Many of these are from an online journal that I kept prior to weaving this one. Looking back on it, it's sort of a visceral collection of my 'downward spiral' spurred on by Manic Depression (bipolar disorder).
Thank you for reading!
Love from,
Melany
Introducing March
March 5, 2012
It is now the fifth of March, and I have stopped counting the hours in which I’ve been awake. I know that I’m approaching three days since my last night’s sleep, which really does feel like the last I’ll ever have. As I glance at the garbage bag outside of my door, I can see it swaying back and forth, ever so slightly. There’s only a small hint of movement, but it’s enough to grab my attention. I’ve been listening to some very beautiful piano ensembles in order to distract my mind from the uncertain distance that appears to be crawling closer to me, fading in and out of focus as it steps forward.
I had originally written the paragraphs below as a standard entry for my other blog. I’m posting them here to provide some pretense as to why and how I’ve been awake long enough to lose my perception of reality:
…
Ladies and gentlemen, I present… mania.
I did the same sort of running around throughout the rest of the day. An idea came to light, so I began a project. Some of them were finished, while the vast majority of them were only designs waiting to be built upon and brought to light. When the evening came around, I saw a movie with my parents, the time of which marked thirty hours that I had spent awake, not phased. After the movie, I stayed awake until two in the morning, during which I passed out from exhaustion. I slept for eleven hours, then woke up and reembarked on my cleaning adventure, breaking to make tea and put the finishing touches on my website. Before the sun rose to brighten the third of March, I had created a curtain with safety pins and a sheet, organized my clothes, and finished decorating the guest bathroom (all of that amongst many other things which I don’t recall in great detail… since they were never completed).
I was still prancing from room to room and pacing to and fro until the evening rolled around, of which I visited my parents’ house to see my sister. We conversed, both of us rather fidgety for different reasons, which is comforting in such a state where one can’t sit still. At some point, I felt that I absolutely needed to go to Wal Mart (with it’s lovely florescent lights!)… so I did, blasting my speakers while I drove as best I could with sleep deprived vision. After so many hours without sleep, the world becomes a bit out of focus, sometimes dispersed with spotted fragments of light. Regardless of the inconvenience, I safely made it there and then back home, which brings me to March fourth.
Today (March fourth), I went to church with my family. I’m not religious, but I’m also not against martyring two hours of my livelihood to please my parents. By the time that Sunday School had started (ten in the morning), I had been awake for thirty- one hours. I was far beyond any state of functionality, so I just stared at whoever was speaking, breaking eye contact on occasion to stare at the coffee table. I avoided any further eye contact after the class, as I followed my dad into the church pew. I was able to survive the service, until the preacher made a somewhat funny joke about skunks. I chuckled, and was then thrown into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, ten seconds later. I could actually see the preacher watching me as I tried to keep my composure after setting my head into my lap, and then looked up at him for thirty seconds before being blasted by another fit of laughter. When communion came around, it was almost painful to keep a straight face, just knowing that my laughter belonged in a very different place at a very different time. I gave in to it eventually and just clasped my hands around my face as I keeled over, shaking violently from the bouts of laughter. I assumed that most of the people around me were under the impression that I was sobbing due to a powerful, religious experience… the idea of which made me laugh even more.
When I finally made it home, I collapsed into bed and slept for (drum roll, please…) an hour. I awoke feeling relatively normal, and have been awake since. Not including the one hour that I was asleep for, I have now been awake for more than forty hours. I assume that I’ll have even more frightening things to add to this later, since my psychiatrist obviously hates me (he assumes that I will abuse any sort of sleeping pill, even though that’s been far from the case for three years).
…now we all know what mania is and why people with Manic Depression are often feared or just avoided entirely. In my defense, this special sort of derangement isn’t something that I encounter very often.
…
Clearly, matters are much more serious now. I’m finding more comfort in Gloomy Sunday than I ever do when my world is stable.
To Seroquel or not to Seroquel
March 5, 2012
After spending another day awake, I finally felt that it was time to see a doctor. I was later told to stop by my parents’ house and report the doctor’s orders. My parents live on the same street as I do, so this sort of thing is a frequent inconvenience. Once there, I flatly told them that I was given a sleeping pill to treat the matter of being awake for two days, going on three. They questioned the drug, so I informed them that it was an antipsychotic (I spend a fair amount of time researching psychoactive medication). They began to pry further, assuming that I had some secret motive which led me to my search for medication. Somewhere in the ongoing stream of questions, my Mother told me that my many visits to the doctor were driving her insane. My composure shattered, and I declared with the wittiest rebuttal ever,
“I am the one who’s insane!” I then ran out of the door, slamming it behind me, and drove my car to the parking lot of Pet Smart because there is absolutely no vacant land to retreat to in Jacksonville.
When I was able to gather my thoughts enough to return to the public, I drove to Walgreens and presented my written request to the pharmacist. I took my seat in the midst of several old people, callous and trembling with the gravity of age. The rest of the conversation with my parents happened through a series of text messages, predominantly sent to convey the necessity of drugs and to explain that there was not some insidious master plan behind this need.
The end of the matter was rather anticlimactic as I drove home, took the much debated Seroquel, and then slept in a rather awkward position for fifteen hours.
The Couch
March 9, 2012
I haven’t the slightest clue why (not that emotions are ever rational), but I find myself gravitating toward the couch whenever I’m depressed. The process usually begins with moving my (very) small television from the bedroom into the living room, then moving my bed pillow, and then finally moving my blanket over to this alternate resting place. The only sense that I can make out of this migration, is that it’s closer to the kitchen and in turn requires less effort in order to go through the motions of my morning routine (boil water, brew tea, etc.).
Moving to the couch does not happen in the midst of depression. The movement is a warning. Just as a flock of birds migrate in order to move on from one destination to the next, I do the same as I prepare to lie silently in listless contemplation.
Although my focus for this blog is to break from my casual banter into a more sincere and serious tone, I feel that it needs just a bit of cheer. I haven’t settled into the couch just yet, so the positivity is really now or never. On that note, I present…!
Socks!
This lovely decoration is not just an appeal for aesthetics. It is also a very convenient way to store socks! Socks are difficult to match once thrown into a drawer, but they are quite easy to see when they’re suspended on a ribbon spanning from one wall to the next! With this contraption, it is also rather simple to find the socks which aren’t matched up with a partner sock. This understanding makes for a quick scavenger hunt. Put those house guests to use and find the missing socks!
*Also*
Comic Relief
March 9, 2012
I kept a journal in the midst of my Partial Hospitalization stint (the sort connected to the mental institution, but not directly inside of it). I found a few excerpts that are worth sharing, being that they were unique to the situation.
12/23/11
I had to pay for my prescriptions with a Visa gift card from my dad, stating A Gift for You (my illustration of this is pictured in my blog header). So, this is what it’s come down to.
There’s a therapist here who carries a white, plastic brain with him everywhere he goes. On our breaks, I sneak out of the group room to listen to music and I see him often, walking around with the staff or by himself, always carrying the brain in the same manor that a waiter may carry a platter of food. I have recently learned that this brain is a he, and he has two names. He goes by “either Bobby or Brendan.”
…Oh, my God. Brain man has left Bobby Brendan on the chair, alone. We (the few still sitting in the group room) are now conspiring against this brain, plotting where we could hide it. The best idea comes from my Bipolar comrade, Marie, who believes that we should place Bobby Brendan on the lap of Carolyn, who is currently sleeping in her chair due to a medicated coma.
Brain man is back now, and the plotting has ceased.
I really do miss brain man. More than that, I miss trying to keep my composure while I was laughing at him uncontrollably (I had the luck of being manic immediately after checking into the ward for depression).
‘twould appears that my ‘Y’ key is stuck… apologies for the shoddy type-o’s
Just Below the Breeze
March 10, 2012
I was right to suspect the couch. Once I’ve made it onto the couch, there is no hope of rising from it. The last time that I was glued to the couch, I wound up in a mental institution (actually near to it, outside of the doors, as was established previously) Before then, I was calling out of work because there was simply no way that I could be anywhere else, but the couch. I would act on the prospect of ridding my entire house of furniture, but back before I had any furniture at all, I wound up relocating my bedding to the living room floor and slept there for months.
I awoke feeling ill this morning, with a very overwhelming feeling that my heart had dropped from a tall cliff… suspended, having not yet fallen to the Earth. I went through the motions of a typical morning in hope for a bit of solace, but nothing really came from it. I often, if not always, feel that I’m going through things mechanically. I wake, close my eyes for a bit before rising, step out to open the medicine cabinet, take my pills and vitamins, walk into the kitchen, prepare my tea, cue the music… all of this in order to stay in that dreaded suspension without being able to make that final decent.
Cat Rat Thing
March 17, 2012
When my thoughts are leavened with led, I usually embark on a few creative pursuits, no matter how dull they feel in the moment. I’ve had the idea of crocheting some thigh high stockings since it’s become difficult to find any nylon ones presently (for reference, see hanging socks below). I’m terrible at following instructions, so it took me about an hour to learn the basics of crochet, including the initial slipknot which took me about ten minutes to memorize properly. Some blame should be placed on the led. After finally learning these basics, I’ve discovered that the project is going to be excruciatingly slow. For all of the tedium and effort that it will take me to make one sock, I feel that the entire pair should be sold for at least forty dollars. My business plan is flawed at the very least.
My other (very) small accomplishment was much faster to come than my crocheting my small piece of sock. I finally painted a sketchbook which was given to me for Christmas. With even more horizontal stripes, I have created…!
The Fantastically Brilliant, Striped Cat/Rat/Thing!
A Battered Board
March 26, 2012
It is nearly impossible to keep a blog (or to do anything else) whilst depressed. I can’t think properly because everything feels intangible and distant, so here’s to hoping that this will be readable.
I took Seroquel in order to regulate my sleep schedule, knowing that it’s made me very depressed in the past. Obviously, depression resulted. I’ve spent the entire day lying on my couch with a caffeine headache, being absolutely unable to leave for a soda.
When I revisit these instances, I can’t help wondering how much of my life I’ve wasted in every day that I’ve ever spent like this. I know that there isn’t a counter, but still… and where’s the point in this? When does it end and where did it even begin? It’s only a battered board dented with the aftermath of lapses in regularity.
Kill the Television
March 27, 2012
Wishing that I’d done more than my usual drivel seems to be my theme as of late. Alas, I have a bottomless well of it.
I’m constantly reminded that the television is an enemy encroaching on my territory, and that it must be removed before it takes my life and buries it under the trees. I couldn’t count the hours that I’ve spent staring at it’s glow and just sitting there, vicariously living through some prodigious, artificial fiction. It only leavens my vernacular and I’ve already gained about three pounds from my own immobility. The television has already morphed the English language into a jumble of slang and vulgarity. May we ban these things…? Have we not suffered enough?
I’ll brighten things a bit by switching subjects. since I’ve posted the cover of it, I feel that it’s appropriate to at least present the first page of my sketchbook.
Now presenting another sketchbook page…!
‘A Mushroom in Grass’
I know that it’s cliche, but I’m rather fond of my mushroom and it’s grass. I was going to paint it onto my living room wall, but it didn’t match the drapes
Szomoru Vasarnap
March 28, 2012
There was a considerable sum of time in which I was obsessed with the song, Gloomy Sunday. I wrote numerous translations of it in the pages of my journal, including both the Hungarian and the American verbiage. As I am falling back in love with it, I’ll share a bit of its nature.
Szomoru Vasarnap is quite commonly referred to as the Hungarian suicide song, being that it was a well loved substitute for a suicide note. The assumption that the song caused suicides is obviously idiotic (feeling a connection to a poem is an indication of thoughts that are already present), but it was banned nonetheless. It was thought to be too depressing to broadcast. I personally have very little interest in the controversy behind the song. I’m just weirdly obsessed with it.
Where poetry is concerned the Hungarian version is, quite obviously, the better of the two… but I imagine that most people who reside in Hungary are already familiar with the song, so here lies the American version.
Gloomy Sunday
Gloomy Sunday with a hundred white flowers
I was waiting for you my dearest with a prayer
A Sunday morning, chasing after my dreams
The carriage of my sorrow returned to me without you
It is since then that my Sundays have been forever sad
Tears my only drink, the sorry my bread…
Gloomy Sunday
This last Sunday, my darling please come to me
There’ll be a priest, a coffin, a catafalque, and a winding- sheet.
There’ll be flowers for you, flowers and a coffin
Under the blossoming trees it will be my last journey
My eyes will be open, so that I could see you for a last time
Don’t be afraid of my eyes, I’m blessing you even in my death…
The last Sunday
Music by: Rezso Seress
Lyrics by: Laszlo Javor
The Dive
March 30, 2012
I can tell that my main blog has become boring at an alarming rate. This has nothing to do with my creativity and everything to do with the tedium of pretending to have any reserve of excitement left, whatsoever. I fell too quickly to catch even a single branch to cling on to, if even for a moment’s rest… and I have absolutely nothing to show for it all (barring the cliches).
All that I can lend my energy to are art projects and I haven’t a clue where to place them since my more popular blog is too much for me to handle right now. My God… I can’t believe that I actually split my websites into two. I’ve created a Manic Depressive stereotype.
Just Below the Breeze
March 31, 2012
I adapted this from an entry that I wrote in my journal earlier this evening:
I walked across the road home some time earlier tonight, treading under the looming moon and the sparsely discernible stars. I listened to music that sighed and wept with the wind. I can no longer tell the cool breeze from my own chills, which present so frequently to entertain me without any invitation whatsoever.
I won’t look at the trees. There isn’t anymore poetry in their branches, their leaves, nor their trunks. I can recall a memory from the backseat of a convertible car, gazing in awe at the arch of gnarled tree branches shading the road and the travelers below… but the scene is so distant now that I can’t reenact the emotion that I must have felt at the time. For every height that I’ve reached, there is an infinite amount of time that I spend falling and quivering while I realize the jagged granite beneath the summit. Every slip of my footing and every second in which my grip loosens, I lose a bit of my mind. I can only speculate as to how much more of my soul must be stripped of all of its significance before I can no longer recognize myself.
I can not feel the breeze anymore and the stillness is haunting. When I hear that flippant cliche which defines a person’s life as a series of ups and downs, I can’t help but to be baffled that there lies an audience who carried it to such an apparent popularity.
Life is a wearisome decent. In this impossibly long life, I am left alone to cling to any company or hope that stands within my sight and when I lose that hold on whatever, whomever, or wherever it was, life becomes a tireless rush. All of my reserves must be spent finding a new ledge to grasp so that I can regain the solace that’s been torn from my veins impermissibly. I am starved, taxed, and restless. There will always be more to come. I will lift and then carry it all, no matter the creaking floorboards beneath my feet. I’ll be selfish and I’ll try to be cruel. I’ll count the distance between my loutish friends and my own thoughts which grow louder with each drag of every passing year. And I will stop caring for the breeze.
Couch Study, Part III
April 5, 2012
**I'm not sure where the rest of my 'couch studies' went. I'll add them here when I find them (and make a note of it).
In light of recent events, I felt that a new edition to my couch study was overdue:
I doubt that the pill bottle in my purse deserves any explanation (see blog for details). The trashcan, however, is a subject worth elaborating on.
I hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, knowing that I had to be awake much earlier than usual to be with my family during my dad’s (successful) surgery. When I made it back home afterward, I thought that taking a Seroquel would help me regulate my circadian rhythm, so I kept myself awake and then took one in the evening. I hadn’t taken any for weeks because I admire my clarity too much to trade it away for an intoxicating fog, so I had a bottle already filled with the dose that is initially prescribed (the starting dose) to patients. I fell asleep shortly after taking it.
My house is constantly warm. I’ve been having some trouble with the air conditioning unit and so, like most problems that I can’t resolve, I’ve given up on it. Fans are a necessity here, so when my power was cut off by a tremendous storm during the night, I was forced to rise from my sleep and assess the bewildering heat wave. I approached a window, trying to adjust my vision well enough to see its contents, and was soon shocked by a car alarm roaring close to me. My fire alarm was beeping as well, complaining about the situation. Feeling overwhelmed and blind, I stumbled to my boots and pulled them over my bare feet, focusing all of my thought into keeping my balance. I then waded through the medicated haze that loomed around me and made it outside with my car keys, thinking that my broken SAAB must have played a roll in the cacophonous noise.
My car was still. The blaring alarm had come from the direction of my neighbor’s house, so I came back inside. I pondered the prospect of locking the door and came to the conclusion that it was simply not worth the effort. I sat back down on the couch. The heat was still too overbearing for me to rest in, so I picked up my laptop and used what was left of its battery. The entertainment was shortly lived.
I rose to go to the bathroom some time afterward. The journey was difficult as I was banging into walls and trying to use my cell phone to illuminate the passage like a torch. When I made it to my final destination and sat down, my chest started to churn and restrict as if it were being squeezed by an invisible hand. The pain was so severe that I began to grow dizzy. I thought that I was surely going to die. This is it… on the toilet.
Still sitting on the toilet (although there was no longer any reason to be doing so), I tried to gather myself. I talked myself off of the ledge as one might do during a panic attack. I took the proper breaths and told myself that all was well, but there was no such reprieve. I was suddenly overcome by nausea. I slunk down to the floor and grasped the porcelain rim of my toilet, sweating and trembling above the basin. I tried to reminisce on my life, but the medication in my bloodstream had cocooned my memory. I glanced at my phone, wondering if I should call someone to mumble some strenuous parting words. I was absolutely writhing in pain, hoping that I would vomit soon in order to be done with it all. I waited, but nothing happened.
I gave up and rose slowly. I grabbed a trashcan from the bathroom and sat it by the couch and moved my journals to safety, just in case the event were to repeat itself. By the time I had fallen back to sleep, it was nearly midnight. I didn’t wake up until three in the afternoon, where I was greeted with a sounding headache and thoughts far too distant to make any sense of.
…and that is why there is a trashcan by my couch (that, and my headache is too tremendous for me to consider cleaning anything).
The Forlorn Sim
April 8, 2012
I’ve felt so drained as of late that I am in capable of pulling any tangible ideas from my head. I don’t believe that there are any. As I go about my day doing this or that, I often pause amidst the task at hand in order to wonder why I am doing such a thing. I’ll eat a meal and then I’ll stop to see the food, assess the situation, and then finally continue eating it.There’s a game that I enjoy playing called The Sims (which I’m going to play after writing this, having reminded myself of its glory). Sims are simulated humans who can be given personality traits, names, and aspirations. The game itself is a life simulation where the player essentially micromanages his Sims’ activities until the Sim dies (or is killed by said player… for fun and folly). The player builds a house for the Sims to live in, designs the appearance of his Sims, dictates his
Sims’ responses to other Sims, and the list of Simming continues.
After the game had developed so that one could choose personality traits for one’s Sim, I created a Sim with personality traits that resembled my own. I don’t remember all of these traits, but I do remember the most annoying one: Absent-minded. I would instruct my Simulated self to do things and she would make it halfway to the object which she was told to use, or halfway to the place where she was supposed to be… and then she would turn around to do something else. Sometimes she would simply stand where she had paused in her journey, doing nothing at all.
I’ve concluded that if one would like to make a depressed Sim, the Absent-minded trait should do the trick.
Dear Diary, Delerium
April 11, 2012
I had written an introduction here, but I deleted it by accident and I don’t have enough energy to create a new one. Because I’ve been gone for a bit, I wanted to add something lengthy and brilliant, but I’m posting this instead. The script below is copied from a journal entry that I wrote earlier today.
This is how my brain works under the influence of sleep deprivation, whilst excessively caffeinated:
4/11/12
I arrived at the Avenue’s mall for an interview which was scheduled for 11:00 AM. Much to my chagrin, it was ‘rescheduled’ to begin at seven in the evening. I have been in the Avenue’s mall for six hours, barring the time I’ve spent at Target for food. I have about an hour more of this insufferable boredom left until my group interview, which in itself is an idiotic concept.
I’m tired from rising early for the supposed morning interview. I’ve been hanging my head atop this table in Target’s cafeteria as one would hang his head atop a desk in class to catch a nap. I have been doing this to rest my eyes periodically because they feel like they’ve been chemically burned. I read the one manga that I’d packed in my purse and I’ve purchased so many odds and clothing at the mall (mom’s orders) that if I were to walk into a clothing store six years from now, it would be to soon. This sharpie is a blunt stub (that brush on the end of it) so it will probably die soon. This sharpie too shall pass… I really cannot do better than that where meager humor is considered.
I burned my tongue yesterday, so my taste buds feel like little tufts of rough sand. There are bags under my eyes and I can barely see, or when I do see, it burns my eye sockets! I felt decent at eleven. I was tired, sure… but I didn’t feel like I had face-palmed with a thorn bush in hand. I managed charisma and comfortable posture this morning. Now I feel like roadkill does just before it dies.
My first instinct is to avoid standing out whenever I feel so abused by the elements. I will need to fight that today in a group, nonetheless! This group will be well rested. They will get the memo. I’ve been attacked by a flying housecat.
Hah, which reminds me… I dressed for my eleven O’clock interview in my inch-from-death (I sense a theme here) converse shoes, a pair of old jeans that look as old as they are, and a sweater with paint on its right sleeve. I had no idea how it looked, and didn’t care, until I tried on boots at a store and saw everything I’d assembled. I looked homeless. I called my mom to discuss her plight to clothe me in ‘nice’ clothes and informed her of my costume, and she agreed, “homeless.”
I totally almost drooled on this journal. If I get this job, my self confidence will sky rocket to invincibility.
I’ve been dwelling on the unfortunate thoughts that follow any deep digging into the past [through my artwork and notes regarding my friends in eighth grade]. Those old relationships feel so much greater to me than anything I’ve felt since. Even each individual person in the midst of the mix holds this immense relevancy and meaning in my mind that wasn’t there before. It all seems so significant. If my soul could travel through time, it would be there.
I’m guessing that Target’s cafeteria employees are under the impression that I am a devout and emotionally drained writer by now. Finish a chapter, head on table… finish a chapter, head on table… finish a chapter, head on table… finish a chapter…
Teavana, Teavana, Teavana! Job, job, job! CHARISMA!
…I’m still not excited about this.
It’s 6:12! I only have forty more minutes
Yay, the mall! Yay, the mall! Sales, customer service, knowledgeability (is that a word…?), a spot of interest in tea…! Sales, service, tea, knowledgeability… teamwork! Learning skills.
Knowledgeability (n.) It’s a word!
Holy hell, I’ve written a lot of pages. I’m going to change my clothes. This interview situation is not good. I am not normal… NOT.
I’m back from the bathroom and I have a better Sharpie which did not come back from the bathroom… no, it did (that ellipsis shouldn’t have been there) because it was in my purse, which was in the bathroom with me. Both the marker and I have returned from the bathroom, unscathed.
I am f***ing doomed.
DOOMED! So, so, so DOOMED.
It’s 6:30! I have an interview in thirty minutes. This is exciting. I will be ‘that crazy person’ amidst the interview circle. This will be grade school all over again. Maybe I’ll stand out so profusely that the manager can easily recall me. She will examine the applications, befuddled, until she thinks Aha! So this one was the energetic one (even though she had bags under her eyes and looked like she hadn’t slept in a week… amphetamines?)!
Instead of carrying the caricature of an emotionally drained writer, I am now playing the roll of a writer who has found a sudden burst of inspiration and is trying her dearest to keep awake long enough to soar through this memoir (or some other bulk) until it is finished. Will she prevail…?
No, she will stop writing and go to the mall for tea. What a hipster. It’s Ayn Rand all over again.
Bloggled
May 7, 2012
I am going to keep using italicizes and formatting them in stanzas, because I haven’t anything better to do.
Now I present yesterday’s foggy, un-itallicized blog…
Yet again, I haven’t much to say, which has become a problem that’s contaminated my journal as well. My last entry was very simple, and to the point:
-
4/30/12
I am indescribably thrilled to have my sleeping pills once more.
-
There was also an entry before that, which was even more insightful:
4/29/12
Calories in Nuts
Almonds- 1cup/sliced: 554 Almonds- 1cup/whole: 836 Cashews- 1cup/whole+halves: 787
-
I have casually abused my journal, which I’m not at all proud of. I’d like to apologize to it, but that would become a solitary sentence, which would ruin another perfectly vacant page. I have neither sketched nor painted, since mid April. Even more shamefully, I’m beginning to feel lonely, which is altogether detrimental. Desperate people are exceptionally easy to manipulate, and hence, should avoid company at all cost… of course, I avoid people no matter the price, so I suppose that it wouldn’t be much different to avoid them under a specific pretense.
Come Whatever May
May 9, 2012
I believe that I’m done now. The trivialities, the games, and the barren cement of cities and dilapidated buildings, have sufficiently swallowed me. There are no fields to lay in to watch the night sky, and in the places where those fields are brief, the orange glow of street lamps flood the stars. I walk around with my head down, carrying meaningless charts on my back. I’ve become a series of definitions that are all part of a community which I didn’t elect. There isn’t a soul around me whom appreciates beauty apart from vanity, or even recognizes how bleak and dismal this world is without it. I believed in love, which is something that I never should have imagined and, worse yet, pursued. I could write volumes on the very depth in which that act has mangled me, but those words would be wasted on the deaf (or perhaps the blind in this case).…and yet, I’m still here. I must be clinging to something, but there isn’t any reason behind it and I haven’t a clue what it could possibly be. I don’t care for sympathy, which is more of a bother than a comfort. I don’t expect any repose. I live this life as an inhuman project, being pinned with diagnoses of this, that, the other, and all of the above. I’ve grown to hate the word ‘depression,’ as meaningless and callous as it is. If one is depressed, then one is defective, and it is either fixed or not and either way, completely unreasonable… for why would anyone be depressed in such a life filled with promise and potential? Were someone to take his or her life, it would be due to ‘depression.’ Certainly, there is no other explanation. Nothing else could be done. Depression is the culprit, as simple as death caused by a car wreck or a storm.
God, fucking spare me the patent.
The Welcome Mat (Foreboding)
May 16,2012
This writing may be coloured with temazepam (…which is an extended release muscle relaxant, belonging to the same family as Valium and Klonopin [because we were all very curious]), since I have taken my sleeping pills under the presumption that it was two in the morning, instead of twelve in the morning.
I am following crazy people and they are angry. I have witnessed two Baker Acts since the beginning of the month, which are the only two apprehensions that I have seen over the entirety of my life lived prior. At the beginning of the month, I stood behind the reception desk at my psychiatrist’s practice, as a maniac (I claim the right to use that word technically) was rudely escorted out of his office by policemen, after a heated debate about between himself and the psychiatrist about whether or not he should vacation to a psych ward. Obviously, the debate did not lend to his favor
My more recent encounter happened earlier today, when I drove over to the International House of Pancakes with hopes to attain my first-ever schedule for the week. In front of the door, instead of a welcome mat, was a man pinned by a policeman… struggling for freedom, as a woman loomed above, declaring that he had forgotten to take his medication. The scene was ignored by nearly everyone in the vicinity. A family and their young child actually walked around the man and into the door, smiling and conversing about what I presumed to be the weather. Even the hostess inside appeared resilient and smiled dumbly as I asked where the schedule was, and when my training might be.
I’m concerned that there is something in the water here, and that it must be having a very profound effect on the mentally ill. I am probably next, having borne witness to such otherworldly events. The obvious course of action, should be to switch to soda, since there is absolutely no way that any water could be left in something so acidic that rats are killed in vats of the stuff.
A bit of advice to my neighbors: We mustn’t all take arms against this sea of oppression. Lest we be oppressed and miss the month of May. There are so many things to be had in the month of May! …like employment…!
...and so it goes.
June 7, 2012
I’ll be honest.
Something’s happened, and now everything is as it was before I tried to help myself. My efforts to change were- and always will be- futile. Now I’m not even sure where to be, and the future seems just as obscured through the howling, dusted wind, as it’s ever appeared to be.
In the distance, I was sure that there was something beautiful, and I thought that I could reach it some day. Those thoughts were false. I’ve been bereft of promises, of calming warmth, and of such gentle words (quite pleasant facades)… and I can’t even blame their tongues of feigned intent for my miserable state. I am both the fool and the fixture.
Now these pages are just a series of memoirs, but I still love their mysticism. I hope that my readers will revel in my older posts, and note that there was once a person with a flicker of starlight, even though her facade was often brimming and bloated.
I’m only Icarus, and the wax bent before it met the sky.
In a Fog
July 23, 2012
I’ve referred to being ‘in a fog’ many times, but I’m not sure that I’ve ever actually defined what it’s like to be in a fog. As I am currently in a fog, I’m going to make a meager stride to interpret it… which is no simple task, because the fog is rather overwhelming, and I’d just as soon lie on the floor contemplating the ceiling’s looming lack of tiles.
I’ve been sleeping on and off for a while now, in between shamefully large meals. I’m sure that there’s a lot of psychology behind eating the ‘large meals,’ since I’m normally very particular and obsessive about my diet, but it’s a passing phase and I don’t care enough to dissect it.
Because my family is celebrating Mother’s Day tomorrow, I had to leave my house in order to purchase some compensation for my birth (which really ought to have been a sympathy card). I took a bath before leaving, and then stared at my face for a very long time, wondering whether or not it was appropriate enough to carry on outside.
When things feel heavy, I tend to look at the mirror longer than I can make sense of. One of the most prominent aspects of the ‘fog’ is a state of confusion. My reflection confuses me more than anything, since I’m unable to make a tangible connection between myself and it. I just stare at it in disbelief, wondering whether or not I should take it seriously.
Driving in the fog is dangerous. Everything’s on autopilot, and yet I have this overwhelming sense of apathy which is completely irrational. I begin to ponder certain dangers on the road (explosions, crashes, drive-by’s), and conclude that they may as well happen, since I don’t care either way. If a train flew off of its tracks and sailed in my direction, I’d just watch it, and think, Oh, well. The fog leaves no room for adrenaline. There isn’t happiness in the fog, nor is there hope… nor is there a particular hopelessness, because everything is just very, very dull. I’m able to catch some parts of melancholia within such a state, but it is generally a mental prison.
I’m going to end this blog, because I can’t find any more strength to write it. I’d be eating another ginormous meal right now, if I hadn’t already made a ball out of my moderately-cooked brownie mix, and thrown it over the fence, in an attempt to end my bizarre lack of structured eating.
So Sayeth the Drunk
July 31, 2012
This was originally private, but I’m publicizing it because I find it terribly funny (especially on the basis that I don’t remember writing it at all):
This is the first time that I’ve written anything publically whist severely intoxicated. I had much more to write here, but now it’s become more of a game, since I can’t think of an it.
I don’t know whether this applies to bipolar disorder or not, but I always feel restless with something peculiar in my system.
This s=is not going public. Fuck this. No one wants to hear about my bottle of pills and this feeling that ‘eggs’ me on (why ‘eggs?’) to take them. I don’t fully understand it. It’s fucked up…
By the way: This is definitely not the first time that I’ve “publically” written something “whist” under the influence of alcohol. In fact, this is just one example of what could be a novel of drunken memoirs. In fact, it may very well be one of the most legible contributions.
A Perfect Fall
October 30, 2010
I'm not entirely sure where to begin this blog, knowing that it will be a very personal collection of the thoughts which I usually keep locked somewhere.
Instead of listing my interests and quirks (indeed there are quite a few), I'll lend a very simple mission statement: I will be 95 pounds by December. My desire and will to do so are simple. I want to look like myself.
Peculiar or not, that self is very small. She doesn't live in this world of bustling streets and buildings that sit bloated, crass, and crowded... so it matters not how she looks through another pair of eyes. She only has streams and springs of rain-water to look into. Her reflections upon these bodies aren't as they should be.
No matter how much time must pass, nor how far the journey takes her, she will find the right water to glance upon. Perhaps she'll find herself when she shines a lamp down a well. Perhaps she'll see her figure, flawless in the sunshine of a still lake.
She'll dance through the light until her perfect portrait looks upon her from the water. She'll travel to nine-million waterfalls until one of them shows her her reflection. Where the white waters run still and silent, she'll appear in the perfect fall.
Weight: 114 113 112 111 110 109 108 107 106 105 104 103 102 101 100 99 98 97 96 95
Height: 5'4"
Treat Day
November 4, 2012
This was not a successful day. I'd really like to run backwards.
I decided to tread in the footsteps of an acquaintance of mine, and pencil a 'treat day' into my weeks. Unlike his indulgence (I hope), my treat day quickly evolved into my chaotic spiral of gluttony and retribution. A good treat day should consist of drinks and lovely desserts, chumming about with a hodgepodge of friends. My treat day wasn't like that. I ate alone with the door locked, and was psychologically scorned by shock and self-loathing.
Despite my downfall, I'd like to try this scheduled indulgence (as opposed to mindless self indulgence) again. The more that I analyze the concept of having a day to look forward to, the wiser it sounds. If I can learn to compartmentalize the parts of my thoughts that lead me to binging, then I may be able to give them a place in my life without being controlled by them.
In order to actually make this plausible, I need to change 'treat day, to an adventure at Starbucks (...for pumpkin spiced lattes). When I binge on sweets, I feel full and lethargic... which is as miserable as depression to me. I'm used to feeling hungry, so it's a comfortable place for me. It's better for me to drink my calories instead of chewing them.
Weight:
114 113 112 111 110
109 108 107 106 105 104 103 102 101 100 99 98 97 96
95Height: 5'4"
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