My Life as a Loquat Tree

As a person with bipolar, the fear of relapse is real — paralyzing, even. Much of this is because it costs so much to achieve a workable level of equilibrium, and so little to tear it all back down.

I’ve been remarkably stable over the past five years or so thanks to a combination of the right medications, adequate sleep, consistent therapy sessions, healthy avenues for expression, a strong friend base, and a deepened sense of self-love. Many who meet me are surprised if I tell them I have this condition, that they “couldn’t tell” because I seem so put-together: strangely, this is both deeply complimentary as it is simultaneously invalidating. I’m able to enjoy a life my adolescent self could never imagine I’d attain, but only because I have done the very hard invisible work to achieve it. But when the mechanism’s many requirements break down (as they have been, lately) — when I don’t exercise or eat right, when I’m too stressed and miss even a bit of sleep — the monsters start pounding at the doors. Then I can’t escape my own mind prison and the fray begins, unraveling everything I created to stabilize myself. Then I’m trapped, in a storm of emotions, unable to exit the car in a CVS parking lot because my heart is pounding as I’m gripped by deep rage and fear, suffering in silence from something no one else knows anything about.

I’ve been growing loquat plants from seeds I gathered from my parents’ fruit tree, and the process of tending to the needs of these little organisms has taught me more about myself than I imagined. I’ve never been one to have long-term pets or plants, so this is a relatively new endeavor born of the impulse to see what I am capable of. Not unlike my journey in mental health, the process is fascinating, stressful, and wrought with both worry and hope. It’s been six months now, and the three surviving plants are about five inches tall and have adorable pointed leaves with little hairs on them. Tip burn, or leaf browning, has been a constant battle with them as I experiment with soil drainage, salinity, and water levels. I’ve repotted them three times. My partner is their babysitter, and that’s how you know I’m serious about this. As with my mental health, I am constantly trying to bridge the communication barrier between myself and forces outside my control, adjusting as I go along, reading the needs of beings who do not speak with words, and attempting to let go of result-based thinking. The fear is that even after all this toil, the day might come that I might fail, irrevocably. That I might become a statistic, and the time spent pruning, watering, sunning, and growing will have gone to waste.

Emotions are such an active and unwieldy element that I have to harness in my life, perhaps more than many others — I feel them with such force that it can unseat me if left unchecked. Anger can be a hurricane that presents scenario after scenario of hurtful what-ifs for me to ruminate over until I’m left shaking, even if nothing happened to warrant it. Sadness pins me sobbing to the floor. Anxiety can nauseate me and cause me to want to brake in the middle of a freeway while driving, and it takes every ounce of resolve in me to talk myself down one mile at a time until it passes. Thoughts can fly by one right after the other and it becomes either difficult to focus or impossible to slow down. Sometimes my own thoughts scare me. I have had to harness the zen of being somewhat aloof, stepping outside of my head to observe rather than be sucked in the undertow. But I realize my thoughts are my intellect generating logical rationalizations for the inner turmoil I feel underneath. None of these thoughts are fully based in reality, and yet I feel their magnitude on a very real scale. It’s like taming a beast when only being able to see its shadow. Though I do not understand it, I embrace it as a part of myself and am learning to dance with it. At times I am cruel to my mind for the hurt and shame it has caused me, but I try to come back to a place of forgiveness and treat it with the kindness I know it deserves. Everyone has their own beast, and this is mine to carry.

Maintaining prowess over my self-healing craft is crucial to surviving — missteps are costly, and can strain both my health and my relationships. I’ve cut out alcohol, substances, stimulants, I don’t drink coffee. I’ve eliminated many barriers to success so that my resolve can be like steel as it batters wave after wave. There is only so much within my control, but the difference between a skillful, practiced, and diligent sailor weathering the waves and a stagnated, self-defeating one is profound. The odds are much better for me if I stay a fighter.

In these moments of extreme doubt, I have to remind myself that I have not come this far to only go this far. That my growing strength now allows me to take many more hits before I stumble, and requires I go much further than I could have envisioned before. I am not merely surviving now, as I was for many years ago- I now have the privilege of envisioning a future and have the tools to actively strive toward it. Ironically, the fact that I have more going for me in this stage of my life than ever before has skyrocketed my insecurity over losing it all. Who knew that the possibility of greater joy could be scarier than the familiarity of sorrow? I must courageously accept that whatever “outcome” may befall, the ending does not negate the process. That to live is to push, constantly, against the existential tug between light and darkness, finding meaning in walking forward. It’s no wonder I ask so deeply of myself, and my life — my every day depends on it.

Today, I spoiled the loquats with a smattering of rice bran water, which is rich in nutrients. I watched them take in sun, noting new shoots emerging from their tips, even though some of their larger leaves still have some brown. I don’t even know what I’ll do with them once they get too big to be potted, but I suppose that’s a task for a later time. I also (finally) did a workout routine off of Youtube, and feel that my mood is lifted and my soul has returned to my body even if my stamina still needs work. Progress is imperfect, and strangely that’s the most beautiful thing. I’m back now, and I want to stay here as long as I can. I guess that means I’ll work for it.

“I took a deep breath, and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.” — Sylvia Plath