Thanksgiving

I’ve always found Thanksgiving an awkward thing to really think about, given the false narrative beat into our American brains since childhood. However, recently reading Lies My Teacher Told Me by James W. Loewen (a great book for ignorant schmucks like me) made me think of something genuine to celebrate. The stories of peaceful relations between Europeans and Native Americans are mostly untrue, but the food we eat is the same food that was carefully cultivated by the people of this land since time immemorial. The spreads of squash, corn, beans, and turkey are a celebration of love for the land I live on, and the people who care for it. That is a truth to be grateful for.

I’ll leave you with an irrelevant poem that’s been on my mind lately. The whole thing is lovely, but you’ve probably heard the last stanza quoted most often. Boy does it ring in my head when I’m weary.

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

With love,
Lottie

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, (340)

An Emily Dickinson poem I heard referenced in a podcast. I have no revolutionary ideas about poetry, but I love the way she writes. It vibes well with the way my thoughts form sometimes, acknowledging things in short bursts as they happen. This poem’s about being a little bit crazy, I guess. Anyway.

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, (340)
By Emily Dickinson

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading - treading - till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through -

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum -
Kept beating - beating - till I thought
My mind was going numb -

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space - began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race,
Wrecked, solitary, here -

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down -
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished known - then -

I wonder what happens - then -.

If you’re into poetry at all, you’ve no doubt heard about Dickinson’s weird life. (Here’s the Wikipedia article if you haven’t, and to fact check whatever I’m about to say).

While she’s one of the best known poets today with many thousands of works, only 10 were published during her life. She was known as the town eccentric and often wore only white. I imagine a wistful ghost wandering the streets– until she started living in her bedroom almost entirely. Also she was gay? (<- I didn’t read that article so idk if it’s homophobic. It’s proof though)

Being fully self-absorbed, I was imagining the other day my own feelings of having something to say, but not sharing it with people in real life. Instead, I think about what I can write here. I wonder if she would have liked a basically anonymous platform to publish her stuff, instead of the town newspaper, where she would probably be recognized. There’s something strange about putting things online where anyone can see them, but probably nobody will. I wonder if she would have had a Tumblr account.

It’s so strange to me that she could have been totally unknown to the world, and so famous now! She’s actually the author of the first poem I remember learning (beyond like, baa baa black sheep). I wrote a song to it in sixth grade! It still gets stuck in my head!

Fuck it, I’ll put it in this post, too:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers
By Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

Beautiful. It reminds me to look for the little flutter in my chest.

And one last thought on this topic– there’s a line in that first poem that reminded me of a few passages in PatC. Dickinson’s line, “As all the Heavens were a Bell,” –

“And the bell under my ribs rang a true note, a flourish as of blended horns, clarion, sweet, and making a long dim sense I will try at length to explain. Flung is too harsh a word for the rush of the world. Blow is more like it, but blown by a generous, un-ending breath.”

From the chapter The Waters of Separation

Dillard talks about that Bell a few times throughout the book. My (future) father in law wrote an inscription to me in the front of the book, and pointed to this line:

“I had been my whole life a bell, and never knew it until at that moment I was lifted and struck.”

From the chapter Seeing

I have my own moment like that, but it’s a story for another time.

–Lottie

P.S. I have a bit of a migraine today, so sorry about any typos or weird sentences.

We are but superstitious pigeons

I don’t remember which podcast I heard about this from, but ‘Superstition’ in the Pigeon by B.F. Skinner is apparently a psychology classic.

In short, pigeons were given food by a “hopper” mechanism at regular intervals (say, fifteen seconds). The pigeons, however, became superstitious: Whatever they happened to be doing at the time became their ritual to summon food. For example, one pigeon might have been bobbing its head when food appeared, and so kept bobbing its head in an attempt to summon food. Another pigeon might have been pecking at a corner, or turning in circles, etc. Here’s the direct quote:

In long, there’s more scientific variance. You can go read the article if you want to know more.

This is a pretty hilarious metaphor for what I see people do sometimes. For me, it’s mostly with computers. Oh, I held the power button for this long and the update worked, oh I plugged it in this way and it charged, oh I uninstalled this other thing and my website worked for some reason. You get the idea.

So, I say, we are but superstitious pigeons.

Seeing Two Worlds (a dream I had once)

I had an interesting dream. Here’s my attempt to write it out:

Gotta say, much more pleasant than my teeth-falling-out dreams. I’ve been playing with adapting this into a longer story: The character lives in a village disguised by some power from the rest of the world. Unlike anyone else, she can see both the village and the illusion. Insert plot.

Most of my dreams are this vivid, but not usually so cohesive. Honestly, I kinda cherish it.

–Lottie

The things you say

“Her dad– yeah, the artist– I think he has something going on, y’know?” (none of your business)

“His aunt’s coming over this weekend. Yeah, the one with the issues. Ugh” (are you going to talk about me like that?)

“I’m so sorry you have to live with bipolar disorder” (actually you’ve known me my entire life untreated and this diagnosis is a relief because now I can fix it so you should be apologizing for all the years you ignored it before now)

“You made me think differently about people like you.” (good to know you hated us before)

“Your boss and I talked about your… condition… and what to do about it and if you have a, uh, medical provider, uh..” “My therapist?” “Yeah that.” (didn’t you just lead a seminar about stigma?)

“As long as the voices aren’t in your head, haha!” (must be nice that it’s a joke for you, a wealthy doctor)

“Ugh, she sounds so bipolar, sorry you have to deal with her.” (whelp I am definitely not outing myself to you)

“The weather is so bipolar today!” (that would be interesting if true)

“I’m so OCD about this haha” (you better be OCD and coping with humor)

And so it goes…

Cynicism

I hate when someone responds to a Bad Thing with “I’m not surprised.” You know what? You don’t have to be surprised to care! Get out of here with that cynical BS! Cynicism is the enemy of justice! Things might not get better, but if we give up they definitely won’t.

Give a shit, ya doofus.

Also: VOTE!!!

–Lottie

Gifts

Sometimes I like to imagine the people I love by the gifts they have given me:

There is my grandma, who gave me the gift of Music. She taught me a beautiful skill, and now I have something to always be proud of. I can soothe. I can entertain. I can practice. I can rely on it.

There is my fiance, who gave me the gift of Noticing. He showed me how to notice the tiny details in life, like a strange bug on a leaf, or a mis-woven belt in a clothing store. I see more and I am delighted by more. The world itself can keep me grounded in its details.

There is my high school best/girlfriend, who gave me the gift of Creating. She showed me how to make things with my hands, yarn, and fabric. She showed me how to channel inspiration into creation, to appreciate things by contributing my own art… I have so many scarves now.

There is my current (and wonderful) best friend, who is giving me the gift of Nuance. She stands by her values while navigating different opinions and perspectives. She can connect with anyone. She can correct anyone with understanding and kindness. Much as I want to keep my hardlined stances, she gives me something to aspire to.

There’s so much more to say, but I’ll leave it there for now. Just a tidbit of a recurring thought.

-Lottie

The mountains are going on and off like neon signs (excerpt from PaTC)

An excerpt from my favorite book, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard (I’ll shorten to PaTC sometimes). This is when I knew I loved this book:

The wind is terrific out of the west; the sun comes and goes. I can see the shadow on the field before me deepen uniformly and spread like a plague. Everything seems so dull I am amazed I can even distinguish objects. And suddenly the light runs across the land like a comber, and up the trees, and goes again in a wink: I think I’ve gone blind or died. When it comes again, the light, you hold your breath, and if it stays you forget about it until it goes again.

It’s the most beautiful day of the year. At four o’clock the eastern sky is a dead stratus black flecked with low white clouds. The sun in the west illuminates the ground, the mountains, and especially the bare branches of trees, so that everywhere silver trees cut into the black sky like a photographer’s negative of a landscape. The air and the ground are dry; the mountains are going on and off like neon signs. Clouds slide east as if pulled from the horizon, like a tablecloth whipped off a table. The hemlocks by the barbed-wire fence are flinging themselves east as though their backs would break. Purple shadows are racing east; the wind makes me face east, and again I feel the dizzying, drawn sensation I felt when the creek bank reeled.”

It goes on from there. From the chapter Heaven and Earth in Jest.

–Lottie

Aspiring to Lies

I had a huge blow to a dream of mine recently. It was an incredible opportunity to break into an adventurous and fulfilling career– but the circumstances turned out to be dangerous to my mental health. Obstacles such as isolation, persistent daylight, lack of access to my therapist and support network, and bad roommates combined into a comedy of errors that perhaps an able-minded person could handle. It was very nearly disastrous for me. Since then, I’ve been grappling with the realization that my condition is actually a disability. My options will be limited by it, no matter how hard I try. I’m in mourning.

Despite my obvious struggles, I’ve always believed that I would be Great someday. I suspect it’s a remnant of past mania. I’ve had beliefs that were unlikely to the point of being offensive, given that I had invested no effort at all: I would get a PhD in medicine and cure lupus, I would write a letter to Malala Yousafsi and we would collaborate on world peace, I would become uber-rich and buy enough land to safely house all the persecuted minorities of the world. God do I not want to admit that to myself. That mentality manifests to a lesser extent when I’m more sane, too: I’ll get a government job in a field I don’t have a degree in, I’ll get a PhD at all, I’ll write a blog that gets popular and write commissions for newspapers or whatever. Maybe, if I’m really lucky, those things could happen, but it’s dangerous to believe in.

I’ve never believed in myself more than when I was manic, but I was believing in lies.

Sigh…

–Lottie

Rain

Rain rain, please please stay

You make the smoke go away

Now I can go out and play

Please come back here every day

Introducing Myself

Hello!

I’m Lottie. I started this website because I have a lot of thoughts and feelings about my experiences living with bipolar disorder. I struggle to talk about it with people in my life either because I don’t trust them or they haven’t asked. Naturally, it feels safer to announce it to the whole dang world instead. Let’s really get in the weeds.

I’m going to write however I want as I explore my voice. I’m actually not much of a writer beyond my journal and some technical reports. Yet my mind is screaming to get some things out, so let’s just hope I get better over time. Some posts will be long, some short, and topics might vary wildly in the end. My goal is just to write!

You’ll see me try nature writing as well. My favorite book is Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard. Whenever I read it, I want to write like she does. She makes the world worth noticing.

My experiences are heavily influenced by identities I was born with: white, cis, female, American, pansexual (though that took a minute to understand, and I’m criminally straight-presenting these days). Being a medium-sized white woman, my experience with manic episodes was/is a lot different than I imagine it would be as, say, a large black man. I’m generally not considered threatening, which ironically puts me in less danger (…sort of).

I was born in the Pacific Northwest and it keeps dragging me back. It’s too beautiful here. I’m in my late 20s now, and I finally call it home.

…

One last note, there are some other “lottiewrites”-esque usernames and people out there that I googled only after buying this domain. They aren’t me. This is my only thing. Sorry I stole it guys.

Hello World!

Now that I have the basics of my website down, I need to think of something to actually write!

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