Things are not well. My interior is worming its way out, oozing from my pours as my brain dysfunctions and melts into the nerves. I am decidedly purple, not a light lavender, but a bruised, ugly plum of a color somewhere over or under or inside the pale me.
My train of thought – stream of conscious/aspirational existential poet (what my dad used to call it) /carnivorous beast of a soul – is finding its way from my head to my mouth in the most unpleasant way. As I hear the words exit, my heart breaks and I keep crying, unable to find the will to make the branches flow back inside and stay rooted to my stomach in ulcers and binging.
This has happened before, the broken tips and loudness despite the feeling of cotton in my ears that doesn’t lay before the right way of projecting our feeling on a screen in lights with no sounds. Shoot. I want the words to lay hidden. The fears follow down the well to see the bones of Persephone.
It’s just so loud.
I need to say what I came here to say. To list the times this has happened before, so I can keep a record. Spinning round and round in grooves. Dust covering the smallest bumps giving it character.
Damnit. No backspacing. Just get through it. Just say it.
15. When I was fifteen it got bad for the first time. It wasn’t all of a sudden. It was built up over time. Little by little until the bad had no where else to go, but started to just come out – my eyes, my ears, my mouth. It just poured from every hole, a hellish black. No. I started to get scared. There was a beaver loose in the car. There were people jumping off buildings – everywhere I looked. Not only when I looked up because I stopped looking up, but in the shadows. I could see the silhouette. I started scratching, pulling at my skin until it bled. Trying to dig deeper to somehow find the bandage that was missing. My inner dialogue was already fractured by then, but the words and thoughts and streams of thought were worse…louder…angrier… . I was tired. There was no sleep. Even with my eyes closed, I could still hear it, growing. I wrote out a list of everything going on. It was pages and pages. My parents took me to see a psychiatrist and psychologist. No one helped. I was given medication that made me sleep, but it didn’t make it stop. It faded on it’s own.
Being by myself makes it worse – left alone with my head. I blink, shake my head, refocus and usually I can control it. My dad said I needed to control it. That everyone is the same. My imagination is just loud. That’s the sound. It’s nothing bad or wrong or different. I just need to pretend it’s not there. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.
I found drugs. They helped. The medications didn’t. I asked my dad this weekend if there was ever a diagnosis. No. They told my parents it was because of them. I don’t know. I don’t know. There is no way to know. I was told to journal. So, I did. One journal every week, and I poured my disjointed brain into the pages and hid from the world what I could not fix.
22. I stopped. I couldn’t do anymore. There was no way to sleep. There were few distractions at the gallery. It was me, by myself with my thoughts for so, so long. There were times of floating attached to kite string, flying, pushing down with one foot and leaping over the sky to see the buildings and streets. My brain whirring. I couldn’t stop it. So, I quit. I left. I walked away from the life I had built and worked in the box office at a movie theater. I felt safe. But, again, my brain – I couldn’t stop the noise and words from pushing me until I just couldn’t breath. No matter how safe I was, I couldn’t save myself. So, I burned my journals. All the boxes and boxes of them. And, then I was put away, locked in the house and not able to leave. I was watched, monitored. Maybe he knew. Maybe. But I don’t think he cared. I was ask the same questions over and over. I would focus when I had to, but most of the time I was scattered, pieces of me falling over the railing and down the stairs.
25. I would start screaming. I screamed before. And, like before, it was to block out the noise. I don’t want to talk about this. I didn’t want to be there.
32 to now. I feel it worse than ever. It keep building and falling. Years it feels like, crashing down on one another. No rest. It’s just so loud. So much louder than ever before. It says “Scream,you have to scream. You will feel better. You have to scream. Let me out.” And, I do and nothing is fixed or better. There is nothing released. It just is. Is it me? I’ve had focus. There’s a reason to think crazy thoughts because my world is crazy. I’m the normal one. I’m the ok one. I’m the one that can never have a problem. I’m not allowed.
I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I need to pack it away and hide it all back inside. Where it’s safe. Where I’m safe.
Thursday, I will see a new doctor. And, maybe then she can tell me what is wrong with me. I just want a name. So, I can finally put it away as just another thing and not me.
The new information about my mom – the diagnosis. Knowing how crappy it was being the kid of someone so royally screwed up and who never got help, well, I don’t want that for my kids. Hers is different. I want to get help. I want to be better. I don’t want to have a list of years when things got bad.
Like the time before, I wrote out a list of everything going on with me: