It May Hurt a Little

I'm the one in the center front, wearing the fluorescent green shirt
and blue hat, focusing on not feeling the pain.

April 17, 2016

My husband is a runner. Not the few-miles-on-the-weekend runner. No, he's a serious runner. In fact, he's on his way to a big race right now. He'll be running in his first Boston Marathon tomorrow, despite a nuisance injury that brought his training to a screeching halt last month.  He's going to run Boston anyway, knowing he probably won't run his best time, and, frankly, knowing he'll be running through pain for 26.2 miles.

"It'll hurt a little, yeah, but it'll be worth it," he shrugs with a grin as he loads up his car this morning. He's heading north to do something he's dreamed of since he was in high school.  Finally, he'll get to experience the Boston Marathon.

I wasn't thrilled about his decision to go at first. I urged him to consult a doctor who then sent him to a physical therapist. He was told his condition wasn't serious, just uncomfortable and could be corrected with lots of strength training and stretching. He was given the "go ahead" so I stopped my objections. Plus, I knew he couldn't be talked out of it, anyway. For him, quitting isn't an option. Lance Armstrong said, "Pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever." That is how my husband lives every day.

It is one of the many things I love about him. And it's one of the many ways I aspire to be more like him.

My husband who never quits, even if it means running 26.2 miles in pain.

As a kid, I was a competitive swimmer. But finding pool time as a working adult wasn't easy, so in my thirties, I tried to teach myself to run. It started out as mostly walking with a little running, but eventually, I was running the whole way. I even ran some 5K races and discovered that I almost liked it...or, more honestly, I didn't completely hate it.

For my fortieth birthday, I trained for a short distance triathlon. I survived it and found that I was almost enjoying myself. Almost. Then this past fall, for my forty-fifth birthday, I trained and finished a half marathon. And now, I'm training for another one.

Running for me isn't bliss. It isn't escape. It isn't exhilarating. Despite my husband's ever-so-patient encouragement over the years and promises of the possibility of a "runner's high," I still don't like running. I only do it because it feels good AFTER I'm finished. It's complete drudgery while I'm actually doing it.

But I must admit, that for my mental health, running is good for me. I suffer from bipolar II, which is primarily depression, but includes sporadic episodes of hypomania, as well. When I'm feeling especially blue, running is not something I feel like doing. I'd rather crawl into bed under the covers, turn down the lights, and settle into the darkness until it passes over me. I'd rather quit.

"Pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever."

Depression pain doesn't feel temporary. If I feel myself slipping into the dark, the weight crushing me down and pulling me away from everyone and everything that matters, the last thing I want to do is go for a run. But I try to remember that running may hurt a little, but it'll be worth it.  I'll feel better if I can just get through it.

"Pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever."

My husband knows that his 26.2 mile race tomorrow will likely hurt a little, but he isn't going to quit. I want to be more like him. A man who isn't afraid of a little pain. A man who is determined to finish what he starts. A man who sees pain as something to get through not to fear.

I may not love running. I may not even like it most days...but I'm not going to quit it.

Bipolar in Paradise

June 22, 2014

Moist, sugar-soft sand squeezed in between my toes as I ambled along the beach. The oranges, reds, and yellows swirled across the horizon and the rhythmic sounds of the ocean blended in perfect harmony with the steel drums tapping out an island tune. For seven days I was in a Caribbean heaven vacationing with my family. And yet, for seven days, bliss eluded me.

It's difficult to know just what kept me from feeling as carefree and euphoric as one might expect under the circumstances. It could be my recent change in medication for the treatment of my Bipolar II. Or it could be the simple fact that my firstborn son still sits in prison after more than a year. I don't know. But the truth is while my entire family celebrated the joyful occasion of my parents' 45th anniversary in ocean waves of St. Croix, I secretly battled a different set of waves all week, the waves of melancholy that have plagued me for as long as I can remember. In the midst of a week-long island vacation, I was sad, plain and simple.

Now, don't get me wrong. I didn't spend my days in a darkened room with the covers pulled over my head. I was very active and quite social really. I jogged every morning followed by an elaborate breakfast at the resort restaurant. Then I sunned and swam, snorkeled and celebrated with everyone. But there was this gray cloud over my head all the time. I couldn't seem to thoroughly enjoy myself no matter how hard I tried. I knew how amazing this vacation was and how much I should be loving it, yet I couldn't. I just couldn't.

I suppose that's what living with bipolar really is for me-- being aware of how I should feel, yet feeling the opposite. I guess I am lucky that I am usually aware of what I am missing when my illness strikes. Others may not be.

After this vacation, I've learned that the waves of bipolar illness can crash any shore, even in paradise.

Emerson Nailed It

January 4, 2014

We recently had a snow storm here and I was reminded of this poem...

The Snow Storm

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,

Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,

Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air

Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,

And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.

The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet

Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit

Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed

In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

"A tumultuous privacy of storm." Read that line again. "A tumultuous privacy of storm."

What a perfect way to describe a snow storm. And what a perfect way to describe how it feels to have Bipolar Disorder. A tumultuous privacy of storm. 

According to the dictionary, tumultuous means: making a loud confused noise; uproarious. 

But Emerson says the tumultuous storm is private. Isn't that what goes on in our minds when we are battling episodes of mania or even depression? The "storm" is private, yet "tumultuous." No one else can come in to help..."all friends shut out." It's our private storm.

I've read that Ralph Waldo Emerson may have suffered from Bipolar Disorder. I wonder if it occurred to him that his poem could be compared not only to a snow storm but to what it feels like to have a mental illness. Or maybe my bipolar mind has just twisted Emerson's words to apply to what's going on in my mind today.

I have a private tumultuous storm brewing.

As I watch the blanket of white "veil" my backyard, I embrace my "tumultuous privacy of storm." Days like today pass. Just like snow storms.

Unwrapped

December 26, 2013

Since Thanksgiving, I've been trying to live like a perfectly wrapped gift. Smiling, laughing, trying to seem "in the spirit" of the holidays... but I've hidden behind the fancy ribbon and shiny paper. I've tucked away my tears inside my perfectly wrapped gift box.

Today I've been unwrapped.

No more artificial smiles and empty laughter. I'm out of the box. I'm unwrapped.

Let me cry now. Let me feel now. Let me grasp the gristly heartache that comes with having a child in prison during the holidays.

I'm unwrapped. It happened last night.

My older son, imprisoned since March 28th, sent a beautiful letter to my family. So last night, after the presents and the feasts, after the stockings and the caroling, after the holiday ho ho hos and hugs all around, we passed around his letter. It was addressed to each of us individually, each of us named in his blue pen scrawl. His heartfelt words of jolly good cheer and best wishes for a healthy, happy new year leapt off the page like a sleigh full of toys and eight tiny reindeer.

My parents read it first, as grim, bleak looks darkened their faces. I took it next in my hands, trying not to shake. Then my stoic younger son read it and I swear tears welled up. And finally, my siblings each read it, growing solemn and tearful. With reverence we held it. Ritualistic almost, handling it like precious china as we passed it from one to the next. Each of us reacted in about the same way. The room deflated. The holiday cheer escaped.

Reading his letter shredded my shiny paper and yanked my red ribbon right off.

I came unwrapped in less than a minute.

To Do List

July 25, 2013

As I arrive home from a long, much needed vacation, I am greeted by a 10 inch stack of mail to sort. I haven't unpacked yet, but already I know my to do list is growing. The refrigerator is empty, pantry bare. There are messages on voice mail to retrieve and answer, and there is a day's worth of laundry to do.  Welcome home.

So why is it that all I can do right now is stare blankly at the television, muted? Why is it that my full suitcase remains unopened on the bed while I nibble mindlessly at a cherry poptart?

My emotions are vacant. I am numb.

Then it dawns on me. I don't want to feel real life again yet.

Because for me, real life means that my 21 year old is in prison. Real life means that we don't know yet what the length of his sentence is. Real life means more hounding the mental health care facilities for my son's records to help his attorney make a mental health case with the prosecuting attorney. Real life means worrying about something that can't be controlled. Real life is hell.

So I will finish my poptart before I check my email. I will solve this Law & Order episode before I answer my voice mail. I will sit for a while and dream about some other mother coming home from vacation to greet her 21 year old son at the door. Home from college. Juggling a job and a steady girlfriend. This mother has problems of course, but none of them involve the anxiety that comes with the fact that your baby is sitting behind bars waiting to start his life.

Can a Little Getaway Get You Far Enough?

July 16, 2013

I'm on vacation. I can sleep in. I can stay up late. I can spend my days with my toes in the sand. I've even eaten dessert two nights in a row and not felt guilty about it (well, not too guilty.) My younger son, my boyfriend and I are spending the week with my family at the beach. But even with great chic lit on my Kindle, my mind can't escape the realities of my life. 

Don't worry. I brought my medication: the high dose of anti-depressant and the new mood stabilizer that together work as my psychological cocktail to keep me in relative balance. Lately, my psychiatrist has been working overtime to keep me out of bed and off the ceiling. Being bipolar II, I know my meds are not optional no matter what paradise my suitcase and I land in. I've ventured off meds a few times in the past but never successfully. And I would never even think to try that with the life I'm living to date.

For those of you who do not know my story, my older son, 21, has bipolar disorder. In a two year downward spiral, experimenting with self-medication and ignoring his diagnosis, he ended up in prison with six felony charges. He's been incaracerated since March 28. And so have I. We all have to some degree. But as a mother who shares her son's illness, I am indeed in prison too.

Vacationing doesn't feel the same this summer. And I suppose it shouldn't. There is a guilt cloud floating over my head. How do I deserve to bask in the sun when my boy hasn't felt solar rays regularly for almost four months? How do I deserve to enjoy relaxing jogs along a shaded seaside trail when my son is only limited to every other day yard time within the perimeter of an electric fence? I can't shake the guilt. It haunts me.

But now, with so much time to think, I wonder, are we all a little guilty of feeling guilty when we experience pleasure? Do we all carry some weight of something that makes us feel unworthy of happiness? Unworthy of joy? Is it my bipolar mind that makes me feel this way? Or is it motherhood? Could it be both? I do not have bipolar friends to ask. Only those who read this blog. I would love to know if my feelings sound familiar to you.

In any case, this little getaway hasn't gotten me far enough away. It has only gotten me far enough to see that happiness remains out of reach, unattainable. With every moment of laughter, there is a dull weight in my gut reminding me that laughter isn't allowed. Joy is not an option. And freedom only exists in my dreams. When I awake, whether it's with sand between my toes or at home in my own bed, the nightmare of my reality is still there to greet me. This vacation doesn't get me far enough away.

Days Like Today

June 26, 2013

Some days I forget I'm "Stillhopefulmom". This is one of those days. The only good thing I've accomplished today is this blog post (which technically I haven't finished yet.)

People say that I'm so strong. They say I've inspired them because of how well I've managed the circumstances of my life as of late. What people don't know is I need to be stronger...for days like today.

There are days when walking downstairs to let out my dog takes great effort. Days that I do not answer the phone. Days that I stay in my pajamas. Days that I may sustain myself on cheese sticks and Diet Coke. These are days of extreme sadness. Days when it is obvious I'm depressed.

Today, I woke up and went out for a run. It was really hot and I was not very motivated but I managed to finish two miles. Then I handled some business emails and phone calls as well as made myself a healthy breakfast, but that's where the productivity stopped.

I have actually spent the rest of the entire day (it's now 6:30pm) sitting on my bed with an NCIS marathon and my ipad playing an array of mindless games while half-listening to Mark Harmon solve military-related crimes.

There are days like today where I need to be stronger. I need to remember that sometimes I just get sad. I just do. And I suppose it's something I must accept. But I wish I were stronger. I wish I could be that "stillhopefulmom" I pretend to be...the one you readers believe me to be.

Sorry, she isn't here today. Hopefully, she'll be back tomorrow.

Mothers Know: An Evening Out with My Mother

I recently spent a couple of days at the beach with my mom.  She is a mother of three and grandmother of five.  I deeply respect her wisdom, especially when it comes to parenting.  (Well, she did a pretty good job with the three of us, anyway.)

We did some shopping, bought shoes, ate out, went to the nail salon.  Typical mother-daughter fare.  So we were out to dinner; we went to a favorite spot of hers that I'd never tried.  I ordered a fancy drink and we were diving into a delicious appetizer.

Then it happened.  A wave of guilt the size of a tsunami.

I was having fun.  I was having fun and I realized it.  How could I possibly have fun while my son sits in a 6 X 9 cell?  I almost dropped my fork.  She asked,  "What's the matter?"

I told her, "Sometimes I catch myself having fun.  I can't really have fun, Mom.  It makes me feel too guilty."

With wise eyes, my mother responded, "You have to take care of you.  You didn't make the choices he made.  You shouldn't serve his sentence with him.  You deserve to be happy."

I sipped from my cocktail, lifted my fork, and said, "I know, Mom.  I know."  And I tried to resume our laughter-filled evening without the guilt that weighed so heavily on my heart.  I know she knew I wasn't going to find that "fun" place again that night.  I know she knew I was feeling guilty.  I know because she's my mom.  And mother's just know.

Endurance

May 7, 2013

Today I learned the incredible story of Ernest Shackleton by viewing a film narrated by Kevin Spacey.  It's on You Tube if you want to check it out.

Normally, history is not my thing and certainly would not be a subject of my blog, however, this story affected me so much I wanted to share it with you.  I'll give you the very short version:

In 1915, Shackleton led a team of adventure-seeking men on the ship Endurance trying to cross Antarctica via the South Pole.  During the journey, the ship became trapped in ice.  Most would think all hope was lost.  But not Shackleton.  He took his men onto the ice and they camped there for months waiting for spring when the ice would thaw.

Unfortunately, while they waited, the Endurance wasn't freed by warmer weather.  Instead, the ship was crushed by ice and sank.  Luckily, before the ship was completely engulfed, the men were able to go aboard once more to retrieve their belongings, their sled dogs, and their life boats.  Though their situation appeared dire, they didn't give up.  They remained optimistic and journeyed on.  Their story is one of 635 days of survival.  But let me get to my point.

My point is Endurance.  Shackleton and his crew had incredible endurance.  They would not have ever survived without it.  Six hundred thirty-five days.

Sometimes we need to be reminded that we, too, have endurance.  We may not feel like we do, but it's there.  In fact, sometimes we may feel just like that ship wedged fatefully in that ice and we may just want to give up.

But we mustn't.  No, we mustn't give up hope.  I remain hopeful.  And you must too.

We each have a journey.  Probably not one that involves a ship and the ice of the South Pole, but we have one.  And our endurance will sometimes feel like it's frozen dormant inside of us, but it's there and we must find it. Dig deep for it.  Find it and use it.

Six hundred thirty-five days.  That could be the length of time my son is incarcerated.  Endurance.  I'm digging deep.

Tell Them You Love Them Especially When They Don't Want to Hear It

February 19, 2013

The following is an edited version of a letter I wrote to my 20 year old Bipolar son last summer.  He'd moved out of my house Dec. 31, 2010. If you've read my other posts, you know the troubles he's had, we've had.  But I post this letter now because it may benefit you, Dear Reader.  If you need to reach out to someone you love who is troubled, DO IT NOW.  Let them know you love them especially when they don't want to hear it.

July 14, 2012

Dear XXXX,

I suppose you see that I have decided to write you a letter. Two reasons: first, because when I text or call you, you rarely reply or answer. And second, because this will give me the opportunity to share with you some of the things that have been on my mind for quite some time.

The most important message I'd like to convey to you today is that I love you. Yes, I say that to you and I text it to you and you reply the same to me. But, seriously take a moment and think about it: I. Love. You. What that means is that I will never forsake you. I will never turn my back on you no matter what you do or say or don't do or don't say. No matter what. I. Love. You. A mother's love for her children is the most unique and selfless kind there is. And in my case, it is my love for you that is the deepest rooted love I carry in my heart. Here is a poem I think that explains my feelings toward you. Since we both love poetry, I think it's appropriate to share with you:

i carry your heart—ee cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

So, my Son, as my first born son you hold a very, very dear place in my heart. Carrying you for 9 months, giving birth to you, nurturing you the best I could is only the beginning of the love I have for you. As a young mother, I know I made mistakes. Lots of them. But one thing I know without hesitation is that I will always love you. It's just like that book I used to read to you about a mother's love for her son: how she crawled across the floor to rock him back and forth, back and forth and while she rocked him she sang:

I'll love you forever.

I'll like you for always.

As long as I'm living

my baby you'll be.

Now that you know the most paramount reason for my writing to you, let me move on to some other thoughts I've been having about you...and they are in no special order.

I feel guilty when I think about how things are for you right now. About how school hasn't really worked out and about how you don't have a car and perhaps not even a job. In all this misfortune, I have never given up hope for you. But I feel guilty when I think that's what you think. Basically, I worry that you think I've abandoned you. And I don't ever want you to think that.

I've been in therapy for a while now and I've been diagnosed Bipolar II. During my sessions with my counselor, I express to her how much I miss “the old XXXX” and how much I wish I could have done something to alter things. She tells me over and over that you have made choices that have led you to where you are. She says I need to remember that. And I do. But I can't help to feel guilty too. (Perhaps it's that old Catholic thing.) In any case, just know that I've been “battling my demons” so to speak over the last year and a half.

In getting diagnosed, I've begun medication too. This has helped moderate my emotions tremendously. I can't tell you how helpful it has been to learn more about Bipolar II and why I feel the way I feel sometimes. And to know that there are other people who feel this way too. And there is medication that helps. After some trial and error I've found the correct dosage for me. I tell you this because I want you to know everything, Son. I want you to know that I've been battling things too.

OK I just re-read that last paragraph and as a writing teacher, I'm horrified. The lack of organization is horrific. But I mean every word and I'm not revising it to make it perfect because I'm not perfect. I'm just your mom. And I miss you. And I love you. And I want to have a relationship with you again.

I'd love to see you on a regular basis. I'd love to talk to you weekly, daily, whatever suits you. You know I keep up with most of what's going on with you, though I'm sure I don't know everything. I respect your privacy. But I want to talk to you again. And I want to be a part of your life again.

Now this wouldn't be complete if I didn't mention the next subject, so brace yourself:

Your Future.

I'm not going to harp on you about what I think you should do. I'm not even going to list the ideas I've had (both old and new) regarding this topic. Instead I'm only going to say that I'd like to help you get Your Future started. I know you're scared. I know it's terrifying to be “a grown up”. But it's also quite liberating. And you deserve that.

So I'll come to a close with just three little words: I. Love. You. If you gain nothing else from this letter, I hope that I have convinced you of that.

Love Always,

Mom

Finding Solace in Song

January 9, 2013

I write music and lyrics.  It's therapy for me.  Here are two songs that I've written for my son.  I have videotaped a part of the first song.

A Letter to the Universe

Hey it’s me 

trying to sleep the whole night through

Well you see 

dying to see his eyes so blue

I’ve been trying not to think about him

trying not to cry

I’ve been trying not to blame myself 

but then why shouldn’t I?

I could hold his hand much tighter

I could sing him one more song

I could paint his world much brighter

give him reason to go on

so I’m calling out to you

can I try again?

Try again

let me...try again

I know...I know it’s been a while

I..I really miss his smile

Hey it’s me

trying to sleep the whole night through

Well you see 

dying inside, well wouldn’t you?

All I do is think about him

All I do is cry

All I do is blame myself 

but then why shouldn’t I?

Didn’t hold his hand near tight enough

Didn’t see he was afraid

Didn’t paint his world near bright enough

And I let him slip away

for my baby 

can I try again

Try again

let me

Try again

I know...I know it’s been a while

Oh...I really need his smile

Still Here

Just the other day, while driving home

I saw you on the street, but I looked away

in that winter coat I bought last year

your eyes they still looked cold, just like that day

and I wonder do you ever think of me?

where’s that little boy you used to be?

is he gone for good?

‘cause I haven’t given up on you

I haven’t seen those eyes so blue

are they gone for good?

‘cause I’m still here

‘cause I’m still here

In this quiet house, your empty room

cobweb reminders nagging me

if I’d only let those shadows die

your silence; your eyes that didn’t cry

and I wonder do you ever think of me?

are you still that boy you used to be?

don’t be gone for good

‘cause I haven’t given up on you

I want to see those eyes so blue

don’t be gone for good

no I haven’t given up on you

just let me see those eyes so blue

I’ll be here for good

yes, I’m still here

I’m still here

yes, I’m still here

Healing New Year

January 3, 2013

Why is it we say, "Happy New Year" anyway?  Is it because we're so glad the previous year is over?  Or is it because we are hoping the upcoming year is better than the last?  

What if each New Year is simply an annual reminder of mistakes and regrets?  

What if hearing "Happy New Year" feels like a punch in the gut?

Two years and four days ago, my older son walked out my door and I was powerless to stop him.  He was eighteen years old and hell-bent on proving that there was nothing wrong with him--that he was just fine.  That was December 31, 2010.  

You'd think I'd be healing by now.  You'd think.  But this week has been rougher than I expected.  After two years, I still haven't forgiven myself for letting him go out the door.  I haven't forgiven myself and yet I know in my heart that I did everything I could have done.  He made the choice to leave.  He made the choice to sofa-hop from friend's house to friend's house, eventually ending up on the streets before begrudgingly moving in with his father where he still lives today. Or at least that's where his belongings are.  He may or may not end up there come nightfall.  He makes those choices everyday.  Yes, my son is still out there.  He's lost.  He's depressed.  And so am I.

Two years and four days.

"Happy New Year"?  No, I won't be so ambitious.  How about "Healing New Year"?  

So Healing New Year to you, dear reader.  May your 2013 bring you peace.