Tag: bipolar

To My Fallen Brothers and Sisters….

I’m going to be completely poem and honest with all of you that read this post: I don’t watch the news. I don’t like reading about it, I don’t like watching it, I don’t like talking about it, and I hate writing about it. The media of today is so biased, trying to watch the news just ends with a bunch of pseudo-professionals trying to tell me what I should and shouldn’t think. The news makes me angry. The world makes me sad. Even employing all of my best avoidance tactics, nothing could prevent the announcement of the shooting in Orlando.

At the time of writing this, 50 have been confirmed dead, 53 injured, with the death toll expected to rise. Victims are still being identified, and families are beginning to grieve.

A lot of the information pouring in doesn’t make sense. What does make sense is innocent people died. Because they were in a gay club. And a bipolar Muslim did it.

Where do I even begin?

I’m seeing everyone shouting and pointing fingers. Blaming each other. Supporting the shooter. Calling for the death of all Muslims. And all I have left to say is…Are you fucking kidding me? Accusing anyone with a mental illness of being capable of this sortof thing. All I can say is…Are you fucking kidding me?

Let’s break this down a bit. First, we’ll go after the anti-gay community. If you are against gay people on the sole reasoning that a book told you to hate them, and yet you can also say “you reap what you so” supporting the deaths, let me ask you a few questions. My first question being the obvious of did you skip the part in the bible where it says God is love? Love thy neighbor? Did you miss where Jesus welcomed all? Did you miss the commandments that said “Thou shalt not kill”? If you’re just following the rules of your precious book, maybe you should stop being a sheep and actually read the fucking thing. You don’t have to agree with the lifestyle, but it doesn’t harm you. Stop being hateful.

Second, can you tell me for a fact that every person attending that club was gay? Straight people go to gay clubs all the time. It’s fun, and friendly. How many fellow Christians were killed that you just condemned with your assumptions? What if it had been your son, or daughter, killed? This hatred disgusts me.

You don’t have to like homosexuals, or agree with them, but how can you honestly justify the murder of an innocent person as being right? How can you look at a television, and instead of being moved to tears by the names of the dead flashing across the screen, you think “Fucking fags deserved it”. How can you stomach your own hypocritical existence?

To the true loving, and caring Christians out there who will, inevitably, get lumped into the same category as this bigoted nonsense, allow me to say you have not been forgotten. We hear you, and your support, or donations, or prayers, are heard and appreciated. Don’t let the harsh world around you take you away from doing good things.

Of course, I’m not here just to call out the hypocritical “Christians”, I’m here to call out the hypocritical homosexuals as well. You preach about love and acceptance, and yet some of you are screaming for the death of Muslims? You’re going to condemn an entire group of people because of the actions of one man, yet expect people to be more forgiving when there are cases of male on male, or female on female, rape? No, you don’t get it both ways. To be accepted, you must be accepting. You don’t have to agree with anyone to be civil. Our community has been hit by a terrible tragedy. Now is the time to pull together and show the world what true love is all about.

To the peaceful, loving Muslims who are tired of seeing people doing terrible acts in the name of your God, believe it or not, you haven’t been forgotten either. Not everyone in the world believes that all Muslims are terrorists, and I know you grow weary of this shit, too. I cannot say I understand, or agree, with your religion, but my lack of understanding is no cause for hatred towards those who want no part in this.

And finally, to those throwing the word “bipolar” around like it’s a dirty word. First of all, a mental illness is not an adjective to be used to describe a situation. And just because someone is professionally diagnosed with a mental disorder, it doesn’t mean they are capable of going out and killing people. It does happen, and that is a fact I cannot argue, and there are a lot of people who ARE capable of it. But a person who is being treated properly, or at least taught how to cope, knows how to deal with their disorders. Perhaps instead of relying on expensive medications, we should start shifting our focus to behavioral therapy? Especially in cases where someone can’t afford their medicine, but really need to be on it? Maybe instead of teaching people more hatred, or fear, we teach awareness. We teach acceptance.

Those of us who do know how to cope with our illnesses know we can’t get a gun, and the general consensus is we don’t want one. Not because we are against guns, but because we don’t trust ourselves to not use it to commit suicide, or worse.

I’m sick of it. I’m sick of all the hatred brewing around. I’m sick of accusations, of people jumping to conclusions. I’m sick of finger pointing and harsh words.

Bad people exist in every walk of life, be it gay, straight, Muslim, Buddhist, Christian. Stop labeling people and lumping them into groups. We are human beings, not labeled merchandise able to fit into categories. We are complex creatures capable of free- thinking and other amazing feats. We have thumbs!

Look at this without the labels: 50 individuals killed, 53 injured, by a lone gunman in a night club.

Look at this as the tragedy that it is, and let’s stand by each other. Let’s put differences aside, and try love for a change. Let’s try to understand each other, and help each other, whether we agree or not.

To the families and friends of the fallen, my heart is heavy with sadness for your loss. I wish I could reach out to you and offer you my love, my support, but I cannot. Just know that one small town girl keeps you in her thoughts. To those with injured, you have my well wishes and thoughts that your loved ones are able to pull through.

Let love shine from all walks of life.

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?

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.

I Cannot Cry Today

I cannot cry today.
I have no time today.
My soul may bleed, my heart may break,
But I cannot cry today.

The world keeps going, spinning, turning,
It cannot pause and wait.
I’ll have to try to cry tomorrow,
Deal with the sorrow tomorrow.

But what if I’m not sad tomorrow?
What if I’m okay tomorrow?
Tomorrow is just as busy,
I cannot cry tomorrow either.

Each day I wait for a moment alone,
A moment that’s quiet,
A moment that’s mine.
But I have to keep busy, I have to keep going,
No time this month to cry.

A year has passed, my heart is tattered,
My soul feels battered and bruised.
Each day I never cried built up,
And hangs like the sword of Damocles.

I need to heal,
I need to mend,
But I have no time.
Constantly moving, constantly going,
No time to heal, no time to cry,
I spiral, spin, a constant loop until I fall and fall and fall,
I just want to die today.
If only I’d cried that day…

Hello, everyone. I felt poetic, so I thought I might try my hand at it again. I was attempting to capture what it’s like to have a mental problem in today’s quick paced society, especially when the only advice offered by most is “Just keep going it’ll get better.” It is advice bred from ignorance rather than malicious intent, but still can be bad if we don’t take the time to allow ourselves a chance to heal.

I am a bully

Bullying has hit an all time high thanks to the technology we all crave. It follows us home; we are subjected to the cruelties of the online world where doing something as simple as stating one’s own opinion can launch a fire storm of epic proportions. We see movements every day against bullying, raising awareness and starting campaigns. None of us ever want to admit that we’re bullies, especially now. But I’m going to be brave and admit that I am a bully.

When I was little, there was a girl. She was the same age as me. We liked all the same things. We were best friends. When she fell, I’d laugh at her, sometimes further shove her down with insults and embarrassing comments. When she’d cry, I’d tell her she was stupid for crying. When she was angry I’d taunt her, then make her feel guilty for standing up for herself. No matter how badly I treated her, she wanted desperately for my love and affections, so we remained best friends.

As we grew older, the bullying grew with us, and became much worse. Soon I was cutting this sweet little girl, and forcing her to live in my own personal hell with me. Every time she tried to show me light, I broke it until it was dark as well. Each time she tried to make new friends, I embarrassed her and made her cry. The name calling from the other kids was only made worse by me as I echoed it and remained a constant reminder of it. I called her stupid and ugly, told her she’d never find love and she’d always be alone. I remember telling her one night “at least you have a vagina. Men will always want to fuck you, even if they don’t love you.” We were thirteen.

Speaking of thirteen, the girl started cutting herself and I made fun of her scars. Finally one day I convinced her that her life meant nothing. She tried to kill herself. She managed to live, however, but spent nine days locked in a hell that was supposed to be a rehabilitation ward. Did my bullying stop there? No. In fact, it got worse. I began to treat her as though she were diseased. I told her everyone was watching her. Judging her. Wishing she’d died. She believed me. When another student shoved her down and said she was “just too stupid to die”, she nearly broke again. None of the teachers wanted to help her because she didn’t fit the ideal girl type. I made her believe they were right.

Every failure, every harsh word, I’ve thrown at her and kept reminding her until finally the sweet and innocent girl began to break. I made her feel like she was worth absolutely nothing. Settling would be her best option, because otherwise she’d always be alone. Relationships failed. Friendships fell apart. Distance grew further and further between people who were always supposed to love one another. And it was all her fault, or so I made her believe.

You see, I am a bully. I am the worst kind of bully you can imagine. I am my own self critic. The girl I’ve tortured since childhood was myself…..

We see campaigns launching all the time to try and end bullying. But what of our own self abuse? What of the constant negativity? We’re told to just look in the mirror and lie to ourselves, try to convince ourselves that we are good, and beautiful, and if we keep telling ourselves this, we’ll eventually begin to believe it. The problem is every time I look in the mirror, I see my scars. I see the haunted eyes of a scared little girl who wants love, affection, and acceptance. I see the torn heart of a girl who is still tearing herself apart even though all she has left is scar tissue. I see the darkened mind of a woman who tries to keep herself inspired, who tries to hold onto, and see, the beauty and good the world has to offer…only to witness it crumble around her.

I see a girl who thinks ending it all would be the better option.

For some reason, she holds on to hope. She clings to the positive and eats up any of the good that comes her way, which often times only turns bad because she obsesses and loses her identity to try and make more of a good thing happen…which only further makes her miserable.

I see a girl who lashes out at those around her because she didn’t know how to deal with the crumbling world around her, and she feels as though she’s drowning. Suffocating.

The problem with bullying is so much of it is internal, the only way to truly fix the problem is to fix ourselves first.

This post has no conclusion. It doesn’t end on a happy note, or an inspirational story to prove that you, too, can grow past this because the simple fact is, it’s a fight I’m still fighting. I want to help, I want to inspire. But I cannot lie. I will not lie to you. However. There is one thing I can most assuredly say, with absolute honesty.

You are not alone.

Know your limits. Know your boundaries. Know when you’ve had enough.. And know when it is time to swallow your pride and admit you need help or cannot do this on your own.

You. Are. Not. Alone.

The Past is History

As a society, we are forever focused on moving forward. We crave the newest phones, the newest cars, the newest computers. The world around us is faster paced than ever before, Home cooked meals have been replaced with numerous fast food chains that seem to pop up over night, and dinner time conversation has become yelling at the television during a sporting event.

Instead of stopping to smell the roses, we are downloading digital ones. Social interaction is done by text messaging rather than actually speaking to one another. Education is becoming optional, with schools letting out more and more for pointless breaks. Higher education is too expensive for many, and our intelligence is measured by standardized tests.

We work hard to make money, and we dream of spending that money on grand and glorious things–like a vacation. But often times, it is the work itself that prevents us from doing much more than working. Never ending cycle.

With everything spinning so far and so fast, everything being propelled forward, it is very difficult for any of us to turn our heads and look into the past. Indeed, so often we are taught to keep our eyes forward and let the past remain in the past. It is important to not allow the past to rule us, no matter negative or positive. But it is equally important to remember that our history defines us as people.

I do not speak of such things like wars, and actions of our ancestors. I speak of our individual histories. The reason I have brought this up and made it a point to make a blog about it is I have been in a very bad place mentally for a few months now. As terrifying as it is for me to admit, this cycle almost broke me. I’ve cried more recently than I have in much of my life. I’ve felt more alone now more than ever before. It is difficult to hold on to hope, to hold on to dreams, when it feels as though the world around you is crumbling every time you look around. It was the closest I’ve come to being broken by my own mind in a very long time.

One night in particular I was in my bed, my mind racing with thoughts. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t do much more than cry. I had lost so much hope, and faith, in so many things….especially myself. You may be asking yourself now why I began the blog talking about society and the future, when now I talk about myself and the past. It’s simple. The past, for once, saved me. Instead of turning my thoughts to the future, I turned them to the past. Normally this is an equally terrible thing to do, as I have many demons and skeletons waiting to throw all of my mistakes in my face to rub salt into the wounds. I forced myself to focus on those who had passed before me. I focused on my grandfather, so hard until I could hear his voice. I focused on my friend after whom my daughter is named until I could hear her voice. I remembered them, remembered their smiles, their words. Death puts quite a bit into perspective. The living are caught in the fast paced, never ending cycle of the world around us…. but the dead are not. We are little more than the memories we leave behind. Those people, now gone, were proud of me. Those people, now given a fresh perspective and now no longer forced to follow in that cycle, have left memories fro me to recall and draw faith from. The memories from the dead are more comforting at times because of this.

This led to more happy memories. More happy snapshot moments in my head that helped me see that perhaps the world wasn’t a dark and cold place like it sometimes seems. It reminded me that…. sometimes we fail. Sometimes we fall. Sometimes we are beaten, and sometimes we are broken. Sometimes, however if we listen hard enough to our pasts, we’ll find whispers long forgotten that can help us pull through. They cannot necessarily heal us, no that is left up to us to do. The memories are a stepping stone. We cannot rely on the past to do everything for us, and we cannot fear the future. Needless to say the only thing that successfully committed suicide that night was the negativity rattling me to the core. It won’t stay away, obviously, as this is as much a never ending cycle as the new phones we crave each year. But for now, I can use my time to create a few more happy memories to use as ammunition in the future.

Another lesson I gathered from this, and this one made me truly rethink myself–We are a huge influence on other people. I began to wonder how many of my friends often found themselves in similar positions, searching their pasts for any hope, or any light in the darkest tunnel. It made me think…. Am I being the type of person that I want to be? Am I being the person whose memories would help pull them through? Am I being true to myself, and to those around me? It is quite a bit to think about.

It is now that I end with this. I urge each and every one of you to stop, for just a bit. Put down your phones, shut your computers, park your cars. Reach out to your friends, to your families. Love them entirely. You never know when it is your voice, memories of you, that may help pull them out of a bad place.

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.

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.