Not really working on anything right now. I was actually looking at this photograph and missing the girl I used to be. That must be part of age, or maybe it's just egoism. I should embrace any changes that have been made to my molecular make-up and see them for what they really are: just a part of life.

But I hear the clock in this room ticking, and it feels like it's timing down to something. Like a quiet clicking race, one that I'm going to come last in. Then I feel like listening to The Tea Party, and my over-the-counter heartburn medication isn't working even though I've taken two tablets and it's supposed to be 'extra-strength'. So, I just sit here with the music on, lighting cigarettes from the ends of candles and trying to pick a movie to sleep with, but I can't because everything I've seen has already been seen and we all know what happens when they end.

My dreams are filled with the matching bed sheets of past relationships and the kisses of those that I coveted but never felt. Those pairs of brown eyes both exciting and disappointing me, at the same time. The sleeping pills maybe make these people more real than they actually were, and because it was so long ago, maybe that's true.

Or I feel like a keyboard you can click on, a link that leads you to spam pages and pop-up windows. Free cursors, smileys you don't want and ads for Viagra or penis extensions. Click, click, click. Close.

The dogs sleep at the foot of the bed, they don't know I will not be here on this day at the same time next week, that they will be sleeping alone with each other. And I wonder if they care. But that doesn't matter because that's just the way things are. That's just the way they are.

Labels: Apostle, depression, Gish, late night, melancholy, neurotic, pharmacology, sleep, underwater, we all lose in the end, writing, zopiclone

Dear Chicago,
There's always something left to say. I type this, my fingers numb from cold. My fingers hitting random keys whilst I try to spell words correctly. If that happens, then maybe this time, you'll get my note.
Do you remember those fiery nights in front of the fireplace, smoke occasionally sputtering from the fire, the light allowing us to see our work. Papers upon paper, scribbles and notes all in the margins. Creased photographs and glowing red bottles of wine. It's ok. I remember enough for the most of us.

words fell like water...

Sometimes, I don't know where these words come from. Are they like that Ryan Adams song you liked so much...just merely words? Could I be reading more importance to them then it's worth?

Right now, I light my cigarettes from burning candles that are meant to be in churches, prayers said for the dead. But I'm here in my cold, little room. With these candles that burn for endless hours, even while I sleep. A cheap glimmering light that is just *there* when I need it to be. So afraid to sleep, and for it to be another day. It just means it's closer to the time I have to go. And we both know how much I love leaving.
Maybe this time will be different.
Love, Gish

Labels: David Usher, Dear Chicago, opinions, pharmacology, relationships, run, running, sleep, travelling, writing

sanctuary
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

I haven't had anywhere that I would particularly like to be. Not for a long while. No place to rest my head and feel that I was ok, normal, loved and most importantly, safe. This past year has meant a lot of changes for me. The first, obviously moving to this new writing space. Which I am still not sure I will maintain, future food for thought.

When I lost it, my mind I mean. I never thought I would have any kind of meaningful support other than an imaginary kindly old nurse that would pat my knee reassuringly while I was being fitted for the straight jacket. I know that in myself, in my speech and some beliefs I have, I perpetuate the old myths of mental health. I know this, it's not intentional, at the same time it's not something I can see changing any time soon.

Given the events of this past week, I now know a few more things. That when you check into emergency by sliding a note stating "I'm going to kill myself" across to the receptionist behind the bullet proof glass partition, they whisk you away only to make you wait in a chair next to a drunk throwing up what seemed like gallons of red wine two seats over.

From then on it was completely "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest". You can all cheer and think it was a great thing when the indian guy broke the water fountain and walked away from the institution, but shit like that doesn't really happen. Instead, I was held in a room painted blue, they told me to put on the gown, I declined until further notice. I hadn't yet seen a doctor. The door, I remember, had a round fishbowl-like window in it, and they locked from the outside.

I lay down on the gurney, wrapped a sheet around myself and tried to be as small as possible until the ordeal was over. This is the latest in events that have been my effort to seek help for the severe depression I've been suffering.

I hear things like 'bi-polar', 'crazy', 'she's just one of those that are never happy people'. In ways I can't even explain, moods come over me and I'm helpless to stop or manage the emotions. It feels like I'm crazy, so I often refer to myself as such. It could be a lie, who really knows.

My family is angry and hurt that I didn't reach out to them for help. But even if I had, I wouldn't have had the words to tell them what's wrong.

I still don't.

Until then, I'm floating on a very thin carpet. I eat icy green grapes for dinner and pet Buckley whilst reading old Margaret Atwood books in the hope I make it through another night in my sanctuary.

Labels: cry, depression, how not to be an idiot, insomnia, layers, lockdown, lorazepam, Matthew Good, melancholy, neurotic, pharmacology, Sylvia Plath, writing, zopiclone

We
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

I can change, I swear...
I smoked too many cigarettes today. One call from a job in Philly. I didn't take it, it wasn't what I wanted. I wish I could forget the days that hurt and easily remember the ones that heal. I took this a few months ago before my art show. I'm really not quite sure what to do with it now. I guess it can go into someone else's private collection. It doesn't seem to strike a chord, the way it used to. Sometimes, I hang on to things forever. Other times, I barely realise they are gone before I turn out the lights for the night.

I'm in full lockdown mode now. It's my own fault. A specific blend of pharmaceuticals to help get me through the night, a couple of novels and some photographs. I don't know when I'll resurface. Maybe sometime next week.

These little 'slow downs' happen once in awhile, and from experience I've just got to keep taking breath, and hoping that it will be over soon.

I want something that won't let me dream anymore. My dreams (they say are wishes) hurt me, big barbs lodged into the sides of my arms, little thorns in my side, the nicks and scrapes that my life has brought me. Sometimes....they just keep coming back.

Ok, I lied. I posted a photo of that painting because I know the next time I log on, I'll see it. And maybe it will make me feel better. Silence those stupid ghosts from the past, the whispers that eat away at my self esteem and self worth (Oprah talk). Maybe I'll remember the orange glow of love and then my world will turn upright again.
Maybe.

But now, it's Black Cherry soda pop and another chapter of the sad book I'm reading. Climbing under my covers, tinfoil on the windows, drugs in my system and the prayer that I don't dream of you anything, tonight.

Don't bother calling me, I won't pick up the phone. aloha.


You're a Big Girl Now - Bob Dylan

Labels: Blach cherry pop, Bob Dylan, how not to be an idiot, insomnia, lockdown, painting, pharmacology, Sylvia Plath, underwater, witness