Unorthodox and Unhinged

Tales of a Manic Christian


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Frantic Friday, Manic Monday & The Season of Generosity

Woodies at Christmas downtown

We got all dressed up to go Woodies.

At Christmas, my mom would get us all dressed up to go shopping downtown in D.C. As a kid, this little corner of Washington was a wonderland to me. I remember pressing my nose up against the department store windows – bedazzled by animatronic snowflakes, snowmen, and Nativity scenes.

We’d go to lunch in the tearoom where we got to sit on Santa’s lap. We’d ride the elevator to every floor and at every stop — notions or housewares or lingerie — all of the clerks greeted my mother by name.

“Mrs. Peacock, how good to see you. How may I help you?”

At Garfinkels, Woodies, and Hechts she would charge up her Washington Shopping Plate. It was Christmas after all – time to load up on socks, mittens, and gloves. Time to splurge on fancy talcum powder and Christmas cologne, pierced earrings and cultured pearls, Instamatic cameras and baseball bats.

“Put it on my account,” she would say.

In my teenage years, my mom converted to catalogs. Long before online shopping or the Home Shopping Network, Christmas catalogs clogged our mailbox. I remember them being piled high in a basket in the family room by the couch. And I can see my mom sitting there — clear as day – leafing through them: LL Bean, Orvis, Land’s End, Sharper Image, Harry & David’s Fruit of the Month Club.

Armed with just a telephone and a credit card, my mom would shop until she dropped. Sometimes she would buy so much stuff, she would forget that she had bought it and buy it again. Sometimes she bought so much stuff, she would hide it in the attic or the trunk of her car. She would bring it in little by little – hoping that my father would not see.

Until the bills came, of course, and the sh*t hit the fan and my father hit the roof.

We always got tangerines and toothbrushes in our stockings – but it was the stuff under the tree that was the measure of my mom’s moods.

Unwrap a box and you would peek into her soul: bright on the outside, dark and disorganized on the inside.

One year she did all of her shopping at the drug store. She gave me a man’s thermal undershirt, a meat thermometer, and hot pads. Another year she did all of her shopping at the country club pro shop. I got golf balls, a golf glove, and a yellow sweater embroidered with golf clubs and putting greens.

I do not play golf. I have never played golf. It did not compute.

And that’s the point. A manic-depressive mind has no use for math. Bipolar brains are no good at budgets. That would require calculated decisions, measured judgment, and impulse control. Such minds have no concept of living within one’s means.

My bipolar brain included.

In my married years, I abdicated all my financial responsibilities to my skinflint ex-husband. I was the breadwinner and he was the stay-at-home dad. I made the lion’s share of the money but he managed it. He did all of the grocery shopping which was a blessing. He bought everything on sale including cornflakes and he would not buy a new box until the very last flake was eaten.

It wasn’t’ until I was on sabbatical in 1999 that I had my very own checkbook — for the very first time. I was 45 years old.

Now my money was mine to manage. A middle child, I sought to drive a middle course. But I am not a very good driver; I am my mother’s child. My finances too can be tracked by my moods – or is it the other way around?

In my dazzling days, I have charged up my credit cards.

In my dark days, I have neglected to pay my taxes.

Where your treasure is, there your heart will be.

I am embarrassed to bear this broken part of my bipolar soul. And I have worked very hard — for years — to balance this part of my brain.

My car is paid for.

My mortgage is small.

I am on an all cash diet.

I use a debit card whenever I can.

I pull out my credit card only in emergencies.

At least, I try.

Honestly, I still struggle daily to live within my means – especially at Christmas – so many shiny things to stuff into stockings and pile high beneath the tree.

So today as I write – on Black Friday — I am doing my best to sit on my wallet. On Cyber Monday, I will try to stay off of my Mac. And on Giving Tuesday, I will try to be as generous as I can without going into debt.

After all – generosity — is the reason for the season, right? At Christmas we celebrate the Holy One, born poor in a stable; the Holy One, homeless with no place to lay his head; the Holy One who preached good news to the poor; good news for those dirty shepherds who worked the late shift and watched their flocks by night.

He scatters the proud in the imagination of their hearts.

He puts the mighty down from their thrones and

He exalts the lowly.

The hungry he fills with good things and

the rich be sends empty away.

And so I pray this Christmas,

That where my heart lies, so my treasure will be,

not just in the stockings and under the tree,

but spent for those in need,

for those in want and poverty,

spent in generosity.

JoaniSign 

 


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One Pill Makes You Smaller; One Pill Makes You Tall

Smaller or taller?

Smaller or taller?

Alice could not reach the doorknob.

Shrunk down so small, Alice saw no relief in sight.

And then what should appear but a little bottle by her bed.

“Drink me.” It said.

And so she did.

And on the table was a little cake.

“Eat me.” It said.

And so she did.

She opened up like a telescope and shot up like a shooting star. Her neck stretched; her legs grew. Her head burst through the ceiling. Her arms burst through the windows. Her feet stuck out the door.

Welcome to Wonderland.

Welcome to my world.

Take a little bit of this and a little bit of that until you get your bipolar brain just right.

So before I lay me down to sleep — I wash down three little pills with a glass of water:

One little pill to — balance my brain;

One little pill to — help me sleep;

One little pill to — keep me this side of crazy;

A mood stabilizer; a soporific; and an antipsychotic.

I have got this thing down to a science. I am a walking, talking miracle of science.

But the recipe for this little cocktail is not written in stone. Every once in a while I need to have my head examined. Yes, literally have my head examined by a board certified psycho-pharmacologist. And then re-examined.

But we are not just a pile of chemicals. Being organic, every little aspect of our being has a bearing on our brains.

So like going to Jiffy Lube, my doctor peers down at his clip board and runs my brain through the 39 point checklist:

“How much shuteye have you gotten lately?”

“Well, doctor, less and less”.

“When was the last time you took a run around the block?”

“Well actually, doctor,  I’ve been doing that more and more”.

“What have you been eating for breakfast?”

“Well, doctor, I am crazy about breakfast. I eat it three times a day.”

“How about your workload?”

“It’s great, doctor, but I rarely say ‘no’.”

“How is your love life?”

“What love life?”

“How are your finances?”

“What finances?”

The measure of my moods is the balance in my checking account. And recently when it comes to money I have gotten way out of balance.

At first my spending seems most sensible.

For water aerobics, a new bathing suit – and then a new pool bag and water shoes to match. Of course, they have to match.

And then another bathing suit, just because.

For walking that next half marathon, new running shoes — and then new socks, new tights, new jacket, new hat. Of course, they have to match.

Two new dresses just because.

And just because I was traveling: new slippers, new scarf, new coat. And of course, they have to match.

And just because I love to read, a new e-book, a new real book, new bookmarks.

And because it is cold — new boots.

And because they might break — a new toilet, a new washer, a new dryer.

You get the idea!

And o by the way, walking, and swimming, and half marathon-ing this last year  —  I have lost weight equal to that of a small child or two. (And yes, I look amazing! Thank you for noticing!)

Money matters out of whack. Metabolism redefined. It’s time to get my head re-examined. And even though I know I should, this is something I am wont to do.

Feeling fabulous, I regularly drop by my therapist’s office to tell her so. But I am neglectful of my visits to the psycho-pharmacologist.

Who needs to go to the doctor — when you’ve got this down to a science?

Medication may be only a small part of being marvelous. But an important part it is. And when there is a big change in your life; you may just need a little change to your prescription cocktail.

One pill makes you smaller; one pill makes you tall. And when you are not sure —

Make an appointment with Dr. Alice. I am sure she’ll know.

JoaniSign