The Courage to Change

It has been quite a while since I have posted anything on here so I must apologize.  With all the work we have been doing the blog has fallen a bit behind. I would also like to let you all know that I have been given the honor of creating and manning the brand new BringChange2Mind blog (http://bringchange2mind.wordpress.com/) so when I am not writing here, please check the BC2M blog to see if I am posting there. I will try my hardest to stay loyal to both.

And now a quick update... In the last month since I wrote I have been to St. Louis, Chicago, and New York, and been the team leader for two NAMI Walks, one in Seattle and the other in Portland. It has been an extremely inspiring, energizing, and exciting month as I made new friends (the Close/Pick family, Kitty and her mom, the Francolini family, and so many more), learned about new research and treatments, and met and listened to new and old heroes (Glenn Close, Jessie Close, Calen Pick, Kay Redfield Jamison, Marya Hornbacher, and Rosalyn Carter). If you don't know who some of these people are please look them up as they are all heroes in the mental health awareness (and women empowerment) world. I have had the honor of attending fabulous events in cities I had only dreamt about ten years ago. But it has not been all easy and joyous.

As I present and speak publicly about my illness and my (relative) stability I feel as if I need to always be happy, and if not, always act happy. I had gotten to the point where I found myself presenting a false image because I feared that if I let people know that I still get depressed sometimes, or still feel unsteady sometimes, they will feel there is no hope. I felt that if I am going around the country telling people that there is treatment and stability for people with mental illness, my hiccups in stability would prove this false. I have talked about this before in a past post so I won't go into it completely now other than I promised myself that I would always be completely honest, so, here it is...

The last month has been extremely hard as well. It has not only been the anniversary of my first hospitalization and the exhaustion of five national trips in one month followed by two 5K walks, but meeting so many people with one's same story is very difficult. Meeting so many people that share your story and hearing their struggles not only feels comforting as you are swiftly pulled from the aloneness of a diagnosis, but it also reminds you of all the pain you experienced. It reminds each individual of how lonely you really were and how different your life would have been had you just had this new friend(s) with you from the beginning. It is strangely validating, empowering, and comforting, and yet, it is often painful to meet people with such similar stories of agony, near suicide, self-harm, self-medication, etc., etc., etc. It is beautiful because everything is suddenly okay. You have found yourself on solid ground. But you can't hep but remember how terrifying it is to dangle from the cliff.

The last month has been more than exhilarating. It has reminded me of how much I love my family, how happy I am that I am alive, and how honored and lucky I am to have the opportunity and the health to do all the things that I do. It has once again reminded me why I need to continue to speak and share my story. People should not be alone in this fight. People should not have to feel pain when they finally find community years after their initial diagnosis. People should feel comforted, cared for, and loved from the very beginning. Feeling the ups and downs of this month has made that fact even more present in my mind. We need to change things now. We cannot let this continue to happen. We cannot let so many of our children end up on the streets, end up incarcerated, end up losing their lives by self-medicating. We cannot let a treatable enemy like suicide claim so many victims because they are alone and scared. We need to talk about this. We need to change things fast. Please help us change things by sharing stories, by letting people know that they are not alone. In my mind the biggest way to fight stigma is to talk. Share your truth. We need to remind the nation that 1 in 6 adults suffers from a mental illness by sharing real stories from the heart. Please have courage, for all of us.

Things I've learned...

(Polson, Montana)

Within the last week I have attend two vastly different conferences, the Empowerment of Native Americans with Disabilities Conference, and the Pacific Rim International Conference on Disabilities. Though they had very similar focuses, and often similar outlooks, the cultures and people were extremely diverse. At both of these conferences I found myself feeling very small, and very under educated in the cultures, needs, and expectations. I found that like my mom, I felt very humbled. Given that I was so impressed and profoundly amazed by these conferences I thought it would be nice to share some of my favorite moments with you:

-Being blessed with sage and a feather by a Native American elder made me feel loved/scared/warm/confused/blessed.

-Listening to a brilliant paraplegic lawyer who travels the globe, frequenting impoverished countries to fight for disability rights makes me feel proud/amazed/small/inspired.

-Watching a mother and daughter present about their journey from the daughter’s severe brain injury to her now internationally read magazine for young woman with disabilities (Logan) made me feel joyous/enraptured/lucky/ready.

-Feeling the beat of the drum, hearing the jingle of the jingle dress, seeing the fancy dance as we were presented with a Native American cultural demonstration, and hearing the account of a deaf salsa dancer’s memories of 4,000 fans clapping in sign language made me remember the importance and the universality of the arts. It made me remember why they are the focus of my life.

-Learning the importance of teaching social networking to all people as a means of fighting discrimination and allowing full inclusion into society made me aware of all the things I don’t think about.

-Watching the sunset over the Pacific Ocean with my family, in Hawaii, made me feel lucky/blessed/loved/empowered/inspired/small/ready.

(Honolulu, Hawaii)

What is going on here?!?

I think this is a question that many people with a mental illness ask themselves. Why am I feeling like this? Why am I acting like this? Why can't I make it stop?!

These were the thoughts that were rapidly firing in my head as I tried to figure out why I just couldn't be happy and go out with my friends, or why I just couldn't slow down and relax. For the longest time I hated myself for not being able to fix "it". In this society where we are told we should "just smile" or "walk in the sunshine" we assume it is our fault for not trying harder. We assume we are weak or bad for not perfectly controlling our mind and our body. We assume that there is something wrong with our personality as opposed to our chemistry. When I was first depressed to the point of suicide I got into a cycle of feeling agonizing pain of depression, exhaustion and defeat from not being able to fix it, and an extreme hatred for my lack of strength and drive to pick myself up. It wasn't until I was in the hospital on a suicide watch that I was given my first tentative diagnosis, Bipolar II.

Now, I grew up with a special ed teacher mom and a vocational rehabilitation counselor dad. I grew up being taught the importance of being sensitive to disabilities, the equality between every person no matter their difference, and the importance of providing access and help to those with specific needs that may be different from my own. I grew up obsessively reading the DSM and diagnosing my guinea pig, Herman, with Tourettes Syndrome because he had certain ticks and would squeak uncontrollably at times. (And although I knew all about Tourettes by the age of seven I knew very little about guinea pig ear mites). Anyway, when it came down to it,  I knew about disabilities. I knew all about "differences" and the normalcy of said differences. I knew all about what the word "label" meant in that community and knew that one should not use a condition to classify the whole of a person. 

Maybe this is why it hurt so much when I was diagnosed. Maybe deep down in my heart I knew just how little the rest of the world knew about disabilities. Maybe I knew the discrimination and misunderstanding that came with a mental illness label, because I found my mind screaming "No. Not me! I am not BIPOLAR. I am not like that. I'm not CRAZY". To me, someone who found every disability as simply another thing that makes us unique and special, this diagnosis made me into something I didn't want to be. It grouped me into a category that was bad. And whether or not the people in this category were "bad" or not, societies view and opinion of them was. I was not going to be one of them. I had spent my entire life trying to be perfect, flawless, and this was the biggest flaw I could ever imagine.

 However, on the other hand,there was the small, scared, childlike voice inside of me saying, "its not my fault". Even writing this today makes me tear up when I remember just how hard I tried to make myself feel normal, be normal. I tried so hard to control my emotions, but the more I tried, and the more I failed, the more I punished myself. I had two competing voices in my head, the blamer, "it's all your fault! If you tried harder we wouldn't be where we are today!" and the blamed, "I try so hard. I'm not good enough. I deserve this pain." It was a dangerous downward spiral that became even worse when it moved from mental to physical hatred. Having a diagnosis validated those "it's not my fault" cries of the blamed. It allowed me to start being a little bit nicer to myself.

It took me a long time to be nicer to myself, and in many ways it is still a very difficult struggle. The diagnosis, for me,  was one of the most life changing parts of my illness. Though it may not have been more life changing than almost losing my life, it changed my view of myself. It forced me to come to terms with the blamer and the blamed. It helped me realize who I really am and whether or not a label (BIPOLAR) defined me. At first I felt that the words were etched into my forehead. I felt that with one word I was someone completely different. Years have taught me that my diagnosis can never define me. It may define some of the traits of my illness, but it will never define my exact reaction to those traits, or even my reaction to my reactions. Through my diagnosis I have been able to take the blame away and realize that this is simply something  unique about me. A blessing and a curse that makes my life slightly different from other peoples' lives. In finding my diagnosis I have found the most important thing of all, the map towards treatment.

Next time...why do we love the diagnosis? We love treatment. Why do we love treatment? Because it allows us to function again!

Everything is Everything

I just read an article by John Frow called "A pebble, a camera, a man" on "Thing Theory" where he talks about the concept that "things, too, embody human will". He speaks about the fact that the speed bump is not merely a thing in the road, but something that gives an "instruction, on behalf of the police or some traffic control authority, to slow down on this stretch of the road". He explains that to call the speed bump "non-human" is to "ignore all the ways in which human will is translated into things and in which things in turn work as delegates which relay back to us these configurations of human will". In reading this it reminded me of my favorite phrase: "everything is everything".

When I begin talking about my belief that "everything is everything", (that everything either already is or eventually becomes connected in some way, that life always seems to find a way to circle back around, that everything has an intense interdependence upon everything else, and that every piece of this world is equally important and present within every other piece,) I am always told that I must be getting manic. I always have to laugh because though I may be going a little too far thinking that the number eleven is extremely telling in my life (because I seem to see an increase and reoccurrence before a major event), or in thinking that "rabbits are my power animal", I am certainly not the only one who sees the patterns in the world. I have even been told that people who are bipolar, or "mentally ill", see patterns more often. This may be true, and though this may make me see things a little more connected then they might actually be sometimes, I can't help but know in my soul that it's true: Everything is Everything...

"But we consist of everything the world consists of, each of us, and just as our body contains the genealogical table of evolution as far back as the fish and even much further, so we bear everything in our soul that once was alive in the soul of men. Every god and devil that ever existed, be it among the Greeks, Chinese, or Zulus, are within us, exist as latent possibilities, as wishes, as alternatives." -Hesse-

Advice from Dr. Manhattan...

Given that I have been continuously trying to calm down through my techniques of self-care (yoga, lake-sitting, etc.), I am frustrated that I still find myself freaking out about my future. I find that I build up so much worry and anxiety that everything seems to spin around me making it impossible to even grasp onto a calming impulse.

Last night I had a conversation about the human ability to forget what is important and distance ourselves from the very things that keep us alive. I find that I am constantly thinking about what to do with my future, or how to be more accomplished, or how to do things better and more efficiently, but I forget what I really am, or what life is really about. I am constantly trying to be "good-enough" when I don't even know what that means or what that entails.

And then I remembered reading the Alan Moore's Watchmen and I thought about Dr. Manhattan. Dr. Manhattan is this brilliant scientist who became stuck in an "Intrinsic Field subtractor" where he was disintegrated, allowing him to return as a super-human being. Manhattan eventually becomes so disconnected from earth and human beings that he decides to live on Mars where he can find more meaning in the movements and developments of the lifeless planet. Eventually however, after speaking to his ex-girlfriend about the amazing fact that she exists in the first place, he changes his mind and decides human life is a miracle after all.

He tells her that he has discovered a "Thermodynamic miracle", in the fact that, "in each human coupling, a thousand million sperm vie for a single egg. Multiply those odds against countless generations, against the odds of your ancestors being alive; meeting; siring this precise son; that precise daughter...until your mother loves a man she has every reason to hate, and of that union, of the thousand million children competing for fertilization, it was you, only you, that emerged, to distill so specific a form from that chaos of improbability, like turning air to gold..."

And I realize what I should always remember: the mere fact that we are alive in the first place is worth everything. That makes us good enough. The fact that we are alive is so amazing that we don't need to do anything or be anything to make us any more important than we already are.

So thanks Dr. Manhattan. I need to keep remembering that.

Time to Breathe

Being that I am getting closer and closer to the end of this six year bachelors degree I am suddenly having that future focused, world ending, life-crisis that every college grad eventually feels. Well, that most every grad feels. I tell myself, if I would have been working harder towards a specific goal, i.e. grad school, I wouldn't be feeling like this. Or I say, if I would have chosen a degree that fed right into a job I wouldn't be feeling like this. But then I say, how? How could I have done these things when life is so unpredictable? When and how could I have chosen a degree and grad program that would have included several hospitalizations, a diagnoses, and what seems like millions of medication changes? How could I have planned for this? And though I may talk some sense into myself at this point, the cycle continues going round and round: panic, intellectualizing, sense, relief, panic...

So, in a time when I am feeling more overwhelmed then usual, (though I am almost always usually feeling overwhelmed,) I find myself having to be extra good to myself, both mind and body. When I present around the country people always ask what I do to help myself stay stable in times like this, so in order to truly explain I will just give you a run down of my day today...

I woke up and made myself breakfast. Having recently bought some new cookbooks that focus on the importance of healthy food to our mind and body's overall health, I took extra time preparing a breakfast that was nutritious with all the vitamins and minerals my body needs. Being a vegetarian, and a person easily susceptible to all sorts of colds, viruses, etc., I find it especially important to get a healthy diet.

After breakfast, (and a bit of light reading,) I stretched and did some strength training exercises. I find that even if I do a very minimal amount of exercise, my body and mind feel so much better throughout the day. I feel best if I do between twenty minutes to an hour and a half of good cardio, stretches, and other exercises. I prefer running, yoga, pilates, and a little weight lifting. If I am feeling depressed running is better, but if I am feeling manic yoga and stretching is best.

After I exercised I did a small meditation. I try to do a little meditating each day because I feel it helps me refocus and organize my brain. I feel that by allowing my thoughts to calm and settle I can find relief from stress, worry, anxiety, agitation, and lots of other emotions that I can't manage if I continue to multi-task at break-neck speed. Though it is sometimes difficult to meditate, I find that it is very important to my wellbeing and I find that the more I do it, the more I begin to feel it in the rest of my life.

The last thing that I do is to allow myself breaks throughout my work. Because I always have a million things going on I try to allow myself small breaks and small rewards to make the work easier and more manageable. When I have a chance to do work outside (or in a different atmosphere then I would usually work in, such as a coffee shop,) I try to take the opportunity. Though I may feel like I work slower, I find that it is important for me to have a change of environment. Today, for instance, I worked by the lake. I also like to give myself small breaks from really difficult work by allowing myself to do things I normally wouldn't do, like watch a little television or buy dinner out.

Well, these are some of the things that I have been working on that I thought could be both beneficial for me to remember and useful for others to see. I will continue to work on these and hope that others might integrate them into there own lifestyles. And as that terrible cliche goes, I need to "stop and..." well, you know...

we should all just walk right in.

Lately I have been thinking about trauma a lot. I have been thinking about how people deal with the terrifying, heart-shattering, un-breathable moments in life. I think it all began with several interesting conversations with the boyfriend about people and tragedy. I have also been reading books that deal with similar topics (Atwood's Alias Grace, Faulkner The Sound and the Fury).

So I thought about what happened to me in the past, specifically to do with suicide, and I thought about my distance from it today. I am not sure whether I am just so used to talking about it at conferences, or so used to writing and rewriting papers and a book about it, but somehow I feel quite distanced from those traumatic places in my past. A stranger perhaps rather than the person that truly experienced them. So I talked to my counselor about it and realized that though it seems easier to continue on as a stranger with minor "unconnected" sadnesses, I need to reconnect and fully deal with my fears and pain. I have become so distanced that at times I almost feel like a liar going out and speaking about my emotional understanding of suicide. Do I understand it? Can anyone ever say that? Or am I too numb to truly remember or know what I feel.

But anyways, here is the point, and this is one I had to be told in order to believe: I have experienced it. It did happen. And though many people with horrible trauma find themselves feeling like liars or fakes, or feel as if they simply made it up,  it is something to confront. (I believe.) It is something to acknowledge and rediscover in order to truly let it go. It sucks going through memories of those horrible moments in your life, but I truly feel that it is so much better to confront things before they boil up some other way. I don't have anywhere close to as bad of trauma as many people, but I personally need to remind myself that I was there, and I did feel it. I need to remind myself that I am not lying to people by telling them I understand suicide and the pain of feeling like you don't have any more strength to survive. I just need to remind myself that ignorance is not bliss, not for me, because if I keep trying to forget I will only feel worse. Perpetually.

(And for all those of you who will wonder if I'm "okay," (dad, Jennifer,) or if I am okay doing all the work I am doing with presentations and what not, I only have to say that I am more than okay. I feel like this is important and even more meaningful when it comes to sharing my story with people. We all need to be okay with the confrontation of our selves, our demons, our fears. It is a continual process, and one that I hope my heros are constantly doing too. You go Reverend Tutu!)

The Decoy

So I'm going to Hawaii next Thursday to speak at a conference and I have found myself being VERY weird about my body insecurities. I am often insecure and worried about the usual girl things: flattering clothing, the right coat, make-up, not wearing anything the common sense fashion committee hasn't okayed, etc. But, I am not usually as bad as I have been these past two weeks.

For those who don't know me I must admit I have had some eating problems in the past, therefore it is important for me to check in with myself if I am being weird again. This however seemed a weird kind of different. I started by being obsessed with my weight, while not doing anything to change it. I thought about it a lot, a lot a lot, but I wasn't exercising or eating different other than saying no more candy until after Hawaii, (which is always silly, because I am completely addicted,) but then I randomly decided to fast, for my health. I wanted to fast because I have heard about the health benefits of detoxing your body naturally by simply drinking water all day. I have wanted to do this for years now, so I finally decided to do it.

So I did, and it was awful, but then I felt so good afterwards, and it was still unrelated to Hawaii, but a few days later I couldn't stop thinking about fasting. All I wanted to do was stop eating. I just wanted to fast and fast. I also started thinking about old purging patterns, and though I didn't act on them I got scared enough to really think about what was happening.

And then I realized, it was different than past times because there was this fakeness about it. I wasn't really feeling worried about my body, I was just convincing myself that I was. I mean, I could be in a little better shape, but on the whole I am doing fine. I realized that it was just a good distraction from these other horrible feelings of depression that I was suppressing. I was using it as a decoy of sorts because my subconscious-self knows that the best way to distract my conscious-self is by giving me a reason to torture myself. So, once I realized that and realized I had to deal with something deeper I began to torture myself in a new way by trying to figure it out. And then, BAM, I figured it out: Thanks to my superbly ESP powered mom I discovered that it was almost exactly three years since my diagnoses with bipolar, three years since the first time I tried to kill myself, and two years since I tried to cope with pain through purging.

The body is amazing to me. My bodies ability to feel dates before I remember them, year after year, season after season, will never cease to amaze me. From now on I am making a timeline of my body's favorite torture dates. I am going to make sure I am one step ahead to stop those horrible decoys from taking over.

And thank God that's over because I do love to eat.

back in my day...

A few weeks ago I was given the opportunity to visit the town I grew up in: Manson, Washington. A tiny apple farming town on a beautiful lake, surrounded by snowy mountains. I have found my mind going back to Manson quite a lot lately. I remember how simple everything was and how easy it was to be happy. I am not sure if it was the town itself or my wonderfully enjoyable childhood, but I am beginning to realize it may not have been as simple and easy as I thought.

When I first moved to Chicago I thought this is where I belong. The big city. I thought I was cut out for a world of "culture," art, music, constant movement, noise, and people. I thought that I would never be happy in a small town again. I actually forgot Manson existed. Until this last year. I'm not sure if it is the fact that I am once again living in Washington or if I am maturing to the point where I am seeing my youth through a new lens, but I can't stop thinking about it.

Going "home" was an interesting experience for several reasons: the first being that I hadn't been there for about five years, the second being the fact that I hadn't been there with my sister in thirteen years, and the third being that I had the opportunity to bring my one year old nephew with me. It was a strange mix of youthful memories and startling realizations of maturity. I am not a child anymore, and it became blatantly clear the moment I started driving my sisters sleeping child past my old house. I felt very emotional, happy, sad, overwhelmed at the fact that I was not the kid asleep in the backseat waiting for my parents to get me home. I thought about how much I have been through since that moment. I thought about how much things have changed and whether my parents thought the same thing when they were driving me around their home towns.

I think one of the things that struck me was thinking about the complexities that I never noticed. I drove around a place that was so full of memories, yet with the feeling that I had never seen any of it before. I saw the poverty, the small shacks that generations of families lived in, and realized for the first time what it meant to live there. When I was a kid I didn't understand what it was like for the families of the kids I went to school with. I didn't understand the extent of the poverty or the wealth of the tourists that juxtaposed it. I am amazed at the things I never noticed. I was amazed at the beauty that I took for granted. I was upset by the new wealth and "summer homes" that surrounded my old house and playgrounds.

I suppose the point to this is that I'm still young, but I think for the first time I really understand what it feels like to be getting older. It was that moment where I could hear my eighty year old voice saying, "back in my day..."

Creation and the Lamictal High

Sleepwalkers

-Barbara Einzig-

The moon rises, a vengeance on anguish,

on my own arrogant privacy.

The hands of sleepwalkers,

of their own accord, rise, follow.

The ponderability of daily fatigue-

on wings consciousness runs wild,

transparent creations are flying,

they've heard the reflection of the moon.

It flickers cold, stingy,

not promising anything,

draws out of me distant art,

demands my agreement.

Can the torture and charm of its omens

be fought down, overcome,

can I make out of moonlight

a heavy, tangible object?

Having taken my pills, (a very high dosage of Lamictal, trileptal, and a normal dose of bcp,) and settled myself down to bed, I did the things I normally try to do to calm myself down after another day of breathing, I meditated and read a poem. This day was especially difficult because I was attempting to recover from a horrible cold, and I was also extremely worn down after having been at school for like 12 hours. So, as I was meditating my mind wasn't really slowing down, but instead fluttering more and more. When I finally stopped after about twenty minutes I realized that I should have taken my medicine until after the meditation process because I was really loopy and felt as though I had just had a night of heavy drinking. It was in this mix of exhaustion, frustration, and lack of mind coordination that I began having an amazing drive towards creativity and some form of inspiration. This however was not working out because I could hardly pull myself out of bed let alone make sense, so I went on with the night process and opened my current poetry book to a random page where I found none other then Ms. Einzig's Sleepwalkers.

Now, I don't know if I was just really loopy and read it one way and can never read it differently again, but all I can think about is creativity and inspiration, and how they always seem to come when I can't handle them, or can't do much of anything with them. I read it thinking "can I make out of moonlight a heavy, tangible object?" I was thinking why, why does creativity come when you don't want it? When all you want to do is go to sleep after a really freaking long day, or when all you are allowed to do is the never ending pile of work before you? I feel like it goes by the same rules as finding a lover: people whine and complain and go out to bars trying to pick someone up, but everybody knows that as soon as you stop looking you'll find them. Bam. Here's the perfect man you've been looking for. I suppose I could go even further and say that when I really didn't want a boyfriend I happened to realize that the man of my dreams was not only interested in me, but also moving half way across the country from me. But we all know how that ended up, Happily Ever After. (Thanks Josh.) So now maybe me and my creativity/inspiration will settle our differences and produce beautiful little creations. And maybe next time I will leave my computer next to my pillow to write that great poem, or play, or ideal piece of literature that I have been harboring deep down in some cavernous hole in my psyche only to be exposed through meditation and lots and lots of lamictal. I'll let you know what happens.

in honor of mr valentine, or i suppose, my joshua

This is something I wrote two years ago:

A couple cuddling on the couch, warm coffees in hand, are being intellectual, talking about things that aren’t really intellectually challenging but have a moderately impressive use of vocabulary. Another couple is doing that thing in the beginning of a relentless relationship when everything about your partner is overwhelmingly interesting. I sit here on a dirty couch wondering why all the lampshades are crooked. I sit and wonder about the use of vintage furniture and interchangeable art in the creation of the persona that is Gourmand. It’s February 14^th and somehow my relationship status has become more important than my impending piano concert. I am thinking less of Barber and more of boys. Less of Mozart more of men. It is time to live in music again and forget the urges of comfort. It is time to grow back into myself and understand reliability.

Today I sit alone in my living room listening to Beethoven's 7th Symphony, eating chocolate lava cake and drinking a glass of 1% milk. I sit here and wait for my amazing boyfriend to come home from work and think about the changes in my life since I found him, or even since we have been living here in Seattle. I think about the small things, the move to 1% milk as a compromise, and the larger things, like my ability to be happy alone. I sit here now waiting for him to get off work and for the first time in a while, or I suppose ever, that I feel okay being alone on Valentines Day. I find it interesting that even last year, when he had to work and I also spent the day alone, I felt alone and sad.

Why do we make it so important to find someone? To not be alone? I suppose that the reason I am okay being alone this year is the fact that I know he will come home to me just like every other night. But I think I have just been thinking and coming to terms with my understanding and thoughts on loneliness. In the past, when I was having constant struggles with my emotions, moods, and stability, I felt like I deserved to be alone. I thought that I would just drive someone crazy, or make them run screaming thinking that I am crazy. I used to search and search for comfort thinking that if I just had a boyfriend, if I just had someone to hold me and hold my hand when I fall apart, life would be better. But I also knew that I had that with my last amazing boyfriend Charlie, but for some reason my mind drove him away too, (or I did, he wasn't the one to leave.) I always had this conflict in my head over feeling needy and wanting to be taken care of and yet being scared and traumatized by my own patterns.

But now here I am sitting in our beautiful apartment, living a great life. And the best part is that I realized that I can handle life without him. I know that if I didn't have him I would be okay today, on a day where we are all supposed to be in love, or as most think, get laid. I would be perfectly fine and strong and happy. But it is through all of this that makes me know that he makes it even better. In my realizing that I don't need him I always realize how much I want him. And how amazing it is to have a relationship in which we are each our own completely independent selves who choose to be together.

like father like daughter

I always used to think that the reason I like to play dress-up is because of my mom and sister and our constant lip-syncs, barbie cities, fashion shows, dress-up tea parties, and mask-making parties, but that was until I got to have a visit with one of my dad's old friends. One of my dad's closest college friends, Z, is that cool aunt that everyone is suppose to have, the one who tells you embarrassing stories about your parents and shows you incriminating photographs. The last time I got to visit Z we spent a good amount of time going through old books of photos where I promptly took photos of photos to preserve the memories of my dad as a young trouble maker. I love stories about my parents when they were young, or even the parents of my friends when they were young. I love them because most of the time they are stories of them causing havoc, being mischievous, and getting in trouble. They are the stories that you can use to your advantage as you get older whether you are causing havoc of your own, or simply when you want to tell you friends. Today I realize that it is my dress up and make believe problem is just hereditary, coming from both sides of course. So thank you Z, for when you read this, because now I have more blackmail photos then I will ever need. And thank you also for simply being the cool aunt that watches Sex and the City all night with me. (p.s. check out that mustache!) 

that terrible T word

television.

i have a confession to make: i have been worrying alot about the current season of 90210. now you see i am not a tv fan, and this is what bothers me. you see i happened to watch one or two episodes late at night when i was alone and had nothing better to do but eat some fatty food and be a closet television fiend and ever since then i have been worrying about them. there is this girl who is a drug addict who is now pregnant, and this other family who had this guy pop up and say he was a long lost son. its just all so hard sometimes.

so heres the dilemma: football seasons almost over which means the tv is going back in the closet. that is where it lives during the off season and i think after this whole conversion box thing it will live their indefinitely. so what do i do? do i admit my 90210 problem to josh and keep it out so that i can check on that pregnant chic? or should i just purge myself of the addiction and say goodbye to those cliche ever problematic children?

i don't know. its hard thing to do, but the first step is always to admit your problem. and in the long run, theres always the internet...

a found lost

i found a rather eerie picture of myself at 19. it appeared through an email from a past internet self.

i feel that the look in my eyes can only truly be described through part of Jane Kenyon's "Having it out with melancholy:"

 8  CREDO   

Pharmaceutical wonders are at work  

but I believe only in this moment  

of well-being. Unholy ghost, 

you are certain to come again.   

Coarse, mean, you'll put your feet  

on the coffee table, lean back,  

and turn me into someone who can't  

take the trouble to speak; someone  

who can't sleep, or who does nothing  

but sleep; can't read, or call  

for an appointment for help.   

There is nothing I can do  

against your coming.  

When I awake, I am still with thee.

today i remember that look, i remember that feeling, and even though it has been years since my last major bout of depression, i still find myself fearing the worst. i was always watching, waiting, and almost welcoming it back like an old friend. today however, i have come to realize that if it does return, i can handle it. i can get through it just like every other time. in the past i used to get paralyzed by my fear of its return and it wasn't until i began to trust the ebb and flow of life that i finally allowed myself to breathe.

this and that

i find it amazing how i tend to break things into sides. as i have been told all my life, i am very "black and white." i find this interesting considering my being defined as bipolar. is my tendency to break things into good and evil, happy and sad, beautiful and ugly something that follows these newly defined brain patterns, or is it my natural disposition? could i have instead simply been influenced by the fact that i was raised by someone who is also said to be "black and white." i find it interesting how our social labels and categories are always used as a way to explain and excuse are natural tendencies. i tend to feel that my pull towards duality has a little to do with everything. i have always been a person that is entranced by beauty, and i have always felt that what we see as beautiful or ugly are only truly complimented by seeing both sides. you can never know how bright it is until you have been in the dark. you never know how slow you are going until you have transitioned from the freeway to a small side street, or vice versa. there are always two sides and i feel that without both there is no way to truly see the beauty in the ugliness. now, i have been told that i am full of shit when it comes to this topic, but this is how i feel and this is what i will stick to.

in my life i have seen both sides. i constantly move from what i see as "the good girl" to the "troublemaker," the bad girl. i always felt strangled at one end and guilty at the other. things are always hot or cold, right or wrong, happy or sad, everything or nothing at all. These are things i need to reconcile. these are things that do need to find a happy median, and while i do love to see both sides and compare one to the other, it is not always healthy and appropriate for certain situations.

i was taking a class where we read sense and sensibility. at the end of the class we were supposed to write a paper and i remember having such a hard time because i couldn't stop thinking about what i saw as the two vastly different sides. there was the romantic world of beauty and art and religion and the enlightenment world of science and reason. i had such a hard time because i wanted both and i felt both but i couldn't find a way to bring them together. after completely panicking as to why i could not see the middle i had a conversation with my boyfriend josh. now, while most people think their partners are wonderful and perfect, josh is truly the most amazing person i have ever met. he talked me down off my cliff and explained that he can't see it in any other way. he can't separate the two because he feels that they are so perfectly connected. at first hearing this i kind of wanted to punch him; here i was trying to figure something out and he comes along and says that he already figured it out. but then i realized that that wasn't what he was saying at all. he demonstrated to me that he is just the opposite. he just works differently than i do. his world is always connected and he seems to have the opposite problem.

this is beautiful because i stopped being upset and angry at myself for not seeing it in a certain way and realized that that is how i am. i am a person that tends to see things as dualities. it is not my fault that i see it one way or his fault that he sees it the other, it is just how we are. so today i work on finding the gray area in important life struggles that need a bit more stability, struggles that don't do well when you totter from side to side. today i also allow myself the ability to be okay with comparisons. i allow myself the ability to see both sides and find the beauty in one and then the other. but even that is about balance. it is a balance of finding the right time to use my new skills and the right time to allow my natural tendency for "black and white" to come out.

why the bunny years?

well, these are the years in which i am plagued with symbols. when i went into my "cave" i did not see a penguin as the narrator of Fight Club did; i instead saw a bunny. and then they followed me, popping up whenever life was ripe with meaning: the last night i was in chicago, drinking forties in the park with the man who saved my life, the first time i went to look for apartments with a boy, the first time meditation really found me...

Bombs and Feathers

on a day of sun and joy and plenty of free boyfriend time we decided to take an adventure, so we moseyed on down to the SLUT (or the seattle trolly thing whose initials are all i happen to remember, and i suppose that the true name isn't truly needed when we could simply call it the SLUT). Anyways, slut abound, we rode all the way to the city center. we wandered in and out of various seattley type places. walked through the expensive and newly remodeled SAM (seattle art museum) and missed the Chicago Art Institute. Went to the pike place market and wandered into an anarchist bookstore. spent lots and lots of time reading books about art, religion, mental health, science, history, philosophy, etc., etc., etc. my thoughts began to get somewhat anxious as i thought about china and tibet. iraq. iran. terrorism in south america. starving children. poor indian reservations. i started to hate the world and love it and wanted to save it and forget about it all at the same time. as i read and thought, (and inevitable bought) way too much i kept hearing screaming from outside. i thought i was losing my mind as my head turned over thoughts of fear and pain and inequality. i thought the world was ending. I knew i was hearing something and in my american media fed head i thought that there had to have been some tragic gun or bomb related event going on outside.

so we went outside

and we saw this...

 

and then we stood there in awe.

in my mind full of fear and violence and anger i thought the worst. and we all do. because time after time we hear these things on the radio on tv on movies in books. violence. war. fear. pain.

but instead it was merely fluff, and quite literally. feathers flew everywhere as hundreds of people brought their pillows for an impromptu pillow fight in the market. police in riot gear surrounded fearing the worst when all people wanted was a chance to mindlessly pound a stranger on the head with fluff.

hmm.

symbolic i suppose.

a movement towards plastic couch covers...

i cannot express my excitement for the life that is soon coming into this world. how to concentrate when my sister is in the hospital dilating to a 3. when do i go? what do i say? how do i hold him? i dont know the first thing about babies other than the fact that they scare me.

i was in the hospital once. it was rather traumatic, and i was in a lot of pain. My every thought went towards my drive to end my life. her best friend, who i often like to consider my sister as well, brought her new born son to visit me. the life, innocence, joy, and beauty that that child exuded truly saved me. and for that moment, after so many moments of pain, i was content and i realized that life was beautiful.

so now my sister is in the hospital and i am ecstatic and josh is sleeping next to me, but i can't sleep. i can't read, or do homework. all i can do is wait and be that cheesy girl that oohs and aahs over a new baby. i can't help it.

TCS, my beautiful nephew, please come into this world safely and happily. i know its bright and harsh and loud, but we all make it through. its tough to be alive sometimes, but in being here you will remind everyone that it is worth it. please treat jordan kindly, and love me dearly, for i know nothing more than the fact that i will love you forever.

so now i sit here thinking cheesy thoughts and i think of girls who like pink or have those "precious moments" angels in their houses. the girls who have framed jesus quotes over sunsets. but i saw one of those sunsets the other day as i drove over lake washington on 5-20 and i couldn't talk. there was a tear on my boyboys cheek and i was speechless to the world. so i suppose i have the ability to be cheesy. to be a girly girl. or a grandma with floral couch covers. or, i suppose, an aunt.

aunt linea. hmmm. okay.

insurrection

(picture created by some amazing artist whose name i don't know)

im sitting here in my living room reading extremely dense german philosophy and drinking a gigantic cup of hot chocolate and listening to red house painters in my underwear (which i suppose is irrelevant, but it does create a sense of the freedom of this scene) and as i am reading about the effects of the french revolution on romantic/idealist philosophers and socialist and nationalists and all those pre-hitlermaos i have to laugh at my previous self. the self whose main goal before she died was only to start a revolution. the me who thought that the greatest joy in life was being intoxicated/high and alone riding public transportation.

            i think about all of this and laugh at the fact that i merely wanted a reason to fight. or something to fight for. i wanted for it to be okay for me to be angry or mean or crazy. i wanted my actions to be justified. i didn't know why, or what for, but i wanted to revolt.

         and its funny, cause i still see revolutions with some sort of romantic lense. they still represent some sort of beauty to me, and the thoughts and art and behavior are intriguing to me. i still enjoy reading les miserables and watching 60's documentaries.

            i don't know what exactly im getting at, but this: i sit here alone, free, with my hot chocolate, studying past anger and pain, and i am happy and content. i am safe here. my life and my mind have been stable quite a while now, and i have developed a safe and sensible way of dealing with myself. im okay not being in a revolution. im okay not killing or hurting in order to get what i want. im okay without using some outside political or economic or spiritual source to deal with my own demons.

            getting fucked up and riding the train alone might be amazing. and terrifying. and sublime. that fear and excitement that comes with carrying drugs past the big mean drug dogs, or the "are they looking at me? can they tell?" is invigorating.

         but so is sitting in your living room and doing homework until your love comes home to give you a hug.

         let me not seek past excitement to fulfill a longing for infamy.

         excitement comes in all sizes.

love and couches

I often find myself seeing the world as I will remember it and not as it currently is. Because I so often go back to memories for writing or even just to put together the pieces, I now find myself trying to see things before they happen. Preparing for the next article, book, life. I find myself viewing the world as if it is not me that is living it, but me that is directing it, painting it, acting it.  Take this moment. Josh is at work and I just cleaned the apartment. Five hours ago there were piles upon piles of my papers and books and clothes. My stuff everywhere. But now it is clean and I sit here in my green chair next to the window by the plants and purple curtains and I look at how big it looks when it’s clean. I think about how much space there is and how beautiful the hard wood floors look when there is nothing on them. I always wanted hard wood floors, and now they are here. In my suddenly clean apartment. But anyways, what made me think of this is the fact that I was looking at the pictures on the wall above the couch and they made me think of Jamie, my last roommate, and my old place in the loop in chicago. They are in the same order, over the couch, and I think about how I remember that apartment and I think about the memories that were there. I think about memories a lot. I think about the movement of objects a lot. This chair for instance. I think about all the places that it has been with me and all the places that it may have been in the past. Its like that movie The Red Violin. I don’t remember very much, but I have been thinking about that concept my whole life. I used to think about the fact that if I moved to a new room or location I would have to make sure that I changed it, so it looked different, and I think somehow, with the help of my parents I was able to do that until I was about nineteen. Then I ran out of money and the furniture in my home became the furniture in my home, no matter where that home was. This chair is my chair and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I have to keep it. It is my friend. And everything else around here, in this apartment, with a few exceptions, is a constant. The brown couch. I think about it sitting in the apartment in the loop. I think about it sitting in the house I bought it from. I think about its lives, and what happened on it. I think about who all slept on it. Who made love on it. Who cried, laughed, sang on it. I don’t know where this is going, but I wonder what I will think of when I remember this place. When I see the couch again, with the same pictures above it, will I think of this apartment, or will I think about my last apartment. I will really miss this place, and I am afraid that I will continue to miss its shape and form as I miss the one on Broadway in Seattle. Why do I make apartments into living beings? Doesn’t that seem a little strange? I miss them like old friends. I don’t want to leave. This place especially. I want to bring it with me. It didn’t do me any harm. I love it like the Broadway apartment, but I have better memories. At least I have josh to create new memories with. He will be there in the next home we create, and probably even the next.