Managing the Depression: "Cope, Don't Hope. And Expect the Unexpected."

I don't know why I don't write more.  Plenty of people have said that I should write or think I have "writer" written all over me.  Maybe I do, maybe I don't.

Last night, I finished watching the documentary flick "Far Out Isn't Far Enough: The Tomi Ungerer Story."  If you have Netflix, I highly recommend it.

Ungerer had quite a traumatic childhood in Alsace, between France and Germany, in the early 40s, in the middle of Nazi influence and propaganda.  I'm not going to go into to much detail about his life because it's well covered by the film and don't want to spoil it.

Basically, Ungerer learned to survive and make his way through life by drawing, but making a place where he could lose himself in the trance of creativity, to "get it out," expurgate.  He didn't just survive. He became one of the best children's book illustrators ever known.

This is what I'd like writing to be for me.  Why I don't write more, I don't know.  I really don't know.  Yes, I have a wife and two kids now, a home to take care of, odd jobs to do to pay bills and so on.  Those aren't the reasons why I don't write more.  Maybe I need to do less Facebook posting and Twittering and more blogging.  Probably.

But I think the real reason is fairly simple: depression.  Those familiar with bipolar or severe depression know what I'm talking about.  Depression stifles activity, creativity, and deadens response to the world outside us.  It causes long, blank stares into space at the dinner table.  It despairs.  It sucks.

So when Ungerer said "Cope, don't hope. And expect the unexpected," it gave me a little spark, a boost, another way of looking at depression.

Being raised a Baptist, it felt like I wasn't allowed to merely cope, but instead had to go through life as if in a parade akin to the last scene of "The Music Man."  That everything works out in the end, God takes care of us so DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT!!!!, bang your drum, SMILE!!!, and so on.

There are plenty of folks who cherish this outlook on life.  I see and meet them all the time: in person, on Facebook and Twitter, in the newspaper, and on TV.  Now don't get me wrong, if this helps them with their life, work, and relations, I'm all for it. If it ain't broke...

But me?  I'm FUBAR.  Don't be misled by what you see on the surface.  Bipolar is a monster, a menace, and downright horrible.  I wish it on no one.  Last summer I (unexpectedly) had to go into a psych hospital for a couple nights, chill out, make sure my meds were straightened out, and that I didn't pose a threat to myself or others.  I'm very grateful for my understanding and loving family and friends for helping me through another crisis.

I wish I could be more predictable and consistent in my moods.  I wish I could control them more. But I can't.  I can only "cope."

And "expect the unexpected."

And that's okay.

Thank, Tomi.

It's the write time again.

Yep. Still here.

Memoir (part 3)

It's just too painful.  Still.

(Sigh)

I need more sleep.

More time.

More rest.

I'll be back.

Memoir, part 2

It took about two weeks for me to start "coming down" from the mania.  Lithium was given to me first, but not effective.  Depakote was next and eventually it worked.  How did my family know I was returning from the madness?  Easy.  There was a basketball court outside.  I was given a ball and instantly went for the hoop, making a layup.  My cognition was obviously returning because of this recognition.  Even though I was a little off-balance because of the meds, I knew what was going on.  It makes a lot of sense to have the basketball court be where we find out if I'm okay or not.  Ever since I was 7, I lived and breathed basketball.  My friends and I did slam dunk contests at our birthday parties, trying to do Dominique Wilkins and Michael Jordan-style dunks on the adjustable hoops.  Sure, I was good at schoolwork, but my passion was basketball. Basketball, basketball, basketball, basketball, and basketball.  And then some more basketball.  What I loved about the game was how non-verbal it was, how body language spoke volumes about passion, desire and love of the game, in all its aspects: shooting, rebounding, stealing, defensive positions, passing, and dribbling.

I'm pleased to report that the learning curve associated with a cochlear implant is pretty much complete and that I have adjusted wonderfully!

Memoir

Call me P.J.

I sing of mania and madness.

To tell the tale is hard.

(But it is funny. Much of humor has the seed of trauma.)

______________________________________________

I had my own special cell. I didn’t know that my door could be opened to go to the bathroom in the adjoining room. I assumed it was locked. So I just pooped in the corner.

Doc: “Don’t poop in the corner.”

I wanted out. I thought there might be a secret code inherent in the building infrastructure. If I could figure it out, I’d be free. The only thing in my room was a metal bed bolted to the floor. I pushed all the bolts, hoping one of them would be a button and Presto! the walls would fall down and I could run free.

I took off the mattress cover and noticed that it was half pink and half blue. Weird, I thought. I saw the mattress was pink side up. “Maybe if I put it blue side up (since I’m a boy and boys like blue) and then laid down on it, the ceiling would open and I would float up, up and away, like in James and the Giant Peach.”

No luck.

Next, I took the mattress off the bed and saw it kind of looked like a giant keyboard: metals slats fused to the frame. Maybe I need to play a melody that would open a secret door in the room and I could jump into the door down a slide that led outside. Oh, how I wanted to be outside in the fresh, clean Northwest air!

I decided to see if I could lift one of the metal slats. I could! And as it dropped back to its original position, it made a huge gong-ing sound, one I could hear even without my hearing aids. It was beautiful and loud and felt so good vibrating on my feet. I felt absolutely certain this must be the way out.

I proceeded to play a scale, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and was about to try Heart and Soul when a doctor and nurse came in and said:

“Do you understand people are trying to sleep around here?”

I just gave him a blank look. I was devastated. I thought for sure I had found an escape. Why would there be a bed with such musical capability in a psych ward?

I was born in Eureka, California on January 30, 1978. In Humboldt County: home of very tall trees and some stinky small ones.

My dad came into my cell.

Dad: “P.J., do you know why you’re in here?” His face looked as one in sheer terror and bewilderment. Obviously, he didn’t know how or why the hell I was in there either.

Me: “No.”

Dad: “Do you know how much your mother loves you?” I sensed my mom was in incredible pain and confusion, as we all were. I just gave him a blank look. A lot of my responses to questions were like that at the time. The questions didn’t really register at the time. My mind too busy trying to figure things out, like how to get the fuck outta there! I’ve got to show the world my secret! I’m on a mission from God! (Just needed a tux ala Blues Brothers). “P.J., the doctor told me you pooped in the corner over there. Don’t do that.” He proceeded to give me a list of things to do (absolutely the last thing on earth to tell someone in the clutches of extreme mania): “Number One! Don’t poop in the corner! Number Two! Cooperate with the doctors and nurses! Number Three! Take all your medicine! Number Four! Eat! Number Five! Communicate! Number Six! Be a nice guy!”

Um, okay, Dad.

Later, my dad told me of this dream he had while I was in the ward. He had rounded up all the badass Ramey cousin boys -- John, Scott, Paul, Brian, Wade, Willie and my older brother Josh. Loaded them up with Rambo-style gear and they went blitzkrieg on my psych ward: they were going to get me out, come hell or highwater. The SEALS operation that got Osama had nothing on what these guys accomplished!

I smiled.

I could totally see that. My cousins and I used to play KUSA together when we were little: Kids United States Army. We made index cards with our rank and name on it. You were either the commander-in-chief or a private. We took turns being Top Dog and Bottom Dog. We made obstacle courses in the backyard and used Lazer Tag guns. Later, when I was older and Josh moved on to other things like playing drums and studying books, I recruited our neighbor Aaron into KUSA. Later, Aaron went on to fight as a US soldier in the Middle East. He was part of a group that operated spy drones. I like to think it’s all my fault. He came back from that and wondered WTF we were doing over there.

More soon...

I can hear better but...

...90% of communication is nonverbal.

I can hear better but...

listening is not the same as hearing.

I can hear better but...

I still adore quiet.

I can hear better but...

I love to talk, too.

I can hear better but...

I still hate talking on the phone.

I can hear better but...

I'm still me.