There’s a subtle nuance in the numbers when one can listen to the words of the conversation, but has no place at the table.
This sad frequency I dub vulnerable transparency, that leaves me invisible.
2 years without sight, 3 years without hearing. Things have been different for a long while, yet I don’t really demarcate any propulsion to new sentiments towards myself. For all those early years alone, I only knew the torment of thought waving in my mind. I couldn’t look elsewhere within the blundering smudges everyone said I was supposed to care about but couldn’t see. Rankous imagery of words to provide hearing, as I couldn’t stifle my own. I was going insane as I was only consumed by whatever my existence wanted to understand about myself. All sensories deflated. There is no other, only you. A defect of a being. Disabled beyond repair, still dreaming of the normal antiquities you’re supposed to do in life, but are a blessing for me to achieve if I happen to live that long.
Two decades later and I’m decaying under the weight of every distraction I’ve implemented. Hide from the mirror unless I have a series of jokes in tow. Only hope someone will laugh with me, and make me feel like I don’t have so many stripped screws and loose bolts for whatever it is that put me together this way. I know I’ve got a lot wrong, even my good intentions never quite pan out that way. I fall on safety nets faster, knowing if I spun that web myself, at least when I fall, it’ll be my own fault. I don’t wish to blame others. I want a sneaky getaway and for torture to consume me in its traditional lonesome agony. I don’t want anyone to see my suffering in its full authenticity of view. Familiarity, at least, that provides comfort while I’m in deep-seated pain that only seems single-episode and exponential in growth. My diversion tactics from myself, never work.
Some retrospect comeuppance, when one acts with verbose chagrins and complains constantly. Not too happy with oneself. I wanted to blame the snake that backed me into this corner that my verbiage became obligatory self-defense until one realizes if they didn’t start the game or toil at it suspiciously, the most obvious stone to be thrown is the one treated in disregard.
My sense of fun seems undulated into shrieking laughter while I hide the notion of dry heaving until the nausea seizes me, once again. Performance of the smoking jester, and all that really happened in the end, is I’m left in my corner alone. I don’t have anyone else to lean on. No one even comes looking to check up on me or my projects. Let alone ask, if there’s anything in the works. I don’t really say much out of fear, wanting to be so original, when it does happen anyways. Only to be baffled when someone did it better than I could with my broken mentality and waning means while I wasted my time on something else; a bottle episode, fever dream, or otherwise.
I wish I could dispel my dreams and not have this aching quake of mutiny towards myself for wishing for a better, deserving life.
In the end, it’s just a miracle if I can answer a text in a timely manner, while I respirate in my room. That seems to be what the ones that can observe closest, think. Some joke, cosmic or otherwise. The girl that wants to be alone feels like human waste when she realizes the disruption she caused was more mounting than she thought. No waste in crumbs, and suddenly I’m the scapegoat. Guilt felt I deserved this long ago. Doesn’t want to cause harm, but wants to point out the obvious; I alienated myself while walking the only path that could be all mine, fulfill minute dreams that abstain me, as there is no worth in chasing the dream, if no one can even tell me “good job!” at the end of the day.
“I’m dancing as fast as I can.”
I don’t know how to feel proud of myself full-time, unless someone else grants a bit of recognition my way, so I know my sense of reality is substantial. I’ve been the fool for so long, I don’t wish to play this role anymore and feel I’ve learned something along the arcana of intuition, all these years later.
If I can brightside it, there is one thing I know I am good at. At the end of the day, it’s accountability. I record mine and track otherwise amongst the counts. Whatever offering to my negated perspective, I always end up the lone remainder of one. Whatever observations were collected not for my own record, doesn’t mean much, and I should’ve just minded my business anyways. It’s easier that way, than to start caring to check in on others, when I can’t do it for myself until it comes to disparages of time like this. It’s like I’m still holding the bottle, even while I let myself break, just to preserve my addiction of vindicated behaviors.
I don’t see my shine and negate my shadow until I lean on it for a wicked sense of entertainment to distract and soothe my empty-self into laughter, whole-heartedly not realizing nor being in control of what I was doing and the impacts it could have in the moment and further later down the road. I wanted to laugh so badly, I just end up choking on my own tears, kicking the covers off, and rebuilding the cocoon of blankets, so even I don’t have to look at any version or part of myself. Rinse and Repeat.
The enthralling “Everyone saw.” pulsates through every fiber of my neurons.
So instead I recuse myself back into hoping there is some divinity still left in my soul, as I am the hapless easily-forgettable nuisance bastard.
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2 responses to “Reflections: Mental Polarity Reversal del la Payasa de Triste”
I’m sorry to know you carry this burden, Sam. Some people are given a much more difficult row to hoe than others, and it’s not fair. I know words are useless in times like these, but it’s my hope you’ll be able to see that you matter, you have value, you’re incredibly talented, and people really do care about you. This piece must have required so much courage to write, and your pain radiates in every word. Don’t give up quite yet, my friend.
Sending you all the best from stormy Colorado. 🙏
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When the world is free of distraction, and all that is left of me – I’d say I portrayed it quite clearly. That’s the real core of my being. It’s not how I feel or act full-time, but that’s me. The intensity that nags away while I go on yearning through mania only hoping to achieve. Push myself further in the direction I wish to be, not that I even want or think I need. It’s rarely that. Calling it “chasing my dream” when it’s really to the tune of getting a fix without the substance involved. Bipolar Disorder, Depression, Anxiety, Mental Illness, Addiction (and it’s many forms) – I learned too late in life that those were existent, studied, and common-enough. Hereditary in my family, doesn’t dispose of the shame. I talk about it, at least. My records are more vast than any family member or friend I’ve encountered at the ripe age of 23, a quarter left until 24. I suppose it’s a sense of courage but more of a “necessitated written breakdown” for myself. Icarus flew too high. I was flying much too high while I still thought I was still in the gates of the coop. The fall after is, cumbersome, to say the least. Physical and mental exhaustion, have a lot to do with it. My work ethic amongst unfiltered mania knows no bounds. Woke up in so much pain yesterday, hard not to be a nasty nellie, depressive deb, or angry angie especially when you’re physically and mentally disabled and all you’re begging for with every remarked breath – is some sleep. “Take the tea kettle off the burner – it’s about to start smoking.” type of sentiment. Sometimes the most futile of necessary human needs, can provide a sense of soothing even when I’m already in anticipation of all the things I gotta work towards in my professional life and think on/navigate in my personal life. It just felt good to get it out. I’m not the only manic depressive out there, that I feel could relate, once the mask is taken off. It’s best to talk about it in its rawest form, even as risky as the world and healthcare institutions seem to make it feel this way.
Thanks for sticking through it, Mike.
Sending my best from cloudy and overcast ENC.
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