A Walk in the Park

Walk in the park with Brie

One of the biggest factors of maintaining mental stability, for me, has been exercise. In fact, the first time my former psychologist and I determined I’d reached a positive and healthy place was also the first time I trained to run a 5k.

Now one of my favorite things to do during the day is to take Brie, my family’s puppy, on a walk in the park or through the neighborhood. Today’s walk was rough, though; I just didn’t want to do it. Yet half way around the lakes I found myself smiling at the sleeping ducks and marveling at the sunbathing turtles who quickly scuttled away at the sound of Brie’s gangling tags.

I kept asking myself what was so drastically altering my mood. Was it the sun warming my body, or the lapping water of the lake, or the presence of a happy animal, I wondered. Honestly, I still don’t know, but to find such an effective coping mechanism is amazing.

Seroquel Withdrawal

I’ve decided to start on a new project: one of self-awakening. I’m hoping this will serve as both a motivator for myself and a vehicle of understanding for those it reaches.

The past few days have been, in a word, brutal. A hard to explain brutal. I’ve spent so much time within mania’s breast that I’d forgotten the harsh winds which effortlessly lift and guide her, permitting her to cut gracefully through the air. I had knocked on wood, sheepishly wishing for mania to swoop me up, coaxed with false promises of peace and rest. I dreamed foolishly of safety from the angry swirling sea, now below. But the higher I go the softer the water looks.

It has been brutal. A falling into a fitful sleep, just to wake two hours later and realize that’s the only rest you’re going to get, brutal. A finding out it’s only 3 pm and bursting into tears because it’s so early still in the day, brutal. A waking up my parents sobbing at  3 am because all I want to do is sleep, but I don’t know if the pain is coming from the inside or the outside, brutal. Waking with cheeks already drenched in tears, brutal.

Sweats, shakes, vomiting, agitation, brutal. Seroquel I hate you.

To better explain: with permission to finally quit taking the anti-psychotic drug, Seroquel, I was excited to reclaim my body; I didn’t realize I’d be looking at at least a month of withdrawal. My only consolation is that after three weeks I must be reaching the end of this horrid withdrawal period. Though just this morning I had to choose between continuing to puke at my feet (with an all too curious puppy hanging around) or aiming the rest of my stomach contents in the general direction of our pool and spa. I scored in both. Only thanks to acid does my family have any comfort in the future sanitation of our leisurely swims.

This, I’m learning, is yet another dirty side of mental illness. And it deserves just as much exposure and understanding as the rest of it.

White lies and pointless secrets

Sometimes I have amazing thoughts. Like this one! They just become so magnified in my mind. You know, like right here, right now. I’m moments from finally being done with my (probably) poorly applied make-up; but these words introduced themselves and offered an image so compelling that it felt like a crime to not share them. But, last time others met them with hesitation. It went against a cultural norm that’s so ingrained we don’t even recognize that it’s just an idea that we didn’t even come up with ourselves. So I’m going to voice them. I’m going to push concern over the way they’re received by others to the back of my mind. For every person who doubts, there is someone, somewhere who agrees.

I don’t want to continue addressing things as irrelevant as make up with white lies. Why do I automatically lean on responses such as: when it comes down to it do you want to sleep an extra ten minutes or put make up on? For that to be true I’d have to wake up and consider the extra time I could divulge in the land of dreams. But I don’t do that. The thought of make up doesn’t even cross my mind. I don’t decide to opt out of applying it. I don’t take the time to acknowledge it’s a thing I should even think about.

So there’s my first deep dark secret: I don’t understand make up. Sorry?