Will be going to another state to do some good, old fashioned missionary work for the week. Don’t miss me too much…
A long time ago, in some far off dusty land, there lived an old man. Now, this old man was like no other old man. He was tough, weathered and rough, like an ancient shoe. Some old men are nice, kind, give lollipops to children, but not this old man. This old man gave something else. So, this old man had a daughter. She was sweet, pretty, kind and good. Everything that a daughter should be, well, on a good day. Now, this old man didn’t like kids, you could say. He was short-tempered, and yelled a lot. He also liked to go into the barn. Funny thing though, he would always go at night, when people were sleeping and he’d take the little girl with him. Together they’d make the short trek in the cold of the night and she’d notice that there, his eyes would light up like red bullseyes. The old man would take off his pants and proceed to drill and tear and deaden and numb pieces of the little girls body, brain and soul. It didn’t matter to her though, she’d float up to the ceiling and watch. Calm, still and safe. The old man did this for many years, then the little girl grew up and he left her alone.
Fast forward 15 years. San Francisco bay area in the 90’s. Chinatown, North Beach, mania. A young girl walks singin’ “Baby, baby baby come fuck me…” down Broadway. Neon lights, barkers, hookers, pimps, hustlers… Around her a panoply of lights and action. The night is alive, sizzling, teeming with vermin, giant vermin; cockroaches with two legs and upright posture (like poor Ivanovich in that Russian tale; except he was horizontal), and the biggest one of all is her boyfriend. She’s looking for him down the street and into every side alley her nose flies hoping, wondering, wishing, praying she’ll catch a glimpse of him. While her eyes, gleaming with manic hypo-awareness notice everything. There is DANGER! DANGER! STRANGER DANGER! everywhere she looks, but she is oblivious as her mind, like a man with sex, is focused on one thing finding her boyfriend, who seems to have disappeared into the night as he so often did…
So, this morning, my humor is sullen,moody and dark. I went out dancing last night and for a variety of reasons came back home nary too happy. I’m also puffy as I’m trying to stave off the “whopping” two glasses of champagne I had. It was my friend’s birthday and I had a good time, but wow was I awkward (did it show?). Maybe because I hadn’t gone out in so long? Or maybe because I’m just not feeling so comfortable or relaxed in my own skin…?
Just got in from a jog – ugh, but it was worthwhile. Hadn’t done it in so long. My friends tell me it’s good, and I know it is – my mom’s been drilling it in my head for years, and I do feel like an athlete inside… but I’ve let myself go and it feels alien to me now.
I know excercise is key to the health and well-being of Clyde, but I’ve been so remiss and lazy lately, so despondent and lets face it, COMFORTABLE in the puddle of my chemical imbalance, that I’ve forgotten to look up.
I’ve marinated in annoyance that my meds haven’t been working the way they usually do since I’ve been on the generic (Depakote) instead of the real stuff. I’ve been really angsty, angry, mad at god, at the doctors, at myself. I’ve settled for wallowing instead of acting, looking down instead of moving, dressing down instead of dressing up (ugh, can anything be more distasteful?)… Passive aggression is not pretty, people.
I remind myself (for those of you that are familiar with the bible) of the man in the pool at Bethsaida who wouldn’t/couldn’t move until Jesus came and asked him if he wanted to be healed. He’d been sick for I don’t know how many years and still he was hesitant about becoming whole. Instead of having faith, he shrank back and whined there was nobody to put him into the pool. Well, that’s me. Instead of jumping at life, I’ve been looking down and staring at my shoes, shuffling my feet and wondering when it’s going to get better.
Perhaps now, with this self-indulgent, but also much needed and necessary outpouring and means of connection and expression, I can start to separate “myself from myself” or rather myself from my experience and not be so scared of the violence that once invaded my soul, a whole other story altogether…
Maybe Clyde wants to say something, too.
How does one start a blog? Holding your breath and jumping in is the first place to start I suppose, so here I go. My name is Maria, I have manic depression, and I am here to write a story and tell a tale. Perhaps this will be part memoir and part journal. I don’t know. I’m making it up as I go along. One thing’s for sure though, I need a place to pour out my heart, my spirit and my guts. The journal thing isn’t working anymore, maybe I need to know that what I experience is going out into the ether somewhere and getting lost in space – moving far, far away from my hemisphere. Not that it’s so bad, it’s not. I just need some space from this thing, man. Dig (but my secret hope is that someone will read it and be helped in some tiny way)? Or maybe I just need to connect? Or maybe all of the above plus ten thousand other things. Probably the case.
I call it “the dragon”. And tonight it sleeps soundly, peacefully, as the meds course like a river through my veins. Which reminds me, it’s time for bed-y-bye.
Say goodnight Clyde (I call it Clyde).