Psychosis, the poem

Under the tree that whistles

lies a sharp and pointed thistle,

that pokes and prods

whenever I intend to leave this little spot under the whistling tree.

A bunny hops,

with four eyes and two legs,

and I poke it with a peg,

to shoo it away.

I hear you call my name

as a hundred others do,

and I hear curses whispered,

apparently from me to you.

They say I’ve infected you, injected you,

and I must run away;

there’s no time for play under this whistling tree today.

They get louder and louder and I don’t know what to do

so I get up and run, I run right past you.

I’m in danger, can’t you see?

My shadow senses it and bolts ahead of me,

leaving me unprotected.

I stop and shiver, cry and quiver,

as I lose myself within the night.

There’s no coming back and you’ve gone,

I’ve gone,

and the whistling tree seeks revenge.

I go roughly into that good night,

beaten and scarred,

feathered and tarred,

and you are there beneath the whistling tree with angel wings

out of my reach.

I lay on the ground beneath the spotlight

curled with my knees to my chest,

my best defense

against the dark arts.

You fly to heaven and I am alone, truly alone,

comforted by the whistling tree.

 

I think what’s ironic about this poem is that, to me, my experience with psychosis has been poetry. It’s been a beautiful, terrifying, cold dance with the devil who is, as he is in the Bible, an angel.

Limitless

 

bruce_lee_on_limits

Never limit yourself. 

People say “don’t let your obstacles limit you” or perhaps more specifically to the majority of people who read my content “don’t let your mental health limit you” but in reality, that’s just code for don’t put limits on yourself. Because those two abstract things, your supposed obstacles and your supposed ‘disordered’ mental health have never limited you, the majority of the time you just believe they have.

I’ve been searching for some motivation to get me out of my most recent pit and via the other night’s post and the last few days re-reading Nietzsche, I believe I’ve found it. But all of my excitement over future prospects, over my realization, doesn’t belittle the fact that my mental health will indeed, along this path, get in the way.

That’s what it does best: get in the way. 

I’ve spent the last two days planning the equipment that I want to start filming. I’ve received a letter from my college where the judges of the “Literary Criticism Category” considered one of my essays ‘masterful writing that successfully and with poetic insight weaves a critical analysis of the two novels . . . insightful and compelling’, gave me first place, and $100. For an essay I procrastinated on (due to many things) and wrote in a few hours. It was ten pages.

To be fair, who knows who my competition was or if I even had any. 

51bpisjndtl-_sx299_bo1204203200_I’ve also spent the last few weeks gathering books that I plan to read, one of which is called “The Life and Loves of a She-Devil” by Fay Weldon, another by the name of “Man Gone down” by Michael Thomas and of course “The Psychopath Whisperer” by Kent Kiehl, Ph.D because why not. I mean, I forgive him for using the age old term “Psychopath” when, as a psychological professional, he should know the term ‘sociopath’ or ‘antisocial’ is more properly used for those who have been convicted of a crime already since the majority of his book discusses his time in interviewing prison inmates. But I’ll let him slide.

While I enjoy all the ideas I generate for my filming, while I generally enjoy the award I’ve received, while I enjoy spending hours writing, while I enjoy reading multiple books at the same time (my mother can’t stand doing that) all of it is often thwarted by my beliefs of what I can and can’t do, by my mood, and by my thought pattern. 

For example, earlier this morning, about 4:30 a.m, I woke up my boyfriend so he could take me home. We both always fall asleep, we really need to stop doing that because I hate driving that early in the morning and I know he hates driving (if he’s picked me up) too. But because of my anxiety and my obsessive fear of some demonic entity always watching me while I sleep, I sleep better if I’m in the bed with someone other than just myself. It takes me approximately twenty minutes to fall asleep in his room, it takes me an hour and a half in mine.

He falls asleep immediately anywhere, as a comparison.

At any rate, I woke him and he went to the bathroom. I was already awake, sitting up, playing on my phone when I noticed ten minutes had passed. Then fifteen. I started to get worried. First, I thought perhaps he’d fallen asleep in the bathroom. Twenty minutes passed. My social anxiety kicked in: what if I have to walk up there and knock on the door and ask if he was alright and wake up his parents and explain why I’m there at 4:30 a.m knocking on the bathroom door in their hall (they’d came home at 2:40 a.m).

giphy

Then came what I guess people would consider “Abnormal thought”. It’s dark in this house, it’s an older house, I’ve heard stories about entities in this house before (although I believe it had been blessed out of it) but what if something else was back? What if it had possessed him?

I’m not religious nor is my family. This isn’t a random fear or a mock of Paranormal Activity for me, it’s a reoccurring paranoid fear. My heart rate rises in my throat, I start sweating, and I’m paralyzed because I fear if I move, I’ll be found out. Think Jurassic Park and the T-Rex’s eye sight.

paranormalactivity31I believe he’s standing in the middle of the living room, possessed, absent minded, waiting for me to crack open the door so the demonic forces can attack me. So, in the midst of my sweating and paralyzation, I must come up with a way to outsmart them.

I see the dog. I want to wake her as well, but when you move in his bed the wooden frame creaks. I feared if it creaked, the possessed body would barge through the door, wrap it’s hands around my neck and choke me before anyone could hear my screech.

Perhaps I could reach my hand through the bed frame and poke her and get her to go into the living room? No, my arm won’t reach. Damnit.

I’ve heard stories about animals and the supposed paranormal: she would bark for certain if she felt something was wrong with her family. She’s good at barking. If she didn’t bark I would know he’s either generally approachable, or I can have her distract the entity within him while I get the fuck out of the house.

As you read this I’m sure you can see the rational fault within it or at least the unlikely hood of my belief. At this time, I did not. By now a half an hour had passed. I thought about texting him–I couldn’t find his phone so I assumed he took it after all.

Now I’m hearing light footsteps in the kitchen and a clank of something. Am I imagining it? I’m not sure. I waited for him to come through the door. He did not.

3373992-little-child-looking-through-a-crack-between-wooden-planksAfter thirty five minutes I essentially leaped from the bed. I peered through the crack in the door into the dark and saw a sleeve of an arm on the couch–turned out to be a jacket. I took a deep breath and closed the door. I texted him “are you alive?”

He responded instantly. He was having stomach issues–the food we’d eaten had left an abnormal feeling in his stomach.

That was relief to hear. I still refused to move or open the door, but when I heard his footsteps for sure this time and he entered without the look of possession, I felt generally comfortable.

For me this type of thing is a constant. I fear of this for many people I’m around, I don’t trust people’s outwardly appearance or what they say to me or who they claim they are. Not because of an underlying fear of possession necessarily, but that can come into play if it’s night time and I’m in a dark house or dark street by myself.

So what does this drawn out story have to do with anything? Even with all the plans I have, with all the things I’m excited to do, I’m very well aware of what I’m going to have to work through to do what I enjoy. As I’ve stated, College has become my Hobby, work (whenever I find it) has become my survival and monetary means to fuel my career. My career is what I can create whether that’s in my studies (medicine and philosophy) or my art (photography, film, writing). I still want to study. I still want to film, do photography, and keep up my writing path.

There are a lot of things I want to do. And lot of reasons why I could tell myself I can’t do them: I’m tired all the time, I’m anxious all the time, I’m uncomfortable all the time, I’m paranoid, I can’t handle noises or conversation and when I least need depression, it strikes me.

Am I ever going to not be those things? I don’t know, none of it seems abnormal to me, it’s always been there. But whether I will or I won’t, there’s one thing I knowwon’t be: stuck in a place in my life I despise because I was too afraid to take or create an opportunity for myself.

Success speaks many languages. You have to find the one you understand the best.

 

 

 

WARNING: Nasty Ass Rant

Warning: If you don’t like bad language I’d suggest you don’t look at this.

This is not going to be one of my normal posts

I’ve been posting often and they’ve been long because I can’t shut my mouth up–err, the mouth in my head–and here comes another one so bare with me through this week people.

This one won’t be as long as the one earlier today or the one before that or the one before that, because I’ve only got a few things to say.

I don’t know what I’ve been rambling about the last few days–I mean I know the content but did I really have a revelation about myself, I don’t think so.

I can’t distinguish the emotion I’m feeling at the moment–I haven’t been able to for the last four days. But tonight is especially bad. I’m pissed off, I’m sad, I’m frustrated, I’m happy, I’m anxious, and I want to be social but I want to be in my little corner and I don’t know how to juggle it all.

People. Don’t. Get. It.

It’s not a joke. I’m not sitting here trying to sound dramatic and loopy and stupid. It’s fucking hard.

I want to cry and laugh at the same time and how the fuck does that make sense?

If I could leave the stupid fucking house without someone screaming about it (it’s 11:22pm) I would, but I can’t. I wouldn’t have anywhere to go. A drive maybe, but then I’d need to put gas in the car. I can’t walk down the street at this time of night, I’d be paranoid of shadows and the last fucking emotion I need right now is paranoia. 

I’m listening to music now. I was watching some funny YouTube videos because sometimes the laughter helps, but it hasn’t this time.

So now I’m ranting because maybe this will help. Feel free to completely ignore this post.

But all my other ones you better fucking read.

Just kidding.

Then I get into arguments with people about society and the value (or non-value) of money and the concept of human nature and how I need to get out of the house and explore the world or whatever the fuck. Wrong time to pick a goddamn argument with me. It’s only frustrating me more.

I want to talk to someone about it but what’s the point when no one understands it anyway? We’ve all been emotional right? That’s what they suppose it feels like.

This doesn’t feel like I’m emotional. This is like a trap. It’s a fucking trap. The slightest noise makes my heart race and my skin flinch and my mother smiling at me and telling me there’s food on the stove pisses me off because I want to be alone and no one fucking gets it but at the same time I don’t want to be left alone but I do because . . .

I don’t fucking get it. I don’t! I don’t get it.

In the middle of my text argument my phone keeps freezing and I can’t fucking take it and I want to throw the piece of shit out the window but I’m the one with the expert mask who probably shouldn’t loose her shit and wake the whole house up because I’m normal, I’m fine, there’s nothing wrong with me.

So I suppress it.

If it was day light I would have launched it into the closet door and punched something already.

The videos are so funny and I was enjoying them but not really. They kept me distracted.

I want to cry. About what? I have no idea. Everything is painful. I think about everything I’ve wasted this semester and all the time that’s passed and how fucking stupid I am and the depression hits–but only for a few seconds, then I’m back to seething anger and arguments and frustration because I can’t control it. I can suppress it, but it’s not controlled. It builds and builds and I know I won’t get to sleep early tonight.

Then I feel a little better. And I think maybe it’s passed. And then it starts all over again and I say FUCK!

NO IT’S NOT PMS. I WOULD KNOW.

I just don’t give a shit right now. I’m done answering messages on my phone. I don’t give a shit about money being necessary for the economy, I don’t give a shit about the economy, I could give a flying fuck about society right now and I don’t even remember what my argument was and I honestly don’t care what it was. I’m thirsty as fuck and there’s nothing to drink and no I don’t give a shit if any of this makes sense to you right now.

Yes I have a history of self-harm and yes, these are the moments I revert into that mindset. I don’t want to “punish myself” or “Get attention” or “feel something because I’m numb”. I’m the exact opposite of numb.

No, I need it to focus on just to bring me back down to earth.

I don’t do that anymore because it’s too noticeable and I’m the perfect one, right? I’ve got my shit together, right? I’ve got to make it look like I just have a little bit of social anxiety and maybe a little bit of occasional depression just so my parents don’t freak out. My father doesn’t even know I go to therapy–he wouldn’t remember anyway.

So instead I sit here bathing in whatever the fuck I’m bathing in wishing I could bang my head against the wall or slice open some skin or burn my skin or at least burn something–or fight. Fighting would be nice. I’d stab a motherfucker right now, I’m not in the mood for bullshit.

How do I hide this? I’ve become an expert at it because I tuck myself away in my room and no one questions it. My parents can go days without seeing me out of my room other than for food and the bathroom and they won’t question it–they’ll just wait until I emerge on my own. No one questions it. That’s how I get away with it. It’s not as if I have friends who would notice something different about me. Like I’ve said over the last few days, I don’t even want friends! 

Someone to vent to? Maybe. Friends? No. You can keep them. They fucking annoying me and that’s the truth. No one is true to their word and I don’t need to deal with that drama. They don’t give two shits if I leap off a cliff and blame them in this suicide note–they probably wouldn’t even believe it.

I don’t trust people. I don’t care if that’s not good, I don’t trust them. I think they’re motives are wrong, I don’t think they believe a word I say and in turn I don’t believe a word they say.

Everyone can stay the hell away from me for all I care.

I have a fucking headache.

I said this wouldn’t be long and it is.

I’m trying to breathe but my mind is spinning in circles thinking about how petty I must look in that argument on my phone, about how angry I am at my anger, about how I need to finish (start) my essay, how I need to stop being fucking stupid, how I need to cry, how I don’t want to cry, how I’m not depressed, how it doesn’t make sense that I feel depressed but I’m not depressed, how I’m going to go eat even though I’m not hungry, how I just wish I could punch someone, anyone, right in the face and just take them to the ground and keep hitting and hitting and hitting until maybe I loose feeling in my hands and then I’ll have something to focus on other than this shit in my head.

Music keeps me in reality right now.

I’ll always love music.

How do I hide this from people? I must be a fucking mastermind.

Jotting that down helped a little. I don’t think I’m going to murder anyone anymore. But damn am I fed up with this shit.

I said I was going to be more truthful to myself and this is about as truthful as it gets. I can’t take this shit. There’s the fucking truth.

That helped a little tiny bit. It did. For the time being.

Nope. Fucking WordPress froze as I was adding tags. Pissed off again. Thanks stupid motherfucker.

I swear to God. I swear. If this computer wasn’t 600 dollars I’d fucking smash it to the ground and jump on it and punch it and then throw it out the window and into someone’s car just so I could have justification to fuck up their car too. If WordPress was a person, they’d be fucked right now.