It is hot inside the house. Two of us wish it were colder, one does not. He wins, but he does have a trump card. Inside it feels like the Santa Ana winds are haunting us. They are a plague to Southern California spreading their fire, leaving a patches and blank spots in the scenery. People say, �Oh, I would never want to live in California, they have earthquakes there. But, in fact, it�s not the earthquakes that occasionally show up for dinner, it is the wind and fires that are a constant guest at our table every fall. I think it is the heat of the house that brings on this feeling. I can�t say why, but the first few warm spells of spring always come with melancholy for me. But I know that outside, it is not warm, there is no wind, just brisk air reminding us of the early morning rain shower.
I lay on my stomach, looking out the window. Everyone can guess what I see: rows and rows of houses lined up like Catholic schoolgirls waiting for the bell to ring. They are all painted in �tract home tan� or some other neutral color. There is rarely any action on our street, just the occasional visit of an ambulance, 5 or 6 of them I think. Twice they came for me.
The first one came and left me with a �Harry Potter� �like scar on my forehead. Most people don�t see it, but I do and I remember how I got it, accidental overdose of pills is what they put on the ambulance report. I fell flat on my face on tile because the combination of the pills and my denial and perhaps a slight case of mania, made me a sloppy walker. I just fell flat on my face from the 3rd step, so drugged up that I didn�t even extend my hands. This should be a natural instinct, even babies do it. How can I have over-ridden a natural instinct of survival? I don�t have an answer for that. My stupidity granted me two black eyes, a broken nose and various other bruises and injuries and giant heaps of shame and embarrassment.
The ambulance trip was really a blur to me. I remember saying to my mom to ask them not to use sirens, then I remember being in the ambulance and asking the paramedic �Where was my mom? Is my mom here?� The paramedic assured me that she was riding up in the front with the driver. The next memory is off them rolling me into the emergency room. Hey, you get quick service when you arrive in style, lights and all, no waiting in sticky chairs. Most of my memories are sounds not sites. I remember the paramedics asking me why? Why did you take the pills�, my constant answer was �My back hurts, I want my back to stop hurting� I thought that was what I wanted. In truth, I wanted my heart to stop hurting, to stop feeling that empty hollow scorched feeling.
Everyone who has it knows the horrible gift of chemical depression or bipolar disorder, they know it intimately, more than a lover. It is a gift that was poorly wrapped, probably a last minute item that was grabbed from the junk room (Oh come on now, we know everyone has one), the tape barely holding on to the ripped and tattered paper. It is a gift that has no receipt and cannot be returned, a gift that you cannot �regift�. And I am angry. I don�t want this gift.
I do this tonight, make this decision and put in into action, first and foremost for my dad. I am angry at my mom, knowing that she is right and she is acting out of love, trying to help me survive. But inevitably I know that my parents don�t deserve this, I have given them a different present, one that is equally tattered as my own gift, perhaps more. They are people who once took strangers into their house because their flight was cancelled and they couldn�t stand the thought of this family spending the night in the airport. The present I have given my parents, my entire family and group of friends really, is a bi-polar, chronically ill, drug-addicted daughter. They are only trying to save my life. The problem is that sometimes I feel like I don�t want it to be saved.
Today, when all hell broke loose, prompted by me and my bad mood that came out of nowhere. This can happen a lot in bi-polar; I once was driving home and was stopped at a train track. I was feeling pretty good, excited that this was my last year of college, that I had built a good social circle. I can clearly remember the moment when the sun glinted off of my watch and I suddenly wanted to be in front of that train, or underneath it. But back to today. Today, there were several things that I did differently than in other arguments. They are:
1. I did not run upstairs to my �precious pills
2. I actually performed acts of love (though angrily and not with a pure heart) for the person I was angry at�my mom�making sure that I prepared the dinner that I have promised them, loaded the dishwasher, cleaning the floor.
3. I allowed myself to cry and hurt and really feel my emotions without shame. I made a decision that was made by a sane and rational adult, a person who loves her parents, her family, and even herself at times.
I told my parents that I didn�t want the pills anymore and that tonight I didn�t want them in my daily box of pills that were dolled out to me by my mom (Thankfully, my mom was not �Nurse Ratchett� and often the pills came with a hug) I want to use �evil pill number 2� for acute physical pain only, not for emotional pain. Emotional pain: the pain that seems like air. You can�t see it, but you know that it is there, humid and drenching your clothes until you feel like you have taken a shower with your clothes on, you feel dirty and grimy. When you can�t see the pain, it is hard to get people to understand what it is. I am tired of hearing �it�s all in your mind� and �maybe if you walked and exercised, it would go away�. This was said by a friend who was urging me to stop taking my anti-depression. Not a wise move. Like humidity, the misunderstanding feels heavy on my shoulders. I am tired of carrying it, educating people, or just plain ole �shutting your trap� because you just know they are not going to understand no matter how many times I explain it. I know for a fact that many others do too.
I have many physical illnesses, just a bunch of recycled bows sloppily attached to the present. Because of this, I have to learn to control my need for pills, as do people who are overweight need to eat but they have to control their urge to eat �unhealty� foods. Right now, I manage it with my own personal pharmacist, my mom, who doles out pills to me twice a day. I know this is a heavy burden on her, but she loves me and takes the task on along with her pile of other �to do� items. I must stare at the present under the tree, accept the gift, not knowing its purpose or why I have to have it.
I fall down a lot, literally and physically. I take pills when I don�t really need them, sometimes just out of habit, or as a comfort, but mostly with a desire for the pills to take away my hurt inside. I have become paranoid of falling down, I dreams about that constantly (Dream? Nightmare? I don�t know.) actually having anxiety attacks when I slip a little while walking. I have to be so aware of every step, every bump in the terrain, hoping I can navigate safely. Clearly, I cannot.
There were 2 evil pills that I took that were hated the most by those around me; and rightly so, as their consumption often put me in a semi-trance state. My family tells me that they would find me sitting on the floor counting pills, my bedside drawer overturned, my stuff strewn about the room. I would gobble pills like candy, not even knowing what I was taking. I have no memory of this. I was not taking both evil pills together, but that really didn�t matter. Each one was enough to destroy me on their own. Everyone saw it. I knew it was changing me. How could I live life to the fullest if I was too doped up to even remember it?
I required a lot of pushing, like bulldozer pushing and a threat of eviction the, loss of my boyfriend who loved but could not watch me slowly disappear to get me accept my introduced me to detox (boring party, only watered down punch and broken cookies, I don�t recommend it for entertainment). The first day, I did it because I had too, the second day I did it for the people I love, the third day, I was finally there for me. I am sad to say it didn�t last long.
In detox, I emptied a good amount of medications out of my system. I was excited, believing I was starting a new chapter in my life. But it was not long before I started accepting other gifts; one by one, always blaming it on the physical pain. And truthfully part of it was physical pain. I remember at my worst just laying in bed at night with a full bladder and being unable to walk to the bathroom. I began to think very highly of adult diapers. Some days, I would awaken to hand that did not work, unable to grasp a pen, or anything really, unable to grip at all. My hands, like claws, lay motionless on my stomach (the �corpse pose� my friend calls it). I lay there thinking about that first movement I WILL have to make, how excruciating it will be and I know that it will come with friends (�Oh thank you for coming to my party of pain. Mr Sore Knee, this is Unexplainable Headache. Damaged Optic Nerve, let me introduce you to Mind-Numbing Back Pain. Please place the gifts on the counter and thank you for coming to my party.)
Every bad day is a play, a movie a TV show. After the pain of moving, I have to put on the �Happy Janet Conformity� face. It is a lot of work. It steals most of my energy. My costume is heavy, bulky and hot. The make-up on my face itches. But the fat lady has not yet sung. I mentally crawl home at the end of the day, longing for that moment when I can take of the costume, remove the make-up and become what I believe is the real Janet, the one that wants to curl up in a ball and sleep for a long time, just make me up when the pain gone. I am relieved the day is over, that I can stop pretending to be happy and optimistic. When telling people for the first time, those that only see me at work or socially are stunned when I tell them. I put on a good show but it leaves empty at the end of the day and I am glad that I have made it through another day without hurting myself (Intentionally or subconsciously, in the end does it really matter?)
It�s kind of a strange experience in that moment of taking off the mask, the costume. For one short second, I see the glimpse of who I could be, who I once was, who I could be again. I see the talents and strengths, I absorb the words when people tell me that I have saved their lives by guiding them through their own pain. I can really feel that I am smart and funny, creative and intelligence, that I am whole, no longer broken. Each glimpse is like glitter raining on me, showing me the pieces of the old Janet. Bu soon enough it is gone, the shimmer and shine of life is gone, leaving only a mess on the floor that needs cleaning.
But I digress, I was talking about pills and my fall into addiction. The �FBI Most Wanted� Evil Drug #1 was out of my life. (I suppose I should call it the �DEA Most Wanted� drug.). I called all of my doctors (in my circle of Friends With Chronic Illnesses� it is not unusual to have 5 or 6 doctors) and told them to put a note in my file that they should not prescribe narcotics to me anymore. I began seeing a Pain Management doctor, as recommended by my detox facility (remember the punch and cookies?). Having rid myself of the crappy party punch it was not long before the broken cookies (Evil Drug #2) became the problem, I visited the Pain Management doctor to learn some non-medicinal pain relieving methods, which worked. Sometimes. Then I heard the pain calling to me, like a train on the track approaching an intersection. No matter what I took, I just wanted the pain to stop, both the emotional and physical. I often wondered why it was okay to take medication for acute and severe physical pain but not for acute and severe emotional pain. Why is this? Is one less important than the others? I have no answers.
I hope you enjoyed that little trip to the past and �Janet History� l now will take you back to the present time, to today, please buckle your seatbelts and keep your hands inside of the car at all times.
So, I went about my tasks, boiling the lentils and grains in chicken broth, cutting the pre-cooked turkey, adding it to the pot, all the while tears and snot are dripping all over the floor, my shoes tracking it all over the kitchen as I move about my tasks. I wish I could leave my tears of pain and shame and worthlessness in those drops on the floor, but the person I was angry at, the person who was working with all her strength to keep both me and my father alive, liked a clean floor. Her anguish in carrying the lives of two people was hard on her, both mind and body. Her anguish was manifested in erratic sleep, trying to keep herself awake so she could hear me if I wandered and keep me from falling. How can sleep when of the people that you love is slowly killing themselves and the other person was fighting a disease that wanted to kill him?
This person, my mom, who sat at the hospital with me for 4 days after a surgery because I wanted her �mommy�, who welcomed a friend of mine without family to join us for Christmas, even making sure there were presents for her, who has taken in one of my friends who just moved back to California, was wounded by my actions.
I know that what she did was all out of love, but still, I was angry. I had an exit strategy if our constant struggle escalated, which it seemed to doing today. I did not want to use my exit strategy, it would be a final blow to both my mom and my family, a weapon that kills and is undeserving of forgiveness. I did that best I could at that moment, shutting the doors of the kitchen ( I was thankful at this time that we don�t have a �great room�. I cried and cleaned and made soup. I did not let my tears fall in the soup as my father�s immune system is weakened by the chemo. But I felt as if they were. Each kernel of bugler, the tiny amaranth, the barley and the lentils, each one spoke of my failure. My brain could not process any thing positive about myself. My �self-edit� feature was stuck in the negative.
I stood at the sink, chopping carrots and mushrooms, opening the doors of the kitchen just wide enough to ask my dad if he liked mushrooms (yes) and did he want peas and corn in the soup (no). Carrots are just a given; you can�t make soup without carrots, everyone knows that. When I dumped in the cut carrots in to the pot, the broth splashed up into my eye. Um, that hurts. Luckily it didn�t last long. I went back over to the sink, I don�t know why, dishes? Chopping mushrooms? I think I may have emptied the dishwasher, because my mom really likes a clean sink, and you can�t have a clean sink, emptied of dishes, if the dishwasher is otherwise occupied with clean dishes. The dirty dishes are scorned, like a mistress caught in the wrong side of an affair. I made a decision. Perhaps it was as simple as the sun that hit my eye 14 years ago and sent me to a psychiatrist. Perhaps I knew I just needed to swallow a different pill � the �grown up� pill.
I had completed all my tasks, the soup was on low to keep it warm, the counter, floor and sinks were clean. At that point, both of my parents entered the kitchen from separate directions. My dad went to the sink and my mom went to the counter. I was supposed to helping my mom carry the burden of all this. Instead, I became the burden. I was a bulky packaged strapped to her back. My father was supposed to be focused on his own healing, worrying about the mental and physical health of his youngest daughter. I had cheated them both, regifting the tattered present that I was supposed to carry and hefted it on the two people who were supposed to be able to lighten their load on to me. Neither of them was physically or emotionally ready to carry this burden.
I turned to my dad, barely able to get the words out past the tears and the snot and said, �Dad, I love you and I�m sorry you got caught in the middle of this. I then turned to my mom and said �Mom, I love you but I can�t talk to you right now�. I had more to say but she interrupted saying �What makes you think I want to talk to you?� I held up my hand like you would approach a new animal, cautious and a bit slowly and finished my sentence: �Tonight when you prepare my meds, do not give me Evil Pill #2�.
She hesitated, saying I shouldn�t make decisions when I was so emotionally charged, that I should give myself time to calm down. I replied �No, this is what I want, my relationship with my family is more important than the pills.� I quickly left the room, grabbed two water bottles and went out to the back patio to sit on the dock. Somewhere, I lost my strength, my courage, my honor. I didn�t know where to go to find it, what tasks I will need to perform to have it back. See, no one can give it to me, I must scratch and claw and earn it back. I know it will not be as easy as lifting the pillows every time I lose my remote. I sat on the dock and thought about the road before me. Though I had created a �Door Number 2�, I desperately did not want to walk through that door, knowing it would shatter my parents and create a break that can throw some duct tape on but it will never really be the same. I still don�t know what lies before me, what presents I will need to open, how rocky the road will be, will there even be a road or will I have to scratch myself on the bushes to create a new path (probably so).
It�s very late. I am slowly teaching my body to relax, I can curl up in a ball and stay in that position for hours without actually sleeping, I am especially focused on my back, making sure I am relaxing the muscles while I lay in bed.
This is only part of the story. I can�t tell you how it ends just yet. I have mixed my metaphors, started sentences with prepositions, dangled my particles and treated the rules of grammar like a whore. I am sure that my use of colons compares to the gallons of gas imported from the middle east. I ask you to forgive this one thing. Everything else, all other �learning opportunities� and �challenges� will need to be earned back. I now that. I hope that I earned some of that back today.
