Ooberman- Running Girl
I think that my skull is a cage and I share the space with another creature. Sometimes the creature sleeps, or goes quiet, and then I foget about the cage and the creature and all is well, and I live in the world and not in my head and I begin to believe that it's all over and the beast is dead. Sometimes the beast and I are in love and all is well and we control the world and everything in it. Those are the hypomanic times. The rest of the time, my skull is a cage and I share it with a creature that hates me with such a dead white heat of rage that I can't hardly breathe. My eyes turn inwards and the beast claws me and holds me and tries to suffocate me, and I can't get away from it, because my skull is the cage and the creature is in there with me.
This week is the third kind of week and these are the kind of thoughts the creature gives me:
Sometimes I wish I was the sort of person who didn't cope. I wish I was the sort of person who screams and cries. I wish that when things are bad my throat wouldn't close up, I wouldn't feel suffocated, I would be able to tell people, and make them see the depth and breadth of the hate and the lengths the other thing in my skull will go to to torture me. It feels, sometimes, that because I live out the battles on my skin and in my room, alone, with the doors shut, that people don't believe me- although I also know that thinking people don't believe me is a symptom of BPD too, one that goes with paranoia and mistrust. It still feels, though, like no one really believes me when I say that things are bad. Or have been bad. I have wished so hard to fall apart but the fucking creature wont let me, because it hates signs of weakness and it tells me that I'm stupid, pathetic, winging, a liar and a fabricator. Saying it out loud makes it all sound so melodramatic, and so my skull renains a prison, because outside I am calm and coping, and inside melodrama rules supreme. I try and communicate with my skin. I have cut nerves and tendons and bits of bones. I have burned myself with irons and cigarettes and lighters and knives heated in gas flames. I have overdosed on everything from antidepressents to codeine through paracetamol, asprin, and cold medicine, and now my kidneys don't work very well. My arms hurt all the time where the nerves are regrowing, I can't feel anything in the skin of my wrists and upper arms, or in the pads of two of my fingers. This is the truth of my life. This is how angry I am. It's my attempt to kill the creature that just wont fucking die.
I feel that I have failed my life and all the people in it. At the moment it is all I can do to drag myself out of bed, but bed doesn't feel so good- I can't sleep and when I do I dream of being chased and screaming with no sound.
At the moment my thoughts are unpleasant. The slightest thing triggers thoughts of suicide. I am afraid to walk over bridges or go up tall buildings. Images of the injuries I could inflict on myself fill my brain and swallow up hours, and I wish I could just act on them and make it go away, but I don't do that anymore. I feel like nothing is left to me anymore.
Most of all, the last two months which seem to have been a strange sort of rollercoaster have left me disorientated, with no idea which way is up. I don't know wht is real anymore and what is just mood. I seem to have lost my north.
I still can't say any of this out loud.
This week is the third kind of week and these are the kind of thoughts the creature gives me:
Sometimes I wish I was the sort of person who didn't cope. I wish I was the sort of person who screams and cries. I wish that when things are bad my throat wouldn't close up, I wouldn't feel suffocated, I would be able to tell people, and make them see the depth and breadth of the hate and the lengths the other thing in my skull will go to to torture me. It feels, sometimes, that because I live out the battles on my skin and in my room, alone, with the doors shut, that people don't believe me- although I also know that thinking people don't believe me is a symptom of BPD too, one that goes with paranoia and mistrust. It still feels, though, like no one really believes me when I say that things are bad. Or have been bad. I have wished so hard to fall apart but the fucking creature wont let me, because it hates signs of weakness and it tells me that I'm stupid, pathetic, winging, a liar and a fabricator. Saying it out loud makes it all sound so melodramatic, and so my skull renains a prison, because outside I am calm and coping, and inside melodrama rules supreme. I try and communicate with my skin. I have cut nerves and tendons and bits of bones. I have burned myself with irons and cigarettes and lighters and knives heated in gas flames. I have overdosed on everything from antidepressents to codeine through paracetamol, asprin, and cold medicine, and now my kidneys don't work very well. My arms hurt all the time where the nerves are regrowing, I can't feel anything in the skin of my wrists and upper arms, or in the pads of two of my fingers. This is the truth of my life. This is how angry I am. It's my attempt to kill the creature that just wont fucking die.
I feel that I have failed my life and all the people in it. At the moment it is all I can do to drag myself out of bed, but bed doesn't feel so good- I can't sleep and when I do I dream of being chased and screaming with no sound.
At the moment my thoughts are unpleasant. The slightest thing triggers thoughts of suicide. I am afraid to walk over bridges or go up tall buildings. Images of the injuries I could inflict on myself fill my brain and swallow up hours, and I wish I could just act on them and make it go away, but I don't do that anymore. I feel like nothing is left to me anymore.
Most of all, the last two months which seem to have been a strange sort of rollercoaster have left me disorientated, with no idea which way is up. I don't know wht is real anymore and what is just mood. I seem to have lost my north.
I still can't say any of this out loud.
posted by tattybluetrees at 2:49 PM
3 Comments:
I read some past entries or posts, and I think you're amazingly descriptive, intense and intelligent. I loved when you said you're too chubby to die in a hotel room and have a rocker boyfriend immortilize you in a song. Brilliant....And speaking of pornography for crazy people, have you seen "A Beautiful Mind"? I saw the real John Nash interviewed shortly after it came out, and he says that he deals with his demons by recognizing them as "not real" or "so ridiculous, they cannot possibly exist," and has sort of conditioned himself to ignore what used to overwhelm him. Sounds overly simple, I know, but you seem like a very intelligent woman.
Hello. Thank you very much.
There's a lot in what you say about John Nash. I have drawings on my wall of the Fear and the Paranoia- little nasty creeping creatures with ugly lumpy faces which I drew to remind myself that not only are they not very nice, they are also not very real. Interactingg with your nasties like that normalises them I think, or at least brings them out of the shadowy world of your head where they can control you and you don't have choices, and into the real world where nothing can control you if you don't first give it power.
tatty
What a wonderfully creative thing to do! Yes, make them like cartoon characters or something, so they're part of a cartoon land, and you can't really get hurt in a cartoon. (How many times has Wyle. E. Coyote fallen off a cliff and had an anvil land on him, or been blown up, or hit by a truck?) It might also be therapeutic or just amusing to try drawing yourself as you would like to be, not literally, but figuratively. Then you can visualize something good, look at it when you need to remind yourself of what's really inside you, the good stuff, the potential.
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