The Times That Try: A Scholar in Crisis—Part I

It's hard to believe that September is already past its midpoint, much less that fall has finally come once again. This is, in part, due to the fact that still-summery weather had only recently—and so suddenly—been replaced with the cooler days and chill evenings that presaged the impending arrival of autumn. Still, there are some warm days left in the forecast yet, and the summer has seemed longer, in many ways, than those of some years past. The quietude of June seems a lamentably distant memory. Indeed, it seems impossible to fully detail the events of the previous three months and their combined effect without enlisting the help of a novelesque backstory replete with specific dates, locations, and various dramatis personae. This season has truly been a dark one, and an integral chapter in the overall book that has become my life.

A bad moon's rising...

Although one of my aims as a writer has been to openly explore the struggles I endure as a sufferer of Bipolar Disorder, I must admit that thus far I feel I've barely paid lip service to the daily battles waged by myself—and others like me—against this debilitating condition. For my part, I'm fortunate enough to face only rarely the still-prevalent societal stigma with which so many mental health sufferers are confronted on an all too regular basis. In truth, the fight against this stigma is every bit as important as the fight against mental illness itself, for, as long as the afflicted are maligned for the very fact of their sickness, the pursuit and potential success of treatment will remain hindered, if not impeded entirely. To live under the conditions which these maladies impose is challenge enough; to do so in secret, as if in shame, is to invalidate so much of the dignity and humanity to which we earnestly cling, and of which we risk losing sight altogether.

I believe it is with these tools—what dignity and humanity I can muster at any given time—that the invisible prison walls of social stigma can best be dismantled. Dignity, humanity, and candor. The story of my summer is very much the story of a life lived under the pendular whims of Bipolar Disorder, and it is hoped that, by telling it, I might offer more than a simple update on my life as a writer. Although I must, for reasons beyond my control, remain vague in regard to certain details, I should very much like to convey the severity of the season's tumult, its debilitating impact and, finally, how it is I found myself back on solid ground.

A Case History (Abridged Version)

Life is, in many ways, a conspiratorial procession, a summation, of the events and conditions which, over the course of its unraveling in time, come together to inform the steadily changing concept of the Self. As Sagan remarked, "If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe." So it is with people, though we of course tend to excise the portions of our own stories which predate our births. While I've no wish at this juncture to present a thorough exposition of my mental health issues over the course of my entire life, I should like to preface with the most immediate—and ongoing—portion of that journey.

The current course of treatment began nearly a full seven years ago, and represents the longest such term in the 25 years that have elapsed since my first encounter with professional mental healthcare. Though at first I had considered myself to suffer only from severe and persistent anxiety, after sorting through the background noise of several aggravating factors it was deduced that an underlying thread of mood disturbances facilitated the majority of my issues, and I was diagnosed with Bipolar II Disorder. In short, am subject to sudden, often inexplicable shifts in mood, vacillating between sustained bouts of depression and startling fits of hypomania, which while not as severe as full-blown mania still presents enough disruption as to contribute to the condition's overall unstable and debilitating nature. After suffering adverse effects at the hands of a variety of medications, which only served to exacerbate my condition, it was decided that my treatment would be comprised solely of regular therapy sessions. Over the course of the ensuing years I have been exposed to various forms of psychotherapy, all of which proved fruitful, and all of which were administered by one extremely capable therapist—until earlier this year. 

I understood fully her reasons for leaving, and sincerely believed that she should have been—and, as best I could manage, was—afforded the freedom to depart without concern for my ability to continue my progress with her replacement. Still, the transition period represented an extremely turbulent time for me. My life during those first six years of treatment had been riddled with upheaval, and on more than a few occasions it was the consistency of my regular therapy appointments which helped me survive, hopping from one appointment to the next like following a stony path over churning waters. In the uncertain time between my last session with her and the building of a functional rapport with my new therapist, the instability of my condition began to grow to unmanageable proportions. It has been an almost miraculous bit of good fortune that her replacement has proven every bit as capable as she had been, but this fact did not emerge until tested by the events that transpired this summer.

July

As July approached, a sense of excitement and optimism began to build within me. It has, historically, been a good month for me, particularly these past few years. I had finally established a steady rhythm after the months of uncertainty surrounding my therapist's departure, and had distanced myself sufficiently from a number of other troubling events which had thrown the first half of the year well off its intended course. This sense of relief was noticeable in every aspect of my life; it was if the sun had finally risen after months of darkest night. Sleeplessness gave way to full nights of rest; a constant nausea subsided and the joy of eating returned; after allowing months to lapse without writing a single word, I suddenly found myself tallying over 10k words that I'd characterized as exactly the sort of work I'd always dreamt of doing. After months of intolerable malaise, life had finally become livable again. And so, as I awaited July's arrival, my mood continued to brighten until, just days from the first, it finally erupted into the most severe hypomanic episode I'd suffered in years. 

While in the throes of a hypomanic episode, I am fortunate enough to avoid taking full leave of my senses; this state is lacking in the grandiosity of mania. However, I do become possessed of an amount of energy that far exceeds my capacity for containment. There have been many instances in which this aspect of the condition has come in handy, whereby a mild hypomania, triggered by a sudden realization or the generation of a rare good idea, facilitated a level of productivity lacking in the weeks or months that preceded it. There have been many more instances, however, in which I merely became too excitable for my own good. Rational thought is dispensed with, and poor judgment reigns supreme until the repercussions set in and bring me tumbling back to earth. The hypomanic episode that occurred at the end of June was neither middling nor extreme, but sufficient to leave me feeling exhausted for the few days that followed. 

The exuberance of that single evening left me weary, and emotionally raw. I remember the psychosomatic manifestation of the plummet quite vividly: my body aching and weak, my extremities numb, my heart feeling heavy and drained. Though on the mend two days later, I was still extremely vulnerable, having not yet found firm enough footing to contend with much of anything, and certainly not what eventually transpired.

It's here that I must resort to an obnoxious degree of vagueness. Given the presumably ongoing nature of the situation, it might not be in my best interest to go into fullest detail. Hopefully, it suffices to say that I witnessed a transgression being committed against those close to me and, despite having seen said transgression as it was in progress, have yet to find a just and proper resolution to the matter. You see, there's more to being an eyewitness than mere seeing. Although what I saw was plain enough for the average person, in the very technical and specific court of law it would, apparently, not have been enough. It took no more than a few seconds after hearing this for the self-recrimination to begin: I could have done more. I should have done more. I could have done a better job. It was my fault that nothing will come of this.

Of course this line of thinking is both natural, and irrational, yet it persisted. Helping to pick up the pieces in the aftermath of such violation, burdened with an entirely unchecked sense of guilt for my failure, and all of this being experienced in the raw and vulnerable post-episodic state...I was thrown headlong in the opposite direction, into an anxious depression which arrested my thoughts, abolished my focus, and left me unable to escape a compulsive revisiting of that day's events. Even in my sleep, I attempted to pursue the culprit, and even in the best of those dreams I still failed. Convinced by my therapist that no feeling can last so long as we hope or fear it might, I waited as patiently as I could for an abatement of this agony, always mindful of the month's impending closure, as a duration of longer than one month could mean a state of post-traumatic stress. I had to be mindful of how far I allowed this damage to go, lest it become just one more unanswered crime added to the list.

But there was hope—near the end of July, I found I could make it through most of the day without obsessing or brooding. I began to sleep again, and dream my own dreams. Before the month was out, I even experienced an entire day on which I all but fully forgot about these things well beyond the scope of my influence. Rational thought returned. What's more, August would bring with it a closure to matters that predated this terrible event, and would force us to leave the entire scene behind. I felt ready to move on, to move forward. As relief finally began to set in, I turned an optimistic eye to the new months' arrival—and was thus entirely blindsided by the new, and far worse circumstances it held...

Rising still...

To be continued...

Summer's Fane – A Season in Progress

It's been in introverted/introspective time here at the Fane—quite a bit going on, but little to actually report. As was the case last year, summer feels as if it should be a season of growth and activity, of the sort that takes me outside and into a world of self-made adventure. This is as much for my writing as it is for my general health. The fresh air and sunlight don't just boost my mood, they help fuel my imagination, and they serve as a wonderful backdrop to what will hopefully become compelling scenes and plot points in future works. Maybe it's the warm weather, loosening up the creative muscles that are too often cramped and frozen in place; perhaps it's just the playful spirit which harkens back to summer vacation of childhood years past. At any rate, it feels like a time for activity, as if those creative juices should find their impetus in the bright summer sun—in reality, I've never spent so much time indoors.

Even in the arctic blast of a winter we endured, I still managed to get out more often than I have been as of late. It hasn't been the sort of seclusion which featured heavily in years past, however—I'm not avoiding the outside world, but rather finding myself simply more focused on activities here at home. I've been writing a great deal more, some of it proving upon review to be the sort of work I've always dreamt of doing. And I've been reading regularly, a habit I had only too recently lamented having let slip. Another habit I've let slip, with even more fierce recrimination, is blogging. It's been two full months since my last post, and I should like very much to see the end of 2014 without another such lapse. So, that having been said, I think an update is in order, before these recent bout of writing takes me over completely, and/or fishing season makes for another long hiatus until autumn arrives.

On Writing and Routine

I've long desired to become the sort of writer who, possessed of a certain degree of discipline, worked precisely when he meant to, and not according to the fickle whims of his inspiration. Much as it thrills to work under the direction of one's Muse, it's a far from reliable method. I've found that it's important to take heed when inspiration strikes—ideas have a pitiably short shelf-life—but it's also integral that I establish a regular routine, so that by sitting down with pen in hand I am in fact triggering the creative process, letting my brain know it's time to get down to work. 

As has apparently become a summer tradition, I'm once again reading about Ernest Hemingway. I offer neither defense nor excuse, at least not at this juncture. There is, I believe, as much to be said for the man as against, but that's another blog post altogether. For the moment, what matters are reports that his habit was to wake early in the day, so as to be at his desk by 6am. He would write until roughly noon, then tackle other important matters before heading off to the bar in the afternoon. 

Anyone who knows me knows full well that it's not generally in my nature to live according to a sensible schedule. My sleep cycle is haphazard at best, but as luck would have it said cycle happened to sync more or less with the average person's schedule. During this time, I made use of those quiet morning hours, and put Hemingway's method to the test.

I have yet to implement an alarm, as being jolted awake in the wrong phase of sleep can leave me feeling out of sorts for an entire day. However, provided I get to sleep at a reasonably early hour, I wake similarly early, and go about the day in this manner: First and foremost, I avoid media. It occurred to me that the programming axiom "Garbage In, Garbage Out" applies just as well to writing stories and the like—starting my day observing the outrage over Kendall Jenner's wardrobe choices just isn't conducive to the work at hand. So, foregoing Facebook, Twitter, and the news in general, I start with a light breakfast, and then head straight to my writing desk to start the day's work.

Would that I could add more detail, for anyone who might be looking for inspiration where their own routines are concerned, but that's honestly the long and the short of it. Wake up early, skip the drivel, and dive right into the work. I've added keeping track of daily word count, which has been helped encourage me by showing me just how productive I've been. I've also begun making use of the #WriteClub hashtag and participating in word sprints whenever the opportunity arises. Maybe there's something more to it, but I'm loath to over-analyse it. At the end of the day, I'm writing more, and I'm writing better. And, when I'm not writing, I'm doing a great deal more reading...

Everything Old is New Again

I feel at times more guilty than the average reader when it comes to revisiting favorite works as opposed to entertaining new titles or authors as often as I should. I make it a habit to re-read The Time Traveler's Wife every September, for example, and apparently enjoy reading Hemingway's works in the summertime. As I did last year, I'm reading Henry Miller, although last year it was the third book in his Obelisk Trilogy, Tropic of Capricorn, whereas this year I'm reading the first, Tropic of Cancer. But, as my introduction to Miller via Capricorn led me to my exhaustive study of Hemingway, this year I've been led instead to the works of Anais Nin, in the form of Anis Nin Reader, edited by Philip K. Jason. I've also been led to a painful and startling revelation: I don't read enough by female authors.

The reasons for this egregious imbalance are many, and again there might be cause for a separate post dedicated to exploring what amounts to tacit sexism on my part. For the moment, all I can do is protest my innocence, and declare an effort to rectify the problem. Thus far, I've read P. D. James's The Children of Men, with an eye on reviewing its laudable cinematic adaptation, and I've acquired Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale, which I plan to read once finished with Cancer and the Nin Reader. As these initial re-readings lead me to new territories, they will hopefully continue to encourage me in this way to grow not only as a reader, but as a man. 

On the Horizon

As the summer rolls on, I do expect to find myself venturing out of doors more often. So far, the heat has never been truly intolerable. I expect to acquire my fishing license in the next week or so, and it'll take more than a few trips to the lake to satisfy the urge to fish that's built up over the course of the year. I've amassed a sizable workload where Page to Screen reviews are concerned, and would like to begin adding blog posts to my daily routine. While I'm not entirely satisfied with my efforts to keep to my New Year's resolutions, I do feel quite close to the mark, which is good enough for me. And although I'm off the standard sleep cycle again, and spent the entire night awake, I managed to apply my new routine regardless, adding another 2,600+ words to the month's growing total. With the day's work effectively done, I think it's time for one of those outdoor ventures—it is a beautiful summer's morning, after all.

Dewey's 24 Hour Read-a-Thon: Mission Accomplished

It should come as no surprise, how difficult it is writing anything of merit after so many hours spent cramming the words of others into my head. Between the cerebral and physical exhaustion, and the elation of having successfully completed the reading of two books (where last year I failed to finish even one), I'm properly knackered. But it's a good feeling. I eschewed much of the interaction I enjoyed last time around, which was a sacrifice, but this decision was, ultimately, the key to my success. And though I may not have had as much fun with the many fine people sharing in the celebration of Read-a-thon, I did experience a tremendous degree of joy in proving to myself, once again, just how much I love to read. 

My second choice, following on the fanciful heels of The Invention of Hugo Cabret, was the inimitable classic, The Princess Bride. Not much, I trust, needs be said about a story so deeply ingrained in the pop cultural zeitgeist, owing so much to the brilliant cinematic adaptation with which so many are familiar. I'll likely cover the title and its on-screen progeny in a page-to-screen review in the near future, but for now I think it sufficient to say it was every bit the "Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure" promised by its title page. I'm glad to have finally given myself the excuse to read it, years after having acquired it and set it aside for a special occasion. 

Read-a-thon is, and always will be, a special occasion all its own, and while I hope to avoid setting too high a standard for myself in the future, much as I did in this instance, I do expect myself to sleep before the event begins, so I can do even more reading in the allotted 24-hour span. For now, I think I'll be content with what I accomplished, applaud all that was accomplished by my fellow Read-a-thoners, and rest my eyes a little while. There's no denying the fact that I'm taken by my love for literature, and I'll no doubt find myself looking for yet another book to read sometime shortly after waking. 

Dewey's 24 Hour Read-a-Thon: The Invention of Hugo Cabret

 
From the very outset, it was clear that Brian Selznick's award-winning novel, The Invention of Hugo Cabret, is a particularly fascinating volume. While always aware of the caveat against judging books by their covers, this novel's colorful and ornate dust jacket was like a beacon the first time I saw it, gleaming with promises of a worthwhile story. The volume itself is no less wondrous, filled with fantastically rendered pictures and oddly lain text, printed on surprisingly thick pages, bound in a simple yet distinguished cover...it truly is a singularly impressive book, and all this without mention of the story itself.

Hugo Cabret is a story about hope and dreams, set in a world that seems sorely at a loss for both. The titular character, Hugo Cabret, has in his 12 short years suffered no small amount of hardship. An orphan, he lives hidden in the secret recesses of a train station, keeping watch over the station's three dozen clocks. He resorts to thievery in order to stay fed, and to continue work on his main focus in life: the repair of an automaton, the completion of which was once the goal of his late father. Hugo's pursuit of this end eventually gets him into trouble on several occasions, but also introduces him to Isabelle, the ward of the toymaker from whom Hugo has been stealing parts for his mechanical man. This new friendship opens the door to a number of other introductions, troubles, and triumphs. In the end, Selznick's novel is every bit as heartwarming as it is gloomy, and the promises of its resplendent cover are all fulfilled.

I'm tremendously glad I chose to read this book as my first today. Lately I've felt the need for something lighter than the usual non-fiction on my reading list, and though Hugo Cabret was far from fluff, it still left me feeling uplifted, for which I'm thankful. Between its well-crafted story and the quality of its equally well-crafted binding, I wouldn't hesitate to recommend it to anyone, regardless of age. I have yet to meet an adult who has completely lost contact with their inner child, and this story will not only appeal to that aspect, but bring it out. We all still dream, after all...

Dewey's 24 Hour Read-a-Thon: The Best Laid Plans...

Given last year's lapse in Read-a-thon activity, I should have expected a similar hiccup the second time around. After struggling to sleep, due to my excitement over the coming event, I managed a small nap just as the sun was beginning to rise. I fully intended to waken a few hours later and tackle whichever book happened to be my first choice; instead, I awoke roughly 8 hours later, feeling thoroughly groggy, and more than a little guilty. It's now over 10 hours into the Read-a-thon, but I'm finally on task. First up: The Invention of Hugo Cabret.

Admittedly, this borders on the verge of cheating, as the book is comprised largely of illustrations, rather than text. But there's a quality to the illustrations and their purpose which requires the reader to pause and consider each scene. Much of the story is told through these expert drawings, the depth and detail of which is matched perfectly to the imaginative text they accompany. While it's true that I chose this book first for the likelihood it would be a quick read, it's also one I've long wanted to read and, as it's turning out, one which I've long needed to read. I'll need to finish before I can offer a proper analysis or final judgment, but for the time being it's a captivating and thoroughly delightful story. 

Reading and stumblings aside, I must say that, despite my middling progress, the day has still been remarkably its own. There's a celebratory tinge to the air, as if even the mundane tasks of the day are made better by the fact of this being a holiday of sorts. Much as many voice a wish that the holiday spirit could last year round, so too do I find myself wishing this enthusiasm for books—and the gleeful sharing of that enthusiasm—could be a regular theme of life. And perhaps it is, to a degree, but never more so than during a Read-a-thon. It really is a shame to have missed so much of it, but that's in the past now. The day's a-wastin', best get back to it!!!