June 29, 2004

Another crisis out of the way. I think it's out of the way. The worst of it is dissipating, dissolving, melting away, and we can go on now.

I think. He kept saying he was headed for this, and I kept saying, "Why? How do you know?" I didn't want it to be true of course, and kept denying it. Every day I'd say, "But you're doing so much better . . . " but he wasn't, or the fact that he was didn't negate what was going to happen anyway. Staying on an even keel is no easy matter around here.

"What's wrong?" I'd ask.

"I don't know," he'd say, in obvious pain, frustration, turmoil.

"What do you mean, you don't know? You must know." This is me being obtuse, as usual, and insisting on answers that don't exist. He really doesn't know.

He felt violent. Suicidal ideations. I'd say homicidal inclinations, but that would sound as if he's dangerous, and I've never believed him to be dangerous to anyone but himself. To himself he's a menace, his worst enemy, but I don't believe him dangerous to anyone else. At least no more dangerous than the driver of a car who has a sudden aneurysm burst and loses control of the vehicle. Hey, these things happen. That's life.

He has a few scratch marks on his face -- unintentional. He was playing with a knife, one of those bright shiny objects that are so fascinating when he finds himself deep in the pit. He didn't cut intentionally; he did that about a week or so ago. But nothing else this time, just running a knife over his face and not realizing it was a bit closer and sharper than he realized.

You think this doesn't sound normal? I'd welcome you to the club, but we're not currently taking new members.

He's coming back. It's as if he goes as far down into the pit as possible, total immersion in a world that is nothing but pain, and he must go that far before he can come back up. Maybe there's a springboard down there that allows him to come back up. It's also true that maybe, just maybe, it's not as deep as it used to be. This is a possibility, or else it's my new world view making it seem so.

The world is brighter and shinier now. Maybe it's the constant sun we've had in Seattle, something which is, for us, quite unusual. Maybe it's something else. Despite setbacks and the feeling that I'm treading water in a pool of sharks (how the sharks got into the pool is a mystery that I have no answer for), I have much hope for the future, for the possibilities that exist everywhere, for what might be. I have much hope for him, that he'll find his way, though he often has none, but he does not know himself like I do. His perceptions are skewed, just a bit off . . . more than a bit off, but all the same. He has things he is meant to do, as we all do, and he has value that he can't see.

He's emerged on the other side again. And he's becoming more independent. I often don't know what he's up to, or what he's doing, or how his ebay selling is going, because he's just doing it. This is all good. Daily check-ins are done of course, but all the same . . . he's coming along, he's doing well, despite the occasional plunge into the deepest part of the pit.

And my plunges into the pit? They're more infrequent, and manage to be dispelled rather quickly. More like a quick dip into the quagmire, then I'm out again. Of course, sometimes I'm rather spent from pulling him back out, but that's to be expected, isn't it?

I see progress being made every day. In one form or another.

June 27, 2004 -- Stew has a bad day

Sometimes it’s worse to get better. When you’re at the bottom of the pit it’s comforting knowing that it can’t get much worse. But as soon as you try to struggle to get yourself up, there’s that chance of backsliding and winding back down at the bottom. At then you have to look at yourself and say, “See, what you get for putting effort into it. You’re back where you started and you expended all that energy. Why not just save the energy and stay here at the bottom, where it’s miserable but at least nobody is trying to fling you back down here.”

Often times it just doesn’t seem worth it. I’m going to die a cold lonely death anyway, so I might as well get it out of the way. I might as well get it out of the way for the people around me. Let them mourn for me now and get it out of their system so they can have the rest of their life to be productive without me causing any type of interference. There’s very little positive that my life gives to anybody around me. After a few months of me being gone, people will be back to normal with less worry and with less burden.

That’s all my life is… it’s a burden… to those around me and to myself. I didn’t ask for this life. I don’t want it. Give it to somebody who can be more productive with it. I can’t.

I’m sick and tired of the headaches, of the vision problems, of the fatigue. I’m sick and tired of feeling like I’m a drain on people, a helpless wraith who sucks energy from others. I’m sick of taking one step forward, only to take two steps back.

I should have offed myself 2 years ago, when I still had a life insurance policy in place… at least that way Monique could have gotten something.

Maybe I should sneak into ******* to off myself. That would be fitting.

Or maybe I’ll just slip away quietly. Just disappear into the vastness of nothingness. My death being the culmination of my life – of simple nothingness.

Or maybe I’ll just order a cheese pizza for breakfast.

Stew

June 27, 2004 - I want my life back

I want a day uninterrupted by crises and events and worry about how things are, what will happen next, how is everything, what will happen next?

I want my life back the way it should be. I want to be able to work without having my energy sucked away so that I'm unable to get enough done; I can never get enough done, it is exhausting to be strong and the one relied upon and to know that this is my responsibility first and foremost, and that my ability to care for myself is compromised because this comes first, because I can always recover, I have time, I can get on with my life at any time, and there is always time for that later, and even if I have no money, lose my place to live, lose everything, I can work and get it back, so it's okay, it can all slide away while I spend time making sure he's okay, that he'll get through another day, that he has the support he needs. I operate in crisis mode too much of the time.

I want my life back.

I want to be able to do the things I think of doing, and get on with the things I've delayed doing, and move on to a semblance of independence that I know I'm capable of but haven't been able to achieve yet because my focus has been on maintenance, on standing still so we don't go backwards, on maintaining the status quo, as if we're on a cliff, and the wrong step could send us over the edge, and that'd be the end of it, the end of him, and the end of me because I'd failed.

It has nothing to do with me, I know that, but it's still what I do, I keep it going, I invest myself in this project, how can I not? What else is there to do? I won't not do it, I won't abandon him, there's no way I would do that, I wouldn't be able to live with that if I did, even if I wanted to, which I don't.

But I want my life back. I want to do all the things I've delayed doing, even those things that have been delayed too long, and I want him to be safe and secure and have a good life while doing what he should be doing, whatever that is, and I know he doesn't see it, doesn't realize his potential, just as I don't realize mine either, but I have more of an idea at least, I at least have, in the back of my mind, a picture of what should be, even if at times it seems too far off to be attainable.

I know it's there. And I know it's there for him too, but he doesn't see it most of the time, and it's exhausting.

I want my life back. But not at the expense of what he's achieved so far, nor at the expense of what he can achieve, at the independence and self-reliance he is capable of, that would be just as bad, to abandon him like that.

We do what we can. And perhaps my longing to have my life back is because of the progress we've made, because I am so much closer to getting what I want and how I want it -- and you know what? He wants his life back just as much. He should have his life back, all the pieces to comprise a whole, and it's not just him here, and it's not just me, but it's not us, because we're not us anymore. We both just want our lives back.

Mental illness sucks. That may not be profound, it may not be particularly well expressed, but there it is. It sucks. It sucks for those who have it and their friends and family.

All we want is our lives back, but for this month I'd be happy just being able to pay my bills. Next month? Next month I'll want more. I always do.

2003 - Stew speaks - Being Sad

First experience of being sad.

I’m not sure if it was the first experience or not, but I remember a time when I was playing Little League (so that would be about 4th grade or so) when I realized that people my age didn’t get what I was saying some of the times.

I read a lot of Peanuts comics, and had quite the collection of Snoopy books and stuff. There was one comic strip when Linus had a baseball hat on his head, and Schroeder said something to the affect of, “Don’t be such a clown, Linus, you’ll never catch a ball that way.” And then a ball proceeded to drop right into Linus’ glove for a perfect catch.

One day in Little League practice, we were doing some catching drills. The kid in front of me had put his glove on top of his head a la Linus, and it reminded me of the comic strip. So I said, “Don’t be such a clown, you’ll never catch a ball, that way.” And this kid proceeded to tear me up one side and down another saying things like, “Oh, like you should be saying stuff… you dropped three balls in left field the other night.” And, “You’re such a worthless player, you can’t catch anything.” And more stuff along those lines. I began to tear up and went running to the parking lot where my dad’s car was.

Soon the coach of the team came to talk to me, but I felt that I had already said enough, so I didn’t explain to him the whole situation. I figured why bother, nobody would understand anyway. Besides, the kid was right, I pretty much was a useless baseball player.

Stew

December 4, 2003 -- Stew speaks about A Beautiful Mind

My experiences with A Beautiful Mind


When I first heard about the movie “A Beautiful Mind” I dismissed it as some type of quasi-chick flick “feel good” movie that I had no interest in watching. Biographies in general don’t much interest me, biographies of old teachers really don’t interest me.

It wasn’t until the movie came out on video that I really started paying attention to it. Somebody told me that it was about a guy with schizophrenia. Interesting, I thought. I have elements of schizophrenia at times. And then my spiritual advisor, Rad Peterson, really encouraged me to watch it, so I rented it on VHS.

About an hour into it, I really couldn’t take it. I was disinterested, and the sound quality of the tape made it excruciating to watch. But I did feel a bit of kinship with John Nash. Again, Rad, encouraged me to watch it. I hemmed and hawed about it, but kept it in the back of my mind, until my parents watched it on DVD.

So I thought I’d try again, and this time rented the DVD version. This time I was able to get through about an hour and a half, and again I was overcome by how much I identified with Nash. I told Monique my troubles with watching it, and so she agreed she would watch it with me. So on my third attempt, I watched the movie all the way through in one setting.

It was about at the point where Nash had been released from the hospital and he’s sitting in his living room and he asks his wife, “What do people do?” that I lost it. I started with a massive sobbing attack, because that summed up a dilemma that I felt I had: What do I do with my life? How do I live? What if I do live to be 70, 80, or 90… who is going to be around to help take care of me?

This wasn’t the first time I identified with a character in a movie so deeply. One of the Star Trek movies, Nemesis, I think, had a deep effect on me. When Data died, I sobbed for about 20 minutes non-stop. I felt as if a brother, or a best friend, had died. So for me, identifying with John Nash wasn’t that unusual, it was just very deep and profound.

I don’t see people, like Nash did in the movie. At worst I see shadows at night, moving out of the periphery of my vision. Like when you see something out of the corner of your eye, but then you focus on it, and it disappears…I routinely have that kind of sensation at night, unfortunately it happens a lot when I’m driving. The other sensation I have is that of somebody just speaking my name – it usually comes from behind me and to my right – and usually when I’m in the store. At first I would spin around to see who was calling me, but after it happened enough times, I’ve learned that it’s not real, though it feels very real.

June 26, 2004

Another week has passed, as it tends to do, time's slipping by and I don't know where it's going. I need to find out, to get a grip on the situation, I need to get down to brass tacks. I don't know what that means, so maybe I'm wrong.

The week was marked by periods of productivity and some suicidal ideation that the patient dealt with himself. Said patient has overall been doing well, though, as I keep telling said patient, bad days are gonna happen, ain't nothing much we can do about it but keep going and try to remember that it'll pass, and that there's a reason you're here and going through this, even if you can't see it.

He can't see it, but I can, even if I can't see it clearly. Right now, there are no answers, only questions.

He doesn't like himself much right now, he tells me. I tell him to stop being silly. Yes, that's a tried and true approach that always works for me when I'm down on myself. Well, okay, it doesn't really work very well. But I tell him that anyway, then I point out some basic facts. Hopefully it helps, maybe just enough to keep him from falling too far.

He's doing really well with the massive changes going on around here at the moment. Change is hard under the best of circumstances, but he's handling it well. He's gaining some independence, becoming more self-sufficient, and is willing to do the work he has to do to retain his self-sufficiency. He's so tired though, tired of the physical and mental challenges that keep popping up. Some days he feels well, then suddenly he'll be bad again, or off. Some days it's a question of which is worse, the mental or the physical. Migraines. Stomach. Eyes. Fatigue. Then there's the lack of motivation, but does that follow, or does it precede? Hard to tell sometimes. I don't know how motivated I would be if I had the issues he has. Probably not much.

Life is just getting interesting here.

December 2, 2003

We watched "A Beautiful Mind" the other day. People kept telling him he should watch it, including his spiritual advisor. He tried to watch it by himself, twice, and could not get through it. It was too upsetting for him, struck too close to home perhaps, brought up issues that are hard to face.

They don't do coma shock therapy anymore, but it's enough to know it's a possibility.

I told him we could watch it together, that I would be there just in case. And so he brought the DVD over to my house, and we settled in to watch. He sat in his chair, the chair that was his when we were married, the chair that is still his as no one else except Dog uses it. Orvis himself has never sat in that chair, but always sits with me on the couch. I made myself comfortable on the couch, and in this position, I face away from him.

Occasionally, during the movie, I'd ask how he was doing, and he'd say he was doing fine. I reached back once or twice to take his hand, and he seemed calm.

Towards the end of the movie I heard him, a noise, a sound, and I realized he was sobbing, wretched heartbreaking sobs. I went to him and knelt in front of him, and I told him that I was there with him, that it would be okay, and asked if we should stop the movie. He said no, that he wanted to get through it, and so I sat there next to him and held his hand while we continued to watch the movie.

He was better after that, and we made it through the movie. I'm not sure what happened after the movie; it didn't really matter, all that mattered was that we had watched the entire movie and he broke down only once.

November 20, 2003 -- Stew speaks

Stew sends his therapist an email the evening of November 20th.


My mind is splitting right now. I can actually feel the effects of my mind separating from itself. My heart is racing, and I’m dizzy. I just cut myself because that usually grounds me, but it hasn’t worked.

It feels like the back of my head is spinning…a literal tingling sensation going on within my head…but the front of my head… the part of the brain behind the eyeballs is trying to stay in sync.

I feel like a caged animal, with rage wanting to smash the monitor in front of me to a million pieces, but there’s an element of humanity stopping me.

I feel like I want to run outside and start howling at the cold night sky, much like a wolf… there’s another part of me that wants to curl up underneath my desk where it’s dry and warm.

I’m going to go take a trazadone and go to bed. I will call you in the morning.


Stew

February 21, 2004

The Bear Revolt of 2004

We stop at Top Foods because I need oil for my car. I'm breaking in a new engine, I have to be careful with it, check my fluids daily. Top Foods has a marketing slant that includes many things in addition to the customary food items. Stuffed bears and other critters, for example. I have difficulty finding such an assortment in stores devoted to such things, but Top Foods is well stocked.

There's a bin of giant stuffed animals. These animals would tower over a child, perhaps causing nightmares. I am unsettled myself, seeing them confined to the big bin. We pull them up and set them so they're climbing out of the bin, ready to make their escape. Other customers look at us as we do so, but apparently we don't care.

We find smaller bears, stacked on a shelf, and we ask one where he'd prefer to be. He points to the next aisle, to the Easter baskets, and so we transport him there, and place him in a basket. Or attempt to, he's a bit larger than the basket, but he is happy.

We move on to another shelf of large stuffed animals; they're stacked haphazardly, as if no thought was given to their comfort. They're upside down, in each other's way, butts in the air and limbs askew. I set about arranging them neatly so they're happy, and manage to knock over the display of boxes next to them. That's okay though. Boxes are just boxes, after all.

When I'm done and the critters have given their approval we move on. A Cat in the Hat display is horribly unfair to its namesake, but as I set about trying to set the Cats straight I see why. The Cat in the Hat cannot, under any circumstances, sit or stand in any way recognizable as sitting or standing, so, in the end, they're just shoved back on their shelf horizontally.

Back to the bears who lost one of their own to the Easter baskets. Another one jumps into my arms, seeking freedom from the drudgery of the bear shelf. We wander, surreptitiously, bear clutched tightly to my chest. I'm sure no one will notice that we're headed for the cereal aisle. Why we're headed for the cereal aisle is a mystery, but we end up there all the same.

Bear sees his target and jumps for it. Inexplicably, it is the Captain Crunch section. Boxes of cereal are cleared out of the way, and bear takes his position right in the middle. Boxes are put back in around him, and bear throws both arms over the boxes to either side of him, protecting the Captain Crunch from those who would dare to buy such a thing.

He salutes us as we wander off, knocking one box askew, but it's okay. It lends a certain air of carelessness, as if the entire scene were accidental and not carefully planned.

We meander towards the checkout. We're not certain if we've been spotted yet, but we'd rather not be banned from yet another grocery store. Eventually we'll run out of stores, which is why the revolts are never staged in our own grocery store. That, and our grocery store does not have a large supply of stuffed animals.

Along the way we find a display of smaller bears, and when I look at one I see it has a plastic pack of some sort attached to it. I look closer, and said plastic pack should be INSIDE the bear, and not hanging outside of it. I pick up one of his peers in an attempt to figure out the mystery of the bear, and find that the plastic pack should indeed be inside, and that its purpose is to make the bear snore. As everyone knows, this is totally unnecessary since bears are capable of snoring on their own without any problem.

Attempts to place the plastic pack back inside the bear were unsuccessful, and he was left in the care of his peers, who all showed the proper concern by staring at him with their beady little glass eyes.

We made for the exit, oil in hand, secure in the knowledge that yet another bear revolt had been executed if not successfully, at least with enthusiasm.

And the car is running fine, thank you very much.

February 23, 2004 - Stew speaks

Disappearing

I'm sometimes not there.

I'm disappearing. Which, in the end, is kind of what I'm looking for anyway, but the process isn't exactly an enjoyable one. Lately I've had a number of fantasies where I become somebody else and live a life of complete solitude - where my life has absolutely no impact on anybody else, and where nobody else has an impact on me. That to me sounds ideal. I'm tired of being influenced by others, and having my existence be the cause of trouble for the people around me.

But the process of getting there isn't pleasant.

I remember Kim, at the hospital, saying to me that she had to constantly focus on me because I would "disappear." And that always threw me for a loop - how does a 6 foot 3 inch 350 pound man just disappear in a room the size of a large living room? But I guess I had this ability to be quiet and remain motionless and just disappear out of the view of others.

And it's happened to me in other places and at other times that I didn't want it to. Like last week I was visiting Computer Concepts and Sven and Robin were chatting with each other. I came in, and they both kind of nodded a "hi" to me and I quietly waited until they were done talking and Robin asked me if I was there to pick something up. I said, sure, if there was something to be picked up, and she handed me a file of stuff. And then I guess I disappeared because she and Sven resumed their conversation like I wasn't there. These are a couple of the only people I currently feel close enough to to call friends, but I was instantly outside of their periphery. Not even so much as a "How are ya doing?" from either one of them.

Even the Post Office thinks I'm not here. I forgot to pick up my mail for a few weeks, and suddenly, when I do check, I see that all my mail has been removed and there's a note in there saying "Vacant." Granted, trying to get the Post Office to leave me alone is indeed one of the things I am trying to do (I'm sick and tired of the Tuesday afternoon coupons for merchandise nobody could ever possibly want being shoved into every single mail box in the entire west coast. I'm tired of the little blue and white slips of paper showing me a picture of some poor kid who has been missing for 15 years. I'm sick and tired of being reminded every week that there is another person
suffering.)

So, that feeds into my wanting to disappear. I already am disappearing. Why not make it complete? It's not like there are too many people who would even really notice. And really, me disappearing would benefit most of the people who would notice. But there's only one problem.

I'd know I'm still here.

No matter what I do, I'd still be saddled with the same problem: me. And even as I disappear to the people around me, I don't disappear to myself. In fact, I become even more aware of myself. I become more aware of my thoughts, my feelings, my disappointments, my inactions. I become increasingly aware of how I'm not accomplishing anything, how I'm getting older, how bad my arm pits smell.

I want to disappear, but I want to do it on my terms.

Stew

May 26, 2004

Practicalities

Our mental health services suck. Stew's psychiatrist fired him -- wanted him to get more regular oversight of his meds than he could afford to go to her for -- he has a therapist he sees, and all he needed from her was scrips. But no, she wanted him to get more ongoing care, so she fired him.

Try telling someone who’s depressed and has borderline personality disorder and recurring demons accompanying the paranoid schizophrenia that people aren't avoiding you when even your psychiatrist sends a Dear John letter.

Anyway, she recommended Compass. They offer services on a sliding scale. Hah! We went there yesterday -- he was terrified, so I went along. We met with their office manager. He would, if eligible to be seen there for med management, be responsible for 50% of the cost, which can be $150 to $200 for a visit. He has no insurance of course. No DSHS. His private disability will be running out before long. Of what he gets a large chunk goes for meds and therapy/psych. The rest is supposed to cover rent, food, living expenses . . . . well, it doesn't. Anyway, so they say DSHS says he makes way too much money to qualify for med coupons.

They even sat there and told him he's one of the people who "fall through the cracks." And why? He has too much money coming in. Not enough to live on, of course. And when will be he eligible for more services? When he's homeless on the streets and the private disability checks stop. Then he can get help. Until then, they say get some private insurance. Uh huh. Sucks. I figure it's up to us to just make sure he can create and keep an income coming in, but getting there is a bit of a pain in the ass. Working on it though. I know it's possible for him to make enough money to support himself, we just have to get the right thing going and keep him at it. Some days I feel like opening my own vocational rehab. That's me. Vocational rehab, onsite support, ongoing personalized therapy.

Overloaded. Yes. So I'll deal. But sometimes, just sometimes, I get this feeling that if I'm not doing everything for everyone, that if I have my own problems, that if I need something from someone, that no one will love me anymore. And that sucks. And I'm told it's not even true, that I don't have to do more than everyone else to be thought half as good. I don't know why that's stuck in my head as solidly as it is though.

Yeah, I'm getting better at giving it up to someone higher up -- learning to trust that what is supposed to happen will happen, and that it's in someone's control who's better at this stuff than I am. Slow process for me, but I'm working on it.

April 6, 2004 - Stew speaks

In his own words
The Demons Return

I’m not sure what they want with me. It’s not like they are coercing me into evil, although they do tell me it’d be okay to off myself. But they sit back there whispering things to themselves…things I can’t hear except for a constant “buzzing” or humming sound of whispers in the background.

I think it’d be easier if I knew what they wanted, if they would just tell me what to do, than I can either obey or disobey, and I’d have a clearer picture of who I am. Am I an evil person – the type that listens and obeys demons, or am I somebody who is more righteous and strong and shuts up demons?

The evil and wicked that I have done would be heart breaking to my Lord. I fall into traps of the flesh more than a good person should. Who would want me: I have not and will not sell my soul to the Devil, but I am unworthy of the grace of the Good One.

Demons haunt me like vultures over the dead. Though I am not physically dead…yet, my spirit is dead. It’s not the death of an unbeliever, for I believe many things… it’s the death of the unwilling…of those who are too cynical to trust.

There are many of us here – all with white beards, wearing tattered sepia colored robes marching in circles around a desolate place. It’s a place of no emotion – there’s no tears, no laughter. No gnashing of the teeth, that would be far too dramatic. It’s a place of understood loneliness – a place that we told ourselves we would be happiest because people wouldn’t have to worry about us, nor us about them.

We carry our staffs to fend off the occasional vulture, the occasional rat. Yet, we might as well use them to crack our skulls and enter oblivion, but that would be too much trouble, and, as pragmatic as we are, would only create unnecessary pain.

We’ve created our own dull aching pain. A pain strong enough to make us whimper, but not enough to make us cry. A pain that we’ve told ourselves we can endure, for we’ve learned that endearing pain makes us stronger – or at least it makes us less of a loser.

Some of us have created our own pains so that we have some to carry. We felt like we needed to be mournful of something so we bathed in our own mystic misery. We actually saw the light of the goodness…we knew that there was something better… but we willingly chose to harm ourselves so that we could toil here in the land of sepia cloaks and white beards, because we somehow thought it would make ourselves more believed.

Everybody is lost in the land of white beards and sepia cloaks. Everybody is destined to wander forever carrying their staff, their burden, their suffering in silence. There is no sound in this land. There are no colors. No black. No white, except for the beards. There is sand and sepia – a bichromatic scheme that is neither pleasing nor assaulting the senses. There are no senses.

The demons are taking me there. To the unhellish-Hell.

March 22, 2004

A short entry today. Last night, on my way out to see a movie, he had an episode. A schizo moment, he called it. He was at the grocery store, and there were too many people, too much going on, people in his way, and he wanted to strike out, and he wanted to collapse in a pile in the seafood section (only because he was in the seafood section, the location was not important) and cry, or withdraw, or be alone in a sea of people. Psychotic episode number 372. Not that anyone's keeping track, mind you.

He tried to call me, once he got himself out of the store, but I was on the phone. I was still on the phone when he tried a bit later, my friend being rather the verbose type who can't seem to let me off the phone once has me there. But when I did hang up, telling my friend I really had to go, and it was also time to meet my date for the movie, I called him back. But first I called my date, who had left me a message, saying he was certain I would kill him because he was late.

As if something like that would alarm me in the least.

Then I called Stew. And he told me about his episode. And he felt better talking to me, had felt better just hearing my voice on my voicemail, a friendly voice, someone he knows won't hurt him and will listen. Often all he needs is someone to talk to who won't freak out over the small stuff, who won't exaggerate and make a big deal out of it all, but who will be reassuring and compassionate.

We joked about getting him a medic alert bracelet, something that would say, "in case of emergency or meltdown, call monique at 555-5555 or Dr Geiger at 555-5555." (Numbers changed to protect the innocent and the guilty.) I can always make him laugh. He worried about making me late for the movie. He always worries about inconveniencing me, about taking too much of my time, but there's no need for that, and I told him so.

He was safe inside his apartment (safe being a relative term, but the apartment is relatively free of demons these days) with Honey the Dog, and he would make himself dinner and he would be okay. And he is. His episodes do not last long these days, do not require intervention except in very rare cases, and it is often enough that he have someone to talk to. I wish there were others he could call in times of crisis, not that I mind him calling me at all, but I am not always reachable, I turn off my phone at movies, I meet with clients, I go on dates, I have friends over, and he does not want to disturb me at any of these times, though he may leave me a voicemail, sometimes just so he can hear my voice. Sometimes that's enough. I wish he had more of course, but we can only do what we can. It's all we can do.

June 15, 2003 and June 19, 2004

This from June 15, 2003:

It is so isolating, living like this. Spending so much time with someone whose emotions shift from moment to moment, who can go from being carefree and playful one moment to the depths of despair the next. It’s incredibly draining on me, on my psyche. I try to stay balanced, to keep my emotions up, but constantly worrying what is going on in his head can make me feel always on guard, always looking for that one thing that will set him off, that will make him feel bad. It’s a difficult way to live, for both of us.

I never know what he’ll be like, or how quickly he will change, or if he will change or not change.

And now it's June 19, 2004. I didn't have much to say that day, did I? Maybe I had more to say but was just too tired to say it, or maybe I thought I was done saying everything that had to be said. Maybe I was just lost.

But how do things look now? A year later? We have made tremendous progress, and I don't mean just his mental health. I mean mine also. For awhile there I thought I'd lose it myself, but that was last year, and that's in the past.

And the present? June 19, 2004? It's a good day. And he is better, and I am not isolated in a sea of mental instability any longer. He's not completely better of course, I don't mean he's cured, he's borderline, after all, and has what appears to be schizophrenia though there is some question on that from time to time. Severe anxiety and major depression too. He's unable to work, but he's not unable to do work. He's been selling things for me on ebay and I've been quite happy with the results so far, and in seeing how willing he is to try things and to see what he can do. He's taken the initiative in going to classes to learn more. He's slso going to be helping me with some marketing for a company I'm now involved with -- a start-up that has some great potential. I need a work change, I need to diversify, too much of one thing is too much for me, so an opportunity has dropped into my lap. All I had to do was ask.

Personally, I'm in a great relationship with a guy who is good for me and loves me, we have too much fun I think, or I would, if I were inclined to think too much fun is possible. He's gasp! sociable, and likes people, and people like him. I can take him anywhere and have a good time, and he's both goofy and responsible, an excellent combination. I'm fortunate in my friends and family, new acquaintances have been showing up and becoming a part of my landscape, and old ones are still there, and I feel in place and content with where I'm headed.

A year can make all the difference sometimes. Just a year . . . but it feels like a lifetime.

December 5, 2003

It's difficult for me to imagine what it must be like, to hear voices where there aren’t any, to see things that aren't there, to wake up, like he did this afternoon, not knowing who he was or where he was.

He went to the store, and while there the voices began again, just behind him, saying his name. He fears he's losing his mind, and he wanted to just stay right there and collapse into himself. The voices follow him. He drove back from the store in the dark, and he doesn't deal well with the dark anymore. He can't see well in the dark, the shadows are worse in the dark. He's afraid he'll lose his license, and I tell him not to worry, that he won't have to drive at night anymore, if he needs to go anywhere when it's dark I'll take him, I'll be here, that he won't have to drive at night anymore.

I tell him it'll be okay, though I have no evidence to support that. He doesn't want to lose what mobility he has. He doesn't want to lose his mind. He doesn't want to lose the somewhat tenuous hold on reality he can still claim. I don't want him to lose any of that either.

Sometimes he doesn't remember things that just happened. Sometimes he doesn't remember when he's had a really bad episode. He's always surprised when I tell him about it later. I don't tell him with the intention of letting him know, I don't realize he doesn't remember. But he often forgets, or it has passed out of his mind, or it's one of those things that he can't afford to hold onto, though he's glad when I tell him. The experience itself, perhaps, is something he cannot keep with him.

I can't imagine what it must be like to hear voices when none exist. And still he retains his sense of humor. We were walking Honey earlier this evening, before he went home, and I was behind him and chattering about something, who knows what, and he said, "I'm hearing those voices again," and I said, "Hey, that's me! You're supposed to be hearing that!" and he laughed.

When I tell him I don't hear voices so I can't imagine what it's like he tells me that I hear voices also, but I just ignore them like I ignore everyone else. And he laughs.

We make morbid jokes about insanity and schizophrenia and BPD. Anyone listening to us might think we were insensitive and cruel if they did not know that he suffers from schizophrenia and BPD himself. We can joke and talk like that because he does have it, and it helps to keep the horror at bay. Making fun of the big bad monster makes the big bad monster somewhat benign, or at least not as malevolent, not as scary. But it is scary, it is malevolent, it is spiteful and mean and unpredictable.

We take it one day at a time. The meds help, but they don’t eliminate it. He has gotten worse; better in some aspects, less prone to psychotic episodes, but still, it seems the shadows and the voices are worse, the distractions, the ability to drive at night has definitely become worse. His ability to function is better, as long as he stays within the necessary guidelines, and I think that is from practice, from experience, from learning what is possible and what is not, something that is obtained only from time spent living with the disease.

And we continue. We live our lives. He does the best he can. That is all anyone can ask, isn't it?

January 11, 2004

Yesterday was Stew's birthday. He turned 33. I don't even remember turning
33 it was so long ago. I'm sure I did -- I had to in order to get where I am today of course. Conveniently, it was a Saturday.

First on our agenda was Stew's weekly meeting with his therapist. The therapist had invited me to come for a session before, and this time I went. When Stew had told him last week that I'd come this week the therapist had said, "Great! This will be interesting and fun!"

Interesting and fun? He must have heard how I'm the life of the party.

This therapist has been much more helpful than the previous one. He recognizes aspects of himself in Stew, and he enjoys his intelligence and wit. We'd spoken before, when Stew has had disassociative episodes, psychotic breaks, and I've consulted him for courses of actions, but we'd never met.

The session went well. Due to client/therapist/caretaker privilege, that's all I'm going to say. This is an area that only Stew can talk about.

After that we attempted to run an errand for me, but met with little success. Sometimes that's what happens, life's mundane activities that MUST be done. We got something to eat. And then we returned to our homes . . . his morning meds take a heavy toll on him. We'd go out again later to go shopping, to make the trek to look for cool stuff.

And so later we ventured out into the world again. I had gift cards from Christmas and he had one from his birthday. Two for Best Buy, two for Barnes and Noble. Two of our favorite places. It was a win-win situation all around.

The crowds . . . well, let's just say there seem to be way too many people with nothing else to do than go shopping. Rather like us. The other day we'd tried to go to Barnes and Noble, but it was at the end of the day, when Stew's defenses are not as strong, and the gridlock at the Best Buy/Barnes and Noble shopping area, which also includes several other major stores, was daunting. And I knew, like I sometimes know these things, that he wouldn't be able to handle it, that the overstimulation would be too much for him, and so we decided to come back another time.

This time the gridlock was much the same, perhaps a trifle bit less congested, and I believed him to be in a better place. We went to Best Buy first. He ended up getting a computer game, while I bought myself a cheap tax program since I'm outsourcing all my tax work this year (but I still need SOMETHING) and two CD's, Sibelius and Rufus Wainwright. One mission successfully completed.

Then Barnes and Noble. I had two gift cards for B&N, so I was going to buy him what he wanted, and something for myself. After all, I had plenty of gift card money to spend. We went our separate ways, we don't look in the same categories, the same genres. I can often find him in the religion section (Christian fiction), or the literature/fiction section, or new releases. I head for the bargain books first.

Waugh. PD James, Schwarz (Drowning Ruth). Then I headed to lit/fiction, where I found Stew. There I picked up two Virginia Woolf's. Stew ended up with two books. He never buys in the same quantities I do. I saw a few more I wanted, but five was probably enough. Stew found two he wanted; he just doesn't shop in the same quantity I do, but he was happy. There was a balance left on one gift card, and I gave it to him to use at his leisure.

He bore the crowds and stimulation well, though needed a break. I needed one myself. We went to our respective homes, and I told him to take a nap. I attempted, once again, to do some client work. I'm always attempting that.

Stew talked to his dad for quite some time. And eventually showed up again. We decided to go to The Keg for dinner, a spendy steak house that we like. (To those of you who are vegetarians, I sincerely apologize for my steak lust. I have tried to overcome it and dabble in it infrequently, but all the same . . .)

We went early, to avoid the massive crowds that would show up on Saturday night. 5:00. We're like senior citizens who go to early bird dinners. We don't really care; being trendy is not in our lexicon of goals. Not much to be said about dinner, except that the food was awesome, and Stew really enjoyed it. No dessert, who had room?

And then we returned to my apartment, doggie bag in hand for Dog. Stew arranged a plate for Dog; I had to laugh when I saw how he had taken a salad plate, put some baked potato in the middle, then arranged slices of my former steak around it. I half expected to see a parsley garnish. We are not trendy, except to amuse Dog.

We sat around. We watched some tv. I took a nap. And at 10:00 he went back to his apartment, after saying it was one of the better birthdays he'd had in years. He also received email greetings from friends of mine he doesn't know, and he so much appreciated that. He says I know really nice people, which is true.

Sunday morning was not so good for me, though I consider it a slight contretemps in my otherwise contented (seeking) existence. Stew's mother contacted me by IM as soon as I logged into my computer. She often does this. I turn on my laptop and take the dog for a walk while it gets itself going. When I return I find that she's already initiated a conversation, as if she's been waiting for me. She asked how I was.

I said I was fine.

She asked if I'd made carrot cake for Stew. The previous week she'd told me I had to make carrot cake, his favorite. Then she'd told me that there was a cake mix in the package she'd sent him. I'd said, "good, that'll make my job easier," and she'd replied that no way could I use a package on his birthday, I had to make it from scratch. I didn't understand this logic, but I rarely understand her logic.

So I told her no, that I hadn't made any carrot cake at all. I'd considered it, but it was far down on the list of priorities.

She asked if I was making one today. Considering what else I need to do, some of which consists of seeing a client and working on others, it's not entirely likely.

She never asked what we'd done for his birthday. She didn't ask if he'd had a good birthday. All that mattered was that he didn't get carrot cake. I felt chastised, as if no matter what I did, it wouldn't be enough. I might as well tell you that Stew has parent issues, and even though they're great and even helpful with financial support, they still tend to treat him, and by extension me, as a child. I have parent issues also, with my parents, though that's a different story altogether.

Sigh. Stew is much wiser than his parents give him credit for. He says he does not need carrot cake; he enjoyed the time we spent together, he enjoyed our activities, he had a great birthday, despite the lack of carrot cake, which he said all along was not a big deal, if a deal at all. I have noticed, despite his mother's insistence that he can have a good life only if carrot cake is involved, that Stew, while he does like carrot cake, does not consider it mandatory in living a fulfilling and enjoyable life. And he's the one who's mentally ill.

June 18, 2004

This is the beginning. Technically, not the beginning, but more of the middle. The Diaries have been an ongoing project. Mental illness. Schizophrenia. Borderline personality disorder. Manic depression. You've found it all, right here. Not all at once, not in complete detail, but parts that have made it part of my life since my friend Stew became ill. Stew was my husband, and is now my friend. He was my friend before too, of course, which has made this process easier, if the process can be considered easy at all. Easy or hard, that's not really the point. The point is, he lives with this every day. I look after him, make sure he's okay, keep him off the streets. This has not been particularly easy on me, but I wouldn't have not done it for anything. I am glad I have been able to do it, that I have had this opportunity to help him and that he has also been there to help me through it.

It's a mutual protection society we've created. It's a journey we did not set out on willingly, but there it is. Sometimes these things just happen, don't they? Much has been written in the Diaries, so we'll start with previously written pieces. Current pieces will be inserted. This will not be chronological . . . but each piece will be dated. C'mon, it'll be more fun this way . . .