I am not bipolar

During meditation this morning I realized that I wasn’t bipolar any more. I also seemed to have shed my priesthood, my social work role — so many identities I had struggled to have attained over the past 20 years. All I have left is my relationship with my family, my multiple health issues and my cat. I am mostly quiet these days. I have little to say and no one to talk to. I read voraciously and do 5 crosswords a day. I try to go the gym 3 times a week; same with AA meetings. But in those outings, I have almost no contact with anyone else. I live in the quiet, simple bubble of my own world. For the most part, I can interact politely with service personnel; I am quiet and direct. But, I struggle to speak out on broader issues. Having an in-depth conversation with Dodie Preach two weeks ago was a stretch. I hadn’t reached down into my intellect for quite some time. With Scott I can make pithy remarks; I can find a word that captures an experience or a mood, but beyond that I don’t share much. I let Scott bewail ad nauseam his misery with priesthood. At times, it becomes tiresome.

Part of parkinsons, per Goggle, is apathy. If that is true, I have it in spades. The only time I have felt any emotion was when I tried to lead the prayer at the start of the Thanksgiving meal. I broke down in tears and could barely squeak out the prayer. I recalled Dad in those moments. Dad would become emotional as he led the prayer on those occasions. Funny, while I was close to Mom, she was never one to display emotion. She would voice praise, disappointment, sorrow, wonder but never displayed tears. Dad, on the other hand, roared, cried, laughed and cheered. Funny I had a problem with that. Anyway, besides my blubbering in front of the family on Thanksgiving day, I feel nothing. My emotions are a dried up well in the desert. I am aware of good things — like Arnold Palmer tea which I gulped down this morning — but there is nothing that my heart and soul reacts over. If there is one thing I feel is discomfort on Facebook; militant christians, anything about Trump — all of these send me a quiver to delete as quickly as possible. If this is the extent of my emotional baggage, well, that sucks!

I pray each morning to be relieved of the bondage of self: my selfishness, my ego, my laziness and my fears. These are what pin me to my easy chair and keep me immobilized. Perhaps my self has me tongue tied? I don’t have any more sessions with therapist scheduled, I have no outlets for volunteering on the horizon. I have gardeners who show up once in a while, maids who come every two weeks —  the only thing I have to do is take care of Blanche. Oh, and water the trees. Besides that, my life is confined to this house, the couch in the family room, my iphone. True, when I try to venture out more, like yesterday when I went to the gym, mailed the package to Pat/Tina and drove to Sun City with Ken’s tie I came home and crashed for almost 2 hours. There’s so much I want to do, and yet my bungee cord of a body snaps me back and says “whoa, you’ve gone far enough.” Maybe I should use a wheel chair at the airport on the 24th after all.

So, why am I not bipolar? Has the apathy of Parkinsons squelched the ups and downs of the bipolar? Did I outgrow it? Since I am no longer working (and Jennifer Hudson is no longer in my life along with Fen Rhodes,) have things evened out for me? Except for Remeron, I am remarkably stable emotionally. I wonder if the lack of dopamine contributes to my ennui with mood?

So, time for my sinamet. I ought to take a shower and then head out for a hair cut and get the car gassed and washed. Oh yeah, check out the key for Joe. I can feel a nap coming on as well. Dr. Lieberman says that if I keep doing what I’m doing, I should be good for another 20 years. Gads!

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