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.