Invisible wallflower

Jeepers I felt like Jesus. You know the whole "before the cock crows twice" story? Google it. 

Anyway, so there stood I, already feeling like the frumpy wallflower when he walks right by. Right past me. Not the courtesy of a greeting. Not even the slightest hint of acknowledgement one would offer a stranger on the street. No, he walked right past me as if I was invisible. Dismissed as if I was less than invisible. As if my presence was detestable, and as though I may not dare breath the same air as her.

My heart didn't break. But my stomach burnt with humiliation. 

But I understand why. To spare her the hurt and spare him the grief. But who spares me? 

Like I said, my heart didn't break. My heart is fairly healed, fairly whole. 

But why, if we're just friends, do I still feel like the filthiest of secrets?

Because her insecurities need to be accommodated and mine don't matter. Because she's the wife and I don't exist

Disagreeable diagnosis

Jeez, I barely get to accept that I have depression when the Wizard and the Oracle concure, "Bipolar". My gut feel is that they're both wrong. I'm not well, yes. I'm depressed, yah.  But I'm not bipolar. Am I?

Their diagnosis actually causes me more anxiety. 

They explain to me how you commonly find two types of depression. The kind I thought I had, triggered by a traumatic or stressful event. Then there's the other kind, clinical depression, an illness. 

An illness. I think about that some, in relation to serious illnesses like cancer. Would one consider depression as cancer of the personality?

I feel my personality eroding some days. My identity so undefined, I don't know my own likes or dislikes, find myself incapable of making decisions. Are all these little issues related?

Will a prescribed pill help me find my will to live? I've been pretty listless and lifeless of late.  Lost my muchness is seems. 

Gotta go Google this bipolar business. I think I've been misdiagnosed. I'm not even sure I buy the clinical depression thing. I'm depressed cos assholes in my past sucked all the happiness and goodness out of my soul when I was merely a child. They forcefully ripped out my innocence and filled me up with bitterness and perversion. I have depression from the strain of shame, from a filthy secret I've borne for too long. 

I'm not bipolar. 

Mind you, I'm not rejecting the diagnosis because I'm offended by the suggestion. Not at all. I feel the condition is serious and should be shown the respect it deserves. Not carelessly thrown around like it's the next cool thing to have.

I suffer from low self esteem, a non-existent sense of self worth, and anxiety. I'm not bipolar.

The debate: whether or not to medicate

Today I seek it.
A pill to calm the chaos in my heart
To slow the flow of emotion to my brain
Something to soften the sharp shards
Of my shattered soul
To numb my need to feel and be felt, 
Stop the ache and fill the emptiness. 

So for the past few weeks I've been in therapy. Again. I broke down badly. Again. Not sure which was worse, now or then. Rock bottom, again. 

Since the second session the psychologist has been advising I try medication: antidepressants and mood stabilisers. Not keen. Been there, not pleasant. It didn't relieve the anxiety, it only dulled my senses. I was "witless". It didn't sooth the sadness. I still felt like the pressure of choked up tears was going to kill me. 

We disagree, the wizard (shrink) and I, on whether or not to medicate. I only recently and reluctantly started accepting that I have depression, as a condition. For the better part of 30 years the symptoms have been there. I just never joined the dots or saw the pattern. But as they say, the truth cannot be denied, any longer. I have depression. 

I however understand that my depression is as a result of trauma. Emotional trauma. So does it not make sense to deal with that? Help me to talk it through till I am "comfortable" with it.  I don't see the sense in medicating. How is a pill going to fix the problem? Its only going to numb the pain, isn't it? 

They say it will help me cope with the current chemical imbalance ... Cos that's what depression is - a chemical condition, something to do with nerve endings not having happy endings. 

So where are we at? The storm rages so fiercely inside me that some days I fear I'm going to explode. Then maybe medication is not such a bad thing. I'm back to worrying that the sadness is going to kill me. The anxiety strangles me and the sadness pummels me. It's going to kill me. 

 

So drugs it is. It's hard, accepting mind altering aids. I've never even smoked a cigarette, let alone done drugs. I fear even the prescribed kind. Fear I won't be in control and we all know how I need to maintain control. But that's just it, isn't it? I'm already losing control, to the storm.

I think of the words of the John Meyer song, "Lightning strikes inside my chest to keep me up at night. Dreams of ways to make you understand my pain".

 

 

 

Stupid girl

I was stupid
I was blind
Believed he was 
One of a kind
Yet he’s kind
I know too well
God please damn
Him back to hell.
I was stupid
I was a fool
To think that I
Could play it cool
That I was fine
That I could cope
Foolishly I had hope
That he’s tender touch
Was sincere
That for once 
I didn’t have to fear.
But I was stupid
So naïve
Did I really believe?
Did I know?
Did I have a clue?
Knew it was 
Too good to be true.
I can’t be mad,
I can’t cast blame
Willingly I played the game.
I was stupid
My mistake
Can't blame him
For my heartache.

'n Engelse meisie skryf

In my vrye tyd
Moet ek besluit
Oor reuse keuse
en vrese
Oor ‘n man
Wat my hart laat staan
Elke keur as ek hom sien
Is hy die hemel’s lug in my oë
Ek wonder of hy hoor
Hoe my siel sing
Of hoe my hart my brein
Stories vertel
Verhale van jare se vreegte
A happily ever after
A lifetime of love and laughter
Soos ‘n stomme meisiekind
Is ek verlief
Op die dief wat my
Sinne gesteel het
En toe ontsnap
Ek staan geskop
As of geklap
Dis wakker skrik tyd
En busluit
Om verder myself to verneder
Of om weg te stap en hoop
Die hartseer word beter.

How hilarious to be able to write about writer's block

I have all the pieces but the picture
remains a puzzle
and I remain clueless.
Cannot make sense of the chaos.
I could cry
From frustration
Anxiety
And panic
I wish I could wipe the smear
That blurs what I need to see clearly
I so dearly want to find the words
To make my point
But it's pointless.
This writer remains blocked.

In a perfect world

He asked me what I would like to do from nine to five in a perfect world.

I say . . .

Wake up when I want.

Have my coffee in a garden with roses.  Plant some petunias and then sit in a shady spot to read, write or draw.

To have someone who loves me find me there and be content to talk to me for however long I want.

To not have to worry about money for bills.

To know that money will come from … a painting that I sold because I was happy with the outcome, and not embarrassed and unsure and insecure, from a book that I wrote and could relax knowing that readers will be able to relate to and enjoy. Or from art classes where I help women find contentment and kids have fun.

At times I almost wish I could be “institutionalised” to be in a place where there is no pressure, no deadlines, no deliverables, no commitments. I think sometimes I wouldn’t mind being put away and chemically numbed …it would be a welcome break from … from all the things that cause me pain and anxiety.

She deletes

“I need to see you",  she types. Then deletes.

Her heart is pounding.

“I need to get you out of my life. It’s killing me. How I think about you all the time, and wonder if you ever think of me, if I matter to you like you matter to me. I do ridiculously stupid things like check when you’re online, and wonder who you’re talking to since you’re not talking to me. It chokes, it really hurts and chokes. It’s not your fault. I can’t expect you to like me, just because I want you to. Just because I want you. And why do I want you so badly? Because in those few moments we spent together you treated me with the kind of tenderness no one has ever shown me before. Because in our early conversations I fell in love with your mind, so much that my soul wanted to crawl into your body and live in your heart. Because in my heart is where I created a home for your soul. But its empty. You chose not to live there. That emptiness is painful”.

Then she deletes.