It warmed up, the snow washed away in a rain and windstorm, then it grew bitterly cold, and now it has snowed again. All I want to do is knit. My mind is all aswirl with flotsam; I compose rambling, shambling posts -- but write nothing. I knit.
I did read a book this week--devoured it actually--which is unusual because although I was once a ravenous reader, for the past 12 years I've found it extremely difficult to read. It's Susanne Antonetta's A Mind Apart: Travels in Neurodiverse World, and I enjoyed it immensely, in no small part because she is also bipolar.
"The notion that society should accept, even prize, people whose brains are wired differently than the so-called norm arose about five years ago when some adults with Asperger's syndrome decided their off-kilter traits weren't disabilities but 'neuroatypical behaviors,'" begins a New York Times book review (which is not exactly favorable, tossing in words like 'muddled').
Maybe "enjoyed" isn't quite the right way to describe reading Antonetta's book. It resonated with me, and I've been thinking for awhile that I'd like to write more here about my experience as bipolar. It has, and does, shape so much of my life. Not just how I think, but how my life splinters apart and falls back together, how the shapes of things rise and sink from landscapes of water and snow and ice and a fogbank in my brain over which I so often feel I have no control.
Mr. O'Kitten is also bipolar. The rule in our house is we're not both allowed to go mad at the same time. His four hospitalizations last year were due to this awful, deep, unshakable depression he's been in for over sixteen months.
I've also gone through periods of long-lasting, horrible depression; my first diagnosis, in fact, was depression. It is like a Dantean circle of Hell: deep, abysmal, paralyzing, tormenting, torturous, and seemingly with neither end nor beginning.
Death seems far kinder.
William Styron's Darkness Visible is the only book I know of that even begins to describe (and with a wringing poetic beauty) depression. I keep buying it and giving it away.
So I sit and knit.
I'll write more on the "neurodiversity" idea, and the concept of "neuroatypical" another time--for now, I'll just intersperse these photos of odd hats with these random thoughts. It's sort of how my head is working lately anyway.
So I want to put the hats in the Etsy shop. I just have to get myself together to do it.
Meanwhile, I knit more hats. I can't even be bothered to figure out patterns these days, I just make them up as I go along.
And why doesn't Bloogleglogger give me your email addresses anymore when it emails me your comments? It used to, a long time ago. A few of them come through with addresses, but mostly not. Grrr.