Reality.....is relative. Sometimes my reality one day is not my reality the next. For example, my last entry does not continue to be my reality. That's one of the very strange experiences bipolar has to offer. What if you had to make decisions based on a reality that was always changing? Which part of yourself would you listen to, which part would get a vote? And would that part carry the same weight the next time the tables turn?
A complicated business.
Not a few times I've thought of giving into the crazy. Just letting go of this ships wheel. Because it gets so heavy during the storms.
But I could never let this ship go adrift. I could never bare to see it's polished wood broken and splintered against some ocean floor.
That's why it's so important to remember that reality is relative. I remember this everytime I stand at my helm, wind-battered and weary. I remember all I have to do is hold the wheel. Because every storm will pass.
About Me
- Nicole
- I am a young college student in New England trying to find my path towards a career in literature. I am also trying to find my path in the maze that is Bipolar depression and mood disorder. I believe that there is something divine in the pain of life, and I have great hope and love for those sufferers.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
'I'm alright, don't I seem to be?'
It's difficult to get sympathy from people for a thing no one is really sure exists. No doctor can point to an x-ray and say "there, that, it needs to come out." I have no test results to show my condition, to hand to someone so they can making clucking noises and hug me and say "we'll get through this together". Indeed, what exactly am I going through? This disappearing act called "Bipolar 1,2, or 3" or simply "mood disorder". The latter which conjures up images of a blond house wife in flowing robes throwing her bonbons across the room and collapsing on a fainting couch with a tear-stained face.
No, it's nothing like that.
But it's always there, you see. And I can't get rid of it.
Oh god, if I could just rip it out. If I could pry it's claws away from my soul...they dig so deep, and The Pain brings me to my knees and stops my breath. I squeeze my hands together to stop from screaming. But it's swallowed my voice, so I let go my grip. I stare ahead in horror, alone on the floor, soaking my space in tears. The Pain, please God, The Pain is too much, I won't make it this time. I shake my head and rock back and forth like a mother over the body of her dead child. All at once I am mourning and dying and falling into the pit of Hell here in my very room. Suddenly my skin is so heavy on my bones, it's so heavy and my bones are breaking and I have to get out of my skin before I crumble into pieces. My clothes are covered in Pain and I can't stand them and my skin is crushing my bones. I can hear it now, my soul is giving away I can feel it tearing...The Pain, I can't stand it I've got to rip it out I tell you I've got to get it out oh God......
And then my memory is gone until the next day. I know I am still alive because I can hear the noises of my home. I know it must have all been in my head, because no one has rushed me to the hospital. This realization amazes me. How did I survive The Pain then? Didn't anyone look on in fear and desperation? Didn't anyone cry at the sight of me in Pain? Did no one lift me from the floor and carry me to help? No. No one did. No one heard. No one saw.
So I move carefully out of bed, naively expecting a wound to bleed, and bones to crack. Nothing happens, I'm together with no flesh missing. Slowly the memory of The Pain fades as I make my way back to life. But it will be back. I know it will be back. It always is. And I can't get rid of it.
No, it's nothing like that.
But it's always there, you see. And I can't get rid of it.
Oh god, if I could just rip it out. If I could pry it's claws away from my soul...they dig so deep, and The Pain brings me to my knees and stops my breath. I squeeze my hands together to stop from screaming. But it's swallowed my voice, so I let go my grip. I stare ahead in horror, alone on the floor, soaking my space in tears. The Pain, please God, The Pain is too much, I won't make it this time. I shake my head and rock back and forth like a mother over the body of her dead child. All at once I am mourning and dying and falling into the pit of Hell here in my very room. Suddenly my skin is so heavy on my bones, it's so heavy and my bones are breaking and I have to get out of my skin before I crumble into pieces. My clothes are covered in Pain and I can't stand them and my skin is crushing my bones. I can hear it now, my soul is giving away I can feel it tearing...The Pain, I can't stand it I've got to rip it out I tell you I've got to get it out oh God......
And then my memory is gone until the next day. I know I am still alive because I can hear the noises of my home. I know it must have all been in my head, because no one has rushed me to the hospital. This realization amazes me. How did I survive The Pain then? Didn't anyone look on in fear and desperation? Didn't anyone cry at the sight of me in Pain? Did no one lift me from the floor and carry me to help? No. No one did. No one heard. No one saw.
So I move carefully out of bed, naively expecting a wound to bleed, and bones to crack. Nothing happens, I'm together with no flesh missing. Slowly the memory of The Pain fades as I make my way back to life. But it will be back. I know it will be back. It always is. And I can't get rid of it.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
I get by with a little help from....
It's a scientific fact that loneliness does as much damage to a person as heart disease or diabetes. Whether we want to accept it or not, as humans we are wired to long for physical contact. When we do not receive it our brains send out a signal that something crucial to our survival is missing. It is the same signal that is sent out for food and water. In fact, given the choice between physical contact and comfort over food and water, we will choose the first. It is also true that one can be completely alone in a crowd. I do not have to be shipwrecked on a desert island to feel that my soul has no mate. I do not have to be secluded in an isolation cell to feel that my words will never be heard. In fact, I'm usually quite cramped with people. But my soul is the only echo in a very empty room. And if you do not feel love, if you cannot pour it into your heart so that it overflows and you leave marks of happiness wherever you go....then love does not exist for you. Words can be an immense comfort. They can make us feel connected....until you realize that words are all you have. Words cannot help you stand when you are bent in half by emotion. Words cannot warm you with embrace.
Just as words won't fill a hungry belly, words won't fill an empty room. And there aren't words enough to express The Pain.
Just as words won't fill a hungry belly, words won't fill an empty room. And there aren't words enough to express The Pain.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Dream sweet dreams for you, dream sweet dreams for me.
It always seems it's easier for the things we're most vulnerable to, to get to us at night. Things that have ceased to be seem to come alive again and memory becomes a hole to fall into, instead of a place to visit and leave when we wish.
When I say "we" I mean "me" of course, but I hope and mostly know I'm not the only one.
As soon as the sun goes down we're stripped of anything that can't follow us to the next life, and left with only the things that determine our judgment. It's no wonder so many people have trouble sleeping. It's no wonder we look for ways to dislodge our burdens and places to store them, out of sight but safely secured. I long for the day I could take off my memories before bed like I take off my jewelry. I would place them on my bedside table, and be able to sleep unabashed, knowing I wouldn't be jilted awake from the stab of a sterling silver feather in my neck. Or the scratch of desperation on my arm. How many of our wounds do we contract while we're sleeping? How many times have we forgotten to put away our fears, and left untamed, have sliced holes in our hopes when we roll over? How many times do we check our locked front doors, our ovens and heaters, but think nothing of letting our regrets and animosities roam the night streets? Getting into God knows what.
I long for the day it would be like flipping a switch. After all, I never forget to turn my light out.
When I say "we" I mean "me" of course, but I hope and mostly know I'm not the only one.
As soon as the sun goes down we're stripped of anything that can't follow us to the next life, and left with only the things that determine our judgment. It's no wonder so many people have trouble sleeping. It's no wonder we look for ways to dislodge our burdens and places to store them, out of sight but safely secured. I long for the day I could take off my memories before bed like I take off my jewelry. I would place them on my bedside table, and be able to sleep unabashed, knowing I wouldn't be jilted awake from the stab of a sterling silver feather in my neck. Or the scratch of desperation on my arm. How many of our wounds do we contract while we're sleeping? How many times have we forgotten to put away our fears, and left untamed, have sliced holes in our hopes when we roll over? How many times do we check our locked front doors, our ovens and heaters, but think nothing of letting our regrets and animosities roam the night streets? Getting into God knows what.
I long for the day it would be like flipping a switch. After all, I never forget to turn my light out.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Welcome to my pre-existing state of being
I'm not sure to what purpose I'm putting this out there. Other than to hear something else besides the roar of useless complaints and random statements of drunken nights. Something else besides the constant buzz of a million things that don't matter. Maybe to remind myself of things beyond the four town radius of my life thus far. To reaffirm my belief that there is a core to people beyond what they're going to do this weekend. That you're walking this road for a purpose and not just because you're killing time.
Maybe...to remind myself of a time when things were bad, so I can remember what it feels like to step into the light and out of the darkness. When there were not yet words invented to describe the pain. When colors were actually less bright. When I had stopped eating because it seemed everything tasted of hot salty tears. When everything I owned was covered in a dull sadness that wouldn't wash off. To remind myself what years devoid of passion and want can do to the human spirit. Maybe, to remind myself what it feels like to grow old ten times faster than you're supposed to.
And maybe to remind myself of something else. A seemingly small feeling. Tiny, but reoccurring, resembling a heartbeat. Often times, very often, almost undetectable and therefore presumed dead.
I was told over and over that there was hope. So many times that hope became to me like a fairytale, or a story from the Bible. Something that was, that isn't anymore. Something that people find pleasant to remember, especially at night if the wind is very cold. Like Snow White or Moses, hope didn't apply to my life. No one could tell me how to make hope appear, where to get it from, or what it looked like. Apparently I was simply supposed to produce hope from the thin air. Shut my eyes tight, hold my breath, concentrate and it would appear. This legendary hope that would be my well of crystal clear water, after having traveled so long in the desert.
Maybe this is to remind myself that behind the darkness and under the sadness, to the left of the despair and just after the bitterness, was the thing ten years of heavy pain couldn't crush.
To remind myself of what is left at the bottom of our ocean when the sand and gravel has been cleared away, after the water has dried up.
Of what is left when the rubble of our tragedies has been lifted and the remnants of our anger pushed to clear a path.
To the purpose of pushing aside the sand and gravel, and rubble and remnants long enough to give the thing that keeps us breathing a little fresh air, a little sunlight, if only for a minute. To say that it is no fairytale or legend. It is no Tooth Fairy or Santa Claus. This time I have proof that it's real, and it is no small feeling at all.
XIX.
The Mystery of Pain by Emily Dickenson
Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.
It has no future but itself,
Its infinate realms contain
Its past, enlightened to percieve
New periods of pain.
VI.
Hope by Emily Dickenson
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
This will be my account of the reality of Hope and the story of the Pain. Every ones Pain is different. Some is physical, some is emotional. Some Pain exists only in our silent dark nights. All are intangible. My goal in creating yet another blog for the masses, is to take the fear away from the Pain. Mine and yours, whatever form it may take. To understand the Pain's purpose in our lives and why we must go through it, or nothing else is possible. Hope and the Pain are older than the begining of time. They are the first thing to exist and the last thing to leave us, and they are what it's all about.
-N
Maybe...to remind myself of a time when things were bad, so I can remember what it feels like to step into the light and out of the darkness. When there were not yet words invented to describe the pain. When colors were actually less bright. When I had stopped eating because it seemed everything tasted of hot salty tears. When everything I owned was covered in a dull sadness that wouldn't wash off. To remind myself what years devoid of passion and want can do to the human spirit. Maybe, to remind myself what it feels like to grow old ten times faster than you're supposed to.
And maybe to remind myself of something else. A seemingly small feeling. Tiny, but reoccurring, resembling a heartbeat. Often times, very often, almost undetectable and therefore presumed dead.
I was told over and over that there was hope. So many times that hope became to me like a fairytale, or a story from the Bible. Something that was, that isn't anymore. Something that people find pleasant to remember, especially at night if the wind is very cold. Like Snow White or Moses, hope didn't apply to my life. No one could tell me how to make hope appear, where to get it from, or what it looked like. Apparently I was simply supposed to produce hope from the thin air. Shut my eyes tight, hold my breath, concentrate and it would appear. This legendary hope that would be my well of crystal clear water, after having traveled so long in the desert.
Maybe this is to remind myself that behind the darkness and under the sadness, to the left of the despair and just after the bitterness, was the thing ten years of heavy pain couldn't crush.
To remind myself of what is left at the bottom of our ocean when the sand and gravel has been cleared away, after the water has dried up.
Of what is left when the rubble of our tragedies has been lifted and the remnants of our anger pushed to clear a path.
To the purpose of pushing aside the sand and gravel, and rubble and remnants long enough to give the thing that keeps us breathing a little fresh air, a little sunlight, if only for a minute. To say that it is no fairytale or legend. It is no Tooth Fairy or Santa Claus. This time I have proof that it's real, and it is no small feeling at all.
XIX.
The Mystery of Pain by Emily Dickenson
Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.
It has no future but itself,
Its infinate realms contain
Its past, enlightened to percieve
New periods of pain.
VI.
Hope by Emily Dickenson
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
This will be my account of the reality of Hope and the story of the Pain. Every ones Pain is different. Some is physical, some is emotional. Some Pain exists only in our silent dark nights. All are intangible. My goal in creating yet another blog for the masses, is to take the fear away from the Pain. Mine and yours, whatever form it may take. To understand the Pain's purpose in our lives and why we must go through it, or nothing else is possible. Hope and the Pain are older than the begining of time. They are the first thing to exist and the last thing to leave us, and they are what it's all about.
-N
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