Tag Archives: anger

Dark

depression

I’m in the bottom of a deep, dark hole.  I’m so far down that I can’t see the light shining at the top (my kids’ bright smiles, my husband’s warm hugs).  I kick the walls of the hole because I’m angry and because I feel that somehow it’s my fault that I’m down here.

I can’t cope with loud noises, mornings, daily chores.  The more irritable I get, the angrier I am at myself.  I snap at the people closest to me and I just feel worse.  I’m mad at how long this depression is lasting.  I don’t remember it ever being this disruptive to my life.

The only thing I can tell myself is “don’t give up” and “this will get better.”  I have to keep convincing myself of this (every day, multiple times a day) because I can’t give up and this will get better.

The Sad

index

I don’t want The Sad.  I didn’t ask for The Sad.  It’s just here anyway.

I’m kind of angry at The Sad and it makes me mad that The Sad tricks me into thinking I’m the only one with it.

It comes and goes as it pleases and disrupts my life and poops on it and then leaves.  I’m glad when it’s gone but I hate that it has returned and I hate that it is always returning.

Why is it so hard to beat The Sad?  All the things I know to do don’t make sense when The Sad is around.

I have no words for The Sad.  I can’t even write to beat The Sad.  And now I have to go to work and fight every moment against The Sad so that I don’t just up and leave suddenly when it becomes too overwhelming and the only other thing I can do is drive home and sneak into bed and hope that no one notices and no one finds me and tries to make me do anything other than hide.

 

 

Never good enough

Once you are wrong, you’ll always be wrong and can never do anything right.  And if you’re right in his eyes, you can never do anything wrong.

I’m in the first category.  Ever since I was little, everything I did was wrong.  There was exasperated sighs, hands thrown up in the air, yelling, shouting, pointing.  Always, whatever I did, whatever I tried, I was wrong.

I didn’t put my shoes where they were supposed to be.
I left smudges on the mirror.
I threw a wet sock down the clothes chute and it got all the other clothes wet and what was I thinking?  Do I even think?  Ever?

I left the light on.  I shut the door too hard.  I couldn’t remember the difference between a phillips head and a flat head.  I didn’t push in my chair.  I move too fast.

I took too long.  I put us behind.  I didn’t pay attention.  My head was filled with nonsense and always somewhere else instead of where it should be.

So now, here I am again, feeling totally inept in my adult life.  I just got a job, proud of myself, and immediately, it’s:  ‘well, that’s good, that will give you time to look for a real job.’  Lights out on any shred of self-esteem I might still have had.

And now the big stuff is coming out.  For a while, there was a lull.  But now the ish has really hit the fan, so to speak.  He broke.  He called us out on all of our flaws, all of our problems, hollered and shouted and pointed and said, ‘you, you, you.’  Should have.  Don’t you think?  I’m at the end of my rope.  Lost cause.  What do you expect?

Part of me feels ashamed.  All of me feels guilty.  And responsible.  I listen to every word as though it is absolute truth.  He is absolutely right and I am absolutely wrong.  About all of it.  I’m wrong.  Wrong, wrong, wrong.  Wrong for not working harder.  Wrong for not listening.  Wrong for making bad decisions.  Wrong for not figuring it out.  Not working hard enough.  Not caring enough.  Not doing enough.  Not moving fast enough.  Wrong at every move.

I’ll never be right.  I’ll never, ever get it right.  No matter what I do or how hard I try, I will always, inevitably, be wrong.

 

Struggle

I’ve got to make it through this.  I’ve got to be able to carry this and keep going.

Right now I’m using every tool in my toolbox.  Im scrounging around in the very bottom of it, searching for what’s left.  I’ve used up all the ink in my pen, my voice is harsh and strained from all the talking and crying and my mind is drained.  I have very little left.

I’m angry and hurt and I’ve lost the ability to express myself in every way imaginable.  I have no map for this awful terrain.

I’m on my knees begging for help.

I’m going to lay down now and hope that my thoughts dont follow me to my pillow.  Music, tv, any distraction – just please work so I can have one peaceful moment outside this reality.

I have work in the morning, in just a very few hours.  Please just let me sleep and when I wake up, please make this nightmare disappear.

Alwrite so I’m gonna right.

I’m not in the mood to write, but I know it helps me.  So I’m going to choose to do the healthy thing even though it is the thing I least want to do.

In fact, the thing I would most like to do is completely give up.  Only I can’t.  Because of alot of things.  Because other people depend on me.  Because I have kids.  Because it would be the easy way out.  Because it wouldn’t fix anything.  Because I have to keep keeping on.

I’m not in the best place right now.  I know those of you who know depression understand.  So I know that I have to focus on the positive right now.  I have to force myself to get through each minute of each day and just focus on what is right in front of me.

I need to take a walk.
I need to focus on breathing.
I need to write to make it alright.

I remember when I was in the psychiatric hospital, we used to get together every morning and state our goal for the day.  Over and over my goal was simply “breathe.”  Maybe people thought I wasn’t being serious (or maybe that was my paranoid thoughts about what others were thinking of me) but it was literally all I could do to just focus on breathing and being alive.  Like, accepting that I’m here and this is it and this is what I had to deal with.  Cause I fought it so hard, fought the fact that I was in the hospital, fought the fact that I had to take care of myself before I could take care of anything else.  Accept that I was sick.

We had art class in the hospital, and it was life-changing for me.  It still is so hard for me to draw or create something art-ful.  Because I feel like I don’t do it well enough or that it won’t look good and so why should I even try?  I need to get back to that therapeutic aspect cause once I started doing it, I realized that it was helpful.  Like helpful-alot.

Right now, today, I have to go to work.  I have to put on a stupid red apron with all this Christmas crap on it and I have to smile and I have to make stupid jokes with the customers.  And I’m doing it for my kids.  To support us because I’m the only one that can.  I have to miss out on them getting off the bus.  I have to work until night and then I get to see them for a while before they go to bed.

Vent/rant:  I’m so sick of everything.  I’m so sick of trying so hard for just simple things.  Like getting dressed, getting ready, driving to work.  Working.  Coming home and trying to be there for my family.  All I really want to do is be alone.  I imagine myself going to a soft cabin in the woods somewhere, being completely alone with myself and no one else.  Just feeding myself and sleeping and maybe writing a little and maybe, if I get the confidence to do it, drawing.  Or creating something.  Anything.

This summer I spent time with my sister and her niece and my kids and my sister’s husband.  And we were at a beach and we had just ate pizza at the beach and we had to leave so we decided, let’s take one more jump in the water, and then we’ll pack everything up and go.

So I dove out into the water and I forgot about my kids and my sister and I left my life on the shore and I swam out and out and out and just kept crashing my body into the water over and over, diving farther and farther out, away from everything.  I would jump up, throw myself into the water, crash through the surface, immerse my whole body deep under the water, then rise back up and do it again.  It was the single best experience of my entire year.

Peace.

 

 

Does Misery Love Company

I have no scientific research on this because I am too busy watching extremely depressing videos of places I’ve never been to and where I probably will never go where devastating events are happening, not only terrible natural disasters, but worse yet, human-to-human violent acts that are hard to speak of or consider or think about or talk of but that are happening now and have been happening for eons.

I mentioned this to my equally bipolar sister (birth sister) the other day, of how I am sucked into this downward spiral of soaking up all of this knowledge of horrible events and awfulness happening around the world through news broadcasts and books and alternative news stations and videos on youtube and wherever, and I mentioned that this happens when I get depressed; I wrap myself into this blanket of awfulness, working to avoid the depressive state of my own affairs and seeking to cover myself with the depressive state of others’ affairs.  And I expressed that I couldn’t really understand why I do this, because it’s completely counterintuitive toward getting well (although, much can be said about that as there are LOTS of things we do to ourselves when we are depressed that we know FOR A FACT are not helping but we do them anyway as that is sort of the evilness that is mental illness.)

Anyway, she pointed out to me that perhaps it was because that when we are in these pained states, these highly sensitive states, it is one of the only times when we are actually able to come closer to understanding what others are going through; it is one of the few times that we can relate to a portion of the feelings of devastation or sadness or pain or pure torture that other people in various parts of the world are existing in.

I don’t know if she is right or wrong.  I see these atrocities when the feelings crushing me inside, the ones that make me hate myself and want to die, lead me down the road towards a different kind of pain, the pain of others.  Do I watch/read/absorb these things because I want to be more depressed?  Or is it to remind myself that I am privileged, safe, and not in any immediate danger for my life?  Do I do it because it is the only time I can feel the sorrow and sadness at a depth that seems more attune to plight and devastation?

And how sad for the state of us all that I and other humans can absorb these things and yet still do nothing to stop it?  I already have heavy feelings of powerlessness and hopelessness – why do I allow myself to view events that are even more charged with those same feelings?  Does misery really love company?  Is it as simple as that?  I don’t think so.

We were never promised a life without suffering.  We were never promised it; in fact, we were promised that there WOULD be suffering, that we WILL endure hardship and pain and discomfort of all different kinds.  And that from those calamities, if we show patience and endurance and continue to display kindness and love and spread peace, that we will have ease and be rewarded in this life and the next.  And the reason is because without suffering we cannot build strength.  Without pain and hardship, we would never become strong.

I can’t tie this all together, but I also feel that I don’t need to.  Peace.

My Blind Rage

screaming through a litany of f-word adjectives describing every personplaceorthing who had the audacity to be in existence at the same moment in time as me.

tucked into the corner of a locked room with the lights off and my hands covering my ears because “I just needed to get away for a while.”

muttering quietly, speaking to my own brain, who keeps playing tricks on me and won’t leave me the fuck alone.

out in the middle of some backwoods country road intersection in pitch-black darkness, leaned over and gasping for breath cause I tried to run hard enough to get away from myself and failed.

flinging verbal venom, my words striking the face of whatever poor soul chose to speak to me.

 

What hurts is that none of these versions of me reflect who I truly am.  This is why bipolar disorder hurts so bad.  Because there I am, trapped inside of that hideous monster, unable to control it, trying to escape it, and all the while, no one can hear my cries, my sincere apologies, my deep regrets.

This is why I can so strongly feel that those around me would be better off without me, despite my logical reasoning that this is not so.  It’s because I can see myself acting this way.  I can see myself snapping at those who love me, who are trying to help, who want to care for me.  And yet all I can do is watch as those claws dig into their tender skin, as those monsterous fangs spew poison out of my own mouth.  And all I can do is hope that they survive.