How it is

I am writing instead of crying. Again. I suppose that’s a good thing? It’s better than being mired in the emotion, right? Silver lining or something. In any case I have gotten to a weird place in my mind. I am actually starting to think I should go back to the hospital.

Of course, other parts of my mind immediately counter this suggestion.

I’m not sick enough.

I don’t need my meds changed that drastically.

Other people need it more.

It won’t help.

It will make me miserable.

But hey, hey! Wait a minute, brain, you didn’t even give me the chance to say why I was thinking of it in the first place.

I think there is a possibility that being in the hospital might help me redirect my behavior. Put me “on track” in a way that I am finding it hard to do on my own.

I am really quite sunk. I am not taking care of myself very well and I am finding it very hard. Most of the time, I keep it on the periphery of my mind where it won’t hurt me. When I let myself think about it, I get upset at myself and at how things are. Sometimes I get angry, sometimes very depressed… and other times anxious.

I’ve been starting to have some very poisonous thoughts. I think about how it’s hard to like myself anymore. I think about how I don’t really like my life.

Did I say I was writing this instead of crying? Ok, well damn, make that writing this and crying. Still it feels like something I need to write. It needs to get expressed.

Earlier my mind kept doing these loops where it would survey all the bad things about what I’m doing and not doing… and it kept demanding an answer.

Why? Why are you doing this to yourself? Why don’t you fix this? Why are you letting your supports slip? Why is this so hard for you? Why?

I can’t answer. Not because I don’t have answers, but because they don’t feel like they’re good enough.

What I am swallowing is this: I have shame. And regret. And guilt. And all of these things are heavy and when I feel them it is too much. I have learned to fear these feelings. To dread them. I don’t want to be afraid but I am. My one motivation becomes soothing that fear. So I don’t manage the things I should. I turn to distractions and I avoid the pressure. And all it does is feed the very feelings I am afraid of.

I used to think that going back to the hospital would be awful. That it would mean I was a failure. Maybe I still think that, to a certain extent. All I could think of was how mind-numbing it was to be there. How badly I wanted to leave when I was there. Even so, I am looking at it with a slightly different perspective. I see that it is a resource. It contains tools and guidance. I am wondering now if they aren’t tools I could use. If maybe some time under their guidance would help.

Still I have my doubts. Mostly that they would consider admitting me. I am still holding together to a certain extent, aren’t I? I have enough clarity on my condition to verbalize it. I haven’t hurt myself and I won’t try to kill myself… and to the Health Care industry that makes me a weak priority, now doesn’t it? Besides that, if I can see that I need to change; doesn’t that mean I can take the steps myself?

Well, I can also see that I am on a loop. One that usually manifests in the evening. I get upset, I try to calm down, I convince myself that I will take some positive action… and then I wake up in the morning mostly soothed and ready to push the whole episode into the background. It is fairly easy to push it there at this point, but it is never gone for good. It can be that very night, or a few nights later; the start of the despair all over again.

Maybe tomorrow morning will be different. Maybe not. At this point I am long overdue to see Dr. R… that is the step I should try the hardest to take. Get his perspective.

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Version Error

A couple of days ago, I woke up and didn’t feel like myself. It was strange, to say the least. Something had happened to my personality. It had detached itself from my body. I felt like an actor playing the part of me, or a doppelganger here to replace me. It is hard to explain how I felt like some non-me and yet I still knew who “I” was supposed to be. But I was the clone. I was the imposter that you ultimately end up destroying to save the real person.

“She’s not feeling quite herself.” It sounds like a phrase from a movie, doesn’t it? I’ve never heard someone say they weren’t feeling like themselves in real life. And usually when they say it in the movies there is some sort of extra significance… “I’m not feeling like myself this morning,” says the imposter on the other side of the door, trying to delay discovery.

I didn’t know what to do with it. I was surrounded by things that weren’t mine and all the memories that didn’t matter. I could sit at my computer, but what could I say? There were no honest words in me, only things I could lie about to continue my disguise. I couldn’t call my mom for the same reason.

Feeling utterly defective, I did what you naturally do when some machine is giving you trouble. I tried turning it off and turning it on again. In this instance meaning I got back into bed and went to sleep. It worked. I woke up a few hours later and I was the right version of myself again. I was the original.

When this happened to me I was severely weirded out. Now that it is over, though, I am a bit fascinated. What was that about? Where did it come from? Will it happen again? At this point I have no way of knowing.

Truth

It is supposed to be the highest form of information. It is a precious thing, essential. We need truth like we need air… don’t we? Why is there a layer of obscurity over everything? Is truth too raw? Does it scald our senses? Truth is our vitality, but I spend my time on the other side. In a vacuum where only pockets of the truth survive. It is the void where lies and obscurity are thick and what is true twinkles in the distance. Not unobtainable, but so far out of reach that living in such a light is a dream seldom had. It is surreal. Attempts at honesty are stage plays. Holding up a mirror, perhaps, but one that is warped and equally deceptive.

time is

…stretchy. Time is sticky. It moves too slow. Too fast. Always the wrong way from what we want. But we are the problem. We are the ones too fast, too slow. Blaming time. Blaming the cosmos when we can grasp time in our clutches if we would only change our perspective.

What do I have?

What could I be? Just the briefest of beings in the smallest of worlds. All of us. Is it any wonder that we reach for so much grander? Is it not so very human to strive for the scale we wonder at? Why press that down? Why crush that in anyone?

the world…

… is a swirl. The old and the new. The spontaneous and the routine. Some things settled and some bubbling away. I do not mind the bubbling. It is quiet. It is rain bubbles in the puddle. It is tomato bubbles in the spaghetti sauce.

Intensity

it was in the sky
it was in the stars

it was in my heart
and there it shone

steady
gentle

but at times it faltered
at times it broke my heart

that breaking that is sweet
and treasured

that kind of breaking
that I run to

with open arms
again and again

how have you caught me,
spoken to my very core?

how have you created this moment,
both brutal and beautiful?

is there any way to bear it,
when it is here?

is there any way to bear it,
when it is gone?

Plan of Distraction

So my intention was to create journal entries and poems… but sometimes I can’t get in the groove for either one. And yet I am still itching for self-expression. My solution to this problem is a new category. It is called “tidbits”… because I really didn’t know what else to call it. It isn’t prose exactly, but these entries won’t have the same deliberate nature of my poems. Nor will they necessarily be insights into my current feelings, like the journal entries. They are raw transcriptions from the notebook I have with me at all times.

I don’t know if I’m actually shooting myself in the foot by doing this, but at the moment it seems like a decent plan. This gives me a chance to make entries under less pressure. That is ideal, right? How ridiculous would it be for me to return to my blog, called “Coping Method”, and allow it to stress me out because I am not creating posts the way one is “supposed” to? That sounds outrageous.

down deep…

…in the not knowing of things. I once believed that I should cut out all unnecessary words. But then it occurred to me that all the words were unnecessary. Even though that might not be true, it seemed a very compelling reason to adopt silence.

lonely and what it means

I am alone right now. I often am.  Am I lonely? What exactly is loneliness? I am struggling with this so I am turning to my dictionary for help. The entry for lonely is as follows:

1. feeling alone – feeling sad through being without friends or company
2. Isolated – isolated and rarely visited
3. Without companionship or support – done or lived through without companionship or support from other people.

Reading this explanation I believe I have hit on something significant. The fluidity of language has created some interesting nuances here. Some of which resonate with me.

Am I lonely in the first sense? Is that truly the case? I have some serious doubts. I am starting to suspect that for the most part I am lonely in the second sense. I am inclined to think that when I am sad and mostly isolated, I am not sad because I am mostly isolated.

But something is off, isn’t it?

Trying to scratch this surface brings me to some tricky territory. I am asking myself why I prefer isolation. What is it about the idea of friends that mostly makes me sad? Why is a room full of people a place I don’t want to be?

The answer seems to be “connection.” A scary, upsetting word. I have trouble with my connections. A lot of trouble. To the extent that I would rather not face it.

Mostly I am disconnected. I am disconnected from so many people that it is overwhelming. Only a few remain on threads that I can tug on… and usually the tugging is from a distance. Some people I feel are lost to me that I would rather not have lost. But I don’t have the strength to reconnect. I am wrapped up in guilt and anxiety from the state I have brought myself to.

Where does this floundering with connections come from? And what about the people I never connected to in the first place? This brings me to my sincerity trap. I hate to feel disingenuous… and the idea that I might seem that way fills me with dread. This dread is a trap. It makes me afraid to speak and afraid to act. I don’t want to risk saying something I don’t mean or doing something I don’t feel. That is why I am most comfortable alone. Everything about socializing needs to come in miniscule doses or I can’t handle it.

But I am sad that those connections I make falter. So maybe I am lonely type 1 after all. Still I think the conventional number of connections is too many for me… and ultimately it is the quality that needs to fit. The idea of being able to forge connections on my own terms seems like an impossible task. It also feels too demanding. Why should I dictate the dynamics of a relationship? What makes me more important? To make matters even more nebulous I have only a vague amount of awareness when it comes to what I want. What is the perfect scenario? What would make me happy?

It all seems to come down obstacles I have put in my own way, which is very frustrating. The way I see it, I have sadness that has isolated me… and I guess isolation that saddens me as well. They are feeding each other. It is daunting because interrupting the loop is not a simple task. I can’t just tack on new acquaintances and “break” isolation. If something inside me is pulling me away, then the connections will falter just the same.

I guess that answers my question, though. My loneliness exists… and it is a sinister loop.