The blood stops short trapped before a hair tie, until I release the bun of tension: post exercise of body-induced drama. This is the captivating magic of night.
The mind works itself into heavy persuasion. The body labors with intense urging. The heart never questions what the goals are or what state of peak condition or overwhelmed fatness I stand in. A sober thought I do entertain is how someone can not understand the significance of body awareness and its dynamism.
I have a passionate addiction to adrenaline and to the exclusive kick of the way my muscles drum within its act of compulsion. The heart skips, skips and skips uninhibited. It beats obsessively and storms out my mouth like an aggressive bird. It ignites the fight and frenzy over the psyche and tissue land of freedom.
I’ve failed many times and am more successful because of every stoppage. And now every weakness is formed into substantial strength and what strength has already been established has now constructed itself into marble and stone.
The focus is better determined than years previous. The focus is better established than the last set and the mind-muscle connection tastes stronger than the last seething rep. I’ve been sucked into a craving that’s unaware of its bounds. I throw my fists into the air to battle and enter new coordination and balance ground.
My chest hovers over the floor, shoulders and triceps contract, hum and weep pushing up 200lbs plus over and over again. The brace of my abdominals is my body’s endless support and savior. Now there’s a surge spreading like a wild forest fire burning each of my hamstring fibers and into every angle and groove of my glutes with a various amount of hip thrust and single-leg pelvic bridges I can muster under time and tension. The inner thigh screams by its own distress signals and fleshly vulnerability. The burn degrees increase and I pull my center deeply to the spine to further the accuracy of the focal point along with the present.
I grimace in pain and drill my teeth into my own mouth. I start to elevate and disappear like smoke. I’m high now and there’s an exit. I’m high and there are no thoughts struggling its way to birth other thoughts. I’m high and suddenly there are no problems in the world. There is no suffering. There is only bliss and light. There is only presence and heaven. There is only the state of pure being.
Before the love of writing started I began with reading lots and lots of books – all kinds really. Then for a few years came book reports. I enjoyed breaking down a story as well as making drawings for the report cover, particularly as a way to stand out from the rest of the classmates. After book reports I started to write around the age of 9.
I wrote short stories back then, mostly horror because my family was big on watching horror films and I needed an outlet for my reoccurring nightmares. So I wrote and wrote and each time I felt my heart become more and more alive. I remember I enjoyed writing not just because I felt full of life, but because all my teachers said I was good at it. And whenever someone gave me constructive criticism I was determined to get better. Eventually I won a writing medal at elementary school because of that attitude.
In Junior High I would go on to write graded screenplays for the entire class to act out on. By seventh grade I turned my attention to deeper writing like journaling and confessional poetry and during this time short stories were put on hold (and for the most part still is) as my writing began to take on a form of therapy. With being a loner and feeling like an outcast from family and school, I learned to create friendships with my writing. Then in later years, I learned about blogging.
So, even though I wouldn’t change a thing, it wasn’t until very recent that I realized I tend to write predominantly when I’m feeling glum (manic), bitter, displeased, enraged or dispirited. Then of course there are the feelings of when I’m hyped, full of mania (highs) and excitability with huge shots of adrenaline when I train before, during or after. Once in a blue I write when I’m happy, obsessive or in love too, but my heart lies with writing sorrow first. So what’s the dilemma?
One dilemma is I believe I’ve limited myself to writing with and/or about certain emotions, so when I’m actually happy I find it difficult to write or get inspired to write.
During the time I was on a mood-stabilizing pill I stopped writing for 3 months completely (which is absurd), not just because it changed my persona to a degree, but because I had less bipolar episodes, less sadness, less excitability, less highs and lows. I was somewhere in the middle, but not quite. I wasn’t necessarily happy, but wasn’t necessarily sad. Maybe neutral? But it made it difficult to find any drive to write. Now, I’m trying to come up with solutions and creative ways to write about anything and everything to push myself over the boundaries I’ve created.
The second dilemma aside from finding inspiration through negative tone emotions is I started working on a book (a novel). But, the problem for me is I stopped writing short stories decades ago, so I doubt my abilities since I’ve been out of practice. Writing in narrative, I find to be more difficult than say, writing a poem, prose or a blog. This is another challenge I’ve been trying to work on AND I’m open to suggestions from anyone who is kind enough to share.
Thanks for reading.
Written previously, but freshly revised.
So maybe I don’t need fixing? Maybe I’m perfectly normal except for a few bipolar episodes a month. Maybe I’m perfectly normal except that relationships are hard to manage under the waves of my high and low bipolar episodes. Unfortunately these episodes can last throughout the days, weeks, months and years. These episodes are rapid, can appear without sudden warning and sometimes when I’m outside looking in, I wonder about the duality of everything, the possibility of borderline personality disorder and about the strife everywhere in life.
As a result six months later after ongoing therapy I told the psychiatrist I would finally be ready to give medication a try and to my surprise she wasn’t super elated about it. I wonder if that meant anything aside from her not caring about making a difference in her position. The first medication she prescribed was called Lamictal. The interesting or unnerving thing about this medication is it’s actually considered an anti-epileptic (anticonvulsant) drug, if you can believe it.
This nutty psychiatrist prescribed Lamictal to me based on my bipolar disorder (to delay the episodes) and because she believed I could use additional assistance for weight loss. In any case, I was determined to give this a shot, so I took it with dedication for 3 months. Naturally, during the course, I went through many side effects and even if they lasted a mere day I wrote them all down. It was 2 decades almost exactly since I’ve taken any medication. Here’s how my brain and body reacted:
General sensation of always being sick
Flu like symptoms
Unbalanced (Clumsiness, loss of balance control)
Forgetfulness (like experiencing memory loss)
Loss of appetite
Stomach pain (Cramps)
Extra menstrual pain
Taste alteration (Either food taste better or disgusting)
Ringing of ears
Body sacs (like Folliculitis)
Can’t remember dreams
At first all the side effects above were consistent for the first 2 weeks. Then after the 2 weeks were up many of the side effects began to taper off as my body started to adjust without flu-like symptoms. However, these are the side effects that remained on a regular basis: An overwhelming desire to eat more Carbs than usual, extra Perspiration (even if I sat/stood still) and Headaches, Headaches, Headaches. But WAIT! There’s more.
In the beginning the one side effect that bothered me the most was the drowsiness; the feeling of perpetual sleepiness and overall weakness. Every day I was completely exhausted. During this sensible time, I was fighting with myself and wondering once again where my workout motivation disappeared to? Lamictal exhausted my entire system where for an entire month I couldn’t even get a single workout in.
The most prominent side effect (for me) that I can’t even explain, (but I’m sure somewhere there’s a terminology for it) tampered with who I am as a person. I’m not stupid enough to NOT believe changing or altering your brain/body’s chemistry wouldn’t affect your personality because it most certainly does. To me, this is one of the scariest things about taking a psychiatric pill, aside from consciously knowing you’re putting something extremely foreign in your body.
Lamictal affected one of the most personal parts of who I am – I could no longer write. I had zero desire for it. I felt like an entirely different person because of this. All my life I’ve written for school, tried my hand at screenplays, poetry, short stories and as you know blogging. So I’m like how could this be? No desire to write.
This was changing me in ways I wasn’t even ready for and I was doing my best to be objective about it. I would try sitting down at the table, hand caressing pen to paper, so I can come up with a single sentence and nothing would come out. It’s like the thought process couldn’t process a single thought. It’s like words meant nothing to me anymore and neither did the desire to express myself.
I felt severely inept and like I didn’t have any emotional response when it came to writing which blew my fucking mind! What kind of sorcery was this? This was when I decided I didn’t want to be on Lamictal anymore. It was a shock to my system that my brain and body reacted rather extreme.
So when I expressed to the nutty psychiatrist that Lamictal has changed me to the point where I don’t feel like myself anymore and I can’t even write anymore which is something I love doing, she says nonchalantly, “I never heard of this. This doesn’t seem possible. Let’s try something else.”
To be continued.
It’s your birthday month. Will someone bring on the Bacardi rum? I no longer feel the sun since you’ve been gone.
I want you to trouble me, puzzle, muscle and rebuttal me. I want you to disturb me, discern, immerse and return to me. I want you to haunt me, taunt, flaunt and want me.
I think I found love with you. I spoke to mourning doves about you. I swear I found a home with you. I even ask the honeycomb on my altar about you.
I think I found wholesomeness with you. I’ve been at homelessness without you. I swore I kissed the skies when I was with you. I even ask my thighs why they cry now that I’m without you.
You put a love inside me I can’t get rid of and at times, you were my antidepressant drug, the one I sometimes dream of handcuffed, strangely enough.
I’ve been cold since we both disappeared. I haven’t found my heart in two years. Won’t you appear with your childlike light in my sullen atmosphere?
I had a boyfriend who cared about me but he came with his own limits, his own gimmicks and every minute he’s attempting to disguise low spirits with a million cigarettes.
He’s nothing like you and you’re nothing him and that’s just one problem. You barely came with conditions or superstitious wishes, but you were the warmth and blood to my heart even when it rocked bottom.
And I look to the sky and I ask why. I look far and I look wide and the answers were because I cried honesty rather than decide to spend the night with pride. You made me work for forgiveness like I was some damn spy.
What if I asked you to send for me? What if I asked for your body? What if I admitted to my monstrosity? What if every fear we own were given to prophecy? Would it change the divinity of possibility?
I can’t forget the first glance that cemented our song and dance. I can’t clean the scent of your home from my hands. I can’t eradicate the taste of you from my throat glands.
What if I still loved you beyond this distance and chip on my shoulder? How am I to know when my heart froze that last time in October when my entire life as I knew was over?
And if I show up at your door, will you come?
I love a man who writes me poetry because I’m narcissistic and I believe in God because of this.
I wish I could hold on long enough to the woman I’ll never know tomorrow yesterday.
The future impairs people because of technology.
It is modernization that makes us feel old.
Right now I’m gargling air in my mouth missing the feel of a penis.
Swirls and swirls of tongue bathe on a suede wand. There is something calm about oral sex.
There is something about letting it all hang out: neurosis, guts and breasts.
A freedom like taking control of your blog and skipping the rhyming of poetry.