Tag: therapy

Autobiography · Mental Health

Fantastic

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.

Autobiography · Mental Health · Relationships

Belief

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.

September 2015.
September 2015.
Addiction · Mental Health · Personal Development

Hover

Ruby Pipes19 Comments

“Hummingbird” © AnnCam, 2010. CC BY 2.0.
“You’re running to stand still,” he said as he mimed the motion. “The way you describe it is like the way a junkie describes shooting up just to stay level, you know. You know. Just to keep from getting sick. It sounds exhausting.”

I glanced out the window, then back to him, and pulled one foot underneath me. “I guess I hadn’t thought about it like that. I mean, I guess I just figured I kind of have to do this stuff because…” I trailed off in a light giggle. “This sounds so fucking ridiculous.”

“It sounds dangerous, is what it sounds like. It sounds unachievable. It’s just another way your perfectionism is coming into play.”

He doesn’t usually get preachy. Usually he lets me get there on my own, so I can tell it’s important when he doesn’t. My religious avoidance of things that might be addictive or may cause unhealthy habitual behavior has become just that.

Taking care of myself is getting closer and closer to becoming just another avoidance tactic. Just another thing I do to not deal with what is happening. Focusing on my health slips from being a good idea to a dangerous obsession with just a few additions.

There’s got to be balance somewhere. An understanding of the things I need to do to take care of myself and the way I need to do them. Room for the just sitting, space for doing things just because I like them. There’s has to be a way to have a cup of coffee without thinking, “This is addictive. Caffeine is addictive. Everything is going straight to shit. I’m going to start drinking again.”

Flexibility has never been my strong suit. But I like to think I can learn to stretch. Learn to believe I have the capacity to live somewhere between the perfection that doesn’t exist and passed out drunk in a ditch.