At the Foot of Meaning

Posted on April 2, 2006 in Body Language Depression

It has disturbed me lately that I have lost interest in reading. I spent the afternoon napping after perusing less than a page in The Practical Cogitator. The passage told of the birth of a storm. Whether it is from longtime trauma or the meds, I found that I could not grip the words and climb the ladder of meaning that I needed to appreciate the article. I lay the book by my side and closed my eyes.

Others do things. We were slated to take a walk by the sea, but my knee unbuckled as I was dashing up the stairs last night. It felt as if my kneecap popped up and the two bones that met beneath it began flopping around. I limped back to the bottom of the flight and groped about for my knee brace which made things better. When I awoke, the knee felt stronger.

My doctor suspects gout. Gout never felt like this (that pain in the big toe hurts much more) and gout never healed so quickly as this.

A member of my Saturday support group suggested to me that I become a counselor. I know of a dangerous person who is undergoing the education right now. I am not because of the money and because of my concern that my being a bipolar may interfere with the job. I would not want to spire (yes, just go straight up with no turns) into a mania after listening to three bipolar patients in a row. Then I could no longer feel comfortable coming to the group: a professional is no longer a peer. And I’d feel the unwelcome pressure and the isolation in my illness that I had not felt since coming out of denial and admitting that I needed to be with others of my kind.

And that is my life. Pains that superficially resemble another. Muscles that go limp. Bipolar depression and fogginess that erode meaning a drip at a time. I don’t want to become like the ex-friend of the Mass Defective: “He’s busy making his manic plans for his life again, things that will never come to fruition.” And yet, by making no plans, nothing ever comes out for me. What can I do?