Flagpoles and Spines

I apologize for being AWOL (absent without leave) for four months.

Today I read a ‘morning musing’ email from  FlyLady Marla Cilley: "You Might Be a Perfectionist If..." I’ve been a perfectionist about my blog. If I can’t dedicate several hours to it, I don’t post. So, here’s an experiment: I pledge to post here daily, by 9 p.m. through April. I just changed my email signature:

Blog “updated DAILY in April”.

I am a proud member of DBSA-Boston (Depression Bipolar Support Alliance). When Jim and I started self-isolation on March 13, I felt secret relief that my volunteer commitments, including facilitating at DBSA once or twice a week, would halt and I could re-set. I felt overbooked but unwilling to give anything up. To my dismay, The DBSA Board swung into action. They met in video-conference each day for over two weeks and launched online support groups for people with mood disorders and their family and friends. It was an intense experience for me, in fact, I started going hypomanic for the first time in many years. Now that the online program is in place, the time commitment has lessened (and the hypomania has receded (dang!)).

I’ve discovered, in an unexpected and deep way, that I am part of a community of generous, caring people who understand mental illness because of ‘lived experience.’ Many people have stepped up and given time and effort to maintain our connections with each other during an uncertain time when many people are experiencing anxiety and isolation.

Khare, DBSA-Boston's technical guru, works every day to improve our online experience. For years he has been our meditation specialist, generously guiding a weekly Meditation Circle. Now he offers one every weekday.

How comforting it was to  see familiar friends this morning. Khare suggested an image I've been thinking about all day: a flagpole and flag. The flag is whipped by a strong wind, then ruffled gently, then hangs limp. The experience of life can be as disruptive as strong winds, but I can be the flagpole, not the flag.

I've never bonded with the standard meditation metaphor that my thoughts are clouds to be observed dispassionately, letting them drift by without trying to prevent them or hold them. But this has possibilities. My thoughts can be like wind: coming and going, unbidden and, unpredictable. They can be benign, helpful, practical, distracting, distorted, depressed, or hypomanic. My spine can be my flagpole. My backbone gives my body structure and strength. It supports me, whether I sit, or stand, or lie down. It isn't brittle and in danger of breaking, but strong and supple. With a healthy spine, I can be solidly grounded.

I’ve never stayed with meditation; I'd get restless and bored. But this practice is different. I awoke this morning feeling anxious, fully awake but unrested, and reluctant to get out of bed and face my life. After twenty minutes with my eyes closed, I was ready to start my day afresh. Not energized, exactly, but fortified.

Mind Fixers

I just finished listening to Mind Fixers last week and am looking forward to hearing the author, Anne Harrington, a history of science professor at Harvard, speak at our DBSA-Boston speakers series in 2020. (I’m the coordinator of the series.) I’ve recommended the book to several people, including R'el, my psychiatrist daughter at Bellevue.

The full title of Harrington’s book is Mind Fixers: Psychiatry’s Troubled Search for the Biology of Mental Illness. It’s a thorough history of American psychiatry, from its roots in Europe through the 2010s. She chronicles the jockeying for position between the ‘neo-Freudians’, who advocate psychoanalysis and the psychiatrists who believed in a purely biological cause of mental illness. According to Wikipedia, neo-Freudians have been defined as "American writers who attempted to restate Freudian theory in sociological terms and to eliminate its connections with biology.”

I had a manic episode in the early eighties, when our first child was just turning two and our second was six months old. I had a more severe, more psychotic mania in 1995. When Jim could no longer recognize me, and feared for our children, he signed me into a locked psychiatric unit. When I emerged I was convinced to take psych meds, told that my episodes would get more frequent (than every twelve years) and more severe. Seven years later, against medical advice, I stopped the psych meds, cold turkey, with predictable results: another ambulance ride to the same psych unit. Since then, I’ve taken meds for sixteen years. I don’t like it, but don’t see a viable alternative.

I’m an active member of DBSA-Boston, a local chapter of the national Depression Bipolar Support Alliance and have facilitated support groups about once a week for nearly ten years.

Quite a while ago, based on my own experience and my observations in DBSA groups, I rejected the ‘chemical imbalance’ view of mental illness. As far as I can tell, and as Harrington states persuasively, no one knows the deep cause of mental illness. There’s no blood test, no diagnostic brain scan, just a list of symptoms in the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders). It’s rather like diagnosing an illness by the type of fever produced (that's a effective simile I read). And why do the meds fail so many, especially those who are depressed? Why does cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) work as well as anti-depressants? Why are the same classes of drugs prescribed for different types of mental illness?

I’m deeply grateful to psychiatry and the efforts of many professionals (including my daughter and my deceased father-in-law) to alleviate pain and suffering. I have been psychotically manic three times in my life. Since I was first prescribed psych meds, in 1995, I have only been severely manic one time, when I stopped taking them (against medical advice). Much of what I have accomplished in my life since 1995 would not have been possible without them.

I highly recommend Mind Fixers by Anne Harrington. And I’d love to hear what you think about it.

St. Davids

I’ve always loved the name of St. Davids in Radnor Township, Pennsylvania (outside of Philly). When my parents and sister came for my graduation from Bryn Mawr, they stayed at St. Davids Inn. Many of the original European settlers were Welsh and they named their church for the patron saint of Wales.

I suppose that’s why the tears sprang to my eyes as I drove past the Battlegreen in Lexington a few hours ago listening to “Ar Hyd y Nos” (“All Through the Night”), the Welsh lullaby we’d just sung as a women’s chorus at church. It’s another Christmas season and my David won’t be visiting.

I find I’ve developed different approaches to talking about my children to newly-met friends. I remember flying west a few months after David’s death. I didn’t mention my children; I had no interest in the role of the mourning mother. Then there was the phase where I’d describe my kids in a way to obfuscate their numbers: “We’ve got a few in New York, one in Massachusetts, and the rest are out west.” But sometime in the last year, I’ve wanted to talk about David. I want to remember him and let new friends know about him, about his existence in our lives.

Sometimes I hesitate, concerned that the other person, hearing about David’s death for the first time, suffers more in hearing than I do in telling. I talk about David without anguish, but I don’t want to cause distress. Do I also worry that I seem heartless and unfeeling in my delivery?

I had lunch with my good friend, Christy, the other day, and I talked about David. She asked if it was painful, talking about him. No, it’s not. In fact, I want to talk about him, keep his memory alive.

Five days after David’s death, we all packed up and went to a rented house in the Catskills. We’d planned our reunion for the customary third week in August, but didn’t know whether or not we’d use the house, since David was so sick. But he died and we used the trip as a time to be together for a week in new surroundings.

As I sat at the kitchen table, looking out a large picture window towards a forested hill, I made a chart for meal planning. Jim, Mary, R’el, Peter, Matt… A bottomless chasm gaped before me, and I struggled to keep from plummeting. For nearly twenty-six years, David had always been between Matt and Annie. I skirted that chasm, with varying success for a long time. Then I discovered I could switch the order of Annie and Sam, but was always distracted from the conversation, nervously counting and re-counting in my head, feeling that I was missing someone. The other day I used my five fingers to count my kids and and wondered that it took over four years to discover the method. But my heart resists fitting my children on one hand. I rebel. I have six children. I always will.

Piano Lessons

Lest you think I’ve been perfect in my self-improvement this week: I haven’t logged my food on MyFitnessPal all week. It’s an exercise in imperfection. MyFitnessPal tracks my recording “streak”: how many consecutive days I’ve logged my food and completed my diary. In the past, to maintain my streak of over 100 days, I’ve lied, just putting in a general calorie count so I could "complete" the day’s diary. But last week I decided that was silly. No one is checking up on me, and is a streak meaningful if I’ve fibbed about it?

So, my streak today will be two days. I’m not overeating, which is the main point, right?

I must be on a self-improvement jag. Last week I decided to start up my piano lessons again. My good friend and piano teacher, Cami, started a major house renovation two years ago and took a break from teaching. Since her house project finished, I’ve felt like I haven’t had time to practice, but decided that signing up for lessons was the way to start again. I had my first lesson last Monday and when I got home, I dropped my music book bag by the door. Three days ago I picked it back up to take it to my second lesson. Yup! My music didn’t even make it into the piano. I wanted to cancel my second lesson, since I wasn’t prepared, but remembered something Matt suggested years ago, when I started taking lessons the first time. I resisted starting, worried that I wouldn't practice and would waste the lesson money. He asked if I could consider the lessons as the full musical experience. My teacher at the time said she had adult students using just that strategy: their progress was slow but perceptible.

When I admitted to Cami that I hadn’t practiced, she said with glee, “Practice as the lesson. Sometimes those are the best.” We had a great session and talked about some strategies to get me to the piano between lessons.

Cami suggested leaving a music book open on the piano, so it is easy to sit down and play for a few minutes. And to plan to do one part of the lesson on one day. Both of those seem really tailored to me. Getting my books out of the bag is a barrier. And I’ve always thought I had to go through the whole lesson in order: scales, exercises, piano piece, hymn. That daunting list keeps me from starting. So what if scales are ‘supposed to’ be to warm up my fingers. Better to work on a piece than do nothing. (Sounds like my dust mopping all over again.)

One reason I resist taking lessons, if I’m not practicing at home, is the memory from my high school days. I played viola and most weeks didn’t practice at all at home. I was very good at sight-reading, so the lessons weren’t a complete disaster. Now I wonder, for the first time, did Dr. Scott know? He never said anything, but he was a very mild, shy, and non-confrontational kind of guy. I did improve, through my weekly lesson.

I resist repeating that method. I'm embarrassed by my history. Now, in my perfectionism, I find the easiest course is just to give up lessons rather than face my choices. The best way to avoid a repetition of the viola experience is to actually practice during the week. Will it be a priority this week?

Phyz Ed

My strongest memory of junior-high-school gym (physical education) is standing in the green grass of the softball outfield with a baseball glove on my right hand. I watched the batter, fervently hoping she wouldn’t hit the ball anywhere near me. I was a below-average softball player and my focus was on avoiding making a fool of myself and angering my teammates. We chose our own positions and right field was mine. The majority of our class were right-handed, who tend to hit into left field, so right field was the plum position for the non-athletic.

When I was about sixteen, my mom suggested I take fencing lessons at the Westfield YMCA. I bought a left-handed foil as well as a mask and white padded jacket. It was a small class. Doug, who lived one town over, bought a sportscar our senior year and he let me drive it once, teaching me how to use the stick shift. Then we lay in the grass of my front yard and talked as the stars came out. I haven't fenced in years, but recently I've impresssed my six-year-old grandson, Andrew, with my swordplay.

In college I fell in love with archery. We traveled in a white van to nearby schools to compete in intermurals. My coach had a habit of saying, “Good girl!” whenever one of us did something well. As a child of the early seventies and a subscriber to Ms Magazine, I knew that I should resist being called a girl at age nineteen, but I soaked it up. I felt her love and great caring. She wanted all the best for me.

In the late eighties, I bought a Kathy Smith aerobics video, washed out two empty one-gallon cooking-oil bottles, and filled them with water to use as hand weights. Then I filled two old sox with rolls of pennies for ankle weights. I got pretty good at the routine, then did it off and on, and now haven't done it for a long time.

Now in my sixties, I’ve noticed my arms are thinner and weaker and I need to huff and puff when climbing outdoor stairs. I used to cart 50-lb. bags of flour, sugar, and oats into the house; now 25 lbs. are a challenge. I would occasionally try to start an exercise habit, but between boredom and busyness, it never stuck.

Two months ago I decided to try it again. I went online to find a routine and some instruction on how to do exercises correctly. I discovered a website that seemed custom-made for me. Nerd Fitness Academy (this isn’t a commercial, just a report of my experience) offered just what I was looking for: a graded progression of exercises complete with instructional videos. And there's fun: the academy is structured like a video game. I chose a character and wrote a story about myself. I get XPs for my accomplishments: calendaring my first week of workouts, getting a ‘dream team’ to report my progress to. When I want to level up to a fresh, harder workout, I do a boss battle to defeat the latest enemy: General DOMS (delayed-onset muscular soreness) was the first.

I’ve only missed a handful of my thrice weekly workouts: I’m taking it seriously. I email my 'dream team' with my progress. And I’ve begun to see results. I can do more knee push-ups (what we used to call girl push-ups) and balance longer on one leg.

Steve Kamb, creator of Nerd Fitness, counseled me to expunge “I don’t have time” and replace it with “It’s not a priority.” Priorities aren’t what we say, but what we do.

I read this idea three weeks ago and it is slowly changing me. I look more deeply into how I’m spending my time. Emergencies arise, but with my new thought: is this a priority? I can move forward with my life. I missed a workout while travelling. Chatting with friends and relatives who live far away became my priority over the workout. But there are choices I make every day that bear scrutiny if I'm serious about my stated priorities.

My Melting Heart

We last saw Eliza at Christmas time, when she was 13 months old. At 21 months old, she is bubbly, bouncy, and verbal. When she first saw me last week and said, “Hi, Oma!” in a high and clear soprano voice, my heart melted.

We had our annual Summer Retreat: a week dedicated to our immediate family. Eliza won my heart; Andrew, age 6, and Victoria, just turned 4, already had. Several months ago, an older friend of mine said, "Grandchildren just melt your heart." I agreed that grandchildren are wonderful (“If I’d known grandkids were so much fun, I would have started with them” quips a tee shirt), but this week I experienced what she was expressing on a deep level. It’s an astonishing thing, to be accepted fully and without reservation by a tiny human being.

I love Victoria and Andrew; our relationships are more complex, in good ways. We can tell jokes and tease and talk about how things work. Andrew is teaching me how to play Pokemon, a game I ignored when his uncle was young and enthusiastic about it. Victoria and I play with kinetic sand and read stories.

Eliza is endearing as only a one-year-old can be. The freshness, the little personality in a pint-sized body: every encounter is magical.

When Victoria was this age, I visited them in New York. She returned from an afternoon doctor’s appointment and came into the living room; she saw me and ran to me, arms outstretched. The love of a child is deeply healing. The love of three is beyond measure.

Hearing aid (singular)

A dozen days ago I took a leap and bought a hearing aid at Costco. Yes, singular. Since high school, my left ear hasn’t heard as well as my right. It has gradually gotten worse. Three years ago I had mild loss; now it is moderate. When I told my daughter, R’el, that I was getting just one, she said, “Classic under-buyer”, the terminology Gretchen Rubin uses in describing personal styles and preferences. Yup, that’s me. (Though I just looked at her Over-buyer/Under-buyer Quiz and she doesn't describe me at all: I have a basement full of storage items: soap, shaving cream, food: things I use; no late-night trips to the store for me. I do consciously put off purchases and cut corners, like buying just one hearing aid.

After the fitting, as I walked through Costco, the aisles seemed noisier and more crowded, though they weren't. As my brain adjusts to the new input, I notice it less and less.

In Portsmouth, NH, after we passed a couple on the sidewalk, I could still hear their voices deep in my ear. I felt like a spy with a covert listening device. Last week in the temple, I could hear a whispered conversation behind me. I turned around, expecting they were just behind my chair, but they were across the large room. It felt like eavesdropping.

Buying a hearing aid is a rite of passage. I’m definitely in my  60s now. I’ve worn trifocals for about 12 years and didn’t feel any reluctance to start, in fact, I asked for them: being able to read anything instantly, without searching for my ‘cheaters’ and getting them on my nose, is more important than looking young. 

Trifocals don’t make me feel old; a hearing aid does. Maybe that’s part of the reason I only got one: makes me half as old, right? I discovered that my hairstyle makes the aid is nearly invisible (though I’m blowing my cover now, aren’t I?). Completely accidental, but I’m quite pleased. I will probably ask my hairdresser to keep the style.

When a nurse sticks an otoscope in my ear, I have to concentrate on relaxation breathing. I've heard some people enjoy the sensation (do you?), but for me it’s barely tolerable. The worst part of getting fitted was that the audiologist had to put thin probe tube in my ear to verify the effectiveness of the aid. I made it worse by cringing: she had to adjust it three times.

So much of interpersonal communication is by voice: I have felt isolation as I've lost my hearing. I’m grateful for the improvement.