This is it

Adoption and Self-Knowledge

2009-12-17T00:48:00.000-08:00

I have been rather distressed the last two months. And frustrated. October began with Anita Tedaldi’s piece on the N. Y. Times about the why’s and how’s and most impotantly the justifications of terminating the adoption of her ‘Adopted Son’ and the responses that bombarded the Internet.

Then in November with the U.S. marking the National Adoption Month, the issue of adoption became the focus of some, often prickly, discussions. Each day I grew more and more amazed by the sheer intensity and energy of emotions demonstrated by those involved in the adoption process.

In effect I also got caught up in the heat of it all and drafted ideas from all kinds of perspectives. There are now three potential articles saved on my desktop, but each of them reflected the same unpleasantness that while revising I found distasteful.

Like many, I was also disturbed with the story of little ‘D’ - a story of compounding injudicious actions that added further trauma to the life of this unfortunate boy. Although now that he has a good home and understanding parents, he has a chance to heal.

The fact however remains that with some self-knowledge on Tedaldi’s part, together with more sensitivity and responsibility exercised by the social services, the child would have been saved the mindless trauma.

I do hope that her article does not start a copycat trend in disrupted adoptions.

Adoption is a very personal matter.

Adoptee, birth parent and adoptive parent—each has their own perspective. Then the involvement of the coordinating agency adds a whole different angle to an already complicated story.

It is not easy to be objective about relationships that are so essential to our existence, that are so instinctive and natural that we enter them without thinking, and that are burdened by a mythology of superlative ideals and tremendous expectations.

Perhaps as a result of everybody wanting to achieve that ideal, ‘adoption’ now seems to have become a microcosm, a self-contained world with a vocabulary that only communicates at cross-purposes.

I like to smile. I find it easy to smile and I think others find it easy to smile with me too.

But I haven’t been smiling much the last few weeks, because I am an adoptive mother and for the last fifteen years I have also been a post-adoption counselor.

Chanting

2009-12-01T07:49:00.000-08:00

When I stopped working full-time, I joined a comparative philosophy class (very convenient, same lecture and discussion three times a week and three units every week. Could be done on the same day all together or spread over a week. Pretty good arrangement, don’t you think for a person with chronic health problems?). I also spent time reading the scriptures of various religions with guidance from the men and women who are qualified to teach their subject and do so as part of their duties at the monasteries and missions. They were wonderful experiences that I will share in another post.

I don’t know what attracted me to the subject because I had spent the first twenty-five years of my life happily indulging in thoughts and activities that even a very indulgent monastic would stop to consider saying, ‘ Ho ... hum!’ to. :)

Anyhow, after about a decade or so of pottering and digging, seeing all kinds of people and visiting all kinds of places, I sort of began to arrive at an idea of the approach to life that suited me personally. Life encompasses times and circumstances that are completely unpredictable and not always pleasant, and to be able to give of oneself with grace through it all one needs the constancy of personal integrity.

The word Personal is very important to me.

No two people can approach life similarly. Emotional and spiritual advancement may be the final goal that we wish to reach, but each of our journeys is different.

So after trying to find my way to a better understanding and expression of myself, I put together a stream of thoughts into a verse that now inspires and carries me from moment to moment.

As this blog is also the reflection of my thoughts I’ll write it down.

I will respect how I am perceived.

I will respect what I perceive.

I will respect what I imbibe.

I will respect my physical being.

I will respect my intellect.

I will respect my spirit and my further advancement into the spiritual world.

I honour the Material World.

I honour Energy, for my life and the life around me.

Together both of You are the Universal Life Force.

Together You are my life.

Together You lead me to You.

You lead me to Integrity.

You lead me to the Truth.

Bless me so I can experience You.

Bless all who teach me of You.

Bless All who speak of You.

Let me find peace within and around.

I chant these verses to myself often - last thing at night and first thing in the morning as a routine and then at all times of special joy, crisis or sadness. Sometimes I chant them just for the contentment they create in me, when I feel the world is just right.

Chanting calms me. I find it soothing and centering.

Like many others, I am not ritualistic. But I can appreciate the appeal and often the beauty of rituals, and I can understand their purpose.

I find that the rhythmic singing of words limited to a set of repetitive notes in one pitch help at once to lift my concentration from the immediate. The familiar words set to a tone in a single pattern frees my mind from the effort of remembering so I can visualize what I speak.

I have found the notes, rhythm and the pitch I am comfortable with. It is based on a particular style that I have grown up with and ‘though I never had ever learned or participated in organized chanting before, I found it easy to teach myself and become familiar with in little time.

This method has worked for me the last five or six years. I am alert to other possibilities that may be more fulfilling, but for now this works.

Dear God

2009-11-28T21:59:00.000-08:00

I came across some notes I had scribbled when I was in grade V11.

I found this.

Dear God,

You are weird. I don’t get you. You don’t add up.

You are the Controller of the earth, the fire, the wind and the rain.

You are manifested in the earth, the fire, the wind and the rain.

You are the earth, the fire, the wind and the rain

You have laws that we mortals should live by, but You make and break them at will.

Yet the belief is that living by Your laws will get one to Heaven – where a lifelong of pleasure or salvation awaits.

We sin if we don’t obey and if we repent and ask for forgiveness we are forgiven. It is supposed to be that simple.

Is it?

Now when I am nudging fifty, I know better intellectually,

That’s not enough though, is it?

Raking Up the Past

2009-11-28T05:50:00.000-08:00

Does therapy really work?

I don’t mean of the kind where one needs to be working through present issues, - like I need to see a therapist to spew out my frustration with my daughter’s behaviour, she is being treated for OCD (obsessive, compulsive disorder) with an anti-depressant and has gone hypo-manic.

I mean for some of the terrible things that may have happened in the past.

I started to write a blog about a series of events that caused me misery when I was a child. It would have been a textbook detailing of a child’s emotional and then sexual abuse by irresponsible, insensitive relatives who were unfortunately the guardians of the child after the mother died of cancer.

Except for one-liners to state the incidents to my psychiatrist so that he was aware in case he ever needed to take them into consideration to prescribe my medications, I have never mentioned the details to anyone.

People perceive me as an optimistic and emotionally strong person and depend on me as a sounding board when they are in a bind. I have never wanted anybody to feel sorry for me. So I have never spoken to anyone.

Since I am writing my blog under a moniker I thought I’d write about those days, but I just couldn’t handle it. I was miserable and had to stop as I felt I could spiral into a depression.

IT WAS FRIGHTENING.

My memory is shot. Much of the details of those times I have forgotten completely. I seem to have always dealt with the unpleasant in life by sweeping those events well under the carpet. As a result I have lost years of my life, but very possibly coped better. My optimism is part of my spirit, but it has caused me much of my memory.

It’s the preferable trade off.

I am Learning to Accept

2009-11-26T06:46:00.000-08:00

I am at the bottom of the ‘career’ options ladder now. I feel pretty good here. Contrary to the misgiving of others and myself, it’s not been difficult, not numbing. Not easy … but easier than hard.

One struggles while coming down the steps. Living high up on the ladder feels good. Bloody madness, but a kick all the same.

It’s flattering.

One’s ego begins to swell up into a personality so out of reach that one has to dig deep to find the reality. For a lucky few, the reality emerges from within. The struggle then is less prolonged, less exhausting.

I am one of those lucky ones.

As one climbs down to the lower rungs it takes a while to adjust. It can be either a descent into the well of a loss of self-esteem or liberation from a misplaced one.

I found myself right at the bottom – with some previous indication of what was to come, but finally without a choice.

I had been for long wanting to get out of the bubble I had created around myself, which had slowly begun to trap me in.

And without touching my consciousness my mind and body had both started to rebel against the lifestyle that personally for me should never have been. So subtle was the progress that it took me a long while to make any sense out of it, to know that my expectation from life had to change, that the bubble had begun to shrink. Then one day there was a plop and the bubble was gone.

It was unpleasant, disorienting and disappointing. To be ambitious and successful, that is the mantra of the world I was used to. To give up meant I had dropped out.

For months I floundered. A whole new identity needed acceptance. Introductions needed to be made, dates set up, compatibilities found, adjustments done.

Love at first sight is not what I experienced with the new me.

Yet one day I found there was more air around for me to breathe.

I can’t ignore the pain and the fear of what I will be up against every time a new symptom appears in my body, as it very often does. The frustration with the results of the laboratory tests is never easily accepted. Battling the side effects of the drugs is not a good feeling.

Most of all I hate living with the constant fear that my mind will suddenly go awry. That is something I will do anything to prevent.

All the same, I like the quiet of my mind.

I am free from the worry and the restlessness of many, many obligations and duties that weighed me down before.

I like the fact that now I have the time to be able to learn a classical language and read the old literature that always held a fascination for me.

I can now watch endless tennis on every time line without worrying about being unable to wake up and tired in the morning (the ATP Masters finals are on now). :)

Am I happy?

Yes. At a cost, but considering everything – it’s a good deal.

At least for now it is.

I am so Embarrassed

2009-11-22T02:29:00.000-08:00

Its Sunday morning here.

There were some really good friends over for dinner last night.
I went down to meet them late as it is difficult to leave half way through and these days I can't deal with company and conversation for long these days. (Lupus)

Very sweetly they suggested I see this herbalist who has cured ...
I flipped.

I have tried every kind of treatment possible. Herbal, mineral, naturopathy, homeopathy, magnetic, colour therapy, stone therapy, charm bracelets, worships, prayers in every religion. I've travelled to different cities, met holy men, - woken up at ungodly hours. All of this has done myself more harm than good.
I just can't cope with these thought any more.
I know they all mean well, and I am grateful, but I still got frustrated.

Anyway - I called this morning and apologised. They were really sweet and pretended they didn't know what I was talking about. But I do still feel bad that I got at them.

Today I'll just stay home and sleep, watch the first round of the ATP Master's final that starts today and then if I have the energy write a bit for my blog.
There are three entries I have in mind, but haven't had the energy to write them out.

I will also try and be nicer to people and thank them for wanting to wish me well.

She is Special

2009-11-20T05:56:00.000-08:00

There were many ideas for future blogs that I planned to write.

But this has to take precedence.

Every life has to carry it’s personal cross, the kind of cross that can challenge the core of it’s existence.

My recent entry to the blog world has opened up to me lives and experiences of those whose courage to go on no matter what is unfathomable.

What I came across yesterday was one of those.

At one level it is more then sad, at another just amazing.

This is about a 26-year-old mother with four children and a charmed life full of loving people and idyllic surroundings that she takes pains to create and sustain.

She herself is wholesome and pretty. She even has freckles on her cheeks.

When the youngest child was not yet one, she and her husband went flying in a small aircraft with the person who had taught her husband how to fly. Someway into the flight the engine stopped. They were lucky that this was near a hospital that specializes has one of the best burns unit in America.

But within twenty-four hours, their instructor friend died of complications from his burns.

Her husband was in a coma for five weeks or so with 45% burns. She had 83%. 83%!!

Her husband was released from hospital a couple of months before her. One side of his face is scarred.

It was six or seven months before she was able to come out of the hospital, with severe disfigurement. Her children who had been looked after by her two sisters wouldn’t look at her, come close to her for months.

Surgeries after surgeries happen to help her mobility, to rebuild her appearance.

It is only last month that she could get herself to post photos of her self on the blog. It is absolutely heart breaking.

She posts about her physical and mental trauma, about how every moment, every movement is a reminder of the life she has lost. She has to struggle to remind herself that behind that destroyed appearance she is who she is and always will be.

But she also posts about the fun breaks she takes with her totally loving extended family. She shops and goes out to eat – she does not hide herself – that in itself requires courage. Being stared at for all the wrong reasons is never easy and will never be easy.

They talk of the time before the accident as BC and the time after as AC.

Her husband has been by her every step of the way, looking after her, loving her through it all. The entire family got together to throw a party on the anniversary of their accident to celebrate life.

I have no words to describe her faith, her courage and attitude to be the best she can be to the world around and to herself.

She has , thrown parties before the ‘back to school’ day, made Halloween costumes for her children. She has flowers on her dinner table every day. She is in love with all those babies that are being born in the family. She wants it to be her turn now.

A very important support for has been her faith in her ‘Father in Heaven’.

Cheers girl! The world would be poorer without you.

Bipolar Does not Make a Genius

2009-11-16T00:24:00.000-08:00

I received an email today – something that is doing the rounds. The aim is to sell a book,

Apparently people with bipolar disorder are God’s gift to mankind.

I thought I’d write a summery, but it is just too tempting to share the cringe of the original, so I’ll quote the text I was sent.

“You are amazing. Many do not understand your bipolar nature; but

you can rest assured ...

The bipolar experience is no more than this:

A heroic soul born inhumanely sensitive,

desperately in need of true connection.

Add to your brutally sensitive soul the overwhelming need to

heal, create, and transform -- so that without the outpouring

of honesty, the creating of music or poetry or something of

meaning your very breath is cut off ...

You must create, must pour out your entire being in each and

every encounter. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency you do

not feel truly alive unless you are risking everything through

your divine expression.

Thank you for having the courage to create ... to transform ...

to be ... in a way other souls don't.

For without your courage and your light

the world would grow listless and dull

and the rest of us who are like you

would not have your courageous acts”

Checking against the above I surmise that I am mundane. I am also an unimaginative, insensitive, cynical, godless human being with a hardened soul and am a coward to boot.

Yet I have bipolar disorder - many years of treatment to control it has not done me any harm, which had I not been, certainly would have – and I cannot believe anyone could be irresponsible enough to air such utterly inane, unsubstantiated opinions as quoted.

I’ve been there – right after my diagnosis, struggling to validate my existence by optimistically comparing myself with those ‘bipolar’ celebrities whose names are floated on the Internet. Thinking myself special, thinking that I would change attitudes. I wanted to be another Mother Teresa.

I read all those ‘biographies’ of creative genius, - expressed in novels, poems, songs - all the angst, the misery, the suffering of the misunderstood soul, - that happily for the human love of tragic drama ended in delusions and the final self-destruction.

Instead of trying to face the reality of my unhealthy mind and concentrating on bringing it under control, I indulged thoughts of achieving greatness. I wasted valuable time and energy chasing a nonexistent goal.

So I’ll go out on a limb and say that writings like the above are dangerously tempting to people who have recently been diagnosed with bipolar to believe in. Because I know. At a time when they are totally vulnerable, fighting hard to find the strength to cope with living, trying to find an identity, in many cases facing social prejudices and stereotyping, these ideas are cruel traps. They glorify all that is unhealthy and ruinous.

You know what? I have come to the conclusion that I am an average human being with one or two above average aptitudes, the same as any other average human being.

I am no genius. I don’t get an automatic entry into genius-land; in fact I would not even qualify for the qualifying rounds. Bipolar disorder does not give me any special advantage or a head start. Having a malfunctioning neurotransmitter affects my nature, but it makes me who I am – lock, stock and barrel.

It is an easy equation:

Isis + Bipolar = Isis with her own abilities who has bipolar

As is:

X + any incurable but controllable health concern = X with his/her own potentials who also has …

Bipolar is a mood disorder. The symptoms vary in aspect and degree.

I admit that when I am ever so slightly hypo-manic, I may function better than I would ordinarily, but it would be relative to my own abilities, not that of others.

That is the time when the limits of one’s talents can be stretched. But that limit is restricted to the individual’s potential - meaning I’d love to be A, but I cannot. I am a product of my genetic wiring and the environment, so I can only make the most of myself.

When there is a little more mania I begin to think I am the ultimate. I throw noisy tantrums, create major drama and think everybody else in the world is a nitwit.

All the while others think I am an embarrassing, arrogant, irritating imbecile that they can’t move away from quickly enough. They don’t tell me that, but when I touch down again, I know.

A full-blown manic episode, apart from making an undignified mess of me would knock me side ways and off the radar. I could pose violent danger to others and myself.

And when I am depressed? I am dysfunctional. I don’t want to wake up.

It seems there is nothing to look forward too, no hope for a future. My mind becomes frozen.

The depth of depression obliterates everything. Living so sorry, so pitiful a life seems not worth living.

So at neither extreme am I a gift to mankind. At both extremes I am apt to lose consciousness of even my existence.

Neither state makes a pretty picture.

But when I am a ‘normie’ I am rather pleasant. Average. With shinning eyes. Really.

The question always at the back of my mind is that when I am stable who is it that I really am?

Am I a personality created by the drugs or is this how I am genetically and environmentally meant to be? I never can be quite sure.

No ‘pundit’ yet has yet been able to convince me, so I am still chasing an answer.

Public figures with bipolar are often cited as how bipolar can make people into over achievers. But lets be realistic - they are who they are because of their talent, because of their drive, because they can make the most of where they are, and when they are there, and if you believe in the element of luck then put in some of that to the mix.

To avoid misunderstandings – while it is true that a person who is slightly hypo-manic can, in that window of time, seem to be driven, but the drive that a lot of people have has nothing to do with bipolar. My sister is driven and she is does not have bipolar. It is her nature.

I believe that bipolar disorder can and does stunt lives. I know a few of those lives.

I think that technically there can be people who are able to be objective about their moods, and can use the edge of the extra energy and keenness that comes with slight hypomania to be more productive and add an extra dimension to their life or work. But that kind of insight is very rare, and I have not come across it.

Needless to say it works both ways – positive or negative. One person can create while another destruct. That again reflects back to the source of their potentials. Also, the same person can be both positive and negative with a similar degree of manifestation at different times of their lives.

So lets not do injustice to those supremely gifted personalities.

Lets not put their achievement down to bipolar.

Hans Christian Anderson, Charles Dickens, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, Edgar Allan Poe, Robert Louis Stevenson, Mark Twain, and Virginia Woolf were sublime writers who had bipolar disorder. Lord Byron, Ralph Waldo Emerson, John Keats, and Sylvia Plath also suffered from manic depression.

Everybody knows that Vincent Van Gogh had bipolar disorder, as did Beethoven and Robert Schumann. Then there are Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison.

Winston Churchill, Benjamin Franklin, they battled with it all their lives.

But they all had the genius to do and become what they did.

Bipolar did not cause, create or control their talent.

They had bipolar.

Bipolar did not have them.

They also had genuine ability and talent.

So please, please, anybody who may be diagnosed with a health problem, any health problem - stop chasing the impossible. Concentrate on getting better and who knows, with a healthy body and mind you may well turn out to be a genius - a true genius, not because the illness has given it to you, but in spite of it.

Nothing Like Chronic Illness to Teach Humility

2009-11-12T09:19:00.000-08:00

To put this entry into context I have to mention that I am diagnosed with both Bipolar and Lupus. The formal diagnosis followed years of severe symptoms and misdiagnosis.

Chronic, progressive illnesses that cannot be cured, only kept under control, have changed the way I live absolutely. Before what I could do and afterwards be sick, are exactly those that now I can’t do so I am not too sick. I stop before I even start.

I have to plan every activity, edit all emotions I initiate or may be at the receiving end of. The activities must not involve stress, strain or sunlight, the emotions shouldn’t cause anxiety, stress, depression or mania - now all that generally add up to normal life - so bye-bye normal life.

But what I have found is that living does not have to be copybook. Limits can open up opportunities that would never have been considered before. Limits bring with it humility, one has to then get off one’s high horse. Ambitions that were driven by the lack of understanding of real abilities and bolstered by a misplaced ego have to be given up because they become too stressful and cause too much anxiety.

It takes time to adjust, to think things through. Its best to imagine the worst scenario, so anything to keep that at bay is an achievement that is earned in baby steps, testing the water as one goes along.

I started writing this blog in September, a full six months after I became largely house bound. Soon it will be eight months.

Writing this blog has been more therapeutic than formal therapy. The mind has a way of coming up with solutions once it has accepted the question.

Notion of Achievement

2009-11-08T10:21:00.000-08:00

To put this entry into context I have to repeat that I am diagnosed with both Bipolar and Lupus. The formal diagnosis followed years of severe symptoms and misdiagnosis.

But what I have found is that living does not have to be copybook. Limits can open up opportunities that would never have been considered before. Limits bring with it humility, one needs to then get off one’s high horse. Ambitions that were driven by the lack of understanding of ones real abilities and bolstered by a misplaced ego have to be given up because they become too stressful and cause too much anxiety.

I started writing this blog in September, a full six months after I became largely house bound. Soon it will be eight months.

Writing this blog has been more therapeutic than formal therapy. The mind has a way of coming up with solutions once it has accepted the question.

I Rock!

2009-11-07T12:19:00.000-08:00

A friend H worked with more than two decades ago called him to invite us over for his wife’s 50^th birthday. H told him that I was not well, ‘had been home since March and wouldn’t be able to make it, but that he’d certainly go. The friend then asked to speak to me.

He possibly thought I’d be quiet and reserved, and there I was happy to hear from him, happy to be speaking to him. He seemed surprised and commented on it.

And here’s the shocker! I told him that - it was just as well, because it would’ve been awful to be stuck at home and miserable at the same time!

I actually told him that. I mean it was not something I had prepared for or had ready to make a dialogue of if the occasion arose. It was a thought that came to me just then. It was absolutely spontaneous.

I have truly been happy since.

For a Bipolar person with a history of deep depression, - who is in an acute Lupus flare and so a great deal of pain, who is stuck in the house for months, when even short visits to the doctors make her feel worse, - to be genuinely cheerful and able to say that she is happy, rocks.

Yeh…! I rock!

And I refuse to give my psychiatrist any credit.

The flipside: -

- Monday and Tuesday evening I went to see my sister dance. Anybody who reads my blog will possibly remember that I am the very proud elder sister of an exquisite dancer. She doesn’t live in this city, so a performance here is a treat that I look forward to. I was not out for more than two and a half hours either evening, and that included the drive there and back. Then from Wednesday I have been feeling like rubbish. All the usual Lupus symptoms, but pretty much maxed out.

- This afternoon a friend called. She was in the vicinity and asked if she could come over. I don’t believe what I said. I actually asked her if she would mind if I said no because I really didn’t feel up to it. She was of course, very understanding. But it was not pleasant to realize how dependent I’ve become on my body. On a better day, if I am expecting someone, I can plan around it. I can have the pain medications at an appropriate time, eat and rest accordingly and be ready. Anything unexpected throws me. But today was not a ‘better’ day and I would have cancelled planned meetings too.

Ho hum! I am not feeling sorry for myself. I am not feeling sorry for myself. I am not feeling sorry for myself!

Warning! A Self-Centered Crib

2009-11-04T23:47:00.000-08:00

This is just the kind of blog I hate to write, but today this is all that I can think about.

The last couple of days I have been unwell. The Lupusy kind of unwell that is hard to describe. I am achy, have constant low temperature, swollen watering eyes that keep closing, drowsiness, brain fog and an oozy mind.

The narco painkiller with paracetamol, takes the edge off, but obviously there is a lot more behind the edge.

Today is the pits - really! It is no point even trying to describe what is wrong.

I had a screaming match with my daughter last Friday and Saturday. Stressor. Monday and Tuesday evenings I went to see my sister perform. I was driven, got good seats, had taken all the meds and precautions necessary. There was no strain at all, but my body thinks there was. So here I am, in bed, jumping at the least sound. Even brushing my teeth is a problem. Incase you are thinking I don’t – I do.

What is worrying me now is that I think I am hitting on the depression mode - not the clinical kind - but the fed up kind. I hope it doesn't get worse

For the first time ever since I became house bound, I think today I will ask a friend to come and spend some time with me. I hate doing this - prefer to let them make their own time. I don't want them to think they 'need' to see me. But today I ‘need’ to call in a favour.

I have been reading. I have two Ngaio Marshe’s books to read now. ‘Just finished Lionel Shriver’s latest.

Visiting the forums, when I can, also feels good. The folks there are real troopers, in spite of being ill themselves, they never fail to support big time. I suppose one of the reasons I manage to spend so much time on my own is because they are always there.

I wish I could thank them all on this blog individually, but I doubt they would want that. But thank you - all of you.

The Dancer

2009-11-02T22:51:00.000-08:00

I went to see a wonderful dance performance yesterday. My sister's - but that is irrelevant. She trained in one of the old classical dance forms of our country with the legendary Master of that discipline.

From the time when we were very young she wanted to be a dancer. It was instinctive. She was absolutely driven. Nothing else had priority. Tough choices had to be made, but she always knew which way to roll the dice.

As she matured as a dancer she brought the same intensity to the pieces that she then began to choreograph.

What makes her work so splendid to watch is her knowledge of the tradition and the grasp she has on the vocabulary of that particular school of dance.

Her research on the subject of her productions is relentless, - so each item is grounded.

She uses as inspiration all of the life of the state that the dance originates from. From the various performing arts, the games that the children play, to the stories that the people tell, she weaves them all into her dance.

She takes tales from our mythology and turns them on their heads to give them interpretations that feel right - characters are given dimensions that mythology never has room for.

She has a repertory of dancers who are each fluid in their art and expressions. When in a group their talents come together seamlessly to a supportive presentation.

She is clever - my sister. She knows her own strengths and her weaknesses. She knows her time and her place. She picks and chooses and she is seldom wrong. She is secure in her knowledge of the medium, her abilities, technique and her choreography. When she teaches she holds back nothing, so the dance form can continue beyond her.

Without wanting to be the Prima Donna - she is.

Oh ... did I mention she is beautiful?

Why White?

2009-10-31T02:11:00.000-07:00

A friend on the Bipolar support group was curious about why she seems to only wear white, and what it may mean.

The effect of colours on one's attitude is something I have thought a lot about over the years.

For a couple of years I only wore white. It was not enforced, I just did not want to wear any other colour.
That was also the time I was at my most introspective.
In hindsight I think white represented for me a clean slate, that I drew different colours of different moods on.

In most religions the clerics always wear white so they can react to any situation - physical, mental or spiritual - without the memory shaped by experiences of a life lived before entering the Monastery.

In India, those who want to join some religious orders have to spend ten years in white clothes as a novice.
It is expected that in those ten years they will experience and absorb the nature of a true monk - learn how to give the life lived in the senses.
Only if they appreciate and accept what that life means can they begin to wear saffron. Many leave because they are not able to live how they are expected to.

It is on the neutrality of white that the enormity of a new life is imbibed.

An interesting point here - before they earn their saffron robes they have to participate in their own funeral to signify the death of their material existence and nature.

Saffron is worn by a Monastic who has renounced all material attachments (including ALL relationships) to give himself to the Lord and his work.

* These are only my thoughts - there is factual basis, with the addition of my usual ramblings.

Unfocused

2009-10-23T10:42:00.000-07:00

My brain has been unfocused and oozy for the past few days, - no particular reason.
I did try to skip two days of my pain med, as I worry about its addictive nature. Those were two very painful days. The trouble is that the normal pain killers don't work anymore, even in combinations. I ended up staying mostly in bed both the days.

I read a P.D. James those two days.
I have just started on a Lionel Shriver. It is difficult to read two authors with such uncompromising personal writing styles one after the other.
This particular book of Shriver should be good - I love her writing - but so far seems to use very complicated language to convey a simple thought. Or may be my brain is all muddled.

I have a few ideas that I am trying to work through, but this is not the time. No energy, or at least very low energy.

There are some interesting threads running on the Bipolar Forum that I am a member of. Between them and the two Lupus Forums, I manage to communicate beyond the limits of my room.

Friends are a blessing, but I don't feel comfortable about initiating contact. They do their best to stay in touch. At our age everybody is mostly at the peak of their career and they need to work hard at staying there.

I miss my father. I need to see him, but I'll have to be prepared to face massive resistance before I can travel.

A couple of hours out of the house, and I am diown with numbing pain, fever and brainfog.

A Thought

2009-10-17T05:35:00.000-07:00

I thought today that I have become my own version of an optimist.

If one lamp won’t light, I’ll light another – or I’ll make my own lamp.

Something terrific will come no matter how dark the present.

Our Disappearing Hand Woven Textiles and Traditional Crafts

2009-10-16T12:04:00.000-07:00

I need to concentrate on a new collection but I am not able to.

I have always been passionate about woven fabric and here we have such a magnificent tradition.

Our craftsmanship is also top notch.

But to run a business I have to compromise big time.

Mill made material is just not appealing to me, no matter how good the quality.

To me they have no life.

That thought ‘though is so absolutely wrong.

People make a living out of the production of these fabrics.

Even then.

I personally can never wear them.

And I can’t put my heart into using them.

Ideally I would only use hand spun and hand woven textile. Although we do have some production of hand spun yarn, it is too expensive to produce in commercial volumes. I know. I have tried. And lost money.

Hand woven fabric still has a market, but not if the quality is how I wish it to be. I want the traditional beauty where the weaver proudly pushed his limit. Again that kind of work is too expensive for most people who have the taste. Those who can pay for them won't, because there is not enough bling or the body conscious “sexy” silhouette that is the current attitude towards dressing.

How I hate that word! It is just so very demeaning. But that is the word that the moneyed look for in the choice of their clothes.

Not that we do not have garments that have that appeal. But in the trade, New York, London, Milan and Paris speak. That is the customer base, and I can’t blame the designers of this country for catering to them; after all they have to make a living.

The wonderful local crafts are also disappearing.

Now they are either commissioned or are produced for the mass market in compromised quality. Again at their best they are far too expensive to compete with the cheaper access to gaudy taste or imported aesthetics.

I Don't Remember a Time When I was Symptom Free ...

2009-10-16T11:23:00.000-07:00

On one of the support groups that I am a part of, a friend - Belle, wanted to know what it feels like to NOT be in a flare i.e. an acute phase of Lupus.

This was my response:

For at least the last twenty-four years I don't remember not having been in a flare. I was correctly diagnosed in '99. But from a long time before that I remember symptoms and episodes that indicated Lupus.

From when I was eight, I had to use a topical steroid cream to control the lesions that would appear on my face. I didn't connect the problem to the sun at that point, and nor did the doctor I went to.

In the middle seventies I used to be feverish every evening. Three times a week before going to attend Karate classes I'd need to take a Paracetamol. I seemed to have an attack of some ...itis or other all the time.

By the early eighties, I always ached all over and had low-grade fever all the time. While out in the sun I tanned 'beautifully' - never realising that it was all hyper pigmentation and not once connecting that it always appeared with the increase in fever, body ache, giddiness, a throbbing headache and fatigue.

I regret the fact that when I my daughter was an infant I didn't have the energy to play with her, take her to the park. There are many things that I wanted to do for her as a mother, but I never was able to.

Anyway, before the diagnosis I lived in agony for a couple of years. Since then, although the drugs are supposed to have kept the symptoms under control, I have never been symptom free.

Now of course I am in particularly unpleasant flare, and I have no idea when I will come out of it. But, I do not have soft tissue involvement yet (fingers crossed), so I am lucky.

Apart from when the Bipolar plays up, my brain also seems to work fine. I do find that my memory is progressively worse, may be that is because I am not making enough effort. I have to deliberately try to register things, and am often muddle headed. It could be the drugs that I am on. I am not going to think that this may be the beginning of some kind of a CNS involvement. I will deal with it if and when it comes to that.

I don't sound optimistic at all, do I? But there ARE many reasons to be positive - friendships that survive in spite, opportunities that a regular life wouldn't have offered - because my body is dysfunctional, my sensory responses are more in focus – my subconscious more receptive than it has ever been.

The fact that I am able to mostly control what I wish do with time is no small blessing.

And because there are physical limitations, I have learnt to accept the limitations of my nature too and so I either deal with them or move on. I no longer think I always have to be on a conquering trip. I approach the rest of the world with the same attitude, so I have much less to complain about than ever.

Am I making any sense?

O Joy!

2009-10-11T08:42:00.000-07:00

'spent a happy afternoon with a few favourite friends today. Nothing elaborate. Coffee and sandwiches. Then a film - formulae, but sweet. Oh, it all started with browsing at a bookshop - sooo tempting, but I have friends who have lined up a lot of reading for me, so I left with nothing. OK, regret. I am trying to be sensible.

The weather is pretty decent and the sun felt good, of course I had a few liters of sun-block slathered all over.

I must admit I wasn't looking forward to the outing, but once I was dressed and ready, I felt good. Now the skin on my face is sore and tight, and I have a bit of a headache, but so far all is otherwise well, and it was well worth it.

Experience is in Sharing

2009-10-10T12:32:00.000-07:00

To the people who have been reading and responding to my blog on the various forums, instead of posting on each forum individually, I would like to thank you all for your appreciation.

I started my blog to communicate my thoughts to ... myself. It doesn't really matter how much people around me care or how good the relationship is, a very essential part of of me can no longer be shared or understood, and the gap in mental processing of the world's ways has become wide and basic. Those close to me try as hard as I do, but the equation just doesn't add up.

That is why my blog is about every aspect of life as it happens to me or I think about.

I write a blog rather than a diary because I can at least pretend that I am talking to a person. A diary would be a blind alley, but with a blog I can expect to reach out to others and connect in a language that is mutually understood. Even if nobody reads I can see my own thoughts, share them with myself. I find that what is subjective can become objective after only a short time, in fact even while writing.

I read an article by Shazia Mirza in The Guardian where she says that a blog is the ultimate in narcissism. Perhaps one day she will accept that nothing is absolute.

I never realised before how important it is to have someone to talk to even if the conversation never happens: it adds substance to an individual's being.

So to all those who have been reading, thank you.

I Want to Kick and Scream ...

2009-10-07T05:52:00.001-07:00

If anybody reads this DO expect editorial errors.

Today I just want to kick and scream.

Before people tell me that I look well, I want them to at least ask me how I am. At six o’clock in the evening I am hanging around my room in my Pajamas not having slept at night, having done nothing all day except perhaps visit a doctor or get some blood tests or some other tests or juggling medications, and am absolutely exhausted and all I get is - you look good! Thanks.

I have been in the house for the last six months and seventeen days and I look good?

What am I suppose to say – Yes I am feeling better, I am great thanks, nothing wrong with me – when every muscle in my body hurts, my body temperature is around 38F all the time, I need to stay in with the conditioner set at 65 F, with one ice bag under my feet and a couple more to keep my hands and face cool, more often than not? I have ulcers in mouth, sore and dry eyes, and viral or fungal infections compete to enter my system. But never mind, everything is just fine, I look good!

Yes I have pink cheeks – it’s fever and the Lupus malar rash. Yes I am nicely rotund – try a mocktail of steroids, Sertraline, Sodium Valproate and beta-blockers – so will you be. The option of being fat and alive or thin and dead gets one's prorities sorted out for sure.

Sure my vocabulary has improved manifolds, I know the names of mental and physical health conditions I never thought existed before... if anybody with half a brain has to remember the names of their medications so as to constantly read up to monitor drug interactions, theirs would too.

I have to keep a count of all the pills I have to take everyday, plus two one day, minus one the next. Drugs overlap. Some mood stabilisers double as painkillers. I am anyway on a different one for the bipolar. Another painkiller that I need to take SOS, which is twice a day, has anti depressant properties, and I am already on an anti depressant. It is also notorious for insomnia yet makes me too drowsy to read or watch TV. or do anything where I need to use my eye. Beta Blocker would work as yet another depressant, so the choice is to put up with palpitations until the twicking of an anti depressant begins it’s work, when it does and IF. So check, check, check.

Please nobody suggest music, because any continuous sound drives me up the wall and hanging upside down from the ceiling. That is Lupus for you. In my past life I sang as a soloist in a choir!

Everyday I need to put all this on my frigging needle and knit it. And then I am told – c'mon, just have a painkiller and come along! Like I am some kind of a freak wanting to ruin the show! I am grateful that they appreciate my company, but it is so not about just the painkiller!

What about the deadly fatigue? What about the sun sensitivity? The fact one and a half hour round trip to the doctor means three days in bed? Do I really want to stay at home and not go to watch a film, or go to meet a friend, or catch a good crafts festival?

The other helpful suggestion is - why don’t I give up my work! Why do I take on the stress? So then what do I do? What? I have had to give up one project after the other, because with each, after a while, I got to realise I couldn’t physically cope any more. I was one of those idealists – the "want to change the world" – kind. I found underdogs everywhere, in every spectrum of society, and I wanted to look after everybody.

Huh!

I am particularly upset about the last issue because the person who said this I have known for years. We have known each other from much before I was diagnosed, through the times when I’d be sick always and nobody could tell what was up, and as bit by bit, sometimes more than a bit, my world began to shrink. Please think!

I cannot commit myself to any plans anymore because I have no idea how I may feel, so it is impossible to schedule anything. Even to visit doctors I often need to hold a pill, or double a pill or change the time, whatever. The work I do can be coordinated from the house, people I work with come to see me to take directions; so do clients when necessary. Right now this is what I want to do and can do, even if I am not making much money.

I need to have a life of my own to wake up to. I DO NOT WANT TO HAVE MY EXISTENCE VALIDATED BY SOMEONE ELSE'S.

If you want to help me then please ask me how. I am confused enough. Don't make me feel I am stupid.

I WANT TO KICK, SCREAM . . .

OR I WANT TO LOOK SICK!

Umm ... NO I DON'T!

A Lesson Expensively Learnt

2009-10-03T00:00:00.001-07:00

Causes of Bipolar Disorder are all ‘may ’s, ‘often’s, ‘seem’s and ‘can’s.

As in:

Bipolar disorder may result from a chemical imbalance within the brain.

And:

Chemicals called neurotransmitters control the brain’s functions. When levels of this chemical are too high, mania may occur. When the levels drop below normal, a person may experience depression.

Also:

Researchers believe that our behavior can affect our brain chemistry, and that brain chemistry can affect behavior. It may happen both ways.

Duh …

For instance, if a person experiences numerous stressors or traumas this may cause his or her brain chemistry to be affected, leading to clinical depression.
On the other hand, that same person may learn how to change depressed thoughts and behavior and cope with stressful events. Doing this mayalso change brain chemistry and relieve depression.

And then in addition to all the above:

There is a significant genetic component to bipolar disorder. If a family member has bipolar disorder, other family members may be at risk.
However, stress of some kind is often needed to trigger the onset of the disease. The cause of the disease is likely a combination of multiple genetic and environmental factors.
Sometimes a period of emotional stress, drug use, an illness, or another event seems to trigger the onset of the disease. Stresses can also trigger a manic or depressive episode in people who are known to have the condition.

In the light of all the afore mentioned:

I have Lupus, and many with Lupus also have Bipolar – something to do with the production of antibodies against the neurotransmitters. But I would have thought the levels of the neurotransmitters would then drop and so lead to Depression. So I am not very clear about how the Bipolar can be explained. It can of course be an independent diagnosis.

A few of my family members are diagnosed with Depression. They are on prescription drugs. Some others are borderline and given to occasional meltdowns. But as far as I know nobody is Bipolar.

Laying the blame completely on the genes I have inherited from the well-known eccentricities of my family is convenient. There are side splitting incidences of behaviour from my Paternal Grandfather’s and my Father’s generation. Just so it is clear that I don’t come from a gene pool of muddle headed goodness and cuddly Teddy Bears, there have been some mean people too. And Mean married to Mean is an equation nobody should have to deal with.

I would like to think that I am good at coping with ‘stressors’, 'triggers', in a bit of the old –“ We shall overcome ” – spirit.

Anyway, whatever the reason, I still need to swallow those tablets. And if I were asked to make a list of a ‘ few of my favourite things ‘, these would come very close to top. If I were to make a trip these would be the first to be packed. Everything else would follow after. Because only if my mind works will I have need for anything else.

Disease vs. Condition

2009-10-03T00:00:00.000-07:00

This is how I interpret it. Please correct me if I am wrong. I am a professional patient not a doctor.

A Disease can often be cured, but is in certain cases terminal.

On the other hand a Condition is chronic, often progressive. It is not curable, but can be kept under control or the progression slowed. Sometimes it goes into remission, to perhaps reappear. Loss of life generally occurs by complications, or as an effect, of the underlying cause (the Condition).

So as far as I understand both Lupus and Bipolar are Conditions.

Lupus is Autoimmune.

Bipolar is chemical imbalance in the brain.

I have both.

Happy Birthday Gandhiji

2009-10-02T22:46:00.000-07:00

Today is Mahatma Gandhi’s Birthday.

The World is celebrating.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/oct/02/gandhi-montblanc-pen-birthday

Thought I Would Write About Bipolar Disorder

2009-10-01T01:21:00.000-07:00

Bipolar is the sophisticated term for an ugly condition. Manic-Depression is how it is understood, and I have it.

This one is complex to write about. This one seems to catch people off guard and bring out the worst in them. It tickles them. They become dismissive. They will never again take the person who has and lives with it seriously. There is sympathy for physical illnesses, but not for anything that remotely touches mental health.

I remember a particular day when I was waiting in the lounge for my turn see the Psychiatrist. He is a consultant at a private hospital and many patients waiting to see various specialists use the same lounge. Along with me there were four or five other patients waiting to see the same Psychiatrist.

As one patient left his consulting room, he came out to call for the next.

Just then two ladies - Doctors - passed by. They waved at him, and before I could register what was happening, asked him something that amounted to, “ so there you are with your mad patients!”.

I was left so shocked and bemused that I was not able to pay any attention to his reactions.

I am done with being sad, feeling sorry for myself, but what havoc it caused to the minds of the other psychiatric patients and their relatives, I will never know.

I should have protested, but I myself was going through a depressive stage, so before I could think to respond they were gone.

I particularly remember that day. There was a young man in a wheelchair, completely devoid of any expression on his face, looking as clean as someone else could make him. He was just frozen.

I wonder how the relatives who accompanied him would have felt. He seemed related or a close friend to a lady who worked at the hospital – a young girl who sat at the reception in the same lounge. She was there with him.

And these women were Doctors!

I don’t know if my Psychiatrist remembers the incident or who those doctors were. If he does I am sure he’d never tell me.

But I’d like him to know that they are beyond the pits, and that they don’t have any right to be in a caring profession. Or to be a mother, a sister, a wife or a friend, and I hope he does not contaminate himself with their company. When I last saw him he was still pretty cool.

I am now too agitated remembering to continue writing now, so I will post again this evening.

More 'Why?'s

2009-09-30T01:08:00.000-07:00

I am often accused of analyzing everything within an inch of its teeth. That should justify what I have been pondering about lately.

Why have I started to blog?

I have hardly ever written about myself. I have always disliked writing a bio-data, and can’t remember ever having written one. Jobs have come through recommendations. When I needed to apply for the membership of an institution, I got by writing about nothing except my interests. I do still feel that my acceptance was a fluke, and the decision was taken based on drawing lots. I got lucky.

Similarly, in the days when I modeled, I was the only model I knew who had no portfolio.

I certainly never wrote a diary.

But here I am, exposing my innermost thoughts to the World Wide Web.

Have I begun to think that my life is important enough for others to want to read? Do I think that my thoughts could be interesting or worthy of the time one spends reading them? Well, if I do then more fool me! I have so far had zilch comments, except on the forums I contribute, ‘though my profile has registered a significant number of views. So I cannot claim a wide audience.

I could have easily kept a private journal. Yet, here I am putting myself at the mercy of the technology I understand very little of and which could bite me without any warning whenever.

Another possibility – I don’t make friends easily.

I think most people who get to know me for a while get the impression that I am good with people. I am for a while. But I tire easily. I am best with people who like being by themselves, who don’t feel ignored, who don’t need constant attention. I like being quiet, so my ideal companions are people who are busy and happy in and with themselves.

I am good at striking up conversations, making people laugh. I apparently am a good Agony Aunt.

But, I am a floater. My attachments are few.

The few I consider to be friends are all busy professionals and come to visit me at home as much as they can. But under the circumstances I am very wary of having them feel that they owe me companionship. For me it is enough to know that if I really needed them and they could at all make it, they’d be there.

But even with friends one doesn’t introspect – except once in years perhaps when the ease of a relationship overcomes a rare moment.

In this blog I find that is exactly what I am doing – introspecting.

So maybe this is what I wanted to, needed to do all along

I did have a plan as to what I would write, a few things I thought I needed to get out of my system, but now those subjects seem to have lost their significance. This I think proves what I always thought – the past has not had much effect on me. I DO NOT HAVE PTSD, i.e. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder that apparently I should have. J

I will possibly write about all that, but I don’t know when, and right now I don’t really care.

I think it is just that I always wanted to write, not on a specific subject, or in reference to anything, just to ramble on.

Now I have the time.

Friendships

2009-09-24T11:28:00.000-07:00

It hurt too much, ever since I could remember for, what I and most doctors thought, no reason. Friends thought I was trying to grab attention. Better friends thought I was a hypochondriac. A few wondered if there really was a problem. Only a handful had the empathy to know I was not pretending; not fibbing! I wouldn’t do that. That is just not who I am.

I shouldn’t really hold grudges. I shouldn’t judge. They didn’t know. Hell, I didn’t know! But I wish they had tried to know me better. And that I can’t get myself to forget!

Once the diagnosis for Lupus came in I lost many friends. Embarrassment is not conducive to maintaining or nurturing relationships. However I found new support in unexpected company. With an airtight excuse/reason to avoid gatherings, I became free of those from whom freedom was liberating.

I am polite. I am friendly and I care in spite of myself. But they no longer have ME.

How to Put a Stop to Idiotic Comments

2009-09-24T04:27:00.000-07:00

I am a contributor to a forum for Auto Immune conditions.

Our medications, and sometimes the inability to exercise, get some of us to put on weight. The amount can vary - a few lbs, to whatever. Sixty/seventy is often heard of.

With all the medications we need, we tend to look normal, and as long one is not obese, most people connect extra weight with undisciplined eating habits ('does tend to happen initially because of intense sugar craving due to the medications, but once aware, the eating is generally kept under control, but the weight gain happens anyway). The edge can be taken off the pain with the drugs, and anyway, we mostly develop higher thresholds of tolerance. Additionally I do feel that those with chronic conditions are particularly careful not to LOOK ill. It is irksome enough to FEEL ill all the time.

We try to laugh about people’s reactions when/if they find out that we are not well. It ranges from - ‘But you look so well!’ ‘You seem happy!’ ‘Then you should be resting at home!’ and ‘But you don’t look sick!’, but in reality it is sickening.

Once when I had to go to meet someone to get some documentation sorted out, I was particularly unwell. I made an appointment to make sure I wasn’t kept waiting. Then I dressed appropriately, albeit in no-fuss comfortable clothes, pulled my hair back so I wouldn’t need to bother about it. I even managed to put some Vaseline lip salve with SPF on, which I anyway should, but often don’t bother with.

When I got to the meeting, the person was not in his room. I waited for half an hour. My brain was oozy. I had my usual body ache and low fever. My head throbbed. Etcetera.

So I went to his assistant and asked when the gentleman would be back, as I was not feeling too well. He looked at me and said, ”But you don’t look sick”.

At that point I was beyond politeness, so through gritted teeth I snarled back at him, “But idiots don’t look like idiots either.”

A huge forum discussion of more than two hundred posts followed on the subject, each illustrating individual experience. To prevent these infuriating observations, these were my suggestions.

I am reproducing that post here without any further edit:-

Hair and face:

-Wash hair.

-DO NOT brush

-Throw head forward.

-Blow dry any which way (the point is to look unkempt).

-At this point moisturizer may be considered.

-Sunscreen with high SPF is strongly recommended.

-If physically at all possible, smudge a dark kohl pencil around the eyes, adds much to the end results.

-Don't bother with fine lines and neatness. Think HEROIN CHIIC. Or Lyrica, Ultram. Imuran, Met, Xanax, yada...yada.

-Vaseline lip care will do. Nothing is also fine.

Clothes:

-Any skirt/trouser - classic, wrap, straight, bias, - whatever.

-Top - anything will do. Absolutely.

-Dress- from wadrobe, attic, bazaar, anywhere. Moth eaten? Cool!

Pull a tshirt under it or a shawl over it-only if modesty beckons.

POINTER - mismatch is good. Very good. Better than match.

-Scarf/shawl. Bright colours - as many as the weather permits.

Legs:

- Tights, leggings, warmers - anything, anywhere, anyhow.

- Ballet shoes. Not too new. If boots, then scruffy.

The idea is LOW MAINTENANCE. To look somewhat FLAKEY. ECCENTRIC. WILD. UNAPPROACHABLE.

And to put people off asking idiotic questions or attempt to reach a comfort zone from where they can make unsolicited comments.

However, NO body odour. PLEASE. Some energy has to be used for that.

And now you are ready.

So go get them!

Why

2009-09-23T11:35:00.000-07:00

Why am I writing all this?

What is the point?

Right now I am not sure if I am sure.

Why I use a Monikar

2009-09-23T01:56:00.000-07:00

To give some people undue anonymity…

And because I have a right to be selective about whom I want to share any personal thoughts with.

Some people I have sent this link to, are those who have been close to me from when I was young. They never knew what was going on, but always wondered … I thank them for caring enough to wonder.

I have also sent this link to a few who know me now and would not be surprised at all, not because they know, but because they know that life is strange…

And to my doctors who made me feel comfortable enough to be able to talk to them. I never thought I would to ANYONE.The anonymity helped. I owe them heaps. Some I regard as friends and would be proud if they would regard me as theirs.

On the bloggosphere of course everyone is welcome to read.

I still don’t know what I will write. Whatever…

Freedom at Eighteen

2009-09-23T01:43:00.000-07:00

My daughter is eighteen.

From a couple years before she turned eighteen she was looking forward to that birthday, as it seemed to her she could enter the wicked world of adults – like having a glass of wine on ‘Special Occasions’.

She was born at 11.45 pm, and I, with Mummy like wretchedness, made her wait till exactly that time before I poured her a glass.

It was a real sight to see her take her first sip, more of a gulp, gag and spew it all out. I decided to take pity on her and gave her some orange juice with a very little vodka.

She called and made proud announcements to her friends.

Since then there have been many ‘Occasions’, but not ‘Special’ ones as determined by me. Of those there have been just a couple.

Yesterday she went with her father to another city for a few days. Her father is in a profession that is perceived to be glamorous. She expects there to be parties every evening.

The evening before she left she asked me plaintively if every night there was going to be a ‘Special Occasion’. Her hopes were dashed, but I have told tell her that she may have one drink on the last evening she is there.

Poor Baby! Silly Baby! I miss her.

Taking Flight

2009-09-22T11:45:00.000-07:00

I have lived in forests and mountains, on the beach and cities. I am absolutely BLACK when it comes to cities. I hate city living, and can’t imagine how people can go for holidays to major cities unless it is to pursue a specific interest, which does NOT include shopping.

Unfortunately my circumstances dictate that I should live in a city now, so I do that with a mighty deal of grudge.

I did study, like all the people around me did (correction, only those with ‘our’ socio-economic backgrounds), but it all came to naught as I never had the temperament of a corporate professional. Everybody around me studied economics, so I did too. Acute boredom with the subject and the recognition that it was something best left to others saved me from further agony.

So there was I, with passion for life and its possibilities but no focus whatsoever. I had withdrawn from the life I always thought I was going to live, and all I could think about was that I was unhappy with the weather of the place where I lived.

Under the circumstances I did what I thought was best, I took flight.

Literally.

I bought a one-way ticket to the capital of my very large country of origin.

I had nowhere to go, did not speak the language, and knew no one.

I had with me the kind of money that a student with an interest in orphans of immigrant labourers would have - that is to say - very little, because most of it went to buy Christmas gifts, birthday gifts, 'get well soon' gifts, 'well done' gifts, ‘I know you will do well’ gifts and 'never mind' gifts. But I am not a Future Planner – so I wasn’t bothered.

I rejoiced in the brightness and colour, all around me, of my new surroundings. It was a treat to not have to wake up to dreary weather - beiges, browns and grays at the shop windows - and pale people. The smarter the people (people who went to work in the city) the more boring they looked.

At that time, I preferred the dust on the roads shimmering in the sunlight.

This is Personal

2009-09-22T10:41:00.000-07:00

A finite detailing of any being is not possible, except just for one moment in time. To get on in life, one needs to get over oneself.

Past is where you were. If you were a hero then, well you were a hero THEN. If you were a victim, it was THEN.

Now is a clean slate, NOW the decision has to be made as to who you are, because now is where you are.

My profile is therefore true for 22^ndSeptember 2009, Tuesday. I am writing this at 11.16 pm. And by the time I post this, all my present and the way I view my past may have changed.

My life is all about how I never achieved what I wanted to.

Today, because of that, I am at peace.

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I wanted a career when I was young. In the previous generation of my family were Doctors, Chartered Accountants, Men in Uniforms, and Lawyers with a Chief Justice thrown in for good measure. There were controversial politicians. Very controversial. That I would become a professional of some sort was given.

It didn’t work out that way. My own opinions took on a life of their own, and refused to go along for the ride that others had put me on.

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Over the last 20 years I have worked in advertising, modeled, studied the concept of monastic religion evolving into the personal. I have translated into English the literature and poetry of a man whose writings won him the Noble Prize.

I have volunteered in orphanages, worked on adoption programmes, but found it impossible to continue because I never was able to match my thoughts with those of the institutions.

I am now old enough now to face the truth. I lack the stamina and drive to deal in details. I can’t quibble over procedures, deal with beaurocrats, win allies and outwit opponents.

I also realize that I don’t really want the power I would get if I were able to do all those things. I don’t want to impose my thoughts for an ideal world, by my definition, on others by force.

I don’t grudge others the power. I just don’t want to be forced to agree.

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Intricacies of the woven textiles had always fascinated me. Why textiles? I have no idea.

As on a whim one day I started to look into some documentation about the history of fine textiles, I figured that the socio-economic evolution in any part of the world could be mapped through its textiles.

Pursuing those thoughts I made friends with a community of weavers who had historically woven a textile that legends are made of. They are immigrants in this country - displaced because of community violence.

With them I tried to bring back into production our textile heritage – to find out if they could still be relevant to a market large enough to support them.

I wanted the weavers to be proud of the incredible aesthetics and dexterity they had inherited.

But competition with the current trend is too heavily stacked against them. The material costs are too expensive and the expertise much too rare, to compete against the deluge of easy glitter and easy taste that now permeates the market.

Demand exists amongst the connoisseurs, but is not enough to provide a comfortable living for a meaningful number of families.

I have tried to push it to a niche market. But there are too many variables beyond my control, one of the variables being that I am lousy at running a business.

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My head now hurts. I never thought I’d write all this, let alone share.

In a day or two I hope to write the rest and post.

Ouch

2009-09-19T12:00:00.000-07:00

I have Lupus. It is S.L.E to some, Systemic Lupus Erithematosus to the knowledgeable and meaningless to most. I was one of the most about a decade ago.

Systemic Lupus is an autoimmune condition. It is a connective tissue disease, - a chronic, inflammatory condition that happens when the body’s immune system attacks its own tissues and organs. It can be controlled by drugs, but not cured and becomes worse with exposure to sunlight, stress and strain.

Lupus in Latin is wolf. And Erithematosus means redness of the skin caused by dilatation and congestion of the capillaries, often a sign of inflammation or infection.

Inflammation caused by lupus can affect many different body systems, including joints, skin, kidneys, blood cells, heart, and lungs and the central nervous system.

In my case - joints, skin and blood cells are involved.

Lupus for me mostly means moderate to severe-ish body ache, – the kind of body ache that accompanies a very + + + + + + + + + bad attack of flue.

I also have painful joints and constant low-grade fever.

The fever is draining totally draining. Then there are the dry, blistering mucous membranes – Sjogren’s syndrome. Sometimes my eyes are so dry that I cant move them.

Viral and fungal infections are another bane, and treatment for these are difficult as the drugs can be toxic.

There is a mental scale that I measure my pain by. So on a scale of zero to ten, my pain level is between five, to seven and a half. I have left the other two and a half percent for any future progression, because I would like to have a few more decades to look forward to. I intend to spend a lot of time in the forest and on the mountains.

I want to emphasise that this scale is applicable to my personal condition only. Others may have a lower or higher tolerance to pain. So their scale would be different.

Also, this scale is in no way a reference to the pain of any acute conditions, - surgeries, accidents, or acute painful illnesses.

Lupus pain is constant and numbing. When it is at seven and a half I am dizzy and nauseous. My dream is a contraption that is a combination of the pressure of a road roller and an elephant’s walk. But a massage feels good only while is happening. The minute it stops, the pain is right back again.

My nervous system is possibly also shot, or may be its just the effect of the drugs.

I have some of the symptoms - confusion, fatigue, memory impairment, and difficulty expressing my thoughts.

But these have been the cause of much hilarity and belly laugh among my friends, so I shall consider them a silver lining. I will be writing about some of the occasions later sometime.

Before I was diagnosed with Lupus, I would tan a beautiful caramel within a few hours in the sun. I used to be so proud of my colour, and how much I showed it off. Then I got to know that it was a symptom of the condition!

Happiness!

What is bothersome ‘though is the often discoloured, angry Malar Rash, or the butterfly rash that appears on the bridge of the nose and then spreads to the cheek bones on both sides of the face.

For a person as vain as I am, this can be terribly depressing. But then again, often it is like a red stain that makes me look rosy and fresh.

I can totally put up with that!

The Origins of Addictions

2009-09-18T08:46:00.000-07:00

Substance abuse has been doing it’s rounds ever since just after Adam ate the apple. The apple grew on the Tree of Knowledge of Good or Evil; BUT that tree must have grown more than just the one fruit. Of that I’m pretty sure, and the law of probability will support me.

If there is fruit there must to be wine, and once Adam got to know the ways of the evil, it would have taken him half a second to figure that out. Imagine – the aroma of rotting apple, on a deserted planet with only Eve for company; would be enough to drive anybody to drink.

Here is a fact to help establish my premise – in Latin "malum", as an adjective means evil, but as a noun means apple.

I haven’t given much thought to the origins of other forms of substance abuse but I shall be happy to be enlightened.

The Illusive Present Perfect

2009-09-11T10:46:00.000-07:00

I am eating a toast with peanut butter and marmalade on it.

Now THAT is a just not the great start to the profound and meaningful blog that I have been so looking forward to write; 'goes to prove that past thoughts for the future seldom become the present!

The idea is that we should live in the present, be perfectly content and look for perfection in the moment that is the present. I In that scenario then how do the concepts of past or future fit in? Unless of course we take birth and die within that one moment! So the present is a moment with neither a past nor a future, but is a long time in the making and in recovering from.

At the present moment I am eating the second last bite of my toast and loving it. It’s perfect!

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I like to keep my upper lip stiff. In the quiet of my own being it may wobble a bit, but in public I express each stirring of emotion with an explosion of intense clinical hyperactivity. It is hardly ever in proportion to the occasion, mostly absolutely over the top, but it has its uses. It tides me over. And it keeps the aforementioned lip - stiff. Within the sight of others, I'll scream and shout, but nary a tear. Except when I am reading a book or watching a film. Then I go for broke.