Things that do not interest me in the least:

• football
• basketball
• country music
• horror films
• Mississippi
• Dancing with the Stars

• dancing with anyone
• NASCAR, etc.
• coin collecting
• Sarah Palin
• flashy jewelry
• camping
• social networking
• guns
• accounting

Oh, well, of course

Upon further research, I uncovered this interesting fact: Most hard-core sugar cravings are the body's request for more serotonin. Of course. Serotonin helps the brain lift depression or even just a low mood. The reading on this was quite fascinating, and there is a lot of research illustrating this point:

This can't be good.

In the last two hours, I ate at least five mini-size Hershey's bars, plus one full, 3.5 oz. Cadbury Fruit & Nut chocolate bar. That's like 700 calories of chocolate consumption.

I've been doing this for two days, making today the third. Don't get me started on the jelly beans.

I don't usually eat much candy. I mean, I eat it, but in small doses.

The sugar cravings are almost unbearable. What brought this on? This is a serious and nearly overwhelming craving for sugar. Why would I be craving sugar? I read somewhere that sugar cravings don't exist in the physical sense; they are strictly a behavioral manifestation of a psychological issue.

As if I needed more of those.

The Book of Knowledge

Even though it's a tiny little book, I could not get through don Miguel Ruiz's slim 138-page volume, The Four Agreements. The ADD Force is growing stronger.

Despite my inability to concentrate long enough to read the book (Twitter was made for people like me), I did manage to find out what the four agreements are. Today I'm thinking about one of them in particular, Don't take anything personally. This is a hard prescription for the insecure, but I'm working on it.

A few years ago, right in the middle of losing my mind, a sadly misguided soul named Teresa came into my professional life. She believed that she was my supervisor and it was really bad timing because I wasn't even a little bit interested in being polite about the misunderstanding. For two years.

Teresa got to a point where whatever I said she interpreted as a veiled slight. One day she showed up at my office and made me listen to a voice mail I had left for her. She intended to demonstrate to me the validity of her belief that I spoke to her harshly (I didn't), and she thought that if I could hear my message after the fact, I would hear what she heard. I didn't. I only heard the same message I had left the previous day and it sounded detached and professional, but perhaps laced with a bit of weariness.

Teresa was stunned that I just couldn't see what was so clear to her. Of course, I knew what I said, so how I could I possibly be objective? I knew exactly what I had intended when I left the message, and there was no issue of interpretation for me.

This brings me to something I once told Teresa: What I say is entirely up to me. How you take it is entirely controlled by you.

And so, flipping through don Miguel Ruiz's book, I found validation right there in Agreement #2: Don't Take Anything Personally. Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dream. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won't be the victim of needless suffering.

It's a satisfying complement to something my therapist used to say when my paranoia would start to spiral into hysteria: Is that a fact, May? Look at the data. Are you sure you really know what other people are thinking?

I suppose I don't know what anyone else intends to say since, as Ruiz points out, so few people say what they mean. This is not a trait I share with most people. I have learned to temper my bluntness in the interest of being diplomatic, but a conversation with me is rarely laced with ambiguity. Why can't more people be this way? Could it be that they don't want to know what we think about them as people?

A great deal of my life has been spent feeling bad about myself. Self-esteem has been an issue since a very young age, and I struggle with it every day. This evening I was thinking about that when my mind wandered and I started thinking about the conference presentation I had to do last week. Two of my key co-presenters bailed out shortly before the conference, and one of them pretty much blew it off only 24 hours before showtime. I haven't spoken to either one since.

I'm not on a quest to avoid them forever, nor could I; I'm just waiting until I know I can speak politely and I don't sound as annoyed and disappointed as I am. I'm almost there.

Lying there on the couch tonight, I thought about whether or not Jenny and Anita have even noticed that I haven't spoken to them. Then it occurred to me that being dynamic, emotionally healthy women, they probably don't care if I like them or not. It takes a certain amount of indifference to bail out of a conference presentation you know is incredibly important to someone. Considering that, I'm pretty sure that I have neglected to consider the situation as a factor in Jenny's reality or Anita's reality. I've only been seeing it from my own perspective. I, personally, would never do what Jenny and Anita did, but I understand that just because something is important to me doesn't automatically mean it will be anyone else's priority. We are all independent agents.

Is it liberating or depressing to realize that people I know and like may not put any thought into how I perceive them? Frank immediately thought I was asking about something rooted in my insecurity about not being liked, but it's more analytical than that. It hadn't really figured into my perception of the world that my opinion of another's character, personality, behavior, or accomplishment, is not a factor in anyone's facing the day. And why would anyone care what I think of them? Who am I to expect anyone to find meaning or value in my opinion of them? I am not a judge. I am just one more person trying to be comfortable while navigating life's path. We all deserve the same.

Maybe when we all stop taking things personally, we will become truly self-reliant and emotionally detached in a way that protects us so we can achieve without criticism. Abraham Maslow would have disagreed, but even he admitted that others needed to judge the work. And they did. And they disagreed. I wonder if Maslow cared.

Binghamton

The chilling news spread like an icy wave through the refugee resettlement world. A shooting in Binghamton, New York. The American Civic Association provides a variety of services to immigrants and is also a refugee resettlement agency, an affiliate of United States Committee for Refugees and Immigrants.

We've whispered about this possibility for years. Disgruntled xenophobes, desperate and traumatized refugees, someone angry about immigrants in the bad economy. It was bound to happen sooner or later.

For the most part, refugee resettlement work is unbelievably stressful, but benign nonetheless. It is social work aiding people who have fled the horrors of war. Some people don't get it.

Innocent people doing good work should be immune from armed gunmen harboring a grudge.

I am so sad about Binghamton. Desperately sad.

Because I still don't have a tattoo

Shopping should be easier for plus-size women. Half the country is obese, but the women's section is tiny in pretty much every clothing store except for Talbot's Woman and Dress Barn Woman. Somehow, every female below a 1X is not a woman; they're ladies. I've reached a point in my life where I feel very womanly.

Shopping is hard. It's especially hard because not only am I a 16W, but I'm not quite 5'2." Petites are too short, regular pants are too long, and I refuse to hem my pants or pay the short person's tax, otherwise known as tailoring fees, to have it done.

When I get discouraged, I buy accessories. I have a lot of accessories. A couple of years ago, I gained a liking for graphic Tees and bags. Then, I met my friend Jolie who is very into tattoo art. Like me, she doesn't have a tattoo, despite the affinity for tattoo art. It was Jolie who made me aware that what I like is tattoo art. Oh.

Marc Eko bag. Somebody generic shirts. Can't afford Ed Hardy, even from Ross and TJ Maxx Last week I bought Skechers that are, apparently, designed by a famous tattoo artist. It was a discouraging day of shopping for pants. When all dignity had been wrung out of me in the dressing room, it was time to wander over to accessories.

I have no pants, but now I own these cool Skechers. Love 'em. The Koi would make a splendid tattoo, wouldn't it? The waves aren't bad, either.

69 Songs (Sleep)

Adagio for Strings____________Samuel Barber
Afternoon Postlude Soliloquy____Daniel Hecht
Air 'On the G String'__________Johann Sebastian Bach
Amongst The Ruins__________ Delerium
Angel's Flight_______________Shadowfax
Blue_____________________ Sarah McLachlan
Piano Quartet No. 1__________ Bohuslav Martinu
Bricklayer's Beautiful Daughter__Will Ackerman
Burying Song_______________Hem
Canon in D_________________Johann Pachelbel
Close Cover________________Wim Mertens
Cold Tea Blues______________Cowboy Junkies
Quiet City_________________Aaron Copland
Destruction________________Alberto Iglesias
Dreams___________________Shankar 'n' Caroline
Dropped Off At Turkana_______Alberto Iglesias
El Conquistador_____________Daniel Lanois
Finale - Last Exit To Brooklyn___Mark Knopfler
Funeral___________________Alberto Iglesias
Gloomy Sunday_____________Sarah McLachlan
Peer Gynt - Morning Mood_____Grieg
Guide My Sword____________Mark Knopfler
Gwenlaise_________________Eugene Friesen/Scott Cossu
Gymnopedie No. 1___________Erik Satie
A Happy Ending____________ Mark Knopfler
Hospital__________________Alberto Iglesias
I Thought It Was You________ Julia Fordham
Inner Sanctum_____________ Delerium
Jeux D' Eau_______________ Cirque Du Soleil
Justin's Breakdown__________Alberto Iglesias
Justin's Death______________Alberto Iglesias
Justin Returns To The House___Alberto Iglesias
Kenny Curtis______________ Alberto Iglesias
Kindergarten______________Alberto Iglesias
A Love Idea_______________Mark Knopfler
The Mist Covered Mountains___Mark Knopfler
Montana Half Light__________Philip Aaberg
Morecambe Bay____________Alex Gifford
Morning Ride______________Mark Knopfler
Myth___________________ Delerium
O______________________Cirque Du Soleil
On Every Street___________ Dire Straits
Once Upon A Time...Storybook Love___Mark Knopfler
Peace___________________George Winston
Pink Moon________________Nick Drake
Pittsburgh 1901 [from Mrs. Soffel]____Mark Isham
Polly's Dress_______________Hem
Procession________________Alberto Iglesias
Ride Across The River________Dire Straits
Sailor____________________Hem
Smooching________________ Mark Knopfler
Some Are_________________Philip Glass
Subterraneans_____________ Philip Glass
Suheylâ__________________Kudsi Erguner
Swept___________________Julia Fordham
Tessa's Death______________Alberto Iglesias
Tessa In The Bath__________ Alberto Iglesias
Theme for Naomi Uemura_____Philip Aaberg
To A Maddening Ghost_______Sara Hickman
To Airport________________Alberto Iglesias
To the Well_______________ W.A. Mathieu
Toys Not Ties_____________ Nightnoise
Triennale________________ Brian Eno
Victims__________________Mark Knopfler
Waltz___________________Hem
Warszawa________________Philip Glass
White Rain_______________Alex de Grassi
Woman at the Well_________ Tim Story
2nd Gymnopedie (1888)_____ Bill Quist

Estate planning

Ever since Padam's suicide last month, I keep thinking about something the grief counselor said. She said that most people who commit suicide don't leave a note, and those who do almost always leave rambling letters that make no sense. I had heard this before. It's addressed in Kay Redfield Jamison's book, Night Falls Fast. The problem is, I think it's a generalization. Some people leave eloquent prose explaining why dying was their choice.

The trick to writing a proper suicide letter is to plan ahead and write when you're healthy. I understand the inevitable. Death is inevitable. There is no ethical component to dying.

I've been working on my letter for some time now. Should I need to use it, it will be well thought out, articulate, and unambiguous. I believe in courtesy. And maybe having the last word.

Frank won't need to read whatever the final product turns out to be. He already knows about the intent and the reason. Other people will be sure to ask him, so I figure it will be helpful if he can make photocopies of the letter for the questioners to read on their own. Frank won't want to be pestered about this.

Having taken my huge nightly handful of pills (including extra Baclofen), I am now falling asleep. I need to go to bed before I lose the sleepy groove. It's so precious. Zzzzzz.

Adagio for Strings

The iPodNano has a lot of cool features, but lately it's the looping-repeat feature that has caught my attention. I am stuck on Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings. I think this is one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written, period.

Although it sounds like an older work, Adagio for Strings was written in 1936; Samuel Barber was only 26 when he set the composition to paper and sent it off to Arturo Toscanini for performance consideration. The piece has taken on a life of its own since then. I find that it's one of those works that most people don't know by name, but many recognize from its use in movie soundtracks. The problem with a movie soundtrack and a seven-minute piece of music is that it is highly unlikely the entire piece will appear in an unadulterated form. This work deserves focused listening.

I heard somewhere that Adagio for Strings was voted as the saddest piece of modern music. It is in the key of B-flat minor--music doesn't get much sadder than that. Still, the music is sweet and soft and each expansive inversion of the melodic theme is like inhaling deeply and feeling your emotions become more obvious each time.

This song has been known to make me cry. The first time I sat in a concert hall and heard a symphony orchestra play this piece, tears streamed down my face for all but the first thirty seconds. It wasn't the sad tone of the music, but the incredible sweetness and beauty of it.

When I can't sleep, or when morning anxiety makes it hard for me to get out of my car and make the 12-minute walk to the office, I pull out my iPod and let Mr. Barber's masterwork settle the sharp and brittle pieces of my feelings. It doesn't make me sad; it makes me calm and it quiets the traffic in my brain.

It is a song best listened to in a place free of distractions. Lacking that, medium-to-loud volume brings home the full effect anywhere. Once through may not be enough. The looping repeat is often a necessity.

Adagio for Strings is nothing short of stunning. It is one of the few things that can stop the jangling, jarring noise in my head within seconds. There's a lot lot be said for that.

ADD--does it get worse with age?

There is no doubt in my scattered mind that I have ADD (not the one with the 'H' in it). I've had it my whole life, but it was attributed to either a lack of self-discipline, general absent-mindedness, a busy schedule, stress, laziness, an inability to prioritize, and any other number of personal flaws.

I've been reading up on this, and it's one of the most common comorbidities with bipolar disorder.

One of the keynote speakers at the conference admitted to having ADD. He talked about how it affected his ability to be understood as a person when he was growing up. He talked about the issues it raises for him now. I was able to relate to so much of what he said, that I had to read up on adult ADD a bit more yesterday.

I used to have much better coping skills, but I have to say, having a big, gooey brain melt seems to have made my ADD a problem I have to deal with instead of a characteristic I used to just manage. It gets more pronounced every year. I can see that dementia won't be far behind. Or maybe I'll just finally be remembering all of the things I got distracted from decages ago, and I'll be mistakenly assumed to be demented. Wait. That didn't come out right.

Wooooah, shit.

Gravity. It's just so certain, so consistent, so powerful.

The building I work in is old and poorly designed. It has steep concrete stairs at the corner entrance. They're a little tough to negotiate on a good day, and they're especially tricky on wet days like today.

I slogged my way through the city streets and got to those doors soggy and cold. I pulled on the heavy metal door, but some pressure force on the other side sucked the door back. I was already pulling the door with my strength, as it is, and before I knew it, I was flying backward. I landed three steps down on my left hip, kept going, and crashed onto my right shoulder, finally stopping flat on my back on the sidewalk.

I did not hit my head. My hip made a noise when I hit the sidewalk, but I can walk, so I don't think I damaged anything. As the day went on, I've felt worse and worse, though. I am in pain from my shoulder to my calf. All of my pelvic-related abdominal pain managed to return by noon.

At some point this afternoon, it occurred to me to file an accident form. I went to the director's assistant and said, "Jenn, I need a boo-boo report." She smiled sympathetically and said, "Oooo. I just happen to have those in this file. Did you fall down?" I nodded and she said, "Seems like there's a lot of that going around, lately. Do you need a band-aid?"

Have I ever mentioned that I work in an unsafe building? Ah, the nonprofit life.

I fear the sight of the bruise that is yet to come.

This is the second fall down a flight of stairs I've had in under three months. Frank blames lithium. I blame gravity.

One year and it still hurts

It has been one year since the shingles outbreak. The thought of it still scares me. The pain, well, that's still here.

I'd like a new nervous system, please.
























This can only mean that it's time for the big annual conference for professionals in my field. This year, there's no travel. The conference is right here at home. I could have used this site selection last year. I'd gladly go to New York now. Of course, I'm presenting this year and my session is going to be either fabulously innovative or an unmitigated disaster. I usually don't get worked up by this type of thing, but this year my session was chosen as a spotlight session. Shit. This kind of pressure I do not need. There is no way I could have done this presentation or any other last year.

A year ago. I was miserable in New York a year ago. New York. This anniversary means that Laurel has been reading this blog for a year.

I wonder if I'll still have pain a year from now.

I saw Dr. G today for nerve block injections and more dry needling. This time it was about 30 or so stabs with the acupuncture needles, as well. Dr. G continues to be impressed with and concerned about my unbelievable ability to bear pain in silence. While she was working, I asked her how she came to choose urology as her area of specialization. She said that at med school sub-specialty sign-up, she accidentally got in the line for urology instead of neurology.

Actually, she liked surgery but didn't want to spend every waking minute of her life working. We talked about that for bit, then she asked me something about my bipolar disorder. I told her that I lost at least two years of my life to the illness, but I'm still muddled. I cannot recreate the chronology without looking at my medical records. I find that disconcerting. I called the big meltdown my "dark and dangerous time." I told her what I've said before--that had I known how bad it was going to get and how hard it would be to get back, I never would have made the journey. I also said that it's probably a protective measure, but doctors don't tell you that it will get worse before it gets better, nor do they divulge how long it takes to get stable and then healthy. It's a long time and a dangerous one, at that.

I told Dr. G how lonely an illness BP is. People you thought would stick by you and give you the benefit of the doubt, don't. Work is an almost unbearable burden, and it's hard to bear witness as your assumed support system dissolves around you. I told her I was wiser and more introspective, sadder but more sure that I have what it takes to find the answers that can keep me alive.

Before Dr. G left the room, she took my hands in hers and said, "I want to tell you something. Thank you. Thank you for hanging on and coming through that dark, dangerous time. I do know that it's very hard. I do believe you are strong and wonderful and the world is better because you are here."

Then, she leaned over and pulled me close for a long, long hug. With her head next to mine, she said, "I have some colleagues who also struggle with the illness and who made it through the dark time and the journey back to life. I see how much it takes for them to manage the illness. I know that it's hard and it takes self-love and a lot of strength to survive the illness." It was a long hug. Did I mention that?

I told Dr. G that I live with a constant, underlying anxiety that another meltdown will happen and I won't be able to get through it. I said that it takes a leap of faith to embark on a course of treatment that has no guarantee of success. She agreed and said that her colleagues had expressed the same feeling.

She put her hand on the doorknob and said, "Love is the only thing that works. Where there is love, pain will fade and we find the wellness we need. You need to love yourself, May. If you can do that, the rest will take care of itself and what you really need will come to you.

I like my doctor a lot.