Looking back (2)

3

After an unlucky experience with anti-convulsants I resumed my practice of managing my condition by a sheer will power but it soon became clear that it was not possible any more. The sense of thickening doom conveyed by my letters and paintings of that period reflects my swift fall into a black hole. Desperate Sunset depicts the last rays of sun which are about to be consumed by the darkness, a desperate human figure which became one with a chair on which it sits, and a ridiculously small house behind – and there is no escape. A paragon of this work, my afternoons and nights were particularly appalling because they brought with them agitation of the mixed states which I feared most. No words can adequately describe the torture they inflict upon a mind and a body; an airless chamber, a room with heated iron walls, a high voltage current which is rushing through one’s brain without killing it are its approximate metaphors. At times my agitation has become so unbearable that I turned to self-harm in an attempt to swap a mental pain with physical.

There is an aspect of mixed states which is not mentioned by DSM-criteria: an irresistible urge to self-destruction. In my case constant thoughts of suicide were fueled by self-hatred which was rooted in certain events of my childhood but I was not aware of it at that time. Being a practicing Christian, theoretically I rejected the idea of taking my life but each mood swing made it more and more appealing.

My condition hasn’t improved when I suddenly realized that I am falling in love, on the contrary, a despair caused by this realization triggered a particularly bad mixed psychotic episode with my favourite motto of self-hatred during which I repeatedly thrust a knife into my wrist. The most beautiful feeling which is supposed to give meaning to life turned into its parody being processed through a mind full of memories of abuse and losses. Nevertheless, soon after the episode, still not fully recovered from a substantial dose of an anti-psychotic, I was working on a new painting called Psychosis, or Don’t Let me Go in which I painted hands of three pivotal figures: my mother and my husband who have already lost my overstretched hand, and Glen whose grip was still preventing me from dissolving in the darkness populated by evil.

4

My blood-letting activity scared me and those who witnessed it, and I was forced to give up and to accept a professional help, in other words to see a psychiatrist.

It was not an easy decision. A few years ago I already had an unpleasant experience with a psychiatrist who was unbearably patronizing. It was clear that the idea of a patient who has a voice in choosing a medicine and who is taking an active role in a process of treatment was a blasphemous nonsense for him. Because in his approach he was relying only on drugs I gave him a nickname ‘Doctor Chemist’ and after my initial vague diagnosis Bipolar Disorder was refined as Bipolar Disorder II with psychotic features have never returned to his office.

Since I was told that my mood swings have a name I made a point of learning about manic-depressive illness and its treatments, both traditional and alternative, as much as I could. I have developed an insight into my mood patterns through observation of my symptoms and painstaking filling up the mood charts. I felt that I knew enough about my illness and certainly knew more than any doctor about its impact on me – therefore I had a right to participate in my treatment.

There was another complication: I was prepared to accept only medicines which would not affect my ability to work. In other words I would never buy stability at the price of impaired creativity. Providing that manic depressive illness is potentially a highly lethal disease and my particular case was not mild there was a very slim a chance to find a doctor who would take my concern about such nonsense as painting into account.

Luckily, I was recommended a specialist who proved to be professional and understanding at the same time, and who saw me as a human being with particular needs and not just as a “patient # …”. It was plain to her that nothing can make me take medicine unless I realize that it is an absolute necessity. My diagnosis was updated yet again, this time to Bipolar I Disorder rapid cycling with psychotic features. I remember myself asking hopefully if my case was severe enough to require an intervention of medicines and receiving the matter-of-a fact answer that anything that messes up one’s life is sufficiently severe. Typically for almost anyone diagnosed with manic-depressive illness, I have been unable to come to terms with my diagnosis for years, and to admit that I lost the battle. To surrender to drugs was a painfully humiliating experience.

Agreeing to try to preserve my creativity on the ground that, if a minimalist approach fails, then I will consider tougher solutions my psychiatrist prescribed me Thyroxin[1] and fish oil as mood stabilizers. Her decision was based on my observation that I had an episode of unusual stability in the past while taking Thyroxin and that I have had a very poor tolerance of drugs in the past. She didn’t hold much hope that it would be enough for me though, and indicated Lithium as the next step and almost the only option left.

Thyroxin made a difference but proved to be not sufficient. I felt clearer, less depressed and more energetic but my energy went not only into painting but also into my mixed states which grew worse. Eventually I had to agree to add a low dose of Lithium and fish oil to Thyroxin.

It took a few weeks to convince myself to start taking the prescribed drug. I kept staring at the bottle with large, oblong, heavy tablets and could not bring myself to do what I knew I should. Lithium scared me; other mood stabilizers which I tried before were originally designed as medicines for epilepsy and related diseases therefore in my eyes they didn’t have an invisible label ‘medicine for the mentally ill’ attached to them.

I started taking Lithium in the beginning of April. My doctor predicted that I should not expect stabilization earlier than in Southern hemisphere’s spring. However, soon after I started a treatment I got ten days of incredible, serene stability. My mind has become crystal-clear and I could concentrate on my work better than ever. I was wondering if this was how so-called normal people feel all the time. If so, how unfairly easy they lives should be then – free from mad races of thoughts, hot waves of sudden irritation for no reason, paranoid ideas, and so on.

Unfortunately, after giving me a glimpse of what was possible, Lithium seemed to stop working and I returned to my usual roller-coaster ‘depressive apathy – raving mixed state’. Nevertheless, something had changed: I was not as acutely desperate and suicidal as before, and I could sustain more hours of productive work. My overall mood was very depressive but not as sharply unbearable as before: the work Suicide made in the memory of my neighbor who killed himself at that time drew on my suicidal feelings of the past but not of the present. I remember that I was quite surprised with a certain degree of detachment from the subject while trying to get myself into the right mood. Eventually I recalled the sense of dreadful alienation from the whole bright and ugly world which I had while contemplating self-inflicted death and which I am sure my neighbor experienced a hundred times more intensely. Lithium certainly was taking the urge of self-destruction away.

There was hope and I knew that all I had to do was to hold on until the promised stabilization. I didn’t know at that time that my mood swings are feeding on the wounds in my distant past which were still raw and therefore Lithium could provide only a partial solution. I also didn’t know that my growing feelings for Glen would provoke explosions in my psyche of such power that no drug could bring them under control.

---

[1] Synthetic thyroid hormone. Recent research showed that thyroid hormones can be beneficial in some cases of manic depressive illness, particularly rapid cycling

Looking back (1)

1

It is difficult to distill a coherent line of events out of the chaos of those four months. On the last day of a passing year I retuned home after a short break on the ocean, depressed and paralyzed by the fear caused by my failed attempt to ‘submit to the will of God’ regarding ‘me and motherhood’ issue. Plagued by obsessive ideas, I have been spending days hiding in my room convinced that I surrendered myself to evil, shaking with dread, and being disgusted with myself. Needless to say, I could neither work nor think about anything but my doom. I had an urge to talk to someone about it so I talked to Glen, a neuroscientist whom I met through my husband and who was known to me mostly as my opponent in our heated discussions of theology. My choice was determined by his knowledge of the psyche provided by his profession which I hoped would spare me from lengthy explanations, and also by the fact that he was a convinced Christian and possessed a sharp intellect at the same time. Because of the peculiarity of my state of mind I had to tell him that I had manic-depressive illness, and Glen said to me that, in his opinion, I must gain control over the illness first and then think about my burning issues. By saying this he managed to shift the responsibility for my sins from me to my illness thus providing a temporary relief. This surreal conversation marked the beginning of our friendship.

Eventually my depression with a clearly psychotic flavor was relieved by mania – its arrival coincided with series of social events which I was obliged to attend. I took great pleasure in doing this – something that I usually don’t enjoy nearly as much when in my normal mood. On one occasion I drank a whole bottle of Champaign without any consequences and at that point realized that something strange was going on. I had been managing to get along with three or four hours of sleep; everything was great and first and most of all – I.

* * *
I remember a very early morning when I opened a door into our garden and was stunned by remarkable qualities of colours and shapes: I perceived them not as an observer from outside but as I was inside everything i.e. I was inside each leaf and each cloud, and I could experience the joy of vegetation and all the glory of creation. I knew that this world has been shaped by God just a moment ago and was given to me – personally.

Unfortunately, shortly after this inspiring vision I became crippled by migraine-like headaches which as I soon discovered were first manifestations of the coming mixed states with their agitation and rage. Scared, I literally ran to my GP and, to his surprise, asked him for something he had tried to convince me to give a go for years: a mood stabilizer. I started with an anti-convulsant[1] but had to stop due to a dangerous allergy, then switched to another one and couldn’t tolerate it either for the same reason but, unexpectedly, even that brief trial gave me a sufficient clarity of a mind to paint for hours. I could fully concentrate on my work for the first time in years. But, as soon as I stopped taking a mood stabilizer my condition worsened and next I was swept by waves of madness. My only anchors at that time were extensive correspondence and occasional meetings with Glen who has become my major source of support, and also my painting.
2

I realize how bizarre this situation should look: a very unhappy, scared, sometimes semi-psychotic, and intermittently suicidal individual is feverishly typing emails unashamedly pouring her very detailed private hell over a single person’s head, and this person is answering, trying to help, and occasionally witnesses very unpleasant acts of deliberate self-destruction – all this without attempting to simply lock a crazy one away. Although it may look irresponsible to some I am glad he refrained from it because shutting me down with anti-psychotic drugs would be all that a provincial hospital could offer me; this, consequentially, would take away the only means I possessed for a preservation of my integrity – my ability to paint. As I learnt from my own experience, even if antipsychotics stabilize the mood they do this by inducing an effect similar – I believe – to lobotomy. Instead I was offered various books on psychology, later on – a very good psychiatrist, and – always – two most vital things: an understanding and firm conviction that I will eventually get better and live a productive life although the blind optimism of the latter looked unfounded to me and often irritated me enormously.

From time to time, when I felt particularly bad, Glen tried to persuade me to go to an emergency room but I was adamant to stay clear from ‘mental health places and people’ or a typical hospital of the rural town I lived in. At that time my marriage entered it last stage of disintegration, and my attempts to talk to my husband about my emotions proved to be too painful for us both so I soon gave up. I also could not see any point in talking to my friends therefore I put all my frustration into compulsive writing stuffing Glen’s email box with a reliability and diligence of ever-rising sun.

I find it astonishing that the suffocating person who had written these intense desperate messages was painting, and painting better than ever, at the same time. In fact, my urge to paint was escalating together with my illness: more violent mood swings grew more images came to my mind. It felt like the axe of the illness was breaking into my unconscious, uncovering deeper and richer strata, and I comforted myself with a romantic thought that my worsening health was perhaps a price I had to pay for my increasing ease of self-expression.

* * *
The series Journey into Madness starts with the painting On the Edge which looks like a harmless still-life until one realizes that the vase is standing on the very edge of the table. This still-life marked a shift from my earlier expressionistic landscapes and still-lives, to the works representing various conditions of the psyche which were essentially self-portraits (interestingly, the only ‘self-portrait’ I made until then was a portrait without a head, the only true self-portrait in art history as I insisted because it represented an artist as she sees herself while painting without the aid of a mirror). I indeed was on the edge between withering depression and coming mania, between a glacial semi-lethargy and an abundance of painfully intense emotions and feelings.

(to be continued)

Sunday, 2 April 2006 5:17 PM
I am feeling worse indeed. You are probably right – I decided to take Lithium tonight before going to bed – and now I am feeling like I lost the battle.
I am very sorry for all the troubles you had, have and probably will have with me.

Monday, 3 April 2006 12:14 PM
I finished The Dark Night of the Soul. It is as disgusting as the world around me. Sane and cold depression is the worst kind. I cannot see how I will survive another few days, a week, and weeks being already dead inside.

Saturday, 8 April 2006 6:27 PM
I am trying to hold on, this time by myself.
I realized that it was only you who kept me alive. Without you here is ice, dust, and deadness. I didn’t expect that your departure will make such a difference.

Wednesday, 5 April 2006 4:21 PM
Lithium removed psychotic black mania but threw me into very sane depression without a grace of “psychotic features”. I spent half-day in the bed, half-day sitting in the chair staring at the wall unable to change my dressing gown to something more convenient.
The whole canvas of the day is depressing mechanically applied dusty grey unevenly dotted with spots of scarlet despair.
Life is purposeless.
I don’t like what is happening with me (I know what you are going to say: yes, yes, I am going to persist with damn Lithium).

Thursday, 6 April 2006 11:53 AM
I am not going to call anyone. Nothing helps. I don’t want to live – too tired and empty. My life is over as I am already dead inside. Sorry.

Saturday, 8 April 2006 12:42 AM
I want to live… I don’t want to be the cause of torture for my mother, brother, you, and maybe A.
Lithium is already taking the sharpest edge off the thought of death. It is a miracle that I survived so far.
I took Seroquel – it is probably what I have to do until Lithium starts working fully.
If despite all this I won’t make it I want you to know that it was the madness that killed me and it wasn’t my choice. But I want to live, especially after what you said to me today.

Sunday, 9 April 2006 7:50 PM
I can’t stand it…
For a few days already I have felt completely alien to the world and the world to me. Everything is pushing me out, and it is getting worse. It is even painful to breath!
There is no hope whatsoever. Even if I survive this episode something else will enter my life and kill it. I am not designed to live. I am unable to deal with my feelings and emotions, every new feeling shatters me and even the happiest of them still push me into nowhere. Something got broken in the system and it automatically sets itself into the “abort” mode.
Can you hear me? – I am agonizing here. No, it is impossible to put into words. To express this torture adequately could only the most awful scream in the universe but I am unable to scream.

Tuesday, 11 April 2006 9:13 PM
I thought about it all day and realized that I probably deserved emotional abuse and humiliation. If I didn’t it wouldn’t continue. I am unable to be in a normal relationship, and for some enigmatic reason I cannot be loved – I have all the qualities for this but it is denied to me - this realization is particularly painful. There is no future and no happiness or even slight glimpse of it. I failed in every area of my life and am too tired of suffering – fuck everything then.

Tuesday, 11 April 2006 10:35 PM
I am sorry, I don’t know what I have been/am writing, too scared to read it. Too sick, sick to tears, worse than when we spoke on the phone last time. Voices and racing thoughts also don’t help. Therefore please don’t take my letters too seriously.

Thursday, 13 April 2006 4:24 PM
What is this idiotic weak-minded rubbish I have been writing to you these days! I am sorry for creating a mess in your email box. I am feeling OK: finished another painting, and quite happy with the result. The town is crazy about Easter shopping, and crowds are feverishly buying mountains of food in fear of coming starvation for four (!) days of public holidays.
I hope you are having a nice time enjoying being in the “sunshine state”.

Ada

Rage

Mixed Episode
DSM IV Criteria

(Note: this is often referred to as “rapidly cycling bipolar” – but technically Rapid Cycling refers to at least 4 episodes in the previous 12 months that meet criteria for a Major Depressive, Manic, Mixed or Hypomanic Episode, and the Episodes are demarcated either by partial or full remission for at least 2 months or a switch to an episode of opposite polarity – e.g., Major Depressive Episode to Manic Episode)
A. The criteria are met both for a Manic Episode and for a Major Depressive Episode (except for duration) nearly every day during at least a 1-week period.
B. The mood disturbance is sufficiently severe to cause marked impairment in occupational functioning or in usual social activities or relationships with others, or to necessitate hospitalization to prevent harm to self or others, or there are psychotic features.
C. The symptoms are not due to the direct physiological effects of a substance (e.g., a drug of abuse, a medication, or other treatment), or a general medical condition (e.g., hyperthyroidism)
Note: Mixed-like episodes that are clearly caused by somatic antidepressant treatment (e.g., medication,, electroconvulsive therapy, light therapy) should not count toward a diagnosis of Bipolar I Disorder

You think that the mood swings, mania and depression are difficult to endure? – not at all, but what is impossible to endure is the insufficiency and humiliation. It is awful to feel guilty all the time, to feel guilty because I am writing but be unable not to
write/say/call because of this deadly force inside me. I can’t. I reached the point when I am about to climb the walls or to smash my head with an axe. Glen, I really can’t go on like this. This is worse than suffocation. This black energy… I can’t contain it. It is blowing my brain up.

I cannot endure fighting with myself. Somebody please help.

You know what – I feel like begging someone to finish me off.

* * *
Depression and mania cannot be fully understood unless experienced but they can be approximated through their diminutive cousins, sadness and joy. Although the mixed state (sometimes called dysphonic mania or agitated depression) as follows from its name is a blend of depression and mania, a satisfactory analogy for it can not be found among other moods, within the range of normality. Extreme negativity of depression, being combined with inexhaustible energy of mania, produces a cocktail of such potency that its impact on an individual can be hardly comprehended by those who have never been so affected. Like the chain reaction which breaks apart the heart of atoms in a nuclear explosion, this process releases the destructive energy from a self-perpetuating and potentially highly fatal disintegration of the mind.

My first mixed state coincided with a major depressive episode and consequent prescription of an antidepressant for what my GP and I thought was unipolar depression. I cannot be absolutely sure whether the antidepressant caused me to start cycling rapidly and provoked mixed states[1], or it was the natural course of my illness but the fact is that before I took it I was only flying high or crawling low but never both at once. The first bite of a mixed state was not like anything else I have ever experienced: something that doesn’t have a name came out of nowhere in a fraction of a second, took me, and made my body and mind its own. The second, third, and many other times were even worse because in the moment it came upon me I knew what was going to happen, and I knew that I would inevitably lose the battle for myself.

“I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it!”

Locked in a sick brain, my mind is desperate to get out; locked in a not less sick body, my brain is anxious to break free as well; and my body, locked in this iron box with heated walls which the world has become, is dying to be released. Being tickled by all existing insects, squeezed, stretched, burnt by all fires of the world and underworld, drowned, strangled, and buried alive – all at the same time – I sit, jump up, lie down, pace, run, climb the walls – all this to no avail.

My body is humming being made a pathway for a current of such a power that, if it was an electric current, it would burn me up instantly without leaving even a faint trace. My mind is humming as well. Hundreds of voices are screaming in my head; they are unintelligible at first but with the passing of time their howl grows more comprehensible: this is the song of exasperation, hatred, and a thirst for violence targeting its own source – my existence.

Mimicking a search engine which finds numerous articles matching an entered key word, my mind is now feverishly working on producing countless variations of a theme “rage” – words heard, situations lived – fitting to add a fuel to the fire which is consuming my mind… which, being consumed by madness, is now working more efficiently on producing countless variations of a theme “rage” – words heard, situations lived – fitting to add a fuel to the fire which is consuming my mind which, being consumed by madness, is now working even more efficiently on producing countless variations of a theme “rage” – words heard, situations lived – fitting to add a fuel to the fire which is consuming my mindwhich, being consumed by madness, is now working so much more bloody efficiently on producing countless variations of a theme “rage” – words heard, situations lived – fitting to add a fuel to the fire which ………………… …………………………………..……………………………………………………….……………………………………..……………………………………………………

A burning will of rage is spinning faster, increasing the destructive energy with its every turn. I would be proud of inventing an advanced version of a perpetual mobile if I could think about anything but the wish to jump out of my skin. There is nothing left of me but the rage and urge of destruction. In a desperate attempt to release the dark force within which suffocates me, I hit the wall and scream. It does not help but the hurt diverts my attention for a minute which feels – through a physical pain – almost serene. Encouraged by the result of this literally handy method of anesthesia I hit anything I can lay my hands on and then, in a paroxysm of self-hatred, try to strangle myself with my own hands attempting not to kill yet but to express – in its extreme – my craving of violence. A thought “there is no exit” based on everything: my failing marriage, my stupid impossible love, my bloody illness, and, most of all, on a feeling of being perpetually humiliated by each one and all three, comes – very timely. It leads me to my desk, places a knife into my hand, and directs it towards my wrist.

The light is dim. I am lying in my bed; my hands are swollen, one of them is dressed with a bandage covered by oxidized stains, and my mind, raped by something that doesn’t have a name and numbed by Seroquel, is empty. Tomorrow I will wake up being incapable of keeping my head straight because of the emergency medicine I have been convinced to take. For several days I will have to put up with an induced artificial emptiness and will not be able to paint or even think of painting: an idiot with brain removed living in a grayscale mode. Then, after the effect of the antipsychotic withers I will become myself again and will remain myself till the moment when that something which doesn’t have a name comes back.

Slowly, very slowly I will come to terms with what I have done to myself and to the few others who came, saw, and tried to help. I will attempt to make fun of that evening by ironically referring to it as ‘Bloody Monday’ but inside I will be overwhelmed by shame, guilt, and despair because the list of mood stabilizers which I have tried without success grows longer, and the list of those left to try is almost empty. Once it is blank, I will be left with the choice between taking heavy drugs which rob me off my creativity versus myself and be “healthy” as they call this state of impotence and dullness, or leaving drugs-free, painting, and losing my mind. Many times to come, overwhelmed by the humiliation, despair, and disgust with what I think is the essential flow of my character, I will come close to taking the last exit which would release me from the suffering and those involved – from my unbearable presence. I will never make a sober, cold-blooded decision about suicide but my walks along a slippery path which leads to it will weaken my legs: one stumble and I will fall down gliding towards the dark frosty entrance into nowhere.

---

[1] Antidepressants can induce mania in people with manic-depressive illness; they are also suspected, particularly when used without a mood stabilizer, to cause rapid cycling and mixed states. In some unlucky individuals including myself the damage is irrevocable, i.e. rapid cycling and mixed states don’t cease even after cancellation of an antidepressant.

Wednesday, 29 March 2006 10:03 AM
I think our recent conversation initiated “the reversed video” of my memories. Many quite painful details which I didn’t remember before are coming up. I decided to tell you about the past not so much for letting steam out but in the hope that you may tell me how the past influences my present and how I can undo this.

Thursday, 30 March 2006 8:47 PM
Me again. I felt more or less OK most of the day that means I was moderately fluctuating without psychotic rubbish. But now – now – the torture retuned again. O-o-o! It is even worse after a relative relief. Just a few hours ago I knew that suicide as such is absurd, that most of my thoughts of the last three months were delusions, etc, etc. Now this sober conclusion looks like delusion.
There is not much to add to the “subject”. Depression is awful. Plus a real reason to be depressed: a possible divorce. I am suffocating here…

Thursday, 23 March 2006 11:15 AM
What to do with the stains: first, don’t try to wash blood stains with hot water –  try to soak them in cold water first and then wash in cold water without anything else and then, as the last resort, with the soap.
Did you get many blood stains? – I am very sorry for this and I don’t understand how it could happen – I think I fixed myself quite well. I am sorry, I remember very little.

Loving and hating, hating and loving (Emotional abuse)

I hate him! I hate him! I hate him! – I am chanting silently while standing in my studio unable to move my eyes away from the presents he gave me which now look like flowers on the grave of our marriage.

Today was just like any other day: I have painted, washed, cleaned, read, etc, and then cooked a dinner which we ate together in silence – it would be total if it didn’t get interrupted by his sudden explosion caused by the outrageous behavior of a slippery mushroom who didn’t want to be poked by a fork. The resilient mushroom certainly was a part of a conspiracy aiming to make my husband’s life unbearable. Next a plate with other agents – namely lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers – is pushed, accompanied by rather vivid words, and the fork failed to complete its mission flies and lands on its victims in question, making a bang similar to those which mark an end of a symphony. End of dinner as well: my look provokes another burst, and he storms out of the kitchen. Double bang – of the kitchen door and the one of his study – hits my nerves with the violence of cymbals. I remain glued to my chair for some time listening to the echo which continues to ring in my ears. Then I clean the mess, attempt to deliver the ill-fated salad to the study, fail, get another angry cord added to those in my mind, and escape to my studio. My brain feels numb; lonely and dull semi-thoughts which are the mixture of a fear, contempt for him, and endless questions “why?” are popping up and break like thick slow bubbles. My body, made rigid by fear and anger which I had been suppressing for so long that these emotions grew into me, is shaking.

Mechanically, I pick up a pastel stick and attempt to find oblivion in my work. In a while I am in a world which, unlike my life, I can control. Not for long – today’s accident, which would mean nothing if it hadn’t been a routine, stirred the memories which, once awake, have a life of their own and won’t let me to ignore them.

* * *
“Isn’t it wonderful that just in a few days we will be married here?” – he exclaims approaching me in a church where his sister got married a few minutes ago. His face is shining; his eyes are looking at me with tenderness and the slight disbelief of a person who has just discovered himself to be a main hero of a fairy tale with “happy-ever-after” end.

“This is a fifth year of my imprisonment” – he says darkly to the friends who came to celebrate our wedding anniversary and have just drunk for our happy-for-years-to-come marriage. People look at me as if they are interested to know if it is true. I make my facial muscles move and try to squeeze a smile out. I wish I knew the truth myself.

While driving, he almost theatrically stares at pretty semi-naked, in accordance with the current fashion, young females, and makes wishful comments or whistles with approval. Next he presents me with a pretty ring. Later he advises me, frustrated with almost non-existent intimacy, to enroll to a nunnery or to take a lover. After this he brings me bunch of flowers.

I see myself, with my freshly operated eyes covered with my hands while he is washing my hair taking care not to let a single drop to reach my face. He dries my hair and then fixes what he calls “fish eyes” – two transparent screens designed to protect my eyes from an accident, helps me to get dressed, and then leads me by the hand to the kitchen table where, meanwhile, his double has set up a surprise dinner.

“It is impossible to live with a manic-depressive!! Leave me alone! Go and climb the walls!” – he uses the words I hate, the words which reduce me-a human being to just my illness. These words are thrown into my face not in response to my manic or depressive crimes but as a defense from my attempt to talk, to ask, to understand “why?” – why do you say such words to me, why do you treat me like this? I neither get the answer nor figure it out by myself.

Vivid memories of humiliating situations and degrading remarks burst in my mind over a moment which then seems to hang for ever. For now presents given, places taken to, care and love are covered with a thick cloud of hatred. An ugly cacophony of spiteful words is blowing my head off. Unable to sustain the building pressure, I storm into my torturer’s study and scream out all frustration accumulated for years.
……………………………………………..
……………………………………………..

- Do you want a divorce? His looks scared; then he turns away and, after an endless pause, says “no”.

Exhausted after the explosion, I am trying yet again to reconcile two mutually exclusive persons: brutal and gentle, intelligent and thick, one who spends hours working on my career and another who says that my profession is such nonsense that, in fact, it simply doesn’t exist. A person who gives me beautiful things and a person who destroys things in a fit of a rage. A person who kills the fruits of his deeds with his words and fruits of his words with his deeds.

“No, it is impossible to live like this”, I say to myself the phrase I have said countless times. I am trying to listen to myself hoping that an inner voice will tell me what I should do but the decision requires clarity of mind and a wholeness which I don’t have. “A nymphomaniac” and “a saint”, “genius” and “hopeless”, “very smart” and “stupid”, “cute” and “ugly”, I am leaving from one bang to another, from one yell to another, from one broken thing to another one. My mind and body are worn out with never ending swings from love to hate, from hate to love, mine and his, his and mine.

But doesn’t he love me? Yes, he does – I say to myself, and I am hopeless indeed. If I wasn’t I wouldn’t put up with this for so long. So, it is proven. I am hopeless. Scared by familiar thoughts of my insufficiency and relieved by the realization that he still cares, I settle down until the next bang.

Sunday, 12 March 2006 5:47 PM
It is really far too much for you. Let’s do this: we will socialize leaving MD and related issues out as much as possible. Basically you already told me most of what I needed to know. I found some resources about self-injury and I will try to do my best. I would like to switch to a not-focused-on-bipolar-disorder relationship. I love talking to you about arts or books or psychology or theology.

Thursday, 23 March 2006 6:36 PM
Things are grim again. I don’t know if the current painting is affecting me badly but right now I am convinced again that I sold my soul to the devil. I am controlling myself so there will be no blood spilling or any other unpleasantness. But I am feeling very bad again.
I cannot talk to A. about it because he is not a Christian. It is a great pity.
I am just venting here.

Thursday, 23 March 2006 7:36 PM
I don’t want to bother you and phone you but I must say it so I write – it may help.
I have just had a fit of paralyzing fear: I felt something is descending on me. And immediately I got THAT headache – exactly like doctor Faustus (Adrian Levercune in the novel) had. I feel contaminated by it. If it continues like this I will take Seroquel… but it will just dampen my senses but it will not protect me from evil.
Now about my trend of thoughts… Satan is called “the prince of ethereal forces”. When I paint icons my soul goes up to the layers of light and, because of certain ascetic practices and constant prayer I am protected from evil. My mind is still but I express not my OWN truth but the truth of higher rank. I am just a channel for God’s energy.
But when I paint “other works” my soul dives into unknown layers which may be populated by some neutral and some dark forces. Because most of the emotions, feeling, and thoughts which I paint are impure the evil forces have a free access to my soul. This is what is happening I think. An artist cannot be a good artist unless she is acutely sensitive. I am almost without skin, and this is why I have been such a good book illustrator: I extract from a novel even what wasn’t said but is there. The same is true about any of my works.
I am afraid that Lithium will only give a false impression that I am OK while my soul remains contaminated.

Friday, 24 March 2006 11:36 AM
As for A. I feel he is so satisfied that I draw, write, and speak to others but not to him. He knows that I am working on the series of essays but he has never asked me what they are about.
Thank God I have my art. I am constantly telling to myself: “well, I am unhappy with him but at least this person gives me an opportunity to draw. No one can have everything”. But it is sad because I am withdrawing further and further.