Have started an online silent retreat with Mooji. My reading of your posts of late has been sporadic, my writing, non-existent. Apologies. Trying to find my way back as I said in the last post. This seems like a good time to go on a silent retreat. So for a week I will not be reading or writing posts or using the Internet and will be trying to keep talking to a minimum while still running a household. Hopefully this will break through whatever is wrong. For those curious about the retreat, click on the link below:
No words. No photos. Fractured mind/body of Akathisia.
Faulty connection to God. Weak link to Mooji.
It’s been awhile.
Forgive me if I have neglected your posts. Cannot process lots of meaning. Losing cognitive functioning.
Medication change. In the last months of withdrawal. Finally totally off the blasted Zyprexa. A psych med. Heavy duty antipsychotic on for 15 + years. Sick from withdrawal and from increased dose of another antipsychotic been on 40 years. Almost daily panic attacks and lots and lots of migraines. Nausea. Anxiety ad infinitum.
When will strength/creativity/spirituality return?
Better question…WILL it return?
There are far, far worse things. Two blogging friends I hold in my heart, very sick, with serious stuff.
Better psych meds needed. No, no, no! Needing psych meds NOT a sign of weakness. Unmedicated Bipolar 1 can be fatal.
Poetry a memory. Beauty ignored. Even my refuge, Nature, cannot inspire.
Will figure this out with Doc. Hope to figure it out with Doc.
Hope is hard to find.
Love still there.
The most important thing.
Send to all.
Friend, Kitt, a fellow Bipolar, has a son who is a fellow migraine sufferer, horrible for one so young. Reblogging her post because it is so informative and so many people think a migraine is just a bad headache. For all who suffer from them, this is for you! Thanks, Kitt!
Originally posted on Kitt O'Malley:
So, it is May – Mental Health Awareness Month, and I’m not motivated to write about mental health. Not mine, at least. Instead, I find myself drawn to write about parenting a son who has suffered severe migraines since he was a toddler.
My son’s earliest migraines involved gastrointestinal symptoms, but no headaches. When he was a toddler, he would throw up for three days straight during and following holidays and play dates. At first we thought he got sick with gastroenteritis every holiday, but my sister pointed out the pattern and that he was reacting to being overwhelmed.
According to the Migraine Research Foundation:
Migraine is not just a bad headache. It is a neurological disease, with head pain and associated symptoms, such as nausea, vomiting, dizziness, sensitivity to touch, sound, light, and odors, abdominal pain, and mood changes. While children generally…
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Originally posted on Silver Threading:
I mulled over in my mind all night, what the best way to unite humanity could be.
I dreamt of kindness and saw a magnificent sight.
People were compassionate and kind to one another.
They embraced and smiled, as they shook hands.
I loved seeing all the random acts of kindness.
These random acts grew and spread to others.
I was filled with gladness.
And then, I woke up.
Give it a try! Here are 100 Random Acts of Kindness from 100 Things To Do
Thanks for stopping in on Be Wonderful Wednesday! I look forward to seeing you all again. Join Ronovan Writes and tell us what you think unites humanity.
It is late afternoon and spring by the calendar, although still quite cool. I have just spent some time at our neighbor’s pond, listening to a form of music that some have likened to the sound to bells. Others liken it to bird song. And still others with unimaginable disdain, to “some kind of nature noise.” For me it is one of the happiest of sounds– the act of creation transformed into sound decibels for all to hear. A sound that comes from the earth and resounds to the heavens, unwittingly praising the Almighty. It is a form of ecstasy when the sound surrounds me totally, filling my ears every evening with perhaps the single-most highlight of spring for me– the siren song of the Spring Peepers counterbalanced by the deeper sound of wood frogs.
How have they cast their spell over so many? I cannot say except that their song is uplifting and filled with hope despite the natural perils they face daily. For, as true of all of us, they may die at any moment– say as a meal for a nearby perching crow or underneath murky waters eaten by a snapping turtle. They call for a mate without ceasing, without fear, single-mindedly, without a thought for their own safety. This is nature at her most elemental, in her most singular scope. The peepers all sing out vying to be heard– an a cappella choir of voices. In some spots, I am told, their song is deafening. How nice to be there; I cannot get enough of their sweet music. It moves me to tears– these tiny creatures singing out their heart’s desire.
As I return home to family “situations” and domestic duties, I yearn for the simplicity and total fervor of their song. For if they sing then all is “right” in at least that small part of the world. Progress has not paved over their pond. Disdainful humans have not drained a “vernal pool.” David M. Carroll writes about vernal pools in his books on turtles called The Swampwalker’s Journal. As the title suggests, Carroll walks such places in search of turtles and other amphibians. He defines a vernal pool as a pool of water that fills up in Fall and Winter, swells in the Spring and often dries up by end of Summer. But a vernal pool is utmost a place of magic, not only where turtles lurk, but where mating frogs deposit gelatinous eggs which turn into tadpoles first, and there, later become frogs. And after a requisite series of warm days, followed by spring rains, on the first dark night, vernal pools become the site of the “salamander night.” Salamanders leave their hibernacula to go for a night of endless mating and then return to leaf litter in the woods to disappear for the rest of the year. Some people who know nothing of vernal pools and their function deem them a nuisance, a big puddle to be filled in or drained. Some people know little of spring peepers and wood frogs except that they are “noisy,” “like some sort of insect.” Poor insects are made out to be the pesky lowest of the low. The natural symphony of hormonal, harmonic sounds sometimes falls on deaf ears.
After finishing my evening chores, I try reading, but find the haunting sound of the spring peepers and wood frogs digging deep within my psyche, making me restless, wishing to be part of that pond, surrounded on all sides by the sex song, inebriated with the unbridled joy in the air, submerged in the utter power of nature manifesting in one of her gentler forms. For the song of the Spring Peepers nature celebrates life-to-be rather than the taking-away of life. Most of all, the song of the Spring Peepers is a song of tremendous faith, faith in love, faith that love will propagate, and faith that new life will emerge.
To all those who condemn we who are on psych meds…
Originally posted on idk:
I’m really tired of people saying stuff like “I don’t believe in medications, it’s all about Big Pharma wanting money and doctor’s getting kickbacks. You shouldn’t take any meds! Power through it! The human body wasn’t designed to exist on chemicals!”
You know what else the human body wasn’t designed to do? It wasn’t designed to function on chronically low serotonin and dopamine levels. It wasn’t designed to be in a constant state of depression, anxiety, or emotional fluctuation. Being bipolar or depressed or manic or obsessive-compulsive are chemical imbalances that cannot always be cured through the use of diet and exercise alone.
I believe that in this case, and in many cases, you cannot demonize something when you have never had a cause to experience it. If you have never been in a place where a pill, one single little pill, can be the difference between sobbing in your bed all…
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“Lamb of God, you who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us!”
“What has happened to our instinct for unity? The creatures know the rhythm of the earth. They have not forgotten the oneness of which we are a part. So in the Celtic world, they are messengers of Christ, the One who comes to reconnect us to the Heart of Being.” (Christ of the Celts by J. Philip Newell)
and you a warm lump
under the covers
Me wide awake
eyes moist with tears
lest I forget
the vulnerability of you
lest one day
you ARE no longer
a day of dread
so locked into desire
for your presence am I
fearful of the future
lest it tears me from you
or me from you
Not yet awake
to the wisdom
of the sages and the ages
to live forever in the present
“Until death do us part”
The import of those words
have begun to resound
with a fierce vengeance
now decades later
The treasure of you
multiplies like the loaves and fishes
I fear a famine
not of food
but of your presence
I try to hold each wrinkled emotion
on your face
in a forever place
lest you be torn from me
The specter of loss
hangs over me
haunting our life together
when you cried
when you disguised your tears
with embarrassed laughter
your eyes dripped diamonds,
sparkling as they fell
in response to mine
I crying because
there will never be
a “happily ever after”
at our age
sure as shooting
death will come
and rip us asunder
Perhaps our love
will be born again
but it is a “perhaps”
without a guarantee
My faith is faint
My heart shudders
under the threat
as you lay
a lump of warmth
in the land of Nod
Our love a fairy tale
in a fierce steely reality
“Unless we can discover that basic ground of goodness in our own lives, we cannot hope to improve the lives of others.”