I’m Fine

As I lay my head down to the sleep,
The demons find a hole to creep
Inside my thoughts, chaos spinning
Memories long gone come back again.
The yelling, the screaming, the torture, the pain,
The lies, the betrayal, the embarrassment made,
Shadows I’ve been running from for most of my life pick the time I want peace to pounce and fight.
I claw at my skin because I can feel them crawling
Like ants trying to devour my soul,
I keep resisting them.
Even when I wake I catch them creeping inside
Forcing me to relive my deepest sins.
Remember that one time, and how everyone laughed?
You’re such a mistake, a fool, your time has come and passed.
Remember that other time you fell asleep with your tears?
Let’s relive that, and all your worst fears.
I lay my head down to sleep,
I pray the nightmares away will keep.

But you’re all smiles and all laughs.
Your problems can’t be that bad, you’re over dramatic.
It could always be worse, my dear, don’t you know it?
Keep your head up high and don’t try to show it.
Don’t let them see the scars or hear your pain,
It’ll be worse next time, they’ll be back again.

I open my mouth to scream, but all I hear is silence.
On the outside I’m calm, but inside there’s violence.
I’m being torn apart now, but don’t worry about me.
The demons aren’t real, or so they tell me.
It’s all make believe, I just have to keep trying.
How can this not be real, can’t you see I’m dying?
Can’t you see my soul bleeding from my eyes?
Can’t you hear the lies when I whisper I’m fine?
Can’t you hear the lump form in my throat?

No tears, we get scared when you cry.
You’re so happy all the time, just grin and lie.

I’m tired of lying, I’m tired of fear.
I’m drowning in my pain, and with every tear
I shed when I’m trying to dream
Is pulling a piece of my heart out, but I silence my screams.

Give all that you can to everyone around.
Maybe filling the void for them will quiet the sound
Of the monsters hiding in your soul trying to get in.
Or you’ll dry up like a husk, and eventually give in
To the temptation to pick up the razorblades
And let the demons carve their names into your flesh.

Don’t worry about me, I’m fine, I promise.
The final breath that I scream will be my loudest.

Comfy Cloud

I was driving home today, lost in thought while music droned on in the background. My thoughts can sometimes be freeing, as I imagine life carefree and happy. My thoughts can also be a prison, bombarding me with every embarrassing thing I’ve ever done in my life.

I enjoy driving, as it relaxes me and let’s me clear my mind. Sometimes the journey is a little symbolic; a mental journey to clarity made manifest. Today was no different.

In the past few months I’ve begun to struggle with my brain. Once upon a time I knew who I was, what I wanted, where I was going, and what I wanted to do. I knew myself well enough to counteract the symptoms, prepare for the highs and lows that accompany my mental disorder. It would seem, however, that I’ve become a stranger to myself.

I don’t know who I am anymore. I have no passion, nor desire. No inspiration. As a result, I also no longer know how to fix, my broken pieces, or at least cushion the fall.

So, I’ve decided to start seeing someone. Or, I did, until I chickened out and left the parking lot. I know it’s something I need to do, because I cannot do this on my own anymore.

What scares me the most about the entire process is…. everything. I try to pinpoint one thing even to type about it now, and everything screams at me. Single file line, please!

I’m scared to become a zombie like I did the first time I went on medication. But I remind myself that I am older, and wiser, and medicine has come a long way in 13 years……Holy shit, has it really been that long? Damn. Alright.

I feel like a failure. 13 years unmedicated, and now I’m having to do something. I remind myself that millions of people are on medication for various reasons, and there’s no shame in it.

What if I’m not bipolar? What if it’s something else, something worse? That thought terrifies me. If my diagnosis was to change, how would I go from being bipolar to something else?

What if I’m not taken seriously? What if they think I’m just…crazy? Or overdramatic? Well, they’re paid to help you, so that’s silly…

Finally, but certainly not least… I’m inspired by my sadness. What will I do if I lose it? I don’t want to get rid of the only thing that gives me something to write about and hits my soul……….. But then I think…. What if I could live in a world where I was inspired by joy? Experienced true joy, happiness, delight, on a daily basis? What if, instead of tears covering my paper from sadness, tears slid down my cheeks from laughter? What if darkness didn’t lurk over my shoulder, influencing all of my hobbies and talents, and instead gave way to light?

I don’t want to be inspired by my sadness.

It was that thought that brought be clarity, as I arrived home from my travels. Darkness, sadness, doesn’t have to be my driving force.

Maybe if I can find myself, I can l “fix” myself. The question becomes… Where do I look first?

Ignorance Must Be Blissful

Hello everyone!

I don’t know how familiar you are with the concept of Pinterest, but for those of you in the dark, allow me to shed some light on the subject. Pinterest is a website/app where people can find funny, relatable, educational, or inspirational pictures, and “pin” them so their followers can ~~legally stalk them~~ see what they’re up to or interested in st the time. Subject matter ranges from photography, fails, memes, recipes, self help, humor, etc. Imagine it, I’m you can find it. Anyway, when you click on a picture, it will give you similar ones in the general category you’re looking into. I have a point to all of this, I swear.
So, like many others, I have a Pinterest account. I mostly use it to ~~stalk celebrities~~ find funny pictures to brighten my day and waste time.

Until tonight. Tonight, I’ve stumbled across something that truly makes me I’ll. I won’t be posting the picture, as I do not want to draw more attention to the image itself, but I do want to draw attention on the subject matter.

The image features the wrist of a young girl, fresh, red blood pools on her skin. There appears to be razor marks as well, indicating self harm. I hate seeing pictures like this to begin with, but the message accompanying the image is what disturbs me. “I’ve been diagnosed with depression, give me 100 repins and I swear I’ll stop.”

There are so many problems with this post, I’m not even really sure where to properly begin.

One, I understand not everyone is a psychologist/psychiatrist, and not everyone has a mental illness, or understands how they work. But depression does not automatically mean you’re obligated to become a cutter.

Two, cutting is the physical manifestation of an abstract, illogical, emotional pain. It is a wound on your soul now made visible. Why would anyone photograph this for the sole purpose of showing it to anyone, let alone the internet?

I’m a cutter, but unless I want you to see it, you’ll never know it’s happened. I am guilty of taking pictures, but not for show and tell. I take them so I can look back, and remember the pain. Remember what led to the scars. Try to keep myself from doing it again. So far, it does seem to work.

Three, self harm is not something to mock, or take lightly. It is a problem, and doing it for attention only discredits those of us with a real problem. Doing it because you want people to pity you, or because you want the romantic image of the man of your dreams kissing your scars, are not proper reasons to harm yourself.

The reality of self harm is not romantic, or beautiful. It’s disgusting, and shameful, for the person doing the harming. It means constantly having to make wardrobe changes to cover the scars, or new wounds, and often times being uncomfortable.

It means having to constantly feel everyone’s eyes on you, and knowing they’re judging you in some way (be it pity or otherwise).

It means people touching your scars and constantly having to answer the question of “what happened to your arm?”

Boys don’t place loving kisses along your arm and tell you how beautiful they are, and even if they did, why would you mark up your own body just for that? Some guys have a feces fetish, are you going to eat shit next to impress the menfolk? (Sorry to anyone reading who might have a shit fetish)

Four, why would anyone repin something like this? Again, I understand a lot of people are ignorant to the world of mental illness, and perhaps you think you’re doing good, but you’re actually enabling more harm.
Say this girl is real, and she does have a cutting problem. She sees people fawning all over her, and giving her the attention she so craves. It won’t stop. She’ll cut again, post again, to gain even more likes and followers. So begins a nasty, never-ending cycle.

If you really want to help people who self harm, talk to them when they’re ready. Help them seek the help they need. Do your research, educate yourself using credible sources, and try to help. But repinning, or reposting an image will not help. It will not make the pain go away.

I, for one, grow such and tired of the lacking knowledge in this world regarding mental illness. I think it should become mandatory for all to learn about them, and stop romanticizing this stuff.

Scars can be beautiful, because they make up who you are. The pain you’ve lived through, the times when you wanted to give up but fought a little harder is evident. Don’t be ashamed, but don’t make a pubic spectacle of yourself in the process.

All of us have pain. Some of us wear it visibly, others keep it hidden and tucked away.

I also urge you, my readers, to educate yourself. Ask questions, learn from others, be understanding, but don’t be blinded.

If you are a cutter, I also urge you to try your best to find an alternative. It’s easier said than done, I know, but try.

Thank you all for reading, and I hope I’ve helped a little.

Mental Illness Is…

Mental illness is sitting in your car trying to gather enough courage just to go inside. Sometimes even your own home.

Mental illness is painting on a smile, just so no one can see you tearing yourself apart.

Mental illness is sometimes hating thee people you love more than anything, because it is a welcomed relief from hating yourself.

Mental illness is sitting alone in your car crying because it’s the only place no one can see you.

Mental illness is thinking suicide is the only way out of a bad situation, because you’re scared of what’s coming next.

Mental illness is listening to someone say unnecessarily hurtful, anger filled things to the people you love…only to realize you’re the one saying the negative things.

Mental illness is wanting to be alone, but wanting people to refuse to leave you alone.

Mental illness is believing you don’t matter….and if someone tells you differently, you believe they’re lying.
………
…………
Mental illness is mentally scripting out your suicide letter, and trying so hard to mentally word it in such a way that everyone knows it wasn’t their fault, there was nothing they could do.

Mental illness is being overly controlling in other aspects of your life, only because you’re losing control in every other aspect…..

Mental illness is a swirling black void filled with all the terrible things you’ve done, all the terrible things you’ve said, and every day it tries to consume you.

Mental illness is paranoia, questioning every little thing anyone says, over thinking, over analyzing, and assuming everyone is trying to get you. Or, other side of that coin is thinking everyone is your friend even with mounting evidence they are not.

Mental illness is pain.

Why did we want to grow up?

When childhood ends, adulthood begins. I’ve found they hold many similarities. We choose to ignore them, for various reasons.

As a child, we rely on kisses and comfort to make our problems feel better. Everything is better after a hug from mommy or daddy.

As an adult, kisses and hugs give way to darker things like drugs, alcohol, or cutting. Though secretly we all just want to be held and told everything is going to be okay.

As a child, we’re led to believe adulthood is the greatest thing on earth. We cannot wait to grow up. We’re free, we’re alive.

As adults, we search for the feeling of freedom, and we envy our childhood. We wonder why on earth we ever wanted to grow up.

As children, we make believe, and pretend there are magical worlds filled with dragons and fairies.

As adults, we play pretend, too. We pretend we’re happy, and that everything is okay. We hide behind our fake smiles, and cover our broken hearts with laughter we don’t mean.

As children, insults didn’t stick around long. We had better things to do.

Adults carve every insult or negative thing into their skin like a slice from a razorblade.

I wish I could go back. I wish I didn’t have to pretend.

Adventures Become but a Memory

So, I’m sitting on the front porch of my best friend’s house, enjoying the only slightly humid weather and trying to recuperate from three days of nearly non-stop excitement. I never realized just how badly I needed a vacation until I actually left, and as my thoughts turn to the drive I have ahead of me back home to rejoin reality, my brain is also a whirlwind of memories. I never want to forget a single moment, though in time all memories will fade. That is why I’m typing this blog, to turn adventures into memories.

Not knowing where else to begin, I’ll start with Nashville itself. We drove in from Illinois, where cornfields and flat earth began to give way to foothills and mountains. Perched high above the earth, one truly begins to understand why man has been fascinated with flight for centuries. We envy the birds for their view. The winding roads are carved into the powerful mountains, allowing all who pass through to witness the glory that is Mother Nature. It’s as if each layer of stone was carefully arranged by hand with gentle fingers.

The mountains open and spew us into Nashville where we are graced with a breath taking sight. A sweeping skyline of magnificent buildings and architecture, where the old beautifully blends with the new. Some roads are brick while others are asphalt, some buildings are aged while others reflect the sun brilliantly. New and fancy cars share the roads with classic “clunkers”, bringing everything together in a harmonious way.

After checking into our hotel and freshening up, we set out to brave the traffic of Nashville. The roads are a bit confusing for first time travelers, with roads suddenly turning into one-ways, but overall it was relatively easy to fall into the swing. Perhaps we were just lucky, or Nashville is just a laid back kind of place. Three days is hard to tell. But we were there with one thing in mind: The Ink-n-Iron festival.

A word of caution to first time travelers to Nashville, parking is almost as much an adventure as the rest of the trip. Be prepared for frustration. I don’t think of it as getting lost, I think of it as unexpected sight seeing. Finally we arrived at the festival, located at the Bicentennial mall park.

The park is simply too beautiful for words, with fountains greeting visitors as they arrive. Music from the ongoing concerts can be heard from the gates immediately filling us with tremors of anticipation. Trees covered most of the walkways, and stone walls offered a beautiful and rocky place to sit. Food of various flavors filled the air with enticing smells that cause your stomach to immediately growl and your mouth to salivate.

We were surrounded by people dressed for the occasion, embracing the rockabilly/50’s feel with ease. Girls with impossible heels and nicely done bobs twirled away in beautiful dresses. W weren’t able to see the tattoo convention, and the races were postponed, so we decided to enjoy everything else the festival had to offer.

Vendors were extremely friendly, and not just in the “buy my stuff” way. There were three concert stages filled with music and people dancing.

Deciding we would enjoy some music, we headed towards the back of the park. Rounding the corner we were stopped short when we realized the members of the band we had come to see were standing right in front of us.

I will be the first to confess The 69 Cats was the main reason I attended the festival, so to have them right in front of me just standing around casually was overwhelming.

And I may have panicked a little. And froze to my spot. I was too scared to go closer.

I’ve never been very good with approaching celebrities. I’ve never been good at approaching normal people either. But here stood a group of people I’d idolized for ages. Admittedly I knew more about the lead singer, Jyrki 69, than the others, but I was in love with their work.

Staring got awkward after a bit, with weird glances passed back and forth between us, so we gathered courage and went closer. I am glad we did. He took my friend’s hand and dragged her closer, introducing us to the band as though we were old friends. Chopper shook our hands and smiled, then finally Danny B approached. We were introduced, and the first words out of his mouth to me were “I like your top hat”
I beamed and thanked him before Jyrki joked I was trying to rip Danny B off. To which I awkwardly responded “I can’t help that I look better in it than he does!” I earned a chuckle, forcing me to relax just a bit further, and Jyrki informed me that I had until tomorrow to obtain a sheriff’s star if I was going to try and pull off the Danny B look. I told him I’d do my best.

Jyrki excitedly says “let’s take pictures!” But my poor hands wouldn’t stop shaking and I could not operate my camera very well.

When I finally convinced my hands to cooperate and work the camera, guess who decided to look down.

Thanks, Jaynie.

Not wanting to keep them any longer, we got hugs and left to explore a bit more. Next up was the classic cars, where I began my drool routine.

I never really realized how much I loved and enjoyed this particular scene until this moment.

We bought awesome hats and a few other things, then called it a night.
Weeeell after we played in the fountains.

Back to the hotel where we ordered pizza. Best pizza ever. So good.

Skip to the next day, the day when the wondrous 69 Cats would take the stage. Jaynie and I pulled out all the stops for our outfits.

We had a few hours to kill so we wandered through the vendors and cars again. We helped ourselves to a few alcoholic beverages (don’t worry guys, we took a cab this time). I discovered I really like Jack and coke. A lot.

Liquid courage a-go-go.

We were treated to the fantastic showmanship that is the Koffin Kats, a band I’d never heard of until that day.

Even not knowing the songs, I found myself dancing and singing along. The band knows how to work a stage and keep an audience engaged. We saw stunts involving standing on the cello to play.

Switching instruments mid song without missing a note, and an energy that lit the crowd on fire!

Up next, the 69 Cats. We maneuvered our way until we were front and center, and afraid we would lose our spots we waited through intermission and watched them set everything up.

Front and center, just as I promised Chopper.

The show itself was fantastic!! Crowd interaction was great! At one point Jyrki stepped to the edge of the stage and held the microphone out for us to sing, and after getting over the “oh shit he’s going to walk off!”, I sang back to him. The sunglasses came off for a bit as he sang, which was really cool because he had amazing beautiful eyes. Danny B and Chopper were on point…and then I took three of the best concert photos I’ve ever taken in my life.

Perhaps I’m biased, but I see album art material.

By the time the show was over, I couldn’t hear and I barely had a voice; but my adrenaline was through the roof and I was sweating whiskey. That last part may have been too much information, but it was a shock to me.

Now for the part I’m most excited to write about. After the show interactions. We stood at the back and waited for them to come out, and all I had was a 69 Eyes comic book. I felt bad about it, but 69 Cats merchandise is hard to find.

We chase them down like creepy stalkers, and get autographs. Poor Jyrki was sweating and they all seemed clearly miserable, but they were good sports about sitting and chatting with us.

I handed Jyrki the comic book and asked him to sign a picture. He looked at me.
“Are you sure you want me to sign this picture?”
“Well, the front and back are black so a signature won’t show up well.”
“Let’s see if we can find a better one.” He takes the comic from me, flips through the pages, and finally lands on this:

Pleased with himself, he signs the picture and hands it back to me. I ask Chopper to sign it as well, and while he’s doing that, Jyrki starts talking about the new album. The love and passion is clear on his tired, heat-exhausted face, and he informs us the new 69 Eyes album will be out in February. So exciting!!
Pushing my luck a bit (I blame the Jack), I asked for a picture. And with a voice that I’ve often heard my five year old use, he gets excited and says “Selfie time!!”
Normally I don’t smile for pictures. Just not my thing. I don’t like the way I look when I smile. But when he put his arm around me and lifted his other hand, I looked down and realized he was miming groping my chest. It amused me, and my hand decided to capture the moment I realized what he was doing.

Thanks Jyrki.

He does the same for Jaynie.

And with a grin on his face he says “I’m not a chauvinist, I’m not being chauvinistic. It’s just show business.”

Pushing my luck one more time I asked for a hug. He gladly gave it to me after I promised him a present. The present, by the way, was this:

I handed it to him in a folder so he wouldn’t get covered in pencil, and his face lit up. He smiled and took it, thanking me.

I am humbled by these men. Each and every one of them are so talented, and together they create an unstoppable force. We (as common folk) hear horror stories all the time of celebrities being rude or dismissing of their fans. Yet each person in this group really embraces you, and for a moment you feel like their best friend, like you are part of something great. Chopper, Danny B, and Jyrki, you guys are absolutely wonderful. I went to the concert expecting a fantastic show, and I walked away overwhelmed. I was disappointed a bit because we had to leave. The 69 Cats, in my opinion, is one of the greatest groups to take the world by storm.

And then we chased down Danny B for an autograph. In the process, we ran into the sweetest woman you could ever possibly know, Annie Marie Harvey. After juggling sharpies and drinks, we managed to get her autograph and selfie pic.

Seriously guys, you all need to meet her. She’s wonderful.

Finally catching Danny B, he made us walk with him, or as he said “We’ll do a walk-and-sign”. He signs the CD first, then takes my comic book. With a laugh he says “Ha, Jyrki signed himself.” And signed in the corner.

The rest of the time in Nashville was spent shopping and exploring, a trip to the Johnny Cash museum, and finally we had to leave.

Nashville, Tennessee will forever have a special place in my heart and memories. I’ll forever be captivated by its history and its beauty. I’ve not even been away 24 hours, and I already wish I was back on those streets.

And, the last bit of good news. It was a day late but I’m happy to announce:

I finally got my sheriff’s star.

My First Rejection

So, I received my first rejection letter. It was a soul crushing experience. I tried desperately to put into words what I was feeling, only to crash and burn into a fit of tears.

I’m going to share the entire experience with you, because I want others to realize they aren’t alone. Also, I’m going to link in my favorite topic: bipolar disorder.

A few months back I was slapped with an idea for a story, and before I knew what was happening, my fingers were flying across the keyboard. Hours disappeared at a time, and the story was writing itself. I found the experience therapeutic, because I was able to release so many of the dark and negative thoughts rumbling around in my head that I’m afraid to admit out loud. I found myself sitting in the edge of my own chair, wondering what was going to happen next. There was no planning, no charting, just me and the keyboard. It was a scraping clean of the subconscious, with hopes of making room for bigger, better things. I was once more surprised with my own writing, a sensation I’ve been lacking for many years now, and realised I wanted it released to the world.

Until I actually pressed submit.

I spent the remainder of my evening trying desperately not to throw up on customers, checking my email repeatedly even though I knew nothing had changed since I’d checked it five minutes before. I kept saying over and over “There’s a stranger touching my things!” And I felt like I was being violated. It was the weirdest thing.

I kept telling myself I was going to be rejected, because I am the type of person who always thinks the worst until I’m pleasantly surprised by awesome. Once I was home from work, I laid down and kept saying “Prepare yourself. You’re going to be rejected.” I thought I could handle it.

I was wrong.

The email came while I was asleep, so it was the first thing I saw when I woke up. “Thank you for submitting your work. Unfortunately it isn’t what we’re looking for at this time.”

All at once, the world began to spin in reverse. Cracks and tears began to appear in the fabric of my reality. I was sitting there trying desperately not to cry, and failing miserably.

The remainder of the day was spent curled up in a ball crying, or sitting in the car crying. You’ll notice the common theme here is crying.

And all my wonderful friends and family tried their best to cheer me up with statistics. And I did appreciate it, I swear I did. Unfortunately I couldn’t rise to the occasion and thank anyone properly because I was too busy fighting my own demons to worry.

See, here’s another thing about being bipolar. It is a learning process every day. No, seriously. And that point makes sense to all the above I’ve said thus far. Scientists are still learning about it, and so too are the ones who have it. Every day we are faced with new challenges and potential triggers, and learning what to do and how to react.

And I learned insane amounts of worry and stress can bring on one hell of a down turn once it’s finally relieved. Suddenly I wasn’t just coming to terms with a rejection letter, I was coming to terms with everything I’ve ever done wrong in my life, and convincing myself I wasn’t a failure at life. Suddenly I was crying because my grandfather died almost a year ago. I was crying because I was a divorced, single mother. One of my dear friends, whom in my eyes should receive sainthood, received the brunt of my downturn. I kept telling her “Just let me have this moment, just let me fall apart. It’s not me, it’s the chemicals in my head, I’ll be okay soon.”

Finally she understood it wasn’t a “get back on the horse, champ” speech I was looking for, but someone to just listen to me while I spiraled out of control.

I learned that the right thing said at the wrong time can make me angry, even though I knew the intentions were in the right place. I waited until my brain was back to functioning order before I responded or “liked” anything. Now I feel much better, and though I do still have anxiety, I will eventually try again.

Which brings me to the next part of my post. I’m honestly thinking about switching my blog to mainly bipolar logs (read: personal therapy) since it seems to be what I talk about most. Which, can you really blame me? It is the topic I understand most, and understand the least.

But here recently I’ve been seeing quite a few articles pop up titled things like “45 things all bipolar people want you to know” and “five things Hollywood gets wrong about being bipolar”. I thought I would take this opportunity to share some nuggets of wisdom from my own experiences, and experiences I’ve gathered from the world around me.

1. Bipolar disorder is not black and white. One thing I hated when I was taking sociology and psychology was how badly everyone tried to fit everything in a neat little category, and liked to pretend there was no such thing as a grey area. That simply isn’t how real life works. Person A and Person B may have the same disorders, but that doesn’t mean they suffer the same symptoms. Person A may have strong anxiety issues, where Person B may have strong cases of sociopathy. Person C may have all of those, and Person D may suffer from something else entirely.

2. We’re often relieved to learn something we do is classified as a symptom. I am a bit of an impulse buyer. I spend way too much time on Amazon, and if there’s something I want, I get it. I always thought this was just a bad habit (memorizing my debit card number didn’t help either), until I had to start saving money for a trip. I was doing so well, until a swing hit me, and suddenly I NEEDED that burger, or NEEDED that top. Next thing I new, money I’d saved up for a month was gone, and I was left standing there going “Where the hell did my money go…?” I was actually relieved to learn impulse buying is actually a symptom (falling under the category of risky behavior). Good news for me, bad news for my bank account.

3. Most articles center around people who are medicated. I haven’t been medicated since I was 13, choosing instead to go it on my own. I’m not saying people who take medication are weak, or can’t do it in their own. Quite the contrary, medication is a scary thing and often the side effects are more terrifying than the disorder itself (see any commercial regarding bipolar or depression medicine, and the list of possible side effects takes up more than half the commercial). What I’m saying is medication and I had a disagreement and I decided I could do things on my own. But reading articles focusing entirely on people who are medicated can sometimes make those of us who aren’t feel as though we are doing something wrong. WHICH, by the way, we are not! I’m not using this as a platform against big-pharm, because I realize some cases legitimately need medication to function or survive. But I also believe firmly in behavioral therapy.

4. There is a right thing and a wrong thing to say. Problem is, we don’t know what it is either! This is one point I want to stress heavily, especially for anyone who is fortunate enough to be our friends, our family, and who is willing to sit and hold our hands. At least in my experience, I am often waiting to hear the right thing. And when people talk or try to help, I’m not okay until I hear it. The problem is, however, I don’t know what that is until I hear it. And it could all depend on what point I’m in in my cycle. A piece of advice given to me on one day may anger me, yet the same piece of advice given a day/week/month later may suddenly make prefect sense and lead to the lovely “Ah ha!” moment. We’re not trying to be ungrateful, or heartless. We’re not trying to say we don’t appreciate the intention. Sometimes it just hasn’t clicked yet.

5. We are passengers in our own heads. In some of my worst cycles, I’ve often explained that it feels like someone else has control of my body and mouth, and I’m just a passenger. I’m not justifying, or giving a way out of accepting responsibility. All I’m saying is sometimes there are so many chemicals moving and shifting around, we’re just as lost and surprised as you are.

6. Sometimes we don’t know what to do either. Think of it like getting drunk. You have your go-to drink, the one that makes you happy. You’re comfortable, you’re okay with it. You know how your body will react. Midway through the evening, however, you’re accidentally served a drink you’ve never had, and it’s strong. You react differently, you’re not sure you like it. Then you’re served a completely different drink. This one makes you nauseated, causes you to ache or feel sick, but you know it’ll pass soon. Another drink and you’re feeling very confident, a feeling you can live with. Before the night is over, you’re slipped drugs and you lose all control. The combination of strange drinks plus drugs, becomes deadly. That’s what it’s like being bipolar. A chemical alters what we are feeling, and it doesn’t take much to trigger a reaction in many cases. Depending on the feeling, we can sometimes be left feeling quite vulnerable.

7. We are NOT CRAZY.
Sometimes our moods are chaotic, and in some cases people have lashed out at others in anger. But that doesn’t mean we are psychotic. The society we live in has placed all mental disorders into the category of crazy, which is detrimental (hahahaha) to the patient, the patient’s families, etc. Many of us already feel like we are broken, like we are losing our minds, we don’t need to be categorized in the same box as Charles Manson.

8. We do love, some of us just do it differently. One thing I struggled with, and still struggle with, is experiencing and showing love. Sometimes I need to be my own person, rather than so-and-so’s daughter, so-and-so’s mother, so-and-so’s girlfriend, etc. Other times I love so entirely it becomes physically painful. Manic love, in my opinion, is the gateway of obsession. Then there are days where I can’t love, because I’m too busy in my own head to worry about anyone around me. It’s hard to explain, but… One thing I’ve always wanted to say and explain to family, my friends, loved ones new and old…. My feelings are, and were, real, just some days are harder than others.

I’m sure I had many other points to make, but I can’t seem to think of them. This will be a case of I’ll remember as soon as I click publish. Ah well. If you have any thoughts, or anything you’ve just always wanted your friends/family/loved ones to know, feel free to add it in a comment below.

Bipolar Hurts

So I’m sitting in the chair in my quiet living room; I’m supposed to be trying to sleep, but my brain is speeding a hundred miles an hour. I try to quiet it, but it seems the harder I try, the louder the negative emotions scream.

Instead of sleeping, I’m fighting off tears, and struggling to pull myself out of the black hole I can feel myself inevitably sinking into. I know I write quite a bit about my bipolar disorder, but sadly sometimes I need to “talk” about it. I’ve never been one for spoken word, my mind travels too quickly for my mouth to keep up and I end up stumbling over my words. This, of course, embarrasses me and makes me stumble harder. Written word, however, I can do.

Recently I was told how wonderful my writing was, and how I should get published on account of how well I can express myself. When it’s the only way you really know how, you learn to be good at it. But I am wandering off topic.
I’ve finally put into words what it’s like to have bipolar disorder….shadows lurk at the edges, waiting to drag me down no matter how hard I fight. Even when I have a good day, my brain can become fixated on the tiniest detail, and before I know it, the spiral begins.

And today I did have a good day. It was frustrating and I felt useless, but a good day nonetheless. Yet here I am.

Worse is the fact that it angers me. Things are finally balancing out, starting to head in the right direction, only to be thrown from its axis because of the chemicals in my head. I hate feeling broken, I hate feeling sad when everything says I shouldn’t. Including myself. I want to rip the chemicals from my head and bury them in a hole somewhere far away, and move on with my life.

With every beginning of the spiral, there is the fear and anxiety that this time the demons will grow too strong and I will lose the battle. Every time I think “is this the one that means my end? Is this the period to my sentence?” And it scares me. Regular me doesn’t want to lose, doesn’t want to die. But this evil shadow tries so hard every time it rears its ugly head to make sure I fall.

I blame myself for so much and I watch the world around me smile and brighten, as the dark cloud billows and rolls over my head. I feel the rain like acid on my skin, burning me to my very core. I scream out, but my voice is silenced. I tear myself apart from the inside out, hoping I’ll be rescued in time before I meet my own destruction.

Then the cycle changes, and like a bad dream the terrible feelings begin to fade into my memory. Words I said, actions I took, become permanent ammunition for the demons to use next time. I’m left to pick up the pieces, stitch my wounds, rebuild my walls only to send them crumbling down again later.

It’s a permanent solution to a temporary problem, and scarring is permanent too. But can they not see that the spiral, the maddeningly black tunnel, seems endless and the only light is the hope to die quickly.

I’ve not reached that stage just yet, and I hope this time will pass long before I get there. I will continue my fight, do not waste your worries on me. The words were mine and played it perfectly to help me finally explain, and even comprehend, what it’s like.

Now I shall try once more to sleep, and hope I have satisfied the darkness for just a bit.

Also, I’m hungry, and the kitchen seems so far away.

Ugh

Do you want to know what I am really getting tired of? Of course you do, why else would you be reading this? I’m growing tired of the endless amounts of writing advice I’m reading online.

See, everyone seems to think they are a writing expert, and so they pour countless hours of advice into blogs, pins, newspapers, etc. And they’re all titled pretty much the same way.

“What not to do in your writing.” “How to peg yourself as an amateur writer.” “How to write a story.” “Things you’re doing wrong in your manuscript.” And that’s just what I’ve seen on Pinterest in the past hour.

Every article contradicts the other. “Use ‘said’ to avoid sounding pretentious.” “Only use ‘said’ during dialogue.” “Avoid using ‘said’ entirely, as well as the weird very, as it makes you sound lazy.”

And then people wonder why do many beautifully talented people become crippled by their own fears and never publish a word, even though they clearly deserve it. From one article to the next, we are bounced around and told what we should and shouldn’t do, and it plants the seeds of doubt. Instead of thriving in our creativity, it suddenly chokes us. We question every word we type or write until our talent has been beaten within an inch of its life.

I grow tired of this. I’m tired of these articles and their doubt provoking material. There are SO MANY great writers, painters, artists, etc out there, and they each have their own style. One is not better or worse than the others, it’s all a matter of giving it all you’ve got until YOU are happy with your masterpiece.

Many people, including myself, need only one piece of advice:

WRITE. FOR. YOU.

Ignore the naysayers, ignore the “Well you aren’t writing in my style so clearly you’re doing it wrong” people. Make YOURSELF HAPPY. I can’t emphasize that enough. LIVE FOR YOU AND IGNORE THOSE WHO TRY TO TAKE YOUR HAPPINESS FROM YOU.

So there ya go. A bit of writing advice that I hope actually helps. And you know what? If you don’t want to take it, then you don’t have to, because that’s what you want to do.

Just write. Write for you. Don’t listen to stupid articles that do nothing but take away your dream and cripple your progress.

Happy writing.

From Beginning to End

Why are beginnings so difficult? Really, you would think the middle part would be the hardest part. But no, in my experience, the beginning is the hardest part. I don’t understand. I mean, it’s just the start. Why is writing so difficult sometimes?

But you know what? It’s okay. As hard as it can be, that means the reward for it is going to be even better. Not necessarily a physical reward, but the feeling of accomplishment. So you know what, it’s going to be okay.

I’ll find my start. I’ll find my place. I will get published. Say it again. I will find my start. I will get published. I CAN do this. Enter it into your mind. I WILL GET PUBLISHED.

There you have it. There’s the voice. Very simple. Now we simply need to relocate the conductor of our internal orchestra.

He takes his place upon the stand, the crowd falls quickly silent. Rustling can be heard as the players arrange their instruments and their music. Indeed, this piece promises to be intricate, and it is important to be as comfortable as possible. The conductor raises his baton into the air, and the orchestra collectively takes a deep breath. His hand slowly descends, and music begins to play, filling the air with slow and gentle music. Each player has a bigger roll, for if they stood alone, the music would not work.

I have been trying to fix one piece of my mind or the other, rather than the entirety of it. I must take all that I have learned and sew it together. I have my conductor, now I need each piece of the orchestra. Let us go over all that we have learned.

We have learned about set routines, and pushing yourself to do it every day even when you feel like you cannot. Write something, even if it is absolute crap. In the end, you wrote.

We have learned meditation and the act of quieting the mind and removing distractions. It is easy to become caught up in the modern world of phones and computers, and completely forget about our own art and our own minds.

We have learned about the power of music, and the power of musical palette cleansing. Especially when it comes to Synesthesia, music with words can sometimes be detrimental.

We have learned the power of knowledge. Each day we must learn something new, and never stop learning. Just because we are not in school does not mean we cannot learn. It does not have to be knowledge obtained from the internet, or even from a book. Sometimes the power of listening is just as valuable.

We have learned the power of listening is for more than just stories. Sometimes sitting outside and listening to the birds in the trees, or the wind whispering through the leaves.

We have learned to ignore the crippling self doubt that comes along with being involved in any art form. The fear that we won’t be good enough. We are still human, and sometimes it does slip in, but we are learning to try.

We have learned that no matter how many things you try, or how much you learn, it does not suddenly get better. Learning is an on going process. You cannot simply decide one day to be something, and do nothing about it afterwards. That is silliness. Everything we’ve learned on this list, we must keep going and keep reminding ourselves of these lessons.

We learned the value of speaking from the heart, rather than for the gratification of being recognized. Though having our work acknowledged is good, our talents are not dictated by the amount of views we receive, or the amount of applause.

My orchestra is still coming together, but already I can hear the music beginning to play. The voice I have long thought dead has returned, and the music is so beautiful. The silence was deafening for so long, it is a wonder to hear such beautiful noise again.

So we carry on, we continue to learn, and we never stop. We never cease being until such a time as our being has ceased.
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Author’s Note: I have been trying to write a book for a few… well. A very long time now. Just a few days ago I decided to abandon the book and pick up a short story gig. For a few hours I stared at a blank document on the computer, and decided to try my hand at free writing. I hadn’t intended to share it with anyone but myself, but upon rereading it I realized just how beautiful and raw it really was. So I share it with you now, and I hope it helps someone else.

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