writing

Tie a new habit to an existing one

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“When scheduling a new habit, it helps to tie it to an existing habit.” – Gretchen Rubin

I wanted to get in the habit of writing in my journal every day. I take my mid-day break from work sitting at a table by a window where it’s sunny, relaxing, well-lit, and comfortable. I thought to myself, “What if I tie my daily break with my journaling?” So, as a test, I started leaving my journal out on the table with it open to the next page and an uncapped pen ready to go. I was so surprised. It was almost magical. I’d sit down at the table with my coffee and immediately pick up the pen and start writing.

I do find I have trouble writing in my journal on days off, though, because I don’t have that built-it habit of sitting at the table. But five out of seven days is awesome!

I also tied in keeping a tiny gratitude journal. At the top of every page when I’m getting started, I list three things I’m grateful for. Then I start journaling.

It works for me. 🙂

My journal is just a simple spiral-bound notebook. Nothing fancy. And I don’t set a goal for how much writing to do or what to write about. I usually just write randomly until my break’s over.

I find that I get all sorts of ideas from this simple journaling practice. Writing ideas. Life ideas. Ideas to share with others. It’s been one of the most fruitful habits I’ve developed this year.

Vanity

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Years ago, as a small pile of books accumulated on my shelf, books with my name listed as the author, I thought about the futures of the individual copies. I heard from readers who used the cookbooks constantly, and others who gave copies to friends and family. I pictured the books on kitchen shelves, sharing space with The Joy of Cooking. Some copies would end up in boxes in attics. Thrift stores would hold discarded copies. And one of my favorite visions for my books was they would live on in libraries, in the back recesses of a library’s warehouse.

Yesterday, I was adding books to my Holds in our local library’s computer system and decided to see which of my titles the library still carried. I guess I was looking for reassurance of a form of immortality. I know the library did carry my books at one time because this wasn’t the first time I’d searched for my name. What came up this time? Only a book by another author who had quoted me in her book. If someone, for whatever reason, had wanted to read one of my books or cook something from one of my cookbooks, there was nothing there. It felt like a huge part of my life had ceased to exist. The library won’t purchase books older than two years old, so even if someone had asked them to replenish my books, they wouldn’t.

Funny how a simple vanity search at the local library can bring about almost an existential crisis of sorts.

The hospital

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The latest issue of The New Yorker magazine has a Personal History article called “The Hospital: Finding a Way Back from Suicide.”  It’s an insider’s view of being suicidal and consequently spending time in a psychiatric hospital.  As someone who’s also lived that story, it was interesting to read someone else’s perspective.

I wrote a collection of poems based on being bipolar which included some pieces that took place in the hospital while on Suicide Watch.  But now I’m thinking about maybe writing a short memoir or article of sorts about my own experiences.

Putting those types of things “out there” for others to read is scary.  I have tremendous respect for the man who wrote the article in The New Yorker.  Wow.  So vulnerable and brave.  I feel vulnerable and afraid just writing this tiny blog post.

find the magic

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find the magic
that will only come
through telling your story
the one you’re afraid to tell
you’re afraid to open that box
because you may never stop crying
sit in the sunshine
and write the story
in bits
and batches
phrases
words
prose and poetry
when the tears well up
stop
close your eyes
let the sun warm your eyelids
and then try
to sing

– from Grief Song

nightime

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the patients seemed to grow more somber
as the night loomed darker and the
nurses wandered from room to
room doling out pills and patience
and warnings and reminding everyone
that bedtime was in an hour so we
needed to start winding down whatever
we were doing which reminded all of us
of our mothers fathers grandparents
older siblings preparing our younger
selves for bedtime as we discovered
that a psychiatric hospital stay is very
much like a return to childhood where
doors can be locked and toys taken
from grasping hands and snacks available
but only if you behave yourself and
other people cook for you and you have
to make your bed before school begins
and classes are required and arts and crafts
frustrate everyone until later when they
realize it was something to do that got
their minds off ending their lives because even
boring activities can be a distraction from
the abyss and you’re glad another day’s over
and you can curl up in bed with your pillow
and blanket and hopefully sleep soundly
rather than waking up screaming like the
night before when your sleeping self had a
glimpse of reality and the abyss the void
the monster loomed once more

Mania poems

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I put together a small collection of poems and other writings that I wrote from the perspective of someone with Bipolar Disorder.  I thought about putting them into a small book, but I’ve just never come to a point where I’m comfortable with that. Not sure I’m comfortable putting them here on my blog, either, so I may end up removing this if it gets too scary.  Self-disclosure can be frightening.

Click below to open a pdf file containing all of the writings.

Mania Poems

Expressive Writing

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Someone recently told me about a writing technique, Expressive Writing, that’s supposed to help a person to process difficult situations. It’s a three day process that requires twenty minutes a day. I tried it out and found it somewhat helpful, so I thought I’d share about it here.

On the first day, you write for twenty minutes (either typed or handwritten) about the general situation. Write whatever comes to mind. Let it flow out of you. You’re not writing for anyone else to read, so don’t edit yourself. After you’ve completed your twenty minutes writing time, reread it one time. Then delete it (or tear it up and throw it away if handwritten).

On the second day, do the same thing but this time spend time looking more deeply at an aspect of the situation. Once again, after you’ve completed your twenty minutes writing, delete it (or otherwise destroy it).

On the third day, focus your writing on the here-and-now. On the present time. On where things stand today. After twenty minutes, reread it, and destroy it.

And that’s it.

I chose to write about a very painful topic from a few years ago that had been haunting me lately. I’d been having nightmares and disturbing thoughts about it throughout the day. I was afraid that maybe writing about it might bring it too much to the forefront of my mind, and that scared me a little bit. Then I realized it was already taking up space in my day, and perhaps just focusing on it directly might give me a release of some sort.

I do feel a bit better after going through the process. I might try it with a different situation just to see how it goes. If there’s something haunting you, maybe it might bring some relief.

between the headstones

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between the headstones
the grass growing green
where the grounds’ man keeps
the weeds from overtaking
graves of forgotten
ancestors and of
neglected mothers
ignored by children
with no time for grief
the soldiers lie still
flags gently swaying
a line of colors
in patriot winds
with rusty railings
heavy chain fences
creaking in the night
frightening neighbors
whose imaginings
conjure ghosts and ghouls
do not think too hard
of what lies beneath
the closely shorn grass
the parklike meadow
decomposition
don’t let yourself think
or the reality
of mortality
will find its way home

 

I Dream of Mayberry

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My dreams
take me back home
to a land of quiet streets
children playing, riding bikes
Dreams of Mayberry on parade

I dream of
neighborhood crushes
talking late into the night over backyard fences
sneaking a quick hand hold, a stolen kiss
enough for pleasant dreams
to see us through the night

I dream of
dogs running free
no leash laws to fence them in
leaving the house to be greeted by
favorite canines with jingling collars
the garbageman’s dog lived across the street
my friends would say,
Oh, you live by the garbageman’s dog!
a local celebrity dressed in fur

I dream of
attending school
with the children of doctors,
lawyers, movie stars, millionaires
our family on our simple cul de sac
a far cry from the mansions of my classmates
entire wings of houses closed off for the season
rooms only used for parties
servants, yard workers, maids

I dream of
our family home
a three-bedroom rambler
on a quiet street
at the bottom of the hill
down the street from the Catholic church

I dream of
Sunday mornings
trapped on our street
by slow-moving church traffic
I thought everyone dealt with
church traffic on Sunday mornings
the church played a role
in our lives each week
even though we didn’t attend

I dream of
childhood confusions
Sunday with my grandmother
in the church on the hill
I committed a mistake
I was only five
evidently it was a sin
the priest felt it necessary
to scold me publicly
I refused to go back

I dream of
swimming and fishing
off Grandpa’s dock at the lake
of chasing tiny fish with a net
of releasing the trout intended for dinner
unwilling to watch the life leave their eyes

I dream of
feeding the ducks
every duck and goose on bay
winging to the child with the dry bread
back in those bygone days
when we could still feed the waterfowl

I dream of
running barefoot at my grandparents’
which wasn’t an option
unless you wanted goose droppings
between your toes

I dream of
trees and water weeds
the weeping willow leaning over the lake
no need for a swing
grab a handful of willow branches
and fly out over the water
laughing as we let go and landed
with water up the nose
while weeds in the water
grabbed at our toes

Days of Normal Parts

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The days were full of normal parts. Eat, sleep, school, work. Activities we all shared. Each house sheltering a family going through it’s normal day. Mothers at home fixing dinner, fathers greeted at the door with a gin and tonic while they took off their overcoat, loosened their tie, and set their hat carefully on the shelf in the coat closet. Imagine Mad Men. This was our life. Our life of normal parts. So foreign and sexist to today’s ethos of family.

Some days were magical. The snow would fall in mounds and school would be cancelled. We’d run home, grab our mittens, and jump and dance and slide and build and throw and tumble for hours. Our mothers would call us in for cinnamon toast and hot chocolate. We’d warm our hands, fill our bellies, and head back out into the magic.

Some days were frightening. Watching television when special announcements came on the air. A president dead. My grandmother screaming as she put her hand to her mouth, dropping her cigarette onto the carpet. From my view on the floor with my toys, I could see the muddled video of a handsome couple waving from a convertible, and then everything blurry and confused. At the same time, I watched Grandma’s cigarette smolder, and hoped we weren’t going to burn up in a housefire. Innocence watching the news.

The days could continue to be frightening. This time a Civil Rights leader. My mother screaming as she stood to her feet from the couch and looked ready to run away. But there was nowhere to go. She screamed, “No! Oh, no! Not him! Not him, too!” I realized this somehow connected to the dead president, but I wasn’t sure how. I learned the word assassination that day.

We became young adults and wanted to escape this small town life. The conversations were always the same. The gossip. The keeping-up-with-the-neighbors. This town was so boring. There was nothing to do. We wanted excitement. We wanted lights and noise and movement.

We became older adults and wanted to return again. After we went out to see the excitement and the lights and the noise, we dreamed about those quieter times. The leisurely afternoons, Saturday morning cartoons. We longed for the world of our youth. The world of those days of normal parts.