Whirlpool Depression

I could do better.

I am late, oh so very late.

My self narrative doesn’t include the effects of my chronic illness. The disease drains me of energy as a gigantic whirlpool in the middle of my self narrative. The whirlpool sucks. It sucks my energy, and drains my self-image of all color, leaving me with a raft of tasks that I had desired to do with me at the bottom of the ocean looking upwards.

I’ll go to bed with the goal of waking up the next morning and to write more on my next book. But when I wake up the reality of my day floods in, and down the drain goes my energy, and ability to think clearly.

If you look at my last four paragraphs you’ll notice that each one begins with a self oriented pronoun: “I,” “My,” and “I’ll.” I’m furious that the disease drags me down the drain into a self oriented nether world. My heart wants to help others through sharing who I am and listening deeply to the hearts of others.

The dis-ease is tremendously strong and frequently overpowers my will. The illness doesn’t care about my goals or desires, but I do.

When reading this over, I hear the depression that is with me today. Today the depression is hard to overcome. But with the pain and the difficulty breathing my body just wants to curl up in a fetal ball somewhere close to a fireplace. The warmth would be nice, but succumbing to the illness makes things worse.

Which brings up the point that I’ve only recently understood: there’s a big difference between taking care of my body and succumbing to the illness.

When I take care of my body, I feel better afterwards. However when I succumb to the illness, I feel worse afterwards. This morning I knew that laying in bed would be succumbing to the illness because of three indicators:

  • The present – staying in bed was a powerful driving force, but had no joy to it
  • The future – when I looked at the future I didn’t feel like I would have more energy and joy when I did finally get out of bed
  • The past – the pain and breathing difficulties were similar to what I had before and been able to do things to contribute to the world without damaging my health.

I’ve been disabled by the disease, to one extent or another, since August 1985. That’s a long, long time. If I had succumbed to the disease, consistently allowing it to control my life, I’d either be a basket case or dead.

One of the pieces of wisdom I have garnered over the years is that the path of joy adds to the world and brings me closer to God.

[Most of the readers of this blog will understand the difference between joy and happiness. Happiness is fleeting and can sometimes have a hard edge. Happiness adds little to the world except that it’s better than sadness (sometimes). And happiness is fleeting, needing to be refreshed again and again, day after day. Joy is like a drop of water on a sponge, where the soul absorbs the nutrition and grows softer in its interaction with others. Alternatively, happiness is like a drop of water on a rock, sliding off the stone needing constantly to be refreshed.]

Writing today has lifted my spirits and warmed my heart. May your day be joy filled, and your path bring you ever closer to the person you want to be.

Autumn Wallpaper

Autumn has come with a hard sharp edge. My body mirrors the outside temperature – turning cold wet days into avalanches of pain.

I used to love autumn with the rains that turned the forest green. The season slowly turning into the silence of winter. Deep nature shared with friends, just memories now.

How do I interact with people and not let the conversation be stained by this autumn pain? The pain has become so pervasive it’s become the wallpaper of my life. This is the autumn wallpaper.

This “wallpaper pain” is not the excruciating pain that brings me to the floor or keeps me up all night. Wallpaper pain fogs my mind and drains the colors from my thoughts. It makes me forget to take my medications and forget that I can occupy other rooms with other wallpapers.

Wallpaper pain is not depression, although it is related. Depression feels like more of a state of being, while wallpaper pain is directly related to a medium level of pain. As I’m writing this, my pain level is increasing from sitting too long. So the wallpaper pain is actually decreasing as my physical pain is increasing towards barely tolerable.

I have a deep and strong dislike of wallpaper pain. It robs me of the ability to be creative, and what’s much worse: it makes me sharp with others. Wallpaper pain robs me of the ability to be the person I want to be. It robs me of the days and hours of my life and gives me nothing in return.

When I am in intense pain I can use it to explore the nature of pain or of my view of God. When I am in little to no pain my mind is clear to be creative: I can write, I can develop new ideas, I can interact freely with people, and sometimes I can hear God’s voice.

When I live with wallpaper pain it’s so very hard to do any of these things.

Finding Joy

It was 4:30 this morning. Our new pup was asleep on my chest. A half hour before he had awoken me to go out for his “necessaries.” Now, I lay in bed remembering the joy he showed as he bounded through the early morning snow.

I remembered my exuberant joy as a child. How do I breakthrough my adult and disease barriers to reclaim something that feels as valuable as that wildly exuberant joy?

This joy is valuable because:

  • it feels so close to God
  • it allows me to see the world more clearly (i.e. with fewer filters)
  • it helps bring joy to others
  • and it’s more fun for me.

My major adult barriers are:

  • financial insecurities
  • feeling that I “should” be helping others more
  • not feeling that I know enough/am enough to truly help people.

My disease barriers are an ever-changing kaleidoscope of problems. Many of these I’ve talked about before: intense pain, extremely foggy mind, difficulty breathing, difficulty swallowing, poor balance. Most of these come and go except for the pain and difficulty breathing.

The latest addition for my disease barrier to joy is, for me, a particularly nasty one.

When I was young, I had polio. It was “cured.” But it left many long-lasting effects. I’ve written about my troubles breathing because the polio damaged my diaphragm. Within the past few weeks this damage has caused a secondary problem: each time I breathe my diaphragm hurts, a lot.

So how do I put aside the emotional/mental effects so that I can tap into the joy of being close to God?

I get closest when I write, or teach, or do deep research to help society be better (see my Narrative Leadership website). But these barriers, especially the disease barriers, make this extremely difficult.

The task I’ve set myself of reclaiming my joy seems like a wonderful task, well worth the effort. I don’t know how to do this, but it feels like my life’s trajectory has set me up to carry out this goal.

In the meantime, I’ll just bask in the reflected glow of my new puppy’s joy.

One More Thing

I haven’t written for a long time, and I’m having problems with writing today.

Sitting here with me are overwhelm, and self disappointment.

I’m having seizures. Again.

Decades ago I had frequent seizures every day. Then I got a pacemaker (heart stopping = brain damage => seizure focal point). Several years after the pacemaker was implanted, my seizures went away.

Now the seizures are back, just in a different form. For the past few years I’ve noticed the seizure sequelae (the after seizure problems), confusion and extreme exhaustion. I just didn’t put it all together. Currently the seizures appear as vagus nerve issues – hiccups lasting for hours, swallowing problems, choking, etc.

These new seizures started slowly. This gave me time to remove the emotional issues – mainly PANIC. My wife was a huge help. She gently hugged me and rubbed my back. Her deep love helped me realize that the panic was not part of the physical issue. I couldn’t control the hiccups, choking … but I did have some control over the panic.

With the new diagnosis, I feel once more cast adrift.  [I can hear some of my friends trying to help by saying “Look at this as a freedom, a moving forwards, and a further understanding.” But right now that’s not how it feels.]

Last time I lost my company, had to declare bankruptcy, lost my ability to read and write, and lost some ability to understand the spoken word. Emotionally, spiritually, and psychologically this hangs over me. It colors my experience of the seizures and the post seizure time.

I’m working on differentiating the past from the present. It’s hard and painful work. I feel separated from most everyone except my wife. Part of this is the deep snow and how far we live out in the boonies. Part of this is a post seizure sequela that lasts for many hours.

Part of the differentiating process is looking at my successes and failures, health and illness, extroversion and self judgment. I’m trying to look honestly, deeply, and gently at past issues and events. It feels like good work to learn and grow with.

This is the challenge I have been working with the past few months, and the main reason for not writing.

Peace to you all. Shalom.

Stress Avoidance

I put so much stress on my wife. Much of it appears to be a transference from me to her.

Because of my thyroid and adrenal gland problems, (as well as my other health issues) I cannot handle much stress. The stress might come from a movie we are watching where one person does something stupid and harmful to another person, or the news, or anything having to do with “The Donald.”

As the stress starts to increase I begin to shiver inside. My brain shuts down to most logical thought, as it jumps from this one case of injustice and how it hurts people, to a related case of injustice and its effects, and then to injustices related to that, and on and on. Each case of injustice hurts my heart and increases the stress. My shivering increases which makes my normal, constant physical pain increase. A terrible spiral into physical, emotional, and mental pain.

It’s like body surfing in a river of endless white water rapids. Barely catching my breath before being plunged deep between rocks and water. Bubbles all around, but no air to breath.


I avoid talking (or reading, or watching) about “The Donald” and other purveyors of the white water injustices.

Leaving it all to my wife. She can’t use me to help exorcise her own anger with life’s larger stresses. She carries it all – for both of us.

In addition, she has to handle the stress of watching my body be battered by my diseases.

For a long time, I tried to minimize her stress by trying to hide mine. Soon, this devolved into a toxic spiral of barely contained anger and frustration, which was not good for either of us.

My current alternative is to try to recognize early when I fall into the white water rapids. Then I just stop the conversation/movie/story, explaining that the stress is overwhelming me. I know that my wife then carries the stress, but for now, I don’t know what else to do.

This process is helping me regain dry land, but my wife is paying the cost.

If I Had Cancer

I was reading about an acquaintance who was recently diagnosed with cancer. My heart went out to him as I applauded his decision to retire. I was about to say to my wife “if I had cancer, I’d retire and concentrate on the things that matter to me most.”

Before the words could come out of my mouth the reality of my life stepped in. I do have cancer. I just rarely think about it.

Cancer is not causing the majority of my pain or exhaustion, nor is it affecting my breathing, balance or foggy mind. Cancer is not the main cause of my frequent doctor or hospital visits.

Other diseases are much more problematic for me on a daily basis. So, the “Big C” is not forced into my daily awareness. There are three other reason that are probably the main actors in why I don’t think about my cancer.

Firstly, when I tell people I have pancreatic cancer, I can see the reaction in their bodies and the sorrow in their eyes. Even after I tell them it’s slow-growing their interactions with me are subtly changed until they too put it out of their thoughts.

Secondly, quite honestly cancer freaks me out. From up close I’ve watched my mom, aunt, and two good friends be eaten alive by this disease. It’s a miserable disease from which to die, and a horrible thing for loved ones to watch.

And finally, at this point there’s not a lot we can do. With current methods, I’m told that the recovery time from this type of operation would be 12 to 14 months with significant discomfort. On top of my other illnesses, I’m not sure my body could take. Also, it looks like some robotic surgeries may be available in the next few years that would vastly reduce the surgery’s assault on my body.

And I guess, above all these reasons, I don’t think about the cancer because, in my mind, cancer equals illness and possible death. Even though I’m constantly dealing with illness, my orientation is almost entirely towards life and joy.

Thinking about my cancer doesn’t really distress me. Even thinking about my death is, most of the time, not a big deal.

I’m a deeply spiritual man and I care about people. In this life there are things I can do with these issues about which I care so much. There is nothing I can do about what comes after death except live my life according to my ideals and ethics. [I have a belief about what happens to us after death, but that is a topic for a future post.]

Therefore, I concentrate on the things about which I have some control and which will leave the world a little better place after I’m gone.

Foggy Days

Days like today are traumatic.

Most of us who are over 40 have times when it’s difficult to remember or think clearly. But this is different.

Today, I am lost within my foggy mind. Today words get lost in the fog. Words like “refrigerator,” “door,” and “broom” just won’t appear when needed.

I’m also lost in space. In our little, temporary, home (all of 225 ft.²) I can’t seem to find where the door is or the refrigerator. There’s no panic like being lost in the woods. It’s just that nothing seems familiar, neither this cabin we’ve been living in for a year and half or my mind trying to find words in this brain I’ve been using (on and off) for the past 65 years.

This is the first time in the last six months or so that I’ve been lost in the fog. I don’t know what brings this on, nor what will make it go away.

I’d like to be able to say that writing this post is a stream of consciousness effort, but it’s not really. I really don’t have a stream of consciousness. That is, that there is no flow from one thought or one paragraph to another thought or paragraph.

Writing in any intelligible form is an immense effort to maintain a deep writing meditation. I imagine this will require a lot of editing, but I feel that it’s important to share what it’s like to have aphasia along with some other stuff. [“Aphasia is a condition that robs you of the ability to communicate. It can affect your ability to speak, write and understand language, both verbal and written.” Mayo Clinic]

On these foggy days it’s difficult, and sometimes impossible, to think things through:

When the peanut butter, jelly, and bread are on the table with a butter knife in my hand, what do I do next and where’s the butter knife?

With my wife asking me how were going to pay for snow tires for car, how do I add $400 and $500, and what’s a “snow tire,” and I know she was asking me a question but what was it?

My wife says “Hey Hon, there’s more carrots in the refrigerator that’s in your office.” [Yes, I share my office with a refrigerator, a pantry, a water heater, a washer and dryer, and the freezer.] But my mind freezes when she says the word “refrigerator.” I hear the word but I don’t know what it means and I can’t ask her because I can’t say the word, no matter how hard I try.

These are just three of the myriad of things that happened to me today in this foggy world.

I used to get very disturbed by losing my way in the world and in my thoughts. But that didn’t lead me anywhere near joy. So I searched, and thought, and prayed, and I found the blessing.

I’m a brilliant guy with a good heart. But viewing the world from this honored place is not where the majority of people live. Living in this fog has helped me realize how very special that other place is and how much I want to use those abilities, to be of service to others.

I guess I’m done because my mind is going into a deeper fog. I need to go lay down and take care of myself.