Ups and downs in poetry

I feel it is well past time to update my blog. The only problem is - I couldn't for the life of me think of a specific topic to write about.

I think this is a real problem with me; I get overly pedantic about organization, writing quality, and proper structure, and lose track of the real reason why I am writing in the first place (as a recreational pursuit for the enjoyment of myself and others - I am not writing a business report).

I should write this blog as I write in my journals, and in my word document folders on my computer - freely and without inhibition.

So, here goes.

The last week or so I feel my mood swings have lessened, and become more manageable. For the first time I am looking forward, and planning, rather than living only in the moment, from one moment to the next, hoping nothing bad will happen.

I feel as though my brain is clearing, my sanity is returning, and there's less of a divide between my inner voice (my true self, looking on helpless and horrified) and my emotional thoughts and corresponding actions.

I have thought about all kinds of gruesome ways I could die, or kill myself during lows. Some of the more memorable ones included falling on the glass wall of the pool from a great height and being sliced clean in half, and drinking the entire contents of the alcohol cupboard at home.

Once when I was really down, so that my vision was sort of disconnected/unreal, and I was so heavy moving was a big effort, I tried to rouse myself by walking to the park. When I got there I wrote in my diary. Then I walked across the bridges to the video store, then home, and I wrote some more.

I think some of what I've experienced is best captured in poetry. I will share a few poems written during this time.


Bipolar

I feel so intensely alive I want to die

My mind is spinning and I don’t know why

Nobody can help me, but nobody can try

Nothing can save me from this turmoil inside

I’m grieving

Anguished grieving for immortality

I want what nature has denied to me

I want the power to transcend mediocrity

I don’t understand.

An aspect of me still alive

Is horrified at my demand

It isn’t what I planned

I am ashamed

My tumultuous thoughts are out of control

I cannot contain any sense at all

I am embroiled in ambition’s tortuous thrall

Transcend into hell.

Division

A division

Split into two entities

One black, the other white

Hide the darkness deep within

So only I may know my sin

Purity.

The whiteness expands, sublimates all surrounding it

People are bathed in whiteness

Drenched in white

Saturated in white

The darkness festers…

Ambition

The monster rises within

Ready to drown out my logic

Ready to shame me into unravelling,

I could burn up inside

With gut wrenching emotions

Brought on by this disease,

This possessing.

Ambition is a cancerous canker blossom,

Best avoided,

Best immunized against,

Incurable once it has taken hold.

Once ambition gets its hold on you, it will feed off your happiness, your sadness, your laughter, and your tears. It will take everything, until all that is left inside you is a pulsating monster driving you onwards into eventual, inevitable, self-destruction. A euphoric addiction.

Glorious suicide.

Hive

Sinking, sinking

Is this a bucket without a bottom?

Weeping, writhing,

Will stability be forgotten?

I’m lost in transit

Somewhere between the here and now

A foreign perspective

Unreal, insubstantial somehow.

Can I escape-

This tumble dryer of thought

Can I survive-

Exploring the hive?

Sunlight-Blinded

Standing in space

Out of place

A step to the right–

Open water

A step to the left–

Burning highway

Straight ahead–

Who knows?

My head hangs low

I cannot lift it from my heaving chest.

I am suspended in non-reality

Walking a straight line tightrope

Blinded

By eyes that can’t see right

Fearless forward motion

In bright sunlight.

 

SPIN DOCTOR

High

Fly like a kite

Don’t bend, don’t be rigid

Can’t break

Can’t breathe—

My mind is jumping that fast

Don’t believe

All the tales they spin for you

Don’t take

One more tablet tonight

Don’t break.

Bipolar

Two weeks ago I was diagnosed with Bipolar type II. One week ago I started taking Lithium (a mood stabilizer). It hasn't kicked in yet.

There's been so much I've wanted to write about this. Too much, in fact, and I haven't been able to start. The difficulty in writing is also due to poor mental condition I am currently in.

For the past 3 months I've been experiencing wildly erratic mood swings. In one day I can go from running and skipping ecstatically to lying comatose on my bed and wishing for oblivion, to trying to force down waves of fury, to being paralyzed with intense anxiety. I have attempted to walk to a suburb 6 hours away (on foot), I have both binged and starved, I have cried and laughed uncontrollably, and I have covered 50 metres of public sidewalk by jumping and spinning wildly in circles to the confusion of onlookers.

I have spent days barely able to get out of bed, I have sunk into the deepest oblivion beyond sleep and lost control of my limbs, I have experienced catatonia so bad I have been unable to feed myself and have struggled to walk in the middle of the local shopping centre. Sometimes trying to piece together sentences, or even speaking single words, has been too hard. Most days my thoughts are too scattered, and I am too unfocussed, to do much at all. At least now I can read books and write sometimes.

I have been mainly struggling to maintain some sort of equilibrium - to not let myself swing too far in either direction. Things can trigger it off; seeing a friend may send me up on a high, and then I crash heavily the next day. Discussing a sad topic, or trying too hard to do a once simple task that I no longer have the focus for, can cause me to sink into a crippling depression where I sob violently or lie down and sink into a stupor for hours. Trying to monitor myself constantly can be exhausting, and it's all to easy to slip up.

Self regulation involves more than just deciding which activities are appropriate and when. It also involves closely monitoring my own thoughts, and deciding which thoughts and ideas are rational and which are clearly irrational and should not be acted upon.

For example:

Going for a short walk to the video store and back in the early afternoon = rational. Going for an 8km run in the middle of the night in freezing temperatures to the local clubbing precinct and back (and possibly downing a cocktail or many while there) = irrational.

Going out to sit in the sun for a while when depressed = rational. Any form of self harm or self mutilation = irrational.

Going home and having a good night's rest after having dinner out with a friend = rational. Walking back to the William Jolly bridge and standing/sitting there all night in the freezing cold, staring at the water and wishing I were dead = irrational.

Having a chocolate bar in the afternoon as a special treat = rational. Skipping breakfast, lunch, and dinner to go on an all day sugar binge throughout the city of Brisbane, starting at pancake manor in the morning = irrational.

Sometimes I feel like I'm mothering my very own four year old, high on red cordial, right here in my head.

I'm praying that the mood stabilizers will work because the life I'm currently living is exhausting, for both my parents and myself. Three months ago, when this all began, I had to drop all my uni courses for the semester, pull out of several singing commitments, and leave my flat to live with and be cared for by my parents. It's been a hard road to travel, and sometimes I feel like I've lost more than three months off my life to have this happen. The worst part is how hard it's been for people other than myself. My mother also had her life torn apart as she was forced to drop everything and become my full time carer.

Of course, it could be worse. It's amazing how much one can take their mental health for granted until it is compromised. Although I was one of those already coping with disabilities (in my case, having Aspergers, ADHD and past episodes of pure depression) it was easy to take my then equilibrium for granted and not consider how much worse it could actually be until things go pear shaped. Even now, after experiencing three months of what's been described above, it would be folly for me not to be thankful even for my current equilibrium - keeping in mind how far above rock bottom I still actually am.

For one, I am thinking, breathing, have full use of my limbs, speaking, singing once a week, and occasionally seeing a friend. For another, I am sitting at my computer writing this.

Birthday Musings

So it's that time of the year again. My Birthday.

A Birthday is a strange day for a person once they pass that certain age, stepping across the threshold into adulthood, aging, and slow but inevitable decrepitude. You may laugh - what does a child like me know of decrepitude?? Well, this year I turn 23. According to the mathematical laws of rounding off, I am now on the near side of 25, and on the far side of 20. I calculated that according to expected future lifespan averages, at least a quarter of my life has already passed, and as the last quarter of my life is both uncertain and may be of a lower quality of living, that leaves me only two good quarters left to go. Thus I am a third of the way into my life already, which is significant.

For those of us over the threshold, our birthday is a day we love to hate, yet are required to love.

On the day of my Birthday I traditionally spend a significant amount of time thinking (it falls most inconveniently in the middle of uni and school exam time, so mostly nobody's free to celebrate it with me). I think both backwards and forwards, I consider my progression through life to date, and I consider the future.

Although I feel satisfied with what I have achieved so far, there is still so much left undone. Each year the future seems to shrink a little and time speeds up. I think this is because over time our memory lessens proportionately to the number of years we've been alive; if you've only lived five years, you'll have lots and lots of memories from those five years so they'll seem like a long time. However, if you've lived 25 years, you only have limited capacity with what you can remember, so you retain much less memories from each year, creating the illusion that time has sped up when you think back as you jump from memory to memory spread further apart.

At any rate, one of the annoying things about birthdays is that all day everybody around you is expected to cater to your every whim and go out of their way to make you happy. Questions such as "what would you like to do now?", "who would you like to see?" "where would you like to go?" "what special meal would you like to eat for lunch, and for dinner?", "what type of cake do you want?", and "what would make you happy right now?" are an indecisive person's nightmare. There's this sense of mutual anxiety in the air - your loved ones wanting to make sure you are enjoying yourself, and you wanting to make things as easy on your loved ones as possible.

Birthdays would also be a lot easier if there weren't so many rules you had to keep in mind and follow religiously.

Rule number 1: you're not allowed to be alone on your birthday. This means no going places by yourself, and no spending too much time alone in your room. And definitely no going to watch a movie by yourself, because that's just sad (the idea really appealed to me first thing this morning, but I soon gave it up as a lost cause).

Rule number 2: You must be happy, consistently happy, all day. Woe betide you allow yourself to sink into a melancholic or depressive state on your birthday. This is a big social no no.

Rule number 3: You must have the correct emotional reaction to the present unwrapping procedure; an emotional pattern of surprise, joy, and gratitude upon opening each present. You must also remember to maintain a constant big smile, or people will become worried and ask you what's wrong. If this makes your jaws hurt, perhaps polishing up on your smiling, laughter, and profuse thank you's the day before in the mirror wouldn't go amiss.

And so forth.

All this being said, it's nice to spend a day feeling loved and wanted. Having special attention from loved ones gives a warm fuzzy feeling inside, and although it's easy to complain about the "happy birthday" spam on facebook, it's nice to see people care enough to take a minute out of their day to convey their well wishes to you.

I had a lovely birthday. :)

Dreams of literary heaven

Last night I dreamed I was on holiday with two friends, and we'd stopped at a small hotel to stay overnight.

We went upstairs and found one room was on the first floor, and one room was on the second floor (there were 8 rooms total in the place, four on each floor). We'd decided the couple would stay on the first floor room as it was larger, and I would stay on the top floor. All of us were checking out the first floor room, when we saw there was a small balcony with a tiny spa bath on it outside (only room for two). My friends decided to have a spa, so I wandered back in and saw a largish bookcase spanning the wall of one corner. I walked closer out of curiosity, and was stopped dead in my tracks.

It was the most amazing book collection I had ever seen. All my favourite type of children's and teenagers fantasy books, beautifully bound and covered (some in gold and silver binding, many bound in the style of the first, second, and third edition Famous Five book collection I have), most of which I hadn't yet read!! It took my breath away, and I was rooted to the spot in disbelief, and also despair, because I knew we were only staying one night so I didn't have time to read the books, and I  couldn't take them with me. I had only one book on me at the time, so I figured I could only take one book in good conscience and leave behind my book in return (which I hadn't read yet, but when confronted with this miracle, it hardly seemed to matter).

I started at the top left hand corner, and went from book to book. Amazingly, they were perfectly alphabetized. I couldn't believe the owners of the hotel had put so much effort into a book collection within a guest room. I pulled each book out in turn, and read blurbs about pirates, adventures, boarding school mysteries, unknown worlds, amazing denizens, and strong willed protagonists of varying personalities. How could I possibly choose? Yet the process of going through the books was such an enjoyment in itself. I wished desperately that I could have several weeks holiday staying in this one hotel, in this very hotel room, alone, so I could peruse and read the books at my leisure from start to finish. But it was not to be. With both joy and longing I was so embroiled in literary heaven that at first I didn't notice anything amiss. Then, just as I was nearing the "S" section (it wasn't a huge collection, but it was a highly specialized and top standard one), I realized my friends were arguing in the background.

I felt I should leave, but I couldn't. To leave without completing going through this collection and never again have a chance to peruse it! The idea was devastating, heartbreaking, but at the same time I knew my friends wouldn't understand. To them it would be a dusty misused bookcase of old children's books in the corner, and nothing to spare a second glace at.

The argument was intensifying so I hurried (although I was so focused in on the books I couldn't make out the words being said). Still in the 'S' section I came to two especially interesting looking books - one bound in shining gold, and the other in silver (about pirate ships, family drama, and an unusually written protagonist - puts one in mind of Robin Hobb's Liveship Traders series). I decided to choose those two and leave.

Unfortunately things had come to a head. One of my friends came up to speak tome, and as I turned I saw they had been packing. They had broken up and didn't now know what to do or where they would both go (we could no longer all travel together). I offered to have one of them stay overnight with me in my room. I felt a great grief upon leaving the books behind me, although I knew I should feel more saddened about the ending of the relationship.


I woke with a start and realized it was 6:45am. I wanted so desperately to hold onto the memory of that wonderful bookcase, that dream of heaven, that I decided to write it all out somewhere - and that somewhere became my blog, since I can write whatever I want here - ha! So often my dreams and so vivid and intense, more so than my daily life. I often wish I could write them into novels themselves, but I know the minute details will slip away from me too quickly for this to ever be made possible. I feel this is such a loss of inspiration, but I don't know how to remedy matters. The longest dream story I have ever managed to write was several pages, and even then it was more of a plot outline than a descriptive piece of writing.

Morbid Amusements

So I calculated that by Australian time, Rapture should have occurred at 8am this morning.

I sat with my muesli, milk, and pear (for the want of yoghurt, my usual single piece of finely chopped crystallized ginger, and fresh (I refuse to eat old chewy ones) prunes - a sad state of affairs) and contemplated what the immediate future would hold if Rapture actually were to occur. I figured that if the earthquakes occurred across America - as the a-few-screws-loose-in-the-head fanatics seemed to claim, then it's entirely possible tidal waves would subsequently swamp Australia (my geography is a little hazy *cough*understatement of the year*cough* so please don't quote me on that one).

Being in the flat, I had good reason to hope the raging waters of death would pass below us, and hopefully within 10 minutes of 8am (as dad and I would be departing for All Saints at 8:10am). If this were to be the case, the flat would then effectively become an island surrounded by chaos. Although short on refrigerated food, dry food stuffs would be plentiful, and I'm certain starving people wouldn't object to eating cold watery flour and similar variants. Plus mum can make almost anything taste good, and dad has never objected in the past to eating stuff out of cans several years past their due by date.

I didn't have time to think this out much further, as 8am arrived, and of course nothing more exciting happened than me brushing my teeth in the bathroom (although it is to be admitted the various cracks and marks in the bathroom ceiling make for an interesting collage to look at while considering the possibility of a large chunk of ceiling falling on ones head resulting in instant death).

Death seemed to be a common thread of thought today, as I again considered the possibilities and consequences of passing away unexpectedly, and young. Perhaps I have a morbid turn of mind, but the concept fascinates me. When would go through my head, what actions would I undertake, if I knew I had only limited time to live?

While going for an evening walk and recovering from a nasty collapse in mental functioning I considered the possibility of myself having a fatal tumour in my brain and being told I had 3 years to live. This being a highly unlikely occurrence, did not stop my imagination from charging onwards (assisted by depressing music) to consider what then my life would become. I would likely be highly accepting of the fact, considering, as I feel I have led an interesting, varied, and fulfilled life, but would then endeavour to complete those most important tasks left unfinished. First and foremost, I would make certain all my original music to date was properly recorded and compiled into a presentable CD - which people could then purchase and listen to if they wished. This being done, I would endeavour to travel overseas as best my health allowed me, and expand my visual and memory horizons. I often have this strange conception that when one dies, the "afterlife" consists of that person living solely within the visual memory landscape of the life they have lived. If this were to be the case, it would be within my best interests to expand my visual landscape as much as humanly possible in the time remaining to me, though of course if by lucky chance I survived the tumour the increase in richness of memory could only assist me in my future career as a fantasy novelist.

The next, and final, port of call would be to write a novel detailing my thoughts and journey towards acceptance. In this novel hopefully I would come across as a sage and wise creature - a person to be admired - and not the silly twat I have a tendency to be now. The novel would be entitled "Alive", and would display a photograph of me on the front cover with my hair cropped short (as I would certainly have finally gotten around to getting my hair cut with the added incentive of impending death to motivate me) and with my eyes piercing into the readers soul - so I could still seem alive beyond my own passing within the photo. A little over-dramatic and tacky, perhaps, but take into account my current self is a "silly twat" but my future self, being sage and wise, would probably design the book in a much more tasteful fashion.

My funeral, of course, would be held at All Saints, and every choir member would have a solo (I'm not sure how this could be wrangled, but for my sake it would have to be done). I considered also imagining everyone learning and singing the entire Requiem (Mozart's) for my funeral, but then thought that would be too cruel, so I would settle for my favourite hymn - Sweet Sacrament Divine - instead.


The finality of the funeral drawing to its heart wrenching close, my imagination moved on to fragmented dramatics to occupy me for the rest of the walk, and after I arrived home I determined to distract myself from the feverish and anxiety driven state of mind I tend to settle into every night from around 6pm onwards by briefly skimming facebook, and writing this blog entry.

Unfortunately I'm still waiting for "the awkward moment when Rapture didn't happen" notification to pop up on facebook newsfeed so I can click the "like" button.

Chocolate + symptom enhancement = bad combination

This entry shall be in segments.

~

A waterfall of chocolate, running blind, burning mind, jumbled time.

~

I have been researching hyperlexia. I have good reason to believe I may have had it as a child. However, I need some more fact verification from my parents to be sure. My suspicious are such partly because Primary school memories.

I don't remember ever having to learn how to read - I think it came naturally to me. I'm not sure when I first started to read (whether it was earlier, later, or at the normal time), but I remember graduating almost straight away from picture books to moderately thick novels. I have a clear memory of sitting alone in the corner in Grade 1 skim reading 1950's editions of the Famous Five books (quite large - larger than modern versions, and written in old style English) while other children sat with the teacher reading 3 sentence a page picture books word by word with the teacher helping them. From when I first entered school onwards I was so advanced in reading I was always left to my own devices to read whatever I liked while other children followed the syllabus.

~

My mind has been in a rut these last few weeks. I feel all my AS and ADHD symptoms more keenly - my sensory issues, my obsessive thought looping, and my inability to stay on task or stay focused. I seem to constantly jump from one thing to another, never completing even the simplest things, and in a state of constant frustration. The sensory problems I have been experiencing have made it difficult for me to be in public places, or function well enough in shopping centers to actually get any shopping done (which is a real problem as winter is fast approaching and I only have one long sleeved top).

~

Thoughts stray, patterns break and change, eyes sore, I am a tiresome bore.

~

Why do the smaller questions run rampant, while the bigger questions remain unanswered?

An Empty Flat

So today I’ve had plenty of time to think. I lay on the couch, draped in my brilliant blue silk doona from Vietnam, and stared aimlessly out the living room window at the periwinkle blue sky, which had a smattering of white clouds.

Enough over-embellishment. My thoughts, as they were, were mostly depressing with the occasional moment of epiphany to make them worthwhile. During this time I feel like I drift in an in-between world; the world in-between all other “living” worlds (the worlds other people are involved in). My world is a place of suspension, of stagnation and introspection.  Mostly I am crippled by my own uncontrollable anxiety that seems to rise and fall within me like waves breaking upon a once dry shore.

While I am living within this suspension world, there’s little I can do to better myself or other people. Even introspection and philosophizing after a time grows stale. The achievement beast within myself roars unsated, starving for what I can no longer provide. I wonder whether it would be better if I let the beast die off, slowly and painfully, so it could steer the rudder of my life no more.

Sometimes I wonder if this is a test. Perhaps this fall was meant to happen, to teach me everything I need to know that I haven’t yet learned about what it means to be alive. Thoughts like this can drive you mad, looping and looping inside your head, until you question every facet of conscious thought and moral value that makes you you.

Sometimes I wonder if I should just stop thinking.

Chill.

Lie on the couch.

Watch a few movies.

Eat chocolate chip icecream.

Catch some zzz’s.

But no, that isn’t me. I really want to live, the way I lived before. Or maybe not exactly the way I lived before. I feel that life wasn’t sustainable, and in the end ironically enough it lead me here. To the exact antithesis of what that life was driving towards.

So. I need new direction. New thoughts. New outlook. Perhaps I do not want to escape this suspension world to re-enter my old “living” one. Perhaps it is time to step sideways, and enter a new universe. Perhaps it is time to open my mind fully to the immense possibility the alternative has to offer me.  Perhaps it is time to take the plunge, and re-emerge newly born into the unknown.

What will I take with me? CAN I take anything with me?

Will I leave everything behind…

Kindergarten - a memory.

I am currently writing and cataloging memories of my childhood for potentially creating an autobiography, and also for my own enjoyment. This is one of the first I documented.

~

I don’t remember my first day of kindergarten. In fact, my earliest memory of kindergarten spans back to the second or third day, I believe. Back then I didn’t know I was different, but I found out pretty quickly.

The thing I remember most of all was the light. The trapezium, hexagonal, pentagonal shafts of sunlight falling between the rich fermenting green of the vast brooding trees above me.

As a child, my tiny footsteps would have gone almost unnoticed in that living, majestic place. I barely remember the shades and textures of the dirt beneath my feet due to the overwhelmingly lush textures of greenery and sunlight above me. It was some time before my vision blurred and refocussed and I saw the other children playing in two clearly divisive groups, boys and girls, on opposite ends of the playground.

The girls played with alien-like long limbed barbie dolls, dipping them in and out of a shallow, water-filled clam shell. Something about the pale limbs of the dolls and the breaking and flowing of the water appealed to me immensely, so I gathered up my courage and approached the other girls.

They didn’t seem to be facing me, or paying any attention to me at all. I stood for quite a while, expectantly, but they went on with their chatter and their game as though I didn’t exist. I had a vague feeling of unease and wrongness – but I spoke up anyway.

“Can I play?”

“No.”

With that, they went back to their game. So abruptly and decisively dismissed, I wasn’t sure what to do. I dithered at the fringes of their group, and tried again.

“Can I play?”

“No. Go away.”

Again, it was like I didn’t exist. They spoke and held their dolls and I was so clearly outside their circle, their vision, and their consciousness it was like there was an indestructible glass wall between us.

I thought I had better ‘go away’ like they instructed me to, so away I went. The kindergarten playground was designed as a large square with a central oval circled by a meandering concrete footpath. The corners of the square were grassed and ringed with trees, and the oval had a small climbing gym with a tanbark base. With the boys in one corner of the yard, and the girls in the other, I wandered away from the edge of the yard towards the deserted playground in the centre. There I lost myself in the world of the swing, the metal bars, the levels and stairs and slide. Safe but alone. In between two worlds where I was not wanted.

Masks

So I donned the mask. A whirl of colours, sounds, people, noise. The noise blasting into my eardrums, deafening. I talked until I was talked out, then I retreated into the toilets and locked myself in a cubicle. I sat there, safely enclosed within four walls, and stared at the time on my iphone as the minutes slowly ticked past. One minute, two minutes, three. How long could I get away with waiting here until my absence was noticed? When I deemed I had waited for as long as I dared, I reluctantly left the cubicle and re-emerged into the melee.

I felt people’s eyes on my face and back as I walked as nonchalantly as I could back into the gossiping crowd. Too long. I had waited too long and people had noticed. But nobody commented. I assume social niceties forbid making remarks about extended restroom breaks.

The mask was firmly in place (for those uninitiated, it’s most commonly referred to as a ‘social mask’), and I was putting on a great show, but inside things were rapidly deteriorating.  As I talked animatedly at the dinner table, turning my head rapidly from person to person and keeping my expression lively, smiling, and bright, I felt my visual surroundings beginning to blur a little as the edges of sound overlapped like tiny waves lapping gently at an inlet shore.

The conversations were moving faster now, and I could no longer keep track of what was being said. The individual words and their meaning were lost amid the roar of noise and music surrounding me. I kept the appropriate pattern of expressions in place (my most successful social mask – an elaborate construction of years of social lessons learned the hard way and careful observation) but I retreated from the fray and took up the role of interested listener.

The next part is confused. I remember talking to my parents and them telling me to go outside for a break.  I remember the sudden release of inner constraints. I remember sitting on a couch in the foyer staring blankly at the wall opposite while a group of ladies with a baby in a pram kept glancing curiously across at me. The rest is irrelevant.

Later that night, I was back – with a vengeance. I hadn’t intended to dance; keeping it calm and lingering on the border being my game plan, but events and my own outgoing social mask conspired against me and soon I was up on the dance floor rocking it with the best of them, doing things I didn’t think were possible for me to be doing with the knowledge I held inside of me.

Incompatibility. What was I drawing on now, when there were no reserves left? I didn’t want to know, but at the same time I knew that I had done this many times in the past, and perhaps today I was finally paying a price stacked too high against me. A precarious tower of cards finally crumbling and crashing to the ground.

While I was dancing I was blazing on the outside, but inside I felt nothing, like the numbness of an anesthetised wound. Like in the high point of a fever, where your cheeks are burning and your eyes are overbright.

I did my part, I played my role. But I paid for it the next day, and I’m still paying the insurmountable debt of three years of parties and social events, three years of intense social masking, three years of the sort of raging popularity and social highs I craved so desperately as an alienated child, three years of a life that could not be sustained. The price? My life as I knew it. The scales are equalled and balance is restored to a universe I never belonged in anyway.

Flames

With a paintbrush I used primaries and a brilliant orange to recreate the fires in my mind.

~

Each rain drop is a blazing light.

The night is a fire,

Flames leaping all about me.

I am caught up,

Tossed about,

Explained,

Expanded.

On the outside I am entirety.

On the inside I am burnt out, hollow,

Emotions warring vicariously through me.

A world unknown to the world,

An artist’s paradise.

15/04/11 Sickness.

What is this place?

Where am I?

Normally I write into the vast technological void of my computer writing files. My words flow in, are registered, sorted, and mostly never see the light of day. They remain unread. But if I do not share something I feel I may explode. Existential angst, perhaps? I am sinking into this strange void. A vacant space within myself that is quickly replicating outside of myself. I wish I could say I was afraid of this void, but I seem to be embracing it with little more than calm indifference. While the outside world rushes on with art, friendship, study, YouTube triviality, insomnia related complaints, I am frozen in this twilight zone.

There is nothing more to say. There is nothing within me that can be expressed. I do little in a day before the need for sleep overcomes me. I am thoroughly disinterested in any form of conversation or learning. I want nothing, but I cannot embrace nothingness with a calm or dignity that would become me.

At this time I have reoccurring thoughts of my grandma, in the final stages of her illness with secondary breast cancer. I remember how, even upon her deathbed, she never uttered a word of complaint. She embraced her sickness with positivity and good will. She lived out her last days bringing only joy to others. She died with a smile.

I feel she is a good role model to me. But I am struggling to find a reason. To see only the good in badness, to feel only joy in sadness, will this ultimately mean something? Or is denying even your own pain a final outcome of nothingness?

I am here. But for how long, I do not know.

28/06/10 If I could see through you.

If I could see through you, like a pane of glass, I wonder what I would see. Would I see the inner workings of your body, blood pumped from your heart and through your veins, lungs contracting, expanding? Could I see the colours of how you feel about me? Can emotion ever be seen, or known?

You are mysterious to me. I just don’t understand you. Sometimes I feel like we could have a lifelong intimacy, yet you are closed off in ways inexplicable to me. The way you touch me makes me feel loved, in a way foreign and new to me. Your touch feels real. But when we speak our words fall into an invisible chasm, and I don’t know this is deliberate on your part, or you are straining and it is deliberate on my part, or whether we are both straining in opposite directions. Right now, I believe you have closed yourself off, and with good reason.

I have made many mistakes, and I continue to make them despite my past knowledge. I don’t know if these mistakes occur for good reason, due to unseen feelings, or whether they are simply mistakes and accumulated will lead to the biggest mistake of my life. Are we meant for each other?

24/04/09 Death flows.

Death flows in every alley,

In every artifice,

Gentle flowing waters,

Of broken glass.

05/04/10 Easter.

Down deep I feel a fool,

The safeway bags full of Easter eggs,

All the ones they love,

Stuffed in the bottom of my fridge so they won’t melt,

A waste of money, time.

I register my loneliness with a startling clarity,

I am the only one living in past days,

While they have moved forward,

Disconnected from all I knew.

Why when I stand still, why when I’m alone,

Why do I dream of the past?

My present and my future melt away,

Like a vaguely registered dream,

When I wake in the morning.

With startling clarity,

I am alone, completely isolated,

And I realize when I am with others,

I am more alone than when I am by myself.

The Easter eggs were another distraction,

I spent hours in the humid, sweaty afternoon,

Starving hungry, striding from supermarket to supermarket,

Looking to save a dollar here, 20 cents there,

Searching for the perfect Easter.

I constructed an elaborate fantasy movie,

In which I, the hero, brought together the people I love,

In joyous celebration,

And felt the warmth, connection, belonging that exists in my imagination.

The truth hurts.

Families drift apart as children grow older,

Children form partnerships, and create a new universe.

Parents find themselves again in one another.

I am the only one left living in the past.

29/03/09 Alien.

The internal chill comes over me again,

Seeping through my veins, my skin,

Friends around me become blank faces of strangers,

I separate myself from their warm embrace.

I’m not damaged, I lie to myself,

Just deluded and self pitying.

When I see the faces of strangers,

I pretend it’s just a game I’m playing.

I look into their familiar faces,

And see the tormenters of my childhood past,

I cringe away from their inclusive smiles

I somehow see only hate and insidious lies

Eyesight stained red with infected wounds,

Body twisted in on itself from fear and abuse,

Words that don’t matter only seem to hide

Manipulative power games I cannot abide

I’m messed up, and I’ve said this before,

Sometimes even I don’t believe me; the attention whore,

Stealing my own integrity for love or affection,

I don’t know what I believe, or if I’ve sold my soul for their attention.

I pretend I’m like them.

But inside, I’m alien.

24/03/09 The world is big and I am small.

The world is big and I am small

I don’t know who I am at all

Everyone seems to know their way

I get more and more lost each passing day.

My words have come alive, flowing back onto the page like a flood after a desert storm.

Life is truly a strange and beauteous thing. A friend, once walking, laughing with you on the way to school could be dead tomorrow. An enemy you thought was soulless turns out to be more three-dimensional than you ever expected. A new love, comes into your life on a stray summer breeze, and blows out again with a devastating cyclone of wild wind and rain.

You’re left alone, in the mess and greyness behind, but even in destruction there is new life and you begin again.

Writing is the documentation that keeps your soul alive, for without creativity, you might as well be dead.

Falling dust,

In my hair,

Words on a page mean little now.

Sometimes I think,

It’s others that stare,

But I know it’s my face,

Pressed to my deceptive reflection.

My persona, it embodied me,

Snatched my breath away,

Now I am living breathing dying hollow,

For all to see.

09/09/07 Afraid.

I’m afraid

Minutes pass into hours are you’re still here

I’m so afraid

I’ll slip

And you’ll realise

You can do better

And I’ll lose you

My mask is beautified

Such that it catches the light

And is desirable in the eyes of others

But when I talk to you now

I am my true self

So blunt and flawed and hurtful

And afraid

How much will it take

To push you away

You’re like a dream

The best dream I’ve ever had

But it’s real

And I’m so afraid I’ll wake up

I don’t deserve you

But somehow

You’re here

And we’re becoming us

I know now

That when I was diagnosed at age 12

They said this would never be possible for me

And I would live life alone

So

Maybe this is in my head

28/04/11 A beginning.

To begin my blog I will post a selection of journal entries from my computer files in chronological order. These are as follows.