Of the Roller Coaster Ride of Mental Illness

Hello My Dear One,

I apologize that I haven't written in nearly three months, and although I have had plenty of news to share, I have been in a self-imposed silence. I have been giving more attention to my work life than to my inner life. I have neglected parts of my soul so that I could nurture others. And I have paid the price.

My silence is not that of one who has nothing to say, rather it is the silence that comes as in a nightmare, as I stand frozen in horror, unable to make a sound. I have been so overwhelmed by the responsibilities I have, or have created, that I have ceased to even attempt to speak what is on my heart. And because of this, I have allowed my Beast a chance to pull me into his old familiar spaces. 

In my life I coexist with the physical illness of an auto-immune disorder, and the mental illnesses of Bipolar I Disorder and Anxiety. And of course, I am an openly intersex and transgender individual, navigating a world that is blatantly heteronormative. These facets of my life are both blessings and curses, as they afford me a unique perspective and understanding about what happens when mind, body, and soul are altered from within. 

Instead of the outside world changing me, it is my own body chipping away at itself, systematically attacking the very cells that I am composed of.  And instead of my mind being a place of rationality and control, it can become a wasteland of neuro-chemical storms that prevent impulse control, or allow reality to enter in. 

And when my rational mind has been attacked, my Beast of mental illness will begin to seep out. And often, when that first trickle begins, a massive flood is not far behind it. The reality of depression and mental illness, is that underneath the happier and safer thoughts, whether spoken or not, are painfully dark and frightening ones.  The comic genius and the haunting madness are inextricably fused together. The light and the dark emotions blurring as they spin faster and faster.

And so, I ride the roller coaster of mental illness.  Those of us who have been on the ride, never having willingly gotten in the queue, find ourselves unable to get off. Even when the cars have come to a complete stop and the amusement park closes for the day, we are still on the ride. If we are fortunate, we manage to get out onto the platform, yet, in all likelihood we will soon be strapped in again, ascending and dropping, twisting and turning, screaming from start to finish.  

Ultimately, 99.99% of the time, roller coasters are completely safe. Rarely does anyone get physically harmed, let alone killed on one. There are tragic exceptions, but for the most part getting on a roller coaster ride is safer than the car ride to and from the park itself. It's the tracks that the cars are affixed to, the seat belts that secure our bodies to the cars, and the technicians who maintain the rides that prevent accidents, that safely provide adrenaline filled thrills for us all.

But what happens when the tracks are not maintained, the cars rusted and gone unchecked, the seat belts tattered and failing to click appropriately into their buckles?  

It is the same as when our medications stop working, and when we ignore our bodily needs for rest, or food, or shelter. Or when we choose not to go and talk to our doctors, therapists, clergy, or even admit to ourselves that something is wrong in our lives. It is then, when we have no more strength to move forward, and the depression is greater than anything else, that we crash headlong into the barriers, derailing ourselves, and everyone around us. It is a terrifyingly violent end to an even more terrifyingly violent ride.  

But even when I am well, the ride fixed, maintained, and running smoothly, I wonder when the real terror will return.  I am waiting to look over at the seat next to mine and see my Beast, grinning his vicious smile at me. That's when the crazy comes back.  Suddenly, he and I are screaming through the rises and falls of our carnival ride from hell.

During November and December, the Beast, my Beast, finally did burst through the barriers and flailed into being, a total of four times, for a few gut wrenching hours that saw me cause pain, grief, and insanity to the ones I love most. No matter how hard I fought to keep my Beast in, I simultaneously threw the doors wide open for him, sat down, and buckled in for the ride to start. 

You see, that roller coaster ride isn't all bad. There are times when we all desire more excitement in our lives. There are times when we want the thrill of an adrenaline rush. There are times, when the darkness holds appeal, and I want to escape the rational life that I live.

I realize that this is not limited to people with mental illness, but to all of us who feel surrounded by the everyday, a mundane existence, a lack of purpose, and a hope for a more exciting tomorrow. Why else would there be theme parks, vacation packages, and shopping malls, but to draw us out of our everyday, and jettison us into an over exaggerated fantasy where everything can be fixed, for the right price?

In my real life, I actually detest roller coasters, much to the dismay of my family. I don't feel safe, I am trapped, and I am not in control of anything. The reckless abandon that others' revel in when on a thrill ride, leaves me shaken with a a high level of disregulation. I am queasy from the twists and turns. I am dizzy from the fear of the rises and falls. I want to go home.

So, all that begs the question, why do I give in to my Beast's ghastly ride, if I hate it so much? 

Sadly, I think it has to be that even though I hate the roller coaster of mental illness, I have the illusion of control when I am participating in it. My Beast and I are controlling everyone around us with our behavior. Maybe, if only for a few fleeting moments, I am the operator of the ride instead of the passenger. And worse still, if my Beast and I can manipulate my thoughts and actions, then we can manipulate others' as well.

In the end, as the ride comes to a stop, the last two months of the solar calendar over, and the beginning of another trip around the sun, I am finally able to get off the ride. I am free to explore the other rides, foods, and attractions that are all around me. I can enjoy experiences without the fear of an unwanted upside down loop the loop that can create dangerous situations for me and for those around me. I can see the joy in my family's successes, triumphs, hopes, and dreams. I am at last present. 

And by the grace of G-d, I can spend more time in this reality than in my Beast's sadistic one. And if I'm lucky, the next time I'm there, screaming through the highs and lows of the roller coaster ride of mental illness, I will know that it will end, that I will regain control, that my life is more than this. I will know that I am more than this. And I will cherish the gift of reclaiming the man I am called to be, holding fast to the man I have already become.


Thank you for choosing to come along on this ride with me.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

-Ari

Of The Holiday Beast of Mental Illness, Of Dave and Steve, and Of New Years

Hello My Dear One,

Happy New Year.  Happy New Beginning.  Happy January.  Welcome 2014, welcome to the hope that comes with the replacement of the old calendar covered with marks, tears, and dirt, with an unblemished shiny twelve new months.  Say adieu to the old year and bonjour to the new one.  But let's make sure that we don't lose the lessons learned from the last year.  Let's remember what was, and envision what might be, but let's keep an eye on the short term before and after now, thinking of what has just been and what might come.

Ok, so I'm not really that optimistic and flowery, not to mention I celebrate Rosh Hashanah as a more accurate New Year for myself.  But still, I look forward to the upcoming months and the inherent belief in the possibilities for change, renewal, and rebirth.  It is Winter, and therefore, we must suffer the dark and the cold with the hope that Spring will eventually come.  But before those first tiny buds of growth appear we must suffer the holidays of December, the potholes, and the problems that come with Winter. 

Last month, much as it is every year for me, was a doozy.  It was once again the "Holiday Season," the time of year when a merchandising and marketing blitzkrieg of overpriced, unwanted, and unfairly produced stuff occurs, a bombardment of things that could have defeated the Third Reich itself.  It was a commercial assault that aimed to blanket us with the insidious belief that "wants" are really "needs," and that you may not survive if you don't get what you "need." Yes, it was December in the United States of America, a month devoted to obsessively and compulsively shopping at all hours of the day and night, both prior to Christmas, and afterward for the big sales that follow.  It was the time of year that can bring out the best and the worst in people, as the act of giving becomes a battle to profess one's love through the quantity of gifts that can be bestowed.  Often, it is a losing battle for both the givers and the receivers, as added debts of money and guilt are placed upon each person, like necklaces made of millstones rather than pearls.

It was near.  The neon lights within the darkness.  The hope that the ice would eventually melt.  The candles that are the prayers for renewal were about to burn.  The time was very near.

Yes, even within the monetary battle for supremacy there is still a glimmer of the root truths of the winter holidays.  For all the glittery trinkets that surround us, there is a need for marking the darkest day of the year and the light that will follow.  Chanukkah, Christmas, Solstice, Kwanzaa, New Year's Eve are all celebrations that incorporate light into the darkness, both literally and figuratively.

But what if one is overstimulated by too much light?  What if the promises of hope are greater than the possible realities?  What if the darkness can blot out the light?

Unfortunately for me, and for my family, the beast of my mental illness has a particular nearness and problem with the issues of light in the darkness.  The beast becomes so engrossed in the mania of the holiday season itself, that the complimentary anxiety, depression, stress, anger, and overall dis-regulation strengthen into an all encompassing break with reality.  That horrifying moment of collapse and meltdown comes pouring out of him, out of me, creating pools of dark, gooey, urine soaked, and blood filled nightmares across the wooden floors of the world around me.  The pools ooze out further, seeping into the cracks between the boards, and contaminating every surface they touch.  It is like watching my own soul bleed out, and lying helpless as it happens.  And as the pools continue to spread, my loved ones cannot help but be touched by the mess I am creating as it rushes around their feet, their ankles, and their own souls.  

This is what the Holiday season has so often been for me.

And over the years I have lived in the shame of my beast's behaviors.  I have lived in the shame of feeling out of control, unable to contain the madness as I damage the life around me.  I have lived in the shame of feeling as though beyond the obvious mental illness that is wrong with me, that I am a cultural failure as well, hating Christmas, not out of my faiths but out of some deeper darkness.

So, I decided to do two things about it.  First, I decided to get the professional psychological and medical attention that I needed to rebalance the neurochemical disaster in my brain.  Luckily, or perhaps divinely, I was able to schedule an appointment that happened within 24 hours with my trusted provider.  This gave me an almost immediate respite from the chaos that had been encircling my day to day life.  It also gave me the opportunity to explore some of my Christmas angst in a safe and supportive space.  I was able to gain new insights, and some of that led to a direct change in how I approached Christmas this year.

Secondly, I have decided to share a piece of myself that I have until now kept hidden within its own tomb of deconstruction.  For the first time, I am willing to share two of the names of my Beast.  I say two of the names, because there are other names I cannot speak, that cannot be spoken, that even I haven't discovered or yet myself named.  But as J.K. Rowling, through the character of Albus Dumbledore said, "Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself."*  And so, I must name the thing that has caused some of the greatest fear in my life.

Let me tell you about Dave and Steve.

One of the parts of my Beast is a mellow dude who brings the party with him wherever he goes.  He is a fun, relaxed, easygoing person who enjoys the unexpected happy moments of life.  He appreciates adventures, challenges, and travel.  This is the guy you want to go to the beach with, go out to eat with, watch a game with, frankly, do anything with that would be a stress free and delightful experience.  I like him. Heck, everybody likes him.  He's a great guy.

This is Dave.  Yep, Dave will attend events that I myself would rather spend hiding under a heavy rock than actually going to, graciously accepting invitations to things that I run screaming from.  Dave doesn't ramble about the elegance of ancient Hebrew scripture and how to parse each word apart to ascertain truer meaning of texts.  He can simply shoot the breeze, talk about cars, sports, and even "guy stuff."  Like I said, Dave is a great guy.

But for all the fun of Dave, there is another part of my Beast, and his name is Steve.  He is another of the anthropomorphic understandings that is my experience with Bipolar Disorder 1.  Steve is the screaming maniac who has the ability to traumatize, batter, break, destroy, and horrify anyone and anything in his rage driven path.  Steve has a darkness to him that can blanket out each candle of hope, each star shining down, each lamp along the way, and the sun itself shining its brightest on this floating sphere we call home.  Like Bipolar Disorder itself, the burning self-exaltation and the inkiest darkening of the world at large, these two identities of Dave, and Steve coexist in a state of constant competition for attention.  They battle a never ending game of Tug-O-War, where the losing side is always me, or the people around me.

And Steve has left a lasting mark on everyone in my family, my wife, my in-laws, and in particular on my sons.  Christmas this year brought out the worst of Steve, with a gory meltdown a few days before the 25th, filled with angst and angry words.  It was traumatizing for all of us and I myself was horrified by the magnitude of the psychological earthquake that rocked our home in a way that will need repairs both physical and emotional.  All I can say is that I am sorry for this and that I have been dealing with the fallout as best I can, combined with new medication and therapeutic sessions.

Dave and Steve originated over 35 years ago, and I suspect they were actually varying male identities of myself that I could name when I was a very young child.  And I could this while still being told how to act like a girl.  I needed to keep my split sense of self together by having inner male counterparts to exist even when the world around me attempted to make me conform to the body on the outside.

But the truth of the matter is, Steve is and was sexually open, fearless in conduct and behavior, and an alcoholic.  That guy is really an immature pit of illness made manifest as an excuse to relinquish personal accountability, and I regret most of my actions and behaviors while under the unmedicated influence of him.  And I'd like to atone and make right all that which I can. 

So, in this is the time of year, when we make resolutions, often to lose weight, exercise, quit smoking or drinking, have more money, or somehow be a "better" form of ourselves than we were last year, I am resolving to be less intimidated by Dave and Steve.  I have decided that in this new Western calendar year to stop and listen when I hear the low growls of Steve, or the all too exuberant musings of Dave.  I have decided this year to be a "better" version, not of Steve or Dave, but of myself.  I have come to learn that for all their chatter, I am a completely valuable and worthy human being.  Regardless of my past actions, and the sins - the separations from G-d and my fellow humans - that I have committed, I am a man of integrity, dignity, and honesty.  I cannot be anyone but myself, even when my Beast tries to tell me otherwise.

As I reflect over what I have experienced these past few years, I find myself in a new and different place.  The Beast that I was unable to acknowledge, has become the Beast that I can name.  An with his names comes my own ability to call him out directly, to say, "Dave, I'm good enough," or "Hey Steve, SHUT UP ALREADY!" And I will be able to say to them both that I am the one who runs the show, and when they try to, I will be ready for them.  

And this time, this time, I was more ready for them.  I was able to call them out for what they were, what they were trying to do, and even why they were trying to do it.  And instead of letting their madness overtake me, I ran to the professional help I needed, rather than running away and attempting something hurtful to those I love.

I know that I will always have to battle them.  I know that my Beast is a lifelong war that will never truly end.  I know there will be pain, suffering, and harm in all forms throughout the coming years.  And I know that as long as I have faith in G-d, faith in myself, and faith in the support that I receive, I will lessen the blows from my Beast.

Thank you for being there with me as I do battle.

Be well.  Love your neighbor as you love yourself.  And remember to actually to love yourself.

-Ari



*Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

Of a Lump in My Throat

Hello My Dear One,

I began writing while still hospitalized for a virulent bacterial infection, and although I am now back home safe and sound, I want you to hear what my thoughts were at the time, and what they are now.

I have been sitting here for days, in hospital, battling through a PeriTonsillar Abscess caused by a virulent strain of Strep A that attacked me nearly 2 weeks ago.  I have been pumped full of meds, had 2 CT scans, a procedure done at 10:00pm on a Sunday night with only a few shots of Lidocaine, a needle, a knife, some clamps, and the warning "Don't Move."  I have been on a restricted diet, monitored day and night, and have learned that apparently I don't breathe all of the time while I sleep.  And all of this because of a lump in my throat, a puss filled abscess on the back side of my left tonsil, that grew from 1cm to 2.5cm in less than 48 hours.  I have been subjected to a battery of tests, all because of a lump in my throat.

And all of this has led to a different lump in my throat, not a physical one, but a figurative one that is often described as the way one feels when faced with a sadness that is too great for initial speech.  We even refer to it as "getting choked up" in the U.S., when we are overcome with emotion that might make us cry.  Because here is the U.S. we are not as quick to show our sadness, particularly as men, and more so when in public.  We say that we are "choked up" because we cannot speak the words, or cry the tears when faced with the flood of real emotion in times of sorrow.  This to me is in itself a sadness, however I am just of guilty as this as most of those around me.

Now all of this could well lead into an exploration of cultural norms and mores, how men and women react differently to emotions, and what it means to be a member of a society that prizes violence and heroism over intimacy and relationship.

But I want instead to talk about the lumps in my throat.  I want to explain what has brought me to this place of a physical lump, and to the figurative one as well.  I want to explore the feelings that got me into all of this and also out of this.

I got sick with Strep A nearly 2 weeks ago, and I started a course of antibiotics almost immediately.  I felt a little better, tired, but better, and thought I might even be able to return to work at the end of the week.  But all too quickly I was much sicker, and I was failing fast.  After 2 emergency room visits I was sent to a larger hospital and began a lengthy process of recovery.

But I wondered, why did I grow this crazy puss filled thing in my throat in the first place.  Why me?  I know I have amazing skills at growing cysts, this is at least the 5th in the last 15 years, but really?  An abscess on a tonsil?  One that was growing at an alarming rate, and slowly blocking my airway?  I was literally getting choked up by this growth in my throat.

I knew that from a medical standpoint it was a potential that comes whenever someone has strep throat, and it can happen especially if there is a history of tonsillitis, and/or a weakened immune system, such as mine.  Having diabetes has always been a liability, but sometimes I forget how much of one it can be.  My health is often more at risk than others and I need to protect myself through preventative measures in a more aggressive fashion that I frequently do.

Further, I work in an elementary school and am exposed to all manner of bacteria, viruses, sickly kids, and other environmental health risks.  It can be a highly stressful position, where I never feel like I have enough time to complete everything I want to do in my day.  That sense of unfinished business can be trying at times no matter how much I try to walk away from it when I am not there.  And I never really stop thinking about the kids I work with.  I want to bring them my best self, my most creative ideas, and something that might make learning a little better, a little easier, a little more enjoyable than it has been in the past for them.  I want to engage them and make them lifelong learners too.

But even with all of these factors, I'm not sure I can blame this round of illness on much of any of that.  No, I think deep down that my own emotional conflicts over theological school, call, meeting the needs of my family, and ignoring my own health were the real culprits this time.  My inability to put my own physical, spiritual, emotional, and intellectual needs ahead of anything else is always detrimental to my body, as it decides to shut the whole system down to keep me from wreaking any more havoc on myself.  Just like the encapsulating cysts that I excel at growing, my body eventually encapsulates me in a cyst so that I too must be drained of the puss that I have accrued within my spirit.

Much like the physical abscess I had blocking my airway, my emotional airway was blocked by an unwillingness on my part to acknowledge that I was doing too much.  I had taken on projects, and work, and commitments I could in no way fulfill, and yet I tried to take on more.  From my innermost self that wants to be loved, I continue to put myself into those vicious circles of offering too much in return for too little.  Over extending myself is not truly a sign of flexibility or the ability to multitask, rather I see in my own life that it is merely a way of running oneself ragged and incapable of doing anything.

I was in so much denial about how overwhelmed I was that I had even stopped really caring for my diabetes.  I suspect that this a key player in my prolonged illness.  Diabetes is an autoimmune disorder, and when it is improperly managed, the body cannot respond to bacterial or viral attacks with enough strength to properly fight off the illness.  My blood glucose levels had been rising and my overall average was up as well.  I drank coffee laden with sugar, creamers, and sugary syrups.  I ate candy bars, donuts, cakes, cookies, and way to much protein.  I lowered my immunity and suffered the consequences.

But what about those figurative lumps in my throat?  Well, as I sat there, stuck in that bed, I began to see how much I missed my wife and children.  I realized how much I missed my work life.  I realized how much I missed my freedom to go to a grocery store and by some fresh fruit and vegetables.  I realized that I missed my life.  And that, that missing of my own life, was what brought the true lumps to my throat.

For nearly 40 years I have suffered from the belief that my existence was not truly important to the world, or even my own family's.  I didn't feel that my wife really needed me to exist, and of course she doesn't need me to exist per se, but to have a loving and fulfilling life we need each other.  Our existences are dependent upon the love that we create and share as two grown adults in the life altering bond of marriage.  We need each other.  And that emotion was overwhelming enough to bring a lump to my throat.

And so too, being a present, loving, nurturing father to my two magnificent sons.  Likewise my colleagues, my students, my friends, and the people with whom I share my stories of what it means to be intersex and transgender.  I meet each person exactly where they are and allow them the space to share with me their struggles and their triumphs.  What greater importance could there be in life?

And we have all been granted this opportunity.  We are given the gift of our lives to live into and share with others.  We are connected by our experiences, by our comings, and our goings in life.  We are connected by something as simple as a smile, or as profound as a lifelong relationship filled with hardships and joys that push us to be better people than we could have ever imagined.

Yet there is one more element to this magic, G-d.  Because I believe that it is the G-d outside of us, and the G-d within each of us that creates these opportunities to experience this brief flicker of time we have been granted.  And perhaps this brought the biggest lump to my throat.  The knowing that the G-d within me and the G-d within each housekeeping staff member, CNA, nurse, and doctor created a place of care, healing, and recovery for me, for my family, for my work, for my friends, and for the very people who cared for me during my illness became a truth that changed my life.  I mattered.  They mattered.  My existence here and now has meaning and value, and my absence would be a loss.

As a new week begins, I come to it with an appreciation for another day to be.
I am here, and my life has meaning.  Thanks be to G-d.

Thank you for having meaning in my life, in the lives of others, and for choosing to be a part of the lump in my throat.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

-Ari