Nothing But Blue Skies

The problem...

"Nothing but blue skies do I see," go the words to the song, and it’s blue skies that I look for to keep my emotions manageable.

When I think of blue skies, I picture the American West and its vast, open sky. Out there, I feel happy, joyous, and free, as my spirit rises into that wide blue dome of heaven.

A few years ago, on a trip to Utah, I stood looking down on a small herd of bison grazing on the plains below. One young, not-yet-mature bull seemed intent on proving his courage and testing his independence, grazing out beyond the fringes of the herd.

Every minute or so, the young bull looked back over his shoulder to be sure his family was still where he’d left them. Reassured, he seemed confident—happy, I imagine, under those blue skies smiling down on him. Yet sometimes he would suddenly start and swish his rump furiously, as if something had just bitten or stung him.

He had help dealing with the irritating insects from a little buffalo bird, busily pecking through the fur on his back, shoulders, head, and rump. If that were the whole story, all would be well—but it wasn’t, and it rarely is when ‘happily ever after’ is involved.

Now and then, for no reason I could see, the little bird suddenly grew excited. Maybe she saw a hawk too high for me to notice, or a shadow slipping across the prairie. Whatever she saw—or thought she saw—stirred her to the core. She puffed out her chest, opened her beak wide, and cried a high-pitched, “skee-reeeeeeeee.”

Each time she cried out, she lunged forward as if to force all the air from her lungs, nearly toppling onto her face. I found it cute and funny. The young bull didn't like it. He took it hard; he was sure the sky was falling.

In one swift move, he would abandon his dream of independence and race back to the safety of the herd. And then, a few minutes later, believing it was safe, he would venture out again, and the entire sequence would repeat itself.

I’m like that young buffalo in many ways. I’m pestered by small bugbears that distract and irritate me like biting insects, and the emotional pressure builds from these minor annoyances until I begin to fray at the edges and am ready to explode.

I even have my own little buffalo bird, a mercurial limbic system, that I call Princess Amy. Although I have all the tools I need to remain in control of my behavior even in stressful situations, I often ignore what’s happening around me until Amy, like a little buffalo bird, starts screaming, “The sky is falling! Run for your life.”

The Solution...

There are many definitions for mood disorder, but the one I like best is "a change in a person's mood that interferes with everyday life for an extended period of time." 

That definition works for me. We live our lives on an emotional spectrum, and it isn't a matter of "normal" and "disorder" as much as a matter of control.

My recovery from emotional seizures has been a lengthy one, and I would never have gotten started in the first place without the help of people who had suffered as I had and who found ways to overcome some of their own limitations. 

Princess Amy

I stole Amy from Therese Borchard, who writes the Beyond Blue blog. Therese calls her amygdala "Amy," and since I think of my Amy as a heartless little tyrant, much like Lewis Carroll's Red Queen, I added the title, "Princess." 

I try to always keep in mind that it isn't Amy who has the problem. She's only doing what she's supposed to do. If I'm to stay on the sane end of the spectrum, we must work as a team.

Life comes hard and fast; be ready for anything.