Coming to the Table

I have been working harder in being consistent at writing in my journal. My greatest fear is of one of my greatest weaknesses; consistency. I hesitate to take on volunteer opportunities, to engage in ongoing commitments, because of my fear that I will not follow through. This is a fairly new problem, since 2004, my second breakdown. I guess it’s not so new, but it’s still a problem.

One of the traps that I have consistently fallen into is commitment. I begin a simple task, like taking notes for a committee. Suddenly I find myself in a place of perfectionistic over achievement. Obsessing about details, checking, re-checking, and re-checking again. This is my neuro-chemical downfall symptom of bipolar. Or maybe its just a character flaw. I don’t know.

So, I hesitate. I deflect requests to become involved. I lead a fairly solitary life. But now, I have to face the fear. The coping tool of not getting involved, not getting invested, has left me feeling that I no longer have the discipline to complete any ongoing task. Even a recent bathroom remodel took me three times longer than expected, and was much more a mental drain than a physical one.

So I now I find it is time to challenge myself. Am I willing to come to the table? Am I willing to commit to writing? Every single day? EVERY SINGLE DAY? Not to write the great American novel in a month, or a year, or ever. But to show up at the table every day, for five minutes, or an hour. Just to get there, and as the books say, “get [my] butt in the chair.”

Can I let go of the fear of the crash and burns in the past, the fear of failing in the present? Can I try again?

Can I? Will I?

We’ll see.

Rolling the boulder uphill

Life sometimes is unmanageable, no matter how simple it may seem to others.  A daughter in college, struggling through first semester with an anxiety disorder as well as developing mononucleosis, doubles the strain on her as well as challenging Mom to keep her healthy, motivated and keeping her scholarships active.  A son in high school, also diagnosed bipolar, whose half-time father tells him to ‘man up’ and outgrow his need for meds so that he can go into the military and not waste money by failing out of college.  A relationship between a man and woman, challenged by a combined total of five divorces and a mutual unwillingness to put the teens through the stress of yet another step-parent. The death of a parent with Alzheimers, and the mutual assurances that it is for the best, yet painful.  The economic challenges of surviving on disability income without making the family feel deprivation and uncertainty.

And yet, somehow, it works.  There is compassion, and mutual understanding, and joy.  There is laughter and love, challenges and successes.  But the existence, the day-to-day struggle, the never-ending appointments with therapists and psychiatrists, the unending medication refills; no matter how well this day has been accomplished, the ongoing burden of bipolar will be there in the morning.  And sometimes, it feels like the battle will never end.