Posted on by Squirrel

SO IT WASN’T COMPHET

Wow, it’s been a while, hasn’t it. SO much has changed, yet nothing is really different. The past, however long it has been, has been very eventful, in a number of ways. Mother finished her cancer treatment, and now only needs to go for a CT scan twice a year, as everything looks good. She has most of her energy back, and is doing well. My father, hereafter referred to as AH (asshole) retired in January, and that has created a lot of new stressors, but I have planned a few different escapes from the hell hole he has created.

Why this change? I have come to an acceptance of who I truly am, and I came to it through CompHet. I have spent my entire life in denial. Growing up, I was a tomboy, and was thrilled when I was mistaken for a boy. Raised in a conservative cult, I felt bad and dirty for feeling this way. I remember my first, authentic prayers, prayed with all the fervour and desire of an innocent child of six, begging to wake up as a boy dragon. And if the dragon bit wasn’t possible, could I at least be a boy. First crisis of faith lol.

I was a voracious reader, and read lots of things that definitely wouldn’t be approved of, and were not really age appropriate. But I was a precocious child, and had my eyes opened in ways that a sheltered child could not have learned otherwise. Around nine, I learned that a person could be attracted to both men and women. Bonus!! My love of Daisy Duke was “normal” and okay.

Fast forward through many years of treatment resistant depression, a suicide attempt, constant suicidal ideation, self-harm, a failed marriage, and two wonderful boys. Started trauma therapy, too, with a wonderful, feminist therapist. Who expands my world yet again. My best friend fled her abusive husband, and started questioning her sexuality. She discovered the concept of CompHet, and shared it with me. Blew my mind! I wasn’t truly bi, I was only with men for validation because it was expected of me. Deep down, it was okay to feel repulsed by the idea of ever having sex with a man again.

Fast forward to now. I am finally confident enough in myself that I am working with a local 2SLGTBQ+ clinic to physically transition into the man I am. Will be starting hormone treatment sometime in the next two months. I am very fortunate that the universe has given me a tribe of acceptance, and that I am finally in a place where I can accept that love as well as give it.

So I guess that, in a weird sort of way, I am straight after all. And while CompHet is usually associated with lesbians, I think it can really apply to anyone who doesn’t fit the cis-boy meets cis-girl narrative.

Six years ago, when I started working with my current therapist, the topic of gender identity came up. It was acknowledged, but she advised that we put it away for then. I needed to be much more stable, and have a support system outside of just her, to be able to address it properly. This made a lot of sense to me. Obviously, it didn’t just go away, and it would come up from time to time. Always validated, and explored a little bit, then back into its container it would go. Until, it wouldn’t go back.

Many years ago, when I was 19 or 20, I had a breast reduction. This was over 20 years ago, and things were very different then. I begged and begged the surgeon to just take them off completely. She refused, explaining that there was a long process I had to go through for her to be able to do that. I didn’t understand, and was so devastated I just cried. Going from a DD to a B was a huge improvement, and yet it felt like something I needed was so close I could touch it with my fingertips, but when I closed my hand to grasp it, I fell very short from achieving it.

One of the linchpins of my journey to self-discovery was meeting a hair stylist who liked to have fun with my hair. The first time she cut my hair, I let her do what she wanted, and I walked away with a funky undercut. Loved the shaved feeling and look. When she shattered her leg and couldn’t work, I had to find a new stylist. Not one stylist I went to could get it right. They all gave me variations on the “Karen” cut, which I absolutely hated.

Then, a long time friend opened a café. One of his bar tenders just happened to own a barbershop. One evening while I was bitching about my hair, he told me to come in. And once again, the universe smiled upon me. I went all out. A number two razor on the sides and back, and the top cut short. And for the first time ever, when I looked into the mirror, I saw ME looking back. And that is when the social transition started happening, without me even really being aware of it. The next time, we used a number one razor. It was splendid. I purged my closet and drawers of anything remotely feminine. Bought a bunch of plaid shirts to wear over t-shirts. Khakis and cargo pants. Started feeling really and truly like I was finally being my most authentic self. And then I read “Tomboy Survival Guide” by Ivan Coyote. Literally, life changing. I had never even thought it possible to transition at this stage of my life. But here he was, not much older than me, going through top surgery and getting ready to start T. I have read many books that touched me, or influenced my thoughts in some way or another, but I never experienced anything at all the way I experienced that book.

The final nail in my AFAB life was the night I dreamt about my reduction surgery. And how, in my dream, the surgeon had some how “botched” the surgery, and had to remove everything, and she was crying and offering to “fix” it at her expense. And the elation I felt in that dream was like nothing I had ever felt before. I assured her I was happy with her work, signed paperwork stating that I was refusing her offer of rebuilding them. And then I woke up. For a brief, fleeting moment, the world was right. And then, there they were. And I felt a deep despair, that I would never know that joy in my waking world. I actually shed tears, a very very uncommon experience.

But then I thought, why not? You’re never too old to be your self. After a couple days of discussing it with the sister of my heart, I ordered a binder. Had it shipped to her house, so I could try it on with her there. The reason for this was two-fold. One, if it failed to mitigate the dysphoria, I wanted someone there to support me through that. As a large-chested person, I was not expecting a miracle. Two, if the results made me feel more authentic, I wanted to share that moment of joy with her. And the result was better than I hoped for. And made very very clear to me that yes, I am a man trapped in a woman’s body. And she was so elated at my very obvious elation, and so into sharing the bliss I felt in that moment, she didn’t even think to snap a photo of my stupidly grinning self when I stepped out of the bathroom, wearing it. (The only down side to it is, because all that tissue has to go somewhere, it gives me a lot of cleavage. Happily, that hides under a shirt, so it’s only a problem when it’s stupid hot and I want to take my shirt off. But I can live with that). It is now to the point that I can no longer leave the house without it, or my packer. And that, my friends, is a story for another day.

So after so long a hiatus, I hope to be back here with more regularity. Sharing my continuing journey to wellness, wholeness, and now, authenticity.

Cheers!

B

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THE PAST CIRCLES ROUND AGAIN

Mom had her first round of chemo Wednesday. It was an incredibly long day. A doctors appointment and then three hours of infusion. It was very weird. I couldn’t concentrate, but was bored out of my tree. The incongruence of this made my therapist go hmmm. This is not a common phenomenon.

The reason it came up was Wednesday night I had a complete and total need to flee my house. I don’t know what happened, but I was laying in bed, looking for something to read. Stopped on “Coping with Trauma-Related Dissociation” by Suzette Boon and others. “Don’t you think when you’ve been through something like you were with your mother, you should read something NOT trauma related?” “Ninety percent of my book shelf is trauma related.” “Then you need to expand your bookshelf.” So that happened. The other theories are that I’m empathic and picked up all the energy of people around me, the six people and their care-givers, all getting cancer related treatment, and it hit me when I finally had a chance to unwind.

Likely, though, it was a somatic flashback, harkening back to a time when I felt trapped. Only this time I wasn’t trapped. So I grabbed my bag and bugged out. But it wasn’t a thoughtful, I’m leaving because I can, it was a mindless flight. Which is not good. Fortunately, I had enough sense to go someplace safe, which was my friends cafe. Straight to the basement. Where I just typed up the last of my poetry. We had a mis-hap a few weeks ago, where I didn’t realize my poetry was only on the cloud, with links on my desktop. I deleted everything off the cloud, only to watch in horror as my files disappeared one by one. By the time I had finished that, I was feeling somewhat human again. It’s very frustrating how the past keeps circling round, often in unexpected and out of the blue ways.

Sitting with mom at the hospital was a very intense experience in a way. You’re sitting there, with people in very stages of cancer, at different points in their recovery. There were tears, there was laughter. For me, it was an uncomfortable reckoning, coming face to face with my own mortality. I have been suicidal many times, have attempted once. Suicidal ideation is a near constant companion. But this was different. The facing of a slow, painful demise. And everyone there is facing the same thing. The cancer centre has everyone in what they call pods. Six people to a pod, with a number of nurses in each one. Each person can bring one person with them. So twelve people, plus nurses. All cancer patients. All receiving treatment. A lot of energy in the air. A lot of energy. I hesitate to say it’s negative, because it certainly isn’t all negative, but it’s very charged.

I guess my system was over-charged and went off the rails on Wednesday, and then again on Thursday. Thursday wasn’t as bad, I had the presence of mind to email my therapist, and I made the decision not to run, but to stay put, to prove to my system that it was safe, there was no danger, that we didn’t have to leave. My friend helped me over text with some flashback protocols, and then I was able to ground myself by touching each book on my bookshelves and saying the author and title. I did it under my breath, but the act really helped me calm down.

Last night I went out with the girls, and then went home. I had a small feeling of panic, but was able to breathe through it. Things never last forever.

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TIME TO SAY GOODBYE

It’s time to say goodbye. To say goodbye to the old me. The stuck me. The unmotivated me. The me that sits on the couch all day, thinking about all the things I’d like to do, if only I could get up of the couch. The habits formed while in a severe depression slough slowly, not wanting to be given up. They certainly don’t go without a lot of will power. Something I have been short of my whole life. I have started seeing a Feldenkrais practitioner, who has done wonders for my extremely bad posture resulting in bad knees and a bad back. I’ve also started Qi Gong, which is also helping with my posture and joint issues. My therapist states that Qi Gong is all about fluidity, something my body is definitely lacking. It’s a Chinese standing meditation, so it’s good for my mind as well as my body. I’m not up to practicing it every day, but I’m up to three times a week. My goal is to make it to every day. I’ve started doing it twice a day on the days I do it. I tend to go back to bed after the kids have left for school, but my therapist wanted me to try to practice at that time instead. My circadian rhythm is completely out of sync. I tend to stay up into the early hours and sleep during the days. I’ve always been a night owl. No one there yelling at you, or hitting you, telling you what a screw up you are. Reading in peace. The world is a calm place. Something my young self needed desperately.

It’s time to embrace the daylight. And with it, life again. Spring is just around the corner, an excellent time for new beginnings. I never understood why we celebrate the new year in January, when everything is just cold and dreary. The spring equinox makes much more sense to me. The earth is waking up from it’s cold slumber, and everything is fresh and new. I always feel more energized in the spring, and this spring more so, as I have been in the depths of soul destroying depression. Thoughts of suicide have been a daily companion for so long that I now only notice them in their absence. The only down side is that with their disappearance, the sirens call of self harm gets louder. It has been months since I caved to their voices, and I don’t intend on doing so again. I quit smoking just after Christmas, now to give up vaping, the lesser of two evils. I am slowly decreasing the amount of nicotine in the juice I vape, so it will only be a matter of time before I completely nicotine free. Another step to the new me. Saying goodbye to old habits.

Posted on by Squirrel · 2 Comments

BIPOLAR OR NOT

Last year my doctor sent me to see a psychiatrist for an assessment and med adjustment. He’s generally a decent general practitioner, but we’ve been struggling for years to get me stable. I have a history of needed to take three months or so off of whatever job I’m doing because of stress. My previous therapist thought I might have a type of bipolar. No one was sure, so off for an assessment I go. PTSD, depression, anxiety, borderline personality disorder, and cyclothymia. Which I didn’t understand. I get depressed enough that I’m suicidal, and I’ve made an attempt in the past. That being said, a mood stabilizer in conjunction with my anti-depressant has made all the difference. That, and I’m now working with a trauma specialist. Doing EMDR. This year, I went for another assessment. A different psychiatrist this time, who read the notes of the previous one. Saw me three times, instead of just forty minutes. No bipolar diagnosis this time. PTSD, persistent depressive disorder, borderline personality disorder, and general anxiety. Says my symptoms of BPD overlap a lot with the BP, and that the meds often work in tandem together when the antidepressant isn’t enough even without the presence of bipolar. We talked about the BPD diagnosis, and the main reason for the diagnosis is history: self injury, suicide attempts, and, most telling, the feelings of self-loathing and feeling empty and numb. She said with the amount of trauma I’ve experienced, it was inevitable that I would wind up with BPD. So now I’m struggling with yet another identity, one that I have avoided for years. I remember my ex yelling at me, at one point, “I’m not the only borderline here”, yet I was the only one actively seeking help. My therapist told me not to worry about the diagnosis. It basically means I have C-PTSD, (Complex Post Traumatic Syndrome Disorder) and I’m doing the hard work to get better. So that’s something at least. It explains these long, empty nights where I feel so numb and the siren call of self-injury is so strong, even though I’m not feeling depressed. Just numb.

Posted on by Squirrel

SIREN

The last few weeks have been brutal. I know in the very depths of my being that things will get better, but right now they’re just so hard.

SIREN

I stare at the water
It’s aqua waves calling
Inviting to slip under
Into Oblivion

I walk away
From the Sirens call

The blades in my hand
Beckoning tantalyzing
One quick swipe
And freedom

I walk away
From the Sirens call

Through the heart
The silver moonlight
Dances on the thinnest of knives
Kill the heart
That causes all your pain

I walk away
From the Sirens call

I walk away
From the Sirens call

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OBLIVION

The sirens call
“Come”
With each crash
Of the waves upon the shore

“Home”
“Rest”
“Peace”
“Come”

The sirens call
Promising comfort
Freedom from
Distress
Freedom from
Pain
Freedom from
Heartache

Clearly I see
Tempted I feel

To sink beneath the waves
Into cold oblivion

Posted on by Squirrel · 3 Comments

FOR A LITTLE WHILE

The blood flows
Taking the pain
The heartache
With it
A temporary release
If only for a little while

Escape as the blood flows
The endorphin rush
Freedom at last
If only for a little while

Past and present
No longer matter
Only the here and now
As the blood flows
Bringing with it
Sweet release

If only for a little while

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RELEASE

The blades they beckon
The blades they call
Crimson rivulets
Running down

Release
Relief from the pain
Of too many
Yesterdays

So many years ago
Still torment me
As fresh as though
Experienced today

The blades they beckon
The blades they call
Crimson rivulets
Running down

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DARKNESS 

The night is thick
Defences torn down
An open wound
Bleeding light

Hemorrhaging the light
In my soul
Leaving only Darkness
And Despair

I close my eyes
As the darkness consumes me
Fills me deeper
Than any lover could

Surrendering
As the light bleeds
My soul
And Darkness fills the Void

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DANCE WITH FIRE

As is so often part of our stories, I am struggling hard with med compliance.  While I am awaiting the response to my application for LTD, I have to be compliant with my treatment plan.  But it is a daily struggle.  Twice daily, actually.  I’ve adapted as best I can to the cognitive dulling, which was a struggle in it’s own right.  But now I’m feeling flat.  Sure there are no lows, but there are no highs either.  I’m emotionally flat-lining and it’s harder than knowing I’m not as intelligent as I was pre-meds.

Bland shades
Of muted colour
Is this my
New Existence?

No more Pit
The Abyss far
No vibrancy
No Fire

Is the trade off
Worth it?

To dance
With the Flames
To feel their warmth
Once again

If playing with the
Darkness
Is the price to pay
To feel the sun

Then let The Pit
Beckon
Let the sirens sing
Their death song

I will dance with the Fire
Be consumed in it’s flame

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THE PIT

The pit yawns
Wide
Threatening to swallow
Me whole

The pit yawns
Dark
Offering shelter
From the pains in my soul

The pit yawns
Black
A hole crushing
My dreams od a better tomorrow

The pit yawns
A void
Sucking away
My hopes, my joys

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SIRENS CALL

The sirens call
Ebbs and flows
Like the water
She calls me to

The sirens call
Deep and crisp
Like the lines on my skin
She calls me to

The sirens call
Warm and bitter
Like the drink
She calls me to

The sirens call
Cold and dark
Like the oblivion
She calls me to

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THE MONSTERS ARE REAL

The monsters are real
Hiding in the shaded corners
Waiting to pounce
When my guard is down
And Hope rears its lying head
Spewing half-truths and falsehoods

Promises of lighter tomorrows
Days of Light and Joy
Empty words without substance
Without depth

Engulfed in a breath
Of Darkness and Despair
Hope illuminating the way
Out of the shadows
Ethereal as the light
It feigns to bring
Providing no purchase
For the long climb out

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IN THE DARK

I’m so tired of fighting.  Of waking up every day to the same struggle. Of never seeing the Light, only shades of gray.

Clawing my way out
Through the Fog
The Darkness

Seeking exit from The Abyss
Entry to The Pit
A lesser evil
A lesser Darkness

Seeking the Light
No more
A fairytale
Told to children
Still full of Hope

The only hope
Is for a lesser shade
Of black
Existence just
Interminable shades of gray fog

The only colours play
In dreams
Of a tomorrow
That won’t come

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Lachrimal Failure

Sorry that it’s been a while since I posted. I’ve been sunk in a black depression where the only way out seemed to be death. Fortunately, I made it through the worst of it. Sadly, I am unable to write when I’m deep in The Abyss. Now, I’m in that gray area I call The Pit. Not clear by any means. But breathing again, if so shallow that I am constantly gasping for air as if I’m drowning. Oh the joys of permanent hypoarousal.

It feels that a lot of my angst would be alleviated if only I could cry. I mean I do shed the odd tear when something touches me. But that’s all it is. The odd tear shed. I haven’t cried in almost ten years. I’m certainly due. But I can’t. Curled up in a ball needing that release so bad it’s a physical pain. And nothing. In the past I would self harm to release that pressure. However, my trauma therapist has me on a no harm contract, so that is no longer an option. I have, finally, found my poet’s voice again. Enjoy.

On my knees
Begging to let go
Unshed tears
A fire in my soul

Heart pounding
Eyes burning
A fierce lump
In the depth of my throat

Lines of crimson
Lachrimal release
The knot in my core
Still ever present

The pain
The ache
The sorrow
No way to let go

Posted on by Squirrel · 4 Comments

The Inherent Dichotomy of Co-Morbidity

It’s a crazy thing, to be hypomanic and still be suffering the effects of C-PTSD. Complex or chronic post traumatic stress disorder. Mixed with cyclothemic bipolar renders all states crazy. I’m currently on my way out of months of depression, a few days in a mixed state, into full blown hypomania. Yet the Darkness is never far away. I can be flying high, enjoying the state, working on my novel, writing poetry, even basically things like cleaning, which, by the way, are much more fun when you’re manic. Everyday tasks are almost a joy, since I’m so scattered I’m not even sure what I’m doing. (Like using a glue stick instead of lip balm, but I digress, that’s a story for another day). Where was I, oh ya, even in the midst of joy, where the sun is shining, (well, it’s raining and gray, but it’s shining in my heart for once) and I can smile. When Bang! Out of the great blue yonder comes a flashback. When I’m depressed, they drop me even deeper into the Pit, down into the Abyss of suicidal despair. In a mixed or hypo/manic state, they leave me edgy, restless, ill-at-ease, frightened. Which transmutes into Irritability. Hyper and irritable. Sucks. And leaves me feeling

Broken

Haunted eyes
Hollow and empty
Of naught but fear

Another sleepless night
Or dreams filled with terror
The power you still have
Over me
So many years later

Remnants return
Out of nothing
And your hands
Your cologne
The weight of your body
Memory returns

Physical

Emotional

Love is earned
Only through pain
Subservience

Lessons I learned
So very well
Shaped the core
Of who I am

Broken

Tarnished

And yet a small crumb of solace, the suicidal ideation is at bay, and while being edgy and restless isn’t great, it is infinitely better than being outright suicidal and knowing you can never act on that desire because you don’t want your kids as fucked up as you are.

So have a great weekend all, and play safe.

Posted on by Squirrel

Ah The Flip Side of Depression 

Bipolar. Two polarities. Manic and depressed. And the wonderful state that lies between known as hypomania. 

After suffering many months of depression with suicidal lows, I have slowly begun the assent in “normalacy”. And poets are allowed to make words up. The Bard made all kinds of words that are now in our everyday lexicon. But I digress. Now it appears that I am sliding, ever so gently, into hypomania. And though I SHOULD be concerned, I’m not. 

It’s hard to think something’s wrong when you can see colour. When you find yourself smiling for no other reason then your soul wants to. To feel too warm or too cold and care about how you feel. (Unfortunately my last set of blood work showed my lithium below therapeutic levels, so I can’t really hope my brain is functioning as it should). 

I find my writing reflecting this current mood. Enjoy. 

The Fire burns deep in the soul
Awakened as ne’er before
Eyes a-light with unholy embers
As passions unknown
Unnamed
Speak out enticing
Wild untamed adventures

Urging on
To heights unimaginable
Spurring to go
Further than e’er before

Consequence be damned
To live out the Heart’s Song
Unbridled
At the whim of this
Burning soul

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Mixed States and Hypomania

After months of feeling depressed,  with suicidal lows,  the last few days I can only describe as a mixed state: depressed and elevated at the same time.  This basically translates, for me, as edginess. Extreme edginess. 

And yesterday it started edging up into feeling good. Really really good. My brain is racing, I have boundless energy, and I feel as though, with enough encouragement, I could fly. Even typing this is painful, for my fingers can’t move as fast as my brain is giving them words to say. It’s going so fast that it’s shutting down at times (but maybe I’m just dissociating and my hypomanic brain just wants to pretend it’s rebooting).  So I tried to write about what it’s like.

Swirling thoughts
Running
Racing
Can’t keep up

Shut down

The squirrels spin
A million light years
A second
Every word down
An enormous draw
Of energy

Boundless

My body tingles
Filled with power
Trying to find an outlet
To burn

Like fire

In my brain
My heart
My soul

Searing heat
That twists
And broils
Merging with my thoughts

My desires
My needs

Streaming outward
Upward
To the sky


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Yearning for the Light

When you’ve been depressed long enough, you begin to feel you’ll never see the light again.  Darkness your constant companion, he whispers Softly that the Light is a myth. And as much as you rebuff his seduction, you know, deep down,  he is right.  The Light is for Others,  not for the likes of you. 

And though you know your brain is a fucking liar, you know this time he’s speaking the truth. 

Trapped in the Black Fog
Stumbling blindly
Towards the Light

The Pit beckons
Right there
Entry to The Abyss

The Light
Elusive
Hiding behind The Fog

The Pit
So easy to fall into
To dive into
As much work to avoid
As the Light is to seek

The comforting darkness
That hides and shelters fron
The harsh Light
That reveals all
My failures

Yet I yearn for The Light
Terrified of The Pit

The Blackness pulls
On my black heart
My black soul
Turning from The Light

Yet
And yet

I hunger for The Light
To fill me
Warm me
Repair my broken soul
My heart
Me
With its shining essence
To turn Despair
Into Hope
To close The Pit
The Abyss

Hopeless dreams
For a broken night

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Anniversary’s Suck

Life finally settled into a rhythm. Depressed but surviving. Suicidal ideation just a constant companion, no longer a siren song to be fought with every breath. And then,  from out of no where more Flashbacks.  Vivid. Flashback doesn’t cover  the re-creation my mind puts me through.  I can feel his body pinning mine,  his hand around my neck, squeezing until I lost consciousness.  And coming to only to realize he hadn’t missed a beat. 

October 30th. Coming up fast. And the body realizes it. The subconscious mind knows it.  I honestly don’t know how I’m going to get through this.  Yes, I survived the reality of it. But reliving it night after night.  It wears after a while.  My life was a living nightmare after.  I don’t want to experience that horror day and night again. 

The self harm calls strong. The alcohol and the razors. To numb the pain or watch it bleed out. To surrender to the forces of Darkness and have a moments respite. 

Damn my  contract for survival and the fact that my word is the only thing I set of myself as having value. Though I’m sure that I could  loophole the getting drunk. No I can’t. I’d know my intent, and that’s all that really matters. 

Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. 

Frustration
Irritation
No pain
To release it

Sadness
Anger
No pain
To release it

No rivulets of
Pain
Beautiful shades
Of crimson

Calming
The fear
The melancholic despair

Living in Pain
With no pain
To release it

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The Longest Nights 

It’s not even midnight yet and I can feel the Flashbacks and nightmares creeping around the corner.  I’m afraid to close my eyes.  I’ve been irritable for a few days now.  Almost like my brain was preparing for this.  It sucks that there is no respite.  Ever.  I may go a few weeks without one,  and then   BANG! It hits like a freight liner. I’m seriously beginning to believe the only escape will be when I die.  Which can’t come soon enough. 

Would that I
Could curl into a ball
And melt into the ground
Absorbed by the Earth

Would that I
Could stretch my arms wide
Transmute  into
Dust

Borne on the wind 
Dissipating into
Nothingness


Would that I
Could close my eyes
And sleep evermore
Escaping from this
Waking hell

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Keep Breathing

I know my posts of late have been heavy and dark.  Reflective of where my mind and heart are.   It’s important to remember that there has to hope. Hoping against hope: to hope without any basis for expecting fulfilment. And that is the crux for surviving this current benighted existence.  Hope against hope.

Breathe
They say
One breath in
One breath out
You made it

Do it again

Just keep breathing
Calm and slowly
One breath in
One breath out

When The Darkness beckons
With His black lies
Promising freedom and
Escape

Just keep breathing
One inhale
At a time
One exhale
At a time


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When My Heart Weeps 

A few weeks ago I came very close to drowning myself.  The emotional pain was so overwhelming I was in the lake before I even realized it.  I subsequently went home  and self harmed.  So my trauma therapist put me on a Contract for Survival.  Basically I contracted with myself to in no harm my person.  

My word is my bond. If you matter enough to me I to give you my word I will go to whatever lengths necessary to keep it.  And therein lies the rub.  The contract isn’t with her.  It’s with me.  And I don’t set my life at a pins fee.  So where does that leave me.  Stuck in a kind of limbo.  And nights like tonight…  Well…  the struggle is real. 

When the heart weeps
Yet no tears come

When words won’t come
And all that is left
Is an unnameable
Something
That begs release

Escape

A way out
From the too too much
That cannot be
Identified

How does one
Find release
From what one does not
Recognize

Except to let it out
In blood
And pain

Posted on by Squirrel

Another Night in Hell

Suicidal ideation. Scary scary thoughts. That sometimes turn to action before you’re even aware of what’s going on. The daily struggles the nightly demons sapping your strength. Your will.

But the fight goes on. The strength some how is found to carry on. Survive and fight another day.

Knee deep in the water
Wading out further
Calm
Serene

What the fuck
Am I doing here?

It’s cold
It’s wet
My kids need me

Calm serene
Peaceful

I turn around
Walk back into hell

Posted on by Squirrel

LEAVES OF MEMORY

“The leaves of memory seemed to make
A mournful rustling in the dark” Longfellow

Darkness is a recurring theme with me. I’ve always referred to the deep depression that consumes my soul as The Darkness. Night time is when I struggle most with its promises of escape from the eternal battle. When the worst moments of my past come back to life to haunt me.

Night falls
Enshrouding
Engulfing

I’m taken
To another time
Another place

Memory
Sharp and fierce
Time has not blunted

The soft shadows
Belie the harsh
Recollections

Waiting to pounce
From the darkest corners
Of my mind

Posted on by Squirrel

There Is A Light

Even in the midst of the darkest spell I’ve had in months,  somehow hope still exists. Staring at The Abyss,  knowing it’s there,  terrified if I fall in I won’t have the strength,  or desire,  to claw my way out.  Yet my dark soul yearns for the light,  for hope, for release from the suffering. 

Though the sky is grey
There is a light breaking over the horizon
Though my heart is dark
There is a light shining through the cracks
Though my soul is black
There is a light dawning hope

Posted on by Squirrel

Dark Thoughts 

This time of night,  the time right before I go to bed,  is always the hardest for me.  It’s when the suicidal ideation so familiar to those with bipolar hits hardest.

And the past three weeks and counting I’ve been dealing with completely immersive Flashbacks and the accompanying dissociative episodes.  Makes the idea of going to sleep and never waking up so appealing.  But I have babies who need me,  so instead I write my pain and wake again to suffer through another day.

The surf crashing
Into the shore
A slow easy rhythm
Beatimg on the rocks

Would they welcome me
Hold me tight
As I slip beneath
One final cold embrace

A tribute to Poseidon
Of body and soul

My final breath
Given freely
One final pain
Before an eternity of peace

If the body holds the pain
Will the soul still suffer
When the body is gone

An offering
Of blood and flesh
To beg release
A surcease of pain

Searing solid
A hard fiery punch
To the gut
Over and over

My soul cracking
Slowly breaking
Disintegrating
Leaving an empty
Hungry void

The only sating
Of the hollow void
Is pain
And more pain

A never ending
Surfeit of hurt
That kills
All joy
Sleep
Happiness

Floating on the waves
Slowly sinking below
Till all the pain is washed away

A release
In the final sacrificial gift

Posted on by Squirrel

Lost

My tongue will tell the anger of my heart;
Or else my heart concealing it, will break:
And rather than it shall., I will be free
Even to the utmost, as I please, in words
–William Shakespeare

Sometimes the despair sets in and no matter how much you know it’s just your brain lying to you,  that suicidal ideation just gets stronger until it starts seeming like a viable option; an acceptable way to end the pain that seems insurmountable.  We all have our ways of coping.  I often just white knuckle through it.  More often I write. I write words that I never imagined that i would share.

Yet here I am.  Putting my heart out there.  Sharing the darkest parts of me in the hopes that maybe, just maybe,  someone will read them and realize they’re not alone and they, too, can over come the brains lies.

Joy is gone
The very colour is gone
All is now sullen shades of gray
Even the sweetest of wines
Taste as of liquid ashes

The breathe of life
Hurts as though knives
Are rendering the tenderest
Of flesh

My heart
Vainly pumping
Acid through my veins

Pain Hurt Despair

Where is the joy
The laughter
Life a burden
Without the sun

The emotional pain
Impossible to
Differentiate
From the
Physical

I draw a knife
Across my veins
I bleed red
A surprise

I expected it would be
Black

As my Thoughts
My Moods
My Eternal Soul

Black as a
Starless night
With no moon

I watch it pulse
Once
Twice
Thrice
And collapse

Release at last
My final
Conscious
Thought