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.
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…
I’ve been staring at this blinking cursor for at least ten minutes with no idea how to comment on my latest pieces:
They are called, “Pay Attention to Me” and “Butterfly Kisses.” I guess that is all.
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.
Okay, so I fixed the painting…! But seriously. Then we could make goat cheese to have with dinner every night. (And goats are so cute! I love those videos on Facebook.) And I assume that we’d make a ton of money and have a never ending supply of wine. People would visit and buy our wine then buy my paintings because they’re drunk and on vacation.
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?
This doodle might grow up and be a painting, but we can’t really know for sure until it does evolve (ha, Pokemon joke!) And it’s a selfish, completely ME sort of work…
No really, it’s a few of my favorite things.
This has been a shitty year. Right now I am literally dealing with a post surgery wound, a still fresh mental diagnosis, a bite plate (see also: giant hunk of plastic in one’s face), 40 extra pounds, a creativity crisis AND I’m going to turn 30 any day now (see also: April 10th). There’s also a rash somewhere we won’t talk about. All this coming off the heels of leaving a really glamorous, high paying job to a safe, Anne Hathaway at the start of Devil Wears Prada sort of position that I love but doesn’t pay my exuberant credit card bills. And then I find out the local theater is doing my favorite musical and due to all this and more (see also: not skinny or blonde or young enough), I won’t be a part of it.
It’s the Sound of freaking Music. And as I was stewing in all this, wondering why I like the simple, outdated, cliche…totally nostalgic, heartfelt show so much, dwelling on how I can’t be a part of it and that sucks, blah blah blah and it occurs to me… There’s a song in there that I know SO well…and duh. This is exactly what it’s for. (Cue corny musical chord.) Now I don’t know about schnitzel with noodles, but I do know that owls and watermelon and mushrooms and wine and Jason and nail polish and Pikachu and so on are my favorite things.
So the plan is to paint this, maybe in a classier color scheme and certainly with more saturation. If I can’t sing it I’ll paint it and… And then I (hopefully) don’t feel so bad.
Stop your surgery scratching
You’re not the doctor
Leave the splinters and pins in the heart where you found them
I’m better off hurting
No more pills more pills more
A functioning melancholic
30 doesn’t mean you’re grown up
Fallen is the star
Insecure of shining
If the others will be brighter
But the dawn came for them all