Insignificance

I ripped the candy wrapper,

Did you hear the news?

I ripped the candy wrapper.

I do not remember ripping it,

it must have happened beyond my consciousness

but I ripped it.

I broke it, I tore it, I killed it.

In some way parallel to how I handle relationships.

I ruin, and wreck, and never even intend to or notice.

So then I become apathetic to it, I don’t even feel sadness.

I blame it on:

the season,

My drinking,

my sadness,

and I find a new tv show,

or another person to distract me.

Because in reality I am sad,

I feel remorse and yet did I truly ruin it,

or did they just leave?

I convince myself that it is the latter, that way I did nothing,

I can’t fix it, and it is insignificant.

I stare instead at some image

and forget.

 

 

 

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The Instant Love; a formula

The liquid dripped, it dripped in an instant

falling from the inside of my crevice

to the leg which sustains me.

It’s almost funny to think

that every experience

that is had

is only perceived to be real

by the sensory organs in the body

and so eventually it all fades.

I keep wondering often

about the illusion of feelings

and whether I will ever

fall so deeply that I won’t rise alone.

Instead leaping up to move

from point a to point d

the point of not being a singular

but of trusting enough to be a second

and yet a first.

humanity has redirected the desire

for stimulation and pleasure

and instead made themselves vaguely aware

of the death instinct,

living moments as though the immediate does not matter.

I looked at the dripping liquid,

it dried on my leg instantaneously

That’s the magic of the male orgasm,

it flows out, hits something and then is over

in many ways the same way as being with someone who

can’t be forever.

They appear, hit you, make you feel

and then leave as though

you could simply wipe off feelings.

Observations in my travels: Medellin Colombia

For what cannot be bought, there is feeling

at times the feeling of leaving the body

to touch the vulnerable fragment of iridescence

At times the feeling of incompetent

frustration,

a longing for the person

who will leave the body and meet the soul

in a dance of joy in suffering.

The soul rips apart and the body screams

the face reacts by red patches of uglyness

as the vesicles release fluid in the form

of floating perspiration.

I touched the urine on her skin

but only the coins felt her longing.

I cannot recall the face but I remember

the need , a need for the coin,

the gesture of the cross.

The priest, he said

that we are pilgrims, bodies made of dust,

the journey is centered towards…

the beans, the sustenance of flatulence.

the error grave, as I gazed at the artform and forgot to see

the hidden people that color the environment

with the reality of the result of self gain and free market,

I gave a coin, the priest a nice word, but the grass gave nothing,

it could not give beans,

the beans belonged to a market of some form,

which turned every touch into a debt,

the grave , a cost,

the birth, a cost,

the diploma, a cost,

the lips releasing a heavy smell

the rotting of the wood,

the explosion of the candle

which refuses to light without whim.

the lord will only listen by the donation,

a donation to light the candle,

a small remnant, a reminder of the debt

that christ left.

debt is but submission towards a power,

she released rain, sitting on the side of the street

drinking Coca Cola

a woman of no means, with the coin,

the power of the cross

which portrays the debt of one person towards another,

a debt which immediately fades, once the coin is released,

the kiss of life forgotten, the dance a facade,

no home for he who only has a coin.

 

 

Lithium

Reason. Why are you here. I have thoughts of hurting myself. silence as notes are taken. Am I a person. or am I a behavior.

The behavior kept worsening. I went from irritable to depressive. The lithium dose kept increasing. My brain couldn’t take it anymore and I would constantly break down. Lithium for me was a brief picture of hell. I could not think, I could only feel my agony. I was only on lithium. I took it every day despite my migraines and lack of clarity. I now regret following orders that were only killing me. I looked at an old poem of mine and noticed that within its borders were the descriptions of my mind. “Death of swing, euthanasia of indulgence, the abortion of the self…” I was slowly sedating my mind into inaction and inability. I wonder whether my diagnosis may have been incorrect. Why did I react so negatively to a drug that saves others? Perhaps I have to remember that the first pages on google search are chosen as the first and that perhaps there are more cases like my own. I was going insane. Irritable by the smallest noise, unable to sleep, registering the farthest voice. I was not this way before the lithium. Why did lithium destabilize me further? I felt no pleasure and was sure everyone hated me. I dragged myself to the hospital unable to understand how to keep myself standing. They only gave me the lithium that was guarding my sanity from returning. I was safe. I wasn’t going after anyone but I was suffering. The medical profession does not care about suffering or inability to think. They care only about whether you are a danger to yourself or others. In some respect they throw you into the situation of wanting nothing but to hurt yourself. Until then you are a success, only after you want to rip your skin apart do they mark you as urgent. I am right now off of all meds. I am thinking clearly, eating, sleeping, and daydreaming again. I am starting to think that perhaps meds are not my answer. Instead I have to find new ways to cope with my irregular emotions. I’m not sure about anything right now. But at least I managed to stay alive.

The hospital and depletion

I can’t cry. I had too many breakdowns and now I feel defeated. I just got out of the hospital a few hours ago. I checked myself in, not able to cope with the concept of living anymore. I keep complaining about this feeling but my psychiatrist won’t give me anything but lithium. I find it hard to think and concentrate. I used to have racing thoughts and each paper that I wrote would take half or a third of the time. I can’t handle being like this. Everyone is seeing my destruction. I sat in the emergency room for a long time. Since behaviorally I am quite normal every person that made sure I didn’t harm myself was made to like me. The enchainment of being non-external. I was released after a day. I walked out to the sun, people, and a discomfort in my head. I don’t fit anywhere. I got into a full elevator. I wanted nothing but to run. I haven’t slept for 48 hours. I’m tired but I keep myself up to feel like the failure that I see. I write words that sound empty. I don’t want to be depressed and have energy. I wish someone could help but I don’t know whether any part of my diagnosis is true. I sat with so many wonderful yet helpless people. I wanted nothing but to hug them. I could barely go to the bathroom by myself. I can’t take my half depleted half apparently normal state. I haven’t done any work. I had to reach out to the dean to help me get extensions. I’m a failure. I became useless and I am nothing but a waste of education. Even writing this post is painful. I can’t be a person anymore.

Worthless

I called out of work today and my boss asked me if I’m sick. How can I explain in two sentences that I am not physically sick but in mental agony? I tried only to sound empty. I’m unstable, and my lack of sleep is not helping my hopelessness and anxiety. There is a way in which words fail when one tries to explain that the mind is not working efficiently. I used to take pride in my ability to think, and in my ability to create words that moved beyond mundane statements. Basically my pride was built on the efficiency of my hypomanic state. I feel like I have no worth anymore. I can’t even sleep correctly. I am trying to change apartments because my roommates’ lifestyles clash with my need for sleep. There is a dialectic to what I want and what I actually do. I want to know more, to read everything but instead I stare at words that are blank with meaning. Why should I care about Kant’s categorical imperative? I never thought that I would end up being bipolar. Words can’t describe the experience fully. If you have one minute to speak you end up feeling defeated, pathetic, and disconnected. Everyone assumes that you should be able to act within the normative. Sometimes I wonder what’s the point to my education if my mind refuses to listen or care. I don’t belong in the capitalist economy. I want a realm of freedom in which productivity does not measure my worth.

The Fall

My life is becoming unbearable: to some extent a heavy lightness that suffocates me. By becoming I mean that everything is not as it should be. I am at this point 40 lbs overweight with no hope or energy to lose any of it. My lithium medication was increased today: a reminder that my brain is sick. While at the pharmacy I took a blood pressure test to find out that I am at risk, meaning that I am above the normal blood pressure. I feel like my body is deteriorating and I’m scared. Nothing works anymore. I wrote this essay and the professor kept denying my style, asking instead for curt statements. I just used the one word that I remember from all the GRE questions I have done. This post is pretty mundane but the life of someone attempting to reach stability despite a mental illness is not glamorous. I miss being irrational. I miss being in a higher energy state. Hypomania was always a blessing and yet at the end awaited the fall. I want to fall forever. I often wish that I didn’t exist. I sit sometimes and forget that I am a being and instead lose my awareness, focusing on my racing thoughts instead. I have no one to talk to and it hurts to pretend to be okay. I’m a piece of shit and I don’t deserve to be alive. If I didn’t have college loans I feel like I would end my life. I suppose part of debt is the loss of one’s right to one’s life. The I is a pretty selfish pronoun. I sometimes use we but then I realize that there is no one here except me. I’m sick. I’m sick. I’m sick. But no one can see it. The lard that is the majority of my body just walks around, out of breath sucking on chemicals, wanting nothing but respite. Instead I often find conflict. I can’t even keep one thought for more than a few minutes. This is why my essay was terrible. I can’t focus on one idea. I want to scream to deny my existence to punish my body for being defective. Instead I live half-ly: both alive and dead. I just want to die physically so that my external is equal to my interior. I feel like I am a rotten version of who I could have been. I am already at the fall. I live every day standing over the last cliff. I keep hoping that something will pull me back but instead I am looking above and I see darkness engulf me. I am sick. I wish someone would hear me.

The Dilapidated Swingset

Below the frame stands bare

A metal, freezing to the touch,

Reddening as the water breaks its surface.

A stripped form

as it stands in solitude;

its current state

invites no visitors to come and play.

It stands weighed down by previous hands, by its function,

and only that saves the remains.

All the folly that had wrecked

the vitality of its movement

had once been the spirit in the form

of blasphemous dreams.

“I had a dream of a sentiment

that I cannot recollect”,

Some call it

death of swing

euthanasia of indulgence

the abortion of the self.

Here lies the spinning

Necrosis in the form of follicles

A smoke in the air

to remind the lungs to hold their breath.

A trail of toxins which rupture the surface

and demolish the strings

leaving the scheme immaculate.

 

The paradox of class

Wikipedia mentions that the working class are those who have merely a high school graduation. It fails to examine the plight of the immigrant who lives as a sub-human in a land where his language is not spoken and his degrees are just papers. Immigration when I was a young girl made me think of the ducks as they fly from sky to sky never finding borders, able to find land to settle, never afraid of loss. Citizenship is one of those misconceptions; people think that it will grant them privilege. Instead they find a cold morning, a line, and police screaming that they should line up: lining up to attain a privilege of becoming the factory animal or the house maid. Human immigration is full of obstacles: there is the language to learn, the lower level class to escape, all left to the individual. As Samuel Huntington once said:The American Dream is in English. I capitalize the words to emphasize the problem that the immigrant must tackle. If he doesn’t make enough, he is left to deal with his problems alone in a world of bureaucracy that makes help a burden. If his taxes do not reflect that he makes enough because perhaps his work is not solely the 400 a week that he makes on minimum wage, but something off the books that is not taxed, he is denied everything that he would need to exist. No car, no apartment, no education for his children. He is boxed in a square that threatens to suffocate him. There is too much to say about immigration and too much that perhaps I do not understand but when I see the leaning figure of my family threatened by suffocation, I myself the one with the least barriers begin to understand that when I grew up thinking that it would all get better, I was lying to myself believing in a dream that is only known in English. I left much of my culture behind afraid of the eyes and the ears that judged me for not being American and middle class enough. For a long time I  denied my authentic situation, I floated hoping men would save me. It is time that I rise to my identity. I am not a pair but a daughter of people who the system has made suffer and frankly fucked over. I am a girl white enough to hide in the reflection of privilege. A fake reflection that when broken spouted the lies that had begun to fill me. I do not know what is ahead but I know that my life is not a normal one. It is not stages but walls. I have to break down walls: of poverty, of inner-hate, of assimilation, of patriarchy, of racism, and the walls that pride equations more than the creativity inside my head. For some time I may have to sail the streams but one day I will swim in the opposite direction halting the lies that bound me.