Two of the reasons I haven’t been writing: On the left, Misty the Horse; and on the right, Buddy the Donkey

On the other hand, my life’s almost always been busy. I’ve always had jobs and responsibilities yet managed to find time to write, so I’m not completely sure why I haven’t taken time to write.

I need to write. When I don’t write, my mind goes off in a myriad of directions. I lose focus, get angry about things that don’t matter, and settle into bed each night feeling hopeless than I’ve let one more day get by without chronicling what’s been going on for me.

Part of it, I know, is that I bought a laptop with the intention of writing at the other end of the house. This is a big house, a sprawling U-shaped adobe, and I normally write in my office, which is the top of the left side of the U. Lately I’ve been trying to write at the top of the right side of the U. And, for whatever reason, I’ve been unsuccessful.

It could be that when I’m writing on the far side of the U, that I’m uncomfortable, that the leather recliner, which is fairly awesome for TV watching, is no good for writing. Could be that my laptop is better for shopping on ebay or Amazon than for writing. Could be any number of things. Whatever the case, the far side of the U is not conducive to my writing.

My suspicion is that when I’m writing back there in the bedroom is that I’m writing on Microsoft Word; I’m not blogging, and I think that I no longer know how to write without a reader.

Maybe I never knew how to write without a reader.

When I first stated to write, I was in second grade. I wrote for Sister Mary Earl of the Dominican Order. She was my biggest fan and best coach. She returned my unfinished stories, always assuming the reason I hadn’t finished was that I’d run out of time.

She was right.

But when I was writing in the second grade back so many years ago at St. Joseph’s in Bay City, Michigan, I was writing for her, to her. I had a reader, an audience.

Then, in 1982, when I wrote “Six Hours in July,” a chronicle of the birth of my daughter, I was writing for the LaMaze class. We were having a get together after our babies were born and we were asked to bring in our birth stories.

So again, I was writing for someone. I was writing to communicate.

When I worked at The Community Advisor and The Chino Champion, weekly newspapers in Southern California, I was writing for the the people who may or may not have been interested in what the school board and the city council were doing.

Then in grad school, I wrote for the workshops, for the students, for the instructor. I wrote plays that I knew would be produced. I knew I was writing for someone, someone who would read or watch what I’d written.

It’s not so much that I had a clear-cut idea of who that reader or audience member was. When I wrote for the newspapers, I didn’t imagine a certain person sitting down over breakfast and reading about the school board and city council members bickering, but I knew someone was reading. I was relaying what had happened.

In other words, I was telling a story to someone about something that had happened. For me, it was very much like having a conversation: I would say (write) something, knowing someone was listening (reading). Granted, it was a one-sided conversation, and I didn’t always get feedback. (Working on the newspapers, I rarely got feedback. In grad school, I always got feedback.)

The point though, for me, is that I don’t know how to write (or speak) if no one is reading (or listening). I can’t write in a vacuum.

And it’s funny because I don’t know or care how many people may or may not read this blog. My husband keeps track of all his readers and followers. The more he has, the happier he is.

I’m not like that. The number of people who may or may not read this blog doesn’t matter to me. It’s the public arena that matters. It’s the knowing that someone somewhere may stumble upon this blog and read what I’ve written (heard what I’ve said.)

If someone reads, then my words matter. If I’m speaking and someone, then what I say matters. How many people hear doesn’t matter. I’ve always preferred one-on-one anyway. (Could be that’s why I’m a writer. It’s the intimacy of the written word. It’s knowing that I’m getting in someone’s head.)

In grad school and then later when I first married Jonathan, I dabbled in screenwriting. That’s not my forte, it’s not my love or passion; the written word is. Given a choice between reading a novel or seeing a movie, I will generally go for the novel. I like the intimacy; it’s as if the author is talking only to me.

The exception here are action movies. I like the sound of explosions and gun fire, squealing brakes and shouting. I like the frenetic pace of people scrambling to escape aliens and asteroids, deadly storms and sharks. I like that.

But even with mysteries, which have their own level of action, I much prefer the book. I prefer being privy to the main character’s thoughts as opposed to simply viewing his (or her) actions.

Take the Jack Reacher novels by Lee Child. Hollywood has turned one of them into a movie starring Tom Cruise. I’m not sure I’ll even see that movie because Jack Reacher is tall; this is a part of his character. He reflects constantly on his height, and he reflects constantly on his being an intentional drifter. That won’t translate. There’s no way Cruise, who is much too short to be Reacher anyway, can convey on his face Reacher’s reflections on his past.

The movie, successful or not, will never be the intimate experience the book is.

And I know I am now far beyond what I was originally writing about: my inability to write on the far side of the U.

But I’m okay with that because I am once again writing.

Some days, like today, the world–my life–is just too much. Too much activity. Too much chaos. Too much need. So many animals needing to be fed, cuddled, loved. So many people. Too many. Depending on me. Needing me. Needing me to listen, to do, respond. Too much.

Too much house. Too much land.

There’s a baby bird behind the stables. A fledgling. Must have fallen out of its nest, and it’s dying, and for the life of me, I can’t kill it, even though killing it would be a kindness. Would be the right action to take.

But I can’t.

I can’t kill it, and I can’t sit with it, can’t watch it die. I can’t do it. I want to be the kind of person who could kill that bird, put it out of its misery, and, barring that, I want to be the kind of person who could sit with it, so it wouldn’t have to die alone.

And I can’t.

For people who aren’t animal people, who don’t have that kind of connection with animals, my wanting to comfort a dying, baby bird might seem absurd. And maybe it is. Maybe I’m a fanatic. I don’t know. Maybe it’s not about the bird at all. Maybe it’s about my mother and maybe that baby bird dying alone stirs up memories of my mother dying alone, and I want to get a re-do. A do-over. Make it right for the bird, and in so doing, make it right for my mother. Somehow. Make it right in my head. My heart.

And, you know, maybe it’s not an either-or kind of thing. Maybe I’m not one day that aspiring Buddhist and the next that wound-down wind-up doll. Maybe I’m a little bit both. Every day. And maybe that’s okay.

And maybe not going outside to check on that baby bird dying is okay, too.

Maybe.

But it sure doesn’t feel okay.

Imagination is more important than knowledge.
                                                     — Albert Einstein

And

If time traveled existed, I'd have met this man.

God does not play dice with the universe.
                                         — Albert Einstein

Okay, I have to admit I was flattered. Who doesn’t want to be considered a good writer? And who doesn’t want others thinking that their relationship is somehow working so well that it can be used as a model for others to follow?

Then…

The doubt, the incredulity started creeping in. Did Teresa really have any idea what kind of person, what kind of wife I was with J? Solution-focused? Me? What do I know about solutions? To anything. Let alone living with someone who has a serious mental illness. Who am I to use my life, my relationship, as a frame of reference from which others can learn?

This wasn’t false modesty. This wasn’t fishing for compliments. This was truly an “Are you sure you have the right person, Teresa?” reaction.

And then…

J and I went on our first extended road trip since 2006. And being on that road trip–because J and I were together constantly, with no one else around–made me realize that I have indeed learned a great deal being with J, and maybe some of what I’ve learned can help others. Who knows?

But the least I can do is try.

The last road trip we took, as I already mentioned, was in 2006. At that time, I thought J had Borderline Personality Disorder or a Personality Disorder Not Otherwise Specified (NOS), which means it’s a little bit this, a little bit that.

The thing with personality disorders is that I tend to look at them as, at some level, controllable. My therapist has told me that I’m not completely right about that and that at many levels, a personality disorder is so ingrained that the sufferer cannot easily change his or her behavior or actions.

Okay.

But in 2006… That’s not what I thought. In 2006, I thought J’s “problems” were that he had Tourette’s, a personality disorder, and too much money that made him oblivious to how real people lived.

So, in December 2006, when I needed to fly from Long Beach to Albuquerque to get home for Christmas and J said he wanted to go with me, I said, “Sure,” and I booked him a flight, which required that I change my ticket, so we could fly together.

Then when he changed his mind and told me he couldn’t fly but he could drive, I cancelled both tickets and got ready to drive. Then, however, J didn’t want to take his car to New Mexico, so he asked me to call the concierge and arrange for a rental car.

Okay. So we stop right here. First, in 2006, I didn’t even know what a concierge was. Second, I am fiercely independent and completely convinced that I do most things better than other people, including renting a car.

But…

The relationship was new, and J’s money intimidated the hell out of me, so I called some concierge based in Santa Monica and waited. I waited for 2 or 3 hours before she called me back, breathless and apologetic: There were no cars that we could rent to drive to New Mexico.

J told me to ask about a town car. I did. It would have cost upwards of $10,000.

J then decided he wouldn’t be able to have Christmas with me, after all. I called the airline tried to get a ticket back home. They were sold out. I tried another airline and another and another. All sold out.

I wasn’t staying in Long Beach for Christmas.

So, I called for rental cars. And what do you know? The concierge was wrong. You can so rent a car to drive from California to New Mexico, and that’s precisely what I did.

J still went back and forth regarding whether or not he would go with me. Finally, he told me if I packed him, he’d go. I told him I was the worst packer in the entire world. (True. I have been known not to pack: 1) deodorant; 2) toothpaste; 3) shampoo; 4) a razor; and 5) a night shirt. In addition, I have been known to pack 12 shirts, 4 pairs of pants, 6 pairs of shorts, and 3 pairs of shoes for a weekend getaway. I have no idea how to pack.)

And I told him, I had to get home, and I’d like it if he went with me, but one way or another, I had to go.

He agreed.

In 2006, when J kept vacillating, and I kept just rolling with it, I thought, as I’ve already mentioned, that he had a personality disorder. I didn’t realize that he had schizoaffective disorder, which affects that part of the brain (primarily the frontal lobes) that allows J to plan and organize easily. He’s not linear. He doesn’t go from Point A to Point B; he goes from Point A to Point Q and then bounces on over to Points  3 and 4.

Opening everything to discussion and vacillation as I did in 2006 doesn’t work with someone whose brain is making it so difficult to plan, organize, and carry through.

What I needed to do in 2006 is either insist that we fly to Albuquerque or insist that I find a rental car on my own. Bouncing from one plan to another is chaotic. Chaos puts me on edge, makes me crabby and shrewish, unable to think straight, which exacerbates the situation. I needed to take control of the decision, and I didn’t.

I also needed to push J ever so slightly to get an early start. When I go on a road trip, what I like to do is get on the road around 5 in the morning and drive straight for at least 4 hours at around 80mph; that kind of driving gets me 320 miles down the road before I even realize what I’m doing.

J doesn’t like being rushed, and he sees my wanting to get going as my attempt to rush him. So in 2006, we got out somewhere around 10 or 11–early for J, incredibly late for me; the traffic leaving California was horrendous (it’s always horrendous), and J is a smoker, and you can’t smoke in a rental car, so we had to stop and stop and stop so J could smoke by the side of the road, and so by 2pm, we’d made it as far as San Bernardino. I was exhausted. And getting crabbier by the minute.

I thought that J was being purposefully uncooperative.

Flash forward to 2012. This time around, I know J has schizoaffective disorder. I know the disorder makes it nearly impossible for him to make a decision, so when he vacillated about going to Scottsdale and Santa Monica with me (we never made it to California, but that’s another story), I understood that it was the disorder and not his being intentionally recalcitrant.

Where we stayed: The Scottsdale Princess

This time around, I also knew that regardless of what J decided, I was going on the trip. It was for my 60th birthday and our four-year anniversary, and I needed to celebrate. So I told J that I would like him to go because his going would make the trip more meaningful and that I wanted to be with him on our anniversary and I thought the trip would be more fun if both of us went.

I also told him that I understood he is ill and that traveling is hard for him and that if he couldn’t go with me, I wouldn’t be angry; I wouldn’t try to make him feel guilty, and I wouldn’t hold a grudge, even if he changed his mind at the last minute, I would still understand.

And then…

I told him that if he cannot go, I will feel sad, but I will go alone, or rather I’ll go with Rocky, one of our dogs.

When I contrast this 2012 trip with the one in 2006, I see how much I’ve changed.

First, I recognize that J’s illness makes it difficult for him to make a decision, and it makes him extremely difficult to leave the familiarity of his home.

Second, I recognize that my need to celebrate my 60th birthday cannot take a back seat to J’s illness and that if I don’t go because J can’t go, I’m going to be resentful.

Being resentful is not a good place to be with anyone, least of all with someone who is mentally ill. Someone who is mentally ill lives in a different world than those who are not mentally ill, and being resentful of the illness is akin to being resentful of someone with diabetes who can’t eat the sugary desserts others can. It’s pointless, in other words.

However, just as I may eat that sugary dessert that those with diabetes cannot, I will also engage in activities that those who are mentally ill cannot.

Someone once equated taking care of yourself around someone who is mentally ill as affixing your own oxygen before helping small children in the event of loss of air pressure in a plane.

Although that is a close analogy, it is not completely accurate. Losing pressure in an airplane is a crisis situation, and if you only take care of yourself in a crisis when dealing with someone who is mentally ill, you will become depleted, and if you become depleted, not only are you no good for yourself, you’re no good for the person who is mentally ill.

As hard as it is, you must put yourself first. You may do as I have done and rationalize that the other person’s needs (in my case, J’s) are more important, more pressing than your own because the person is indeed ill and keep pushing your own needs farther and farther back.

Don’t do that.

If you do, I can almost guarantee that you will end up: 1) physically and emotionally exhausted; 2) resentful; and 3) depressed to such an extent, you’ll need medication.

If you can’t put your needs first for yourself, put your needs first for the person who’s mentally ill. A person who is mentally ill needs a network of emotionally resilient people, and you will not be emotionally resilient if you do not take care of yourself, which means addressing your own needs first–consistently and not just during a crisis.