I began thinking about doing a blog a few months ago. I was encouraged by my family and friends to venture out and connect with others in a new way. I have problems with spelling and grammar but my sister suggested I do the best I can and leave the flavor of my writing as is, even if it may be difficult for some of you. Listen between the lines and take what you can and leave the rest for others. Know as well that it is at the very least helpful for me.

For over 30 years of my life I was a respected psychotherapist. However, I also struggle with rapid cycling bipolar disorder. I am a 59 year old woman and I find myself living on disability. I am not writing as an expert on bipolar illness, therapy or anything other than myself. There are some days when I am not even an expert on myself. Sometimes I will write about experiences from a therapist’s perspective and other times about my own journey with bipolar illness.

I worked with children and adults many of whom had bipolar disorder. I loved my work and it filled my life with joy. I held the title of Psychotherapist with dignity until my brain spun me in side out and shattered my judgment and self respect. The “psycho” part of my previous title irritates most ordinary folks but psycho-therapist is an accurate descriptor of what remains of my professional self.

I do not have the pain of depression or the racing thoughts of the mania all the time. I have respite for weeks at a time but have very little sense of humor. The other day I had a brief talk with my sister. I wondered why I have no sense of humor. I currently live in Oklahoma, my homeland but just recently moved back from the Twin Cities of Minnesota where I lived for 20 years. We figure it may be that I am in culture transition if not culture shock (this is not to be confused with shock treatment) I have had enough jolting events in my life that if shock treatments worked I would be as steady as a rock. In any event my ability to be humorous is suffering. I would say my humor is somewhere between dry and corny. Although some of my writing will be dark I hope I can spin some humor now then so I do not contribute to the pain of others.

There is an enormous expanse situated in my gut and at other times in my upper chest. The expanse is void of any feelings or sensations other than a vacant body part that is not hungry and is never full. It is the physical manifestation of the grief and loss of my precious work as a therapist. In the final days and nights before I had to take my leave from work and live on disability the polarity of my emotions resembled a tight coil. The coil itself had control of the rapid cycling that had been haunting my brain stem for over a year. I held on tight to keep from spinning off from what little reality remained.

While I have had one professional career I have always had two full time jobs. Therapy filled my days with warmth and compassion. My other job was keeping the bipolar disorder at bay. I understand that this illness is chronic and I spent my career fooling myself that I “had it under control”. Perhaps the mania wanted me to believe that even though it was chronic it would not necessarily be progressive. Unfortunately in my case it has gotten progressively worse and to a point where depression is forever on my heels. The mania is illusive and just plain sneaky. It resides just behind the pictures in my eyes and when I close my eyes I see back to my history of acting out. I also see a small pool of energy swirling that becomes a raging current. There is an invitation to jump in and place my eyes straight forward with carefree days and nights. For now the mania is contained by the shame and emotional pain I caused my family plus a butt load of medication.

I earned a doctorate in psychology and counselor education despite the fact that I was essentially a non-reader. I now wonder if the distractibility and racing thoughts have been the culprits of my learning problems instead of dyslexia. I have a “lazy eye” which means my eyes do not work together. I did not discover the problems with my eyes until I was working on my doctorate at the University of Arkansas. I had so much reading to do that I would read as I walked the hills of the campus. I soon found it much easier to read while I walked because I had to use peripheral vision and it made my eyes work together. I got glasses and soon found it much easier to read. My eyes still jump and loop over sentences as I try to read but it is better than in the early years. Despite my funky eyes I am fairly ok at reflecting inside my minds eye to ponder the next step to take. My eyes are understandably weary and are often in need of rest.