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Category: perceptions

she’s a jar with a heavy lid

she’s a jar with a heavy lid

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It’s frightening, sometimes, when you realize how you actually think about yourself. For instance; I will often joke about how Hannibal Lecter (from the Thomas Harris books) is my ideal man. I mean, if I had to choose a man, I would like someone like him – smart, witty, rich, cultured, good taste in music, interest in fine dining, loves travel – though I’d rather not have a man at all. In the end, though, it really is a joke. Why? Because when I watch the movies or read the books, I’m not thinking about how I’d like to be with Hannibal, no, I’m thinking about how we’re very alike in certain ways. (Oh, I do eat people, just not physically.) It has occurred to me more than once that I’m like Hannibal searching for my Clarice Starling, when it comes to love. (Book version, not movie!)

That probably sounds hilarious until you realize what I truly think about myself. I hate myself. I view myself as a monster of sorts, incapable of truly comprehending proper human emotion. Because what I live through cannot be normal human emotion. The species would not have survived this long if it were. I see every day the scars most people never see. I see the blood, the medications, the way my attitudes and perceptions of things change at a moment’s notice. It can be terrifying, if I’m sane enough to look at myself and see what I’m doing.

Is it any wonder, then, that I would try to destroy myself? Destroy this monster I perceive? Cut the demons out from  my blood? I shouldn’t think so, especially when you take into consideration that I’m deeply religious and have an overwhelming urge to make the world a better place in any way I can. It’s just a funny irony that I see myself as one of the worst things out there.

another tea party for one

another tea party for one

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A curious thought this morning:

There are only two things in this world which do not despair. The first is the sun. What is the second?

And, you know? I can’t figure out the second. Obviously it can’t be the sky as it turns dark or grey, or the clouds with their tears. The earth violently cuts itself open. The stars are cold and distant. Trees abandon all life and colour. Flowers wilt, the moon wanes, art is impersonal, water goes down, music breaks your heart.

I honestly can’t think of something that doesn’t seem disastrously sad at some point in its life cycle. And I’m sick enough to find that somewhat of a comfort.

another bloody saucer?

another bloody saucer?

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Have you ever wondered what it might be like to have to live with your death sentence on your sleeve?

Odd question, isn’t it? Where does it come from? I just showed my roommate the movie RENT for her first time. We both completely sobbed through the second half of it. Yes, even me the “heartless” one. (For I have been repeatedly accused of being such to such a point where I joke about it now.) And although I am blessed not to have a disease that guarantees death, like AIDS which the characters in the movie had, I still really end up thinking after a film like that.

The one song that really always gets me in the softest spot is the one where they sing:

Will I lose my dignity
Will someone care
Will I wake tomorrow
From this nightmare

Besides the fact that it’s rather musically profound-  which always gets me as a former music student – I find that those are words that could come out of my mouth. And it’s so hard. So hard.

Will I lose my dignity? Have I already, by coming out about my condition and getting treatment? Have I shown weakness by letting myself cry when I’m sad and cut when I hurt and scream when I’m angry? Why is it so wrong to be human? Why can’t I be flawed just like everybody else?

Will someone care? When I cut myself, who notices? Who sees the new scars? Who tries to do something about it? When I finally kill myself, who’ll be at my funeral? My parents? My siblings? My roommate? Camp “friends” who’ve never bothered to try to know me? My ex who denied we ever had a relationship so I denied our friendship? The girls of my ranger unit? Or will they all forget me in a year? Haven’t I always been so easy to let go of? Haven’t I done that on purpose?

Will I wake tomorrow, from this nightmare? Will this disease never leave me alone? Will I ever find that magical combination of pills that makes me “normal”? Why me? Why have the gods chosen me for this fate? Have I not been a good girl all my life?

Nothing is guaranteed in this life except pain. We will all bleed at some point. The question becomes how much does it mean to you?

another spoon of sugar

another spoon of sugar

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First, read this touching article about understanding illness: the Spoon Theory. It’s on a Lupus site, but the author is very right in saying that the same idea applies to a lot of invisible illnesses.

Also, there’s this blog entry about invalidation which dear Karifish sent me to read.

That second one reminds me badly of the time one of my closest friends (at the time, I’ve since cut off that friendship) told me that my suicidal feelings could wait. “Not now, it can wait ’til morning.”

I drank myself unconscious that night. I don’t really remember much of it. But the pills I’d been intending to take were still on my counter that morning when I awoke. I barely noticed the hangover. I wake up dizzy, nauseous and sore far too often to know the difference anyway.

Is there any wonder I don’t trust people? Really? When close friends tell me what I’m feeling is unimportant? She was not the first nor the last one to do so, either.

it was all very well to say “drink me”

it was all very well to say “drink me”

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“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked.
“Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat. “We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”
“How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.
“You must be,” said the Cat. “or you wouldn’t have come here.”

Let’s talk today about one of my most favourite things in the whole entire world: escapism. Escapism, according to Wikipedia is “mental diversion by means of entertainment or recreation, as an “escape” from the perceived unpleasant or banal aspects of daily life. It can also be used as a term to define the actions people take to help relieve persisting feelings of depression or general sadness.” And by most favourite, you know I mean it’s a well abused method for me.

Where can we escape? With escapism, it doesn’t have to be physical so there’s a lot of possibilities. Video games, for instance. When I feel the need to escape my life, I can spend 20 hours a week or more on video games. Roleplaying is another one I often engage in: usually you take on a character and play in a text based game with other characters/players. I’ll even get to points where, because I play multiple characters, I will play just with myself if no one else is around. Books are bad, too. So many alternate universes you can get lost in for a time. The more an author can absorb you, the more I like them. And DVDs. Wow. I know it’s not uncommon for people to work their way through an entire TV series at one go if they really like it, but I’ll go through it two or three times in a row. (Go on, ask me how many times I’ve seen She-Ra or Lexx.) I can be just as bad with movies. I can watch the same movie (or series, if it’s part of a series) for up to a month at a time.

It’s far too easy to get lost in someone else’s world so you don’t have to face this one. And I know this isn’t a condition that effects only the sick, anyone can have it. Anyone who finds the confines of their world to be too small. And, you know, in moderation it’s not a horrible thing. It’s when one gets to the obsessive levels that worry is necessary.

So what can you do about escapism? I don’t know. I’m no doctor, no therapist. I can tell you what I do. Most of the time? Nothing. As long as my playing doesn’t interrupt my real life, I let it happen. As soon as something does get to the point where it starts interfering, though, I get rid of it. Either of my own will or asking someone else to make it disappear from my life. Assuming I’ve noticed. I don’t always.

So it goes. If you think someone you know may be an obsessive escapist, talk to them about it. It may even be worth a trip to the doctor. Escapism is often a sign of a deeper underlying problem. I imagine if you fix the problem, you’ll probably fix the habit.

can I offer you some sugar?

can I offer you some sugar?

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Yesterday, at the request of my co-guider who’s been working on a bullying challenge with the girls but would be missing the meeting, I got to speak to my rangers about suicide, self harm, and mental illness. Obviously it was tough for me and I did cry a bit but I feel this is the sort of thing it’s really important to talk with teens about.

We started with a conversation about the recent suicides of Samantha Kelly and Doran Richardson, both tragic deaths. This lead into a conversation about the causes of suicide which lead to my presentation. Because, yes, I have a powerpoint. I was actually working on it on Tuesday because I’d been meaning to throw one together and then I got the call… uber weird. Clearly a sign from the Gods. (Odin? Thanks.)

If you’re interested in seeing that powerpoint, I’ve uploaded it here (and the fonts I used are here and here). Obviously, it misses something when you don’t get all my personal input and stories with it, but it still has lots of really good facts and – I believe – has a really good message.

Also, I found a rather interesting article in my search for info on those two. Check it out.

Ophelia’s herbal blend

Ophelia’s herbal blend

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Suicide in the media. It’s rather prettified and romanticized, isn’t it? I mean, just think about some of the famous people who’ve done it: Kurt Cobain (gunshot), Sylvia Plath (gas), Hunter S. Thompson (gunshot), Virginia Woolf (drowned), Marilyn Munroe (overdose), Roman Lyashenko (hanging), Ernest Hemingway (gunshot), Ian Curtis (hanging)… just to name a few.

Shakespeare was also very fond of suicides, like the infamous Romeo and Juliet, Lady Macbeth, Othello, or – my personal favourite – Ophelia. But he’s certainly not the only author to mention it.

And what about the way we talk? Expressions like “die young, stay pretty” “live fast and die young” “I bleed just to know I’m alive” are certainly at least somewhat familiar to you. Or our music? How many songs do you know that glorify death/dying/self-harm in some way? Remember that old TV show M*A*S*H? Know what the theme song was called?

Why? What is the cultural obsession with self-destruction? And how is it, with all this around us, that we are always so shocked and dismayed when we hear about someone killing themselves?

I suspect it might be a healthy mind versus unhealthy mind thing. Though I’m not one to speak with much authority on the healthy mind, I suspect that it usually doesn’t take such things at face value but interprets them instead as metaphorical. An unhealthy mind, unfortunately, has a different filter and as such relays information differently. So if you see the colour red, I might see violet. Or an elephant, depending on my disorder. Thus things that might be considered ridiculous to anyone else seem not only reasonable but like a good idea to the unhealthy. Because our world filter is skewed incorrectly.

Please don’t think I’m saying only the mentally ill will commit suicide, because that’s not true. People who become severely emotionally damaged – those who have been bullied, raped, abused, lost someone/thing incredibly dear – will also consider it an option. Those susceptible to influence are also at risk; such as teens/youth who are not yet firm in their personal identity.

So we surround ourselves with thoughts of death and then act surprised when someone follows through on them? As a society, I think we humans are rather fucked up. We put too much importance into inconsequential things and not enough in each other.

I’ve been bullied, abused, abandoned and betrayed in my life by various people who “loved” me and I was supposed to trust. I’ve had to live with the stigma of being insane and the constant fear that I would someday have an episode in public and not be able to disguise it. I’ve tried to kill myself about a dozen times over the span of my life. I haven’t ended up in the hospital for it yet, but I may still. I can’t count the number of times I drank myself to a stupor so I wouldn’t be able to think about it anymore. I’m not sure how many times I sat with a knife at various vulnerable arteries for hours until I finally talked myself out of it and cut my thighs instead. Just once I stood ankle-deep in a river in the middle of the night and talked myself out of going deeper by pointing out how badly I’d scare those who found my body – likely to be children.  And there were quite a few “sick” days spent throwing up bottles of pills I’d consumed earlier. (For the record? Over the counter painkillers just don’t work.)

To this day, I’m still not sure if I want to live but I think that’s the disease talking. I do believe that my gods want me to live, and I’m pretty sure there are a few people out there who’d be kind of pissed off if I let myself give in. I don’t know, though. It’s a losing battle.

Let me leave you with one of my poems, and we can all think a little more:

I’m Sorry

I want to ram this pen right through my wrist
I want to have this ink instead of blood
so many words pour forth, some days
I think that I may as well just bleed them
I’m sorry that I couldn’t be more perfect
I’m sorry, it feels like all I ever say
I’m sorry that you hurt me
I’m sorry that I’m dying
and I’m sorry for this is how it has to be

with my blood I could tell many stories
as my ink, it would flow easy and quiet
from wrist to page to make my book
my last apology
when I die, it won’t be your fault
as I tape my mouth to choose that silence
my organic pen will leave my note
that’s all I have to say
don’t worry, you won’t miss me all that much

it’s a spoon

it’s a spoon

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Now, I know I often tend to write here rather negatively, but bipolar disorder isn’t all doom and gloom and fire and brimstone. There are parts of it that you can actually come to really like. The bolstered creativity can be quite lovely (though the need to paint/draw/write/etc. so badly can be painful if you’re unable to fill it) and the mildest forms of mania can be very pleasant.

When I’m mildly manic – or “hypomanic” as it’s sometimes called – I tend to be cheerful, bubbly, just a little spacey, fidgety, and an obsessive neat freak. There are quite a few people in my life who tend to associate this me as the “real” or “best” me. I will agree it’s a nice place to visit, but it’s not who I am or who I want to be. At the same time, she is me. But so are the extreme manias. And the depressions. And the mixed states.

I’ve joked with friends for years about how I’m secretly multiple people. I guess that’s one way to think of it. Or maybe you could compare me with the phases of the moon with only certain parts showing but still being the same body? I don’t know. I really don’t.

When you’re fighting with a disorder like this, you end up asking strange questions like “is it ok to be us?” “who am I today” and “where’s the other me?” but they don’t seem so strange. Mind. This IS coming from a girl who sometimes believes she’s a lady in waiting in a queen’s castle.

I do enjoy the energy and productivity mania brings me. But I hate the noise. The more manic I get, the more noisy my brain gets. I think that’s part of what makes me so angry/irritable when I’m manic. My head is so full and so loud that there’s just no room for anything else in it, so don’t you dare try to get in there. Many times I’ve had to just completely shut down because my mind was so loud and so fast that I was unable to function any longer.

The lack of sleep also has some horrid effects on your health. But at least you don’t feel tired. I’m running on three hours right now, but if you were to sit and talk with me, you’d think I was well rested and perky. Really? I’m not. But we see what we want to see in life. Perceptions are everything.

and a gray ribbon on her wrist

and a gray ribbon on her wrist

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Facebook has once again claimed a “To Write Love on Her Arms” day. And while the original charity actually does some pretty cool stuff, and has some great information, I have come to HATE the “days” proclaimed on Facebook.

Why?

According to the TWLOHA website:

“Self-injury, like many addictions, is often a coping mechanism to deal with some manner of internal pain, many who struggle with it also struggle with other issues such as eating disorders and alcohol and drug abuse. While self-injury may be someone’s way to cope with or relieve painful or hard-to-express feelings and is generally NOT a suicide attempt, relief is always temporary, and usually only perpetuates a destructive cycle that continues the struggle. This cycle often means that those who do not get help can become more depressed and shameful, adding to the pain and need for relief, thus perpetuating the cycle.”

The fact that people think just writing “LOVE” on your arms somewhere is not going to actually make a difference. I don’t fucking care WHAT you write on your arms. If I want to cut myself, I will. I was actually (half) joking with my roommate about carving “LOVE” onto my arm with my knife and putting it up as my profile picture as a way of protesting.

I won’t. I’ll be good. Ish.

What really gets me is they always talk about the depression side of things, how writing love on one’s arms can help all the depressed people out there. First off, you’re missing the point. The idea of TWLOHA? Is the fact that they want to write LOVE instead of there being cuts. TWLOHA is a charity that supports the fight against self harm by donating to the many mental health programs that deal with the diseases that causes these urges.

Awareness is extremely important, but I’m not sure if the people doing this even know what’s going on, sometimes. This charity has received the endorsement of Hollywood poptarts such as Lindsay Lohan and Miley Cyrus. In my mind, at least, this speaks poorly for the charity because it’s suddenly become a trend.  It puts me in mind of that “donate your hair to cancer!” thing that went around, which ended up being that the charity actually gave the hair to kids with a rarer disease (alopecia areata) but only about 10-20% of what was donated. The rest was thrown out (due to being in poor condition) or sold to wig makers for money to continue advertising, paying staff, covering manufacturing costs and such. Does this make the charity bad? Not at all. They’re doing exactly as they set out to do. However, public word of mouth twisted the story and then people turned around and called the charity liars when it was actually those “supporting” it who were misrepresenting it.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I want there to be awareness of mental health issues. Hell, why else would I write this blog for anyone to read? My concern is that people are going to go around writing words on their arm and thinking it’ll make some huge difference when it really won’t. Personally? I get insulted. I think “what the hell do you know about it?” I’ve lost friends over admittance of my scars/cutting. I’ve lost a lot of blood. I spend a stupid amount of money on bandaging for myself. Most of my bed sheets have the rather distinctively stripey bloodstains. (For the record? If you move a lot in your sleep, there is pretty much no way that I’ve found of bandaging so it’ll stay.)

My self injuring is the one thing I will always lie about to almost anyone who asks me in person. “What? This scratch? I caught myself on a shelf at work.” “Oh, you know cats…” “One of the tables at school.” “Yeah, I was playing with the rabbit.” “Oh, I don’t know, I must’ve caught myself on something.” “What? Oh, it’s nothing, don’t worry.” Any of those sound familiar?

Tell you what, guys? If you insist on playing this silly game about writing love on your arms, at least actually READ the website of the organization. Know what you’re saying. Know who you’re saying it to. If you really want to make a difference? Find some local charities for mental health and donate or volunteer for them. Or, like I do, make sure people know they exist and that there IS help out there.

It took me three suicide attempts to try to get help the first time. After those people failed me, it took almost ten years to finally start getting the help I needed. Need. I’m not out of the lake yet.

For those who live in my area, here’s a couple of great places to start looking if you truly want to help those of us suffering from mental disorders:

Or just google “your area mental health” and see what comes up!

do you take your tea black?

do you take your tea black?

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While searching the internet the other day, I stumbled upon a rather interesting image. Manic depression is the new black? Really? Apparently the artist made the image with the thought of making an ironic statement about how mental disorders change names over time, but what it made me think about was the news story I read earlier this year about people who want to be bipolar.

Yes, you read that correctly. People actually want to be diagnosed with this hell.

I first read it on BBC News, here, though it’s also been in a few other sources. Some arguments suggest that people come up with this before going to their doctor because they want a label for why they’re feeling bad, and others suggest that somehow celebrities have glamorized the bipolar “lifestyle”.  I’m not entirely sure what I think yet. Well, aside from the fact that if you want this hell that you are far more fucked up than I am.

Admittedly, when I went back to the doctor in April this year, it was under the impression that I might have bipolar (as I’d been diagnosed as such about 10 years ago) but my first request was that I be rediagnosed as I did not trust the doctor that I had been with when I was first diagnosed. So, basically, I got a second opinion. I said “these are the symptoms I’m seeing, and this is what I’ve been told in past please help me before I destroy myself.”

I remember that first meeting clearly. My friend took me. She insisted I had to show the doctor the mildly infected cut on my leg, even though I told her several times that it just needed polysporin. Doctor looked at it (and all the other scars up that leg…) and said it was fine, just needed polysporin. He agreed to take me on as a patient and tried to get me to a psychiatrist. We managed to get me a diagnosis based on an interview with one psychiatrist, but I’ve yet to get a steady psychiatrist or even psychologist.

But it has not been a fun game. In the past year, I’ve lost 40 lbs, spent several months starving, spent several other months vomiting, lost control of my motor functions any number of times, blacked/spaced out many times when life just got past the point of me handling it, forgotten who I was, and destroyed friendships. Why in the name of all that is good would anyone ever want to be like this?

I have never, and I don’t think I ever will, understood why some of us in our minds will romanticize such ideas as disease so that they become something we want. Trust me, I’m not doing this to be interesting or impressive. Besides, who would I impress with a disease that has the potential to destroy every relationship in my life? I can’t even see the results of my work if I kill myself, so that’s not really something to aim for. Is it the scars? Because I’d happily give mine away.

Or maybe the true sickness is the longing to be normal. How can I validate myself? How can I fit in? That’s it, right?