. Towards the end, I was wishing I had mojito and a good book.

The truth is the spring and summer are not my favorite seasons. I always, always look forward to the fall.

This year, as I planted the flowers in my hanging baskets, and put the rows of tomatoes and peppers in to the ground, I felt like maybe I could become one of those spring and summer people. Maybe I could resist the urge to think about how my flowers would likely be dead in a few weeks, and how most of the vegetables wouldn’t survive the hot Kansas sun. Digging my hands into the dirt, I thought, yes, I can be a spring and summer person.

And four days later it’s snowing outside. Yes, it is snowing in May. Yes, my plants my get hit with frost and die.

But you know what that will be okay, because the fall is only a few hot and sweaty months away. Why fight it. I’m a fall person. What’s not to love about football, Amber Ales and clothes that cover all of your flaws?

I love the fall because it’s just a lot less pressure. The leaves are always going to be beautiful and you don’t have to worry about watering them every day.

And there is something about the fall that just feels a little healthier and more balanced than every other season.

Today I heard someone label the weather in Kansas as bipolar. Maybe the weather is bipolar, I thought to myself. And maybe mother nature is trying to let us know that fall is her favorite season too.

My first half marathon: A time of reflection and remembrance

I decided to run a half marathon this year because it seemed like a goal that I could work towards and actually accomplish.

At the moment I’m in the middle of reading four different novels. I’ve started writing three different books, but have yet to finish writing any. And I can’t even count the number of sewing projects that I am in the midst of completing.

I’m good at starting things. I start lots of things. But when it comes to following through to the end, I struggle.

I signed up for the Garmin Half Marathon in January. The race took place this last weekend.

I signed up for the half marathon because I wanted a goal to accomplish, but in the weeks leading up to the race, the half marathon took on a deeper meaning.

A friend I had known since grade school was killed, along with her 5-year-old daughter and husband. When tragedy occurs it has a way of putting things into perspective, of re-framing our reality.

I dedicated my run to my friend Terry. I remember spending the night at Terry’s house in fifth grade. We listened to Ace of Bace and talked about boys. Our friendship drifted a part in middle school, as friendships sometimes do. But Terry was the kind of person who you always seemed to feel close to, no matter how infrequently you spent time together.

I can best describe Terry as kind, poetic, spiritual and genuine. In high school our boyfriends were best friends and we both worked on the school newspaper. Terry had a calming energy that she brought with her wherever she went.

I only saw Terry a few times after high school. It’s been years since I’ve audibly heard her voice. But through the magic of Facebook we’ve been able to keep in touch. Terry is one of the few people who I know actually read my blog.

As I’m writing this now, I really can’t believe that she won’t be reading it. It just doesn’t seem real. Last year, before I started this blog about bipolar disorder, I wrote a weekly blog for Her Kansas City’s website.

When you are a writer good comments are like prized medals. You tuck them away and then go back and look them when you are feeling down.

I posted this blog last February about my obsessive thoughts. I went back to look at the comment Terry posted, because it was one of those comments that I cling to whenever I get down.

Terry Thompson Prestley: I LOVE reading your blogs!!!! Your honesty with yourself is pretty darn inspiring! I think for those of us who think like this about our own thoughts can totally relate! And....you are freaking hilarious!

I don’t think I’m quite as witty and entertaining as Terry thought I was. But Terry had a special gift of enabling people to see the best of who they are. She lifted people up when others brought them down.

As I ran the Garmin Marathon I had plenty of time for prayer and reflection. (Two hours, 28 minutes, and 59 seconds to be exact.) What stood out to me the most was that in life you don’t know where the finish line is. And sometimes it crosses you before you cross it.

As I went into the last mile of the race I picked up my speed and lengthened my stride. I didn’t finish fast but I finished strong.

The great thing about half marathons is that no matter how you finish- whether you stride through gracefully or walk limply across the finish line- in the end you receive your medal and are invited to the after party.

I believe the same is true for life. At the end our finish line I think God is there to welcome us with loving arms and invite us to His party. I know Terry is there now and her spirit lives on in the memories we shared.

March is over but the mania has yet to begin

I like to think of myself like Wichita State with the possibility to shock the nation.

The thing everyone loves about March Madness and the NCAA Final Four tournament is that you never know what will happen. Every game is anybody's game. Upsets happen. Second half come backs abound.

The fast paced, unpredictability of college basketball make it the best sport ever. Seriously.

Teams recruit, prepare and practice, but come game time anything can happen. There is no rhyme or reason.

This lack of predictability reminds me so much of my journey with bipolar disorder, particularly depression. I try so hard, perhaps too hard, to avoid depression. I workout regularly, and even signed up for a half marathon to give myself that extra jolt of motivation. I cut preservatives (or almost cut preservatives) from my diet. I pray. I shop. I get my hair done.  I spend time with friends and family. I take my meds and eat plenty of fruits and vegetables. I do all of the things that one should do to stay healthy and depression free.

I often feel like depression shouldn't happen to me. I am Kansas against Michigan. I have this game in the bag late in the second half. I should win this.

But just like Kansas, I don't always win the game. Depression over powers me, despite my best attempts, despite all that life has blessed me with.

And who am I kidding. I can't really compare myself to Kansas basketball.

I'd love to have the humor and wit of Anne Lamott and Tina Fey or the character development of Joyce Carol Oates. Those three writers are the caliber of Kansas basketball. I'm more like Wichita State, someone most people have never heard of but who has the potential to shock the nation in the big dance.

Of course, in my case the big dance isn't basketball it's simply life. And we already know that Wichita State didn't beat Louisville. They won't be national champions this year, but they did shock the nation and make it to the Final Four.

The Shockers success gives me hope in my own ventures. I think I do have what it takes to overcome these bouts of depression- the support, the proper medication, the will power. I think I'll get through these ups and downs.

And who knows, I might pull a Wichita State along the way, and write something spectacular that will shock the nation. I believe it's possible and it's not mania talking. 

5 things I learned from depression

I don’t like to write about depression. I don’t like to talk about depression. I don’t like think about depression. I don’t like to acknowledge that depression even exists. I would rather steal the words of The Bloggess Jenny Lawson and say “Let’s pretend this never happened,” when it comes to depression.

I’ve lost too many days to depression as is and the reality of bipolar disorder is that the possibility of another episode of depression is always on the horizon.

Sometimes you can do all the things you are supposed to do- stay hydrated, exercise, eat healthy- and you can’t escape the slip into darkness. This weekend I felt a numbness in the place where joy usually resides. It was husband’s birthday, KU was killing it on the court in the Big 12 Tournament, yet I felt nothing but pain. It hurts to think about depression because I know I’ll never get those days back. Those opportunities for celebration are gone. And I’ve already lost too many days to this disorder as is.

I don’t want to think about, or talk about, or write about depression, but I am because if the lessons I’ve learned can help even one person then maybe, just maybe, my lost days will have some redemption.

So here’s what I’ve learned about depression:

1. Get help sooner rather than later. I know, you think you can do it on your own. Or maybe you think you don’t deserve help. Or maybe you think you can’t afford help. Or maybe you think you can pray this demon away. There a million reasons not to get professional help. IGNORE ALL OF THEM. I lost a lot of days listing reasons why I shouldn’t get help. And I will never get those days back. You can start with your primary care doctor but I always recommend follow up with a psychiatrist. If you have bipolar disorder SSRI’s, which are often used to treat depression, could trigger a manic or hypomanic episode.
2. If you EVER, EVER, have thoughts of hurting yourself or fixations of death call your doctor immediately. If you don’t have a doctor call the National Suicide and Crisis Hotline at 1 (800) 784-2433. I know this can be the hardest thing to talk about. Trust me, I’ve been there. There is so much judgement surrounding suicide and you may think that no one will understand what you are going through. The truth is, you may be right about no one understanding, but there are people who can help even if they don’t understand your condition completely.
3. Let your friends/family/significant other be there for you. This too can be hard. You may think of yourself as charity case, but I can assure you that your loved ones don’t. They care about you. Let them take you to lunch and stay by your side as you ride this out. If you are lucky enough to have loved ones that are there for you, for God’s sake let them be there for you.
4. Stick to your routine as much as possible while you ride out this storm. Continue to exercise, meditate and go to work if possible. Go through the motions. Even if you are only going through the motions while you wait for your medications to adjust it will make the transition back to health easier than if you cave into the urge and stay in bed all day.
5. Know your support team. My husband, best friend and therapist are the three people I know I can be completely honest with, even if my darkest moments. I know these people will never give up on me and they are who I turn to when I start to feel the darkness rising. Identify your support team and don’t be afraid to cling to them.

Life is tough and messy and depression can make life unmanageable. But there is hope. There is life after depression. That is what I always tell myself. And to be honest I’ve had days where I don’t even believe those words even as I tell them to myself. But on the other side of depression I’m so glad that I hung on even when I couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel.

What if ... hapened? Would you need to go on disability?

They say most people are only two paychecks away from living on the street. I’m beginning to think that most people who have bipolar disorder are only a few “what-ifs” from receiving a disability check.

What if I didn’t have my husband to finance my life while I pursue my oh-so-not lucrative  writing career? What if I wasn’t able to quit the job that demanded I work 10 plus hour days? What if I wasn’t able to find a job flexible enough to maintain healthy boundaries to keep my episodes at bay? What if I became manic again? Or too depressed to show up for work? What if? What if?

I used to think it was absurd when I heard about the amount of bipolar people who are on disability.

According to the Association of Community Mental Health Centers in Kansas, 50 percent of those who are on medicaid with a disability have a mental illness. That’s half of all people who are on disability. Half. Seriously.

I used to think that could never be me. I thought that most likely the majority of people who applied for disability because of bipolar disorder just weren’t trying hard enough. They just hadn’t found the correct cocktail of pharmaceuticals to make them employable. They just weren’t trying hard enough.

I used to think that, until those pesky “what ifs” crept into my head. In reality, I believe if it weren’t for a series of fortunate events I would likely be among those filing for disability, trying to get back on my feet while recovering from this debilitating, chronic illness.

But I’m not on disability. While I am still completely employable, I chose to work on a freelance basis because it works better for my health and my lifestyle. I have that option, and I know that other people don’t.

I’m not on disability because Lithium works phenomenally well with me. As far as prescriptions go Lithium is dirt, dirt cheap. Like it’s on Wal-Mart’s $2 prescription list cheap. (I actually don’t know if it’s on Wal-Mart’s $2 prescription list because I have insurance and get my prescriptions at Dillion’s Pharmacy, but you get the point.)

I’m not on disability because I’ve always been able to have insurance through my employer or my husband’s employer. Since my diagnosis I have never had a gap in insurance for longer than a month.

I’m not on disability because these series of fortunate events have prevented those dreadful “what ifs” from happening.

I know some people would give God credit for my series of fortunate events or would attribute these positive outcomes to my hard work and responsibility. But I’m hesitant to claim to understand the blessings and burdens that come down from the divine. (I have read the book of Job.)

What I do know, is that I have been blessed. And had it not been for the abundance of blessing and grace in my life I could easily be among those applying for disability and medicaid because of my bipolar disorder.

What I do know is that I am only a few “what ifs” away from that fate.

It’s scary to realize how close we are to the “others” we once thought we could never be. It’s scary to realize that if a few breaks hadn’t gone my way my experience could easily be the same as those with whom I don’t want to identify.

But when I let my guard down and acknowledge how interconnected the human experience is I no longer fear those “what ifs.” Instead, I embrace them and the grace that comes in knowing that ultimately we are all in this together.

Walking in a Winter Wonderland

We somehow managed to drive to Colorado and back during the Snowpocalypse. Colorado seemed like a winter wonderland. And what's even better is I came back from my winter vacation just before the next snow storm hit and just in time to check out my guest blog for HealthyPlace.

Check out the guest blog here:

Bipolar Hypomania: How to Avoid it's Tempting Lure

 And remember to stay warm and healthy!

Simple fixes to cabin fever

Have a little cabin fever? Take a deep breath, sip some coco and read this blog.

I’m not sure if claustrophobia and cabin fever are closely linked, but I suspect that they are.

And I have no doubt that I suffer from both conditions. I never used to be claustrophobic, but over the past few years crowds make me anxious. I avoid crowded elevators, go to grocery store at off hours, and I chug a couple of PBRs before I go to any live music events. I just can’t handle the crowds.

And on snow days like this, my own house seems to be little crowded. Batman and Gunther, our cat and dog are a little feistier since it’s too cold for them to burn off energy outside. The sound of my husband snoring in front of the TV seems a little louder and a lot less adorable than it does on Sunday afternoons. Between the barking, meowing, snoring and voices of Swamp People blaring through our surround sound I can’t seem to put together a coherent thought.

I am a daily work-from-home gal. I just want my regular routine back.

And perhaps this Snowmegettan wouldn’t seem so overwhelming if we hadn’t just gotten over the Ear Infectionpocolipis last week. And my husband insists his ear infection isn’t completely healed. I’m not sure how long he thinks he can get away with using this as an excuse for not hearing anything I say. I’m guessing he might try to stretch out the ear infection thing to March Madness. Once March Madness starts my voice increases to a volume he can no longer deny hearing.

But, I digress. The truth is snow storms, close quarters, and reminders of global climate change are all triggers for anxiety for me.

How can I get my car out of my drive way tomorrow? How can I get my husband to stop snoring and wake up? How can reduce my carbon footprint?

These are all questions I asked myself this afternoon. And surprisingly I found answers to these questions as I started this blog.

1. The driveway will have to be shoveled if we are going anywhere tomorrow. This is common sense, I know, but during times of anxiety common sense leaves me.
2. The husband may feel manly and needed if I ask him to shovel the drive way. Or he may just say “Ugghh,” and do it anyways. Either way the snoring will stop and he will have to get dressed for the day.
3. And as for the carbon footprint thing. There are tons of ways to lesson my imprint. I can continue working from home, buy local meat and produce, and buy less prepackaged drinks. Arizona Tea seems to be our weakness.

These are simple solutions that are baby steps in many ways. Baby steps to decreasing my anxiety. Baby steps to slowing global climate change. Baby steps that make all the difference.

The underlying cause of nearly all of my anxiety is a feeling of helplessness, a lack of control.

I can’t always stop our dog howling, and have no sway over the weather, but I can chose how I react to these conditions. I can be the change, at least within my own sphere of influence.

I can bribe Gunther to quite down with cold cuts. I can fix hot chocolate for Logan and I as we watch the snow outside. I can remind the flood of questions going through my mind to take a chill pill by actually taking a chill pill. Klonopin works wonders during times like these.

When you start to feel anxious, whether it be cabin fever or just a trip to Target on a Saturday, I encourage you to write down your anxious thoughts and see if you can find simple solutions to the problems, or ways to debunk your irrational thoughts.

This seems to help me. Particularly if I do the exercise while drinking hot cocoa. Cheers to the first big Kansas snow storm of the year.

Facing the mean girl within us all

My mind is full of mean girls. Their names are Ego, Super Ego and Super Duper Ego.

I’m not sure how my preconception consultation with the perinatologist turned into a cathartic rant about how mean and judgmental women can be, but it did. It totally did.

First, I would like to start off by saying that I am absolutely not one of those women who don’t have women friends and says she “relates” better to guys. Gag me. That’s  not who I am at all. In fact those women annoy me. (Looks like maybe I’m the one who’s being mean and judgmental.)

I have handfuls of women friends, whom I love. My husband has noted that he has never known a woman to have as many female friends as I do. And to give credit where credit is do, my friends are awesome. I feel extremely blessed to have such an amazing group of strong, intelligent, funny, sincere, beer-drinking woman in my life. I am truly blessed.

And honestly, if it weren’t for Facebook, pregnancy blogs and daytime television I wouldn’t even know how viscously opinionated woman can be when it comes to anything related to child bearing.

I left my small town because I hated the fish bowl, yet daily I log on to my cyber fish bowl where I see a plethora of photos and status updates reminding me of all of my shortcomings. And to be fair I put myself there. I mean I created this blog to share my experience about living with bipolar disorder and trying to have a baby.

I wanted to empower other woman who have this disorder. I wanted to break the stigma that’s associated with mental illness. I wanted to inspire others to share their stories.

But the truth is family planning is a very personal topic. One that I’m not willing to completely share on the public blogosphere.

I sat in the high risk OB’s office today with tears streaming down my face.

I tend to worry. And when it comes to decisions that will effect my future children, I tend to worry a lot.

I also have a neurotic concern that others are judging me.

“Uh, did you hear about Arley? Staying on her medications, despite the fact that there is a 1 percent chance that the baby could have Ebstein’s anomaly.”

“What a bitch. I mean sure she went two doctor’s who said the likelihood is less than 1 percent but what kind of selfish mother would put her child at risk like that. I mean just because she can’t handle the 'pre-baby blues'?”

“I know. People like her shouldn’t even have children.”

Okay, so maybe women in real life aren’t as mean as those in my inner-monologue, but you see what I mean. And I haven’t even replayed the conversations these evil inner-voices have had about me regarding, gasp, formula feeding! Or adoption. Here’s brief snippet of how the adoption conversation that plays in my head.

“Can you believe that stupid bitch Arley wantsta procreate? I mean how narcissistic is that when there are tons of children just waiting to be adopted. Not to mention all the 'crazy' genes she’ll pass down to the poor kid.”

“I know. I mean, sure most adoption agencies don’t let mentally ill people adopt, but really should the mentally ill have children at all?”

Let's hope that women in general aren’t as judgmental and bitchy as the super ego who dominates the conversations in my brain.

But this is the state to which I came to the doctor’s office today.

“I just want to know,” I said after blotting the tears from my eyes. “Is it completely irresponsible for me to try to conceive as someone with bipolar disorder?”

“No,” the doctor said without hesitation.

One word. Two letters. Lots of relief.

God, Gunther, grief, and other things that don't make sense

Gunther has no eyes, but he still has a fierce stare.

I seem to be in a stare off with my eyeless Jack Russell Terrier.

And if that sentence doesn’t make sense to you, well welcome to my world. It’s a world that doesn’t make sense. At all.

It’s a world where we spend more money on our dog’s food and medical care than many children receive. A world where friends bury their loved ones far too young, and yet this dog somehow magically survives every trial that comes his way. It’s world where I manage not to have a heart attack when TCU beats KU, yet still have heart palpitations when Gunther, our dog, points his face toward me in a standoff mode.

Even God can't explain KU's loss to TCU.

Gunther is 12. His eyes were removed a couple years ago due to glaucoma. I love him, fear him, and resent him all in one breath. In that aspect this little dog reminds me a lot of God.

I’ve often heard people ask the perplexing questions of God, such as why does pain and suffering occur? Why do the good die young and child molesters and meth dealers seem to live forever? Why are some children born into systemic poverty they can’t escape and others born into wealth they can’t explain? Why do the chemicals in some people’s brain function in a way that causes them to be classified as ill? And seriously why did TCU beat KU? Seriously.

The truth is no one has answers to these questions. And I am skeptical of anyone who claims they do. According to the book of Job, the questions of why are not ones that we are entitled to have the answers to.

What I have learned in my 30 years on this earth, is that our losses sometimes have the ability to make us stronger. And our defeats can teach us to appreciate our wins.

So if not for God’s, at least for Gunther’s sake, let’s pull off win today Jayhawks.

Gunther and I are counting on you.

Maybe it is really just about relationships

A western Kansas community averts tragedy through its close nit relationships.

Turn on your TV, look at a newspaper, or open an internet browser and it won’t take you long to find a story about violence.

Murder and suicide are common place in our news streams. And these stories have everyone asking why.

What could prevent such tragedies? Increased gun regulation? Less violence in video games? Or perhaps putting “God” back in our schools?

We focus so much on what could prevent heinous acts in the aftermath of tragedy. Rarely do we have, or take, the opportunity to examine the success stories: the people who contemplated suicide or other acts of violence, but chose another path, the people who decided to get help, the people who were guided to a better path.

On Tuesday I had the opportunity to hear a story of success at the Governor’s Mental Health Services Planning Council.

A 15-year-old named Jace from Deerfield, Kan., allegedly planned to kill himself at the school in front of his classmates.

This boy, along with his parents, the school principal, the school counselor, and mental health professionals from western Kansas joined the planning counsel meeting via conference call. 

As Jace and others recounted his story it didn’t take long to identify what enabled Jace’s story to have a happy ending instead of a tragic one.

Jace attends Deerfiled High School in a small, close nit community. His high school only has 75 students total. That means there are about 20 students in each graduating class. These kids know each other and they notice when things are off.

Deerfield school counselor Tammie Sabata serves as the student services director for the 272 students in the Deerfield School District.

Sabata said a concerned student told her about Jace’s suicidal thoughts. Sabata took these concerns seriously. She called Jace into the office. After an assessment with Sabata, Jace was sent to the emergency room and eventually admitted to the KVC Wheatland Psychiatric Hospital in Hays, Kan.

Jace spent two weeks at KVC, where he received treatment for major depressive disorder and generalized anxiety.

He said the students and staff at Deerfield High welcomed him back without the stigma that is often associated with mental illness.

“They really made me feel like a person and not just a label,” Jace said. “They have been able to make me feel accepted and supported.”

So what made Jace’s story different from so many others?

This incident happened in a community in Western Kansas where the rate of poverty is high and resources are low. It’s not the kind of community we typically look to for best practices. Yet, the successful ending of Jace’s story shows that in this incident Deerfield High School’s practices were better than the best.

So what made the difference?

Deerfield HIgh School principal Nathan Reed attributes much of this success to the relationships among his students and staff. Jace felt comfortable enough to confide in a friend, who felt safe telling the school counselor, who knew the people to go to for mental health care.

“Relationships and communication are paramount in this type of situation,” Reed said.

These people know each other. They care about each other. And in Jace’s case, that seemed to make all of the difference in the world.

So how does that translate into public policy? Can you make people get to know their neighbors? Can you legislate people to care? Because if you could I believe much of the world’s problems could be solved over a cup a tea.

If you could, kids might realize they aren’t as isolated as they may sometimes feel. If you could kids might feel safe enough to cry out of help. If you could the adults around them might notice those cries. Perhaps it is all about relationships.

As for Jace, he is now plugged into the area mental health system, grateful for the community who rallied around him.

“The plan is to take one thing at a time,” he said.

Mental health: An issue on which we can unite

In week’s since the shooting in Newton, Conn. I have heard a lot about the need for mental health awareness and access. Kansas Gov. Sam Brownback even changed his stance on providing public funds for mental health.

Brownback proposed a $10 million mental health initiative last month. In 2011 Brownback had proposed $10 million in cut’s to the states mental health programs.

The need for mental health services seems to be one both the right and left can get behind. As a state we have a unique opportunity to put our resources to use in a way that can help generations of Kansans who suffer from mental illness. I hope for everyone’s sake that genuine reform occurs. When it comes the mental health of Kansas everyone has a stake.

Last week Rev. Adam Hamilton represented Kansas in the inauguration festivities as he preached the Inaugural Prayer Service. Hamilton spoke about the importance of unity and vision in his message.

“A compelling vision unifies us,” Hamilton said to the President during the sermon. “We're in need of a new common national vision. Not one that is solely Democratic or solely republican. We need one or two goals or dreams that Americans on both sides of the aisle can come together and say, ‘Yes, that's what it means to be American.’ That's where we need to go."

I believe creating access to mental health services can be one of those unifying goals. And I think Kansas can be lead the way, as an example to other states.

I don’t agree with Gov. Brownback’s politics, but I sincerely hope he succeeds in this initiative.

This is not a problem that we can just throw money and expect to see an impact. Here are three areas that I think must be addressed to create a comprehensive mental health system that fosters a healthy society: 

 Psychiatrist shortage. The shortage of psychiatrists had not been part of the media’s post-Newton discussion on mental health. But this shortage is real and has already had an in pact on patients throughout the country. In 2008 only 4 percent of graduating medical students applied for residency programs in psychiatry. It can take up to three months for a first-time patient to get into a psychiatrists. Because of this delay most people who suffer from severe mental illnesses to not receive help until they are arrested or hospitalized. It’s no surprise that 38 percent of the adult correctional facility population in Kansas are mentally ill.

Licensed counselors in public school. As school districts’ budgets continue to shrink, school counselors are often the ones on the chopping blocks. Many elementary schools do not have full-time counselors and some don’t have counselors at all. The same is true for some middle schools and high schools. Concerned parents or students who might have turned to a professional they know and trust at their school no longer have that option. This make seeking help even more difficult. Because mental health is an issue that effects public safety and the state’s budget, it makes sense to invest in school counselors. Early interventions can keep these kids from becoming adults who end up in state correctional facilities or state mental health hospitals.

 Lack of an efficient referral systems. We need to work on a system that connects primary care providers to community mental health centers and psychiatric practices. Too often primary care providers overextend themselves by diagnosing mental illnesses and prescribing psychiatric medications. When primary care providers get the diagnosis wrong, instead of receiving much needed help the patient’s illness continues to worsen. We need to develop a system where psychiatric patients can easily be referred and treated by specialists.

These reforms may seem like only a dream, but I believe they can become reality. The Governor's Mental Health Services Planning Council meets tomorrow from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. at the KNEA building. I will be live Tweeting the event. You can follow me on Twitter at @ArleysWords. 

Three things every space should have

Batman, our cat, loves to nap in the sun room.

Pets, personality and plants are a must in any space.

I never thought I would be a cat person. I mean everyone knows dog people are cooler, clearly.

But the truth is I fell in love the moment I laid eyes on our cat, Batman. Sure, I love our dog, but there is something special about this cat. And when I think about the pros on the cat side (their ability to clean themselves, their independence, their love of literature) I can’t deny that I am in fact a cat person.

As I type this I am watching Batman napping so peaceful in my reading chair. Watching his pudgy belly expand and contract as he breaths, I feel at peace.

Whether you are cat person, a dog person, or anything in between, pets have this ability to bring comfort in a way that can’t be explained. They provide their owners, warmth, love, and good energy.

I’m real believer in the energy of a space. Pets can bring an abundance of positive energy and I think everyone should have them in their space. 
The two other things I think every space needs are personality and plants.

I’ve never been a huge fan of the pink/salmon color of the walls in the sunroom off of our bedroom. It is where I have my office. I’ve wanted to paint the walls a light brown or cream for the longest time because I thought it would look good with the light blue curtains I made for the room.

I think the salmon looks tacky like the bright blue tile that needs to be replaced in our bathroom. But I just can’t bring my self to paint them. There is something about the color on the wall that I like. Sure it looks a little much with my pink reading chair, but I can’t deny that the colored walls give the room some personality. And the plants make the room feel alive, even if one of them is trying to take over the room.

It is important to create a space for yourself to create, meditate, and simply be. And make sure that space has personality and good energy.

Power of a pill

When you have a chronic illness you understand the importance of taking your medications as prescribed.

The trouble with some illnesses, such as bipolar disorder, is that the medications and dosages required to keep you well can change over time.

Finding the correct dosage can be tricky and when you do find that magic prescription you certainly don’t want to mess with it.

From my experience with bipolar disorder every psychiatrist has his or her own opinion about what medications work best and how you need to tapper off of, or alter, medications as needed.

I have been seeing a resident psychiatrist. Every visit I would see the resident and the he would tell me his thoughts on my medication and then an attending physician would come in and tell me what he or she thought. Most visits I would have the same resident, but the attending, who had the final say on my treatment plan, always changed. And so did my treatment plan. This became worrisome when I decided that I wanted to get off of my medications to try and conceive.

Some docs prefer a more conservative approach while others shrug off the idea of getting off my meds for pregnancy as no biggie. Typically the doctors I saw who were more easy going about getting off my meds were new male residents.

I knew I needed to find an experienced psychiatrists who was female. I thought I female doctor would take my concerns about pregnancy more serious than a male doctor. I realize just how sexists that sounds. And I acknowledge it is in fact sexists.

I’m okay with my sexism because I know that a female doctor works best for me. Trying to have a baby is a complex, emotional issue. Particularly if you have health problems that stand in the way. I admire people who can just get pregnant on a whim without thought to how it will play out. I am not one of those women. Even if I didn’t have bipolar disorder I would not be one of those women. It’s just not my personality.

For over seven years I relied solely on lithium to manage my moods. It worked great, but a several months ago my anxiety and depression seemed to need more than lithium. I got on 50 mg of Zoloft, which seemed to do the trick for a while.

After a few months on the 50 mg, my depression started to creep back and seemed to be even worse than before. I felt on edge at work and drained when I came home, crying at the drop of a hat.

The resident I saw during this bout increased my dose of Zoloft to 100 mg. This complemented the 900 mg of lithium I took daily.

The extra Zoloft made me feel happy, really happy. Soon I felt elated and decided that I should get off the antidepressant. After all, it would be one less thing to worry about when I decided to get off all of my medications to conceive.

I tapered off of the Zoloft in about week. A day after my last dosage, I felt amazing. My therapist classified me as hypomanic but warned me that coming off of the Zoloft could have side effects.

Two days later my mental state completely collapsed. Nothing could motivate me and I couldn’t stop crying. It seemed as though I had dove head first into a deep depression.

After only three days of this depressive state I found myself in a dry heave style of crying. I had put out calls to my doctor, but they weren’t returned. I decided to go back on the Zolft at 50 mg (and get another doctor).

Within a day I felt like myself again, not depressed or elated, just myself.

I never realized what dramatic impacts such subtle shifts in my medications can cause. Now that I am back to myself I’m hesitant to change my medications again. I know I will have to before I can conceive, but I will never again take for granted the power of these pills.

Waiting for life's harvest

The day after my wedding, before my husband and I headed to our honeymoon destination, we planted a garden in small plot of dirt at the side of our house.

Tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, we planted a variety of delectable veggies. And we did together on our first day of marriage.

In my mind it was symbolic and sacred. Logan probably thought of it as the practical thing to do. He finally had time off from work and if we waited until after we got back to from the honeymoon to plant the garden it might be too late in the season.

To me, these seeds symbolized much more than the produce that we would eat that summer. They represented the journey that we had just begun with our marriage.

When you plant a garden you have to water it, pick out the weeds, help your seeds become the plants they are intended to be. The same is true marriage. It is work. You have make time for each other, nurture your relationship, and help your partner live up to his or her potential. Marriage is work, but the fruits of a good marriage make all the work worth while.

In my own marriage, we are still somewhat in the honeymoon phase. Thankfully, our relationship has done much better than the crops did last year. As a gardener, there just isn’t much you can do during one of the worst droughts in Kansas history. We survived the drought but unfortunately our tomatoes didn’t.

For the past year my marriage has somewhat been in cruise control as we’ve enjoyed quality time together at home and random road trips. Things like unemployment, sickness, and an entire KU football season with only one win didn’t seem to shake us.

But lately I worry that we may have entered a drought. And I worry that this drought is self-imposed by me and my stupid depression, and stupid medication changes, and even stupider ideas about getting pregnant. (Full disclaimer I do not think trying to get pregnant is stupid. I just feel like the effort that is required for me to get pregnant is stupid. It should be much easier. I just know it.)

Apparently I went off my anti-depressant a little too quickly. But I didn’t think it was the wrong thing to do because I was feeling hypomanic, which is bad, really bad. You can read my last blog for details on that.

In the past week my mood has went from the utmost high (I was totally ready to start my own publication, which in my defense I still think I have a good business plan) to the lowest of lows. These last three days the only time I am able to stop crying is when I am around other people or when I am running. I know three days doesn’t sound very long, but keep in mind Jesus was in the tomb for the three days. Some theologians believe he spent those days in Hell. I believe if you ask Jesus if those were a long three days he would say yes. He would probably say, hell yes.

So the last three days have been rough. Not just on me, but on Logan as well. I mean no one likes to come home to a crying wife. Particularly if she is crying for absolutely no reason. And I imagine he feels about as powerless as I do in this.

I have thought about going back on my anti-depressant. I have phone calls out to the doctor. The truth is I don’t know what to do. Because this stupid SSRI is the least of my worries. I cannot fathom how I will be able to be off lithium, even it it’s just for the first trimester and the time it takes for us to conceive. And there is as much chance of me being off lithium long enough to breast feed as there is the Chiefs winning the 2014 Super Bowl. And yes, I know that breast milk is best.

The truth is, I don’t know if I can do this. I fell ashamed, so ashamed.

I don’t know if I can conceive a child because I am dependent on a mood stabilizer to treat my bipolar type 1 disorder.

There I said it. And in some way I feel little less ashamed. 


I remember when I was tutoring third-graders at elementary school in Philly. One of my students would always say he felt so ashamed when he got a flash card wrong.

“I’m so ashamed,” he would say in his adorable third grade voice as he buried his hands in his arms.

“It’s okay,” I would reassure him. “Try again.”

When he got the problem right the smile on his face was priceless.

“I’m not ashamed anymore,” he declared.

Even thinking about that little boy’s face makes me want smile all these years later.

And as write this blog, confessing my fears, I feel like shouting from the rooftops.

“I’m not ashamed anymore!”

My husband and I are tilling this garden we call our life. And we really don’t know what the fruits of our labor will be. But we do know is that we love each other, we love God, and we are not going to live feeling ashamed about things beyond our control.

Mania's seductive high

Sometimes on the weekends my husband and I like to veg out by watching random documentaries and trashy reality shows. And by sometimes, I mean nearly every weekend.

Last weekend we watched a marathon of Drugs Inc. on the National Geographic Channel. Episode after episode we watched people trying to chase the high they remember from their first time. Some of the episodes featured drugs I had never even heard of.

I have never been adventurous when it comes to experimenting with drugs but I have experienced the rush and intensity of mind altering highs.

Mania and hypomania are a natural, and often unavoidable high, those of us with bipolar experience.

I, ever the conscientious person, always alert my therapist and doctor when I start to feel the buzz of hypomania. After being hospitalized in 2005 after a full blown manic episode I am determined to avoid mania at all cost.

But things have changed in my life. With the comfort and trust of a husband and the absence of a full-time job, I felt that a little hypomanic joy couldn’t hurt anybody.

When I noticed my mood start to escalate, I didn’t have the urge to call my doctor and ask if my lithium should be increased. Instead I embraced the urge the laugh, shop, dance, have sex (with my husband), drink wine and be happy. Really happy. 

I started to wonder if maybe my giddiness might be a symptom of hypomania. My thoughts were also becoming more rapid.

I worried my last post about the pair of red corduroy pants embroidered with dogs that I recently bought my husband might be a sign that I hypomanic. Maybe, just maybe.

I thought my increased sex drive might be a sign. Perhaps, but my husband certainly wasn’t going to complain about that.

I blamed Christmas on my increased shopping and relished in the creativity my rapid thoughts produced.

When I started annotating 50 Shades of Grey for theological themes and cultural trends, I knew I had a problem.

Still, I didn’t want to lose the joy and insight my hypomanic buzz provided.

When you are manic or hypomanic, it’s as though you are looking at the night’s sky and the more manic you become the more constellations you are able to see, the more the dots connect, the more intense your happiness becomes. When you are manic the world is yours. And who wants to give that up?

My therapists picked up on my hypomania at our recent session. The longer I spoke, the more obvious it became.

She recommended that I talk to my doctor about increasing my lithium levels and told me I should cancel my plans to hit up the flea markets after our session.

You should not be shopping right now, she warned.

I made an appointment to follow up with my therapist in about a week and requested that my doctor (or his nurse) call to discuss changing my lithium dosage.

There, I thought, I did the responsible thing. There is no reason why I should not go to the flea markets. I had $40 cash burning a hole in my pocket.

My mind began to flood with all of the vintage home goods I could find. I had to go to the flea markets. I had to.

Then I paused.

No, I reminded myself. I don’t have to. I am still in control.

And that is the difference (or rather one of the differences) between mania and hypomania. When you are hypomanic you still have a certain amount of control. When you are manic you have no control. When you are manic you are captive to manic impulses and urges.

In the battle of bipolar disorder when you are hypomanic you still have the opportunity to retreat.

And that’s what I decided to do. I retreated. I didn’t go shopping. I talked to the nurse. I came home, cleared my thoughts and wrote this blog.

Battling the beast of mania, trying to chase that high, can be sad and descriptive as the lives I saw on Drugs Inc. It’s a battle I don’t want to fight. So today, I chose to retreat.

There but for the grace of God, and lithium, go I.

Just for sh!#s and giggles

When you live with anxiety, or watch 5 minutes of cable television, the world can be a scary place. For that reason, I make it a point to laugh as much as possible. Even if the laughter occurs at awkward moments or causes me embarrassment.

I like to laugh.

And sometimes the opportunity for laugher sparks when you least expect it.

Last week I, like so many Americans, took back all of the clothing items that my husband and I received for Christmas that didn’t fit. (In order to protect my husbands privacy, and to ensure that he will continue to let me write about him, I will refer to my husband as Jamal from here on out in my blog.)

So, my mom had gotten Jamal a KU T-shirt that was too small. Jamal is a tall guy. I exchanged the shirt and found one in a size that would work. After a few minutes perusing the sales racks in the women’s section, I headed for the check out.

Before I got to the register a male mannequin dressed in corduroy red pants with dogs embroidered on them stopped me in my tracks. Yes, you read correctly, grown man corduroy pants with dogs embroidered on them. Here is a picture to prove that I am not lying.

This is a real clothing item in the men's section at Kohl's.

Above is the face of a man who loves his wife and is still confused about why he is letting her a take a picture of him in corduroy doggy pants.

I took a close up of the manikin to make sure everyone could see the dogs on the pants.

“Is this a real thing?” I said as I took a closer look at the pants. Pretty sure I said it out loud.

I immediately knew I had to get a pair for Jamal. I laughed as I searched for his size. I stopped laughing a little when I saw the price tag- $40. Holly cow thats a lot of money for a pair of pants, especially at Kohl’s.

I had a 20 percent off coupon so I made the executive decision that the laughter I would receive from seeing Jamal in these pants would be worth the $32 I would have to put on my Kohl’s card.

My plan was for Jamal to wear the pants to the Christmas celebration we had a my grandmothers the next day. I wanted to see how long it would take my extended family to comment on his pants. I bought them as a social experiment, fully intending to take them back after Jamal wore them to the party. (You can judge me if you want, but keep in mind I was doing this in the name of science.)

When Jamal got home and saw the pants he was totally in. We both exploded into laughter. It’s times like this that I realize, I have the perfect husband.

Jamal kept laughing until he saw how much the pants costs.

Apparently, he didn’t like the idea of me using Kohl’s as a clothing rental service.

I did get a few pics of the hubster in the pants before I took them back. (He doesn’t want me to use his real name, but he was totally fine with the photo? Crazy, I know.)

So, the point of this blog, is that laughter is good. Enjoy it when you can. Dancing is also good. So is prayer and poetry. When I search for the goodness in life, it is not hard to see the beauty, even a midst all of the challenges in life.

My resolution this New Year’s is to do more of the things that exhibit the joy in my life. I want to laugh more, dance more, pray more, and write more. I want to experience joy more.

Dr. Phil would dismiss this resolution because it does not include a measurable goal. But when have a ever agreed with that guy?

Find what brings you joy, and this year do more of it. Unless the thing that brings you joy is meth, but I’ll save my “just say no to illicit drugs” blog for another time.

Happy New Year!