Category: Deep Thinking

Living with Synesthesia

It’s been a while since I’ve updated my blog. I’m terrible at this, I realize. I have all these wonderful ideas bouncing around in my head, but I can’t seem to catch it long enough and force it down onto paper or computer screen. Or, if I do manage to pin it down, I lose the inspiration because I can’t get the wording quite right.

One thing I have realized is writing in this day and age is intimidating. Perhaps I should reword that and say Writing is intimidating. Everyone has an opinion on what is “good” writing and what is “bad” writing, and often times people pass off an opinion as constructive criticism. What I mean is…. If you take three people and make them read the same article, they’re all going to have different opinions on it based on different experiences. So how can we really tell what’s good and what isn’t? I guess that’s a blog for another time. Today I’m going to talk about synesthesia.

Until a few years ago, I didn’t realize that my way of thinking was any different from the people around me. I thought everyone had the same thought processes. For example, I think in pictures. I thought everyone did until I was talking to my mom about it, and she informed me she thinks in words. So when I start discovering that not everyone thinks of things in terms of music, my mind was a bit blown.

For those of you who aren’t aware, synesthesia is a mental condition where one sense is crossed with another one. Most commonly people will hear colors, see sounds, and so forth. To me, everything has a sound.

Foods have pitches. Chocolate has a lower sound, while anything acidic (like a lemon) has a higher pitch. Rice, or any other bland food, has a quiet note somewhere in the middle. Colors are the same way for me. I’ll describe the different shades of blues in terms of sounds. Darker blues have lower pitches, lighter blues higher pitches.

But what makes synesthesia so difficult for me? Trying to write. That’s right, the writer has a problem with writing because music gets in the way.

Indeed, if you listen to a conversation, and listen to the sounds rather than the words, you begin to realize that conversations are almost like a song. There is a certain rhythm that accompanies speech. You can tell if a sentence is a question, a comment, or an exclamation based on how the sentence sounds. It is almost like visually seeing it written down if only people listen. So when I try to write, in my mind, I’m composing a symphony. My words need to ebb and flow just right, and come together to form a masterpiece. This makes it difficult to proofread other people’s work, because their music sounds different than my own.

Because this blog is being written quickly and off the top of my head, the music sounds and feels whimsical, almost nonsensical. It’s a bit choppy in places where I’d like to extend the notes, but can think of nothing else to add to that section. As I concentrate on the way the music plays in my mind, my sentences begin to grow longer and less choppy, evening out the music. Suddenly the blog begins to take on a different melody, and I can feel a world opening up beneath my fingertips.

The real struggle I have, however, is anything dealing with numbers. It doesn’t help, I should add, that I have a bit of discalculia, or number dyslexia. To me, an equation doesn’t have a flowing sound. Numbers, ironically, sound very choppy and very disorganized. If a one has a low sound, and a nine has a high sound, they don’t go well together, even if they do make ten when added together. I have to wonder if I’d known this problem and recognized it for what it was when I was in school, would I have done better? Could I have found a way to work around it or better work with it? Sometimes problems are better solved by not working around it, but rather finding a way to use a disadvantage as an advantage. That’s probably why I need to do things “my way” rather than how people tell me to, because their rhythm and way of thinking is completely different than my own.

Why is this important to me? Important enough to write a blog about? Because my life has changed exponentially since I finally began to realize and embrace the differences in my mind. Understanding that our minds work differently than our friends can also help us examine situations from multiple points of view, especially if you are like my friends and have conversations about how you think.

Once you figure out the way your mind works, a new world of possibilities begins to open up for you, and multiple paths stretch ahead. Deeper thinking leads to better problem solving.

What I have is only one form of synesthesia, mind you. There are many different combinations! Scientists are still trying to figure out precisely why it happens, and what to do about it. Personally, I don’t want my inner music taken away, so I’m hoping they don’t find a “fix” for it any time soon. If they do, I’ll avoid it. Simple as that.

The world is a magical place if only we take the time to look and see it as such.

For those of you reading this who may be curious as to what synesthesia is, or suspect that you may have it as well, I encourage you to do your own independent research and learn as much as you can. It can make life a bit more difficult, but it can also make it a bit more interesting as well. Perspective matters.

You can begin your research by checking out the following website: https://faculty.washington.edu/chudler/syne.html

I hope I’ve helped someone at least a little bit. Or, at the very least, educated someone on what it’s like living with synesthesia.

Suffer in Silence

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.

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.

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.

 

Insane in the membrane

I distinctly remember being a kid, being told to go to bed, but instead of doing so I would stay up for hours and read. I love books, I always have. I enjoy reading them, losing myself in them, so forth.

Now I find myself experiencing a bit of that youthful rebellion, but more it isn’t simply because of my love for reading, but a lack of wanting to do anything else. I have no desire to eat, and I especially have no desire to sleep. I hate what my dreams bring, and I despise what waking life makes me feel.

A constant longing for something I cannot have, a need that will never be mine. An ache burns within me, craving to be filled. To sum it up: I’m lonely.

By reading, I can experience love a thousand different times, a thousand different ways. I cannot be lonely, because I need only to reread the books to visit my loves again. If only life were like a book. Sigh. Unfortunately, I suppose, it is time for this lonely reader to head off to bed.

I slip now to a place,
Where troubles cannot go,
Deep within my mind,
A place only I know.

And though it’s often a frightening,
Dark and twisted place,
I find myself strangely welcoming,
This cold and dark embrace.

Sometimes I try to run,
Sometimes I try to hide,
Truth be told, I know I’ll never,
Shake these shadows from my mind.

Embrace it I shall, and stitch together,
What remains of my sanity.
I can only hope the darkness within,
Can spare some mercy for me.

Fare thee well, until the next post.

Circle Societies: Are They More Deadly than “Shock Rockers”?

“Spoken like a true circle queen. See, skinny, socially-privileged white people get to draw this neat little circle. And everyone inside the circle is “normal”. Anyone outside the circle needs to be beaten, broken and reset so that they can be brought into the circle. Failing that, they should be institutionalized. Or worse – Pitied. Why would you feel sorry for someone that gets to opt out of the inane courteous formalities which are utterly meaningless, insincere and therefore degrading? This kid doesn’t have to pretend to be interested in your back pain, your secretions or your grandma’s itchy place. Imagine how liberating it would be to live a life free of all the mind-numbing social niceties. I don’t pity this kid – I envy him.—–House, M.D Episode Lines in the Sand

While the show House, M.D was still airing, I fell in absolute love with the lead character played by Hugh Laurie. He was an ass, a big one. What made me really love him was the fact that he did not care about what society thought of him, no matter the circumstance. He went the extra mile, he helped others that would be otherwise overlooked (for whatever reason), and he was an intelligent man. The quote I’ve posted above for you is probably one of my favorites, because of how true it is.

I first started this post with the intention of showing the world why shock rock isn’t actually all that shocking, but I’ve decided in the process of writing multiple drafts that I would turn this into much more. In order to do that, however, I am going to have to slice open a lot of my own wounds and let them bleed. I will have to walk down a dark memory lane that I would prefer never to see again, but in order to get my point across I must provide ample evidence–and since the best evidence is often our personal experiences, I am left with little choice. For such a cause as this, however, I am willing–and happy–to do so.

Though I was not aware of the actual “Circle Society” concept, part of me always knew of its existence. When I was in fourth grade, I changed schools. I wanted to desperately to fit in, as I had no friends. I’d spent the early part of my life surrounded by adults, and I spent preschool-third grade surrounded by friends. This was, to say the least, a huge change for me. Not only was this school bigger than what I was used to (the school I originally attended was preschool-12th, all in one building. This was just two grades and the numbers were about equal in attendance), but there were a lot more rich, white people. The jump I made, therefore, was not just in school and town, but now I was surrounded by an entirely different social class. Unfortunately, our money didn’t change with it, so I was still middle class trying to play up to the expectations of the first.

I remember there was this girl, a bit younger than me. She and I were friends so long as her posse wasn’t nearby. Well, wanting so desperately to fit in I decided I wanted to try to be their friends as well. They looked down their noses at me at first, and then put me through a series of vigorous tests. Yes, you read that correctly. I had to prove myself worthy enough to be in their circle, and this was only the fourth grade! I was told who I could and couldn’t speak to, how to dress, how to talk, etc. I was given a list of the latest “slang” that I had to use at any given moment. If I were to ever get in trouble, I was told to play stupid because “that will always get you out of trouble”. There was no friendship here, only numbers and status quo. Needless to say it did not take long for me to realize that I’d rather be alone than be caught up in such closed minded behavior. The moment I realized I did not need them, I started gathering other friends and created my own little circle, and we were the misfits of the schoolyard.

I wasn’t done trying to fit in, however. The way the school system was set up in this town, I changed schools once more to go to middle school. Some of my friends accompanied me, others went off to different schools, and I was again left alone. But I can honestly say I tried my hardest to fit in. I read magazines, I kept up with the music that was “in” at the time, so forth. I tried, once more, to be friends with the popular girls (individually a lot of these girls were pretty awesome to have as friends, it was only when they were in pack formation that they became the demon spawn of all that was popular). I went to church, joined Christian functions and clubs, etc. Looking back now I rather hate myself for how long I stayed in my land of self discovery when it seemed everyone around me had already found their place in the world.

There was one person who meant the world to me. She was my sanctuary. When things got tough at home, I ran to her side. She never judged me, only tried to help me. I wish there were more people like her in the world, because it would be a far better place if there were. My 6th grade year of school, however, she passed away from cancer and I was left feeling completely alone. This is not a good place for a soon-t0-be teenager to be, especially one who already feels rather isolated. I was not really accepted in my own family (because I was not male), I was not accepted in the groups of people around me (because I wasn’t rich, or stupid, enough), and now the one person I could rely on was gone….

A darkness began growing within me, one that I could not explain to those around me. I could not put into words what I felt festering within my mind, so I turned to poetry. That was my new release. I began dressing in all black, because that is how I felt. Black and dark. This may seem rather cliche’ to you, but this was the closest I came to finding myself at that age. I isolated myself even further, preferring to sit out and read rather than participate with the others. I embraced that feeling of darkness for the longest time, but even still part of me longed to fit in. If only I could have killed that piece of me earlier on, perhaps I would not have experienced much of what I have.

I was taken to a therapist that diagnosed me Depressed (No duh), and medicated me to the point that I became a zombie. At least, that’s how I describe it. I felt nothing. It was a terrifying feeling, to tell you the truth. I felt no emotions, I felt no joy. Only that darkness grew within me and begged to be released. I cut myself, mutilated my arms and still carry the scars to this day. It was the only way I could feel anything. It started off as simple cuts, just to remind myself that I was still alive, but steadily those little cuts did nothing for me and they became burns, slices, cuts with scissors, etc. I remember having an eraser and scrubbing the skin off of my hand just to try and make sense of what I was feeling inside, and make it a physical feeling. That’s why a lot of people cut or self mutilate. Emotions are illogical, they are not physical things. It is very hard to fix something that is not physical. But when cutting yourself, you’ve put into physical means what you are feeling on the inside, and a physical wound can be fixed. (Disclaimer: I am in no way, shape, or form condoning self harm. If you feel the urge to self harm, please seek help from someone. It does not have to be a therapist, or psychiatrist, but seek help somewhere.)

The psychiatrist I was seeing that had me so medicated ended up being just another money hungry jerk who saw only dollar signs when he looked at me. I felt completely betrayed and no matter how many times I tried to tell those around that the medication was not working, no one would listen to me. Finally one night, I decided “No one will listen to me. I do not feel alive. Why should I keep walking around like an animated corpse?” and tried to overdose on some of those medications I’d been described. I had a terrible sense of irony even then, you see, and I wanted the cause of my death to be the very thing that was supposed to “help” me.

People say that attempting, or committing, suicide is cowardice. I disagree. When you are faced with your own death, and you decide to take it, it is one of the bravest things you’ll ever have to decide. The braver thing, however, is telling this feeling, this urge, to end your own life “No. I will not go through with this.” I hate hearing people talk about teen suicide and say things like “It’s just the “in thing” now.” I’ve been in this situation, I know what mindset you have to be in to go through with it. In those moments after I took those pills, I accepted my death and for those few moments I felt peace at last.

Obviously I am here, and I am writing this to you, so you are aware that I did not succeed in killing myself. I was taken to the hospital where my stomach was pumped (ew), and after a night in the ICU–as well as a few days in a regular room–I was shipped off to a mental rehabilitation center. I was alienated there as well. My first night there, a girl who was meant to be my roommate threatened to kill me. Keep in mind, I’m 13 years old at the time. That terrified me. The patients–with the exception of that girl–were actually quite nice to me. It was the people that were supposed to “help” us that were cruel. I was made fun of on a daily basis, and if some of the other patients taunted or teased me they weren’t stopped (in fact, often times these “counselors” would jump in to join the “fun”). There was one girl in particular that I became very close with, and I clung to her like she was the last solid thing on this earth. As a result, I was openly called “a disgusting lesbian”. Nine days I spent in this place. Nine days of hell. Nine days of never ending torment from people that were supposed to better us. Though I suppose they were preparing us for the real world, and they helped make me stronger. According to my medical records and tests, I wasn’t depressed, I was bipolar. The drugs that the first psychiatrist had prescribed me had actually proven to increase suicidal tendencies in people under the age of 18, and I was on quite a few drugs.

I felt paranoid, out of place, and now I was bullied because of the fact that I’d been in a “nut house”. One girl even shoved me to the ground and told me “What, too stupid to die or something?”

Now, here’s where the story changes. As alone, and horrible as I felt, I reached out for anything that would help. Back when MTV played music (I know, what a concept right?), I would leave that channel on all the time. Late at night one evening, I discovered The Osbournes, which then led me to discover Ozzy. I grabbed that and held on to it, siphoning as much of it as I could find. I remember his lyrics hitting home in a way I’d never experienced before.

All the things I put me through
I wouldn’t wish my hell on you
You’ll never know what’s going on inside

Just another lonely broken hero
Picking up the pieces of my mind
Running out of faith and hope and reason
I’m running out of time
Running out of time

Trouble always seems find
A way to live inside my mind
My haunted head and me remain alone
Underneath my masquerade
A simple man who’s so afraid
I try to find a light to guide me home

I remember one night I was talking to a friend of mine on the phone, a very dear friend who saw me through a lot of my internal demons. I regret to this day hurting her like I did when I attempted suicide, and I’m not sure that she’s ever completely forgiven me. But I digress. On the phone, had MTV in the background, the Osbournes had already gone off and I remember saying “I just wish someone understood what I was going through. I just wish someone other than you understood me.” And as soon as the sentence left my mouth, the premiere of mObscene, by Marilyn Manson, came on. I looked into his eyes, and felt immediately a connection. I cannot describe it, but I knew that anyone who looked like that HAD to understand what I was feeling.

I became obsessed with Ozzy, Manson, Queen, Black Sabbath, Alice Cooper, etc. All these “shockers” that people warned against. I felt a connection with them, I felt like I belonged with them. They were putting my feelings into words that I could never find on my own. I started cutting myself a bit less and less, but still I was not quite the same. I was getting closer, though! So close to finding myself and finding where I fit in.

One day, during my Physical Education class, the teacher wasn’t there so we started watching a movie called Bowling for Columbine. Marilyn Manson comes onto the screen, and of course the other girls (who bullied me constantly–they were the ones who said I was just too stupid to die)) started making fun of him. “He’s weird.” “Bet he worships the devil” “That mother fucker is insane.” Then, of course, they all looked at me. “Do you actually like this fucker?” “Yes I do.” “You’re just as fucked up as he is.” I took that as a compliment. “Really? You really think so? That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all year. I’m so glad you think of me as intelligent, open minded, and not afraid to say what I think.” And she shut up. Oh my god. She. Shut. Up. She stopped picking on me! I could have done happy dances!

As we were watching the interview, an almost magical thing happened. The room had fallen completely silent, and I could actually hear what was being said. Michael Moore asked:

If you were to talk directly to the kids at Columbine or the people in that community, what would you say to them if they were here right now?

I leaned closer, wanting to hear precisely how Manson would answer. When he did answer, it felt like he was talking directly to me.

I wouldn’t say a single word to them I would listen to what they have to say, and that’s what no one did.

That stuck with me. To this day it sticks with me. No one had listened to me, and look where I’d ended up. I knew, in that moment however, that I would probably never meet Marilyn Manson. But it was such a relief to know that if the day ever came, he would listen to me. More importantly, he would understand. That’s what I lacked in life. Someone to listen to me, and someone to understand me. I was still on medication at the time, and it was making me feel terrible. I felt paranoid all the time, I felt upset constantly. I could not handle my emotions, or the world around me. I tried (once more) to tell everyone that the medicine was not working. No one listened, again. When I heard him say that, I finally had the courage to do what I felt was right. I had the courage to do all of this on my own, because I had the release I needed and it didn’t involve cutting, it didn’t involve counselors or therapists. It didn’t involve people controlling my life for me. It involved me taking control of my own life and deciding that no matter what this “disorder” brought my way, I was going to beat it. If people that I looked up to could stand in front of the public eye and beat their demons all the time, damn it, so could I.

Music was my inspiration, and music was my weapon.

People like Ozzy Osbourne and Marilyn Manson are weird. They’ve done a lot of fucked up shit. But because they did a lot of fucked up shit, they understand it better than anyone else. They aren’t shocking, they are being blunt and pushing things into your faces that make you think. That’s what a lot of people don’t want to do. They don’t want to think. System of a Down is the same way.

These same circle societies are the ones who point fingers at them. Marilyn Manson, Ozzy Osbourne, etc caused my son/daughter/friend, etc to commit suicide. I highly doubt that. Chances are, your friend/son/daughter, etc wasn’t that balanced anyway. Shock Rockers promote evil and worship Satan, it says so in their music.  No, actually if you read the lyrics and comprehend what they are saying, there is a far deeper message.

Side note, did you know that the word “Satan” means to “oppose or rebel”? Meaning if you’ve rebelled against something at any point in your life, you are being Satan. “Hail Satan” therefore means “Yay rebellion!” Sort of. Lol.

Shock Rock is designed to entertain, to make you think, to make you accept what people try to make you forget (political, religious, etc happenings), and so on.

“But what about the children? Do we want to promote this message to our children?” A). You are the parent. You should control what your child sees/hears, etc. If your child is listening to Black Sabbath, that is not the fault of Black Sabbath. The members of Black Sabbath did not come into your child’s room and say “LISTEN TO US OR WE’LL CUT YOUR ARM OFF AND BEAT YOU WITH IT”. B). Yes, how dare we promote free thinking to our children. C). While you’re telling them not to go to that Alice Cooper concert, but handing them money so they can go see that horror movie everyone is talking about, you might want to rethink your standing as a parent.

Shock Rockers are scapegoats, because it is easy to blame them. They’re in the public, they’re, supposedly, shocking….But people need to start taking responsibility for their own actions rather than blaming the closest person around them. Unless these people actually walk into your house, you cannot blame them for the actions of your friends/children/family members.

This does not just apply to music, of course, it applies to everything in the world. Books, for example, have always been a very deep thinking tool, and weapon–a weapon that is, let’s face it, far deadlier than music will ever be–ever since the printing press was invented. No, further still, since written language was created. Humans are deadly.

I know this blog has been quite long, and I thank all of you for reading this in its entirety. I could continue on in this fashion for ages, but I will simply wrap up with this.

If you, my dear reader, have felt alone, confused, etc and have contemplated suicide, I urge you to find your sanctuary in something. I urge you to find your release in anything that will help you. You are not alone, no matter how you may feel. You do not have to find your sanctuary in music as I have done, but find it somewhere. The world does not get better, but you can become stronger and battle it.

If you seek help, friendship, etc, you are more than welcome to leave a comment or contact me in some way. I make myself readily available, and though I am not a trained psychologist/therapist/psychiatrist, I can listen and I will try to help in some way.

But most importantly… Everyone needs to remember that the circles of society are not the place to be. Be happy with who you are, create your own circle, and be proud of yourself. Do not care of the closed minded hatred they spew, you are stronger than that. Walk your own path, discover who you are.

Thank you all once more for reading this, and I hope it’s provided a good amount of insight as well as, possibly, helped someone.