I realized something the other day. I'm 59 years old and have never turned down a job offer or a Letter of Call from a congregation. I've had a conviction that these opportunities are gifts from God, and that when God opens a door, its for a purpose. On a less pious note, I've never explored new positions simply for the sake of exploring them. When I've sought a new call, or job opportunity, it has been for good reason. And so, when options open up, I have acted.
I now am in the third major phase in my working career. I spent five years in business prior to seminary, then 25 years in the ministry, and now trying to settle into yet another vocation in the remaining time before retirement. Since leaving the ministry I have attempted to restart my custom furniture business. I enjoyed the work but it wasn't profitable. So currently, I'm working at a cabinet shop, more profitable with a steady paycheck, but not particularly enjoyable. I find myself at a point in my life where I've 7 to 10 years of productive work left before retirement, and wondering if there is a viable option that is both profitable and enjoyable.
This last week I stumbled across a job opening at a local company that manufactures airplanes. I applied and so far am advancing through that application process. The company has a very specific mission oriented purpose. The primary motivation in designing their aircraft was to provide a state of the art airplane to meet the needs of missionary and humanitarian organizations serving around the globe. Of course, it has other uses. Put floats on it and its a dream machine for ferrying people to back country lakes for fishing expeditions. Among other things.
I am really intrigued by the possibility should it become an opportunity. It would combine my love of building with a sense of mission and calling. And when the day is done, I could stand back and look at an incredible airplane as the product of my labors on the team. A lot of satisfaction in that. Part of the problem working in the cabinet shop is that 'a box is a box, a box, a box, and not much more than a simple box. . .) Sing to the tune of the theme song from "Mr. Ed". If you do not know what I am talking about you are clearly a young, culturally deprived, person. But back to the point. Like building my boat, building an airplane is a lot more appealing than building a box. I will have to learn the fine art of riveting.
I pray for the opportunity.
And then the internal voices start nagging at me. My depressed side says that no one would consider hiring a 59 year old washed up preacher with no metal working experience. My manic side says the opportunities are boundless, that in the end I'll know how to build the entire aircraft, and as an aside, will be invited to serve as the company chaplain. (Yes, its that Christian of a company that it is not inconceivable that they would consider having a chaplain.)
And then there is the cautious side, that unwelcome friend that threatens to take the joy out of everything, that warns against any new adventure, lest it be another manifestation of mania. Countering those voices is one that says, "No, its not mania, you're not trying to buy the company, only working for it -- relax, if its meant to be, its meant to be."
What disturbs me about this disease is that it has deprived me of the opportunity to evaluate options on their own merits. Instead, everything is seen through the cautious filter of knowing that I'm bipolar, and the suspicion that the opportunities I pursue, and the choices I make, may be just one more manifestation of this disease. Do I desire a change in employment because I'm depressed and hope that a change of scenery will improve my mood? It has before. Or does my ambitious pursuit of other opportunities reflect the manic side of me that will accept any challenge, that believes nothing is impossible, and yearns for a platform from which the world may be changed?
In all likelihood, should the opportunity materialize and I'm offered a job with decent compensation and benefits, I will accept. That's been my nature since I mowed lawns as a young boy. I mean, having never turned down an employment opportunity in my life, why would I start now?
But because of this disease, I will also wonder. Is it the right thing to do?
Saturday, March 19, 2016
Saturday, March 12, 2016
The Bugler
The bugler sounds the reveille
A haunting heralding call.
Awake my soul, cast off the night,
Day beckons with the dawn.
A quest, conquest, and endless hope
Charge on, tally ho, go forth.
Catch the dream, oh chosen one,
Opportunity lingers naught.
'Tis not so much the end result,
but the pursuit of it that counts.
A restless and compelling march.
The future bids us come.
Foes raise their leery voices high
And caution screams to halt.
"Do not, cannot, and should not go."
"Shut up, be still, depart."
Adrenaline courses through the veins,
Tomorrow awaits the bold.
The artist paints the future bright,
Each stroke a slight of hand.
Alas, the bugler plays again,
A somber, wearying song.
The lonesome taps now mourn the sun
as it withers from the sky.
The fog rolls in,
obscuring sight,
The air is heavy, hard.
The trudging soldier groans.
Brick walls, chasms great,
now stay the savior's hand.
Hope lost, darkest night,
Floundering, desperate deeds.
No moonlit night will sooth the soul,
It purpose all but lost.
Gone now the mighty deeds of yore.
Gone too, all visions bright.
No lullaby to welcome rest.
No peaceful dreams await.
Only night, painful night.
And endless wait.
The watchman hears the ticking clock,
It slows. It fades. It stops.
The darkest hour lingers on,
An agonizing fate.
Until a faint and distant light
A hope to ward off death,
Brings anticipation and relief.
And then. . .
The bugler sounds the reveille
And the march begins again.
A haunting heralding call.
Awake my soul, cast off the night,
Day beckons with the dawn.
A quest, conquest, and endless hope
Charge on, tally ho, go forth.
Catch the dream, oh chosen one,
Opportunity lingers naught.
'Tis not so much the end result,
but the pursuit of it that counts.
A restless and compelling march.
The future bids us come.
Foes raise their leery voices high
And caution screams to halt.
"Do not, cannot, and should not go."
"Shut up, be still, depart."
Adrenaline courses through the veins,
Tomorrow awaits the bold.
The artist paints the future bright,
Each stroke a slight of hand.
Alas, the bugler plays again,
A somber, wearying song.
The lonesome taps now mourn the sun
as it withers from the sky.
The fog rolls in,
obscuring sight,
The air is heavy, hard.
The trudging soldier groans.
Brick walls, chasms great,
now stay the savior's hand.
Hope lost, darkest night,
Floundering, desperate deeds.
No moonlit night will sooth the soul,
It purpose all but lost.
Gone now the mighty deeds of yore.
Gone too, all visions bright.
No lullaby to welcome rest.
No peaceful dreams await.
Only night, painful night.
And endless wait.
The watchman hears the ticking clock,
It slows. It fades. It stops.
The darkest hour lingers on,
An agonizing fate.
Until a faint and distant light
A hope to ward off death,
Brings anticipation and relief.
And then. . .
The bugler sounds the reveille
And the march begins again.
Friday, March 11, 2016
This I've lost
It's 4 am. I've been up for two hours now. Caught up on Facebook. I've surveyed the recent developments in the NFL with free agency now beginning. Enjoyed a fresh cup of coffee. Sat out on the porch listening to the sounds of the night. And now turn to writing.
This is typical. Everyday begins about 2 am. It doesn't seem to matter when I retire in the evening, the body clock kicks in at 2. Ever since I began working in Coeur d'Alene, which requires that I be on the road by 4:45 or so, I've had the alarm set for 4 am. I've yet to wake up to it. It is not needed. By that time my day has long since been underway.
It didn't used to be this way. I used to struggle to fall asleep, but once I did I went into a very deep sleep and then had a hard time waking up. I could do all nighters. My thought processes gained momentum as the day wore on. My most productive times were late into the evening. And if my natural cycle were followed, each night would get later. It was as though my body functioned on a 25 hour clock. If I went to bed at 10 pm and slept 8 hours, then the next night I would be awake till 11. Then twelve.
My first efforts to regulate this and help fall asleep were to walk myself to exhaustion. I became a fixture on the streets late at night in the towns where we lived. In Thompson Falls the local police officer would often pick me up and we'd visit for a spell. Turns out the reason that he was called out at that time at night is that a prowler had been reported. "Wait, is it me?", I asked. "Well, now that you mention it, yes. I finally got to the point I'd ask the dispatcher for a description, and if it matched yours, I tell them to let the one who reported the 'prowler' that it was just the Lutheran pastor out for his nightly walk." These walks would last a few hours.
Then I discovered Scotch. It was a mixed bag. I continued to stay up late, but to drink, not to walk. Part of this was because my wife was uncomfortable with my drinking, and would head to bed early to avoid it. And so, except for the times she would wake to the sound of the ice filling another glass and come out and complain, I would enjoy the freedom of solitary, lost in my own world of alcohol induced thought until the sedative effect finally kicked in and I would retire to the bed to sleep, or as my psychiatrist insists, pass out.
And so I became an alcoholic. I first realized that I was dependent on alcohol to sleep. But I convinced myself that I was not an alcoholic because at will I could go without drinking. This I did on Saturday nights so that the congregation would not smell alcohol on me Sunday mornings. But by Sunday morning, I started shaking uncontrollably. Detox.
Following chemical dependency treatment I was put on sleep medications. Everything changed. Now I could go to sleep. I just couldn't stay asleep. I've become an insanely early riser.
One of the considerations that I've explored with my doctors is whether sleep deprivation, and its negative effect on brain chemistry, is a major factor the the causation of my mental health condition. The brain is dependent on a health sleep cycle to rejuvenate its chemistry. Without a healthy sleep cycle that chemical balance necessary to good health is not possible.
Drug induced sleep, when possible, hasn't seemed to help. Some of the medications have been better than others. Ambien caused horrendous nightmares. Lunesta and others helped me sleep four to five hours, but without an extended release version, failed to keep me asleep. The best option, to date, was Rozerem, Its a melatonin based drug, which according to my psychiatrist is about 12,000 times as powerful as over the counter melatonin. It's the equivalent of a whole lot of turkey dinners, to be sure. But expensive, and after having to change insurance coverage, and being denied coverage for it, I had to go off it because I simply couldn't afford it.
What we are trying now is to rotate through a variety of medications, hoping that by doing so I won't become addicted to any, nor will my body habituate to them, thus destroying their effectiveness. Good idea, but I am up at 2 am.
And so I make friends with the night. I listen to the silence. It is a peaceful time. Its the new norm. My dog sleeps by my side in her crate, barely stirring anymore as she's become accustomed to my schedule. Even my wife, who has always been a light sleeper, rarely wakes anymore as I rise, shower, get dressed, and begin my day.
But as much as I've been able to adapt, it is as though I've lost a dear friend. And with any loss there is grief. And I pray to God, that if anything could be restored to health in my life, it might be this one thing. I close, remembering a song by J. S. Bach, "Come, Sweet Death", which in my heart, I change to "Come, Sweet Sleep" as a prayer:
Come, sweet sleep, come, blessed rest!
Come lead me to peace
for I am weary of the world.
Oh Come! I wait for you,
come soon and lead me,
close my eyes.
Come, blessed rest.
This is typical. Everyday begins about 2 am. It doesn't seem to matter when I retire in the evening, the body clock kicks in at 2. Ever since I began working in Coeur d'Alene, which requires that I be on the road by 4:45 or so, I've had the alarm set for 4 am. I've yet to wake up to it. It is not needed. By that time my day has long since been underway.
It didn't used to be this way. I used to struggle to fall asleep, but once I did I went into a very deep sleep and then had a hard time waking up. I could do all nighters. My thought processes gained momentum as the day wore on. My most productive times were late into the evening. And if my natural cycle were followed, each night would get later. It was as though my body functioned on a 25 hour clock. If I went to bed at 10 pm and slept 8 hours, then the next night I would be awake till 11. Then twelve.
My first efforts to regulate this and help fall asleep were to walk myself to exhaustion. I became a fixture on the streets late at night in the towns where we lived. In Thompson Falls the local police officer would often pick me up and we'd visit for a spell. Turns out the reason that he was called out at that time at night is that a prowler had been reported. "Wait, is it me?", I asked. "Well, now that you mention it, yes. I finally got to the point I'd ask the dispatcher for a description, and if it matched yours, I tell them to let the one who reported the 'prowler' that it was just the Lutheran pastor out for his nightly walk." These walks would last a few hours.
Then I discovered Scotch. It was a mixed bag. I continued to stay up late, but to drink, not to walk. Part of this was because my wife was uncomfortable with my drinking, and would head to bed early to avoid it. And so, except for the times she would wake to the sound of the ice filling another glass and come out and complain, I would enjoy the freedom of solitary, lost in my own world of alcohol induced thought until the sedative effect finally kicked in and I would retire to the bed to sleep, or as my psychiatrist insists, pass out.
And so I became an alcoholic. I first realized that I was dependent on alcohol to sleep. But I convinced myself that I was not an alcoholic because at will I could go without drinking. This I did on Saturday nights so that the congregation would not smell alcohol on me Sunday mornings. But by Sunday morning, I started shaking uncontrollably. Detox.
Following chemical dependency treatment I was put on sleep medications. Everything changed. Now I could go to sleep. I just couldn't stay asleep. I've become an insanely early riser.
One of the considerations that I've explored with my doctors is whether sleep deprivation, and its negative effect on brain chemistry, is a major factor the the causation of my mental health condition. The brain is dependent on a health sleep cycle to rejuvenate its chemistry. Without a healthy sleep cycle that chemical balance necessary to good health is not possible.
Drug induced sleep, when possible, hasn't seemed to help. Some of the medications have been better than others. Ambien caused horrendous nightmares. Lunesta and others helped me sleep four to five hours, but without an extended release version, failed to keep me asleep. The best option, to date, was Rozerem, Its a melatonin based drug, which according to my psychiatrist is about 12,000 times as powerful as over the counter melatonin. It's the equivalent of a whole lot of turkey dinners, to be sure. But expensive, and after having to change insurance coverage, and being denied coverage for it, I had to go off it because I simply couldn't afford it.
What we are trying now is to rotate through a variety of medications, hoping that by doing so I won't become addicted to any, nor will my body habituate to them, thus destroying their effectiveness. Good idea, but I am up at 2 am.
And so I make friends with the night. I listen to the silence. It is a peaceful time. Its the new norm. My dog sleeps by my side in her crate, barely stirring anymore as she's become accustomed to my schedule. Even my wife, who has always been a light sleeper, rarely wakes anymore as I rise, shower, get dressed, and begin my day.
But as much as I've been able to adapt, it is as though I've lost a dear friend. And with any loss there is grief. And I pray to God, that if anything could be restored to health in my life, it might be this one thing. I close, remembering a song by J. S. Bach, "Come, Sweet Death", which in my heart, I change to "Come, Sweet Sleep" as a prayer:
Come, sweet sleep, come, blessed rest!
Come lead me to peace
for I am weary of the world.
Oh Come! I wait for you,
come soon and lead me,
close my eyes.
Come, blessed rest.
Saturday, March 5, 2016
Visions and Dreams
Thoughts. Day dreams. Visions.
"Your young men shall see visions and your old men shall dream dreams." (Acts 2:17)
To be able to visualize that which is not, and then to be able to cultivate that dream till it becomes a reality is an essential quality of human creativity. Our capacity to be creative is an imprint of the image of God upon our souls. This I believe. And one of the gifts I have come to appreciate in myself is this creativity. One of the dimensions of that for me is that throughout my years in the ministry I could never find contentment in nurturing and caring for that which was, but was always drawn to that which might be. And it all starts with being a visionary person. It is one's imagination that is the driving force.
"Discover your passions and pursue them." These were the words of counsel I once received. It was vocational advice. Good advice. Especially if life presents the opportunity.
But then in response to that advice I have found myself wondering if my counselor would say that if he actually knew the secret thoughts and desires that lurk just below the surface in my mind. Part of the struggle for me is discerning when the visions that occupy my mind are genuine potentials to be pursued or bizarre fantasies that really should be let go of as idle thoughts and daydreams, best kept secret.
And I wonder to what extent the inner thought processes, the visions and dreams that occupy my consciousness, are the stuff of my natural giftedness or a manifestation of mania. I feel that I am like an iceberg. For every dream that reaches the surface, there is so much more below the surface. And time is running out. So many dreams, too few resources and too little time.
I don't know the extent to which my visions and dreams are normal, and the degree to which they are symptomatic of this disease.
One of the extreme dreams that recurs is to be the president. Yes, that president. I've come to believe that it is part of the savior mentality that dominates my manic side. Sometimes this dreaming becomes quite specific. Health care has been a hot topic in politics. In my 'presidential mode' I envision solutions. One of them of late is to replace the whole system of managing malpractice through civil litigation with a nationalized program for compensation and discipline similar to the workers compensation system. The program would be paid for by a simple percentage tax on all medical procedures. It would be structured such that less lucrative medical practices, such as rural health care, would not be priced out of the market just because of the high cost of malpractice insurance. Victims of malpractice would be justly cared for, just as workers who are hurt on the job. But they wouldn't win the lottery. And the cost of health care would be greatly reduced.
Actually, I think that is a good idea. Manic? Maybe, maybe not. At least I haven't I haven't gotten to the point of showing up at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue assuming that is my home.
The struggle is this. I have always been a creative person. Now I know that I am also bipolar. Where does a healthy dose of creativity stop, and mania begin? How does one distinguish between the healthy passions that should be pursued because they they are the driving force behind all creativity, and the compulsions to be curtailed because they are just symptoms of this disease?
One of the ways to help discern is to engage other people in the process. If others consent to and affirm these dreams and visions then they must be okay and worthy to pursue. Except for one thing. I am quite good at persuasion when I am in a manic phase. Very good. For example, I recognize now that I was in full blown manic phase when I was pursuing my dream of transforming the church through the development of senior housing. Yet manic, or not, I convinced a whole lot of people to go along with my agenda. But even now that my diagnosis is out, and others such as my wife and bishop are aware of my condition, there still remains the question. When others are cautious of my plans and schemes is it because they have a firmer grip on reality? Or because they simply cannot envision the potentials and possibilities?
"Your young men shall see visions and your old men shall dream dreams."
But are the visions of a young man, or an old man's dreams, delusions? That is the question, and it is not an easy one.
"Your young men shall see visions and your old men shall dream dreams." (Acts 2:17)
To be able to visualize that which is not, and then to be able to cultivate that dream till it becomes a reality is an essential quality of human creativity. Our capacity to be creative is an imprint of the image of God upon our souls. This I believe. And one of the gifts I have come to appreciate in myself is this creativity. One of the dimensions of that for me is that throughout my years in the ministry I could never find contentment in nurturing and caring for that which was, but was always drawn to that which might be. And it all starts with being a visionary person. It is one's imagination that is the driving force.
"Discover your passions and pursue them." These were the words of counsel I once received. It was vocational advice. Good advice. Especially if life presents the opportunity.
But then in response to that advice I have found myself wondering if my counselor would say that if he actually knew the secret thoughts and desires that lurk just below the surface in my mind. Part of the struggle for me is discerning when the visions that occupy my mind are genuine potentials to be pursued or bizarre fantasies that really should be let go of as idle thoughts and daydreams, best kept secret.
And I wonder to what extent the inner thought processes, the visions and dreams that occupy my consciousness, are the stuff of my natural giftedness or a manifestation of mania. I feel that I am like an iceberg. For every dream that reaches the surface, there is so much more below the surface. And time is running out. So many dreams, too few resources and too little time.
I don't know the extent to which my visions and dreams are normal, and the degree to which they are symptomatic of this disease.
One of the extreme dreams that recurs is to be the president. Yes, that president. I've come to believe that it is part of the savior mentality that dominates my manic side. Sometimes this dreaming becomes quite specific. Health care has been a hot topic in politics. In my 'presidential mode' I envision solutions. One of them of late is to replace the whole system of managing malpractice through civil litigation with a nationalized program for compensation and discipline similar to the workers compensation system. The program would be paid for by a simple percentage tax on all medical procedures. It would be structured such that less lucrative medical practices, such as rural health care, would not be priced out of the market just because of the high cost of malpractice insurance. Victims of malpractice would be justly cared for, just as workers who are hurt on the job. But they wouldn't win the lottery. And the cost of health care would be greatly reduced.
Actually, I think that is a good idea. Manic? Maybe, maybe not. At least I haven't I haven't gotten to the point of showing up at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue assuming that is my home.
The struggle is this. I have always been a creative person. Now I know that I am also bipolar. Where does a healthy dose of creativity stop, and mania begin? How does one distinguish between the healthy passions that should be pursued because they they are the driving force behind all creativity, and the compulsions to be curtailed because they are just symptoms of this disease?
One of the ways to help discern is to engage other people in the process. If others consent to and affirm these dreams and visions then they must be okay and worthy to pursue. Except for one thing. I am quite good at persuasion when I am in a manic phase. Very good. For example, I recognize now that I was in full blown manic phase when I was pursuing my dream of transforming the church through the development of senior housing. Yet manic, or not, I convinced a whole lot of people to go along with my agenda. But even now that my diagnosis is out, and others such as my wife and bishop are aware of my condition, there still remains the question. When others are cautious of my plans and schemes is it because they have a firmer grip on reality? Or because they simply cannot envision the potentials and possibilities?
"Your young men shall see visions and your old men shall dream dreams."
But are the visions of a young man, or an old man's dreams, delusions? That is the question, and it is not an easy one.
Sunday, February 28, 2016
On Shame & Transparancy
I had an interaction with one of the readers of my blog this week. He referenced another pastor's blog who also deals with being bipolar. That pastor chose to write under a pseudo-name and writes about the fears associated with being open about his condition and the potential of retribution.
I have written a lot about my being bipolar on this blog. I still consider the possibility of serving as a pastor in some way. But can one be open about one's struggle with a mental illness without eliminating the possibility of being considered for parish ministry? I envision a call committee meeting where they are looking at two candidates, one of whom has disclosed that he is bipolar, and I find it difficult to imagine a congregation choosing to go with the "sick, crazy pastor" as opposed to the healthy one. Perhaps my openness about my condition has made me vulnerable to all the prejudices that continue to dominate our culture's attitude toward those with a mental illness.
And yet I write.
A major part of why I write is that I believe very sincerely that unless people with a mental illness such as bipolar disorder are willing to share that experience, the stigma surrounding mental illness will never diminish. "Bipolar, not crazy!" is one of my mantras. "No cognitive or physical impairment" was the finding of the doctor who was involved in evaluating my disability claim. Being bipolar is about experiencing mood swings that are beyond the normal for a healthy person. It is not about cognitive or physical disabilities. Such mood swings can be disabling. That is true. But lets be real about what bipolar is, and is not. And there should not be this incredible stigma surrounding it. It is what it is, it is not what it is not.
I write because there is no place for shame when one is dealing with being bipolar. When I had to have my mitral valve repaired, I was not ashamed of having open heart surgery. When I had a torn meniscus in my knee, I was not ashamed of that. I am not ashamed to have the flu, or that I now have a hernia that needs to be repaired. I refuse to be ashamed of being bipolar. It is just another illness among many that has to be treated.
I write to break down the isolation associated with being bipolar. The shame we too often feel when we experience a mental illness, and the isolation that often envelops us, can be catastrophic. One of the most meaningful things to happen since I've been writing this blog is to be approached by those who also suffer with being bipolar, or with another similar condition. They have expressed great appreciation for my writing, and how helpful it has been to be able to relate to my experience. We are not alone.
Part of me is amazed at the reach of this blog. The stats page identifies page views from around the world. Madagascar and Qatar. India. Brazil. What this tells me is that there are people from around the world seeking help to understand their situation.
And finally, part of the reason I write is that I seek to be understood for who I am. One of the hardest things I've experienced is when people make judgments about me, uniformed judgments, that are simply not true. Depression and mania are what they are. They do not represent personal failures. A person with a cold, coughs, and has a runny nose. A person who is bipolar experiences highs and lows, beyond the norm. In the end, I hope people will not judge the person based on the symptom.
There may be a cost that I will pay for being open about my being bipolar. It may prevent me from being seriously considered for any position in ministry. But in the end I believe it is worth it. Because its only as light is shed on the subject of mental illness that the shame and stigma will go away. And besides, my manic side is still trying to save the world. . .
I have written a lot about my being bipolar on this blog. I still consider the possibility of serving as a pastor in some way. But can one be open about one's struggle with a mental illness without eliminating the possibility of being considered for parish ministry? I envision a call committee meeting where they are looking at two candidates, one of whom has disclosed that he is bipolar, and I find it difficult to imagine a congregation choosing to go with the "sick, crazy pastor" as opposed to the healthy one. Perhaps my openness about my condition has made me vulnerable to all the prejudices that continue to dominate our culture's attitude toward those with a mental illness.
And yet I write.
A major part of why I write is that I believe very sincerely that unless people with a mental illness such as bipolar disorder are willing to share that experience, the stigma surrounding mental illness will never diminish. "Bipolar, not crazy!" is one of my mantras. "No cognitive or physical impairment" was the finding of the doctor who was involved in evaluating my disability claim. Being bipolar is about experiencing mood swings that are beyond the normal for a healthy person. It is not about cognitive or physical disabilities. Such mood swings can be disabling. That is true. But lets be real about what bipolar is, and is not. And there should not be this incredible stigma surrounding it. It is what it is, it is not what it is not.
I write because there is no place for shame when one is dealing with being bipolar. When I had to have my mitral valve repaired, I was not ashamed of having open heart surgery. When I had a torn meniscus in my knee, I was not ashamed of that. I am not ashamed to have the flu, or that I now have a hernia that needs to be repaired. I refuse to be ashamed of being bipolar. It is just another illness among many that has to be treated.
I write to break down the isolation associated with being bipolar. The shame we too often feel when we experience a mental illness, and the isolation that often envelops us, can be catastrophic. One of the most meaningful things to happen since I've been writing this blog is to be approached by those who also suffer with being bipolar, or with another similar condition. They have expressed great appreciation for my writing, and how helpful it has been to be able to relate to my experience. We are not alone.
Part of me is amazed at the reach of this blog. The stats page identifies page views from around the world. Madagascar and Qatar. India. Brazil. What this tells me is that there are people from around the world seeking help to understand their situation.
And finally, part of the reason I write is that I seek to be understood for who I am. One of the hardest things I've experienced is when people make judgments about me, uniformed judgments, that are simply not true. Depression and mania are what they are. They do not represent personal failures. A person with a cold, coughs, and has a runny nose. A person who is bipolar experiences highs and lows, beyond the norm. In the end, I hope people will not judge the person based on the symptom.
There may be a cost that I will pay for being open about my being bipolar. It may prevent me from being seriously considered for any position in ministry. But in the end I believe it is worth it. Because its only as light is shed on the subject of mental illness that the shame and stigma will go away. And besides, my manic side is still trying to save the world. . .
Friday, February 26, 2016
Redemption
Those were the words of a dear friend and bishop. As best as I can remember them. I was a young pastor struggling with the demands of parish ministry, overwhelmed by some of the challenges, and concerned about failure. Those words have stuck with me. Thank you, Mark.
What they speak of is redemption.
I now think of them in respect to my journey as a bipolar person. How can one convert those things that appear to be negatives, into positives? How can one's biggest challenges become one's greatest gifts.
As I have written this blog, especially about some of the manic episodes I've experienced, there are times that it seems as though I'm bragging. I think, though, that it is not so much about pride as it is about a deep seated desire to experience redemption. To embrace the good that has been present even as I've experienced the extremes of this mood disorder.
Looking back over my life, one of the ways I have experienced mania is that I become utterly captivated by potential and possibilities and unable to balance that with a healthy dose of reality. The net result is that I have been willing to tackle things that many people would shy away from simply because I was unable to see any reason why I couldn't do it.
I remember a time early in my life at the conclusion of my senior year in college. One of my classmates who lived next to us shared a desire of his to have a roll top desk. I was wondering what I would do following graduation as my wife had been hired for a job that required us to delay my entry into seminary for a while. My immediate reaction to Kevin's dream of having a roll top desk was to say "I can do that!". And with that, Olson's Woodworking was begun.
"Unfazed by reality" probably best describes my attitude at that time. You see, it never occurred to me that someone who had not done any woodworking to speak of since seventh grade shop, and who had no tools whatsoever, who knew nothing about furniture or cabinet design, or construction, or running a business, or anything else about that endeavor -- should have any reservations. It was full steam ahead. I convinced Kevin to buy the desk from me, and set about buying tools and learning how to build one. The next thing I did was to convince an interior decorator in town to order four more desks. I took on remodeling jobs, knowing nothing about construction, and learned to 'fake it till you make it'. (Did you know that if you have no clue how to build something, you can inquire of a county building department about the building code, and get a good idea, based on the requirements of the code, how to proceed?) In addition to furniture & cabinetry, I would do electrical, plumbing, build an entire house, a boat, develop a senior housing project, etc., etc,.
To a certain extent, this same attitude accompanied my entry into ministry. The reality is that throughout my years in school, I excelled at things such as geometry and mathematics, But I was sorely deficient in spelling, writing, and, quite frankly, petrified by public speaking. It simply never occurred to me that my total lack of proficiency in the language arts, not to mention my being a painfully shy introvert, should in any way curtail my desire to enter the ministry. Looking back with the knowledge that I have today about being bipolar, I recognize the role that mania has had in much of what I've done.
What could be seen as a major liability in life was in fact, one of my greatest assets. Part of my writing this blog is to find a sense of redemption in the midst of this mood disorder. When I was first diagnosed with depression, a colleague, Steve, responded by saying "Without depression we would have never had an Ernest Hemingway." He went on to say, "Though were it not for depression, we might have had Hemingway for a while longer."
Living with the extreme mood changes that are part of the bipolar experience has resulted in an unresolved tension. It is at one and the same time, a sickness of unbridled optimism, creativity, and zeal for life -- and at the same time a sickness unto death. In the end, one either learns to ride the waves and in them find the meaning and purpose of a redeemed life -- or be overcome by it.
And faith alone makes the difference.
Sunday, February 21, 2016
Cravings
Some days the cravings are bad.
I just want it. A manic episode that is. I want it so bad. I'd say I want it so bad I can feel it, but that's just the point, right now, I can't.
Perhaps it seems strange to you that one like myself would crave a manic episode. They're supposed to be bad, after all. So bad some people must be hospitalized for their own protection. And yet the craving is there.
My manic phases have been enjoyable for me, even if they have caused my wife significant concerns. But even she has not always had those concerns. Mostly, she has stood by my side and watched as I did my thing. Prior to my diagnosis she probably just thought I was just off doing 'my thing', pursuing yet another grand goal. And the thing of it was, I was successful enough during those times that its hard to dismiss it, or for that matter, for the uninformed to even have a clue that I was in a full blown manic episode.
I've written before about how during a manic episode I developed an assisted living facility at my congregation. The thing is, I turned a vacant lot, a $15 dollar contribution, and a $5,000 grant into a 15 million dollar senior housing facility with 87 units. Not only did I do that, but I tried to replicate the effort elsewhere. I was on a roll. There was no stopping me. People may have had a lot of thoughts about what I was doing, but no one was questioning my sanity. I'm a good manic.
There was an incredibly intoxicating feeling that went with it all. The possibilities felt limitless. I felt incredibly potent. There was an overwhelming sense that this was my mission and purpose in life. And, I suppose, to an extent it was. I mean, hey, when the dust cleared there was in fact a senior housing ministry in place, and a mighty fine one, at that.
But then the high I was riding came to an end. Life didn't just return to normal, it crashed.
I subsequently had another very definable manic phase, when I decided to leave the ministry and re-establish my woodworking business. There are other times, less pronounced, that I notice manic thoughts come racing through my mind. They usually pass once I identify them as "manic". Damn.
I say "Damn" because one of the things that being diagnosed as bipolar has done is to deprive me of the opportunity enjoy the manic highs and run with them. No more soaring with the eagles. Any time I approach that experience there is the not so gentle reminder that this is a psychiatric condition. The dampers are shut down. Instead of people saying "Go for it, Dave!" they now wonder if I've taken my meds. That's depressing.
Some days I feel as though in the name of emotional balance and stability I've had to surrender a part of myself, and specifically, a part of myself that made my life seem worthwhile and worth living. Where I once would experience feelings of great potency, now it seems impotency rules the day. And the "balanced life" is not all its cracked up to be.
So I live with a craving for something I know that it is not in my best interest to ever experience again. But part of me hopes that the medications are not effective, and that one day, I will soar again. A good manic episode can lift one's spirits, after all.
I don't know what else to say, other than that the craving is there. A powerful craving.
I just want it. A manic episode that is. I want it so bad. I'd say I want it so bad I can feel it, but that's just the point, right now, I can't.
Perhaps it seems strange to you that one like myself would crave a manic episode. They're supposed to be bad, after all. So bad some people must be hospitalized for their own protection. And yet the craving is there.
My manic phases have been enjoyable for me, even if they have caused my wife significant concerns. But even she has not always had those concerns. Mostly, she has stood by my side and watched as I did my thing. Prior to my diagnosis she probably just thought I was just off doing 'my thing', pursuing yet another grand goal. And the thing of it was, I was successful enough during those times that its hard to dismiss it, or for that matter, for the uninformed to even have a clue that I was in a full blown manic episode.
I've written before about how during a manic episode I developed an assisted living facility at my congregation. The thing is, I turned a vacant lot, a $15 dollar contribution, and a $5,000 grant into a 15 million dollar senior housing facility with 87 units. Not only did I do that, but I tried to replicate the effort elsewhere. I was on a roll. There was no stopping me. People may have had a lot of thoughts about what I was doing, but no one was questioning my sanity. I'm a good manic.
There was an incredibly intoxicating feeling that went with it all. The possibilities felt limitless. I felt incredibly potent. There was an overwhelming sense that this was my mission and purpose in life. And, I suppose, to an extent it was. I mean, hey, when the dust cleared there was in fact a senior housing ministry in place, and a mighty fine one, at that.
But then the high I was riding came to an end. Life didn't just return to normal, it crashed.
I subsequently had another very definable manic phase, when I decided to leave the ministry and re-establish my woodworking business. There are other times, less pronounced, that I notice manic thoughts come racing through my mind. They usually pass once I identify them as "manic". Damn.
I say "Damn" because one of the things that being diagnosed as bipolar has done is to deprive me of the opportunity enjoy the manic highs and run with them. No more soaring with the eagles. Any time I approach that experience there is the not so gentle reminder that this is a psychiatric condition. The dampers are shut down. Instead of people saying "Go for it, Dave!" they now wonder if I've taken my meds. That's depressing.
Some days I feel as though in the name of emotional balance and stability I've had to surrender a part of myself, and specifically, a part of myself that made my life seem worthwhile and worth living. Where I once would experience feelings of great potency, now it seems impotency rules the day. And the "balanced life" is not all its cracked up to be.
So I live with a craving for something I know that it is not in my best interest to ever experience again. But part of me hopes that the medications are not effective, and that one day, I will soar again. A good manic episode can lift one's spirits, after all.
I don't know what else to say, other than that the craving is there. A powerful craving.
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