No matter how many times this morning I repeated I am in fact NOT full of hate, bitter, ugly, paralyzed with fear or consumed by the crazy, I could not reason my way out. I’m a rapid cycler, I’ve been hypo-manic for weeks and yes headed towards the inevitable come down, the hideous depression and the dark. Black nothingness is something I understand, the concept I accept and am accustomed to. It’s always there, lurking, stalking, circling a part of my DNA. No, I cannot wish it away or yank it out like an abcessed, putrid smelling decayed tooth. The crash and burn snatches the pretty pieces of me, my self-worth, joy, hope, strength, wonder. Yes, I’m constantly skipping ahead to the future, not in a happy-go-lucky way but trying to map the least destructive, less painful route. I don’t even understand what’s happening to me, which thoughts to trust or block so how could you?
My worst fear, the one that buries me like a sinkhole is that I end up alone with my crazy. On the streets or even worse, like my father who had no idea who I was in the end. His crazy consumed him over an agonizing amount of days and years. It is slowly and excruciatingly doing the same to me. Silently, while I am screaming inside. I realize I am not going to win this war, I understand that. So why bother writing books no one will read? Painting rooms in a house I will surely have to leave. Why bother? When everything and everyone I love will die and be taken away. Why bother when I will be left insane, why the fuck should I care? About anything. God doesn’t. I’m not sure how much pain one body can endure, I’ve had more than one soul can carry. Today, I do feel sorry. I am allowed. But wallowing is dangerous, heartbroken tears make my eyes puffy, my heart heavy and the guilt of hurting those I love too heavy to bare.
I didn’t start the day with bad intentions. Most days I pretend happy, hoping it will rub off. For you and for me. For my benefit that I am indeed strong enough to cope with this bullshit brain that never stops the whirring, annoying chatter. If I do end up in the streets, so be it. I’d best plan now, pick a pretty, warm corner where the sun shines with a soothing view. The bastard disease has not yet ripped away my imagination. No, not yet that’s all mine.
My BFF talked me off the ledge, the pity party granted until noon and that’s all. The number of hours wasted, screamed, cried and hurled accusations at my mother is more shame than I care to remember. I insisted to my friend (when my head controls the dialogue I CANNOT think, to say I become irrational is being charitable) that I was ‘happy’ once, a ‘free-spirit’ which she quickly shot down. “Who is this person you’re talking about, that wasn’t you.”
I’ve been pretending so long since before I can remember, I don’t even know me. The lines dangerously crossed in my mind.
I’m not going to write books, do anything anymore. Why the fuck should I?
I quit. Why fight when there’s no winning? I can’t battle an invisible disease. Well, you have two choices and one is true midnight black nothingness. The other, keep breathing.
Do not feel sorry for me. Do not dare feel sorry for me. I do not want, need or ask for your pity. I’m sharing this because these words, my most hurtful truths, this unbearable pain, the incomprehensible fear someone else out there in a parallel world might be feeling them too.
Don’t judge my crazy or put a label on it for your comfort.
I did not ask for this mind, it’s what I got.
Tomorrow, tomorrow I’ll feel better. I probably won’t given the logic and the statistics, but tomorrow will come with or without me.
Fear has never been a friend of mine. Fuck it. Onward.
CRAZY, NOW GET OUT OF MY HEAD.
I am writing.
truth always wins.
Man, this post ripped me apart. It comes at a time when I am feeling very low, sick of this world and the people in it. I do not feel sorry for you or pity you but wish I could help. I can tell you are strong and are a fighter, even though you probably don’t always feel that way. I have depression but do not go through the hell you do. I cannot begin to imagine how hard and awful that must be. I feel like life is too hard and not really worth it and want it to end. But then I feel like a chicken because there are so many who are worse off. So many people do not understand depression, believe that you can come out of it if you want. Hard to make them understand. I so admire your braveness for speaking about your illness and making people aware. I hope you keep fighting. This world needs you.
Thank you, Robbin for your words. For me, it’s vitally important to acknowledge whatever’s happening, good and bad to move forward the best way possible. I hope you keep finding the joy, everyday. It’s out there.
I understand and I do not judge you. You articulate yourself so well and it will help lots of people. Keep writing.
Your encouragement and understanding are appreciated. Thank you, Louise. Have a beautiful day. I’ll keep writing.
Guts me every single time I read it. You don’t have my pity, you have my admiration and my love. You are fucking glorious, even when you aren’t, because you are real and beautiful and true. You amaze and inspire me, and I will read every single word you write until the day I can no long read. I love you.