Facing our Fears

 Fear is a funny thing.  Seldom are we afraid of that which threatens us the most.  Often we fear that which really is no threat at all.

I preached last Sunday about the Texas shooting.  Specifically, I see these too frequent instances of mass shootings as being just a tip of the iceberg.  Polarization, and the tendency to see others as an enemy, anger, and fear permeate our culture.  Certain individuals act on it, and the result is tragic.

Before I could even speak about it I was approached before worship about whether the doors should be locked during the service.  Security concerns.  When security trumps welcome the church has a problem.

Fear.  Fear of the outsider.  We cannot give into fear.

The truth:  The single greatest risk to one attending our church or any church is probably the drive in.  Much more likely to die in a motor vehicle accident than from anything else about church attendance.  This risk probably goes up astronomically when we attend Christmas Eve services, what with the tendency for people to drink and drive on holidays.

A second truth:  We fear the unknown, the stranger, when the threat is more often from those closest to us.  My understanding is that most of the time, gun violence occurs with people one knows, not total strangers.

And a third truth:  Domestic violence can touch the church.  The only situation where I can imagine posting a sentry at the church door is when there is a restraining order in place that affects our members.  When the church or its pastors support those seeking to escape domestic violence we may well become a target of that violence.

One of the things I've learned throughout this process of dealing with being bipolar is that emotions are not to be trusted any more than moods.  And fear is often the least trustworthy.  Perhaps our whole world needs a healthy dose of lithium or lamictal.

Life is going to happen.

We will not be able to anticipate most of the greatest challenges we will face in life.  The best we can hope for is the ability to deal with them when they present themselves.  I cannot begin to tell you how often I have imagined absolutely devastating consequences as a result of my being bipolar, only to discover they never materialized.  For example, I've gone bankrupt in my imagination many times since diagnosis.  Never happened.  Never missed  a payment.  Always had food on the table.

The lesson I've learned is that we need to go on with our lives.  Responsibly.  Do what we can do.  Take each day as a gift.  And not let fear deprive us of life.  Think about that.

The greatest harm that could come from the Texas shootings may not be the immediate victims of that shooting, but the repercussions throughout our culture.  I'm not minimizing the loss of life that occurred, or the incredible tragedy of that loss.  But if fear grips the rest of us we will have all become victims.  All of us. And that would be tragic.

Who's crazy?

Time and time again when our country faces the aftermath of another mass murder you hear choruses of people blaming mental illness for the shooting.  "We don't have a gun control issue, we have a mental illness issue."  OK, well either way, we have an issue.

I've heard it said by military folk that "if you believe military weapons are available to the general public, you don't have a clue what the military has for weapons."  That said, some very impressive stuff is available to the general public.  Consider for example this Barrett Barr M107A1 .50 BMG Centerfire Rifle.

I picked this out because its the most expensive semi automatic rifle Cabelas sells.  A fifty caliber bullet.  Easily a quarter mile range, probably a whole lot more.  A price tag of $12,000.  I have the feeling that one would want to make sure one's tree stand is solid before letting off a few rounds.  There are probably some people crazy enough to take this on a deer hunt.  But it's not really a hunting rifle.  Let's be honest about that.

Now, personally, I think anyone who buys such a rifle for hunting IS crazy.  But such weapons are not of the type responsible, and normal, hunters buy.

But if you want to sit back and take pot shots at a crowd of people from a thousand yards this is your gun.  The question is who would want to do that.

Well, apparently a certain number of people would.  If we define a person who is angry enough to kill as mentally ill, then I suppose we can say that we have a mental  illness problem.  But to blame that portion of the population that has a mental illness diagnosis for the mass murders that are taking place is misguided.  The vast majority of those with mental illness are not a threat to anyone except, in some instances, themselves.  

We have a mental illness problem.  Yes, we do.  People don't understand mental illness.  One issue is that people don't recognize the difference between a rage, and mental  illness.  When people fail to deal with their anger issues in a healthy manner they can spiral out of control into a rage, a violent, uncontrollable anger. Yet that is different than being bipolar, or depressed, or schizophrenic.  

The real issue we have regarding mental illness is the availability of mental health care and affordability of the same.  It can take months to set up an appointment with a psychiatrist, and a single visit can cost upwards of $500.  That's a challenge, especially if one does not have insurance that covers mental illness.

Should the mentally ill be allowed to purchase guns?  I can speak for myself.  I got rid of my guns under the counsel of my doctors.  "It has been clinically proven that one is more likely to die of a self inflicted gunshot wound if one actually has a gun."  It's just not a good combination to be depressed and own guns.  But I was never a threat to anyone else.

What I think is insane is allowing weapons such as the .50 caliber piece above to be so readily available.  Who needs such weapons?

Hunters do not.  Even those who want to have firearms for self defense do not.  I cannot imagine anyone being able to identify a 'threat' at a thousand yards and legitimately kill them in self defense.  And one hardly needs a fifty caliber rifle to defend one's self against an intruder in your home.  

If you're a drug lord in Juarez you may have need for one.  I wonder how much they spend at Cabelas?

There is a reason these are called assault rifles.  And not 'defense' rifles.  Or 'hunting' rifles.  Or even 'target' rifles.  It's because the only legitimate purpose for them is killing at a long range.  With overwhelming force.

Are the mentally ill buying such guns?  Well, there is an easy solution if that's the problem.  Require someone to submit to an mental health evaluation before allowing them to purchase such a weapon.  It won't work though, because we don't have enough psychiatrists and because the people buying these weapons are not mentally ill.  My guess is that aside from drug cartels, most of the people  buying assault weapons are merely gun enthusiasts.  They think its cool being able to blow up a watermelon at a thousand  yards.  

These same people, could they afford it, and were they available, might like to collect Abrams M1A2 tanks.

But back to the issue.  Who is really insane?  A bipolar person who is struggling to maintain a balance in their moods?  Or an entire culture that insists on making available weapons that have only one legitimate purpose, and that is killing at an incredible distance? 

Crazy world we live in.  You can buy some pretty incredible weapons online.  It's like making LSD available as an over the counter drug.  And people think I'm the crazy one.

Sacred Time. Sacred Space.

Sacred time.  Sacred Space.

Jacob declared of Bethel, where God renewed the promise he had made to Abraham:

"How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven."

Perhaps we don’t appreciate the sacred as much as we should.  Everything and everyplace is so ordinary to us. 

One of my favorite stories is about representatives of the Native American community that were constantly showing up at hearings and objecting to opening up more forest land with logging roads.

“This land is sacred to my people”, they would declare at each and every hearing.

“Is there any place that is not sacred to you and your people?” one logging company executive finally replied in exasperation.

“Now, Sir, you are finally beginning to understand my people”, was the response.

I’m thinking about the sacred these days. 

We have our sanctuaries.  And in time they become sacred to us.  The stairs at the entry are visibly worn from the flow of people in and out for generations.

When we traveled to Russia we were able to visit the Cathedral of St. Sophia in Novgorod which has been a place of worship throughout its 1,000 year history.  It is so ancient there are archeological digs within the sanctuary, revealing the original floor.

As is typical, the icons painted on the walls follow a progression from the earth below to the heavens above.  One cannot stand in such a place without having one’s head bend backward as your eyes are drawn up to the heavenly scenes above.

I think also of the little Egland Lutheran Church out on the prairie of NE South Dakota, near the farm of our family.

There, surrounding the church is the cemetery.  There we laid to rest one family member after another.

Grandma Louise played organ in that church for decades.  How many times “Holy, Holy, Holy” welcomed people to worship one can never know, but it’s as though the walls themselves could sing the song.

“This is the gate of heaven.”

My desk now sits in our living room, having been moved from its former place as we remodeled my office to make a bedroom for Dad.

And this morning, as I write, both Mom and Dad’s ashes are in the urn on my desk, waiting to be transported back to Kalispell, and then to the cemetery in Polson. 

I am anticipating moving my desk back to where it used to be, and reclaiming that room as my office.

And yet it has changed.

It has become a sacred space, for there, right where my desk will stand, my Father died. 

“This is the gate of heaven.”

There Dad came face to face with his Savior, and was drawn from this earth into the heavens above. 

And the Divine light will always cast a shadow on the walls.

Sacred Time.  Sacred Space.

The question was raised about whether we should scatter some of Mom and Dad’s ashes at their lake place in Elmo, MT.   I objected.

My concern is that the future of the lake place is still up in the air, and should we have to sell it, it will be much easier if it is not the place where our parent’s ashes are scattered.

Scattering the ashes creates a sacred space.

The irony is that my own home has become such a sacred space.

I anticipate the move back into that space in our home.

There I will study the word.  Sermons will be written.  And through the Word, Jesus’ face will be revealed.

There in that space that Dad saw Jesus face to face, I too will encounter my Savior.

There Angels will ascend and descend on the stairway to heaven, messengers speaking the Divine Word into our ordinary world.

That place where I have often wrestled with God through times of depression and despair will now be a sanctuary. 

No, I don’t plan on erecting an altar there.  There are other places for that.

But I will remember.

I will remember that for one brief but shining moment, it was there that my Father saw the face of God.

I find myself wondering about the future.

Will one day a bed be made there again, only this time for me as I take my final breaths on this earth?

Only time will tell.

For now the Sacred will be found in the ordinary.

A few feet away from that holy space where Dad died, is our dining table.

There we break bread together.

There we gather with family and friends.

There we teach our grandson to pray.

And there amid all that ordinary stuff, we encounter the hidden God.

And the angels sing “Holy, Holy, Holy!”

Good Grief

Dad died.  Unexpectedly.  Well, he was 94 years old and can one ever die unexpectedly at 94.  Probably not.  It's just that up until the last day he was doing fine for a man his age.  He was able to go for his walks.  His mind was as sharp as could be.

Dad came to live with us for the last month.  We'd hoped it might have been more.  He had shared that following Mom's death he was becoming increasingly lonely.  That's the problem of growing older.  One by one the companions of your life die, and you are left either seeking other companionship, or resolving to make the best of it alone.  I determined that the last thing I'd want would be is a lonely old man when I died, and so I invited Dad to make his home with us, surrounded by family.

I think the last few months were the best one could hope for.  This summer he had spent most of time at the lake place, having the opportunity to see all of  his children there.  And then he was with us.  In the end, all was well with Dad.  Is all well with me?

I find myself wondering how my grief will play out when coupled with being bipolar.

I am deeply grateful for the last evening with Dad.  Thanks in part to his hearing aids being cleaned up and checked out, he was able to converse normally.  The opportunity was not lost.  Prior to my going to bed he came out and asked if we could talk.  What is your favorite Bible verse?  As the conversation progressed Dad did something unusual.  He made the effort to get up out of his chair and come over and sit next to me on the couch.  There was a closeness we had not experienced together, perhaps ever.  We were at one and the same time father and son, and colleagues in ministry.  "I hope we can have many more conversations like this, Dave."  "Me too, Dad."

I only wish I'd said "I love you" or gave him a hug then.  I didn't.

And so the next morning the grieving began.  I was able to sit with him following his death.  Now, too late, the "I love you" was spoken.  A kiss goodbye.

And I wrote the sermon for his  funeral, based on the conversation we had shared.  Next came the fulfilling of a promise I made to him, which was to make an urn for him and mom.  Mom's urn was too small to contain both their ashes, too large to allow room for a second urn in the niche, so the urn I turned above is large enough for both of them.  As I began the process of building it, tears flowed.

I'd spent the summer remodeling the house in preparation for his moving in.  This was different.  So final.  And a goodbye.  And yet one more way to say "I love you, Dad."

One of the thoughts that came to me, with the death of the last of our parents, was that I might be next.  I am at the very least part of the 'oldest generation' in the family.  Other thoughts as well have been stirred.  Might this be the last time all of the siblings are together at one time?  Oh, we'll see each other individually, but will it be possible in the future to all be together?

Dad's hat and coat still hang in the hallway.  I want them there.  For a while at least.

There had been a distance between us that needn't have been there between a Father and Son.  One would think that my having followed him into the ministry would have changed that, but the distance remained.  Part of that distance was simply a symptom of being Norwegian Americans.  We're not known for being overly affectionate.

But if I'm totally honest, the distance between us goes way back to my childhood.  I was arrested for  shoplifting.  Dad came down hard on me and declared that I'd permanently damaged my character, that I'd always be a criminal from that time forth and forever more.  I turned elsewhere for affection ever since.

Part of the grief I experience now is concerning not his death, but the missed opportunity to have a better and richer relationship with him throughout his life.  It could have been better.  But sometimes the emotional scars of childhood are difficult to overcome.  Part of the challenge for me is that when I turned elsewhere for affection, the first person to offer it was a band director who subsequently sexually abused me.  I had so longed for affection that I was unable to recognize the abuse for what it was until over 20 years later.  It was not until my own children were the age I was when  I was abused, that my eyes were opened.  What if someone treated my children the way I'd been treated.  "I'd kill them!" was the thought that came to mind.  Well, at least press charges.

Part of the distance between my Dad and I was because the stern judgment Dad made of my character after being arrested for shoplifting set me up for the abuse that was to follow.  Father's are supposed to protect their children.  I think I've forgiven him.  But that's easier said than done.  There is something to be said for years of psychological therapy.

Now there is just grief.  Both for the Dad I lost, and the Dad I never had.  I wonder what affect Dad's losing his own mother during his childhood had on his emotional development.  Alice had contracted tuberculosis, spent time in a sanitarium, and then subsequently died when he was about 12, curiously enough, about the same time in his life as the abuse occurred in my life.  Two wounded souls.

And we both found ourselves called into the ministry to care for other wounded souls.

There's something fearful about grief when one is bipolar.  Will it trigger something far worse.  I've achieved functional stability, but grief can destabilize.  Will the medications I'm on prevent a relapse?  Will I be offered the opportunity to experience 'good grief'?  Or will circumstances rage out of control.  Thankfully, I've maintained therapeutic relationships.  There is some comfort in that.

In so many ways Dad lived a remarkable life.  Much of what I am is a reflection of the gifts he and Mom gave us throughout the years.  I've joked that I inherited my Mom's bad knees, and my Dad's bad heart (we've both had mitral valve surgery, a genetic condition).  But there is much good I've received, as well.  My resourcefulness and independence are gifts of my parents.  I'm a builder like my Dad.  And faith.  In the midst of all the hurt in life, I have faith.  Dad's gift.  And that is sufficient.

5 Years, 60 Months, 1,827 Days, 43,828 Hours, but who's counting?

It was not pretty, five years ago.

I had been treating my undiagnosed Bipolar Disorder with significant amounts of Scotch.  The last year I averaged 10 fluid ounces a day.  "Just a couple of drinks, mind you!"  A fifth of Scotch was not particular challenge to consume on those days that I didn't have to work, and when my wife wasn't around.  And, if I must say so myself, I was quite functional.

I used to joke that it took 2 Scotch doubles for me to feel sober.  I've since learned it was not a joke.  When one is advanced in alcoholism, one's system requires a sufficient level of alcohol to be present to feel normal.  Alcohol initially intoxicates people, and many enjoy the buzz.  As time goes on, it merely staves off the unpleasant experiences of alcohol withdrawal.  And numbs you.

For the most part I didn't drink Saturday nights, lest I smell of whiskey on Sunday mornings.  I developed the shakes Sunday mornings.  I couldn't pour the wine from the chalice for communion.  I didn't know what was happening.  Now I do.  My restraint on Saturday evenings was causing detox symptoms Sunday mornings.  Vanity is a strange thing.  I was so concerned about smelling of liquor that I didn't drink, and then detoxed in front of my congregation.  Uffda!

To a certain extent, alcohol gave me control of my moods.  I knew how I would feel after one, two, three drinks, four.  A calming of anxiety, a lightening of mood, a drift into melancholy, sometimes depression, at other times mania, but most often just sleep.  That was one of the main motivators.  Sleep.  "Passing out" is what my doctor insists on calling it.  I insisted that passing out was only when your face planted in the mashed potatoes.  I went to bed.  She would insist however, that there is a difference between sleep and an alcohol induced unconsciousness.  What does she know.  She's only a psychiatrist with a specialty in chemical dependence. .  .

There were warning signs.  A colleague, Gail, watched me down two hefty Scotch doubles during happy hour, order a third for dinner, and then as we walked from the bar to the dining room she commented, "Dave, if I didn't just watch you down those drinks, I'd have no clue you've been drinking.  What's that all about?"

I was a 'professional drinker'.  Amateurs are actually the ones who couldn't handle their drinking.  Given the choice, I'd rather ride in a car with an alcoholic with a .20 alcohol level, than with a amateur drinker with a .08.  Habituation has its advantages.

The problem is that the toxicity of alcohol remains even though the symptoms of  intoxication diminish with habituation.  I could drink a fifth of Scotch and never feel 'the buzz' that I craved.  The problem for an alcoholic is that the alcohol remains toxic, even when it is no longer intoxicating.  It'll kill you.  An often does.  It almost did me.  Though I'm quick to point out that five years ago, last night, it was not just the alcohol.  I violated one of my rules and took Ativan in addition to a fifth of Scotch.  Against Medical Advice.  To say the least. By the grace of God I survived the night.

I no longer crave the drink.  When I smell Scotch, what I experience is what I call a 'cravulsion'.  At one and the same time triggers the appetite AND produces the most repulsive reaction possible.  A simple solution is to simply avoid the smell.

One would think that sobriety would immediately impact the externals of one's life.  That sober one would prosper in ways not possible drunk.  Well, not yet, is my reply to that.  My recovery has been complicated by being Bipolar.  The first thing that happened is that a major manic episode was triggered.  That resulted in my resignation from my call in ministry, and investing $60,000 or so in woodworking equipment for my new business.  Bottom line, I'll not be able to retire as soon.

Every step of the way, just when we think that our financial situation has stabilized, another shoe drops.  I lost my disability, but found a job in woodworking.  Karla received a raise.  Then, a part time call in addition to Karla's job, and my woodworking job, was going to solve our problems.  Then Karla lost her job.  More recently, Dad moved in with us and the income we received from caring for him was going to stabilize our situation.  He died a few weeks later.  The loss of him is the only real significant issue.  But the reality is that it leaves us once again scrambling.

Sobriety is sometimes 'marketed' as a way to move from life in the gutter to life in the stars.  I am of the belief that such promises don't always materialize.  Sobriety, though is its own reward.  Oh, and yes, I'm still alive.

Five years later I mostly wonder what the next five hold for  me.  I'm deeply grateful for many things.  Like life, a family that I didn't lose, and that one way or another all bills are paid and current.

One of the struggles is that my measure of a return to normalcy is actually affected by my being Bipolar.  I was capable of things during my manic phases that still surprise even me.  That hyper functioning set the bar high.  Now, with my moods controlled by medications, I doubt (I hope?) I'll ever again experience those manic highs.  To an extent, that's depressing.  But due to the medication, not too depressing.  Its just that one must adjust to a new normal, that is neither lived at the summit or the deepest darkest valley.

Some friends will join our family to celebrate my fifth birthday of no 'fifths'.  It'll be a good time.  I'll be sober, as will they.  I do not have a drink in my plans for today.  One more day.  Number 1,828.  But who's counting.

Necessary Suffering

In "Falling Upward" Richard Rohr speaks about "necessary suffering" apart from which we may never move beyond the false selves that we have created throughout the first half of life to the true self and the spiritual maturity that awaits us in the second half of life.  I've thought a lot about this, and reflected on my own experience.  Rohr is, in my opinion, a true theologian of the cross to the extent that he recognizing that the suffering which threatens to destroy us, may in fact be that which redeems us.  But in the end, we'd still rather read a self help book than experience the depth of human experience, and the necessary suffering that is part of life.

I preached a sermon about this a couple years back, and in the congregation was a woman whose husband had died following a long bout with cancer.  The reaction was understandable.  If losing one's husband is part of the 'necessary suffering' required to move toward a more mature spirituality, she would much rather remain forever spiritually immature and have the companionship of her husband.  On the other hand, there is an existential tension in play here.  On the one hand the one thing we never want to suggest is that God imposes suffering on us to to make us better people.  On the other hand, at the end of one's life, looking back over all that we've experienced, it is often the 'necessary suffering' we've endured that has done more to shape who we are than anything else.  

There is part of me that would will that Bipolar were a disorder for which there was a test to diagnose it from the beginning.  Would that a simple mental health screening could identify any such disorder and allow for treatment from the start so that we avoid the suffering that too often is the defining characteristic of the disease.  And yet, another part of me recognizes that apart from the suffering that the disease causes, treatment would never be embraced, and in the end we would be destroyed.

One of my most pronounced manic episodes saw me pursue senior housing as a strategy for extending the mission of the church.  I had significant success, and also failure.  After it all was over, and I was experiencing the depression that naturally follows a manic episode, I turned to my bishop for counsel and advice.  One of the things I told him was that I'd be just fine if I could have one major project after another to throw myself into.  This was prior to diagnosis.  What I was basically asking for was the opportunity to live my life in a perpetual manic state.  If one could maintain that state, and channel it, there's no telling what might be accomplished.  Necessary suffering came into play, however,  in the form of a healthy dose of reality that tempered the unbridled optimism of a manic high.

There is a problem with trying to maintain a perpetual manic high.  It's not unlike a race car.  A normal car with typical use can go for 100,000 to 200,000 miles without major breakdowns.  Racing cars are different.  In our personal vehicles we typically operate them at about 2 to 3 thousand rpms.  This they can handle indefinitely.  Racing cars, by contrast, are pushed to the limit and the engines have an extremely short life expectancy.  If not replaced, they at least have to be rebuilt for each race.  Such is the toll of the extreme conditions under which they are operated.

The problem with attempting to sustain a manic state is that it is like running an engine at 6,000 rpm.  You can get by with it for a while, but not for long.

For me, depression was the necessary suffering that in the end freed me from being consumed by the effort to maintain mania.  Not only did it force an end to the manic pursuits, but it paved the way for treatment and yes, a healthy balance and new experience of my own spirituality.  To use Rohr's frame of reference, I had built my 'false self' around a manic perception of my identity and it was only the suffering of depression that was able to shatter this self image and open up the possibility of a healthier spirituality.  

As the title of the book suggests, Rohr calls this movement 'falling upward'.

But it doesn't happen without a fight.

I still find my self desiring to tap into the energy of a full blown manic episode to advance my sense of purpose and accomplish my goals.

Currently, I'm a bivocational person, working 36 hours a week as a cabinet maker, and 25 hours a week as a pastor.  This involves getting up at 3:30 am so that I can be to work at the cabinet shop in Hayden by 5:30 am, where I work until 12:30.  From there I travel to Otis Orchards to do the pastor thing.  The commuting adds about 2 1/2 to 3 hours to the work day.  In order to really pursue the mission developer work required by my parish, I need more time available in the evenings when people are available.  Where does one find the energy to really have at it?  The exhaustion I now experience would not be there were I in a manic episode.  

My current schedule leaves me thoroughly exhausted at the end of the week.  Saturdays involve marathon napping.  

Some would say I'm doing too much.  My perspective is that I've done far more.  Mania brings with it a capacity for engagement that is, well, shall I say, impressive.  Yet a race car engine can only sustain 6,000 rpm for a short while.  This I know.  

The struggle is to let go of the self identity shaped by mania.  And perhaps bipolar people are the only one's who fully understand this.  One's true self is not shaped by the disease.  And yes, it is often the suffering that reveals this.  

Theologically, and spiritually, I understand that my true self is defined not by the disease but in relationship with my God.  What I don't know is whether I've suffered enough yet to fully embrace this true identity, or if I'm still building my own castle and kingdom.  Time will tell.

The True Self

As one who is bipolar there is an underlying question of identity.  Its not dissimilar to the "I am" of Alcoholics Anonymous. "My name is Dave, and I am an alcoholic."  The honesty of claiming that identity, of stripping oneself of all pretense of denial, is key to healing.  Yet it raises a greater question of identity.  Are we to be defined by our disease.

I am bipolar.  A statement of identity.  To know me, is to know this.

Or not.  Perhaps to know the true me you must see beyond the disease.  

I have been open about my disease.  Part of that is to deny shame a place in my experience.  I should be no more ashamed of being bipolar than I am of having had to have my mitral valve repaired.  It is simply a medical condition that needs to be treated.  It has been.  It continues to be.  But it is not me.

Or maybe it is.  

One take on this condition is to understand being bipolar as being one who is capable of experiencing a broader range of moods from the norm.  We all experience highs and lows.  Its just that one who is bipolar experiences higher highs and lower lows.  Another aspect of being bipolar is that the transition between the highs and lows can be, for lack of a better word, violent.  And uncontrollable.  Not that we don't try to control it.  We do.  I self-medicated with alcohol for a decade or so, and that worked until it didn't.  Alcohol gave me some sense of control.  I knew how I would feel after one, two, and three drinks.  If I were depressed, a Scotch lifted my spirits.  During manic phases, it calmed me.  And then it didn't work anymore.  I was drinking myself to death in a vain effort to find the relief that now alluded me.

Thankfully, the crash that followed created the opportunity for diagnosis and treatment.  Better living through chemicals.  A more stable existence follows.  The goal is to achieve a functional stability. The problem with experiencing the highs and lows of manic and depressed phases is sustainability.  And durability. One could die.  That last point is important to remember.  One could die.  

But there remains the question of identity.  Who is the true self that the "I am" refers to?

My wife would tell you that she is thrilled to have me back again.  When my bipolar disorder was becoming increasingly pronounced life had become a rodeo.  One moment I was riding high on top of the beast, and the next moment at danger of being trampled.  Rodeos are entertaining unless of course you love the rider.  Two thousand pounds of bull crashing down on someone you care for is terrifying, not entertaining.  So it is with being bipolar.  

And yet there remains part of me that feels that with the stabilization of my moods there also came a diminishing of my capacity.

When I explore vocational options with my pastor, who tries very hard to understand my condition, his response is frequently to raise the flag of caution.  "Is this wise?"  Rightfully there is a reason for caution.  Accepting a challenging position could easily trigger a manic episode, and adversity is prone to trigger depression.  How much does one trust the safety net of the psychiatric meds?  

And yet the purpose of those meds is to enhance one's life, not deprive one of life.

Somewhere within the mystery of all this lies the true self.  The person God created me to be.  The person that is both loved, and capable of loving.  

Finally the "I am" is not a reflection of the disease, but of the divine.  And for now, it is best to simply leave it at that.