I'm Angry With You

I am angry. All the time. Without fail. Angry. To be alive.

This is something newer in my arsenal of self-hating emotions, this anger. It's fresh and sharp with razor edges and a dark, abyss center. It shows itself in little ways: how I hate other people for nothing, how I despise a soap dish that wasn't cleaned before moving in, and how not finding an item in a grocery store makes me mental. In other words, how the minutia of every day life somehow evokes my ire.

I'm not generally like that, and you wouldn't know it to be with me now, but the anger is seething inside. I calm myself and sooth myself and see the ridiculousness in my hatred so no one knows it's there but me. Anger writhing under my skin. Anger begging to drive my fist through a wall.

But I know why I'm angry. I know the core of my feeling. I know that it's not the soap dish or grocery store or the less-than-bright other people. I know that I'm angry because this is my life. THIS is my life. This thing. This horrible thing that I wish to escape, that I wish to kill, that I wish to destroy. I'm furious that this is my life. What did I do? Wrong?

When I was 15 I knew what it was going to be like to be 25. I knew that to be 15 was to be torture, but to be 25 was to have escaped, and to be happy. I knew I'd have a boyfriend and we'd be in love. I knew he would always be glad to see me, and that I'd always be glad to see him. I knew that we would cook dinner together from groceries brought home in brown paper bags. I knew I'd live in a nice apartment, with modern furniture, smooth lines, and bright lighting. I knew I would go to work every day, and work hard, and be great at it, and get paid well, and come home with a sense of pride at the end of the day. I knew I'd be beautiful, and confident, and have a spiderweb of friends. I knew I'd be a grown-up, and in control, and I'd be happy. I knew if I could just survive long enough, 25 would come, and at 25 I would be happy.

I thought that my life was so terrible at 15 I had paid my penance and it was sure to get better. I thought if I could just get away from the family-so-fucked I could create my own space to be happy. I thought I deserved it. I thought I had earned it. I really thought it would happen.

My 15-year-old self was, unfortunately, used to disappointment.

And of course none of those things came true. There is never anyone there to make dinner with me out of groceries brought home in brown paper bags, there is no job, I am not beautiful, I have few friends, and I am not in control. I, am not, happy. I can't make myself happy. I can't even make myself clean my bedroom.

And I'm angry about it. I'm angry about the doctors and the pills and the pharmacists and the therapists. I'm angry at the self-harm and the endless tears and the self-hatred. And most of all, of course, and most importantly, I'm angry at all the sadness. At the depression. At the desire to kill myself. I'm angry that every morning I wake up and instead of seeing the face of someone I love I see only the hatred for myself. Hit the snooze. Forever.

This life isn't fair. This isn't my life. This isn't what I planned for. This isn't what I worked for. This isn't what I deserve. This isn't what I want. This isn't my life. It can't be. It isn't what I ordered. Damnit.

So I'm angry. I'm angry at everything, and everyone. Because they are out there, having lives, and getting what they ordered. They are falling in love and getting married and having kids and getting jobs and Being Happy. Even through the things that are hard, and the things that are bad, the still get to Be Happy. Somehow they are better than I am. Somehow they get to have the most important part of my picture. They have stolen my life. All of them. In their houses. With their happy.

It makes sense that I'd be angry. I know that. Anyone who has suffered a loss or has suffered a suffering is angry about it. I know. I know. But the suffering never goes away, and so neither does the anger. The angry. The vile hatred. Something I know is childish and unenlightened and generally foolish. And yet, here it is. My anger. It's existence, something else to be angry about.

The Happy Couple

You are the Happy Couple, finishing each others sentences, happy to be married, be young, and be beautiful. She has shoulder blade-length dark hair, gently tousled and is in a gray dress the portends conservativeness while showing off the figure earned through hours at the gym. She has an easy beauty not requiring makeup or accoutrement present only in the young and evoking the ire of other women who would kill to be Like Her. He is neatly dressed, lightly nerdy, with short, styled hair belying his traditional upbringing and adorable nature. You are reading the paper while waiting for me, cheeks almost touching, reading the paper with one mind. You don't notice as I walk in, flirt with the barrista, and order coffee.

You are my friends. Kind. Helpful. Gentle. He helped me move, and visited me at the Empire. He let me stay at his house, one Christmas, when I had no one. You invited me to your sunny summer wedding and were upset when I didn't show, staving off suicide alone in my hotel room.

I can't tell you about my morning, the pain I woke up with, and the fantasy of stepping off my balcony just for the pain. I can't tell you about the waterfall of tears, that follows me around, flooding my life. I can't tell you how everything I see reminds me of my failure and the self-hatred I can't seem to escape. I can't tell you about the pills, I am dying to take, and how close I've come, and how little time I might have left.

I talk about school. You talk about work. I am animated and bright and sunny. You are entertained and receptive and attentive. I use all my best. You lap it up and want more. I am funny and you laugh. You don't know how many time I've used those lines before. You don't know how I perfected them, in my head, before speaking.

I pretend to be normal. I pretend to be well. I pretend to be happy. I pretend that I'm like you. I give you what you need to like me, and care about me, and want to be around me. I become what it is you want in an artistic, dramatic, eccentric friend. I suppress my reality, and simply mirror yours. I perform a magic act so perfect, that you don't even know you're seeing one.

Threat

I woke up with my mind on the tip of his cock, my tongue round the ridge of its head. It's from sleeping in his scent, his sweat, my scent, my sweat, that keeps my mind locked in place.

It had been a long time since we had slammed into each other, over and over. It creates glittery, hazy memories with only pinpoints of clarity sprinkled throughout. What is pronounced is the passion. The writhing, moaning, begging, bleeding, twisted, screaming, passion. That's the part that I need, crave, desire. That's the part that makes my back arch, my heart race, my fists grab, and my insides throb. It's the passion. Fire. Combustion. Electrocution.

It's my very favorite thing in the world with my very favorite person in the world. While it's true, I'm not sure that I would make his top five favorite people, in the fire, it doesn't matter. The only thing either of us can see is the flame.

The feeling of his tongue sliding between my lips. and his cock filling my throat, and his body on top of mine, and the pain and release as he finds a rhythm and a home grinding in and out of me, and the screams I cannot stifle, take my brain away. I can just see his eyes which sparkle blue, and radiate heat, and contain

love.

And it takes my brain away. I feel his strength as he pins my wrist and flips me over and positions me like furniture to cause body wrenching pain as he enters my ass, and it takes my brain away.

And for a moment in the labored breathing and neighbour-bothering screams and searing flesh I do not want to die. For a moment in that space, with that man, I cannot feel my disease. While almost every breath of my life is pained by having to live in these moments between him and I want to keep on breathing. It takes an earthquake to shatter the wretched, granite hold the bipolar has on my life, but truly being lit on fire loosens it ever-so-slightly for a breath or two in time. And I cannot tell you what this means to me, what this does to me, or its penultimate importance. I moment with so much fire that I forget pain is truly a gift from god.

But then it's gone. It's gone and there's a gaping maw of where it was sucking air from my chest. Having the moment and having the release and having the relief is so wonderful that its disappearance is agony. It is suffering. It's gut-clenching. It's waterfalls of tears. I know that I am supposed to life without the predominant desire for death being held dangerously over my head. I know that this is true. I know it, because it's true.

But having the perfect moment only to be stuck with the dregs of existence a moment later produces a mournful cry and such deep sadness that I am wounded. It is very expensive to experience breath without pain and knowing it cannot be yours. I want a life that is not in constant threat and not diametrically opposed to the moments of fire. My want is such an ache that would destroy most people. But it's all that I have in life. Between fires. Between electrocutions. It's not good company.

Intolerance

I'm so sad. And so tired. And so tired, of being sad.

When I moved back to town, my friend said I needed to create a "positive narrative" for myself. (Yes, he really talks like that.) I suspect he thought I should be able to tell the story of what I'm doing now, and what I'm doing next in a way that was uplifting and made me feel good about saying it. Most things following working for the Empire sound small and insignificant comparatively.

Going to school was supposed to be part of this peachy story, but it doesn't feel so positive for me, the person actually doing it. I just feel like a loser. Like a fucking 31-year-old, drop-out, burned-out, thrown-out, loser. I already have a computer science degree for fuck's sake, English classes are just a waste of time.

And yes, philosophically, I understand why education is good, and why learning is good, but when I have to pay for it, it doesn't feel good, it just feels like more mucky debt. The first massive amount of debt I got into for school I thought I would be able to pay back fairly quickly with my fancy degree, but quickly is in the eye of the beholder, and nothing is as easy as people say it will be.

I forgot how impaired my body is and my brain is on this many drugs. Not having to do anything, not having to assimilate and regurgitate information on command, not having to wake up and walk first thing in the morning for so long made me forget how bad I am at it. My body is so weak, and tired, and broken it doesn't want to do anything but sit still. My brain is so weak, and tired, and broken it doesn't want to do anything but sit still. Now I remember how hard it is to get it up for all this crap. Stay focused, stay consistent, show up, do work, be present, work, work. It sucks. I'm not interested.

And yes, I'm aware that my previous job was very hard and very taxing on my pathetic, old brain, but it was taxing in a different manner. I think staying focused and being perfect in regard to one subject was easier than trying to do it with four.

And of course I'm really depressed. Like, really. I know. Like eat-chocolate-cake-and-watch-TV depressed. And I know that makes everything seem dark and pointless. But still, everything seems dark and pointless. Knowing that it's not supposed to doesn't help. Nothing helps.

Today in psych, the prof was talking about the high incidence of drug and alcohol abuse among the schizophrenic. He proposed it wasn't because the drugs and alcohol has any causal link to the mental illness but simply because these people were in pain and trying to self-medicate. Well, the prof didn't use the word pain, but I think pain is a good word to use.

And, of course, he's right. Me, the crazy, the bipolar, is just looking to self-medicate. Chocolate cake, a nice Merlot, a razor blade, whatever it takes to have a moment's release. Because actual medication just doesn't make life quite tolerable. Nothing does.

Eggs Over Easy With a Side of Lawnmower

After the last post, which I know was depressing for everyone, I've been waiting for something less depressing to say. This, unfortunately, hasn't been coming to me, mostly because I've been nastily depressed. However, something happened to me today that I deem worth sharing.

Today, for the first time since I moved back, I went out for brunch with some of my friends. We used to do it all the time, when I lived here, and there was something very comforting about doing it again. And doing it at the same restaurant which looks the same, and even has the same menu. I had a big, fluffy pancake, with apples, bacon, and maple syrup.

We were the only people in the restaurant, as it was 10am on a Sunday when, I'm told, people are still hung over from New Year's. And after we had finished eating and we were floating in the wake of hollendaise and grand mariner butter, the server came over and asked if any of us would like a lawnmower.

Seriously.

Anyone want a lawnmower? Weirdest thing a server ever said, by a long shot. And my friend, sitting beside me, did, indeed, want a lawnmower. So the manager came over and asked where to drop off said lawnmower and told us, as it turns out, a guy that lives across from my friend happens to have cooked our breakfast. Now, my newly-lawnmowered friend is invited to all the across-street raucous events. (By the way, this kind of thing just happens to my friend. He skydived with the prince of Jordan too. Seriously.)

And so here is what I learned: you don't know what's going to happen when you leave the house.

Simple, I know, but profound. I have been hibernating in my house for weeks, avoiding all human contact, and just generally rejecting the world at large. I've been really depressed. I just couldn't get myself out the door. Just couldn't happen.

But here's the thing, you know what's going to happen when you stay inside - nothing. Your neighbour will not be making you breakfast, you won't be invited into debauchery, and you will not receive a free lawnmower. OK, true, that isn't really a common occurrence, but, you never know. You just never know.

Something amazing, and magical, and unique, could happen to you, if you leave the house. But if you never do, you'll never even have the chance to find out.

Honestly, try it sometime. You can't expect hope to walk in your door, sometimes you have to go out and find it. A hopeful lawnmower. It's yours to uncover.