Beast-thief

I like to make plans.
I like to know what my day, week, year
life
is going to look like.

I like consistency.
Knowing what to expect, even if it's something I'm not going to like.

I like being successful.
Deciding to do something
and then
just doing it.
And being done with it.
And knowing that I was capable
and competent
and maybe even good
at something.

He has stolen that from me, the beast.
What I want, what I thought I knew and who I am.

Everyday is a test I seem to fail.
I'm tired of waking up in the morning and realizing that I could have achieved more
by never waking up at all.

YOU

How do I explain?
How do I make you understand how important this is?
To me? To my life?
To those like me?

How do I make you care?
Care enough to change the way you feel?
The way you treat me? And those like myself?

I am consumed by thoughts of this
I think about it everyday, all of the time
It is so big, this illness of mine
So big it could swallow me up whole
Some days I drown in my thoughts of it

Do you know what that feels like?
Do you?
DO. YOU. FEEL. ANYTHING.

You're reading this. I know you are.
So say something
Anything
about it. Any of it.

Or you are just like anyone who has ever called me
crazy
nuts
psycho
overdramatic
sensitive
emo
possessed
selfish
self-centered
intense
moody
weak
a drama queen
a liar
a baby
a bitch

Acknowledge me and my experience. Can you do that?

Not Like the Others #1

When you've been struggling for so long, you are willing to do just about anything to start living your life again. Unfortunately, that willingness often isn't enough. Just because I'd like to be better, doesn't mean I will be. If that desire was enough, then I wouldn't be dealing with any of this would I?
I know it was unrealistic to go to the doctor today and expect immediate results, but regardless I am disappointed. I respect that he was honest with me and that he doesn't feel comfortable prescribing me with medication, but I'm also really tired of carrying on like this. Cycling through emotions so rapidly is exhausting enough, but I also have school and work to worry about.

I believe my doctor has the best of intentions, but I left my appointment feeling misunderstood. He asked that I agree to a verbal contract that I must tell my mom, Robert or him if I feel that I may harm myself or others. While I believe that was a reasonable request to make, he referred to others as "innocents" and his temporary solution was to prescribe me Valium for manic episodes, which left me feeling like the guilty party; like a dangerous person who requires sedation as not to be a threat to the safety of people. I have to remind myself that this is not my fault, this is not my choice and this does not have to be my whole life.

I have an appointment set for the nineteenth of next month with another doctor, but so much can happen in a few weeks. When my moods are shifting drastically within hours and sometimes minutes, a few weeks feels like an eternity. I've also come to realize that this doctor uses natural treatment techniques, so while she may be able to offer helpful supplements, she won't be able to help me find a long-term medication that works. So I'm back to square one, and must find a healthcare professional that:

• Is covered by my insurance
• Has experience with bipolar
• Can prescribe medication
• Is located relatively close to where I live
• Is accepting new patients
• Can see me in the near future

I am so very fortunate to have people in my life that care about me, want to better understand my illness and are willing to make sacrifices of their own in order for me to get the help that I need. I am frustrated by the process and I am overwhelmed by my circumstances, but more than anything I feel sorry for those who do not have the support that I do. Since my diagnosis eight years ago I have encountered so many obstacles that have kept me from receiving the treatment and accommodations I need in order to live a functional life. I can't even begin to fathom the suffering of those that have more severe forms of mental illnesses like bipolar and are also disadvantaged by their race, economic status or sexual orientation. Not all have mothers to drive them to appointments, speak for them when they are unable, or to hold them accountable when they are considering harmful behavior.

I have refused to accept the reality of my illness for long enough, and it is time that I fully commit myself to my health and happiness. That is the only way I will ever be able to help those like myself, that are unable to help themselves.

My doctor referred me to a psychiatrist that is not within my insurance network, but my parents have assured me that we will make it work financially, because it is important that I see someone as soon as possible. The psychiatrist has an appointment available next week, and I'm daring to hope this may be the help that I need to recommit myself to my mental health and my future.

Links Below:

Mental Health: Culture, Race, and Ethnicity—A Supplement to Mental Health: A Report of the Surgeon General

Eliminating Mental Health Disparities by 2020: Everyone's Actions Matter

One Thing

One thing
One quick thing

I want writing to be my thing 
but I'm afraid the beast won't let me have it
and that this will all have been for nothing.

Lucky to be Loved

I'm lucky he loves me
Robert, I mean
Not the beast.

The beast doesn't love me like he says he does
He makes a mess
and then leaves me with consequences,  and the clean up.

Last night he took my body from me.
I was already so out of control
so disconnected from myself.

I was reaching, reaching for anything familiar
anything I knew
anything.

I was hiding from my beast,
waiting him out
from the security of my bed,
and Robert's arms.

Robert had bought me my favorite candy,
we were watching Netflix
while the beast paced back and forth outside.

He wouldn't let me hold onto myself
The beast cut me apart
separated me
tore me in two.

We made love but I couldn't feel a thing.
Robert sensed it
He knew, he always knows.

The beast hurts me
but he hurts others, too.
He hurts the ones I love the most.

I'm so very lucky he loves me
Robert, I mean
Not the beast.

I woke up this morning, panicked about the french test I was supposed to take today.
Panicked, yet paralyzed.
I couldn't study, I couldn't talk to my mom on the phone
I couldn't get out of bed.

I've watched the time tick away, and have been unable to do anything about it.
Class starts in thirty minutes.

Robert understands, he tells me he loves me
I'm so unbelievably lucky he loves me
Robert, I mean
Not the beast

I've taken the last of it, the last of this medication that I will ever take.
I see my doctor tomorrow.
I hope the beast decides to stay at home.

"You're so vain, you probably think this blog is about you" by The Beast, Feat. EgoManiac

I remember when I was first diagnosed. The first article I ever read about my illness described a woman having a manic episode. She was riding in the car on the freeway and began experiencing mania which caused her to believe she was invincible. She threw herself out of the car, in the middle of the freeway, convinced that she would survive. I read that it was common for Bipolar people when in a manic state, to begin projects they would never finish, take risks like: gamble large amounts of money, have a lot of promiscuous sex, experiment with drugs etc.

Sometimes when I'm hypo-manic, I clean my room, do an art project, play the guitar or write on my blog. Other times I'm quick to anger and can be violent.
Always I'm restless, and my skin feels like it's crawling.
And some days, I guess my mania can look like this.

He did it to me again.
Tricked me.
Let me think I was okay,
that today was good,
that I was someone who mattered.

He let me think that I looked pretty
in my cut-off shorts
and sparkly tights.
Why
Why does he do this to me?

He let me walk all the way
to the cafe,
past the house where I used to live
past the construction workers on break
Strutting to Christina:
"do what you want, what you want with [her] body"

The minute I saw James I knew
I had made a mistake
I let him trick me
Let me think I was okay,
that today was good,
that I was someone who mattered.

And James noticed right away
Who wouldn't?
Who couldn't see that the beast had me
where he wanted me?

James and I talked about life
the future
our relationships
and the whole time
the beast muttered under his breath
Who did you think you were?
What were you thinking when you got dressed this morning?
That you were invincible? That you were flawless? That you were special?

He made me spend the rest of the day regretting
The beast, not James
Regretting that I woke up this morning
That I wore my cut-off shorts
and my sparkly tights
That I started a blog and shared him,
the beast
with the world.

Sitting on the bus with my notebook and pen
he forces my hand.

Do you think that you're special, Isabel?
Do you?
Do you think anyone cares?
Do you?
DO. YOU. THINK.

He scolds me like a parent does a child
And the worst part is
he's right.

I'm nothing, I'm no one
And there's not anybody that feels the least bit sorry
Not even my beast.

I am nothing with him
I'll surely be nothing without him
And I can't write for shit
I can't write for fucking shit
I can't write

I just want to scream
I just want to scream
throw up
or both.

Today my beast convinced me that I was invincible
I was invincible and I was hot and I could wear whatever I wanted
My beast convinced me that I was special and that I had something to offer other people

And then he took that all away and made me hate myself
He convinced me I was so small
I was insignificant
I wasn't even there

He made me desperate
Desperate to be seen, to be heard, to be acknowledged
So desperate
I thought about death.
So desperate I thought about ending it.
Ending everything.

That would show you, right? Show you all?
Show you all that I'm interesting
That I'm worth paying attention to
That I'm worth something.

Tomorrow is the last day of my medication. I will be done, it will be over.
And then Thursday, it starts all over again.
I won't be interesting
I won't have a beast
I will be numb.

Alive and numb.

Links Below:

What is Bipolar?

The Seduction of Hypomania

Momma Said There'll be Days Like This

Today I am empty.
I am hollow.

My brain wanders, and although I feel less hopeless than yesterday
I don't know why
or what to do with it.

I've almost got my medication out of my system.
Almost.

I have been given chances
I can redeem myself

If only, if only
my brain could focus on it
or anything.

Bring me back
Bring me down
Let me return to myself

The beast is loving every minute of this.
He just loves watching me fail myself.
How else would I remember that I need him and he needs me?

Afterthought:

I did it, I wrote the paper.
Now, who else can I blame but myself for not doing it earlier?
This is where he gets me,
that beast
every time.

Today is just one day, after all.
There will be many more like it.
And others that aren't the same at all.

H.T.W.D. (Hard Things We Do)

Yesterday was a hard day.

Katie and I talked about hard things,
some hers
but mostly mine.

I woke up in the morning and knew that leaving the house
would be a hard thing.
And going to class
or to therapy
would be impossible.

I woke up and got in the shower
hoping
it would be another day I could trick myself.

It turned out it wasn't me who needed convincing,
it was my beast.

He dragged me by my hair,
from the bathroom dripping wet
into my bed
into my covers
into unconsciousness.

The day had only begun and I had already given up.
The beast had already given up on me.

I couldn't write yesterday.
I had all of the thoughts, all of the feelings all of the desire
and all of them were impossible.

He has a way of pulling me down, that beast,
down under, deep and away
until I have nothing to remind me
that this is real
this hard
and this is a hard thing I do.

I'm lazy and just don't want to be responsible for anything
I'm a coward and just want to avoid doing hard things
I'm selfish and self-centered
and just don't care about how my actions affect others
I'm weak and just can't do it
I'm a liar and none of this is real

This is it.
This is my everyday.
This is my beast.

It's a hard thing I do, fighting it alone.
Fighting gets hard, and then it becomes impossible.

I can't fight like this anymore.
Not if I ever want to do anything, but fight.

It is the hardest thing I will have done,
to accept that nothing will change
unless I ask for help.

The Worst is Here and it's Me

My mom has told me time and time again that I'm a perfectionist.
She tells me that when I was little I was always fussy about my hair,
and the clothes she dressed me in.
I knew what I liked, and I had to look good.
She's told me that I was three when I first started complaining about my fat thighs and the dimples I called "the holes in my face".

I was in 6th grade when I took my first incomplete on a major class assignment.
7th when I started missing school for extended periods of time,
and 8th when I started therapy.

I was diagnosed bipolar in 9th grade,
hospitalized in 10th.
Went to Ecuador in 11th
and then India after finishing grade 12.

Today, I could not decide what to wear for the life of me.
I finally settled on something that I felt I looked decent in,
but was completely inappropriate for weather in January.

I have an essay due tomorrow and I haven't started it yet.
I don't want to write it.
I don't even want to try.

Let me go somewhere new and have an adventure instead.

I am such a failure. The worst kind of failure, because I won't even try.
It's pathetic. I'm pathetic.
It's all my fault.
It's not the beast's, he's not even real.
It's not my friends', family's, co-workers' or professors'.
It is mine.
I'm so lazy. I just don't care.
And I'm too much of a coward to just tell people the truth: I'm not perfect, I'm not even okay.
I'm a shitty excuse for a human being.

This is no beast, this is me. And I'm the worst.

Thoughts Chasing Thoughts

Today is one of those days where there is so much to write, that I can't write any of it.

Can you understand that?

I am completely overwhelmed by all of the thoughts I'm thinking.
I can't pick just one,
just one thought.
I can't untangle them, or make sense of them.

There's just a lot,
all at once
and I don't know where or how to start dealing with any of it.

I woke up this morning and I didn't feel like leaving my house
so I didn't.
But staying home didn't help stop the thinking,
or the constant feeling that all the thinking I needed to be doing
would catch up with me.

I felt like the day was pursuing me,
every hour chasing after me
and once it was all over
when the day had ended
I would be laying in bed, trying to sleep
but thinking more of the same thoughts.

Days like today, I just want to be unconscious.
The beast thinks this is all a fucking joke.

Link Below:
Emotional Wellness Podcasts

The Beast Goes to the City

Morning found me nestled in the security of home and Robert's arms.
It found me early
It found me at peace and unprepared.

I had slept more than I had been able to on the trip.
I slept longer and harder.

But when I decided to face morning,
I was ready to be bold.
I was bold enough to dress once and not change my mind.
Bold enough to leave my face bare, resisting a strong urge to mask it in makeup.

I pulled on my boots that were made for kicking ass
and my great-grandmother's Sunday coat.
If she could run a farm by herself and still find a way to look damn good doing it---
Why couldn't I be bold?

I was bold as I challenged time and the arrival of my bus.
I was bold asking the bus driver for directions.
I was bold accepting the kindness of a complete stranger,
a friendly passenger who offered to hold my coffee while I paid for my ticket.
I continued to be bold
when I transferred to a bus I had never been on before.

I asked that bus driver for directions, too.

I convinced myself I was bold and had a conversation with a punk guy from the Amish country in Pennsylvania who thought I was gorgeous and insisted on calling me Izzy.
He and I shared smiles, and boldness.

I stepped off the bus at the right stop, still feeling bold.
I tried so hard to remain bold when I realized I didn't recognize my surroundings.

This morning, the front door of my apartment broke.
The knob just broke. The door wouldn't close.
It must have been that very small space between the door and the outside.
That very opportunity that the beast seized, and took advantage of.
I should have known.

I should have seen him slip out the door behind me and follow me to the bus stop.
I should have sensed him on the bus.
I should have known better than to be bold.

I had left my cellphone at home, and I was in a city I was not meant to be in.
I wasn't going to make it to my therapy appointment.
I couldn't call to tell anyone.

The beast followed me as I circled the block a few times, teasing me
Who did you think you were?
Who did you let yourself be this morning?
Someone who's capable? Someone who's smart?
Who are you, Isabel?

My heart was pounding in my chest
I couldn't feel my arms or my legs
I couldn't feel anything, except for the rapid beating of my heart
I felt like I was swimming, swimming in a very deep lake
with my head just above water.

I asked an older man crossing the street,
Where was Multnomah Blvd.?
I thanked him
I walked to a clothing boutique.
I asked the woman behind the counter,
Could she be so kind to let me use the phone?
Could she dial a number for me?
And another?
Oops, I dialed my cellphone at home
Another?

The day could begin again
she said
Right this moment
she said

I thanked her and left.

The beast was right. I am not bold.

I am resilient.

Afterthought:

He thinks they're better together
They're better than us

And the beast, he couldn't agree more.

My Name and What I Want to do With it

Sometimes I feel like I'm crazy. It's not the being part that gets me, it's the feeling part.
Does that make sense?

It probably only would if you were crazy too.

I want this to work. I want this so badly.
I love to write, did you know that? Did you know that about me? I love it.

I still remember how proud I was when I first learned to write my own name. I was sitting on this green tacky thing of a couch, pencil and paper in my hand. The page was covered with my scribbles. I think my mom must have been cooking or preparing something in the kitchen. I yelled out to her for each letter, with long drawn out silences in between, while I attempted to write it down. I would get really quiet, really focused. I would write each letter out, again and again until I was satisfied with the way it looked. I finally got them where I wanted them; each letter was in its place and looked as nice as I could make it. I've written my name countless times since, but there has never again been that amount of emotion or pride when I see it on a piece of paper.
I want to write more than my name, now. I want to write art, and put my name on it.
For people to know it's mine.
For people to know me.

I want to help people.
          To better understand others, and for others to better understand me.
          To speak for those that can't speak for themselves, for any reason.
                                                                  For those who can speak, but have yet to.
          To build bridges. Maybe burn some too.

I want community.
         A conversation, and dialogue.

I don't want people to think I'm making this up. Any of it.
To stop reading, thinking, questioning, discussing.

Or for me to give up on this, and ultimately myself.

Is that too much to ask? From my name? And from this?
As my French professor loves to remind me: On va voir!

Mon âme sœur

I'm not a good friend.

I've come across so many amazing human beings in the twenty two years I've been alive.
And I haven't deserved them. Any of them.
Not
a
single
one.

The beast shakes my confidence. He breaks it, until I am all alone.

He has me soaring high, so high I feel almost invincible.
Why wouldn't anyone want to be my friend? he says
You have to make it up to them
he urges
It'll be different this time, right? he prompts

I reach out to you, extend farther than I think myself capable of
I reach out to you until my heart feels strained and I'm screaming at the top of my lungs
Come back to me. Love me.

Time takes forever to pass.
Every moment leading up to seeing you, feels like an eternity
An eternity alone.

My skin crawls, the beast watches me knowingly.
I dream of cliffs, edges and an eternal abyss.
Everyday, hand in hand the beast and I approach the line
the boundary
the end and beginning.

I gasp for air, but no air comes.
I lean into the nothingness, giving myself to it

But at the last minute, I swing on my heels
All the way around
I close my eyes and walk back to where I've come from
He yells after me,
"I AM ALL YOU NEED"
"I AM YOUR ALL AND YOUR ONLY"

I don't look back.
Yet I am very, very sorry.

Link Below: 

Making Sure Your Friendships Survive Your Diagnosis

Goodbye and The Golden State

He watched me pack. He sat beside me while I watched Netflix.
He sat on the toilet, smoothed the shampoo into my hair and rubbed my temples while I lay in a bath.
He stood on the front porch with me, in the darkness of the early morning.
We waited for my mom's car to pull up in front.

He said, "Goodbye."
I didn't turn back.

Once safely in the car, I looked through the back window. Watching him.
I watched him until his dark figure disappeared into that darkness of the early morning.

I made my escape. I was free.

I propped my face against the window and fell asleep.
I slept lightly, waking often, expecting to find him sitting next to me in the back seat.

When the light came, I kept watch for him out my window.
We drove on, surrounded in frost and fog.
Then the mountains, and the sun and the blue
blue sky.

Still, he was nowhere to be found.

We drove into Berkeley as the sun set on the bay.
We rolled the windows down, turned up the music and I took a long, deep breath.

We had arrived. I had made it.

I have had my first day in Berkeley.
I want the sun, I want the bay, I want more.
I want more freedom.
I want more freedom.

Please don't let it be over so soon.

Hostage

I am the beast.
I am the beast.
I am the beast.
I am the beast.
I am the beast.
I am the beast.
I am the beast.
I am the beast.

The beast is me.

I was sitting in the library computer lab this afternoon, when a paw wrapped itself around me.
I felt hot breath and knew he was back for more.

I didn't expect the knife.
The knife at my throat.
I swallowed and felt cold steel against my skin.

I am the beast.
I am the beast.

"Tell them I am real. Tell them I am you. Tell them."

I shuddered.

"They know not what I am. What I can do. Tell them."

I am the beast.

I put my hands on the keyboard
Began typing letters, then words, then erased them.
Letters, words, erase.
Letters, letters, words, submit.

Pressing the blade closer against my windpipe, I draw blood.
Just a little.

I whisper to him:
"You are reality. You are me. We are one and the same."

I am the beast.
I am the beast.
I am the beast.

My face tingles.
He is gone.

On the bus ride home, I hear a long low growl.

The beast is me.


Afterthought:

I'm tired, but I can't sleep.
I'm not worried about missing school or work.
I'm not worried about seeing my grandmother for the first time in four years.
I'm not even worried about an eleven hour drive with a sister that doesn't like me.

I'm worried that I will never be free.

God, please don't let him follow me to California.

She-Beast

Last night, the beast came home.
Silently he crawled onto the bed where Robert and I lay watching a movie.

He warmed my feet.
Then my knees.
My thighs and my stomach.
He warmed me all the way up to my chest.

Robert wanted time by himself.
The beast wanted me, and I wanted Robert more than anything.

Robert and I fought, with the same words we had just a couple of nights before.
Our voices grew strained, our attention wandered.
The beast became impatient.

I asked Robert to leave. I told him to go.

It was then that he filled me. All the way.
The beast warmed my entire body until we were one and the same.
He lit me like a fuse and I exploded.

He dove in, claw and teeth. Biting, growling, foaming at the mouth.
Hitting, kicking, screaming the girl-beast raged. On, and on, and on.

We told Robert we hated him.
Over and over and over.
Robert said that I was fucked up.

The beast chuckled.
 Robert left.

I stripped off all of my clothes.
The beast left me, naked, entangled in blankets. Waiting to die.
As he slipped out of the window, he said "You will drive everyone away. You will be alone."

And then I was. I was suddenly very alone.
I couldn't breathe, I couldn't cry out. I couldn't move.

Robert returned to me. My mom's voice over the phone, returned to me.
Calling me back.
I could feel my fingers, then my toes.
I could feel my whole body. And my whole body felt tired.

My mom told me she loved me.
Robert wiped away my tears and told me I could sleep.
He put his arms around me, and I did. I slept.

I did not dream.

Link Below:

Pure Misanthropia by Stalaggh

If you can't sleep, try counting beasts.

It was difficult falling asleep last night.
Instead we had a staring contest, me on my bed and the beast looming in the corner.

I tossed and turned, Robert snoring from a far off dreamland.

Then the beast yawned once, and blinked slowly a few times.
And I knew that I was allowed to sleep.

I woke up this morning and slipped past the beast dozing comfortably in the corner.
I studied for my French test. I took a shower. I got dressed.

He was waiting for me at the front door, as I put on my boots and scarf.
I grabbed my pill, arming myself.

We walked to the bus stop hand in hand.
On the bus, he sat in the seat directly behind me.
I could feel his hot breath while I was quizzing myself on my verbs.

He followed me into the classroom and sat down in front of me.
The class started to fill up, and soon he became irritated by all of the noise.
He slunk out of the room and I think I did pretty well on my test.

I was surprised to see he wasn't waiting for me outside of the classroom.
Or at the bus stop.
Or at home.

I'm going to lunch with Robert.
Maybe he wasn't hungry.

Afterthought:

I haven't seen the beast since he left French class.
I feel empty in his absence. Tired. Drained.
At work, I have a hard time putting my words together.
Everything around me moves slowly. I move slower.
Now, I sit and wait. I live, and I wait.

Because I need my beast. And he needs me.

The Beast Loves Me

Today the beast creeped up on me and convinced me that nobody loves me.

Not my little sister in New York.
Not my coworkers.
Not Rachel or Shawn who were supposed to Skype me. Or my mom. Or my boyfriend.

I came back to myself, just to have a beer in a shit hole of a bar.
But Robert didn't go for it
and I was gone again.

I walked to the school playground and lay in the tower of the play structure.
I watched the moon until dark night clouds covered it. I watched for it to reappear.
It did, but only for a second.

The beast asks me what it would feel like if I shot myself in the head.
Would it hurt?
How long would the pain last?
How long before it was over?
.....Would it be worth it?

My body said sleep
Robert wanted to join the party
I said go

The beast decides to stay the night.