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2.26.2014

til the last moon droops

Bill texts me in the darkness before dawn.

"a piece of a poem written by arthur symons." He writes,

"unresting water, there shall never be rest
til the last moon droops and the last tide fails.
and the fire of the end begins to burn in the west
and the heart shall be weary and wonder and cry like the sea
all life crying without avail
as the water all night long
is crying to me."

...


"Life carries on." They say. But it doesn't really. Not for some.

It is the darkest, most malicious winter I have known in my twenty-seven years. On the eve of March, we are still buried in mountains of snow, still bracing against dangerously cold winds as the temperature drops and drops again.

There have been two suicides this past week that I know of.

I didn't know either of them personally, but I know it could have been me.

...


"We never talk about the hospital." Molly says, out of the blue. "About your suicide attempt."

I pause, but then I shrug. "I've talked about it so much, it doesn't really bother me anymore."

She looks skeptical, so I start to talk, to prove her wrong. But for the first time in five months...I find myself lost for words. 

"What are you feeling right now?" She asks gently. She's leaning forward in her chair watching me struggle, and I suddenly feel fragile. 

"....like I might cry." I finally mumble.

"You can cry, you know. It's ok to cry." She says.

"I don't want to." 

So I don't.

...

I get in trouble at work. It's over a small thing, in my opinion, but my boss thinks otherwise. She surprises me one morning with a guilt trip so thick, I am stunned. She slaps it on, layer after layer, without giving me a chance to breathe. 

I should have defended myself, but I didn't. I just slowly caved in.

Stupid. You stupid fucking idiot. I tell my watery reflection in the bathroom mirror. I hate you. Everyone hates you. Why don't you just die already? I wish you would just die.

I stumble through the rest of the day, a defeated, hollow shell. I try to focus on my work, but I just keep thinking about how pointless it was to go on living. I thought I'd mostly clawed my way out of that dark hole, but one little conversation shoved me right back in. 

...but maybe not all the way.

Because that night, I tell the Mr. I tell him. I speak the words out loud. And he doesn't panic. He just holds me and makes me say all of the things I love in life until I am completely annoyed, but smiling at the same time. 

The thoughts are still there, my own furious, damning voice echoing around in my head, but they are a little easier to ignore.

...

I try to start a new blog. I am spurred by a sudden passion to tell my story as myself. To show the people who know me who I really am. To be an advocate for people with mental illnesses. To maybe give someone else the courage to be vulnerable.

I throw myself into the design. I am excited. So excited that I struggle willingly through lines of code that read like Chinese to my brain.

Then it is all designed, beautiful, just the way I want it. I open a new post, the first post, and I stare at it.

The cursor blinks blinks blinks blinks.

I write a paragraph. Then two. I start over. The cursor blinks. I get up, make some tea. I come back. I write one sentence. Then I delete it.

A week later, the blog still sits empty, void. I don't know how to fill it with honesty, with the ugly things inside my head. They won't get it. They won't understand. I thought I was brave, but I just feel....fragile.

...

"...all life crying without avail
as the water all night long
is crying to me.

hope it rings true in your dark, porcelain heart, jasmine."

I read Bill's text three times. Then I lay back down, next to the Mr. who drowsily throws a warm arm around me. I fall asleep again listening to the crying of the sea.

I hope you have people in your life who understand. I hope you know that if you need someone who understands, I am here in my dusty, cluttered little corner willing to try.

2.05.2014

of drama

"Is there anything I can do to help you get back on track?" My dietitian asks.

I smile politely and shake my head as though I'm declining sugar in my tea.

"Your dietitian spoke with me. She's worried about you. I am too." Molly is leaning forward and I am purposefully not looking at her. I know this trick. I know what she's doing.

I want to throw things.

I stopped following my meal plan.

If I hadn't said anything about it, if I'd just lied, I know all this drama wouldn't have happened. But I told her, my dietitian. Partly out of spite. Partly because I wanted her to know that I was in control.

I didn't expect the drama.

It was as if I told them that I'd stopped eating entirely. That I was never going to eat again. And so began the guilt trips, the scare tactics, the emotional manipulation.

When I look at them now, all I can see is my mother.

I want to be done with this. I was told to go to treatment by a team of people in white lab coats, so I did. I went because I was just a small broken person in turquoise scrubs, all my secrets revealed. I went because it was expected. I went because all the people in my life looked so worried. It wasn't for me. It was for them. And I'll admit, I was curious. But I am so done with it now. With all of it. I can't trust them anymore. I have no desire to change. I never have. I am the wolf in sheep's clothing, and I am so tired of saying what I know I'm supposed to say.

Anger constantly lurks around my rib cage. I find myself clenching my fists to keep from exploding at my boss just for talking. My family wants to know how I'm doing. They want a progress report. Concrete numbers marking my ascent into sanity. They love me. I know that. But the phone calls and the emails slowly pile up.

Get better. Get better. Get better. Get better.

They want to know how long I'll be in therapy, how long I'll have to take medication. When? When? When? And throughout it all I can hear what they're not saying and the pressure is crushing me.

Get better. Get better. Get better. GET BETTER.

It makes me want to scream.

I've never been an angry person. I don't like angry people. Including myself.

My dreams come in strange flashes as though someone is flipping quickly through a slideshow of pictures. It is a barrage of light and dark and emotion. Bits and pieces of normal life intermixed with the strange, the terrifying, the horrifying, the heart-wrenching. Throughout the day I find myself suddenly perplexed about reality. What is real and what is dream? I try to sort through the pictures, but they are scattered across the floor in a jumbled mess.

I am tired. I am crackling with irritation. I am frustrated. I don't want to go to work. I don't want to go to treatment. I feel like I am losing my mind. I just want everyone to leave me alone.

Even writing is difficult. It's like trudging through knee deep mud. I've closed countless blank pages before I managed to spit these jumbled words out.

I'm afraid I'm not a very pleasant person these days.