Words of Wisdom

DAILY PRACTICE: Push hard to get better, become smarter, grow your devotion to the truth, fuel your commitment to beauty, refine your emotional intelligence, hone your dreams, negotiate with your shadow, cure your ignorance, shed your pettiness, heighten your drive to look for the best in people, and soften your heart -- even as you always accept yourself for exactly who you are with all of your so-called imperfections. -- pg 5 Pronoia is the Antidote for Paranoia Rob Brezsny


Read and repeat multiple times a day.

Welcome to the Dollhouse

I've begun to question who I am.

Personally, I blame my marathon viewing of the only two seasons of Dollhouse.

But there's more.

In the course of a few weeks last year, I had my boss bring up my bipolarness in a closed door reprimand meeting; my boyfriend's best friend explain away why I was angry as being bipolar instead of being angry at the situation at hand; and my boyfriend's therapist (whom I have never met) tell my boyfriend that I'm not bipolar.

I've rebuilt my life back in 2004 when I was diagnosed. I felt whole. The missing piece was finally there. I could explain myself to people and more importantly, to myself. Hi, I'm Kelly. I'm bipolar. It's who I was. It's who I am. It made me get help and come to terms with aspects of my personality that I didn't want to. It made me better.

Fastforward to 2010/2011: I've been off any pysch-meds for going on two years. I take my vitamin D and a multi-vitamin and for the most part, I'm fine. But I still swing, my stress levels rise like a flash flood and the dam breaks.

I asked Jack yesterday if he ever felt like he needed a vacation from life. And he responded with asking if our relationship was working out.

And it all makes me wonder what's in my head and what's not. And should I just go with my reality of things because, well, I can't have another.

And as long as I'm breathing, that's good right? And where do I go from here? And is this all exacerbated because I have a small fever?

And I can't get the Dollhouse theme out of my head.

Same as it ever was

“...consciousness, it seemed, was a succession of separate particles, being carried along on the surface of the deep and steady unconscious flow of life, of time itself, and in fainting, the particles of consciousness simply stopped, and the rest flowed on, until they were restored: but this was the stoppage, the entire disappearance of that deeper flow which left the particles of consciousness suspended,piling up, ready any instant to shatter with nothing to support them.” (pg 51 The Recognitions Gaddis)

Parts flowing on while others stop.

I wake up not knowing what day it is every day. I spend my first few moments after the alarm going off remembering yesterday. In those memories, I figure out where I am in the week, and in turn what today is. And what I need to do. Fridays are my off days now. My anchor for the rest of the week. If I work a Friday, (as I did on Black Friday), my off-ness continues until the next week. A state of daze.

World tilted. Askew. Paranoia.

The sun setting at 3 isn't helping either. Nor the rain earlier in the week.

Or the hereditary bipolar disposition.

So I turn to the Vitamin D. And the Omega 3s. Doing this dance again. Perhaps having another spin around the Effexor XR and Lamitcal come the new year.

It happens like this: my skin feels not my own. What I see out my eyes is not my sight. Things seem hyper-real to the point of the surreal. This is not my beautiful wife.

Same as it ever was.

And during a mixed state, I'm aware of all of this, me and not me happening simultaneously. Two different states of mind. A north and a south. But more of a left and a right. East West. But not ying yang.

I'm more atonal than harmonious these days.

I'm the minor second. The tritone. Over and over and over again. Little kid on piano. Keyboard. With the mom with the headache, screaming. CANT YOU JUST BE QUIET.

I'm both.

Hyperawareness. Hypersensitivity. Either I want Jack to hold me, or I get scared from any friendly touch. Personal space expands to the room. Do not enter without permission. This gets hard when it's a tiny apartment.

My word for next year is “better”.

If only because the alternative is too scary to contemplate.

Connections

I write this while listening to something called SolarBeat that Suzie introduced to me via a lj post and a twitter account.

And I made this little talisman of sorts. To keep in my wallet. To make me smile when I need to. All because a friend Kurt told me about this wonderful lady and her 37 days.

The best part?

I feel creative again.

Oh it's fall all right

Sitting in his (our) kitchen because there is no room for a desk of my own. Drinking coffee, postponing finishing Zero History.

It's a cold rainy day.

He's sleeping still. And will probably continue to.

And I won't wake him.

Our (his) space.

For the first time in five years, I feel like I can be home.

It's not perfect. And not totally comfortable (no desk, not enough bookshelf space), but it's closer than anything I've had the past five years.

My space being reworked into our space.

The words coming back again.

Ruling planets going back around the proper way.

Thankyou

THANKYOU

Thank you.

Present Tense

Trying to breathe is hard.

I'd rather turn to liquids and sleep.

Instead of turning on others.

Screaming over broken glass in hotel parking lots.

(And it all comes back to words and punches thrown years ago)

Retreating.

Backing up.

Reboot.

Graveyards or Beaches

It's chilly today. And I miss the sound of wind chimes.

From this angle on the front porch that no one uses, next to the front door no one uses, I'm hidden.

The clover in the front yard.

The busy road.

The stone wall that is older than my grandparents made with the same type of stone of the front porch.

Using the wifi in the house that I still don't feel too comfortable in.

(doubting I will feel comfortable anywhere anymore...)

There's a dead leaf sharing my space.

Out of the corner of my eye it looks like a mouse when the wind blows.

There's a heavy duty plastic mailbox that is overgrown with purple flowers.

It looks like a very bad Easter hat that old ladies used to wear.

(And I keep giving and giving and giving and giving, and giving, and I still feel guilty over taking anything.)

(Perhaps I should reread Ayn Rand again)

(David Markson too. God Rest His Soul. (even if one doesn't believe, it's still the thought that counts.))

The choices between beds nowadays isn't a choice.

And to be honest, J. would have both beaches and graveyards if he could.

And I'd have the water.

And mornings to myself.

And quite Sundays while everything sleeps.

And fresh air, even though it's chilly.