I miss doing my previous work as a therapist. I loved working with children and adults and feeling that I was making a difference. Now I have relatively little human contact in contrast to the eight or nine hours spent in doing therapy.  I enjoyed listening and felt at ease giving comments that at times seemed helpful. I spent thirty years as a therapist and I am now grieving the loss of my work.

I had an increase in rapid cycling bipolar and especially more manic than I had experienced for many years. It was obvious that I could no longer work and I am now on disability. The frequency of mood swings is less but I have considerable problems in thinking and concentrating. This has made it difficult to make new friends. It has also made it difficult on-line. I enjoy doing this blog and hope it helps me connect with others. It is difficult doing the writing and it takes me a long time to write. It is especially hard to make comments. I am not sure why but I feel awkward and “out of it” when I try to express my thoughts and feelings. It is similar to when I first meet people or think they might be friends. I have always felt this way with people.

 My problems making friends has been with me since childhood. This may have been from feeling inadequate with people. I enjoyed being with animals and alone more than in making new friendships. I am quiet by nature and struggle to find words to be with people in person and on- line. It may also be because I have problems reading and writing in general. I don’t know if it is because of learning problems or bipolar. It is probably part of both. Please be patient with me if I am not coming through and not making sense. I will keep trying and hope that I can find the words to express my feelings and respond to your comments.

When I was a toddler my Daddy gave me the nickname of Pete. It was clear even then that I was a Tom Boy in need of an appropriate nickname. Since I whistled before I talked he tagged on Whistlin and  the nickname stuck until my teens. Several years ago I began to write childhood stories from the perspective of Whistlin Pete. I want to share one of them with you.

It was the bittersweet season of my grown-up years when I first began to ponder my childhood. My change of life issues clouded my memories except for those with my close companions. My Peopledog Tipi and a unique creature called a Horny Toad were my close companions all throughout childhood.  I began to tell the stories and the wisdom fire that burned inside my body far exceeded the heat of those blistering Okie days. The memory of tall grass and cherry popsicles helped me remember stories of sweetness and silence.

The World Book Encyclopedia describes Horny Toads as the Great Texas Horned Toad. She is a lizard shaped creature with protective horns covering her body.  Toad is a gift from the Creator that ventured north just far enough to find the red clay of Oklahoma.  On her journey she became a magical soul who would become the delight of children in the woods and prairies of her new homeland.

Texans would describe a monster of a toad with fierce dark eyes and treacherous horns that covered her gigantic torso.  They would tell the tale of children being carried away by the monster and to never be heard of again. Perhaps Horny Toad had grown weary of the responsibility of living up to a Texas size myth and needed a simpler life. I was blessed by these creatures that were plentiful in the 1950’s.

My Tipi was the first to see friend Horny Toad. All that was seen on that day was the swishing of tall grass and the howl of Tipi taking chase. It wasn’t long until I laid eyes on the creature. She was a light brown almost gray toad silently perched on the branch of a tree.  She closed her eyes and just like that became part of the tree. It took one look to see that this was a special kind of crawly four-legged creature. A closer look made out a body of horns taking on the shape of a suit of armor. The horns were from the tip of her nose to her tale and even toes. Somehow I knew from the first that she was not fearsome or treacherous.

Like most children I wasn’t content to stand and gaze at the creature. I pondered how to get closer and noticed that the horns on her tail were not so sharp. A closer look still was what seemed to be her rib bones and a soft underbelly.  Since Toad seemed to be fast asleep and Tipi was finally settled into a nap, it was my chance to make a move for the tail.  I slowly approached the tree and ever so gently placed my fingers on friend Toad’s tale. She didn’t startle or bolt but just sat there as if waiting for our encounter.  I was intrigued by the creature and felt a sense of connection unlike any other.  I picked up Toad and was drawn immediately to her under belly. It was soft, like the inside of Tipi’s ear. I loved the delicate softness and began to gently stroke Toad’s belly.

I watched as friend Horny Toad’s big brown eyes began to close.  The more I rubbed her tummy the more her eyes fluttered shut. Then they were completely closed and her body seemed lost in a trance.  Horny Toad was off in some dream deep inside.  I felt honored that Toad trusted me enough to relax in dream time. From that point on there was no better spring afternoon than to have Toad go to sleep on my tummy with her tiny feet skywards. I began to learn that creature spirits of various kinds were to be my life connection until I could learn to be with people.

April fools are coming soon and they will certainly want to be greeted by those of us who love to be foolish and playful. You can count me as one who loves to make jokes and will welcome all the fools who need a good laugh. My jokes are dry/corny and only appreciated by the few with a similar sense of humor.
Wait a minute! I can’t afford to be foolish and silly or the sneaky manic part of me will track me down. Too much laughter and jokes, over and over again and trouble will follow close behind. Hold on! That won’t happen; I ‘m taking a butt load of meds to keep me in line. So there is room for some foolishness and extra fun on April Fools Day. Is there anyone reading this that understands or at least can see the humor in this foolishness or am I not that funny and just think I am?

The fact is I‘m focused on being practical and certainly not feeling whimsical let alone foolish. I have fun with my friends and it is enough for now. My plan is to go to the gym and resume exercising. Actually I have to go to the dentist next week and need to see the financial damage of that before I pay for the gym. This is my plan as I usher in April Fools Day and beyond. My goal is to get healthy enough to have back surgery and have a better life physically and mentally. I have also felt better when I work out and look forward to the gym, eating healthy and having more fun.

Have a fun April Fools Day!

Listening is an art. It is more than a conversation, especially when it is in therapy. It is the silencing of the part of the mind that is thinking about what is said or thinking about a  response . It calls for a quiet mind and simplicity in listening along with the other person. As a therapist it was a joy to listen more than to say the right thing. As a therapist with bipolar I was grateful each time my mind was quiet, I could listen and the other person was heard.

In my early fifties I had mounting fears of being a bag lady. This was following a serious episode of depression. I was not sure I could continue working. Then it passed and my stamina and active listening skills returned and I was once again the therapist I wanted to be. I was working with children doing sand play therapy. Miniature figures of people and animals are used to make pictures in a large box of sand. It helps children to express feelings and tell their stories. I enjoyed the healing power of sand play.

 As I went to work each day reality had its own way of sneaking in and taking over. My worries about money were critical when my partner was diagnosed with cancer and we were financially strapped most of the time. My fears of being a bag lady were even more pronounced and heightened by the additional cost of her medical care.

I knew I needed relief from the daily fear of being a bag lady. Some of the folks I worked with were homeless and I heard in detail how they suffered. I wondered if I had the stuff to make it as a homeless person. What choice do you have when you are one paycheck away from being homeless? I talked with friends and could not come up with a game plan let alone quiet my obsessive fears of actually being a bag lady.

Then in one of my dreams I saw my self as a bag lady in the middle of winter on the streets of Minnesota. I noticed that I was carrying two brown paper bags which of course, made me an official bag lady. One bag was full of sand and the other had miniature toys. I saw myself going from one family shelter to another and doing sand play with children. It was a freeing and blessed dream.

The magic of being able to work with children in the shelters helped me to see that I could make it as a homeless person. The power of the dream gave me a shift away from daily anxiety and fear of being homeless. I realized I had the stuff to make it on the streets. The promise was in the two brown bags and children in each family shelter

If you do not know me by now I am Annie. I have not done my profile because I don’t know what I want to say about myself. In one sense I am a peculiar kind of chameleon in basic shades of flesh. Even when in my manic episodes I don’t become colorful I simply change flesh tones faster. I suppose that makes me sound ordinary and in some ways I am Being a chameleon takes on a special meaning when you live “down home”, with ordinary folks. I live in a rural area in the middle of Oklahoma where the red dirt can be seen for miles and I am no where near Madagascar, the home of other chameleons I no longer have a need to change into bright colors but my ability to blend into the woodwork is helpful at times. I can hide from the noise and chatter of more than a few people. When I am afraid of depression creeping in I can change colors and attract someone to engage in conversation.My need to use the chameleon part of me has changed since I live in the country.I have a long history of being a chameleon and it has served me well. I need it less and my ability to be casual and comfortable with people is a welcome gift.I will ponder what to put in my profile. Ponder is a popular word in Oklahoma. To ponder is similar to contemplation but with less intensity.

I was first diagnosed with bipolar disorder in my twenties I had the realization that a cruel part of my brain had taken far too much of a toll on my mind.   My brain had ravished my mind and I was truly clueless until I heard the diagnosis helped me understand.  I understand it this way; the brain is an organ of thought and nervous coordination.  The mind is the part that perceives feels and reasons.  

My nervous system misfires at will as it attempts to coordinate my body. It is as if faulty wiring services my body. The wiring seems frayed and exposed. Everyday life events impact these defective wires and I experience jolts of electrical firing at unforgiving times. The response is like strobe lights in my eyes, racing thoughts and my speech is like a steamroller.

For me, medication has made the difference in how my brain operates. I know that some of you would disagree. I am blessed to have an excellent psychiatrist. I tell her how I am doing and together we discuss the medication part of it. Today I am stable. It’s the old; one day at a time that really works. This point of stability has taken over a year.

It has been within the last three years that major life events have taken an additional toll. My Mother died, my partner of 15 years was diagnosed with terminal kidney cancer, I broke my wrist and had surgery, and I broke my leg and ankle and had surgery. I was financially bankrupt and working non stop on remodeling an old house to sell for a profit.  It was almost two years ago that I had the most serious rapid cycling episode ever and lost my job as a therapist. Since then my partner has died, I am on disability and will never work again as a therapist. I moved from Minnesota back to Oklahoma, my homeland, to live with my sister. I hope you can see that wellness is possible.  What do you think? What experiences have you had with wellness, even if it is one day at a time

I have a relaxed smile on my face that is not forced and lightness in my heart that comes from simply connecting with a friend. It was a simple lunch with plenty of time to share this and that and a flow of back and forth conversation. The best thing was there was laughter. It was not the forced kind or the polite kind just that place inside that is tickled by what is said and how it is said and is just plain fun. Thank you friend!

Having friends is new for me. I suppose for many reasons but primarily lack of experience and awkwardness. I can be sarcastic and say; what is the big deal? A 59 year old woman has a friend. But it is very special when your grownup life has primarily consisted of extended family, a partner and very few friends .I thought about stopping with the first paragraph and not get into serious stuff but I want to share this and hear from others. I wish that each of you has friend like mine. Laughter is essential in healing from bipolar.

Does anyone relate to what I am saying about friends? I would love to hear from you!

I will give you hints to see if you can understand where I am coming from. I know I am not the only one to have difficulty with friendships.

.Clue #1   I only had boys as friends until I was twelve and at that point I had boys plus one tomboy friend.

Clue #2 I was sexually abused when I was nine. This changed how I saw others and did not develop many friendships.

I would welcome your comments

Some times I hold my mind in such esteem that it seems likely I will have  a quality of life in my senior years. I am 59 years old and have a window of opportunity within the next ten years to amplify my writings so I have a network of support on the internet. I have less than that to shore up my physical self so I can bath myself and pee on my own. I want to take daily walks on a flat surface so I do not fall again and break the next series of bones. Then I might be prepared for my senior years.
I do not aspire to being wealthy. I already know that I will be in a substandard nursing home. It is unfortunate and just plain lousy that people with bipolar can not get nursing home insurance. So I have to create a lovely picture frame of me in a nursing home. This may change the perspective ever so slightly to make it a tolerable existence. I only ask that my sense of smell is gone and I have a laptop with head phones in my semi-private room
I imagine myself in a wheelchair with playing cards clipped to the spokes to make that cool sound like my bicycle did as a child. I would rest from writing and buzz the hallways in my retrofit wheelchair. I can see my droopy face and quivering chin from yeas of antipsychotic medication. In my minds eye I see myself in a backwoods nursing home.  I sit with arthritic fingers and write just one more witty yet sarcastic piece about being a therapist with bipolar disorder.
Perhaps we will all be lucky and they will have come up with a treatment that obliterates bipolar illness. Only to find that we are not so lucky and are left with an ordinary mind. It is then that I will ask for a lobotomy!

My window of opportunity has continued for weeks now and I have been free from the darkness of depression. I have welcomed the bright light from the window and I have been writing stories from my childhood. A major theme of my stories has to do with what I call my old friend silence.

From as early as I can remember silence has been a friend. It has been a playful place inside my imagination where make believe is alive and well. Solitary play has been my favorite time of all. Even today I take some measure of enjoyment in being with my silence. I imagine other stories and dream of having the joy of many animals in my life.

But in my younger years I was awkward being with other children. In spite of the obstacles I remember wearing my Daddies floppy felt hat while playing in the back yard. There were huge trees and branches covering the back edge of the yard. There was a broken down out-house that made me feel creepy. I just knew that snakes and spiders lived inside and it represented unknown danger in my make believe stories. Most of my imagining involved whistling and musical stories. Occasionally there was the out-house to include in a creepy kind of story that made me run fast to the house.

Over time a voice inside was critical of me because I was silent and did not know how to play with other kids. When I was able to make the voice go away my lovely solitary play returned and there was fun, just me and the silence.

My first babysitter tarnished my friend silence in a punishing way .The following is a story about how my lyrical silence was threatened by interludes of sadness and shame.

Tommy’s Trains

Letha was my first babysitter and Tommy was her only child. He had more toys than I had ever seen. I was not use to toys; I enjoyed imaginative play and never really wanted many toys. Tommy’s room was filled with neatly organized toys of all kinds.

The best toy ever was a train that filled his floor. I timidly watched for a while as Tommy took control of the train. It zoomed along the tracks as smoke came out of the engine stack. After a while I sat closer to have a better look. I didn’t dare ask for the controls. Letha would occasionally come to the room and see how we were doing. She was stern and predictable and I was somewhat afraid of her.

One day Tommy was in the bathroom and I quietly took control of the train. It was so exciting until Tommy returned with Letha close behind. She made it clear that under no circumstances was I to play with Tommy’s toys. I was humiliated and readily accepted her limits. From that time on I sat in a chair and watched Tommy play with trains, cowboy outfits and games. I did not say a word but there were feelings and thoughts that went around and around in my mind. This kind of silence was not a welcome friend and I was sad.