How do I relax after a demanding day? Often, I just surf social media. My favorite is Quora — I like learning about new and esoteric things, so Quora fits my needs. It can be relaxing or challenging depending on the content. If it’s too demanding, I skip the commentary on questions. Especially the ones about American politics, because those often devolve into tu quoque (“Your mom”) arguments.
Sometimes I read comfort novels. Comfort novels are those I revisit now and again for a familiar read. I am currently rereading some JD Robb novels. Despite the murders, these are prime comfort novels to me, and a fast read.
Sometimes I just lie down and vegetate. Sometimes it just feels good to close my eyes and lay there. No demands, no brain drain. If I fall asleep, I guess I needed it.
Streaming videos is something I seldom, if ever, do. I just don’t have the attention span for watching something. For some reason, it takes a lot of brain energy for me to watch programs. It’s easier with subtitles, which makes me think it’s a hearing thing.
Today is going to be a challenging day, so I will have at least one of these strategies to get me relaxed in the evening.
I just ordered some coffee beans from Sweet Maria’s. We drink good coffee in this household — we roast it from green coffee beans and brew it up in a Moccamaster. We have the best coffee in town, or at least the freshest. Which makes me wonder — why do we go out to cafes at all?
Atmosphere. When we go out for coffee, it’s generally to get writing and other creative endeavors done. I could do this at home, but the stimulation isn’t there. Sometimes I need noise and distraction to write. This doesn’t make sense to most people, but anyone with ADHD might understand.
A good cafe has more than good coffee, although I would say that good coffee is the minimum needed for a cafe. A good cafe has to have what is called atmosphere. “Atmosphere” is a nebulous term, but it generally means a space where someone feels comfortable sitting there. Each good cafe treats this differently, with anything from wood tones to aged brick to white and bright.
Haven, our favorite coffee place at the moment, has a variety of comfortable spaces. In the front is the busy section, close to the counter. This is where you’ll hear loud socializing. The other day, two tables were playing Mahjongg. I had never seen real Mahjongg played before. The back has quieter socializing and students with their laptops and books. Off the back room is the small nook with three booths, where Richard and I hole up to write. There is also a meeting room with a big screen and a computer hookup. All the spaces have bright light except for the booths, which have dimmable lighting, including rainbow light. I like writing to the rainbow light. The thought that went into putting this space together boggles me.
Yesterday at Haven, Richard and I took notes on the plot for the newest book. It hasn’t truly jelled yet; I’m not ready to set up the outline yet, but I’m closer. Because of the coffee.
Fourteen years ago, my mind was racing with thoughts I could barely keep up with. I felt elated and ennervated by turns, exhausted but sleepless. I got an almost superhuman amount of things done and felt highly competent. I made bold decisions like going out fishing at 2 AM. Hours later, my mood would crash and I would struggle to get out of bed.
I figured I had a sleep disorder — how otherwise would I not be able to sleep at night? A coworker of mine suggested I go to a psychiatrist for my sleep disorder, knowing something I didn’t. And when I went to the psychiatrist, I discovered that my sleep disorder was actually a mood disorder, something that had not occurred to me. I was diagnosed with bipolar II.
Bipolar II is a subtype of bipolar disorder with hypomania instead of full mania. This is why my thoughts raced, my sleep waned, why I made rash decisions at 2 AM that nonetheless did not totally disrupt my life. Hypomania, as the name implies, is not as strong as full-blown mania with its disruptive, life-changing decisions. The depression is just as deep in Bipolar II, and one cannot have the hypomania without depression.
I had a decision to make — do I admit to having this diagnosis? Do I take medications that will stabilize my moods? That sounds like an easy decision — why would I not? Because admitting one has a mental illness is a shock to the system. I am not normal, I am mentally ill. Admitting there is a problem changes one’s perception of oneself. Especially when, before, I thought that I was just an exceptional human being who could do many things well.
I accepted the diagnosis and have been on a long journey of understanding myself within the framework of mental illness. I have had great luck controlling the moods with medication, which requires honesty about my moods, and vigilance toward any trends that could presage an episode. I have had to be honest with myself about the hypomania, because hypomania is exhilarating and affirming and fun. The price I pay for hypomania is, however, depression, and my depressions run deep.
Who I am after my diagnosis is someone a lot more careful. I do not drink with my meds. I get eight hours or more of sleep a night, going to bed early. I reduce the stress in my life, knowing it can trigger an episode. I say ‘no’ to overwork and to late night events. I do not run with impulse, knowing that it could be a sign of a hypomanic episode. I live a calmer life now that I am treated for the mood swings.
I miss the hypomania at times. I feel like I was a more interesting person back then. The highs gave me a certain edgy charisma. I was self-assured, dynamic, accomplished — as long as I wasn’t too high, as long as I wasn’t brought low by depression. Those, however, were big “ifs”, as I often was brought low by depression.
Choosing to believe my diagnosis changed my life in ways I still have to deal with sometimes. But I feel like I am more of an adult for doing it. I take care of myself and I don’t burden others with my mood swings. I am more responsible for myself. And this has changed me for the better.
First of all, it’s in Texas, where everything is purportedly bigger. I assume the egos are bigger there, too. I can’t think of too many places in Texas I would want to visit — well, I’ve been to San Antonio, and that’s nice. As a hippie born too late, I wouldn’t mind going to Austin. But Texas doesn’t appeal to me.
Dallas is full of oil money. I’m not a big one for money, and oil tycoons don’t appeal to me. I tend to associate that sort of money with excess and bad taste.
Dallas has a hot climate. I hate hot climates.
From what I’ve read on Reddit, Dallas is lacking in character. In its buildings, in the food scene, Dallas is lacking.
All in all, there are plenty of places I can go that are not Dallas.
The joke between me and my husband is that my life goals for 10 years from now will be to be “retired, published, and a cat.” If self-publication counts, I already have one of these down, and I will never be a cat, but in 10 years I will be retired.
I will be 72, old enough that a retirement job will also be in the past. I will not be able to retire for another five years, so by 10 years from now, I will have been retired for 5 years. I hope I am as healthy as (or healthier than) I am now, and that I will still be writing. I will have time for more hobbies and perhaps a bit of travel. I see myself enjoying my time off.
I will not miss work much. Not that I don’t love my work, but I have done it for long enough that I need a change. I could use a change right now, but as I said before, I can’t retire for another five years.
How often do you say “no” to things that would interfere with your goals?
I say “No” all the time. At work, there are many opportunities to do service for the University. I do some of these things, because service is part of my goals for the year. But I carefully choose my service to fit my goals.
For example, I do a couple Academic Showcases a year, where we talk to incoming students about the department’s majors and classes. These are not directly part of my goals, but they are service. To say “No” to things, I have to say “Yes” to things not quite fitting my goals to balance the work in my department.
On the other hand, I spend days in Hope exercises, where I do moulage (casualty simulation, turning volunteers into victims using makeup). I teach CERT (Community Emergency Response Team) classes in Disaster Psych. I do moulage for the annual Docudrama (drinking and driving simulation for high school students). These fit my goals.
There are other times I say “No”. Events that happen after my bedtime are “No” situations, because one of my goals is to get enough sleep. That goal is necessary for my mental health, so it’s high priority. I say “No” during certain busy times of the year. I don’t feel guilty saying “No” because I know my time is limited.
I think the ability to say “No” comes with age. I know that when I was younger, I said “No” a lot less often. I didn’t know my goals back then, and what goals I had were scattered. Strangely, I didn’t do as much for others when I was younger and said “Yes” all the time.
I think saying “No” is a very healthy thing and not at all selfish. It is more selfish resenting things and people outside oneself for asking for time.
When I was younger, I was complicated. I have a history of childhood emotional and sexual abuse which led to untreated bipolar disorder, and I was a bit of a mess because of that. I didn’t always make great decisions, although I generally didn’t make disastrous ones. I was lucky that the drunk/stoned driver I got in the car with didn’t go off the road. I had lots of unrequited crushes. I made choices for boyfriends that didn’t bode well for marriage, and the first one I did marry betrayed me. I was considered by one friend as “the most stable person [he] knew”, which made me wonder who else he knew.
My life now is simple. I have done lots of therapy, am on good medication, and am living a more stable life than before. I’m married to the right person. My life now doesn’t make for a riveting story, and I’m grateful for that. I look at my past life, which bordered on scandalous, and I hardly recognize it now. How did I make those decisions?
I do sometimes think I was more interesting when I was younger, but maybe it was in a Chinese curse sense (“May you live in interesting times”). But I’d rather have this simple, stable life.
I used to believe in destiny. When I was younger (in my 20s and 30s) I felt that certain relationships in my life were fated to be. These were dramatic relationships with equal parts elation and turmoil. In their time, each relationship was The One. Until they weren’t.
Nowadays, I think destiny was the artifact of bipolar disorder. When one is elated, one believes in destiny, a shining path toward a happy ending. One never gets the happy ending, because one is stretched to an irritable attenuation, and then goes skidding into depression. Destiny dissipates in depression.
Nowadays (with age and medication), I don’t believe in destiny. I don’t want to believe in destiny. It is a destabilizing influence. I would rather have this mundane life without destiny. I can read about destiny in books, where it is safely captured in the pages.
Coffee is my favorite drink. I have been drinking it since I was a freshman in high school. I started drinking it because my mother and aunt would sit around at restaurants and drink coffee and talk for hours, and most restaurants did not give free refills on sodas. (Nowadays Americans get free refills on soda, which might explain how so many of us consume too much sugar.)
At home, my husband and I roast and grind our own coffee. We have the freshest coffee in town. We also have a high-end automatic drip pot which makes a rich brew. We are spoiled on coffee.
I drink less coffee than I used to, having lost some of my tolerance for caffeine since I lost 80 pounds. It is still my favorite drink; I just drink half-cups of the stuff. It caffeinates me just fine. I don’t like the feeling of being over-buzzed anymore, like I did when I was younger. No more double cappuccino — Turkish tea — Arabic coffee — more Turkish tea days for me (that was the day I finally had too much caffeine to drink in my youth).
This answer isn’t too exciting, but it explains why I want to be retired so badly. Both my parents retired at 62. My mother was seven years older than my dad, so she retired first from the Census Bureau, where she was a supervisor out of the Chicago area for ongoing surveys. (The Census Bureau does not just do the decennial census, but ongoing and occasional surveys like Current Population Studies and Health surveys). Mom retired to do things like cross-stitch projects until my dad caught up with her.
My dad retired from his job as an equipment installer at age 62. He worked at several different places over his career without ever moving from his job. He started at AT&T Long Lines, then Western Electric, then AT&T Technologies, then Lucent Technologies. “Work isn’t fun anymore,” he said, and then it was time for him to retire. The picture above is where my dad worked for many years when he wasn’t installing electronic switching equipment throughout the state.
My parents retired well together. They spent their time doing projects and traveling, usually taking several-day trips through the US. Occasionally they would visit me. My mother would decorate anything that didn’t run away fast enough at Christmas time. I credit some of their longevity to the fact that my mother was a night person, and my dad a morning person, so they had limited time to get on each other’s nerves.
My life is different. First, I will not get to retire till 67, which is when Social Security and Medicare come up for me. I have five years left to go. I don’t know how long I will live past then, because my mom died at 76 from cancer and I don’t know if I take after her. My dad died at 86, so maybe I take after him. We’ll see.
Words Like Me 