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Archive for the ‘mental health’ Category


53 (9)

I’m sitting here on my toilet while blogging you. Not on the toilet as in its intended use toilet, but in a I don’t have any funiture kind of way.

You see I got a call on Thursday offering me a job in Portland to start on Monday and I live in Dallas. I wouldn’t be able to fly back and forth every week like I’m use to. I would need to stay in Portland for six months.

It’s a really great job and is something I want on my resume. So I spent about two hours throwing stuff in my car and took off. I drove for thirty hours got a hotel and drove another twelve to get here on Saturday. Sunday I took the first apartment I looked at and here I am sitting on the toilet, using the counter as a desk.

Don’t worry the lid is down. I know that might have been a concern for some.

I ordered some furniture which should have arrived over the weekend, but it didn’t. I got a message at 5:00 a.m. saying it will be arriving this morning. So I’m sitting here on my toilet, waiting for something to sit on.

I’m calling this office in a toilet a concept now. It’s really not so bad in here. The heat lamp is warming the place nicely. The porcelean’s bright and white. I have plenty to drink (from the faucet, not like a dog from the toilet). My shampoo and conditioner smells nice. It has pretty good accoustics thanks to the shower. I think I’m going to create a powerpoint and write a book. My new title, The Office Toilet Consultant.

Oh, thank God, the sofa’s here.

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67

Do you ever have thoughts that you wish you didn’t have? Like maybe this one.

In my imagination, I’m hanging out with a couple of friends. We’ve been drinking wine, laughing, and listening to music.

When someone says, “I found this old porn in my Mom’s closet. It’s so bad, it’s hysterical.”

She puts it on. The hair is plastered with hair spray and way too tall. You all laugh.

A guys come on screen and someone says, “Hey he’s not bad looking.”

“Yeah,” you agree, “he actually pretty hot.”

Another friend with a fist full of popcorn says, “That looks like your Dad.”

“No,” you insist shocked and a bit disgusted, “that guy is hot. I’d go out with him. He doesn’t look anything like my Dad.”

One of your other friends chimes in, “He really does look like your Dad around the eyes and that nose.”

Then he does something so quintessentially “your” Dad and you know that IS your Dad. You’re watching a porn starring your Dad.

The screams of horror are echoing through my head as I type.

So you’re pissed because you have to live with that image for the rest of your life and you want to confront your Dad, but you’re not sure how that’s going to work.

You start the conversation with something like, “What the H-E- double toothpicks is wrong with you? A porn?”

“You’ve been watching porn,” your Dad counters.

“You were in it.”

Your Mom interrupts, “Do not yell at your Father.”

“Mom, did you know Dad was in a porn?”

And she replies, “Well yes, dear that’s how we met.”

And that’s why I try not to think.

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I woke this morning from a dream turned nightmare. It starts colorful and bright, euphoric and exciting.

I’m carrying my baby so beautiful no one can take their eyes from her. Her face shines up at me from my arms as I walk through the store, showing her everything and she taking it all in.

A knowing look from a familiar face catches my eye. The world is illusion, replaced by reality. The bundle of joy in my arms turns to a wad of filthy rags. There is no baby and there never has been.

The world turns grey and dark, sharp and hard. I feel their eyes on me, like pawing hands pulling me apart seeing everything I really am. Most look on horrified or disgusted, a few pity me. I want to disappear, to cease to exist. But I don’t. I’m on display, my crazy rantings are on display.

Hands are gently pushing me towards the doors.

My sister come rescuer whispers, “Everything will be okay.”

I feel reality so sharp, my body is bleeding from cuts no one can see. I’m covered and cannot move without wanting to cry out. But I don’t, the pain of humiliation is too great. I keep silent.

I woke this morning from a dream turned nightmare. I don’t know where it came from. I tell myself I’ve never had delusions. At least I don’t think I have.

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99nnbI love paper – old books, pretty patterns, and foreign magazines. I rescue broken books and posters from the garbage heap. And then they’re all just here and I don’t do anything with them. Tonight I have the urge to rip them all apart; keep the best parts; shuffle them around; and bind them back together, making something different.

It’s this souped up hyper feeling and all I can think about is tearing into these books. It’s an itch you can’t scratch. Why can’t I get some obsessive urge to do something positive? Will I spend the next three days ripping up books to find myself surrounded by piles of paper?

Already I know this feeling will be followed by a round of anxiety and then exhausted depression. That part I’m afraid of. If I knew I would wind up with something; a great novel, a painting, or some break through research, I would plunge ahead, depression be damned.

Maybe just tonight under the cover of darkness I’ll free some pages from their old bindings. I’ll take my medicine and in the morning I’ll try to redirect myself in a positive direction.

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green jewel

Shapeless lumps of teeth and flesh surround me, clawing and biting at my arms. Their talons are careful not to tear the green, Grecian gown I wear. Together we rise slowly from the pit.

A great flash of light.

I drop to a crouch, hugging my knees to my chest. The creatures ignite falling in columns of ash around me.

I wake to blazing lights cutting across the sky, punctuated by a barrage of thunder. The storm rages outside and I am sweat drenched in bed.

If I could paint the images in my head. The cavernous hall, filled with sights and words I cannot banish. I try to chase the ravens from my window sill, but they always return wanting more.

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53 (9)

Hey Maybelle, the dish needs adjusting.

Why me?

Because you’re in charge of dishes.

I’ve been thinking again. This time about tourettes. I worked with a guy who had tourettes, but he only twitched when he got nervous. He didn’t yell out random obscenities. I thought he should just for fun. I would.

I would begin all meetings with –

“I want to apologize in advance. I have tourettes. When I get nervous I may say a few inappropriate words or phrase. Which can quickly snowball since my nerves will increase the more words I say.”

Then at some point I’ll break in with –

“Holy crap.

Damn it.

Turkey butt.

Sorry ass.

Son of a bitch.

Can those peaches, honey buns!

Sorry my Grandpa was a frugal man.”

And thus would end the meeting on a high note.

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lightbulb moth

“It’s a beautiful day…” Argh!

Do you ever get songs stuck in your head?

I have a few songs that I seem to cycle through. When I try to stop one another begins.

My usual “… I need you baby and if it’s quite alright I need you baby until the morning light. I need you baby trust in me when I say …” over and over. And I don’t even know the rest of the words.

An oldie She’ll be Coming Round the Mountain When She Comes, three verses. Are you kidding me? I know three verses of that song. Must be deeply embedded from my childhood. (verses two and three if anyone is curious – she’ll be driving six white horses and we’ll all go out to meet her…)

And drum roll please. This morning’s song – It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood from Sesame Street. No. No, it’s not beautiful day in the neighborhood because that song is stuck in my head!

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Last night I made myself lie down and close my eyes.

These last few weeks I haven’t thought about sleep until the sun is coming up. I don’t want to stop to think, not even for sleep. Keep your mind busy.

Play another game.

Watch another show.

What’s on YouTube?

Read the news.

Who’s killing who?

Has Greece sunk beneath the sea of it’s debt yet.

Wait for exhaustion.

When the light starts to peek through the trees. I know I won’t have to think when I finally stop to sleep.

Instead, tonight I lay in the dark, my jaw stiff. Listening to my teeth grinding. I dreamed of a debate about an illness sweeping the world. We had the cure. It could be sprayed in the air and we would all be saved. But there was an insane deliberation about harming the environment. We could save everyone but did nothing instead.

I feel better today. I’ll exercise and shower. I’m going to get back to good someday soon. I hope I can find the right road.

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I woke up this morning, my head is pounding and all I can think is I’m going to die. I must have been clinching my jaws, neck and shoulders.  I’ve been off my routine since I got back from seeing the ex. It’s hard to keep up this game – exercise, food, schedule, medication. Why is happiness so difficult?

I knew last night when I went to bed I was going to smother in my sleep. I was 100% positive and I went to sleep anyway. I’m going to be dead in the next few days, I can feel it.

There’s another bit of my mind that knows it isn’t true. “You’re off your meds. Just get back on your routine.” My face aches, my head is pounding and I just don’t do it.

Dead in days, dead in days. It keeps echoing in the silence. That chant and the whirring of the ceiling fan, it’s all I hear.

I’m off my routine. I know I should get up and start. Get up. NOW! GET UP! But I keep staring at the ceiling.

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He’s breathing on his own. Thank you for all of your prayers and good thoughts. It’s an amazing turn around. Just a few days ago the doctor was surprised he made it through the night and now he’s sitting up.

I’ve been racked with anxiety since I made the decision to come see him. I’ve been nauseous. Eating makes me sick and not eating makes me sick. We didn’t part on good terms. I still don’t know how his family feels about me. (I’m staying close to the hospital, so I’m able to check in early and late, missing most of my in-laws.)

He’s been married and divorce since I last saw him. What will I say? Thoughts kept rolling through my head. I love him, but I don’t LOVE, love him. I wouldn’t mind being friends, but it might be too late for that.

I checked with one of my nephews and he said I should come and seem him. I don’t want you to think I pushed myself on him without taking his feelings into consideration.

Some of his buddies were in the room when I entered. I barely recognized him. He looks old, perhaps the illness has taken its toll. He’s had some hair loss and what’s left is white. He’s gained a lot of weight, some of that’s probably fluid.

When we were in the middle of our divorce and everything was so ugly, I imagined seeing him again. This wasn’t far from my fantasy. “I’m still looking young and you are old. Was she worth it?” I would say. (Of course she would look old too.) He would fall to the floor and tell me how sorry he was and I wouldn’t care. I would reply with various snide comments. “Should have thought of that before you left me for your mother.” (She looks like his mother.)

So what did I choose to say? Something amazingly insightful? Perhaps even a little biting. No. I said, “Hey what’s up? I thought you were going to dance on my grave. You’ve got to get it together. I’m depending on you.”

He chuckled. His friends chuckled and then the conversation turned back to chasing women. The reason we split up in the first place.

The doctors have scheduled him for open heart surgery tomorrow. He’s still in intensive care, but I’m optimistic. Tomorrow I’ll see his family. But for now, I’m going to go gnaw on some crackers and sip Sprite.

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