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. 

No Money, Mo' Problems

As mentioned in my last post, those greenbacks and I have a tough time staying together. Looking back on it, however, this was not always the case. Throughout high school, my friend Ryan and I, while working random jobs, always vowed to keep a C-note in our pockets at all times. Let's just say that when Ryan, who is now making a six-figure killing at Apple, reminded me of this recently, fifteen years later, it seemed only one of us had remembered our pact.

Though I worked off an on throughout high school, I remember having enough to trick out the room with video games, music, posters, and other such accoutrements of adolescence. In college, where the traditional diet is Ramen noodles, surprisingly, my money was always right. The full ride, I somehow earned, left pops with enough money to knock out my boarding expenses, and another private scholarship via the Jackie Robinson Foundation left my with three grand per semester with which to play, and looking back on it, much of it must have been put away.

Upon graduation, Uncle Jackie was kind enough to bless me with a five figure check for my academic diligence, and a couple of years later the inheritance from my grandfather's untimely passing (which I would have happily gave back for another hour with him) matured. So there I was in my early twenties more than halfway to six figures, sitting pretty.

It wasn't until until the grave depression hit that the retail free-for all got underway. In 2005 I, not so prudently decided to part twenty five grand in straight cash on a drop top Porsche, that I remember thinking, would be my reason to, get it together, since, the money for $1500 tune-ups had to come from somewhere.

Not that I'm one to be grinnin' for no reason,
but I was about as happy as I looked with the Porsche I was sitting on.
...so much for the retail therapy/motivation it was intended to provide.

Wrong. Luckily the car was issue-free for the duration of our time together, but let's just say, having it didn't motivate me to go out and get my own in the least. In 2007, when the second manic wave hit, whatever was left over in the then dwindling account went out the window, as I maxed out credit card after credit card resulting in mountain of bills that have yet to be paid.

Not having to work straight out of college put me in a different space than my peers, to the extent that it seemed it was a early preview of retirement. Without a passion to pursue and with plenty of money in the bank, occupational pursuits seemed like a foolish undertaking. Instead, I simply tended to my own needs and self-medicated with spending. After leaving the country for about a month for a brief Eurotrip, Terrie dubbed me the man, "with never-ending funds." For a time it seemed that was the case, and in retrospect, I'm surprised it didn't go a lot sooner than it did.

One of my last hurrah's was the Jackie Robinson Gala to which I flew out Terrie and one of my dear fellow alumna, Brittney. While waiting in the lobby of the Waldorf=Astoria, I distinctly remember telling Terrie, I want to be broke. Careful what you wish for as they say, as those such as mine are easily granted. Well the plan worked, and though the last windfall came when I sold the Porsche in early 2007 (apparently buying things and selling/returning them later is my idea of saving), that money was blown on rent and the aforementioned manic spending spree that following summer.

Since I've been strapped for cash for so long, when I get it, I damn near don't know how to act. The only time I don't spend is when I can't spend. Compose yourself for heaven's sake, Chris, is what I tell myself, but I've likened it to a starving child being put in front of a buffet. Unless he has quite the preternatural discipline and foresight, he's eating like there's no tomorrow, without a concern for if it ever comes. Just as I wrote this, the ridiculousness of it all hit me (woohoo for free self-referential therapy!) It's time to act like I've been there before, well, because I have. Preternatural discipline and foresight, you say? Guess what I'm cultivating for the new year.

Pretty Fly for a Homeless Guy

If there were ever a contest for the best-dressed shelter-dweller, I may just be in the running. When Dean Martin penned his classic, "Money Burns a Hole in my Pocket," it must have been a prescient opus to the kid. Three paychecks have seen me reunited with the mall, in a way that would make your favorite fashionista jealous. Not that I have anywhere to arrange, sort, (and forget about iron), but the winter wardrobe was capped off yesterday, by a classic pair of timberlands.

In anticipation of the coming half of foot of snow we were blessed with last night, my mother asked me if I wanted some boots. Being the responsible adult that I am, I paid for half of them, and stuck my all-white Nike Cortez's in the backpack for safekeeping. Well actually, there wasn't much room in the backpack, due to a budget laptop that had been purchased earlier that day.

I justified that purchase by saying it would help increase productivity, and well it has (as I'm writing in Starbucks right now), however, the point is let's just say I've left some room for improvement as it concerns my financial discipline. This was not lost on my mother, who after seeing the laptop, and certain sartorial choices I had been making, said, "Now that you have your computer and boots, have you thought about saving?" Yes, yes, and yes.

In one of Mike Tyson's many interviews that I have committed to memory, the famed pugilist, who has also been suspected as having bipolar disorder said, "I either have to have a lot or nothing." Amen, says the choir. Financially speaking, and in some other instances as well, I have been at the mountain top relative to my peer group, or the in valley. While there are beams of light coming into the financial valley now, controlling my spending, and cultivating discipline in other aspects of my life, hoping that it will help improve my finances, is atop my resolutions for the coming year.

As it concerns my other goals for the upcoming year, chief amongst them is transitioning from the shelter to my own living space, no matter how modest so long as it is mine. My payscale helps me, "save" money seeing as how I am paid bi-weekly. Heavens know, if I was paid weekly, if I were paid Friday, I would be broke by Monday with a few hundred bucks a week. However, the decent chunk of change that comes my way every other week should hopefully suffice for a move-in on something halfway decent.

Attempting to Articulate Mania (part three of three)

In retrospect, while riding the three major manic waves, I must have been passively (and sometimes actively) suicidal, and can remember telling one of my old shrinks that if I were to somehow, someway get hit by a bus while crossing the street or at the train tracks while scouring the ground for half smoked cigarettes, I wouldn’t have minded in the least.  I once confessed to my prescriber in Berkeley, having just watched the Godfather for the first time, that mob affiliate, Frank Patangeli’s death seemed a decent way to go out (SPOILER ALERT for those who somehow may have this Coppola’s magnum opus) Though his suicide was not pictured, it can be inferred that he slit his wrists in a cold bath, presumably with some alcohol in the bloodstream to ease the pain and accelerate the exsanguination).

Again, flashback to the summer of 2007. Something told me doing a barrel roll over the bushes that crept up against the guard rail of the 405 was a good idea. I walked in the breakdown lane of the freeway for a few miles (with traffic of course, so I wouldn’t have seen it coming), took an exit, and somehow ended up in the back of a police cruiser again for eh "acting strangely." One of many 5150's (the CA code for a three day involuntary psychiatric hold) that would turn into 5250's (the CA code for a three day involuntary hold that is extended to two weeks) during that magical summer.