Without faith

It is late, and snow is falling. It is very light, and it won’t stick anyway, but neighbors have bought their emergency milk and bread regardless. It’s not like the north where we were buried in snowfall, and I still had to walk to school. I remember the real cold, the brisk and bitter wind, the icicles hanging from the sad-looking houses. I miss winter. I miss the fall there. But I do not miss that town.

 

I’ve written about many people in my life, and some I’ve written about many times. I’ve written lives over, dreams over, nightmares over. I’ve rewritten songs to beats I could not keep and have cried over a thousand one too many melodies. Too many lyrics. Too many words. Too many thoughts. Millions. Millennia, all swimming in me, as if this moment will never matter, but it still hurts.

 

There are shadows I grasp at. There are apparitions too heavy to hold. I am a bearer of many observations, and I see things other people have not, cannot, and will never see. I hear radio interference, hissing voices bullying the airwaves. I pick up on pain you never knew you had.

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Measuring the weight of authenticity

I am not liked nor loved by many people. Networking, making friends, even socializing at all, is very difficult for me to do. It has caused me grave upset and unrest, because for most of my life–if not all of it, because it is something I am just learning how to let go of–I have craved requited love and sacrifice from others. I am not a people person. I love people very much, although I do not like them. I by and large do not like interacting with them, because it is exhausting for me. I love to learn about them, share ideas, and I love moments of authentic communication, but it is seldom that I enjoy everyday interaction.

Especially in groups.

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The flaw.

Fifteen years of therapy, eleven hospitalizations, in and out of partial programs, so many different services and different therapies (DBT, CBT, talk, etc.) Hell, I’ve even undergone ECT, (electroconvulsive therapy), and have had MRI, CT scans, EEGs, test after test, been on medication after medication, dose after dose, and I am sitting here on my couch, full of weeping lethargy but sleeplessness; a restless, nauseated anxiety and hunger for cessation and quiet. I feel so sad and so broken. Beyond tired, beyond depressed, beyond reparation. I know myself well. Years of [self-]interrogation, years of being poked and prodded by doctors, neurologists, psychiatrists, psychotherapists, counselors, and my own reflection have given me near crystalline photographs of my subconscious. I am betting I know myself more than most people know themselves. I am betting I understand myself more than most people understand themselves. And I am sure as hell that at this point, if I can be saved, only I can do it; and that, that is torture. 

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So, we fall; but we can rise again, as well.

I’m sorry I haven’t posted in a few days, guys. Truth is, I came back from my eleventh hospitalization yesterday. That’s right: I was hospitalized. “The Plan” didn’t go too well. In an effort to make things easier on me, Bf ate a big plate of steamed vegetables at work so I didn’t have to cook for him. I wasn’t cleaning. I was so tired from crying and so overwhelmed. I wasn’t putting away the laundry that was still in the dryer, because my back hurt so badly, and I was so tired. All these excuses kept circling in my head, because my depression was hungry, and I felt the need to feed it, so these excuses kept feeding the monster. They kept fueling the vision that my life and self were worthless.

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Taking my own advice 19 October, 2017

Just a quick update to let everyone know how “The Plan” is going. I said I’d start, and I’m proud to say I actually did. I tend to procrastinate and come up with excuses, especially when it comes to postponing recovery, because I’ve said before, the illnesses are hungry, and they ache to be fed. They’re persuasive. They’re angry. But I punched them in the face today.

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How do you break the cycle?

Many mental illnesses, like many other chronic illnesses, are often cyclical. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, this means that at times the illness softens or even goes into a state of “remission,” in which the illness is not as prominent, invasive, difficult, and/or et cetera. This is especially true with mood disorders, such as depression or bipolar disorder. I think a full “remission” is rare, but I’ve known people who have reportedly (or rather, self-reportedly) gone for years without symptoms who end up hospitalized after an episode returns. Still, many illnesses are cyclicallike fibromyalgia for example.

The uni-cycle from hell

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Why I need and love your love, but why it still can’t fix me

A letter to the love of my life and to those who’ve ever deeply, authentically loved me.

To my loved ones,

I am aware I am a lot. I am heavy. I am a bowling ball, an anvil, a two-ton block. I am sometimes the shackles on your legs and sometimes the heavy frustrated sigh at 3 a.m. when you just want to get some sleep. I am sometimes the worry in your voice, the tears in your eyes, and the anger in your tone. Sometimes I am too much.

I am not naïve enough to believe the best people always stay. It’s true that sometimes I am too heavy. I am too restrictive for the airways. I don’t let you breathe because I cannot breathe and it’s not that I’m choking you intentionally, but I need your air, and you don’t have enough to share with me; in those cases, I understand.

Sometimes you come back.

Sometimes you don’t.

Sometimes you never leave.

Regardless, support like yours is and has been crucial to my survival. Without people like you, I would not be alive. I would have never experienced happiness or a semblance wellness; I say that with certainty. Human beings are social animals. We need love and tenderness. We need to be challenged in a way that helps us grow. We need to be nurtured and listened to and noticed. Each of us has our own identity that is truly fostered by the people around us. I have been greatly hurt. I have been traumatized to my core. But I’ve also been uplifted by people greater than I could imagine.

People are important to people.

But when I talk about illness, I talk about disease.

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