Brain Health through the years. A look back.

"I will say 'I promise that my legs just need another season, and then I will be who you fell in love with again.' And then probably just 'I'm sorry that there was once a tremendous blue sky and then a decade of hard incessant rain.'"
~Hanif Abdurraquib

10-24-17

I have always been sick. For as long as my memory allows me to reach. So there was never a specific moment when it all came crumbling down. I was never 'normal.' Some of my earliest childhood memories are hallucinations. My closest friends were cars and refrigerators. My heart would break if one stopped working and had to be replaced. Like the fridge at my grandparents' house. It poured cold water and crushed the ice exactly how I liked it crushed. I sobbed and hugged it right before it was hauled away. I probably couldn't forget that fridge if I wanted to.

My hallucinations were mostly benign. Seeing my future self walking across the street, with friends, after school. 

Some were bizarre. My mom leaving me in my hot carseat to run inside. The car left the driveway. I can remember the exact route. I can remember what the little girl on the big trampoline, in front of her house, was wearing. I can remember telling the car to go back. before we got caught. And we did. Right before my mother came back outside. In hindsight that may have been heatstroke.

Some were frightening. Like the big blue van that parked across the street, and the three armed, big scary men in the Bee suits that got out. I hid under the dining room table. They banged on the front door for a long time. I knew they were there to kill us. I was never sure why my mom didn't answer the door.

Sometimes they were downright terrifying. Laying in my bed at night. Watching the dark hand appear from behind my open door. The dark figure with the long claws and glowy eyes. Trying to scream. Or run. Or both, and being completely paralyzed.

By age five I had my first existential crisis. Playing with dolls I suddenly wondered if I was a doll in a house, being manipulated and controlled. I made furniture for the dolls, made sure they looked comfy, and let them be.

I was never. Let me repeat Never unguarded. Everything and everyone was a threat and I was afraid. Every man wanted to kidnap and or molest me. Never be left alone with a man! Thanks mom. Maybe that's why the first person to molest me was a teen girl. Whom, I might add, my mother caught in the act. But because she was friends with the girls' mom, and was being paid to watch her, she did nothing. The abuse continued.

My body was never mine. My hair was never cut the way I wanted. My hobbies more like a full time job than hobbies. My school work, homework, I should say, was drilled into me like a soldier. Name, Rank, Number. And by God my number better be 100% plus the extra credit, or I had failed.

The only escapes from the madness were swimming (I could only hear my own thoughts. Not her criticism.) and reading. Where I would be totally transported to an entirely new place. Heroes and Heroines were my friends. But none of them saved me from reality. 

In fifth grade dad up and left. Poof! Gone! So I checked out too. Completely. From straight A's to D- in a matter of days. D's turned to F's. F's turned into missing entire semesters of school.

I tried running away at thirteen. Failed attempt. Went home. Tried again at fourteen. Stayed mostly homeless until Seventeen. From thirteen to seventeen I drank almost every day. And I took any drug handed to me. By my teens I was almost constantly in a manic state. Known as "Crackie" (you know her as Jacklyn Hyde) I was a party girl who took no shit from anyone. Ever. There was a lot of D.I.D. at that time. And a rape, or a few. I digress, see? Nothing about me was ever "stable" or "healthy" or "typical." If my feelings got hurt I stuffed it down. Cut myself. Got drunk and got over it. Now, looking back, I never stood a chance. It's sad.

This new stable feeling is strange, foreign. I, as an adult, now have to figure out who I am without the constant swinging Bi-Polar Disorder and D.I.D. 

I fear... That's it. I fear. I never really did before. Now the whole world is new and it's a scary place!

I'm stable for the first time ever. But my brain will still be sick, forever. I take my brain medicine. I do the brain repairing work. But if I stop either of those things I'll go right back where I was before. Sicker, Lower, until I die early.

My body is mine, but I do not recognize it.
My hobbies are gone.
My past behind me.
My parents gone. (Alive, but gone to me)
My thoughts and actions, from here on out are my own.

I'm still too afraid to step out into the world.

So what do I do now?
Who am I?
What am I?

Trauma

"Anxiety is the cousin visiting from out of town, depression felt obligated to bring to the party. Mom, I am the party...

...Sure, I make plans! I make plans, but I don't want to go. I make plans because I know I should want to go. I know sometimes I would have wanted to go. It's just not that much fun, having fun, when you don't want to have fun, mom..."

~Sabrina Benaim
Explaining Depression to my mother From her book Depression & other magic tricks

10-26-17

What is trauma like?

Trauma is like a tumor on your soul.

You must get it treated to get it out.

Writing, therapy, art, talking it out.

You have to find a way to get it out of your body.

See, like a tumor, left untreated, it will metastasize.

It will spread to your family, your friends, loved ones, children.

It will infect everyone you come into contact with.

You are patient zero. You spread the infection. But you can stop it.

Get it out of you. Find what helps you heal.

Release it.

Untitled

10-16-17

Quick note: This is probably the most difficult piece I've ever decided to share.

Dear "Dad" or whatever, 

I've avoided writing this for a long time. Every time I think of starting I have flashes in my head of all the many many times you've treated me like shit or fucked me over. Suffice it to say, lately I think about you a lot. Too much. More than you deserve.

I know what you are. You are the yellow starburst in the two pack. Not hated. But definitely not liked. Just there. To ruin the pack of tasty candy. But nobody is willing to risk everything by standing up against yellow starburst. The fight just isn't worth the gains. (Admittedly there are people who actually like yellow starburst, strange as it may be.)

In the list of pros and cons for confronting you about all of your shit behaviors. Past, present, and future. You yourself are the whole cons list. And that's enough to not bother trying.

You are an angry fucking person. Why? What the fuck happened to you? I was raised by your parents. I was angry too. Not at them, not at everyone. But at you. You didn't have garbage parents, so what's the deal? Why are you like this?

You are a coward and a deserter. When shit got bad you ran. Four days. (maybe five) Five days of the whole family frantically trying to find you. You ran to save yourself and you left the three of us with Her. You never stood up for me. You always sided with Her. Like a mindless hangman, you carried out her punishments based on Her version of events. I never got a fair trial, you bastard executioner.

You're a self-serving piece of shit. You've paraded so many women through our lives. Sending us away to Her whenever we were getting in the way. So basically every chance you got. You never listened to our pleas for help. For you to save us from Her. You screamed at us on the phone for calling you every fucking day! And let's not pretend that I wasn't the biggest inconvenience of your life. Real hard to date young hotties when you're the father of a teen. Makes you look old. Better to pretend I don't exist.

The favorites game. I was the experiment that failed. The cause of a loveless, miserable, marriage. Then came MJ, the boy to carry the name. Golden child. And LB, the child born to save a broken marriage. My brother and sister. Shown off to girlfriends to show how responsible you are. Taken to fun places to do fun things, so the ladies could probe they were wifey material. But I could see the confusion and disdain in their eyes as we would occasionally cross paths, thus forcing the ever awkward introductions. It was easy to pretend I didn't exist until I was standing right in front of you. Making you look OLD.

Drinking. You knew this was coming. I don't know that I've ever seen you sober. Like really sober. Not weekend sober. But Honest to God Never Again, Sober. Same goes for Her. And then you and your new wife drink her to death. Yet I heeded the call. I sprang into action. I stood by your side. I walked through a fire for you. Not because you deserved it. Not to humble-brag about my grace. But because you were my father. And if I didn't you'd die. And any hope for a different future would be lost. Forever. Yet still, you drink.

The subtle art of screaming at people so they can't talk about things you don't want to hear. This taught me to win fights by being as mean as possible and making sure I was louder than my opponent. That's how you win. Meaner and louder so they retreat. And you continue behaving this was until nobody can approach you about anything. Any problem, big or small, any complaint or judgement, or questioning. You've created this hostile environment. A conversational mine field. Like a rabid tiger, you dare people to step too close to your boundaries. Silently daring them to come at you. Maybe even yelling at them just for being in the same room. "YOU'RE IN MY FUCKING WAY!!" Everyone is in your way if they are in the same house as you. It's like you told me, It's your world and we're all just living it.

One upper. Despite your heinous, lazy, disruptive, disturbing, loud, abusive behavior. I was always somehow worse than you. And you let me know it. Yeah, I get it, I was a fuck up and a runaway. Guess what? It was to get away from YOU. So no matter what bullshit you throw at me about my teen years, just know it was a direct result of your bullshit. I ran away from YOU.

Do you know I can still hear you and Her fighting. Slamming into the other side of my bedroom door. Grunting, and cussing, and hitting, and squeezing. Threatening to kill each other. Did you two purposely bring your fights to my literal bedroom door? Do you know how traumatizing it was? At 8 years old. Having to make the decision to get out of bed. Put my shoes on. Dear God, don't let them know I'm awake. Place my doll in my bed so only her hair was showing. Quietly, quietly, open my sliding glass door. Walk to the fence. I hate spiders. I know it's covered in spiders. I have to climb anyway. Eight feet over the wooden fence. My tiny arms lifting my body up with the adrenaline. Over. Drop quietly. Neighbors can't hear or they'll tell. Duck under their window, so they can't see. Run down the walkway. Past their driveway. And another house. Please God don't let the kidnappers get me. Up the next driveway to the sliding glass door. Dark. Locked. NO! Back up the driveway around the corner to the front door. Ring the bell! Bang on the glass! Yell through the mail slot "They're KILLING each other!!" Lights come on. Door opens. I rush inside into Papa's confused arms. I scream again "They're killing each other! STOP THEM!" He and Nany rush me to their bedroom. put me on the bed. Stay here. Grab their robes and fly out of the room, out of the house, like two elderly super-heroes. I'm alone. I fear one or both of you is dead, or worse that you'll hurt my Nany or Papa who are trying to break up yet another fight. I know I'm in trouble. I know what waits for me at home. I can replay these fights over and over in my head for the rest of my life. Routine has a funny way of doing that to you.

I'm tired now. I tried to have something that looked like a relationship. But like always you put your new woman first. Or second. Drinking first. Always. Wait no. You first. Drinking second. Women third. I'm somewhere near the bottom below sports, all of them, food, cooking, pets. Way way down the list. I don't care. Honestly at some point you just became an irritant to me. Like allergies. I'm allergic to you. So I avoid you. And if you get brought up. I get irritated and move the conversation, or thoughts, away.

So enjoy what's left of your life without much of your family. After all, You've earned it.

~J

And one last thing. All of those shitty jokes and comments you make to people, when I'm around. About how because of me you had to take parenting and anger management classes. Let's talk about WHY motherfucker. You punched me in my face so hard I fell back onto my bed. I popped back up, full of hate, and refusing to stay down, so you did it again. And again. In front of my best friend. It was a thursday. I took off after you left. The next day, at school, I called Nany to tell her what happened and why I left, so she wouldn't worry. I didn't notice my teacher there. With tears in his eyes he told me he had to report it. He walked me to the office. Next thing I know I"m being handcuffed (so I can't escape) And walked to a police car. They took me to the children's shelter. It was so full Fourty of us had to sleep on the floor. And because it was end of day Friday, I had to stay in that shithole until a social worker could release me to Nany on monday (pending that it was a safe home environment)
FUCK YOU VERY MUCH!

Sometimes I hate that I STILL love you.

Maybe

10-25-17

I tell you this meme is problematic. And you reply with little more than what might as well be, "maybe."

Maybe this is pseudoscience and it could get someone killed.

Maybe I'm tired of living as nothing more than an advocate for my illnesses. My meds. My kids. My gender. My sexuality. My humanity.

You see maybe I don't have the constitution to raise up the revolution or your evolution.

Maybe it's time for me to surround myself with a different kind of people.

Maybe they won't be obtuse or stuck in the quicksand, knee deep, settled in for keeping life like the "old days." Sticking to the old ways.

Maybe I can open their eyes to a better way of thinking and in return they'll open my mind in new ways.

Maybe I finally think I deserve better.

Maybe.

Snappy

10-16-17

I was given a rubberband. I am to snap it, not too hard, if I have bad, obsessive, paranoid, intrusive, etc. thoughts.

It's been a week and a half. I don't need to snap it much anymore. But I've become quite attached to it.

I wear it 24/7.  In my sleep. In the shower. Always.

It's losing it's elasticity.

Sometimes it catches when I change my clothes. I scramble to find it and put it back on.

Whenever things get ugly in my head it literally "SNAPS" me out of it.

I'm filled with trepidition at the idea of it finally breaking.

*SNAP*

UPDATE:

Snappy was laid to rest surrounded by loved one, in the journal.
He went out flying off his loved one's wrist and snapping her husband in the face for constant mockery.

He was a good Snappy. He will be missed.

RIP Snappy. 10-25-17

"Grief is just love squaring up to it's oldest enemy." ~Kate Braestrup

Finding meds sucks.

It's like trying to hike in full gear through quicksand. That's what finding the right meds feels like. You can make slow steady progress but just when you feel like you've got the hang of this, someone throws a boulder at your head.

It's more than slightly unnerving to feel yourself making progress, only to slip deeper into the muck. It's a kind of progress, I suppose. But it sure doesn't feel like it. I get slivers of stability. Just enough to know what I'm losing when it slips away. Thus making me sink lower than I was before.

I get to have just enough stability for hope of a new and better life to start creeping in. Just as I start to imagine what I'm capable of next... WHAM! Boulder to my head. I'm sinking again.

I wish there was an easier way than experimenting with these brittle vines that look like life lines, but aren't. Like a tree root. Or a ladder. But no, slow moving. Grasping at whatever you can reach, and awaiting the boulder is all you can do.

The progress here feels cyclical. Not forward. I can feel my stamina leaving. I'm exhausted and I wonder what will happen if I just let go?

Will I disappear into the swamp?
Will I just bob around, surviving but resentful?
Will I float my way out on my own? Heh. Not likely.

What I do know is this sucks. And it's discouraging. I feel like I'm letting my loved ones down. I feel like the opposite of progress. I feel like a failure.

So I'll keep wading slowly. Dodging boulders, and trying to find a lifeline. 

Or maybe I'll just get really good at living in swampy quicksand.

The weight and the cost.

My mind tends to swing back and forth like a pendulum. I mean obviously, that's what Bi-Polar does.

In my low moments I wonder why.
Why me? Why now? Why bother? 

Adding more pieces of weight to my back breaking load of baggage. It's exhausting to carry. And it has consumed me completely more than once in my life. You cannot see where the baggage ends and I begin. Sometimes I collect pieces or baggage from others. I carry their pains and struggles. Their shortcomings, failures. Their heartache and loss. "Give it to me. I can carry this for you." I'm not some body builder who's physicality can overcome sadness. I just know these pieces well. 

Other people's pieces can just settle in with my own. An intricate puzzle of misery. "I've got this. I've got you. You are safe now." Am I talking to me or them or my new piece of weight? I don't know. What I do know is I can lose myself in the emotions of others. In caring for others. I care so much that I stop caring for myself. None of those I carry weights for reciprocate, so why should I check in to see if I'm ok? Another weight gets added.

This is not some self-serving "You OWE me!" bullshit, either. This is a real life hard look at my relationships and how dependent I am to caring for others, at much too high a cost for my own well being. I do not see this as a character flaw. Just... That damned pendulum getting stuck at each side, after it swings.

Be a good person, friend, mother, wife, daughter, niece, granddaughter, sibling, child, etc.

OR

Exhaustion, physically and emotionally. Not bathing, or interacting. Being awful at everything I hold so dear. Retreat. Another weight.

Right now that pendulum sticks.

I'm working hard to repair the balance by ridding myself of weights that trap it to either side.

I wish it could swing evenly and freely.

But, I wonder, where are those people I showed up for? The ones I took weights from.

Why won't they take one of mine?
Another weight.