Brief Update.

During the last week temperatures have dipped (to a balmy five degrees this morning), and it seems the bitter cold has paralyzed my productivity for the time being. As things stand now, my main concern is staying warm and out of the way of the folks at the cramped, congested, overly crowded, and increasingly foul shelter. A couple of incompatible goals if there ever were some.

Last week however, I did put together some very random thoughts that hopefully will form the groundwork for the memoir. My goal is to have something full length and publishable before I would have had my Ph.D. (assuming normative time, Spring 2014). Now let me never speak of said memoir again, until it is complete.

Diagnosed

"Bipolar. Extremely manic to be precise," That was the diagnosis that required about thirty seconds of Dr. Henderson’s sustained observation. His professional demeanor seemed a bit shaken, if not altogether troubled and wholly disturbed by the mass exodus of verbiage, equal parts desultory rant and enraged black thought that was the culmination and height of my first episode as he called it. But this was not a TV show, it was my life, and it would be for the better part of the next decade.  

He had but one question for my concerned parents: “Is he always like this?” My parents, who put aside decades of marital distance for their son in crisis, were nonplussed by his query, and equally shaken by my recent behavior. 

Certainly, I was not always like this, in fact, all reports pointed to mania's diametric opposite. Considerations of my countenance and comportment from my earliest kindergarten reports to those who knew me well had always began with that terribly vague word, "quiet." In retrospect it must have been the 23 years of calm before the storm, the eye/I of which would be topic of many a discussion involving from those close to me to detached clinicians. 

Maybe it was genetic predisposition as my mother's brother, Darrell, is bipolar, and was also diagnosed in his early twenties. Whatever the case may be, no one, least of all myself saw it coming, or if anyone did little was made of the perfect storm of unsutured angst and unexpected circumstance that bore my first steps into troubled waters. 

In retrospect mentions and recollections of a dyadic personality were noted by my mother as she recalled these aforementioned teacher reports that always had me pegged as acutely quiet, very studious, and always respectful. She told me of how she nearly asked the teachers at their subsequent conferences if they had the right child identified on paper. To hear her tell it, as soon I as came home from the academic bootcamp the same child they had pegged as "a pleasure to have in class" threw toys and caution to the wind, roughhousing with my sister Jessica, and raising the decibel level at our quaint Jamaica Plain duplex somewhere between jackhammer and jet engine. Certainly this was not the keeper of the inside voice she had been informed.

Embracing Stability

As of a few days ago, I hit the one month mark at the shelter. Combine this with close to two solid months of work, and you have the recipe for stability, at least relatively speaking in my case. While there is an impending move in a couple of months, at which time my three months of shelter-dom will have expired, I have come to realize that this is what stability feels like. At first it felt incredibly predictable and terribly monotonous, but after some thinking, it seems this is what normal people do on the daily. For someone whose only stability has been instability for quite some time, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t require some getting used to. Part of me feels like I should be awaiting the next step, the next move, the next big thing, but the part of me that craves normalcy and a return to a certain level of functioning realizes the necessity of said stability.

I read somewhere that once incarcerated, especially at a young age, inmates will mimic the incarcerated lifestyle to which they had become accustomed on the outside as well. It struck me that there is most likely a corollary with my circumstance as well. After being “locked down” in any number of institutions across three states, there comes with a tendency for flight and preparation for it. For whatever reason many of my manic episodes have seen me purge close to all of my possessions at any given time, inclusive of, but not limited to clothes, jewelry, electronics (e.g., phones, video games, DVD’s etc.), furniture, and personal affects either by giving them away, many times to perfect strangers, or by simply tossing them in the trash. While the point of this entry isn’t to psychologize this particular behavior, because it does seem so out there, I’ll just say the purging helped me find a measure of control during periods when I had little control over anything else, with my mental stability being atop that list. However, as it relates to my flightiness, this ongoing process of destroying and rebuilding ad nauseum made picking up and moving at a whim all the easier.

Since I am resolved to establish myself, I am doing all that I can to keep things stable because there are certain things that I do wish I still had, despite my preference towards minimalism. Starting over again and again can be burdensome in its own right, to the point where the excitement of newness has yielded to the tedium of stability. Though it feels like groundhog’s day, and will until I move out of the shelter, this period is giving me a chance to 1) save money 2) embrace the camaraderie of those around me and 3) enjoy the sense of pride that comes with doing things without having to lean on family and friends for assisted living situations.

My everyday routine looks something like this.

1)      Get up at 6:30 AM

2)      Leave the shelter by 7:45 AM at the latest (usually earlier as I get antsy or annoyed with the cramped congestion of the morning)

3)      Take the bus to the library and chill there until it’s time to go to work

4)      Return to the shelter in the PM, and prepare to do it all again

In between there is a lot of waiting and walking. The former has given me patience as I am often forced to wait for places to open, buses to come, and shifts to start. The latter is my newfound preferred mode of exercise, one that is cheap, peaceful, and a metaphor for life. Outside of work, I probably walk a couple of miles per day, and though it’s slow (relatively speaking, despite my typically speedy gait) with one foot in front of the other, eventually I reach my destination.  That’s how I have come to see my goals in general; they are coming to fruition, gradually materializing upon the horizon of hope and happiness.

The Dream Team

Despite feeling constricted by the cramped quarters at the shelter, my social worker, Antonio, reminded me how much progress has been and is being made. Though as of late it hasn’t been as easy for me to recognize strides, with  the productive pre-holiday trajectory tapering off around the week of Christmas, he was quick to note that how my overall demeanor and diligence as it regards filling out application after application (e.g., for  housing and transportation), have brought me to a juncture far removed from where I was even a month ago. As always he helped to reframe the plateau that I’m currently experiencing as a place to bask in the comfort of no longer having to worry whether things will work out at the job (I was voted on the team, after a 40 day probationary period).

Things are slowly becoming routinized at the shelter, which for the sake of stability bodes well. Despite having a backlog of paperwork to fill-out and file, my temperament has remained upbeat. Though it is far from ideal, the living situation is only temporary. Furthermore, it is an improvement and an upgrade from my previous dwelling as far as my mental hygiene and sanity are concerned. I have two months left to save money before my time at the shelter expires, and to that end, I saved nearly one hundred dollars out of my last paycheck for six hundred. Thankfully, with the tapering of the productivity has come with it a familiarity of having money and means to the extent that it doesn’t burn a hole in my pocket. I cleaned out my cubby at the shelter, and folded all of my clothes to find that I had done quite the job finding the winter sales at every outlet within bussing distance. There aren’t any items on my wish list that are worth delaying the prospect of having my own place in a couple of months, which feels incredibly good to say.

I would be remiss were I not to note that the dream team is in place. My therapist, Francis, has always been exceptional during the two years or so that we have worked together. We did about a year together pre-Atlanta, and have worked diligently since last Fall towards maintaining my wellness. Though the thought is hardly new, the company you keep, especially for those in situations similar to mine, is incredibly important and instructive in determining the course and of things.

My prescriber is excellent as well, and she rounds out the diverse team that has my back. She is a younger white woman, with all the credentials in the book (though I am not sure of her institutional training, just what is intuited from our monthly meetings suggests she is top notch). My aforementioned social worker, Antonio, has a positivity and expertise that belies his young age.  Francis, who bears a striking resemblance to a young (albeit taller) Bruce Lee, has what positive psychologists call, a high vegal tone, meaning he is without fail or effort seemingly is always upbeat and cheerful. Though getting to appointments puts me at the mercy of the cold and the bus schedule, these are my clinical anchors for whom I am grateful. On the job front with some effort and the kind ways of my co-workers the attitude I once had, “Work to make money, not friends” attitude has dissipated, and were it not for me misplacing a co-worker’s number, I would have had an outing to list atop my updates.

I am happy to report that I click with all of the people with whom I have chosen to surround myself. The links in the chain are all equally strong, and the chemistry amongst the variables in the equation seem to be setting up for a most productive reaction.  

Revised Writing Goals

My hopes, as they concern writing, are to continue to do so primarily through blogging, with the ultimate aim, of at some point, having enough quality material submittable for publication. Though my writing expertise has, in the past, been primarily critical per my academic training, my aim is to muster the creative energy to begin with a memoir (a sample of which from something I wrote nearly a decade will soon be posted as soon as I download the necessary PDF-to-word conversion program). Though my creative wherewithal can be developed, I figure the best well to write a memoir, is to, well write a memoir. Though this may sound glibly ambitious, I figure if I put my Nike’s on and “just do it,” as the slogan says, pieces will slowly fall into place.

While this is a blog functions as dropbox of sorts for my thoughts, there is nearly a ream of PDF’s that have yet to be converted from the archives (physical), as well as an infinite supply of psychic resource that has yet to be drawn upon.

The process will be active and retroactive, meaning that as I continue to write over the next year(s), the final draft so to speak will be a refined synthesis of material posted here (cut and pasted in some semblance order of course), as well as more original material used to fill in any number of necessary blanks. I will continue to post consistently, so as not to put the proverbial cart in front of the horse. Gradual exposure of the blog and my name, a route that would lead to the aforementioned end, would suffice if less circuitous measures prove difficult to secure. Though the publishing world is foreign to me, a number of people whose expertise would lend itself to this shadowy domain have thankfully availed themselves, their resources, as well different opportunities to me.

Were it not for the sustained and continued support and inspiration from everyone ranging from my earliest elementary school teachers to later graduate mentors, dear friends, to unacquainted blog readers, this goal, however lofty, would never have even materialized, so thank you all for a confidence which otherwise may have been very well absent, as we proceed from this juncture.

Our gifts are something that were once described to me as the things we do best with the least amount of effort. While writing is a pastime and passion of mine honed through a lifetime of practice, institutionalized (i.e. academic) and free-flowing (e.g., unstructured outpourings that you are likely to find here), that may, in my case, suit this definition, it doubles as a privilege as well. The ability to express, to speak to those who may be affected and for those who may be afflicted by the contents of these utterances, stands not as a weighty responsibility, but as a honor to have been received.

The most recent US Census indicates that 12-13% percent of the population self-identifies as Black. Approximately 4.4% of that same American populous has been diagnosed with bipolar disorder according to the Archives of General Psychiatry. If you do the math, these markers of identity dually strike less than one percent of the population (though it is difficult to say how many Black Americans go undiagnosed due to any number of factors such as obstructed access to and distrust of the healthcare system).  When compounded by those who are both willing and able to speak candidly about their experiences this number dwindles even further and varies indirectly with the aforementioned grandness of the privilege it becomes to give voice. All this is to say that the market, for a lack of a better term, for minority mental health is one waiting to be claimed from the bastardized spaces between stigma and shame.  

Some say efforts to publicize the personal are brave and courageous. To classify disclosure as such is one way to term them, but holding on to or hoarding my experiences and insight gleaned from them would strike me as terribly selfish in another light These things happened, and as, matter-of-fact as it say sound, if they provide a lesson and/or a laugh to someone who may be in need of either, who am I to deny whatever audience may be out there. And though it took many a torturous year and many a manic phase to squeeze the lemonade of out these perceivable lemons, as the vision and focus are defined further, the journey itself becomes that much more appreciable.

This black and bipolar intersection strikes me as one whose uniqueness forms the ground for a story, and others like it, that are waiting to be told. If my efforts embolden even one other person to tell their own story, sway from trial to triumph in their own life, or even seek help then my expectations will have been exceeded in the most exquisite of fashions. 

The Four C's (of Wife-Finding)

Just like there are the our "C"’s of diamond buying (color, cut, clarity, and carat for those of you who may be unfamiliar), I decided to come up with my four "C"’s of wife-finding. After stepping up the wardrobe as detailed in an earlier post, the ladies seemed to have taken notice, and I’m not talking just any women here, I’m talking cute ones, the ones worth writing home (and to y’all about). Though the "C"’s I had in mind were not based on phenotype, the operative word in the preceding sentence, "cute", may be a good place, albeit perhaps a shallow one to start, as its fresh in my head. 

Cute – Honestly, I’d prefer cute to hot any day, the simple reason being that with your typical hot girl, comes typical hot girl ego, which requires typical hot girl ego maintenance on her partner’s part. Sorry, I’m not the one and have zero patience for the nonsense. In fact, I’ll take it a step further and say, if caught on the wrong day, I’d just as soon wipe my ass with a pretty girl’s ego as I would stroke it (assuming there was just provocation of course). Besides, chances are the girl next door, knows where your bedroom is, if she hasn't been in it already. (Disclaimer - Let's be real. We are well-dressed social animals with naturally borne impulses, many of which are sexual. Said impulses rely on a modicum of attraction along any of several dimensions - the most pressing and salient of mine are listed below. As it regards the physical however, let's not pretend that there's hasn't got to be at least something to spark the initial interest)

Character – While I’m certainly not looking for nor expecting a saint, finding someone who a sense of integrity, dignity, and self-respect, and a demonstrated ability to keep her thought, word, and deed in alignment is simply a non-negotiable. Even if she’s somewhere closer to the sinner side, if she hasn’t rectified and reconciled with her past  and shown the ability to handle her scandal, then I can’t do nada for her. To borrow from Denzel in training day, you’ve got to have at least some dirt on ya to make the cut. If you're frontin' like you're an angel to protect some virginal notion of desirability you can save the lies some for someone whose sucka-hood will permit it. 

Love and its ever-present counterpart loyalty are found under this umbrella for the intents of this rubric as well. While it’s difficult to test and/or gauge the depths of someone’s love, I’ve gotta be able to feel it, and in terms of the love/loyalty bar, it’s been set very high by those to whom I’ve entrusted my love. For the sake of others' privacy, I'll save some wild examples, but lets' just say, I’ve seen girls go to hell multiple times with gasoline draws on for the kid. These days, I don’t find myself needing discernible proof that my partner would do anything as it only spoke of my own insecurities. I’ll spare the next one all that trouble since I’m all about self-possession these days. I will have the next one know however, that I was raised relationship-wise, off of hood love, a good love, and if a woman is not bringing the former or at the very least a form of the latter, she'll be detected and dismissed immediately. 

Compatibility – If she’s going left when I’m going right, then it just won’t work, and certain things like such misdirection can be sniffed out from jumpstreet. If she’s going down while I’m going down, then hey, we can travel many a mile down route 69 together. Bad sexual innuendos aside, compatibility in terms of our goals, values, and expectations of each other, ourselves, and the relationship must be discussed prior to anything serious happening. In terms of conversation, without a sense of humor, witty repartee, and a love for all things topical, ranging from colorful ghetto humor to critical Gramscian insight, we might as well save each other’s time.

Cool –With everyone from adolescents to academics musing over its meaning, it’s certainly a tricky one to pin down denotatively. To me this one is a lot like that old definition of Porn. You’re not sure how to define it, but you know it when you see it, or in this case, sense it. Sqaure bears and Miss Prissy USA candidates need not apply. Loudmouth extroverts can also see themselves to the door. In fact, anyone without the proper energy, can exit stage left.