It’s a 5am kinda world

I start a new job tomorrow. I haven’t worked a full time job, or any job in over 5 years, except a small attempt of one month in 2014. I am scared. I don’t want to fail and I have to get up at 5am. What is that? Who came up with that hour? I imagine it was a grumpy motherfucker who wanted to make other people miserable.

Oh well. It’s the way the world is right now. It’s a 5am kinda world. Expectations. Unacceptable. Exhausted. Then you die.

Except it doesn’t have to be like that. Life is more than work. Life is also more than being home. I know this. Being sick, disabled, with depression setting in for a long haul, I wished so much to work. I kept waiting to get better. To not hurt so much. To have a better, more clear mind not consumed with anxiety. To not be a afraid anymore.

It never happened. I got sicker. I hurt more now than ever. My mind is raging with anxiety. And I am more scared today than ever.

But I am also strong and courageous. I have overcome so much already. I have climbed many mountains, alone. I have lost family who are still living. I have found out that many who say they are your friends, are not, but there are many good, true people I have stumbled upon and I am thankful for their friendships, their solidarity, their compassion and kindness.

So tomorrow when I get up at 5 am, an ungodly hour if I haven’t already said so, and I hurt like hell, but I put my feet to the floor anyhow, I’m going to push through and do my best. I’ll pull on the strength and support of my community, my friends and family.

 

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Do other people sit and think about their flaws? I’m not talking about fleeting thoughts that are then ignored or suppressed. I’m talking about analyzing themselves to figure out what is the root cause of a flaw? Do people make lists of their shortcomings and all the things that must change about themselves to be a better person?

If I were…

One day I’ll be…

I’m still working on…

I know I’m not…

Maybe if I fix this I’ll finally be…

As a child, I was under constant scrutiny from my mother, her trying to fix me, make me better. Less of this, more of that. I don’t have memories as a child where I remember feeling accepted by my mother. There were always improvements to be made. I never felt sure footed or rooted in my own self identity, not until much later in life.

In my adult life I have spent a great amount of energy trying to fix myself, but I haven’t felt finished with the task. Like some rigged carnival game, there is that one proverbial pin that I cannot knock down. I throw, and throw, and each time I almost knock them all down, except for one pin that never topples. It is defiant to the force of my struggle, my energy, and my will.

There is actually more than one stubborn pin, when it comes to counting up all my flaws. I think that’s just the way it’s going to be. I might conquer a flaw here and there, throughout life, but there is no perfect me.

Perfection isn’t for humans anyhow. Grace is. Compassion is. Humility is most definitely for humans. My flaws created the room for grace, compassion, and humility. They have shaped me more than anything else.

I’m not done growing. I have many more mistakes to make.

Original artwork by Harmony Greenwood

 

 

 

 

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I organized my bathroom linen closet yesterday. I put like things into these cheap plastic baskets I bought at The Dollar Tree a week ago. They actually look pretty nice because they are neutral colors, shades of brown, and look like basket weave. They neatly hold all those rarely used things that I don’t want to throw out. Things like Biore strips that I got for free for my blackhead-less nose, tampons for a future period I’ll likely never have (thank you Depo), and Daniel’s dad’s cologne (not for me to throw out).

Last week I organized the pantry closet and all the cabinets in the kitchen. This week I plan to organize the coat closet; jammed with mostly anything but coats. Things like 3 foot long zip-ties because you never know when you might need to zip-tie your life together, some piece of an engine to a truck that Daniel probably won’t have for another twenty years because ‘Murica: where you just get to dream, and various retired purses and shoes that will never get worn and used again, destined for the Goodwill. I’ll also try to reorganize our patio closet so that I can shove more things into it that are cluttering up my bedroom.

Hallway closet with bathroom closet in background. Original photography and artwork by Harmony Greenwood

All of these projects have been on my mental to-do list for over a year. If I were to write it down and count them I likely have over 100 things on that to-do list. I won’t do that though because that will make me anxious. I’m a fan of writing to-do lists after you done it. Much more satisfying than an unchecked to-do list you wrote three months ago. Even the things that I have now written about in this blog post are stressing me out. If I don’t do them, Am I now a liar to anyone who reads this blog post?

No, I’m not a liar, I just have depression. I live in depression much like I live in this home. Unlike my physical home, the depression I live in is not as easy to clean and organize. It is often the culprit behind all my abandoned projects, my good intentions, and my grand plans. It has cluttered, unorganized closets, week old dishes in the sink, and full trash bags sitting in the kitchen. It has cobwebs, dead light bulbs, and broken step ladders. There are these wondrous moments when I can get out of this nightmare, a hoarder’s house of horrors collecting tragedies.

About a year ago, I accepted that I would live depressed for the rest of my life. I’ve tried every antidepressant. Most make me suicidal. Most make me numb. I currently take a mood stabilizer. It helps, I suppose, but the depression persists. I don’t remember not being depressed, and in fact remember being depressed as a small child. I think maybe I was born depressed.

Accepting this has actually given me the courage and strength to stick around and keep fighting for another day. I do what I can, when I can. Those days I can do nothing, I accept that. I do my best to care for myself and make it to tomorrow. There is no normal to achieve anymore. No obligatory standard to meet. There is just me and my personal will to survive and thrive where I am, and how I am.

Sharing my story and my struggles, bringing solidarity to anyone living in their own depression house, reminds me that I am not alone. Hopefully it reminds others they are not alone, because really, they aren’t.

Maybe tomorrow I can clean out that bedroom closet.

 

Maybe one day I’ll be a success

I’m a miserable failure. No, seriously, it’s okay, you don’t have to start telling me I’m not, and giving me all that encouraging bullshit. It’s just a truth I know about myself. It’s rather kind of anyone to think otherwise, but it’s simply not the truth.

Take for instance this blog. I wanted to make at least weekly posts, but I barely make monthly posts, if you average it out. I get into writing spurts, and I write every day, maybe even twice a day, and it’s all so lovely, and reflective. Then, nothing. For weeks. Sometimes months. The pull of depression traps my words. It’s not like I don’t try to free them. I write, then erase it all because it’s utter crap. At least, by my standards.

Fucking standards. Hmph! I’m not much for standards anywhere else except for my art and my words. Well, that’s not entirely true. My kitchen and bathroom get bleached once a week, though you would probably not think it since they are both rather cluttered. Fucking Clutter! Ugh! Things piled on top of other things. A mountain of cheap shit made in China: little reminders of the empire’s pacifying opiate, consumerism,  and it’s dealer, capitalism collecting dust.

It’s entertaining where the mind can go. One second I’m talking about being a failure, and the next second, I’m giving commentary about empire. But I think it all goes together, if you just connect the dots. Honestly, I can’t even connect those dots except for in very abstract ways that I cannot put into words, yet. That’s okay, this isn’t really about that anyhow, because regardless of the why or how, it simply is what it is.

Maybe one day I’ll be a success.

Capital S

I have spent a great deal of time figuring out all the facets of my relationship with Suicide. Capital S because in my mind, in my world, in which I live daily, Suicide lives and breaths, usually in my shadow. I had to anthropomorphize suicide because it was too vague and elusive, which gave it too much mystery and stoked the flames of my anxieties and fears. Now that it’s a thing with a name: defined and conspicuous. Sounds a bit nuts, I suppose, but you do what you need to do to when you live with Suicide. You survive however you can, and you beat Suicide every day you choose to keep living.

 

 

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I’ll be leaving tomorrow on a trip to North Carolina. I’ll be visiting with friends, many of whom I consider family. I thought long and hard and decided that I will not be visiting with any blood family.

The last time I visited blood family was in 2013 and it was for 11 days, and about 3 days into the trip, I was miserable. My family is not easy to get along with. I ended up having a mental breakdown 3 days before leaving and stayed in a room in my father’s house, sleeping as much as possible. My family made no effort to understand me, or comfort me. I was judged mercilessly. That was no vacation. It was a form of hell that I never intend to experience again.

It’ll be different this time. I’ll be with friends who accept me and my disabilities, including my mental illness. They understand depression. They understand chronic pain. They don’t hush me or tell me to buck up and deal. I do deal, but in doing so, I talk about what I’m going through, and for whatever reason, that is simply not something anyone in my family is comfortable with or appreciates.

My main goal is to have fun. I have a hard time with having fun. I often feel guilty, or pressed to do something more productive. Depression often gets in the way of having fun, too. However, I’m really going to push myself to make time to have as much fun as possible. I’m spending quality time with people I love and admire which is precious, and will provide a lifetime of memories.

I aim to treasure this time, take in every moment, and to be present.

Silly little birds

So, I can’t write. I mean, I can, but I don’t really want to. I have things in my mind, on my mind, cluttering my mind, always. Words seem too concrete, too defined. I think it’s this weird level of depression I’m in. I exist in depression. Mania is the only time I get to wear those rose-tinted glasses that I see other people get to wear too much.

But who is comparing? Not me. I stopped comparing so much. I’ve started saying, “It is what it is,” because mostly, it is. I can get mad, angry, and full of rage, yes, but it likely won’t change that “it”, whatever “it” is, is what “it” is. That’s most of life. I use to think I controlled so much, and now I realize, I control little else than what I say and do.

A few weeks ago I was sitting at a red light. It was raining and the wind was making the rain drops fall sideways. On the tops of the red lights, the poles, and the wires sat crows. Some were huddled in little groups and others were perched at the tops of poles. Why weren’t they seeking refuge from the rain under trees, in trees, or under parked cars, anywhere but on top of wires in the open sky? Maybe it is because they know it is what it is, and nothing they do will prevent them from becoming soaked. Maybe they do not want to waste energy on something they cannot change. Maybe it’s the safest place to be for a crow in a storm.

I am happy with the thought they are accepting what is, and waiting it out, doing whatever they can to get through the storm. It’s funny how the human mind works, how I can derive important lessons from silly little birds who sit on top of wires in storms. That’s what I’ve been doing in my current state. I’m waiting it out, accepting it for what it is, and trusting the hope I have that tomorrow will be better.

I will not let them win

There’s something that’s been dripping, leaking into my brain. Drip. Drip. Drip. It’s altogether frustrating because I don’t exactly know how to explain it.

I’m the type of person that feels everything intensely. Other’s pain and sorrow smack me right in the face on a daily basis. It can be very difficult to not become altogether uselessly depressed, in the bed crying, hopeless for the future of mankind.

When I scroll through Facebook, there are post after post of tragedy, hatred, and fear. Alton Sterling was shot dead for being black. Forty-nine people dead at a gay bar in Orlando because some bigoted asshole thought they needed to pay for their “sins.” Refugees being housed in camps because xenophobia feeds the fears of privileged white men. Women being raped. Babies dying. Millions dying from hunger. Unclean water. Someone is sleeping outside tonight, but there are three empty homes for every person without a home. And the tragedies keep piling onto this mountain of sorrow.

How can I stay happy, joyful, peaceful when the world is hungry for death and destruction? How do I not become paralyzed with sorrow? Where is the joy? The peace? How can I laugh? To laugh seems almost blasphemous.

I don’t know all the answers to these questions, but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to ask them. Because there must be a way to find the beauty and joy, the magical, while still caring very deeply for the oppressed, and being very angry at the unjust.

I’d even venture to say that finding the beauty, the joy, the magical is one way to fight oppression and injustice. I don’t have to feel guilty for laughing today, or any other day. I understand there is a time for quiet reverence, and a time for tears, but laughter isn’t the enemy of sorrow, it is in fact the healer. I will not stop laughing. I will not give the oppressor my joy. I will not let them win.

 

 

This I know of love

In my last blog post I expressed some of my current struggles in my relationship with my spouse. He has mental illness, just like me. He has problems with anger. He likes isolation. There is a list of things that he is and isn’t. Some of those things impact me and cause friction between us.

I too have mental illness and struggle to maintain my mental wellness. I have problems with anger, too, I just express it differently. I too have a list of things I am, and am not. Some of my things impact him and cause friction between us.

It’s too easy to forget this. It’s simple to forget that while I’m stressing out over how he’s not spending enough time with me, he’s stressing out over how much time he can spend with me, and still get enough alone time. While I’m stressing out over money, he’s stressing out over going to work tomorrow, and getting enough food to feed his energy needs. While I’m angry over the silence, he’s angry over the constant chatter.

And we’re both constantly making concessions, and compromises, in even the smallest ways to make bearing our junk easier for the other person. He picks up coconut macaroons from the French bakery for me and I run my fingers through his hair, because it relaxes him after a long day. He cooks when I can’t, and I take the dogs out when he can’t. He does the laundry when I can’t. In fact he does a lot when I can’t. I take care of the finances, paying bills, and he helps me at the grocery store, even though he hates going into those crowded, anxious places. I hate it too, but we do it together and we get through it.

Concessions. Compromises. These are the things that ultimately become part of the art of loving each other. We make them because we love each other, finding value in the happiness of another over having it our way. We figure out that love isn’t only about feeling all gooey, happy, and stupid elated. Love is when you put seeking understanding over being right. Being angry but remaining open in mind, and heart, trying to see it from their paradigm. Love is the courage to stay when all you want to do is leave because it might be easier, but it wouldn’t be better.

There are also times that love says “this I will not allow,” and then hoping our partner will respect that boundary. Because, love also has boundaries. Love is respecting boundaries. Sometimes, love is the courage to leave when those boundaries aren’t respected. Love is also standing firm in self love, and not compromising there.

I cannot forget that love is also self awareness, and personal growth. Love is the humility to admit to narrow-mindedness, being selfish, and seeing things through the ego filter. Love is knowing when a course correction is needed within the self, and then having the courage to make it.

This I know of love: the longer you are with someone the easier it becomes to hate them. However, the compassion of a deeper love, one that drowns the shallow, floundering obsessions over the other’s flaws, is waiting to rescue us from hate.

Photo taken by Harmony Greenwood 

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I spend a lot of time practicing being in my own emotional state. I know that sounds a little weird. It is, I suppose. However, I absorb other people’s energies and moods, their emotions can sometimes cripple me. I like that I can feel other people’s pain, and have great empathy, but sometimes I just want to be numb and feel nothing.

That’s why I have to practice being in my own emotional state. Lately it has become very difficult. Let me explain: I live with my significant other. I call him My Giant because he’s 6’5 and I’m 5’5. I can bury my face into his big broad chest, right in the center where I can feel his heart beat, and he can wrap his big, long arms around me. It’s a moment of bliss that I absolutely cherish.

But that bliss hasn’t been so much lately. Things have been tough for him, lately. He has mental illness, too. He knows he’s depressed. He knows he is isolating himself. He says he doesn’t care about anyone or anything and I wonder if that includes me.

He has distanced himself from me and plays World of Warcraft anytime he’s not at work, all weekend, and all week nights. Little time is actually spent interacting with me. He yells at the dogs. He slams cabinets. He yells “goddammit!” a lot.

The anger has ruled for so long, I’m not sure he knows how to feel anything else. It makes me so sad. The aggressive behavior makes me scared. The silence and the isolation is probably the worst though.

Original painting done by me, Harmony Greenwood, entitled “Anger Mountain”

I just really don’t know what to do anymore. I’ve been here, giving support and love and loyalty. I’ve encouraged and held things together when he couldn’t. Yet, I feel so unappreciated and unwanted, most of the time.

It’s impacting my ability to stay mentally well. I want to be there for him, but how can I be there for him if I’m not here for myself? I want to empty the pool of pain he swims in, but he’s locked the gates.

I don’t know. I want this to help me come to some understanding, but here I am, just as crushed as I was when I began writing.

When will love win?