The Darkest Pit

Eighteen feet down where the sun doesn’t touch me
I tumbled, landed hard, the wind knocked from me,
still alive. Screaming for help doesn’t count
in the woods where nobody lives.

Crab-crawling on the walls doesn’t help, nor does
trying to jump, or wishing a ladder or
screaming for help in the woods where nobody lives
and my telephone landed above.

God helps those who help themselves,
says the adage, which implies to me
That this God turns his back on the helpless
and that I will starve to death in this hole.

The dead don’t exhort their God from the grave,
The living give testimony in their churches;
the sample is biased.When I die,
no one will blame God for forsaking me.

Personality and a Mood Disorder: Questions in my Mind

The musing below is something that might eventually get edited for the creative/nonfiction book about living with bipolar. I feel I always take a chance writing about being bipolar in this blog –I don’t want to be considered a lesser being just because the jilted fairy godmother showed up at my christening and said, “Just for not inviting me, this little girl is going to have MOODS!”

Thank you for reading.
*******

When I first got my diagnosis in 2012, I was devastated in a way I hadn’t been when I was earlier diagnosed with simple depression.

There’s a certain degree of difference between being diagnosed with depression and being diagnosed with bipolar disorder. In the former, the disorder can be separated from one’s personality easily. People talk about being followed by the “black dog” when they’re depressed. The “black dog” is described as outside, not inside oneself.

In the case of bipolar disorder, however, both the ups and downs are exaggerated by the disorder. People tend to view their positive moments as their genuine self, even saying “I am genuinely happy right now.” If one’s highs are held suspect, the natural reaction seems to be “Who am I? Who would I be without this lifelong disease?”

I estimate my bipolar became active when I was in high school, if not sooner. My mother described me as “an exhausting child”, and I wonder if that was my bipolar ratcheting up back then. My bipolar has had plenty of time to affect my personality:

People describe me as extroverted, outgoing, and a bit eccentric. However, the things I love to do most are more introverted — writing, puttering around in my grow room, and having one-on-one conversations with people. I think the “bigger than life” me — the one who teaches classes, the one who participated in theatre in high school — came from my feelings and experiences while hypomanic. I’m pretty sure my hand and facial gestures come from there as well.

I say what’s on my mind, even when most people would stay quiet. If I don’t, I feel a pressure — figuratively, not literally — in my brain demanding to let the thought out. Is this why we call it “venting”?

I’ve developed an internal censor and some tact over the years, because when I first came back to the Midwest after five years teaching in New York state, I scared my students. (For the Americans in this readership, think “Consumer Economics by Gordon Ramsey”. Isn’t it “Dave Ramsay”? Not when I taught it.) I still deal with that pressure, and that mindset that if we would just drag things out in the open, we’ll all feel better.

I get crushes because beauty strikes me like a stab to the heart. Richard finds my crushes amusing because he trusts me not to pursue anything past friendship. He’s right to trust me. I used to tell people I had crushes on them and that I didn’t want to do anything about it. (Yes, they were flattered. Yes, they thought I was strange. No, they never had a crush on me back.) Some of my poetry is an attempt to relieve the pressure. I’m pretty sure that crushes are not hypomania themselves, but a high I learned from hypomania. When I become hypomanic they become extremely painful rather than amusing.

Depression has not really shaped my personality, because as it is for other people, depression is not me. Depression descends upon me and separates me from all I love with a black shroud. But I’m sure my unleashed imagination, my curiosity, my optimism, my straightforwardness, and my occasional flamboyance (and bold choice in lipstick) were gifts — yes, gifts from hypomania.

Baby Steps Back

Right now, I’m considering going back to Whose Hearts are Mountains — not to finish it up yet, but to sit down and look at the 70,000 words I’ve already written to see how I can balance the travelogue through a post-Collapse United States with the protagonist’s personal reactions — and field notes, because Annie IS an anthropologist.

I also have to make it plausible that the myriad of “incidents” (i.e. attacks) Annie experiences could be random malfeasances rather than the signs of a plot by Free White State’s government to capture her. I’m covering this for the next book in their series. I have to make the dreams and hints hint only toward her identity as a half-human, half-preternatural creature rather than the conspiracy that will be in the next book.

I also should work on the mental health book, which is going to require some primary sources. I’m too much an academic to use the Cliff Notes of bipolar disorder, Bipolar Disorder for Dummies. (I kid you not. Not even a tiny bit.) Biological psychology and psychiatry articles don’t intimidate me that much — ok, biopsych intimidates me a bit — it’s just that there’s so much “We don’t know what causes bipolar, but neurotransmitters are involved somewhere” that I can read without my brain going numb.

Yes, this is a lot of work I’m doing for something that may just be for the fun of it, given my total failure to find a agent. I may take a friend’s advice and try for literary fiction agents but not right now, not while I’m fighting off depression. Part of me wonders if writing, or at least putting 85,000 words into a novel (and I’ve done that with six so far) is a waste of time if I can’t get published. I like my creations to have an audience and speak to people, just as knitters want their family and friends to appreciate the gifts of socks and hats.

This is my dilemma, the one I have to get a handle on before I write again.

For the bipolar book — and for your understanding.

The things you don’t do while depressed:

· You don’t drive alone on deserted country roads where there’s no speed limit.

· You don’t stay alone. Even if you want nothing more than to be alone, complete solitude allows nihilistic thoughts to take hold. Coffeehouses remain a favorite refuge, even though you have to make small talk occasionally.

· You don’t tell acquaintances you’re depressed. It makes them uncomfortable.

· You don’t pick up broken glass without a sturdy pair of leather gloves.

· You don’t smash the things you love. You don’t delete all your writing or destroy next summer’s garden under the grow lights, even though your writing and plants are living things and you are not.

· You don’t give up your livelihood. You do not stay home from work no matter how bad you feel. You do not slack off on your work even though you’re sometimes so confused you don’t remember what to do next.

· You don’t do anything that would put you in a behavioral health ward, because it will wipe out what little self-esteem has not been scoured away by the depression. The things the behavioral health ward does for your health and safety – taking away your phone, prohibiting you from doing work, taking your shoelaces, leaving you almost no alone time – depersonalizes you. Being in the ICU seems almost cheery in comparison – at least the nurses talk to you in kind voices there instead of flat parole officer voices.

· You don’t let yourself eat or drink too much, do anything too reckless, or even speak the desire to flip your middle finger at an uncaring world.

The things you do while depressed:

· You read the inspirational quotes your friend posts on Instagram and Facebook and assume that they’re not for you.

· You answer, “How’s it going?” with “I’m doing pretty good”, even though you’re not.

· You push yourself, push yourself, push yourself – until you can’t push yourself any more for that day, and then you sleep. Sometimes dreams are the best part of the day.

· You try to find value in yourself and come up empty. The encouragement people give you seems to have come from a different world with different rules than the one you now live in.

· You look for one thing, just one thing, to go well, knowing that your mind will merely dismiss it as irrelevant. You experience all bad things as the world’s way of telling you your demise is near, death by a thousand papercuts.

· You call your psychiatrist, of course, and make an appointment. You feel like a failure doing so, even though you took your meds as instructed. You feel like a failure even needing to call your psychiatrist.

· You wonder if you were being delusional all the times you felt you were accomplished, literate, and likeable.

I haven’t written in two weeks.

I’m still trying to sort out my relationship with writing.

If’ you’ve followed this blog for long enough, you’ll know that I’ve said this so many times that you figure I’m crying wolf. You’re probably right — I say this when I’m deeply depressed and I can’t shoulder any more stress and I don’t want to think of those hundred-some rejections I’ve received so far in my life.

Here are the questions I need to consider:

1) Why do I write? I think with me, it’s complicated:

30% because I have ideas
20% because I want to improve as a writer
30% because I want people to read my stuff
10% because I want my world view (diversity, nonviolence, interdependence) to further get a toehold in the mainstream
10% because I want to get published.

What makes this complicated is that it will take getting published for people to read my stuff; it will take an editor to improve my writing; it will take getting published mainstream to get those ideas looked at in the mainstream.

2) Would I be comfortable being self-published?

Likely not. The great thing about self-publishing is that anyone can do it. The bad thing is that everyone does, regardless of talent. I’ve read a selection of self-published books — Cassandra Bruington, your memoir was awesome. The romance novels — lowest common demoninator, not written well — the exception is when one of my favorites Robin D. Owens self-publishes, and she’s a professionally published author with a large number of romance fantasy books. And then there’s the others — writing that could best be described as barely developing the plot outline, plot lines that only exist to justify a book-long sex scene, and the occasional Twilight clone. In the first scene of one book, which had the promising title of King of the Gypsies, the author was obviously getting too turned on by the antagonist’s thoughts upon watching the woman he was going to rape and kill. I had to take a bath after reading that chapter.

I don’t like my chances of getting read in this scenario.

3) Would it help to take a break?

It wouldn’t hurt — I have six completed novels, two novels in progress, and two non-fiction ideas in progress.

4) What about that editor?

We’re going to see what we can afford when the income tax return comes in.

5) Will you still write this blog?

If you’ll still read it. Let me know what kind of posts you like to read. (I know you all love to read Marcie, but Marcie will continue to guest-write rather than take over this blog. She has homework to do, and she keeps insisting she’s writing her first novel of ten pages.)

Foolhardy thoughts — repost. OOPS

I’ve gotten at least five more rejections since the last time I’ve mentioned it, and I’m contemplating something crazy — querying non-genre (i.e. literary/upmarket fiction) agents to represent me.

Maybe it’s the depression talking — “You have nothing more to lose. You might as well set yourself up for rejection and get it over with.”

Maybe it’s that a friend of my husband’s (a writer in the small-press horror genre) said I write too well for genre fiction. I don’t know if I believe him — I might, however, write too subtly for genre fiction.
Maybe, though, I write too subtly for any fiction.

I don’t think I stand a chance. I write about ordinary people rubbing elbows with preternatural creatures who together face supernatural warfare that is in some ways all too human. I write about the intersection of time travel and global warming. I write complex, imperfect characters who may not be human, with all that means. I don’t know if literary or upmarket wants to read that.

I’m still thinking, folks. I’m still thinking.

Wish me luck.

Depression and Creativity

There’s nothing that crushes creativity quite as thoroughly as depression. Depression crushes everything in its path, but creativity is its most obvious casualty.

I stare at the page; no ideas come to mind. My mind is filled with fog, like that of caffeine withdrawal, but coffee doesn’t touch it. If I write about the love of my five cats — yes, they love me unconditionally, even when they avoid me — I get weepy because I doubt I deserve their love.

If I write about death, I fear that someone will put me in the inpatient ward, where they strip you of all the autonomy of adulthood — no phones or computer to stay connected, no shoestrings, mandatory group sessions, the position of having to ask for everything you need. I don’t understand how depersonalizing the patient helps them heal, but that’s the process.

If I write about anything else — I draw a blank. I cannot find the words, and when I do, they demand to be dragged out of my mind one. word. at. a. time.

Depression is not sadness — sadness is draped in dignity, and writing about sadness evokes a broad, snowy plain where the air is so still the trees might shatter. It’s not anger — anger burns clean and hot like a flaming sword, and in some cases the angel’s righteousness flows through the anger.

Finding yourself wandering at the edge of the woods after a forest fire, smelling damp, burnt woods and finding the carcasses of birds and small animals of the ground. You have no home anymore; you have no phone, nor anyone nearby.

That’s depression.

Depression and how it feels

I stare out the window at a bleak landscape of snow and dead trees. I can’t go outside; the doors have drifted shut. The walls of the house whisper to me that I will always be trapped in this house and the others will leave me to die. Time passes; I can’t tell how much time, but now the walls tell me that when I die, I will have left nothing behind me. I will disappear as if I have never existed.
Nothing will change; nothing will ever change.
*****
Note: I’m not REALLY hearing the walls talk to me. This is figurative, damn it.
*****
I’ve been struggling with depression. It happens sometimes; if it persists or gets worse, I will have to see my doctor. I don’t usually struggle with my neurodiversity — i.e. not being wired like everyone else, which refers to a variety of mental differences one could have such as bipolar, autism spectrum and other mental health issues. However, when my moods go too far above or below the imaginary line of normal, I struggle.

You may have heard that depression is not just a “bad mood”, an accurate description. I can present to my students an enthusiastic facade. I can even be that enthusiastic, chipper person while I’m teaching. I can even “catch a mood” and feel chipper for a while afterward. But in depression, that state doesn’t last long, and I fall back to a feeling of hopelessness.

I’m ok; I’m doing what I need to do. My husband is keeping an eye on me.
Still, pop in and say hi if you’d like.

*****
It looks like I’ll still write — although I may not go the novel route for a while. I’ve never cared about getting anything else — like my poetry and essays — published, so I won’t deal with the rejection. I’m here because I think I have things worth saying.

Procrastination

We procrastinate for several reasons:

Because the tasks lack challenge (Housework, for example)
Because the tasks are too challenging (Getting up in the morning?)
Because the tasks are monotonous (Housework, for example)
Because of fear of failure (Why I have five manuscripts that I haven’t marketed aggressively)
Because of fear of success (Honestly. Success changes lives)
Because we just dislike the task (Housework, for example)

In other words, we want to perform tasks that are challenging but not too challenging, have enough novelty to engage us but utilizes our skills, and offer reasonable success that doesn’t fall outside our comfort zone. If we don’t perceive that the task will grant us all that, we procrastinate.

Many factors inside and outside ourselves can create an atmosphere ripe for procrastination. Illness and worry can ramp up our belief that tasks are too challenging. Depression can enhance our feelings of failure. Jarring background music may burden us with more challenge, while bland or crowded surroundings may increase our perception of monotony.

The process of writing yields all sorts of procrastination pitfalls. Some tasks — proofreading, for example — can be boring. Revising a novel or poem can challenge writers to the point of stress. Search and replace on a document can be monotonous (Scrivener, which is what I use to compose my writing, has no automatic replace). The difficulty in breaking into the market with one’s writing can enhance fear of failure, and daydreaming can enhance fear of success. Some parts of writing, such as writing a synopsis, can be annoying.

We can trick ourselves out of procrastination. Some tricks I use are:

Breaking the task into smaller pieces. For example, I lay out the outlines for my books in quarter-chapters. Instead of feeling that sense of accomplishment only after finishing a chapter, I feel it with every quarter-chapter. (Small, frequent doses of accomplish reduce the fear of failure and the monotony).
Switching up where I write (this is why writing retreats are so popular)
Skipping forward to a more rewarding part of the book (more challenge, more motivation)
Skipping forward to a less challenging part of the book (in my current book, that means writing in the Michigan hideout part of the story — less challenging than piecing together the malls in Gdynia (which is pronounced Goo-DOON-ya for you English speakers)
Starting my writing day by promising myself I can quit writing after 10 minutes (I’m dealing with minor depression today — this is my best strategy for writing with depression).

Procrastination is not our friend, but we can negotiate a cease-fire with it.

Thanks for reading. I love you all.