Tag Archives: understanding

You caught me unaware

I’d given up 

On ever receiving

The understanding 

of your grace.

And now its come

what was there all along

but only know I know it

Acceptance . . . the fight as gone out

it has no reason for being

All I had to do was see

to feel your grace

to know you are

all that has been said of you.

Thank you in leading

me down the road 

to know you are God

and Man both

Jesus Christ

my savior

Beginning Again

Her words wash over me

dampening shoulders

never drenching

I sit in hallowed pew

hearing not understanding

reading not comprehending

the words of the Lord

empty vessels

to my all encompassing need

I am rendered barren these days

bereft not forsaken

Where God treads

I need touch the ground

feel earth between toes

draw strength from hidden resources

feel the breath

of the Holy Spirit

flood my heart

distilling doubt into firmament

calming the troubled waters

of a flagging spirit . . . 

renewing, beginning

a time of new abundance

and belief in the Most High

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.

Mom’s Death

As I stand here today, I can’t reconcile the fact that Mom has died With the woman I knew.  She was a force to be reckoned with, a force of Nature, and the quinticential  matriarch.  I hurtled myself at her thousands of times yet she stayed strong, unwavering.  A mother.  I didn’t realize how much I would miss her until now when its too late.  The woman I saw on Monday evening was not the woman I knew in this life.  Her essence was gone and we all know how much a woman she was. She gave me many things in this life – helped me when I needed, probably more than she should have.  She encouraged me to be a strong woman.  There was no way I \could fill her shoes – One sister is much better that. Two others still follow in her wake, – I was her antithesis.  But even in this I defined myself by her measure. My sisters, aunt and I stood around her hospital bed and solemnly sweared we wouldn’t followed the same health choices she did.  We agreed we would be closer to each other. Some of that has come true, some not.  After she died, I moved to California to be close to my children.  I just didn’t realize they would feel about me Finally, I realized I had to o back to Connecticut to be where family could help me out when needed and where I was wanted.   In the course of looking for a new apartment ,I stayed in my mom’s bedroom for two months. I saw her life and the things that comprised it.  My anger dissipated and we made peace.  It was a tough one – one I couldn’t have survived.  She was a remarkable, powerful woman and I had just been too angry to see.  I miss her but I think she might be proud of me now.

We Are Not Our Disease

I was recently in California, visiting a dear friend. She was crushed because she realized the Depression she had lived with for years was, instead, Bipolar I. A lot of her feelings were based on the fact hat her husband of 11 years has severe Depression/Bipolar.   She was the one who always took care of everything. The previous several months had been very hard on her. She spent a lot of time in her bed; her therapist quit; she had her husband were building a house from the studs up. Her Mother of Conflict and her heavily drinking brother were making her life crazy and her Mother subsequently died.  Major factors were making her life miserable. However, I’m not the Doctor and while I think she’s right – she bought a 27 acre, beautiful property against the warnings of her husband – she needs a trained professional to verify she , indeed, has the condition.

However, all of this got me thinking.  I had been in a down mood prior to going to California, but was rejuvenated there.  My moods shift more often than before.  Sometimes I can’t tell what mood I am experiencing. I thought I was only Depressed for years but while looking back over journals 35 years old, I noticed I was definitely Bipolar then.  Next, I started thinking of being Bipolar in general.  There are all sorts of nuances, facets, depths and ambiguity in Bipolar people. It looks different in each person and from day to day. There are things you can do to limit intensity like staying on meds and eating right.

We struggle some days, bounce off the walls some days, and feel great and balanced on yet other days (which might really be you are on a manic high).  But largely, we are like a lot of people on the streets and in the stores.  Most people in this world have issues of one kind or another. We don’t have to minimize ourselves just because of our disease. We are not our disease! We are human beings with scars and wounds, just like so many others,  I, for one, will try like hell not to wear my disease as a cloak around me, because I want to be as healthy as possible.  And I know most of us feel the same way.

  

The Question

So love is where its at Baby,
and my, my how we all run
from body to body
in desperate yearning
for that one person
beyond all others
that can reach deeply
into the soul’s dark corners
and pull forth
that gift carefully hidden.

Frantically we search
for the special someone
to fill our empty places,
making a shell become whole
because so little belief
is set in our own capacity
to make ourselves complete.

Love, baby, love –
the solitary key
passed from one hand to another’s
thoughtlessly dropped
by hungry feet
that in riotous panic
throng toward gathering places –

To get lost in the crowd
but fearfully hoping
for one night of love
before the illusion is shattered
and we stand naked
before empty souls
who had too little to give
and no time to give it –
desperate and despairing –
because love wasn’t the answer anymore
but just another question.

 

Coming Together

You run – I run –
coming together to spread
tiny slivers of bitter icicles
into raw nerve endings
to numb feelings and still
the tremulous beating of hearts
far too vulnerable.

Then quickly, lest either one
see a glimmer of emotion
lurking beneath eyes cover . . .
we vanish with the coming
of dawn to pursue our separate
destinies as far removed from
tender touching as possible  –

Yet again and again
our souls touch though words
are not understood,
stabbing so lightly these shaky egos.
inner depths of bonds exist –
our faces staring so wariy remain
strangers to the game.

The souls speak
of a companionship beyond words
or feelings.  So run we may
with the first light of dawn
but night is the time
for souls to reach beyond boundaries. . .

Bringing deep, still waters
close to the surface
in the miniscule moments,
voicing such feelings
neither you or I can ignore.
Rising than submerging
then running agaiin.

 

And the words they turn ’round and ’round

Just when I thought they were gone
(dirty, nasty things)
those little voices returned
like five year olds-
taunting their teacher
incessantly nagging in high
whiney voices,
to shatter any semblance
of peace and calm

Crushing new-found confidence
they tread on faltering egos
destroying all feelings
of worth, of respect
for myself.

Leaving the senses reeling,
Swaying on unsteady feet,
teetering at the brink
of an endless abyss
half-wishing to fall.

Those chattering images
of visions long stored
in deep recesses of the mind
negate a return to sanity.

Hopelessly forcing a surrender
through clenched teeth
to my defeat –
destroyed by voices of the past.

(I wrote this in 1981.  What sickens me is that so much is still the same.
But it is real, it is truth. Perhaps it deserves its day in the sun.
I was clearly Bipolar even then. As the days go by, I see the mask of
pain I wore, wear, still dragging at me – but now it makes me
nauseous to read, hopeful to grow, wanting more, so much more
than the banality of depression, starting to evolve – at 60 no less.)

Aunt Lillian

Thank you isn’t enough
for what you’ve given me.
Words have no meaning
in a world of emotions.
When I hit bottom
crawling on hands and knees
a hand was outstretched
in quiet support. . .
love without strings.

I saw hope through your eyes
gained strength in the purring
of your voice
learning you saw something
I didn’t but that must be real.
Learning  to believe in me
through the respect in your eyes
caring for myself
while you questioned after my health

I can never repay unconditional love
but through your giving
perhaps the lesson can be learned
and one day
I can attempt to love
somebody else
as you have loved me.
Thank you – my mentor, my friend.

 

 

Struck Deaf

Struck Deaf by confusion.
Your lips are moving
yet come voiceless to my ears.
Words rich with portent,
holding the essences of
what I need to understand,
fall short of intent,
fluttering in the breeze
only to drop at my feet
before their meaning
is understood . . .
It seems I must sift through
each thought carefully,
weighing its worth,
slowly digesting its content,
before a day may come,
long after the truism is spoken,
when I might think the words my own
and proudly display new found knowledge
to those who first sought to enlighten
now nodding with irritation or amusement,
and hopefully some compassion.
Always the student I must be,
but like an unruly child,
I learn at a pace of my own keeping,
comprehending only when comfortable
to do  so . . .
and my teachers’ continue
to wave scarlet banners before me
trying to catch the attention
of ears too often deaf.