I’m coming rapidly to the end of my therapy. I was talking to a friend about it last week, she asked how I felt about it. In the spirit of positive thinking I responded, that I was great and it didn’t bother me, but the reality is a bit different. I’m scared, scared of retreating back inside me, with only my horrible critical self for company. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not admitting defeat, because I’m going to work very hard to stay positive and strong. I’m on the usual drugs, antidepressants to lift the depression and anti-psychotics to stop me from getting too high and I’ve no doubt they’ve helped me considerably, but having someone to talk to about living with bipolar depression has been a god send and without the therapy I don’t believe I’d be anywhere near where I am now.
Therapy has given me the space to talk, cry, howl in pain, to strip my very being down to the basics and start rebuilding and accepting and really living. It’s given me the tools that have allowed me to become once again, content, strong, independent and hopeful. Recently I was asked to think about what makes me resilient, to write about it, I was excited at first but as I sat down to write, nothing came to mind. I know I’ve developed great resilience but it was an unconscious enlightenment, I just was, I feel ready for anything right now. But that isn’t enough, to have any hope of meeting depression head on the next time, I need awareness. So I began journalliing, I forgot about an audience and wrote just for me. What a powerful tool a journal is, to write as thoughts come to mind, no matter the order, as you release one thought another comes to mind and another. What I’ve learnt is to be aware of all my thoughts, to challenge the negatives and challenge the critical thinking, don’t allow them to own you and never give power over yourself to any other human being. Be your own master and let others be theirs. To own who I am and make no apologies, to love my own company and to allow that aloneness to energize and strengthen me, to find lots to laugh at and always be hopeful, nothing is insurmountable. And finally hindsight, I’ve survived depression and suicidal thoughts, a few times now and I’ll do it again. That’s what makes me strong right now, and right now is where I’m at.
But right now, I’m still in therapy…..
I’m not a fool, I’ve had several bouts of depression over the years, and I doubt this recent one will be my last. If and when that time comes, will I be able to meet that challenge without my crutch, will I remember everything I’ve learnt or will I be doomed to repeat the cycle of pain and loneliness and descent down that dark and bottomless tunnel. Journal, hindsight and challenging the thoughts. Let it become my mantra.
When I first started writing this blog the superego in my byline was a very dear friend. And yes he’s still a very dear friend and still capable of some amazing superego qualities (you’re smiling aren’t you, Exultatron). I tended to live vicariously through him back then, to look to him for approval, he was the exciting to my questioning and doubting. But as I’ve emerged that superego has slowly become me, the me I am right now, right this moment, the me I want to continue being, an exciting and wonderful future that is my doing. I’ll still at times be that sidekick, because I’ll always continue to question, occasionally doubt, and maybe I’ll even hate me. To ignore that possibility, is to put my head in the lion’s mouth, a dangerous folly. It is strange that this is my blog, my journey and yet I made myself invisible. Instead of being a participant in my own life, I became a watcher from the sidelines.
The observations and obsessions of a Superego’s sidekick. I’ve come full circle, I’m the superego and occasional sidekick. I’m now an active player in my own destiny and this is my story.
“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not a mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.”
It’s a year now since my dear friend Liz passed away and the grief is every bit as raw today as a year ago. The year has been tough, at times unbearable, and I’ve missed her gentle strength and loving support. My 50th came and went and she should of been there. Sharing my daughters debs photos, she would of loved the dress. But most of all, all those times I saw her in shops or walking down the road, it should of been her.
What do I wish for, I wish she was still with me. I wish for piano lessons and coffees that never will be. I wish my youngest son had been born with good health. I wish that life was fair and I wish that this earth of ours was a great utopian world. I wish…I wish…
Sounds a bit like a Miss Universe speech, doesn’t it, complete with fluffy bunnies and cute puppy dogs. But who wishes for death, or babies born to a lifetime of ill-health.
But whats wrong with wishing and dreaming, with wishing and dreaming our life finds some direction, without direction we wander aimlessly through life. How do we walk that fine line, of dreaming and wishing and yet accepting what is meant for us and letting go of the rest. Do tears bring that peace, that allowance, that acceptance. I’m beginning to realize that accepting that moment, shedding tears, then moving on is the best I can do, gentle waves of grief.
And that’s how I grieve for Liz, playing the piano often gives me that space, the tears blind me to keys in front of me. I’ll know when my grieving is lessening, simply playing the piano as my tears lessen.
Should we ever let go of even the most unrealistic of dreams, wouldn’t our life become mundane then. Who knows what is around the corner, we must take every opportunity to embrace the wonderful, expected or unexpected that life gives. I simply can’t let go of my dreams and now I’m back where I started.
Till we meet again, Liz.
“The happy ending of the fairy tale, the myth, and the divine comedy of the soul, is to be read not as a contradiction, but as a transcendence of the universal tragedy of man.”
Joseph Campbell Author of The Power of Myth
We all have dreams, but then life happens and it has an uncanny knack of getting in the way. Responsibilities, deadlines, grief, and on and on. I’ve had a dream to write for as long as I can remember, but how and where to start. I couldn’t even write an interesting letter. I would get an interesting idea and pace around the garden and the thoughts and words would flow. And in a flurry of excitement I would race in and sit down to start typing and it was all gone or worse when I started typing it sounded wooden and forced.
Inspiration is the key, when you’re fired up and the passion is running, anything is possible. But my greatest inspiration came from outside of me. A dream shared in a chat with a friend led to encouragement, then nagging (in the nicest possible way), then this is where to go to get started. I figured if I didn’t just dive in, the next step was that I’d be dragged kicking and screaming to my computer. My greatest fan, my only fan, but how wonderful to have even one.
“Writing is like prostitution, first you do it for love, and then for a few close friends, and then for money.”
Woohoo, money, what a thought money for writing.
When fear grips and paralyses you it is so comforting to have the belief, confidence in and encouragement of even one person. Thanks to the greatest Superego on the planet, I couldn’t have done this without you, well I probably could of but it’s been so much more fun this way.
Someone pretty cool, once wrote:
“Oh what a terrible beauty is born.”
And I think maybe some other fellow named Yeats may have mentioned it also.
A dream begun!!!
Yep this is scary, but I never thought scary could be such a wonderful feeling. Here’s to many more frights.