Now I see...ish

So there is a reason why there has been so much space in between my writings... ok there are a few reasons. 
One: I am a perfectionist.  If I don't love it, I don't post it.
Two: I have yet another journey I've started and I wanted to let time pass before I jumped in and explained.
Three: I was doubting whether or not writing often about my pain was healthy or not.  To all of this I say, "Here goes nothing!  ...or well, something.  Ok, a lot."

So.  I will begin with this.  I am very very sensitive to anything remotely resembling life or reality right now.  I'll be lucky to make it through the next few years of my life without losing limbs or friends or hair (aka Brittany Spears... yes, I want to shave my head).
That may sound extreme to you (or probably the entire world who isn't ____) but I don't care.
What journey do I speak of that is point three?
I speak of the journey, oh goodness, __________ .... of being bipolar.  Yep... good times. 

I've been going to therapy since the end of January and my therapist told me after enough times of hearing my cycles of self loathing, pain, overwhelming joy, anxiety and even dangerous self-rewarding or self-damaging actions... to name a few, that I should see a doctor who she works with who specializes in helping people who are... well, psycho.  He is a specialist who studies the brain waves of humans when they go through or experience distress, whatever the cause.

Awesome.  I have now been labeled.  Even going to see a psychotherapist scared the be-Hay-Seus out of me but then to be in the same room as other people who struggle with "mental illness" made me spin into the most self-hating and traumatizing day, then few weeks, I have experienced in a long time.  I am sure it didn't help that when I was in the waiting room I was surrounded by the angriest "Words with Friends"-playing kid, the creepiest looking druggie-cougar and the most annoying, loud I'm-43-stuck-in-the-80's-and-wear-my-tube-tops-still chick who was on her cell phone talking about how she is about to go get her son from jail and get him his license back if it's the last thing she does after she drops off the dog and the divorce papers to her "fat ass" ex.  I wish I was joking.
Just from reading this paragraph you may either be laughing to yourself at how I described them or maybe you are thinking how sad they are... perhaps you think I am judging them. 
Let me make it clear.  I am not judging them. 
Instead, I began placing their issues, their problems, their futures, their mistakes, their pains, their addictions and their poor choices upon myself.  I not only began to think I was just as bad or worse than all of them, but my brain began to cycle and cycle and cycle and AGAIN TO CYCLE into fears of my own future, my kids future, my outfits when I turn 43 and if I'll ever get better... whatever that means.  These thoughts and feelings were not new, only reaffirmed and set ablaze.
Now this is not your fleeting "Woah, that was a weird thought.  I'll be fine somehow because of a ___ b ___ or c ___." 
No, I am talking right before I was walking into that room I was nervous but had just listened to a good song and eaten chocolate, was semi-excited and hopeful about this next step in the right direction for my healing and the minute I heard the cries for help around me I began to not only weep for them, but I began to weep for myself and worse, I began to fantasize about how to end my drama once and for all.  All from just feeling sad for others and sad for myself.  And that ladies and gentleman, is partially from my new friend I have decided to call "bipolar."  I'll go into "partially" later.  
  
I don't want to get ahead of myself here.  I don't want to move on from the fact that I just said I felt like ending the drama, the pain.  Don't think I am not very aware of the weight of those words.  I don't use it lightly and I won't ever allow anything to let me get close to not reaching out in the times where I do feel overwhelmed.  Hence this blog that reminds me a bit of those dreams where you're naked and no one will lend you clothes.  Ugh, I loathe those dreams.  

My life is worth more than giving up.  I know that.  I will always follow that rule.  But it doesn't mean I don't have the bipolar shoving the idea to just "give up" whether it be mentally or emotionally, morally or literally day in, day out, with a nearly auditory drumming that won't stop no matter how much or how I pray, meditate, drink, abstain, read, couch potato it, exercise, listen to Reggae, "Tool" or Debussy, diet, overeat, socialize, give, have "me time," let my feelings out, focus on the positive, blog, rehash the negative, bake, spend, save etc...  You know, the "fix all" list.  

As I waited for the doctor to come into my room, yes I was finally away from everyone, or so I thought as the angry W.W.F. guy was in the room next to me and kept getting the "brringgg" of the moves his opponents were making, I began to feel like I was burning up.  The fears, the self-loathing, the perfectionism, the guilt, the stupidity and the world were screaming, SCREAMING, I MEAN THEY WERE SCREEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMING "You see!?  You've reached your destination- the mental case lab!  You aren't anything but a whore, a loser, an emotional freak, you're stupid, you're unmotivated, you need medicine to even function, your past will always follow you, you can't do anything right, everyone is annoyed by you, you will ruin your kids, you won't be a good enough wife, you will die young, you are unloved, you're crazy, you're crazy, you're crazy, you're..." and the doctor walked in.

I smiled my best smile.  He smiled back.  He opened his mouth and said, "Well Grace, you got a 100% on your test for Bipolar II.  What does that mean to you?"  I think I blinked twice with large eyes, one eye twitched slightly and then I began to tell this mild-mannered, kind South African man a story he's never heard before... or so I thought.  I was sure I was a special case.  This wasn't bipolar.  I just wasn't good enough, I didn't try hard enough, I was hurt too many times, I am simply an unmotivated and unable, unworthy fuck-up, I tried everything and most of all I explained that he just was unable to help me, nor did I deserve the help anyway.

I mentioned earlier that I'd talk about "partially."  Bipolar is partially to blame.  The most frustrating thing I think I can say I struggle with is the question "What came first, the chicken or the egg?"  No, I am not interested in a banter about Creationism vs. Evolution I am talking about the daily-minute-by-minute agonizing question of "what can I do to kill this pain and what's the main enemy I need to combat?" 

So what is it?  Some say it's negativity.  Some, the devil.  Some say it is only bipolar.  Others say I have been yelled at one-too-many times. Others say I need to scream at a therapist pretending he is my rapist, the multiple molesters, the 3 men who kidnapped me and my friend who I never saw again and even the kid who pushed me down the stairs and had his friend throw me and my new folder into the trash can once I reached the bottom.  Others say I need to forgive and never think of these things again.  Others say if I just attend church x amount of times and read this new, hip pastor's book I'll feel alive.  Some say I need to figure it out through a 12 step program or multiple programs.  The list goes on.

NEWS FLASH:  It's not helping!!!  What "works" for you isn't working for me.  Get it?  Trying to pinpoint and then find the one thing or period of time or event to blame is doing nothing but exhaust me, my brain and my will to live or care about the world.  The worst part about being ...ugh...having bipolar is that I will think "a" will work because at the time, it does!  I feel successful.  I feel like I am finally free of my codependency and my love addiction, free of my anger, free of my self-hatred, free of my bi-weekly nightmares, free of my lack of motivation to the point of not caring because I already screwed up my day (at all of 8 am). But after one mistake, one bad thought that won't go away, I begin the journey down the waterfall and into the bay, getting repeatedly pushed against the rocks and barely making it up to breathe. 

I may eventually blog about my most recent battle of "Woo hoo!  I found the cure!  Woo hoo, yay OH SHIT THAT'S A BRICK WALL... oh God my head."  That lasted about a year, it includes a 12 step, a lot of volunteering and some manipulative women.  Ooh, intriguing. ;) 
Ok, so I'll try drugs (prescription, that is).  I don't want to.  I am, needless to say, more than apprehensive about putting chemicals in my body and expecting positive results.  Yet I have to put my trust in this kind, gentle, James Harriet-type man who I believe is the next tour guide leading me to what is eventually my eternal rest.  But I plan on that "final destination" being a long way away.  Maybe the green pastures and still waters are real, I choose to believe they are.  But I don't always feel convinced, especially when I unexpectedly, unwillingly daydream about jumping from a Westlake cliff with an anchor around my feet with the evil people in my life's names engraved on the bottom in the middle of giving someone their chocolate croissant at work seconds after having a conversation about how grateful I am to have a new car, my beautiful kids. There's an additional guilt salesman- trying to be happy and grateful because you know you should be. 

I've been on meds for 1 1/2 weeks... hard to tell yet if it's helping.  It seems to be a little.  I am taking my high expectation level on a vacation to "Here's a glass of shut-the-hell-up. Drink it, and like it!" land.  I am not saying I am not going to try and do all of the other things I know will apparently help, but I will not rely on any one thing, anyone.  I will not allow what my doctor said, "So your thoughts race day and night and with that past and those events, wow.  How have you survived?" make me ask, "Yes, why am I trying to survive if I shouldn't have?" but instead I will say, "Why am I still enduring and what can I learn?"  This may sound somewhat inspiring but all it is is scary and another expectation for me to meet.  So I will try and make it easy on myself and just try and be genuine, honest and calm...calmer.        

Well that's great, you likely think.  Grace is depressed, she's bipolar, she's got IIIIIIISSUES and she has no answer.  But that is where you are wrong. THIS is my journey.  This is my life.  God has given me one time, one place, one mind, one fucked up past, one pair of lungs and I plan to try and try and try and try and try and yes, try until my fingertips bleed from pulling myself up the concrete wall that is my bipolar... I mean my past, I mean....my present, I mean... I don't know.

And the second...

She is just a bag of bones
A bag of groans, of dirty moans.
She is just an empty plane
Falling with quickened pace to
The encroaching fields that circle on the spinning horizon.
She is just a drip on the easel of a beggars masterpiece, never part of portrait nor philosophical question.
In the morning air she is just the last mosquito who falls to its death as the chill breaks wings of all specie.
She is just the last of the drink in the paper cup which is lukewarm, an unnecessary part of the purchase.
She is just the last laugh before a beheading as there are many undue bursts of uncertainty unruly as an undertakers utterances.
Flash! A burst of light. Perhaps she is at least a floating driftwood for a dignitary to grab and use to save her celebrity and the world it's loss of a pretty face...
Or was that just another headlight from the vehicle smashing her under the bumper again?
The closeness of the engine was warm and real.
She is just sand in a broken hourglass that falls into chaotic atmosphere without stopping.
She is just a test mouse in a maze where the reward for winning is hemlock brie and berries and the penalty for defeat is injected garbage.
He keeps telling her "just once more" for she is just a penny surrounded in a coin jar full of quarters, silver dollars, extra buttons and condoms.
She is just trying once more for at least there is still air in her smoke-filled lungs.
She is just holding hands in tightness hoping for breakthrough. Fucking breakthrough.
She is just today. She is just tomorrow. She is just hoping for tomorrow.

That being said...

It will be back and forth that I share my musings.  I will begin with my two most recent shorts as these past two weeks have been an avalanche of emotion.  Years later my brain has it's good and bad days.  Sometimes it's wave after wave of negative thought and no matter how I try to stop my mind's roller coaster the enormous tuba of memory blasts the lowest possible note in my ears and rattles my eyes.  Other days I have joy with happy thoughts more glad than Christmas carolers.  But it seems that he comes to find those thoughts of hope, and slaughters them with his 20 inch blade.  He who?  I have yet to name him.  He is the pain.  He is the one who whispers "Stop smiling bitch you don't deserve it."  He is the one who makes me feel uncomfortable when I think something good may happen.  He is my worst enemy.  He is death to all things glorious in my life and his endurance is inhuman.  I digress.  My recents:
 **********
There she lies, a royal purple & black velvet blanket nearly collapsing upon her for the 999th time. The devious coverlet stops falling and floats inches above her bruised, bloodshot and tear filled eyes. "Here comes death to stop this cursed roller coaster." she thinks to herself with relief and gratitude.
But it is not the Grim Reaper nor the Angel of Death who visits.
He comes softly, tightly grasping the cloth, removing it from it's position of suffocation then grips the back of her neck with tenderness unmatched.
Ripping the jagged heaviness from the atmosphere he reveals the girl.
He holds her there, a frail, naked skeleton. She shivers profusely.
Alone no longer she begins to open her eyes. Her vision is blurred & her heart empty.
Filling the room with volcanic warmth & thunder he soothes her wounds with his heart & his breath, speaking words of depth & love.
"Surely this man jests. " she mutters. She is not ready to give him her nothing, nor her everything. She has already given herself away to the rest of the world.
"You could have rescued me sooner! What more could I have endured?" she begins to cry to him, shoulders shaking, mouth agape as tears stream fast as rapids in the spring after winter's icy grip.
His eyes, azure & sparkling, have a kind glow & his skin wrinkles a bit underneath his eyelids as he smiles and adores her.
His complexion is olive with scruff & a bit of grey upon his jawline.
The girl is so angry with him for waiting until now to aid her. What could her life had been if he had come the 5th time or the 66th? Perhaps serenity could have been her path rather than thorns and blood.
She does like his heartbeat, though.
It almost makes her believe he's real.
Letting go of her elbows she begins to move toward him, hands slightly outstretched.
Everything in her tells her not to believe, not to let go and most definitely not to be free.
Familiarity and doubt are her usual lot. "What makes this time different? Is this actual? How could you say you love me if you've only come to me today, this cursed day?" she sniffs and whines at him.
Not snow nor sword nor flame nor death could have kept him from smiling at her. He pursed his lips and kissed her forehead. She shyly looks towards him in fear he'll disappear.
"I have been here all 999 times my love. Remember when you stood on the edge of the cliff and the sea bellowed, telling you to jump? Do you remember the tympanic winds upon the brush near where you stood and what it said to you?"
The girl paused and thought, though the memory returned instantaneously.
With calm and humility she nodded.
"That was me telling you to try again and to breathe, to laugh once more and to step back from the edge. I was the one who engulfed you with joy when you made an accomplishment, no matter how small. I was the one who you felt breathe you back to life when you were alone and afraid after another overdose. Every time you awoke I was the one by your bedside holding your hand. I was the one who waited by the door as you decided if you should try and come home again. I celebrated when you were born. I celebrated when you discovered your voice. I adore everything about you and I know your fears. I know you don't recognize me. You held my hand when you were lost in the woods, the city and your head. I laugh when you dance when you think no one is looking. Surely you must begin to recall me my love?"
Slowly she allows herself to drift off into a daydream and think of past moments, though flighting, where happiness or hope, bed of down or cloud had given her slumber.
As a marching number belted out in her spinning cranium she felt wave after wave of emotion pull her up, up up into his arms, closer and with more abandon. She fought back with all her might, but she was hurled into his care.
She sat, staring into pasty, white walls. She let him stroke her hair. Though the blackness was gone, so was her will.
A broken mirror painted another pair of red eyes that reflected back at her. "This time will be different." she vomited in a tone of blighted hope.
******


That took a few weeks to complete as I started wanting to leave her in his care but I decided to end it with my ever-present feeling of being unsure of the future.

Again with Genesis

Life.  Yes, it begins again.  I try to compose my thoughts as they race across my eyes and into the back of my head.  If only I had chopsticks I could snatch them, the damned, quick flies, as Mr. Miyagi had done with unmatched skill back in the day. Beginning this blog is scarier to me than having my blood drawn with the phlebotomist who admitted it was her 3rd day (lest I forget to mention, I am TERRIFIED of needles) when I was pregnant with Karis.  What makes this a terrifying experience?  I have wanted to write my entire life.  I do write, but I've never done it with the intent of actually making it go somewhere for fear of failure.  I will soon be attending creative writing classes and will hopefully have my own "Josephine March" type of penn name one day.  But for today, a genesis.  I would like to begin with something unpleasant.  Every single day of my life my behavior, my thoughts, my hopes or void of any future, my smiles or lack thereof are due to what I believe is a life-altering evil I experienced not once, not twice but mulitple times over the course of my life.  The pain creates cycles, the cycles create cycles... but I am getting ahead of myself.  Before I spill it I will mention that I dedicate this blog to all others who have been through things like what I am about to share, as well as those who are no longer with us as the pain got to them before sanity was found.  I was five when it first happened.  I remember the tree house.  My friend's yard was amazing, green and gigantic.  Her tree house was centered in the middle of the field, or at least it seemed it to me, and the ladder was a difficult climb.  I was in charge of bringing the juice boxes to the indoor picnic as she and I called it.  She was in the kitchen with her mom when I decided to be productive and start climbing.  When I arrived at the top I was surprised to find her brother, who I did not know was home, waiting for me with an odd look on his face.  He was 16.  I remember it was awful.  I remember it was unfair.  He grabbed me and instantaneously began to remove what he could from my attire.  I remember my mouth quivering and asking him "Can I go home please?"  He declined my idea.  My friend never did come up.  But her brothers friend did.  Their hands appeared larger than life and dirtier than a cole miner's grimace.  I can never say for sure how long it was but indefinitely, it was an eternity.  I left that tree house knowing a few things.  I was not worth my friend's time.  I was apparently only worth their time.  I guessed that's all I was worth.