Lists of the Bipolar Mind (after Sei Shonagon)

{Bipolar defined}:

: (in general) having or relating to two poles or extremities.

 : (of science) relating to or occurring in both North and South polar regions.

 : (of a nerve cell) having two axons, one either side of the cell body.

 : (of a transistor or other device) using both positive and negative charge carriers.

 : (of psychiatric illness) characterized by both manic and depressive episodes.

: (of me) too manic to sleep, too sad to mother, highly medicated, suicidal often, hospitalized twice, bedridden at times, overspending at others, just one part of me.

 :(of associations) one of at least two things Virginia Woolf and I have in common.

{Things that make me want to die}:

          Couples who argue in public. My father, a carpenter by trade, losing his eyesight. A child crying inconsolably, wriggling in his mother’s arms. Arguing with my sister over a burnt pot. A person who has lost their job of 30 years. The same person who cannot find new work and must collect unemployment to get by. Dead winter when there is nothing to see but the dreariness of grimy snow, frozen dog shit and decaying leaves. The sound of my voice on a recording.

{Small things that give me hope}:

            Young brides. Old brides who find love again after losing their first. Rows and rows of tulips in April. Fuzzy green succulents in tiny white pots. Small girls in bright school uniforms with ribbons in their hair.

{Things I did in inpatient mental health treatment}:

An old lady chair workout from a video—what I really needed was a good run. Went outside for 10 minutes at a time with the smokers, in a caged yard by the light rail tracks. A lot of group therapy. Colored with soft Prismacolor pencils in those adult coloring books for stress relief. Played the Les Misérables score on an old, defective keyboard—no one could hear it, it was so bad. Watched the Victoria’s Secret fashion show with a room full of horny men. Cried, at intervals. Fought for my right to get the medication that the doctor forgot to write down. Cried again. Heard someone masturbating in the next room. Watched an electroconvulsive therapy promotional video—to be fair, they did warn about the memory loss.

{Things I notice, even when I am sad}:

           Children washed and dressed in the early morning on Easter Sunday. The migration of geese. Fresh cut mint leaves. The first breath I take when I visit the mountains. The texture of turkey breast with extra cranberry sauce. The last mile of a road trip. Newly cut grass covered in dew. Sediment layers when driving through a canyon. The laugh of my baby. Purple bearded irises, growing beside the dilapidated garage, on the second day that they bloom. The singed-wood smell of a campfire. Constellations in the desert sky.

{Things that are beautiful, despite/because of it all}:

          Vermont in the fall. Secluded ponds filled with lily pads. Maine lighthouses on a beach with pale blue and gray pebbles. Writing a new poem—or reading one that strikes you. Sunset in Santa Monica, mid-August, on the pier, while the surfers bob in the water, clinging to their boards, waiting, waiting. Japanese gardens with perfectly groomed and winding gravel paths, small ponds filled with koi, pleasingly arced wooden bridges and blossoming maple trees.

{Things that bring me joy}:

           My daughter when she runs free across the grass and I know there is not a worry in her mind aside from s-p-e-e-d. My son when he asks for a third glass of home-bottled grape juice in a single sitting. My husband when he reads something I wrote. More so when he likes it. Dad when we don’t talk politics. Mom when she feeds me apricot chicken, piping hot and sweet and oniony and filled with apricots from grandma’s backyard canned in sticky sugar water. Writing a story that resonates with a stranger. Reading Barbara Kingsolver on a gray linen-covered chaise lounge with a white fur throw (that I feel satisfyingly guilty about). Telling someone how I really feel. Visiting Jen’s grave in the cemetery by the mountains and the wealthy gated community and the greenhouse-turned-reception-center and the funeral home where we celebrated who she was to us individually and collectively—can we ever say who she really was? Sitting on the wrap-around porch in a pale, bare wood Adirondack chair, gazing at the lake and the ducks and the river willows and the spiral rock bridge and the mountains eaten up by the copper mine at the magic hour.

{Things people revile}:

            Chronically <sad> people.

{Things people are afraid of}:

            Chronically <happy> people.

{Things I remember vividly from my childhood}:

My first kiss, fourth grade, long and drawn out, no tongue, thin lips pressed between our frozen jaw bones. The pain of being left out by my best friend. Camping in Wyoming, dipping my toes in the icy water of the river, runoff from the snow, too cold, then sinking my entire soul into the hot springs pool, too hot, but just right. Climbing a slippery waterfall, the sound deafening. Yarn dolls. Sliding down a steep grassy hill on an ice block. Night games with the big kids. Falling asleep to a cricket serenade.

{People that I can trust}:

            Therapists.

{People that I can’t trust}:

            Doctors.

{Things that make me feel alive}:

Skinny dipping in a frigid mountain lake, water still as glass aside from the silent spring that feeds it with snow runoff. Surviving a storm while backpacking on Boulder Mountain, thin nylon all that shielded me from the lighting striking the ground around the tent. Sleeping atop my sleeping bag in the scorching red rock desert, listening to the singing frogs.

{Times when things are a little better}:

The first few weeks of fall, air crisp but still warm for a few hours in the afternoon, harvest time, and the smell of spiced cider. Devouring fresh, juicy tomato and cheddar cheese sandwiches on fresh white bread, slathered with mayo (the tomato must be homegrown in a garden or it doesn’t count). The third drink—not past the fourth, though. Staring a small, scraggly doe in the eyes, a mere fifteen feet apart. Driving through the Arizona desert listening to country music—which I usually hate. The first three hours of Christmas morning. Sitting, somewhat alone, by a secluded lake in the Uinta Mountains, listening to the birds and the wind in the trees while my favorite uncle fishes for melon-bellied trout.

{Life defined}:

: the condition that distinguishes animals and plants from inorganic matter, including the capacity for growth, reproduction, functional activity, and continual change preceding death.

: the period between the birth and death of a living thing, especially a human being.

: vitality, vigor, or energy.

: a relentless, creeping thing that pulls us along [mercilessly/mercifully] as we experience experiences. Some things we cannot control and others are completely within our control. We have the right to act upon fate and circumstance. Act upon expectation. Sometimes those are in conflict and/or in tandem. Sometimes they are simply unknowable. Sometimes they feel tragic. Sometimes they are tragic but also—

: a breeding ground for growth. The manure to our flower, if you will.

: only a moment, only this single moment, now, right now. This sentence is all there is to it. And now this one. Whatever you experience is in the present, that is who you are, what you are.

: what is.