The very first thing that I must mention here is that my Beloved and I are in a tough spot. You see, if I tell him what I’m going to be writing about in my next blog post, Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle sets in: according to Heisenberg, nothing exists unless it is observed; and the mere fact of being observed changes observed phenomena. (I would like to add the link here to the International Physics Society article about Heisenberg, but my handheld won’t let me. I hope to add it later.)
So if I tell him, “today I am going to blog about how we interact as a couple when one of us is bipolar,” then he will certainly wish to discuss it (like the good Beloved he is), and then my post will not be anything like my original conception. Which, sometimes, might be a good thing; but since the purpose of this blog is to express and explore my raw, uncut, unprocessed feelings about my experience of bipolar-ness, it rather thwarts that purpose to process things prior to publication.
I must say here that having a Beloved who actually wants–not merely wants, but is eager to–process my experience with me is a dear delightful thing, one which I have never before in my life experienced. So it does pain me a bit to forgo his proffered gift, and go ahead and write my piece, and discuss it afterward.
He did extract a promise from me, that I would send him a link to each piece as it is published. And I did invite him to subscribe, which would ensure that he is notified maybe even faster. I don’t know if he did or not, finding myself suddenly shy about asking. I send him the links anyway, unless I forget.
I am used to writing all the time. It is a need, like eating–no, more like going to the bathroom, if the truth be known. I have no control whatsoever over when a piece will hit me and demand to be let out. Two in the afternoon, three in the morning, the Sabbath (on which it is forbidden to write, so I guess I will be spending time in the Jewish version of hell. Maybe I will get to meet Spinoza.)
Writing is old hat to me. Having a Beloved, on the other hand, is an entirely new style dance. Not that I have not had lovers before: let us not begin to count them. I’ve been married. Twice. But a really truly Beloved? Not till now.
What this does for me is: it puts sharing into an entirely new perspective. Yes, I now have someone who actually cares how I feel, and wants very much to participate in my process. For my part, I have lived my life quite alone, even when in relationship, so transitioning into sharing sometimes leaves me feeling confused and clueless. I’m hoping that time and practice will smooth the way. I desperately hope that he’ll be patient with me.
And a big–no, big is not big enough: think of a better word–challenge for me is to be both aware of the Uncertainty Principle, that simply observing a phenomenon changes it, and yet resist living my life in fear that this or that thing I write might offend my Beloved, or anyone else who has a stake in how I feel. I must evolve a new, functional version of the self-edit. I do not know what that might look like, since I have never had one.
Having grown up in a house where “children are meant to be seen and not heard,” where displeasing the ruling tyrants reliably lead to being squashed like a bug, it’s hard for me to navigate the waters of any relationship, let alone a real and genuine one where people express their feelings and opinions openly, and sometimes get passionate about them. My Inner Protector Alarm goes off more frequently than I’d like it to: “Danger, danger! Raised voices! Dive, dive!” (Submarine alarm sound from movies)
This includes both real and imagined threats, arising from both internal and external sources. The good news here is that I’m becoming more aware of the sound of the dive alarms, whereas previously I would find myself at the bottom of the ocean having not a clue how I had arrived there.
This is just the tip of this particular iceberg. I hope to see myself opening up here and writing my heart out, quite literally, without self-censorship and without fear.
Copyright 2012 Laura P. Schulman all rights reserved
