Showing posts with label spiritual. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spiritual. Show all posts

Why Am I Still Sick? Mental Illness, Faith, and the Love of God

Rumor has it, I'm going to start preaching again. My brain functions a lot better than it used to. But it still functions slowly. So to give myself plenty of time, I have been looking ahead to the scriptures that are coming up in the lectionary.

[In the Episcopal Church, among others, we preachers don't pick and choose our favorite bits of the Bible. We get confronted by and have to deal with what is assigned.]

That's how I came across Matthew 9:18-26, one of the texts for early June. Jesus is on his way to heal a young girl when a woman with an issue of blood reaches out surreptitiously to touch him. He feels the power go out of him and turns to confront her. Then he says:

Take heart, daughter; your faith has made you well.

Ah, here it comes -- the faith question of every person with a chronic or fatal illness, every person who prays and has people praying for us.

Don't I have faith? Don't I have enough faith to get my healing?

Many years ago in one of my darkest times, I met a young woman. She was part of a mission group who had come from Mexico to Costa Rica. On behalf of a local church, she and others would be going door to door, sharing their witness.

She asked me what I was doing in Costa Rica. So I told her that I had depression and was writing a book about it.

Without missing a beat, she answered, If you give your life to Jesus, he will heal you, and you won't have depression anymore.

She described her life in her teens, a life of indulgence, as she put it. She was a smoker. But then she gave her life to Jesus and he turned her around. He took away her addiction to cigarettes

Oh, honey.

She and I had met at the church that was sponsoring the mission. The worship service had gone long. I was tired. And I didn't have enough Spanish to get into it with her.

So I didn't tell her that 

  • I fell in love with Jesus when I was eight and was baptized
  • I took Jesus as my Lord and Savior when I was eighteen at college
  • I gave my life to Jesus when I entered seminary at twenty-five
  • I vowed to . . . pattern my life in accordance with the teachings of Christ, so that I may be a wholesome example to my people when I was ordained a priest at twenty-nine
  • I . . . well, you get the idea.

The thing is, I have a brain that works differently, and sometimes not very well. Living a life in Christ has not protected me from the symptoms of bipolar disorder, nor even from feeling suicidal at its worst.

Bipolar disorder has been around for millennia. People had it before the coming of Christ. And people have had it since. Faith in Jesus really has nothing to do with it.

I am glad that Jesus took away her addiction to cigarettes. I am glad that Jesus healed the woman with an issue of blood, that he freed the Gerasene man who had been possessed, that he raised Lazarus from the dead.

But he hasn't healed me. At least, he hasn't taken away my bipolar.

Why not?

No, don't answer that question. I don't want an explanation. I especially don't want God to explain to me how He -- and I use that pronoun on purpose -- how He is using my suffering to some greater end. To help you, I suppose.

I don't want a God who manipulates people who are suffering, moves us around on some chessboard as part of His grand design.

For God's sake, don't tell me to have faith.

What a cruel notion that if you just believe hard enough you will be healed.

The first preaching I will do after an absence of a few years will be for a man who was one of the most faith-filled people I know. He died after waiting for years for a lung transplant, while people around the world prayed for him. As people have prayed for me.

Why am I still sick? I think that's the wrong question to address to God. I think that question posits the existence of the kind of God that we want, a God who will answer our questions and give us certainty and make us feel good.

A God that exists only in our desires and our imaginations.

Whoa! Did the preacher say that God doesn't exist? No, the preacher said that the God that does exist is not small enough to fit inside the box of our desires.

Who is the God who does exist? I am a very smart person. Nevertheless, that question is beyond my bandwidth. I have my own desires about God. But I no longer expect that God will satisfy them.

However, reading all those stories of healings year after year, over forty years of preaching on them, there is something that I have noticed. In almost every one of them, part of the healing is a return to community.

The woman who had had an issue of blood for fifteen years (endometriosis?) would have been unclean on that account. Nobody would have touched her. For fifteen years. Now she could take a neighbor's hand.

The Gerasene man who was possessed (schizophrenia?) lived in chains outside the city of Gerasa. When he was restored to his right mind, Jesus sent him home.

Lazarus -- dead and in the tomb. Jesus returned him to his sisters.

And me with my bipolar -- that is the kind of healing I have experienced. When I was newly disabled and not leaving my second floor condo except to go to the doctor, I joined NAMI -- National Alliance on Mental Illness. I went a Peer to Peer class, where people with mental illness teach other people with mental illness how to navigate our lives.

I discovered people who didn't care whether I had faith or not. They didn't need for me to be healed to confirm their own faith. They expected I wouldn't be. And they loved me. They invited me in. They were my new community.

Romans 8 -- that's what I believe. When I don't believe in God -- I really don't believe in the God who withholds healing based on my puny wounded capacity for faith -- I do believe this:

I am sure that neither death, nor life, [nor feeling suicidal], nor angels, nor principalities, [nor health insurance companies], nor height, nor depth, [nor the personal hell of side effects], nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

I am not healed. But I am loved.

That's a kind of healing. And it is enough.


photo by Nevit Dilman, used under the creative commons license.

"I Don't Believe in God Anymore. Just Don't Trust the Guy"

Job 42 - A sermon

Fourteen years ago, I wrote an essay titled, I don't believe in God anymore. It was a response to my grief about my mental illness, the loss of my self-image, my sense of confidence as a person who could rely on the state of my own mind.

I wasn't suicidal at the time. But I was acutely aware that chances are I would be again in the future, because I have a remitting, recurring condition. It appears, it gets better, it flairs again. And suicidal ideation is one of its symptoms, a particularly cruel symptom.

I felt betrayed. Betrayed by God.

I mean, I had given my life, my energy, my health to serving God. And all of those things had been taken away from me. Me!

Okay, I know that bad things happen to good people. Bad things happen even to saints. But, damn!

It wasn't about mental illness so much as it was about grief, grief for the loss of what I thought I knew about myself, what I thought I could count on, my brain, most of all.

And I thought I could count on God, too. So, I wrote, I don't believe in God anymore. Just don't trust the guy like I used to.

Job had a different response to his grief. He never said, I don't believe in God anymore. He continued to challenge God to be the God he thought he knew. But there are ways that the book resounds powerfully for me.

Can People With Mental Illness Become Saints?

 The day approaches - the start of Lent Madness.

What, any reasonable person might ask, is that?

Take March Madness. Mash this bracket-style competition with a list of saints, some well-known, some utterly obscure, chosen by Scott Gunn and Tim Schenk, the two members of the Supreme Executive Committee who answer to nobody. Despite years of campaigning, they still will not include Fred Rogers. But I digress...

Every weekday through Lent the reader is presented with two saints and asked to vote. Anybody with an internet connection can vote - only once - they will know. The saint with the greater number of votes advances to the next round.

Prozac Monologues Moves to Batshit Crazy Preacher

Advent is the season of spiritual preparation for Christmas. The idea is to slow down, not speed up. Spend some quiet, reflective time. Remember the reason for the season... Honestly, I think about setting up an Advent wreath, that sort of thing. But our candle holders broke. They broke years ago. I guess I'm just not into the candle thing.

Most years, the closest I get to Advent wreaths, calendars, whatever, is a box of twenty-four wee drams of Scotch from Master of Malt. I know, I know, Scotch is not what your psychiatrist recommends for your recovery toolbox. At least it usually take me well past the twelve days of Christmas to finish the thing.

Anyway, this year I found a practice that does spark my imagination, #AdventWord. It is an international community of prayer that you can enter in whatever way appeals to you. There is a daily meditation to read, based on a different word every day. Advent Word, get it? The ones so far this year are tender, deliver, strengthen, earth, rebuild, fellowship, and glory. People post photos on Twitter or Facebook, or scripture passages, or songs inspired by the word. You can get a poster with spaces to color in each day. You can doodle, decorate the word, or draw whatever comes to you. When it's finished, it's supposed to remind you of a stained glass window. The whole project lets you do whatever prayer style works for you.

Sanity, the Serenity Prayer, and the Way of Love


Last week I just couldn't. Well, my laptop was dying. And then my printer wouldn't install. But all that within the context of everything that well, you know... So last week there was no new post.

This week, I still can't, not really. I can't find any new research that intrigues me. I can't bear the thought of yet another rant. I am determined not to spread any more pain.

But there's pain out there. There's pain in here. And this blog is about the things I can change. So this I will do.

I have a spiritual discipline that I am using to walk through these days. I am a Christian, and this is a Christian discipline, or series of ancient practices - though my guess is that nonChristians can find something of value here. I will do my best to do some translation.

It's called the Way of Love.

Will This Trauma Never End?

I found this video while trying to survive the cluster f*ck of misdiagnosis, antidepressants, mixed episodes, and a psychiatrist and therapist who didn't know what they didn't know, so it must be me and maybe I had borderline personality disorder - the go to diagnosis for patients that the professionals are tired of.

OK Go - This Too Shall Pass. And in fact, it did. I survived to... today? I offer it to everybody who is trying to survive the current COVID cluster f*ck in the US.

To Write Love - Hope for Depression, Addiction, Self-Harm, and Suicide

There is power in a story. You tell me your story. You are seen, heard, affirmed. I tell you my story. You know that I am for real. We are not alone.

To Write Love on Her Arms (TWLOHA) harnesses the power of story to offer hope to people struggling with depression, addiction, self-harm, and suicide.

The organization itself began with a story, a young woman who was suicidal but could not be admitted into a treatment program because she was also addicted and they couldn't bear the liability of her detox.

Yes, if you think you're done after you tell your suicidal friend or family member to get help, read that sentence again. Trying to get treatment can be enough of a nightmare to push us over the edge.

But that was just the beginning. A group of friends took it upon themselves to create a safe place and treatment program for this young woman for the five days it took to detox. The treatment program was admittedly unorthodox. She stayed with friends. In rotating teams they supported her, kept her safe. They also took her to concerts, Starbucks, and church. They prayed. They smoked cigarettes. They were her hospital.

Mostly, they listened.

Care of the Soul and COVID-19

Ronald W. Pies is a psychiatrist, bioethicist, and professor emeritus at SUNY and Tufts. His writings often tend to the philosophical, which keeps me reading his work and occasionally engaging with him in cross conversation between Prozac Monologues and PyschiatricTimes.com, where he served as editor-in-chief 2007-2010.

Pies' recent post is one such example where our respective disciplines come along side each other, Care of the Soul in the Time of COVID-19. He identifies five assaults on the soul made by the pandemic: impotence, grief, loneliness, mistrust, and displacement. While underlining that one solution will not work for all, he proposes cognitive therapy, gratitude, and the arts as strategies for healing.

Therapy and Spiritual Direction

As a physician, it is natural that Dr. Pies would write of problems and solutions. I too have been thinking about the larger implications of the COVID pandemic. However, I do less pastoral care these days. My thinking has been more in the realm of spiritual direction. Spiritual direction is as likely to trouble the mind as soothe it, raising questions to ponder rather than soothing manifestations of distress. So my care of the soul focuses on the questions that COVID raises about identity, values, and purpose. 

Identity

Social Distancing and Sabbath


Pandemic

What if you thought of it
as the Jews consider the Sabbath—
the most sacred of times?
Cease from travel.
Cease from buying and selling.
Give up, just for now,
on trying to make the world
different than it is.
Sing. Pray. Touch only those
to whom you commit your life.
Center down.


How to Stay Sane

Shock, rage, fear, despair, depression, hopelessness, apathy, or even how about - drinking the kool-aid, surrender. Do we have a better choice?

Robin Chance, behavioral specialist and therapist, did a little therapy for the nation three years ago with her article, How to stay sane if Trump is driving you insane: Advice from a therapist. She offered a better choice.

Two questions: (1) How do we integrate this crisis into our understanding of the world? and (2) what do we do now? Now that the crisis of three years ago is our new normal, it seems time to revisit her words.

Bohemian Chanukah

A great miracle happened there.

 

Happy Hanukkah to all Prozac Monologues readers.
Let the light shine!

Spiritual Practices for the Dark Night - Giving Thanks. Again.

This post transitions from a month dedicated to PsychiatricTimes.com  to a month dedicated to gratitude. In short, I am grateful for Psychiatric Times. When I needed to figure out what the hell happened to my brain and how do I fix it, this online magazine for psychiatrists and other mental health professionals began my slow, steady self-education with its research reports, book reviews, philosophical discussions and occasional rants.

Mmm, sort of like Prozac Monologues: information, provocation, entertainment, and an occasional rant. That's how Google describes this blog. What do you think?

In the month of November, I will write posts about other resources and people for whom I am grateful. Today I repeat a post from ten years ago, part of a series on Spiritual Practices for the Dark Night. Those were dark nights, indeed, for me. These days, I think they are dark nights for everybody. But I digress...

Spirituality, Mental Illness, and the Wellness Paradigm

Spirituality has a troubled place in the psychiatrist's office. A recent PsychiatricTimes.com article explores the complex reasons. The discomfort starts in "the traditional psychoanalytic view of religion being almost a culturally sanctioned form of neurosis" and continues through the modern diagnostic schema, "it is not uncommon to have delusions with religious or spiritual elements." While the DSM, the manual that guides diagnosis of psychiatric ailments takes care not to label as delusional any thought that is part of the cultural framework of the patient, this fig leaf seems to beg the question - is the patient's culture built on delusion?

Neurotic or delusional - which would you rather?

Honor the physician

The issue is made thornier by the recent development in Christianity that pits faith against science. And I cannot stress enough - this is a recent (also North American) development. Alas, what was once a minority voice within American Christianity has gained political and cultural power and, in this country at least, threatens to drown out the traditional Jewish and Christian view, as expressed in the Book of Ecclesiasticus:

Honor the physician with the honor due him, according to your need of him, for the Lord created him; for healing comes from the Most High, and he will receive a gift from the king. The skill of the physician lifts up his head, and in the presence of great men he is admired. The Lord created medicines from the earth, and a sensible man will not despise them.

Again alas, not a lot of sensible around these days. I don't even want to give you the link to the page that headlines, Psychiatry is a vicious enemy of Christianity and the Bible. In bold type, no less. One can hardly blame doctors for suspecting those who make them choose between religion and the gifts that God gave them.

Now there are plenty of psychiatrists who recognize this choice to be nonsense, among them one of the psychiatrists interviewed in the article above. While president-elect of the American Psychiatric Association, Paul Summergrad "convened a gathering of clergy, other faith leaders, patients, and patient advocates with a group of distinguished psychiatric leaders. [Their] first goal... was to establish a dialogue and recognize common goals. [Their] work group developed a guide for faith-based leaders, which can be found and downloaded... from the APA website. "

A Guide for Faith-based Leaders

This guide has good stuff in it, and I commend it to faith leaders. But there is something about it that bugs me. It bugs me in most stuff that I have read written by people who approach spirituality from a scientific point of view. It is found in their description of wellness.

Wellness means overall well-being. For people with mental health and substance use conditions, wellness is not simply the absence of disease, illness, or stress, but the presence of purpose in life, active involvement in satisfying work and play, joyful. relationships, a healthy body and living environment, and happiness. It incorporates the mental, emotional, physical, occupational, intellectual, and spiritual aspects of a person's life. Each aspect of wellness can affect overall quality of life.

There is a graphic that demonstrates each of these aspects as separate items, presumably of equal weight, with Wellness at the center.

Well, what's wrong with that? I am just not sure that spirituality can be turned into an item among others. I am a priest. Spirituality is my life. But I can't figure out how to use it to promote my wellness. God uses me. I have no idea how to use God. And frankly, I suspect those who do.

Wellness vs. Wholeness

What would that graphic look like if theologians created it? For one, at least for this one, Wellness would not hold central position. Wholeness would. Not exactly the same thing. Wholeness is how to describe spiritual health. It is a translation of the Hebrew shalom or Arabic salaam. It means the kind of peace that comes from completeness and includes the completeness or justice of the community. It does not depend on financial, environmental, nor physical health. How one addresses either presence or lack of financial, environmental, and physical health is a measure of spiritual health.


Doctors are about the business of maximizing wellness. That is their job and, from a spiritual perspective, their calling. That's fine, and this wellness paradigm is fine. Except for the spirituality part. Spirituality is a different paradigm.

Well, I have only stated my starting point here. Perhaps this sounds like nonsense to you? Spirituality is peddled today as something to make you feel good. Okay, let me put it out there. Feeling good, as a life goal, is the goal of a spiritual peanut.

This blogpost will just have to become a book. I would like your help. What are the questions you would like to explore about spirituality and mental illness? Like, can you be whole and mentally ill? Does prayer really work, and how? Does it make a difference what you believe? Add a comment. Thanks.

cartoon from @lectrr

photo of St. Luke (patron of doctors) window by author

Christina the Astonishing!

Basil the Great vs. Christina the Astonishing – Lent Madness begins.

Saints and Lent – is Prozac Monologues straying from its mission, reflections and research on the mind, the brain, mental illness and society?  Hardly.  First, note the Madness in Lent Madness.  Then wait ‘til you see the saints.

Lent Madness

The forty days before Easter are traditionally a time to focus on one’s spiritual growth.  But there is a looniness built in from the start.  Ash Wednesday to Holy Saturday – count them – 46 days.  Oh yeah, Sundays don’t count.  Does that mean I can smoke and eat chocolate on Sunday?  Opinions vary.

And once you are debating whether you can smoke on Sunday (does it depend on what you’re smoking?), you have already leaned in the direction of madness.  Leaning, leaning…

Suicide Is Not a Choice

I peered over this very overpass on the Eisenhower Expressway. Years ago, there was no the fence along the top, just a rail. It was pie that brought me there. Yes, pie. It was Thanksgiving night, and the holiday was ending without pie.

Of course, it wasn't a reason to commit suicide. Of course, suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Don't treat me like an idiot with your clever lines.

No, pie brought me there, but that was not why I would jump. Pie was a match, a tiny little three letter match. My problem was a brain filled with gasoline. And one tiny match, that I should have been able to snuff with my fingers, threatened to ignite it and send me over the edge. The shame of being powerless over one tiny match poured on more gasoline.

The Power of Apology

First, a nod to our excrutiatingly polite neighbors to the north, on the Power of Apology from Scott Stratton:



Next, inspired by Scott and in honor of Magna Carta Day - a rerun of last year's Entitled to an Apology?

Perhaps because a central feature of both hypomania and depression is irritability, and because a characteristic of the "bipolar temperament" is a certain tendency toward an attitude of entitlement, interpersonal disputes tend to be common in this patient population. -- Ellen Frank, Treating Bipolar Disorder

Ring The Bells That Still Can Ring

Liturgical Christians, Catholics, Lutherans, Episcopalians keep a season called Advent, four weeks before Christmas.  It is a difficult practice, because it calls us to be thoughtful.  Thoughtful?!  You mean making a list and checking it twice?  No.  Advent is a time to acknowledge the truth that we hide from, behind our shopping lists and party schedules, the truth of emptiness and brokenness, in ourselves and in the world.  We are surrounded by Ho Ho Ho.  Advent says Hmm.

Advent says, Yes we will rejoice, because the baby, The Baby is born.  And yet.  And yet...

This has been a hard week.  Our defenses against the darkness have been found wanting.  And yet.  And yet...



Prozac Monologues Goes to the Movies

This is not a regular post.  It is a call for your help to create a future post.

Periodically, Prozac Monologues goes to the movies.  This time, I want to do a piece on spirituality at the movies.  It will feature half a dozen titles, each with a short descriptive blurb and a couple prompts for pondering and/or discussion.  Maybe your support group or book club or Bible study could use the suggestions to mix it up a bit?

Here is an example:

Groundhog Day: Self-centered weather caster, played by Bill Murray gets caught in a time warp, reliving one day over and over and over and over.  The only thing he can change is himself.  What is the life worth living?  How do we get stuck in a life that isn't?  Where do we find the power to change?

Power, grace, forgiveness, redemption, hope, dignity, the meaning of life, the universe and everything -- What are the stories that help you think about these things?

Put your suggestion in the comments.  Whether it is included will depend on the number of suggestions received, whether I understand it, and whether it fits what goes on at Prozac Monologues.  Looniness is appreciated, though not required.  Deadline for inclusion: December 31, 2012.

Thanks!
image of popcorn from FreeDigitalPhotos.net
dvd cover from Amazon.com

Sabbatical -- Summer Reading

Well, dang.  Regular readers know that every once in a while my brain goes on strike.  I can't imagine how I used to preach week after week after week.  Usually, I do a re-run or fill with some video.  But after posting something every week since April 2009, the time has come to take an intentional break, a sabbatical.

I hate to do this in the middle of a series.  I have one more post in me on apology.  But I need more than a week's recovery time this time.  So that series will have to wait until October or so.  I'll still stick up an occasional youtube.  I've got one in the file featuring Mister Rogers...

Meanwhile, I have some suggestions to broaden your blog-reading horizons.  Most are not about mental health issues.  They are the random reading that feed my mind and soul, a selection from my blog role.  Consider this my annual Summer Reading post.

First up, of course, Knowledge is Necessity.  John McManamy gave me a leg up in the blogging business, when he introduced me to his readers, as the only other blogger he knows who writes about the anterior cingulate cortex.  I think of us as blogmates.

Knowledge is Necessity is as close as you will get to your weekly Prozac Monologues fix.  The way John puts it, from God to neurons.  Not that you could mistake one of us for the other in a crowd.  For one, he's a lousy dancer.  Kinda scary, actually.  But his writing -- you'll snort milk out of your nose.  Here is my review of his new book Raccoons Respect My Piss, as well.  I am reading it a second time right now.

Second, Untangled by Dr. Kelly Flanagan.  Notwithstanding the fact that I write a mental health blog, I don't actually read many, especially not the inspirational ones.  I don't respond well to people who give me advice, even good advice.  Especially good advice.  Just ask my therapist.  But Flanagan can tell a story.  He respects the knots we tie ourselves into in a way that helps us untangle them and find a bit of freedom.

Flanagan is relatively new to the blogging biz, and rather brave, I think, a psychotherapist who blogs about psychotherapy, exposing himself to his readers' triggers.  He has managed it well when he trips mine.  Responsive, but non-reactive -- I think that's what they call it in that language of theirs.  Me, I have to choose between reactive or silent.  So I admire how Flanagan can pull off that responsive but not-reactive thing and still tell a good story.

So that's it for the mental health blogs.


Cake Wrecks.  When I need a dose of something nuts to keep from going nuts, I look at the weird things that people do with cake and frosting.  The subtitle is When Professional Cakes Go Horribly, Hilariously Wrong.  This blog is a whole franchise by now, with books, tours and contests.  The photo above is of my own cake which I did not submit for consideration, because I am not a professional.  At the cake-biz, that is.  But it gives you an idea of what you might find at Cake Wrecks.  I made this one for a guerrilla party held in the lobby of a hospital where I would commit suicide rather than be hospitalized, to celebrate suicide prevention.

My arts and crafts piece here was handicapped by a dearth of materials.  In a  fit of good sense, I had turned over to my shrink my stash of old, ineffective or intolerable and dangerous meds.  (I had quite a collection.)  So I couldn't decorate the cake with pills, which had been my intent.  I had to substitute Mike and Ike's and Smarties.  Cake Wreck cakes go way beyond this effort.

Which leads me to Suicide Food.  Only this blog is not about suicide.  Well, not that kind of suicide.  It collects advertising images that depict animals acting as though they wish to be consumed.  You know, like instead of the Chick-Fil-A cows, encouraging you to eat more chicken, these are the little piggies inviting you to the barbecue.  There seem to be an inexhaustible supply of these scenes to which you may be completely oblivious (I was) until you read Suicide Food, where they are rated on a scale of one to five nooses for just how sick they really are.  The folks who bring you Suicide Food are also on sabbatical.  But they have five years' worth of shrimp lounging and waving to you from the cocktail glass for you to peruse.

Finally, you can tell Shell Shock - Nell's Big Walk is not a mental health blog, because it has a beginning, a middle and an end.  An end, what a concept.  Here's the deal.  Helen and I have been thinking about the Camino, a 500 mile walk across northern Spain, from the Pyrenees to Santiago de Compostela, a pilgrim route over 1000 years old, to the place where are buried the bones purported to be of Saint James, the brother of Jesus, washed up on the shore of northwestern Spain in a boat made of stone.  My kind of pilgrimage.


In our consideration of this enterprise, we had been reading others' accounts, which are, for the most part, filled with angst and/or stupidity, slathered with pain and misery.  I mean, I thought Paulo Coehlo's quest for his sword to be the most self-absorbed little boy obsession I have ever read.

But we kept reading.  Helen was researching boots when she came upon Nell Spillane, an Irish trainer and business coach.  Nell and Frances, childhood friends, celebrated their 50th birthdays by fulfilling a vow to do the pilgrimage when they got old, which they took to mean 50.  Nell's blog is a day by day account.  Helen and I spent Lent this year, reading one post a day.  Neither of us has had the heart to finish the last few days and be done with it.  Obviously, we could use a business coach.  I am stuck 20k short of Santiago.

Frances and Nell had fun!  There are spiritual moments.  All the piety that means something to us means something to them, going to the pilgrim masses, putting beads on the wayside statues of Mary.  But it's the comfortable sort, the Celtic thing/Teresa of Avila/feel free to cuss God out/don't take yourself and your precious insights so seriously sort.  Go ahead, eat that ham sandwich (after you dust it off).  Just wash it down with some more wine.

One thing has become clear.  We will not begin our Camino at the most typical starting point, St. Jean Pied de Port on the French side of the Pyrenees.  No, we will honor our Irish ancestors and begin where they would have, outside the Guinness Brewery St. James Gate, Dublin.

Thanks, Nell.


And thanks to all my readers.  Drop in now and then this summer.  You might find something new.  But for anything that requires the frontal cortex, see you next fall.

flair by Facebook.com
book jacket from amazon.com
photo of cake by Willa Goodfellow
photo of tomb of St. James by Le Galician, in public domain
photo of Guinness Brewery, St. James Gate, Dublin by Dubh Eire, in public domain

Entitled to an Apology?

Perhaps because a central feature of both hypomania and depression is irritability, and because a characteristic of the "bipolar temperament" is a certain tendency toward an attitude of entitlement, interpersonal disputes tend to be common in this patient population. -- Ellen Frank, Treating Bipolar Disorder

Frank goes on to explain how this attitude of entitlement plays out in the clinical setting.  Unlike the usually self-effacing patient with Major Depressive Disorder, grateful for any scrap of attention, people with bipolar get irritated at imagined slights, such as when the therapist cancels an appointment, or is late.  Sometimes, the only way the therapist can maintain the therapeutic relationship is to go ahead and apologize for these imagined slights.

Yup, stick that fork in the 220 volt socket again.

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