I'm placing the disclaimer in the beginning of this blog, because I think that you need to have a little clarity before you begin reading. I wrote this just after starting a job after intensive training to be a peer recovery support spec. Wonders of wonders...my past keeps throwing up at me and I keep dissecting my own and others behaver as I careen into the instant I find myself stuck in. I had just had my best friend move away...and I was lost in my past and my future colliding...without a friend.

posting all my crap again...






CONFRONTING MYSELF

Confronting my psychosis… I can say it and know it and love it…I wish everyone were as loving as I myself am to my abnormality.
Living with crazy my whole life has been a rollercoaster of normal to insane to normal to insane… and not just my own madness either.
Delusions are tangible if you create your own personal world and stay inside your mania, but there is real danger inside that thought. Breaking out of your own self prescribed delirium can give you perspective and normalcy, and so you must strive to embrace everyday reality to come back to yourself to look back on your thoughts and see them for what they are…crazy.
Crazy is fun….
I love projecting my thoughts to others until they believe that I believe them, completely and totally…then I say psht wtf…Did you believe my madness….igtg now and be real uh over here…k! But thanks for the feedback…I’m gonna come over here and write my thoughts in the form of a story and YOU my friend may be my main character.
Manic behavior can be so exhausting. I think knowing I am right in the middle of my own mania is pristine and overpowering. Or I could be completely fucking wrong.
Crazy thoughts…
Crazy patterns…
Living inside the mania that lives inside my head…
I’m ok…
I’m ok….
I’m ok…
Crazy …. psychiatric disorder….
Analytically I could talk about the nature of the tender mind of the insane… but where would the laughter be then?
Systematically I could diagnose those closest to me… but why uncover the madness if you don’t have to?
My ability to discover other peoples’ neurosis at every turn will only lead you to think I am artificially intelligent when I in truth I have been in traditional therapy so many times… I can recite the definitions to my own personal labels as easily as I change my appearances to fit the box they try to keep me in as I frantically write my thoughts down so that I can remember to have my dreams.
Intrigued yet???
I’m a fucking trip, right?
My beautiful mind erupts upon itself only every now and then now… Its easier to conceal the damage now that I understand my own insanity.
Please don’t misunderstand me and my reason for writing to you my inner most thoughts. I love being who I am…I wouldn’t have it any other way. I never want to be ordinary. I would never pretend normalcy for the sake of appearing normal. The conundrum for me is … are you normal because you only have normal thoughts or ahem do you just keep your thoughts to yourself…because they are crazy… yah I don’t know…
I only really know that I embrace my mania, my deep thoughts….my insanity…but I maintain the ability to turn my thoughts onto your normal life and laugh my ass off at your uptight neurotic ways of doing things.
I met my first really sane person the other day. He probably doesn’t know he is sane. How could he, he was a beautiful , luscious plant in a field of dried up weeds…and all the weeds were telling him that he is a weed. Sure he doesn’t feel like a weed, he looks in the mirror and doesn’t see a weed, yet everyone around him tells him that he is a weed like them….he was no fucking weed!
He was a strong rock in the middle of my insane life that just keeps regurgitating itself up on me. When I got all wrapped up in my crazy he would look at me and say , “Mary, that’s crazy…. Where do you want to eat?” ahhhhhhh……… completely no judgment…just a mere observation…. I love him…. He just named my mania…and loved me anyway….sort of dismissing my insanity, as a consequence not focusing on it…and loving me anyway….
Until him, I had never met a normal person that I could stomach to be with and desire to be with… Maybe I was just so sick of the weeds that seems to continually surround me… he was like a deep intake of air that I needed to survive in the middle of the ocean I dream in. What will I ever do without him? Where will that next intake of air come from?
I guess I will journey on, although this time it will be more difficult. He never fit into any of my usual cast of characters. All that normalcy without the sardonic twist of superiority. Did I say he was sane? As in no neurosis, well none to striking as to point them out. Clever, clever man. Muah…I will miss you to much , already baby…
Being the worshiper instead of the worshiped is not what I thought it would be. Can’t it go both ways. All that insecurity wore me out. Worshiping and being worshiped at the same time would be great. I’m way to insecure to worship without being worshiped back to carry the concept all the way through. The whole yes…no…yes…no, thang… fuck I’m still tired, and confused… and sore, my fucking brain hurts! People around us are all wore out from watching the constant wrestling match. No one wants to hear his name anymore… we wore our audience out….sure it was fun for awhile, but I think they figured we would finally get it together… not just stop in the middle and say… uh , well … see ya, maybe… later… I guess…
…….I’m with you people...it seems now, like a terrible waste of my time.
Into the rabbit hole I fall again. Accept this time I have a net. I have spent the last ten years unraveling the insanity that was placed on me or injected into me by my mother. That is to say, which is my neurosis…is that mine or is it hers. Stronger and stronger I build my armor to withstand the truth I used to keep as a sword ,but now I use it as a whispered answer to the questions that encircles my mind when I am busy trying to live my life. Love the person ,but hate the disease …right? Someone taught me that. Muah, Gordan… I hope one day you will know how innately brilliant you are. Unraveling my short term past to uncover the reasons to my unparalleled experience to dream. I run headlong into the past that has been captured by those that think they can match my behavior to a word…a phrase...a diagnosis.
I debated a student of therapy today.
Ok, well… I debated her for two days.
Tradition states that this person came in and described these thoughts for thirty minutes so she must have this sticker placed on her chart. The diagnosis says that she will exhibit these symptoms. The therapist starts looking for the symptoms. Weather or not they are valid… she will seek them out, because it fits nicely inside her little hand held DSM.
The student and I sat across from one another sizing each other up. Each with our own veiled thoughts and scripted niceties that surrounded us as we first froze our own thought provoked words and painstakingly hurled them at one another. She believed that crazy is just plain old crazy…something to be dealt with and then discarded. I was profoundly afraid she would miss the true beauty inside the mania. She dismissed me as incomplete. I laughed at her attempt to be the hero.
I was a patient that she could not readily dismiss as crazy, because somehow…someway… I had become an equal… a part of the mental heath team. No longer could the good doctor stick some pills down my throat and tell me to stop dreaming. Ahem I was going to be listened to… What a fucking concept! The patient would be heard. Suddenly I found myself standing over the metaphoric couch they had made me lay down on for years. No longer in constraints I took concentrated breaths and silently watched the student try to dismiss the notion that real people had the right to their own recovery.
On this day… this day of orientation I sat at a table in a room I had known all to well. I had visited this room, this building, this place when I was deep inside my own personal disorientation. One by one the doctors that had treated me at various times in my delirium found their way to the table that I sat, and tried to avert their eyes as mine bore into theirs. When by chance they had to meet my gaze I could feel the fear and uncertainty they tried to hide from the snarling beast that sat in front of them. Was it their guilt at the past concept of re shaping the mind of the delirious? Did they wear their own trauma at their own ineptness? I effortlessly read the feelings they tried to hide from me or cover up in front of me.
In spite of their best efforts I had become me.
I had become me…without their medicine…without their words of utter emptiness thrown on me… without blame…without shame…without sneering contempt…
Just me.
I’m fine…I’m fine…I’m fine…right , friends.
I sat across from a man today.
I sat across from a man today on equal footing.
Well, kind of equal… as the great thinkers of today’s new metal health arena, they were now selling the paramount greatness of the magnificent concept of recovering crazies teaching other crazies how to survive in this fucked up world. It’s ok to laugh here at this point. Cuz it’s the funniest thing I have ever heard.
Condemnation aside for the moment. Reality will parade through the gaze of stupidity if your very, very patient.
So if I had remembered…today, I would have shown this man the scars I wear on my wrists. I forget that they are there. It was such a long time ago. I should have shown him my scars. He was there the day I was brought into the hospital. He was there as they uncovered my self inflicted wounds. He was there as I overheard his conversation on the telephone. He spoke not to me, as I was just the patient, he spoke to some voice on the other side of the telephone. He said my wounds were superficial. He dismissed my pain. In one sentence. In one word…superficial. The vast great intensity that I had felt as I cut my very own flesh to watch it bleed… to bleed the pain out of my soul.. To get rid of the pain in the only real way I knew how to do it as a eleven year old girl…he said to the no face voice on the phone, that it was a superficial wound. He dismissed my overwhelming pain in one word. Superficial.
Superficial…yet the scars remain. Some thirty years later the scars are still there. I didn’t die. Maybe he had a dinner later that evening. Maybe he was tired… maybe he had to rest for an up-coming training on adolescent suicide. I don’t know, maybe he was about to get dirty and the other voice was his wife telling him to hurry up. Ordinary, sane people getting freaky always makes me laugh and shudder at the same time. Utter silence as they proceed with caution. Afraid to let themselves go to become… oh never mind.
I got to wrap this up… for today anyway.
Life is so amusing to me.
The strangest part of today was that I was not angry…or in pain… or apathetic. I just passionately wanted to look him in the eyes. He had never looked me in the eyes in the hospital…or in his office later as he told me that, “didn’t I think I just wanted some attention, and that I had merely cut myself to get some attention?” I was a child so I agreed with him. He had all the power, and I had not one fucking clue as to why I had done it except that I hurt and I couldn’t feel that level of pain any more. It was to much to feel that intensely. Projected thoughts to bridle my intense feelings and harness me to reality…at any cost.
So, I left his office and bought my first quarter once of pot. I sold my Barbie dolls and bought a bag. Ahhhh, that was much better than cutting myself. Bandaging the gaping wound of our souls. I had found my Band-Aid.
…….so today, I sat across from a man that now recognizes his own weakness. Maybe I should have played crazy for him…he probably would have slept better tonight, huh? Instead, I played the part of me…as me. We are all keepers of our own souls, right?
That damn normalcy covering up my insanity will be the end of my own transparency…won’t it?