God. I apologize to everyone. I haven’t been inspired lately. I write on the side when I can (and I suppose I can put up all my Part 2 postings that were to be continued despite how awful they read?), but it’s hard to feel like I can write something blog-worthy and share it with the rest of you guys. I can only write from the heart or what I’m personally experiencing at the moment so I’ll share some recent events with you’s. How’s that? Thanks for reading!
I’ve been on an interesting ride these last few years when it comes to seeing therapists and psychiatrists. At the age of twelve I was diagnosed with Depression. I had old features, black circles under eyes, razor cuts on my arms and protruding ribs from starving myself at the time to show for it. However, decades later it seemed I’ve graduated a few years ago (2013) because now new psychiatrists and therapists have diagnosed me: Bipolar. This explains all the wicked instant mood swings, triggers that were really landmines and how come many of my relationships as well as friendships have failed.
Of course I debated with these so-called experts about nature and nurture because I’m suspicious of everything and everyone that isn’t me. I debated about all the things that come from my family’s blood and all the things that come from social disease and conditioning. Still, in the center I fought with myself and knew the truth: There were cracks in the instances and in between all these instances is where I was getting worse.
I’d go into subterranean dark places for leisure, fun and to isolate myself from the world. I’d write in essays, poems and prose my suicidal ideations which continued from childhood. I’d meet with a new friend called anxiety again and again and again questioning the past, present and future concerning everything that became (or was) broken. Was I going to make it another day in this physical realm? My other good friend (since I was 5) came knocking hard on my door and I’d go through all my cycles of chronic loneliness, hopelessness and meaninglessness and stare at the bottomless grief that arrives to taint and place a million holes in my mind, spirit and heart.
Those cracks in the instances became clear as well as my past history when I was going through one of my most tragic experiences at the age of 12 – signed over to two mental hospitals for over six months – I was fed medication for the supposed imbalances in my brain. First was Prozac, and then came Lithium. And of course, I didn’t agree with medication being fed to anyone less than 18 years of age, but my mother didn’t share the same views as her 12 year old. I had zero control as any kid does at that age and was subjected to doctor’s tests, special diets, wondering what was love and how did it look like and was it true I wasn’t normal and these two medications would be the cure everybody else was looking for?
Prozac made me hyper – so hyper that cartwheels became my favorite thing to perform. I couldn’t stop! However throughout the day I’d have hallucinations (of what? I don’t remember anymore – but I’m sure I wrote about it in a lost book for the universe to know) and during the night when I closed my eyes to go to sleep I’d have white flashes come over my eyes like strobe lights. And when I finally fell into deep sleep, the nightmares were horrible – once I dreamt of giving birth to a demonic alien baby. (Why would a 12 year old dream of having a baby?)
After the hyperactivity, doctors thought to give me Lithium because my grandmother took it and they had reason to believe it succeeded. (I’m not sure how?) But something tells me this was all a plot for me to lie on their silver platter to undergo a Spinal Tap procedure. Lithium had its own issues and the dosage was higher – I had to take it 3 times a day. With this medication came weekly blood work because mercury and other dangerous things a doctor wouldn’t inform you about were concerns. Then there were countless yeast infections my tiny body couldn’t handle. Lastly, long-term usage meant my kidney and thyroid would be altered, better yet, damaged to a degree in the future.
So every time a current psychiatrist or therapist would bring up the idea of medication to balance the chemicals in my brain – it’s not a wonder why I would say FUCK NO for years on end! But a few months ago before bringing on the New Year, I made one of the biggest decisions of my adult life and figured I’ll try medication to stabilize my moods and prevent sudden manic highs and lowly lows. The reason why I decided to try it is because I’m committed to fixing all aspects of myself.
Then again, who’s to say I need fixing if it’s not someone outside me like a relative, a partner or a societal authoritative figure who keeps claiming there’s something about me I need to fix?
To be continued.