Buildup

I'm hating the pills.

I despise this medication. Imposed medication. Just medication. Whatever. Unimportant. Which is exactly why I hate this medication.

Only now I have forgotten that reason. I sit, stare at the blinking cursor, trying for my next thought, willing the words to pop into being, like a tiny universe being born. But as it has been lately, it is all gaseous buildup and no explosion - just a whole bunch of excited molecules with no place to go . . .

and i even lost track of that mother-fucking thought . . .

An Argument for the Differently-Thinking

I prefer to spend my time imagining possibilities (daydreaming), watching and sharing in my nephew’s growth and development (playing with children), indulging my need for culture (goofing off), discussing possibilities and growth and culture with others (goofing off), and then writing about all of it at the end of the day (goofing off), when other minds are sleeping off the number-crunching and customer-pleasing and profit-mongering of theirs (using various substances to keep them hard asleep so they don’t have those freaky dreams that keep them awake and make them think about the decisions they’ve made all day and whether or not they make any real difference).

Apparently, this makes me one of two things: Batshit crazy or “High as a kite.”

Those are the choices offered. I have finally been feeling like myself again. More like myself than I have felt in a long time. And the best part is, I’m feeling like an even better self each damn day. I kinda like it. It makes me want to do stuff. Gives me confidence that I can do stuff and do it without screwing it up. And it makes me want to write. And I write. And I keep writing. And I don’t think I would ever stop writing if I could ever figure out how to stop letting them get to me, but I do and I start to give in just a little bit and feel guilty (GUILTY! Ha!) about spending time “writing my little stories” when I should be out there earning money and making the lives of everyone around me more comfortable.

Then I start to resent having to pretend being one of you and I slowly give up on the writing and turn my attentions toward giving you everything you think you want even though I can see how it’s going to end for you, for both of us, for all of us, because I know in the end that you wouldn’t listen to me if I told you the truth anyway and it’s just easier to get along by not disturbing the pack.

It never works.

I end up back here each time.

Maybe, just fucking maybe, the reason we are lagging in development and design is because we’ve medicated away all the creativity. Differently thinking. I am not mentally ill. Fuck you. Fuck you all. I just think differently. And guess what, you assholes, you bloody motherfucking assholes, I know and trust what I think is right and I have sifted the monuments and remains of thousands of years of thinking before mine to back me up. But even more importantly, I have sifted the remains of thirty some years of my own thinking and am working hard to shed the ways that keep me back. 

I am not part of your pack. Stop trying to make me run along and hunt with you. I'm not even a damned predator.

Vitamin P and Other Such Crutches

This is when I start to listen to them, boys mostly who always seem to think they know what’s best because they’re all so in touch with their own motives and triggers and emotions, and I start to think that maybe I don’t need these pills after all. Maybe they are a crutch. Maybe it is all a crutch. Somehow I seem unable to stand without a crutch. I can either accept that and use the crutch to still outrun my naysayers, or I can pretend I don’t need the help, like they pretend, and keep hopping along on one leg, without balance.

Or I can crumple up in a ball and roll around on the floor with the rest of them.

Keep Your Head

      I have re-awakened from a nightmare and it feels like it might take this time, like I am finally seeing things from the other side of the looking glass and can no longer figure out how to get back to the other side. One of the most difficult parts of coming out of this shit is that by the time I actually start to feel normal again and like I can handle anything, i have usually driven away all my friends.


      Too many late night panicked calls. Too many blubbering calls. Too many calls. Period. I can't even be hurt or offended by it because I know someone with a mental illness and have been on the other side. I know where my friends and loved ones are coming from. I am the friend and loved one of a mentally ill person.


       I've decided to just go with it. Fuck this shit. Fuck it, just write. Whatever. That's the key. The honest truth is, when I look back over my life, most of the really bad decisions, the ones that changed things for the worse, I made because I caved to what other people thought and convinced myself it was the right choice, even though I could feel in my heart and soul that it wasn't.   

     I have no next step. Submitted a few things this week. Took a few walks. Played with my nephew. I miss my friends. I miss them. Not the crazy woman, but me - I miss them.


     But I know the pattern. I have been here before. Some people I will have scared away for good, but eventually, the ones who are strong enough and love me enough and who I once shared enough laughter and the good parts of the crazy woman with will remember that version of me - this version of me - the one on the right side of the looking glass. 

                 

Wasted time, wasted chances

I have spent far too much of my limited time in this existence trying not to become him. I should have just focused on becoming myself. Being myself. Because I am better than him. I know how to control it. And when I stop obsessing about it, I don't even need the control.

Power is nothing but a construct.

I will no longer let my life be controlled by other people's made up rules. I know what is right. I will do it. As I have always tried.

Trust yourself, and you shall know how to live.

Mood Entry #2

I feel like a lion in a cage. Not even in a big zoo enclosure, but one of those circus cages they use wheel them out to center ring. And I'm sitting here, under the tent and the spotlight, all these screaming children and suburbanites staring down at me. All I can do is growl and roar, but when I do, I'm immediately cracked by a whip.  So I sit as quietly and still as possible in my tiny cage, making no sound for them to hear, suppressing the roar, repressing my natural instinct to bolt and rage and fight against my bars and the whip and the crowd. I cannot repress the energy. I cannot stop it from coming. I can only contain it as it consumes me from the insides out.  My body wants to pounce, but I maintain control. Some days it is too much - holding back the energy of a lion's attack from the inside out - I falter, and the lion wins.

Mood Entry

Melancholy today. I don’t like it one bit. I want to be happy. Happier. But unlike before, happiness seems to have a cap. An endpoint at which I can no longer feel anything but the numbness of separation. Because after all of the heartache and the sadness and the hurt we experienced together, it feels selfish to be happy now. Without her.

 Especially when the only time I ever believed I deserved the happiness was when she loved me and I loved her.