light and strings
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

One of the most freeing things in the world to possess is the ability to make a decision. Decisions based on choices. At this time, I have run out of choices. It seems that I am unable to manage. Manage daily life. The little things that might cause an ordinary person a moment of discomfort, or a tiny headache. These things throw my entire stride and I'm unable to recover from it.

I thought I could do it. I thought I could live like an ordinary person, as long as I kept on going and kept trying. But it looks like I can't. And realities like that bring me back to the beginning. And I'm floundering in the water, about to go under.

Thoughts slip into my brain. And I realise that no matter how many emails I send to someone I thought would be there for me...I realise that sometimes you care more for someone than they do for you. That's not meant to be read in a 'mean' way, it's just fact.

On the other hand, there isn't anyone out there that can help me. Or make things better. If any help at all is to be found, it's supposed to be within me. I just don't think I can find it.

So, I'll go back to Manitoulin Island. I'll barricade myself behind the doors of a harsh Northern winter and pretend I'm there resting, or getting better or whatever it is you tell someone when the prognosis isn't good.

I don't know.

I don't know what the answers are. I am going to have to buy heavy duty oxygen tanks for this session underwater.

Labels: bipolar

I press my sweet, beautiful face into my pillow to sleep. The light wakes me up, the sounds of a city that never really settles down helps me sleep; sirens, yelling people, squealing brakes, traffic noises. Noise needs to be present. I also leave The Ice Harvest playing so Cusack's soft spoken voice is also there when I hook up my star to jet off into dream world.


I have bipolar type 2 disorder. In my head, it sounds like I'm talking about diabetes. I was diagnosed in June of this year, after I tried suicide twice in the space of 4 days. I spent 2 weeks in a locked ward at the hospital. My sister came to visit and brought me cigarettes and pens with paper.

Preceeding the hospital, I was underwater all the time. I lost my job. I had no hope. MG saved me that night.

The truth is: I am a social worker, and I wonder all the time about whether or not I can be a good social worker when I have this mental illness. I keep wondering if there is a conflict of interest there.

I kept referring to that time as 'being sick', without really getting into the nitty gritty of what was going on with me. I wrote cryptic entries so I could gloss over the words 'suicide' and 'kill'. Little words that look so sharp in the daylight.

I have to take 3 different kinds of medication that are supposed to keep me 'even' now. I take them but I hate doing it. It's just not something I ever thought I would be the person to do. I have my own personal stigmas that I place on mental illness.

I had it in my head that only people who were lazy of the mind were depressed and/or suicidal. That those people were just nuts. It has been hard to place myself in that category. I know this is not supposed to be what people think about people with mental illness but it was something I could not separate myself from.

I don't remember much from the ICU of the hospital. I remember Matthew's voice messages and being scared to call him back. I remember not having the power to leave the hospital to hide under my blankets at home.

Labels: bipolar

Most times I don't update is because I'm tired when I finally get near the computer that I can't think of putting emotion into words.

Tonight, or this morning rather, I'm just going to bed, it's 5 a.m. A perfect example of insomnia for any of those doubters out there. Not feeling so hot lately, think I might take a trip up North to visit family for the holidays. Maybe I will stay a few days longer to recharge before coming back to London.

There was something about driving through the rain slicked streets at 3 in the morning. The rain beaded down the windshield at stop lights. The reassuring sound of the wipers scraping water from my vision. My cigarette smoke swirling out of the window. It was something profoundly lonely. Not lonely for some stick of meat in bed with me. Not lonely for lack of people. I guess lonely that it seems I can't roll up my sleeves and get my shit together like everyone else on this planet. I don't want to be that girl who is perpetually floundering through life. No one is able to fix that, just me. And it's a bit scary because I'm not sure if I am able to. Or even know how to.

This has been a self pity party for myself. I'm sure everyone has gotten their invitations. Cheques are in the mail.

G.

Labels: bipolar, melancholy

This past summer, I've locked my keys in the car. Twice, some kindly stranger saw me struggling and perhaps taking a gander at my large arms, decided to stick their decidedly skinnier arms in through the open window to take a swipe at my keys. The keys would be either dangling from the ignition, or on the passenger side seat.

The other night, I locked them in the car, because I was distracted by my cigarette and the music playing. But really, I may be just saying that because I have no other reason. My mind is constantly elsewhere, and when I am fully 'present' I am still unable to articulate words to questions.

For instance, this afternoon in yet another job interview, I was asked what my idea of Feminism is. Suddenly, I'm at a loss for words to describe this HUGE thing. To me, it's huge, maybe it's even unexplainable because of all the different levels and meanings and ways to subscribe to Feminism. So, that's what I say. Then I say that I think of Feminism as humanistic, that there shouldn't be any assigned roles in Society (meanwhile I'm asking myself in my head, if that's actually true). Then I realise that sounds so familiar, and am able to remember Gloria Steinam's speech from all those years ago....all this while blabbing on about how I can *possibly* practice Social Work from a Feminist standpoint. Which is probably untrue, as I have this thing where I see both sides of every story, no matter what. Which then leads me to sit on the fence on most important issues because I can't make a decision either way.

Don't get me wrong, this entry is not about feminism although it's certainly a good subject to discuss. But damn, if I couldn't answer that question without sounding like some fruit fly off the street that didn't spend four (4!!) years studying Social Work.

Arg.

I can't write love songs on these things....
I know what it is. It's the events of the past 6 months that have taken siege over my brain cells and turned them into moosh. I used to be absent-minded...now I think, I'm just plain absent.

So, I keep losing my keys. I forget what I'm talking about in the middle of a sentence. I also forget that I was going to take Buckley for a walk, 4 hours past dark. My sister is constantly reminding me that Matthew Good will be in London in about 2 weeks (I keep thinking the show is about 4 months away, because that's how everything feels....about 4 months away).

Also, my younger sister who just started University, I am on the phone with her and I know we used to have good, laughing conversations filled with jokes, insider information and what ever else...but now I'm just kind of quiet. I can't think of anything funny to say.

Nothing to be done about it, unless there is such a thing as mental exercises, which sound like too much work. So, I will just wait patiently for the time when I will be just plain distracted as opposed to 'all the lights are on but no one is home' sort of gal.

Oh, let me know if I've forgotten to mention anything.

Hospital Music song (I forget which!) - Matthew Good.

Labels: bipolar, family, forgetfullness, forgot, theory, work

I should be crying but I just can't let it show...
I thought it would be impossible to sleep in my apartment tonight. It's some kind of record breaking temperature today that carried over into this evening. I sat in the hospital sweating and waiting in the waiting room for my sister who has suffered a serious loss of her own. All I do is nod and say yes or no when asked who I am.

I know you have a lot of strength left...
I listen to her. I don't try to tell her it will be better. I usually hate it when someone tells me it is not the end of the world because of one 'setback'. I just listen. I'm little good for anything else since I've not had felt that kind of sorrow before.

I also feel it's the least I can do since she spent so much of her time in hospital while I was unconscious and incoherent in a hospital bed, wishing for the end of days. My wishes are never answered.

In any event, I feel sad driving home and songs come on that I listen to and they resonate with everything that's happened. Such a common occurrence is not something that makes it feel better for her.

And with this, I wonder...when it will get better for all of us. When will life just give us a break. Why can't we have it easy for awhile....

I don't know.


This Woman's Work - Kate Bush

Labels: bipolar, family, miscarriage, sorrow, witness

I was central. I had control. I lost my head.
Dvd's scattered all over my bed, things I've watched over the past week. I usually fall asleep with something playing, my glasses still on. A pharmaceutical lullaby.

3 or 4 years ago, I was intent on achieving and owning anything and everything I thought I wanted. I bought a house, had a steady and reliable social work-esqe kind of job, some family in the same town I lived in. A stereo system, surround sound blah blah blah. I even rejoiced in buying a hammock for my backyard, where I planned to lay in whilst looking at the cherry tree blossoms floating around me.

Instead, I spent all available time working because I thought that made me a better worker. That led to not my being able to spend any time in the house I lovingly chose out of 4 others. Very little to no time with my family. Leaving the house and coming home when it was dark in all seasons, which meant I had a frozen pizza to eat for dinner while I watched dvd tv, I think it was Millennium at the time. When the Cherry trees did bloom, I managed only a few hours stolen to lie in the hammock reading Hawksley Workman's poetry and talking on the phone. I spent my vacations waiting for the time to come when I could go back to work.

Then I became progressively more sick as time went on.

It's crazy what you coulda had...
Now, having given up or lost every material object I used to hold dear to me, I have this strange and dubious sense of clarity. It's almost like any veil, or pair of sunglasses, blinders I used to fashion for myself have been lost and I feel like doing things that are way beyond any scope of social work or the bare necessities of living that I had ever thought possible.

And I am able to take photographs that remind me of those that are in my life forever. A photograph of my youngest sister and my youngest nephew dancing to invisible music. It's so crazy what I could have had....



Country Feedback - R.E.M

Labels: bipolar, family, Gish, habits, hawksley workman, how not to be an idiot, inspiration, neurotic, photographs, photography, work, writing

Dear Chicago,
sleepful nights in a new place, my sheets are the same. A cracked lightbulb and cool evenings spent on the roof like 3rd Rock From The Sun. I feel like rainbow coloured paint inside my head when I'm trying to write, but the cigarette smoke tastes better than it ever has before.

Hewlitt Packard has my laptop hostage so I make sojourns to welcoming internet spots on my way to other more important places like the coffee store.

Listening to Matthew Good's new album is sharp like jagged edges but feels so good at the same time. In a none-hurting kind of way.

Go to go now.
Love,
Gish

Labels: bipolar, blue pills, coffee, cover songs, Daniel Johnston, Matthew Good, we all lose in the end, work, writing

You know, when I sit down to write something, it never turns the way I've expected it to. The same goes for telephone conversations. Those of you have endured, I thank you, and those of you that thus far avoided it, good job!

There is something inherently weak about the human race, that the smallest thing to tip the balance can become increasingly clear as new information is revealed. I'm a revealer of information myself, so I understand the concept.

For instance, I've been revealing things, personal aspects of myself to another for a number of months. But when it came right down to the last minute detail, which was whether or not he can handle the diagnosis, I saw in his face what he couldn't articulate. His mouth was saying all the right things, but his body wasn't. And I might have wept if it was for another reason, because in all honesty I don't know if I can handle my condition anymore than someone else. Why should I foist upon someone that I need to take time off work to get my head on straight. Or the medication I am on may decease my sex drive. Or that I will be a moody bitch for 2 weeks out of a month?

Do you see where I'm going, here? I have to adjust my vision to something with less expectations of other people. Because in the end, it's your breath you hear in the dark, your mind whispering things.

Anyhow, it feels like Fall right now. I had my bedroom window open for much of the week but had to close it today because I thought it was too cold. Now, though. I don't care. I'm prepared with a sweater. I can't bear this room if it weren't for the window. The weather makes me bring the camera out for thing like waxy yellow leaves, or vivid reds of Maple trees. But it's only June and those sorts of things are miles away.

Now, though it's nearly, I'll just follow my warped instinct and keep my mouth shut. No more revealing for today.

Labels: bipolar, Gish, habits, love, sex, we all lose in the end

Ok, so I don't want to make a big fuss about anything, nor do I expect anyone to fall at my feet because of what I am about to tell you.

ok, first things first. It's a cool Monday morning, and I've just brewed my first pot of coffee in my new coffee maker. Not a big deal, huh? It is to me when I realise I've never owned a coffee maker before, nor was I ever interested in the subtle differences in french roast, columbian picked, or fair trade coffee.

I wanted the Fair trade coffee but because of the price, settled for something a little different. French vanilla roasted beans that I ground up in the gorcery store while my older sister watched me with my new treat. I'm enjoying this cup of coffee now, even though there isn't an cream to be found in the house, so I must drink it black.

Bold, hearty and robust, and french vanilla-y, is how I would describe this coffee. Tasty, even without cream.

Ok, so I was diagnosed as being Bipolar type 2 last week. It took me a few hours to get used to the fact that I am now labelled as having a potentially serious mental health problem. When I say hours, I mean that I drove around saying 'holy shit' to myself in the car. Clutching a new bunch of prescription notes, I went to the pharmacy and had them filled. The bottles rattled around in my backpack like a new song.

As Mattie would say: I felt like I could potentially open my own pharmacy with the amount of prescription drugs I now take. This is bothersome for me, because apparently I will have to take this stuff in order to avoid any serious 'episodes' in the future. The language of Bipolar is interesting, as well. Episodes, disease, hypomania, 40% of Bipolar type 2 population attempt suicide.

So that's it. I have Matthew Good as a friend who understands what I'm going through, he knows the lingo, he understands about the drugs. He *gets* it. It's hard for me to explain, but I could be saying something and he'll finish the sentence. And that's comforting. I also have the goodwill of my family, mostly because I think for them it explains why I do a lot of the things I do.

And you know, I was going to make this a friends only entry, but now I'm saying Fuck it. I'm bipolar, big deal, so is half the population.

the end (for now)Love,Gish

Labels: bipolar, depression, family, Gish, habits, how not to be an idiot, inspiration, Matthew Good, neurotic