Tag: creativity
When You Meet Yourself Again Somewhere You Were Before But Forgot Exactly Where It Is
Undiagnosed with the highs as I only report with the lows. To therapy, that is. And so, After watching episode 3 of Modern Love I thought, hmm, I get it. Not that specific depiction of bipolar disorder, but of these two realities as one person—one depressed, unable to function, and the other with a sense of grandiosity, of being able to do anything and having this imagined magnetism and a thousand thoughts and ideas racing through your mind, then back to the depression.
These (mood not tv series) episodes don’t come on suddenly for me, I think, as they do Anne Hathaway’s character. They ebb and flow with the seasons, the stress, and the scents around me. There is no clear pattern, though, but fall into winter tends to trigger the worst of it in either direction—something about the heavy clouds that I can feel compressing my skin and the weight of shortened daylight.
I don’t actually know for certain this is bipolar—I’ve never been formally diagnosed with it (just depression and anxiety) but I know the questions asked to diagnose it and I know the answers align to not just this moment but a series of hypomanic episodes throughout my life.
I never like to admit I am beyond the ability to control my thoughts or actions because that is terrifying. But I’m in control enough to know right from wrong. To stop myself, generally, from the worst of it. I can try to present as a normal high-functioning individual and hone in on the energy of the episode to be super productive. Unfortunately, the racing thoughts and ideas often are my downfall. It becomes near impossible to focus on anything except some grande scheme like staying up 24 hours straight to learn piano.
I think it’s important to talk about mental health issues because they are as real as any other health issue. At the same time I know manic me is writing this as performance art—not so much as a cry for help, but a cry for connectivity with others who get it. Because it can be so isolating to exist amongst a sea of people who surely have their own issues but who don’t understand what it’s like to not know yourself, or, to meet yourself again. Not as a schizophrenic but as a person who has two ways of reacting to the world — both with great sensitivity, but one with a sense that anything is possible and the other who fundamentally believes nothing is.
Neither person sees the world in a healthful way. Others who haven’t been there often like to offer advice. If I had a nickel for every time someone told me to meditate I’d buy a meditation studio. Don’t get me wrong — meditation is a tool that can help, especially to calm down a racing mind temporarily, and I should do it more often. But this isn’t about transient stress or situational sadness. This is baked deep into me so deep no amount of headspace can clear my head.
It seems the other M word—medication—is the only answer. Bipolar meds are very strong and they scare me. If I’ve ever held one belief close to my heart on who I am it is that I always trust my gut-based intuitions to lead me to what’s right. I feel so intensely it is hard to accept that feelings are just reactions to thoughts that are filtered through the altered state du jour. But I’m starting to accept that medication may be the way to go, hopefully not forever. I’m afraid to say goodbye to these moments when I feel like life is filled with infinite meaning, yet I know it’s unhealthy to live in that world now or ever again.
But – waking up at 1am and then 4am with a surge of energy racing through my veins is magnificent, especially for someone who lives months of her life barely able to roll out of bed at 8 when the alarm clock goes off. The world is electric and moments extend so that days no longer blur together as a sea of grey nothingness but instead are each their own days in and of themselves. Sensations are so heightened and pleasurable even an accidental scratch feels good, or the hard edge of an uncomfortable chair cutting into your back. Because feeling everything is everything in this state. Feeling and experiencing and connecting.
Of course, others don’t live in this world, so you must be relentlessly cautious. There is madness in the splendor. A longing for plot where story doesn’t exist. Scripting plot points in the subtle arch or an eyebrow, the slight exhale of breath, the way the light catches the temporary truth hidden in anyone’s eyes, that longing and loneliness that some of us feel, that emptiness and want for more, found in the insatiable yet isolated, intellectual, often introverted, and inherently introspective.
And here is the downfall of the mania—because the world of possibility is the me that feels fucking fantastic momentarily yet also is aware of every action and reaction and understands that people don’t exist in the same world and then after impulse acting gets these mixed states with jolting lows, a quick cycling depression, embarrassment, shame, questioning ones own judgment, uncertain one deserves life at all (disappearance seems to be the best strategy to protect others), leading up to what inevitably is falling apart and slipping into the dark depression you know too well where all those highs of the epic life before feel like they came from a dream, from someone else’s life. It’s not like the plot points disappear then, they just become little silent self deprecating jokes along the way. You wonder how you ever thought people could consider you attractive or interesting or worthy of interaction.
The depression inspires a different kind of productivity as it tells you that you will never be good enough and you must constantly prove you are. The mania tells you that you will never be good at the things you ought to be good at anyway but there is so much more to be and do and feel. It’s probably why many artist types are manic depressive. Because in these states you can just create and you aren’t self doubting so much that you might create a work of genius or you might spin out the comparable of horse manure in a critic’s eyes and yet you put out something from start to finish and that’s enough for a shot at creating something meaningful.
Or, you do what you have to do to survive and fight the urges and silence your mind and run your fingers across the pliable edge of the lemonade cap and feel where it compresses against your skin while listening to music’s rhythms shift and harmonies and discords meld into your eardrums and your play songs on repeat or moments of songs on repeat because they know your soul far better than you do and get inside of it. You write and write and write to scrub your mind empty as fast as possible and in the intervals of exhaustion-fueled silence try to focus and be productive and just survive. You try to exist as if nothing is different but of course everything is.
I don’t know if this is how other people experience mania, or if this even is mania, but it sure feels it. I’ve seen this all play out before, now time and again. I know how the story ends, and where it’s going, if I’m not more cautious. Yes, I ought to pick up a daily meditation practice and do whatever it takes to power through this, and do it on my own, to protect myself and others who may be impacted from my behavior and cravings in this beautiful terrifying heightened state of existence that will surely fall hard back to reality all too soon. And I’ll hold my breath this time and try to make it there without acquiring or gifting too many scars along the way.
Back to Square 23.
Will you ever learn? No. But you can grow.
You’ve forgotten you’re a creaky old kettle wasting away on the stove. Boiling over. Boiled over.
Someone turned on the gas. High. You didn’t notice.
You were too busy trying not to crumble.
So here you are. Ashamed you’ve spilt. No. Flailed steaming liquids everywhere around you.
It was clearly a mistake. But what can you do when that fire’s going?
It isn’t until all that’s inside you has evaporated into steam, and you are left hollow, that you can make any sense of it.
But in time, too much time, you eventually learn to accept your archaic kettleness, cracks and all.
You realize you may not control the fire but you can subtly shift where your passion explodes.
You can cause havoc or create justice.
You must get in control of the magma inside. It’s powerful and impolitely poetic.
Trying to clean up your mess is futile.
Just dig deep and study your cracks and tilt at just the right angle. Be prepared to boil over. And accept you will always make steaming messes, so they might as well be productive ones.
How To / To How / To / How?
To write, or, more broadly, to create, I feel I must know, as many do, all the things that must be known, albeit not everything, since no one can know everything. But, in the case of the creatives, I speak of those who know many things to reference and metaphorize, which, in my general naivety, or general choice to ignore all rules, I’m claiming it as a word, red-dotted underline be damned. And, I do not have such knowledge, so I feel I have not earned the right to create. Not yet. But when?
I know so little. I know what I know of constantly fluctuating emotions in the boiling bubble of my brain, but little else. All that I’ve “learned” disappears in moments. I have nothing to reference. I’m discovering notes without knowing that music is an art form. I’ve got nothing.
Continue reading “How To / To How / To / How?”Rebel.
“You were a rebellious child.”
My father believed in hierarchy and order, though wasn’t necessarily the beacon of such organization. A rebel in his own right, he was king of the household and all shall bow down to his majesty or else, and never question him or any deviation from his high image of himself.
As an adult, I asked my father why he disciplined me the way he did–so severely at such a young age–and “you were a rebellious child” is the answer I got. His emphasis and tone on the term “rebellious” clearly did not skew positive.
Continue reading “Rebel.”Circulation
I like the light here. Perfect-looking people look all the more perfect in this light, and everyone else still is painted with the polish of perfection. There is a cool breeze circulating around my lips, entering from the open door where light pours in. It also pours in through the large glass doors and the loft ceilings with more tall windows. This place is far too fancy for someone like me, with every element designed to meet the highest of standards, and every guest seemingly architected to fit in their respective space, much like the ceramic mugs with half-heart-shaped handles.
It is a “gallery cafe” and its aesthetic is apropos. I’m far too desheviled for this space, but perhaps I’m performance art disrupting perfection. Women with crisp white button downs and bright blue jumpsuits and soft cotton flowing skirts are on display. Men who look like professors and rock stars and startup CEOs also design themselves into the scene. The “rock star” has tattoos and long hair and wears a muscle shirt that says “risk it for the biscuit.” I wonder if he really would.
Today, I’m ok with being alone. I’m enjoying the cool air pressing against my nose and tracing its invisible path and sources. I’m enjoying the parade of pants perfectly creased, too-perfectly creased for Sunday. And the tall trees outside, piercing up fiercly, far beyond my view. And those smaller, whisper trees that feature leaves in the season’s transition, a base of green yellows up into red orange, as if someone took a culinary torch and burnt just their tippy tops into rust.
I’m tired. Not tired as in I didn’t sleep last night, but tired as in a visceral exhaustion that aches through my bones. The exhaustion that comes with fighting getting one year older, one year further from my father’s death, one year away from my childhood home likely being sold, and forever away from identifying some greater purpose–or maybe moments away from that.
I can barely keep my eyes open. But with them closed, as they are now, I do not fall asleep. I feel more awake than ever. I feel the breeze up against me, holding me, keeping me safe in my solitude. I have to go back to the real world shortly–this is just a brief post appointment hiatus to caffeinate and rejuvenate before the week ahead. The weeks ahead. The last month of 35.
Turning 36 is something. Not that it’s old, but it’s certainly way closer to 40 than I ever thought I’d ever be. And its gone so fast it’s clear that I’m also close to 50 and 60 and the rest of it. I want to do something in this vast pool of time I have left in good health before it’s gone. I’ve always felt death’s hold against me–as a child I’d close my eyes tight at night and wonder what it would be like to just be gone–but now it’s there, ahead of me, approaching. If the next 20 years of my life are dedicated to earning income and motherhood, that means I’ll be 56 before I have time to create. Not that I know what to create or have any talent, but I still want to find the time to try before I’m 56.
I just write these silly blog posts because they’re the only thing I have time for these days, and writing consistently, even pointlessly, helps me in my day job. But what else is there? There must be something more. It feels like a cruel trick that through childhood we’re given ample time to create and then, just when we have enough knowledge and maturity to say something meaningful via these creations, we have no time.
But I do have this time, sitting here, eyes closed, typing hopefully the right letters, circulating a thousand possibilities in my mind, breathing that fresh, pollinated fall air deep into my burning lungs.
life with interest 