Amanda Williams - Portfolio

Yesterday was one of those days one wishes just didn’t exist. I spent the day supporting my young son through his first run in with surgery - the fear of the unknown, the vulnerability, the pain and then the discomfort of the aftermath. Worn out, wrung out and exhausted I got home to find the results for an another essay lurking menacingly in my inbox. Oh…

As, half expected, I was marked down again. This time I tried pretty hard to do the genderless thing - despite the rising irritation. The reward for my big effort (still struggling with the memory problem) was that I did worse than last time. Why? This time, I came undone for being “too creative”. Huh? This is fine art right?

(If I were of a paranoid persuasion I’d be thinking that “rattling the cage” here wasn’t helping matters. I did have one email to that effect from a concerned reader. Thanks! I don’t believe that the “powers that be” are that small, so I’m not going to hide behind a pseudonym. Nor will I stop asking awkward questions. Someone has to.)

So yes, I’ll admit to the charge of scraping around trying to find a creative angle to a really boring topic - consider it a survival tactic. Boring can be made interesting if it has a purpose. Without any discernible purpose… well, I tried to make it interesting… and yes, it matters. Just a shame it made my effort worth less.

Boring I can do. In self directed study I waded through every single tome to be found on colour theory (you wanna debate Ostwald vs Munsell?). I borrowed everything relevant from the local library system. Then interlibrary loan. Then the TAFE library - if I couldn’t take it out I went back day after day and read it there. Then I ordered in books from all over the world - including some really rare old gems. Not even expensive - probably because they’re so boring. Honestly, some of it is the epitome of boring. After that I tackled anatomy… lets just say, that can be pretty dry too. The difference? It had a purpose.

Boring with no purpose, however, strikes at the heart of “life is too short to waste”. I realise that sounds trite but I promise you it only sounds like that until you learn how true it is. I learned it the hard way while sitting alongside someone holding their hand while they died. Then reinforced the lesson by standing on my own brink looking down. I wouldn’t wish this way of learning on anyone but I don’t know if it’s a life lesson that can be grasped from theory alone. I do wish everyone could somehow “get it” earlier rather than later. How many, of all ages, while away their lives watching the tele, figuring they’ll get around to living next year or maybe the one after, after their next holiday, once the kids have grown or they’re retired…

Having learned the value of time - enduring enforced waste then becomes a problem. In this guise it raised the question as to why the study of boring and irrelevant stuff is required? That’s not rhetorical - I truly want an answer. Is it about being groomed to fit inside a box with a particular shape? Does the path to fitting require being tested, bent and beaten into some sort of submission. Is it worth it? Does a good fit to the box produce a successful working artist? Or will I just end up dried up, mushed up and ground down? What about the evil creativity? Why is it discouraged? Too subjective? (Don’t forget this is art were talking about. ) Am I supposed to learn to trot it out like a trained monkey then hide it again at will? Is creativity shameful? (Now that’s a huge question.) It certainly burns a hole in the soul if its left unused, belittled or denied.

So there, I’ve tossed another virtual firecracker at the haystack. Hopefully it’ll trigger some healthy debate in addition to the usual round of email, encouraging and insulting alike.

Right now, however, I’m out of here, I have an unhappy child to care for. A task which is pretty high on the list of things that are worth doing with life. One which also puts a sense of perspective on everything else. The contents of the inbox have thus been marked as “read”, glanced at here and now mentally filed where they fit in the hierarchy of past events. I don’t even have the energy to be disappointed. Discouraged? Well that’s another matter.

Amanda

If you’re quick you can still get an entry or three into the life drawing exhibition being organised by the City of Swan. Entries close 15 May 2008.

Download an entry form now!

No commissions on sales and some great awards…
First Prize: $1000
Second Prize: $250
Third Prize: $150
Local Artist Award: $150
People’s Choice Award $100

It’s all over and I’m happy to report that Phi II was awarded a Highly Commended at the Mindarie Boardwalk Sculpture Festival a couple of hours ago. It was a tough contest against a field of awesome professional and emerging artists. I was happy just to be asked to put together a proposal - getting a nod is a huge bonus.

A bit stoked…

Now all I have to do is go hire the rickety trailer again and drive all the way back to bring him home - very slowly over the rough roads - the reverse of Friday’s nail biting escapade. I just hope I can yet again find three strong men and a trolley. And pray that I don’t jack-knife the trailer this time. Oops.

Amanda

After months and months in the planning and making Phi II was this morning delivered to Mindarie Marina for the Mindarie Boardwalk Sculpture Festival & Awards 2008.

No chips, no dingles, no damage. Amazing. It’s not that fragile, of course, being concrete and stainless steel but after a snail pace drive (at less than 60kms per hour) all the way from Chittering to Mindarie… cos I was worried that the rough roads and the ancient hired trailer MIGHT do damage. That’s over two hours folks. Not a nick to be seen. Oh ye of little faith.

Phi II holds blood (scratches making the frame for the moulds), sweat and tears in addition to the more visible materials. Oh, and it froze my fingers working oxide into the wet concrete sometime after midnight on a series of really cold nights… I couldn’t start until I got home each night and it took that long to get the concrete to just the perfect state to work. Yes, with my fingers. OK. I’m fussy.

I’m really pleased to see it finished. There’s nearly a thousand dollars in stainless steel fittings in it… once a proposal is submitted there’s no changing the materials. Gulp. It’s a nerve wracking process watching something come together. I make drawings, and plans and often many scale models. But I’m never happy until I see it come together. This one had me worried. There’d be no time to make replacement panels if it didn’t work… it had to work. And thankfully it did. Oh, ye of little faith!

So what’s the story with it. As Phi II - it’s obviously a next step on from Phi (which brought home the City of Melville prize last year). Hang on, why repeat myself, here’s the official version:

Phi II belongs to a series exploring the golden ratio in three dimensional geometric forms. Sometimes called the divine proportion, and denoted by the Greek letter phi, this ratio is a natural phenomenon which has fascinated scientists, mathematicians and artists since it’s discovery over 2400 years ago.

The outer shape of this work is an icosahedron which is a regular polyhedron with twenty faces each an equilateral triangle. On Phi II these faces are implied by the lacing of stainless steel rope. The golden proportion is found in the more solid rectangles on the inside, crossing at right angles through the centre.

Tension, rhythm and balance are sought between the airiness of the implied space and the rough surface of the concrete and the repetition of line and plane. Phi II is not all serious, watched carefully there’s a fascinating play of shadow traced by the pattern of light.

My interest always in finding something more than the obvious while exploring something that might have been made with a purpose in a time and place unknown. This gives us the most teasing question, simply “What is it?”. That can only be answered by our imagination.

“Without mathematics there is no art.”
Luca Pacioli (1445–1514 or 1517)
Italian mathematician, Franciscan friar and mathematics tutor to Leonardo da Vinci

If you want to go see, you’re going to have to be super quick - the exhibition is this weekend only - with winners announced at 5pm on Sunday May 4.

Amanda

If you live in or around Perth, Western Australia you might like to take a toddle down to the farmers market held on Sunday mornings in Midland. On the third Sunday of each month you’ll find a bunch of artists alongside the fruit and veg. You should be able to tell which is which. Squint if you have to - then we’ll know that you are one of us. (For those, not in the know, artists squint in lose some of the detail - it makes it easier to paint.)

In fact if you are an artist bring your easel and join us. If you actually live around the Midland area and happen to get the local paper (The Echo) - try this week’s page 7 for the run down - they ran a little story on us and, yes, that is me in the picture (to the left) pretending to work… snapped last time we were there.

Run by the Midland Art Group with joiner-inners from everywhere we get together and talk, and make art, and talk to the public. OK, so we mostly talk. The idea behind it is to get us all out of studios to show the public that we exist and see what we do.

I take a long a woodcut each time - actually it’s the same woodcut each time. It’s pretty big for a woodcut and fairly fine work. It’ll take a long time to do, especially since I talk so much. In fact since I talk so much, I think it’ll never get finished. When I’m not talking and actually start cutting someone inevitably comes along to ask a question - usually something like “Is that a sculpture?”… Welcome interruptions, always welcome, after all I don’t mind talking. The downside is that, I get into what I’m doing and when interrupted suddenly, tend to slip and stab a finger. My own finger, of course, not the person asking the question. The member of the public then gets to see what woodcutting is really all about - it’s not an art form at all it’s a blood sport.

So that’s it. Sunday morning’s, bring your easel and paints. Or charcoal. Or whatever… and join in. We set up between 6.30am and 7am. (Aargghhh…) and work til around 2pm. Don’t forget to bring your flask and lunch. And yes, you can bring a few pieces to show and sell, as well as show and tell.

Otherwise, if you’re a watcher rather than a doer - welcome.

Amanda

I haven’t reviewed a book in ages - quite simply because I haven’t read one. Swamped with study unfortunately, and as enlightening as it may be, it has it’s downside, in what I get to read. That’s not to say that required reading is bad or boring (did I imply that…), no, no, no. It’s just acknowledging that you don’t want to hear about text books. Today’s waffle is about a book that has been mentioned here before. This time, however, since I’m finally getting near the end of it, I can say something more complete. Three months to read a book is something of a record for me - it used to be like three each week…

So here we go with Advice to Young Artists in a Postmodern Era. The author, William V. Dunning, is a professor in fine arts at Central Washington University and his book is published by Syracuse University Press. Now normally, as you may know, I don’t bother with that sort of formality, I just give you a link to Amazon or somewhere, so you can go find the boring bits yourself if you’re interested. OK, I have still gaven you a link to it but that’s only because if anyone buys a copy I get a 6 cents credit or something like that. Which I then put toward the books I buy which keeps me supplied with things to write about. I promise I won’t spend it all at once. Alright, don’t let that stop you buying a copy - I’ll keep writing anyway - just to spite you. Oh, I forgot, my point in giving you the dull details was to say that the guy has cred.

You can, in fact, be grateful the commission is so small because it stops me reviewing books that are no good. Can you imagine the rant? That’s because I don’t bother to finish reading books that are no good (unless the lecturer makes me…) and thus I have nothing to say on them. So there.

I also don’t do proper book reviews, there are lots of those out there. I just tell you what I think and then ramble on about irrelevant stuff. If you’re looking for a normal book review - try Google. I promise you there’s nothing normal on this site because… OK, we won’t go down that side track either because that one was covered last week…

A few posts back, I praised Mr Dunning for bagging writers who re-hash stuff they’ve read without bothering to check their facts. It happens a lot, especially in rose books - I know a lot about books on heritage roses. I also grow a lot of heritage roses (mostly hidden under weeds at the moment…sniff) but in growing them I know about them. Some things become darned obvious when you grow a particular rose: like how big it is and whether or not it has a scent. An author might make a mistake and say that Monsieur Tillier is a puny thing that struggles to make three feet and the Dark Lady doesn’t smell good. Shame on you on both counts. Monsieur Tillier in my garden makes a good 12ft in all directions and The Dark Lady will perfume a entire room - no need to stick your nose in that one. What’s criminal, however, is all the other authors who come along and repeating it! Where’s their credibility? What does all that have to do with art books? Aside from “not much”, of course. I’m getting to that.

The similarity between rose books and art books is in all in the description. A with roses you can find out an awful lot about a painting by standing in front of it and looking. One thing you may learn when standing there looking is that what you see may not be the same as stuff that has been written and copied ad infinitum by writers who didn’t go and stand in front of the paintings they wrote about…

Mr Dunning blew the whistle on lots of books that describe Seurat’s work… I could kiss him. Colour theory is a pet interest. Seurat’s work likewise. The difference between what Seurat did and what we are often told he did is, well… amazing. Go back and read what I wrote on that or better still go find a copy of Advice to Young Artiststo read for yourself, check the library. Or, even better still, if you’re really lucky go look at La Grande Jatte with a fresh eye. It’s in the museum at the Chicago Institute of Art. Look for the red, yellow and blue dots that are supposed to mingle in the eye…

OK, so what else does he write about? Mostly about how to get the most out of being an art student. He also has a fair bit to say to and about being an art teacher. Or how to be a better teacher. He doesn’t bag teachers, not good ones anyway, but he does point out interesting things that might raise a collection of eyebrows. Things like: good teachers are those that spend more time learning about their subject area rather than learning about how to teach. In fact he thinks that too much education theory makes them worse. Oo wah.

He also reckons that crap is a technical term. I might just use that in an essay some time seeing as I can quote an authoritative source.

On art students too he has radical thoughts. There’s one where he tells the story of a guy going off to art school already a pretty accomplished realist painter. (I think, I can’t find the page, details don’t matter, the message is the same). The school wasn’t teaching much that he could learn. Ignoring the cries of his fellow students that he was selling out, he thought about it long and hard, picked up his brushes and knuckled under to study the abstract painting being taught. What the… At the end of doing his time (yeah, I’m well aware that makes study sound like a sentence…) at that school he was able to combine what he had learned with what he’d already known to make something entirely new. He didn’t sell out. Nor did he waste his time. An interesting thought for any student faced with a seemingly irrelevant class. (OK I could learn from that.)

For me however, William Dunning’s most important message was right up front in the first few pages of the book. He talks about what makes it likely that an art student will make it as an artist. It’s not the ability to solve problems - as we are often told - it’s in the rare ability to ask questions and find problems worth solving. That’s the difference between good and great.

And that’s something worth thinking about.
Amanda

Well I never. It seems the odd post here is actually getting read… and Google Reader - the big famous voted-all-over-the-world Google Reader - gave me a gold star on their “Recently Starred” column. Am I the last person to find out? Oh, well at least that’s normal…

It was this one on Kinetics.

Made my day (and I gotta tell you I needed it)
Amanda

Warning you now, if this sort of thing isn’t your cup of tea, you should go away and read something more fun. I’d suggest Disneyland.

You wanna take a peek inside a bipolar artist’s mind on a bad day? Now, all artists see beneath life’s veneer, it’s their job, sometimes it’s not pretty. Some like me, with type II bipolar wiring, sometimes bring something even worse to the picture making process. (The same drugs that treat epilepsy work for this too. I don’t know why. Must be similar wiring issues.) In type II there’s no mania - I get no ups to compensate for the downs - just really down downs. I get to see and feel the really ugly things that society likes to paper over. Then, I come back and work like crazy. All that work is why I’ve been called prolific, in addition to other less flattering things. When the work is good it’s not all bad. Sometimes I have a bonfire.

Sometimes the angst spills into what I write. A lot of writers are bipolar. Maybe I should have been a writer. It must be a heck of a lot easier than being an artist. Today I dropped of a sculpture to a juried competition. This one cost me sweat and tears and a frozen fingers working oxide into wet cement at midnight. That’s expected. It also maxed out the family credit card on stainless steel fittings. To say it’s a bit of a worry is something of an understatement. What if no one likes it?

This post gets worse from here down. It’s been an emotionally tough week in addition to the bill for the stainless steel. Maybe, you should try the link to Disneyland instead.

So, why am I posting something so dreary rather than pretending I have a perfect life? Simple, I said when I started this blog that it would be warts and all. This one’s a wart. I also promised that I wouldn’t delete posts. So I’ll be stuck with it should life look up. The blog is about art and life. My art comes from my life. So this post is as relevant as it is ugly. I’m down. And boy, oh, boy can I do the down. Life dishes up crap sometimes. And no I don’t need to increase the medication, this an artist’s view of an ordinary but awful reality.

This was part of an email to a long suffering friend.

There comes a morning in a woman’s life when you wake up and look in the mirror and wish you hadn’t. Wake up or look in the mirror. Neglecting to wake up is a permanent fix, avoiding the mirror is merely temporary. Unfortunately, I did wake up and look in the mirror, which coupled with recent events brought me to the horribly depressing realisation that the world thinks I’m getting old.

As an artist this could be a good thing. There’s a lot of useful baggage gained on the journey which the young ones can’t access yet. It can’t be gotten by reading a book. Some people value what time brings to an artist’s work, figuring they might have something worthwhile to say. That’s the good side of too many birthdays. The downside is, that as a woman, every year adds to a weighty toll, you just have to get past 40 to understand it. And past 45 to realise there’s definitely no going back.

Someone told me a couple of years ago in a moment of blinding honesty that I was too old for something I wanted to do, the rot set in then. The white ants had been at it for a bit already. I began to crumble. I fell into the black hole with by backpack full of heavy stuff. The climb out has been slow. At times I’ve thought I could actually see the daylight. Other times not. Now, it’s a definitely not. The light up ahead in the tunnel is probably something even heavier coming down after me.

Sometimes I think it’s partly due to the cards I was dealt but mostly I figure it’s more to do with the the foolish way that I’ve played them. Sometimes I think I missed out on the good bits and was left with the drudgery. I think maybe I forgot to have fun before the flame of youth began to flicker. Call it wallowing in self pity if you must, it won’t help.

This has nothing to do with you, of course, it’s just a musing on being a woman past some certain age. A man goes from young and hot, to man of the world to desirably distinguished. A woman peaks then it’s downhill all the way. The inevitable can be warded off a little with sufficient funds to pay the surgeon and the beauty therapist but inevitable it is that the wolf whistles will die away. A whistling kettle just ain’t the same…

I don’t know why I’m bending your ear on this one. You won’t understand anyway because men don’t have the a clock that begins to splutter at 40 something. I’m not alone in my misery, you know. It’s just doesn’t get talked about much. We do think about it though, when it’s too late say stop. Well, I do. And I think there are lots of others like me out there silently dying inside with every step beyond their youthful beauty. That’s why they automatically feed anti-depressants to middle-age women, it’s to dull their minds so they no longer care.

There. Not very pretty, is it.

I’m luckier than some, of course, I can lock myself in the studio and work and strangely, from this state of mind, comes the best of it. Even stranger, some of my most playful. Go figure. Anyway, I’ll go have a go and see what happens comes. Don’t bother phoning to cheer me up, I hate phones.

Amanda

I’ve been copping verbal assaults lately: to my face, by email and, worst, over the phone. Why is the phone so bad? I don’t hear well - so half of what’s said is blurred. Its best to email me so we can debate with matched pistols. I’ll even publish what you say. Still want to debate?

And if you rang or emailed me lately to yell - this isn’t aimed at you especially. Its a general musing. If you think a cap fits - take it off and have a look at it. I poke around under the carpet for the grubby topics and say blunt things that are meant to make you think. Guess what? I also get emails agreeing with me. A recent post on being stressed out over irrelevant essays generated positive correspondence as well as negative. If you reply by comment rather than the more personal email and I’ll publish that too.

Here goes, a bloggers right of reply to stuff that happens…

• I don’t write or speak between the lines. I don’t play games or politics or have strategies to manipulate for gain. My musings (or rants!) are never aimed at anyone in particular.
• Mostly what I write is rhetorical and open to debate. Questions rather than statements. My questions are rarely personal. Do you mean more than you say? It’s not good for you, you know? It gives you wrinkles from frowning while you think.
• I have a thin skin - perhaps it’ll make me a good artist. I don’t need a cure for it because I don’t want to stop caring. I also, like most, have a talent for putting my foot in it. Don’t you? That means I make mistakes, or raise touchy issues, but I don’t do it to hurt anyone. Not on purpose. Do you?
• I deliberately live and think in the moment - you’ll find me musing on many things - but what he said, or she said, or thinks or does - aren’t among them. I’ll report the facts on something that gets under my skin - give little or no opinion - and leave the rest to the reader. As I said: questions not statements. If such fluffy stuff does crop up in my head - I do as Ekhart Tolle teaches - watch the thoughts as a detached and curious observer, then let them go. He also says to think of nothing at all. If you’re cultivating creativity it’s worth a try - you give your mind a chance to bubble up the good stuff. It works for me. A New Earth is the best of his that I’ve read.
• So lets pretend I’ve written something that you don’t like. That’s not hypothetical, dig around, you’re sure to find something. Guess what? I’m likely to drift on or change my mind with more data or another experience. Or not. Whatever… I’m not so insecure that I need to hang on to every fleeting opinion like it’s battleground in a flame-war. Do you? It’ll give you ulcers.
• Then, there are the beat-ups - not as in beating me up (it happens - that’s the reason for the post!) but in the other sense - of blowing stuff out of proportion. Heck, I write, so what I have to say is here to be read and re-read and amplified with every read - especially for those with not enough to get excited about. There you go, there’s another one - that’ll get me a flurry of phone calls, for sure. Before you do - take a moment to think about it. Go paint, and while you do, muse on this: is having a go at someone a way to get a bit more life in your life? Are you looking down your nose at someone else as a way to boost your own self esteem?
• I don’t “do” lunch. Or fancy manners. Life is too short for superficial “kiss on the cheek without mussing the lipstick” crap (William Dunning wrote that “crap” is a technical term used by artists). Give me a hug for heavens sake - and mean it - or don’t bother. No shallow small talk either. I really would rather you talk about your problems than pretend you don’t have any. It’s healthier. And it helps. I make stupid mistakes too.
• Don’t try to make me feel guilty because what I say or do isn’t “normal” - hear this - I don’t care. I wouldn’t wish it on you either. You’re more than that - a unique mix of talents looking for unique expression. “Normal” smothers the possibilities. As my banner says “Why be normal, if you can be yourself”. It’s on the back window of my Beetle. Yep, a red Beetle. At my age? That’s not normal either. Don’t care. I carry a bunch of those stickers in the glovebox too - if you need one flag me down - we’ll start a movement.

Oh - and smile - and have fun. Life isn’t long enough to do anything else. I’ve stood beside too many good people dying too slowly to not have learned something. Not one of them suggested that we should all work harder, or be more angry, or take it all more seriously. I stood on that brink for a while too but have come back to question everything that the “normal” world holds sacred.

And forgive the person you hold a grudge against. You probably make dumb mistakes too. And, for heavens sake, learn again to play with the unselfconscious grace of a little kid.

On that note. Can we get back to making art? You don’t? You should.

Amanda

I get a lot of email from Bipolar suffers taking or thinking about accepting Lamotrigine. This post is for you…

The past month or so has seen me more and more concerned that I’m losing my mind. Or rather losing what’s on my mind. I’m not talking about forgetting to put the cat out or drop off the library books. I’m talking about serious memory issues - ones that make the future look pretty bleak. It turns out that I wasn’t imagining it, it was related to the Lamotrigine and it was also all my own fault. When is it not?

Firstly, I increased my Lamotrigine dosage in January - the dreaded depression had hit me again. I was under orders to increase as needed …slowly… as we do in fear of “the rash”. It’s rare to have the allergy but we all take precautions just in case. Two increases three weeks apart. It worked fine. It actually brought me up into the therapeutic range. I had thought before that maybe I needed less than most people because I’m super sensitive to medication and usually need less of anything - heck I’m short - so what. Not this time, I needed the increase. It worked. Spirits lifted. Working again. Yay. It really is fantastic stuff. I still don’t quite understand why an anti-epileptic drug can wash away a black-hole depression that anti-depressants don’t touch, but who cares so along as it does. I hadn’t felt this good ever.

The trouble started some weeks later and appeared so slowly that I didn’t link it. My memory simply got worse and worse. I realise in hindsight that this probably began when I started taking Lamotrigine last September but the effect was so small I didn’t think anything of it. Besides which, I was newly treated for Hashimotos and enjoying the cognitive improvements from that.

Come February however, I found that I would read a chapter of a book and by the end of the chapter couldn’t remember what it was about. I read more slowly. I started using the note taking system recommended by Cornell University - it’s great - but unfortunately it didn’t help me. This wasn’t ordinary forgetting.

I began my new course in March. I kept better hours - maybe I just needed more sleep - no more late nights at the easel. Nope. I lost the first week scrambling around trying to find a way around the problem. I got behind. Oh, crumbs. I installed and figured out how to use a Microsoft package called One-Note - it’s great software (in spite of being Microsoft…). I’m still using it, I’m super-organised and able to keep track of my copious notes. So I can find things again, right? Unfortunately you need to remember what it is you’re looking for…

By the end of last week, compounded by the essay nightmare - a direct result of the memory problem - my fears were getting the better of me. I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t remember something I had thought moments before. I was writing everything down - but sometimes I’d lose the thought before I could find pen and paper. Early dementia? The black-hole of fear. What would anyone be thinking by this point?

Utterly embarrassed, I asked for help from the uni. Is it me? Do all students put in the hours I’m putting in? What can I do better? Unfortunately my options were to either reduce or quit my study. By now, I know I’m losing it - and knowing that I’m losing it is the worst part - this isn’t some slide into a dreamworld unaware. In the cool dark moments of fear it’s becoming a nightmare.

In the midst of all this my sight has become more blurred. It’s not good anyway, I’m used to needing new glasses every few years but this is a bit too quick on the last prescription. I was bothered enough to mention it to my husband. He reminded me, something he has to do a lot lately, that Lamotrigine can make sight blurry. Maybe it was just that? It was in the literature that I brought home when I started on it. Oh! I dug it out. Interesting reading. It also causes memory problems…

I hit Google. Well, what else does one do when it takes a month to get an appointment? Lamotrigine. Memory. Hmmm… they know about that. B12 and folate are shown to help. It’s something to do with Lamotrigine blocking the proper use of the stuff. B12 deficiency is also worth testing in patients with suspected dementia. They give them a shot, all fixed. Oh, really? I passed this on to the long-suffering husband. He said “but you’re taking those, aren’t you? It’s on the list the psychiatrist gave you”. Um, I forgot…

So simple. Is it helping? I think so. In fact, I’m sure so. OK, I’m hopeful. The black cloud has lifted a bit - B12 and folate can do that too. I think it’ll be a while before the nerves recover. It’s terrifying that something so horrible can happen so fast and have no one notice. OK, so I wasn’t talking much, not until it was getting bad, but still it’s also scary that I didn’t know what to say to get heard when I did. It felt like I was talking though a glass wall. Back to being myself - I won’t say normal - what is normal? - I think I’ve had a glimpse of something that will change me forever. An understanding, if you will. And a sense of being more alone than ever.

The bottom line of this tale of woe? If you take Lamotrigine and your doc said you have to take B12 and folate - please remember to do it! The effects of their deficiency is one dip on the Bipolar roller-coaster that can be avoided altogether.

Amanda