I've now spent three days reading, reviewing, and writing for my book. I'm exhausted. It doesn't take very many hours of that kind of work to knock the wind right out of me.
It's such heavy-duty content. Everything is so painfully honest. It's all so awfully true. It'll take a miracle to make me forget about this long enough to sleep.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
not right now hon, I have a headache
This weekend is all about writing. Not writing here though. Writing for a book. I'm trying to string together the high points of my life. High. Points. Very high and very pointy.
So I might post a few gripes about writing over here, or over on Twitter, but there probably won't be much going on substantive. So have a good weekend.
So I might post a few gripes about writing over here, or over on Twitter, but there probably won't be much going on substantive. So have a good weekend.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Like Wildfire
Usually when I'm writhing and screaming and squirting and being accused of being evil, I am not the one who leaves the encounter obsessed and distracted.
Oh, but I am.
So wet, and so distracted all night, and when I woke. So distracted that I woke up and had a huge craving for help rope. So distracted that I don't now how my pants will make it through the day, or how my attention will be kept long enough during meetings.
I have this much arrousal capacity. And it's spreading, like wildfire.
Oh, but I am.
So wet, and so distracted all night, and when I woke. So distracted that I woke up and had a huge craving for help rope. So distracted that I don't now how my pants will make it through the day, or how my attention will be kept long enough during meetings.
I have this much arrousal capacity. And it's spreading, like wildfire.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Just think about it, it's funny
98% Of Babies Manic-Depressive
NEW YORK—A new study published in The Journal Of Pediatric Medicine found that a shocking 98 percent of all infants suffer from bipolar disorder. "The majority of our subjects, regardless of size, sex, or race, exhibited extreme mood swings, often crying one minute and then giggling playfully the next," the study's author Dr. Steven Gregory told reporters. "Additionally we found that most babies had trouble concentrating during the day, often struggled to sleep at night, and could not be counted on to take care of themselves—all classic symptoms of manic depression." Gregory added that nearly 100 percent of infants appear to suffer from the poor motor skills and impaired speech associated with Parkinson's disease.From the Onion
Curt
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The Iching is Making Me Even Crazier
So I have a rash, which is to say that I have a rash on five different parts of my body; right and left inner thigh, right lower leg, under the right breast, and on the inside of the left elbow. There are actually two distinct flavor of rashes (like to please everyone, I do). There is a horrible reoccurring red, raised, painful, unbelievably itchy rash on my lower leg that they insist they can't get rid of but that I just treat with ever-stronger steroidal cream.
Sylvia's Son
If Sylvia Plath wasn't depressing enough for you, you can ready about the rest of her family.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Google asks, and I answer
Someone just searched the following string and got my blog:
Is the use of crops in riding cruel?Depends on who you're riding. I wouldn't know about riding horses, but for riding lovers, it's entirely enjoyable and highly recommended.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Ambien CR vs. Lunesta
* Note that the following is the opinion of a crazy person and not a doctor. I advise you check with a professional before considering any medications.
Normally I take Lunesta for sleep. Been doing it for years. It most closely resembles Zopiclone, in Canada, which I was familiar with from when I lived there. I actually preferring Zopicone for its lack of hangover but for whatever reason, it isn't available in the US.
Lunesta is a fast acting sleep inducer with a short half-life meaning that it should get you to sleep, but likely won't keep you asleep. The good news about this is that it will tend to produce fewer hangover effects, however, if you problem is waking up at 3 am, it might not help you too much.
No matter what the commercials tell you, Lunesta is entirely addictive. You have to take more and more of it to get the same effect, which, in my book, means it's addictive. If you stop taking it, you will have trouble sleeping while your body attempts to adjust to no longer having it to lean on. This isn't considered a "dangerous" addiction, but it's there, don't fool yourself into thinking it isn't. You can try to prevent this effect by very slowly tapering down the dose you use for sleep and only using more when you truly cannot sleep. It takes effort and discipline on your part, but it can be done. (Not that your doctor will ever tell you any of that. Doctors rather suck that way.)
Ambien CR, on the other hand is a controlled release medication (theoretically) where some medication is release to put you to sleep and then more medication is release throughout the sleep cycle to keep you asleep. My doctor said that few people find it to actually work that way. People who tend to wake up at 3 am still wake up at 3 am on it, and personally, I don't think it's as good as inducing sleep initially either. I assume Ambien has the same addictive properties as Lunesta, but I haven't tried it long enough to find out. Ambien has a longer half-life (naturally) which means there is greater chance of a hangover in the morning.
When I wake up from Lunesta, even fairly large dosages, I don't find it causes any appreciable hangover symptoms. It has the odd side-effect of leaving this horrible, bitter taste in my mouth when I wake, but other than that it seems to be hangover-free. That is a wonderous property in a sleep medication, but of course, your experience may differ.
Ambien, on the other hand, definitely results in a hangover. It effects balance, cognition speeds, reaction time, and just generally makes you feel like you still having a sleeping pill in your brain. It's not terrible, but operating a motor vehicle right after waking might not be advisable.
My choice, not surprisingly, is Lunesta, although for anyone using whatever works makes the most sense. Other than being warey of its addictive properties, it seems to be a fairly innocuous medicaiton, again, something I almost never say. I'd definitely say try it first, if you're shopping around.
Note that while these two meds are specifically for sleep, doctors will sometimes perscribe antidepressants, mood stabilizers, or other medications to help with sleep. Personally, I never enjoyed that much as that seems to cause more interaction with the medications you're already taking. Your doctor might be hoping the medication will aid in fighting depression, or stabilizing your mood, but I never found these meds to act as such. Generally, if it was likely to work for your mood, they would have put you on it in the first place.
Normally I take Lunesta for sleep. Been doing it for years. It most closely resembles Zopiclone, in Canada, which I was familiar with from when I lived there. I actually preferring Zopicone for its lack of hangover but for whatever reason, it isn't available in the US.
Lunesta is a fast acting sleep inducer with a short half-life meaning that it should get you to sleep, but likely won't keep you asleep. The good news about this is that it will tend to produce fewer hangover effects, however, if you problem is waking up at 3 am, it might not help you too much.
No matter what the commercials tell you, Lunesta is entirely addictive. You have to take more and more of it to get the same effect, which, in my book, means it's addictive. If you stop taking it, you will have trouble sleeping while your body attempts to adjust to no longer having it to lean on. This isn't considered a "dangerous" addiction, but it's there, don't fool yourself into thinking it isn't. You can try to prevent this effect by very slowly tapering down the dose you use for sleep and only using more when you truly cannot sleep. It takes effort and discipline on your part, but it can be done. (Not that your doctor will ever tell you any of that. Doctors rather suck that way.)
Ambien CR, on the other hand is a controlled release medication (theoretically) where some medication is release to put you to sleep and then more medication is release throughout the sleep cycle to keep you asleep. My doctor said that few people find it to actually work that way. People who tend to wake up at 3 am still wake up at 3 am on it, and personally, I don't think it's as good as inducing sleep initially either. I assume Ambien has the same addictive properties as Lunesta, but I haven't tried it long enough to find out. Ambien has a longer half-life (naturally) which means there is greater chance of a hangover in the morning.
When I wake up from Lunesta, even fairly large dosages, I don't find it causes any appreciable hangover symptoms. It has the odd side-effect of leaving this horrible, bitter taste in my mouth when I wake, but other than that it seems to be hangover-free. That is a wonderous property in a sleep medication, but of course, your experience may differ.
Ambien, on the other hand, definitely results in a hangover. It effects balance, cognition speeds, reaction time, and just generally makes you feel like you still having a sleeping pill in your brain. It's not terrible, but operating a motor vehicle right after waking might not be advisable.
My choice, not surprisingly, is Lunesta, although for anyone using whatever works makes the most sense. Other than being warey of its addictive properties, it seems to be a fairly innocuous medicaiton, again, something I almost never say. I'd definitely say try it first, if you're shopping around.
Note that while these two meds are specifically for sleep, doctors will sometimes perscribe antidepressants, mood stabilizers, or other medications to help with sleep. Personally, I never enjoyed that much as that seems to cause more interaction with the medications you're already taking. Your doctor might be hoping the medication will aid in fighting depression, or stabilizing your mood, but I never found these meds to act as such. Generally, if it was likely to work for your mood, they would have put you on it in the first place.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
To Sooth the Broken Soul
I went for a walk in the park. A walked a mile around people exercising, or walking their dog, or walking their children. I though, as always, was walking my problem.
When I walk I try to find some reality in my surroundings. I know them every well, after all the walks I have had in that park. I know the JC Penny sign on the far side of the park, I know all the benches, I know all the mini waterfalls, I know all the sculptures, I know all the trees, I know every inch that is there. It is reassuring going to a place where you always go and seeing that it is still the same. It’s grounded regardless of my state. It lives. It breathes. It survives.
And I knew that when I came home I would hurt myself. The more I walked the more I knew it. I couldn’t stop myself from knowing it. I couldn’t stop it from being so obvious to me. I couldn’t stop the drive that kept growing. I couldn’t stop the thought of the burning.
I sat on a concrete barrier which for some reason is a spot the hedges refuse to cover. I put my latte down beside me and looked at my white shoes at the end of my jean covered legs. I placed my hands on either side of me, closed my eyes, and started lightly kicking one leg and then the other in time with the steps of the people walking by. People having amazingly similar rhythms to their walk. Step, step, step. Friends, and parents, and the young, and the old. All the same. All driving the regularity and rhythm of my lightly kicking legs.
We call this self-soothing behavior to repeat the same action over and over again, like meditation through slight action. It might stop me from crying, or stop me from screaming, but it doesn’t stop the pain from washing over me. In my self-soothing rhythm the waves find me anyway. My mind is thinking of the rhythm but my brain is awash in misfirings. I breathe deeply. Yoga breath. They say yoga breath calms through the increase in oxygen and because it activates the vagus nerve. It sort of does I guess, but it doesn’t alter the knowledge of what was to come. Nothing erases that inevitability.
When I walk I try to find some reality in my surroundings. I know them every well, after all the walks I have had in that park. I know the JC Penny sign on the far side of the park, I know all the benches, I know all the mini waterfalls, I know all the sculptures, I know all the trees, I know every inch that is there. It is reassuring going to a place where you always go and seeing that it is still the same. It’s grounded regardless of my state. It lives. It breathes. It survives.
And I knew that when I came home I would hurt myself. The more I walked the more I knew it. I couldn’t stop myself from knowing it. I couldn’t stop it from being so obvious to me. I couldn’t stop the drive that kept growing. I couldn’t stop the thought of the burning.
I sat on a concrete barrier which for some reason is a spot the hedges refuse to cover. I put my latte down beside me and looked at my white shoes at the end of my jean covered legs. I placed my hands on either side of me, closed my eyes, and started lightly kicking one leg and then the other in time with the steps of the people walking by. People having amazingly similar rhythms to their walk. Step, step, step. Friends, and parents, and the young, and the old. All the same. All driving the regularity and rhythm of my lightly kicking legs.
We call this self-soothing behavior to repeat the same action over and over again, like meditation through slight action. It might stop me from crying, or stop me from screaming, but it doesn’t stop the pain from washing over me. In my self-soothing rhythm the waves find me anyway. My mind is thinking of the rhythm but my brain is awash in misfirings. I breathe deeply. Yoga breath. They say yoga breath calms through the increase in oxygen and because it activates the vagus nerve. It sort of does I guess, but it doesn’t alter the knowledge of what was to come. Nothing erases that inevitability.
Deservedly Exsistent
One day, a few years ago, I sliced my leg with a razor blade, which was the custom, at the time.
What people do not understand about cutting is that it doesn’t involve one cut. It involves cuts in the same place over and over making the wound gape wider and wider. The cut gets lengthened which not only gapes the wound but is even more painful as the largest bundles of nerves are near the surface of the skin. The cutting takes a while. It has to be drawn out, with more pain and suffering, to prove the strength of your resolve. To prove that you deserve the pain. To prove that you deserve what comes next.
After Cutting Myself
And so, one day, a few years ago, I did that. I cut long and I cut deep to show the universe that I was deserving of the action. Once completed, I bandaged it up with the typical wound tape and then eventually went to sleep. But in the middle of the night I woke, and the wound was hurting a lot. I thought I had injured myself. I thought I had done something wrong, and I was scared. This was probably more of a panic attack than anything else. Nevertheless, I called my friend, in the middle of the night, and because she is a wonderful person, she went with me to the ER.
Screaming in the ER
We sat there waiting, at 3 o’clock in the morning; waiting to be seen by a doctor for hours. We weren’t emergent. We weren’t important. When eventually I did see a doctor she said that I was fine and then sat me on a bench in the ER. And behind a curtain, a woman screamed. As I sat for what seemed like a lifetime I heard the girl in agony. She would scream, and then she would stop for a few minutes. I wondered if she had passed out from the pain; and then her screaming would start again. The spaces between her screams became shorter and shorter until there were only screams. People kept disappearing and reappearing from behind her curtain only to allow the screaming to continue. All I could think about, sitting there ignored on a bench, is why didn’t someone stop her pain? Why didn’t someone help her? Why didn’t someone stop her screaming?
No One Cares About Self-Harm
When eventually a doctor did see me to dress my wound she couldn’t have cared less about it. Not a question was asked of me. No one cared that it was self-inflicted and no one asked me if I would do it again. No one cared that I was in enough pain to harm myself. No one even tried to stop my screaming.
When you are in pain, and know that you are going to harm yourself, people tell you to get help. People tell you to contact a professional. Reach out. Do something to stop the cycle.
But professionals just don’t care about the screaming. You are not their problem. Your blood never seems to get on their hands. Their indifference can even harm you, which doesn't effect them either. Even the screaming woman, behind the curtain, didn't seem to glance their hearts. She must have done something terrible, to ensure that they didn't try to help her.
Fear of Those Who Self-Harm
Professionals are in the business of saving lives, but maybe by committing this self-harming act your are proving or convincing them that you are not worth saving. Which feeds into the biggest nightmare; that someday, everyone will figure out that I am not worth saving. That someday, every single person I know will no longer try.
What people do not understand about cutting is that it doesn’t involve one cut. It involves cuts in the same place over and over making the wound gape wider and wider. The cut gets lengthened which not only gapes the wound but is even more painful as the largest bundles of nerves are near the surface of the skin. The cutting takes a while. It has to be drawn out, with more pain and suffering, to prove the strength of your resolve. To prove that you deserve the pain. To prove that you deserve what comes next.
After Cutting Myself
And so, one day, a few years ago, I did that. I cut long and I cut deep to show the universe that I was deserving of the action. Once completed, I bandaged it up with the typical wound tape and then eventually went to sleep. But in the middle of the night I woke, and the wound was hurting a lot. I thought I had injured myself. I thought I had done something wrong, and I was scared. This was probably more of a panic attack than anything else. Nevertheless, I called my friend, in the middle of the night, and because she is a wonderful person, she went with me to the ER.
Screaming in the ER
We sat there waiting, at 3 o’clock in the morning; waiting to be seen by a doctor for hours. We weren’t emergent. We weren’t important. When eventually I did see a doctor she said that I was fine and then sat me on a bench in the ER. And behind a curtain, a woman screamed. As I sat for what seemed like a lifetime I heard the girl in agony. She would scream, and then she would stop for a few minutes. I wondered if she had passed out from the pain; and then her screaming would start again. The spaces between her screams became shorter and shorter until there were only screams. People kept disappearing and reappearing from behind her curtain only to allow the screaming to continue. All I could think about, sitting there ignored on a bench, is why didn’t someone stop her pain? Why didn’t someone help her? Why didn’t someone stop her screaming?
No One Cares About Self-Harm
When eventually a doctor did see me to dress my wound she couldn’t have cared less about it. Not a question was asked of me. No one cared that it was self-inflicted and no one asked me if I would do it again. No one cared that I was in enough pain to harm myself. No one even tried to stop my screaming.
When you are in pain, and know that you are going to harm yourself, people tell you to get help. People tell you to contact a professional. Reach out. Do something to stop the cycle.
But professionals just don’t care about the screaming. You are not their problem. Your blood never seems to get on their hands. Their indifference can even harm you, which doesn't effect them either. Even the screaming woman, behind the curtain, didn't seem to glance their hearts. She must have done something terrible, to ensure that they didn't try to help her.
Fear of Those Who Self-Harm
Professionals are in the business of saving lives, but maybe by committing this self-harming act your are proving or convincing them that you are not worth saving. Which feeds into the biggest nightmare; that someday, everyone will figure out that I am not worth saving. That someday, every single person I know will no longer try.
always with the trying
I have a high degree of anxiety this morning. I think it has been sitting still for three days. I feel so useless. Nothing has gotten done and I feel bad about it. Anxious about it. A Buddhist on TV just said that the past is regret and the future is anxiety so there is no choice but to live in the present. I don't think I've ever heard anyone put it so succinctly, and admittedly, I rarely regret the past, but still, it's true. Although this guy clearly doesn't have a mood disorder.
Anxiety seems to flood me from a faucet in my brain. The chemicals wash over me causing anxiety in the present. Anxiety without cause or cure. Moods are almost always without cause or cure. I feel terrible because I feel terrible because I feel terrible.
I think I'm going to try to do some writing for the book today. There is something in particular that I want written and expressed. I think a beginning. A beginning is hard but because I think I have an ending in mind the beginning is the question answered in the end. It's hard to pull together a life story, or part of a life story, that has no happy ending. You need to provide the reader with a payoff. No payoff no reason to read. No payoff, no fulfillment, satisfaction. Yes, the book is about me, but I do have to think about the reader. The whole process of editing about the reader. Damn reader. So demanding. (Technically, editors, so demanding.)
Anxiety leads to self-harm. It does. It really does. I always have to try and not let mine lead to self-harm. There's so much trying. Too much trying. Life is too trying. I just want to wake up one day and just breathe, without effort. Just feel, OK. Happy. Satisfied. Feel in a way that I don't have to try to control every minute of the day. Feel in a way that I don't have to be careful of, watch, and analyze and protect myself from it getting out of control. The sickest thing, from me being sick, is that I don't get to experience this. I hate everyone who has that advantage.
Anxiety seems to flood me from a faucet in my brain. The chemicals wash over me causing anxiety in the present. Anxiety without cause or cure. Moods are almost always without cause or cure. I feel terrible because I feel terrible because I feel terrible.
I think I'm going to try to do some writing for the book today. There is something in particular that I want written and expressed. I think a beginning. A beginning is hard but because I think I have an ending in mind the beginning is the question answered in the end. It's hard to pull together a life story, or part of a life story, that has no happy ending. You need to provide the reader with a payoff. No payoff no reason to read. No payoff, no fulfillment, satisfaction. Yes, the book is about me, but I do have to think about the reader. The whole process of editing about the reader. Damn reader. So demanding. (Technically, editors, so demanding.)
Anxiety leads to self-harm. It does. It really does. I always have to try and not let mine lead to self-harm. There's so much trying. Too much trying. Life is too trying. I just want to wake up one day and just breathe, without effort. Just feel, OK. Happy. Satisfied. Feel in a way that I don't have to try to control every minute of the day. Feel in a way that I don't have to be careful of, watch, and analyze and protect myself from it getting out of control. The sickest thing, from me being sick, is that I don't get to experience this. I hate everyone who has that advantage.
Friday, March 20, 2009
It's so painfully frigid (emphasis on the pain)
"You can't see your own beauty."
It's true, I can't. Occasionally in just the right light, in a certain pose, out of the corner of my eye, I see something that would pass for beautiful. That's really as close as I get though. I have empirical evidence suggesting I am beautiful, but my eyes, well, they seem to have a blind spot.
(My friend argues this point and says I'm bullshitting, but honestly, generally what he sees is me weaving together the thoughts of others and espousing them to others. Generally it's not because of anything I, personally, believe.)
Similarly, I can't feel that I'm loved. I am, I'm aware of it. People say it to me, but it just doesn't stick. People can even prove it to me and I can't believe them. I just can't. I'm unlovable. I know it. I know it in the deepest part of my soul. I know logically that I know great people, some of whom even love me, but I don't believe it. I just don't.
It could be because I never had a serious foundation of love when I can a child. I think my parents did love me, but at some point I became convinced that they no longer did. It's easy to love a child all cute with innocent eyes and bouncy curls, but difficult to love a troubled teen who harmed herself and considered suicide. (Of course the lack of love may have caused that girl, but it's really a chicken and egg problem.)
It could also just be the depression itself. Depression makes you feel unlovable. It makes you feel like no one cares about you. It makes you not care about you. I am so devastatingly unhappy no one could ever love me, and I could never feel that love.
I see couples everyday walking hand-in-hand smiling. They want to be next to each other. They enjoy each other's company. It's so easy for them. The just breathe as if it's the simplest thing in the world. Yup, I'm with my love, or my lover, or my dear friend, just like I should be. They don't know that I can't do that. They don't know of the stone-hearted-icy-cold hand that is always in mine. It makes me remember everyday that I can never, ever have a love standing beside me. There is no room.
I wonder if when people come near to me they sense this frigid shadow. No one can place it or explain it, but they just psychicly know it's there.
I know people love me but all I feel is ordinary, replacable, useless, unimportant, and uncared-for. It's not right, it doesn't agree with reality but it doesn't matter. My head won't let me feel anything else.
It's true, I can't. Occasionally in just the right light, in a certain pose, out of the corner of my eye, I see something that would pass for beautiful. That's really as close as I get though. I have empirical evidence suggesting I am beautiful, but my eyes, well, they seem to have a blind spot.
(My friend argues this point and says I'm bullshitting, but honestly, generally what he sees is me weaving together the thoughts of others and espousing them to others. Generally it's not because of anything I, personally, believe.)
Similarly, I can't feel that I'm loved. I am, I'm aware of it. People say it to me, but it just doesn't stick. People can even prove it to me and I can't believe them. I just can't. I'm unlovable. I know it. I know it in the deepest part of my soul. I know logically that I know great people, some of whom even love me, but I don't believe it. I just don't.
It could be because I never had a serious foundation of love when I can a child. I think my parents did love me, but at some point I became convinced that they no longer did. It's easy to love a child all cute with innocent eyes and bouncy curls, but difficult to love a troubled teen who harmed herself and considered suicide. (Of course the lack of love may have caused that girl, but it's really a chicken and egg problem.)
It could also just be the depression itself. Depression makes you feel unlovable. It makes you feel like no one cares about you. It makes you not care about you. I am so devastatingly unhappy no one could ever love me, and I could never feel that love.
I see couples everyday walking hand-in-hand smiling. They want to be next to each other. They enjoy each other's company. It's so easy for them. The just breathe as if it's the simplest thing in the world. Yup, I'm with my love, or my lover, or my dear friend, just like I should be. They don't know that I can't do that. They don't know of the stone-hearted-icy-cold hand that is always in mine. It makes me remember everyday that I can never, ever have a love standing beside me. There is no room.
I wonder if when people come near to me they sense this frigid shadow. No one can place it or explain it, but they just psychicly know it's there.
I know people love me but all I feel is ordinary, replacable, useless, unimportant, and uncared-for. It's not right, it doesn't agree with reality but it doesn't matter. My head won't let me feel anything else.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Word of the Day
Word of the Day for Thursday, March 19, 2009
florid \FLOR-id\, adjective:
1. Flushed with red; of a lively reddish color.
2. Excessively ornate; flowery; as, "a florid style; florid eloquence."The Reverend Mr Kidney is a short round bowlegged man with black muttonchop whiskers and a florid face, like a pomegranate, into which he has poured a great quantity of brandy and lesser amounts of whisky and claret.
-- Tom Gilling, The SooterkinEven though avant-garde attacks on the Victorian bourgeoisie were florid in rhetoric, deficient in evidence, and malicious in intent, it does not follow that they had no objective grounds.
-- Peter Gay, Pleasure Wars: The Bourgeois ExperienceMany were florid and overweight, too bulkily dressed and perspiring freely.
-- Robert Stone, Damascus GateThe journalist Frank Crane would later glorify the . . . factory in florid prose as "a sermon in steel and glass," a "Temple of Work" in which machinery rather than an organ provided the music and the choir "was the glad laughter of happy workers."
-- RolandMarchand, Creating the Corporate SoulFlorid comes from Latin floridus, "flowery," from flos, flor-, "flower."
I know at least two people who absolutely fit this description today. Hot, red, bothered, and wet.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
no one
I'm sure that the raindrops are hitting my windshield and then crawling up the glass. They seem to exist in a world without the physics of Earth. I'm transfixed by them even though I'm in a steel cage hurtling down a freeway at 70mph alongside other tons of metal just waiting to crush me. The raindrops are immediately more real than anything else happening around me.
The people around me serve to prove that I am not at all like them, not one of them. The white-haired woman beside me is writing postcards. She has someone to write to. She has some kind of human interaction she wishes to initiate. She has a connection with another person that she wants to keep. Her husband writes the last line of the postcards as if he wishes to take part in the connection, but not dirty his pen.
There is an animated redhead in the corner. She saw me watching her when she walked in but seemed to only notice my invisible shield. She was waiting for a real person; a man who looks too boring to be with her. She smiles with her lips and her eyes, and drinks from a bottle, and tilts her head and pauses pensively, and beams her every thought across the room. He taps his toe. He doesn't love her as much as she loves him. They are so normal they make my heart ache.
There are two women to the left of me working on a manuscript together; lots of writers below a bookstore. The woman in green is more animated than the older woman in blue, but they both are enjoying each other's company; sitting behind a glossy white Macbook and a stack of pencil-marked papers.
These and many more are enjoying their Sunday. They are working on projects, meeting with friends, studying for math tests, reading the new paperback they purchased upstairs; they are living the everyday. Those times that you don't notice, and you don't remark on, and you might not even remember.
But I remember. I am sitting while pain is being seared into my brain. I am sitting trying desperately to find words to describe that which I have lived and died before. But you can only write the words suicide, depression, and self-harm so many times before the words start to mean nothing at all.
And I know why it is so hard today. I know why it is that the suicide is deeper and blacker; it's because I remembered something yesterday.
All of the people around me have one thing in common, one thing they don't see, one thing they've forgotten after doing it so many times; they are using their weekend to recharge. They are using their friends and food and computers and art and bricks and silk curtains to recharge their batteries, and get them ready for the upcoming week.
I cannot do this. There is no one and nothing to comfort, or help, or love me through the uncomfortableness of the everyday. These people are soothing evening fights with morning lattes and sleepless nights with morning omelets and weekday stress with weekend chatter.
But there is never anyone there for me. Never anything that soothes me. Never anything that helps with the pain of breathing, here on Earth. And I have decades of this to look forward to. I have decades of watching redheads ignoring me, and watching other people in love, and listening to others laughter to look forward to. And I just don't think I can do it. I just don't think I can make it. I thought I was finding something or that the book would mean something, but of course Ill be exactly the same girl after, as I was before. There is no comfort in knowing that you're helping other people if you simply don't feel comfort. There is no pride in being published when you simply don't feel pride. There is no love for what you're doing if you simply don't feel love. I can't do an entire lifetime of this. I can't do another decade of this. I can't look into this future any longer and just think that it's going to be OK. I can't look into this reality anymore and think that anyone can help me. I can't breathe this air anymore and pretend that somewhere in it there is hope. It's been too long, it's been too much, the happiness of others is too oppressive. I want out I want drained I want bled I want eviscerated, and I want exsanguinated, I want gone.
No one should have to live like this.
The people around me serve to prove that I am not at all like them, not one of them. The white-haired woman beside me is writing postcards. She has someone to write to. She has some kind of human interaction she wishes to initiate. She has a connection with another person that she wants to keep. Her husband writes the last line of the postcards as if he wishes to take part in the connection, but not dirty his pen.
There is an animated redhead in the corner. She saw me watching her when she walked in but seemed to only notice my invisible shield. She was waiting for a real person; a man who looks too boring to be with her. She smiles with her lips and her eyes, and drinks from a bottle, and tilts her head and pauses pensively, and beams her every thought across the room. He taps his toe. He doesn't love her as much as she loves him. They are so normal they make my heart ache.
There are two women to the left of me working on a manuscript together; lots of writers below a bookstore. The woman in green is more animated than the older woman in blue, but they both are enjoying each other's company; sitting behind a glossy white Macbook and a stack of pencil-marked papers.
These and many more are enjoying their Sunday. They are working on projects, meeting with friends, studying for math tests, reading the new paperback they purchased upstairs; they are living the everyday. Those times that you don't notice, and you don't remark on, and you might not even remember.
But I remember. I am sitting while pain is being seared into my brain. I am sitting trying desperately to find words to describe that which I have lived and died before. But you can only write the words suicide, depression, and self-harm so many times before the words start to mean nothing at all.
And I know why it is so hard today. I know why it is that the suicide is deeper and blacker; it's because I remembered something yesterday.
All of the people around me have one thing in common, one thing they don't see, one thing they've forgotten after doing it so many times; they are using their weekend to recharge. They are using their friends and food and computers and art and bricks and silk curtains to recharge their batteries, and get them ready for the upcoming week.
I cannot do this. There is no one and nothing to comfort, or help, or love me through the uncomfortableness of the everyday. These people are soothing evening fights with morning lattes and sleepless nights with morning omelets and weekday stress with weekend chatter.
But there is never anyone there for me. Never anything that soothes me. Never anything that helps with the pain of breathing, here on Earth. And I have decades of this to look forward to. I have decades of watching redheads ignoring me, and watching other people in love, and listening to others laughter to look forward to. And I just don't think I can do it. I just don't think I can make it. I thought I was finding something or that the book would mean something, but of course Ill be exactly the same girl after, as I was before. There is no comfort in knowing that you're helping other people if you simply don't feel comfort. There is no pride in being published when you simply don't feel pride. There is no love for what you're doing if you simply don't feel love. I can't do an entire lifetime of this. I can't do another decade of this. I can't look into this future any longer and just think that it's going to be OK. I can't look into this reality anymore and think that anyone can help me. I can't breathe this air anymore and pretend that somewhere in it there is hope. It's been too long, it's been too much, the happiness of others is too oppressive. I want out I want drained I want bled I want eviscerated, and I want exsanguinated, I want gone.
No one should have to live like this.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
just for you
incisive \in-SAHY-siv\, adjective:
1. penetrating; cutting; biting; trenchant
2. remarkably clear and direct; sharp; keen; acute
3. adapted for cutting or piercing
4. of or pertaining to the incisorsby 1528, from Latinincisivus, from incis-/incidere "to cut into"
I don't recommend trying this at home. Unless you're in my home, with a bucher's knife in you hand, and then maybe, you'll get lucky.
After the Battle
I spent the last three days working on my book. My memoir, we're calling it. That makes it sound like I have something important to say, but I'm not sure that it's important, only that I'm saying it.
It was like a 48-hour orgy. One week of extreme anticipation followed by 48-hours so intense they would burn your alive. I knew it would be hard. I didn't understand what herd meant. Hard doesn't describe it. Hard is a brick wall. This is like your heart hitting a brick wall. The jagged, rough mortar and brick tearing into the organ that keeps you alive.
It's my story. The story of me. But I don't know that I like or want the story of me. The story of me is spat here all the time and then I never see it again. I forget about the little pains here and there. I block all the memories of tears and burns and blades. I forget all the devastating ways I describe my devastation. I forget how good I am at it. I forget that only stones could see them and not be devastated. It's the fact that I am such a good writer that tears me apart. If only I were mediocre and flaccid and anemic. If only I couldn't write in multi-dimensional, technicolor, full-body blows. But I can, and it's horrific.
I cope so well, I hide so well, I cover so well, I can't always see that I'm doing it. I know I'm hurting, I know I'm overflowing, I can't feel it, and I don't believe it, and I refuse to admit it. I know it's hard, I can say it's hard but feeling the difficulty would be so weak that I can't do it.
My brain hurts. The neurons hurt. All the chemicals are so badly mismanaged.The only thing still working are my tear ducts.
It was like a 48-hour orgy. One week of extreme anticipation followed by 48-hours so intense they would burn your alive. I knew it would be hard. I didn't understand what herd meant. Hard doesn't describe it. Hard is a brick wall. This is like your heart hitting a brick wall. The jagged, rough mortar and brick tearing into the organ that keeps you alive.
It's my story. The story of me. But I don't know that I like or want the story of me. The story of me is spat here all the time and then I never see it again. I forget about the little pains here and there. I block all the memories of tears and burns and blades. I forget all the devastating ways I describe my devastation. I forget how good I am at it. I forget that only stones could see them and not be devastated. It's the fact that I am such a good writer that tears me apart. If only I were mediocre and flaccid and anemic. If only I couldn't write in multi-dimensional, technicolor, full-body blows. But I can, and it's horrific.
I cope so well, I hide so well, I cover so well, I can't always see that I'm doing it. I know I'm hurting, I know I'm overflowing, I can't feel it, and I don't believe it, and I refuse to admit it. I know it's hard, I can say it's hard but feeling the difficulty would be so weak that I can't do it.
My brain hurts. The neurons hurt. All the chemicals are so badly mismanaged.The only thing still working are my tear ducts.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Zzzzz (I wish)
I'm so tired. So, so, so, so tired. I think I'm not seeing straight I'm so tired.
I'm getting to sleep, and then sort of staying that way in the morning, but I'm waking up and I feel like I haven't slept at all. It feels like my body weighs 1000 pounds. The lack of sleep is causing a headache, I think. It has been weeks since I have had a decent sleep.
I also think I'm having occasional aural and visual hallucinations. I suspect it's just due to extreme tiredness. Very specific aural hallucinations. I could have sworn that a woman's voice was talking to me, but I know no one was there. And I'm not seeing flying pink elephants or anything but I'm seeing colours and shapes that aren't there. Very odd.
I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm going try some Ambien CR rather than the Lunesta and see if that helps but my doctor (GP) doesn't seem very hopeful. She says people who have trouble sleeping through the night just don't find any of the treatments successful. Apparently it's typical to get to sleep but then wake up part way through the night. For me, sometime I remember waking up in the middle of the night, and sometimes I don't always remember waking up, but I do know that it feels like no sleep is taking place.
It seems like having one glass of wine before bed helps. Normally I would never suggest this as a sleeping technique but it seems to work a little. (That's one glass of wine, not getting drunk, to be clear.)
I know napping is supposed to be bad for your rthym, but I just don't know what elese to do at this point.
I'm getting to sleep, and then sort of staying that way in the morning, but I'm waking up and I feel like I haven't slept at all. It feels like my body weighs 1000 pounds. The lack of sleep is causing a headache, I think. It has been weeks since I have had a decent sleep.
I also think I'm having occasional aural and visual hallucinations. I suspect it's just due to extreme tiredness. Very specific aural hallucinations. I could have sworn that a woman's voice was talking to me, but I know no one was there. And I'm not seeing flying pink elephants or anything but I'm seeing colours and shapes that aren't there. Very odd.
I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm going try some Ambien CR rather than the Lunesta and see if that helps but my doctor (GP) doesn't seem very hopeful. She says people who have trouble sleeping through the night just don't find any of the treatments successful. Apparently it's typical to get to sleep but then wake up part way through the night. For me, sometime I remember waking up in the middle of the night, and sometimes I don't always remember waking up, but I do know that it feels like no sleep is taking place.
It seems like having one glass of wine before bed helps. Normally I would never suggest this as a sleeping technique but it seems to work a little. (That's one glass of wine, not getting drunk, to be clear.)
I know napping is supposed to be bad for your rthym, but I just don't know what elese to do at this point.
Saturday, March 07, 2009
Do You Like Beets?
When I was young, I didn't ever dye my hair, or do a lot of self-expression. There were two reasons for this; first, I just didn't push at the boundaries as I had a lot of other things to worry about; and two, my mother really just didn't want anything to jiggle her teetering world.
So when I was around 19, I started on a hair dye binge. I've been blue, and purple, and blond, and teal, and pink, and pretty much anything else you can imagine. At the moment, it's shades of red.
Most of all these hair alterations were done in the privacy of my own apartment. It was just too expensive to go to the salon, so I'd use all sorts of stuff to alter my hair myself.
But then, at some point, I decided that I'm an adult, with a good job, I'm not going to dye my own hair anymore. It's messy, error-prone, and just basically, annoying.
But right now, I'm doing red, and as anyone will tell you, red is the biggest bitch of a colour to keep looking half-decent. It fades like none other. You need to be in the salon every four weeks to really make it work. So my stylist suggested doing a home treatment in between salon visits to cut down on the cost.
And today, I stupidly decided to take her advice. This might actually go down as one of the worst ideas I've ever had.
Oh my god. I'm pretty sure more of my skin than my hair has been stained fuchsia. Fuchsia. I look like a beet. I've managed to break a glass, and my soap dish and I've been paranoid as hell to make sure nothing is stained by any spilled dye. It'll stain pretty much anything including my face, neck, shoulders, hands, and back. Oh, and yes, I did have vinyl gloves on.
And I haven't even had to try to wash it out yet.
OK, seriously, I have learned my lesson. Never again. Hair dye is for salons only.
So when I was around 19, I started on a hair dye binge. I've been blue, and purple, and blond, and teal, and pink, and pretty much anything else you can imagine. At the moment, it's shades of red.
Most of all these hair alterations were done in the privacy of my own apartment. It was just too expensive to go to the salon, so I'd use all sorts of stuff to alter my hair myself.
But then, at some point, I decided that I'm an adult, with a good job, I'm not going to dye my own hair anymore. It's messy, error-prone, and just basically, annoying.
But right now, I'm doing red, and as anyone will tell you, red is the biggest bitch of a colour to keep looking half-decent. It fades like none other. You need to be in the salon every four weeks to really make it work. So my stylist suggested doing a home treatment in between salon visits to cut down on the cost.
And today, I stupidly decided to take her advice. This might actually go down as one of the worst ideas I've ever had.
Oh my god. I'm pretty sure more of my skin than my hair has been stained fuchsia. Fuchsia. I look like a beet. I've managed to break a glass, and my soap dish and I've been paranoid as hell to make sure nothing is stained by any spilled dye. It'll stain pretty much anything including my face, neck, shoulders, hands, and back. Oh, and yes, I did have vinyl gloves on.
And I haven't even had to try to wash it out yet.
OK, seriously, I have learned my lesson. Never again. Hair dye is for salons only.
And four...
When you left there were sweat droplets forming on the small of my back. I laid back, with eyes closed, in the glow, while the cold air from my open bedroom window washed over me. I stayed there until my flesh had cooled and my nipples hardened. And then again, I screamed, in training, indeed with the help of my friend (who's actually purple).
And now the only thing left to do it seems, is hydrate.
And now the only thing left to do it seems, is hydrate.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Mood Beats
My creative coach says that my story is that of success in spite of a perception of failure. I espouse the impossibility of my existence and then continue to exist anyway. I keep saying that I'm going to die, and then I don't. I'm the bipolar that cried wolf.
This dissection might be true, but somehow it has removed some of the magic. Saying it out loud sounds trite, I think. An overwrought, whiny, petulant, predictable, unaware crier is really the last thing that I want to be. (Now, an overwrought, whiny, petulant, predictable, unaware screamer might be acceptable.)
He's very generous about it and makes me sound minorly heroic. He's not being derogatory, I am; shocking though that may be.
I'm cycling really badly and it's only on parts of the cycle that I think this whole book thing is a good idea. Some parts of the cycle all I can do it just cry. Like now. I'm trying to make it through these little impossible times and hold on to the idea that I'm good enough to do this. That's really difficult. Blog posts are one thing because it's my playground, and as bad as I might be, this is the internet, and nobody really cares. Even really bad, let's face it, I'm better than a teenager who insists on talking about the Gossip Girl storyline du jour.
But a book. Did you know those things sit in libraries and bookstores? And people actually really read them and review them and stuff? I don't know that I'm up for all that. I thought I was, and then I wasn't, and then I was, and then I wasn't. Therein lays the cycling, obviously. And what I do know about that is that it's tiring. Focusing is tiring. Attempting an accomplishment is tiring. I have such a nice bed now. Why can't I just lay there all day long?
I know why. I know that I won't let myself, and that's why. I know that has always been the reason. I know the reason why I have a story is because I forced myself to write it. But he's right, I despise and resent it the whole time.
This dissection might be true, but somehow it has removed some of the magic. Saying it out loud sounds trite, I think. An overwrought, whiny, petulant, predictable, unaware crier is really the last thing that I want to be. (Now, an overwrought, whiny, petulant, predictable, unaware screamer might be acceptable.)
He's very generous about it and makes me sound minorly heroic. He's not being derogatory, I am; shocking though that may be.
I'm cycling really badly and it's only on parts of the cycle that I think this whole book thing is a good idea. Some parts of the cycle all I can do it just cry. Like now. I'm trying to make it through these little impossible times and hold on to the idea that I'm good enough to do this. That's really difficult. Blog posts are one thing because it's my playground, and as bad as I might be, this is the internet, and nobody really cares. Even really bad, let's face it, I'm better than a teenager who insists on talking about the Gossip Girl storyline du jour.
But a book. Did you know those things sit in libraries and bookstores? And people actually really read them and review them and stuff? I don't know that I'm up for all that. I thought I was, and then I wasn't, and then I was, and then I wasn't. Therein lays the cycling, obviously. And what I do know about that is that it's tiring. Focusing is tiring. Attempting an accomplishment is tiring. I have such a nice bed now. Why can't I just lay there all day long?
I know why. I know that I won't let myself, and that's why. I know that has always been the reason. I know the reason why I have a story is because I forced myself to write it. But he's right, I despise and resent it the whole time.
Monday, March 02, 2009
Multi-Variable Brainculous
I've been manic for what seems like, forever, but in real-person time is probably around a week. This is great in that I've cleaned up a lot of clutter, and mess, and got motivated to get gorgeous sheets, and cleaned the kitchen to a sparkling shine, but isn't so great in that it feels like I haven't slept in that week. The mania has really overtaken my night times. Sleeping meds get me to sleep, but then I'm awake at 5am feeling like I haven't slept at all. It's a very odd to be yawning nonstop and yet be manic and frantic and jiggling and twitching. It's a horrible discord in the body and the psyche. Nothing seems to make sense because nothing is congruent. And why does my hard drive have to scribble so annoyingly?
I've taken some Xanax but honestly, it doesn't seem to be doing much. I think I'm going to have to triple to dose, try to veg, and then hope for sleep. I need sleep. I'm going crazy without it. I know that sounds redundant, but it isn't. Removal of sleep actually adds a variable that is very difficult to predict. It just scibbles over an already tossled brain. It is not helping the situation.
I've taken some Xanax but honestly, it doesn't seem to be doing much. I think I'm going to have to triple to dose, try to veg, and then hope for sleep. I need sleep. I'm going crazy without it. I know that sounds redundant, but it isn't. Removal of sleep actually adds a variable that is very difficult to predict. It just scibbles over an already tossled brain. It is not helping the situation.
Sunday, March 01, 2009
My Specialty
I'm exhausted. It's from the mania. I've done more in the last week than I have done in the last month. We're not talking about scaling icy peaks or cleaning the shower or anything, but lots, nonetheless.
I'm trying to use all this excess energy to my advantage. I'm trying to write, and plan, and clean, and sort, and purge. I've had some success with this when I can harness all the random thoughts long enough to actually accomplish something. The multitasking is extreme as I make one movement for one thought, and one task, and then one for something else, and then something else until seven things are left undone in my house, or in my head. It's really messy in my head. Looks like a frat house complete with the spanking paddle.
I'm terribly overstimulated. It feels like the hum of my hard drive spinning is speaking to me. The blink of my eyelashes is beating to music. The fridge speaks hushed in the background. Each sound comes in and out of focus stealing the spotlight, and confusing my mind. It feels like an aural assault. I don't see hallucinations when I'm crazy, I see sound. Sometimes see visuals as sounds. The walls breathe, or scream. I know none of the sounds are strangest in the least, but their ganging up on me is terrifying. Chipping away at the useful cycles in my brain and maybe useful cycles of sanity.
I think I've been singing a lot because my voice is sore. I think I've been doing it without noticing because there is so much music in my head. Or talking to myself nonstop. Talking to the cats, talking to the flowers, talking to the Scott in the cafe today. You have to talk a lot to hurt your throat but the insistent drinking seems to indicate that I've done that.
And without great care this energy is translating to anxiety. Awful dread and worry and fear. I could list for you the items in the back of my mind but they are irrelevant as crazy picks the issues irrespective of reasonableness. And I'm not feeling all that reasonable. It seems.
And that is all, very tiring, I assure you. The sleeping isn't going that well, as it doesn't, for the crazy, particularly the manic. I can feel myself slipping away a little. I wonder if I will wake up terribly depressed tomorrow. This mania has been holding for days longer than it usually does, but it's not as severe as it could be so maybe the fall won't be as bad. It's really hard to say. Predictability isn't my specialty.
I'm trying to use all this excess energy to my advantage. I'm trying to write, and plan, and clean, and sort, and purge. I've had some success with this when I can harness all the random thoughts long enough to actually accomplish something. The multitasking is extreme as I make one movement for one thought, and one task, and then one for something else, and then something else until seven things are left undone in my house, or in my head. It's really messy in my head. Looks like a frat house complete with the spanking paddle.
I'm terribly overstimulated. It feels like the hum of my hard drive spinning is speaking to me. The blink of my eyelashes is beating to music. The fridge speaks hushed in the background. Each sound comes in and out of focus stealing the spotlight, and confusing my mind. It feels like an aural assault. I don't see hallucinations when I'm crazy, I see sound. Sometimes see visuals as sounds. The walls breathe, or scream. I know none of the sounds are strangest in the least, but their ganging up on me is terrifying. Chipping away at the useful cycles in my brain and maybe useful cycles of sanity.
I think I've been singing a lot because my voice is sore. I think I've been doing it without noticing because there is so much music in my head. Or talking to myself nonstop. Talking to the cats, talking to the flowers, talking to the Scott in the cafe today. You have to talk a lot to hurt your throat but the insistent drinking seems to indicate that I've done that.
And without great care this energy is translating to anxiety. Awful dread and worry and fear. I could list for you the items in the back of my mind but they are irrelevant as crazy picks the issues irrespective of reasonableness. And I'm not feeling all that reasonable. It seems.
And that is all, very tiring, I assure you. The sleeping isn't going that well, as it doesn't, for the crazy, particularly the manic. I can feel myself slipping away a little. I wonder if I will wake up terribly depressed tomorrow. This mania has been holding for days longer than it usually does, but it's not as severe as it could be so maybe the fall won't be as bad. It's really hard to say. Predictability isn't my specialty.
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