Fantastic

October 5, 2015October 3, 2015 Ruby Pipes12 Comments

"Tired" © Giuseppe Milo, 2015. CC BY 2.0. — “Tired” © Giuseppe Milo, 2015. CC BY 2.0.

“I don’t know. I guess… I guess I just feel like my default state now is… I don’t know. Complete misery.”

“And yet–and this is meant more as an observation than a compliment–you always look fantastic.”

I laughed. So he laughed.

“And that, too!” He pointed at me. “That laugh. That’s genuine. People can tell that’s real.”

“Right. Man, I don’t know. I mean, logically I know that those two parts of myself can exist together. But, I don’t know. It feels like one has to be real and the other a cover.”

Is that my disease or the two wolves fighting?

I don’t know where this idea came from. That I am all either one thing or the other. Either depressed and using happiness as a cover or happy and never feeling the real crippling emptiness of depression. Surely you are not all one thing or another. Maybe there are no covers.

I’m terrified and miserable. I’m confident and exuberant. Not because I’m bipolar, but because people are fluid. Not everything is a symptom, kid. Sometimes it’s just how you’re feeling. Maybe your default state isn’t anything. Maybe life is neutral.

Belief

September 28, 2015September 27, 2015 Ruby Pipes16 Comments

"Empty House" © Jeff Garris, 2011. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0. — “Empty House” © Jeff Garris, 2011. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

I rock back and forth. The ever-present, “I can’t do this,” dripping from my lips.

Mason whispers into the nape of my neck, “Yes. You can. I believe in you.”

I inhale sharp and nod my head. Hemingway running through my mind, “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

In therapy Leif won’t even let me entertain the idea. “You are not uniquely broken. It sounds like you want to create different habits and responses. There’s no reason you can’t do that.”

I stare at him and bite my lip and start to cry and nod again. “Okay,” I say. Though it feels like it’s more for his benefit than anything.

Strangers leave blog comments as votes of confidence. I get pumped up for a moment, but I inevitably remember that I don’t believe any of it. That I think it’s all bullshit. Like I know some great secret no one else does. Truth is, no matter how much everyone else believes I am capable of making it out of this, I’m not.

I’ve always asked if bridges were high enough when crossing them. Always known where the hotels with balconies are. Always been aware of how long it takes to get a gun in the city I’m living in. I’ve always had a running list of options. Always known I am just biding my time until I break down well enough to go.

I talked openly about how I wouldn’t make it to twenty-five. But rarely mention how I continue to assume I won’t make it another year. Every birthday comes as a complete shock to me. Every anniversary.

But they’ve been right all along. I’m the one who has been foolish.

Inhale sharp. Nod my head. Mean it. This year I’ll learn to believe it.

I love you, Mase. Happy anniversary.

Autobiography · Mental Health · Relationships

Crumble

September 24, 2015September 23, 2015 Ruby Pipes34 Comments

"Puddle Play" © Mary Jo Boughton, 2015. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0. — “Puddle Play” © Mary Jo Boughton, 2015. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

I held my breath all the way home. Led Mason back into our apartment, walked to the bedroom, and collapsed on the floor. Hurt went through me like waves and I tried to ride them. Tried to steady my breathing. Say something nice or think of one good thing about myself.

Slouched over to one side, I curled my knees into my chest and sobbed. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.” Just one of those nights. One of those days. I started running through my list of emergency contacts. Practiced saying, “I need you to take me to the hospital,” under my breath.

Mason came into the bedroom when I started to hyperventilate and throw fists. Coaxed me onto the bed and pulled me into his chest tight. Immobilized, I softened.

“I’m trying. I’m trying. I’m trying so fucking hard and I don’t feel like anything is changing. And I can’t exist like this.”

My own words crashed over me. Each one a sharp epiphany. They pointed to my exhaustion, my self-doubt. They told me the truth about how I’ve been seeing myself lately. Torn between how I’ve been feeling and how I want to feel. Logically, I know I’m a good person who is working hard. Emotionally, I feel like a waste of space who deserves nothing lovely.

“I just… I fucking hate myself.”

And I don’t think I’d ever admitted it to someone else before. I wanted to slap my own words out of my mouth. I knew how hurtful they were, to him and to me. But I didn’t know how to say anything else. It was the only thing that seemed to hold any significance. Any weight of its own.

I didn’t backpedal, though I wanted to. Wanted to make excuses about getting caught in the moment or being overly-dramatic. But that wouldn’t be true. I said it. I meant it.

But not all the time.

Sometimes I think I’m worth the work. Most of the time I know I do good things. And that’s what’s important to remember. When my fingernails are digging into the palms of my hands. When I’m listing the things in the house I need Mase to hide from me. I have to learn to remember it is not always like this.

It usually isn’t. Even though lately it is.