Tag: depression

Clarity

Hello, everyone. It’s been a long time since I’ve updated this blog. I thought I’d share some updates regarding recent events. Before I begin, however, it should be noted this blog is for mature audiences. This also acts as a content warning for discussion of mental health, self harm, and s*icide. I am going to be open, and honest, as I always am when discussing my mental health, but I understand it is not an easy discussion for all to have. You have been warned.

For those who know me personally, you know October is a very difficult month. As a (not so) former goth kid, October used to be my favorite month. I loved immersing myself in the culture of spooky, finding new house decorations (because we all know Halloween decorations are year round). And then I lost someone very near and dear. I didn’t get to tell her goodbye, there was so much left unspoken between us that it left a giant hole that took years to recover. Then I lost my grandfather, the only grandparent I really knew or gave a shit about. October is also my birthday month, and as the years tick by and my circle of friends shrinks, the day is more depressing than celebratory. Finally, there is the loss of Dave. Readers of my blog might recall the post I made about him shortly after he passed in February 2020.

I first noticed my mental health taking a downward spiral towards the end of September. Whether it was in anticipation of the following month, or another trigger, I am unsure. What I do know is I was thrown into an unfamiliar social gathering and completely froze. Now, to understand why this is such a big deal, you need to know me as a person. I have extreme social anxiety, and I’m actually quite shy. But I’ve learned if I can entertain the crowds, hide the fact that I’m terrified beyond all comprehension, I get less attention than I would if I hung to the wall in a corner. To me, it is all a performance, which has brought on feelings of being a fraud from time to time. Needless to say, no one ever believes me when I state how truly introverted and shy I am. But at this particular gathering, I completely froze. Everything I’d taught myself about navigating social situations went out the window. I had two mild panic attacks and had to excuse myself while I reminded myself how to breathe.

The next indication was having a full blown anxiety attack after my shift at work. I hid in a corner and fought my brain to stay grounded in reality all the while clawing at my skin and stimming uncontrollably. It lasted about twenty minutes before releasing me from its grasp. I was exhausted afterward.

Back in the old days when I started to slip down the dastardly hole of severe depression, I would self harm. Nothing serious, but enough to require my attention. When my emotions got too overwhelming, it helped me turn an abstract concept into a physical pain that I could care for and fix. The price for that is self harm is an addiction. I started self harming again, small cuts across a tattoo that I hate, and wore several long sleeve shirts. I also banked on the hope that if my sleeve were to slip and my cuts were to show, no one would question it because mental health in such an obvious fashion makes people uncomfortable. People will typically avoid that which makes them uncomfortable.

The final straw, however, was my brain sending me from a gentle spiral all the way into a full nose dive to rock bottom. It happened so quickly even I didn’t have time to prepare. My nerves were shot, my anxiety at an all time high. I was uncomfortable in my own skin and my mind was so loud it took every ounce of focus just to function from day to day. And then the realization that no matter what I do, no matter how good I am, this is never going to stop. A never-ending cycle of ups and downs, of reality forming and breaking before my eyes that leaves me scrambling to rebuild. A perfectly logical decision one day turns into a terrible decision the next, and all have the potential to absolutely destroy my life. And it is never going to stop.

I’ve always known this, but when you’re drowning in a blackened pit searching for a way out, realizations such as these are truly devastating. I hurt myself again. It didn’t take it away. And I decided it was the end. It was time.

I won’t say I didn’t cry. I did. I cried a lot. Sadness, relief, anguish, joy…all combined into one. Soon it would all stop. Soon the pain, the rushing thoughts, would stop. Soon I would know peace and escape this hell.

I executed the plan perfectly, said my goodbyes, my I love you’s. Took off for the cemetery where Dave rests. I let myself cry, mourn, but ultimately everything felt very final. No one knew where I was. No one knew I wasn’t home. It was late, it was dark. It was perfect. I walked into the cemetery where dew had already begun to gather in the grass. It was so dark, I could see every star in the sky above my head. It was quiet. I sat beside Dave and I talked. I said out loud all the things I’d bottled up, all the feelings I’d kept hidden with nowhere to go. I was honest with myself. I laid back and enjoyed the stars. And my mind was quiet. My soul at peace. Soon.

On my way back to the car, I paused and asked for a sign that I should continue on. Right in my line of sight, a shooting star streaked across the sky. Not much of a sign, I’d seen three just like it only moments before. I sat in my car, turned on my music, dumped the pills in my hand….. And nothing happened.

It didn’t make any sense. My set up was perfect. No one could interfere. No one was rescuing me….. I could feel the pills in my hand so heavy. Waiting. I knew what they’d feel like in my mouth, I knew what they’d taste like. I wasn’t afraid. But I couldn’t do it. I sat there for an hour just holding the pills. My mind was still quiet. My soul still at peace. But my hand wouldn’t move. I grabbed my phone and texted a friend, asking her to call me. The first thing I said to her was “I am an actual fucking coward.” “Why?” “Because I can’t do it.”

The next day I was left feeling very confused. What stopped me? What force lives deep down, hidden from even me, and stilled my hand? I don’t know. But something stopped me, and chose to continue living. Even if it meant pain. The ultimate question I was then left with… Was why? I contemplated on this all day. I’m no closer to an answer now than I was in the graveyard. And maybe I’m not supposed to make sense of it.

There is a song I’ve been listening to by a song artist named Citizen Soldier. Fantastic artist, highly recommend him. The song is called “Thank You for Hating Me”. The title is self explanatory, but essentially he thanks the people who hated him, tried to break him, because their hate made him stronger than he ever thought he could be. It made me realize something about myself.

I hate myself, or so I claim. But I do my best to avoid situations where I’ll be embarrassed, humiliated, or harmed. If I actually hated myself as I claim, why should I care? Why am I afraid of failure if I’m already a failure? So either I hate myself, or I don’t hate myself as much as I think. Maybe I don’t hate myself, but I don’t know how to love myself.

Today, however, has been one of the best days. I have laughed, genuinely laughed. Mostly at myself. The interactions with people today have been more real, not just a stage performance. I have enjoyed it. And the best part is….. It’s mine. It isn’t a chemical forcing my brain to be happy. It’s my happiness. And that is so rare. I don’t know how long it will last, but I’m going to enjoy it while it is here.

Maybe it’s okay that I don’t have life figured out. Maybe not having all the answers isn’t a bad thing. Maybe one day I’ll learn to love myself. Or accept myself at the least. It’s even possible that maybe something did die that night, and something else took its place. I don’t know. I might never know. But what I will say is I’m so thankful to so many of my friends who listened to me and refused to pass judgement. I am grateful.

Turmoil

A few days ago, I was in bed trying desperately to sleep before my shift at work. My eyes were heavy, my body exhausted, but my brain didn’t get the memo. My brain was rushing around, no singular thought, but a conglomeration of thousands in a symphony of chaotic bits. My brain is never quiet, there is always noise. Sometimes I can tune it out, sometimes it is deafening. I describe it often as trying to live, and function, in a very crowded food court.

That day it was very loud, and I knew there would be no sleep. No matter how hard I fought it. To those with a mental disorder, they are no stranger to this. Sometimes just laying in bed and resting my eyes is enough.

As I’m laying there, my anxiety goes through the roof. Heart pounding, shallow breathing, followed immediately by the overwhelming urge to hurt myself. Not in a suicidal fashion, but cause some form of harm to myself. I needed a cigarette, I needed drugs, I needed to cut myself until I bled. I needed to get so messed up that I couldn’t recognize who I was anymore. I needed pain so I could fix it.

I tried grounding myself, telling myself I didn’t really want to hurt, but I didn’t listen to me. Of course I needed to hurt, wasn’t I listening? The longer I denied it, the worse the anxiety began to feel. Soon, invisible insects were crawling along my skin, and I was scared too move for fear that any movement would be to bring about this harm.

A pen wouldn’t work, a popular technique taught to those prone to self harm allowing them to draw on themselves rather than harming themselves. I needed the actual pain of it, not just seeing the marks left behind. I tried thinking of anything else, tried to drown out my thoughts with television. But I quickly lost focus because I wasn’t LISTENING to me.

I found a crisis text line, but couldn’t bring myself to text them. Couldn’t bring myself to admit it, because how do you explain to perfect strangers that you want to hurt yourself, need to hurt yourself, but you don’t want to kill yourself? Mental illnesses are stupid. And complex. So very complex.

I was in no condition to work, but I had no choice. I had to do something. The only thing I could think of to do was pop myself with a rubber band, so I wore one around my wrist. That seemed to help. Whenever I felt the urge, I’d just pop the rubber band. It helped. Healthiest way to deal with it? Maybe not.

But I didn’t drink.

I didn’t smoke.

I didn’t cut myself open.

I didn’t resort to drugs.

Just a rubber band pop every so often.

I’m calling it a win in my book, and truth be told, I’m proud of myself. I made it through my shift, and when I got home that night I was exhausted. I slept.

When I woke you, I felt….different. I felt better. Better than I had in a long time. The weird overwhelming urge to hurt myself had pulled me out of the depressive funk I’d been trapped in for the better part of a year. And it was nice.

But this is one of the reasons I hate how romanticized mental illness has become. Depression isn’t curling up in a blanket, eating a tub of ice cream. Manic isn’t a “good thing”. Not everything can be cured with a positive mental attitude. Trust me, we’ve all tried that, and when it fails, it makes the symptoms worse. Because then not only am I depressed, I’m also a fail whale for not being able to just snap out of it. With everyone trying to fix me, whatever the intentions, what my brain picks up on is you believe I’m broken, and you’re trying to fix me because I’m problematic. So depressed, failure, broken, burden.

My impulses aren’t always funny, though it has led to personally funny moments. Like once I bought a life size cardboard cut out of Matt Smith because I was really manic. But do you know how much money I could have saved, how much trouble I would be out of right now, if I could control those impulses? That’s not a joke.

I won’t lie, this blog just took an entirely different direction than my original intention, but I needed to get that little rant over before I could continue. It has taken me years of studying, and research, to get where I am today with my mental health. Years of personal growth, acceptance, and forgiveness (of myself and others) as well. The only reason I didn’t completely collapse under the mental pressure the other day was the familiarity of what was happening, and applying knowledge/techniques I’d learned. Even with the knowledge of what was happening and why (invasive thinking exasperated by OCD turning it into a mental compulsion, and the inability to complete the compulsion caused anxiety, fueling the compulsion), it was still terrifying.

As a teenager, I didn’t know what was happening, or why, I only knew that I needed to hurt so I could feel better. I will always carry the scars on my arms. With the knowledge I have, I was able to forgive teenage me. Teenage me as even more afraid than adult me. A lot of shame was just taken off my heart, a lot of pain was repaired.

And that’s why I felt better. That’s why I feel better than I have in years.

Getting myself back where I need to be in order to function as an adult, a mother, is hard. But I finally feel like I’m back in the driving seat of my head and I can control the car. But just like operating a motor vehicle, I have to accept there are elements beyond my control, and sometimes I just have to hold on and hope for the best. But in the more turbulent parts, where I feel like I’m hydroplaning out of control, I just hope that I never touch the brakes.

The True Power of Positive Mental Attitude

The True Power of Positive Mental Attitude

I get a lot of comments on my tattoos. Sometimes they’re positive, sometimes negative. You get used to it after some time, and the explanations can become jaded. But a nice woman came in to get a room, and asked me what this tattoo was all about, because it looked cool.

I don’t know what possessed me, but I decided to give her the actual meaning behind it.

I asked if she was familiar with YouTube, to which she said she was. I told her there was a man, named JackSepticEye, who does a lot of charity work, who makes people laugh, who publicly fights depression, and maintains a message known as PMA.

“What is PMA?” She asks. Her questions are genuine.

“Positive Mental Attitude.” I explain, “As a person who suffers from a mental disorder on a daily basis, I got this tattoo to show my support for him, his movement, but also a reminder to myself when things get bad.”

She’s fallen silent. I look up at her, having been busy looking down at the computer screen checking her in. Had I gone too far?

She breathes what I can only describe as a sigh of relief and says “I’m going to have to tell my husband to look him up. He’s bipolar, and he could use a bit of positivity in his life like that.” I looked at her, and we had an unspoken understanding. Mental illness is hard on everyone. It’s hard for the person dealing with it, and it’s hard for those we love. I set my professionalism aside, and told her she was awesome.

I’ve had people walk out of my life, cast me aside, because they “couldn’t handle” my “crazy”. Indeed, I’ve destroyed friendships with my “crazy”. To have her standing in front of me, and tell me of her husband’s condition not because she was ashamed, or because she hated him, but because she saw someone who understood from both sides how stressful and difficult it could be… I told her she was awesome, and thanked her for being a good person.

A man was sitting in my lobby at the time, and overheard everything. He’d needed a place to stop to change his daughter’s diaper. As soon as the guest left, he approached the counter and handed me $20. I was shocked and said “Sir, you don’t have to do that.” He shook his head, waved his hand, and said “Thank you for letting us stop. Keep up that positive mental attitude.” Then he walked out as I thanked him.

THAT’S the power of Positive Mental Attitude. That’s the TRUE POWER OF PMA.

What Do Emotions Feel Like…. Synesthesia Edition

Everyone associates synesthesia with this great, powerful gift that allows you extrasensory abilities. Indeed, the newest trend and a quick search on a search engine will make it seem that almost everyone has this. Artists have used it to create beautiful works of art, singers and songwriters use it as inspiration. And writers, oh, it grants them a gift of being able to describe things with almost inhuman detail. This gift has been proven harmless. With such beautiful creations springing forth, it would appear this strange and baffling thing is a superpower. 

For the most part, I’ll even agree. Until you begin to try and explain something to someone who doesn’t have it. Then life can get weird. I experience life in sound. Different types of pain have sounds to me (sharp pains are high pitch, dull pains are bass), even foods are sounds (chocolate is low pitch, bread is middle, lemons are high pitch. Anything way too sweet or salty is glass breaking high pitch, and therefore painful). 

I’ve based entire opinions of people based on the sound of their voice. Perhaps it isn’t fair, but I can’t help it. High pitch and nasally voices are painful, where lower tones are pleasant. Accents add an interesting spice to the sounds, and perhaps that’s why I love accents so much. 

If I’m not interpreting the world in sounds, then I’m experiencing texture, sometimes color. France, for example, feels like warm and makes me think of a lovely orange color, where Scotland feels like soft grass, and makes me think blue. 

Now that I’ve given you a road map of my brain, let’s make things even more interesting. What do emotions feel like, sound like, etc? Before I go completely into that, allow me to explain one other aspect. My mind is always noisy. There is always a dull static that surrounds my head. It’s like hearing snippets of conversation in a crowded food court, but drowned out by the roar of the crowd. I call these my potential thoughts. Thoughts, emotions, imaginary conversations, or memories I’ve not experienced yet, but lurk in the shadows waiting to happen. 

Happiness is a strange emotion. It feels loving, impenetrable, like I could take over the world. It sounds like a harmonious symphony, and laughter feels like waves of an ocean. It feels warm. 

Anger feels like ice and fire competing in my veins, with a darkness waiting behind whoever wins. The angrier I get, the harder these two fight. 

Sadness feels like loneliness. It feels like a television left alone in a dark room, with the channel playing nothing but snow. Loud static can be heard. 

Depression feels like this, but with the added benefit of clarity for the potential thoughts. There’s always a dark, twisting figure tat seems everywhere and nowhere, and this figure encourages these thoughts. This leads to the spiraling low, and the static becomes like knives. “Just kill yourself. It’ll save the world a lot of trouble. Everyone will be better off without having to deal with you. You’d be doing them a favor. No one actually cares, they humor you because they need something, want something, from you. As soon as you’re no longer useful, you’ll be tossed away entirely.” 

Bipolar low feels like…. I’m surrounded by hundreds of these figures, and they’re all shouting at me to just end it. Just do it. Which leads to, what I feel, is a level of bipolar psychosis. The world seems to be moving so fast around me, and I’m standing still. Or maybe it’s the other way round, and I’m spinning so fast I have the illusion of standing still. The world doesn’t include me, I’m an outside observer peeking into a window of reality. 

Thankfully I haven’t experienced that often. It is truly terrifying, to exist but not. To feel, but not. 

Stress feels sour, like sour milk. And the more stressed I feel, the more soured I feel. I even begin to think I smell sour, which increases the stress. 

Why am I writing this? Why am I telling you? To be honest, I have no idea. Maybe I just need people to know and understand the extra layer I feel beneath the emotions. Maybe I’m hoping someone will read this who can give answers, or can relate. Maybe I’m hoping my words can help a study. What happens when you combine synesthesia with a mental disorder. Chaos and beauty happen, of course. 

I hope this has been educational. I feel better now, at least. 

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.

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.