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

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Colossal Crumple

This house of courage
While standing
And appearing strong
Is actually toppling
Possibly imploding
Slowly
Painfully slow
The casual observer
Friend or foe
Cannot see the beginnings
Of a colossal crumple
Simply because I cannot let them

Saturday Morning Musings

The tide has turned
In the wee hours of the night
Darkness began to fade
Only to usher in light
Vibrancy filled my veins
Sustenance filled my soul
An angel graced my bedside
While I slumbered
My penance had been atoned
Forgiveness sprinkled over me
Manic agitated being
Lifted from my weary bones
Rest had finally entered
Mercy granted
Simple
But not so simply
Were my actions condoned
Upon the rising of the sun
I had much work to do
Not only a self pardon
But apology to you
A mere gesture
That faith has been restored

A Year of Chronicles

WordPress sent me an anniversary note. Wow! One year of blogging. On my very own blog! I started out writing for my friends blog because at the time I was pretty ill and couldn’t fathom managing a blog myself. It seemed too big. Too overwhelming. Too much responsibility. Of course I had no idea what I was talking about. It was just fear standing in my way. When my friend said he was done with his site I had to make a decision. Write and share w no one or enter the blogosphere. I also had to lower my expectations.
I often think my blog should be fancier. Post pictures or have a better theme. Be more eye catching. Glamorous. Amazing. But, really it’s my words that I want to stand out. That’s my soul purpose here…written expression. Keeping it simple is more my style. I’m not really fancy in any other area of my life. Or graceful for that matter. I’ve considered maybe my writing is too dark. Too disturbing. I don’t tread lightly in choosing my words. I lay it out in my terms, terms that really speak to this roller coaster. From the demons of depression to the heightened senses of mania, I tell it like I feel it. When I don’t know what I’m feeling, equate to being lost…confused, I try to put a voice to it as best I know how.
I first wrote in 2013 following a trip to the bridge w a plan to jump. I agonized on that day. A flood of disillusionment. Spinning in circles. Then looking down upon frigid open waters I was convinced would bring me peace. All I wanted was inner peace from the all consuming chaos. I spinned some more. Ultimately I reached out to my friend and landed in the hospital. He asked me what that day was like. When I stammered to tell him, welling up with tears and oozing anxiety, he suggested I write it down. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.
I often locked myself away in my room during high school years writing poems of despair. I grew up in an emotionally unavailable household. I took to pen and paper to express myself because my verbal communication was never heard. When I was about 14 or 15 I was shutdown completely by my mother. In desperate teenage angst, I reached out to her and she slapped my hand away. Up went the wall. Out came the paper.
So, really I have been writing for quite some time. But, my words, thoughts and feelings were never shared. Never allowed much less accepted. In the tumultuous dance of life with bipolar disorder, I need somewhere to go. To express. To feel unconditionally. I suppose I could do that in my therapist’s office. There is just something to the freedom of this blog. Its open 24 hours a day and free. It allows me to be me in any context. Footloose and fancy free.
Happy anniversary to me!

Devils and Shamans be with You

After the fright of psychosis comes a bit of depression. I was wound so tight and so on edge, maybe this is my body’s way of letting go. Almost like a rag doll. I can follow you around. I can take direction. But, I cannot make a decision. I still have the nightmares. Literally jumping out of my sleep to fears of the devil seeking me. My husband corrals me and repeats I am safe. Falling limp over his chest I sob. This midnight escapade can be 2 minutes or 10 depending on how entrenched in the nightmare/terror I am. Last night I’d say 3 minutes tops.
There is no predicting it. I could lay in a bubble bath all day or have a stressful work day, doesn’t matter. I could be dead tired or wired having to take extra medication. There could be a reprieve for over a week lulling one to think they are over, only to writhe in bed with fear that next night. I’ve run to the kitchen grabbing a knife. I’ve cowered in the corner not recognizing my husband’s voice. I’ve raced to close all the windows as I feared the devil was trying to take all the air. It’s almost always the devil that is after me. Why? Why? What does that mean?
My loving, dutiful, patient husband suggests I need to look inward. Where is the discomfort coming from? I don’t know!!! I shout in my mind. I’m just trying to sleep. If I don’t sleep things get worse in my world and in turn his. It’s a big big deal to get proper sleep w bipolar disorder. I love to sleep, so it’s not for lack of trying.
I’m off work right now due to another psychotic episode. Devils and shamans this time. The symbol of shaman for me is a positive, as I have been tortured by only satanic hallucinations in the past. I still suffer through intrusive thoughts and voices telling me I don’t belong here. Suicidal ideation is a large part of my struggle.
I’m attending an outpatient program that happens to close on Thursdays. Having the whole day ahead of me on my own is daunting. I rely on structure. I typically have a full time job. I had some tasks to take care of today. Boy, did I knock them out in record fashion. Cleaned the kitchen, bathroom, folded laundry, worked out and completed a collage all by 10:30. Too early. With a full day ahead I just went back to bed. But sleep escaped me.
I filled my day with art. Something I haven’t done since the hospital. I listened to music in my headphones to help drown out the voices. I sat in the backyard w my coffee and walked around our garden foraging for “art supplies.” I pulled weeds, found bits from our pine tree, cut special words from a magazine. Feeling creative juices flowing I didn’t hold back.
Right around 3pm I found myself tearful, wanting to pull my hair out, AGITATED! How could this be? I had the most stress free day imaginable. I burst into tears. I tried to call someone on my clinical team but it seems everyone is off on Thursdays. How ludicrous. No groups and no access to someone to talk to?!
What do I do? First I bitch to my husband realizing that gets me nowhere. Then I take to typing my story. I lay it all out. I may send it into the universe. I may not. But writing, above all else, soothes me the most. I just have to sit still for it.
Nightmares, hallucinations, intrusive thoughts all claw at me. But when I choose the words I want to convey I am free. When I paint my story in type or black&white I am in control. That means the world to me.

Words at the speed of light

I am a writing fool. I know I’m stressed when I begin to think in posts.  Words and thoughts splattered on my ceiling. Ideas. Thoughts. All careening together. If I do not hurry I might miss one. Probably already have as its too fast.  As I write them I think they are amazing and weave a poetic masterpiece.  I don’t read or edit. Just type as fast as possible and capture the fire within. Perhaps they make no sense. Perhaps they are full of wonderment and awe.  When words come at me, speak to me, begin to tell a story I didn’t know was coming I find that fascinating.  i give in to the word show that graces my ceiling as sleep escapes me.  Not quite fireworks. I guess a literary explosion.

Tales of the Ocean

The tantalizing taste of sunshine
the tease of wind through my hair
brings goosebumps
My pale freckled skin threatens to burn
under this warm umbrella
of glistening sun
The vast blue ocean is a temptress
Throwing stark cold waters at my feet
only to then take the frigid relief away
As if playing a game of hide and seek
My footprints scattered
And disappearing in the raw rough sand
Small translucent pebbles
Tickle my toes
Salty fragrance and wave spatter
Tingle my nose and lips
Seagulls light up the expanse
And forage in droves
Crashing yet cradling
The brilliant crystal Aqua
Unsuspecting prey plucked
From the dark depths
Then floating on thin air
Humanity invokes privilege
Stepping on the sacred blue beauty
To test balance
And live out a fantasy
Carried by brute strength
Of mother natures grandiosity
To the soft billowy froth
Lining the shore
So many souls saved
By the sheer incandescence
Of this illustrious creation
The bounty of gratitude
Emanating from free radicles
In the space between
The calming sea and glorious sky