Jack LaLanne is dead. Ninety-six amazing years old.

I always liked Jack. When I was a kid my sister and I would watch Jack on our black-and-white TV and try to keep up with his jumping jacks. The exercises he did in the chair seemed kind of lame, but we were little kids and had no problem lifting our legs. Besides, sitting in a chair wasn’t easy for a 5-year-old budding hypomanic like me.

Jack was always – ALWAYS – happy. Not Richard Simmons’ freaky happy, but genuinely happy in his stretch pants and tight shirt with the collar. Jack was the first personal trainer for the masses who understood the connection between the mind and body. It took decades for “endorphins” to become a household word. But Jack was on to it in the 1950′s.

“The only way you can hurt the body is not use it,” Jack once said. “Inactivity is the killer and remember, it’s never too late.”

Exercise has played a huge role in my life. I realized at a very young age that moving around a lot, playing so hard that I would collapse in a pile of leaves, made me feel good. Sitting around made me feel bad – unless I was watching the Saturday afternoon Creature Feature with the curtains drawn.

Until I picked up my first drink, endorphins were my drug of choice. Of course I didn’t realize it at the time, but I loved that high. I threw myself into as many competitive sports as possible and excelled. Swimming was my favorite. There is something about being prone, weightless and stoned that really appealed to me.

I don’t think God minds foxhole prayers. When I was in my deepest, darkest foxhole, God didn’t hang up on me when I dialed the most holy 911 in the sky. God took my call. Gave me what I needed. Not what I wanted. What I needed.

I have been thinking about this because I went to church yesterday – Christmas morning. I hadn’t been to church in a couple of months but it didn’t seem to matter. Everyone seemed happy to see me and I was glad to see them.

I used to belong to a church where you had to go to church every Sunday. It was a sin to skip church – even on vacation or in a blizzard. On Christmas and Easter you could always count on the priest to make a few sarcastic wisecracks about the parishioners who only went to church on Christmas and Easter.

I don’t belong to that church anymore. I joined a different church – and I really like it. Which brings me back to foxhole prayers…

Seems a lot of folks have a lot of gift ideas for the people on your shopping list who have depression, bipolar and alcoholism. Since I have bipolar disorder and alcoholism – and I love to shop –  I thought you might be interested in my thoughts.

First, remember that we probably did not get you a gift. Your beautifully wrapped gifts remind us that we didn’t get anything for you or anyone else that we had on our list

Let’s start with what NOT to give someone with depression, bipolar or alcoholism. DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES give someone who is currently in a major depression a self-help book or – even worse – the biography or autobiography of some tragic artist or celeb who suffered from depression and killed herself.

Not only is the topic inappropriate, we cannot read when we are at the bottom of our black holes. Our brains can barely focus long enough to read the label on a prescription bottle. Books only remind us of what we cannot do because we are sick. Besides, Depak Chopra and Oprah Winfrey sound kind of silly when suicide seems like a reasonable solution. 

As of this minute, the U.S. Census estimates the population at 310,477,719.

Researchers believe that in any given year, ten percent of the population will suffer from a major depression. That’s 31,047,771 million suffering Americans.

Researchers also estimate that about 12 percent of the population has alcoholism. That’s 37,257,326 Americans with alcoholism.

Combined, that is 68,305,097 American with alcoholism or in a major depression.

For every person with a mental illness there will be at least three others profoundly affected by the illness. A parent or guardian (another 68,305,097); A spouse/partner/boyfriend/girlfriend (another 68,305,097); A sibling/child/co-worker/friend (another 68,305,097).

This morning I read about a prominent researcher who has received a $15.7 million grant from the National Institute on Drug Abuse to study whether rigorous exercise can reduce an addict’s craving for drugs.

As an addict/alcoholic who once ran the last six miles of a marathon in my socks because my shoes were killing me, the answer is NO. Let me say it again: NO.

Maybe some addicts will benefit from the weight loss and sense of accomplishment but we walk a very, very thin line between healthy and unhealthy behaviors and many of us can’t see that line.

It’s Wednesday. Time to fill my weekly pill dispenser. I open a drawer that holds three brown prescription bottles filled with three months worth of my medications.

1-2-3-4-5-6-7

I drop pills into each compartment and then snap them shut. I tuck my hot-pink pill dispenser beside the coffee maker on my kitchen counter – out of plain sight but not to be missed when I pour the day’s first cup of coffee.

Last week I went to my first 12-step meeting for the “dually-blessed” – those of us who have alcoholism AND another mental illness (Yes, Virginia, alcoholism REALLY IS A MENTAL ILLNESS. The American Medical Association said so in 1957.)

It was the first time in a long time that I felt free to talk about ALL my mental illnesses – alcoholism and bipolar II (hypomania) without someone shooting me an evil look. If you think the stigma of mental illness is strong “out there” you should see it in the recovery community.

Every time I write about this I hear from dual-diagnosed recovered alcoholics who live in an enlightened community – such as Boston – who insist this discrimination does not exist. But let me tell you, it is real. The gist is this: you are not truly clean and sober if you take any “mind altering” medications – such as anti-depressants, mood stabilizers or anti-psychotics.

Last Friday was my birthday. I was 12. It was not my belly-button birthday. It was my sobriety birthday – 12 years without a drink. Normally I celebrate my sobriety date but this year I didn’t think much about it. My other mental illness was on my mind – literally.

I started sliding on Tuesday. I felt awful – everything ached and by end of  a very, very long day (Election day is the longest day of the year for journalists) I had a low-grade fever. I told my boss I wouldn’t be in on Wednesday. I went home and slept for 16 hours with a couple of bathroom breaks and a banana. I woke up in a fog, a dark cloud above. The fever was gone but I was in a funk. It wasn’t just a funky-funk, it was an uh-oh funk.

Other recovered alcoholics take little jabs at us.

“I never chewed my beer.”

“I have managed to stay sober without the big bottle or little bottle.”

“…and I have not taken any mood altering substances in my xx years of sobriety.”

My response: “Well, good for you.”  But in my head I am thinking, “Maybe you should have.”

There persists – despite decades of peer-reviewed research, anecdotal proof and the admission of LSD use by AA founder Bill Wilson – ignorance in the recovery community about the use of antidepressants and mood stabilizers. They backhand us with their belief that we are not clean and sober because we take psychotropic medications for other mental illnesses.

My phone rang at 4:45 am on Thursday morning. I didn’t recognize the number so I didn’t answer it. Then I heard that little voicemail alarm and I was like, oh man, what now?

It was a friend who was about to be arrested. The deputy was kind enough to let my friend use his phone and make a call. An arrest warrant had been issued because my friend had failed to pay the court costs from a DUI 18 months ago. My friend performed all the other conditions of probation except the court costs of $373.