Poetry, Writing

Fate.

Pendulum of Fate in motion,
Slicing through the union between time and space;
Now is too soon a memory of yesterday,
Was it ever mine?
Dust particles shimmer like glitter in the right light.
They blanket the lifeless, and bury the dull.
Here is an apple.
Here is a book.
Here is a chair.
Here is a girl.
Here is a boy.
This is what a dream looked like.
This is how an apple rots.
This is what a book looks like unread.
This is how empty a chair looks on its own.
This is what time does to a boy and a girl.
Life is precious, but is it?
Tired arms cease to cling to a body of air,
An idea that will never be.

Standard
Writing

Cutting the Shit About Bipolar Depression

I’m a big fan of lists when it comes to explaining something to as many people as possible, as quickly as possible. So that’s why I’ve written a list of what Manic Depression “is” during the spring and summer. This season is a toss up for me; sometimes it is euphoric, other times it’s a three-month-long panic attack on steroids. Lately has not been so kind, and I feel like I’m running in circles with no catharsis. So let’s cut the shit. Let’s be frank about Bipolar Disorder.

Spring/Summer for a Manic Depressive means: 

  • Right now is insufferable but so was yesterday, and tomorrow isn’t looking very good either.
  • Time is Hell. If one could shoot time, one (I) would shoot it with a 12-gauge. Time brings infinite anxiety.
  • Pills Pills Pills. Pills in the morning, Pills in the evening. Pills everyday.
  • Having an indescribable rage quelling inside my chest, and sometimes exerting all the strength within me not to throw things at the cashier in the gas station or get out of my car and tell the lady that cut in front of me in the drive thru what kind of person I think she is.
  • Trying to control that rage as I walk through the house trying to find anything, something, to destroy, smash, shatter, and warning myself that busting holes in the wall or catching my boyfriends clothing on fire will only make my life worse in the end.
  • Having nightmares (or at least that’s what most people call them; they’re the standard fare for me) every night that are filled with morbid, gruesome imagery that won’t leave a person’s psyche for years to come.
  • Feeling EVERYTHING to maximum capacity, crying during a touching trailer, feeling sheer bliss while watching the sun rise.
  • Having my foot on the gas for days on end, and my back tires have finally turned a rut into a massive pit.
  • Feeling an emptiness that deepens each year, and begins to chip away at the very ground I’m standing on.
  • Wondering whether or not I can even make it to 30, seeing as I’m nearly incapacitated at 22.
  • Wondering whether or not I want to make it to 30, since the world seems to get a little gloomier each year.
  • Craving drugs, any drugs, that might alleviate my unrelenting suffering, while simultaneously injecting that intoxicating mania that makes life oh-so-sweet.
  • Feeling a strong sense of superiority, yet remembering that just a few months ago I was certain of my profound inadequacy.
  • Watching myself go from ugly to beautiful to average and back to ugly all within a single year and cycle through again next year.
  • Not having any friends since I am never the same person. Or, because I don’t know how to manage relationships. Or because I’m bipolar.
  • Paying 20% of my already inadequate income to pay for the prescriptions that barely keep me afloat.
  • Having each bill from the doctor land in collections, since I have no way of paying for any of it.
  • Staying awake until 6  or 7 in the morning EVERY SINGLE NIGHT, because I can’t let the sun go down on another shitty day, and I just don’t feel like sleeping.
  • Having a thousand ideas, yet feeling too discouraged to follow through with any of them.
  • Feeling the sensation of spiders crawling on me all the time, or electric shocks at a constant buzz just beneath my skin.
  • Yearning to let out all of this energy, but having nowhere to do so.
  • Hearing words that weren’t said, and seeing moving shadows of inanimate objects.
  • Getting so flustered that I hyperventilate into an incoherent stutter for several hours, or fail to recognize my own reflection in a mirror.
  • Putting too much of a burden on the few people that stick around to care for my crazy ass.
  • Rejecting most of those people from my life because I feel too weird when people care about me.
  • Waiting for doomsday (winter) to roll around so a depressive episode can annihilate my already fatigued brain.
  • Sensing the delusion of all of this pain, and wondering if it’s real or if it’s all in my head.
  • Knowing that I probably will never be free from this suffering.
  • Not knowing if Bipolar is even a “real” thing.

 

The list goes on, of course, and is quite different from episode to episode. I have read the DSM’s description of Bipolar Depression a million times over, and yet I still know so little but feel so much.

 

Cheers to suffering, Cheers to Manic Depression.

Standard

Screen Shot 2013-06-02 at 10.49.46 PM

Graphic Art, Poetry

Desktop Poem

Image
Prose, Writing

Just Another Day, Passed

I, wrought. Rotting. Rolled into year 22 last April, can you believe it? Madhat crazy 19 of those years, can’t recall the rest—everybody dies somehow. Sparkle-flash lights my eyes each time I blink, and they’d be prettylooking if it wasn’t an aneurysm. Expanding consciousness, maybe. I see the 4th of July, looking into the sparkler’s zip-zap burn, and I told this to Paul, my roommateboyfriend, but he’s a Brit, doesn’t celebrate Independence, doesn’t believe I see sparkles, either.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Something in me feels funny, I just don’t know what,” I say.

See, what I think, I’ve gotta misfired circuit, that’s what I’m seein’. Flickering lights goin’ in and out. Only problem is, electricians’ are too damn finicky. Any cattier, and I’d call ‘em all stingy sonsabitches, but I’m not that catty, and so they’re all bastards my ma and Father never afforded me.

“Doc’s on holiday,” I always say. I’d like to go be examined by a professional, Head to toetag, but well I just don’t have that kind of cash. For now, I and dr.web are tryin’ fix me up in the home garage- makeshiftdo.

GODAM my neck, hurts. Something’s really wrong with me this time. My Head’s all drooped over to the left, makin’ my sinister eye and ear too lazy to hear or see evil-good. If I turn my Head westward towards the sunset, I can’t hear a thing. Southern, Sudden Death. It’s not death like people say, it’s deaf. How long does it take to arrive at deafness?

Reminds me, Paul came bearing me a story today about a blind man he bumped into on Easter Day, said it was a synchronicity, since he’d been reading Cathedral. Just like him to think it’s a sign seated just beyond the gaze of a blind man, a sign that he was keen ‘nough to see.

The bathroom mirror of God’s eternal rest house shows I gotta bend in my neck, that pain, manifest it just above the shoulder, slithering down the spine bump-bump-bump, into Shakti’s agape, Godhelpme.

She’s pissed now, nobody likes a deceptive kiss, and in that mirror, I age. Dark hair, faded-out turns into frazzled frays around the frame of my startled doe-face, exacerbated palepale sparkle eyes, an’d here I start to panic. Rigormortis, ‘bout 12 more hours ‘til I’m back to a pumpkin, and I can see it now. My p’tite bust popped, emptied out funbags now flat on my torso, is that normal?

“Nononono.”

I am ill, elderly reflection of me standing there, youth is just a memory now. Was it the two, maybe 3, hours in bathtub holy water, dried my young out like a prune? Prune juice is awful, my bodyimage gone hideous. Is this goodnight? I feel cold; cold inside, cold out. Prune juice’ll do that to you.

”Hey Paul, turn off the air, will ya? I’m in an icebox!” I say that to him, even though the words are hard, my voices fragile, myself is weak.

“Yeah,” he says, and not a word more. He doesn’t like being around the dead, who can blame him. That man’s got Mary holding roses round his neck and finger, charmsafe from whirlpool of rain-wrapped tornado; why risk hail-halting Ava Maria now? Devil get behind me Paul says, and we all listen. Even my sinister ear can hear that.

Wowbegone but the woe still lingers, lurking in a black hood, Grimm coming in to takeover for Fairy Godmom.

“Noo!” I cry out, childlike, clinging to mom’s hip on the last day as much as the first. But listens shenot, unemotioned by the changing hands. Made a wish ungranted at 11:11, now the last man sings in midnight’s quartet. Memento mori, clock reads.

Paul, saintlike man, walks into the bathroom looking for my howling, steps right on my toes, as I’m lying on the floor, preparing.

“I didn’t see you there, are you okay?”
“caleemanakietelpronenisk,” I say, and I can’t say anything else. Nodnot, I winkwince at him, and whatdoyaknow, the kid’s keen. Sign, he sees.

“puulsss,” I mutterhiss out with the exhale. Hesychasm, orthodox gibberish written in the books. Is this the part where my I kneel while my tongue confesses? Paul, heartofgold, hears not a heart turning to stone, forgets to read me my habeas corpus; does God value Miranda’s rights? Well, he likes all her hairs, so he must lover as much as Uranus.

My body can’t feel the sensation of the rug on which I’m laying, flatbacked against the floor. Pushing my eyes down since I can’t raise the dead, I see my toes are already fading. Coldfeeling, bloodless-colored like a corpse, man I swear I’ve never seen ‘em that way before. I worry, a lot I worry, if not about the lifelack of my feet, then the hypothermic hue of my lips, but this time I think it’s really happening.

I’ll mourn the sunrise, say goodnight to my family for me, it’s Sun’s day morn and I am no more.

Standard
Poetry, Writing

Essentially

In essence
Innocence
In a sense

Standard
Prose, Writing

Somebody Sad

She was Goldilocks; possibly, she was Mic Jagger from the Rolling Stones. Her porridge always seemed to be too hot or too cold, and, no matter how hard she tried, satisfaction evaded her.

Oh, I must be Eeyore, she thought.
Only on some days, she realized.

In this particular moment, she must have been Eeyore, or Goldilocks, or even Mic Jagger. She, sad girl, was sitting Indian-style on midwestern grass in the dead of night. The resident geese were tucked away for the evening, and so she was all emptied out by an emptied out pond. Despite having accomplished a hard day’s work, with all her studies and writings, she felt so sad. No, not that painstaking sadness, thank Woolf, but the kind of sadness that leaves a person in a freeze frame while the world buzzes on by. Except, over time, the buzzing becomes this blur, and no single face is really recognizable anymore.

Where did all the people go, she asked the night.
The night said nothing, and so she assumed they were still out there, even though she was not.

It was all just really upsetting to her; toiling away, day-in and day-out, and for what? She couldn’t see the point of it all, and the world would not let her be James Joyce, anyhow.

 

Standard
Poetry, Writing

I, Too, Am a Nonconformist

I walk the other way to avoid all the smalltalk,
Drink straight from the faucet mostly.
Ramble off an assortment of curse words,
I know they make people feel weird.
Read the small print even when asked to skim,
I don’t shower daily.
Wear black with brown even when it’s unfashionable,
Refuse to greet with a handshake.

Standard