First Guest Author!

This is the first, of what I hope to be many times a friend has asked to share a piece of their writing here on my blog. It is entitled, "I have had..."

I have had 23 short years in this life, and have seen many futures for myself, but have not had the aptitude to reach out and align my trajectory with a possible fate that I deem desirable. I feel my life is a game of Russian Roulette, and I’m not the one holding the pistol but rather watching from the corner of the room, dreading the final outcome with every spin, preparing for the worst, but doing nothing to prevent or alter this fate, the fate that is so hastily being woven in front of my eyes. It is a nightmarish illusion that I deem a reality. 

Fate is not a predestination of a final ending place for oneself, nor is it the predetermination of an amalgamation of steps pointing to a specific destination, but rather, A reflection of a summation of both conscious and unconscious, willing and unwilling decisions made by oneself constantly leading to the end of a journey... To a location not known by the traveller, until they have arrived. 

I have had 23 short years in this body, and have seen many futures for myself, but time does not change for me as I see it accelerate. I actively observe the time passing like water leaking from my cupped hands. Despite my desperate misguided efforts to build, shape, and form, the water is merely water, it does not form anything more than the simple liquid it is once it passes through my fingers. Idle hands are the devils plaything but what happens if no-thing is done at all as time passes? As we accelerate to 0, what will I have to show for myself besides some wet hands and a life of regret and fear?

Time is not a constant when perceived by a living creature or beast, but rather it is a paradox, constantly shifting speeds in the eyes of those curious or wary enough to behold it. Like a falling body in a frictionless atmosphere, time accelerates until the body is obliterated at the point of impact, a certain eternal silencing guided by merely by a simple quadratic. Each passing year is a faster than any before it as the time for importance and meaning slips through the fingers like grains of sand in an hour glass. In all instances the final answer is zero.

Written by: Andrew Wallner

Bye for now

My dad sings barbershop, a kind of acapella using four-part harmony, and has been involved with that community for as long as I can remember. A choir boy in high school, he has always loved music and I believe that if he had completed college, that would have been his area of study.
Although we went camping often as a family, I especially remember camping with SPEBSQSA (Society for the Preservation and Encouragement of Barber Shop Quartet Singing in America) or as my dad affectionately called it, speb-squah. These camping trips happened annually; barbershoppers and their families would gather at a campground and for a weekend there would be performances in the amphitheater, relay races for the kids and men gathering in foursomes among the trees and tents to sing songs quintessential to that world.

On one of these camping trips, I remember being especially clumsy. As the tents and stove were being set up, little Isabel was exploring the site. Pretending to walk a tightrope I paced back and forth on top of a large log. I must have become overconfident and pivoted too quickly because I fell right between that log and another one that ran parallel alongside it. Little did I know, there was a nice bush of stinging nettle waiting to cushion my fall. Stinging nettle = 1, Isabel = 0.

I have always been terrified to use porta-potties. Something about doing my business into a dark hole with no end in sight, it freaks me out. My childlike imagination tells me that some creature is lurking there, waiting to grab me by the butt and drag me down into its endlessness. While camping, I was able to convince my older sister and her friend to go with me, in order to protect me from the toilet goblin. Although they consented to walk me to the outhouse, they didn't slow their pace and my little legs could not keep up. I took off running along the gravel path and fell into a pothole, scraping layers of skin off both of my knees. I remember my dad cleaning these gouges in my knees with antiseptic spray and bandaging them, successfully making me look like a bad ass. I was convinced I was a survivor and was not hesitant to share the story of my brush with death with many of the older campers. My dad called me his little trooper and I remember walking with him around the entirety of the campground, visiting his friends and their families. I felt like a celebrity; everyone wanted to tell me how brave I was and I was sure that my resilience had made my dad very proud.

Throughout my life I have made note of every time my dad has told me he's proud of me. After he and my mom divorced, my relationship with him drastically changed. I distrusted and feared him. We would fight, yell and scream but he would always win. I became primarily concerned with the safety and happiness of my younger siblings, letting my relationship with him dissolve. I have spent most of my life trying to navigate life without a father. There has been so much pain, so many deep wounds that I continue to heal from. We don't speak often and when we do I am unsure of what to say. I don't feel that he knows me and I don't think he will ever let me really know him. I coped with this; I convinced myself I didn't need a dad, poured my love into a relationship with my mom and consoled myself with a notion that the relationship I did have with my father was a special one. After all, I was his little trooper.
While he and my mom were married, he came to my soccer games and I still to this day am convinced his clapping could cause an avalanche. He coached one of my teams for a while and that remains as a time in my life when he was the most involved. Only very recently have I realized I was not in fact the son he never had. Our bond had never been anything that he didn't have with my two sisters.

I don't remember exactly how long ago, but we had met for dinner (something we do a few times a year) and I was determined to express clearly to him what I wanted and needed from a relationship with him. It was during this dinner that I reminded him of my tomboy days and how much I had missed tossing a ball back and forth or beating him at video games. I was disappointed to learn that he had never known that I felt that way. He didn't recognize that dynamic and thereby implied that it never existed. In that moment, I didn't recognize myself in his image. What was I, if not his little trooper? What did his leaving us mean, if he had never really been there at all?

I was twelve when Greg came into our lives. I still remember making a sign with my sister that said "No Gregs allowed!" to post to our bedroom door. It didn't hang for very long of course, my mom had us take it down. I didn't want a father, if it was not my own. It's a big decision for a twelve year-old to make, that they don't need a father. To this day I'm not sure if it's simply my stubbornness or just that I've grown used to my circumstances, but I have remained faithful to that decision.

My relationship with Greg has been a tumultuous one; there were times that I felt certain he would never love me. We fought often and a few times it went farther than it ever should have. In many ways, I felt that my mom had chosen him over me, my sisters and our family.
We had made a new family, after my dad had left. We moved into the house my parents had recently bought, without him. We would all find our way into my mom's bed where we would hold each other and say aloud how strong we were, hoping that eventually it would resonate with one or all of us. We were my newly adopted brother's protectors and our German Shepherd, Oliver, was ours. We were small, but mighty.

We had grown to respect each other, Greg and I. It has always been most important to me that he be a father to my brothers, who without him, would not have one. I will always be grateful for this. He would fix things around the house or buy something on sale because he knew I would like it; this was how I came to know he loved me. It is unlike any other relationship I have and I believe has taught me a lot.
I didn't realize before losing it, how much I had invested in the relationship---in him. He wasn't perfect or even the ideal father figure. But he was my second chance. He loves me in a quiet way, but it is more tangible than the way my dad has or will ever love me. Now, it will never be the same. I will never again be any man's trooper or surrogate son. I feel damaged, almost broken.

Is it my fate then, to be abandoned and betrayed?

When he is about to hang up the phone, my dad says "Bye for now!", as if to say goodbye is only temporary and that we'll talk again soon.
I hope that one day I will believe him.

A Smaller Existence

Sometimes I think I'm not meant to exist beyond my bed, or the couch in my living room. That doesn't always bother me.

Days like today I am pulled in separate directions. I wouldn't mind staying home; it would mean being productive but also protected from whatever I am convinced is outside waiting to hurt me. At the same time I am afraid that I will never be more than what I am inside these walls;  I am pain, I am disappointment and I will lose everything I have worked so hard for.

I have chosen not to go to school. This is not the first time and I'd be kidding myself if I said it were the last. Only a few moments ago I was sure that I had too much anxiety about seeing other people but enough motivation to do my schoolwork if I stayed at home. Now I am sure that I have made a huge mistake. I have stopped doing the one thing I had said I would do: show up.

I  could have pushed past the anxiety and gone. I could have just sat myself down and studied this past weekend. I am so full of bullshit. I am an excuse. I am a pretender.

When am I going to grow the fuck up and fulfill my obligations? Be accountable for my actions?

I feel sick to my stomach and I hate myself so here we go again.

Dreaming IRL

Is this a fucking joke? Is this real life?

Before I started taking medication to help me sleep, I never dreamed. Or I never remembered them, not since I was very young. Then I had only one dream, a nightmare that lasted for two years.
Now, I dream almost every night and often remember them vividly. Sometimes people I have known a very long time ago, or not very well are in them. Sometimes I do not even make an appearance. I wake up too soon, or in the case of nightmares not soon enough. But I always am hoping that the answer for them will appear to me when I least expect it.

In just the past few days, my life has felt like a dream that I am unable to wake up from. It is senseless, although all of the people I know well and in places I am familiar are present. I was on shaky ground already, I know. But I had things to hold onto, solid things of which now I am unsure and do not trust.

I am in shock. I am in mourning, for all that almost was and now will never be. Wounds I thought I had healed from are being ripped open and I don't know how to stop the bleeding. I don't know how to do anything else but feel this way.

Somewhere inside me, I know, is a will to survive. Always a survivor. Like my mom and the other women in my family. My sisters, aunts and grandmothers. Warriors, each of them.
We have survived and so will continue to because it is all we know.

let-your-hair-down, road-trip-across-the-country type of women
strong, “We didn’t need him anyway” living kind of women
always there to catch you when you fall super women

It's just hard, you know? Each time you are shaken to your core. You are broken and must rebuild. It doesn't get easier like you might think it should. It doesn't always teach you something or make you stronger. It just is and it's hard and it's happening to you.

What I will do for Love

I think I've been manic. I don't know for sure, which is new. I guess it looks different now, with meds and everything. I've been shaky, paranoid and productive---I'm especially suspicious of that last one. My skin itches from the inside, buzzing like it's an electric current, instead of blood, that runs through my veins. The worst part is my heart; its beating is fast, but so very heavy that it hurts. And sleep. Oh how I miss sleep. Even with my sleep medication, it seems like it takes me longer to fall asleep every night.

But it might be all of the coffee. And the stress of school combined with my determination to pass my classes. This may actually be very normal. I guess it makes sense that I wouldn't know.

It's unfortunate that whatever this is, I'm not going to get to know it very well. At least for right now.

Did you know that I would do anything for my family?
I'm willing to sacrifice whatever this thing is for them.

Sometimes I'm overwhelmed by my love for my family. But it's a scary thing, love. Isn't it?

A Portrait (Or Two, or Three)

I read an article the other day about a photography series a woman named Liz Obert is producing, called "Dualities". The series is a collection of coupled portraits of the same person. In one photograph, the subject is shot in a way that represents their experience with their mental illness. In the other, they present themselves in the way they present themselves to others. I'll link it below so you can see what I mean.

I've been thinking a lot about the article since I first found it a few days ago. I have been trying to conjure up images of what both of my portraits would look like. I'm still unsure. Am I only limited to two? The article and photography series specifically addresses depression, but I don't feel like it fully encapsulates the experiences of other mental illnesses. While each person and their life experiences vary greatly, there are also specific symptoms and behaviors that characterize each mental illness. At least for me, I feel like I would need three portraits. One to depict what my depression looks like, another for what my mania looks like and then possibly a landscape photo to show all of the ways I try to "pass" for "normal".

My depression is me, completely hidden from view underneath my blankets in my bed. The sheets ruffled like waves in the ocean and clothes piled high throughout my room like jagged cliff edges. Maybe I could convince someone to put on a fuzzy suit and be my beast? They'd probably end up looking more like a team's mascot (Go, Isabel, go! Fight, Isabel, fight!) than a beast that comes for me when I least expect it. I'm cocooned in my blankets and unaware of how close he is. His claws linger over the blanket as if he is about to rip it to shreds. Drool forming at his mouth and the almost human-like grin an intruder on his muzzle. That is my first portrait.

In the second, I am completely alone. Maybe I'm walking directly in the middle of the freeway at night, the bright lights of cars on either side of me illuminating my ghostlike figure so that I actually become invisible. Or sitting on the rail of a bridge, pointing my toes into the open air as if I'm stepping on the whole world. My eyes are vacant and I'm stick thin, my flesh is eating itself. I look as if I could break into a million pieces at any moment. But I'm smiling a huge merciless smile.

The third, the way I present myself to the world: I don't even fucking know. I guess the person I'm working so hard to become, especially the more unrealistic expectations I have for myself, is what I want people to see. I want them to experience me as the best version of myself. But I don't know what that actually looks like and is it important anyway? I'm never going to be perfect and that is what it comes down to. That's what I want. I recognize (to a certain degree) that my own view of myself is warped. It is not entirely accurate and can't be trusted. So making a list of all of the things I try to be for other people would probably just lead to a mental breakdown. I can never measure up, that's the whole problem with having such high expectations of myself. I'm not meant to. I'm pretty sure, some part of me set it up that way. So I'd keeping working so hard to prove to myself, my value. I will never be all of the things I want myself to be and by extension feel that I am not what others want me to be. I don't know if I have ever managed to "pass", to be anything other than what I am at the moment. I guess that's the important piece though, isn't it? To come to a place where I can accept myself for who I am at any given time.
So maybe the third would just be a black space, open and timeless. Maybe that's all I can do.

I'm probably not making any sense. I guess it's a good thing Liz Obert isn't trying to take my picture.

What do you think? What would your two portraits look like? Or would there be more than two?

Link to the article: "Dualities"

Spiraling Down and Showing Up

The last few days have been reminiscent of this time last year...and the year before...and the year before that. Starting to see a pattern? I definitely have.

I think that this pattern has a lot to do with the change in weather (it's dark from the time I wake up to the time I go to sleep at night), midterms and self-fulfilled prophecies. Mostly those prophecies, man. Those are killer.

What if I'm struggling so hard right now because I have been saying that this would happen? Maybe by saying winter is the worst time of the year for me, I have made it the worst. If I've been expecting to hit this low point for so long, doesn't it make sense that I would jump head first, down into it?

I don't know, maybe I'm wrong. Telling myself I've chosen this is hypocritical. I can't remind my mom so passionately that if "I could choose to do something different, I would have already", if I'm sitting here, right this minute, questioning whether or not I brought this on myself. Or maybe it's a combination of both?

I have a tendency to detach myself at the first signs of failure, although I admit I tend to read into those "signs", things that are not actually there. I miss a class, an assignment or piss an hour away instead of studying and I decide that it's all over, that I couldn't have done it anyway. I'm afraid of failure, I recognize this. That realization doesn't mean that all of the sudden I'm going to be able to push myself to do things that I don't think I'm capable of. It doesn't work like that, like magic.

The worst part, I guess, is that sometimes I feel powerless to stop it. I see myself spiraling, I see me screwing myself over by sleeping through a class, binge watching Gilmore Girls instead of reading textbook chapters or stuffing my face with leftover Halloween junk instead of getting off my ass and out of the house to get groceries. I know what I'm doing to myself, I know that it's harmful but I give up and give in anyway. I've got a stubborn side and fear of failure, mix those together and it makes sense that I might implode.

I'm aware of these things. I'm aware of them and that's why it's hard not to blame myself. I know what I'm doing, what it will result in and I'm doing it anyway. I'm choosing to fuck myself over. And at any point I could choose differently. Right? Maybe.

It wasn't too long ago that I was able to remind myself and record it here, that the hardest thing for me to do has always been to show up. I had said that I'm going to do more of that, above everything else. I haven't been doing that and my self-fulfilled prophecy is making it difficult to give it another go. I've been avoiding writing here for many reasons, I'm coming to realize. I was spiraling and gave the middle finger to everything, especially to the aspects of my life that may help me pin myself down long enough to find a way out. I didn't want to admit failure that was completely self-induced. I didn't like anything that I had to say, or was at other times, completely speechless.

I was reading through old Facebook messages between me and all sorts of people past and present, some of which might be a topic for another day, and relived the many voices of encouragement and appreciation during the early stages of this blog. Back then I wrote often and without restraint. Some of the time I felt I was impacting the lives of those who read and other times I was recreating (or maybe rediscovering) myself. It was my road to freedom.

I don't know if either of those things were true then or if they are still, but I need to keep writing. I need to push myself past failure. Through the days where I feel like I have nothing important to say, or the ability to succeed in school. I need to refocus (once again) on showing up.

Showing up means:
Waking up
Getting out of bed
Getting in the shower
Getting dressed, brushing my teeth and hair
Drinking a cup of coffee
Leaving the house
Getting on the bus
Arriving, to arrive in all the ways that word implies
at the place I choose to be that day.

I'm getting ahead of myself and we all know how well that works out. That list is long and I can't commit to showing up everyday for the rest of my life.
But tomorrow, I will arrive to my hip hop class, so I can dance the shit out of it.

Afterthought:

HA. I just found a post I started sometime last week before shit hit the fan. "It's halfway through the term and I'm doing so well".........I am going to be my own demise. 

I guess I'm glad I didn't finish it, that would have really made me look stupid. Maybe I knew it was too good to be true.

I refuse to run away. I refuse to sink. This term has been different, I refuse to chalk it up to good luck.

I feel awful about everything right now and I don't want to write about it because ultimately I am a whiny fucking bitch and nobody fucking gives a shit.

"Knock-knock", "Who's there?", "Your worst fucking nightmare"

I am so unbelievably frustrated with the system of this university. I am more than capable of doing the work for my classes and earning good grades. But it should not be so difficult for a student to navigate so that they might be able to afford an education, get the academic support they require to succeed and for professors to treat them as competent adults who deserve respect.

I thought that giving in and allowing PSU to label me as disabled would be worth it in the long run.

But people still can't see him, my beast.
No one can hear his growling but me.
He pulls me to him but to others I am standing perfectly still.

They can't see him so they assume that I'm taking advantage. What game do they think I'm playing? Am I supposed to be thankful that my professors are obligated to follow the policies set for them through the disability resource center? That they're doing their jobs? I don't owe them shit. Not an apology, an explanation or a thank you. I work fucking haaaaard. I won't take advantage, because what advantage is there to admitting that you are incapable of making it through school on your own? I can have my accommodations as long as I stay out of the way. As long as I don't use them.

You know what?
Jokes on you 'cause I can play by your rules
I'm stronger than I have ever been
Watch me succeed in spite of you
If you can't remember my name now, you sure will one fucking day
one fucking day

My Own Wild Tongue

"How do you tame a wild tongue, train it to be quiet, how do you bridle and saddle it? How do you make it lie down?" - Gloria Anzaldua, How to Tame a Wild Tongue
 
I'm taking a class called Writing as Activism and I think this just might be the best class I'll take at PSU. I get to sit among people who are intent on writing and changing the world for two hours, twice a week. These individuals have each come from very different backgrounds, have very different writing voices and are so willing to be vulnerable and share with strangers. It's been two weeks, four class meetings and I already feel like I'm part of something important. I'm ecstatic, determined and terrified. I did a big thing in class on Tuesday and read some of my writing. It's one thing to write behind a computer screen, far away from the reaction of your audience. It's another to read your words, out loud, and watch the faces of those around you as they take some of your truth for themselves.

In class we were discussing writing in all of the ways we know how. Not necessarily whether we prefer to write poems, short stories or opinion pieces--but what words do we use to convey what we mean? For some in the class, those words are in other languages or very specific to the place where they grew up.

I realized that my wild tongue has been the voice of my beast. And now, in this class, I may find a way to take back what is mine.

From my notebook:
I had learned to speak a language other than English and had not known it. I had studied the words while I lay in bed unable to sleep, my mind moving faster than the cars on the street outside my window. The words came to me through tears and the buzzing itch of blood through my veins. I had never been asked to speak it louder than a whisper until I met her, the guide to my wise mind. There are fewer words in this language I have taught myself. Fewer words but more emotion, than often times, I can face. Even without the words, my body responds and loses itself. Hours, days and sometimes weeks pass before I wake up and see the words scribbled on the walls and ceiling in cracks and crevices that swallow me whole.

The Hardest Thing to do, is to Lie

Truths:

• I worked hard and was productive over the weekend
• I put effort into all of my assignments
• I am in a strong place emotionally
• I am intelligent
• I am capable
• I am determined

One simultaneous truth that doesn't invalidate the truths mentioned above:

• I didn't do as well on an assignment as I had hoped

I've talked to Audrey, Robert and my mom about it. So I'm not going to go over the details again here. I've gone over it enough in my mind and aloud, I don't need to pull each strand of it apart and beat myself up until I draw blood.

What I am going to do, is keep showing up. This is new, I have never done this before. The best and most reaffirming thing I can do, I have decided, is to continue to work hard and be present. I'm not sure what the result will be; it may or may not be that I receive better grades on assignments, or that I feel an increased amount of self-satisfaction and confidence. But why the hell shouldn't I try? Why shouldn't I create an opportunity where I might surprise myself?

Last term, I didn't feel like I was doing very well in my classes. This may or may not have been an accurate perspective, but that is irrelevant. I didn't feel like I was doing well and I wanted to drop them all and maybe take an indefinite break from school. Fear held tightly in the palm of my beast's hand, told me I needed to act quickly. Rip off the bandage, so to speak. I called my therapist in a panic, wanting to hear her say that I should drop out of my classes. But what she said was this: Do you ever think about trying something you've never done before? Is dropping out of school the easiest thing to do?

Convinced that I was a coward and constantly choosing the easiest way out of my discomfort, she stopped me in my tracks. True, all I had to do was to go online and click "withdraw" for all of my classes and it would be done. That part was effortless. But my beast would pile my shoulders high with pebbles at first, then rocks until one day I would find myself buried in boulders.
And if I stayed in my classes, did the most I could do and didn't do well? The beast would grumble, growl, roar until he was winded and then curl up in a corner and fall asleep. Would it be difficult to stay in the classes? Of course. But would there be an end? Most definitely.

The hardest thing I have done time and time again, is walk away. So I'm gonna go easy on myself, just this once.

My Little Secret

I've been afraid to say it out loud. I've talked to a few people about my first week of school, but I've chosen my words carefully. My classes are really interesting, I say. I'm grateful to have weekends to study, I tell to anyone who will listen. But those are only parts of the truth. Wait for it--

I'M DOING REALLY WELL AND I'M SO PROUD OF MYSELF I COULD CRY.

There, I said it. Whew.

I'm fully aware that it has only been a week. The first week of school, of a new term and my third year of college. I fell to my knees and crawled here. But I've arrived and this feels new. This isn't a stroke of luck, or because others have carried me on their backs to be dumped here. My hands and knees are bloody and callused. But I have stood and it is on my own.
That is why I don't need to tell everyone what this feels like. It's mine.

One of my professors asked us the first day of class, how did you come to be here?
I didn't know. Or rather, I thought it had simply happened to me.

Since then, I have changed my mind. I have made one choice everyday of my life:
That I should live to see the next one.

And every once in a while I have a good day, where I make a bigger choice than the day before. I'm taking as many credits as PSU will allow me to enroll in and I'm going for it. It is absolutely, terrifyingly, delicious.

Did I mention I'm dancing again?

I don't even know what to call this

I've been on a self-hating kick the past few days. It's doing wonders, I can already feel the difference!

Jokes. Angsty jokes.

Yesterday it was because my body disgusts me. I spent an hour or so Facebook-stalking girlfriends of mine that I think are beautiful and shaming myself for not looking more like them. I am dreading summer.

Today it's because I got an A- in my French class, rather than an A. Also, I have a ten-page paper to write for another class. I had planned to sit down today and just bust it out. It's a writing strategy that works pretty well for me most of the time. Once I get started, it's not difficult to write until I'm done. It's the starting that is the challenge. Some days it's not, but a lot of days it is.

Instead, I'm in my bed, drinking coffee, listening to music and writing about the not-doing.

This is bullshit.

Afterthought:

Oh wait, here's another joke. I got started. I wrote about a page and half. I thought there was a possibility I would finish today. But then I didn't. And now I'm back to doing the same things I was doing before. And to add to my shitty list of excuses for not writing it, I'm watching shitty youtube videos.

This is a shit pile and I'm hidden somewhere in the middle of it. Godfuckingdamnit.

Fin

French is over, and that feels big. Unreal, but big. Two years, a university requirement and personal struggle---complete. I left class over an hour ago and I'm still shaking. French has been difficult, anxiety provoking and incredibly frustrating at times. But I feel the same as when I started; I want to be fluent in languages other than English. I want to be able to communicate effectively with more people. I want to travel to new places and have a bigger, if even slight, chance of being able to speak the native language.
That could be French. After two years of it, I'm well on my way. And even with my struggle to stay in school, I did well. I knew what I was doing, even if I was unable to realize it at the time. I could take more French, spend more money and time to make that goal a reality. I could. Or I could chalk it up to a good experience and take the classes that I need to for my major. I have the whole summer to decide I guess.
I wrote my prof a card, trying to express without being inappropriately emotional, my gratitude. He probably doesn't think anything of it, which is why he's such a good person and teacher. He was so incredibly kind, patient, flexible and generous all year. Every time I sent him an email in panic about my grade, or when I would miss an assignment and ask to make it up or take a test in his office or miss a lot of class---he responded quickly, effectively, honestly and with compassion. He appreciated having me as a student and had faith in ability even though I didn't.
So much regret, guilt and shame I hold onto from all of the times I have disappointed myself and by extension assumed I have disappointed others---I carry that with me. And maybe that's why I needed to write the card. To find a way to make up for how difficult it probably was to deal with me. To explain myself and to say thanks. But how is anybody supposed to fit all of that in a card?
The truth is, I'll never be able to really explain how I feel to anyone. The challenges I've had this year, the obstacles I've had to face---those are mine. It isn't possible for another person to know exactly how thankful I am for my prof, my unexpected victories and for my second year of French to finally be over. That'll have to be okay. I just wish I could say the same about my other classes. A ten-page paper and an "incomplete", for lack of a better expression, to complete and then I can actually breathe, and celebrate and breathe.

But I still think I'm going to give myself the night off.

Studying Self

I haven't studied yet. I'm just at a cafe, pretending that's what I'm doing. But I got out of bed this morning, early. And I'm where I said I would be, at the cafe. I have friends that will stop by and study with me. I've planned this so that I stay accountable. So that I am successful.

So far, I have done all of the right things. Now I have to do the hard thing. I have to quiet my mind, tell myself that I am capable. I've started to realize that the issue isn't that I don't understand the material. I am completely academically capable. I think I worry that if I tell myself I'm going to do something, accomplish something and I don't complete it, or worse, don't attempt to complete it at all, I will have to face the beast. He holds all of my shame, guilt, disappointment---everything. I have missed so many classes, dates with friends etc. to avoid all anxiety or discomfort. I take the easy way out, almost every time. At this point, I don't feel capable of actually doing anything that I say I'm going to do. The fact that I have to constantly check myself, challenge myself, to do that on any given day tells me that I can't. I can't do it.

Today isn't important because I need to do all of this studying, although it kind of is. It's most important because I've said I would do something and I want to do it. I want to do what I've said I would. I want to follow through and not get caught somewhere before I even begin.

I'm such a mess. I am non-committal, irresponsible, lazy, weak, oversensitive, immature and my life will stay exactly the same because I will let it.

I can't even believe this is something I need to think about or process. This shouldn't even be a thing. This was a mistake, thinking I could actually go through with this. I should have stayed home, in bed. If I don't expect anything of my self, no one else will. Right?

Now to study?

Back to Basics

I've been giving up everyday for a while now and I don't know what to do about it. I'm sleeping more, eating less and you can bet your buttons I'm not studying. My therapist encourages me to look at the things I'm doing right, the ways I'm living better, that might be more difficult for me to see. I guess it's true that I'm very critical of myself and have a hard time seeing aspects of my life where I'm successful. But I feel like I can't give myself too much credit, because yeah I'm not dead, yeah I've showered everyday, yeah I take my medication before I go to sleep at night....but that's basic.

I want to do better at life.

I am not the beast, but I'm not anyone I like either. To be fair, there are times when I do like myself. But they feel in the grand scheme of things, to be brief and far and few between. I don't know what I need to do to get there. Or if I'm just looking at this all wrong.

What if I were to do nothing at all? Is that what I'm doing now? If I were just to accept that I am doing nothing at all to like myself more, would I eventually turn out to like myself anyway?

Whether or not I ever turn out to be any of these things, I want to feel like I am:

Beautiful

Intelligent

Talented

Wise

Compassionate

Funny

Adventurous

Honest

Healthy

Happy

I'm no longer satisfied with the rare moments that I feel I am one of these things. I don't think it is realistic to hope that I might one day feel all of these things at once. But that's okay. I would just like to, more often that not, enjoy being me.

For so much of my life I have felt like a storm, sweeping great spaces, destroying everything in my path. I'm ready to build. I'm ready to create things, including a life for myself where I am able to love who I am.

But what do I know? This may be just the bullshit I tell myself to stay alive.

Home Again

It has been such a long time since I have written anything that means something. I don't know why it always seems to happen like this. I become so overwhelmed by living my life day to day, that I don't feel capable of expressing that to another person. I am rendered speechless. Days turn into weeks that turn into months and then when I feel a lack of meaning in my life I realize it is because I have forgotten to give it any.

This blog used to give meaning to my life. My beast, he meant my demise, but struggling against him meant something to me. Survival has been my purpose, my only reason to persevere. I have wanted to survive.

When returning here to write something, I asked myself where I should start, how I should speak for lost time.

This is all I've got:

My beast has not been vanquished, but I am claiming my life as my own.

He is not the reason I want to begin again here. This is the dedication I am making to my own self-discovery.

He is me and I am him, but then again, not at all.  

Fear of a Full Heart

I have grown rather accustomed to chaos. Today I had a day that was so good, I thought it was bad. I held my breath and waited to lose control.

I waited
to be thrown through the ceiling
hit the end of the universe and
fall, endlessly.

Yet, there was nothing. I cried for a schizophrenic man that was arrested for feeling threatened. I ate and spent more than I am proud of. But I also woke up early this morning to have coffee with a friend. I wrote an entire paper in one sitting. I went to class and participated in conversations. Robert and I went on a walking adventure with my little brother Max, and in the near future he may be able to sleep over at my apartment. I ate dinner with my family.

My heart is full.

I do not yet know who I will be when I am no longer ruled by my beast. I live for days like today, and yet I already miss him. Is that okay?

Beautifully Boring

I feel like a very boring person. For the last week, my days have looked like this:

I get up in the morning, go to school, go to work, do my homework and then go to sleep at night.

And I couldn’t be more excited about it.

Ch-ch-ch-chaaaanges

Tomorrow will mark a month since I created this blog to record my experience with bipolar II and my journey through recovery. The response I have received from readers, family and friends alike, has been overwhelmingly positive. I have been acknowledged, encouraged and embraced. When I first began the blog, I knew that the writing would only be the beginning. I have a vision much larger than one blog on blogspot. This is only one part of a larger project I am working on to educate, advocate and heal. I have decided to make the transition from blogspot to tumblr in the hopes that it will expand my audience, and I will be able to contribute to a much larger dialogue about mental illness. It is still in its very early stages, so please bear with me. And follow the link if you’d like to continue sharing in the journey with me!

http://hopeisabeast.tumblr.com/

Moral of the Story is...

Right now

I'm sitting on the couch in my living room

Me, Robert and Katie

In that order

on the couch.

It is rare that a person have so many powerful conversations in one day.

I feel so lucky to be alive, that I should have a day like today, and the conversations.

Even though my mom would disagree that it is luck at all, but an accomplishment.

Instead, I guess I am proud to be alive. To have had this day and the conversations.

Tonight

Talked to Katie about so many things

talked through tears and screaming and whispers and belly laughs

To a stranger man on the bus about mental health, sexual violence and what I wanted to do with my life

and then we shook hands and said goodbye.

He didn't make advances, or invade my personal space or follow me home.

He did tell me that I would be great at doing what I want to do with my life.

To Sabra about what it is that I've realized I want to do with my life.

And friendship,

and where Sushiland was because we couldn't find it.

To Ellana, Sara and Ryah

about my blog

my children's book

my writing

my vision

and relationships.

This afternoon

The beast has not been himself lately,

the medication I am taking makes sure of that.

He is more than two-faced, my beast.       

He has all of the faces of all those that have doubted me

and my face is no exception.

The other day he came to me as myself when I was a little girl.

She was crying, little me, about the size of her thighs, her arms and her stomach.

She was pounding on me with her little fists, raging

because it is my fault, you see. I have let her be fat

her entire life.

I cannot stop eating. There is a void somewhere inside me

and I fill it hastily, desperately with food.

The beast has not been like himself lately.

He has been distant and left me with myself.

Now I really have no one else to blame. Everything I do now, I am responsible for.

A couple of days ago I looked down at my stomach in the shower and fought a strong urge to cut it off.

Cut it out of me.

I don’t need to be thin, because there are so many ways to be beautiful.

I only wish I could be one of those ways.

Today I dressed, but there was nothing to wear that would hide the fat.

Hide the pain, the void and the harm I’ve done to myself by eating without restraint.

I have always found it hard to be naked.

Bare and vulnerable.

These days I refuse to be naked. I disgust myself.

I just want to chop, chop, chop the ugly away.

Thinking about it now, I feel sick to my stomach.

Where is my self-control? Why am I so weak?

Little me screams that she doesn’t know.

 
Last Night
I feel like the enemy in hostile territory.
Holed up in my room, with only my beast for company.
I'm out of control, explosive, irrational and unreasonable.

All I want is space. All I can do is be responsible for myself.
I'm not crazy, but I'm only one that thinks so.

The beast doesn't mind the isolation, desertion.
He grows in the silence and the shadows, confident he will have me all to himself.

Moral of the story
I am so excited about this journey I've begun. I have waited my whole life for this.
I am going to therapy
I am on medication
I am going to pass my classes
I'm writing this blog and finding ways to reach more people
I think I want to go into social work and help mentally-ill/homeless/youth population
I am letting people embrace me

This is not it, this is not the end. My beast is mine and I am his. But maybe one day we can walk side by side, hand in hand.