I looked at the title I wrote for this Blog. I didn’t think that I’d be sucked into a hole again. It’s interesting the variety of abysses there are. This one was preceded by a razor-blade slide to calm encompassing darkness. No lightening, no winds, no flapping leaves, nothing. So I’m back. And already I’m tired.
People are prescribing happiness in the place of medicine. Medicine that is supported empirically and scientifically. It’s intended as a placebo. A dose of sugar on our shitty lives.
Source: Litany of Positivity Porn
I wanted to add a video that was either relevant or one I liked. I got nothing people.
I was having one of those conversations inside my head talking to my Mother’s friends. I was trying to explain to them why I haven’t gotten back in touch with them even though I look like I’m doing nothing. I can’t explain to normal human beings why I act the way I do. It’s not acceptable to bring out uncomfortable issues in public. I don’t like being by myself all the time the way I usually am. I just know it’s safer. I hate seeing confusion and disappointment on other people’s faces especially people I like. I am an exposed nerve walking around without flesh to protect myself from speaking the truth.
In my head I told those people I miss my Mother like I miss clean air. I think my Mother would understand what I mean by that. Maybe, Maybe her friends would too, the ones that went out on the ocean on scientific vessels to do their experiments. People who work in Boston but live on the ocean in Rhode Island would understand. Maybe. They might understand the difference but maybe don’t understand what I mean. If you really want to know what I mean go to Alaska for a year and then come back to where ever you live. You’d really understand.
I was thinking today that I hate that I’m white. I’m lucky and I enjoy the privileges that come so easy to being white. There’s more to it like I think the people that I know who are not white probably think I’m luckier than I really am. They probably imagine my life as a “Leave It To Beaver” episode. What’s worse, my children who’s fathers are of other races see me and know that we are not the same. They feel I can’t relate to them and in a way I can’t. And I thought that their beauty, their lovely skin, their exotic eyes, their full heads of hair were gifts. They meant so much to me. It’s the curse of being a parent. I thought they understood my admiration of their fathers’ differences. To them they don’t lack those gifts that I wish I had.
I am never alone when I am by myself. All the people I’ve known occupy my head. Even friends from childhood. The problem is that all the good and the bad lives in my head. I argue more than I have peaceful conversations. I sometimes have to defend myself from the ugly humans I’ve met. And then there is the unsavory part of me that angers and seethes.
I have been thinking about the trip to Alaska that I am going to take. All the people I loved there are dead or maybe gone. I don’t know who to contact except K and he won’t speak to me. He’s got his family and i told him not to come to RI. His wife would probably think we were still involved. That’s the way it goes with things in Alaska. It’s small and emotions run red.
My sister wants to come and now my niece does too. I intended on going with my Mother and my sons originally so they could see what was a part of my history. My Mother was with me originally when we lived there. My sister and niece have never been there. I wonder if I will become angry with them. They aren’t bad people but this is a personal issue. I have kept my personal issues separated from my sister, never mind my niece. I think for my niece it will be a sight seeing tourist thing. Ugh. For my sister it may be more personal. Ammunition to degrade me? Maybe. A curious lookie-loo into a part of my life and maybe psyche that she’s never seen before? Maybe. Maybe she just wants a tourist trip, I don’t know There are unresolved issues in Alaska that I want to face and I don’t want my raw @ss hanging out for my family to see. Except the boys. They have seen me under duress.
I am careful with people when it comes to showing my strengths and weaknesses. People judge so easily. And people who know you use information like that to hurt you. Actually I try to be careful, sometimes I’m a braggart, that nasty part of my personality that tries to prove I’m not the imbecile my parents believed me to be my whole childhood. I have a hard time trying to contra; that part of me that makes me look like a know-it-all. I have so many flaws and they are a big reason I hide away from other people.
Lately my sister and I have “grown apart”, meaning that she looks for ways not to come over. I guess we were suppose to bond over my Mother’s death but I don’t bond well with people who have f^cked me over in the past. I don’t forgive easily. Especially if I’ve been taught over and over that I am not important enough to not be screwed over. I’ve come to the conclusion that certain people are blind to how they f^ck other people particularly their family members or the ones they supposedly love. My Mother knew Erika was like this and she accepted it. The animals Erika dumped on her. The tools she permanently borrowed from my father. The items around the house she’d give to her friends. And she’d never ask permission.
I realize that it’s a little late to bring this up. Unfortunately I don’t give a sh!t. I can’t turn a blind eye and make pretend it isn’t happening like my Mother did to keep everything on an even keel in the family. I’ve been stewing in it. And I want a good way to deal with it.
BUSH : Machinehead
I am close to shutting down. There’s only so much enlightenment one can take.
So I’m looking for “new” friends, I figure I have to get out of my old head, old life and try to find people who may be healthier for me. I am very annoyed at acting the second child, side kick, what-ever-you-say-George buddy who shoves my anger down when my friend appropriates my ideas. Or treats me like my opinions don’t mean anything. Or acts like I should blindly follow them. Fuck you, I already lived and dealt with an @sshole like that for years. That’s part of why I’m such a mess. And I still have to deal with her. And she’s still as senseless about her annoying demanding attitude and self-righteous power assumptions as she was when she was a kid. I’m not befriending another overbearing turd so I can bounce between them like a shrunken beach ball.
I know I am no prize as far as personal faults come into play but why make my life misery? Why not change it now that I know some of the awful elements that helped my self esteem shrink?
It has been incredibly difficult getting to this point. Usually when someone treats me the shoddy way I was treated in the past and I realize it my mind blanks out. I black out and the memory of what to look for never gets developed because my mind goes into a closet and entombs itself in fear and pain. When it crawls out I have no memory of what happened. And it’s like I’ve been brainwashed. It took me years to realize what was going on. It hasn’t stopped. I just have gotten better at keeping scraps of the flashbacks in another part of my brain while my present brain goes into shock. After my brain comes out of it’s isolation womb the other part of my brain takes out the slip of memory and whatever else it was able to glean from the current event and put together what happened in the past, who did it to me and how it triggered the current freezeout in my head.
I’ve never told a therapist or psych professional because I know that if the f^cktards from my past could damage my brain like that I should never allow a professional to muck about in my scars. A medical doctor has more chance healing physical damage, you can actually see it and there are machines to help those kinds of professionals do that. Psychiatrists are much less likely to help and are much more likely to continue damaging the patient. They work more on theories than actual observation or somatic effects.
Speaking of professional psychs, I have encountered many peers who are sold heart and soul into the belief that their Psychiatrists can do no wrong and think they shouldn’t question them. These people usually have a sh!tload of medications. Medications on medications: a pill to deal with the voices, a pill to deal with the side affects that come with that pill, a pill that counteracts the affects of the pill that is taken to deal with side affects, and so on and so forth. One friend almost brags that she takes 9 pills in the morning and 20 pills at night. Mentally chemically castrated, they don’t sleep well, they are dopey all day, they barely do anything. In fact the braggart has metal crap in her head, implanted that doesn’t work but because her Psych suggested it she went and had an operation to have it installed. Of course she’s had ECT done in the past. Many many times. It’s horrifying, she’s a medical experiment.
David Bowie – TVC 15
When I was a kid I was viciously bullied in a way that a viciously bullied kid could only know who lived in a small town. When I look back I realize that I experienced MI symptoms at an earlier age than I had previously thought. I was very paranoid as I believed that everyone (and I mean EVERYONE,) thought I was trash like my bullies treated me. I wouldn’t venture out of the house without a family member for fear that I would be ganged up on. That’s what happened at school, being ganged up on. The remnants of the mental punishment remain today. I sometimes can’t leave the house for fear that people will look at me. It’s like I live in invisible bars. As an adult I would take walks alone only after Midnight. No one was around and even if there were someone I could duck into the shadows and hide until they passed.
Later when I decided as a tool to help me exorcise the mental demons that tortured me constantly I would talk to my Parents and get a reality check to see if they saw life the same as I did at the times I was being bullied. (Remember that my mind bullies me now. Being bullied is societies way of brain washing you to conform to it’s standards and to become a whipping post for ignorant assholes’ fears and anger. It lasts long after the actual bullying stops.) I scrapped talking to my father. He was a sick m0therf^cker. He took it as an acceptable way to tell me his sex fantasies and sick experiences. He didn’t want to hear me, he wanted me to throw up his mind’s f^cked up fantasies onto and try to titillate. It made me hate him more.
My Mother did try to understand and she talked to me. One of the first things she said independently of me questioning her was that my younger brother had talked to her about the bullying I went through. He told her that he felt guilty for not protecting me from my tormenters. He was also being bullied at the time, this I knew. I told my Mother that I was not angry at him. I didn’t expect him to stand up for me. I also knew he was getting his own brand of torture.
I am tired just writing that down.
Today I heard that David Bowie died Sunday after struggling with cancer. I cried like I didn’t with Mom. I don’t understand that. The more I open myself up to my emotions the less I understand. Bowie’s music helped me through my Alaskan stay. Getting good music up there was a joke. And Bowie’s strange changes were comforting to me. They helped me feel like I was not alone in feeling so weird inside as an adolescent.
Aimee Mann – Wise Up
It’s 9:21 am December 4th, a Thursday. I woke up at 7 am. Unusual for me because even though I did go to bed around 4 am I usually wake up around 11 am.
I think something’s different today.
I went downstairs and steamed 13 dumplings before feeding the cats at 8:38. I let Titan out, and outside the door was a cold coastal bright pre-winter morning with crispy green grass and no ripples on the water between the beach and the docks. The house is freezing, almost. I wore the new fingerless “gloves” I got on amazon.com but not the extra long legwarmers. I took the tea tree oil upstairs and diluted it with Jojoba Oil preparing it for my finicky skin. It has a medicinal smell that makes me think of my Grandfather and his Preparation-H ritual that used to leave his bathroom eye wateringly toxic.
When I came downstairs I had the narrator reading a story from my life like it sometimes happens. It was telling me about how much of a crappy Mother I was to my sons and in retrospect I defended myself against it’s unfair judgements. Then clickBAMM. I was seeing myself pregnant again with my second son waiting in a waiting room in St. Anne’s Hospital.
I don’t look to remember the bad from the past. In fact my mind does this tricky little thing and takes a really crappy situation and finds little details that distract me from what was actually going on.
What was going on here was that my new husband had burned my young son enough to put him in the hospital. And I didn’t believe it. I needed support but he was the only person I had at the time. And I really didn’t believe that anyone would burn a child enough to put them in the hospital. It had to be an accident. It had to be a burglar. It had to be a mistake because I got what I wanted after putting up with another man who was an addict and acted like a child. I got a husband and a stable family. And he loved me and wanted me. And everything was suppose to be alright.
I had a really good lasagna in the cafeteria while we were waiting for the social worker. I believed the social worker was there for our benefit and would help us figure out what happened. I was naive at this point, I really had never had any governmental involvement in my life. I was young and I was never going to be “one of them welfare bums” that were worthless and shifty. I remember the whole cafeteria was on one of the higher floors and the sun was brilliantly illuminating the whole dining area. I felt strangely elated. Everything was compartemental. My son was in the pediatric area. The nurses told me that he was a sweet sweet child that never cried (until I came into the room and saw him sitting in his diaper playing with some plastic blocks.)
When I saw him my heart broke. A small sliver hardened and cracked and slid out of the lower quadrant, fell to the bottom of the box that held it in place and shattered. It didn’t go away either. When my mind tiptoes around the past, shards will lodge in my achilles heel. I promised he’d never get hurt again. It was my duty as his only parent (Mr. Addict being too occupied with his own fulfillment,) to protect him and make sure he didn’t get hurt unnecessarily. I had screwed up somehow.
It took me a while to figure it out and be sure about it. I don’t just jump into something because it’s probably the most likely explanation. I was taught to question myself over and over again. I was taught that I am stupid, wrong, inconvenient, worthless. Do you hear this? Over and over? Well you haven’t. Nothing like my life’s background soundtrack of failure and helplessness.
And this where I’m left today. Mental bombed by my own mind. The antiseptic smell of a hospital that was left behind more than 20 years ago coating my sinuses. The sense of failure that I’ve carried for years and has shaped my spine so that mentally I’m hunch-backed. I live in a padded room of Hell that doesn’t get any bigger yet won’t crumble under pressure. Prayer just makes it live larger in my mind. And it takes a trigger to open up all my senses to that day or set of days and my personal dead-loss. Playing over whenever. Why? Is my brain trying to exorcise it out of my head? Am I being punished for remaining the only responsible person who gives a sh!t? I don’t know. I’m left with the feeling that all this crap is made up. I mean if you lie to yourself long enough and you come to believe the lie it makes everything okay. Right? Fake it ’til you make it?
Happy f^cking Holidays.
Dave Edmunds – I hear you knocking
Today while perusing fb I came upon a post in a group I follow. It was about one of those self help things you see on fb daily if you tap in to MI groups like I do.
The group member posted:
“I really hate shit like this. Have I eaten today? No. Go eat something, you say? Oh! Wow! That hadn’t occurred to me! You’re a genius! If I’m not dressed or still in PJs I should put on clean clothes? Wow! Mind-blowing! How does shit like this get published and popular? Do people really misunderstand us this much?
“Oh, you’re telling me you have trouble doing all these things for yourself? Well, have you tried just doing them?”
It made me think of the years I’ve gotten angry about paternalistic and dumbed down “help” and “advice” I’ve gotten that was thoughtless and useless. The years that people would treat me (and still do,) like I’m retarded or being bullheaded. It still happens often. Oh and yes I mean retarded.
I saw a Nutritionist this past Monday. I cut my responses down to few. I’ve noticed when I go to professionals that if I try to convey what I know the professional becomes irritated. Instead of correcting me if I’m wrong or pointing out when I’m right they tend to snap at me and treat me as if I’m willfully stupid or trying to insult them. I don’t know if it’s the tone of my voice or if it’s the way I phrase things that make them tend to get snotty with me but it happens all to often. I really have to condition myself before I go into an ER or a doctor’s appointment to say as little as possible. On Thursday I saw my GP and even though I told her my chest hurts like an iron maiden is gripping it when I cough she repeated “I heard nothing when I listened to you breathing.” It makes me wonder: is the fact that my body is morbidly obese masking my lungs’ operations? And has she taken this into consideration? The Nutritionist commented on my sleeping habits (I go to bed mostly around 5 am and sleep until 9 to noon in the morning,) “Oh well you’ll just have to change them.”
I replied, “I told you I’m bipolar right?” No reply from her. I guess I should get out my magic wand from my @ss and wave it. That seems to be the general attitude from others when it comes to my symptoms. Change them. Are people really that stupid? Yes.
And it’s ironic because it’s a general idea that people with mental illnesses are mentally handicapped. It’s something I spoke to school aged kids back when I worked with NAMI. I think “normal” people are just lazy. They don’t want to try to understand something that is feared, misunderstood and stigmatized. It’s easier to treat people like me with dismissiveness and denial. Lay blame on me, that way they don’t have to do anything and I’m left looking like I’m being uncooperative. Psychiatrists, therapists and social workers love that game too. It’s not a big mystery why I’m stressed out and don’t trust the people who are professionals in this section of health. I’ll readily lie to any of the people who are charged with my care. For them it’s a paycheck; for me it’s my life.
Here’s an interesting site for people experiencing symptoms so bad they need guided questions to help them get through taking care of themselves:
This is meant to be an interactive flow chart for people who struggle with self care, executive dysfunction, and/or who have trouble reading internal signals. It’s designed to take as much of the weight off of you as possible, so each decision is very easy and doesn’t require much judgment.
Set aside some time–maybe an hour total- to allow yourself to work through each step. Don’t rush or skip ahead–just follow the directions. Self care is important, and you deserve to devote some time to it.
You may want to go through this routine as soon as you wake up, as a preventative measure.
By the way I posted the video above only because I am amazed at the changes from 1970 to now. Look at the “kids” then and compare them to the ones you see on television now.
The Smiths – How Soon Is Now?
Just logging in. Lately that’s what I’m doing in life: just logging in.
I made Indian Butter Chicken today from a package. I’ve never had it before but figured why not? The apples keep falling outside on the cars but I’m not keeping up with them. I am being force fed Christmas by so many media outlets that I already hate Thanksgiving and Christmas and we’re not even out of the first week of November. The Smiths’ music embodies my emotional atmosphere. Their music will until the end of Spring. Goodbye good days here comes the raining ash, a slow storm that flavors my world. No one sees it; no one understands that I can’t escape this angst. How abused and misaligned that word is.
Someone feed me happy dust. At this point in my life it doesn’t matter if my flesh is poisoned. I know when I am burned my body will go up like chemical soaked pinecones in a fireplace, red, blue, green. I fantasize a viking pyre set out on the Atlantic burning high soot whisked away colors playing through the logs… And everyone can play music, drink whatever makes them happy and roast a pig on the beach as they dance until dawn.
Like that would even represent my life. It wouldn’t but maybe the happiness would send me off into the direction that would help me most.
This time I don’t struggle. I don’t have a reason to continue. I did what I wanted to do. I don’t see an end to all the BS in my life. I had hoped to be “cured” of the things that twisted me into depression, self hatred and fatigue. I know another “chapter” in my life is coming up but I didn’t get myself ready for it. Of all the things I wante to do one was to conquer this anxiety that drives me to be freaky.
Oasis – Stop Crying Your Heart Out
slept: 9 am to 1:50 pm
It’s like this. The golden Autumn sunbeams light the dining room inviting anyone to go out and enjoy a crisp afternoon of warmth laced with coolness and I’m sitting staring at the pattern that the beams make.
I just watched Butterfly Effect. A movie I enjoy but try not to watch too much. Normally there’s no regrets. My mind is like a monkey on crack riding a unicycle but it only goes forward not back. And at the end Stop Crying Your Heart Out plays and my chest seizes. It’s something that happens a lot lately. I think since my parens died last year my brain has allowed me to feel pain. Being numb all these years. Wait I haven’t. My brain has allowed me massive anger attacks.
I’m horrified that sometime one of my siblings will come into the house and catch me, large gulping sobs, barely able to breathe, the accumulation of years and experiences and me allowing myself to finally release the tears. My mind betties kme. “Such a child” like that’s a crime. Like I’m being selfish. I don’t understand even though I do. She was the bride at every wedding and the corpse at every funeral. And the last hurdle to overcome my childhood.
K is in a whirl. I sat back, watched him stutter catch himself and tell me he’s dealing with a couple of issues: his buddy and his addiction problems and girlfriend’s relationship, changing to another hospital for work, (the governor is coming to Zambrano to see where she can make cuts that money hungry slut. I hope she gets put in a mental hospital for a few years. See how “well stocked and put out” they are,) Sprint screwed up his bill, and I can tell his anxiety is being squeezed.
I have a refrigerator full of food but it stares back at me blankly. It appears to have been filled by a tribe of trolls that eat garbage. I have no clue what to make. I’ve been preparing items for mental breakdown. Certain food items that can be made into simple meals so I can feed myself easily once my mind has broken down completely. Unfortunately breakdown is not a linear or sequential arrangement. My brain is tricky like that. Sometimes I blink out for a few days and operate on automatic like I am just fine and living on a parallel plane. Then I wake up one day and I know I missed something am missing something really important. I have to wade through piles of papers to see if it’s an appointment or a piece of important mail I was suppose to answer ASAP and read through intending to but didn’t.
I buy in bulk: cheeses, pasta, certain kinds of canned goods, frozen vegetables, boneless skinless chicken breasts and ground beef. Things that are easy to prepare and divide them into individual packages. At my best I can mix something up and digest it. At my worst I’ll take out a can and eat from it or heat up some kind of vegetable that’s frozen so I don’t feel my stomach cringe and grumble. When I’m doing well I get a hankering for something specific and happily whip it up. At my worst I look at the food and it doesn’t even seem like it could vaguely be edible. I can wait 8 hours trying to figure out if I can eat something. It can be frustrating.
I walk to and from the kitchen occasionally exciting the cats. Two of them have distinctive meowing voices. In my past our cats were very silent. I’m not used to how loud these two formerly feral black cats are. It gets annoying. I sometimes kick them in their little @sses inadvertently when they get underfoot. They keep me company and Skipper is napping on the cabinet next to this desk. I need to eat dinner. I fed the cats at 5. I am so hungry I don’t know what to do.
Maybe sit down in the recliner, put on the boob tube, let the cats climb on top of me and pass out in a warm autumn pile. I’ll have to make something eventually. I’m trying hrd to only eat out once a week. Lately it’s not been working. There’s no delivery except for 2 pizza places down here in this seasonal town. That’s what you get for living near the ocean. All view, not conveniences. Well except for Cumbies. Even then they’re not open 24 hours.
Pixies – Debaser
“Hajime!” he yells, begin in Japanese. A man that’s been dead at least 10 years now.
In the background a light and airy 1920’s dance tune, “Doh, doh, dee doh!” with that annoyingly bubbly woman’s giggle wafts through the air as if on a tinny radio. I can imagine him in a raccoon coat to his ankles as his jaunty little bowler, a light grey houndstooth check is cocked above his eyebrows. They sing on and it floats as if the radio drifts on the left side of my shoulder.
When I pass the living room door though to go into the dining room I swear I can hear Chuck Norris or maybe some unidentified salesperson droning on about their wonder product. That was back at 2am or thereabouts.
Am I hallucinating or having waking dreams?
The good thing is that the house is not dead silent like it usually is.
I sometimes see a white woman slinking in at the corner of my right handed vision. It’s better than the black things that creep past the doorways. I nearly jerked the juicer off the table when I partially saw one of the cats under the table and he nudged my thigh. I see a lot of things these days. I’m either driving myself crazy or I’m getting close to seeing déjà vus.
My Mother once told me when I asked her that she believed that I could see déjà vus. They were a “trick of the brain”. I don’t think they’re tricks. I think they’re warnings or reassurances that I will not kill myself in the future. I wonder if any will come this time.
Not that I am doing this intentionally. My life is changing. I am coming to a place where something’s going to happen. This for me happens after a long period of apathy for life. I’ll tell you, when you watch so much television and avoid going out into the sunlight for more than a year, and you can barely walk because your back feels crooked and your skin peels when you spend a few hours on the beach while your brother attempts to catch some baby blues, you know you really fell into the hole again.
It makes me feel a bit relieved because alienating the people in my small family will somehow help me. And I have to keep an open mind because it doesn’t mean they’ll accept my decisions and actions. It just means that that particular decision will lead me to the next part of my life. And I have to be ready for more changes.
When I look back on this year, if I was asked what I think happened I’d honestly have to say that I f^cked it up and right well too. My ease of turning pure anger into total indifference has helped me to lower my anxiety. Not enough to cue the agoraphobia but you can’t have everything right?
I used to think I was the soul eater. I would have to wait to die to be emptied. I took on other people’s sins. I agonized and dwelled and brewed in the stench of the things people did and knew but refused to admit to. I couldn’t shut my mouth. I let all my transgressions hang out, uncolorful to me but vivd to others, shocking and striking. I am good at keeping secrets. Other people’s secrets. That’s what happens when you’re f^cked up literally, as a child. They have to condition someone to be in the mental state to accept those kinds of poisons from other people.
People are relieved when they tell you. They love you for listening and taking the burden off their backs. The problem with being a soul eater is that no one wants to be your friend. The sin. It shows. They see your face and it comes back to them. They feel dirty near you. And your own effluvium when it comes out is ugly, hideous even. They see you as debased. You’re like a voodoo doll now. Used and ugly and representative of the act which is ugly and needs to be hidden or tossed out.
That’s why I don’t think I’ll lose this weight. The universe is in confluence with fate and they both dictate that I must physically represent the toxins within. I’m like a living haunted house. All my stories are represented within.
This is the kind of thing I could never tell anyone in my family.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“It just seems that way to you. Tomorrow it will look differently.”
What do you expect from a family that lives in denial?
“Got me a movie
I want you to know
Slicing up eyeballs
I want you to know
Girlie so groovy
I want you to know
Don’t know about you
But I am un chien Andalusia
I am un chien Andalusia (x3)
Up to be
Be a debaser
Got me a movie
Ha ha ha hoa
Slicing up eyeballs
Ha ha ha hoa
Girlie so groovie
Ha ha ha hoa
Don’t know about you
But I am un chien Andalusia
I am un chien Andalusia (x3)