Heroes

We need heroes. Tangible, real people who stand out and speak the words we dream to say, think in ways which wrap imagination into a spinning swirl.

Those of us fortunate to be blessed with Bipolar are certainly in need and lately, there seems to be an emergence of  more media focus, more actors and other people of prominence who are not just announcing they have Bipolar but are creatively working to generate attention and understanding.

We lost one of these this week.  Carrie Fischer was a strong-willed, at times, in your face, person brimming with life.  Of course, she had her low times – she couldn’t have this disease otherwise.  Richard Dreyfus is another shining example. Creative, a driving force who has known both sides of the equation, he is a brilliant actor.

There are so many of us out in the world.  I can often see someone somewhere, watch a bit, and know she is a compatriot.  And she may  seem not to know she is in the midst of the symptoms of Bipolar or even that she has it.

We need to not feel ostracized. To be able to feel the stirrings of strength within us.  And sometimes maybe we could benefit from having posters on the wall of those Bipolar Heroes who we see as champions, ones we can look at saying “If she can, so can I.”

There is no sin in having Bipolar, only to know you have It, only in having it and not doing anything about it. Your choice,  acceptance and action – or – misery.

And the World spins ’round and ’round

These days I am having a hard time seeing the destruction of our world – one person, animal, flora – the whole of our great mother Earth.  Every moment brings more – a continual drenching of life, melting it back into the ground, corrupted, tainted, tainting. And I don’t know where to go, how to start, where I am needed, and am I up for the challenge?  My head spins with the magnitude of the problems, but I know it is just one step needed to start. Can we each do that? One small step?  Many are already making huge strides but I have a feeling until each one of us has the courage to make one step forward, we will be stuck in the problem. How can so many be blind to this?  How can so many forcefully destroy with willful intent? I don’t understand how that thinking operates.

What is my small step?  I don’t know but I’m sure going to find it.

 

I dreamt you died

I dreamt you died last night
and a week went by before
I realized you had slipped
out of my consciousness
and into another of your choosing.
My heart bled little one,
I couldn’t imagine a life
without your shining face
reflecting back on mine.

You are the mirror of my madness,
the being who forces me
to resolve the tortured places within,
for if I don’t, yours is the life
most likely to suffer.

Parenting requires me to turn
my soul inside out,
like shaking pennies from a piggy bank,
seeing what it holds,
then stuffing them back in again,
known commodities.

Each day forces you to examine
your premises, expectations,
under a finely tuned microscope
until I am sure,
cemented in the knowledge
I am offering all that is best . . .
releasing the worst . . .
before irrevocable damage happens
to the sponge of your young mind.

Each day I awaken
to a little mourning,
a small keening of my soul,
for your encroaching lack of innocence,
the slow evolvement from purity
to detachment and
a rethinking of how life is
forced by big and little
tragedies of your days.

If I could hold you back,
heal your wounds,  I would.
In owning my responsibility to you,
my spirit must strength,
while letting go of control,
so you can be the adult meant to be,

and be free, wholly yours
so as not to not die week before I notice.

esmeralda with her hair

 

Idiot sayings of old

“Children should be seen and not heard’ and somehow that only applied to boys “- my brain smiled when I read those words this morning.  Still chuckling, I am remembering my sisters and brother, aged 5 and 7, climbing out the second floor window of the parsonage, creeping down the six-inch shelf along the second floor the distance of the home and climbing down the pine tree at the end, covered in needles and sap.  Not just once mind you, but a lot.  My mother never knew.  somehow, she was oblivious to all the shenanigans of my younger siblings.

Please understand, the demands of obedience were intensified being minister’s kids. That particularly applied to me, as the oldest.  My parents placed a lot of responsibility on me.  I was the quiet one by nature by I had my share of going out to pick my switch when I had disobeyed.  But my illicit activities where nowhere near those of the others.  Well, except for the time I was playing in the church while my Dad was counseling a couple in the parsonage’s office.  I inadvertently turned on the organ and music, of a kind, rang through the neighborhood.  I remember my Dad flying over to stop me but he could hardly contain the smile lurking about his lips as he chided me.I was about 5.

Although come Sunday morning, my Mother was yelling for us to get ready for church. When we were in church, it was the “whammy look” which brought us to heel. One of those was like the Death Star shooting rays at you – total  inialation. I have had countless nightmares involving the whammy look, even through adulthood.  Although I have to admit it was my adult years when I deserved a whammy look once in a while.

That rebellious, fiercely disobediant spirit lurked strongly in my son.  I worked from home, not the easiest of tasks with young ones about.  Once I was talking to a client and suddenly realized it was far too quiet.  Finishing my call, I went to check on my son and his friend Luke. I couldn’t open the door.  When I told  my son, Yori, to open it, there was no response.  I walked outside and looked through his window. Everything he ownded as crammed up against the door, including his mattress. (He was about 4 at the time). I gave him 5 minutes to put everything back.  When I walked into his room, I was surprised how far he had achieved that goal.  Later that night, I opened his closet to put clothes away and everytrhing tumbled out and on me.

Another time, while talking to a client, I heard chopping. When I finished the call, I went out to check on the boys (Luke again). (This is the boy who, at his wedding had his dogs carry the rings and act as best man and maid of honor)  They had climbed the fence into the dog’s yard, gone into the garage.  Took tswo hammers. And proceeded to chop large holes in the fence. Aghast, I tracked down the dogs and put the boys to work picking up wood. There were many such incidents in Yori’s childhood.  Needless to sday, the kids won, the 10 year old job did not

.So the saying “Children should be seen and not heard” was a misnomer in my famly heirarchy.