I heard this very beautiful song on the radio today. It's called Time in a Bottle by Jim Croce
If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that I'd like to do
Is to save every day
'Til eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you
If I could make days last forever
If words could make wishes come true
I'd save every day like a treasure and then,
Again, I would spend them with you
But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them
I've looked around enough to know
That you're the one I want to go
Through time with
If I had a box just for wishes
And dreams that had never come true
The box would be empty
Except for the memory
Of how they were answered by you
In the past when I heard songs like this, they were pleasant and I enjoyed them, but I didn't understand some of the complexities underlying them. Now, after going through a dark time in my life in which I experienced loss and confronted my own demons, life feels different, and interestingly this carries over to my experience of songs. I hear the longing in them now, the hope, the heartbreak, the pain. I understand more about humanity and the human experience now. And I 'm filled with gratitude.
It’s strange how time passes — how after the unthinkable occurs, life goes on. The sun rises and falls. Flowers bloom. Trees rustle in the wind. There is an eeriness to it and in the beginning it is tempting to stay lost in this space.
There is a light within you. No darkness can overcome it. Sometimes this light is loud and vibrant. Other times such as in places of grief and loss, it is quiet — silent almost. A thread.
It’s different for everyone, but for me, grief was like walking through the valley of a shadow of death: a place where I walked and walked with seemingly no hope — just darkness and shadows and the faintest of light.
I never thought much of dreams until last year when I had one with Brian in it.
It had been a year since I had last seen him. And though he had since remarried and moved on with his life, it didn’t change the fact that he had been such a large part of mine. The loss was hard on me. I felt it each day.
Bipolar can be such a devastating illness. It can be a difficult monster to defeat. It is deceptively beautiful at times. Thoughts come so fast that they overwhelm you. Emotions are so beautiful you are moved to tears. Creativity abounds and you’re filled with confidence.
I've been busy working at getting my private practice up and running. I leased an office and applied for a business license. I've been working on my website. Days go by quickly and it feels as if time is very limited. I haven't ever felt this way before -- purposeful, intent, excited for what the future might bring. It's funny -- after having a manic episode and going through a divorce, things like this have greater meaning. I had to survive the depths of bipolar disorder in order to make it here today.
After my divorce, the future seemed very uncertain. Suddenly, there was no longer an anchor to my life — no familiar structure or plan. There were many possibilities, but it felt as if there were almost too many — I could start a new job, move to another part of the country, go back to graduate school. The possibilities were endless and overwhelming.
After my divorce, I didn't love less; instead, I found that I loved more. There was a dark period in time in which I wrestled with demons. I saw all my flaws. All the horrible mistakes I had made. I had spent so much time caught up in the material, tangible things in front of me that I had failed to realize the truth until it all came crashing down on me. When my life fell apart and I was left with nothing, when it was just me in the dark, peeling back the layers of my life, wrestling with God to please kill me now, suddenly, only truths remained: that there is meaning in life and it is love.
I've been thinking a lot about hope lately. Before my diagnosis of Bipolar, I thought of hope as an emotion that people experienced erroneously or sometimes, even tragically. But after my diagnosis — after losing my marriage, identity, health, friends, family, and life as I knew it — I began to understand that hope is so much more.