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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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What was the body count again?

Did you ever wake in the am and have a foreboding sense that an entire war had just happened in your dreams? This happens to me quite often. Images of war, fire, blood and death. I awake this morning with my yellow eyed black cat, Ashes staring down from the window sail at me. It was one of those moments I have frequently with my cat, he graciously pokes his very cold nose into the corner of my eye, sneezes and then erupts in purr. Even with kitty boogers in my eye I am grateful the night of dreams has ended.

I first try to think of anything violent or disturbing that I may have watched in the last few days, drawing up a blank I try to remember the dreams, they are evasive. I have a habit of waking up around 3:00 every morning, which makes it easier to remember some of the dreams.

Last night I remember blood mostly. Suffering, pain, you know, the usual. I don’t get it. I want peaceful dreams of flying, the ocean and winning the lottery. But no, I get WW2, concentration camps and Hiroshima. Past life? No, thats a bit “out there”. So why am I having these dreams? I seldom went to any of my history classes in school, not that I do not find history fascinating but in High School smoking pot behind the school dumpsters was much more educational ( just call it sociology). If anyone has any ideas as to why these dream plague me or if they plague you, please let me know.

Good Morning.

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Fletch Lives!

I just had a very LARGE breakthrough. Dispolar Biorder still holds true. However if you know me you know I am very… sensitive.

Tonight, after seven years, my husband managed to track down a soundtrack for me. I love the movie the soundtrack comes from, it was an old family movie (Fletch). My mom and dad use to watch this movie all the time. These memories I have been “hiding” are not of rape, not of pain, not of destruction. The memories I have been hiding are of my family and this soundtrack reminded me of all the days I lived unafraid and whole. All my days as a protected dreamer. Yes, my mom stroked my head and we barbecued and so much more.

Fire works on my birthday… My dad coming home to us… So much joy.

The three of us. We really kicked ass. I have been hiding the good memories. I have been hiding the greatest times of my life. I have been hiding US. Three musketeer’s, think twice, we were better. The “black sheep” son, the neglected brilliant daughter, the child they had. Me. I have been hiding them, I have been hiding me.

I made a pact. If my father or mother ever died, I would die. I have been holding the promise. I have been slowly killing myself for seven years. I promised if my dad ever died I would die and I am, it took seven years but I am. Seems my brain remembers. I would rather be dead with him then stay with the lot of you.

If I did really die, I would have to take my mother with me (guess I should talk to her about that first).

I did not understand until listening to this album and remembering the three of us. Both of my parents were separate from their family. They made their own family. The word “special” does not really cover what we were. I was raised by two of the best people that have ever, and may ever exist.

I did not see it before. I guess it really is love. I have one foot in the grave. One foot on the plot. I won’t leave them. Either of them. I am going with them. Even if it tears me in two.

I think I understand God now.

My heart is light tonight. At least now, I know. I am not full of shit. I am just keeping the promise I made to myself years ago.

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Am I God?

God is simply and most safely a “person” we imagine that holds a mirror to ourselves. So that we may look in that mirror and see who we are, bit by bit, thought by thought, emotion by emotion, wrinkle by wrinkle. In this mirror we see ourselves, only ourselves viewed by and judged by; only ourselves.

God is the person we envision being their as we see ourselves in all honesty, in all nakedness and truth. God is very simply a inner image of someone that sees us as we see ourselves and loves us anyway. This person that god is. Well, he (or she, or it or whatever it is that you see) is the person holding the mirror that only we see that does not judge, or comment on, or scold. God is us seeing the true image of what we are and hoping that that is good enough. God is us, we are god. To only god can you pray but only you will hear these prayers as only god can hear.

God is the only person you can trust. Your instinct and your mind, your heart and your truth. Never allow another man to tell you who is god.

Only you know who god is. As god only speaks to you. Every man has a different view of god and yes, god talks to every man. Not two, three , four men. Every single human is spoken to by god alone. You see?

Only you can hear the words of god as they are meant to you.

To tell others that they can only accept the words that god has said to only you is false and against god.

God speaks to everyone. In their own language.

God is the only one in the room of my mind, god is there with me as I hold the mirror to myself, only god and I know who I am.

See? God does not rule us, god does. Ourselves trying to comprehend something so simple we started wars for it, raped children for it, beat women for it, and killed innocents for it. And “it” is bad. Not god but bad men. Bad, bad men.

god is ourselves, crying to be seen by all, but unheard still.

“And in likeness, we were created”.

Anonymous. Published. 2006