Gratitude, part one

If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.
~ Meister Eckhart

If I am going to crawl out of this funk I'm going to need to be proactive.  I must stop focusing on my anger and the things that I dislike in my life and start appreciating the things that I am grateful for.

Thank you to my friends and family for supporting and loving me when I am hard to love.

Thank you to the multiverse for recognizing that I need a break that I would not take for myself.

Thank you to my guides and Gods for being so close.

Thank you Fortuna and Abundance for bringing me everything I need when I need it.

Thank you anger for unfolding within me and teaching me how to heal myself and others.

Thank you self for staying alive and for learning how to be.

Starfire

It's the middle of the night and I'm feeling wrathy.

Angry.  Betrayed. Rejected.

Depressed.

My Design Toscano replica of The Burney Relief looms large over my workspace.

She attempts to remind me of who and what I am.

Let's begin with a rebirth of this blog.

More is coming soon.

Black Dog

If you are going through hell, keep going.
~Winston Churchill

Churchill knew about Bipolar Disorder firsthand.  He was stalked by this own black dog; just as is my father, just as I am.

The dog hungers for anxiety. It lives on fear and self-deprecation. It has a nose for the tragic.

Medications can chain the dog. They make him invisible. They make me wonder if there ever was a black dog in the shadows of my mind, in the darkness at my door.

But the dog is real, and when that barghest fixes you with his baleful stare the color drains out of your world and you remember all of the pain that can be laid at your doorstep.  You are accountable, and the dog is judge, jury, and executioner.

Carry your guilt and the dog will grow teeth to gnash at your soul. If you have worries, fears, the dog will sneak in on padded feet and poison your thoughts.

You must fight the dog.

You cannot take it out back and shoot it. No. That rage only feeds the beast. You cannot abandon it at a shelter, no matter how many times you might check yourself in, or attempt to check out.

The dog will find you where you live. It will roam around you, just out of sight, yet you will sense the terrible weight of its great shaggy bulk slowly smothering you.

You will hear it howling in the darkness. Sometimes you might spot its heavy paw prints in the dirty places of your mind. Do not follow its tracks. The dog is crafty and will try to lead you off of the path of recovery.

Kill the dog with sunlight, with joyful songs, and silly films, and warm hugs from loved ones. Kill the dog with kindness. Forgive yourself. Be gentle with yourself. The dog will slowly starve.

Let go. Forgive. Reject guilt.

Kill the dog.


You can read more about Churchill's own Black Dog, here.

Into the Underworld

To paraphrase Proust, I am going on "a journey that no one can take for [me] or spare [me]."

This has been a long time coming. 

I've been fairly open on this blog about my bipolar disorder in the past.  I currently have major depression, to the point where it is difficult to even spell the words to form this post.

Tomorrow morning I will be checking myself into a clinic in order to get my medications in order, and to try to get myself back into some semblance of normalcy.

I am scared and sad that it has come to this, but I have to find a way to get better. Now.

The day Carrie Fisher saved my life

As I've stated here before, I am Bipolar I & I have Season Affective Disorder. This time of year is always a challenge for me, as I tend to veer a little to the manic in early spring. "March Madness" is an accurate moniker. "Mad as a March hare" also applies here. So, it always a crap-shoot as to just how my mania will manifest each spring. Good times.

Anyway, I wasn't aware of this fact for what feels like a very long time indeed. I was married at the time, and was working in a job environment that was toxic to my spirit. I didn't know why I was so sad most of the time, especially since I had everything I "wanted" at the time.

One day I signed up to go along with another women in my office to a Working Women's fair at a local hotel. I neither knew nor cared what the fair involved, I was just glad to get out of the office for that day. Carrie Fisher was the keynote speaker.

Who doesn't love Carrie Fisher? Apparently, no chica my age, because the poor woman was mobbed by adoring throngs of young women praising her as a role-model for women's empowerment in the Star Wars trilogy. You could tell by her expression that she thought they were all insane. I liked her right away.

Being a literary sort I had read several of Ms. Fisher's books, starting with Postcards From the Edge. I had devoured her work, identifying with many of her zany characters. When it came my turn to have a little face time with her I mentioned how much I loved her writing. She cocked an eyebrow at me, "You look a little young to have read my books." (I was 22) "Oh, no, Ms. Fisher! I've read almost all of them, and I think they're great!" And that was that. Into the hotel meeting hall I went with my co-worker, eager to hear Carrie Fisher's witty monologue.

When Carrie stepped up to the podium I didn't know what I was expecting to hear about. Maybe some comedy (she's a very witty lady) or some dish about her notorious family tree. There were plenty of both of those things, sure. But what was amazing about her talk that day was how she opened up to the audience, with warmth, humor, and a few tears, about living with Bipolar disorder.

Midway through her talk I was nearly in tears. My coworker asked what was wrong with me. I answered her, "I think I have Bipolar disorder." It was like Ms. Fisher had held a mirror up to my face with her speech. I recognized the painful lows, and the maddening yet scintillating highs, the monomania, the excesses, the loss of control.

The next day I scheduled an appointment with my doctor to talk about my suspicions. Soon after that I was hospitalized (in March, natch) for Bipolar disorder. I was diagnosed Bipolar I, with Season Affective Disorder. I began a long string of chemical therapy to treat my symptoms. It took years, but my doctors finally found the right chemical cocktail to keep me at an even keel.

Carrie Fisher turned much of the monologue she shared with us at that conference into an autobiography titled Wishful Drinking. She has no idea how much of a difference her words made to me. I am horribly certain that, had I not received treatment for my disorder, I would not be here today.

I was thinking about her a lot this week because of the death of her step-mother, Elizabeth Taylor. She tweeted: "If my father had to divorce my mother for anyone- I’m so grateful that it was Elizabeth."

So, thanks Carrie Fisher. You're one of my heroes, and not because you played Princess Leia.

Moody June

June has been a rewarding but exhausting month. I've been ill twice, and now that I am well I find myself combating a bout of depression. Meh.

For the fifth year in a row I've helped put on the Babalon Rising Festival, and, as always, I come away from it not know what to say about it. The event is excellent, even if I am blowing by own trumpet, and it gets bigger and more powerful every year. Babalon Rising is a festival primarily for Thelemites, although we have a large NeoPagan and New Orleans Voodoo component. The festival itself is designed to be a continuous four-day ritual, with its climax on Saturday night during an event we've named The Feast of the Beast. We've been working the festival annually as a trip up the Tree of Life, which made this our Tiphereth year. Accordingly, the sun came out in full force, and I spent much of the event with heat exhaustion. Good things prevailed, however. I assisted in facilitating a Qadishti sacred touch event, and served as one of the multiple women who invoked Babalon during the climatic ritual. I helped run, and eventually took over, our annual Kabbalah Bar event, which involves providing sepherotic themed body shots off of a living Tree of Life. The gifted and delightful Louis Martine led a wonderful ritual to help clear the Gulf of oil. I don't think I've ever heard a better drum circle than we had Saturday night.

I love Babalon Rising, but it is like my child who has grown and moved on to things I never knew it could be. I consider myself lucky to be its parent, and ready to support it in whatever way it needs me each year. But it does not nurture me. The magic it represents is in a place that I like to visit sometimes, but I do not live there anymore. I've become more solitary, and maybe even a little jaded in my own approach to magic. I'll always be a witch at heart, but I'm in a place right now where serving the Gods interests me far more than rituals, potions, and pretty magic. My sense of wonder rests firmly with the Gods these days, and less and less with my own Will or ego. This has less to do with personal growth, I think, than with sheer exhaustion. I am no longer the Mage in her circle commanding the universe to bend. I am trying harder to bend with the universe.

I helped Laurelei with an Aphrodisia ritual during the festival, and it was lovely. I find much that is beautiful and comforting to my spirit in Greek ritual and myth. I was the hydrophoros for the pompe, carrying my beloved Goddess amphora. Laurelei established a stunning shrine to Aphrodite on the Our Haven grounds and we held the ritual there.

The Arrephoria happened in June. It is one of Athena's most important festivals, and is usually a big deal in our household as it combines mysteries of both Athena and Aphrodite. Alas, I was very ill during the Arrephoria, and did little more than burn some incense in tribute this year. Athena understands my lack of observance, of course, but I've been internally berating myself over it all month. The whole truth is that I've been internally berating myself about everything this month. I've entered a depression, which is a classic and expected component of my being Bipolar I. My medicines do an excellent job of keeping me in a sane and acceptable middle range of mood and productivity, but even they cannot keep me from dipping a little low or flying a little too high ever now and again.

Depression for me is a lack of creative flow, a general sense of impending dread, and an urge to sleep around eighteen hours a day. You can see why I haven't blogged much this month. I haven't touched my manuscript either, nor my paints, nor yarn. Athena is understanding. Look at the famous relief "Athena Mourning" and you can see that sometimes her heart hangs heavy as well.