HAWMC - April 20 - 22 The Empire Strikes Back

I have a rotator cup injury, as if I was a big (or little or minor) leaguer or something.  But its as close as I'll get.  Fine.  But I get rehab, like a ballplayer (for physical injury, not the other kind of rehab).

Let's see... Travel April 20.

I would love to go to England or France, or even Russia.  But as close as I'm going to get is Disney World.  I want to take my wife to the Mall of America. Don't know about that.  I promised her a trip to Europe, but its going to be Disney World.  I get tired, exhausted, and having a tough time breathing  after just a short stroll (this may be medication issue) and that's not even great at Disney World.

The old line is familiarity breeds contempt, but I look at it as familiarity breeds content.  At Disney World I know where to go and what to do, so the basics are set. Busses (or the Monorail) do most of the traveling for us and we just get off and go where we want and do the same things each year, with a little variety in resorts we visit (such as Beach Club or The Floridian) and have all the wondrous foods.

The long trips are short ones now, day trips, bed and breakfasts, and back.  Know your limits.  If you are planning to do a lot on your trip, I'd rate the activities on a list of musts, maybes, and probably nots, and do the list.  If you get past the musts and are feeling decent try another but do not overdo it, and learn what overdoing for you.  The medical issues we face renown with one rule - "Slow down or we will slow you down."  Taking your time allows you to view the world.  Remember the Zen rule: Pay attention.  See it. Take it in.  Breathe it in, because (Next rule: Everything is changing) it might not be the same next time.  But take heart in that (next slide, please) everything's connected.

April 21 Reflection.

I admire folks who really can advocate for those who can't.  Working in poverty programs for near on 30 years, I've seen a lot, some good, but more bad.  Before that I took care, as well as I knew how, of my father, who had the same disease as me, so I got a preview of coming distractions.  If nothing else, you learn either total cynicism or compassion.  I know I go between the two, but find more hope in the latter.  Or maybe a compassionate cynic.  I don't expect much from humanity, so I can be pleasantly surprised when the better angels of our nature can win through.  For a species that has the ability to destroy itself a hundred times over, it can still do Mozart, Monet, Ghandi, Lincoln, and Monty Python.  Hope - I am a Mets fan, after all.

April 22 Hobbies

Baseball, the watching and history of it. Cooperstown and just was at Fenway for Opening Day.  As I said above I am a Mets fan, but I have a very deep love of the Boston Red Sox.  Both teams are steeped in history, both have a knack of frustrating their fans.  But we don't win every day either, and if have neuro problems or other invisible (to the world) challenges, a lot of days we don't even want to compete, or show up.  But when you open your eyes, just think "Maybe I can win today." Baseball is the only sport that if you are successful even only 30% of the time, you are consider one of the best.

Tons of books, history, mysteries, baseball stories, baseball cards (Mom didn't throw them out - didn't even know they were there!) and a dice baseball game that I've played for over forty years.  And the computer version.  It's given a lot of enjoyment for a long time, either on my own or with friends.  I dive into the history of the season and what the world was like in that time.  I've developed a deep appreciation of the Negro Leagues, and have met quite a few of the actual players.

Which brings me to the writing.  One of the stories I'm working is about the 1921 Cincinnati Cubans, a group of Havana ballplayers invited to play in the Negro Leagues.  They arrive in the US and and try to adapt to a very different culture, and outside temperature.

And all the other writing. Like this.  Thanks for reading.

The weird stuff I'm doing - and I'm medicated!

1.  I keep rubbing my thumb and middle finger and when ever I'm not moving around.  Holding a book? The non-book holding hand takes over the movement.  Unless I'm working in my yard, or writing ( except when I stop to correct something I've mistyped like happened just a few seconds ago - again with the rubbing!) it's there when ever my hands are not doing something else.  My psydoc says its a "brain peal", that in my DNA, somebody way back when did that thing and that part of my brain with that part of my history is reacting to what is going on.  MS is pulling back the onion of my brain and finding all kinds of things, as apparently somebody way back had a tough time using a handkerchief and used alternate ways to dispose of nose waste.  I hope MS "picks" something better next time.

2. I go to the bathroom cabinet, open the door, reach in for the toothpaste, and then pick up my toothbrush from the Mickey toothbrush holder neat the sink.  Paste on brush/ Brush teeth/ Spit/ Rinse!  I then put the cap on the toothpaste, and stick said paste in the Mickey holder, and the toothbrush on the cabinet shelf.

3. My tongue sneaks out of my mouth now and then, dog - like, tries to lick my nose.  As there is a bit more of a difference between where my mouth and a dogs mouth end and our respective noses begin, I merely appear odd.  I am used to that.  My wife has warned me that should I suddenly start panting and rolling on the grass, I will be taken to the vet.  I figured "what the hey?", i mean, how much worse can it get? On the other hand, I know of no dogs with MS or are bipolar.  They certainly don't come to support groups.

4. Of course, I realize that I had done a silly thing in the bathroom with the tooth brush and tooth paste.  I open the cabinet door, remove the tooth brush and, after a few pulls on Mickey's head, get the toothpaste away from him.  Paste on shelf, brush in Mickey's head.  I close the cabinet door by opening it all the way until the hinges crack.  Humph, I must be stronger than I thought.  I leave the slightly unhinged bathroom cabinet door that way.

5. A weekly ritual is the assignment of pills to their daily boxes morning, afternoon, and then bedtime (the bedtime pill container used be the all day pill holder until I started to love mood stabilizers).  This week I was going through the routine and when I was finished I saw a pile of white pills on the table.  And I had no idea what they were.  My wife suggested I take one to the pharmacy and ask them what it was.  But a crack detective writer was on the case. Me.  I compared the night pills against the day pills and noted the size, shape and color of each.  Solution: take a picture of the pill and match it up with my doctors' list that has all the scripts on it.  Why did I suddenly put the Prozac in the wrong place after doing it over and over for years.

6. It's not just occasionally when I walk into a room wondering why I am in there, it's nearly every time.  You know, as a writer, its tough to realize that what you most enjoy doing, and sharing, can be manipulated by my own brain...as I become more Dory:

than Story:

I normally do not wear ties when writing.  It does not matter what I wear, unless I am with my wife and we are relaxing somewhere and she sees me scribbling away in my notebook.  "Didn't need to come here if you were just going to write."

Sometimes in the middle of the night, I get up and sit at the kitchen table or in the den, and write to the early morning hours, sipping tea or coffee until I start to droop, and then back I go.  Since I have no place else to be, it doesn't matter when I get up.  The vibrant dreams (thanks anti-depressant) keep me terrified and amazed at the same time, so some of those writing times are giving what's is the MS unoccupied part my brain a break.

A couple of weeks back I know I got up at 3:00 AM.  I have no idea what I did or thought, or how long I was where I was wherever was.  Maybe I just stood still in the den.  Of course, the hallucinations stand at the bedroom door to beckon me to return to Slumberland.

I'm writing a mystery novel and this thing in my head is the greatest mystery of all.  Will it let me finish the book? Stay tuned.

How to solve depression in fifteen minutes

Simple.  Go walk up on a stage somewhere by yourself and turn toward the audience.  There are all those eager faces waiting to be entertained, and you promised, long before the depression kicked in, to do this.  So here you are.  Do something. Nobody knows or cares all that much about your problems.

So I looked down at the three sheets of paper that I'd brought with me.  It was a short story about a relationship I'd had in my college days which seems a very long time ago.  In fact, this year would be the 35th annual reunion of my graduating class. I'm not going, but I'll assume they'll still have the party.

Now of course one of the diseases would show up, and this time I had trouble swallowing as I was reading, plus dry mouth.  But I read my story.  And the diseases, while mentioned in the story, never got to mess with me after that, much to their chagrin.

This story is three pages long and has an arc of nearly 35 years as well, from my college days to the present time.  My parents, the women in my life, my wife, and the girlfriend of the 70's are all in it, and that a lot of ground to cover in about 1000 words, which is what the curator at the Troy Arts Center requested from the six of us reading.  Lots of editing.

And then reading in front of people I did not know, except Jackie of course.  But it went well.  They laughed where I hoped they would and were silent when I hoped, also.  Picked up nice compliments.

I think it helped the depression because for those minutes I was only concerned that the audience enjoyed the performance.  For those minutes the depression was locked away in his normal closet, and a little manic took the stage along with me.  Boy that was nice.  I'm having a pretty good day today, but it would better if I could read one of my stories for you, and hope you like it.

You see, we are concerned with others. Bipolar disorder is a very selfish disease, I've always thought.  If we're manic, we are excited about great we are and all the things we can accomplish (we = just me).  When depression hits, we are concerned about how miserable we feel (we = just me) and why the world can't be fixed so that I would not feel so bad, or I could be fixed so that I would not feel so bad. But even with this, the disease is not your fault, nor mine, and anyone who tells you different needs to be removed from your life. Pronto.

A little therapy and the proper drugs (if needed and taken properly) can help adjust the world so that we can start looking back out at it and tell our stories. You all have them.  Good and bad, everyone has a story and, believe it or not, there are plenty that want to hear it.  Get ready and start talking.