Brokenness

I've been contemplating the idea that we are all broken and that somehow, someday maybe we become whole.  Or maybe we never do.  This is certainly not a new idea.  It definitely fits in with my neo-Catholic world view. 

Maybe the first step in coming to accept that we are broken is to see that we are.  Some people limp along their whole lives thinking that they are OK and that this is as good as it gets.  There is no doubt that with my addiction I had to first see that I was addicted.  The same was true with mental illness.  For a lot of years I just didn't see the elephant in the living room.  I couldn't see that I was ill...seriously ill.  Then for a while longer I thought maybe I had a bad case of Seasonal Affective Disorder.  That seemed somehow better than coming to accept that I actually had bipolar disorder, which is really a nice way of saying MANIC DEPRESSION.  Even after I was diagnosed with bipolar, I really didn't accept what that meant.  Among other things it would mean that I would have to change my entire life around.  It meant that recovering from addiction and mental illness would become the two most important things in my life.

So how do we become whole?  First, we realize that we are broken.  Then, through a series of seemingly unrelated actions, we begin to heal.  It started with not taking that first drink or that first drug.  Then I started hanging out with some scruffy drug addicts in church basements who said they had an answer.  Then I started examining my life.  Then I came to believe that I had something I could offer others.  I could help others stay clean.  Somehow, this led me back to a connection to a God of my understanding.  Whether I prayed in church or on the trout stream I began to feel some kind of connection to something greater than myself.

The same is true of my journey through mental illness.  First I came to accept that I was A MANIC DEPRESSIVE.  When I accepted that, I was able to turn outward for help.  First to a doctor.  Then to medication.  Then to lifestyle changes.  Then to a God.  And somehow I came to believe that I could be of service to others again.  I could carry a message of hope, not just about recovery from addiction, but also about recovery from mental illness. 

Somehow  this combination of returning to a life of faith and hope, coupled with the sense that I can be of service, is leading me on a path towards wholeness. 

New Goals

In the past, I've always had pretty grand goals in life.  Hiking and fly-fishing above the arctic circle, owning a farm, being a fantastic teacher, and many more.  As grandiose as these may seem I've, over time, accomplished them and many more like them.

Therefore, I was taken aback when I recently went to examine what my life goals were at present and couldn't think of any.  How could it be that I had come to have no goals in life?  It all seemed really, really depressing.  I had goals like, find my lost pocket knife, have my stomach feel better, make it through the day as at least a mediocre husband and father.

I brought this dilemma to the attention of some friends and my wife and they kind of got me back on the right track.  It's not that I no longer had goals, it's that the nature of my goals had changed.  I was no longer fixated on the sort of goals I used to have which mostly revolved around satisfying myself, I had a different sort of goal now.

Goals like, staying clean for the long haul, being a fantastic husband, being a fantastic parent, raising these kids up right.  I guess I'd still like to sea kayak in Greece, but that somehow seems less important than it once did. 

I did a brainstorming in my journal last night about it.  I still have lots of big important goals, and many fun and exciting ones too.  I just think my goals must be maturing...finally.

Go gently...

I don't know how ready I am to write about this.

I've had a big Saanan wether for about five years now.  He's been a great goat.  He never had any economic value.  He's always just been kind of a pet.  A companion.  When I was having a rough day, or if I just needed to take some time to get grounded I would go out to the goat pasture and sit with him.  He had all kinds of funny expressions.  He would nuzzle up against my shoulders and try to eat the buttons off my favorite shirts.  We named him Caspian after Prince Caspian in the Narnia series.

 

Problem was, Caspian always had a genetic issue with his knees and legs.  It would come and go, and we would always wonder whether this was the time we should finally put him down.  He didn't seem to be in a great deal of pain, but it was hard to see a 200 pound goat crawling around on his knees.

 

When we decided to put him down, I sobbed.  It took a couple of more days to find the time to take care of it and I was overcome by emotion several more times.  I was a little frustrated with myself.  This is a farm after all.  Farm animals come and go.  It's probably best not to get too emotionally attached to them.  He's just a smelly, crippled, old goat after all.  How hard should this be?  But somehow this was different than sending a beef cow to the butcher.  He was my buddy.

 

And so the time came.  A few rough caresses.  A little treat in the grain bucket.  A quick goodbye.  And a .32 caliber bullet to the head.

 

Goodbye Caspian my old friend.  Go gently into that good night.

SSRI Discontinuation Syndrome

That's a fancy term for, "I got off of Paxil and survived."  Holy cats that was rough.  I've had some wicked alcohol and benzo withdrawals, but getting off of Paxil was by far the worst I've ever experienced.

Paxil, like Prozac, is a selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitor. (SSRI)   It is used commonly to treat depression and anxiety.  In my case, social anxiety.  After discussing the possibility that the Paxil was triggering manic episodes, my doctor and I agreed to try to taper off the drug.  Wow.

Nausea, vomiting, dramatic weight loss, loss of appetite, severe dizziness, fainting, mild hallucinations, and my favorite, waves of electric shock travelling down my extremities.

Not only that, it lasted for almost a month.  I lost 15 pounds.  I slept mostly on the couch because I didn't want to keep my wife and baby up all night.

Not only that, the dehydration caused by the nausea and vomiting spiked my recently increased Lithium levels and I had borderline Lithium toxicity.

Anyway, 6 weeks later I am starting to feel better.  I wouldn't say I'm feeling "normal" because I don't even know what normal feels like anymore.  I've been on Paxil for almost 15 years and being off of it is extremely emotionally intense. 

The new normal is that my emotions are right at the surface.  All of them.  I'm happy, elated, excited, angry, irritable, sad, confused, all right at the surface.  I start crying fifteen times a day.  I feel ready to snarl and snap at the kids at the least provocation.  But there is a flip side.  It is so refreshing to feel so in touch with my emotions again.  It feels like I've been comfortably numb for fifteen years.  It feels like waking up from a light sleep.

I have a standing order from my psychiatrist to try a newer generation SSRI.  She's not pushing the issue, but it is clear that she would recommend it.  For today, at least, I'm not ready to start a new drug.  I don't seem to be having any clear cut signs of depression.  I'm on plenty of other medications that have anti-depressant qualities.  I have moments that look a little like depression, but they seem to pass fairly quickly.  I'm taking a wait and see attitude and watching to see what the NEW NORMAL looks like.

Men's Gathering

I went to a Narcotics Anonymous men's retreat last weekend.  It was amazing.  The weekend consisted of a beautiful location, lots of great food, and a fireside speaker meeting.  There weren't dozens of workshops and meetings to go to.  Just a chance to spend time with other men who are on a spiritual path.  I had the opportunity to play guitar with a friend.  Had the opportunity to stay up until three talking with another man. 

So what's the take away?  Spending a weekend in the woods with a bunch of guys, many of whom were tough ex-cons, all of whom were ex-drug addicts.  The value of the experience lay in taking time to learn to love and accept love from other men.  Something our society doesn't value and certainly present many opportunities to practice.

I had a great weekend.  I came home refreshed and excited to resume my life as a family man and a small farmer.

Teaching

An unexpected rush of feelings has sent me into a tailspin for the last couple of days.  The first bout of depression I've had all summer. 

I put on a suit and tie and went looking for some tutoring work at the local school districts.  I thought I might just introduce myself to the special education teachers and drop off my business card.  Somehow I ended up meeting the superintendent who practically begged me to get on the substitute teacher list and get my name known around the district.  Maybe it was the suit and tie.  Maybe it was being asked.  Maybe it was the feeling having my services being needed in a district again.

I was a good teacher.  A lot of the time I was a great teacher.  For many years I felt as if teaching was my "calling".  Problem was, near the end I just couldn't show up. Sometimes it was just short term bipolar symptoms that knocked me out for a day or two.  Sometimes it was a more significant episode that took me out of a week or month long medical leave of absence.  I couldn't keep doing that.  It wasn't fair to the students, the district, or myself.

It took me a few hours, but eventually I realized that I just couldn't get back in the game.  I thought I had accepted my bipolar disorder and most of the time I have.  I thought I had accepted my disability diagnosis.  Maybe it was that we could really use the money right now.  Maybe it was the ever present societal pressure for men to work and provide.  Whatever it was it knocked me out of commission.

I just couldn't accept that I wasn't going back to teaching.  I'm out of that game.  I thought I'd been through all of that years ago. 

A couple of things snapped me back into focus.  My wife and I spoke about what I am really "called" to today.  It's not playing superhero as a public school special education teacher.  It's not bringing down the salary.  I think, or rather she thought, that it was something else.  It's raising these kids.  It's taking care of these animals on the farm.  It's volunteering.  And maybe it's carrying the message of Narcotics Anonymous to the still suffering addict and alcoholic.

And as for the finances, well, it was pointed out my a fellow NA member that I really have what's called "luxury problems."  My car may be a piece of crap, but hey at least I have a car.  It's paid for.  It runs.  I have a driver's license today.  And I even have a full tank of gas.  Yes, I have a lot to be grateful for.  I am truly blessed.

Meaningful Work

My family and I went to a fundraiser for a local school that serves children with psychiatric diagnoses.  The benefit was fun and the food was great.  Watching the presentation about the school, however, made me feel nostalgic about teaching special education.  As I've mentioned before, I no longer teach.  I am currently on Social Security Disability.  My teaching licenses are still valid though and sometimes I miss teaching.  Being that special teacher that can reach tough to teach kids.  My specialty, over the years, was working with the toughest of the tough.  Severe emotionally and behaviorally challenged youth.  I've worked in juvenile corrections, locked psych wards, and treatment centers for adjudicated teens.  Anyway, part of me misses it.

One of the facets of working with teens that was so rewarding is that it was always clear that I was doing Meaningful Work.  What I did mattered.  What I did made a difference.

Since I've left teaching, I haven't had the same sense that what I am doing is somehow of service to my society and to my community.  I still need that connection to meaningful work though.  I've had to re-think what it means to be meaningfully engaged in the lives of those around me.

On one level there is my family and my farm.  I am a husband and a father.  I am raising four boys, homeschooling them, and mentoring them.  That is certainly meaningful work.  I also care for my animals.  That involves meaningful work.  Feeding, milking, and caring for the animals.  As part of the "feeding" of the animals we moved 16+ tons of hay this summer.  That was most certainly a lot of work.  It's been three weeks since we finished and my arms still hurt.

But how can I make that connection to being meaningfully engaged in my community if I am no longer playing super-hero as a special education teacher?  The answer to that, for me, lies in something I mentioned in last nights blog post.  I carry a message of recovery from active addiction and from bipolar disorder into the wider community.  A message of hope and a promise of freedom.  Lord knows I'm no super-hero at that either, but it is through the service of carrying the message that I am able to be of service to my community.  Today that is my meaningful work.  Whether I am volunteering to share on an informational panel at a local treatment center, participating in a local Narcotics Anonymous meeting, answering the phone when someone calls for help, or writing this blog, I am engaged in meaningful work in my community.

Tonight's presentation on the therapeutic day school made me nostalgic about teaching, but I don't think I'm going to jump into contracted teaching again just yet.  I think I might seek out a volunteer opportunity though.  Maybe I could be a volunteer tutor in a local literacy program.  I could probably manage a couple hours a week doing that.