​Starting this one with a heavy sigh. 
I’ve been, as of late, un-well.  I’ll smile the lie and respond with all the sunshine I can muster; but those who know – truly know.
There’s a pity that drips from the corner of a smile that turns slightly into pursed lips, pressing hard against one another, preventing the errant comment of shame.  People just don’t know what to do with the knowledge that another human being – liked, disliked, stranger, or friend – When someone declares themselves ‘unwell’, it seems to be human nature to attempt a ‘fix’.  And I too, am guilty of being the onlooker.  But this week, month, - fuck! – half a year! – I’ve been the pitiful one on the receiving end of the discomfort, both inside and out.   And yet, it's hard to say the word aloud, “unwell.”  Perhaps the shame of younger days.  Perhaps the embarrassment that I have not yet figured it out.  Perhaps the unwillingness to cope with the onslaught of care – both real and feigned.  So, my words lie, just as my smile does, until I’m alone with myself, screaming lyrics to a song, while I juggle inspiration to write or beat myself down for losing the poetic eloquence I remember having in my younger brain.  Something important – Something of importance.  Or interesting.  Or meaningful.  Or distracting.  Or just something.  Some thing.  Some thing that can be pointed to and said, this is the thing.  This is the important bit.  Draw this in.  But I have nothing.  I have no inspiration and some days no imagination.  I have nothing.  And that, for me, does not seem to be okay.
This week, not unlike any other week, but different than every other week, I melted down.  I could not constrain the tears and I could not control the thoughts in my time alone and my face was wet and my words were harsh, internally and externally…. I was overwhelmed with simple tasks like taking a shower or drinking a cup of coffee.  And, with great exhaustion, I gave up my position in this war I wage with mental illness.  Now, this is not to say I do a phenomenal job hiding the crazy on a regular basis – and I shouldn’t hide it – it’s who I am for fuck’s sake!  - But I can usually hold myself together with a bit more decorum than in recent days.
So I cried.  I cried tears.  I cried out words.  I cried out in pain and in anger and in fear and in isolation and in desperation and all the things to the left side of apathy.  And I’m still crying.  It fucking hurts to know that some of this is chemical.  Some of this, I have experienced as long as I can remember and it’s part of how my brain is wired.  It’s an affront to my reason that I cannot fix this.  And some of it is situational and I just have to work through it.  I just have to get shit done until there is more shit to get done and then get that shit done.  And in the event I can learn something or glean some pleasure while mucking about in the shit, I take a breath and allow myself to feel gratitude.
Specifically, I’ve gained quite a bit of weight over the past few months and I’ve been in steady pain from my pancreas and ulcers.  I’ve been revisiting some – not regrets – but maybe regrets -I don’t know words some days.  -So, the PTSD has surfaced again.  Simmering on the back burner.  Then last week, I ate foods and drank drink that my body was not on board with.  As of today, I’m in day five of excruciating stabbing pain under my ribcage – The walkin’ around kind of pain/not hospital pain.  On day one of five, I had a blinding headache to accompany it and I was happy to stay in complete darkness, except the sunlight piercing the corners of my bedroom curtains.  The physical pain wears away at my spirit and although it’s manageable in the sense that I’ve become indifferent to it and have adjusted my stance and posture to lessen the pressure, it’s just exhausting.  More annoying than painful at this point, but exhausting.   
So, being alone, and trying to sleep off the pain in my head and belly – I wasn’t mindful about the simmer on the PTSD.  And it boiled over.  I was hallucinating, both auditory and visual.  I lost my peripheral vision every now and then.  I lost comprehension.  I was a mess.  I was hardly functional.  But I functioned.  And that’s important.  It’s important that I’m on the decline of the pain.  It’s reassuring that I retain the strength to see a sunrise and a moonfall, because I’m not done yet. 
And it’s not a coward’s way out or the easy thing to do – It’s a fucking war and some just lose the war.  It’s reality.  It’s reality for some to negotiate with suicidal ideations and set forth the pros and cons of action as if it was an innocuous task like choosing the right shade of paint for a back room that no one uses.  It’s not fucking easy.  And it’s not stemmed in fear or whatever motivates a coward to fly instead of fight.  Although I could debate on the merits of flight when given the choice, thereby negating the word coward.  And today my blood is in my body and the pills are in the bottle and I’ve showered and brushed my hair and all the boxes are ticked for the folks who check up on me.  And I still don’t have a plan and I’m not in crisis to answer those critical questions that professionals ask.  But it doesn’t go away.  Ever. 
So I’m in physical pain, that is waning.  And I’m in emotional strife, that is plateauing.  And I’ve become mechanical, which is helpful on the days that I can’t be a person.  Like yesterday and today.
I signed up for a writing challenge in May and I didn’t know what unfinished piece to work on; but I thought I needed this boost of creativity.  However, I think working on Heavy Drapes is probably a better project so that I can purge some of the dark thoughts. 
My word this year is Restore.  And more than a quarter way through the year, I have not restored any of the bits I enjoyed of myself.  I have been to exactly one peer counseling session – and that was riddled with internal anxiety peppered with the compulsion to leave.  Breathing that night was an arduous task.  I have not cleaned the floors in my home.  My home is run by the dogs.  They pull the trash apart.  They decide when it is quiet.  They decide when it is noisy.  I take a bath and I have two faces sitting and watching me shampoo.  I avoid the neighbors – Like, wait until no one is outside before walking out to my car.  If unavoidable, I wear dark sunglasses and look at the ground so I don’t have to choke out the words good morning.  My car is disgusting.  Covered in pollen and dog slobber.  I can’t even keep the washer fluid full.  I apologize when taking it in for an oil change, and the guys will lie and say the punkin’ looks like a million bucks compared to some of the cars they see – and I respond in kind with a smirk and a hyperbolic tale excusing my neglect of the interior while they comment on the milage and drag out a summary of my latest adventure – which is just another distraction I’ve set up. 
I love my adventures.  And they nourish my spirit.  But there’s a subtle avoidance inherent with the adventure.  I want peace.  I want to sit in peace with a song spinning off an old record player while I sip a glass of whiskey.  But I don’t have any of that.  So I embrace the chaos.  I probably seek the chaos at this point in my life.  I have never known the peace in which I seek, and therefore, it should be no surprise that I know not how it appears – thus, peace escapes me.  I have never had a quiet moment, both inside and out.  Even when in yoga class, in the very throws of meditation – my brain was in overdrive.  So this one more distraction I call adventure may be more chaos, but I will never be done with my adventures – Some call it travel.  Some call it wander.  I’m out looking for something – everything – that some thing of interest or importance.
 I’m feeling the disgorge has unraveled a bit and is off the rails on tangential rides that require specificity I haven’t the time to articulate. 
In short, I’m unwell but appreciative for the sunshine I am fortunate to feel today – or something.  I’m not quite sure.  

​  I'm in this constant state of anger and regret which may or may not be grief.  On the surface, I am in the present.  I am here enjoying the flavor of the coffee over my tongue and sickened by the smell of wet dog in my car after Mattie plays in the river during our walk.  I'm present.
  But internally, i am in the past.  I am in the future.  I am living all the moments that others cannot see. 
  I've been carrying a purse someone gave me.  I used to say he was a friend - a good friend - this tornado of a personality who inspired and exhausted me.  However, i'm beating myself up to use that word in the past few months because there was a long stretch of silence that I had not intended but was in fact, a result of my (misunderstood) words.  We talked for hours and worked all that silence out with a promise to never be quiet with each other again.  It hurt and was joyful.  But I missed time with him.  And more importantly, I hurt him without intent.
   And it wasn't easy.  I didn't put him in a trashcan.  I didn't throw him away from my life.  I thought I was respecting his boundary.  I thought he was going through his SAD period (which doesn't always correspond to winter).  I thought I would just wait a little longer.  Wait until i saw a purse to gift to him and maybe leave it at his door to let him know that I miss him.  
  But he died.  And before he died, we had a pretty intense conversation for hours.  It was long enough that he got tired of me.  I think it was the first time since we met that he hung up sounding exhausted from me.  - But that's neither here nor there.  He always said he had twice the life he was meant to.  He just celebrated a whole other lifetime lived after he received a (health-related) death sentence.  And I know I'm being selfish.  I know.  But I'm still not okay with this loss. 
  I did not go to his apartment to help pack his things, even though the moment was offered to me.  I did not go to his memorials - i didn't even help plan anything.  I have been avoiding personal contact with anyone who I met in the time I knew him.  I'm just not prepared to deal with the reality that he's gone.  But i'm feeling the silence hard.  It's the weeks we didn't speak to each other times an infinitesimal amount.  And i'm angry.  I'm so angry with him for dying.   But i did nothing to help him not die.  I feel guilty for going through my own depressions and anxieties that did not allow me to be a more aggressive part of his final days.  
  We're in this pandemic and quarantine.  I'm not trying to spread anything.  I wasn't about to endanger him by ingratiating myself more than he allowed.  But I could have been present for him and I wasn't.  

  I feel like I was put in a trashcan by someone else in my life.  It's been over two months of silence and I'm struggling with a few things in relation to being thrown away.  First, i question how it's so easy for people to throw me away.  I say, PARTLY in jest, but mostly knowing for certain, that i am a friggin' delight!  And I'm a good friend!  So, what the fuck???  No fight.  No discord.  Just, 'i'm getting rid of you.'  It's not the first time it's happened.  And more stunning than being deemed garbage, is having people with whom I felt I shared real friendship/companionship/care  - how is it so easy for these people who were so present to say, 'you are trash and i am throwing you away.' ?? 
  How many people have cared for me and without cause have I discarded?  There's guilt and uncertainty.  And as terrible as it is, there is justification.  I live in all the moments of my past, and all the moments in my future.  I live the recollections of my memories and the fantasies of ensuing time. 

I'm flooded with so many from my forty eight years that are no longer present.  By no means will I ever beg anyone to be in my life, but there is a curiosity how many who were so important are living in tandem of a silent misunderstanding.  

  So I'm carrying this purse to remind myself about misunderstandings that cause silence.  I'm carrying this purse to feel the anger of loss and hold my tears until I can let them flow.  I'm under this incredible weighty heft of grief for what i no longer have and this tremendous guilt of the part I played in separation from people and things.  

I had intention of whining about feeling like garbage.  But as the words unraveled, I need to honor the process of grief I'm obviously experiencing.  I want to make my gratitude clear to those who have been so generous in sharing their importance with me.  But it's frightening to be exposed with the uncertainty of disposal.  

Today I woke after having only a few hours of sleep.  My body is running on the same energy that kept it sleepless last night.  This is nothing out of the ordinary for me.  This is regular.  

But i have a feeling of darkness hovering over me and inside my belly.  I shake.  I haven't been eating very much because my pancreas keeps screaming out in pain at every meal.  Something doesn't feel right physically or mentally. 

So I sit and cry.  And I can't stop the tears.  I washed dishes and threw away some old papers.  Finished a short story.  Texted an old friend.  Ate the rest of the cookies.  But I'm crying.  And I can't stop it.  

My mom used to find me sitting alone and fussed at me to stop crying and wash my face.  She always said, "You're making yourself sick."  And, even though I couldn't stop the sickness - I couldn't stop the crying - I washed my face over and over again until the towel could dry both the water and my tears.  

But today I'm alone.  I'm alone in my house with dogs that are nipping at each other and cranky for whatever reasons dogs get cranky one with another, and with every movement of theirs, I'm shaking.  But it's not because of them that I'm shaking.  It's my insides.  It's something that I feel in my belly today.  Not physical.  Not medical.  It's not my pancreas today.  And it doesn't even feel like my broken brain.  I am hurting without any escalation of life situations.  I am in unstoppable pain without any new blow to my person.  I am not sad.  I am alone.  But this is crazy.  This is madness. 

I have a movie script I have been working on for a couple weeks (maybe months?) about madness and today when I opened the file to type in some notes I made on paper with pen, I couldn't.  I couldn't transcribe words from one page to another.  I was incapacitated by the very idea of coping with the madness today. 

I see light piercing the blinds in the front window.  I want the sky to cloud up and grow dark so that I can run an errand without being accosted by the sun.  I have dark glasses that will hide my eyes, but still i don't think they hide enough.  And today I'm hiding.  Because I don't know how to cope with this unease inside me.  I don't know what to do to cut it out of me.  I don't know if it's a part of me that I can live without.  How do people who don't have debilitating madness get through their days? 

I'm sitting in tears alongside the brand of crazy labeled batshit hoping that no one will know but also hoping that someone will see and help me.    

Suicidal.  There’s that word again.  There’s that feeling. It’s jarring.  It’s frightening. It’s embarrassing. It’s dark and heavy and choking and in the past few weeks I’ve seen it’s invisible.

My psychiatrist asked me, as he always did, “how are you?”  And i remember saying the word to him with a heavy sigh. “Suicidal.”  His response was intriguing. He asked me, “What do you mean?”

Inside I puzzled.  How curious he asked ME to tell HIM what I meant by this terrible word I was finally growing comfortable with saying, even if I still shied away from contentment at its presence.  What did i mean? The room was silent while I reflected on it. How would my brain define this word if I was the wordsmith with a blank page? What words can explain to someone unfamiliar with the etymology of the word; Sui- meaning of one’s self + -Cida meaning to cut or kill?

The room was silent except for the white noise machine buzzing outside the door.  The sun pierced through the undressed window and my doctor sat with obstinance waiting for the machine in my head to churn out an appropriate response.  I refused to squint in the spotlight, but I was powerless against the tear pushing from my eye to move the plot of this story.

“Hopeless.”  I said it aloud knowing that I have heard that word before.  I never hope. I work my ass off to get the little bit i have.  But hopeless may be acceptable. People say that. And I am not prepared to be so honest with myself to say the thing that I actually feel.  I nodded. The room remained silent other than the faint scratch of ink to paper as the doctor made another note. His brow furrowed and he moved his chair closer to mine shifting the shadows of the sun, changing perspective of the spotlight upon my face.  “What were you hoping for?” He called my bluff. I returned the silent treatment. “You said you are hopeless. What made you lose hope? What were you hoping for?” He challenged me with the idea I had used in untruth.

“It’s not hopelessness,” I confessed.  “I feel,” I hesitated in sharing the word I had known from the beginning.  “I feel useless.”

He nodded in confirmation of belief.  He knew me well enough to know that the idea of having no use was the stupid feeling I had.  He knew that I was breaking down, not because I couldn’t reason what contribution I had to make.  This is not fitting in. This is not completion of a goal. This is not making someone smile. The only thing that could send  me into that terrible feeling of CUTting my SELF from the world is not being useful. It’s terrifying.

That was around two years ago.  And I go up and down with suicidal thoughts and ideations.  I have thoughts. I have a plan. I have triggers. I have motivators to bring me back to the reality that this action is unacceptable.  And I have some people to whom I can be honest about this stuff who don’t want to strap me down and numb it out of me.

But this current wave of - I’ve come to a point in acknowledgement of my mental illness where I take stock of my head in no more that one week blocks.  It’s not a stringent meditation, but a passive meditative state that I fall into when I’m drawing in the aroma of a coffee, or stopped at a red light, or walking through the supermarket.  It’s a semi-constant mental note of the state of my mood so I’m on the ready to respond to the very common question, “how are you?”

Since Sunday, five days ago, I was numb, manic, needy, depressed, suicidal.  Not just one mood per day, although I see there are five for five there. But right there at the end is suicidal.  I think I’m still in the wave. I don’t think it’s time to wipe the wave out of my eyes and reset with functionality.  I don’t think suicidal is going to be the end of this wave. But, my stupid brain doesn’t give me foreshadowing clues.

I read an article about passive suicidal ideations.  It suggested that although I’m not going to take a knife to an artery to bleed out, there are still thoughts of walking in front a speeding car - something that could be perceived to be an accident.  These things have always been present for me. This passivity. This numbness. This apathetic mechanical cause and effect scenario.

This time it feels different though.  I still feel useless. I really feel useless.  I don’t feel like the world would be better without me - i feel like it would be completely the same.  And that’s okay. So, what’s the difference? Well, in the past few years, I have reflected on the differences of chemical and situational.  There is so much of psychology that is not understood. And I believe a great deal of this misunderstanding, misdiagnosis, missing the mark on making people well from within - I believe some of this mis- is from a lack of understanding if the disorder resulted from situational or chemical roots.  Is my brain malfunctioning? Am I lacking a hormone, or enzyme? Or is it effect from a situational cause? Is my bad mood because I introduced something physically or emotionally detrimental?

If that makes sense, then this may - I’m in a situational mood.  I may have chemical deficiencies right now, and I’m positive my shakiness and dizziness and intolerance for light and smell may be chemical.  That seems like droplets of the current wave of uncontrollable chemical shift in my brain goo. But yesterday I stopped the standoff in silence, using the wrong words, and confessed that I am choking under the weight of suicidal thoughts right now because this time, I jumped into it.  This is situational. Maybe I was pushed? Maybe I’m being held down, but I think if I fight I can get out of it and wipe it out of my eyes? I just feel like I haven’t got much fight left. I haven’t got anything this time.

Today I’m fine.  I’m not fighting to get out of it, but I’m fine.  I have some times for which I have to hold myself together.  I’m fine. I’m suicidal, but I’m fine. I’m going to make it to the sunset, probably.  I’m going to make it to the sunrise again, probably. And if I don’t, that’s okay too. Today I am probably not going to do any fighting - mainly because I don’t know how to.  I think it’s important to say the word situational. I am trying to dissect that. I am trying to decipher what that is for me.

​

I lost someone this week.  I lost another someone this week.  Someone who I am better having known is no longer here.  I lost this someone, not to death, but to life.  

And for sure, I could write a chapter in my memoirs listing those I have lost in my life.  It is not new, but recently, it seems more important.  

Initial reaction, I’m certain, is going to be something in the vein of, ‘if they’re not dead, they are not gone forever’.  But I’m still grieving now.  So, that’s not true.  And I understand I sit in selfishness wanting everyone I think is important to want to give me their time and their thoughts and their words.  I understand how terribly myopic and self-serving I truly am. 

I started thinking about the words I’m using with this situation.  I am grieving another relationship.  Interaction I have in relation to another human being.  This word grief is defined as a deep sorrow.  Depending on the source, it is frequently accompanied with the qualifier, especially when caused by death.  I’m not going to mince words and spirit, but it did seem easy for me to hyperbolically use the word grief.  Admittedly, I use shock value to emphasize my words.  But something finally feels erroneous about tossing grief around.  I went a little deeper.  Sorrow is defined as a feeling of deep distress caused by loss, disappointment, or misfortune suffered by oneself or others.  That’s almost it.  The synonym dejection was on the page.  Dejection is sad and depressed state, low spirits.  I think I am dejected.  And perhaps it is so close to seeing the word rejected on the page that I’m connecting to it.  I am in a state of dejection.  

In the past couple months, I have lost a couple people.  And it’s not the first little bit of my life that I have lost people, but it’s been a significant couple who are either gone for good, or gone for a bit, and without being too much of a myopic baby, I shed days of tears.  

I probably should not zero in too deep, but one of the people I lost was one of my children.  I am in a predicament with her that I cannot fix.  I am trying to find a mediator for the situation, and have been a failure.  And here I considered using the word unsuccessful, but truly I have failed.  I have failed over and over again and perhaps have never been successful with providing any life skills to this child.  It is deeper than a lack of success, but a complete and utter failure.    

I have a friend who moves in and out of my life with periods of silence, but never has it been deafening before.  He is not even telling me that he needs a break from me, which is different than it had been in the past. 

Someone left this past summertime over a misunderstanding of words.  I’m too stubborn to try to clarify.  (There is an expression about burning bridges and a response about unwillingness to grab a fire extinguisher- Maybe I’m the one with the match, and maybe I’m the one with the fire extinguisher?)

This most recent one is hard.  And maybe I’m just not finished crying about the loss of my daughter, so this one compounded my feelings of dejection?  It is not my intention to cause anyone pain and the reasoning that someone separates with or without notice may or may not come with weighty thought?  

So then yesterday, tears were dry for a couple hours and my brain was trying to unravel these feelings to make sense of them.  My head was trying to define words so that I could lay out all the intellect amongst the emotional and reason how to honor the feelings but use rationale to return to functionality.  And when I say functionality, I mean to say that it could be restoring some or all of these relationships, or very much severing ties so that neither party needs to be in a situation causing pain.  

So, what is the point of all this?  Boo-hoo!  I’m fucking sad!?  I’m mad at myself for feeling it and irate that I have to say it. I have caused this.  Through a series of events, I am ultimately responsible for me.  I live in the consequence, which is sometimes not pleasant.

I suppose that is all.  I have work to do.  Physical, emotional, and intellectual.  I don’t feel better having gotten these words out of my head.  I don’t feel better for having obsessed over the tears I have cried for the past month and a half.  I don’t feel better for any of it.  I am selfish and I want it fixed.  I want to feel better, but more than that, I want to know that those people for whom I care know that they are valued and valuable.  

Stupid losing battle with dejection.

​
​Yesterday was bananas for me. I started with mania and ended with anxiety. I've been dealing with a a dull headache for days. I'm keeping the migraine at bay with meds. i know if i just let it take over I will be under a shroud of comforters in the dark for days.
i wrote 10 pages over the weekend. (i think i worked on my website too? more words.) I want to continue the momentum of writing, even though i know it's the mania. Having this constant pull of up and down is exhausting.

Details: Yesterday I woke and made coffee in my home. My daughter texted and asked if we could go through the drive through on the way to her work. Of course. But i had a conscious struggle with my head that I had just made coffee and should take her a cup. I was both annoyed with myself for wasting the coffee and not meeting her needs. I literally had just poured the coffee into my to-go cup and had plenty of time to finish it before I even had to dress for the drive. I finished the coffee I made at home and then picked her up. Stopped at the drive through and bought her the coffee she wanted. I refrained from the outside coffee.

​I came home believing i could continue the writing momentum that i had. (fully aware that it was mania and using it to my advantage.) I looked at my laptop and thought about the dishes in my sink that needed to be cleaned, the counter top next to the sink that could use a scrubbing, my floors that also need to be touched by bleach and the hunger in my belly. i had ten words added to my manuscript. I made eggs, cleaned the sink and swept the floor. Realizing that I was avoiding writing, I refrained from pulling out the mop and bucket and sat again to write. The sounds of cars driving down my street were deafening. I knew I needed to refill the dog's food container and should care for that. Also ran out of paper towels while cleaning the counter. I should run out and get paper towels and dog food and then come right back to write. I should go early because then I can get parking in front of my house. After a half hour of working out the pros and cons of running errands, I walked out the door in my slippers and drove to get paper towels. One more stop, just dog food. My car needed gas. If i pick up my daughter and the gas is low, she expresses concern. I have to ensure there is gas in the tank. I run to the gas station. one more stop. dog food. I go to the pet store and the shelves are empty. Rewind. the shelves containing my brand of dog food are empty. I question if there was a recall. The staff of my pet store is unaware and look up the listing of alerts they have at their aide. I'm looking on my phone to the world wide web for any notice on this brand. I find nothing. They find nothing. After twenty minutes of this panic i have vomited into the air, the csr asks, "Where did you hear of a recall?" i said, "The shelves are empty." She told me the delivery truck was delayed. It should be in later in the day.

I sit in my car. I know I am dead in the middle of the mania. But as in all the manic episodes I have, I have no idea when it started and I'm unclear if the bell curve would even indicate when I can expect it to end. I breathe deeply and weigh if I should just go home with my paper towels or if I should find dog food in another store. I take my car tot he car wash with intention to vacuum. I pulled into a space and when pulling the hose over to the car, I remember I just vacuumed it two days before and there really is nothing to clean. I move the paper towels to the way back of the jeep so the back seat is clear.

I look up the nearest pet store with the brand of food my dogs eat. My eye chooses a store and I plug in the address into the gps app I use. Drive through to get another coffee for the journey and drive. (By this point I considered going home and driving back around the corner, but decided with the madness I may be so engulfed in writing, i miss closing time. And what if the delivery truck doesn't come still today?)

The store is 15 miles away. Not a problem. I love driving and perhaps it will calm my thoughts to listen to music and drive mid-day? My thoughts were filled with collective consciousness and I had both sides of a conversation with a friend who seems to be taking a break from philosophical discussions. I wondered what two other friends thought and sent requests to see them for drinks so i could share with them my musings.
GPS wanted me to take toll roads. My brain screamed, "For Dog Food? Negative!" I wound up on the street m parents met. I never knew the exact houses in which they lived but they were next door neighbors 1968-1970. I drove slow looking at the houses and came across the historic society and police station (same building) of the rural town. I pulled into the parking lot and then reminded myself that I was just picking up dog food and had to write today. At this time, it is over two hours since I ran down the street to get the big pack of paper towels and a fifty pound bag of dog food.

​I get back on the road I know will take me back to Philly and cut through a road I believe takes me in the vicinity of the suburb where this pet food store is. Once I am away from the turnpike (toll road), I plug in the address again to GPS. I am taken into a neighborhood that friend who is taking a break from discussions with me. Every coffee shop that I pass screams at me to pull in and send a text that I'm at so and so, to see if he will talk to me. I resist and stay in the car. (The thought of interacting with someone, even to order a medium coffee with almond milk was frightening just then)

I pull into the parking lot of the dog food store and see that the store is closing. I sigh heavily believing they have already closed. But then, the door opens and the brand I am looking for is in there, with a discount from the store closing. I pull out my phone to text a friend who works at a shelter to inform of the discount and hesitate. I cannot handle the responsibility of waiting at the store for a list of his needs. I just cannot do it at the moment. I take the bag of dog food I want to the counter to pay and there are two people in front of me. They are standing too close to me and I really have not explored the sparse inventory to figure if I can get a good deal on something I would buy anyway. I put the bag of dog food down and walk through the store again. I am doing math for the 10-75% discount weighing if I want/need/can afford/cannot afford to pass up a deal like this! ... my brain is full of noise and I worry that someone is going to come to the counter and take the bag of food I selected. I return to the counter and pay for the bag of food. done.

I open the back door and put in the food on the seat. I open the way back and move the big pack of paper towels to the back seat, understanding that if the things aren't together, I'm going to forget and have to go out to the car for the second item. I need to spend as much time on writing as I can so running to the car a second time is going to interrupt that. I pat myself on the back for having this forethought and after turning on the engine, I move both the dog food and the paper towels into the way back in case someone calls and needs a ride. There is no need to have groceries on the seats when i have a cargo space in the way back.

I drive home. I know the way home. I don't have to GPS. Except I didn't know the way home. I was driving away from home and was lost in cul de sacs and school campuses with whole sports teams running together to my right. I plugged in the word home into the GPS app and found i was 18 miles from home. 18. So, I was going to a place 15 miles from home, had been out for four hours at this time and 18 miles from my home by the time I realized I was in the wrong direction. I found my way back to familiar streets while ice decided to fall from the sky.

The parking I believed would be available in front of my house was taken by a neighbor. Which is fine, but instead of unloading the 50 lb bag of food and awkward pack of towels while I was at my door, I parked and then beat myself up for not thinking about what I was doing. But I had a different focus then. I had to get in to my home without talking to any neighbor. I could not endure words.

I fell down on my couch after pushing the dog food against the inside of the door. I was exhausted, but pleased that I got the errand done and had the rest of the day to write. I made a cup of tea and realized I had spent six hours picking up dog food.
And then the anxiety hit. One of my favorites texted me. And I was talking to her about the positivity we are both trying to nourish for 2019. She had it harnessed. My positivity was scrambling to cover it's ass in yoga pants and provide some illusion it was holding itself together. My chest was pounding and my vision blurred. I sipped my tea and looked at her words, wishing she was closer, because I needed a run to a diner for a coffee and slice of pie so i could look at her breath when I can't. I hate feeling the crazy. And I know how much it hurts me to see her turn into the moods of her mental illness. I feel guilty about giving her this chaotic energy and just go quiet on my phone. She'll understand later. Just then, I had nothing more in me.

The anxiety didn't stop. I took my seroquel and fell alseep, completely believing, although unprepared to deal again today with it. I woke today with relief of the anxiety. The mania is gone too. I have a dull ache behind my eye and I wrote half a scene this morning. (writing a trial and took the change of witnesses to recess myself) I'm breathing today. I'm exhausted and hiding still. I'm feeling productive. If a friend calls for a bite of food and to see their face, I will be able to shower and change and drive as the crow flies.

​I once asked my doctor if this is what 'normal' feels like. He suggested i use the word 'functional'. i'll take functional. i no longer believe I'm ever going to be free from these episodes. And I'm no more equipped now to cope with them than at any other point in my life. But, it does feel like a small victory to have gotten through the day of bananas with my breath.

​I walked a mile in my own shoes today.  Not another’s.  Mine. 
 
I thought initially about writing of mud and mushrooms, reflecting on the trek through muck in order to get to some unexpected nourishment.  But then I walked on.

Rocks and Roots.  It was definitely an afternoon of rocks and roots.  I walked a mile in my own shoes among the rocks and roots.

Yesterday I spoke with a friend who is the rock of his family.  I too have been accused of being the same.

Rocks are steady.  They are the firm and strong.  And somehow, they are expected to hold things together; until, crisis is over and then they feel unnecessary.  Just a big heavy thing, crumbling into gravel with every use and walked on without much thought to the support they provide.

I walked along a path that didn’t appear to be a path at all.  It appeared as though I was treading lightly over the natural formation of stones that in some manner resembled stairs up and down into the woods.  I followed it along to a space called Devil’s Pool.  The Lenape Tribe believed the space to be where good and evil converge.  And as I sat on a rock entwined with roots of a tree that towered above me, I saw some things in the rocks I would have overlooked had I walked upon them without the moment of convening with them.

I saw the sun glint off the phosphorescent rocks twinkling in the air; and on a warmer day I may have been drawn to get closer and fall on the slippery bits into the pool the Lenape warned of in their legends.

Rock.  Folks around rocks break down.  And rocks do what they can to hold them together, nourishing their roots.  The rock is ground down with every step.  Every bit of growth that occurs through that root is nourished by that rock and credit is given to the sunshine and to the breath and to the water.  Never the rock.  Never the dirty muck the rock sinks in to allow the root to reach high with beauty into the light.  Never the minerals, the very basic nutrients that chaff off without notice every time the rain falls or the wind blows.

My friend told me his crisis was under control and as a result, he felt….  When my rocky situations were over in my own life – After being given credit for having been a rock, there was a time for me to sink back into the dirt.  Into my dirt.  Into the dark and thick muck of me.  Rocks don’t have rocks.  It’s just how it is.

I used to believe that it was very simply being distracted by someone else, so I didn’t have to be with myself.  So I didn’t have to feel what I felt, but I could fix what others wanted to feel.  I believed it was easier to live in someone else’s story, because it put mine in perspective and I regained gratitude for what I have while realizing things could be worse.

But I have this friend now.  I have this friend who seemed deflated after caring for someone who needed his rock persona.  And in a very clear visualization, I said it’s because rocks are, by nature, stepped on.  And until that moment, I hadn’t ever thought about being a rock or being stepped upon. 

I realized then that I may have had it wrong.  I may have had it wrong the whole time.  The abused brain apologizes for everything and cannot fathom being important to anyone.  And the elation of having someone need the rock reasonably has to have the corresponding reaction of deflation while feeling useless.
​
And none of this is to say that rocks are better than roots, or the other way ‘round.  But it has me thinking about the very nature of a rock.  How it cannot pull from others.  A rock relies on itself to sink into the muck and pull nutrients as it can so it is sturdy and ready to support others in their journey.      

i took a shower today.  

I said these words and thought these words when trying to quantify an achievement for the day.  It wasn't today.  I have not showered yet.  It is one o'clock in the afternoon.  

Depression has definitely been a factor for a few weeks and simple things like showering, washing dishes, even putting dog food in a bowl to care for the critters with whom i live - it's just exhausting. 

And i've done stuff.  i've gone to work, bought groceries, even went to a few social outings.  And in all the minutes i'm [sleep] walking through life, all i could think about was hiding under blankets again with or without eyes closed and with or without silence.  when the blanket is the important bit, it matters not if i'm sleeping or awake. 

And the blankets smell like dog.  (because i have these monsters laying on me - which is quite lovely and i miss them when they nest up on the comforters they stole across the room.)  So i smell like dog.  Everything in my house is covered with dog hair and dog smell.  A little one i work with said, "you smell like puppies and perfume."  To which i replied, "Puppies is my perfume."  It was enough of a jest to make her laugh and enough to convey that i hold no embarrassment about the fragrant scent wafting from my skin.  But the cause of the smell is .... the cause of the dog smell is simply because i cannot do a simple thing like cleaning my skin some days.  

I like being clean.  i like lying in a tub of bubbles and smoothing oils and creams on my skin to soothe any ache in my muscles and open my pores to remove the grime of the world.  And most days i am.  Most days, i can get through a shower or bath and pull some clean clothes on my body, brush my hair and even get mascara all the way to my eyelashes.  But on the days that i can't - the days i don't give a fuck if anyone can smell the stink i can.  (my nose is closer to me than anyone else - i know i smell bad.)  Those days are days of unease.  again it's not embarrassment.  i'm good with puppies being my perfume.  But it's an unease.  it's the cycle of why can't i function in a manner which  i expect others?  how can i have this derision in my thoughts manifesting itself with a crinkle of nose and a furrow of brow with the perplexing question of why can't they be clean?  it ever occurs to me that on some days i am not. 

There is a bit of --  that which we don't like about others is the thing in which we hate about ourselves.  i hate seeing bad parenting because i question my parental skills.  I don't like talking to obstinate people without a clue because i fear that in my stubbornness, i'm dumb and bullying my way into acceptance of my opinions. 

So what about this shower thing?  i am a blamer.  I say the words that i am explaining, not excusing; but, in contemplation [and among other mad folks] i can be honest with myself and use the word blame in relation to my behavior.  I can blame not having time or energy to do this thing that seems regular.  That's not true though.  i have water.  i have a hot water heater.  i live alone, so i never have to wait for a turn.  And yet? 

It takes three minutes to shower and thirty seven to fret about the process.  In the time it takes me to silently grouse about going through the process, i could have showered, made and drank a cup of coffee and read a short chapter of a book.  

The shower is not the only thing.  (and again, it's not every day)  It's washing dishes and cleaning the floors and doing laundry and making dinner.... And to be clear, this is not a joke where it's like, by the time i get out the shampoo, conditioner, soap, razor, scrunchy sponge, face scrub, foot scrub, and sugar scrub for my relaxing bath i can only fall asleep in the tub.  (not getting clean at all)  This has never been a joke.  When i think to myself, 'i took a shower today.' it's to reassure myself that i did something hard.  i did something my brain was fighting against.    

So right now, six hours after i woke up, i am lying on the couch on a dog-smelling blanket with my feet on a cane corso.  i have not showered today.  i have cleaned the floors and learned a new knitting stitch.  

I don't know why mental illness beats us up so hard.  I look at the pill bottles sitting on my coffee table and read the names to ensure i'm taking the right ones for the time of day and still it's excruciatin to remove the lids and count the pills while avoiding the slivers of light from the blinds covering the windows.  I'm afraid if i go outside, someone will see that i am mad.  Someone will know that i couldn't shower today.  And truly there are days when i don't give a fuck.  I'm not sure it matters with the dark cloud if i care or not.  it's hard to appear normal.  It's hard to do regular.