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November

November. November. November.

This is the season of pain. The season of loss. The season of absolute agony.

This time of year. The depression is here. Depression; though comforting is cruel. She is truly a mistress of madness.

November is death. November remembers all that it has claimed.

This morning I could feel one more piece of my mind slip away from me. One more piece of happiness drift away like smoke in a damp sky. In it’s place is now another little black hole. My mind is covered with little black holes. All of the memories come back in November. My month of misery. It took me years and years to drink away the memories. In the process I took out the good ones to destroy the bad ones. Now just hundreds of little black holes. Soon I will be a black hole.

Will I survive this one? Will I collapse on myself like a dying star?

I am tired of pretending I am something I am not. Only one person knows me and only two people care. It is my own fault. My evasive lies and manipulative self expression are all false.

Who would want to see this? I have wasted too much energy hiding myself, masking myself and covering my tracks. Now I have no idea who I am.

But it is November. What will she claim this year? What will she rip from my spirit? What will she spit to the floor as she washes her hands of me?

Maybe she has come for my broken heart. My mind is filled with too many holes now. She will not accept it.

Will I survive as she rips my broken heart from my soul?

November, you cruel bitch you. How I have missed you.

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Alone

The feeling of complete aloneness. It is so over bearing and crippling. I have just passed a manic phase and seem to be wandering into the depressive phase. It is most interesting to document this disease. This depression is a complete feeling of isolation and misunderstanding. Suicide? Nope.

Just the feeling of absent and quiet. Of tolerance and pain. Of nothingness and stillness.

I read today that we manics tend to be great artists. This I find funny, however, as of late I have found one.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emilie_Autumn

This is of little importance. I am no great artist. I have no skill or defining ability. I am poor white trash with nothing to offer but a serious set of flaws and fat. I thought, I could make great on this…disease. But alas, no. Just a set of cuts on my wrist one month and a shopping spree the next.

Sometimes the thoughts of death as a release are comforting and necessary, sometimes they are crude and intolerable. I have no ability to know what I do. I can feel all the time, I am always feeling. But logic and rationality come every so often and at their own whim.

This aloneness. This horror of isolation. This multi-faced bitch in the mirror. This is me.

I can allow others to judge me and I pray that they do. As their perception of me passes fancy and creates a hole around me, they are validated that they are not flawed, I am validated that I am.

Dead things walk the edges of my mind as I wander through this misty place. Once my friend and companion, my mind is now unexplored and unforgiving. For lack of credit card and sun my mind has once again resorted to turning grey as the sky does this October. Now the excitement leaves and the silence sets in. Sweet, deadly silence.

Now as the season turns. I am alone. For the manic may come and go as it pleases, but only on a ticket. This is now the season of my depression. The aloneness coils around me like a blanket from hell.

I am here to greet her, my old friend. I feel safe in the dead of her loving embrace.

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Are you a good parent? Am I?

Today as I was walking through the store with my family. A woman, who was an employee approached me.

She had witnessed me, point blank , tell my son after a quick tantrum; ” You will not raise your voice to me, I am your mother.” This was all that I said and my son responded with an apology.

The female employee said with a smile;

” I was just telling another girl what a good mother you are. So many mother’s let their children run wild without respect for other people.”

This, to me, is completely foreign. I have never once thought I was a good mother. I stress over details, discipline, encouragement and as most parents do; when do I get myself back? My child is a constant struggle. A very dear friend told me as of late “The nut cracker works fine, you just have a hard nut to crack”.

This woman in the store admired my approach to child rearing, if you can still call it that. I felt very good, for once about motherhood. Everyone about seems to think I am a good mother, I however disagree. I could be faster, better, smarter, stronger.

Inside of my heart I love my boy, who questions me and tells me I am wrong. He challenges me constantly and while it drives me to madness it also blooms proud in my spirit. I am rasing him as I promised I would.

My rules:

1) I will accept my child no matter what or whom he has decided to become.

2) I will love him completely regardless of any circumstance.

3) I will discipline him for any disrespect of another being, be it animal or human.

4) I will always hold him to his word.

5) I will never tell him a lie.

These are the rules I wrote in my diary long before he was born. I have kept them all. I do not think I am a good mother. He is only four and there is much more to come for him. How he sees me now as an “authority”  that will some day change into an “understanding”. I only want to ask of him what I ask of myself. I seem like a harsh mother, but perhaps the woman at the store has given me a new understanding. I was a black sheep child… who struggled against all that was handed to me. Maybe my real purpose in life is to raise this “unexpected” child. To make him my better? Maybe this is what all of us parents are meant to do?

To love and live for, even if we are judged harshly, our children.

The hardest nut of all.

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I Changed Me Bloggies

I have not written in this blog for many a month. It proves nothing other than I can never really see anything through, or even to a decent point in a timeline. It reminds me much of the doll reconstruction I was absolutely obsessed with for two months. Two months, new paints and Barbie heads (minus their manufacture paint and hair) littering the household. All of that research and passion for a new obsession simply added up to yet another project that will never be completed. The only good thing to come of the “I play with dollies” phase was the cats now have a lot of faceless, hairless heads to bat around the house. Good for kitties. Bad for me.

Upon reflection of this blasphemous blog I decided that my writing turned out not to be what I had thought or wanted it to be. Though my friends proclaimed to enjoy it, it simply was not it coming across as intended. I have a very deep spiritual side. But that is the only deep thing about me. My dream blog was to write about The One… I will go more into that later, I am to lazy to explain it now. Anyhow, instead of finding spiritual mastery, great meaning and an intimate relationship with the “great mystery” in my blog writing; I found a foul mouthed, sarcastic, control freak who really has either no clue of what is going on around her or too many clues that are confusing her.

I renamed the blog as such because I suffer from Bipolar Disorder (a mood disorder). If you want to know more about it, look it up, I am sick of talking about it. However, I have decided not to take medication for this very annoying mental illness. I think that my spiritual side may be just that, spirit, unseen, undefined. Hence only an ass like myself would choose to attempt to write about that. But this bipolar disorder… Well, this could be some fun. I tried to write a novel, I tried non fiction. Shit, these days I can’t even see to complete a Haiku. Perhaps a blog of my ups and downs might reveal a cure?

No. I think not. There is no cure. Maybe a cure is not meant to be. If I write honestly, I may be able to find a pattern to my disease and thus… Well, that really won’t help either but lets give it a try.

If you are reading this blog you will probably take nothing from it but please enjoy Royo’s beautiful artwork (or for some of you “hot chicks touching each other”).  I will keep posting them as my mood changes.