Tag: Sadness

Grief and Introspection

Today I was retrieving something from my trunk, and hit the Bop-It someone got my daughter for Christmas (or birthday, I don’t remember). My daughter, my dad, and I would play with it and compete against each other. Dad ended up with the highest score, and no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t best it. So the high score remains. The Bop-It lived at Dave’s house, and every so often it would get bumped, prompting it to say “Bop It to Start! High Score, 76!” which would prompt us all to yell at it. Like you do. While I was retrieving something from the trunk, I bumped it on accident and it started.
It made me sad. Which seems like such a silly thing to get sad about because it’s just a stupid Bop It. I pushed it from my mind because I had to get to work. Needless to say, I’ve had plenty of time to sit and think, and reminded myself of it again. I started to cry. Allowed myself the moment of sadness, no matter how silly it might have seemed. Which sparked its own moment of self reflection, I think.
I used to think crying, or acknowledging that I was hurting, was really stupid. I used to hate myself for feeling pain. I don’t really know why, I don’t know where I picked it up from, but I did. Hiding your pain, hiding your hurt, doesn’t make it go away. It just makes it fester. Like slapping a bandaid on a wound, it doesn’t stop the infection growing. Pretending not to hurt only prolongs the grieving process, or turns it into anger. Perhaps that is why I was always such an angry person. Anger made sense. Anger I could control. But pain? No. Pain was a foreign object in the eye of my existence.
Grief is not a one size fits all kind of deal. Grief hits different for everyone. Today has been a sad day, but it has caused a bit of self reflection. It reminds me how strange the grieving process really is. It isn’t the day to day loss that hits the hardest. I don’t know if it’s because I haven’t worked through the shock to mourn properly, or if I’m still actively grieving. It’s the little things that catch me up, and generally take me by surprise.
Everyone talks about the five stages of grief, but so many fail to realize how misleading those five stages really are to people. Grief cannot be defined, and you cannot plan for it. It does not come wrapped with a pretty bow, and as long as you complete the steps you’ll be back to normal. With loss, you have to define a new normal, and depending on the severity of loss, you have a lot of rebuilding to do.
The point I’m making in all of my word soup is we need to stop looking at pain, especially grieving, as something we can just get over. We need to stop burying it deep and hoping it’ll sort itself out. This isn’t something that can be tossed in the “For Later” pile and forgotten. Life has a funny way of throwing reminders at you as though to say “Hey, you forgot to grieve”. I will confess, right after his passing, I did still feel anger. I did try to bury it, to deal with it later, when it was more convenient. But let’s be honest, there is never a convenient time to grieve.
So even though I’m at work, I allowed myself the little cry, and decided to move forward by writing about it. Yes, this moment will hurt. Many more moments will hurt. The pain is still fresh, the wounds are still raw. But every single one of those moments is a reminder that we loved. It is a reminder that we felt deeply enough to feel. Pain, and love, are the strongest reminders that we are alive, still human.
I am glad that I have found the strength to realize pain does not make me weaker. To realize tears do not mean I am not strong. I am glad I can freely say “I feel sad”. I am VERY glad that I don’t let my emotions fester like an oozing wound.

Witnessing Tragedy from Afar

April 5th began as a normal day. I drove to work, had fun with my coworkers, made plans for dinner… On my way home, I noticed police activity ahead, and traffic was slowed to a crawl. I had places to go, things to do, and the slow moving traffic was an inconvenience. I’ve learned, however, that sometimes life forces you to slow down for a reason.

The reason this time was a tragic accident. A young man had been struck by another vehicle, killing him instantly. His body, hidden from view by a sheet, lay in the road surrounded by cops and witnesses. It was so startling. You never expect to see such a sight when an accident slows traffic.

It broke my heart. Still does. I won’t go into too many details, but I will simply say it was bad. It stuck with me, sent me into a bit of shock. For the remainder of the evening, I couldn’t get it out of my head, and desperately searched through the news trying to find more information on what happened.

They released his name.

I found him on Facebook. This led me to his family, who hadn’t yet heard the news. Friends who were carrying on like normal. They’d released his name in the early hours of April 6th.

I continued to check his Facebook, and saw when the news of his demise spread to his family and friends. I wanted so badly to reach out and say something, but what could I say?

Nothing I could offer would make the situation better. Witnessing the travesty of the accident was a few moments for me, but will be a life time of pain for them. My heart aches for them, but I have no right to share in their grief.

I can only hope the family is able to find peace, and solice. I can only hope that the death of their friend, their son, their brother, has touched the life of a random stranger.

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?

Mental Illness Is…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mental illness is pain.

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.

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.

Reasons Why I Hate Where I Live

I was born, and raised, in a small town in North Louisiana. As a child I was quite proud of that fact, and had no trouble boasting about it to anyone that would listen. I think back to those moments of childhood and shake my head. If only I knew then what I know now.

Living where I live adds many degrees of difficulty in my everyday life. For one, when I am having to fill out information on websites, and it asks what “county” I live in. Interesting fact for the day, Louisiana doesn’t have counties. We have parishes. There is no Bienville of Lincoln county.

When people hear about Louisiana, they automatically think of Cajuns, or more specifically, New Orleans. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve been asked about New Orleans. “How far are you from New Orleans?” “How badly was your home damaged in Katrina?” “Ooh so-and-so is playing in New Orleans, are you going?” There is more to Louisiana than just New Orleans. In fact, it is impossible for the entire state of Louisiana to live in New Orleans. Yes, I am mentioning it over and over again so perhaps you can understand MY frustrations.

No I do not own an alligator, and no I do not live in a swamp.

I do, however, know where to find a swamp.

The town that I live in, and have lived in for my entire life, has nada in regards to entertainment for people my age. The only malls that have anything worth buying are about 45 minutes in either direction. There’s Bonnie and Clyde, but that only happens once a month, or I’m not a big fan of the events they have staged there.

That’s another thing I hate about where I live. Bonnie and Clyde WERE NOT KILLED HERE. STOP IT. -deep breath-

There are so many celebrities that I wish to meet in my lifetime, so many that I want to get autographs from before I die. So many people that I’d love to just… shake their hands. There are so many bands that I want to watch play JUST for the sake of saying I did it!

But guess where they all go.

That’s right. If these bands, or celebrities, even so much as bother looking at Louisiana, they usually end up in New Orleans. I realize this is not the fault of the celebrity in question, or the band, it’s all about supply and demand. And Louisiana isn’t going to demand a lot of people I like, because they have nothing to do with God, the Government, NASCAR, Football, or Drinking Beer. You know, the five main religions of the south. Which brings me to my next point.

I am smack in the middle of the Bible Belt. I wouldn’t say we’re the belt buckle, but we’re probably close. Which means I am in the center of racism, homophobia, and bible thumping. Being different is not okay here. You’re supposed to fit into a certain mold, and if you do not fit such a mold, the system works against you.

I’m not saying this is true for everyone who lives in this state, or any of the other southern states. Obviously I’m an exception to the rule, so there must be others.

What I mean is, when I was in school I wore all black. I drew on my arm, and my clothes, I liked “gothic” stuff. As soon as I turned 18 I got my tongue pierced, and as soon as I turned 19 I got my lip pierced. I was dubbed the “trouble maker”, even if I was doing nothing more than sitting there reading a book. A lot of rules were made against the “gothic students”, whereas the cheerleaders or athletes could get away with whatever they chose.

I’ve had so many people come up to pray for me when I, again, was doing nothing more than sitting around reading a book. No kidding. I was actually in the mall, in the bookstore, just reading. I had Tripp pants on, my hair was dyed black, and I was reading a book. READING A BOOK. This woman walked up to me and asked for my name, and said she would pray for me in hopes that I would fix myself. Um. Excuse the fuck out of you, woman. Who the hell do you think you are, and since when did the “rules” not apply to you?

A really good friend of mine was once warned to stay away from me because I wore all black. That obviously makes me a devil worshiper. Again. Excuse the fuck out of you?

I am a nice, good person. I wear all black, and I’m quirky. Sometimes I misplace that filter between your mouth and brain that keeps you from saying things, and sometimes my shame is in the same hiding place. But I am a genuinely good person. I love helping people, and I love making others feel better. I’ve made mistakes, just like everyone else, but when you cut me I still bleed. It took a very VERY long time for me to get over worrying what people thought about me. Yes, I still wear all black. Mostly because I am TERRIBLE at matching clothes (ask my ex-husband if you don’t believe me), and black matches black every time!

Unless I’m killing your pets, or I’ve actually dragged you into the middle of a circle drawn in blood, do not accuse me of anything. I don’t even believe in the devil.

Anyway.

One thing I will say in defense of the south. Not everyone born here is an idiot. Our accents may make us talk a little slower, and our drawl might make us sound stupid, but I can guarantee you that is not the case. And seriously people, stop acting like you can do our accents better than us.

Stupid cast of True Blood. They sound like they’re from Alabama, not Louisiana. THERE IS A DIFFERENCE YOU KNOW.

-sigh-

The original point of all of this was pointing out the lack of celebrities and entertainment in this state, but with all things my brain decided it needed to rant. So back to my original point.

Neil Gaiman is doing a US Book Signing, the last one he’ll do. And guess what? I can’t go because there wasn’t enough of a demand.
I’ll never meet people like Jeaniene Frost, Laurell K. Hamilton, Tom Hiddleston, Matt Smith, Ville Valo etc.

I’ll never get to shake hands with Ozzy Osbourne.

And you know what? It sucks. All because I live in a backwoods little hick town.

Seriously. It sucks.

I know none of them will see this blog, and even if they did I’m sure this isn’t the first time they’ve heard this from a fan. But if I could meet these people face to face, I’d tell them simply this: You guys are a huge inspiration to me. I appreciate all the hard work and dedication that you do. You’ve all brought me out of a lot of hard, bad places, and you’ve made me realize that it’s okay to be different. Keep doing what you do, and I’ll keep loving you.

Now THAT is out of the way…What do you guys think of where you live? Is it better or worse?

Oh, and as a side note, I’ve been watching the views to see just how many people visit my blog, and I must say thank you to each and every one of you. I have to ask, though….Why am I so popular in Canada? AllTimeViews

Not that I’m complaining, of course. Just curious!