I am bipolar.

I've only known for a month, but I can trace the behavior back to my early twenties. Perhaps even earlier if I really cared to dig. My diagnosis like a surgical scar that's still healing— not yet mended but no longer weeping. Some days it feels like it came twenty-years too late.

I like to tell myself that I am not ashamed of it, but I think I'm lying to myself. I don't hide it from the guests of my practice. I would never deny it if I was asked. I openly share it when it's relevant, so perhaps that's enough. Maybe that's evidence of self-love still growing, of my bravery. Yet, I am afraid. I don't want my diagnosis to be known among those of which I still share pain. "But these are the people who should know," I rationalize. And I remind myself that this is only an invitation for deeper healing or closure. But what it feels like is a trap door, and the moment I step on my mark and say my lines, the floor will fall out from under my feet, the dark belly of stage swallowing me whole.

Why do I feel so vulnerable about this? Having bipolar disorder is not my fault. My behavior or choices did not create this. It is a genetic condition and a trauma symptom. I imagine it wouldn't be entirely too unexpected from the sword wielders in my past, but I am afraid of their judgment. I expect the worst in them, as if the only person who could have possibly grown in all this time is me.

I want my diagnosis to explain why I always took things too far, or why I just couldn't ever quite hold myself together. I want people to understand that the pictures they hold of me could be false images, and to consider that perhaps they remember the actress on stage and lost sight of the soul trapped inside.

I don't want redemption, and I don't need forgiveness. I want neutrality. Compassion. I want everyone to understand that I am weather in a bottle. I am thunderstorms and hail, rain, and sunshine. I am hurricanes. Tornados. Perfectly silent falling snow. I am all of these things, and they're all happening at the exact same time.

My life used to be so painful, and I know that pain did not come without consequence to them. If I am sorry about anything in my life, I am sorry for that. I am sorry for the intrusions and how my misjudgment that affected others who gave me their trust, their friendship, and offered me a place in their hearts and lives.

Now, my bipolar affects me in less abrasive ways. I no longer go into the extreme highs of hypermania. Instead, I experience hypomania, these wonderful little pockets of creativity, energy, and inspiration. In my hypomanic moments, my body untwists itself and my shoulders release themselves from my ears. I can breathe. I can laugh. I try to contact everyone who is important to me, checking in and checking on. I just seek a connection. But as all cycles go, the plateau of the hill must eventually descend into the valley, and so the blanket of depression drapes over me again.

My depression makes me feel extremely fatigued. I have to lie down a lot. Some days it's hard for me to even make dinner. Slowly, I begin to pull out of the commitments I created when I felt well. I am tired. Exhausted even. In both cycles, I do not sleep.

Mental health IS physical health.

If I could say anything to anyone in my place, I would want them to know that we are not sick: We are healing. Seeking the diagnosis is seeking the cure. When I have shared my diagnosis with others, many looked at me differently. It wasn't a conscious shift, but I saw the change in them. I do not hold any resentment for that shift. It is not a reflection of me, it is a reflection of misunderstanding and perhaps my biggest motivation for sharing this now. After all, what is there really to be ashamed of? In a way, bipolar disorder is a perfect fit for me. Why should a woman who constantly stands on the threshold between worlds not mirror that in her own mind? Why should I not be a true reflection of nature itself? To be everything all at once? And why shouldn't you?

In solidarity,

Jamie

When I was a young child, I dreamed of becoming three things: An artist, an author, and a nun. But my dreams of being anything were stolen very early. It was only later in life when I found painting did I come to know any sort of success. While others earned high school diplomas and graduated from college, my biggest accreditation came from my survival and somehow raising a child as a child myself. People would hear my story and say, “It’s incredible you’re alive and functioning!” And I would soak in that glory because that praise was literally all I had. It felt like everyone else had become somebody. They had a purpose. Drive. All I had was my life, and truthfully, I was barely hanging on.

When I began to search for Spirit, I had long surpassed any goals I ever could have set for myself as an artist. Most were shocked by my latent talent but it was oddly familiar to me. It’s like a greeting a person you always knew you would meet. A friend; an artist. An author. A nun. Finding purpose in art wasn’t easy though and I only found it inside the praise of others. I screamed for mercy at the empty sky. “Artistry alone cannot be my purpose!” That moment gifted the experience of discovery. Of psychic phenomena. Of hope. I created a new life and in it a way to combine reverence with color. It has been a beautiful journey.

I no longer see the sky as empty. I still come to it asking for help. But my body is so tired. This work is so physically taxing. One organ has already failed me and others threaten the same. I am suffering. Toxic big pharma can keep me at pace but I sacrifice my life. I poison my blood. I lose my laughter and my curiosity. I have to remind myself that this space is just a stepping stone. Always, I am just balancing on stepping stones. I am not intended to be here forever, just long enough until I am ready to move ahead.

When I sit with the feeling of my future, I see a teabag in a teacup. The supportive hands of Spirit cradling my body. The warmth of truth and reverence seeping its medicine into my blood. REAL medicine. The soul healing kind. The kind of I imagine to be running in the veins and fueling the path of an artist, an author, and a nun.

Happy full moon in Leo weekend.

This year, I wanted Christmas to be different. I wanted to take charge of myself and my responses in the face of my usual holiday triggers, like feelings of separateness from a lack of strong social circles and family bonding. I didn’t want to mask these feelings of separateness with casual alcohol. I wanted to step beyond my self-worth issues centered around my financial contributions, or how much I could mentally, emotionally, and physically participate in. And of course, to move beyond the crippling holiday sensory overload I experience every year.

But I know that to live in change one must be willing to begin the change. So, I started where I could: my relationship with social drinking. The second I began getting uncomfortable around others was the second I removed alcohol from my equation. Even though I’m a casual drinker at best when I do drink it’s to cope in social situations, which essentially means I drink to protect myself from being uncomfortable. And if I’m not uncomfortable in the situations that challenge me, then I’m not giving myself the opportunity to meet those challenges in a good way.

I also told myself I loved me a lot. Today was particularly hard because I had unintentionally (and irresponsibly) hurt my eldest’s feelings. I reminded myself that being accountable for my mistake is an act of integrity I can be proud of. And that offering a genuine, heartfelt apology through words and action, coupled with an open will to do better next time is enough to earn my own forgiveness and trust back in me.

The New Moon Eclipse hits this hemisphere tomorrow. I’m using this time to not only conceptualize what I want for my life this next decade but also to honor all that I’ve learned along the way. I hope your dreams take good care of you too. ~ Jamie

Tree Rings

They are silent scars,
tree rings,
simple markers of time
that ignores
the story between the lines,
the seasons of starvation,
the winters that lingered,
the days of summer,
of wine and dance,
the wild mistakes and the wilder joys,
the droughts and soft nights of love,
all of them lost in the lines,
each so similar to the next,
markers of age, so easily seen by others,
who cannot know your story in all it’s richness
unless you have the courage to leave the lines behind,
tell your own tale like the bards of old, creating a truth more true than honesty,
more true than markers or memories
or the lies of time.

~Tom Akers

May I continue to serve
as a beacon of light—
to honor the sacred in all places and
beings;
to illuminate, to empower
to surrender my will to Spirit so the
medicine the world needs can flow
through me unrestricted
uninhibited
and in full authenticity.

May the perfect people be chosen
in their perfect timing.
May we trust in that timing
instead of our own perceptions
and stay with hearts open to the process.

May we let go and let the Creator, create!

Jamie Homeister
Winter’s Intentions, 2020