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if i don’t get to pet a small animal today, i might scream.
I’m going to have a long talk with you soon, tumblr. Don’t get too excited, though, I don’t know if what I’ve got to say is actually any good.
Quote reblogged from SelchieProductions: Nam Aonar Ri Taobh na Tuinne with 129,152 notes
It is likely I will die next to a pile of things I was meaning to read.
i discovered recently that when i smoke cannabis, it is not fair to say that what i experience is a hallucination, but that i am suddenly remembering the gifts that i received when i was born and had utilized relatively often until the age of 12. i was 7 when i explained that indeed i could see aura and points of light on the body. if only i could have explained it that way. perhaps i have always been able to circumvent the english language, even to my own disadvantage. the flourishes and the fast-forward blooming montages of my backflipping verbs and fluidity of my adjectives were already walking the trapeeze across my jaw. my brain had been wildly awake, to the point of speechlessness. i simply didn’t have the vocabulary to express anything that i was experiencing. how many 7-year-olds in a middle class (reform) jewish american home would know that there is a demographic that believes god is blue? (perhaps it was my own silly joke that robin williams in alladin is a freaking god? or my misunderstanding? hmm.) the number is relatively small, and smaller still for seeing chakras. talk about being chosen, my blue god had deemed me ready for a pretty fascinating ride. i retained my high awareness until i was teetering out of my teens, a time when a large chunk of information was coming from the bottomless pit of the internet. i suppose i haven’t lost it, as i still can’t seem to formulate a thought without some part of it being metaphor or somehow related to vibrations. let’s just assume that i, just like you and your neighbor and pretty much life as we know it, is a largely metaphysical being living out conscious life in the third dimension. (if i don’t leave it there, i’m pretty sure this will be an entirely different monologue or whatever it is i’m producing.)
luckily for me, i have a very cool sense of organization. think the scene in the matrix when they load a shit ton of gun racks into their stock room—-that’s kind of what my mind looks like, on a good day. now what i’m getting at is that there is a clear distinction between a “good day” and something as horrifying as “the Sads.” the former is obviously when my brain is functioning up to or above par. (beyond par? below par? isn’t lower than par better in golf? something like that.) the latter is characterized as emotional, mainly because there has been a malfunction in logical computations. in other words, the start is the onslaught of information.
a quick example of how this works is explained in one of my favorite memes, stating that a woman’s mind feels like a web browser with 3,000 tabs open all the time. (it’s actually kind of accurate, i spent a half hour closing tabs on my physical computer today) imagine each of those tabs are a thought process triggered by an observation, subconscious and conscious. but kind of like the broomstick in fantasia, my brain is not well acquainted with limits. so information about the world, from the mundane to the cosmic, come flooding into my head. the problem is not that i am incapable of sorting through this data but my inability to prioritize any of it quickly enough. i have realized, with enough observation, that this is one of the triggers for a negative emotional response—-panic erupts, suddenly my brain is too overwhelmed to even enjoy indulgences.
the start is the confusion. that’s definitely the cycle i’ve been in for years. and since i tend to learn my lessons the hard way, i have developed a series of maladaptive responses to handling this depression. it isn’t just chemical, seratonin and dopamine misfiring in my brain telling me that i’m a bad human being and that death looks attractive. but it isn’t just mental, where i am beating myself up for logical mistakes and refusing to forgive myself. and it isn’t just spiritual, where i’ve lost touch with the gifts and have fallen away from my relationship with the universe. i have to treat all three simultaneously. my first bout of deep depression was one of the first times i ever felt cut off from “my powers” and that rings true for every time that followed.
as far as treatment is concerned, i know i need mundane routine. i need meditation—meditation is, like yoga, not something you do when you’re “ready” for it but something that makes you “ready” for everything else. structure is something that i need in my life, not necessarily a 9 to 5 gig, but realistic understanding that there is a reason to wake every morning.
while this is a practice i need to make for myself, there is a lot of logical and emotional work to be done. perhaps the right phrasing is logical determination and emotional understanding? what i mean is that there are coping mechanisms that i have created growing up that aren’t the most positive reactions to the world. i need to learn to limit my intake of information before the flood freezes me. these aren’t moral failings on my part, just a need for an upgrade in perception. kind of like the anti-virus software i need to update…
my life is a joke.
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i feel like everything that has ever mattered to me has disappeared or evaporated.
i don’t have the will to move.
i must force myself to not be constantly reduced to tears.
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i don’t know how to start this, so…
anyone that knows me in some capacity (especially outside of the poetry community) knows that when i start writing long diatribes, it’s probably because i’m depressed.
hi. i’m really fucking depressed.
so let me outline a couple things.
1-i’ve been off my meds for a little under a month. i’ve been prescribed abilify and lexapro to treat bipolar.
2-my mother can no longer financially support me. after losing her job (on her fucking birthday) in january, she made it very clear that she could no longer buy me food to eat or medication. the plot thickens.
3-i have no job. the last employer i had fired me in december for being unable to come in consistently on time. most of my previous employers can say this. i suppose this goes along with my diagnosis.
4-i will no longer be living at my current residence as of saturday. my mother stated months ago that i would need to find another place to live due to her financial hardship. and now the time has come.
have i mentioned that i am in a depressive cycle? see, it is not that i have refused to attempt to procure employment or seek residency elsewhere. well, less so on the latter. all four of these stressors add up to three weeks of severe depressive symptoms. long sleeping periods, inability to focus, hopelessness, wandering the house, forgetting to eat, irrational and irresponsible behavior. fun stuff, if you ask me. i’m obviously flourishing in it.
a few friends have offered places to sleep and my mother has mentioned that if i can’t find somewhere, i may be allowed a few days respite in the guest room…until she moves.
a few good things have arisen in the past 3 weeks. i am seeing who my real friends are, people who genuinely want to be there for me during some of my rougher days, folks i can rely on for comfort but more importantly—are willing to give me a decent shove in a positive direction.
i made it onto my local slam team. which is really achieving a dream/goal. i’ve spent the last three years fervently supporting and writing and trying and connecting and learning….and now i’ve made it. it feels like the only good thing i have right now and i have to hang on to it.
and realizing that i’ve committed myself to something bigger than just my aspirations has gotten me out of bed. probably the only thing that has gotten me out of bed. it’s woken me in the middle of the night with worry. but it has not launched me to action…and i’m terrified nothing can. not even my impending homelessness.
i’m spending a lot of time shoving aside gritty, sad, destructive thoughts, the ideas that lead me into darkness or tell me that i’m actually wasting time by living are signs that my brain chemistry is still trying to commit mutiny. this is my brain without drugs.
the problem with being a creative person is that it goes beyond just “i hate myself and i want to die” kind of shit. sure, those thoughts are there, but they’re easy to shake off. it’s when they start manifesting as utter disappointment and the culmination of those thoughts rationalize hatred and death….those are the ones that get tricky to run from.
i feel isolated and unwanted. unworthy. just plain stupid. confused and hurt. and the problem with these feelings is that they are CONSTANT. it isn’t just triggered by one thing here and there…it is all the time. i wake up and feel like no one would ever want to waste a minute acknowledging my presence. and why should they? i don’t have anything to offer but poetry that doesn’t say anything important. i have somehow managed to make even the art i create something disgusting.
my reaction to this? well, other than sleeping, i spend my time fantasizing about going away and starting fresh. walking away from my disappointments and never walking the same streets again. even this reaction is unhealthy. sure, it’s good to dream, but it’s still a more extreme emotion disguised as hope. (it isn’t hope.)
i’m going to spend the next four days trying. and that means pushing. really hard. i haven’t had a structured day in many moons. i will be pushing myself to wake up, shower, eat, and get to packing. i will be pushing myself to not smoke cigarettes especially because i still have a head cold. i will be pushing myself to have all the conversations that are necessary at this stage, even if i get upset. i will push myself past the crying. i will push myself past the anger and the confusion and the frustration and the loneliness. something good has to come out of this and if i need to push all summer long, then at least i’ll build up that muscle.
i have pushed myself before. it isn’t pushing out of depression. it is functioning out of necessity. it is not happiness. it is not a cure. it doesn’t answer the fact that i will probably want to sob at the drop of a hat or feel that my friends don’t want me around. but it will assure that i will see the day where i don’t feel this way.
don’t get me wrong, i love living. i love life. i love the beauty of the world and all the marvelous art and people and adventures that are out there. bipolar isn’t a treat. it isn’t some special free ticket that says i get to sleep in because i’m having a bad day. it is a disorder. it is an invisible illness and i have been fighting it every day for as long as i can remember. but i will not let it win. i can’t. i have too much to do.
i feel a little better after having sat down and said all these things. i’ve needed a place to sort out my troubles for a long time. having a blog can get to be a burden at times, but to abandon journaling altogether seems to be a rather poor idea. my friends may get tired of my bullshit, but the blank page never gives a fucking shit. and that’s better than any unsolicited advice or hallmark card nonsense or sympathy. i just need to fucking talk sometimes. occasionally it may be on the internet. other times it might be into the wind.
Photo reblogged from Sheep Are Dope As Fuck with 34,329 notes
i know this all too well.
my throat is filled with acidic bile today.
i feel like there is something terribly wrong with everything around me and i can’t put my finger on what. i kind of wish there was something blatantly wrong so i could point at it and go, “THERE! THAT’S THE THING!” i wouldn’t need to make it go away, but at least i could identify it. there’s something about a problem being unknown that will make any person uneasy. the unknown is a natural fear.
i suppose it’s just standard, regulation emptiness. which i’ve been feeling for a while, just not to this extent and not this isolated.
so fuck the internet. fuck facebook and twitter and okcupid. and when i say “fuck the internet”, i don’t mean “whip it out and stick it in” but make it cry out in pain.
we plaster our anguish all over these little sections of the web, socially and mentally masturbating to the rhythm of the latest hot track. not much has changed since the days of livejournal except it’s easier and more acceptable to do.
i’m not this cynical, i swear, i’m just having a bad rainy day.
i have found no relief. there’s never enough time to stave off the stress and not enough substances to stave off the responsibility. i find myself standing listless in hallways and staring into refrigerators, but it’s not food that i’m hungry for.
give me a real connection. one that doesn’t burn itself at both ends. one that can be quiet and simple and clear.
the only constant i have is myself.
Sometimes I look at the life that I lead and wonder where all the magic went. I stare at my toes, recounting them to make sure I’m not making up a 6th toe or running out of things to look at. I sit on my porch smoking cigarettes watching traffic go by and make up little stories for each car. That guy works the night shift and he’s late, that woman is headed over to Twisted Tree, that bus is obviously headed toward the mall, etc.
I think about the darkness. The seasons. The temperature of the air and the movement of the wind. I wonder if I’m making a mistake by not falling in love with the life I lead on a constant basis.
I find I create the most when I am alone and dying to say something. In the bast, this has also lead to some creative self-destruction, which I suppose is an oxymoron.
On most days, I’m not looking to prove anything. On most days, I’ve decided that showering is generally a bad idea, too. In a way, I could say that I spend the majority of my time not making the best decisions I’ve ever plotted, but none of us are flawless.
I want to say so many things all at once so much these days that I can’t seem to formulate sentences properly. Most of this is middle school drivel, hoping I could say what I feel to the people that I adore but knowing that they’d never give it the weight it deserves. (Ahem, BOYS.) Some of it is weightier…or just less…er…insipid.
I question my place in the world so often, occasionally in a literal sense. I get overwhelmed when I think of the people in my life or the places I’ve been, the things I’ve done. So I try not to think of those things and instead focus on the only constant I’ve had over the past 24 years, myself.
The pay back isn’t immediate. I wade through a lot of trash talk to come to a peaceful place in my head. A lot of giving up happens, too.
I guess in this dark room there isn’t much to say except that I have become indifferent. Not apathetic, there are things that move me. Just,…unlikely to give a shit. (The difference being that indifference has an aloof connotation, whereas apathetic has a misanthropic connotation. Still hardly a difference, but it’s there.)
More later, folks.
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