This is a piece I have wanted to write for months but didn’t have the courage to write, nor the words to put onto paper.
This feels difficult to write because I am writing about own my mind. And the mind can be a subtle and mysterious thing. Once you shine a spotlight on your mind, it either runs away or it may just bare its teeth and lunge at you.
My mind seems to be either random or just raw.
I can live in my mind. I am a writer, so I guess it comes naturally. Entire conversations occur in my head without a word being spoken, relationships come and go, and lifetimes are lived without breaking a sweat. Once the dream concludes, I am left with little else but fragments of feeling. Most days, my mind seems random. I can play out solutions to problems and imagine myself carried off into some new adventure.
All without leaving my desk.
My mind can take me to every possible outcome in a conversation. At times, I feel talked out and exhausted without even uttering one word. On those days, my mind is more like a prison, holding me inside. I want to reach out to my friends, my wife and those who care about me. But my mind has already been there, and it has covered that conversation. My mind has already said what needs to be said, and it did not go well.
So why talk about it anymore?
Some days, my mind carries me to places I don’t want to go. They are not always dark places, but they are not usually helpful. My mind is not really a dangerous place. It’s a little like my garage. It’s a mess, and the half-completed projects are like wooden skeletons that call to me. So I leave the garage and lock the door behind me. It’s just better that way.
The creative mind is a compelling place. Random things can become linked. A phrase from a book can mix with something a friend said to me, and my mind is off running in three directions at the same time. I imagine how an idea can be a new article, a possible series or a theme that might help people find greater freedom in their recovery. Later when I look at the idea, it may seem like little but words on the page.
My mind can be a wild and undisciplined place sometimes. Some days, it feels a little like the Wild West, all within the thick walls of my skull. Most days, though, my mind plays nicely in the sandbox. Ideas are helpful, and they seem to make my life a little better. I get excited by a new idea, kind of like I get excited when I open presents on my birthday.
I endeavor to be a good father, a good addiction therapist, a good writer. I never set out to be a good person who also lives with depression, anxiety and what my doctor calls bipolar II. These labels can loom large; they can define how you think about yourself… and how other people think about you.
And that is scary.
It’s like living with Santa Claus.
Living with bipolar disorder type II for me is like living with Santa Claus. A few days of the year he is jolly and everyone loves him. But most days, he is busy in his shop with his creations. He gets lost in his imagination and can spend hours in there. He brings gifts and makes everyone feel great. When he comes out of the shop, he heads home. He eats supper, watches TV, talks with his wife and then he wonders what it would be like to do some doughnuts with the sleigh and reindeer.
The diagnosis sometimes sits in my head like the books on my desk. It holds space. Sometimes it gets in the way, and other times it is a resource. And just like the books on my desk, for me, the flavors of my mind can be as divergent as my bookshelf. Some days my mind is full of dark fiction and mystery. Other days, science and psychology take me on a journey. And yet other days, I become lost in the “how to” section and try to fix everything in my life: my mind, my relationship, and my tendency to overthink things.
When I feel depressed, I write raw. When I am anxious, I write raw. On good days, I write raw. And on days like today, where my mind is a harsh and dry place, I write raw. Writing raw seems to take the edge off my tendency to live raw. It dulls the raw emotions that cut like razors through my mind. Writing gets me out of my mind. It frees me from the hell I am in. I am able to walk through the door, clothes singed and smoking.
Good things pull you to better places. I write, and I am learning to walk by myself well. I have a few good friends, and I am opening up to them about the things that go on inside of my head. I have a good relationship with my doctor and we regularly talk about the things inside the walls of my skull. Most days, I can listen to my mind but it holds much less power over my moods or over my actions.
This post was previously published on The Good Men Project.
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