26.04.15 :: 02.05.15

[Note for consistency: Previous week coincided with increase in meds, thus nothing more was accomplished than curling up in bed with crippling headaches and marathon watching mindless TV.]

1.
I keep having to do these things where I rate how I feel on a scale of 1-10.

First: I hate 1-10 scales. It's subjective (who really knows what 10 stands for?). As a general rule, whenever given that sort of scale (for anything) I stay away from 1 or 10 and stick to the middle numbers because they feel safer. Plus, if you say something is the best (or worst) what do you do when you encounter something better?

The most recent one is keeping a week-long schedule and rating each thing on how much pleasure it brought and sense of accomplishment using the 1-10 scale. By the second day, I'd created my own system of smiley faces to make me feel more comfortable about it, but by day 3, I'd given up entirely. Do I get a sense of accomplishment from eating breakfast? How much pleasure is there in brushing my teeth? The answer to both is none. In fact, the only activities I felt anything about were my driving lessons, hanging out with my flatmate and cleaning (all got this face :D).

Everything else is just flat. I don't feel good or bad about my activities; they just are. On average, I don't feel much of anything, except a sense of being empty. Or floating. Drifting. Just kind of taking it all in. And this is what I struggle with the most with this therapy thing. I can go a long time without really feeling anything. Before the meds, it'd get interrupted by the soul-sucking conviction that everything is terminally fucked and nothing will ever make it better (the more frequent path) or bouncing off the walls wanting to hug everyone and take on the world (less frequent, doesn't last as long). In between in just coasting.

Since the meds, I don't get the soul-sucking moments anywhere near as much. It's happened a couple times. It's hard to tell if the highs have been affected because they're so rare anyway, but I've had a couple of those, too. Mostly, though, I'm just living in blankness.

2.
What do you think will happen if you don't do x?

This is the recurring question. I don't have an answer because I don't think anything is going to happen. It's a physical sensation, like little blocks being stacked on me so I can't move - restricted - it's probably similar to a feeling of claustrophobia. I can ignore it for a little while. It's uncomfortable, but I can deal. I'm used to being uncomfortable. But after awhile (like a day, depending on what the environment is sometimes a little longer), but it builds up to a certain point where I feel the pressure digging into my skin. I keep picturing it as Lego blocks. And I can't take it anymore. So then I go on 5 hour cleaning sprees or rearranging furniture until it goes away. The feeling when there are no blocks is euphoric. Like the first time you get out of a car after an eight hour drive. Light. Like there's nothing caging me in. Energy can move freely around again. Because that's a lot of what it is. I put things in certain places because when they're in those places, the energy moves freely. When it isn't in the right place, energy is blocked and everything gets darker, no matter how much light is actually present.

3.
Today was hard. The question of a hypothetical door that may or may not be locked had me twitchy and squirming and really wanting to lock Adam's door just to make the feeling for away. I also had my first cigarette in a week. There's something about the motion of it that calms me down more than anything else.

Diazepam also does absolutely nothing for me anymore. So that's a fantastic bit of news. I'm not sure if I want to mention that to my doctor or just keep self-medicating. At the moment he's trying to limit the number of pills I take because my liver functions have been off for no explainable reason. It's a good thing I'm not a heavy drinker.

I think I can work with Adam, though. I think he's intent on torturing me, but I can work with him.

4.
I really have a passionate dislike of songbirds.

5.
I love the fact that I can have an anxiety attack - and not even a particularly bad one - and over 12 hours later I still can't sleep.

Seriously, my body hates me.

6.
So I looked through the list of people I went to high school with. Hardly recognized most of them. It's weird. Knowing I don't exist for those people anymore. I bailed first chance I got and didn't look back. Firmly and totally shut the door on that part of my life. It's sad, too. Some of those people I really liked but y'know. 14 years later we're basically just strangers. (Shit. I graduated high school 14 years ago. What the hell?)

7.
An inadvertent revelation during a conference panel. Beethoven was the topic of conversation - different regimes that have used it for their own particular (and conflicting) ideologies. Everyone kept referencing the humanness of Beethoven, the passion, the surge of sound and energy, and that's what appeals to people.

I hate Beethoven. Cannot stand it. Bach, however, I adore. To me, it's emotive, sweeping, captivating.

For the group, Bach was the contrast. Universally. They pinpointed him as precise, mathematical, reserved in comparison.

I just found it interesting listening to their descriptions of these two composers. I wouldn't have used any of the same adjectives. It felt strange sitting among thirty or so other people who all praised the emotion and humanity of a composer who, in my opinion, is just erratic and nothing more. It was just an instance of pretty much how I feel all the time: everyone in the room sees something I don't get.

8.
Today I have learned that I miss attending lectures. I am definitely not being stimulated enough intellectually under the status quo. I need to do something about that.

9.
The world frustrates me. Check your facts, people, and say only true things. You damage people when you don't.

10.
I don't know how many times I say, I'm not saving anyone anymore. I'm not going to do it. Then you raise your hand and I do backflips to give you whatever you might need.

You infuriate me like no one else in the world ever.

11.
You know who would be really helpful with my research?

My dad.

I really wish I could talk to him about it. 

05.04.15 :: 11.04.15

1.
Today started out so promising. Motivated. Ambitious. I even made a to-do list. Then the realization that my CV is only saved on the hard drive that went missing in the US, and how much other super important stuff is on there that I'll never see again and I've somehow lost my e-cig (there aren't that many places it could go) and I took a break from not smoking (it's a holiday, sort of...) and. Just and.

2.
Alright. We're just going to restart the day.

3.
On the plus side, the meds are making a small improvement. After my crashnburn the other day I did pull myself out of it pretty quick. It just throws me off when I'm walking on what I think is steady ground and land in a sinkhole that deep. It's like there's no middle ground, just pingponging from one extreme to the other. But that's what my emotions are like - no shades, just primary colours.

4.
For the record, at this particular moment, I'm in a pretty damn good mood. Just to break up the whining and complaining a little.

5.
Last time I was home (parents, UK side), my mom asked a question I hadn't really thought about *: what do I do about my spirituality?

*I've thought about it, but didn't tie it to my anxiety, et al issues. I've thought a lot about not having channels to express it. 

Oh, man. There are going to be so many tangents here, but we'll get through it.

Okay. My mom was(is) a pretty unconventional mom, which led me to develop skills I am so, so grateful I have now, even if it is frustrating that no one else seems to grasp them. She didn't tell me who I was; she let me decide that from as long as I remember.

On the other hand, this made things slightly confusing when I had to integrate with the general populace. Being an only child as well, I didn't learn all the social lies people tell verbally (and more importantly, nonverbally). I'm not saying this right.

It's weird believing in things that are totally different. There's no church, no religion, no wise-and-benevolent mentor (humour me) to go to when you need spiritual guidance. There's only absolute, totally blind faith that you are going the right way and you aren't just totally nuts.

So. Being the only kid of a weird mom, this free form interpretation of belief was the norm. Even though the extended family is all Catholic (both sides, but we'll stick with the maternal since they were the ones who were around as a kid), I just that's what Catholic was. There were always imps and spirits and magic and not a whole lot of Jesus, and no one thought it was weird or unusual. Even when my mom bartered me off to God and Sunday Catechism, it didn't really click. There weren't a lot of Catholics in our town to begin with (seriously, at one point the church almost became a parking lot to another denomination before some artists got involved), so I only saw the ones my age on Sundays, and ideas about religion and faith really don't come up much with eight year olds.

The first person I lived with after my parents, Nothing had a weirdly similar belief structure and we easily integrated our different slants of magic. I've never been able to do that with anyone else. Point is, I was in my mid-twenties before I really ran into the whole religion vs. spirituality complication.

I dealt with that by closing it off and sliding by as a lapsed Catholic. Every once in awhile, I'd dip into it again, but always secretly and guiltily, and it never really worked. I just felt lonely and emptier. Occasionally, I'd try to fit in with religions that had a few things that fit around my beliefs, but that never lasted either. The zealousness on both ends of the spectrum are pretty insufferable, and I'm not so good with institutions.

Since I'm my own therapist now (thank you, NHS; this is exactly the sort of care foreigners are flocking to England to take advantage of. Go vote, UK!), I've been thinking a lot about when I've felt best in myself (most stable, happy, etc.) and I keep coming back to that time with Nothing. Now, I'm not painting it out as all sunshine and rose. It was fucking hard. We were poor as shit (at one point our furniture consisted of two lawn chairs and an air mattress we kept conning Wal-Mart into replacing). We were young and stupid about everything. But that's kind of the point. That was way harder than anything I have to deal with now. Things that debilitate me now couldn't affect me then.

And since then, since I started shutting myself off spiritually, I've gotten more rigid, more twitchy. The hardest thing for me to do is watching something with subtitles because I can't do anything else, which sucks because I really like foreign films. (I'm watching Brooklyn Nine Nine while writing this, and if I had more hands, I'd be doing something on the iPad, too.)

So. Mom's question. I told you there'd be a lot of tangents. I didn't think about it much then (things take awhile to process in my head). But then it occurred to me there might be something to it. Mindfulness is supposed to help anxiety and all that.

It might not amount to anything. And it is fucking hard to sit still for any amount of time. I started doing yoga to help with the chill out part. I've been being more adventurous with food, and actually cooking interesting things that take time to make (which, oddly, increases the enjoyment of it).

I still wish there were other people. I'm a community-driven misanthrope.

6.
I am stuck. Every day I try to get somewhere with this behemoth, to write anything, and it just doesn't work. I can't even write crap. There's just nothing there.

7.
I feel like a fraud.

8.
I keep trying to figure out what it is, why I'm stuck. Why I can't bring myself to put anything down even though my notebook is sitting there, ready and waiting.

I read over what I've written already. I do outlines and sketches. I look at maps. I watch documentaries and news reports on YouTube.

I google writing prompts and tips on what to do when you're stuck with your novel.

They don't help.

I meditate. I listen to music. I get bored with that station and change it. This happens five more times. I try to read but I can't sit still and only get through a paragraph or two before I call it quits. I watch funny things, serious things, sad things, weird things.

I google writing prompts again. I look at pictures.

I think about what I need to do and what I haven't done yet (I need to book train tickets, it's time to clean again, call the dentist, etc.).

I lie on my bed and think about my world but I don't know what to do with it. I feel like a failure, like I can't do this, Like I've used up whatever it is that lets me make things up. I feel flat. I'm a cardboard cutout of myself, flimsy and dry and only realistic from a distance.

I think about not taking my meds anymore. Is that really what it comes down to?

I stand on my balcony in the sun and watch the people in the parking lot and think about how amazing the sun is.

I go for walks.

I think, I can't write this story. I think, It's all in my head. I just need to do it. Just write any scene at any point. It doesn't matter. I just need to write something.

I hide from the bee that keeps coming into my room.

I think about doctors and health problems and how all of that just wears me out. I miss people. I scroll through Twitter and Facebook. I think about getting a job. I google jobs in Canterbury and think about how shit they all are and how I don't want to do any of them.

I dodge questions on how the novel's going.

I google writing tips and inspiration and first lines.

I think, I'm just trying too hard. The watched pot and all that so I play games and pretend I'm not looking to see if my subconscious is doing something.

I sit in silence. I sit in sound. I stare at walls.

I wish someone had some truly helpful advice. I wonder how people who sit and write every day pull it off. Where they get their words. I remember I used to be one of them. I wonder what happened. I wonder why it's so hard when I know the story, I know what happens, to just get it out of my head. I think if I could just get it out, it would finally be quiet in there.

Repeat on a daily basis. 

01.03.15 :: 07.03.15

1.
Researching this book has made me increasingly paranoid about ending up on some government watch list.

For example, today's goal: figure out how to take down a power grid.

Hypothetically, of course.

It doesn't help that most of my sources are totally paranoid about the government as well.

2.
I wonder what she's thinking as I talk. What does my internal world sound like to someone on the outside? I recognise the look on her face. Just about every doctor I've ever see has that look: I am not equipped for this.

I struggle when we review my previous therapies and diagnoses. One is the different systems. Two is my tendency to dismiss the ones I don't find credible. Three is the fact that I can put on the act of a very stable, grounded, fully functional human being when I want/need to.

(Want and need are one and the same, you see.)

I've never told any of them that, and I won't tell her. I don't let them know I will lie, scheme, manipulate to get what I want.

No, omit. Omit, tweak, censor. I never outright lie.

Honesty and I have a funny relationship. I won't accept any measure of dishonesty from others. I latch onto minute details, and call them out on the slightest variation. (Yesterday you said he was angry, today it's upset. Which is it?)

Concealment is dishonesty, but it's perfectly alright for me to conceal information, and I'm not dishonest. (If the information is requested, it's given, but it's not my fault if you don't know what you don't know.)

It's a habit I have with people to tell them they have to ask what they want to know. It's like a badge, a key for people that I like: here is how you get my secrets. Ask and I will tell you everything.

Have you ever been diagnosed with bipolar disorder?

No, not officially, but I'm aware how closely I follow it. I'm aware of the highs and lows, and that already because I'm starting to feel good again, I'm thinking I don't need to do any of this.

I have to keep reminding myself of black days. I don't want to have those anymore. They're gone now, but I know they'll come back so I have to do this for when that happens. I have to keep telling myself that.

They'll come back.
They always come back.

3.
As this goes on, I'm having to resist the urge to edit what I've written. Make it sound better, more insightful. Or whatever.

I also do not consistently use one spelling or another. Last week it was realize, today it is realise.

I want this to be authentic. In the moment. It doesn't work any other way. What would be even better is posting the actual pages (I write by hand), but I won't.

I worry about how many secrets I'm letting go. I protect myself by keeping these things to myself and a limited few. How does that change if anyone can know?

This has to be authentic.

I decided this would always be honest, so it will. That's the rule.

4.
I have mad coping skills. Sometimes I wish I weren't so resilient, wish I could be the one to fall apart so someone else can pick up the pieces. Usually when I get worn down from doing that for everyone else. But in the end I don't, because I know I'm better at weathering the storm than most people. I can be bent in half and twisted in knots, but I don't break.

Expert compartmentalisation, maybe.

5.
I feel like such a dork in front of my supervisor sometimes.

6.
I am so tired. Sleeping isn't going great - waking up every hour or so - but I an't miss the sun so I drag myself up to sit in it and feel like a zombie who can't string together even the most basic motivation.

My to-do list mocks me.

There's work I need to be doing - that I want to do, but even if I do it now, I'll have to do it again later because nothing is sticking.

I'm so frustrate with being patient with myself.

7.
I wonder if we'll ever find out way back home again.

Does it even still exist?

I want to say I miss you, but those are just words, and words don't mean anything. Neither one of us believes them.

8.
Lounging in sunspots is not luxury; it's necessary.

I still feel guilty.

9.
Could two opposites be so opposite to each other that they end up being the same?

10.
3:03 AM. Last (second to last; I'm going to have another) cigarette. Standing on my faux balcony (hovering in the six inch space between door and railing), thinking that my creative epiphanies have to come the moment I decide I'm going to bed. An ageless nameless voice cries out, then again.

The sound echoes over the parking lot and I can see the vibrations bouncing off the leaves. It comes from everywhere. And the right. Definitely from the right. Eventually I realize it's not just a sound. Mum. It's not a man, either. A woman or a boy (fourteen, brain supplies). I wonder if I should go investigate. But I don't have shoes on, and we're on the 4th floor (American). Just as I'm putting together what I'd need to do to go out and running through the debate: am I really a good person, or just someone who wants to be seen as a good person? (The answer is B.)

It stops. Total silence.

Now I really wonder if I should go check, but I'm also relieved. Silence is ignorable.

My brain does this:
the word "mum" +
androgynous voice +
slightly lower pitch =
adolescent boy with nightmare.

This is what I choose to believe.

I picture a woman having her head smashed in with a rock over in the park near my flat.
It's to the right.

11.
I need to learn to trust my process. I keep trying to wedge myself into the standard habits: read everything, write every day, have a creative atmosphere - and it just doesn't work. I end up feeling guilty and panicky I'm not getting anything done. Eventually I retreat into mindless television and video games.

I goof off.

I feel guilty about that, too, but it's better than pretending to be doing something.

After a few days, sometimes a few weeks, it all comes together in a burst.

Goofing off is my process. And it makes sense. Pretty much all my behaviours and habits are designed to keep my brain - the thinking part - occupied and/or distracted. Basically, out of my way so I don't have to deal with meltdowns over an overly detailed text message or that object A isn't placed properly in relation to object B.

Except when I work - when I try to work the way I'm supposed to. Think Brain is given permission to run wild, and nothing gets done because Think Brain knows shit.

So it makes sense. While it's distracted with killing radiated humans or doing a sitcom marathon, Picture Brain gets to do its thing in peace.

Think Brain has something to do with the not reading as well. It takes too long to get through the page with my brain jumping off in a different direction every paragraph.

The thing is, I know this. This is not the first time I've had this revelation. I just keep forgetting. It's like every time I start back at the beginning and come to terms with myself, and not what I think other people expect me to be.

Which is something that translates into every part of my life. I hate how much I think about what people's perceptions of me are, more than I pay attention to who I really am.

12.
Keeping this record is terrifying. But it's also useful. Promising to be honest was the kicker. A good 80% of my problem is too many things clogged up in my mind and nowhere for them to go.

That's probably where the fear of voicelessness comes from.

I can't say them to other people because they can't keep up - no, they can't follow is better, because my synapses take shortcuts they (the people) don't know are there. So they ask questions, and make interjections, or want to share themselves and it throws me off track. Because I have to focus very hard to live stream my thoughts. It requires translating these multi-sensory concepts into flat, limited words, and it's always easier to write in another language.

And there's no point saying it to myself, because that just creates loops, and that's not good. Sometimes I write notes that'll never be delivered, but that's just a temporary fix, because I know the thought was never really communicated, so it creeps back.

At some point, every one of my close friends has received a very raw, very honest (usually also very long) message (email tends to be the favourite but Facebook is catching up) outlining all the things I finally figured out how to say. Afterwards, I'm embarrassed and avoid it at all costs. The mental equivalent of drunk dialing. Though I guess it's usually drunk texting now.

But I've promised to be honest here. And accurate. Taking that seriously gets all this shit out of my head so it doesn't build up. Not all of it - for every thought I write down, there are about ten or twenty happening at the same time that I don't catch (though 10 & 11 happened simultaneously). But it gets out enough. 

Stones in my pockets

1.
I wish I could store energy like a cat. It'd come in handy when my brain decides my body doesn't actually need sleep.

2.
My sense of productivity is completely tied to creative output. I've done a bunch of chores, answered emails and typed up what I wrote Friday, and still feel like I haven't accomplished anything today because I haven't written any new words.

3.
My sense of time goes all to hell when other people aren't around.

4.
I get stickers when I do 1000 words a day.
Yeah, that actually works on me.

5.
Does having pebbles wedged in it make a fairy stone defective, or is it once a fairy stone always a fairy stone?

6.
Just own up and say you made a mistake. I can respect that.
I respect honesty.

7.
Watching someone I love go through exactly what I went through with Topher and I can't do anything but scream: Get out! over and over and hope he listens.

I want to say: I will fix it. I will keep you safe. I will make it okay.

But I can't.

I can't even be there in person. I'm just a voice holding up words.

It's the worst feeling.

8. Today was a good day. 19.02.15

9.
I figured it out.

For months I've been trying to puzzle out why Caleb gets out of himself and helps the camp, and she's been right under my nose the whole time.

I knew there had to be a reason she went from a very minor character to a full-fledged personality between drafts.

My subconscious is a sneaky bugger.

Down the rabbit hole.

1.
I'm writing myself in circles trying to catch his voice.

2.
Four hours sleep and I'm wide awake. So tired and so sore. But wide awake. I just can't get it right. I don't know what I'm doing.

3. [manic episode: 12:30 PM]
The more I think about the therapist lady, the more I think it's all bullshit. It's just trying to get everyone n line. If you wake up at the same time every morning, you'll feel better. That's the key to happiness, kids. 9 to 5, go to bed at a normal hour. Make a routine for your day. My problem is my inability to break routine. I can't even have something different for breakfast without my day being fucked (I tried; I had to have two breakfasts to right the world again). More routines doesn't seem like a good solution. And scheduled worry time? Allowing an hour for all the craziness to run rampant unchecked? If I open the floodgates, I'll never get them closed again. The hatches stay battened down because it's the only way out of the spiral.

Liberation.
Liberation from myself.
Freedom.
His word, stuck in my frontal lobe like a brand.
Red hot.

It works for other people, so it'll work for you. What makes you think you're so special?

Because I am.
Average = normal.
Special: better, greater or otherwise different from what is usual.
I'm not average so not normal. Abnormal = special.
Special has a lot of meanings.
It's all about context.

4.
I've been cutting myself a lot of slack. I don't know if it's the right thing to do, but it's what I'm doing.

It's probably not.

5.
I stopped.
And now I'm not moving. No momentum. Just floating. Drifting.
The things I fear have basis in my normality.

6.
It's going to be one of those days.

7.
Dissociation.
I am a twin of myself. A passenger.
There is my body (brain included), and there is me.
A soul?
My brain is an unruly child. For better or worse, we are conjoined forever in one vessel.

8.
I fully believe in a conspiracy of the mental health profession to actually prevent people from getting better.

Evidence: The one thing that does consistently work without crazy side effects I have been told consistently and repeatedly not to do, for reasons that are blatantly untrue.

They could at least make an attempt to use facts.
I conduct my own research.

9.
What do I do with all my lighters?

10.
I do it anyway. I know these people don't have my best interest in mind. They have quotas.

11.
I know my novel is about myself. It took me two years to realise this, and I wonder now if that realisation is what's tripping me up now. Self-conscious.

12.
I build little lighter hoards in my pockets is what I do. Collect the fire.

13.
I am morally opposed to violence. I don't believe it ever does accomplish anything. They say only people who don't know say that. They say in the moment you'll just react. but I am the guy who took 5 punches to the face and didn't hit back. Not because I couldn't, but because I really believe there is never a justification.

I know the only way for there to be no violence, for me to survive, is if everyone is 100% totally on board. Like communism.

I know they're not, but I have my convictions anyway.

Something about change.

I am reading a book by a man who not only thinks the total opposite, but openly ridicules my convictions, so I can learn how to write violence because my novel is violence. My hero is, for all intents and purposes, a serial killer.

14.
I know this is temporary.
I know this will pass.
It's still scary.

15.
The absolute novelty of being able to sit still. It's such a relief you almost want to cry.

[end 2:06 PM]

16.
It's just like when I was a kid. Missing out because I can't get my body to work like the other kids', because I can't keep up. And just like when I was a kid, I push myself beyond what I'm actually capable of because to do otherwise is to accept weakness.

But inevitably, I crash and there's nothing I can do about it.

17.
There's a point right between being fully awake and waiting for sleep when everything is clearest.

Not clear. Chaotic.

Snapshots of scenes and dialogue smashing all out of order but I don't have the energy to chase them down.

Like my brain's last ditch effort to save itself. I can only hope they'll survive 'til morning. 

Playing by the rules

1.
Creating encourages all my bad habits. Sleeping less. Smoking more. Forgetting to go outside.

2.
I want to be brave enough to run into the wild without tripping on all the what-ifs first.

3. Back to square one and the momentous effort required for the most basic things. I want to sleep and sleep and sleep but I'm afraid to stop moving in case I never start up again.

4.
I don't know how to make the words take me from point A to point B.

5.
This is what I should have told the therapist woman:

It's not about confidence. It's about people being unpredictable. I don't know what they're going to do so therefore I can't adequately prepare for the social demands on me.

It's that I forget to keep in regular contact with people. Because I forget about them (sorry, guys. It doesn't mean I don't love you.)

I have to think about so many things when I interact with people.

Maintain eye contact, but not too much.
Ask questions, but not too much.
Show interest, but not too much.
Share, but not too much.
Don't stay too long.
Don't leave too soon.

I can't stop thinking about it because it never just comes to me.

I need a formula for when to speak. When not to speak. How often to talk to someone so they know you like spending time with them, but you aren't suffocating. What their expectations are.

It's so much work. So, so much. And tiring. Some days - a lot of days - I just can't pull together the resources to manage all that thinking and being aware.

It's not about a lack of confidence. It's about not knowing what the rules are. 

Breathe away.

1.

After three days of feeling like some very small but pernicious creature was gnawing through my skull and even the word "food" made me want to never eat again, I woke up on Day 4 with an unfamiliar sense of purpose and focus. I even managed to get some work done. It took me ten hours to write 600 words, but that's still better than no words, which has been my recent daily average.

2.
Day 5: The creature is back but I almost got pancakes for breakfast. I wasn't quite up to breaking that morning ritual but the thought was there. We'll work up to it. But I'm also thinking, I'm not me. It doesn't feel like me. Is it me? The real me, or just an artificial approximation? But if the "real" me can't function without outside intervention, is the approximation such a bad thing?

Is the thought itself just a side effect? 

3.

My heart is beating because if it weren't I'd be dead. 

But what if it isn't?

4.

Accept my limitations and be honest about them. All my life I've wanted to just be like other kids, but I'm not, and no amount of wanting is going to change that. I can only do what I can do, and at least if other people know why... It's something anyway.

5.
Allowing myself permission to buy one notebook resulted in purchasing two.

I blame my mother.
She led me astray.

6.
I worry that one day I will (or have already) reach my quota of words. What then?

7.
There is something about superheroes and secret identities that I want to explore, but I can't pin down what it is yet.

8.
It's so hard for me to go out with people. If I have too long to think about it, I'll back out. If nothing is planned, I'll drift in my own world. It feels unfair to put the responsibility for dragging me out of my cave on other people.

9.
I'm not good at juggling. I can plunge into the deep end of one thing, and rock it. But I have to do just that one thing. Add two, three, I panic and freeze. Do nothing.

10.
I spent time with people and it actually felt good. For the first time in a really long time. As adverse as I am to this whole medication thing, it seems that, for right now anyway, it's what I need.

11.
I'm excited again. 

How do you feel about medication?

1.
GOAL: Talk to strangers.

2.
It's sad knowing a friendship has ended and there's no one to acknowledge it.

So I acknowledge you.
Maybe you were never real to begin with.
But I acknowledge you anyway.

3.
I need a notebook.

4.
GOAL: Give others what they earn, not what you think they deserve, or what will make up for what someone else hasn't given to/has taken away from them, or what you think will motivate them to achieve more. Sort out your own oxygen mask first.

5.
I always need a notebook. Why do I ever listen when Brain says: You have enough notebooks. That's not a necessity.
(Brain is usually right but we won't let it know that. Sh.)

6.
I hate being sick.

7.
Most honest, real advice from any teacher (also same teacher who made 17 year old me miserable): Square peg, round hole, kiddo. You always will be. Just keep them from turning you into a round peg.

8.
Through it all is the worry. Worry that I've made all the wrong decisions. That I keep making them. That I've boxed myself into a corner with no way out. That I've gone too far to turn back and there is nothing ahead of here. How long have I waited to start my life? Have I ever lived it? Is waiting living?

9.
There is too much.

Too much in my head, on the street. Too much to see. Too many sounds, noises, people talking. I think of every person who has walked right here, seen this very thing in front of me, touched that right where my hand is. I feel the weight of every person ever to exist in this space and it suffocates me.

I try to speak but the words can't escape. They trip over each other in a rush to convey the nonverbal experience and so convey nothing but stuttering syllables and choked off meaning. Awkward smiles because the smile is the default position.

10.
FOUND NOTE TO SELF:
I will forever carry the guilt of you.

(I don't know what it means.)

Bending Spoons

I had a mini breakdown this morning on the phone with Jinks. I don't remember what he was saying, but it was something that required Cheerleader Sashi and I remember thinking I am too fucking tired for this, which I felt guilty about, but then it all came out in a pretty rambly, disjointed manner. Jinks, though, is a star, and probably the one person who seeks out Cheerleader Sashi who's equally willing to do the same.

It's something I've been realising more and more lately. The lesson of the year, I guess. I put a lot of myself out there for other people. There are a number of people (I'm hesitant to actually call them friends because the situation resembles unpaid therapy more than friendship) who seek me out every time the shit hits the fan, or they're having a bad day, or something's wonky in their relationship with whomever. For the most part, I don't mind. Everyone needs someone to listen to them, and, generally speaking, I'm pretty good at disregarding the emotional parts of a situation and breaking it down so it doesn't seem like an impossible feat. I like helping people. I don't, however, like feeling like the sole food supply for a pack of ravenous vampires, which is how it's been the past few months.

Someone I considered one of my best friends just sort of dropped out of contact at the beginning of the year. I'd get the occasional message here and there, or a like on a status update, but no real attempt to interact with me. Every so often I'd make an overture, and might be rewarded with a few minutes of IMing, but more and more it seemed like if we were going to talk, I had to make the effort. Every time. I know life gets in the way a lot, especially when you're dealing with time differences and different schedules and things like that, but after awhile I just thought why bother?

Why should I be the one always seeking all these people out?

I'm there when they're sobbing at 3 AM. I stay up all night listening to whatever problem they're having and regularly screw up my own sleep schedule (or just go without) for the sake of being a good, supportive friend. Pretty often I'll drop whatever I'm doing (within reason) to make time for them if they need me to. I come up with random and thoughtful gestures when I think they might need cheering up. How many of them do the same thing for me? How many of them call me up just to see how I'm doing, or because we haven't talked in awhile? How many even ask how I'm doing, or what I'm doing?

None. I am the person who pastes on Band-Aids, wipes away tears and then sends them on their way again. I'm their free therapy session.

I think this all really hit home on my birthday a few weeks ago. Now, I'm not one of those people who expects some big thing made out of his birthday. In fact, most years, I'd be happy if the entire day could pass by completely without notice. My birthday, traditionally, attracts disaster. Literally. A few years ago, Hurricane Hanna hit land where I was living at the time on my birthday. So I like to ignore it. A few very persistent people never let me do that, so I suffer through it. Anyway. This year, every single one of my (local) friends - at least one of whom I have definitely gone above and beyond in terms of friend duty - totally ignored it. Not a text. Not an email. Not a single acknowledgement.

I guess the real question is: what is it that compels me to over-extend myself for people who, pretty much, are content to take and not give back a single bit? I honestly don't have an answer to that, because the fact is, I don't have unlimited resources. Spoon Theory sums it up pretty well, except I very rarely take the time to budget my spoons, or even count to see how many I have. I give them out to anyone who asks for one. Additionally, I take a lot on, and I'm pretty much always under some sort of pressure - whether it's related to school, family, work, etc. Well-meaning people keep trying to add more on - I know they're just trying to be helpful but it really is the exact opposite - with mentioning workshops, seminars, classes, competitions and various other things I could add to the pile and I really get tired of saying I can't. I can't. I can't.

Neko said he deals with that by ignoring his obligations and doing something he enjoys just to stay sane. Which is a good solution, except I'm at the point where even the things I enjoy feel like obligations, so I ignore everything and disappear from view for a week or so until the build up of all my neglected responsibilities forces me out in the world to scramble to put it back together again.

Or someone calls and really needs a friend to pump up their ego.

I know a few people have commented on my perseverance and tenacity, admired how I just keep going no matter what. I think a few others interpret that trait as a form of indestructibility - because you don't see what a mess I am that must mean I have everything under control. I would like to pass it off by saying I'm just a very private person, but I think the truth is a little more pathological. I genuinely believe that someone else's - anyone else's - problems, wants and needs have more weight and importance than my own. I don't want to bother them with my issues. Whether it's something trivial like being nervous about yet another doctor's appointment (why I still get nervous about them, who knows) or something bigger like when my father died or my cat was almost killed by a dog (yes, I did just put those two things on the same level), I feel like mentioning it to anyone is tantamount to attention-seeking. But there shouldn't be anything wrong with that. If something goes wrong in your life, you should be able to tell your friends about it and have someone at least try to make you feel better. Or at least make you feel not alone. It's similar to how I feel about letting anyone know about the panic attacks or OCD. I don't view those as valid reasons for the behaviours they cause - no, I know they're valid reasons; I don't think other people do. I worry that people will think I'm using them as an excuse to do A, B or C.

I wouldn't mind actually being as indestructible as everyone thinks I am, though. Most of that resiliency is just because I don't know what to do besides keep going. My attention span is too short to curl up in a ball and give up.

Maybe that's where it all comes from in the end. I don't feel like I can talk about the issues I'm having because very frequently they're caused by one of a set of mood disorders and the general response to that is "get over it". The reaction isn't much more sympathetic from the medical community, either. They either don't listen to a word I say, or, unable to find some dark traumatic cause to this things, throw their hands up and proclaim me cured. And maybe that's why I drop spoons until I've run out and then start writing IOUs for them. Sometimes the hardest thing to find is someone who will hear what you have to say, even if you aren't sure how to say it.