No. 5 Homage to Rothko
No. 4 Soul Gathering
No. 3 “Moonshadow” no. 2
(Photograph after Cat Stevens/Yusuf)
No. 2 The Rush of Feeling
No. 1 “Moonshadow” (Photograph after Cat Stevens/Jusuf)
All limited edition original photographs available in different sizes and formats.
“Consider that you can see less than 1% of the electromagnetic spectrum and hear less than 1% of the acoustic spectrum. As you read this, you are traveling at 220 km/sec across the galaxy. 90% of the cells in your body carry their own microbial DNA and are not “you.” The atoms in your body are 99.9999999999999999% empty space and none of them are the ones you were born with, but they all originated in the belly of a star. Human beings have 46 chromosomes, 2 less than the common potato. The existence of the rainbow depends on the conical photoreceptors in your eyes; to animals without cones, the rainbow does not exist. So you don’t just look at a rainbow, you create it. This is pretty amazing, especially considering that all the beautiful colors you see represent less than 1% of the electromagnetic spectrum.” –Sergio Toporek
(Click http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html for information on, and to purchase my Bipolar/Asperger’s memoir.)
(Click http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html for information on, and to purchase my Bipolar/Asperger’s memoir.)
“It won’t happen again. Never. Never. Never. It’ll never happen again. No. No. No.”
The words to a song by Yusuf, better known as Cat Stevens, about a love affair gone awry. The words reverberate in my head repeatedly in true Bipolar style, as in true Aspie style, I listen to the song over and over and over and over again. My perseveration on the song fashions the words into a mantra, sending me full throttle into another state of consciousness, like the whirling dervishes of Istanbul who spin until they enter a mystical state. Since I no longer alter my consciousness with alcohol, cigarettes or recreational drugs (was too crazy to go that route), and since I am on anti-psychotic medications which keep me in reality, I have to use music, meditate and take refuge in nature to venture into my much-missed mystical states of being. The states today are washed out versions of the vibrant intensity I was accustomed to earlier in my life. But then, at age 28, my mind, never too strong to begin with, broke down and reality shattered into so many smithereens of glass. “It’s always a trade-off,” the experts say. But (and a “but” with a capital “B”) the psych meds hold me together and, most importantly of all, they allow me to love.
“It will never happen again. No. No. No.”
I can’t say that. My first major manic episode was ignited by a flaming crush at work that catapulted me into the fractionated world of psychosis for a very long time. Some thirty years later I am unsure just how far away that world is. It is not unusual for love to trigger the first manic episode in Bipolars, and I had another when I met the man who was to become my husband. This time the psychosis lost the war– because the love was reciprocated and nurturing– the most stable thing I had ever experienced. And (big “and”) because I was medicated. Though it felt like another break with reality was encroaching on my psyche, it never materialized and has not since.
But there have been close calls now and then. Writing my memoir of madness while working part-time, I would go to my job with all the raw feelings I was writing about whirling around inside me and, seemingly, outside me as well, as though stamped on my forehead. The memories and flashbacks bubbled up from deep inside like a lava flow of feelings. But no breakdown.
Mania is not the only state that flirts with psychosis. So, too, does the underbelly of the beast, depression. Loss of loved ones and caring for my dying mother brought me perilously close to the precipice again but extra medication kept me on the sane side of psychosis.
Even now any highly emotional experience (and being bipolar there are many) can shake the foundations of the self. Beholding great beauty in ecstatic encounters with nature, profound connections between thoughts and ideas, connecting deeply to another person—all these can send me reeling into space wondering if I can make it back to earth. These are all dangers I engage in somewhat recklessly for they make up the majestic magic and mystery of life. Friends and family I have helped keep my feet on the ground, but my husband is my real anchor to reality. Should something happen to Tom, well…
No. Unlike a dead love affair, I can’t say the descent into madness “will never happen again.” As I drift in and out of tantalizing trips into mania and try to flee the inevitable free fall into depression, I hang on for dear life and will not let go.
Enjoy the song sung soulfully by Cat Stevens, “MaybeYou’re Right…”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BUnxkW4zeM4&feature=youtube_gdata_player
(Click http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html for information on, and to purchase my Bipolar/Asperger’s memoir.)
It is a “dog day” in August, with the mercury near 90 degrees. It is the weekend and I am sitting in the backyard watching for wildlife. The birds are laying low. Our normally “Grand Central” marsh out back, our playground for the birds who fly hither and thither most of the time, is seemingly empty. The leaves on the trees are still except for the occasional breeze that cools the sweat on the body, and moves leaves on the tree I call the “penny tree” (because its leaves shimmer like so many pennies in the wind). A frog jumps at my feet in the shade taking measured leaps, all too aware of my presence despite my stillness.
Purple Loosestrife is emerging in the late summer marsh, along with Goldenrod and Joe Pie Weed. Bees swarm all over the Joe Pie Weed. Giant yellow swallow-tails flit among the Loosestrife. Every time I try to take a picture of them they are on to new horizons. In fact, no one is moving much except the insects, and they are moving in a frenzied pace as if to make up for lost time.
In torpor, my mind melding with the heat, finally I am driven to move out of the sun to shade in order to see better. Tiny fritillary fly to and fro. I look up at the still trees and feel peace, a soothing peace that my soul hungers for most of the time. It makes me feel guilty though, feeling this peace while so many near and dear to me are in distress. Perhaps I feel guilty because my husband is inside resting, way too tired from a hard week at work, at a hard job, giving therapy to the mentally ill in the South Bronx. He is in a foul mood after a bad week and it is his father’s birthday, the first birthday since his father died last fall. But deep down I know the guilt largely stems from the fact that my brother is dying of cancer. Lung cancer. Stage 3. Inoperable. With 2-4 months left to live. I spoke to him on the phone the afternoon before his first chemo the other day. My macho brother said, “I am scared.” A first for a brother who rarely admits to any feelings at all. And he called me right after the chemo to say he was okay, but I have not heard since. I hope it is because he had a test Friday and has no results yet to share. I fear though that the silence means he is feeling sick from the chemo.
Chemo is different these days. When my best friend, Mom and Dad had chemo 16, 22 and 25 years ago, you could die from it. And it made them very ill. More people are surviving today but as far as chemo goes, things have not progressed that much.
So here I sit contemplating nature, feeling one with God while my brother sits in Michigan with his wife and three adopted kids, dying. Is it fair? No. Will we visit him? Maybe. If I can sedate myself so as not to go to pieces when I see him at 5’7″ and 106 pounds, looking unlike the brother I ever knew. Can he pull through? Possibly. More people are surviving cancer these days. Can it be possible that my kid brother has cancer? It can’t be. Do I cry? On and off. At the most inopportune times. Is my brother brave? Yes. Because he didn’t have health insurance and because he was afraid and because he was in pain, he did not go the doctor for a year. He fought his cancer on his own with ibuprofen! Now he is on morphine. That’s brave and not brave. Making a joke saying, “Well, I STILL have my hair!” just a few hours after his first chemo is funny. It is also brave. My brother didn’t get help until he collapsed one day, bringing up blood. Losing my balance, I had fallen on my face one hour before my brother collapsed. Is there a link between loved ones that operates when one is failing? I think so.
Although I sit writing in the cooling shade, transported to another plane, I am thinking of my brother and my husband and his widowed stepmother and his sister whose birthday is also next week. Susan had a mastectomy last summer. She is just one of the many suffering in our world. The “dog days” of summer are upon us and for some there are nothing but dog days.
I absorb all the life about me, the frog hopping periodically, the catbird whining, the insects flying frantically, gliding butterflies that fly by too fast, and I wonder about this thing called life. How long it seems sometimes, and yet it goes by in a blink of the eye. In the cooling air as the shadows lengthen, bringing more shade and delightful zephyrs, the birds return and a robin eyes me curiously. I give thanks to the Creator for giving us islands of beauty in a sometimes grim world, for the islands of happiness, in devastation, for islands of peace that well up from the soul within, even in the worst of times.
Happy Birthday, Dad! We miss you. Happy Birthday, Susan! May you remain cancer-free. And, most of all, Happy Birthday, Tony! May your birthday next week not be your last! God bless you all!
Note: The above was written in August, 2009. My brother lived another two years and died June 17, 2011. My sister-in-law celebrated her 4th year cancer-free just a month ago.
(Click http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html for information on, and to purchase my Bipolar/Asperger’s memoir.)
(Click http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html for information on, and to purchase my Bipolar/Asperger’s memoir.)
At one point in my life I was just trying to get through one hour at a time. Actually I have vivid memories of it sometimes being 15 minutes at time in which I would be praying to God in utter desperation. Such times could come again but I would hope to be stronger if, or more likely, when they return.
Fleet-footed moments of heart-stopping anxiety visit far too often even now, maybe just to keep me in practice. Uncontrolled thoughts of a scary future fraught with frets and worries frequent my mind, “pissing on the present,” as they say. These visitations may be the by-product of Bipolar Disorder and/or my Asperger’s Syndrome. In any case, my current goal is to learn “mindfulness” through meditation to correct this distortion of time and consciousness.
Long the slogan of A.A. and other methods of recovery, “one day at a time” can also be a celebration of, and desire for, peace– world peace, as well as inner peace. Yusuf/Cat Stevens expresses this poetically, as always, in his song, “One Day at a Time,” in this video link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e-Xpa7pNKRc&feature=channel&list=UL
(Click http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html for information on, and to purchase my Bipolar/Asperger’s memoir.)
I awaken to moonlight– it is that particular slant of silver that lights up the front yard at 3 AM. What really has awakened me is my husband’s breathing. It is labored like he has just run up a flight of stairs. At times I awaken because I do not hear his breath and some alarm goes off in my head to check on him. If I cannot hear him breathing I put my hand ever so lightly on his chest so as not to wake him, to see if I can feel his heart beating. Feeling it pulsing in my hand I am reassured once more. I am not alone in this breath-check business. My sister-in-law confides in me that she wakes up at night to listen to my brother to see if he is still breathing. My grade school friend says much the same. Our husbands are relatively well. They have diabetes, heavy smoking/drinking, and a delicate frame among them, but they are not on death’s door so far as we know. And yet we are plagued by morbid fears.
In the wee hours of morning hobgoblins of fear loom large. My husband’s heartbeat, a mere flutter, seems so delicate. I am reassured that it is beating just as I am reassured that he is breathing. But the breath itself is so fragile. It scares me– the fragility of the breath, the fine line between breathing and the cessation of breath.
I prowl the house. Through the bathroom skylight the stars beam brightly, offset by the shining, silver sliver of moonlight. It will be a clear day tomorrow. But it is already tomorrow. It is so still my ears hum. My husband, who knows so many interesting things, tells me the humming I hear is the sound of the nervous system. Our bodies hold such mystery.
I look out the window, now hearing my neighbor’s dogs barking quietly. I look for coyote thinking that is what they are barking at, but see nothing. The moonlit grass on the lawn is an expanse of white, looking almost as if it had snowed, and the water in the marsh sparkles spangles of moonlight. The deep woods behind are pitch dark, the home of many a creature. Nothing stirs. It is too early for the birds. The house across the way is always dark; it is up for sale. And in the other direction, at this hour, no light shines in the driveway of the house down the road.
I am reminded of a line from a poem by Tagore “Faith is the bird that feels the light when the dawn is still dark.” I am at my most faithless at 3 AM.
Along with the supreme beauty of Tagore’s thoughts, a frivolous line from an old song runs through my head, like a commercial ruining a masterpiece of film: “There ought to be a moonlight savings time…” and the line continues “so there would be more time for loving” or some such drivel—perhaps meant for the piquant ting of a new fling.
I check email and surf the web to try to dispel the feeling of aloneness but it merely accentuates it. Finally, chilled, I go back to bed. An owl hoots in the distance– a reassuring sound. My husband is breathing freely now. His body is warm in the bed and I am filled to the brim with love for him as he lays in a heap, so trustingly in the arms of sleep. Our marriage is an unlikely and unexpected wonder. A seemingly endless source of ever-increasing love. A double-edged sword, for with that love comes the terror of its loss. Death can come in an instant, at any time. We live our lives in daily denial of how vulnerable and powerless we all are.
Perhaps the only control we have is over our own thoughts. I score low in that department. Perhaps all wives check their husbands for breathing. Perhaps there is an army of women out there prowling the wee hours of the night, at times by moonlight, checking on their husbands, their children, their animals to see that they all have that breath of life still flowing.
“There ought to be a moonlight savings time…” I thank God, at such times, there is not.
(Click http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html for information on, and to purchase my Bipolar/Asperger’s memoir.)
There was no question I was going to buy and read “Washed Up,” by Alistair McHarg, after having read and loved “Invisible Driving” by the same author. Swept away by his memoir of Bipolar Disorder, I was equally disarmed by “Washed Up.” His memoir reads likes fiction, and “Washed Up” is his second work of fiction but it reads with the reality of nonfiction. In recovery himself, McHarg follows the adage to the “T” of “Write what you know!”
The Master of metaphor (and simile) in both books, in “Washed Up” McHarg shows us his talents at characterization. The characters are so real, I felt like they were a circle of friends, feeling for them, and feeling with them, through their individual lives.
Cat, my favorite, a gutsy, young woman who manages to sell sex (and somewhat kinky sex at that) to men, does so without losing respect for herself. Kinky sex pays very well and often is surprisingly asexual. This is the case here and we almost cheer Cat on, sympathizing with her that she has to earn her money this way, though she comes out of it relatively unscathed physically and emotionally. My real fascination with Cat was that she is the first exotic/erotic dancer/stripper I have met in literature or elsewhere and it is a totally intriguing peep into this line of work. I loved reading about what it was like dancing in the club where she performed.
We first meet Cat after the opening chapters in which we are introduced to some of the main characters, Ned, Brent, Andrew and Mickey, at an AA meeting. Cat appears out of nowhere and we wonder what in tarnation she has to do with these guys in AA and their wives whom we meet early on. But we find out soon enough.
The plots are interwoven like the threads of a spider’s web, captivating us with a simple complexity that engrosses. The wives and girlfriends of the AA guys and Cat suggest a theme on the strength of women in the world of “Washed Up.” The men are too preoccupied with recovery to fight the women’s feminine wiles and beguiling ways. An interesting theme by a male author.
Mickey was my other favorite character, epitomizing the virtues of caring within the organization of AA meetings that have helped so many. AA members may be powerless over alcohol but they are powerfully “there” for each other. Although not always. In “Washed Up, we see they are not all saints, when jealousy rears its ugly head within the intricacies of the intertwining relationships and plot shifts.
The ending is powerfully understated and brought a tear to my eyes. We go through thick and thin with these guys and their somehow powerful women and we come to care for their welfare.
Like “Invisible Driving,” “Washed Up” would make a good movie thanks to McHarg’s excellent storytelling abilities and the visual writing that make the scenes appear before our eyes. He uses emotional rhythms and syncopated plot twists to create a seamless sequence of memorable jazz.
(Click http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html for information on, and to purchase my Bipolar/Asperger’s memoir.)
A Must-Read for all therapists and special ed teachers!,April 27, 2012
Tony Attwood is the patron saint of “Aspies” and this book holds true to his dedication to, and total understanding of, those of us with Asperger’s Syndrome. His understanding of all aspects of Asperger’s Syndrome is astounding and he is particularly gifted in his understanding of girls with Asperger’s Syndrome. He totally “gets it” when it comes to theory of mind and emotions in Asperger’s Syndrome. Would that all therapists could understand and have the knowledge he has and so clearly presents in this encyclopedic covering of AS. Reading Tony Attwood’s guide brought me to tears– that someone could care so much about those of us with the syndrome and understand us so well. He explained me to me in ways no one else had and eventually brought me to the point of getting officially diagnosed at age 61. “Congratulations, you have Asperger’s syndrome!” says it all. He accepts the syndrome as a different way of thinking and feeling which is presented in a positive light, without making light of the difficulties involved in having AS. He understands that the diagnosis often brings relief, particularly for those of us who fell through the cracks and were never treated, and carried lots of guilt and poor self-image for our “failings.” Can’t recommend this book highly enough for all those who need to understand AS– therapists, parents, teachers and, last but by no means least, for those who have AS.
(Click http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html for information on, and to purchase my Bipolar/Asperger’s memoir.)
Nature's nuances in a nutshell
Kevin Brennan Writes About What It's Like
The World through Shaggie's eyes
Ravindra Kulkarni , Content Writer, Creative Writer and Story Teller
Drawing Norwegian Nature
Life in Kana-text (er... CONtext)
"Reflections, Insights, and inspiration for Every Journey"
poetry & art as sadhana in Shiva’s service
La poesía es la libertad del alma.
love each other like you're the lyric to their music
Experience The Finest Travel, Food and Lifestyle Stories Around The World
I upload photos & videos Golu lodhi village pairakhedi
True wealth is the wealth of the soul
gulfcoastpoet.com
Psychotherapy, Walk and Talk Therapy, Neurodiversity, Mindfulness, Emotional Wellbeing
"Exploring the Spiritual Cosmos in the Digital Universe," "Harmony Beyond Boundaries in the Digital Realm," "Your Gateway to Infinite Wisdom in the Digital Universe," "Connecting Consciousness Across the Virtual Cosmos," "Discover Divinity in the Digital Universe," "Where the Spirit Meets the Digital Frontier," "Empowering Inner Growth Through the Digital Universe," "Digital Universe, Infinite Spiritual Possibilities," "Awakening Souls Across the Digital Horizon," "Navigating Spiritual Journeys in a Boundless Digital Universe."
Photos, stories and more
Poems about the random (and more)
Mid-Life Ponderings
"قوتك تبدأ من هنا"
Peace 🕊️ | Spiritual 🌠 | 📚 Non-fiction | Motivation🔥 | Self-Love💕
Lyrics Of Life
exploring the dreamworld
LIBERTE - RESPECT- FORCE
The Art of Sustainable Glamour
Christian Writings, Testimonies, Prayers and Inspiration, Poetry, Faith, Family, Trust, Religion, Christian, God, Jesus, Jesus Christ, Being Crazy For Christ, Published Author, Chrisitan Books, Growing, Believe, Leo The Lion, David The Darvin Fox, Hope, Dreams, Christian, worship, Fantasy, Adventure,
Foundational Life Truths stories and pictures
MOONSIDE 
You must be logged in to post a comment.