Tea With A Mad Girl

I have been bad lately, haven’t I? I apologize. I too often allow myself to get busy and distracted. It’s what keeps me going.

I will admit, though, I’ve spent a good deal of time thinking about the concept of “safe places” lately. There are many places that I’ve long been told were safe where I’d had to find coping mechanisms and develop personas in order to survive there. Places I was told were “positive” and “encouraging”. I suppose they might have been safe for me the same way antibacterials are – by killing off the safe germs and leaving only the most deadly.

I suppose there are those who thrive well enough in those environs, but I would rather be the germ surviving the antibacterial than the hand. We become hardier by our hardships. I am not (nor will I be!) the princess who has been spoon-fed and pet her whole existence. I am scar-covered and  heart-broken and that is just as I like it.

It makes me so angry, though, that certain people devoted so much time and energy into telling me “THIS is safe, THIS is positive” when I found those places and situations to be neither. I felt out of place, outcast, and unwanted because I did not meet their expectations of “all-inclusive”. If a scorpion never shed its shell, it would die. Your definitions, your limitations became a shell to me and I nearly died under them. Sadly, I had not even realized until after I was free (cue mental image of scorpion panting in the sunshine as its new shell hardens) I do still need a shell to survive this world but it will be one defined by me.

I’ve spent quite a lot of time removing daggers from my spine, and it was amazing to see what names were actually attached to them. All those who tried to help by confining me to a box. (Another nail in the coffin!) Those who tried to be “impartial” by dealing all the blame to me. Those who charged me of lying the one time I was brave enough not to. Those who told me they were ashamed of me for needing to ask for help. Those who abandoned me the first moment it could be viewed as my fault or choice. Those who lied, lied, lied so I wouldn’t “be sad again”. Those who suggested I “just needed to focus on the positive”  to get better. (Sure, you try that with a broken leg and see how well it works. “Medically impossible” means just that.)  Those who refused to see just how sick I really was.

Is it any wonder I’ve only ever really felt “safe” alone? I hold no trust in my heart, no faith in humanity. At the end of the day we’re all animals fighting for survival. As a species, unfortunately, we’ve never really figured out how the “herd” thing works.

Once again, I restate my intent to revoke my humanity and become a tree.

It may sound funny, but sometimes I really miss being suicidal. I miss the dips and the swings. Breaking down and breaking up. Shutting down when the world was too loud then ripping myself to ribbons when I couldn’t hear it. I miss my dysfunctional disjointedness.

A sailor would not complain of flat water having left the storm behind. Yet I can’t help it. I crave the rain.

I’d suppose it must be that place, that point where one must stand and face that mirror revealing the truth of who you are minus the disease. I find myself flat, lacking. Like a page without letters. I was the storm in the tea pot, but when you put on the lid, I’m just the tea pot.

Still, the storm is in there. Unseen, unheard, but I can feel it. Now and then I can feel its echoes and shadows filling in my cracks but it no longer dominates me. So I seem dull, empty.

Medicated.

I’m trapped, I feel, floating between the rushing surface of a river and the turbulent aquatic life below. In this strange space, I’ve not found the expected serenity but a disturbing numbness instead. The pills keep me here. Low enough to avoid getting lost in the excitement of the current and high enough to stay out of the depths but I’m still drowning. This is not my life. It is my prison.

I had read and heard before about how bipolars would sometimes feel this way on medication, how they go from extreme feelings to almost none. At first I thought that perhaps that is what had hit me, but then I stopped and looked at some of the other symptoms. Compulsive shopping, for instance. One of my least favourite symptoms of depression as it hurts me long term. And then there’s the complete disinterest in doing anything even remotely social. This includes both going for bloodwork and doctor’s visits. I know I keep using my insane work schedule of late (10+ hours every night. unhuh.) and my new sleeping hours due to night shift, but we all know I could make it if I wanted to. I don’t.

I absolutely love my current job. I’d be a liar to say otherwise. And, really? Came straight out of my baker’s course and straight into the industry. It’s what any girl should dream of. It’s exactly what I wanted. It’s the only place I don’t feel numb.

Quick! Pop quiz! What do I find more stressful- a) a week of 12 hour shifts at the bakery or b) living with my family again?

Yeah, not exactly a trick question, is it? I feel constantly watched, constantly judged. I feel incapable of pleasing father. Anytime I do anything good, he finds six other things wrong to blame on me – even if I had nothing to do with them. No wonder the sister finds any and every excuse to be out of the house. At least my night schedule means I usually only see father on weekends.

Hot milk this morning. Haven’t slept yet and would like to get at least a little before tonight’s shift.

Life can be such a funny thing sometimes. No matter how things are going, your view of it will be entirely skewed by your perceptions like a pair of novelty glasses. However, that doesn’t mean you have to present yourself that way. I now have a co-worker who is as outwardly negative as I am inwardly, and I find that he completely repulses me. I’m not sure if it’s because he so clearly shows signs of so many things I’ve fought so desperately to not be or if it’s because he embodies so many of the things that I wish never to be or what, but it’s there.

On the other hand I’m just as disgusted (as I always have been) by those who have an overly optimistic outlook. No matter how many times you try to convince me (or, perhaps, yourself) of it positive thinking doesn’t just magically make everything better. It’s like putting a bandage on a mortal wound: it’s hidden and will make those around you feel better but it doesn’t stop you from bleeding to death. (Too little too late, yeah?)

A smile won’t mend a leaky roof any more than a frown will.

This is why, I think, Buddhist teachings are of such an interest to me. Although I do not completely agree with some of the higher theological viewpoints of true Buddhism ideas like the middle path, balance, and that the opposite of suffering is not joy. (It is absence.)

Head under water
And they tell me
To breathe easy for a while
The breathing gets harder
Even I know that

-  Sarah Bareilles, Love Song

I was recently reading an interesting article about the study of recorded suicides in medieval England. The study seems to be part of ongoing research regarding mental illness and suicide within the human creature.  Because it isn’t a new thing or a modern anomaly. This is something that’s been happening for a very long time.

It really makes one wonder: why is the human creature so self-destructive?

It’s incredible. I know I’ve been busy but two months since an update? Yikes!

With finishing school, moving, and a new job all coming in a very short span it really shouldn’t be much surprise that I’ve put all else on hold. What is a surprise, though, is how relatively little stress I’ve felt in the whole process. Normally any one of these things would greatly upset me, but here I am completely happy even whilst dealing with all three.

There’s also that whole thing where I haven’t really been able to feel my right hand for over a month without numbness and/or pain. Basically, my fingers are numb atm, but my joints hurt like a motherfucker so typing is not a pleasant experience for me today. I tried, as my mother suggested (as her doctor suggested for her carpal tunnel) wrapping my wrist so I wouldn’t move it over the night, but woke up in so much pain that I had to pull my tensor off immediately. It’s feeling a bit better, now. Back to the normal numb/some pain combo.

Our best suspect as to what’s up with my hand is that it’s some sort of nerve damage. Part of me kind of wonders if maybe it’s caused by my meds, as the problem started shortly after I got back on a regular medication routine again, but I haven’t really found much about related side effects while searching online. Still. I’m on drugs that effect the brain, it’s not much of a leap of imagination to assume they may also effect my nervous system.

`

A strange thought I had the other day, and one I shall leave you with this morning: I seem to be happiest in life when a) I’m heavily medicated b) there’s no one in my life that I feel I can trust 100%. Take that as you will.

I’ve been so good lately, taking all my pills, eating all my meals, I even managed to get myself a job now as I finish my schooling. But it hasn’t meant much. I still feel empty. Nothing really seems to sustain me. I feel listless when trying to be myself.

I will swallow, if it will help my sea level go down

But I’ll come back to haunt you if I drown

I’ve been emersing myself in many of my favourite fictional worlds to avoid having to be me, curling up in the heads of all those characters I’ve always found easiest  to lose myself in. Often I feel it is far better to be an observer of life than to be a participant. I’ve been sleeping a lot lately, too. And when I haven’t been asleep, the hours seem to pass me so slowly. Minutes go by like hours and I find myself wondering how to fill my time while at the same time wondering why I don’t have time to get everything done. Though some of that, the sleeping at least, could be partially due to this evil cold/flu that I’ve had for the past week. But, overall, it’s been like constantly moving through water instead of air, all slowed and muffled.

Woke up with blood on my lips again. It’s been a little while, but I guess that’s one of the side effects of getting back on my proper drug regiment.

I’ve been thinking a lot about music lately, which probably isn’t a huge surprise to anyone who really knows me, but in particular I’ve been thinking about the kinds of music that I “relate to” …sort of the soundtrack of the broken mind. So I’ve decided that it might be fun to compile a list of sorts, listening homework for those of you who want to try and figure out how I think. Of course the next thing was to decide whether to have a list of songs or bands or what. I ended up deciding to make a list of albums

First on my list of albums is the album that actually gave me the idea to make this list as I found myself unconsciously playing it on repeat:

Wilco’s Summerteeth

Yeah, it’s one of their older ones but that doesn’t make it out of date. (Trust me, older music WILL be coming.) I tend to see this as sort of a “slice of life” album. There’s songs about travelling, falling in love, falling apart, abuse, and (most importantly) change.

Song not to miss? ELT

Justin Rutledge’s Man Descending

With a voice to break your heart, Justin was introduced to me by a close friend who I happen to know will listen to all of his albums on repeat when she’s especially sad. He twists melodies around his words like forming a rope you can hang on to when you most want to let go.

Song not to miss? Greenwich Time

Dan Mangan’s Postcards & Daydreaming

This nostalgic and wistful album is a soothing reminder of the terrible loneliness that is the curse of being one’s own self. No good deed goes unpunished.

Song not to miss? Fabulous

Emilie Autumn’s Opheliac

You didn’t really think you’d get through this list without a mention of this album, did you? Silly muffin. Emilie has described this album as being her “mad scene” and it’s very true. If there’s one thing this album does, is it makes you feel. Sometimes angry, sometimes sad, but I think the most important part of this album is that it gives you the feeling of taking back power into yourself from all those who’ve stolen it from you. And if this is the mad scene, I can’t wait to see what her upcoming album (Fight Like a Girl) will be…

Song not to miss? Art of Suicide

David Bowie’s 1. Outside

A strange concept album (done partially in collaboration with Brian Eno) that cycles around the idea of “it’s murder, but is it art?” obviously leads to some truly interesting listening. It has all the feel of your favourite horror film with a touch of Bowie’s musical sense and his excellent, excellent portrayal of abject loneliness.

Song not to miss? Strangers When We Meet

And there’s more. Always so many more, but who has time for anything like that these days?

The other day, a friend in class said to me “I actually can’t believe you haven’t killed yourself yet” during a conversation about dark personality types. It amazed me and scared me a little bit that she saw that in me, but I brushed off with a joke about good drugs and that was that. Have I become so transparent? But isn’t that sort of what I wanted? I confuse myself. I thought I presented at least a slightly brighter personality at school.

It’s so easy to trick people into thinking I’m happy, sometimes. So much so that I almost even believe it. Imagine that: me, happy. Not bloody likely.

Hmmn. More tea. It’s the only way to deal with shit anymore.

Sometimes I wonder if anything could have been done at some point in my past to prevent me from becoming a tea-obsessed, self-destructive lithium-junkie.  Other times I wonder why I ever care at all. I’ve been so disheartened by so many things lately. School, family, job hunt, flat, roommate, so-called friends… I feel like I’ve no place to escape to. I feel trapped and tied, bleeding through my ropes.

I’m just so tired. I can’t keep up appearances. Another cuppa.

I did get a dr’s appt, though. Because people won’t leave me alone about it. I’ll probably go, otherwise I won’t hear the end of it…

Ten subtle signs of bipolar disorder.

10 things to say (and 10 not to say) to someone with depression.

The upside to bipolar?

Just some random interesting related reads. Short, I promise, but insightful. Some of them I would think to be horribly obvious, but I guess not?