VO2 Max

OK, there's something I didn't mention in my "things about me" post a while back. I enjoy being a study subject and participating in marketing research. Seriously. In the past few years, I was a subject in a bipolar study (which is actually a huge, NIH-sponsored deal), a study regarding new technology to measure resting metabolic rate, a small study regarding granola bars, and miscellaneous other research endeavors.

My latest foray deals with that which I hate most (no, not lithium): exercise. The criteria couldn't have fit me better: Over 35, overweight, sedentary, elevated blood pressure, and feeling guilty about it. Sign me up.

There's always some tasty reward for the rat--cash, free products, the satisfaction of knowing you are nobly representing your demographic in the quest for better products, marketing excellence, and occasionally science. In this case, I get eight weeks of a total of 24 individual fitness training sessions with two of the best-known elite sports trainers in the city, a nutrition plan, and most importantly, a $700 piece of exercise equipment. I know, I know, everybody's skeptical, but I'm not gullible by nature, so of course I checked it out.

I was told to show up for an intake evaluation at 4:30 today. Wear shorts. I sent an email. Please, can I wear stretchy yoga pants or will they interfere with the pinching of my fat, which I'll assume you'll be doing? The word comes back: yoga pants OK. I am relieved knowing I can still participate. Shorts would have been a deal breaker.

The researcher's office is a shared space inside of the local Jazzercise center. I pulled open the glass door and stepped inside. A perky blonde in workout wear appeared immediately and popped herself behind the desk. "Well hey there, how are you today?" I hated her on sight. I smiled and said I was looking for Bob. Blondie remained perky and directed down the hallway.

After the initial chit chat, Bob got down to business. We started with weight, and he tried to tell me that Mr. Scale is my friend. He noted my weight and said, "You'll weigh 15 pounds less in December." Next was a resting metabolic rate test--something I have actually done before. Bob kept checking the machine and commenting that the reading seemed high. He took a bathroom break came back, and checked the machine again. He seemed a little giddy when he said, "Hey, how many meals do you eat a day?"

I sighed and told him that it doesn't matter how much or how little I eat, I'm always hungry. My stomach growls. Since my weight never changes, I stick to a three-meals-a-day plan with a light afternoon snack. Bob's eyes lit up and he said, "When we see a reading like this, it tells us one of three things. Either you're a high-level athlete with an incredibly efficient metabolism, you're in the middle of the Kalahari, starving, or, you aren't eating enough and your body now thinks you're in the Kalahari starving. I'm guessing it's number three. Hey, May, good news! You're gonna eat more and lose weight!"

Before I go on, let me just say how nice it was to have someone validate what I've been saying all along. I love it when I'm right.


Throughout the battery of tests, our conversation was punctuated by the repeated, enthusiastic "Woo!s" of the Jazzercise class outside the door. Every time the women shouted out another "Woo!" Bob raised his arms and rolled his eyes. It was funny.

We eventually got to the test I suspected was coming but hoped was not: VO2 Max testing. This is a test that pretty much determines at what level of physical exertion you will puke or pass out. I looked at the bike, looked at Bob and asked, "What if I throw up?" Bob shrugged his shoulders and said, "I have a mop."

In this test, you put on a neoprene mask that is then attached to a tube. It feels like you're breathing through a straw, and you look like a sporty Hannibal Lechter. Very fetching. You pedal at a steady rate and every two minutes or so, the tester increases the resistance on the bike. At least they cheer you on. This process continues until you turn purple and fall over. Or something like that. I was on the verge of tears and my face was an alarming shade of crimson when Bob, obviously a man of mercy, pulled the plug.

Bob tells me I'm not as out-of-shape as I look or perceive myself to be as I sit on the bike heaving in big gulps of air and feeling like there's a lung gone missing. Apparently, I'm also a really good sport. No, Bob, I'm just a research slut who will work the maze however I need to in order to get something for free.

I had to tell Bob about my bipolar situation, but he felt that was just one more thing to make my research experience more valuable. He wants to take special notice of my lithium-induced balance issues to see if using this exercise machine improves my issues with gravity.

If I get my piece of exercise equipment, I'm going to sell it and use the money to buy something really decadent. Is that so wrong?

See? I told you my brain might explode

I have high blood pressure. This is a shock because I never had it before; in fact, I've always had oddly low blood pressure. How I came to find this out is a little strange. When I went to the doctor last month, the nurse took my BP. I asked what it was and it seemed high--and not just for me. I chalked it up to white-collar hypertension and the lingering effects of city driving.

While looking for something completely unrelated on Craig's list, I saw a posting for an exercise research study. The carrot was that participants who finished would be rewarded with a sweet Pilates machine. I downloaded the forms and went to work sharing my personal health info. I actually had more trouble admitting my weight than I did admitting I take six medications for Bipolar disorder. I came to the question about blood pressure. Hmm. I remembered the doctor appointment and decided to take another look.

For reasons I will not explain right now, we have a BP monitor at home. I set it up and sat there dumbfounded when I saw the result. I reset the machine and tried again. Same thing. Later in the day, I checked again and it was lower--141/97--but that's still considered high blood pressure. It's not even pre-hypertension; it's high BP (which I verified on the American Heart Association Website).

The AHA has a very nifty tool on its site that lets you calculate your risk of doom and brain explosion based on five factors. I love interactive tests, so I jumped right into the fun. Starting with Body Mass Index, I was reminded that by the AHA's standards, I'm obese. Is there more? Bring it on! My blood pressure is high and I'm a slug. Then came the statistics. I'm five times more likely than a normal person to suffer some catastrophic cardiovascular event.

Well, that's sobering. Perhaps the next part of the test will show me there's hope. You can estimate change in five areas, but I already do three of those things. That leaves diet and exercise. In a stubborn snit, I refused to add 30 minutes of aerobic exercise to my profile, but did concede ten pounds even though I don't believe I can achieve that without severing a limb.

Of course, my risk didn't really change, which means I either have to lose more theoretical weight or do more theoretical exercise. Neither is an appealing option.

I realize that I flirt with my own mortality by not accepting true change, but that isn't what worries me. I'm not afraid to die, but I can't tolerate discomfort. Kill me but don't make me suffer. I fear having a stroke and being left with aphasia or limited mobility. I worry about having a heart attack that leaves me too weak to function normally. Were I to need heart surgery, I couldn't sign that DNR order fast enough.

In my own defense, I know that my high BP is in large part due to one thing: EMSAM. It works exceptionally well, and if I don't take it I'm screwed. This is the MAOI that returned my will to live. How ironic that it could kill me.

I don't want to exercise, but since there's not much I can do to tweak my diet--short of ceasing to eat altogether--this may become a torture of necessity. Damn. The last time I tried to engage in physical activity, I thought yoga might suit me. I had a gym membership at 24-Hour Fitness so I bought a wafer-thin roll-up mat and left my socks at home. Somehow, I had been deluded into thinking that yoga was gentle and calming. Apparently, I had unknowingly signed up for the sadistic-Nazi yoga class because half-way through the first session I was gasping for breath and I looked like I had just stepped out of the shower. The next day, I was in so much pain, it was obvious my body had produced previously unknown muscles so I could experience an extra-intense level of pain.

I continued the classes for a month, but I kept falling over in all of those one-footed positions, plus I couldn't accept that yoga was supposed to make your body hit the Lactate Threshold. That was the end of yoga.

So, what are my options? Be miserable exercising or be miserable with a brain that could blow at any second? Such a conundrum.

Andy Rooney agrees

The day I posted the previous essay about fall, Andy Rooney made a commentary about the seasons on that night's 60 Minutes. You can read the full essay here, although I disagree with his views on summer and winter. Here's his take on fall:

I think if we had a vote, fall would probably be most people's favorite season. Some people who like fall call it autumn. I never use the word "autumn." It sounds pretentious. The down side to fall is it's the beginning of the end of everything. Flowers die, the leaves dry up and come off the trees, water in the lake gets too cold to swim in and vacations are over. First thing you know someone's trying to sell you a Christmas tree.

I need sun

I may not have mentioned this, but I grew up in the Mid-Atlantic East Coast. Now I live in an area that has more than 300 sunny days per year. Those other 65 days are problematic.

One of the reasons I never moved back East was this weather issue. I'm stunned when people tell me that fall is their favorite time of the year. Fall? Are you kidding me? This is the time of year when daylight comes to an abrupt halt, nights are cold--and eventually the days are, too--it gets windy, and worst of all, it rains. Outside my window right now it looks like something from an Ingmar Bergman film. The sky is grayish white, it's kind of dark for late afternoon, it's cold and damp and raining that pissing, misty, no-windshield-wiper-setting is-right kind of rain. Back East, this pretty much describes the entire second half of October and all of November. I used to threaten to rip the November and March pages off the calendar so those months could be eliminated completely.

Fall as a favorite season. Is this some kind of Martha Stewart-esque idealization of misery in hell? Everything is already dead or dying, people. It rains. It's dark when you wake up in the morning and dark when you leave work. It is the kick-off of carb-loading season.

I need sun. I need warmth. I need long days. I think I need to move to the Caribbean. Only eight months until the summer solstice. Not that I'm keeping track.

Where is the love?

I think I've lost the ability to love or experience love. Well, I don't experience love because I don't think there's any coming my way. I really don't. There are people who know me who would probably tell me that of course they love me, but would do nothing to actually demonstrate that. In the absence of concrete evidence, I remain very skeptical. That's pretty much how I feel about god, too.

Anyway, I was sitting here thinking about love, and I've concluded that I don't love anyone except my husband. Maybe my mother, but our history is long, troubled, and very complex. Otherwise, I have to admit, there are people I like (not many), few I care to know well, and none I have any strong feelings for. None.

The friendships I used to have died long, slow deaths when my bipolar disorder went haywire. Nobody cared, or maybe they cared so very much, they felt abandonment and criticism were the only way to show the true depth of their feelings. Once I let go of those relationships for good, I made a conscious decision to stay the hell out f that kind of personal involvement going forward. My therapist and my husband told me I was making a grave and dangerous mistake--we all need friends and a solid support system. Apparently, I don't. I thought I would feel sick with longing for that closeness that friends can provide, but the reality is, I hadn't had that kind of relationship with anyone for close to a decade.

Now I am in the position of being faced with a dilemma. There is someone who has made overt attempts to draw me in as a friend. I like Elizabeth, I really do. She's exactly the kind of person I would have become friends with if my life had turned out differently. Now I just see nothing but complicated explanations or complicated lies ahead of me. It's not possible to be my friend without being informed of my brain issues. I have no intention of ever telling anyone else, ever again, that I have a brain disorder.

When I think about this issue, and I'm not articulating it well, I have to conclude that I am incapable of connecting with anyone beyond a superficial level. I'm not unfriendly, I'm not selfish, and I'm not throwing up walls around myself. I am, quite simply, disconnected. It doesn't bother me, but my therapist keeps telling me this is unhealthy.

No. Unhealthy is making yourself vulnerable to the emotional whims of other people and believing they'll respect that. Again and again I find the same thing: People are unreliable and disappointing. There's not much I can do about that except to keep myself safe.

True threat or good marketing?

It appears to be Breast Cancer Awareness month. It's hard not to notice since we're being bombarded with pink. There has been a breast cancer story on TV pretty much every night this month. The ubiquitous pink ribbons are cropping up in the darnedest places, like on key chains, car magnets, cell phones, earrings, and even on the plastic container of bakery cookies I bought at Safeway last week. With PR like this, how could we not be aware of breast cancer?

Quick: What is the leading cause of death in American women, regardless of age or race? Think it's breast cancer? Cancer in general? Guess again. Go online and you'll find the following statistic in a number of prominent places, including Websites for the CDC and the American Heart Association:

Nearly twice as many women in the United States die of heart disease, stroke and other cardiovascular diseases as from all forms of cancer, including breast cancer.

It seems to me that instead of churning out pink ribbons, the American marketing machine should be hyping little hearts.

Why does breast cancer get so much more press when cardiovascular-related illness and deaths are so much more prevalent? Is it because cardiovascular disease is fairly preventable but Americans hate to hear that they need to eat better and exercise more? Is it easier to champion a disease that seems opportunistic and therefore engenders more sympathy by default?

So, now that you're aware of the disparity in awareness campaigns, and you obviously know that October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, can you also identify which month is American Heart Month, founded and promoted by the American Heart Association? I'll give you a minute to think about it. Make an educated guess based on the visual symbol--a heart. Tick...tick...tick... time's up.

American Heart Month is February. Not only that, but it has been American Heart Month, by presidential proclamation, every year for the past 44 years. That's right, the American Heart Month campaign has been pumping along since 1963. National Breast Cancer Awareness Month? Hmmm...About 20 years.

I think it's good to be aware of conditions that could potentially kill us, especially if there are things we can do to avoid getting those illnesses in the first place. That being said, isn't America focusing on the wrong thing--by a lot? Pink ribbons have become big business, and that churns up a bit of cynicism in me. Maybe the American Heart Association needs a new ad agency.

For some excellent thoughts on this subject, check out: http://thinkbeforeyoupink.org/Pages/AboutTheCampaign.html I was going to recommend specific parts of the site, but really, the whole damn thing is great. Your brain might grow as you expand your critical thinking skills. Actually, if you read my blog, your critical thinking skills probably don't need tweaking at all, just stimulation.

In honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I'm going braless until November (improves circulation and makes me far more comfortable).

Say *&@#! with Hallmark

The story you are about to read is 100% true. I couldn't have made this up had I tried.

I may have mentioned that I have issues with telephone customer service people. Have I mentioned that? When I need customer service, I prefer to access it via the Internet. The less contact I have with humans on telephones, the better. I am deeply offended that so many companies, especially banks, take advantage of my telephone time--which I'm using because I need help--to try and sell me something.

Nothing puts me on edge faster than when my call is routed to Bangalore. I can't articulate why, but if I must speak with someone, I want to speak with someone who has some cultural frame of reference for whatever it is that's troubling me. I also want to speak to someone who can deviate from a script and totally ad lib, if need be.

Last Thursday, I needed to order flowers for a coworker's funeral. I went through all of the steps online and was about to pay when it occurred to me that there was no way to specify what time the flowers should arrive. I took a deeeep breath and dialed the number for customer service.

(voice = American male): Thank you for calling Hallmark. How may I help you today?

(me): I'm online ordering flowers, but there doesn't seem to be any way to make sure they'll be where they need to be on time. It's for a funeral. How can I make sure the flowers arrive before 10:00 tomorrow morning?

(Hallmark Man): Thank you for choosing Hallmark. What is the name of the bouquet you wish to order?

(me): It's the pink gladiola spray for like, ninety dollars.

(HM): I need to put you on hold for a moment. (wait...wait...wait...wait...) Thank you for your patience. Ma'am, that bouquet is eighty-nine dollars.

(me): Um, OK. I knew that. Can it be at the church before ten o'clock tomorrow?

(HM) Let me look. The earliest possible delivery is October 5.

(me): Yes, I know. That's tomorrow. That's not my question. Can the flowers be at the church before 10:00?

(HM, flustered): Ma'am, it doesn't work like that...you gotta...

(me): It's OK. I just need a confirmation. If it won't work, I can go through a local florist, but I need to know now so I have time to place the order locally.

(HM) But, no, it's...I need to put you on hold for a moment.......................Thanks for your patience. Is this for a funeral?

(me): Yeeees.

(HM): OK, that's not going to be called a funeral arrangement. It's called "sympathy."

(me): Um, OK. But can the flowers be delivered before 10:00 tomorrow?

(HM): I need to put you on hold for a moment..........(wait, wait, wait)....Thanks for your patience. Where are the flowers being delivered?

(me): Do you want the address?

(HM): No, ma'am, I need to know where they're going to be delivered.

(me): I'm sorry, I don't understand your question.

(HM): Are they going to a hospital, or a private home, a cemetery?...

(me) They're going to a church.

(HM): I need to put you on hold for a moment..........(wait, wait, wait)....Thanks for your patience. Ma'am, we can take your order. What is the name of the recipient?

(me): St. John Lutheran Church.

(HM): No, ma'am, what is the name of the person who...who's having the funeral?

(me): Darlene Utah, like the state.

(HM): I need you to spell that for me.

(me): D-A-R-L-E-N-E

(HM): And the last name?

(me): Utah, like the state.

(HM): I need you to spell that for me.

(me): Really? U-T-A-H

(HM): What is the name of the delivery location?

(me): Saint John Lutheran Church

(HM): I need you to spell that for me.

(me): Which part?

(HM): The name of the church.

(me): All of it?

(HM): Yes, Ma'am.

At this point, I spelled every word of the name of the church. When I gave the address, I had to spell that, too (Elm St.), as well as the name of the city (for illustration purposes, let's say, Washington City), and the state name.

(HM): I have to put you on hold for a moment..........(wait, wait, wait)....Thanks for your patience. Now, what time is the funeral at?

(me): Ten O'clock. Tomorrow. October fifth.

(HM): Now, do you want a gift card with that?

(me): Yes.

(HM): What kind of card do you want?

(me): What do you mean?

(HM): Do you want one with flowers on it, or generic, or for sympathy...Like that.

(me): Sympathy.

(HM): Do you have a message?

(me): Yes. How long can it be?

(HM): Uh, it can be as long as you like. There's no limit.

(me): Oh, good, because online it can only be four lines.

(HM): We can make it four lines.

(me): No, that's OK. I just wanted to know if I was limited. The card should say, With deepest sympathy from friends and colleagues at Susan Smith Adult School. Darlene's love and laughter will never be forgotten.

(HM): I'm going to need you to spell that for me.

(me): Which part?

(HM): All of it, from the beginning.

At this point, May painstakingly spells every friggin' word on the card. HM responds by asking which letters should be upper case and where the punctuation goes.

(HM): I need to put you on hold for a moment. ..........(wait, wait, wait)....Thanks for your patience. Now, I can get as far as "...friends and."

(me): For the whole card?

(HM): No, ma'am, for the first line. Where would you like the line break to be?

(me): Well, I guess that break is fine.

(HM): What would you like on the second line?

(me): Well, I guess whatever comes next in the message.

(HM) Yes, ma'am, you need to dictate that message, please.

OK, this went on for almost 15 minutes. HM couldn't seem to get past that issue of four lines once I had put it in his head. Finally, I said:

(me): Look, I don't care where the line breaks are. I just want the message on the card, however it's distributed.

(HM)Yes, Ma'am, I understand. I think I can get it on four lines if you can take out a couple of words...

In all, I was put on hold more than a dozen times. It took 40 minutes to place the order. What a fucking Hallmark moron.

Is that upper case, or lower case? Where do you want the punctuation?

For awhile there, I wondered if I was being punk'd--you know--candid camera.

Faaaaalllliiiinnnnnggggg

And a deep sadness came crashing down upon me. This is the problem with the fall: first the weather changes and it isn't hot anymore, and then the daylight gets all screwed up and it's dark a lot. This arrangement usually doesn't work out very well for me.

At this point, only my therapist really knows what's going on. When we talked last Friday, I told her that I do believe it's possible to die from loneliness. I don't want to be around people just for the sake of being around people. There are too many annoying ones you have to pick through until you find one that doesn't irritate the crap out of you.

I said this last night, sort of out loud into the living room. I said, "And the worst part is, I'm alone. I have no one. Nobody to talk to, nobody to spend time with, nobody to validate my worth in the world, nobody I can trust to hold on and ride out these rough waves with me. I feel invisible."

My husband cheerily chimed in from the kitchen, "You have me." Which is a point well taken, but seriously, as my mood has been crashing, my husband hasn't noticed because he's had his head stuck in the dishwasher (well, in the dishwasher but not literally stuck) for two days because he's all kinds of fascinated with the details of our newest appliance. It's hard to have a soul-to-soul talk with someone who is totally occupied by repeatedly flipping the tines up and down on the dishwasher racks. Sometimes I think there's a little Asperger's mixed into my husband's literalist brain. I love him, I do, but his ability to get completely absorbed in technical minutiae worries me sometimes. He obsesses. How can I share my inner-most, worrisome, neurotic thoughts with someone who is busy finding great entertainment in measuring the decibel level of the new dishwasher?

I need a light box for my looming SAD. I need a different life. I could really use an upgrade on the brain. There's nothing specifically wrong these days, I just feel like generic crap. As Patsy Cline said, Crazy, crazy for feelin' so lonely; Yes I'm crazy, crazy for feelin' so blue.

I'm tired, my big project isn't coming together as I'd hoped, I feel totally isolated in that way that is always so well described in classic literature or old-school psychiatry. Isolation is actually an internal issue. I find it damn near impossible to connect with people, let alone love them, so why should I expect any different outcome than the one I'm getting? Maybe it's just my brain gearing up for the Big Fall Event. This is always when May wants to "go away," if you know what I mean.

Just to be ready for any outcome, I will continue purging closets, clutter, and the basement. At the very least, I'll get something done and have a much more efficient home.

Hang on kids, it's going to be a very bumpy ride.

Shopping: Not for the faint of heart!

I decided to try shopping. My shopping-center Mecca has a TJ Maxx, Ross, and a Tuesday Morning for good measure. It gives me chills just thinking about it. It's like they knew I'd be buying a house right down the street.

I have to tell ya, there's a whole lotta ugly out there. When did the Seventies return and for the love of God, WHY??? The faux-wrap polyester dresses were overwhelming in their ubiquitous availability. Ugly, ugly prints on almost slimy fabrics. Who wears this? I didn't like it the first time around, and I am not prepared to look like a circa 1977 secretary, thank you very much. When did disco make a comeback? OK, it didn't but the clothes are back with a vengeance. Why do all of the blouses look like maternity tops? Isn't this what I wore in the 8th grade? Make it stop, someone, please...make it stop!!!

I have a problem when I shop. If some anthropologist were to observe me, they'd have a field day. Subject approaches rack. Realizes she's in the size sixes and not the sixteens. Obviously tries to nonchalantly locate the right part of the rack. She looks through the clothes; slides hangers to the left, to the left, to the left. Ah, what is this? She has found something pretty and affordable...What is that look of disgust? Ah...It appears that some incredibly cruel person has been mixing size sixes in with the sixteens. That is mean. OK, she's looking....Subject appears to be frustrated...What's this? A calf-length black skirt. Ah-ha. Field note: When the shopping gets frustrating, our subject reverts to buying a calf-length black skirt. How many must she have by now? If only we could view her in her closet of despair...

The other option is jewelry. I must tell you, TJ Maxx has the most incredible jewelry counter on the planet. I buy a lot of jewelry. I make a lot of jewelry. I know what jewelry costs. I bought a pink leather, sterling, and fresh-water pearls cuff bracelet for $14.99, and it's Honora Pearls. This, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call a score of major proportions. If you check the Honora Website, this bracelet currently retails for $125. Holy shit, I know how to shop! I'd be more excited had I bought this bracelet for me, but it's a gift for an affluent friend, who, I'm pretty sure, has no idea what TJ Maxx is. Giggle, giggle, victory dance...

Shopping is my sport and my curse. This is why I always end up with the things I do. Black skirts are easy and make me feel like I accomplished something; jewelry always fits.

I've consumed 700 calories today. I'm hungry. Really hungry, but...I want to buy pants. As Colonel Kurtz would say, "The horror, the horror..."

The closet of horrors reality check

There comes a time in every (fat) woman's life when she must face the fiasco of her clothes closet. My closet has been crammed with clothes for quite some time now. It's something I try to ignore because the truth is, most of what I actually wear is in the basement laundry room.

This morning I decided to pull out all of the summer clothes from the closet, as well as anything that doesn't fit--no excuses, no wistful utterances of "someday."

This was one of the most depressing things I've done in a very, very long time. It's hard having to admit that 90% of what you own is either the wrong size or suited for a lifestyle you no longer have. After I pulled everything out, I was left with a sparse collection of gray, black, and dark brown clothes I don't even like but I'm keeping because they fit. It's a financial issue. I have drugs to pay for, dammit, drugs that are making me fatter than I've ever been.

I had some really beautiful clothes. Some things were expensive, others were just pretty, and all were well-matched to my pre-meltdown personality. At this point, I generally go for the things that (1.) fit, and (2.) are comfortable. This has left me with a mountain of clothes spread across my bed, a mountain of pretty things mocking everything I have become. I'd like to make a big bonfire in the back yard, or maybe prolong the agony by just stoking the chiminea on the patio, but there's a practical side of me that can only say, "Goodwill. Again." I guess sometimes I can be mature and not spiteful. Doesn't feel nearly as satisfying somehow.

This leaves me with two options for the afternoon. Go out and endure the humiliating and thoroughly frustrating act of trying to buy a few more outfits that are the elusive right size and cut for my shape, or just bury myself in the pile of reluctant cast-offs and blow my brains out. Dramatic! Like performance art with an edge. Oh, wait. I don't own a firearm and I'm pretty sure I'm on that list that says I can never buy one.

I know. Wouldn't it be great if instead of hauling people off to The Place for Defective and Misunderstood Brains, someone could run an intervention on my behalf and force me into an intensive 90-day program of liposuction, cosmetic surgery, and spa meals. Nothing could possibly brighten my mood more at this time.

Why, why, why couldn't I have been born with a freakishly high metabolism and a borderline-pathological obsession for exercise? My parents had four children with three fitting this description, but in the middle something went horribly, horribly wrong genetically and they produced me. I got me to live with for every day of my life. Just another reason I am compelled to believe there is no god--at least, not the kind that has any affection for humans.

I'm rethinking the autumn bonfire...

Worry, shmurry

In the course of the hour with the therapist, she asked what I thought of my schedule. I told her I still don't sleep and it's getting on my nerves. I told her I work 12 hours a day (and yet, I blog), plus half-days on Saturday and Sunday. I'm in the process of starting a nonprofit business that I won't go into here, but it's a shitload of work.

The season is changing and that is a very dangerous thing for me--I usually tank in the fall, no matter what drugs I consume. I've been feeling lonely, partially because the friends I have live really far away and nobody seems to be checking email lately. Or, they are checking it and ignoring me.

What the therapist said was that I am balancing on the triggers of brain implosion, dancing with the very circumstances that can make me crash and burn and lose my hard-earned stability. In other words, my brain is lit up like a Christmas tree and the extension cord is getting toasty.

I don't see where I can cut back. I don't want to have a meltdown, but I don't want to be perceived as inadequate, either. What I want is a normal brain with normal wiring that remains unaffected by stress and emotional issues. I want to do what I've been doing. Not being able to work would literally kill me, which would be only almost as bad as having people go back to being disgusted with me and offended by my behavior, should I have a mixed episode. Last time around, I learned that nobody cuts me any slack when I'm sick, and they all think my type of illness is willful and able to be managed through self-discipline. If I could control it, I wouldn't have it at all. BPs are really hard to love, apparently, or maybe just not worth the effort when things go to hell in a hand basket.



The therapist said one of the best things I can do for my brain right now is to get outside and get some fresh air and sunshine everyday; however, I cannot spare the time. What's an over-achiever to do??

Adjectives mean a lot

Today was my coworker's funeral. It was depressing at the start, and I was a bit shocked that the casket was right there in the church lobby, open. I didn't look at Marlene. I didn't want to see her that way. Instead, I walked to the other side of the lobby and took in the photo display that recounted the happy days Marlene had enjoyed in her life.

During the service (and the pastor absolutely rocked), there were many kind words said about Marlene. I would say they were all accurate and sincere, and not made-up, phony funeral crap. As I sat there listening, I thought, "What would people say about me if I were to die tomorrow? The list I came up with is probably pretty close to correct, but it's also unflattering.

When I got home, I made two lists. I had a therapy session today, so I shared the list with my therapist. She found it troubling. She finds my whole life right now to be troubling. Without further ado, (what is ado?)...the lists:

What they will say when I'm gone:
May was...
Stubborn
Negative
Intimidating
A Bitch
Cynical
Unfriendly
Driven
Slob
Good at motivating
Showed initiative
Sad
Irritable
Honest
Direct
Acerbic wit
Hard to know
Short-tempered
Easily frustrated
Good listener
Diplomatic
Scattered
Erratic
Angry
Overly talkative
Distant
Unforgiving
Intolerant
Self-absorbed
She was Bipolar, you know.

Words I wish they would say:
Kind
Compassionate
Caring
Sensitive (in the good way)
Funny
Intelligent
Fun
Articulate
Thoughtful & considerate
Sincere
Generous
Charismatic
Understanding
Open-minded
Dedicated
She tried hard
Loyal
Honest
Self-reliant
Good listener
Wise
Friendly
Self-aware
Undiminished by her illness
Worthwhile as a person, and not just as a person who can do things or get things done