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**Warning ** Spoilers for movie ‘The Old Guard.
I have to admit, I first saw this ..scenario, ages ago on the DrWho spin-off Torchwood.
My case isn’t that same as most people, even with a similar illness, and is perhaps more relevant to this than theirs.
In it, there was a character called Captain John (or maybe Jack) Harkness? Anyway, He was immortal, to all intents and purposes. He didn’t age, and if he was killed in any method, he healed and came back to life in around 5 mins.
So they captured him. Dug a massive pit, put cement walls and floor, threw him in, and filled it with wet cement, and kept him there until it set.
He would suffocate, die, come back to life, suffocate , die, come back to life every 5 minutes or so. They left him there for 100 years or more from recollection.
I has horrified. At a younger age, immortality seemed so awesome. What could go wrong?
Well, that, apparently.
A similar thing happens in The Old Guard. An immortal was bound and thrown in the ocean for 100 years, similar thing to the previous case.
Drown, die, live, repeat.
How could you not go insane?
It’s a long parallel to draw, but in my case, I hate going to sleep, it feels like dying, but did it on doctors advice for 3-4 years. Except I had to choose to go to bed knowing I was going to ‘die’, hundreds, and hundreds of times.
I stay awake for approx 100 hours until I start hallucinating and doing crazy shit until i basically I pass out, sleep 12 hours, and repeat.
Doctors, medications, side effects, over and over and over. Hundreds and hundreds of times. As in approx.. Nearly almost 8 thousand times worth of ..
No one says it to my face but apparently for being sick of doing it 8,000 times and not wanting more, I’m insane , and it’s MY fault.
How can I not be insane ?
OF COURSE I’M FUCKING INSANE. But it’s a sane insane, not a ‘i need more meds’ insane. Or an ‘I feel this way for no reason’ insane’.
I can feel I’m different, I’ve had enough… Things are unsettled. I don’t want to resurrect AGAIN.
Do you know when the last time was that I did something useful or enjoyable?
I’m quite sure if I don’t kill myself, I’ll likely kill someone else or do bad/ stupid things. Seeing I don’t want to put that on my family, or put them through it, the polite thing seems to do myself.
And then along will come a shrink or psych ward and force medications and sedatives into me, and zombify me.
No , doctors, not zombifying me, but burying me in my own version of a cement pit, because that’s what you are doing.
“Deep End” by Holly Humberstone
“Throw me in the deep end
I’m ready now to swim
The air in my lungs may not last very long but I’m in
I see you on the weekend
Dancing like a star
You’ve practiced your lines to convince us you’re fine, but I know
That’s not where you are
Once in a blue moon you may come undone
We’re made up of the same blood
I’ll be your medicine if you let me
Give you reason to get out of bed
Sister, I’m trying to hold off the lightning
And help you escape from your head
Come and waste the day
Watch a Super 8 video tape
We were kids in the car having light-hearted arguments
We don’t know what’s there till it’s gone
Just hear me out and you might understand
We’re made up of the same blood
I’ll be your medicine if you let me
Give you reason to get out of bed
Sister, I’m trying to hold off the lightning
And help you escape from your head
Throw me in the deep end
I’m ready now to swim”
No good deed goes unpunished.
Sad how naive I was that I used to think this should read ‘unrewarded’.
LOL @ Alice.
Karma isn’t a bitch, she’s a c*nt.
Everyone who doesn’t give a fuck.
I’m not alright.
I’m really, really, not alright.
Get your Rage Against the Machine ‘rally round the family’ style chant on to, to time this one. (Verse not chorus)
There’ll be less blood splatter
When black lives matter ,
But wait just a second or two…
I think cops lives matter,
And white lives matter.
That every fucking life matters, don’t you?
You think there’s cause to choose
Cos of skin colour or shoes?
You tryna be a little Hitler
With some substitute Jews?
Fuck that shit, we all in it,
We all got too much to lose .
‘less you’re from outer space,
You’re in the human race.
What the fuck are y’all for
Segregating us more?
Putting labels on our differences..
Only puts up a higher fences.
Only puts up higher fences
There’s one planet for all,
And there ain’t anymore,
So what the hell are you all doing
Holding grudges, and brewing?
Learn to love one another.
We all sisters and brothers
All we got is each other.
Yeah black lives matter,
But so the fuck does everyone else.
Yup, that’s about right.
Jill Sobule – Sold My Soul
I feel like an outline
Where the middle part is missing
And the moonlight is kissing
The details away.
I feel like a cliff note
To a novel no one can read
And I feel like such a phony
Like I got ’em all deceived
And I feel like a punch line
I bet that you’re laughing
And shaking your head
I sold my soul
And nothing happened
Yeah nothing happened
When I sold my soul
I feel like an outline
To a picture you started to paint
Now the sunlight is fading
The colors away,
How’s it feel to have insides
Something to hold
I wish I could touch you
How could I know.
When I sold my soul
And Nothing Happened
Yeah Nothing Happened
When I sold my soul.
Just a big black hole
And Nothing Happened
And I bet you’re laughin’
‘Cause I sold my soul
Isn’t it enough to be in a massive depressive state, without also having your heart ripped out and the cavity filled by choices laden with the endless ache of emotional turmoil?
Seriously, what the fucking fuck?
I have discovered my partial ability to time travel.
I take sleeping medication and lie down. When I open my eyes again, I’ve gone approx 10 hours into my future…
Yet to work out the implications of this amazing ability…
Quite liking Abstract’s remix of Ruth B’s song.
This may seem a little harsh and premature, given I have only listened to the first song on her new album ‘Such Pretty Little Forks In The Road”, (sounds like the title of a bad Rob Zombie movie or something), but f*ck you Alanis.
The first wave of your white flag indeed.
Come hang out with some of us who have waved that frakking flag so hard for so long the threads dispersed into wind, and long since moved on to smashing through the plate glass at the top of the skyscraper like Trinity in The Matrix, taking bullets, firing distress flares in all directions, culling friends left and right before smashing into the pavement, then still getting up and going on too.
More of the same shit.
Her first album, ballsy. I consider her second one, Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie her best work and about the only thing of hers worth listening to. A kind of..philosophical/self unsure/exploration, …i can’t describe it, but at least it has some brain power invested in it.
After that, just fckn ‘hand me a joint and a hippy megaphone and press record’. Fuck.
At least until the ‘i’m so fucking good because I vape’ stage, I didn’t even bother after that.
Now by the sounds of it, she wants the soapbox to complain how tough she’s had it, but how awesome she is because she never gave up.
Fuck you Alanis, that’s all of us.
If i can bear to listen to the rest, and I’m wrong, I’ll be back to apologise, but given the rhythmic timing and style of the first song, which sounds like a clone of the previous however many albumns, yawn annoying as hell, it doesn’t seem likely.
Which for one, is a shame, because at one stage I think she might have been ‘someone’ I liked.
You are still just trying too hard to be ‘spiritual and intelligent’, ever since Supposed Former.
Nobody asked you to. Well maybe they did, but it’s more likely just an assumption on your part.
Or maybe you think you actually are. Bzzz. Thanks for playing.
Wrong fork Alanis, at least in my opinion
And two, it pisses me off because it makes me a hypocrite, because that’s exactly what I do here on my little soapbox. Fuck me too.
So salvaging my dead tech on a more almost microscopic level to see if anything could (I bring shame to my house to confess) be passed off as faulty product under warranty, I thought, surely, since it’s pretty much all dead, bringing in a small cup of water, like..half a glass, to sip, wouldn’t hurt, as I would be acutely aware of it, and keep an eagle eye on it.
So, after examining some parts, I turned on my chair to check on the glass.
You knocked it over with your elbow didn’t you Alice?
I have to admit, I do tend to the proclivity of this phenomenon where, the harder I try to be quiet or careful, the more noise or clumsy I become.
Indeed, while I am not the cliched movie mega nerd, I AM a nerd, despite my physique tending to appearing ‘sporty’.
( pro-tip for lazy girls, get a rowing machine, a low resistance one if you are mega lazy, you can get them pretty cheap. It’s the closest to exercising without feeling like you’re exercising I’ve discovered. (yes, I’m lazy).
Anyway, somehow, when I try to summon my inner ninja, my mega-nerd bursts forth. An attempt at a sneak foray in the middle of the night to the kitchen for a snack, would, in all likelihood, have more stealthy results if I just pounded down the stairs in boots, singing out loud to my headphones, and perhaps even banging a couple of saucepans together.
At least the water just hit the desk and carpet. I had enough common sense way back to screw the power boards up under the desks way out of the way of anything. Sadly, that effort seems to have used up all my common sense..
(Notable to date)
- Don’t leave all your tech together in a pile. ( Eggs in one basket?)
Can be connected to: don’t bring a massive cup of water ANYWHERE into a room with your tech.
- Don’t buy a bunch of expensive shit on a credit card no matter how affordable it seems.
- You can’t trust ANYONE with your deepest secret.
All those seem pretty obvious now I read it back.
Apparently I’m a bit slow after all.
So I was tidying up some thing up on a shelf in my room, when my bluetooth headset, draped around my neck, started playing music.
I knew i hadn’t bumped the switch, so I thought, ‘that’s strange, it shouldn’t do that.’
The I noticed a persistent sound, which I thought at first was coming from the headphones. A mixture of noises, like rain, along with hissing, and crackling etc.
Almost like water running into speakers…..Oh.
And yes, when I looked around, somehow, my large starwars cup, (One of those massive cinema ones) previously filled to top the top with cold water, and placed well away from my desk (experience), had fallen over.
By the perfect misfortune that dictates my life, the water had run along the top of the bookshelf I placed it on, then streamed down a usb cord, over the edge (and into) my ex lovely gfx monitor , and down around my iphone, iPad Pro, lenovo ideapad, collection of battery packs and portable wifi drives etc that were arranged on the desk,
Then for kicks, flowed over the edge the desk, foming a lovely waterfall down into my pc, ( i have it lying on it’s side with the cover off, as i often swap out parts. a decision I now thoroughly regret).
I wasn’t even surprised. I’m still not overly upset, although I imagine tomorrow once it sinks in there will be an absurd amount of screaming and throwing furniture).
I just went ‘oh’, because this is just what my life is like, constantly.
Some things survived, but I don’t give a crap about batterry packs and such. But iphone, iPad Pro, PC and drives etc, and some unfortunately new and expensive Nvidia cards, I’m reallly not so happy about. In fact, I feel like I want to vomit up my intestines.
Hopefully the iphone/pad wil dry, but from a tech point, usually the connections formed between circuits esp if there is much mineral in the water, forms short circuits, even once they dry , that rquires elaborate and detailed cleaning, usually beyond me.
The PC and gfx cards, being on at the time, and the suspects making the hissing cracking noise….i suspect will be buried six feet deep.
Normally i could probably (possibly) afford to replace it, but..(and I swear I’m not makinig this shit up for sympathy, (I didn’t lie when i said this is my life,) I have just been paying $7,000+ in vet bills for my cat’s cancer treatment.
Peple said I was / am stupid, and to let him die, but his mother previously died of cancer, it was horrible and heart breaking, The worst part, when you hold them in your lap, and they look at you with absolute trust, right before you kill them…. well…
I couldn’t do it again.
His name is Busta, when he was a tiny kitten he used to just barrel off the end of the bed or couch or wherever, and ‘come a buster’. (hence the name).
He’s been with me 12 years now, has undoubtably saved my life at least twice.
The vet gave him less than a month to live. The treatement I stil pay monthly for, has give him a healthy and seemingly happy 18 months more so far with evidence suggesting at least another 6-8. (he’s getting old), so to me it was worth every cent. And it was even worth my PC.
But I just lost…fuck knows..over 12 grand of stuff I use daily, and i can’t afford to replace.
Fuck my life.
if your’e wondering, I’m currently writing this on a really old 2nd gen raspberry pi) and the tv
I doubt there will be many updates for a while.
Additional : My friend noted that my list of tech and the price tag I attached makes me seem like a poor-little-rich-girl who lost some shiny toys. Well I don’t party or ‘go-out’, I don’t drink or smoke. No car, not even a bicycle or pair of roller-skates. No brand-name clothes or collection of shoes, no fancy make-up. Etc.
All my savings lying in a carefully chosen heap of now dead tech. Only the ipad mini survived. I thought I couldn’t even afford to get insurance. Turns out, I couldn’t afford to NOT get insurance.
Aint that always the way..
Don’t ever fool yourself into thinking it can’t get any worse, that it can only get better from here.
It can always, ALWAYS, get worse.
Well, he does a lot of crazy shit.
My friends hate him and think he is clown shoes.
Many people think he is ridiculous.
But I think if I was super rich, owned tons of the planets A.I. and technology, and had the luxury to make what I wanted, I wouldn’t want people to take me too seriously or look at what I was up to all that closely.
Remember the scene where Christian Bales’ Bruce Wayne pretends to fall drunkenly into the hotel lobby fountain in Batman? Exactly.
And everyone would laugh at me and say, what a wanker, and ignore most of what I was up to.
Because you know, clown shoe idiots become filthy rich entrepreneurs and get their ideas implemented all the time, it’s one of their defining features.
Bruce Wayne or Clown Shoes? Still not sure, just saying, if I were someone in that position, personally, I’d always keep one eye out for a fountain…
“There’s this trick, that we all do to get through our day. We take a box, and into that box we place all the horrors of the world, all the wrongs humans do to one another. Then we close the box, and pretend it doesn’t exist. Only, some of us spend too much time inside the box. We’ve lost our ability to pretend. We know there’s too much unfinished business in this fucked-up world.”
-One / Six Underground.
I have a massive talent for empathy, and I have spent far too much time in the box. Awake in the box.
I am now averaging 100 hours straight awake, then 10-15 asleep, repeat. My mind is deconstructing.
If they let me have 2d/3d software in prison, I’d probably have killed someone by now.
(SWIM carries an alarmingly effective arsenal)
That only bothers or scares me because I know that it should as ”the appropriate reaction’. I can’t feel any actual emotional response regarding it anymore.
That disturbs me, but again, only from an intellectual perspective.
On the flip side, a kids movie, sad movie scene, or emotional tv commercial makes me cry like everything I every loved just died.
So now everything is fucking with both my head and emotions in a fierce, wild, “let’s make a killer” disturbing kind of way, because I am losing my shit by the truckload.
Lucky I don’t kill good people, but god help anyone that comes along that i judge ‘bad’.
Most days, I enjoy feeling the sharp cutting edge of my brain in action.
I enjoy being smart, though in most likelyhood, I’m not half as clever as I like to think I am.
But tonight, I yearn for Lethe. For the milk of the poppy. For Oblivion. For…something…not me..
Because sometimes it hurts to be too aware.
Aware of the world, aware of people and what they are doing to the world and to each other. Aware of self, and of what those things mean.
It’s like a fracture in my brain, a hollow in my heart.
On nights like these I don’t want to be part of the human race. Why are we such petty, immature squabbling Children?
On nights like these I don’t want to be myself. Because I fall short even of my own desires and expectations. Because I know, deep inside, as a human, I am incapable of even conceiving the desires and expectations I could potentially have of myself and possibly fulfil.
We don’t even know what we don’t know we don’t know.
Afraid of a dark that we only imagine.
We should be afraid of what’s in the dark, of what the dark brings out of us.
We should be afraid of the darkness, not the dark.
Tonight that darkness is me.
And I am afraid.
Sometimes, when you repeat something enough times without completing it’s proper connection, the word loses any sense of meaning or emotional impact it may have normally held.
When you hear it over and over so often inside your head, eventually it becomes just another accepted fact.
The sky is blue.
This is no longer a useful statement, because everyone knows it’s blue.
It’s always been blue.
What other colour would it be?
In my earlier days, when I got well and truly lost wandering inside the seemingly endless maze created by depression, the suggestion that I was useless, a waste of space, and will die unloved, was a thought that created a spark of internal rebellion.
In the earlier days..
Now, the sky is blue.
I’m a useless waste of space,
and I will die unloved.
These are things I’ve come to accept , because after all, I’ve heard it enough times.
Like the tiny bird that sharpens its beak upon the mountain of diamond once every ten hundred years, in the end all things must wear down, and now even the concepts themselves have lost almost any meaning.
It’s just a part of my reality.
Some of those closer to me can observe my depression.
I don’t try to hide it.
They express concerns I might become suicidal, but I find this a ridiculous notion.
I’m already dead.
I died along time ago, and nobody even noticed.
Now my body just goes through the motions, passing time until it joins the rest of me.
Psychologists and well-meaning positive thinkers try to tell you that the sky is actually green.
All these well meaning delusional “helpers”, clustered around, delighting in the fact that for once they may feel superior without guilt.
But I laugh in their faces, for they try to tell me things they have not yet learned themselves.
Their green sky is a fiction, yet they tell you that you must also convince yourself that the sky is green in order to be happy.
And you nod, and know in your heart that the sky is such a deep and endless blue, that it could never be green.
That’s it’s always been blue.
It can only be blue .
And so, dear reader, we shall celebrate finally finishing watching Neil Gaiman’s Masterclass on storytelling, after dragging it out for more than a year.
(Love most of your stuff Neil, but you don’t have to pause for 1+ seconds every three or four words when speaking, it takes a loooong time to get to the point.)
One of his main points was to use your own truths as a basis for believable lies. Pretty standard.
But, in that vein, I shall tell you a story.
(‘What story, Alice?’ I hear you chorus).
Why, the story of ‘How the Tortoise got His Shell’.
No, dipshit. The story of (in large part) ‘Why Alice is So Fucked Up’.
Perhaps more real truth inside the ..actual truth, than Neil intended, but..meh, fuck it.
For the sake of brievity, i’ll keep it quick.
(hahah, I kill me. Ok no, not quite that quick.)
Once, there was a
Princess. Witch. Smart Peasant girl with knowledge of many things, including medicine.
Her local specialist in lore and herbs was a doddering tosspot, who randomly handed her supposed miraculous panacea, kept no records, and after many years of being unable to treat her malady, agreed when she suggested her own miraculous concotion.
It was a careful blend of “an amphetamine, with a different amphetamine, combined with a benzodiazapine” to keep the first two from (unsucessfully) ripping her apart and disolving her from the inside-out over the years.
So when she didn’t feel like like sleeping, she took a dose. Then when she still didn’t feel like sleeping or resting, another dose.
So dear readers, the first few times she really needed to be alert and awake to help friends, or to move house, or prepare for an exam, she went from taking the cure-all in 3 doses over 12 hours , to about 18 doses and being awake non-stop for 72+ hours after which point she usually started hallucinating and passed out.
Of course this was a silly thing to do, and she rarely ever ever did it, except after passing out for 12 hours, at which point she just did it again, then again, pretty much non-stop.
Destroying herself. Passing out. Waking up. Destroying herself.
At which point, observers shake their head, and say ‘you stupid bitch’.
But the moral of the story is much like a 72,000 RPM computer HardDisk,
Because spinnning the disk up and down, up and down, up and down, will wear it out and kill it a lot faster than spinning it up and just letting it spin unti it eventually stops. Though my brain may be more like a solid-state drive.
‘…and so the turtle says ‘No thanks, I only read hard-back books’.
I asked my father a question about something well within his area of expertise, figuring it would be the quickest way to get reliable information pertinent to my specific quandary.
He told me to google it.
(Matrix movie spoilers, but if you haven’t seen it by now, you didn’t really deserve this notice)
So, after being stashed in the closet for some time, the cold weather has prompted the re-emergence of my short throw projector, which combined with one of those foldable ‘laptop bed stands’ and some female ingenuity, has resulted in a fold up unit.
When the legs are unfolded and it’s positioned at the foot of the bed, (hooked up to my Apple 4K TV, in flipped mode, and adjusted for perspective), lets me lie in bed under the covers and watch HD movies on the ceiling directly above me, in ultimate lazy warmth.
To tune-in the settings, I ran it through a couple of old favourites, and whose old favourites doesn’t include the first Matrix movie? Probably a lot. Most of those potentially missed the amount of philosophy thrown into that movie.
Sadly, it only really brushed on a huge range of thoughts and ideas, both ancient unanswered question, as well as well as many potential if not probable dilemnas mankind has yet to face. Not just of what to do if/when, but should we/ do we have the right to do so.
One of the things I felt sadly portrayed was the dilemma faced by the ‘traitor’
character, who in one notable scene, states ‘ignorance is bliss’, indicating that he would rather be a slave/prisoner who doesn’t know about it, but live in his head in a fantasy world, than be ‘free’ and aware of it.
After all, what is real in our head is real, if not to others/reality, it is to the person experiencing it.
The problem with the matrix scenario is, they needed to portray his character as a bad guy, so they slanted this aspect negatively. This colours the viewers preconceptions of the good guys ‘breaking free of the prison of their minds’.
and…living in poverty and misery as far as the rest of the movies show, or being ‘bad guy’ slaves to the matrix’.
So a happy comfortable slave, or an uncomfortable hungry free person?
That’s the simple version plotwise, with a bit of extra regarding viewer manipulation if you look a touch further. But as Morpheus says, the rabbit hole goes a lot deeper.
Example: Say they pull out a young woman, somewhere ..meh 25-35 in age. And they say, happy day, you’re free.
She says ‘In the matrix, I had my dream job, I was a single mom, with a lovely apartment, but I don’t care about that. I also had two young children. 3 and 5. I’ll never see them again. You took them from me.
If everyone in there is plugged into a body out here, then in there, they will now have to fend for themselves, with their outside bodies suffering the consequences. They will likely lose everything, be thrown into the system, or raped and killed by looters and scum.
You didn’t just take away my life, you probably just murdered my children.’
Oohhkaaay, not so happy now. Scenarios like this, with people part of a family, or with connections to loved ones are likely to be the statistical majority, with the dramatic evil villain in the high class restaurant somewhat less likely. More, everyday realistic reasons to want to stay ‘ignorant’ and inside the Matrix, not selfish villain reasons. (Although ultimately every act no matter how kind in appearance, is based in selfish reasons, but that’s a loongg discussion for a different post)
And really, how much power on their ships would they save in running the heating if they put on warm clothes? Cool people can’t wear parkas and a hoodie? No, cool people wear thin grungy clothes. (I see what you did there…) We digress…
All those people that mysteriously go missing? Maybe they are in the matrix, because fuck everyone else as long as you can free up some canon fodder for your crusade, right?
It’s good to be the king. Not so good to be the peasant when you can’t eat freedom or ever see your loved ones again.
Something like this would have been more interesting, albeit, out of character/pacing for the movie, so admittedly, they shouldn’t have put that instead, but it serves as an example of one of the many concepts they brushed the tips of, there’s a lot that goes deeper in many, many aspects of this movie, that remains a classic.
It will be interesting to see what they do with the new one, claiming to have an interest and attempt to always be on the cutting edge of examining where technology meets humanity, supposedly large in the artificial intelligence and artificial reality aspects. Although again, these were somewhat already brushed on in the sequel movies, with the restaurant owner etc.
Besides, if the A.I have reached the best balance to make humans mentally comfortable and continued existence/ survival possible for both parties, do humans have the right to say which sentient life form is superior or deserves to exist, simply because if (even theorising that awakened humans decide they are superior because, oh crap, we can’t get back into the Matrix), there were, a generous maybe 300,000 people in the free cities, that’s still only what? Roughly .0043% of earths population. Hardly the majority vote.
…how’s that red pill sounding now Neo?
I profess an insatiable curiosity about thought processes.
Do other people think the same way I do? Do they think ‘about’ those things the same way I do? This is easy enough to gauge on a basic level, but I want to know on a nuanced one, which has led me to push, prod, even pry, into places that many people aren’t comfortable being open about, and don’t want pried into.
I have on occasion, over-shared, yes, I over-share, big surprise, but generally all topics are fair game in personal, private, and openness in nature.
Everything from my favourite… Them (face brightening): Pony..?
Me: ‘umm.suuure…the blue one? Oh, there’s more than one blue one. The one with the…uh, ok you lost me there’.*
All the way over to intimate sexual things (unless that’s what that pony thing was about), and just… bizarre things..
* Hank Green & The Perfect Strangers // Favorite Pony: https://youtu.be/usaKCFrELT4
Anyway, over-shared, as a peace-offering / black-mail equivelant, however they wish to view it, to encourage similar co-sharing of said information.
I lost quite a few friends / would-be-friends that way. You’d think I’d learn.
Don’t expect people to see things the way you do, and even if they do, don’t expect them to admit it, to you, or even to themselves. Self denial is rife, so many living in fear of the terrible terrible ‘other person’s opinion’. Well, I’m a person too, and I live in me, so my opinion of me matters more than your opinion of me.
You just keep telling yourself that, Alice.
So a lot of these blog posts are / will / may be ‘No shit? d’uh obvious’ and others might be ‘what a freak?! holy crap’.
It is what it is.
Anyway, long preface, but here we are. Music. It plays a huge role in everyone’s psyche , whether they realise it or not. One I thing I often wondered is, do other people, upon hearing a song (usually for me it’s only for songs that would be in my ‘regulars/go-to’ playlist. First time listens only ever make a strong impression on me if they are playing in the background of a tv show or movie during a suicide / break up scene.
Continuum / (the sister scene) – Dala/Good As Gold
was how I discovered Dala, as it was burned into my emotional/musical psyche, and I had to find out who sang it.
(Continuum spoiler (suicide and depictions thereof have an extremely volatile effect on me)))
Dala, so sickengly cotton candy folk/pop feel good positive music that you want to spew rainbows, what a bizzarly innapropriately appropriate band to play to a suicide, perfect song choice.
My flatmate and I were watching this ( back when she didn’t hate me) and this scene happened (Continuum TV show spoiler & Trigger warning-depicted suicide)
(Somehow these people are both me.)
And she was, ‘oh that’s right, I forgot she had a sister. What’s wrong with you?’ I was sitting dumbstruck, tears streaming down my face, and at the time, didn’t even know why. But rewatching, and re-listening, realised this scene combined and pegged me in all 3 roles/seats.
Musically, no longer the girl in the photo. Characterwise, the black sheep of the family not living up to fathers expectations and feeling like a worthless failure, yet simultaneously, the protector trying to save someone from themselves and failing (re: a true story in a long post that has been written but not posted up yet) .
One of those rare moments that is fairly unremarkable to most people, burnt it’s place in my mind with the top resonating audio/video experiences. So little, yet so much.
Anyway, after a rather long back-road digression, here we are at last: Once a song reached the stage where I have started paying more attention to the lyrics, I unconsciously? / subconsciously? assign the people in the song a ‘seat’, or role, whatever you want to call it, I just used ‘seat’ to tie this ramble to my oh so witty title.
Sometimes the singers is me, toward a specific person, eg ex, crush, friend, Other times the song is from their perspective aimed at me.
I guess breaking it down, it’s a judgemental thing, and with my guilt taking on everything from global warming to some stranger’s broken shoe-lace, it’s currently the size of…well, outer edge left the galaxy some time back…
usually my perspectives as singer are the misunderstood , apologetic, asking forgiveness, etc and other people i know in the singers perspective are usually judgemental, injured, or leaving me forever, and so forth. Occasionally there’s a guardian angel as voice persona, singing cheesy ‘there’s still hope’ type of songs.
My life played out in music.
That’s the kind of shit i think and wonder about all the time, ie why are people in songs always people in my life, and do other people get this feeling/ association? I assume they do, and that’s what people mean when they say they ‘can relate to a song’, but when i try to discuss it with others, they are like ‘WTF? Is the pub open? I wish the football was back on. What was that about music?’, and I’m so like..’yeahhh’. Maybe i just need to move to a town with a higher average mental and emotional IQ.
The thing about humans, the one I find one of the most peculiar of all the things uniquely human, are our ‘hopes and dreams’.
I don’t mean the dreams you have when you sleep, I mean that mystical mix of desires, goals, hopes, pressures, and a hundred other things that seem to almost live inside us, drive us forward, make us do and want to do things, often the craziest of things, and has given rise to some of humanities greatest and worst acheivements.
There are generally two ways to go about it.
Number One is usually done for/to you, when your dream is trashed, or torn and taken from you irreparably, something seems to die inside you. But humans, and dreams are resilient, and usually a new, similar or alternate one, will rise in it’s place.
So, step 2.
Or ‘my way’. Not in that I invented it, or that it’s unique to me, hardly by a long shot. But that it’s my chosen method of repeated dying (or approximated dying) as an ongoing process.
That is, when you realise you have so close to zero chance of ever acheiving your dream, there’s no point waiting around for step 1. so you kill the dream before it kills you, thus killing you inside anyway.
So what did you achieve?
Speed. You can cause yourself the same or greater pain in a shorter amount of time by doing it to yourself.
Numeration. Dreams are like a form of cancer that spreads throughout your body, you might think you have torn it all out, but it just re-emerges down the track, meanwhile a new one has likely sprung up in it’s place, so you can bascically kill yourself emotionally non stop, over and over. And who doesn’t want that?
As well as most probably gaining some psychological disorder based around destruction of the ego/ id and masochistic emotional self torture. And we all want that! right?!
How do I kill a dream?
Well, there are various ways, the most common is to build your hopes up that your goal will succeed, waaay way up high, then smash them spectacularly into the dirt , super hero style, using failure or self sabotage. Usually you have to grip it hard and smash it down a few times, those things are tough.
One of the most effective and massively painful ways is through public humiliation, or humiliation in front of eg your peers, family, or school. Such as trying to talk to your crush and having her loudly make a display of rejecting you because she ‘doesn’t do queers’, thus not only crushing your dream of going with her, but also outing you in front of half the school.
Super effective that one. Has the plus side of leaving nuclear scorch, which prevents you attempting anything similar ever ever ever again. (ie stops any future similar dreams emerging)
How do I know I really killed it?
Easy, you’ll feel an emptiness inside, and it will be like light going out of the world. The more times you do it, the more everything will feel cold and grey.
Eventually though, you’ll grow accustomed to the feeling of loss, this is likely a sign you are developing a new dream, or more likely, already have.
Crush that sucker before it can take root.
I crushed all my dreams, now what?
Congratulations, if you didn’t have depression before, at least now you might feel a tiny bit how someone with it feels all the time.
Just wait though, another one will grow.
And they mostly come at night. Mostly.
It’s a shame it’s not possible to overdose on any of my medications.
All this shut-in crazy has brought out many people’s true colours, and they are such that I never wanted to see.
I never asked to see, I ought not have had to see.
I never asked, and it wasn’t any of it my fault.
I never, ever did anything to deserve being a part of what is their own to live with.
Had I a puppy, I feel like they have just stomped on it in boots and crushed it’s head. I’ve already cried, now I just want one of John Wick’s guns.
Last round for myself.
You know, it really is the strangest sensation…
Often the everyday circumstance of my daily activities will remind me so much of myself, that for a time, I almost become convinced that I am me.
This might sound peculiar, but more often than not, I am not myself.
Who I am at those times, I am entirely uncertain, for it seems to change as often as the weather changes its underwear, and quite probably more often than most people change their own.
Undoubtedly I am Alice, and have been for as long as I can recall. If one should look upon the dictionary for guidance, an included passage may briefly read: ‘A female given name: from a Germanic word meaning “of noble rank.”’
Well, la-di-da and how do you do? Shall we sit for tea, sipped from finest china, little finger extended thus? I could certainly give myself airs, until the fine china is revealed to be shot glasses, and the only finger I seem to extend of late, is most definitely not the little one.
Beyond that, I could not say. It’s hard to maintain perseverance or commitment when what you want, what you care about, or want you feel capable of doing, change from moment to moment, leaving a trail of chaos strewn behind, abandoned projects belonging to another me.
Not the current me, or even the previous me, but one of many. I don’t pretend to multiple personalities, but when your mood, desires, dislikes, and underwear completely changes each time, well, it may as well be a different personality.
So, from time to time, I am reminded of myself. I remember what it was like to feel a certain way, and wonder if perhaps it might be worth revisiting that state.
Many times, there may be a certain amount of overlap.
Sometimes I remember being myself, who isn’t or wasn’t me, but could be again if i were inclined to make the effort of being more myself than I am, was or could be.
I look at the empty blog space, and..just…stare.
Not because I have nothing to write, or nothing I want to say.
I have so much to say it’s crazy.
I have written dozens and dozens of lengthy descriptions about how I feel, about what I want and why I can’t have it, about what mental ilness does to me, about everything related to it, from factors of early human evolution, genetic engineering, through to modern chemical pollutants, and even the change of earth’s magnetic field as it traverses the sun.
Pages, and pages, and pages…
And then… I archive them.
Because even to me, and undoubtedly other sufferers of mental illness, it ends up sounding sooky, or needy, or trying too hard.
I think a large part of the problem sufferers face, despite the TV commercials, and posters in doctors offices, and ads online that tell us ‘silence is damaging, speak to someone’, is that we have nothing to say anymore.
Once you get over the stigma or embarrassed feelings of being mentally ill and accept it, you go to the phase of trying to explain as best you can, what you feel and how it affects you.
The problem is, I don’t think anyone actually gets it.
I’ve explained to psychiatrists, psychologists, doctors, counsellors and therapists.
I’ve tried to explain by expressing through art, music, film, poetry, writing.
I’ve researched and articulated it in detailed neuroscientific terminology.
And I’m still not sure whether it’s just that no one is able to comprehend what I trying to express, from a perspective outside my head, or if they just don’t care.
I’ve gotten to the point where I just want to scream it in their face, tear up their stupid clipboards, and heave a chair through the nearest pane of glass from pure frustration and helplessness.
Because I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know how else to say it.
And I’m seriously even now on the verge of crying and just giving up.
So if you’re someone who deals with mentally ill people, or someone in your life you care about suffers from it, trying to get them to explain isn’t always useful.
And NEVER pressure them to try to express it.
Because they may have already said it every way they know how.
And because the odds are, you probably won’t get it anyway,
Tonight is a bad night.
Sick with the certainty that the stars are going out, and that my life will never be anything more than broken and empty, I feel small.
Small and alone.
Though somehow I feel even smaller on the inside. Cliches pour through my mind like so much teenage chatter on a bus, and I want to scream at them to ‘like, shut up, like’.
It’s freezing, freezing, freezing, yet in nothing but a t-shirt I burn as if possessed with a fatal fever, simultaneously hot and cold, and in the corner of my eyes, or maybe just the corner of my mind, the laughter of shadows dance and disappear.
Infinitely tired, but I will not sleep.
Exhausted and spent, yet I pace and fidget, twitch and move, constantly in restless indignation.
How such a large and empty house can press so closely upon me, push onto my mind like a physical pressure, yet echo endlessly with vacant. unsettling sounds, escapes my understanding.
So strange to wish for nothing but tears, yet neither will I cry, even as every misery, imagined and remembered, plays endlessly on repeat upon the iMax of my mental cinema.
A solo screening.
There’s a bunch of prose and rant posts in my poetry thread that I’m going to cut out and paste here, to tidy things up.
It will probably fuck with the timeline continuity, and you may have read them before, but tough shit right?
As acutely aware as I am of my own folly, it’s one of the things, along with tangled bedsheets, that I still struggle with most often.
I read a quote saying “the saddest word in the English language is ‘almost'”.
I’m inclined to agree.
I almost won.
I almost made it.
I’m almost organised.
I’m almost productive.
I’m almost happy…
Then I’m not.
My hypomania continues to dance around me, twisting in and out of my depressive episodes often enough to provide painful contrast.
A gleefully taunting reference point for what being ‘up’ can feel like.
A mirage of water in an endless desert that does more damage to my spirit than it does good.
Exhausted is a good word.
Exhausted from pretending.
Pretending to everyone that I’m stronger than I am.
Pretending to myself that I’m stronger than I pretend to be.
Pretending that I have something to live for.
Now I avoid.
Another quote: ‘my biggest fear is that others should come to view me the way I see myself.’
Too late for me, they already do.
Not just in my fearful paranoid imaginings.
I know they do, they’ve said it to my face.
And I nodded, gave as much of a smile at I could manage, said I’d take that on board, thanks for the feedback.
And they looked at me, thinking I didn’t really care, while I stood there, heart shattered and melting, trying to keep my mask from doing the same.
That I just keep trying, despite knowing I’ll only ever be an ‘almost’.
After my post contemplating an erotic fiction blog, according to the stats, approx 23 guys started following my blog within about 12 hours, despite me stating I would likely make it private, apply to join, no males.
Ok guys, i don’t hold it against you, I like lesbian erotica too. But it was a touch sleazy given the speed etc. Seriously, show some class.
Given that reaction, which was a bit short sighted of me not to have anticipated, I’m not going to create it. Not on here anyway, or anywhere I’ll announce/ reveal that publicly again.
So…sorry boys, just put it back in your pants, cos things will continue as same old usual.
Note to ladies:.
As I said, I’m hypersexual. (and I like women, if you missed that), and usually pretty frustrated due to the rest of it.
I was thinking of starting a seperate blog of um… essentially explicit lesbian /masturbation fictional stories based (fictionally) around myself to release some angst.
They would probably be pretty clumsy and laughable. Despite sounding like I nympho, I only have limited experience.
I’m trying to work out a private/members only thing, there are too many pervy guys drawn to these things.
However, hypersexuality really lowers inhibition and judgement in these areas.
If any females reading this has any experience, or advice they might give me, like ‘no Alice, that’s a really stupid idea’, or whatever, please message me.
Maybe you even write your own, of know of good/bad experiences friends have had.
I think I need a little advice from a better head than mine.
My current chemical cluster fuck is messing with me so much that I’ve been awake for..at least 5 days/nights with no sleep, and I’m not even feeling it like I usually do after day 3.
Normally I get fairly delirious, start hallucinating, and all kinds of crazy shit.
Now, none of that. Totally fine, except for my hands and arms shaking/trembling so hard i can barely type. A constant splitting headache for 3 days/nights. Hyper-sexuality and loneliness so far in overdrive like never before, it almost hurts.
An inability to relax or focus.
You know, little things like that.
Nonstop, for about a week, at least.
And today, my mood crashed so hard, I’m surprised I didn’t burn up on re-entry.
Everything else is still continuing, except now I have that kind of depression that makes me feel sick in chest and stomach.
I suspect that even most people who are aware that depression is different for everyone, (though that number is probably pretty low), most of those likely think that one persons depression is always the same, just recurring.
Bzzzz. Thanks for playing.
My depression is practically as varied as my hypermania. There are common elements, sure, but it comes in all flavours, from nihilistic suicidal ideation, to just crying for no reason, to, more rarely, untargeted anger.
Hopelessness, self loathing, shame, loneliness, regret, and so on. Not that easily identifiable, as they often disguise themselves insidiously, but essentially, everytime, some feeling or mix of feelings overpowers they others. And as I said, rarely ever the same twice.
They all want their turn at fucking me over.
I’m sure everyone has had that sick, heart broken feeling that feels hot in your heart, right through you to your head. Your eyes constantly feel like they are starting to water and you might collapse to the floor any second, sobbing your heart out uncontrollably until you almost throw up. Even for a moment, when someone’s death, or your breakup with the love of your life finally sinks in and hits you.
That the version I have now, cranked up to 10, and stacked on top of that other stuff. Passing 7 hours now. From experience it probably lasts for..potentially weeks.
Taking the antipsychotic seroquel and becoming comatose for a few days usually helps it pass more quickly, and blessedly unexperienced.
Did i mention I’m out of seroquel, as well as other meds?
Buckle in Alice, this one’s going to be fucked up and unpleasant on so many levels.
Most people may be lucky enough not to have noticed or thought about it, but most unpleasant things are bearable in short amounts.
A pin prick. Being really cold. That idiot singing to their headphones on the bus.
Once it passes a certain length of time though, that’s when it starts to get bad, if it goes on for long enough, it becomes torture.
There’s probably a misconception, given my openers, use of profanity and being a total nut job on these blogs, that I am like that in person.
I’m not. I’m very closed off. Anxiety level shy. I won’t say I’m not a tiny sex crazed, I am hypersexual after all..
But most everything else on here is true, apart from the obvious fiction stories and odd dramatisation for effect, which I try to mark as such.
My physical appearance is pretty much just as I described. Though I’ve had a haircut since. Now it’s more one of those ‘purposely mussed up a bit’ looking bobs, with. touch of pixie, but longer bangs at the temples. A little anime, but I like it.
I exercise, and yes, I’m a little vain about my muscles tone etc, but like I said, it’s about all i have.
I was going somewhere with this, about being closed down in real life, i lost track.
So yeah, usually most of these feeling are there to some level, but I clamp them down. Most people don’t realise I’m trying not to burst into tears while taking to them.
Wide awake all night again.
But this time is different. It’s also unpleasant and almost nauseating.
Medication or illness related, I can’t tell. I thought it was meds, so i went off them. now I’m fucked up in a dozen different ways, but they are ones I’m used to. This new one is persisting though.
It’s…so hard to describe. But it’s an emptiness of thought, but not in a good zen way, in a ‘where the fuck is my brain’ kind of way.
I’m aware, alert, and I seem to still be able to think fairly well.
But i can’t ‘feel it’.
All my life i avoided alcohol and most drugs etc after trying them each once. Anything that dulled my brain.
I liked the ‘sharp’ feeling of my mind, it felt almost narcissistically powerful to be intelligent. It was the one thing I could claim as my own.
You can work out, and get fitter or stronger. You can study and gain knowledge. But as far as I know, you can’t significantly boost your iq.
Whether or not I was smarter than the average joe, is a moot point. Standard academics said quite a bit, but i don’t place much intrinsic value in academics.
There are many kinds of intelligence. I consider natural musical talent an intelligence, skilled sports ability, mechanical intuition, there are many types. There’s nothing to say one type of smart is better than another, they are just different, with too much emphasis being placed on maths and book learning over time.
My gift was almost instantly seeing infinite branches of solutions not only for current problems, but understanding how that would pan out in future, and selecting the best ones, implementing features so far ahead of time to address things that would eventually cause problems, that most people couldn’t see, and thought i was stupid or crazy, and wouldn’t put them in, only to sheepishly confess to me years later that i had been right.
It still happens. It’s extremely frustrating.
But it was alway a whirlwind of thought. Nonstop whirlwinds.
I wish desperately i had at least a decent amount of musical talent, I’d even trade some of whatever i have for it.
But we get what we get, and so, the point is, I had learned to enjoy the feeling.
The weird thing is, now i can’t feel it. It feels so strange and empty. A bit freaky.
But the thing I’m trying to get my head around, is after at least a week like this, I realised that the ‘sharp’ i had always felt was almost an anxiety like feeling now that it was gone. It was always a pressure, the riders crop.
Now its gone, its both so unusual that its making me nauseous, and yet so..calm inside my head, that it’s bit disturbing to think that maybe this is how I was supposed to be all along.
Usually, anything would spark my brain into a whirlwind of permutations and thoughts.
That can be damaging though, tiring and shredding. Now..
I really don’t know. It could potentially be the best thing ever, if i can get used to it. but right now, just the feeling is throwing me off so much i can’t think or function normally, even sleep.
Alice slumped to the ground and buried her hands in the cool soil, surrounded by gently swaying branches and the hum of industrious bees.
‘I can’t stand it, Chesh’, her voice was barely a whisper.
‘Nothing is here that wants to be here.
Nothing is here that will ever belong here again.
I’m not particularly fond of anything I find, inside myself or out.’
Her hands smeared filthy tracks across her face.
‘The world is just a washed out water-painting, and the only things that bear upon me to take notice, oh, they hurt, Cat…they hurt _so_ much’.
She blinked, making a painful choking sound, and then laughed.
A violent, bleeding, savage laugh.
‘I can’t even cry. There’s not even that now!’
Y’all act like you never seen a depressed person before,
Jaws all on the floor like Pam and Tommy just burst in the door..
Which is the real me?
So I’m writing poetry about bleeding fingers and the deconstruction of my personality..
And I’m soooo lost, and afraid of being in my own head, and suddenly I realise my medication has worn off.
So I take more meds, at least half of which are amphetamines. Thirty minutes later I’m cheerfully constructing digital realities on the PC in between remixing dubstep on my ipad.
And when I’m one, up or down, I can’t see anything the other does as a useful thing.
Even things I do when ‘up’, seem so trivial when I’m anything less than hypo.
Where THE FUCK are my efforts to improve developing nations, volunteering, assisting the elderly, curing cancer, earning an income…
PLANTING A GODDAMN TREE.
Its like I’m only the ‘me’ that I consider the ‘real me’ for short minutes between going up and down from medication. Most of the time I have very little control or awareness over my mental state.
Even my non medicated state is sullied by withdrawals, rebounds, chemical and mood compensation.
Who am I?
All these people and none.
In these brief moments of shit and lucidity, I feel so sick, to my very stomach, and often cry, because even the best of me isn’t anyone that I have any control over or choose to be, not at the level I want.
I am… A genius.
Unfortunately more of the Wile E.Coyote variety than the Sherlock Holmes kind.
Before heading away, I acted on the assumption that despite locking my room, a sibling or parent will inevitably gain entry.
Anticipating this event, I devised hiding places for the items I was less willing for them to discover, (and freak out about or take for their own).
Such as a certain suicide style wazikashi, my lock picks, spare flickknife and related items under the label ‘dubious’. As well as certain items of ahem, more personal nature.
So I hid them craftily.
But ( you guessed it) my mind seems to have done the equivalent of burning the only map just to be safe.
There’s not many places in a small-mid size room to hide things, let alone something like a sword.
Or at least that’s what I obviously wanted anyone to think.
Since my security indicators and security spy camera were all green , I’ll have to assume that the room stayed sealed.
But it’s been two days now and still no memory of where I stashed all my good stuff.
I’m so smart I’m practically retarded.
Not sure what’s going on in my head at the moment. All these medication changes are really messing with everything from perception to sense of poetic timing. Ok, they were never that great to begin with but reading back over the last half a dozen or so they flow like frozen turd. (or even spell basic words. FFS how did I miss those?)
I think it’s time to change shrinks as well as go off his latest prescription of the month or whatever it is they hand out in cereal packets nowdays.
Although ( and I told him as much) I’m sick of doing his frikkin job for him. Haha, like I really said ‘frikkin’. But it’s true, all the meds that work so far and so long are ones I’ve researched myself and handed to someone to sign.
Admittedly the point that now, many years later they aren’t performing as well, and are more likely destroying my mind and body, is, I’ll admit, kind of the ‘but..’ to that argument, but still, if you won’t kill yourself slowly and painfully with medical authorisation, who will? Apart from cigarette and junkfood companies etc. Or actually pretty much everything you can buy nowdays..
No, actually that’s about it for the moment.
If I have zero fucks, and I give them all away, how many fucks do I give?
There are 4 people in a life boat.
One is yourself.
Two are your parents.
The fourth is a psychopathic convicted murderer, although you currently have him under control at knife point.
There is only enough water for three people to survive.
What do you do?
Chain yourself to the anchor and throw it overboard to get away from your parents.
‘Promises are prisons. Do not make yourself anothers jailor’.
*potentially, (likely), not origin of quote.
Sinclair: “You’re worried you’re becoming ordinary.”
Suki: “Aren’t you?”
Sinclair: “Don’t you want to fit in?”
Suki: “Apparently not as much as you want me to.”
• The Scribbler
Just received SMS from flatmate:
‘Any chance you can stay over there another few weeks? Since you’ve been gone, I’ve been having friends over and just enjoying not having you here, it’s been awesome, the best it’s been in ages.’
I feel sick.
I have to admit, I’m impressed, I honestly didn’t think there was anything left inside to break.
I have, far too often, made the mistake of describing my hypomanic or upper part of my bipolar cycle as ‘up’ or ‘being up’.
I think that I unconsciously refer to my estimated relative location on the total cycle curve, rather than referring to what my actual overall mood is.
However, I’ve come to realise that most people understandably mistake this as meaning something along the lines of a ‘normal persons’ positive mood elevation, and the belief that I too am happy or feeling good.
I think the general public also have this misconception, especially after a certain dipshit singer recently declared bipolar / hypomania was his ‘superpower’, as if it were some miracle health drink he was promoting.
I read recently that due to his comments and other celebrities claiming to suffer from bipolar, that bipolar disorder is now by far ‘the most desirable mental illness to have’.
Somebody is getting things seriously wrong.
After reading what he has said about it, I have my doubts he has ‘real’ bipolar disorder. It’s far more likely his superpowers, as well as his mood swings, come from a bag of white powder, but I’m not here to throw stones.
I’m here because here is where things get messy/ complicated/ confusing.
This comes about because I recently said to a family member that I had not seen for ages, that it seemed like I was heading into the ‘up’ part of my cycle for at least the next few days.
To which they responded something akin to ‘that’s good, I’m glad you’ll be happy and feeling good for the BBQ this weekend’.
And although I had heard similar replies many times, they had always passed me by as somewhat innocuous, but for some reason this time it made me clearly aware of how easily the misconceptions surrounding ‘hypomania’ and ‘being up’ are spread or accepted.
It’s misleading and confusing even to sufferers, because yes, viewed on the bipolar curve, if you compare it to times when you are depressed, it quite commonly feels like you have more energy and are in a more positive mood when you are ‘up’ than when you are ‘down’.
But let me clear this up : being hypomanic is not a ‘happy’, ‘fun’, or ‘enjoyable’, experience nor any other similar adjective.
It ‘can’ be, or more accuratly, it can ‘seem’ to be at times, but again, it’s all relative.
Being stabbed with a knife probably feels good / up, versus being flayed alive when viewed comparatively on a curve or chart showing degrees of pain / suffering, but that doesn’t mean it’s anywhere close to being a pleasant experience.
However, I usually only gain a horrified awareness of what I just experienced during my hypomanic period in the short gaps between cycle extremes.
Long enough to take in what I was previously oblivious to, my aching and blistered feet from not having sat down even once for over 72 hours straight.
My shredded, dry, painfully stiff and cut-up hands from having done some form of craft or object sorting or wire stripping or electronics non stop for a similar time frame.
The blood, cuts and bruises all over me from things like putting a box cutter in my pocket with the blade extended and thus stabbing myself in the thigh multiple times, and not noticing.
Realising I have only had stimulants and ZooperDoopers to eat for 3 days.
Almost always realising I am in a large amount of pain from torn or overused muscles, cuts, bruises, burns etc, and that I have accidentally done a fair bit of damage to myself, the immediate environment, and the relationship of anyone who came near me during that time.
Things like that, before slipping back into one madness or another.
Sure, compared to lying in bed depressed, wishing someone would kill you, and not being able to conceive of ever wanting to do anything, at all, ever again, many of these things might be considered positive and good.
But compared even to their own self, or to what ‘normal’ people may do when happy, mmmm…not so much.
Actually, a great deal more fucked up and borderline insane than what normal people might consider happy.
It’s not that during hypomania I’m so nut crazy that I don’t know at all what I’m doing, like one might imagine of a say, what most people might imagine as the movie version of a split personality, but rather that it hyperfocuses my attention, or more accurately, the parts of my attention ‘it considers’ ( I view it as an almost separate and aware sentient entity) are of importance at that time.
This is part of what makes it often confused or mistaken for certain aspects of aspergers or ADHD.
But as a true, ‘has actually happened to me’ example, stripping wires and components out of old electronic equipment etc and making them suitable for re-use might at one time seem so important and /or useful, that all my attention is devoted to it.
At the same time, being stabbed repeatedly in the leg with the box cutter I put in my pocket earlier, to the point of it shredding my pocket, blood running down my leg, has so little relative importance that I don’t even notice it’s occuring.
I think relative is almost always the key word when trying to understand mental illness, as it seems more than it does less, mashed together in a connected scale, spectrum and zen diagram simultaneously.
I’m more likely only to notice when the blade eventually cuts through the inner pocket lining and the knife slides down the inside of my pant leg to the floor.
But probably moreso only because having to pick it up is an inconvenience that interrupts my wire stripping activity, than due to noticing any other issues.
Sounds good and potentially useful? Not as much as you might think.
If it were possible to choose and direct which of the dozen or so main interests that seem to most commonly recurr, narrowed down the potentially hundreds of subsequent sub-interests, and used repeatedly on the same project within that category, into a ‘superpower’ of focus and motivation, then yes, that would be awesome.
Unfortunately, over the literally multiple thousands of cycles i calculate I’ve averaged, I have yet to discover such a mechanism of influence.
So refocusing interest on a particular desired project is akin to winning lotto.
Landing on the same one every single time or even the vast majority of times, takes the odds up similarly, again, to winning the lotto not just once but four or five times a day every day.
I don’t know the exact odds that number reaches over the number of years I’ve been at it, but my maths is rudimentary enough to know that saying it’s fairly unlikely is somewhat of an understatement.
Bipolar and hypomania are not superpowers.
Feeling ‘up’ is not the same as feeling ‘good’.
Being actively engaged in an activity, especially for long periods of time, is by no means ‘productive’.
Anyone who claims otherwise is disseminating spurious and damaging propaganda.
Bipolar, ‘for me anyway’, ( haha, and I said I wouldn’t keep adding that) is almost without exception, entirely unpleasant constant suffering, regardless of where in the cycle I am.
So, now that you are better informed, it’s time for me to go and do something with a high probability of extreme pointlessness.
( because this blog post was sooo useful and important…)
From the window of the coach, the view of early morning countryside is still barely defined, the myriad of dimly lit hues and shades merge into one, and much like the seemingly non-stop frenetic moments of my life, blur together to form an ongoing and unremarkable dull grey.
An occasional tree or odd feature of landscape flares in perspective as it catches highlights of early morning sun leaking out over the horizon.
‘Golden Hour’, ‘approx. 3500K colour temp’, my still mostly dormant brain informs me, along with a few tidbits about light angles and shadow lengths.
That part that still clings to my enjoyment of photography and CG animation.
I have recreated enough 3D environments in the past to have retained more related information than is actually of any continuing use, and I realise I must be beginning to relax enough now for them to start filtering through.
My comorbid anxiety layers heavily upon the bipolar ones, until at times they become practically inseparable. The building panic and stress that accumulated in the week leading up to this trip had pushed me into what I would term ‘pseudo-hypomania’.
Whether or not this state contains any true hypomania, prolonged constant stress and anxiety often results in the creation of a similar enough result that I barely register the difference any more.
I have not slept for at least 2 days, my brain being so scrambled that I have packed and repacked my luggage relentlessly and uselessly only to barely make the bus departure time, despite having monitored it’s approach every second during those days with mounting dread.
Inspection of my carry-on bag confirms my suspicions, that I have packed a backpack full of useless junk, items that seemed like a good idea at the time, yet will never actually be utilised.
-Paracord, to practice knot tying, plus you can never overestimate the usefulness of a length of cord that fits in a pencil case yet can hold the weight of seven grown men. (riight).
- Some more difficult locks to practise picking. Practise (of skills with only potentially illegal applications) makes perfect (riight x2).
- zip-lock bags full of usb cords, a bunch of iPhone charging cables ( uhhh….in case the first 5-6 don’t work for some reason and there’s a sudden global shortage affecting the area I’m going to? 😦 really, it makes me wonder what my brain is doing most of the time ), solar powered LED lights etc.
- 5 knives of varying sizes and shapes from a small folding titanium surgical scalpel, to a foot long Recon-Tanto.
That was the top layer.
It’s still too early to dig deeper, but apparently I have taken The Walking Dead and similar post apocalyptic TV shows a touch too seriously, and when hypomanic or panicked, favour survival equipment over make-up and snacks, things which would have been infinitly more useful, and I already found myself mourning the apparent lack of.
Another glance out the window.
The foreground is still a dizzying blur, but the slightly brighter sky reveals the distance holds heavy, ominous clouds of darker greys that sit low over the tree-line, watching.
Another dreaded bus trip intestate. Approximately 10 hours travel to see a psychiatrist, because no one closer in my own state will see me even once.
I must have approached almost every shrink within 200km of where I live. By the time I get halfway through my list of symptoms and medications, they tell me they do not take on such cases.
The only one I could find is an almost covert character who travels around and operates out of a suitcase that looks like it belongs more to a sniper than the bearer of a laptop and printer, and claims to work equally for the government and the private sector.
As long as he signs the scripts.
So, I’m forced to travel interstate semi-regularly to check in, a trip that does as much or more damage to me in stress and anxiety as it does anything beneficial in terms of treatment. Especially seeing I’m forced by budget and lack of car to rely on and stay with family members, those usually being my parents.
I don’t usually like to go describing others, regardless of their relationship to me, more than is necessary for informational purposes, because I feel that people’s behaviours, negative or positive, belong predominantly to them, and while I am fine detailing as many of my own quirks as I please, I believe that other people’s personal information and details are not mine by right to disclose.
Therefore I will finish here by fudging the line, and saying I often find staying with my parents for more than 24 hours…’challenging’, and leave it at that.
‘Suffice it to say of bipolar that, as the saying goes, ‘sometimes there are no good choices’, that while this is true of depression, likewise for hypomania, sometimes it seems that there are no bad choices.
An individual in such a frame of mind is apt to discover a whole new world of trouble’.
To my father, ( more about the trip here in next post) walking past me, observing what I was doing, ‘researching and writing a dissertation on particle physics’ would be a perfectly acceptable answer, despite the fact that no one would ever read it, or that I would only be summarising a bunch of other people’s work and not discovering anything new.
Yet for him to walk past me lying on the couch (with or without headphones on) possibly writing that same dissertation in my mind or more likely listening to music or writing bad poetry in my head, was just lazy and unacceptable, regardless of whether or not it was of equal or more ‘use’ than any visible physical or academic endeavour.
But as stated previously, I don’t really care, I could build the entire Great Wall of China over the weekend, and it would amount to me the same as having slept the entire time.
In hindsight, both would turn out fairly useless in the end.
Active participation in a useless activity seems eminently preferable to pretty much everyone than seeming inactive participation in a more useful or enjoyable one. Go figure.
The thing that annoys me however is that they always seem to assume the moral high ground, treating you as though you are doing something wrong.
Last time I checked, my time was my own, to waste or engage as I deem appropriate. I don’t go judging any one else’s productivity.
Build your great walls or not as it please ye,
Leave me to my idle misery.
Motivation and interest, the megabitches of all bitches.
I lost my motivation, or care-factor, to do the things i once loved, a long time ago.
But other people cared that I didn’t care, or that I wasn’t trying, and for a while, that became enough motivation for me to ‘try’ again, at least for a little while.
Then I ceased caring what other people thought.
I didn’t care that they cared I didn’t care, and once again, not caring, I ceased trying.
Then the fact that I was potentially an emotionless psychopath, not caring what others thought, or that I didn’t care or feel anything about anything, started to bother me, and for a while I cared that I didn’t care that others cared about me not caring.
But this too fell into obscurity, taking far too much effort, and I returned once more to care-factor=Zero.
It’s old and overused now, but I still draw an iota of amusement from putting my hand in my pocket and withdrawing it, revealing it to be empty, saying ‘Look at all the fucks I don’t give!’, or ‘It looks like I’m all out of fucks to give’.
But I no longer care that I don’t care that people care that I don’t care.
Frankly I seem to not care only about that, but everything.
I have not just lack of motivation, but a severe….I won’t say disinterest, as that implies a negative care-factor, but rather, an uninterest in everything. What people say or think, the world’s climate or politics..anything and everything.
Be it good or bad, either way, I weigh in with my opinion being not engaged enough to form either a positive or negative response to any such stimuli.
The world turns, burns, and yearns.
And I just don’t care.
The fact that they are tearing down museums and putting up malls does not, on the whole, overly concern me.
Every generation has its exhibits, it monuments, and its displays, all to become museums of their own after a fashion, to be disinterestedly ignored by future youths.
If nothing changed, if the buildings and streets and world remained the same, forever a perpetual museum, I would consider this greater cause for alarm.
We skip through time, the renaissance, the beatniks, pewdiepie…
We experience our small slice of history and we pass on.
Still, we cling to the galleries and museums, trying to convince ourselves by simply looking, that these moments too belonged to us, that through being in the presence of some artifact from the past, we become greater than we were before.
Repetitive folly and vanity.
Scared people clinging to the past because they know what the future is unavoidably bringing closer everyday.
So desperate to stay alive, yet doing so by avoiding it, avoiding change as best they may, and hiding from that dreaded embodiment.. ‘new’.
Everyone wants to stay alive, to continue to ‘experience’.
I’m not a hypocrite, I don’t claim to be an exception, I too wish to live and experience.
But I don’t when I could.
We don’t when we should.
The famous Susan Ertz Quote goes : “Millions long for immortality who don’t know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon.’
More true than ever. God help us all when the internet or phone network goes down for a few hours.
I can almost see the seconds tangibly passing by in my life, yet always and ever, each moment is too short, there is never enough time, yet all I do is wait.
It’s the time between events, the space between the electrons, that make up the larger part of existence.
Compressed down, the matter, or matters, are negligible.
Yet here I sit, staring out a coffee shop window, waiting for an appointment only an hour away.
Such a long, boring and agonising period now.
Such a wasted moment of regret and lost opportunity to be reflected upon at some point in the future.
I promised myself when I stared this blog that it would be an honest and straight up account ( obvious metaphors aside) of what it is like living with bipolar.
I have written more than a dozen lengthy posts over the last couple of weeks, but never posted them, because in the retelling of the events, the account always ended up ‘dishonestly’ tinted by rose-coloured textual manipulation of the vocabulary I employed, and while they were truthful and factual accounts, they were, in the end, perhaps not MY truth. Not the truth I see.
So part of this truth is I’ve been alternating between periods of unnaturally long sleep, either drug induced or from bipolar down cycling.
Sleep from which, upon waking, leaves me feeling unrested, in many ineffable ways incomplete, and always in a state of constant malaise.
Another part of my truth is the lengthy periods of sitting upon the edge of my bed with my sword across my lap, trying to find it within myself to commit suicide, and crying uncontrollably.
I’m not sure why I cry.
I let myself sink deep, dangerously deep, trying to find the strength to complete the process, to analyse why I am where I am, yet somehow remain on some thought level that tells me I shouldnt let salty tears fall onto the high carbon steel sword blade.
That tell me if my poor foray into hacking were to be discovered on my computer, people might think I was a terrorist.
Or the thought that there might be an errant sex toy hidden somewhere in my room that I had neglected to dispose of, that would inevitably be discovered by my ultra conservative family, thus labelling me a sexual deviant as well as a terrorist.
I didn’t cry because I was afraid of dying.
My honest self has to admit that I was most likely crying was because I realised that no one would care if I died. Because I hadn’t achieved or experienced all the things I had wanted to in life, or that deep down, in the universal scheme of things, my death wouldn’t matter in any shape or form whatsoever.
And partly because in the end, because I knew I was too much of a gutless coward to shove a sword through my chest.
The final part was spent like a malfunctioning energizer bunny, remaining awake for days at a time, engaged in ridiculously pointless things like organising my electronic components according to various criteria, or combining cleaning products in methodical combinations to discover which of the 50+ versions cleaned the glass shower screen most effectively.
But through each and every stage of these remained the constant, persistent thought in the back of my mind..”I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be alive any more”.
And always saddest truth of all.
I’m still here.