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.

Unfit for human consumption

I don't like opening lines. They carry WAY too much expectation, a sickening amount of potential, and in my case they are usually contrived. I would prefer to start in the middle. By then, we've all settled in, and we're just enjoying ourselves...

Tonight, the very fact that this blog exists pisses me off. It feels like an endless diatribe of "Am I good enough?" Ugh. What a pain in the ass. 

Why did I think that being a whiny bitch would be cleansing? Why would spilling my metaphorical beans ever make me feel better? It pisses some relatives off, embarrasses others past the point of recognition. Oh yeah, there are those who would rather smash the punch bowl in the middle of Nana's table and floss their teeth with the remnants than talk to me. I'm that annoying brat who TALKS ABOUT THINGS.  

ANYway, the fact that I am an entitled and self-righteous bitch was recently brought to my attention via the interwebs by a real special person, if you interpret the word "special" to mean total effing piece of shit. But, when some pieces of shit have lots of money and prestige, you start to believe them. Isn't that sad? Pathetic, actually. 

Well, here's some knowledge I would like to throw the interweb's way: I eat Moose Tracks ice cream on a regular basis. I read Game of Thrones fanfiction online when there are perfectly good books on my end table. I listen to the "Twilight" soundtrack on repeat. I love people of all kinds, and I'm getting pretty fucking sick of folks telling me who I should and should not hang around. I've been honest and it's blown up in my face time and time again. I am good to people. I am brutally giving and honest. I will lie down in traffic for you if that's what you need.  Don't call me two-faced because you're not "the only one".

I can't have children, ever. I cry about it sometimes, and mothers tell me "Oh but if it's meant to be, it's meant to be." Say that again, bitch. Say it again and listen to how ridiculous you sound. 

I like to read fiction that comforts me; Edwardian romance usually does the trick. It's not what a "feminist" should read, but a good ol happy ending in long pretty dresses makes me happy for a little while, and sometimes soothes my brain for a bit when I get my period AGAIN, and three more friends announce their pregnancies on Facebook.  

The conclusion that I have ultimately come to is that I'm NOT necessarily interesting, I'm probably self-righteous, and I am using this base and BORING means of communication because I'm just entitled.

I'll let you know when I'm ready to stop.....'cause that time sure as hell ain't come yet.

Birds flyin' high, you know how I feel....

Sun up in the sky, you know how I feel...

Two Thursday afternoons ago, I was given the go-ahead to pack my bags and go home from the psych unit. One quick clip of the scissors, one donning of a winter jacket, and one elevator ride equalled no difference between me and Joe Schmoe walking past the gift shop at Emerson Hospital. 

Each time I walk out the front door of a hospital after a psych stay, there are different emotions attached. Sometimes, I want to turn around and bang down the door, begging them to let me back in. Other times I practically run out screaming, giving them the finger. Sometimes I saunter out, cocky and ready. Often I bite my lip, trying to remember how to walk, talk, and function without a psych counselor watching my every move. Each time I swallow hard and beg that God will let it be the last one, that I won't need the hospital anymore. That I will have licked this bloody illness once and for all. 

This time is a whole lot different. When I started to come down from my manic highs and finally stopped climbing the walls, I thought about God more and more. I thought about the Lenten season, and how this is a time of prayer, fasting, and giving. Often, as Catholics, we have this idea that we should NOT be thinking of ourselves, in fact anyone else BUT. I want this time to be different. 

I am realizing that feeling like myself is ok. I am realizing that the prayer, fasting, and giving can be for myself and others. I am realizing (finally?) that God means me too! when He speaks of His children. I'm included in that number. He didn't say "everyone except that loon over there in the corner". He said ALL. I am encouraged by this ever-expanding feeling in my gut that even though I won't be well all the time, I'm allowed to enjoy it when I am. I'm allowed to pray for myself as well as the world, I can fast from being needy and afraid of myself, and I can give to myself when I give to others, whether I'm giving money or time or just a simple smile. Look out Clairol, 'cause I'm worth it too!!! 

There is a fabulous staff at Emerson Hospital's psych unit, but one gentleman stands out in my mind. We were having a "check-in" conversation (one per shift required), and I mentioned my desire to stop coming to the hospital, that I wanted to be able to handle my illness without it. He said "Laura, I think that's the wrong approach. You are battling a chronic illness, and sometimes that requires hospital care. It is never a defeat to come here. I like to think of this place as just one more stop on the journey. Everyone has to pay attention to their own needs in order to be any good to the Universe at large. Keep paying attention, come here when you need to, and know you are doing the world a favor when you do." I was blown away by his words. Never in my life did I see this as a necessity; it was always just my human failing to have to admit defeat and let doctors & nurses sort me back out. But what if, just like praying, fasting, and giving to myself and others, hospitalization was part of that journey?

What if Lent can be more than just a season for me, but a way of living always? What if I could pray, fast, and give my way to a sense of freedom?

It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me.....

And I'm feeling good.

Cruising at an altitude of 30,000 feet..

A new journal was procured from the bowels of the resource room on North 5. God Bless Emerson Hospital.

This week abounded with thrills and spills, making even the most valiant hearts sputter.  But amongst the voices whispering, and the pictures of blood and gore spilling from my brain, there was a golden light called mania. I have psychotic symptoms, but I'm really happy about them!  Put that in your pipe and smoke it, psych issues!

I sit gracefully poised in a Monty Python t-shirt and yoga pants, a BIC pen and a Styrofoam cup of decaf coffee to light my way.  I feel that I can climb mountains, conquer nations, and create world peace.  Of course, the working part of my psyche reminds me that the mountains are a load of laundry to be done, the nations are showers without interruption, and world peace is a meal without an altercation breaking out between an alcoholic with trust issues and a bipolar girl who can't stop talking. 

And so we keep traveling our roads, running parallel at close proximity.  Each carries a pike to keep the monsters at bay, riding a blind horse.  We each pray that this steed has been here before, and already knows their way.  For we know those "woods are lovely, dark and deep", and we are trying so hard to remember our promises.

Damaged Goods

I'm not sure if it's poignant or just incredibly cliche that TV and film lead me to some of my "aha" moments. I have always had an incredible ability to tune everything else in my life out while I watch a favorite show or movie. God help the man or woman who tries to carry a conversation with me while I watch Star Trek, Doctor Who, or "Laura"; that film is like my own private symphony. Every line and look is inspired. 

But ANYway, last night I was taking up too much of the couch during "Downton Abbey", when the Bates family finally got on the same page surrounding a traumatic event. While Anna insisted she was "spoiled", and John reassured her she was not, telling her instead that she was all the more important for what she had been through, I cried a lot, and started to ponder the idea of being "damaged goods" or "spoiled". What does that mean for survivors of trauma, especially something as potentially physically invasive as rape?

We often feel spoiled, I believe, when we fail at something, or cannot achieve what it is we were hoping for. Sometimes we fall somewhere in the middle, like a high jumper who hits the bar rather than sailing over.

My rape happened 14 years ago, but for some reason my body and brain were not ready to handle even thinking about it until now. And so what happens? Far after the event, I have nightmares and flashbacks. My mind races and I find myself asking now "Am I damaged goods? Have I been spoiled?" Media surrounding this subject was something I ignored, thinking "Those poor survivors and families; what must they go through?" This is an inevitable "side effect" of repression. Now that I'm owning things, this same media cuts me to the quick, makes me uncomfortable and angry. My friend Bipolar Disorder seems to have come for another interminable visit, and the anger and fear of my rape comes with it. 

Every morning I wake and I weep. I shower, take my meds, eat, and go about my day, but there it all is, between the crying and the cataloging and the singing. You were damaged, you were attacked, you were made different. 

There are some who say they would never choose to forget what happened to them, that it has made them stronger and more aware. I, on the other hand, would take a lobotomy in a heartbeat. If the TARDIS showed on my doorstep right now and the Doctor offered to erase that night from my mind, I would gleefully ask for the sonic screwdriver to be pointed right at my brain. But that isn't going to happen. And so we move along. 

As I lay in bed that night after that episode of "Downton Abbey", I asked my husband, "Am I damaged in your eyes?" He paused and replied, "It never even entered my mind. Not for a second." 

And so I attempt to move along.