"Go put on your brave face and do all that stuff that you do. This day will fade into the next and then again into the next. Just pretend you're a machine."
Note: This was not written by me and is not my current state. But I loved it because it accurately describes so many of mine for the past 3 years.
Showing posts with label bipolar. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bipolar. Show all posts
December 8, 2011
September 7, 2011
What it's like
In September of 2008, I was raped on a date. I never told anyone. I mean I never told ANYONE. Not a doctor, or a therapist, or a best friend. No one. I was so embarrassed and ashamed this had happened to me, and I felt so stupid that I had not kept myself safe. I felt like all that money for all those fucking degrees ought to have been good for something, and here I couldn't even take care of myself. Normally so forthcoming and expansive, I kept my mouth shut. I didn't want to be told what to do or who to talk to. I didn't want to be asked any questions. I didn't want to explain. I just wanted to forget. Up until that point I felt like I'd been a fairly healthy woman with a fairly healthy sex life, and I was convinced I could maintain that through sheer will.
By the end of the same month, I had started to completely fall apart.
Anxiety seemed to ooze from my pores. I couldn't relax. I had recently started my first job and bought a car and suddenly I felt like I was losing control of everything. I couldn't sleep. I would be awake for three days straight. Not just awake, really, but AWAKE! I needed to talk, I needed to write, I needed to make things. Things to say were erupting out of me and I was unable to control them. I made greeting cards and little boxes. I started writing. I wrote all over my walls, in fact, and pounded out long missives on my computer in ALL CAPS because I WAS RUNNING OUT OF SPACE INSIDE TO PUT ALL OF THIS SHIT.
The lack of sleep made me wild-eyed and crazed, and the long commute to work (not to mention actual work) because impossible. The panic attacks started in earnest around this time, and they made me feel desperate and doomed and frantic. I had them everywhere--in my office, in my car, alone in my bed, in the shower. No place was safe.
I can remember driving home from work, my fingers clutching the steering wheel for dear life. I rocked back and forth furiously chanting:
"I'm sorry," she said, "I have nothing left to give."
"I'm sorry," she said, "I have nothing left to give."
"I'm sorry," she said, "I have nothing left to give."
One day on the drive home I felt so terrified to go home and be alone that I phoned ahead to Nannette and pleaded for her to let me come over as soon as I was back in the city. She told me I was welcome to come, and I fiercely held onto that as I drove. But by the time I got back to San Francisco, I was frantic again and couldn't bear to be around anyone. To her confusion, I told her I couldn't come.
Some nights she let me sleep on her couch because I didn't want to be alone.
I became obsessed with the Golden Gate Bridge. I needed to look at that bridge! I needed to see it, to drive on it, to read about it, and watch videos of people jumping off of it. I needed to know just how deep it was in the bay underneath. It felt important to know just how far down there was to go. I read, "San Francisco Bay is relatively shallow but reaches depths of 100 feet in some places." I had dreams about it. I dreamed of what it felt like when my feet left the side, and I dreamed of what I saw on the way down. I dreamed of the sound my back made when it broke upon hitting the water, and I dreamed of the light disappearing above me. I decided that the exact point at which I would jump off would be 98 feet deep, and I needed to keep that number in my head constantly. I wrote the number 98. I cut the corners out of books that showed page 98. I made a box I called "98 feet deep."
The awful part about it was that I didn't WANT to jump off. I didn't want to! It terrified and horrified me to think about it. But I was obsessed with it. My brain wouldn't leave it alone.
The days without sleep were punctuated by complete crashes. Depression and sobbing and apathy, days I called off work because I just could not function. After Nannette pleaded with me to see someone, I sent my doctor an email. All I could think to say was, "I'm going down fast." On my 32nd birthday, she had me come in for an appointment.
My doctor is wonderful, and she urged me to apply for disability and to see a psychiatrist as well as a therapist. I was getting in deeper and deeper shit at work, but I insisted to her that I could still work--didn't need the time off. I regret deeply that I didn't take her advice, but I was determined to hold on to the balls I was trying to juggle by the skin of my teeth.
Eventually, I got fired. I lost a lot of friends when they didn't understand what was going on or the decisions I made. I made a mess of relationships. I lost my baby.
These days I struggle with leaving the house, with seeing people. It feels like the only place I can be remotely safe is in my apartment, because the outside world is much too scary and unpredictable. The last time I tried to have brunch with a friend, I had to force myself to go. I threatened and begged and cajoled myself to go, and when I got home, my beloved bird was dead. A voice inside of me whispered, "I knew this would happen." It is a lonely existence.
I am taking medication now--slowly--and I have told exactly four people what happened to me. It honestly didn't occur to me until a couple months ago how all these things might be tied together. I'm sure I've told portions of my story in this venue before as I recounted my struggles with mental illness, but it has never been told in this complete fashion. I feel somewhat horrified as I type these words that now it will be OUT THERE and PEOPLE WILL KNOW and I CAN'T TAKE IT BACK.
But I needed to tell my story.
By the end of the same month, I had started to completely fall apart.
Anxiety seemed to ooze from my pores. I couldn't relax. I had recently started my first job and bought a car and suddenly I felt like I was losing control of everything. I couldn't sleep. I would be awake for three days straight. Not just awake, really, but AWAKE! I needed to talk, I needed to write, I needed to make things. Things to say were erupting out of me and I was unable to control them. I made greeting cards and little boxes. I started writing. I wrote all over my walls, in fact, and pounded out long missives on my computer in ALL CAPS because I WAS RUNNING OUT OF SPACE INSIDE TO PUT ALL OF THIS SHIT.
The lack of sleep made me wild-eyed and crazed, and the long commute to work (not to mention actual work) because impossible. The panic attacks started in earnest around this time, and they made me feel desperate and doomed and frantic. I had them everywhere--in my office, in my car, alone in my bed, in the shower. No place was safe.
I can remember driving home from work, my fingers clutching the steering wheel for dear life. I rocked back and forth furiously chanting:
"I'm sorry," she said, "I have nothing left to give."
"I'm sorry," she said, "I have nothing left to give."
"I'm sorry," she said, "I have nothing left to give."
One day on the drive home I felt so terrified to go home and be alone that I phoned ahead to Nannette and pleaded for her to let me come over as soon as I was back in the city. She told me I was welcome to come, and I fiercely held onto that as I drove. But by the time I got back to San Francisco, I was frantic again and couldn't bear to be around anyone. To her confusion, I told her I couldn't come.
Some nights she let me sleep on her couch because I didn't want to be alone.
I became obsessed with the Golden Gate Bridge. I needed to look at that bridge! I needed to see it, to drive on it, to read about it, and watch videos of people jumping off of it. I needed to know just how deep it was in the bay underneath. It felt important to know just how far down there was to go. I read, "San Francisco Bay is relatively shallow but reaches depths of 100 feet in some places." I had dreams about it. I dreamed of what it felt like when my feet left the side, and I dreamed of what I saw on the way down. I dreamed of the sound my back made when it broke upon hitting the water, and I dreamed of the light disappearing above me. I decided that the exact point at which I would jump off would be 98 feet deep, and I needed to keep that number in my head constantly. I wrote the number 98. I cut the corners out of books that showed page 98. I made a box I called "98 feet deep."
The awful part about it was that I didn't WANT to jump off. I didn't want to! It terrified and horrified me to think about it. But I was obsessed with it. My brain wouldn't leave it alone.
The days without sleep were punctuated by complete crashes. Depression and sobbing and apathy, days I called off work because I just could not function. After Nannette pleaded with me to see someone, I sent my doctor an email. All I could think to say was, "I'm going down fast." On my 32nd birthday, she had me come in for an appointment.
My doctor is wonderful, and she urged me to apply for disability and to see a psychiatrist as well as a therapist. I was getting in deeper and deeper shit at work, but I insisted to her that I could still work--didn't need the time off. I regret deeply that I didn't take her advice, but I was determined to hold on to the balls I was trying to juggle by the skin of my teeth.
Eventually, I got fired. I lost a lot of friends when they didn't understand what was going on or the decisions I made. I made a mess of relationships. I lost my baby.
These days I struggle with leaving the house, with seeing people. It feels like the only place I can be remotely safe is in my apartment, because the outside world is much too scary and unpredictable. The last time I tried to have brunch with a friend, I had to force myself to go. I threatened and begged and cajoled myself to go, and when I got home, my beloved bird was dead. A voice inside of me whispered, "I knew this would happen." It is a lonely existence.
I am taking medication now--slowly--and I have told exactly four people what happened to me. It honestly didn't occur to me until a couple months ago how all these things might be tied together. I'm sure I've told portions of my story in this venue before as I recounted my struggles with mental illness, but it has never been told in this complete fashion. I feel somewhat horrified as I type these words that now it will be OUT THERE and PEOPLE WILL KNOW and I CAN'T TAKE IT BACK.
But I needed to tell my story.
June 9, 2011
Missing
Let me begin by saying that if I owe you an email, phone call, visit, book, or anything else, please forgive me. I have been rather under the weather and everything has suffered.
On a related note: I have a lot of shit to do. The list is long and many of the tasks are daunting. But I am working on them.
First and foremost on the list is my mental health. I don't really know what or how much to say at this point. I will say that I have been considering and making phone calls to investigate a variety of options along the continuum, everything from a different psychiatrist to partial hospitalization to *gulp* possible full hospitalization for a period.
It is scary.
It is often overwhelming.
There is so much red tape and bureaucracy to get through, and it is so easy to feel frustrated and discouraged and hopeless.
Since I--for better or worse--am fairly open through this venue, in particular, many issues you may already be aware of: struggles with bipolar disorder (although there is some recent disagreement on this particular label), depression, anxiety, a job loss, a miscarriage, and some significant relationship challenges. There have been other events of which I've never spoken until the last couple of days. Not even to best friends or therapists or physicians.
I know now how fucking stupid my silence has been. And it has cost me a great deal.
I don't know at what point I crossed over from being the girl who took on things that scared her just to prove that she could do it to being this little, fearful person who is terrified of everything and everyone.
But I hate her.
I miss the little girl who was a scrapper. I miss the little girl who had holes in the knees of her jeans that she patched with scotch tape and wore them to school anyway. I miss the little girl who preferred to pee in the snow rather than going inside to use the bathroom so as not to miss a minute of sled-riding. I miss the little girl who chewed on the plastic handle fringes of her Big Wheel as she skidded around corners, dangerously close to traffic, and would race anyone who cared to challenger her.
I am trying to find her again.
On a related note: I have a lot of shit to do. The list is long and many of the tasks are daunting. But I am working on them.
First and foremost on the list is my mental health. I don't really know what or how much to say at this point. I will say that I have been considering and making phone calls to investigate a variety of options along the continuum, everything from a different psychiatrist to partial hospitalization to *gulp* possible full hospitalization for a period.
It is scary.
It is often overwhelming.
There is so much red tape and bureaucracy to get through, and it is so easy to feel frustrated and discouraged and hopeless.
Since I--for better or worse--am fairly open through this venue, in particular, many issues you may already be aware of: struggles with bipolar disorder (although there is some recent disagreement on this particular label), depression, anxiety, a job loss, a miscarriage, and some significant relationship challenges. There have been other events of which I've never spoken until the last couple of days. Not even to best friends or therapists or physicians.
I know now how fucking stupid my silence has been. And it has cost me a great deal.
I don't know at what point I crossed over from being the girl who took on things that scared her just to prove that she could do it to being this little, fearful person who is terrified of everything and everyone.
But I hate her.
I miss the little girl who was a scrapper. I miss the little girl who had holes in the knees of her jeans that she patched with scotch tape and wore them to school anyway. I miss the little girl who preferred to pee in the snow rather than going inside to use the bathroom so as not to miss a minute of sled-riding. I miss the little girl who chewed on the plastic handle fringes of her Big Wheel as she skidded around corners, dangerously close to traffic, and would race anyone who cared to challenger her.
I am trying to find her again.
August 16, 2010
Enough
I would like to get to the bottom of why I feel abandoned over the slightest things.
I can see it now. I will be the reason.
I can see it now. I will be the reason.
April 30, 2010
"...over the borderline..."
I want to write about this while it's still fresh in my mind, even though I have 1,000 things to accomplish.
There are days when I feel fragile enough that it seems like if I were to say what's really on my mind without censoring it--to really put it out there in the open--I might shatter into hundreds of tiny pieces on the floor. Today started out as one of those days, likely because I had an appointment with my psychiatrist and I haven't had one in a few weeks. It was overdue.
I love my doctor for many reasons, but one is because she is really putting effort into a finer-grained diagnosis than my others in the past have done. She agrees with my bipolar diagnosis. But she was the first person to put a name to some of the problems I was having that never occurred to me to share as symptoms of PTSD. And today she was the first person to mention that there might be shades of something else tied up in all those layers.
Before I get into that, let me describe part of how she summarized me today. I've never had someone describe me so completely before in their assessment of me, and it brought tears of recognition to my eyes...
fuck. i don't have the courage to do this. i thought i did. maybe later.
There are days when I feel fragile enough that it seems like if I were to say what's really on my mind without censoring it--to really put it out there in the open--I might shatter into hundreds of tiny pieces on the floor. Today started out as one of those days, likely because I had an appointment with my psychiatrist and I haven't had one in a few weeks. It was overdue.
I love my doctor for many reasons, but one is because she is really putting effort into a finer-grained diagnosis than my others in the past have done. She agrees with my bipolar diagnosis. But she was the first person to put a name to some of the problems I was having that never occurred to me to share as symptoms of PTSD. And today she was the first person to mention that there might be shades of something else tied up in all those layers.
Before I get into that, let me describe part of how she summarized me today. I've never had someone describe me so completely before in their assessment of me, and it brought tears of recognition to my eyes...
fuck. i don't have the courage to do this. i thought i did. maybe later.
April 26, 2010
Nobody knows I have delicate toes...
(...but please don't watch me dancing...)
I won't tell, I won't tell, I won't tell.
I can hide it sufficiently under self-deprecation and colorful banter
No one in my life wants to know these things
And the part of me that needs medication
Goes on and on and on
And the hysteria rises
And no one can (or will)
Say anything to make it stop.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I won't tell, I won't tell, I won't tell.
I can hide it sufficiently under self-deprecation and colorful banter
No one in my life wants to know these things
And the part of me that needs medication
Goes on and on and on
And the hysteria rises
And no one can (or will)
Say anything to make it stop.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
March 19, 2010
Let it breakthrough
So. Today I had my first appointment with my new psychiatrist, Dr. T. I love her. Love, love, love her.
Of course the first appointment is pretty intense. You have to establish why you're there and the life experiences that led you down this particular path. Even when she asked me the most minor questions I burst into tears and barely got my words out.
Now I am emotionally exhausted.
She and I are adjusting my meds a bit, and we're going to explore some different types of therapy other than just the standard cognitive-behavioral therapy that was not enough in the past. She is interested in having me consider psychodynamic therapy and EMDR as a way to treat symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.
I am willing to try.
I am happy to be back in treatment.
Of course the first appointment is pretty intense. You have to establish why you're there and the life experiences that led you down this particular path. Even when she asked me the most minor questions I burst into tears and barely got my words out.
Now I am emotionally exhausted.
She and I are adjusting my meds a bit, and we're going to explore some different types of therapy other than just the standard cognitive-behavioral therapy that was not enough in the past. She is interested in having me consider psychodynamic therapy and EMDR as a way to treat symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.
I am willing to try.
I am happy to be back in treatment.
March 4, 2010
"You're not listening or I'm not saying it right."
Damn. I have been a hot mess! I have tried to limit my blog posts during this time and it's probably a good thing.
I'm having one of those days where the fog lifts and I feel normal. I want to run around and make up for the past few days of being in the toilet. I want to get back to the goals I was working on full steam ahead. I want to make decisions and take actions and make plans before the sun starts to set again.
Last night I had to teach class even though I didn't feel well. As I was sitting in the front of the room waiting for time to start, I glanced over at one female student just as she was saying something to her friend about me. I smiled and said, "What?" She flushed a little and said, "I was just saying that you didn't look very happy and we should try to cheer you up." I was really touched.
I am fighting the urge right now to look for apartments and jobs in RVA. I have other stuff to focus on--namely, my well-being. There's plenty of time for the other stuff if I decide to do it.
I'm having one of those days where the fog lifts and I feel normal. I want to run around and make up for the past few days of being in the toilet. I want to get back to the goals I was working on full steam ahead. I want to make decisions and take actions and make plans before the sun starts to set again.
Last night I had to teach class even though I didn't feel well. As I was sitting in the front of the room waiting for time to start, I glanced over at one female student just as she was saying something to her friend about me. I smiled and said, "What?" She flushed a little and said, "I was just saying that you didn't look very happy and we should try to cheer you up." I was really touched.
I am fighting the urge right now to look for apartments and jobs in RVA. I have other stuff to focus on--namely, my well-being. There's plenty of time for the other stuff if I decide to do it.
March 1, 2010
Hanging
I have been starting to suspect that I have attention deficit...if not disorder, then problems. It started occurring to me recently as I thought about my problems functioning on a day to day basis, and I've been doing some reading on the link between bipolar and ADD.
I don't see my new doctor for nearly 3 weeks and I'm so impatient. I'm not quite sure how I'm going to last that long. I feel like I'm hanging on by the skin of my teeth as it is, and it depresses everyone around me to try and talk to them about it. My aunt doesn't really want to talk to me like this. Nannette doesn't call back. I feel really alone.
I don't see my new doctor for nearly 3 weeks and I'm so impatient. I'm not quite sure how I'm going to last that long. I feel like I'm hanging on by the skin of my teeth as it is, and it depresses everyone around me to try and talk to them about it. My aunt doesn't really want to talk to me like this. Nannette doesn't call back. I feel really alone.
February 25, 2010
Musings
This blog has generated a bit of a stir.
A couple things before I go on:
1. This is my journal. You don't have to read it.
2. When I said I was thinking about moving I meant what I said. Thinking about it.
3. If you work with me and we are not friends and you read this I think it's really inappropriate. Especially if you are management. Ahem.
Anyway.
I'm trying to remember how it felt when I knew it was time to leave Richmond and come to San Francisco. I had been there for 6 years and I was itching for change. It felt like I had learned the things that I needed to learn there and I wanted to move on. I was restless and pent up and pacing. It's weird, because that's not really what I'm feeling right now.
I feel defeated and tired. Really fucking tired.
People have asked me where I would go. I'd probably start with North Carolina, but I think realistically I would end up in Richmond again. I know. That sounds weird after I described being ready to leave, huh? It's just that the times I have returned to Richmond since I have been here, I have felt absolute joy. When I feel homesick, it is for Richmond. When I hear a weather report or a news story about Richmond, I feel a pang. When a friend mentions traveling to or being in Richmond, I am incredibly jealous. I miss it. I miss Judith and Amber and Dave and the folks I used to work with. I think it's the closest thing to "home" I ever felt.
I don't know.
The last time I made this decision it was a natural transition period in my life. Plus, I had someone to go with. This time I have neither going for me. Can I do it again? I don't know. I am considering it seriously enough that I told my friends here. I promised Nannette that before I made the decision I would work on getting to a mentally healthier place.
I am working on that.
A couple things before I go on:
1. This is my journal. You don't have to read it.
2. When I said I was thinking about moving I meant what I said. Thinking about it.
3. If you work with me and we are not friends and you read this I think it's really inappropriate. Especially if you are management. Ahem.
Anyway.
I'm trying to remember how it felt when I knew it was time to leave Richmond and come to San Francisco. I had been there for 6 years and I was itching for change. It felt like I had learned the things that I needed to learn there and I wanted to move on. I was restless and pent up and pacing. It's weird, because that's not really what I'm feeling right now.
I feel defeated and tired. Really fucking tired.
People have asked me where I would go. I'd probably start with North Carolina, but I think realistically I would end up in Richmond again. I know. That sounds weird after I described being ready to leave, huh? It's just that the times I have returned to Richmond since I have been here, I have felt absolute joy. When I feel homesick, it is for Richmond. When I hear a weather report or a news story about Richmond, I feel a pang. When a friend mentions traveling to or being in Richmond, I am incredibly jealous. I miss it. I miss Judith and Amber and Dave and the folks I used to work with. I think it's the closest thing to "home" I ever felt.
I don't know.
The last time I made this decision it was a natural transition period in my life. Plus, I had someone to go with. This time I have neither going for me. Can I do it again? I don't know. I am considering it seriously enough that I told my friends here. I promised Nannette that before I made the decision I would work on getting to a mentally healthier place.
I am working on that.
January 30, 2010
Someone like you
After a conversation with a friend recently, I was inspired to seek something out that had never really occurred to me before.
People like me.
I found a "Bipolar Disorder Meetup Group" here in San Francisco. They emphasized they're not a support group, just a social group. I joined. I'm going to a function on Thursday. I have no idea if it will be good or not. It seemed worth a try.
People like me.
I found a "Bipolar Disorder Meetup Group" here in San Francisco. They emphasized they're not a support group, just a social group. I joined. I'm going to a function on Thursday. I have no idea if it will be good or not. It seemed worth a try.
January 2, 2010
Año Nuevo
I wanted to post a New Year blog.
I wanted to curse 2009 and welcome 2010. I wanted to reflect on New Year's resolutions and my history with and without them. I wanted to say that I couldn't believe it's now been a decade since Chris and I sat on my couch in my first apartment in Richmond, VA, wondering if all hell would break loose when Y2K arrived.
Tonight I was at Safeway when Rod Stewart's "Ooh La La" came on. At first I was pleased and hummed along as I picked out my yogurt for the week. By the time I got to the frozen foods aisle, I heard:
I wish that I knew what I know now
when I was younger.
I wish that I knew what I know now
when I was stronger.
I started to cry. "Fuck," I thought. "Way to start out 2010: sobbing to Rod Stewart in front of the frozen pizza."
It's just that I really want this year to be different, and no words I can say or write can sufficiently convey just how urgently I want that. Every year I approach the new year with renewed hope about what my life might be, what I might accomplish. I suppose most people do.
This New Year's Eve I stared at the blue moon and thought about my best year so far: 2004. I finished grad school and my entire family came to be with me. My grandpa and grandmother were still here. I started training for a marathon and was in the best shape of my life. I felt like I was going places.
It's just that I've lost so much time. I have now lost years to depression, and I'll never get them back. I have always had a tendency toward nostalgia and melancholy, and my focus on absence--on the people I have loved best and most who are no longer with me for whatever reason--overtakes me for long periods of time.
They're never coming back.
I am turning 33 in a couple of weeks.
I am going to run. I am going to run my fucking ass off.
I wanted to curse 2009 and welcome 2010. I wanted to reflect on New Year's resolutions and my history with and without them. I wanted to say that I couldn't believe it's now been a decade since Chris and I sat on my couch in my first apartment in Richmond, VA, wondering if all hell would break loose when Y2K arrived.
Tonight I was at Safeway when Rod Stewart's "Ooh La La" came on. At first I was pleased and hummed along as I picked out my yogurt for the week. By the time I got to the frozen foods aisle, I heard:
I wish that I knew what I know now
when I was younger.
I wish that I knew what I know now
when I was stronger.
I started to cry. "Fuck," I thought. "Way to start out 2010: sobbing to Rod Stewart in front of the frozen pizza."
It's just that I really want this year to be different, and no words I can say or write can sufficiently convey just how urgently I want that. Every year I approach the new year with renewed hope about what my life might be, what I might accomplish. I suppose most people do.
This New Year's Eve I stared at the blue moon and thought about my best year so far: 2004. I finished grad school and my entire family came to be with me. My grandpa and grandmother were still here. I started training for a marathon and was in the best shape of my life. I felt like I was going places.
It's just that I've lost so much time. I have now lost years to depression, and I'll never get them back. I have always had a tendency toward nostalgia and melancholy, and my focus on absence--on the people I have loved best and most who are no longer with me for whatever reason--overtakes me for long periods of time.
They're never coming back.
I am turning 33 in a couple of weeks.
I am going to run. I am going to run my fucking ass off.
December 22, 2009
Personal history
Holy mother of god.
I spent some time cleaning out my email inbox and I feel like I've relived the last 3 years of my life in about one hour. I should also add that the last 3 years of my life have been chock-full of physical and emotional turmoil.
I found:
Emails from, like, every book club event I've ever attended.
Messages from various (ill-advised) dates I've gone on about where/when to meet up.
Emails I sent to myself when I was trying not to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.
Emails from C.
Emails regarding my research on moving to Barcelona and finding work.
Notifications of and condolences for the deaths of various friends and family members.
Emails regarding job search resources from when I finished my postdoc.
Announcements of 6 Birds Cards.
Messages from friends who--for whatever reason--are no longer in my life.
Drafts of writings I did during turbulent times.
Etc.
2010 has to be better. It just has to be.
I spent some time cleaning out my email inbox and I feel like I've relived the last 3 years of my life in about one hour. I should also add that the last 3 years of my life have been chock-full of physical and emotional turmoil.
I found:
Emails from, like, every book club event I've ever attended.
Messages from various (ill-advised) dates I've gone on about where/when to meet up.
Emails I sent to myself when I was trying not to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.
Emails from C.
Emails regarding my research on moving to Barcelona and finding work.
Notifications of and condolences for the deaths of various friends and family members.
Emails regarding job search resources from when I finished my postdoc.
Announcements of 6 Birds Cards.
Messages from friends who--for whatever reason--are no longer in my life.
Drafts of writings I did during turbulent times.
Etc.
2010 has to be better. It just has to be.
September 23, 2009
Inspiration and the forms in which it comes
I have always needed a lot of attention.
I didn't get a lot of it from my parents, but my grandpas--whenever I visited--lavished me with it. I soaked it up like a thirsty plant. Time, affection, love: I couldn't get enough.
When I couldn't get my needs met from others, I found ways to make do and meet them myself. I would tuck myself in bed, wrap my arms around myself in a tight hug, shower my hand with kisses and pat them all over my face, and murmur night-time endearments to myself: "Good night, sweet girl. I love you so much. I love you more than anything in the world. You're my baby; you're my sweetheart. Good night."
These intense needs are cute and endearing in a little kid, but not so much in a grown woman--especially in a grown woman who doesn't always know how to ask for what she wants and needs.
As an adult I have found that this need has a profound effect on me. Attention and affection--or the lack thereof--have dramatic effects on my writing, inspiration, and creativity and the forms which they take. It profoundly affects my mood which is, at best, tenuous. It is also surprisingly easy to confuse sex with the attention that I crave. I have worked hard to be conscious of these distinctions and to learn to better distinguish when I need one or the other. Or both.
I still hoard attention when I can get it. I try to store it up and allow myself to savor the memories of it during dry spells however long or short they may be. Lately I luxuriate in it whenever I can, and I am starting to feel writing inspiration coming to me. It's still a bit elusive--like fireflies heading up, up, and just beyond my reach. But I keep jumping and swatting at the air, trying to bring them down to me.
I didn't get a lot of it from my parents, but my grandpas--whenever I visited--lavished me with it. I soaked it up like a thirsty plant. Time, affection, love: I couldn't get enough.
When I couldn't get my needs met from others, I found ways to make do and meet them myself. I would tuck myself in bed, wrap my arms around myself in a tight hug, shower my hand with kisses and pat them all over my face, and murmur night-time endearments to myself: "Good night, sweet girl. I love you so much. I love you more than anything in the world. You're my baby; you're my sweetheart. Good night."
These intense needs are cute and endearing in a little kid, but not so much in a grown woman--especially in a grown woman who doesn't always know how to ask for what she wants and needs.
As an adult I have found that this need has a profound effect on me. Attention and affection--or the lack thereof--have dramatic effects on my writing, inspiration, and creativity and the forms which they take. It profoundly affects my mood which is, at best, tenuous. It is also surprisingly easy to confuse sex with the attention that I crave. I have worked hard to be conscious of these distinctions and to learn to better distinguish when I need one or the other. Or both.
I still hoard attention when I can get it. I try to store it up and allow myself to savor the memories of it during dry spells however long or short they may be. Lately I luxuriate in it whenever I can, and I am starting to feel writing inspiration coming to me. It's still a bit elusive--like fireflies heading up, up, and just beyond my reach. But I keep jumping and swatting at the air, trying to bring them down to me.
September 22, 2009
having two poles; characterized by opposite extremes
Today I had a long talk with someone who is bipolar. It is only the second opportunity I've had to talk to someone who is like me. I found myself blurting out all these private things I don't usually talk or write about, because I knew I would be understood.
And I was.
And I was.
September 9, 2009
August 3, 2009
On getting down
I'm noticing some annoying patterns in myself that are getting me in a rut:
1) During the weekdays, I get down in the evenings. Not "get down" as in "get funky" but as in "get depressed." This is true even if I've had a decent day at work. I think it's the drudgery of coming home alone and the fact that I'm not building in enough things for me to look forward to in the evenings.
2) My diet needs some serious revamping because what I eat currently makes me feel like shit. I am currently reading Skinny Bitch that purports to advise you on cutting crap (both overt and covert) out of your diet, including sugar, meat, dairy, and alcohol. It depressed me so much this evening that I had some wine to make me feel better.
I am out of control.
1) During the weekdays, I get down in the evenings. Not "get down" as in "get funky" but as in "get depressed." This is true even if I've had a decent day at work. I think it's the drudgery of coming home alone and the fact that I'm not building in enough things for me to look forward to in the evenings.
2) My diet needs some serious revamping because what I eat currently makes me feel like shit. I am currently reading Skinny Bitch that purports to advise you on cutting crap (both overt and covert) out of your diet, including sugar, meat, dairy, and alcohol. It depressed me so much this evening that I had some wine to make me feel better.
I am out of control.
June 4, 2009
I will censor no longer!
I hate my job.
I love my medication.
And that day in the band room? I knew. I posed. I was fully aware of what I was doing. So sue me.
I love my medication.
And that day in the band room? I knew. I posed. I was fully aware of what I was doing. So sue me.
May 11, 2009
"For a year we caught his tears in a cup."
Año (part two of two)
spring enclosed grief i can't go with you please stop asking me empty space please ask me just one more time detaching waiting drying up closing up summer regroup trying again hope eager mistaken premonitions comparison tentative as usual it became important new adult freedom fears mornings have a whole new meaning why haven't I heard from you please ask me one more time I will say yes fall trying to keep it together sleeping in the car trying and trying because it only takes one I wrote a letter confession falling behind more erratic fleeting winter I'm drowning obsession 98 feet deep this time last year you predicted it the nights are so long sleepless I just need a break losing control I'm going down chanting and rocking and screaming clinging to the shower wall Nannette's tears a voice of reason answers questions an orphan grieving spring trying
spring enclosed grief i can't go with you please stop asking me empty space please ask me just one more time detaching waiting drying up closing up summer regroup trying again hope eager mistaken premonitions comparison tentative as usual it became important new adult freedom fears mornings have a whole new meaning why haven't I heard from you please ask me one more time I will say yes fall trying to keep it together sleeping in the car trying and trying because it only takes one I wrote a letter confession falling behind more erratic fleeting winter I'm drowning obsession 98 feet deep this time last year you predicted it the nights are so long sleepless I just need a break losing control I'm going down chanting and rocking and screaming clinging to the shower wall Nannette's tears a voice of reason answers questions an orphan grieving spring trying
May 8, 2009
Filling jars full of silence you'll get nowhere.
You know, I worried that this medication would take away my inspiration and creativity. I think it has. I don't feel like writing and I have nothing to say to anyone.
I will tell you about a dream I had last night (that recurred all night). I was with a group of people from different parts and times in my life. We were walking through the woods. We came to a clearing to find a ravine the size of New River Gorge in WV. There was a swinging rope bridge going across it.
Everyone but me exclaimed in delight and surprise and started crossing it, but I was frozen in place. Every time I peered over the edge, my stomach dropped and I jerked in my sleep. My friends looked back at me and urged me on. "It's fun!" they cried, "Such a long way down!"
I gathered my courage and ventured out 2-3 steps on the bridge. My head swam and I became dizzy, and I staggered back to land. I shook my head vehemently at those who were calling to me. "I can't!" I shouted. "You go ahead. I'll stay here!"
And then I looked at the forest around me, wondering what I would do by myself.
I will tell you about a dream I had last night (that recurred all night). I was with a group of people from different parts and times in my life. We were walking through the woods. We came to a clearing to find a ravine the size of New River Gorge in WV. There was a swinging rope bridge going across it.
Everyone but me exclaimed in delight and surprise and started crossing it, but I was frozen in place. Every time I peered over the edge, my stomach dropped and I jerked in my sleep. My friends looked back at me and urged me on. "It's fun!" they cried, "Such a long way down!"
I gathered my courage and ventured out 2-3 steps on the bridge. My head swam and I became dizzy, and I staggered back to land. I shook my head vehemently at those who were calling to me. "I can't!" I shouted. "You go ahead. I'll stay here!"
And then I looked at the forest around me, wondering what I would do by myself.
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