wonder what’s wrong with me

One time, instead of getting ready for school (8th grade, I think), I locked myself in the bathroom and tried to kill myself. I laid at the bottom of the bathtub as it filled up, not resolved but terrified. I don’t think I was scared of dying, I was scared of myself…that I could have that much hate and anger in me, to take a life. I’ve thought of suicide before and after this episode, but this was the only time I ever actually attempted it. Thankfully I screamed my intentions to my dad, who was furious and broke down the door. Strangely, I don’t remember what happened next.

This is the problem I have with writing a memoir, or any story. I have gaps in my knowledge of the events. I think it has something to do with the bipolar, but it’s very inconvenient.

I don’t know why I’m thinking about this today. Probably because I’m still trying to figure out exactly what went wrong in my novel writing last night.

i can’t hold onto me

Here I am, in the aching place that hypomania left behind. This one was so brief, but blazed hard and burnt me up last night. I had to take an impromptu two hour nap just to recover, and today I still don’t feel quite right. I miss having the inspiration, the excitement. Now all I have is longing. I look at my writing notes and wonder if I will ever be able to write this fucking novel. Maybe it’s just not in me. Maybe it will only happen in the short moments of manic glory.

I thought that medication would make me perfect. That the pills would carve out all the doubt and self-loathing and replace it with confidence and commitment to the things I want for myself. Today I feel like all it’s done is made it hard to cry, and instead of big episodes that sweep through the household like a windstorm, I have just these little earthquake tremors. And that must be life.

I journaled last night. Just a page or so of whining. I don’t think it helped anything but I didn’t feel like I could draw or paint and I certainly wasn’t able to write with my heart broken up over yet another failed novel attempt. And what do you do when nothing is possible? When nothing helps?

Perhaps I need to go back to reading about my condition, studying the exercises that are supposed to give clarity. I could take my doctor’s advice and run around in the sunlight for a while, but lazing about and eating sounds much more appealing…

Gambling

It’s done, the pastel dust has settled…and I lost. I learned a lot. Like heavy black lines are NOT always a good idea. A light color will never cover a dark color. Bigger is not better.

Trust your instincts.

The truth is this painting died moments after I sketched it out and outlined it in sharpie. That’s when the itch to draw had been scratched and I remember thinking that the design was too weak to go on. But I spent too much money on the canvases and had no other inspiration calling, and so I plowed on, unhappily, until tonight when at sometime before 8pm I called it.

I’m frustrated still. I hit when I should have stayed and I busted, but can you blame me if I was only at a 16 with this painting?

Does that make sense to anyone else but me?

I’m not posting a picture because in a rage I shoved the pieces out of sight and I’m not ready to look at them again.

Oldies but Goodies

I found my old profile(s) on fictionpress.com, and wow…there are some gems, but mostly it’s all just good old fashioned teenage angst posted there. But I kind of like it. It tells a story. So I’m going to share it all here — the good, bad and ugly. Whenever I’m feeling guilty for not posting anything in a while, or that writer’s block will be the end of me, I’ll just post some oldies but goodies.

Here’s a favorite…

Melancholy

She was always thinking of that limit in the sky
Wondering why the one who set it only dared to go that high
She wondered if a human soul can outgrow its mortal shape
As she outgrew the threadbare life all others hoped to make
How relentless were these hungry thoughts chewing on her mind
Evolving into ardent dreams that consumed her every night
She dreamt the clouds were packaging and the world was a box
And heaven was a blanket that lay across the top
She dreamt she had the strength to break out of her confines
But as she opened up the box the blanket fell aside
And there was another limit at the edge of heaven lay
Beyond that there was nothing but hills of empty space
The starred pattern on the blanket said she could finally rest
That the warmth and bliss of heaven would end her daunting quest
Instead of lying down to sleep the dream ended and she woke
She raised her head up high and to God in heaven spoke
“The happiness of heaven may be more than I have known
But how can you offer paradise that’s less than what I own?”
Dejectedly she decided that her dreaming days were through
Not knowing that God in heaven was once a dreamer too

This is really about me wanting to be a Sailor Senshi or another such superhero…which at the time was the only way I thought my life would have meaning. I thought there had to be a bigger picture and that I should be an essential piece. I was also struggling with whether or not there is a God, or heaven and hell. I submitted this poem for competition in college and got an honorable mention, I think. It’s cute and I like it, even if it is a little “melancholy.”

And for fun, here’s a really corny, bad poem that I remember being better than it is.

Written

There’s a sentence on her countenance that remains incomplete
While dressed in that pretty paperback hiding a novel underneath
With a scant summary printed in the perfume on her wrists
The grammar is in her smile, the words glitter on her lips
Spelled by hands in conversation, then published in her eyes
In a lovely cursive hand still wet with ink of light
At night I duly worship the author of her skin
And ugly bookmark reaching for every secret there within
And the hours I’ve spent plagiarizing to honor her in rhyme
Compared with such perfect sources seems hardly worth the time

I really wanted someone to write a romantic poem for me, so I just up and did it myself. Think I could have beat the horse any deader with the metaphors? Jeez…

One more — an angry open letter.

Garbage

There are some things that were meant to be
And I guess this isn’t it
How could it take me all these years
To get sick of all  your shit?
Too bad your IQ could not keep up
With all your fucking lies
So here’s the end
Fuck you then
I’m done wasting all my time
I can’t help you one bit if you don’t want to help yourself
And why should I try for you if you won’t try for me?
Having friends should never have been hazardous to my health
And this, the poem I wrote for you, is the one you’ll never read
Too much of my life has been thrown away for you
I hope you know the rest of the world is sick of your garbage too
I pray someday you’ll finally catch a fucking clue
But who knows? You’re pretty thick
It still hasn’t clicked that I’m fucking pissed at you

HAHAHA! I love this. It’s so basic and fun. I don’t even remember who it was about. I guess that goes to show you that the small things really are just small things…

That’s all for now, folks!

 

 

Besides which you see…

I don’t know whether things have been busy or if I have just been uninspired, but the result is the same…no art, no writing, no blogging. And yet I have been in a good place. Money stinks, but my happiness is invaluable…and through the wonders of modern medicine and my loving husband’s support, I feel like I’ve become a happy, well-adjusted adult capable of participating in society. (Knock on wood.)

Anyway, you may remember me bitching and complaining about not being a part of a local theater production of The Sound of Music. True to life and the phrase “you can’t always get what you want (you get what you need),” I was cast in another production that I’ve become exceedingly excited about…Kiss me Kate! So I’m not sure as to my free time in the upcoming weeks. Thankfully I don’t run a popular blog… ^_~

In this particular production I get to star opposite said loving husband, which is about the coolest thing in the world. Stage magic is the best, and being able to share that with the person you love is really special…as well as stressful. Our lives have been consumed with lines, music, blocking and choreography. I wake up at night with songs stuck in my head, and at any given moment I am muttering my character’s dialogue. My commuting concerts in the car have turned into mini rehearsals.
But I am not complaining. Like I said, it’s the coolest thing in the world. But I am struggling with confidence. Confidence is this sexy, desirable trait…so naturally it’s one that I find elusive. Can obsessive compulsive and awkward be the new confident in 2017, please? Or do I really have to make a resolution to be more confident…? Is such a thing possible?