I Wear My Emotions on my Sleeve

100 Writings in 100 Days

October 18, 2014

Writing # 3

My hands began to shake with anticipation as I lifted the razor from its hiding place. A thousand different emotions washed through me as I stared upon its gleaming blade. Cutting was always a last resort for me. Each time the blade left a line on my skin, I felt like I had failed myself and others around me. A lot goes through my mind as I press the blade ever closer, such as how to cover up the deed I was about to do.

I would have to trade all of my undershirts for t-shirts for a few days until the wounds healed enough to not stand out too badly from the others. Whatever I used to clean the wounds would have to be disposed of in the dead of night when I knew everyone was asleep. Most importantly, the razorblade had to be hidden in such a way that no one could find it but me.

I felt the first stabbing pain as the razor sliced my skin open, and the first trickle of blood began its journey down my arm. Then something caught my eye. I turned to look, and saw a pen sitting on the nightstand beside my bed. For a moment, the task at hand disappeared as I stared at the pen. New thoughts began to cross my mind.

The cuts on my arms do make me feel better. They turn an emotional pain into a physical one, and physical wounds can be taken care of and heal properly. The message they convey to others, however, does not even begin to scratch the surface of emotions I felt when I made the marks to begin with. When people look upon my scars, they look with disgust. They look with pitying eyes, or judgmental ones. They look upon me with sorrow, and wonder if they could have helped prevent it. They look upon me with worry, or curiosity. The worst one for me, however, is those who look upon my actions as “childish”, or “attention seeking”, when all I really wanted was to find a little peace within myself. Everyone wants to ask, but few are brave enough to hear the answers I’d give them. Truth be told, I’m not sure I am capable of physically telling them all that runs through my head.

The wounds convey all that is negative in my life, and they are a standing reminder of the weaknesses I felt. They stand to remind me of all that I survived. I began to wonder what would happen if I could find another way.

So I picked up my pen. I set the razorblade down, and instead of carving my emotions in nonsensical scars, I began to write upon my skin. Words began to appear as each passing thought inspired a new phrase to be written.

Sadness
Betrayal
Anger
Pain
Hope
Heal
Want Peace
Alone
Lonely
Need Help
Be Proud
Love
Regret
Mistakes
Broken

The words began to take a whimsical appearance as I gained confidence. I felt a strange peace begin to grow within me, similar to how I feel when I cut. I was shocked and amazed, so I wrote that as well.

Confidence
Desire
Longing
Need
Happiness
This, too, shall pass

When words left me, I drew patterns and pictures, abstract lines that crisscrossed and formed something beautiful. What once was a terrible and dark practice had turned into an art piece. Instead of everyone wondering what precisely I was feeling when I did this, the words were written plainly for all to see.

The pen is mightier than the sword, and we sometimes forget just how powerful words can be. I had forgotten that I am, and will always be, a writer. I have the tools around me to help, and it doesn’t always have to result in mutilation of my body.

By the time I was done and had set the pen aside, I stared upon to words and tried to memorize each of them. I went into the bathroom and washed them off, and no red mark remained. I would not spend the next few days worrying if my sleeve was raised too high, or scratching as they healed. I looked at myself in the mirror, and saw peace in my eyes.

I am Only a Penguin

I know I’m very behind. I’m hard at work on the stories, I just can’t post them as soon as they happen, for the most part. But this one was just too cute to share, I think. In my personal opinion.

100 Writings in 100 Days

Writing # 2

October 17, 2014

The room was dark as she carefully climbed into bed, tucking herself in under her blankets. She eyed the dark suspiciously for only a moment before finally reaching over for her stuffed animal. Most people had teddy bears, but she had me, a Penguin. I recognize that my job is very important, having to protect my human from the scary things that go bump in the night. And trust me, it is quite scary.

As she gathered me up into her arms, I could tell she’d had a very bad day because of how tightly she held me. Her bad days were getting worse and worse, with less spacing in between. I tried to tell her that everything was going to be okay, but I am only a penguin. My mouth does not move, and I cannot even hug her back. I do my best to stay on the bed so she can always find me, but sometimes I fall off. Anyway, the point is I do all that I can to let her know I’m there for her.

She tosses and turns for a bit, her body twitching with the first signs of slumber. This is when the job of a stuffed animal really matters. As our humans fall asleep, lots of things come out to try and take advantage of the now vulnerable humans. It is our job to protect them from the dark and grotesque that bumps and thumps in the dark. I prepared myself for epic battle.

Carefully I slid from her arms, once her breathing evened out and she snored quietly. I surveyed my surroundings. So far, so good. Nothing to be afraid of thus far. All of a sudden, I heard it. A very low, very quiet moan. The monster in the closet was back, and I launched myself over to it, closing the door and locking it inside. No monsters will attack my human, no matter how hard they try. In my haste to close the closet door, a few ghosts hovered above her. I waddled as fast as I could over to the bed, climbing up and standing over her.

“Back, you ghosts! Back! You are not allowed to touch her! She is protected!”

The power of love is a strong thing, never underestimate that. I knew she loved me, because a little guy such as myself should not be intimidating at all. But I have a very strong aura about me that deters monsters, ghosts, and ghouls. Until that love fades, I’ll always be stronger than the creepy crawlies. The ghosts fled from me, disappearing into the walls and out of sight. I heard the quiet tinkling of a bell, and turned to see some fairies buzzing around her head. Most of the damage had already been done as they sprinkled their dust over her hair. It stood up, tangling in some areas. I sighed. I hate fairies.

I managed to chase them away, and spent most of the night doing this. Each time she stirred I moved back to my spot, or as close to it as I could manage, so she would be none the wiser of my escape. It is against the Stuffed Toy Handbook for our humans to discover us.

Finally as the sun begins to rise, and she begins to wake, I climb back into her arms and hold her as close as a stuffed penguin can. As soon as her eyes open and she looks back into mine, she smiles. Good. Already beginning to feel better. I try to smile back at her, but remember that I can’t. I’m only a penguin.

Letter to my Soul Mate

I realize I’m a little late for my 100 Stories in 100 Days. I also realize that my first writing isn’t a “story”. I was thinking about this on my birthday, and decided to share it. Maybe I should change it to 100 Writings in 100 Days. Forgive my tardiness. Starting today, I begin the journey of 100 Writings in 100 Days. Wish me luck!

October 16, 2014
Writing # 1

To my soul mate that I have not yet met,

You do not know me, nor do I know you. One thing I know for certain, however, is that I have put a lot of thought into you. I often wonder if you do the same for me. Do you ever wonder who I am, where I am, and when we will meet? I have.

Am I going to meet you at the store one day when I’m out buying groceries? Will you stop to help me on the side of the road if I get a flat tire? Or will I accidentally bump into you and knock your things to the ground, just like in the movies?

I often wonder what you look like, dear Soul Mate. Do you have dark hair? Light hair? Is it long or short? But what drives me crazy with curiosity is what color your eyes are. Are they green or brown? Do they sparkle when you smile?

What does your voice sound like, I ask myself. Does it flow smoothly, or does it have a gravelly sound? What do you sound like when you laugh?

I know I’m not supposed to tell, because it will ruin it, but I dedicated my birthday wish to you. Do you do the same for me? That should tell you how much I wish to find you.

I picture what our life would be like together. I picture something comfortable, something nice. I picture a proper family with a dog in the backyard. I hear the laughter of our children as they run around carefree, and the steam from our coffee cups rise in the cool morning air.

One more thing I wish to know. Do you smile often, and is it genuine? Because I hope to see that smile as often as I can. I like to imagine it warming my heart on a cold day, and making my stomach do flips. I like to picture that smile making me weak at the knees.

Most importantly, however; do you love me as I love you? Can you accept me with all my scars, my broken pieces? I don’t want you to fix me, but maybe you could help me with the repairs. I would do the same for you. We can help repair each other.

I do not know who you are, where you are from, or when we will meet. But I hope, if you do exist, that you wish to find me as badly as I wish to find you.

Until we speak,

Jackie Spade

Thoughts, Feelings, and Actions

I think I’ve finally discovered the one thing I hate most about working the graveyard shift at a hotel when it starts to get cold. If we are completely booked up, and no one is checking out the next day, I am left with absolutely NOTHING to do. NOTHING. NADA. I completed the audit, and that’s about it. Then I’m left spinning in circles going “Is this right? Am I forgetting something? But I didn’t batch the credit cards… That’s because we didn’t have any. Well so! IT FEELS WRONG TO NOT DO IT.”

And so forth. That’s been my night thus far.

As a side note, it has been a long, very sad weekend that I am now going to share with you.

My grandfather passed away.

I got off work at 7 AM on Thursday, a welcomed off day after working a pretty long schedule. I was so excited! I took my daughter to school, came home, and at 8:30 I was asleep. That’s all I wanted to do in that moment was just sleep. I don’t even remember what I was dreaming, now. I think I was being chased by people trying to kill us, and if we could make it to the top of the house, we were safe. I don’t remember, because at 11 o’clock, I heard a knock on my bedroom door. It took me a few minutes to register, then wonder if I was hearing things. The knock came again, and my dad’s voice came through from the other side. “We need to talk.”

This is never a good thing to hear. Especially when you’ve just woken up. So I grunted a response, and tried to adjust my vision as my dad came in and sat on the edge of the bed.

“I wanted you to hear this from me before you heard it from anyone else. Especially Facebook.” He began. See, my family has a bad habit of posting things to Facebook before making sure the rest of the family has found out any news. “Your mother and I have been trying to call you, but I guess your phone was on silent.” Was it? I thought I’d left it on sound. I’ll have to check that, I thought. Good thing the school didn’t try to call me or something. Phew. “Papaw passed away this morning.” Static.

…..

……..

………

Maybe I heard him wrong. Maybe I’m still dreaming. Could this be a hallucination? I could hear a buzzing in my head where thoughts should be. I’m sure he said more, but I was trying to swim back to the surface from the blow he’d just landed me. My heart raced, pounded at a deafening volume. Why is he still talking, surely he can see I can’t hear him over the beating of my internal drums?

“What happened..?” I finally managed to choke out. He told me, which we later found out wasn’t quite right. I’ll tell all later.

I was in shock. All I could reply with was “Okay.” I could feel a lump of glass forming in my throat, threatening to tear its way out in the form of a heart-wrenching wail. I kept my composure. My father, exhausted of things to say, left the room. The door clicked into place and my tears began to fall. I curled into a ball, and I sobbed hopelessly. “Please, no. Anyone but him. Please not him.” I begged to anyone that would listen. I rocked back in forth, I pulled my hair, I dug my nails into my arms. Please wake up, I thought to myself. Just wake up and this will all be over.

I felt as though someone had thrust their hand into my chest and ripped my heart out before stomping on it, stabbing it with blades coated in acid, then sending it through a shredder. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. So I grabbed the phone. There were the missed calls, and a few text messages. I felt thankful that I hadn’t answered, since I really wouldn’t have wanted this information over the phone. Almost as bad as Facebook, in my personal opinion.

So saying, I also couldn’t bring myself to say it out loud. So I texted my friends. I texted my boss/other mother. I tried desperately to put into words the pain I was feeling, while I could hear a little voice chanting in my head “Hold me, help me, save me. Hold me, help me, save me.”

Condolences immediately began to flood in, plus phone calls. I couldn’t really bring myself to answer any of them. Until I had to call my other boss and explain that I was going to be out of pocket that afternoon, just in case I was needed. I tried to keep my composure over the phone, until I was forced to say the words. “My grandfather died.” I choked on the last word and very nearly threw up. I cut off a sob. It was the first time I’d said it out loud. I immediately felt sorry for Other Boss, and apologized, wrapping up the phone call as quickly as I could. This started a new round of sobbing, pleading, rocking back and forth, and penguin holding.

Interestingly enough, since I’ve started carrying the penguin around as my “therapy animal”, I have felt a lot better. I don’t know where I suddenly got this idea from, but I’m glad I had it.

I decided, finally, that I needed to go out to my grandfather’s house, as this is where the family had gathered to start the process of making arrangements. I headed out, stopping by the hotel to drop off my name tag. It’s amazing the things your brain grabs hold of and claims as important in a time of high stress. I knew what I was doing when I dropped it off, but in the grand scheme of things it wasn’t important. I needed normality. I needed something that made sense. Something I could control. In the time it took me to walk inside and walk back out, it had started storming so badly that the world turned white. It was ironic, because my world was black.

The drive that normally took ten minutes took twenty minutes, and then I arrived.

I remember everything in hyper detail, like I was grasping at everything in hopes of remembering it for later. I’ll skip the boring details and move on to the important ones. There was visiting, laughing, joking. It seemed like a normal visit. We shared memories of my grandfather, had a few good laughs.

Then we went to the funeral home to make final arrangements. This is where things get a little weird.

After we argued over which casket we wanted (I disagreed with the final choice, but whatever), I asked if I could see his body. The funeral director was very much against it. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Trust me, tomorrow will be so much better.” “I don’t care.” “You will. Just wait until tomorrow.” “No, I want to see him now.” Finally he gave in and let me see him.

All they’d done was washed him off and added a bit of oil to his skin to keep it from drying out. He looked peaceful. He looked just like he was sleeping. It was surreal for a number of different reasons.

One: It finally really hit me that he was gone. I had my solid proof.

Two: I’d never been around a body that fresh before. Ever.

Three: He didn’t look like wax, which is what I’m used to when bodies are concerned.

Four: He looked like he had a grin on his face, which apparently wasn’t there when he died.

And for the first time in a very long time, I got to be alone with my grandfather.

To a lot of people, I realize this is really weird and probably very strange. But before I continue with the story, let me step back in time. The grandfather I knew versus the father my mother knew were two different people. Either way, one thing stayed consistent: He was an amazing man.

When I was a kid, I would go out to see him as often as I was able. My grandfather even watched me a few times when my mom was working. We would challenge him to races, and somehow he’d always win. He’d poke out his dentures at us, and of course we thought his teeth were falling out. He loved us unconditionally, and thought the world of us. I remember birthdays were a big deal when I was little. He would pick me up and take me to the store, and let me pick out whatever I wanted. Then he’d usually add a little something extra to top it all off. I loved every moment I got with him.

But as an adult, alone time with my grandfather became fewer and farther between. He started getting weaker, so birthdays didn’t happen. He still tried to bring us things. Then it was reduced to a card. Huh….. I just had the realization that I’m not going to be getting a card from my papaw this year…. And my birthday isn’t far away…..Wow….And the pain starts all over again. Anyway…. Any interaction I had with him was very special…..I just wish I had more time with him.

I stood in that room, alone, with my grandfather. He looked peaceful, and yet he looked different. He looked like him, but at the same time he didn’t. You don’t realize how much your soul changes the appearance of your body until you look upon a fresh body that no longer has a soul seated within it. He looked like he was sleeping, but something was missing. I can’t even really explain it.

I talked to him. Just he and I. Like when I was a kid. I apologized for not coming out more often, and I hoped he understood. I told him I was sorry if I disappointed him, and that I didn’t mean to… I reminded him that I did love him….and then I said “What am I going to do..? Where do I fit into this family now..?”

My grandfather, as I said, loved unconditionally. I didn’t need to be talented, or a boy, for him to love me. I could be as rebellious as I wanted to, and he was still proud of me. He loved me no matter what, and he loved us all equally. I don’t get that with the rest of my family. To those members of my family who may be reading this: You can try to argue on principle, but I will prove you wrong each and every time. Moving on.

I felt an odd sense of closure that I’ve never experienced before when it comes to losing someone I love dearly. It is a new feeling for me, a strange feeling for me. I’m so used to wondering how they died, and my brain going all sorts of dark and morbid directions. Having the image painted out for me made it easier. I realize the same does not apply to everyone, so I won’t go into details about his death. All I will say is he went peacefully, he went quickly, and he went at home which is precisely what he wanted.

The rest of the week was hard, even with my closure. Even now I’ll have memories and I’ll get choked up. The hardest part is having to adjust to normal life again. I want to apologize to every customer that walks in and explain why I’m flustered, but I know I can’t. Or I think to myself “People lose people every day, my case isn’t special.” When you lose someone, it feels like the world should stop for just a little bit. But stepping back into work is a harsh reality that the world just keeps on ticking.

I remember one time he called me. It was Friday the 13th in July, I believe. He called me because he wanted to wish me a happy birthday. I hadn’t answered because I’d been sleeping, but when I woke up I called him back. He laughed and said “I called to tell you happy birthday, but then I remembered you were born in October. It was Friday the 13th, just the wrong one. But at least you know I’m thinking about you.” I had forgotten that memory until my mother and I started talking earlier. I laughed and laughed all over again.

You forget just how much grief wears you down until you experience again, and then its like… how could I have forgotten this existed? All I really want to do right now is sleep. But again, the world keeps on going, and you have to keep going with it. It’s hard, it’s very hard.

So I’ve been trying to find ways to deal with my own grief, and to help make the transition back into reality a little easier. After much thought, I’ve finally decided on how I’m going to do that. Throughout the day, I have tendencies to get caught up in daydreams. I’ll daydream about anything, really. Sometimes they’ll be really interesting, and I’ll want desperately to make a story from them. I’m going to start doing that.

100 Stories in 100 Days is what I’m going to call it. Every day I’m going to write a little something. It might not always be long, but I’m going to write something. It’ll be my therapy. At least, I hope it will be. Whatever pops into my brain that day and I cling to, that’s what I’m going to write about. I’ll start on October 10th, which seems like a good day for some reason.

I’ve shared my thoughts, my feelings, and my actions. Right now, my brain is too tired to think of anything else I should say. Except one last thing.

Between the arrangements, the visitation, and the funeral, I said many things to my grandfather. I told him I loved him, and that I missed him, and that I would always do those two things. But there is one thing I never said, because I couldn’t bring myself to say it. It was too permanent, and I wasn’t ready to except that it was over. I never told him goodbye. I tried. Every time I opened my mouth to say it, my words couldn’t pass through the lump in my throat.

This chapter of my life has ended, but the book is still being written. Instead of occurrences, my book will only include memories now. But those memories I will cherish more than many things, because they are precious. So it is now that I shall say my goodbye. To my grandfather. You meant the world to me. I wish I could have told you more often just how special and wonderful you were. I can only hope that you know all of those things I never told you now. You will always live on in my heart, and in my memories. I love you so very much, and every day you’re gone I will have a wound in my heart.

“It has been said, ‘time heals all wounds.’ I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.” –Rose Kennedy

Goodbye Papaw Bill. I hope I make you proud.

Suffer in Silence

There are many pros and cons to working a graveyard shift. Many of them you would expect, and some depend on perspective. The traffic is rather slow, so you are left with quite a bit of free time to do things you’d like to do. Except you are confined to a very small area. You don’t have to handle quite as much business as your daytime coworkers, but you are often left for almost eight hours without the sound of another human voice, or another human face. You have to make sure to bring whatever you need with you, because if you live in a small town like I do, everything has closed by the time you get to work. Forgot something at home? Oh well. Didn’t bring a lunch? Twinkies for dinner it is, then. Feeling a little lonely? Oh, most of your friends are already asleep. So it’s just you, your entertainment, and the buzz of electrical lights.

Or if you walk outside, you get to hear Sonic Radio. At least, where I work. And no, it’s not 24 hours. Don’t ask me.

I knew most of this when I first began my graveyard shift. Some of it I learned, and I picked up different tricks as I went. I come in loaded down with everything I may, or may not, need. I double everything. Even if I know I don’t need it, I always bring at least two. Better to have too much than not enough, right?

One thing I didn’t expect, however, was how quickly it got to the point where normal means of entertainment just wouldn’t cut it, and how often I would just be spent alone with my own thoughts. At first it wasn’t that big of a deal, I’d usually find something else to entertain myself with. Or I’d clean the lobby obsessively until my bosses started hiding the cleaning supplies from me. And sometimes being trapped inside my own head wasn’t so bad.

I’d imagine my favorite celebrities coming through the door and sweeping me away for a life of fame, glamor, and adventure. I’d picture something bad happening and how I’d magically save the day. I’d play out conversations and other fun or entertaining scenarios that would never happen.

It’s all well and good. Until the nights you’re sad. Or angry. Or feel anything but contentment.

I could feel the start of a low coming on, so I brought my penguin with me to work. He makes me feel better sometimes, and it’s a comfort to have him. I know I get weird looks for having a penguin sitting on the desk behind me, but I don’t care. He’s my comfort object, not yours, nee ner nee ner. But the penguin, as cute as he is, can’t stop the thoughts that go through my head.

I was alone. I am alone. At first, you don’t really think about it. Being physically alone is so much different than being mentally alone. Tonight I felt both. My mind threw every embarrassing situation at me, every horrible mistake I’d ever done, every worst case scenario that could happen.

As my thoughts grew darker, everything I’d held back for years suddenly came rushing back to me. I could feel the lump tightening in my throat, my heart pounded in my chest as I silently fought the inner battle with my demons. I could feel the blood rushing to my face, tears tickling the very edges of my eyes as the torture continued on and on. I started cleaning, as cleaning is sometimes therapeutic. But no, this made the taunts even worse. I could feel my soul screaming in agony, the shadows closing in, and finally when I thought I was going to break I looked up and I saw my reflection.

My cheeks were a darker shade of red. My eyes were red. But my face gave nothing away. I was so stoic, that anyone looking at me would never guess the hell going on inside my head. I was in my head, and I couldn’t tell. You never know what to expect when you look into your own reflection. Many times it is shocking. Tonight was no exception to the rule.

No one could see that lump in my throat, no one could feel the burn of the tears I held back. No one could hear my heart breaking into a thousand pieces, or the taunts that scraped across my mind like glass. My eyes gave me away. They screamed a thousand screams, begging and pleading to let all of this out freely. My thoughts changed to all the words I’d never said, all the things I wish I could say. All that I wish I could do, or could have done in the past. I could not stand to stare at the girl in the reflection any longer, because there was nothing I could do for her silent suffering. I wish I could. I wanted to reach into the reflection and hold her, tell her everything was going to be okay. Force her to see the good she’d done, and all she’d contributed.

But I looked away, and strangely I felt like I’d betrayed myself. So many others look away too because they don’t see it.

I grin, I smile, I laugh. Inside I’m being torn apart and I can’t fix it. I can’t make the demons stop howling, or the skeletons in my closest stop rattling the doors. The ghosts of my memories taunt me from the shadows, luring me further and further into the darkness. Taunting me with relief.

Onwards I go, suffering in silence. I’ll keep that smile on my face, and I’ll laugh at your jokes. I’ll hug you and hold you, make you feel better and tell you everything will be okay. Look into my eyes sometimes, and maybe you’ll see that sometimes that’s all I want too. Sorry for all the word vomit here, I just had to get it out someway or another lol.

Tis the season…of HALLOWEEN

I love Halloween. In fact, I’m rather sure “love” doesn’t even begin to explain the joy and excitement I feel starting somewhere in late August, that carries on into early November. No other holiday compares in my mind.

I love everything about it! I love when the stores start putting out their decorations, choosing a costume. I put more thought into what I’m going to be than I do what I’m going to buy for presents for Christmas.

That being said, towards the end of August I made the decision that this year I’m going to go all out for Halloween. It’s been a while since I’ve really been able to do much. This year will be amazing. So I bought a skeleton.

Let me state up front that my idea was not original. I got the idea from this blog http://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2013/10/skull-in-family.html. I discovered it a while back, and realized that I, too, had a plastic skeleton shaped hole in my life.

So I bought one.

His name is Ichabod Cranium.

And I love him.

Here are just a few things that Ichabod has gotten up to since he arrived.

My boss loves him, and I’ve been given permission to decorate the hotel lobby how I see fit. I’m so excited about it! Now it begins. Tis the season of Halloween!

Rest in Peace, Robin Williams

There are thousands of articles currently in the process of going live, even as I type this. Millions of blogs, and status updates, are being posted as you read this. There is nothing special about what I have to say, nothing unique. But they are my words, and my feelings, nonetheless.

Being someone who has grown up bipolar, I understand the struggle. The pain. The constant loop between sanity and insanity. I understand making those nightmares go away, only to be chased by your own skeletons. I understand having those personal demons whispering into your ears “Just end it all”, knowing that each time the whisper grows louder and louder, and our resolve weakens.

It is a constant battle trying to make the world see, acknowledge, and understand the struggle that is being bipolar or depressed. It is dangerous, yes, especially to ourselves. Today, the Bipolar/Manic Depressive/Depressive community has suffered a very great loss.

Robin Williams was a man who inspired multiple generations with his quick wit, his sense of humor, his intelligence, and his honesty. He brought people together, and made us all feel worth something. I never met him personally. Oh, how I wish I could have. That was one thing I wanted to do in life was to meet Robin Williams, and tell him that he helped make me a little more okay with myself.

I remember hearing about when he was a child, and he would pull all of his toys out. Each one had a name, a personality, a voice. I used to do that as a kid as well. He was bipolar, and even though he struggled his entire life, he still managed to do some of the most incredible things in the world.

I’m not sure that he would think what he did was important. But it is. Laughter is an incredible medicine.

One thing I’ve noticed about people in our community is we try so hard to help one another, because it makes us feel a little bit better. Each light we make shine a little brighter, each smile we bring, makes us happy. But there is only so much help we can provide before we realize it’s just a way to ignore our own demons.

Robin Williams was an incredible man. Honestly I’m still shocked. You hear about celebrity deaths quite frequently, and most of them are hoaxes… I hoped that this was one of them. I actually cried. That is very rare for me.

My mother, father, and I used to watch Mork and Mindy when I was a kid. It was a time when we could sit down and have a bit of quality time, something that was rare for us. When my daughter started watching, it was a chance for all of us to watch and enjoy. Three generations sitting down to enjoy this man. We did the same with a number of different movies.

A lot of the times we get tired of hearing about celebrities. We don’t care about who is marrying whom, we don’t care about who is delivering a baby this week, or anything such as. But I think I can speak for many of us fans when I say…He wasn’t just a celebrity. It’s strange to say but… he almost felt like… a member of everyone’s family.

He was the man who entertained us, and our children. He was the man that made us, and our parents, laugh. He was the man who made us think, who sometimes made us all a little uncomfortable. He was the guy who made us cry. He was family.

Before I’d go, I’d like to share this picture with you. It isn’t quite the quote I wanted to share, but it will do.

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Thank you, Robin Williams, for everything you’ve given us. Thank you for sharing so much of your life, your talents, with us. I wish there was more we could have done to help you, but I understand.

Rest in Peace, Robin Williams.

It’s Okay. No Problem.

It’s been a very stressful week. Hell, it’s been a very stressful day. I’m trying my best to fight off another low that’s coming on (see my bipolar post to understand what I mean by that), and for the most part I haven’t been very successful. I’ve lashed out when I haven’t meant to, and I’ve bottled up a lot more than that.

So I could spend this post ranting and raving to try and make me feel better. I could get into a long winded post about what is wrong with the world and so forth. Instead I’m going to tell you about a little Indian guy.

I remember when I first met him. He rode his little scooter up to the front door of the hotel. I didn’t know who he was at the time, so thinking I would be polite, I hurried over and opened the door for him. He looked up and asked me if I had any problems. Now I was confused. I’d been trying to help him, now he was trying to help me? I told him everything was fine. He smiled and said “Good. No problem.” He introduced himself as my boss’s father, then went along his way. At first I thought he just knew very little English. Turns out, I was very wrong.

Every time I see this man, he always has a smile on his face. “It’s good, no problem.” is his answer to everything. No matter how bad a situation actually is, or how good a situation is. No problem.

At first I thought he was just a crazy little Indian guy. But I was always curious as to why he was always smiling and seemed happy all the time. This man has had a stroke, he rides his little scooter around everywhere. You’d think he’d be the exact opposite of happy.

Then… one night…. I was stressed. I was so stressed. Paperwork wasn’t balancing out, problems at home, etc. And I just…stopped. I smiled. And I said “It’s okay. No problem.” And I thought of him. It brightened my mood up to the point that I was able to let go a little more resentment, make myself smile a little wider, and I figured out the damn sheet.

I’ve started adapting this mentality to many things, and I find it does help. No, it doesn’t take it away, it doesn’t make everything better, and it sure as hell doesn’t fix everything. But it helps.

It seems like something so small. So stupid, really. How can two little words have any sort of power? That’s what I thought too. Until I realized he was smiling, and I wasn’t.

You know what else is a good feeling? That realization that you’ve found what you are meant to do. You’ve found where you’re meant to be.

Every single day I’m challenged. I learn something new every time I walk in that front door, and I leave with a smile on my face every time I leave. I think there has been one time that I left with a frown, and that was just a bad day from the start.

A friend of mine and I started joking a while back about building our own bed and breakfast/hotel (ironically enough it was before I started working in one). At first it was just jokes. But now… I’m actually considering it. The idea brings me joy, it makes me excited. And even though I hate doing the audit sheet, especially when it doesn’t balance, at the end of the day I cannot deny the satisfaction I feel. It is challenging, but I love it. I love it all.

I’m where I need to be right now. And I really do believe that this… working in a hotel… is what I’m meant to do. Maybe not always as a front desk clerk, but… something like this… Have I truly found my calling? My career?

Only time will tell.

When life gets you down, or it feels like the universe is out to get you. Sometimes it helps to just smile and tell it no problem.

Bring it on, universe. It’s okay. No problem.

Through the Eyes of Jackie Spade

Hello again my faithful followers! You may have noticed my sudden disappearance again. There is a very good reason for that! A few, actually.

One: Lack of inspiration.

Two: Summer time at a hotel.

Three: Low swing.

I’ve kept the third one vague since that is the topic of today’s post. Wouldn’t make sense to spoil the ending before I’ve even started. Little teasing before we actually begin. 😉

First of all, what is up with the rude people that come out of the bottom of the barrel when it is summer time? I know it’s hot, but come on! Rudeness costs, people. Being polite will get you quite far, and pays better benefits. I want to badly to yell back at people when they act like assholes to me, but I’m paid to be nice. So I can’t. But yell at me when I’m off the clock and I will hurt you.

Nah, not really, but in my brain I’ve already killed you off in my next book. Painfully.

Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, I can move on to the actual purpose of this blog. I want to talk about Bipolar Disorder.

What does is Bipolar Disorder? I’m glad you asked! The National Institute of Mental Health gives us this as a definition:

Bipolar disorder, also known as manic-depressive illness, is a brain disorder that causes unusual shifts in mood, energy, activity levels, and the ability to carry out day-to-day tasks. Symptoms of bipolar disorder are severe. They are different from the normal ups and downs that everyone goes through from time to time. Bipolar disorder symptoms can result in damaged relationships, poor job or school performance, and even suicide. But bipolar disorder can be treated, and people with this illness can lead full and productive lives.

So is it a disorder, or an illness? Is it the same as manic depressive, or is it different? The definition changes from here to there as to what exactly it is, but anyone who has it understands all too well.

But Jackie, you ask, we already know what the definition is. What does it mean to BE bipolar?
Well okay, since you twisted my arm.

I realize I’m joking a bit throughout this blog, but the fact is, bipolar “disorder” is very serious. I’ve put a lot of thought into how I wanted to write this, and even now I question it. It’s hard to put into words, and explain to others, what you live through on a daily basis. Even worse is trying to explain it to others in a way they can understand and not think you’re over-exaggerating.

Being bipolar is not an easy task to handle. There are days when I wake up, and I’m in the best mood I’ve been in in days. The sun is shining, the grass is green, the air is clear and wonderful. My daughter is well behaved, my friends and I have deep conversations, and everything is all around perfect. Then there are days where everything goes to absolute hell, and I’m still manic.

You know sometimes you see people laughing at funerals? That’s what it’s like. When a bipolar person hits their high, manic state, it doesn’t matter what is going on around us, we simply cannot react the way a “normal” person should. Well, let me rephrase. I can only speak for myself, so I can’t react in ways a “normal” person is expected to. Everything can be crashing and burning around me, and I’m still giggling over a fart joke. It really is like turning into a five year old again. Everything’s funny, and I just want to prank people and so on. Everything feels like it’s moving so fast.

Then comes the crash. The crash is an interesting one. For me, it’s located some point after my everything-is-funny-haha-dead-people stage. The low swing hits, usually about as severely as a car crash, and suddenly…. It doesn’t matter how good everything is. I’m upset. I start crying for no reason. The jokes that my friends and I were making the day before suddenly hurt my feelings and make me want to cry. I feel like I’m trapped in a prison inside my own mind, and I want nothing more than to crawl out of my own skin and get as far away from myself as possible. I feel like an exposed nerve, and I’m frightened. I’m scared, and I’m alone. That’s what it feels like. I feel totally, and completely, alone no matter who I surround myself with. I want so badly to reach out to someone, and just be held. I want someone to say something to comfort me, but no one can find the right words. “What are the right words, Jackie?” Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t know what the right words are until I hear them. Frustrating? Trying being in my head. Because just as suddenly as it comes on, it goes away. Now, this could take some time for it to go away, weeks or months even, but when it does go, it goes pretty quick.

My swings are typically unpredictable, so it’ll go one of two ways. One will be anger. Everything is personal, everything is out to get me. Everything is trying to hurt me, and damn it I’ll hurt it first. I hate everyone, and everything, and I just want it all to explode around me in a fiery blaze. I want to see destruction, I want to tear at the fabric of reality if it means I can rip this anger and hatred from my chest. All the while I feel as though I am drowning, in a lake of fire, and nothing I can do can stop it.

If I don’t go to anger, then I go to apathy. This is where I simply cannot feel anything. Now, those who know me know I can at times be very detached from my own emotions, sometimes without meaning to, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I have an entire moodswing dedicated to just that. When I am in this state, I just don’t care. I can’t even begin to understand why someone would care about it in the first place. Nothing makes sense to me, I don’t understand why people are happy, or sad. I don’t understand these little things that bring joy to people’s lives. I’m cruel, the things I would normally put a filter on (i.e. “Oh you got a hair cut? It looks…..nice….”), I let out in a cruel and harsh fashion (i.e. “Did you get in a fight with a lawnmower? That hairstyle is horrible. And while we’re at it, you’re not as pretty as you think you are.”)

When all of this is happening, I feel like a different person has taken control of my body. Someone will make a joke during one of the swings and I’m fine with it. Make the same joke during a different swing, and I’ll react differently. My points of view change, depending on my mood. Everything.

The other aspect that no one tells you is what happens during the swings that also cannot be predicted. According to the NIMH:

Talking very fast, jumping from one idea to another, having racing thoughts
Being easily distracted
Increasing activities, such as taking on new projects
Being overly restless
Sleeping little or not being tired
Having an unrealistic belief in one’s abilities
Behaving impulsively and engaging in pleasurable, high-risk behaviors

Just to name a few for you. The worst one for me is having unrealistic beliefs in my own abilities. I hold myself to a higher standard than everyone else around me. If someone else makes a mistake, it’s okay. But if I mess up, it’s the end of my own little world. Everyone is going to hate me or laugh at me, everyone’s going to mock me. How could I be so stupid for not doing this correctly, or how the hell did I not see that the first time? I hate making mistakes. “Normal” people brush off mistakes in a few hours, maybe a few days. I hold on to, and remember them, for years. They cripple me with fear sometimes to the point that I will just freeze. Everything freezes and shuts down. All because I made a mistake. Sometimes when I make mistakes, I want to just sit down and sob. Or I get angry. Or…you get the point.

Jackie, that sounds awful, you might say. Why don’t you go get medicated for it?
That’s a good question. One I debated answering for quite some time.

When I was younger I was on medication. And jeeeeeez I hated it. Remember that apathetic stage I was just telling you about? Mix in some paranoia and you have me on medication. I felt like a zombie, floating from one place to the next. I cut so I could feel something. Sometimes it was comforting. The more apathetic I got, the worse the cuts became. Soon I was cutting entire pieces of skin off with scissors. I knew if I kept going, I was going to die. So I tried to kill myself.
Then, suddenly, I was off the medication… and I felt better. I realized I never wanted to go back to that place, ever again. I never wanted my emotions to be dictated by some “magic pill”. I wanted to do this on my own. Yes, it is hard. It is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in my life. But I do it.

How do you function in society, though? Warn everyone about your disorder?

No, I’ve perfected multiple persona’s. Does that mean you’re lying? No, not at all. Well, sort of I guess. It’s like putting on new clothes every day for me. I’ve got my “Professional Skin” (think business suit), my “Hey-I’m-The-Life-Of-The-Party!” skin, my “I’m here to comfort you” skin. And many others.

Why?

The honest answer is I want to give people what they want to see, rather than what is happening under the surface. My problems are frustrating and complex, and most of the time I cannot put them into words to make myself understand, let alone include anyone else on the ride. The other answer is… I don’t want to be crippled by my problems.

Why?

I don’t see being bipolar as a disorder. Being bipolar has opened my eyes, and made me see the world differently than “normal” people. Yes, there are many days that I absolutely hate it. Would I change myself? No. No, I really wouldn’t.

What I would change is the way society sees people like me. Thanks to the media spreading fear and lies (surprise, surprise), and people lying to get out of severe punishments, society is afraid of people with mental illnesses. We often fear what we don’t understand, and the fact is the definitions for most mental problems are constantly changing and evolving. It’s taboo to speak of. Getting mental help is difficult, and often expensive, and unless deemed “necessary”, most insurance companies won’t cover certain things. Being bipolar has made me a little afraid to talk about my “disorder” to others, because I don’t want any of them to think I’m going to go off the deep end and hurt my daughter, or shoot up a school, or yada yada.

No, listen here people. When I get into the absolute worst of the worst lows, where I am picking up razorblades or picking up pills, and wondering how much time I have to kill myself before I get caught, the only person I am trying to hurt/kill is ME. Let me repeat that. ME. Not my child, not my parents, not my friends, etc. ME. If a person does commit some horrible act, they might be bipolar, but there is something else mixed in with that. That’s right, people, these problems can be mix and match too!

The simple fact is we as a society need to stop being so afraid of it, and maybe, just maybe, encourage people to seek help.

I am not saying people shouldn’t take medication. I’m not saying you should. I can only speak for myself in these circumstances, or what my circle have friends have told me. These “disorders” are different for each and every one of us. That’s how it’s always been, and always will be.

As I stated earlier, it is incredibly difficult for me to truly put into words what it is I experience every day. But I hope this helps shed even just a little bit of insight into what it is like inside my brain.

Live and Let Live

Hello my lovely and loyal readers!

I set myself a goal of posting a blog once a week. So far, I am failing miserably at it. But! In my defense… I have a terrible memory. And I’ve had a lot going on recently. Never fear, however! I’ve been composing this particular piece of writing for quite some time now.

The good news about my job is I am allowed quite a bit of free time. Some of that is spent reading, other times I’m on the phone with my other late night friends, but most of the time I’m sat in front of my computer. It’s not that I’m neglecting any of my duties… it’s just….there aren’t many. Once my certain list has been completed, or the hotel has booked up, I have naught to do.

That being said, I’m left with a lot of time to think. This can be a good thing, or it can be a very bad thing. This week I’ve discovered something new about myself. Well, more accurately, I’ve finally accepted something about myself. I am what the world would call a “Silent Judgmental” person. What this means is simply…I may not say I’m against it, but if I am, I’m judging.

I don’t know why. I don’t do it all the time. I don’t go around pointing to random people going “Judging you. Yup, you two. Thought you could hide? Judging you, too. And you. Judge you and your mother.” No. I don’t even know why I judge the things I do. It’s none of my business, really, and it doesn’t harm me in the least. So why care?

Why, indeed.

What actually started this train of thought was one night I was watching Forensic Files (or, better known around my house, the Sleep Aid (It should be noted here that my family and I adore Forensic Files, but the narrator just has one of those soothing voices)), and they were doing crash reconstruction to verify the speed at which a vehicle was traveling at the time of an accident. They were using physics that were beyond my comprehension, and all I could think was “I bet those scientists got called nerds in school, and were picked on.”

Which then led to another thought. That’s how my brain works. Think dominoes. Or train wrecks. Just don’t use physics.

Why do people feel the need to judge another person based on their outward appearance, their likes/dislikes, religion, sexual orientation, etc if they differ from our own views/appearance? Why is it an automatic reaction as well?

People are judged for being smart, and they are called nerds. Yet, those “nerds” are who we rely on when our loved ones are in crashes, and we need someone to prove the cause.

Women are judged for the simple fact of being female, yet who do most men want to sleep with, or start a family with? Who takes care of them most of time? (clearly there are exceptions to the rules here)

Men are judged for the simple fact of being male, yet who do most females want to sleep with, start a family with? Who takes care of them most of the time? (See what I did there? I’m so clever.)

The fact is, we as a society are pressed to pass judgement on everyone around us, UNTIL the perceived “flaws” in someone else can benefit us in some way. Why is this so? Why are we programmed like this? Is this a system we’ve been brainwashed with, or is it an evolutionary thing?

I don’t understand the need to try and force other people to change, and when they refuse, bullying them because of it. I don’t understand why everyone has to confirm to this ideal of perfect. I embrace my flaws! I love my weirdness! I’m pride myself on being strange. I pride myself on my beliefs, my orientation, and my gender (until my period comes along and then I start begging for a penis), so forth.

Are we trying to bring people to our level because it is a way to rise above them? Are we simply threatened by other people’s differences because we are not brave enough to wear our own on our sleeves? Is it envy and jealousy? I understand being annoyed by things. My friends like things I will never like, ever, no matter how hard you try you can’t make me nee ner nee ner *inhale* and they tend to keep talking about them. Meanwhile I start judging. Why? They like something I don’t, that doesn’t make anyone inferior or superior. My likes vs. Their likes, it’s not a damn competition.

Same thing with sexual orientation. Where I choose to put my privates is no one’s business but my own.

Religion: What god/gods/goddesses/nada I choose to worship, is MY business, and is between me and my deity/nothing.

It goes on and on. The fact is… Instead of encouraging hatred, or trying to make everyone conform to some impossibly high standard, why don’t we try something new? Clearly hatred, bigotry, and being judgmental aren’t getting us anywhere, so let’s try something more peaceful.

Live. And Let. Live.

Live your own life, enjoy your day, and do not dwell on the workings of others. If they are not hurting you physically, or invading your home and hurting your family, then you have no business meddling in anyone’s life but your own.

Live and let live.

Let that lesbian couple hold hands in public. It isn’t going to hurt anyone.

Let that black and white couple kiss and hug their child. Does that hurt you in any way? No.

Live and let live.

We cannot fix the world as a whole, because no one person, group, etc is correct or perfect. Perfection is an idea, not reality. Perfection is an ideal we try to hold ourselves to, and feel defeated when we can’t stick to it. We are not meant to be perfect creations, we are meant to live life to the fullest and embrace friends or family, love them entirely despite their differences.

We can only fix the world one person at a time, and it starts within our own hearts, and our own minds. If your soul is black, how can you judge the colorful soul of another? Worry about your own problems before you start trying to “fix” others.

Web Weavings

Where shadow and light dance

Author: Jackie Sieks Writes