Anxiety sucks

The room has become too big
My anxiety crawling along the walls
calling my fear front and center
Shaking hands
Short of breath.
Sweat down my back
Trying to stand tall when
the weight of the world is pressing
Dishes piled high
Laundry piled high
My bed sheets now hold my tired stains
I can’t get out of this bed
I can’t open that window
My poor kitty beckons in the Hall
No food in his bowl
Curtains curtail the sun and
Usher in the darkness
Weeds grow all around
Outside and
Inside this broken mind

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Dreams die in the Fog

The lies
They take hold
Implant in my mind
No persuasion otherwise
This just is
Fantasy of life
On the wings of delusion
What could be
Buried deep in illusion
Who are you
To believe
To pursue
Don’t forget
It is you
That rides the wave of confusion
Your mind overrides
Any sense
Any infusion
Of possibility
Your Dreams die in the fog
Of unrequited absolution
For you dear one
Rest in between the realm of
reality
Duality and
Persecution
The long road is ahead
Forever waiting

Let’s talk about reaching out

Let’s talk about reaching out. More importantly my seemingly inability to do so. I have been in the social services profession for over half my life. My sole purpose is to be there when others reach out to me. I can attest to the relief it can bring for the other person. The so-called burden has an opportunity to be lifted by the very virtue of sharing with someone else. Releasing what’s typically rolling around in the “wrong neighborhood” of the mind can be cathartic.

Armed with this information and actually witnessing it to be true, you’d think I would jump at the chance to fill someone’s ear with my stuff. Not the case. Well, not entirely accurate. The idea of this prospect is wonderful. Unleashing the demons that constantly plague me would be so beneficial. But, knowing this is not enough. Speaking my truth is so scary and difficult, I prefer to hide behind my written words. I mean conveying my pain in some form or fashion is helpful. But, again, not enough. Realistically, some days all I’m able to do is furiously type on this computer and hope to be brave enough to send it out into cyberspace.

What is this fear? Fear of being a burden. Misunderstood. Unable to express what ails my mind, body and soul. The questions you might ask to clarify. Statements you might make to “help” me. Having to dive into deep shit I don’t know how or want to. Having to admit I have bipolar disorder and all the chaos it has created. The manic and depressive episodes that have rocked me to my core. Rocked my marriage possibly to its breaking point. Wanting to expel the details from my memory, but also not dredge up the pain it encompasses. Wondering if you could possibly understand. Or, maybe you do so much that I must then console you. What a selfish thought that is! Baggage I guess is part of the fear.

Just the other day I was quite distraught the whole day. Many many tears shed in the confines of my home. Well, and into the dark black fur of my kitty. Back to bed I went after 2 cups of coffee. I had received news the prior evening I did not get a job I felt highly qualified for. The interview had gone very well in my opinion. I even brought up a few ideas and sparked a discussion. Does it get better than that? I was able to speak to my weakness within the proposed position, but more so self myself as an asset. I recounted this experience to a few friends and they agreed it sounded positive. Case Management is in my bones, I told them. 15 years of direct experience..successful experience. Over 20 years in a social service delivery model in general. I could learn the “ins and outs” of the agency.

I suppose I could have picked up the phone that day and relayed my utter disappointment. But, I just couldn’t. We could argue didn’t or couldn’t. For me it was a could not. I sent out a few rushed texts. One to my husband and one to my brother. Both expressed sympathy, but just to move on to the next one. Typical advice. But, I’m not a typical person. I guess no one is. My bipolar brain was beating me up through and through. How does anyone know that if I don’t share? I keep it all locked inside. Tears fell on the couch and into the bedroom. My husband asked if I was crying as we nestled under the covers in the darkness. I said no. We both knew I was lying. I can’t share pain in the moment of pain. It feels physically impossible. My body will not let me. My mind won’t allow words to come out of my mouth. I just shutdown.

I have the opportunity to share my ups, downs and in- betweens with a woman who is willing to be my sponsor in AA. This equates to another human being willing to hear what ails my mind, body and soul. Can I lay down the walls and accept this possibility? Leave the baggage at the door and honor this for what it is..space to learn how to share myself. Space to learn about myself. Space to forgive myself.

Let’s face it. I don’t need space. I need connection. Honest emotional interaction. So, let’s talk about reaching out. How do you do it?

In too Deep

In deep
And deep within
Depression and my mind
Thick as thieves
The darkness descends
Although it never really leaves
Crawled out of this tired bed
Into the cold blank shower
No scrub can rid me of this filth
Rubbing my face senseless
So a new mug could appear
Happy joyous and free
A smile without fear
As the fog cleared
And the mirror spoke
All I know is
I can’t steer this sinking ship
Rain drops outside
Tear drops inside
The nature of thy mother
Quietly taking shape
Lifeless and Breathless
I sit and wait
For whatever god that may cherish me
To remove this deadly disease
Before It
Decides my fate

 

Here I Go…..tomorrow!

I spent most of the day in bed. Staring at the shadows the bright bright sunshine, filtered through drawn curtains, created.  I cried into the midnight black fur of my kitty.  He nestled into me.  Beating my neck as he likes to sit/lay on my shoulder.  It was 1pm. I set my alarm for 2:30.  Declaring I would get up and do SOMETHING today.  I didn’t really sleep.  I lay semi quietly listening to him breathe.  Petting him.  Loving him.  Feeling like he is my only friend in the world.

Perhaps he is.  I haven’t told him I have bipolar disorder.  But, I think he notices my moods.  He kept pushing his little head into my mine.  Pets can be so comforting.  He is an amazing addition to our household.  I think he is good for me.

Being off work is not good for me.  Having no structure is not good for me.  So…one might suggest I build structure.  I mean, man, to be able to create one’s own structure for the day..how marvelous.  I can paint. I can hike. I can eat. I can watch TV. I can write. I can….but I don’t.  Why its so damn hard for me I do not know.  The sky is the limit right now!  I can go to the beach.  I can drive far and wide.  Yet, retreat to my bedroom under my covers I go.

My husband is not like this.  Not only does he not have bipolar disorder, he doesn’t really have a lazy bone in his body.  He wakes at 5am no matter what day it is. I can hear him unloading the dishwasher by 5:15 if it needs it.  He leaves in the dark and right now comes home in the dark.  Then will make dinner when I haven’t made a plan.  On weekends, he is up with headphones on working on quicken, making sure I don’t have a job doesn’t impact us.  He can’t wait for the sun to come up so he can work in the garden.  He looks around our house and thinks of ways to redecorate.   I…am not like him.

When I was working full time, I had many excuses as to how tired I was.  I couldn’t handle planning taking a shower, planning my work wardrobe, lunch and dinner for the week.  Then I worked part time.  Still, couldn’t pull off all the wifely duties seems I should.  Now. I don’t work.  Laundry in the dryer.  dishes in the sink.  No dinner planned.

I rush to judgement. I rush to shame. What in the world is wrong with me?  I have basically 10 hours from the time my husband leaves to when he gets home from working all damn day to contribute.  I choose to cuddle and shed tears with my kitty.  Maybe not everyday.  But too many days are spent like this.  I do look for jobs over coffee. Diligently. I then tell myself I do not qualify for anything. I am a sham. I fake.  A fraud.  The title that was created for me in my last brief employment is really a lie.  when I resigned, they did not ask why for a reason.  They did not fight for me.  They did not seem to care.

Funny thing, I played tennis on Tuesday after  a very long layoff.  I used to play competitively until..panic attacks, bipolar depression, hospitalizations.  The overall inability to move for much of the time.  I hit very well. I do have to say.  I felt free.  I hit the ball without abandon..or is that with abandon.  I’m not sure.  BUT!  As with me, I have all or nothing thinking.  Black and white thinking.  I played for hours despite my body telling me otherwise.  I kept going to prove I could. To prove..I’m still here.  To prove I exercise for a reason.  To prove bipolar disorder cant ruin everything.

I have a huge blister. probably a right of passage honestly.  But, it just means I can’t play again. I wanted to play today.  Had I taken it slow.  Acknowledged I haven’t played in well over a year, with new shoes to boot, perhaps I could be on the court today.  Not in bed.  Perhaps, my husband wouldn’t have needed to remind me this is what I do.  Self sabotage in a way.  l have to have it all right now.  Right this minute.  Right. This. Fucking. Minute.  I need to feel good right NOW!! and I did.

But, the crash after.  The non movement yesterday sidelined by a blister that could be avoided if only I knew moderation.  The crash still today.  I am at a crossroads of sorts.  I have choices still. I can choose to go to the beach tomorrow.  I’m not so down that I need outpatient or the hospital.  But, its a slippery slope.  One day in bed, leads to two.  Leads to…its not a good path.  I know this.  I have lived this.  I have beaten this mindset before.

My only commitment for tomorrow, for right now, is to go to the gym.  To sweat out this funky funk!  The weather is amazing for February.  I need to find shadows outside under trees, not in my curtain drawn bedroom.  Here I go….tomorrow!

The Minutes Pass

12 minutes until my husband even thinks about coming home to me. 12 minutes to ingest all of the medication I have been harboring. 12 minutes to breath so deep it will fill my toes. 12 minutes to pray, and I don’t pray.
11 minutes to take stock. Love and kiss my kitty. Rub his ears in a way he knows it’s me. Look at his awesome green eyes against a shiny beautiful black fur. Hear his purr reverberate through me one last time.
9 minutes to look around the house. Is. This how I want to leave? On the floor belly full of who knows what medication. If they ask. If they come. I have no answer. No care. Maybe it’s finally done.
8 minutes I look at the clock. Maybe I can go back to school. Maybe I just die right now. Right here. No pulse. No breath. What do I have to offer anymore?
My skin is cold. My thoughts slow.
5 minutes. The bag is in my reach. Swallowing will be hard. But so easy at the same time. Resting. I would love to rest. No more thoughts. No more worry. No more pain. It can end right now.
Wait. My timer. My clock is wrong. It’s an hour. 58 fucking minutes. What’s any of this for? What is this existence about. For who? For what? I have no dreams. No purpose. Just here i guess.
I didn’t go on the hike. Not even close. I let that clock count down and declared I missed the deadline. Which is true. But it didn’t have to be that way. I wasn’t ready.
I so want to be ready. Ready for life. Ready for what comes. New shoes. I played tennis yesterday. Same racket. New balls. Not as comfortable as I used to be, but..felt good in the sunshine. Belting that yellow ball. Breathing out fierce air. Pushing out the darkness. Allowing in the light. Letting my shoulders loose, shrug, relax. Daring to feel that ball.
33 minutes later. I got lost in my words. In the moment. Forgot the pills. Forgot the darkness. Just let my shoes flop over the ottoman. Leaned back into the comfort of my couch. In my spot.
29 minutes. Darkness invades. Breath stinks. Silence is. Stillness is. Holding my breath is. The norm. I stare down at my feet. Can’t look up. Those pills calling. What’s the point? What’s this existence?

Damn Devil of Depression

Depression knows it’s way around my mind like a bee in a hive. Knows exactly where to plant himself, his role, his goal. I set my alarm, but ignore it for almost 2 hours. My kitty wanders in and is my excuse for hiding longer. As he nestles himself on my shoulder I tell myself we are bonding. But, really I’m avoiding.
The days feel excruciatingly long right now. I’m searching for jobs each day, but haven’t applied to anything for 2 weeks. Of the 2 places I applied at the end of December, I have been invited to an interview. This Friday. I rehearse my smile. My enthusiasm. I hope I can muster it when the time comes. I am or was interested in this job prospect. But that damn devil of depression whispers I probably won’t get it. I have no practical experience. Why bother. If I don’t show, who will know. I can always say I thought I did great. That would not be good for my frail psyche!
So, today I have a lunch date and a hair appointment. This means I leave the house. I am without a car this week. My friend agreed to drop me off at my hair appointment and I will walk home. It’s several miles. Music in my ears and the sun on my face will be good medicine, along with exercise.
I have to keep fighting. It’s tiresome. Downright exhausting and daunting. I’ve been through it before. One foot in front of the other today. Reminding myself I’m doing the best I can.

Black &White word salad

I guess it’s my 2 year anniversary w WordPress. But, I feel more like a failure than anything. I was a prolific writer, I suppose blogger, when I started. Letting it all hang out. Expression my therapy. Written words came easily. Cyber words somehow easier. Through psychosis, mania, suicide attempt, despair, fear, loss of relationships, darkness, depression..I carried on through this Medium.
Then. The most traumatic manic episode happened. My marriage was affected. Changed. Damaged.
My new job had to wait as I embarrassingly passed along a doctors note requesting a later start date.
Friendships fell off. Text messages went unanswered. Potential commitment dates fell through.
I fell back into booze and food.
Hard.
Secretly
Alone.
Changes are hard. Personally. Seasonally. Globally.
I have lost my words. Days and months have gone by. I read your words. Yearn to connect. But, I don’t. Can’t. Won’t. I don’t know why.
I feel the darkness of depression coming for me, creeping in. My body, mind and soul heavy. The trudging becoming too much. Not worth it.
These aren’t even full sentences or thoughts.
Changes are impending.
I’m not. Scared.
Just tired.
Black and white thinking taking hold
And more so
That I don’t care

Caped canaveral of Darkness

Its as if he knew
The caped Canaveral of darkness
Ushering in depression as
The leaves fall
Desperate trees swaying in limited light
Naked and vulnerable
My windows closing
Tighter and ever so tight
Air inside thinner and thinner
The walls become my unfocus
As I stare mindlessly
Nothing truly in my sight
The weight of existence
Pressing harder and harder
Sometimes breathless
And sometimes exhaling in pain
I sit mostly motionless
Anticipating that old rusting chain
Pulling me down
Farther and farther
Into the unbalanced realm
Of the shameful insane
The rafters of my mind
Collapsing
As the microphone of thoughts
Blare unrelenting
Die
Just die
There is no everlasting
In these fits and starts