Ok, time to touch on something new, something....refreshing, for a change. I mean let's face, no ones life is ALL bad. So, tonight I want to talk about admiration, gratitude and simply feeling alive. In order to do so I first must briefly touch on loneliness. As I said in an earlier post, I have been alone for a long, long time now and if anyone ever tries to tell you that being alone isn't painful... they lie, plain and simple. It hurts; it is a real physical ache deep down inside where no one can reach it, in the very depths of your soul. It's an anguish you feel in your heart that threatens to rip you apart from the inside out. You'll find that your wrapping your arms tightly around yourself over and over in order to keep the emotions from escaping and showing the world what your going through. Yes, it hurts and no one should ever have to feel so empty, so desolate, yet I have felt this too many times to count. Over the years though the feelings began to change; they became hardened, buried, and forgotten. In their place formed a coldness that was what I was sure was impenetrable because even I couldn't find those feelings inside of me anymore. They were just gone; Emotions most people feel everyday like attraction, arousal, love for that special someone. Then one night as I lie in bed I became acutely aware of something; I had finally conceeded and accepted that I would be alone for the rest of my life.
Many years later, on a quiet afternoon, I was sitting alone outside on my balcony. I was glancing around at the beauty surrounding me within the mountains when I was suddenly blindsided by an awareness that I couldn't initially even fathom. It didn't make sense, and for a few minutes all I felt was the mental images flying around in my head so fast I couldn't grasp even one long enough to hold on too. I forced myself to take a few deep breaths and calm down. After a minute or two I felt better, more in control and was able to focus on what I had just realized; after so long of being what I called 'dead inside', I was definitly feeling that uncertain, excited sensation of attraction for a particular gentleman. At first I kept asking myself how this had happened; how could I let this happen? No matter how hard I tried to reason it out though, to find intelligence within the emotions, I always came back to the same conclusion; how or why it happened, I didn't know, but nor did I care cause damn it felt good!
So there you have it, my moment of awakening. For the next couple of weeks I would revel in the ever increasing feelings as I once again got used to them. For no apparant reason I would find myself smiling, then realization would make me aware that I had, in fact, been thinking of that certain man. How amazing is it that just a single thought of someone can bring on such delight? It was the kindness I found in his eyes, along with the way they scrunched up in mirth. There was the gentleness of his voice, and how I found it so incredably soothing. This and more gave me such contentment when thinking of him and also the knowledge that this was someone I could trust, someone I could sit beside, close my eyes and feel no fear. Yes, I had come to a point where I would intentionally bring his presence to mind, to feel the warmth that it brought with it, but I also refused to allow any further rumination about him to surface. I had to put limits on myself, you see, because he has no idea that I even exist, at least not in the same sense as he does for me.
While I am immensely happy that such intriguing and intoxicating feelings have resurfaced for me, I am also quite disappointed in myself. During this whole process I have learned that our emotions don't always come with instructions or even common sense. Mine seem to have zero to none when they irrationally picked the target of their affection since nothing will ever come of it, but I guess feeling something is better than nothing. So, in the end, I will embrace it, hold onto it and yes, fear the day it will leave me barren once again. Throughout it all though, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to him, this very special human being, for even unintentionally finding his way into my thoughts and heart. Until the day comes where I can no longer handle this pleasure for its lack of reciprocation I will continue to admire from afar and keep my thoughts to myself.
Something From Nothing
If you had to sum up your whole self, your entire being, your soul into one word or phrase, what would it be? Whatever it is, it'll come from within. It'll come from experience, wisdom and knowledge. It'll come from thoughts and feelings, your own, on how you hope others perceive you because this is who you see when you look in the mirror. But where does all this enlightenment come from? Not from ourselves, no, it comes from everyone and everything we have encountered within our lifetime. Put it all together and it becomes a collection so unique to each individual, it cannot be equated. So how does one try and express, with understanding, themselves to another when the embodiment is so intensly personal? If, and I do mean if, it can be done it would require a very deep, very thorough self examination into the far recessess of our consciousess. In simpler terms, we would need to know what makes us tick. Think of it this way; for every action there is a re-action but that reaction stems from many different places. It comes from similar past experiences, observations, education and foresight. But what happens when many of these all-encompassing influences have been so full of adversity and disparage? The impact becomes undeniable and palpable; criminal activity, drug and alcohol addiction and abuse can all become by-products. While these will manifest themsevles internally as well as externally, by effecting innocents in a serious manner, there is also another side, another group whom are much more quietly marked. These are the ones suffering silently, the ones who refused to let the constant negativity control their actions. Unfortunetly though many have little to no mastery over their own minds. Whether affected with a mood, anxiety, eating or personality disorder, there are those of us who struggle to keep the underlying adverse thoughts from totally controlling our everyday thinking. Herein lies the true problem, at least for myself and it comes from mainly not being able to escape "Hot Thought" hell. What is a "Hot Thought" you may be wondering? Simply put, it is an primary automatic thought brought on by emotions and past evidence that can be found by peeling away layers of reactions. So, going back to my initial question of summing up ones 'being', the initial answer could lie in one such type of thought, but as I said, where does it come from? If you said, "I am honest" where is the proof for and against? It is buried inside yourself, waiting to be accessed when needed, all you need do is open the door. But what happens when this introspection comes up empty handed on evidence showing you in a positive light? And what if these persuasive discriminating considerations are so predominate that they have pushed their way to the surface and sit there and rule on from above? I'm speaking of "Hot Thoughts" such as "I am Ugly", "I fail, period" or "I am truly crazy." These lovely creeds burst forth in my mind continuesly througout my day, overpowering and almost completely obliterating my reactive thoughts. If I walk by a mirror, or a window and catch a glimpse of myself, the immediate mental response is simple, "Don't bother, nothings changed, your still ugly." Perhaps though a more crucial self analysis that has been imbedded within my identity is my ability to discern that I am, in fact, "touched." Oh, in my younger years I fought it, argued it, tried to ignore it but as time went on and the proof against my internal fight diminished, I eventually just..gave up. I do know that I am considered 'bright', or 'intelligent' beyond what is seen as "The Norm" but just look to history and you will find many brilliant, but crazy people; Beethoven, Freud, and Van Gogh to name a few. Perhaps, I can only hope, this insight into the past company I could have kept will be enough to carry me through another 43 years.
Letting Go
Sometimes I wonder, "Do 'normal' people ever think about or get that compelling feeling to just...end it all?" Thinking back over my last 30 some odd years it's funny what I can and cannot, or maybe even choose not, to remember. One thing that is pretty clear though is the times that I actually attempted, or seriously considered letting go. Over time I have heard many people, some professionals, say that if a person truly desires to end their life, they will. Period. They add that otherwise the 'attempt' and or the 'talk' is really just a call for help. I'm curious how you, my reader, may conceive this. Speaking purely from experience in regards to this 'taboo' topic, I've determined this to be true.
I say taboo as more times than not the topic of suicide, let alone mental illness, is still considered to be in bad taste. In fact, just a few minutes ago, I responded to a post on a forum from someone who was against my allowing this blog to be seen by others. Again, I point out that there are still so many out there who feel that mental illness should be kept a secret, hidden away like the 'lepers' of the past. What we have is not catching. It cannot directly hurt others either, but is so incredibly misunderstood and such a remarkably vague subject matter that the only ones who seem to have any understanding is the doctors to whom we are treated by; and even then I tend to question their knowledge at times as their analysis' can change quite regularly. Maybe, for this reason, the fact that I have had to conceal my own feelings, to consistently hide away in my box and never speak of my desolate existence, that I see it now as a time to 'let go' of our stigma put onto ourselves by mankind as a whole. Sometimes though the truth is not only hard to admit, and face head on, but can also be rather embarrassing; not just for ourselves, but for the people around us, who love us, care for us and whom want to protect us. Well, I'm calling shenanigans! If I can stare it in the eye, straight on, then so can you. Here, as best as I can recall, is my personal fight with the demons we so quietly and secretly managed to label: Suicidal Tendencies.
I can recall, as a young teen, I learned rather quickly that talk of suicide raised not only eyebrows, but red flags for those around me. Did I ever use this to what some might unabashedly call, my advantage? I think, I believe, I did, yes. Not in a way that I feel should be looked down on though. When things would get wonky in my mind, when I could no longer see the forest for the trees, when the word 'cope' held no more meaning to me than just another 'four letter word' then yes, I would, at times, mention to a friend or a counsellor that I was having suicidal thoughts. The hope being that maybe they could for once understand what I clearly could not; this being the random, uncontrollable muddled thoughts that I could find no way in which to make sense of, which brought on astronomical amounts of anxiety and that were beginning to possess my every waking moment. A call for help? I'd say so, most definitely. Who wouldn't at this so obvious an invasion and loss of control over ones mind? Did I ever reach the point of no return though? Yes, a couple of times actually. One being much more of a close call than the other, but still, not such a good day I would say. At around the age of 15, after already being hospitalized for lengthy periods of time for depression, I was ready to give up the fight. By this point what seemed like everyone that knew me or of me had labeled me as 'crazy.' I couldn't even walk down the halls of my high school without the whispered comments behind covered mouths accompanied by not so well covered up pointing in my direction. Or for those not so shy, there was the loud heckling, catcalling and outright jeering. I had been living in what was considered a shelter for teens, a place to hopefully keep them off the street. I didn't have my own room, few did. Instead I occupied a couch, one that you wouldn't even dare put in your cabin at the lake, in a room full of similar couches and mattress's along with their current inhabitants. Having been born with Asthma, I had numerous medications, one being a pill called Theo-Dur in which the caring pharmacist had given me 200 of, to save me the trouble of having to return soon. After grabbing a can of 7up I calmly, quietly and with no outward signs of anxiety, slipped away into the girls washroom and proceeded to empty the bottle, sometimes swallowing a handful at a time. Throwing away the empty can of pop, pocketing the empty bottle of pills, I walked back to my couch, said G'night to those close by, closed my eyes and went to sleep. I remember very little of that night, and what I do is just quick flashes of what may or may not be real. What I do know is that I was not expected to live. I had done what I set out to do well and to this day no one knows why or how my bodied rallied. But it did and here I am. Many times over the last almost 30 years since that day I have questioned why I didn't die. I have been almost what you could call saddened by the fact that I didn't do it somewhere else, somewhere more private, so that when the convulsions and arrhythmia kicked in, I would have been alone. Regardless, I have survived. Only one other time would I come close to tempting fate, but never so close as too actually act on my thoughts. One thing that is predominate in my mind though, especially late at night when I cannot sleep, is this: Standing out on the balcony, feeling the cool breeze on my too warm skin, I look towards the stars. Not understanding whats up there, not knowing if anything at all can hear me, ever so quietly I admit, " I'm tired, please, let it end now...I don't want to play anymore.."
I say taboo as more times than not the topic of suicide, let alone mental illness, is still considered to be in bad taste. In fact, just a few minutes ago, I responded to a post on a forum from someone who was against my allowing this blog to be seen by others. Again, I point out that there are still so many out there who feel that mental illness should be kept a secret, hidden away like the 'lepers' of the past. What we have is not catching. It cannot directly hurt others either, but is so incredibly misunderstood and such a remarkably vague subject matter that the only ones who seem to have any understanding is the doctors to whom we are treated by; and even then I tend to question their knowledge at times as their analysis' can change quite regularly. Maybe, for this reason, the fact that I have had to conceal my own feelings, to consistently hide away in my box and never speak of my desolate existence, that I see it now as a time to 'let go' of our stigma put onto ourselves by mankind as a whole. Sometimes though the truth is not only hard to admit, and face head on, but can also be rather embarrassing; not just for ourselves, but for the people around us, who love us, care for us and whom want to protect us. Well, I'm calling shenanigans! If I can stare it in the eye, straight on, then so can you. Here, as best as I can recall, is my personal fight with the demons we so quietly and secretly managed to label: Suicidal Tendencies.
I can recall, as a young teen, I learned rather quickly that talk of suicide raised not only eyebrows, but red flags for those around me. Did I ever use this to what some might unabashedly call, my advantage? I think, I believe, I did, yes. Not in a way that I feel should be looked down on though. When things would get wonky in my mind, when I could no longer see the forest for the trees, when the word 'cope' held no more meaning to me than just another 'four letter word' then yes, I would, at times, mention to a friend or a counsellor that I was having suicidal thoughts. The hope being that maybe they could for once understand what I clearly could not; this being the random, uncontrollable muddled thoughts that I could find no way in which to make sense of, which brought on astronomical amounts of anxiety and that were beginning to possess my every waking moment. A call for help? I'd say so, most definitely. Who wouldn't at this so obvious an invasion and loss of control over ones mind? Did I ever reach the point of no return though? Yes, a couple of times actually. One being much more of a close call than the other, but still, not such a good day I would say. At around the age of 15, after already being hospitalized for lengthy periods of time for depression, I was ready to give up the fight. By this point what seemed like everyone that knew me or of me had labeled me as 'crazy.' I couldn't even walk down the halls of my high school without the whispered comments behind covered mouths accompanied by not so well covered up pointing in my direction. Or for those not so shy, there was the loud heckling, catcalling and outright jeering. I had been living in what was considered a shelter for teens, a place to hopefully keep them off the street. I didn't have my own room, few did. Instead I occupied a couch, one that you wouldn't even dare put in your cabin at the lake, in a room full of similar couches and mattress's along with their current inhabitants. Having been born with Asthma, I had numerous medications, one being a pill called Theo-Dur in which the caring pharmacist had given me 200 of, to save me the trouble of having to return soon. After grabbing a can of 7up I calmly, quietly and with no outward signs of anxiety, slipped away into the girls washroom and proceeded to empty the bottle, sometimes swallowing a handful at a time. Throwing away the empty can of pop, pocketing the empty bottle of pills, I walked back to my couch, said G'night to those close by, closed my eyes and went to sleep. I remember very little of that night, and what I do is just quick flashes of what may or may not be real. What I do know is that I was not expected to live. I had done what I set out to do well and to this day no one knows why or how my bodied rallied. But it did and here I am. Many times over the last almost 30 years since that day I have questioned why I didn't die. I have been almost what you could call saddened by the fact that I didn't do it somewhere else, somewhere more private, so that when the convulsions and arrhythmia kicked in, I would have been alone. Regardless, I have survived. Only one other time would I come close to tempting fate, but never so close as too actually act on my thoughts. One thing that is predominate in my mind though, especially late at night when I cannot sleep, is this: Standing out on the balcony, feeling the cool breeze on my too warm skin, I look towards the stars. Not understanding whats up there, not knowing if anything at all can hear me, ever so quietly I admit, " I'm tired, please, let it end now...I don't want to play anymore.."
An Introduction
It all seems rather ... defeatist, final, doesn't it? Well, that particular day I had felt conquered; beaten down by the unmistakable realities of life. Maybe though I did jump the gun a bit with my first rambling. I guess I just wanted you all to have a brief glimpse into a very troubled mind, but not so much as to scare you away. Unlike that disturbing day, many times I will instead write something much longer, more specific to what drove me into my private world. In order to understand these with some form of clarity, you will need to know me, to see perhaps what life has dealt me and how it can effect one such as myself; for now I feel the time has come for an introduction....
My name is Laura. I am 43 years old and I have suffered from mental illness since about the age of 12. As a child I was diagnosed as suffering from Manic Depression, also known as Bipolar Disorder. By the age of 16 though, and with the change of doctors as I had "outgrown" my Child Psychiatrist, I was re-diagnosed as having a Severe Personality Disorder, with Sociopathic Traits; although this analysis I wouldn't find out about until many years later. Imagine my 'feelings' when I discovered that this particular doctor saw me as not having any morals or social conscience. This same 'Specialist' also continuously termed me as "being trully crazy" to my face during our sessions. Now THATS some professional medical diagnosis! Nice eh? This opinion would stick with me until I once again changed doctors at around the age of 23. Many years later, at around the age of 41, I was seen by 2 Psychiatrist's over the period of a few days. Both concurred that I did in fact have what had been coined as Borderline Personality Disorder, or BPD. That being a very simplistic reference to my mental health over the last 30 years, now let me acquaint you with a small part of my 'normal' history. I was adopted as a baby, brought home to a family with one other child, a daughter 11 years older than I. At the age of 19 I was married to a man 18 years my senior and gave birth to our first of 3 children 11 months later. By the age of 23 I had had my 3 children, 2 boys and girl. My youngest child, at the age of 3 months, was diagnosed with Severe Spastic Cerebral Palsy. I left my husband shortly after our sons diagnosis and began the long, hard and unknown road of raising 3 children on my own. Seven years later I married for the second time. This would last only 3 years. From that point onward, I have been completely alone, without so much as a coffee date for a total of 9 years and counting...
Well, there you have it. A very elementary, to the point rundown of the 'Life of Laura.' I intentionally gave you very little detail but enough to have a basis to work from, an awareness of where I came from and the people around me. Hidden inside the unknown though are hundreds of memories, stories that need to be told. For somewhere out there, I can only hope, is someone who might actually be able to relate, to understand and maybe finally someone who can look me in the eye and say, " It's ok, you done good kid....it's alright to let go now."
My name is Laura. I am 43 years old and I have suffered from mental illness since about the age of 12. As a child I was diagnosed as suffering from Manic Depression, also known as Bipolar Disorder. By the age of 16 though, and with the change of doctors as I had "outgrown" my Child Psychiatrist, I was re-diagnosed as having a Severe Personality Disorder, with Sociopathic Traits; although this analysis I wouldn't find out about until many years later. Imagine my 'feelings' when I discovered that this particular doctor saw me as not having any morals or social conscience. This same 'Specialist' also continuously termed me as "being trully crazy" to my face during our sessions. Now THATS some professional medical diagnosis! Nice eh? This opinion would stick with me until I once again changed doctors at around the age of 23. Many years later, at around the age of 41, I was seen by 2 Psychiatrist's over the period of a few days. Both concurred that I did in fact have what had been coined as Borderline Personality Disorder, or BPD. That being a very simplistic reference to my mental health over the last 30 years, now let me acquaint you with a small part of my 'normal' history. I was adopted as a baby, brought home to a family with one other child, a daughter 11 years older than I. At the age of 19 I was married to a man 18 years my senior and gave birth to our first of 3 children 11 months later. By the age of 23 I had had my 3 children, 2 boys and girl. My youngest child, at the age of 3 months, was diagnosed with Severe Spastic Cerebral Palsy. I left my husband shortly after our sons diagnosis and began the long, hard and unknown road of raising 3 children on my own. Seven years later I married for the second time. This would last only 3 years. From that point onward, I have been completely alone, without so much as a coffee date for a total of 9 years and counting...
Well, there you have it. A very elementary, to the point rundown of the 'Life of Laura.' I intentionally gave you very little detail but enough to have a basis to work from, an awareness of where I came from and the people around me. Hidden inside the unknown though are hundreds of memories, stories that need to be told. For somewhere out there, I can only hope, is someone who might actually be able to relate, to understand and maybe finally someone who can look me in the eye and say, " It's ok, you done good kid....it's alright to let go now."
Random Meanderings
Once I am enveloped in my shelter of cohesion, I will, periodically, need an outlet to try and find some form of peace within myself. During these times, until that release is found and dealt with, I will remain withdrawn, reticent and ineffectual. One form of extrication that has continuously proven to aid me in my search for self worth is writing. Although frequently it is done in anger, there are also many moments of despair that have taken on the embodiment of Dark Poetry or Suicidal Notes. Throughout this journey I would like to introduce you to a few of these pieces. For you, the reader, there might not be any rhyme nor reason found as to why I choose a particular one at that time. Maybe though this randomness of thought will allow you to see what element I am truly in, inside the Box.
** From this point on any entry with the title: Random Meanderings will be one of these such pieces. Let us begin....
To me now there is nothing ahead of me worth the effort. Go ahead, call me weak, a coward, selfish. Maybe I am. But for once I'm doing something for me. Maybe that's how this needs to end. Me finally doing something for myself. Not caring how it effects others. For once. Most of you will be mad. Hate me for what I've done. That's okay, it's natural. It's part of the healing process. Eventually this will mellow. Then you'll begin to question yourselves. Ask what you could have done different to change the outcome. Nothing. Don't bother. It wasn't your choice and nothing to do with you. Maybe, one day, each of you will have some form of understanding. Maybe.
** From this point on any entry with the title: Random Meanderings will be one of these such pieces. Let us begin....
To me now there is nothing ahead of me worth the effort. Go ahead, call me weak, a coward, selfish. Maybe I am. But for once I'm doing something for me. Maybe that's how this needs to end. Me finally doing something for myself. Not caring how it effects others. For once. Most of you will be mad. Hate me for what I've done. That's okay, it's natural. It's part of the healing process. Eventually this will mellow. Then you'll begin to question yourselves. Ask what you could have done different to change the outcome. Nothing. Don't bother. It wasn't your choice and nothing to do with you. Maybe, one day, each of you will have some form of understanding. Maybe.
Simple Anguish
One thing I felt that must be brought to your attention is that the creation of my so called "box" was not purely based on fears. For someone like myself, anxiety is only a part of what plagues our day to day lives although for some it can become quite a large factor and will usually intertwine itself with other debilitation's. Personally though, my flights into my inviolable territory could be brought on by many diverse situations. These circumstances do not have to be what you would call 'traumatic' but instead could be as simple as a statement, or even just a single, direct look from someone. You see, for most people a touch of criticism or a quick look of frustration from someone whom you trust would only give an initial sense of defensiveness, maybe followed by a slight feeling of unease. Usually though you are able to see past this within seconds and take it for what it truly is, that being nothing earth shattering. However, for myself, either of these plights could bring on an instantaneous series of very intense emotions; Acute anger that causes my hands to shake, yet I have never struck out at anyone choosing instead to withhold it inside myself. Then, without fail, comes the all consuming knowledge of being worthless, inadequate and insignificant. And as I stand there, hands trembling, eyes downcast because any contact would shatter me, my stomach tied up in so many knots that it strangely feels completely empty, all I can think of is how can I escape? Usually, God willing, I can find my way to my box, going through what the professionals call Dissociation: a mental process that severs a connection to a person's thoughts, memories, feelings, actions, or sense of identity;.. is a normal response to trauma, and allows the mind to distance itself from experiences that are too much for the psyche to process at that time. Another term some might use for this disruption is a mental shut down, but I prefer to think of it as 'closing off.' At this point all I really hear is my own thoughts, but not the soft quiet images you might think would come to someone who wears the hollow look of one whom has withdrawn entirely. No, rather its as if someone had placed a Strobe light inside my skull and with each flash of blinding light would come my own voice bluntly reminding me of every possible negative aspect of my own existence; then, as the light slows and finally stops its incessant barrage to destroy whats left of my psyche, all that remains is my longing to end it all, for I am so very, very tired. Drawing on the one ability I have grown to know so well, I force myself to breath slow and deep, and even though my eyes may remain open, all that I am truly seeing is the cardboard walls rising up and over me, enveloping me in their asylum of simplicity.
Creation
Try as I might, writing the next part to my passage has been...arduous, to say the least. How does one describe something that cannot be seen, touched, or heard by anyone, including myself? Instead of having something concrete to show you and compare with, I have only to find a way in which to describe an overpowering feeling or perception of imperilment that will eventually force me to flee into my sequestered and well hidden sanctuary. Huh, no small task. Please, allow me to try. For as far back as I can remember I have used the only ability that seemed to keep me from completely losing my mind; that being to close off my perceptions to all else around me, isolating myself from any outside influences, in what we will call, a box. Why, you might wonder, would anyone choose to do this, other than for the tranquility and inner peace achieved through meditation? Let me explain. Imagine, if you will, walking alone through an obscure forest. For some, the experience might be serene, for others exhilarating; the clean, fresh smell of pine tingling our nose as the sounds of many unseen birds turns into a medley pleasing to the ear. But for others, like myself, the forest represents something much more sinister; so many unknowns...what can I not see behind each of the hundreds upon thousands of trees? So many menacing sounds that threaten to unhinge me every time a new one pierces my eardrums and how am I to ever find my way out safely when I cannot even see the sky, let alone a few feet away from me? What may seem to be unreasonable fears to most is very real to those like myself and it's not just one or two aversions that blast into my mind at a time, no, instead it's legions of uncontrollable convictions bombarding my mind at once...as if I had traipsed right into a hive and antagonized each and every Bee. The problem herein lies though that there was no forest, it was only the real world and it was everywhere. There would be no escape from the constant and unstoppable influx of information no matter where I went or what I was doing. So, you see, the only thing left for me to do was to find a safe place, a zone, if you will, where it might just be possible to close off all these irrepressible alarms going off inside me, controlling me, in so many ways that functioning at all becomes futile. Hence, the creation of "The Box." Albeit a mental formation, one that would constantly need refinement, this construct would eventually become my saving grace. At least that's how I see it. For others though, like family and friends, most would view it as something that has turned me cold hearted, empty of emotion and even sociopathic. That, in itself, is different story for another time.
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