Best Days

On my best days, I walk to work.  

My walking commute to the Parker Memorial Library is ridiculously short; driving, it's obscenely brief. I usually drive because I go to Dunkin Donuts first.  Anything worth doing well is worth doing with an iced coffee in one hand.  I take the mile and a half ride down to my favorite drive-thru, order a large iced black with extra sugar, and easily fly back down the street to the library. As I drive back, I feel a momentary sense of pride in ordering a coffee with no dairy, and then an equally-timed sense of guilt for ordering it with extra sugar.  I always forget my Stevia at home. 

Anyway, there are days when I walk to work.  In those brief minutes, I breathe in the air as deeply as I can.  I notice things like the brands of cigarette butts I pass in my travels, or the way a soda can has been maimed and tossed to the side of the road. I hear the cars passing by on Route 38; motorcycles make the most interesting and annoying sounds.  Sometimes I imagine a helmeted head turns and watches me ambling past the hair salon and dance studio with a TARDIS messenger bag slung over my shoulder and a travel mug of iced coffee in each hand. (The days when I walk are the days when I made my caffeine fix at the house...and those mugs are small, so stop judging the number!)

The other day I was walking to work, making my usual observations. I suddenly realized that I was ignoring the bigger problem.  It's a problem that follows me around, just like my friend Bipolar.  It's like Bipolar has this annoying kid brother who always tags along, and his name is Self-Harm.

Self-harm is exactly what it says on the tin: hurting oneself.  It comes in forms as diverse as the people who engage in it.  Some people burn themselves, some people cut themselves, some people hit themselves with objects, some people scratch themselves to the point where the skin begins to redden and even open. Some people pull out their hair, some people bite or pick at their finger and toenails until there's nothing left but the bleeding.  People generally engage in this behavior because they are so upset, frustrated, depressed, or anxious, they cannot think of another way to fight the growing explosion inside.  There are all kinds of different names for people's various preferences.  I'm a cutter.  Cutting my skin (usually on my arms) is horrible and wonderful.  I do not know how to describe the feelings that come before, during, and after this action is taken. 

Walking to work the other day is what made me realize that I can't describe the feelings, and that I'm focusing on anything BUT those feelings because they scare me.  

That's it.

That's the punchline.

My own feelings around self-harm are so conflicting and confusing that I don't know what to do about them.  I just keep going to my therapist and talking about it.  That's all I can do.  That's all ANYONE can do.

On my best days, I walk to work. Perhaps enough trips past the hair salon and dance studio with a TARDIS messenger bag slung over my shoulder will begin to provide answers.  Maybe I'll stop ignoring the feelings and explore them instead.  

Perhaps all of my days ahead are my best days.

On my best days, I walk to work.  

My frustration is at a limit. I can't say it's at THE limit, since there's no knowing when it may get even worse. I am trying to be pro-active. 

I have deleted Facebook on all my devices. I'm looking for yoga classes in town. I've gotten a tai-chi DVD through the library. I'm considering taking a few days off from life up here, and heading down to the Cape for my own writer's retreat. Perhaps putting my thoughts down on paper, or a screen, will take me down a few notches.  

I am so fed up. I'm fed up with feeling like a burden. I'm sick of biting my lip instead of telling people "I'm not ok!!!!!!!!!!" because WHO WANTS TO HEAR THAT AGAIN?!?!?! I'm tired of disappointing my husband, my family, my friends. I'm so sick of this horrifying illness and the way it's fucked my head into a stupor. I'm fed up with paying tons of money and time toward medications and treatments and health plans, only to confound another set of experts.  This is becoming my life's work. 

I never wanted my life to be like this. 

I know that this is some form of mania coming upon me, because I don't want to kill myself. I just want to go away.  I want to exist in a new place with new people and new experiences. Of course, what I'm running from will never leave, and that is the illness. My naturopath says to me "Stop thinking of this as a mental illness, and just remember that it's a sodium/potassium ratio upset." I appreciate her wanting me to feel less like a mental patient, but when the symptoms of WHATEVER is going on in my body make me feel like some sort of superhero or burden or recluse or unwatedwhatthehellisallofthisinmyheadandwhywontitstop person, or all of those things at once, then guess what? I'm a mental patient. 

I love writing that I'm not JUST a mental patient; some days I even believe it. I'm a wife and a daughter and a sister and a librarian and a singer and a Whovian and a Trekkie and a whole bunch of other things. But you know what really burns my ass? I'm a mediocre one of all of these things. I'm not actually good at anything. When my mother teases me, she says "You EXCEL at crazy." Unfortunately, that's not even true. I'm this planning ahead, ok here we go, watch out for this, be careful of that, maybe something's happening right now type of crazy. I can't even jump head-on into the bloody illness. 

My therapist laughed at me today: "Wow, Laura, you can't even enjoy mania." And she's right. I'm so concerned with "what happens next" and being proactive and being a good girl and doing what I'm told that I don't even enjoy the madness. I just fear it. 

That's what it's come down to. I fear my life. I fear tomorrow. I fear right now. I fear next week and next year and next month. 

I simply fear. 

And the fear is maddening in and of itself. Because admitting my fear to myself and others, makes me even more of a pitiable sight. Now Dad will say "here comes the victim" and Momma will remind me to enjoy things, and Gina will try to calculate how best to approach me, and Chris will joke and try to make me laugh, and Meg will remind me to still smile through it, and Kate will text to check in daily and Paulie..... oh Paulie. Paulie will stand and be strong and try to counsel and kiss me once and a while and try not to sink under the great bloody abyss of Laura. He will be the hero of the piece. 

And I will hate myself for it. 

May Is Mental Health Awareness Month

"I feel like I can fly.  I feel like I could write until the end of time.  I feel like I am worth nothing.  I feel like cutting my skin is the only way to stay in the moment.  I feel like I am the best, worst, and only person on the face of the earth.  I feel like I do too much.  I feel like I will never do enough.  I feel like I am a role model to all those who seek the truth.  I feel like if you listen to me, you will only hear lies.  Don't listen.  Don't look at me.  Don't pay me any mind.  Please see the hurt.  Please see how I am lying.  Please see what I cannot tell you...ever.........."

The preceding is what goes through my mind in about 15 seconds on any given day.  This is the thought process of one person with Bipolar Disorder.  It usually happens about 100 times a day, a few times every hour.

Now add guilt.  Now add anxiety, nausea, sweating, shaking.  Now add the voices of 10 other people, all shouting at the same time. Now add visual hallucinations.  Now add screaming parents, spouses, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, enemies.

Now try to work a job "just like everyone else".  Now try to clean your house, cook your meals, do your laundry, tend to your children, socialize with your friends. Now try to accomplish your dreams.

Seems a little difficult, doesn't it?

The next time someone says they're anxious about something, or they don't know if they can make it out to meet you for dinner, or they just don't know how they're going to get through the day, don't get angry or annoyed.  Don't sigh and think about what a drama queen they are.  Don't try to tell them that "it's all in their head", because IT IS ALL IN THEIR HEAD AT THE SAME TIME.....and it's not going anywhere. Just read this post.  Read it again and again until you start to see what it might be like for them.

And just love them. The only thing people with an illness want is a little love and support.  Just give them that much....and know you make all the difference.