Empath

Empath:

Empath sounds so much nicer than Trauma.

Interpreting movement as emotions and deep connection.

I can feel what you feel. It's my superpower.

I am a mirror reflecting everything you try to hide.

I read your laugh lines like the story of your life.

Your tone can sound like the bells of Notre Dame or a fire drill. I can hear what you don't say.

It's like a magic trick when I can tell you that your too cool for school behavior is you masking your abandonment issues. 

I can feel that.

It feels like an empty safe that the bandits of joy left behind.

I am an empath.

The way you move through the room is like a silent film. I don't need words to understand that your mood is glowing red, not like Valentine's day, but the angry red of a mood ring.

Because I am an empath I can move and speak like diffusing a bomb. 

I also know to run before it explodes.

Empath is the pretty name we give ourself to hide our trauma.

Empath is the skills we've mastered to stay safe.

Empath is the instinct we've learned to keep us alive.

We are not sensitive borne of love.

We are watchful borne of fear. 

Everyone loves an empath.

You can throw out your baggage like an emotional dumpster.

We'll carry it for you.

If we watched ourselves as closely as we observe others would we see we're not empaths at all?

We are victims of trauma.

But Empath sounds so much nicer than Trauma.

I want to want to...

It's quiet now, in my head. One thought at a time. It makes me feel sluggish, in a way. I'm not used to so much quiet. Not having 13 thoughts at the exact same time, and two songs stuck in my head to top it all off. When it first got quiet my ears rang for several weeks. The silence was deafening. It's not as noticeable anymore, but every once in awhile I am aware of it. Like breathing. It's automatic until someone tells you, "Hey, you're breathing right now."

I kind of miss the noise sometimes. The quiet is kind of lonely. I am alone in my own mind, with just my singular thought, whatever that may be. I don't have all of my voices to keep me company. To stimulate my brain. To entertain me when I don't want to do anything or go anywhere. Sometimes I miss the way down. I want to crawl into the familiar down place, hide from the world, life. Just me and my thoughts, the only things in existence, under my blankets.

I feel like I've lost some of my creative edge. Without all of the thoughts happening I don't need an outlet for them. I don't need to put pen to paper, or paint to paper, or words on a computer. I worry I've killed the creative parts of my brain. Or I'm locked out. I've lost access. Can't remember the password. 

I still worry too much. Not about how everything I think or say or do will inevitable usher in the apocalypse. I worry I'm making the wrong choices. I worry about building a tolerance to the meds that keep my head quiet. I worry that once again I'm pouring all of my focus and attention towards a singular point, and like so many times before it's the wrong direction. It gnaws at me. Maybe I'm worried I'll crash and burn like every other time. I worry I am not capable of following through with anything. Ever.

And I'm mad. Not like the constant rage-monster I used to be. Where the anger was all I had, all that kept me alive, the spite that kept me moving forward. Not the kind of anger that was my primary emotion. Rage Mad, Rage Happy, Rage Sad, Rage Scared. I've calmed down. I have noticed that there are very real triggers that bring out my rage. Even if I'm able to keep it internal. And sometimes I still can't contain it. I wonder why I even care about these insignificant things that make me mad. Why I zero in and hyper-focus on them. The truth is, I don't know why. Maybe because I'm just so damn good at being mad all the time. It's easy for me. If I feel slighted, I cut people with my words. Not as often, but it's still there. It feels justified. I don't think it is. Not always, anyway.

I cry a lot. At awful things. At things that make me mad. At things that make me scared. At things that break my heart. At things that inspire me. At things that are beautiful. At things that are sacred to me. At things that make me laugh. At things that are too much for me. Always at too much. But I allow myself to cry now. If I'm frustrated I ask to stop what I'm doing for a few minutes. And I cry. Ugly. Hard. Desperate crying. And when it's out, I can pick up and continue where I left off.

I'm surprised I can still be charming and charismatic. I can still draw people in and make them feel good about themselves. I can be giving, and kind, and teach people to be kinder to themselves and others. I feel like a phony. Not when I'm doing it. But after. How can I be so good at teaching people to love themselves and one another, but I cannot put that into practice for myself? I wonder if I'm even capable of self love or self respect. But still. In public. I am kind, and when I am kind, other people start being kind.

I'm learning. About myself, about the world, about people. So much information coming in, I don't have time to let anything out. I have learned to trust my instincts about people. When I watch them, when I figure out who they truly are, I'm not wrong. Even if other people tell me I am. I'm not. My one useful superpower is still intact. I don't know what to do with that information because it's always in public, so I must remain kind. What. The. Hell?

I'm tired of chasing people, following people, begging for any leftover scraps of attention. Relationships aren't 50/50. They're 100/100. You have to give them all or nothing, at least, that's how it works with me. I can't be the person giving the relationship 100% of my effort, while I'm only kept around when it is convenient for you. If you want to be in my life, you have to actually try, I'm not carrying your load anymore. I'm done. It's exhausting and toxic and it's bullshit. I am not a duckling that has imprinted on you. I will not follow you around and sing your praises. I will not make myself small for you. I am not a doormat for you. No more begging for relationships that don't provide anything of value to my life. I don't have time for it, I'm too tired.

Despite all of this, I'm somehow trying to find my best self in this new normal. I can't dwell on the past. I did what I did, I said what I said. That's my motto for the year. I need to try harder to really consider my words. It's so easy to just, go off. I need to get a grip on that. It's beneath me. I also need to stop keeping people around for nostalgia's sake, especially if they're toxic or problematic. I should just let them go. Quietly. Without all of the fireworks and pageantry. No "Fuck You" parades, or fanfare. It feels good in the moment, but again. It's beneath me. Just let them go. Like blowing on a dandelion. Release them and let the wind currents carry them away. 

I don't know who or what I am now. I don't know whether it's important for me to figure that out right now, or not. I don't know how to end this blog. I need to learn self restraint and self respect. I need to stop... All of the bad things. I want to want to be a better person. That was not a typo. I want to be capable of controlling my emotions and behaviors and exhibiting them in a healthy, productive way. I want to want that. I want to be proud of who I am, not in a conceited way, in a love myself, take care of myself, kind of way. 

I want to have the energy for all of that. Spiritually, Mentally, and Physically.

But I'm tired.


P.S. I've gone back to school. For Psychology of all things. I do enjoy irony.

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.

Who is Jacklyn Hyde? (mania/DID)

7-13-17 Jacklyn Hyde...
Jacklyn Hyde...

Angry at you for being alive...?

Life of the party. Natural born Leader. Pretty. Mysterious. Sexy in a slightly unstable way. (Manic pixie dream girl, anyone?) Free spirited. Carefree. Unattainable. Scheming. Manipulator. Five steps ahead. Dance in the rain. Take all the drugs. Drink all the booze. More dancing! More seduction. Always the tease. Always the coolest and smartest. Not human. Super human. A new breed. Better than the rest. Quicker. Faster thinking. Smarter. More agile. More intuitive. Risks calculated and dismissed. More hair. More skinny. More sexy. Run the group. Run the world. Forever sixteen.
                                                                                                 

Identity crisis. Is Jacklyn Hyde a farce? A shield? Something else? Or have we always been two parts to a whole. She the extroverted yin to my introverted yang. The brave, mighty, fierce, sexual goddess, to my frightened, beaten down, scared, victim.

Will we forever be battling for control or can we find a way to coexist?

                                                                                                 

Jacklyn Hyde.

Well fuck me if I haven't been found out. Not sure if it was legitimately wanting *person* to come to her own conclusions. Or if it was a manipulation to 'hyde'.
Hyde me. Hyde this. A secret. Not well kept. Hold it in. Don't let it out.

EXCUSE ME SIR with the bald head and the six blond dirty dreadlocks hanging on the back of your head like you're Billy Ray Hippy...
Appropriation is band mmmkay and you look like you smell like Ben Gay and Patchouli! Shave that shit off!
                                                                                                 

Don't! Hold it in! DO. NOT. SAY. THAT. IN. THE. CROWDED. GROCERY. STORE. LINE! Please Hyde!

So much effort to fight the 'Hyde and seek of my revolving door of emotions.

"Was that out loud?"

I repeat that phrase like a mantra. In my anxiety I see her in my head. A white cell with padded walls. White clothes. White door with a window. She screams and thrashes, daring me. Testing my will to let the guard down, just a little. A tiny crack is all she needs.

NOT IN THE FUCKING AIRPORT, HYDE!!!
                                                                                                  

Hyde doesn't want measly pages in a stupid journal. Hyde wants adventure. Danger. Destiny. Super powers!

Hyde wants and entire manifesto. A book deal. Full length movies. A goddamn senior thesis to be studied by the greatest minds on earth. While they uncover her depths and greatness in AWESTRUCK HORROR!
                                                                                                   

I, however, would like to find a hobby. Preferably something I can follow through to completion.

9/11/17

If my life was a book, this chapter would be titled:

The triumphant return of the orgasm!

During my hiatus. Why I hate med changes.

8-5-17

Why I hate med changes.

Fear of change

New pills taste bad

Can't sleep

Sleep too much

Head fog all day

I get easily winded now, even if I'm sitting still

I can't focus long enough to write

Lost focus again.

My clothes feel like sandpaper,

or they're on fire. 

They feel like fiery sandpaper.

I can't get comfortable

I get too comfortable and I can't sleep. WTF?!

Every voice, bark, sound, feels like rubbing sandpaper clothes on my teeth.

Lights are too bright.

Screens are too dark

Pokestops are too far away.

I cry for no reason.

Or every reason.

Pens feel weird in my hand and I can't read my own writghighng?

My brain is hyperactive but my body, especially my fine motor skills are sluggish and awkward.

My teeth have a headache.

Too sad.

Too feely.

Not enough patience.

Tried to catch a mama cat and three, six week old kittens, instead caught a different mama and five, four week old kittens. All while acting like a crazy person to my neighbor, while trying to assure her I wasn't her crazy neighbor.

I'm overwhelmed with life.

I keep disassociating.

Nobody told me when we merged our families there'd be this much laundry. Or pets. 

I'm not hungry or thirsty.

I'm lonely. 

Even in this crowded house.

Even in my crowded head.

And cotton mouth.

Are you listening?

I wrote this piece somewhere in between 2006 and 2007.

You're much bigger than I am. I'm even smaller than the other kids in my kindergarten class. The bigger kids beat on me. But I pay them no mind. They're not as tough as they think they are. You're fists are much stronger. They have no idea what it's like to live with you. They pull my hair and push me around. But I never cry. You always tell me people will think I'm weak if I cry. The teachers ask me questions. I'll lie for you. Only because I believe you when you tell me it will be worse if I don't. I keep waiting for someone to rescue me. The neighbors all do nice things for me, I think they pity me. They all know, you don't think they do, but they know. They won't say anything to anyone though. It makes me resent them like I resent you. They could save me, but they don't. Are they afraid of you too?

As I'm getting older my indifference is fading. I never cry anymore. I hate weekends. I'll be in the basement by myself with nothing to eat or drink. And that's if I'm lucky and you decide not to take out your frustration on me. I'd rather be alone. I found a box of matches and I've considered setting this whole place on fire. But I won't. My brother and sister are up there with you. I'll put up with you ONLY for their sake. But know this, if you EVER touch them I'll take them and run. I'll burn you down with this house. I will finally fight back. I swear it. My teachers send me to the school councilor 3 days a week now. They won't tell you the truth. They think I'm in here because my parents got divorced 2 years ago. But they know there's something else wrong. They see when I flinch if someone near me makes to sudden a move. My clothes are too small. I'm always bruised. And did you know that every day this week I've come to school with a busted lip? How long do you think they will let this go? I'm still waiting to be saved. But I'm starting to think nobody's coming for me. As more time goes on what little hope I've mustered has diminished entirely. I don't care anymore. People are stupid. Why should I care about them? My friends are discovering boys. The thought sickens me. It's your fault. He's now joined in. I'm his punching bag now too. I'm more than that. I laugh to myself when I hear him beating you. You deserve it. Now you know how it feels. But it doesn't last long. One or the other of you will leave and the one that stays home will take out tonight's fight on me. I've learned how to step out of my body now. I think about other things. Books mostly. I don't even notice when you've worn yourself out and walk away. I don't look like you. I never have. Maybe that's why you hate me? I'm still small. I have to be careful at school. There's a couple of girls there that like to hit me. But I won't fight back. Then the school would call you.

I've found new ways to feel. My wrists and arms are scarred up and down. I've started a new group of wounds. There's 360 on my left arm today. All fresh. Covered with gauze and long sleeves against prying eyes. I try to feel. Any emotion at all would be refreshing. But this is the only way. I'll substitute emotion for pain. Pain is easier than emotion anyway. It's instant. It hurts immediately, but it fades much quicker than sadness. I'll bottle up whatever I'm feeling from now on, until I can release it through pain. You complimented me on my dance recital. You cannot believe how talented I've become. Inside I laugh. I drank a bottle of Pine-Sol last night. It didn't work how I had planned so I drank 2 pots of coffee before my recital. My punishment for being caught would have been far worse than if it had worked. It was a dumb idea anyways, now every-time I clean I want to vomit. And it just re-affirms my previous thoughts that I'm just meant to suffer at your hands, until You decide when my life is over.

Don't underestimate me. You think I'm weak. I am not. Just because I was silent for years does not mean I was afraid. I am not afraid of your hands. It doesn't hurt me as much as you think it does. I will calculate and lean into the blows. It hurts your fists more than it hurts the back of my head. Go ahead, get in my face. Scream at me. I know that with enough crocodile tears you will lose interest. Although, honestly, I'd rather you just swing at me. Your words cut my heart, they make it cold, dead, and hard. I don't feel anymore. Once I had pity for you. Now there is nothing. It's empty. You are dead to me. You'll push me to the ground, beating me until I can hardly see anymore. I wont give in to the darkness, then you will think you have won. You'll kick me when I'm down. But I keep getting back up. If I wear you out first than I am the one that's triumphant here. The sweetened-stench of alcohol fills me with rage. But I can't hate you. Indifference is all I know. It's how I've survived this long. All that keeps me going is knowing that you'll not win. I have no hope. No dreams. No aspirations. You've taken it all away. But I'm still here. Still enduring the pain you inflict. Why? Is this my purpose? Why do you hate me so much? You're my mother. You're supposed to protect me. Mother? Are you listening?...

The space between

6/17

There's this place between struggle and medication. The time just before the Xanax starts working.

Inspiration is everywhere. 

Topsy-turvy. 

The trees are blue and purple and black and swirly. The grass is orange as far as the eye can see. Crimson skies and green suns warm my bones and welcome me back.

Everything beautiful and peaceful and calming.

Everything dangerous and deadly and terrifying

I think I'd love to live there. 

In that space between chaos and peace.

Where anything awesome or awful I imagine comes to life.

Teetering in the center of the seesaw between 

Sanity                             Madness
                        ^                             

Perfect balance of both.

I'd jump head first down that rabbit hole.

The seats in my truck.

7-18-17

Three seats in my truck.


The first is the driver's seat. I'm doing well. I'm on my meds. They're working. I'm in control. I'm present. I'm making progress.


The passenger's seat. I'm manic. I have no control of where I'm going or how I get there. I space out. I don't know how I got from point A to point B. My life and safety is not in my hands.


The middle seat is complex. 

In the upright position I can sit there. No leg room. Uncomfortable. The worst. This sat is my lowest point of depression. I can make it somewhat comfortable if I have to. But the thing is, with my meds. The seat folds down.

There's a few perks. It has cup holders for the other two seats. Works as an arm rest. Has storage. That's the depression on meds. Silver lining.

But when I'm down, I have to sit on it, folded like that. I desperately want the comforting familiarity of the seat back position. But I can't get it to work. Meds won't allow it. So I'm stuck. Sitting on this center console. Sad, Uncomfortable, and pissed off.


We don't talk about what's in the back seats. *shifty eyes*

Downward Spiral

Stock image from google. If you can find the artist, let me know so I can credit them.
6/7/17



Down.


Down. 


Down.


Way below the Way Down. In the darkness where everything breeds with sadness until it's all nothing.

Crawl down into the deep. Searching for safety in solidarity with solitude. Fortress of darkness. Mistress of All Alone. 

Sink into it like a mattress that's too soft. 

Hear the subway trains fly by on their tracks. Coming from nowhere. Headed to no destination in particular. Cars packed full of fast thoughts. Racing, Racing, let them pass. 

Catch a face in a window. And another. Faces become thoughts again, not just subway cars blurring by.

Transfixing thoughts. 

Parasitic thoughts that crawl into your ear and lay their parasite thought eggs; eating your brain until they are all consuming.

Paranoid, parasitic, passengers. 

Try to crawl further down. 

Below the subways with the parasite passengers.

Train cars whizzing overhead, like so many flies on carrion.

No refuge to be found in the Way Down.

No quiet.

No peace.

No clarity.

Just train cars...

And the only way out is UP.

Bonus Doodle!

Anxiety Addict in Recovery

5/5/17  

  My anxiety is like a drug addict. Lying and manipulating and trying to keep it's addiction secret and safe. It's often in survival mode. "Don't take the Xanax!*"  It screams at me. Trying to convince me that I have misconstrued the situation. Gaslighting me so I won't trust my own judgement. Twisting thoughts and emotions so I'm convinced I'M the addict and it's just trying to protect me from danger, or drug addiction. It argues with my logic.

    "But what if..." That is the mantra of anxiety. "But what if..." Death, destruction, catastrophe, apocalypse... That's inevitably what "But what if..." leads to."But what if I can get healthy and function?" My logical brain retorts.  "But what if it's all a placebo, it will wear off soon enough. The sweet sense of peace and calm and clarity will be ripped away from you. You will get worse. So much worse! You probably won't survive that fall. Is it worth the risk? Just stop now. Before it's too late!" 

    Like a demon in my head, seducing me to relinquish my soul for the sake of familiarity. The darkness shrouding me like a safety blanket. Warm and cozy and hidden away from the world. The illusion of safety. Yet every dog bark, every bump, or knock, or loud truck, or heavy breeze, sends me spiraling out of control. The illusion broken for a moment. "I AM NOT SAFE HERE!"

   My mind races and my heart pounds in my ears. Loud enough to drown out all the voices, save one. "You are dying. You are having a heart attack and you are dying. Your husband and kids will be so sad."  It's not teasing,. nor is it sad. Just matter of factly. A statement of truth. "You are dying." 

    I can't catch my breath. The quickened beating of my heart in my ears is deafening, like thunder. I desperately try to slow it. Hands on stomach. Breathe slow. In through nose. Out through mouth. Body check. What can I feel? But I'm numb. What can I hear? My heart and gasping breath. Too fast. It's TOO FAST! Nothing is working. I don't want to die! 

    I'm sobbing now. Writhing in pain. My whole body hurts. My legs push at the mattress. I try to crawl away from this death. My family flashes through my mind again. Their sorrow. I can feel it. My heart feels broken. I want to throw up. I try to make myself small. So small. I want to disappear. I want to have never been born. I just want this to stop. Death would be better than this. It hurts so much!

    My clothes are soaked with sweat. My face and hair and and pillows drenched with sweat and snot. Every part of me is exhausted from fighting. Bit by bit I can feel my limbs giving up. Accepting defeat. Welcoming death. My legs stop writhing. Then my arms fall still. My stomach unclenches, my breathing steadies. My heart no longer feels like it's trying to escape my chest. I can no longer hear it in my ears. 

    Instead I hear ambient sounds. A fan. A neighbor dog. The tears stop flowing. My chest relaxes last. My mind quiets. I can feel that anxious part of my brain smirking, proud of how it has broken me. But I am not dead. Somehow I survived the assault on my mind, body, and soul. I emerge from my bed. Drained. I blow my nose and wash my swollen, tear stained face. 

  

    I don't want to do this anymore. This isn't fair! Why do I have to live like this? Why won't anybody fucking help me?!

    My brain is a liar! It thrives on chaos and mayhem. It's addicted to the fear and adrenaline. It will fight and resist any and all treatment. "My Precioussss" It sneers. This is my daily life. It is as routine and bitter as my morning coffee.

    But I tricked it. I threw it a curveball that it couldn't anticipate or derail. I reached out for help.  I asked someone else to make appointments for therapy and to get meds. I told them no-matter how hard I fight MAKE ME GO! 

    Sick brain raged and fought. Now I have meds. Sick brain argues every time against the meds. Logic brain is getting stronger. It has tools to fight back. It's not very strong yet. But eventually, eventually it wins. I take the little blue pill and hear anxiety scream in fury! Then it flickers out like a candle flame. 

    The beast sleeps. I am calm. I can focus and concentrate. The weight on my shoulders is lifted. I have peace and joy. And focus.

    And most of all, I have hope.

*Blue pill is generic for Xanax. Also, not it's actual name. lol

    

April, 2017