The Narcissism of Youth

Wow. Just total wow.

I am speaking to my son tonight, pumped because I have like my 5th follower on my blog. I am thrilled beyond belief that 5 people like the way that I write. (The fact that at least two of them are friends does not kill my buzz at all!)

Son: “Mom what is a follower?”

Me: “Someone who likes my writing and is reading what I wrote.”

Son: “So basically they like me. ‘Cause  like all you write about is me; so they just like me.”

Me: “Ummmmm no I do not solely write about you. I write about other things too.”

Son: “Moooooom, what is more important than me?”

Me: (In head) Fuck Fuck Shit yeah. So despite the fact that I do write about other things, my narcissistic son believes that my entire life revolves around him. (And he is not wrong)

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Beauty and The Beast

It is hard.  How do you explain to someone who’s serotonin levels don’t fluctuate. Who never have had the sense of impending doom? Who wakes in the morning and goes through their day without once wondering if they have fucked up so badly they will be without work in the morning? You cannot.  Because for someone who does not live with depression, your words may paint pictures but it cannot convey feelings.

Depression is an angry beast, insidious in how it creeps in and affects every aspect of your life.  No one wants me, no one cares, no one can understand how I feel. The abyss beneath your feet, it is real, all consuming and you spend hours tightrope walking to ensure your sanity. But you cannot explain. You cannot show.

And it feeds your bliss too. My creativity surges when I am in a depressive state. I can write poetry that makes your soul bleed, I can write prose and entice those who do not read, to devour my stories. And want more. So I crave the blackness, I crave the sleepless nights and boomerang days. I live in my head, during work hours, during down time, coming out of my fugue to care for my son. I live in a world of fantasies. And it feels good.

Not only do I live with depression, but so does my bff and her daughter.  My bff is on medication and lives a calm serene (LOL sometimes) life. She is willing to give up creativity for stability. Her daughter and myself, we are artists. Not that my bff isn’t but We Are Artists. We need to create. Via the written word, paint, media. We have words to speak and a need for the world to hear. However, our creativity is closely tied to our depression. (I have a feeling my bff’s daughter is going to disagree with me and this is because all my beliefs are based on her mom’s perception of her rather than my own as I have not spent any time with her) but anger and passion fueled by depression is addictive.

The beast is depression. The beauty is the brilliance that spills from my mind and fingers, from the paint brush on the canvass, the ability to convey my thoughts and worries. I know this is disjointed. It may not make sense but to me there is beauty in the truths I have found tonight.

Not as Sane as I Should be

A year and a bit ago when I left my husband I stopped taking all my pills. I felt wonderful. Free. I was on the right path for me.

Today as I laid on the couch writhing with fear, my anxiety breaching the walls that I have erected to keep it out, I wondered if that was a sensible thing to do.

When last I saw my doctor about my depression he warned me that I might need to be on pills forever. I was devastated. Really? Pills forever? I just could not fathom that. Nor did I want to. Depression is a stigma all by itself, depression and medication and everyone who knows covertly looks at you, they take your heartbeat. They listen to how you speak and wonder if you are not a little coo-coo. Been there. Done that. Don’t want to go back. But today, today was the day that I wondered, that I thought about it.

I was off for a total of three days. Three days that I was not in contact with my store. And this morning, I huddled on my couch in fear. I must have fucked up something so huge that when I got to work today I was done. I texted my second begging for reassurance. I received it like .50 minutes before I had to go to work.

I am monitoring my blood pressure. It is high before and after work. Right on the ball at night. I am every where, the reason why I think that I need to start retaking medication is so I can calm down. Thankfully my second totally lives the same life as me. She lives with depression and anxiety. She gets me when I text and say what did I fuck up, did you fix it and is it okay to come into work today?

I know this is all over the place, I know what I have to do. First, I need to restart taking my meds. This will help with my anxiety. If there is a second and third I am not aware of it. Disjointed writing disjointed needs. I must make a dr appt

The Face Depression Wears

So today is Let’s talk about Mental Illness day.

While I appreciate the notion every day is a day to discuss Mental Illness.

I have been diagnosed with depression, anxiety, major depression, ptsd, bi-polar 2 and holy fuck I am just cray cray.

I struggle sometimes daily but I can go months without feeling anything but good.

Than come those days where I sob into my pillow because everyone hates me and despite my talent I am not writing. I struggle with feeling like I am the world’s worst mother. That I am not a good friend, a good girl friend, a good daughter or sister. I writhe with disgust at my inability to not cope without having a drink. I look in the mirror and cannot stand the image that looks back at me. I have my ups and by god I have my downs. I cry and I bitch and I huddle beneath the blankets because there I find comfort. There I find security.

This is the face that depression wears in my life.

I saw a dead body

Yesterday while I was waiting for my son to be released from school, I was watching the snow skitter across the landscape blown by the arctic wind. It was freezing which was part of the reason that I had gone to pick him up but it is also our time to spend together and I can find out what he has learned during the day on our brief ride home.  For once we are home there are much better things to do rather than talk to mom.

My eyes flowed over the landscape and came to rest on the swing set. I cocked my head to the left and stared. What on earth was that? I than cocked my head to the right and squinted unsure that what my brain was processing was actually true. For if it was the children were about to have the shock of their lives upon exiting the school. A weekend ruined and why?

It looked at though a body wrapped in an orange garbage bag had settled onto the swing. And was swinging slowly back and forth. My first thought was not for the children but wondering how the body was attached to the swing so that it did not fall off. Than I thought this is going to really suck for the first kid that sees it. I will admit that there was a small frission of alarm that I was not more shocked by the sudden appearance of a body in my child’s school yard.

I continued to wonder, really wonder how the body was staying on the swaying swing when I noticed a mother crossing the yard. She was bundled up against the cold, trudging along, her hajib wrapped around her. She wore a long dark black coat and sturdy winter boots. Such a contrast in cultures. And she walked right by the body on the swing without even giving it a second look so I did. Only to realize that it was an actual swing. Not a body.

I probably sound a lot crazy but I often see things in a different way. I have seen many a thing that does not exist. I believe it is because I am imaginative and everything I see has the potential to become a story. Does this? I am not sure. But I am unable to get the stark image of the blowing snow, the swing swaying back and forth and trying to figure out how one would attach the body to the swing so it will not fall off. My other is who would actually put a body in a schoolyard thus traumatizing all the children? What sick thrill would be gotten from this.

I will continue to think about it. I do believe there is something there however my fear is I have never written a mystery and I do not know where to start. I don’t know how to write mysteries but maybe it is not a mystery? I am confounded and will continue to ponder this sudden dilemma.

I might be a little good…..

Recently a memory of mine was shared to FB. You know, usually little sound bites of something shared a couple of years ago but I started reading the memory. I was writing about a story. As I am reading I am wracking my brain trying to recall the name and author of this book and failing miserably. All I could think was why can I not recall the end or the author? And than I got to the end. I was the author of this work.

I cried. I am a voracious reader. Love great stories mostly in fantasy genre but have been branching out. This was some good stuff. Not to toot my own horn but well someone has to.

I may go back and collect the work together off Facebook or see if I have saved to my computer.  If I have saved it maybe I might be able to get back into writing it. Except that I started another fantasy story, one where the MC has totally taken on a life of her own. Which makes me a little afraid for I know what will happen. I will become consumed with her story and her story only.

I am taking it one day at a time and I will get back to my writing sooner rather than later but right now I need to take a step back and breath. The chance that I will start and than not finish is at the forefront of my mind. But we shall see.

Kinda Cool

Driving my son to school yesterday and we have a conversation about coolness.  He relates coolness to the clothing he wears or does not wear during the winter months.  Apparently a toque, scarf and mittens are totally uncool.

I explain to him that he is eight years old. At that age no one is cool. I do not care who you are you are not cool at eight.  Also explained that the only time he is allowed to be cool is when he is in high school. We have like six years before we worry about that.

“Hey Buddy just so you know I was not cool either. Not in school and not now.”

“Mom you are totally cool.”

“I am not. Child I am a book reading uncool mom in toque, mittens and boots.”

“Mom me and bf’s name totally think that you are sooooooooo cool.”

I did not know how to respond. I have finally become cool. It has taken me 44 years but there you have it. In the eyes of the one person that it is important for me to be a little bit outstanding, I am cool. Bonus is his bf totally thinks that I am cool too! What a win for the week.