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Here I sit, so cliche, wonderin’ what the hell to do.  Maybe I should go into a bathroom stall and write in loose-leaf notebooks.  I feel like I want to cry, that it would feel so good to cry, so fucking good, and I can’t.  I can’t cry anymore.  Do I love people, or are they just convenient and comfortable?  If I loved him enough, I’d say something, I’d do something… and I can’t.  No one can do anything, not even her.  I’ve always wished I could find someone who understands.  For a long time, I’ve believed I’m understood, but it’s changed.  I’m not the same person I used to be when I was twenty-three.  I’m not the same person I was when I was twenty-seven, or twenty-nine, or eight, or sixteen, or eighteen, or thirty-one.

I remember what I used to cry about a long time ago.  I remember her on the sidewalk, crying on her birthday and the yell that could be heard through the entire trailer court.  I used to cry about that.  I used to be so connected to people I’d feel their emotions, but now, I’m so far apart.  I told Dr. Yock that I had some kind of tainted existence. He was intrigued, but I never got a chance to tell him what that was.  I never got a chance.  Never got a chance to be what I could’ve been, and it’s been that way ever since.  It’s all that could’ve been.

Age, medication, and broken relationships have made me forget who I am.  When I was in elementary school I still remember how I’d imagine myself all grown up.  I could do anything, and my future was so amazing.  I could do all the things I could only dream, but… life’s not exactly like that is it?

I’m slowly turning into him, and I understand.  I don’t have to be him, I don’t have to transform into something I’m not, no matter how much I want to transform now.  I want to transform, but this time around I can’t.  I was the stupidest person in front of the room, I was the dumbest, and I couldn’t help it.  Nothing had prepared me.  I hadn’t prepared myself because I was too busy.  Too busy being me.

Where did the games go?  Where did the perfect machines go, the torture devices that were going to spread the disease and freeze myself into blocks of ice?  I got better.  I improved.  I stabilized.  But I thought he’d always be looking at me, understanding, but I now I realize I’ve never actually known who that would be.

I don’t understand why everyone betrays me in the end.  Even betrayal of stopping being a whole person.  Betrayal of what used to be, a ghost, a mirage of understanding that’s just, questions now.  I used to be an onion, but now I’m just a pumpkin, a jack-o-lantern with a pouty face.  My frown now frozen into this happy child visage.  Who am I?

I was going to colonize the moon and rule the world with my mega-billions.  I was going to conquer with my Nomocratic army against the tides of societal illusions.  But it was all just a fantasy, so close to me and yet never really there.  How can someone pretend to be your best friend?  Make you believe that you have someone else, that you’re together against the world, that you’re wearing the emperor’s new clothes with holes in your shoes… and never mean a damn word of it.  Never meant a single gesture, a single Bellamy salute, a single cup of morning coffee, a single Louis Vuitton or Versacci, a single glance in the car.  Maybe I could’ve seen it through a dash cam.

The medication will want to change, but dammit I don’t want it to change.  In fact, I don’t want to take it at all.  Maybe then I’d cry.  This is the force of who I am, the swinging hammer, Foucaults pendulum, the sword of Damocles.  This is the thrust of my identity, but will someone feel it?  No fear.

Perhaps one day I’ll be a wolf, but not a wolf now, a wunk.  A half-wolf half-skunk.  Tiny, like a pocket gay, with a quick whip and a teasing smile… or as one put it once, a shit-eating grin.  Then I’d live all among my kind.  It’s all in the DNA, I understand that now.  This isn’t psychotic, just a product of my mega-billions.

But I digress.  Where did I go?  No one looks on me, quiet while the others are loud, and is proud.  What makes me?  Where did my love go?  Where did anything go?  Why can’t I remember it anymore, feel it in my heart, the quickening ache gone, now dull, flat, and without luster.

I’m sorry, this is my crazy period.  Back when I was a lunatic.  And there’s no funnel, no beer pipe to chug, chug, chug, no cafeteria soft-serve in the morning, and no one to avoid.  No pay phone calls with golden dollars long distance.  I am the long distance now, I am my own disconnect, I am the lonely but all pervasive dial tone.  There is no dial tone anymore…

The anti-psychotic makes me stuck, and makes me forget how to be.  I want to not take anything at all, but there’s no one I can tell… might as well just blurt it out here, where everyone can see.  I’m stuck in a vice grip of banality and empty stabilization.  I’m so frustrated.

There’s all this energy, all bottled up.  It looks out to see where it can go, but it’s application misses the target.  Ambivalence sets in, then apathy, then forgetfulness, then nobody.  I’ve been living superfluous, and I see that now.  8-bit characters walking across the screen, walkin’ on DOWN the hall, walk on down the hall.  I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore, I used to, I wanted to hurt others as much as I hurt sometimes, and in this fragile monstrosity maybe find some kind of redemption.  But what’s the point?

It seems that I’m not myself when you’re around.  I’m not myself right now, but I’ve never been more myself than right now.  This is who I am, this is who I used to be, and this is who I have to be but forget.  I forget to eat, a symptom of forgetting to be.  I’ve never stopped struggling to become a person.

But nobody’s going to understand.  Am I a product of my influences, of my brain chemistry, of an awful awful book, of silence?  That is what I am, just a product.  I am just a computer and if we change the configuration file, everything would work fine.  But what about the thought inside of me, the force inside of me, my choices and my illogical desires, my consciousness, my depression, the ownership of my psychosis.  Unrecognizable.

All my friends move away.  There’s at least six people that I have no idea how to contact, but, existed in my life.  My high school sweetheart came too late, and now is gone.  I became nothing.  I became a pile of hate and loathing, a casket of void, a statue without form, stuck against the ever blowing tide.  And now I’m a figment, until now.

But I won’t do anything.  I’ll just think.  I’ll just write to the world, with no apparent motivation.  It just seems the trendy thing to do these days.  I’ll just ruminate, I’ll just exist, but I won’t be.  No one can help me until I can help myself.

kadar

I'm just a wunk, trying to enjoy life. I am a cofounder of http//originalpursuitssoc.com/ and I like computers, code, creativity, and friends.

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2 Responses

  1. foomf says:

    The meds are supposed to keep the feedback spirals from dragging you into self-destructive places. Like a speed limiter on a car, they keep you from racing your engine so fast that it explodes. The downside is that they take away the manic high that feels so very good, like you’re made of invulnerable. But you’re not, and then the crash comes that tears out your bones and leaves you wanting to turn into a horrible thing to fit the pain. That’s so much not a good thing.

    The cost of feeling the high is not worth it. The damage it does to you and to your friends and to the people you love (and you do) is not one that they should have to bear, nor should you have to pay it.

    It’s good to write this stuff down, but it’s only a beginning. It lets you capture something of what’s going on, so you can look at it objectively when the tectonic shifting under your reality slows down for a while.

    You need to find your center, your balance, yes. But it seems that introspection alone hasn’t found it for you, and perhaps you need to talk to people whose job and training is to help other people find that center.

    • kadar says:

      I’m feeling better since I wrote this. I was frustrated, as you could easily see, and I felt like I just didn’t have an appropriate place to express all of this. I appreciate your comment a lot, it means quite a bit. I have been on medication my entire adult life, which isn’t a good or bad thing, and I’ve gone through 15 years of being in the mental health system with nurse practitioners, hospitalizations, and therapists. I say this only to provide a backdrop of knowledge.

      I have talked to Maus and to my mother about my medication. I’m really feeling as if my medication is preventing me from being my best self right now. It’s difficult to describe how that can be, but for the first time in a long time I’m remembering how I used to be, and I want the good parts of that back. In some ways I feel like the medication is holding me back from appreciating my life even more. I know that sounds terribly suspicious of mania, but, I swear it’s not. I remember mania, I remember the awful dysphoria that left me walking in the middle of the interstate with NIN songs blaring in my head. That was one of the worst experiences I’ve ever had, and I don’t want to repeat that.

      For two and a half years I was in really really bad shape. I had major obsessions, depression, constant terrible anxiety and was just generally disturbed 24/7. It was horrible, and I’m surprised I survived at all, but I did. It taught me that things always change. No matter how you’re feeling right this moment, you may feel and think something different in the future.

      When I was really ill I would swear to my mother that my amygdala was messed up, that my limbic system was not functioning correctly, and in many ways, I believe I was right. I honestly felt like I had brain damage. I disassociated really really bad one time when my medication changed and ended up in the hospital and that’s how I ended up on the anti-psychotic I’m on now. (I was prescribed an anti-psychotic before for atypical psychosis.)

      And then something changed. I got better. I was hospitalized in Grand Junction in the chronically disturbed ward (I was actually certified for 90 days) and was prescribed the anti-depressant anti-psychotic combination. And it worked, as far as I could tell. It was good. I really really appreciate that.

      For a while I took Lorazepam three times a day, and because of it was a little high (as my nurse practitioner describes it now), but life was good. I was grateful every day, I loved where I was living, I liked my life, and I had all the time in the world to do anything I wanted.

      I kept getting better and better, and for once, I was starting to be able to function fully. My rat was euthanized two days ago and Maus told me I should be proud of my accomplishment. He said that people with BPD aren’t good with pets and can’t carry through most of the time. He was right, I’d had rats before but they always ended up not being able to live with me. I say this as an example of being better.

      I’ve learned to consciously and purposefully set boundaries for myself so that I don’t get enveloped into bad and dysfunctional, potentially disturbing, relationships. I’ve actually applied this in real life multiple times now. And to separate myself from the people around me, have a sense of being one person, not blending into everyone else.

      But, then I think this is all where the trouble started as well. I think my brain chemistry has changed again, now that I’m better. I have found myself for the last year feeling unemotional, held back, with little creativity or imagination, anxious every evening because I felt like I wasn’t accomplishing anything. I have found myself wishing for changes, like more friends, but so afraid to do anything about it. I felt like I couldn’t grasp anything by the horns and act.

      My nurse practitioner has lowered my Lamictal by 200mg until now it’s at the ‘appropriate’ dosage. With this lowering, things started to change. For the first time in a long time I’ve had real emotions. I used to feel something all the time, and I stopped at some point really feeling anything of substance. That’s kind of lonely.

      There’s been ups and downs. Times when I felt pretty shitty, and this post has been one of those times. But, I get over them, give them time, I know I can wait and that things’ll change in the future. I feel awesome, more like myself, more in charge. And I want more of that, minus the shitty parts.

      I don’t know what the answer is when it comes down to it. My gut feeling is telling me it’s the medication. That I need to take less medication. I remember all the trials and tribulations of being a crazy person, but I don’t think that’s what’s going to happen in the long term now that I’m better.

      I really think I’m better. For the first time in my adult life, I feel like I’ve actually gotten better. That’s supposed to be from the meds, but I’ve been on the meds for years, and only now do I really feel this way.

      My mother recommended that I see someone if I’m thinking of taking less medication or, of course, if I feel in danger of hurting myself or anyone else. Maus says he could support me, but he wants it done under close supervision. Unfortunately, I don’t really know how or where to do that. If I go to the clinic, or even really the hospital (though I have no reason to be there), they’ll want me on medication and refuse to lower it. At least that’s what I think they’d do. In some ways I feel like I have no where to go… hence the post.

      The clinic here has 24 hour walk-in services available. I’m supposed to see my nurse practitioner on the 22nd. We’ll see what I can do, maybe I can talk to someone sooner.

      Thank you for the comment, it means a lot to know that someone out there is reading this. 🙂

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