3.24.2015

15.03.15 :: 21.03.15

1.
The crows speak. I turn my back on the town, the people, civilization and look at the stones crammed side by side in what would have been neat rows but 200 years has worn their order. In the winter trees, the crows speak words I almost understand. I want to unfold my wings and fly up among them but people are waiting for me and I'm cold and sore so I put away my wings and limp along the cobbled path to the town.

2.
My dreams are of betrayal. Not the cinematic overtures my subconscious usually performs, but less nuanced. More basic, standard tropes.

3.
I told someone once that home is wherever I'm not, and that is very true. I always look forward to going to my parents', and I like being there. It's a break, in a lot of ways, but I also look forward to going back to Canterbury. It's different lives. I don't know if I'll ever be able to stay put. I know I need stability - familiar people mostly - but six months and Canterbury is already beginning to chafe.

4.
I dreamt of New Orleans, except sometimes it looked like Paris. I was visiting, but decided to make it permanent.

5.
Do I send Caleb to Atlanta after Derek? It's not far. It makes sense for him to go. Though, could he afford it? Does he even have a car? Who would he go with? Would he tell anyone, or would he just go?

6.
I would like to get a job, for a lot of the same reasons I'd like to have a car. Feeling a little more independent, a little more in control of my situation, would help. I have a thing about control. And I feel so restricted now. Tied down. Confined. But I'm worried I won't be able to handle it. That it'll turn out to be too much and I'll end up right back in the hole I just climbed out of.

I have a tendency, I know, when I start feeling better, to jump in headfirst and sign on to all the things I've been wanting to do but couldn't, and inevitably it blows up in my face. Even a normal person can't do everything, and I function best at a more relaxed pace.

I don't want to make the mistakes I've made before. I want this time to work. I want to stay better. Maybe I should just give myself more time instead of running off at the first sign of light (literally and figuratively). Summer doesn't last forever. Especially in this country.

7.
I should call N. It's hanging there in the back of my head. Has been for weeks. Call N. But what would I say? From thousands of miles away I hear you, and this is the only way I know how to say, I'm here. I'm listening. I see you.

Be careful.

8.
Today I decided to quit smoking.

9.
The people of England need to learn to appreciate cinnamon in candy. Or at least gum.

10.
I miss the fire. The soft little cracklehiss as the paper burns down.

11.
Just before bed and just after breakfast are the hard parts because it's wired into my rituals and I don't deal well with change. I've considered giving in to myself just for those times, but my stubbornness balks at any leeway. I've made a decision so I should stick to it. Besides, give an inch...

12.
A long time ago something in me split in two, and it never quite readhered. So now it's me, and the Other. Sometimes it stays quiet, so I only feel it sitting just beneath my skin. Sometimes we talk, like friends who leave nowhere off limits. Sometimes it rages so wild and strong it takes all of my will and focus to just not let it out.

Sometimes I hate it. I want to be rid of it. Everything about it seems horrible and wrong. Other times I wrap around it like my only comfort, my oldest friend, my constant companion.

But it's always there in the back of my head. Waiting. Shifting. Watching everything I do.

3.17.2015

08.03.15 :: 14.03.15

1.
If I really wanted to be authentic I'd date each of these. Map them out over the week so they could be lined up with events and circumstances.

2.
Slightly rearranging the furniture disrupted my going to bed routine enough that for a full minute I didn't know what to do until I reconstructed all the steps.

First you take off your socks...

3.
I do not like the new Marlboros. Saying they taste the same doesn't make them taste the same.

Don't fuck with people's cigarettes, man.

4.
There was a thought, which I forgot, because my flatmates started talking about the letting agent showing the flat and the end of the lease and I'm not optimistic enough to believe I'll be granted two random equally cool people again. I think I really am just done with goodbyes.

5.
"It was something like the word 'it' in the phrase 'it is raining' or 'it is night.' What that 'it' referred to Quinn had never known." (The New York Trilogy, Paul Auster)

There's no answer to that question. But now I can't stop thinking about 'it' and all those words we put in that don't mean anything in that context, or adopt a different meaning for that moment, and we generally never acknowledge the strangeness of it.

6.
Why people sit where they sit on public transportation, and what determines which strangers they'll sit with.

This was #4.

It interests me. I make a study of the people who sit next to me, and how long before I have to deal with a stranger in my space (when there are only seats next to people left, I tend to be among the first to get a neighbour, though there is little to no commonality between them).

Based on my own preferences for seating partners, I presume that means a wide demographic finds me approachable and/or unthreatening. Or believes I won't invade their personal space more than required by circumstance. (I won't; being in their space means they're in mine and I don't like that.)

7.
I don't like that they're showing the flat when I'm on the other side of the country. Not that I have control over who moves in anyway. But it still bothers me. There'd at least be an illusion of control if I could spy on the potential new people.

8.
I wish I had not forgotten my meds in Canterbury.
Or my razor.

9.
I'm excited. I have no idea why. But it feels like that moment right before you get to do something - go on a trip, have a party, go to a gig - something fun and happy. But there's nothing. I'm just bouncing around the house. Literally.

It's kind of inconvenient.

10.
What would the world look like if we "resurrected" neanderthals? How many would we make? Would they be people or animals? Where would they go? Who would "own" them? (You know someone would claim ownership.) Would there just be a few, or a colony, and then what?

They'd make a male and female. There'd be a circus over whether or not they could breed in captivity. School children would be paraded by to learn about this lost part of history. The birth of the first pure (not cloned) neanderthal would trend on Twitter, along with prospective names for the primordial bundle of joy. Neanderthal rights groups would protest the labs, and religious groups would claim this a sign of the end of days. Public interest would wan as the more unpleasant realities came to light, and a soft-hearted tech would sneak the experimental family out of the enclosure.

And then...

11.
"We've got the tools to do it, so we might as well do it."

The major flaw of human rationale right there. 

3.10.2015

01.03.15 :: 07.03.15

1.
Researching this book has made me increasingly paranoid about ending up on some government watch list.

For example, today's goal: figure out how to take down a power grid.

Hypothetically, of course.

It doesn't help that most of my sources are totally paranoid about the government as well.

2.
I wonder what she's thinking as I talk. What does my internal world sound like to someone on the outside? I recognise the look on her face. Just about every doctor I've ever see has that look: I am not equipped for this.

I struggle when we review my previous therapies and diagnoses. One is the different systems. Two is my tendency to dismiss the ones I don't find credible. Three is the fact that I can put on the act of a very stable, grounded, fully functional human being when I want/need to.

(Want and need are one and the same, you see.)

I've never told any of them that, and I won't tell her. I don't let them know I will lie, scheme, manipulate to get what I want.

No, omit. Omit, tweak, censor. I never outright lie.

Honesty and I have a funny relationship. I won't accept any measure of dishonesty from others. I latch onto minute details, and call them out on the slightest variation. (Yesterday you said he was angry, today it's upset. Which is it?)

Concealment is dishonesty, but it's perfectly alright for me to conceal information, and I'm not dishonest. (If the information is requested, it's given, but it's not my fault if you don't know what you don't know.)

It's a habit I have with people to tell them they have to ask what they want to know. It's like a badge, a key for people that I like: here is how you get my secrets. Ask and I will tell you everything.

Have you ever been diagnosed with bipolar disorder?

No, not officially, but I'm aware how closely I follow it. I'm aware of the highs and lows, and that already because I'm starting to feel good again, I'm thinking I don't need to do any of this.

I have to keep reminding myself of black days. I don't want to have those anymore. They're gone now, but I know they'll come back so I have to do this for when that happens. I have to keep telling myself that.

They'll come back.
They always come back.

3.
As this goes on, I'm having to resist the urge to edit what I've written. Make it sound better, more insightful. Or whatever.

I also do not consistently use one spelling or another. Last week it was realize, today it is realise.

I want this to be authentic. In the moment. It doesn't work any other way. What would be even better is posting the actual pages (I write by hand), but I won't.

I worry about how many secrets I'm letting go. I protect myself by keeping these things to myself and a limited few. How does that change if anyone can know?

This has to be authentic.

I decided this would always be honest, so it will. That's the rule.

4.
I have mad coping skills. Sometimes I wish I weren't so resilient, wish I could be the one to fall apart so someone else can pick up the pieces. Usually when I get worn down from doing that for everyone else. But in the end I don't, because I know I'm better at weathering the storm than most people. I can be bent in half and twisted in knots, but I don't break.

Expert compartmentalisation, maybe.

5.
I feel like such a dork in front of my supervisor sometimes.

6.
I am so tired. Sleeping isn't going great - waking up every hour or so - but I an't miss the sun so I drag myself up to sit in it and feel like a zombie who can't string together even the most basic motivation.

My to-do list mocks me.

There's work I need to be doing - that I want to do, but even if I do it now, I'll have to do it again later because nothing is sticking.

I'm so frustrate with being patient with myself.

7.
I wonder if we'll ever find out way back home again.

Does it even still exist?

I want to say I miss you, but those are just words, and words don't mean anything. Neither one of us believes them.

8.
Lounging in sunspots is not luxury; it's necessary.

I still feel guilty.

9.
Could two opposites be so opposite to each other that they end up being the same?

10.
3:03 AM. Last (second to last; I'm going to have another) cigarette. Standing on my faux balcony (hovering in the six inch space between door and railing), thinking that my creative epiphanies have to come the moment I decide I'm going to bed. An ageless nameless voice cries out, then again.

The sound echoes over the parking lot and I can see the vibrations bouncing off the leaves. It comes from everywhere. And the right. Definitely from the right. Eventually I realize it's not just a sound. Mum. It's not a man, either. A woman or a boy (fourteen, brain supplies). I wonder if I should go investigate. But I don't have shoes on, and we're on the 4th floor (American). Just as I'm putting together what I'd need to do to go out and running through the debate: am I really a good person, or just someone who wants to be seen as a good person? (The answer is B.)

It stops. Total silence.

Now I really wonder if I should go check, but I'm also relieved. Silence is ignorable.

My brain does this:
the word "mum" +
androgynous voice +
slightly lower pitch =
adolescent boy with nightmare.

This is what I choose to believe.

I picture a woman having her head smashed in with a rock over in the park near my flat.
It's to the right.

11.
I need to learn to trust my process. I keep trying to wedge myself into the standard habits: read everything, write every day, have a creative atmosphere - and it just doesn't work. I end up feeling guilty and panicky I'm not getting anything done. Eventually I retreat into mindless television and video games.

I goof off.

I feel guilty about that, too, but it's better than pretending to be doing something.

After a few days, sometimes a few weeks, it all comes together in a burst.

Goofing off is my process. And it makes sense. Pretty much all my behaviours and habits are designed to keep my brain - the thinking part - occupied and/or distracted. Basically, out of my way so I don't have to deal with meltdowns over an overly detailed text message or that object A isn't placed properly in relation to object B.

Except when I work - when I try to work the way I'm supposed to. Think Brain is given permission to run wild, and nothing gets done because Think Brain knows shit.

So it makes sense. While it's distracted with killing radiated humans or doing a sitcom marathon, Picture Brain gets to do its thing in peace.

Think Brain has something to do with the not reading as well. It takes too long to get through the page with my brain jumping off in a different direction every paragraph.

The thing is, I know this. This is not the first time I've had this revelation. I just keep forgetting. It's like every time I start back at the beginning and come to terms with myself, and not what I think other people expect me to be.

Which is something that translates into every part of my life. I hate how much I think about what people's perceptions of me are, more than I pay attention to who I really am.

12.
Keeping this record is terrifying. But it's also useful. Promising to be honest was the kicker. A good 80% of my problem is too many things clogged up in my mind and nowhere for them to go.

That's probably where the fear of voicelessness comes from.

I can't say them to other people because they can't keep up - no, they can't follow is better, because my synapses take shortcuts they (the people) don't know are there. So they ask questions, and make interjections, or want to share themselves and it throws me off track. Because I have to focus very hard to live stream my thoughts. It requires translating these multi-sensory concepts into flat, limited words, and it's always easier to write in another language.

And there's no point saying it to myself, because that just creates loops, and that's not good. Sometimes I write notes that'll never be delivered, but that's just a temporary fix, because I know the thought was never really communicated, so it creeps back.

At some point, every one of my close friends has received a very raw, very honest (usually also very long) message (email tends to be the favourite but Facebook is catching up) outlining all the things I finally figured out how to say. Afterwards, I'm embarrassed and avoid it at all costs. The mental equivalent of drunk dialing. Though I guess it's usually drunk texting now.

But I've promised to be honest here. And accurate. Taking that seriously gets all this shit out of my head so it doesn't build up. Not all of it - for every thought I write down, there are about ten or twenty happening at the same time that I don't catch (though 10 & 11 happened simultaneously). But it gets out enough. 

3.03.2015

LLAP

1.
I don't read enough.

I don't know when it went from something fun - the height of luxury was staying in bed all day with a pile of books - to something to be avoided. But that's where I am.

2.
I have to see Therapy Lady tomorrow. I want to confront her about last week, but I go quiet when I get angry. I wish I were one of those people who could express exactly what they're feeling as they're feeling it, instead of having to step back and think it through.

3.
I appreciate the people I live with, and thinking about that - the fact that I didn't know anything about them before the day we all moved in together, I feel very fortunate.

4.
I am envious of Paul Auster's words.

5.
You can't have an emotion without a thought, even if you're not aware of the thought, she says.

But if you're not conscious of a thought, is it actually a thought?

I don't know if that's true.  I feel things all the time without thoughts attached to them. I feel things that contradict my thoughts.

Maybe that's the problem with this scenario. She doesn't understand the separation of thought and feeling.

Also: I don't trust her.

It also became clear in the exercise that I can't differentiate between physical sensation and emotion. Aside from the basics, like anger, I had to keep asking if something was an emotion.

She didn't notice I struggled with that.

This is a waste of my time.

6.
There are days - the good days - when I think, this is all just in my head. I'm imagining the problem, that there is a problem. And all this other stuff - the meds, the appointments - it's just playing into that. I'd be totally fine without it. I'd be better without it.

7.
The crux of my problem with the NHS is they keep asking me what's wrong with me and how to treat it, and it's like, well if I knew that, I wouldn't need you, would I?

That, and that everyone has to go through the system in the same order, regardless of how many times they've done it before, or how useless it is for them.

Like, seeing a counselor 8 times is going to be no help to someone with a long term anxiety disorder. But they send me to them over and over, and then they decide they can't help me but need permission to send me on to someone who might be able to. And if they don't get permission?

So often I just get fed up and discouraged and stop pursuing it. Who does that help?

Where are the diagnosticians?

The more I think about it, the more I realize the only benefit of the NHS system is affordable medication (and even that is beginning to get tight as they keep adding things to the list). There is no care, as such. There is no relationship with my doctors, not trust that they know what's best, or even listen to me. There is no trust that someone with the knowledge and experience is keeping it all on track and making sure I get what I need.

Well, there is, but that's just luck of the draw. The fact is, if my parents didn't have the skills that they do, I would be royally fucked.

And that's a seriously flawed system.

I shouldn't be relying on my mother for therapy, or my dad for medical advice. That's the doctors' job.

8.
I worry that people don't know I'm enjoying myself when I am.

I'm not very expressive.

There's a concrete worry for the Therapy Lady.

But then she'd say, how do you change that?

I don't know. You can't. Not something like that.

You could fake it (sometimes I do, but it's obviously faked expressiveness, and usually at the demand of someone else). But then you have to know when it's expected of you.

And there's the problem.

Maybe I should wear signs and switch them out as appropriate. Happy, sad, sleepy...

9.
Language.
Or the lack thereof.

My thoughts aren't actually thoughts in the way people normally think about them, or at least what I've come to understand about the way people normally think. My thoughts are... experiences. Things come with colours or textures. Feelings. Sometimes a picture. Sometimes all of the above.

It takes time to translate, and sometimes there just isn't any verbal equivalent so it takes... awhile. And I have this thing stirring in my head that I'm completely incapable of communicating to anyone else for weeks, months. They'll pile up until I'm afraid I'll start losing track of them all. And that's where the panic comes in. That I'll be stuck holding all these things in without ever being able to get them out just the way they should be.

It's the only time those breathing exercises actually work, because of the conscious mind is putting all its attention on what the lungs are doing, it's not going to give a shit what the subconscious mind is up to.

10.
Leonard Nimoy gave me a character I could identify with who wasn't a murderer or obnoxious or cruel or just a total ass.

It's strange missing someone you never even met.