December 29, 2017 § Leave a comment
I melt into the room, my body malleable clay, I am put there. I did not choose this. My flesh peels off, my bones coated in remnants of tissue, ligaments, musculature, fat. I am immobile. I watch in a mirror, my body disintegrating, a group watches, chomping at the bit. I imagine them drooling. I can’t focus, all I can see is my body, the pieces of a human that fall away. We are disgusting. Lumps of flesh, organs, all a big sack of guts inside some semblance of normalcy that we’ve decided is a human form, skin, limbs…
They see the last pieces falling away, begin to close in. The heart is beating. I watch its rhythm. Faster…faster…tears begin, why wouldn’t they? What has happened? Why do I have to watch this? They press into my heart, first curiously, pressing, feeling for its retaliatory pump back, then press further, further. It doesn’t burst…it sighs and collapses.
December 13, 2017 § Leave a comment
The hat has a pom-pom…is it a pom if it’s just one? Ha ha ha. It’s protective…in case I fall. The floor is solid, tile and that laminate wood look flooring. It’ll hurt my skull. How many times now?
I feel underneath the knit material, my hair is straw and my scalp is smooth and I imagine it iridescent…if there was a feeling for iridescent. The skin where no hair grows, the skull scars. There are many. I imagine they zig zag and cross, like roads on a map…no, globe. The globe of my skull. They comfort me, the feeling of them there. I rub them and humm. Suddenly I’m back. No, that should not be comforting. Evidence of my past collapses, what if it happens again, my skull cracking open on the floor, again and again, rocking back and forth, and I will wake like I have before, not knowing what I am, not realizing I’m on the floor. Why am I on the floor? Laying, unmoving, my brain a blank canvas, wiped clean. Until it begins to come back, slowly and then suddenly.
Dripping on my shoulder, red. I feel my hair, the tips of my fingers show me. I feel into the wetness of the canyons of my head. Lick the blood from my finger. I’m a sick, sick woman.
But now, the present. Is it present? Am I present?
I try to lie down, another protective measure. There are no zaps in my brain. But my heart is pounding out to me. I press into my chest. I want to hold in my heart, keep it inside of me. If I just hold myself together, “get tiny” he says.
December 10, 2017 § Leave a comment
Shiny, brand spanking new right? There’s a glitch in the system, kill it, repairs, if you can. Sometimes salvageable. Sometimes…
Maybe I am…maybe I can be fixed. Can you fix a human? I have a picture I’ve had saved for years, sadly I don’t know the source.
I’m damaged, a throwaway. But I have a bit of hope now…mood stabilizers for about two weeks now and I feel…different. In a good way….I think. I was worried mainly about the side effects but so far, nothing crazy. More, I feel…well, more balanced…that’s what is supposed to happen.
I wrote an exam on time. SHOCKING. The days leading up to it I wasn’t sleeping much per night, normal for anyone prone to procrastination but one afternoon, I fell into the urge to take a break and of course, not accepting that my body will do what it wants (ever delusional still), I laid down on the couch and chromecasted youtube music videos….Unfortunately with youtube, the sound of each video can change and I passed RIGHT the fuck out shortly after and was awoken to banging on my door by my landlord, asking me to keep it down, there’s a baby upstairs (OOOOH yes, much worse, I know, my neighbours directly above me are my landlord’s brother and girlfriend who just gave birth) etc. etc. I was so out of it, half delirious from whatever depths of sleep I’d fallen into, then shocked into consciousness….After that, I was paranoid and felt awful, I still think and worry about it.
Yesterday I heard talking amid multiple people upstairs through the vent. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but my mind automatically thought ‘oh my god, they’re all together, my landlord, his brother and girlfriend, talking about kicking us out, they can’t deal with someone who is so disrespectful, if she fucks up like that once, how often will she? we have a baby now, normally it wouldn’t be as much of a problem, but we might have to have them out….” etc. etc. My mind went on and on….and normally….it would’ve continued, and it did somewhat, but something clicked. I thought of my diagnosis. I thought about the exam I’d just finished, the last module focusing on psychiatric disorders including bipolar. I’ve read a lot of memoirs, articles, taken classes about mood, personality, anxiety, etc. etc. etc. disorders and again, I never thought of myself as…..anyway. This class I just finished, one of the writers of the textbook describes his own personal struggle with bipolar disorder in the chapter it features and he discusses his delusions, his paranoia…of his classmates and teachers in his lectures at university singling him out, hating him, thinking how stupid and useless and undeserving he was to be there, etc etc. This may be normal for anyone, but it goes into more detail. Just as my thoughts tend to. I thought of this and suddenly, the click. I have those delusions.
It’s not normal to think and obsess over what I do. Not that everything that comes into my brain doesn’t seem completely real and threatening and true to me, but the fact that I’m recognizing it as delusional might be a good sign? Andrew thinks so. I think I do too. I think the drugs are working. Which is good/bad….because it’s good they are, if I keep getting better, and I think I am, but bad in a strange way because it really means….my diagnosis is probably true….and it’s sad that I hadn’t been treated as such earlier. It could’ve saved me and my family and many close to me a lot of pain, distrust, wounds both physical and emotional that may never heal, blah blah. How fucking corny.
Really though, I started to think back…I always thought it was just anxiety and it was….but I think there was more there…I understand why the psychiatrist made his diagnosis with regard to these kinds of thoughts I had (there’s a myriad of other symptoms I know I have but that’s another matter). I told him about my panic attack period throughout the past summer and other times beyond that, where I wasn’t necessarily in a panic mode, but just walking outside and I’d see a bag on a hill or a suitcase on the side walk and initially want to look inside then suddenly think there would be a body part inside. And these scenarios would come up in my head and wouldn’t go away. It’s all I could think about. They seemed supremely real. I never thought of it….as bipolar type delusional thinking…but it is….
I remember in university, I had been drinking and had passed out on a friend’s bed, it was one of the bigger shared rooms among two and I can’t remember but apparently one of the girls I would later live a short year with came back and woke me up and I was asking about all of the people in the room, why are they staring, what do they want? And yes, I was intoxicated, but still a bit eery, and foretelling perhaps. She was taken aback a bit, told me later, worrying that I might have some problem with paranoia, with imagining things.
And here we are today. Crazy batshit maghan. An on going joke but now it’s defined. It’s in its little box. Am I in a little box? I don’t think anyone bipolar can ever be boxed…no matter how hardcore their meds are, how tranqu’ed out of their minds. I walk down Bloor street and it feels like whenever I do I run into someone from my past. Someone from the shit early university days was one such and I of course, can’t help babbling and sharing too much, including this recent diagnosis. And I said “if anyone was going to go batshit, I was one of the likeliest contenders.” And I think that’s fairly true. No one I’ve told this to has been very surprised. They wouldn’t have guessed necessarily, but they’re not surprised and/or they completely saw it, it all clicked once I told them.
Only one dickhead said that was the diagnosis for junkies and alcoholics, just an excuse for them, but fuck it. Why do we drink and pill ourselves up in the first place? I wouldn’t if I didn’t feel like I was useless or bullshit or whathaveyou without something else to make me better….equal…to calm my brain down….so many reasons. Excuses? I don’t know.
I’m still going. Click, click, click.
November 2, 2017 § Leave a comment
I made myself sound real important right there;).
P.S. I’m terrible at this shit and I hope the link and junk works. Sorry. Just click the ‘updates’ below for the video.
November 2, 2017 § Leave a comment
I’m posting a video…ugh…it’s too hard to edit enough or write some kind of fucking script so too bad. I watch them after I film them and I just hate my frequent use of filler words. I wish I didn’t do that. I never want to be the person who just speaks to speak. Why can’t I be patient? Why do I have to keep speaking, no matter what. Maybe this new diagnosis is true.
I’m scared, I was shocked at the time, but I think it makes sense perhaps…I just never thought that was me.
Yesterday, besides moving to a new apartment, I had booked an appointment months ago at CAMH for an extensive psychiatric evaluation. We went over my family history, both medical and psychiatric, what I experienced/felt and history of my childhood. We talked about my years since, all the medications and what happened and how I felt on all of them, how I dealt with various group and individual psychotherapies, my interests and potential “goals” (that’s hard to talk about or take seriously for myself, he noticed). This consultation lasted a while….a couple hours I want to say although I didn’t monitor it because I was somewhat shocked and kept thinking about it afterward, plus I had to go back to my apartment. I felt bad because I felt I needed to keep this appointment and I wasn’t there to help as much with the moving process. But I felt we got into a lot. I googled this doctor after the fact (of course) and he’s very well respected and prolific. He has written several textbooks that have been used and updated on psychotropic drug, on psychiatric subjects in general, many highly regarded papers etc. So I think he should be right?
But he diagnosed me with Bipolar II. Which scares me. Is that me? I’m nervous. And I always had this idea that any kind of bipolar was so much more serious….that I just had no impulse control, just…I really don’t know. I’ll post the video. All my posts lately aren’t the greatest. I don’t feel like editing. I feel strange and I’m busy trying to busy my mind on unpacking…anything else. So this kind of sucks as a post. I apologize.
Anyone with any comments about having/knowing someone/studying bipolar II, it would be greatly appreciated. I can read a lot about it but personal stories are so much more helpful. I still haven’t fully accepted this diagnosis.
October 31, 2017 § Leave a comment
I haven’t done much of anything the last year. Few years. How do I change my mind to recognize the positive changes? Except when you’ve gone so dark, it becomes more difficult to recognize how you’ve pulled yourself out, no?
I’m not sure.
I was supposed to be more than this. I have my childhood memories. I have my parents’ interpretations of me, my teachers and what they said I’d become, not a specific position but that I’d be someone great, someone gifted.
I remember liking things. I try to remember when the last time that was. It’s difficult. I remember enjoying to draw. I did it all the time. I loved drawing people, faces. I wrote, early computer times. I wrote “novels” on our giant old microsoft desktops. They weren’t school assignments, I just did them. I became obsessed with the last Tsar and his family in Russia when I was about 8-9. I think it was because of those princess diary books, that series that was always on the scolastic book order list. Remember those? Oh jesus. I want to go back to that. I got the Anastasia ‘diary’ and somehow that led me down a rabbit hole.
My grandpa Jim, it’s strange to talk about anyone deceased now…I’m very bad at it…but him and my…I suppose step-grandma Helen provided me with a breeding ground for my academic compulsions, by way of Helen, mostly. Jim was amazing, but I need a separate post for him…I’m selfish…I suppose you know already.
I remember their old house. We always had strange gross dinners for holidays…creamed corn from cans and the like. But that wasn’t what I liked. My brother and I always had the greatest time in their basement because my grandpa Jim had this extensive miniature train set. He had a whole little neighbourhood set up downstairs. We used to play with it and my dad always meant to create a similar set up in our basement but life got in the way I suppose. We had characters, we had towns (which, really, were set up already), but it was one of the things I always remember about him.
I miss that house…I come back to my obsession that somehow began but blossomed in their home…about the Russian Revolution, specifically about the people involved in the last Tsar of Russia’s family. I love history, but mainly I love people. I want to know them, why are they the way they are? Why did they do what they did? Why did what happen to them happen? etc. etc. etc.
I remember hours on their computer which was positioned in a roll-top wooden desk (i want one of those btw, i don’t know if it’s the nostalgia, but fuck it, it’s one of my top searchable home pieces), on their computer, late into the night searching information about the last Romanov family, printing out pages, fascinated. Helen gave me books she had, one on Nicholas and Alexandra, another on learning the Russian language. She was and is amazing. I think it’s very telling (perhaps I am saying too much), but the fact that we love visiting her and talking to her and feel she’s part of the family even though our grandfather is gone…has been for ugh…just did the math, just over 25 years. She’s so intelligent, always has been…who decides a 9 year old girl could understand a book about learning the russian language? But she did.
I remember those years. I remember myself in certain ways. I remember how engaged I was in certain topics, learning…in anything really. It stopped. I can’t say the specific point. But it stopped. I stopped enjoying things.
It’s tricky to discuss…but it’s also so fucking hard right now…I’ve done a lot, but it’s really fucking hard to go back to memories when I remember loving certain things, doing certain things. How do I get back there? I can do the same but it’s NOT the same….how do you….get back to yourself? Is that the right wording?
October 31, 2017 § Leave a comment
Photo inspo: #putanailinit Paint your left ring finger purple to raise awareness for domestic violence (it’s been Aug-end Oct). Sorry I’m late. #safehorizon
I’m waiting for my phone. For a noise above me. This past month….i’ve become a godzamaghan.
My landlords informed me they were selling the house early September, which includes the apartment I’m renting. A little foreshadowing of times to come because it came amid a series of phone calls from various sources of stress and mistakes that caused such [eg. I’d enrolled in classes again in September and tuition and other shit that went wrong, rent for that month in gen, emails/texts about other possible problems and/or opportunities that I couldn’t actually deal with in time or in person because I was in Halifax (amazing trip though, don’t want to discount that)]. Unfortunately I became an evil monster lunatic (for everyone dealing with me) but even to myself. Fucking renos above me, requests that I really couldn’t handle but my compulsion to people-please ended up with me cleaning and moving various parts of my apartment, my life. At a second’s notice… I understand it’s tough in their [landlords/real estate agents’] own lives, selling a house in Toronto in this market….but I’m worried it’s broken me…showings every day…an hour’s notice, sometimes not even that…the noise..the increased paranoia I’ve acquired for sound, for glimpses of relevant images through the windows…I was doing so much better and I have reverted into a strange version of myself…I was already socially paranoid, prone to frequent panic attacks, obviously weak in my cravings to self-medicate…but I was working so hard…and this was all so circumstantial. I honestly wouldn’t have signed up for courses (distance courses with Queens again, to get my feet whet) if I had known this would be something I’d have to go through.
September ended up going decently well, even though we were fairly broke because of said Halifax trip. October also began quite well…it’s usually my favourite month because of Halloween. Halloween has gotten a bit bleaker for me ever year though, I try not to think about it. But I love costumes, I love dressing up, I really enjoy going above and beyond in most things, (a burden and a curse, my black an white thinking) but I actually love creating….costumes….strange variations on characters, makeup, creating my own characters. My darkened perspective, my lowered ideals of myself throughout all this have affected how I interact with everyone else, how I think, how I remember. I started thinking today…the amount of people through the years who ask me certain questions that feel strange, make me feel unusual, but usually I’ve viewed that as a good thing. Now it’s changed.
I’m sure I am filtering all of this through my neurotic, social phobic thought processes, but I have to answer to so much “why do you care about that?” “why do you bother with that?” “why don’t you throw that out?” “why do you spend the time on that? it’s not that big of a deal.” etc. Those were terrible examples of dialogue but fuck it.
This has gone on for years. I love making costumes, I love decorating my apartment, collaging obsessively (and I always try to keep the pictures/poems/posters I love most for my walls as much as I can, even if I’ve re-sticky-tacked them from my first apartment until now), I love keeping my old books, I love rereading and keeping the copies and their margin notes, I love ugly furniture and memorabilia of my childhood and having that visceral pull back to times I loved and want to keep with me, fear I’ll forget.
I write it more beautifully here…but I’ve been pulled back this week where I got too in my head, thinking about how many times people have questioned me about my priorities, about why I’d be interested or spending so much time with/on certain things and hobbies….and I have to say “because I love it.” It’s not work for me. I’m 27 fucking years old and I still have to explain…and I am not trying to say I’m exceptional in having this conflict, but more that I feel upset that I haven’t overcome it. I should have gotten over it long ago. I should have been able to say and believe ‘fuck the critics’ (those that come solely from opinion, not of interest and offering productive comments)…ughh I should have written trolls? I should be able to not care. But how do you not care when you’re such a ghost human? Who are you? What do you want? Who do you want to be?
I’m a mist. I’m a fog.