This is my very first post to my very first blog. How exciting! Surely this calls for Vueve Cliqot! OK Maybe not. Whatever shutup.
 |
| Brooke Jones Introverted, reclusive hermit |
It seems easy enough, to write a book. I have learned it is super easy to start a
book. I have started many brilliant works, which inevitably get abandoned under
a pile of more brilliant works, cast aside in favor of the idea du jour. The tricky part for me is the whole finishing
end of the business. So, I’m thinking, maybe
a blog might work for me. Blogs love
ideas du jour. Or, a blog could just be
another brilliant work abandoned after a frenzied start. I suppose we shall see. Wait a minute, can I claim title to being a “Writer”
if all I do is blog? When do I get to be
“Author”?
OK I’m getting ahead of myself as per usual. My apprehension with a blog is my inability
to be consistent. Aren’t bloggers supposed to be out there
cyber-socializing and advertising their blog to get more readers? Then what happens when I go dark, leaving my
new beloved readers bewildered and perplexed as to my whereabouts? Will they all leave me if I hang a sign that
reads “On Hiatus due to extreme introversion” then take off to roam the
earth? Will they be there when I get
back? OK I guess I should focus on being productive first, before I worry about when my break is.
 |
| Yesterday You In the throws of an 18 month depression |
It’s a dark, shadowy figure looming just beyond my awareness. It creeps in, seeps in somehow to commandeer my existence. Then one day I find myself laying on the couch in a coma-like daze, wondering when I showered last and basing my guess on exactly how matted my hair is. I will disgustingly admit, since we’re being honest here, that more than once my hair has balled itself into one single massive dreadlock.
I’d just ball it up on my head and go back to sleep, hoping sleep would once again alleviate my self-oppression. I have no feeling in this state. I am numb.
The surface is smooth and she is gone.
I don’t typically have fits of uncontrollable crying or of
hating myself or cutting myself or the other types of behavior portrayed in after school specials. Although, I am one to antagonize and mock myself internally. It's completely internal, concealed, incognito. I just go… blank. Nothingness.
I have no interest in anything, and no motivation, and no concern of
it. I couldn’t care less. No feelings of love, hate, or any emotion in
between. I stew in apathy. I don’t even speak, because it’s
just too much work. When I am in this
pit, it is only then it occurs to me hey – something is not right here. You’re depressed.
Most times even after this revelation I wouldn’t cut myself
a break, or have any interest in getting out of the depression. Eh, too much work. Who cares.
Whatever. I’ll just lay here in
my own filth and channel surf the crappiest reality shows ever. Fuck it. I’d probably have suicidal tendencies if killing yourself didn't take so much work. I'm far too lazy for such a production. Instead, I use sleep as my form
of relief. I am not miserably depressed
when asleep, so I sleep as much as possible.
Taking pharmaceuticals as
prescribed (instead of playing “kitchen chemist” as my doctor calls it)
helps minimize the severity of my mood swings.
But I screw those up all the time.
Then I go dark. Then my sister
says Hey-You’ve gone dark. Then I get
myself back on a regimented drug routine.
Certain people in the medical profession believe me to be
one who has bipolar. I just can’t be
sold on the whole physical diagnosis of a chemical imbalance – when no one can
measure said chemicals nor does anyone know what “balanced chemicals” look
like. Perhaps it is my own intellectual
shortcomings, but I fail to see how they would know which chemicals are needed
to balance the imbalance when they don’t even know what balanced or imbalanced
chemicals look like.
It insults my intelligence.
It should insult everyone. I
would more readily accept the explanation of “You have bipolar because you’re a
nut bag from a long line of crazies” over some claim of physical causes that
can’t be measured physically.
In the 19th century, blood-letting was the go-to
treatment for almost all of the ailments suffered. Of course we know it is silly now, but to
them, it was a positively scientific method of medical treatment with proven
efficacy. Eerily similar to the “balanced
chemicals” farce.
 |
| Self-Portrait Hyper-focused fit of creative impulse |
I don’t know. Maybe I
didn’t really rock the shit out of Chinese Restaurant Karaoke in Hudson,
NH. But, maybe I did. I was on fire baby. I sang loudly, I walked out into the crowd,
made eye contact… I totally worked the room.
I did several numbers; incited sing a longs. I had a fabulous time! It’s a very happy memory of a good time for me. Now I am supposed to believe oh no, that wasn’t
a good time - that was sick. That was
mental illness. That was mania. Ah, no thanks, mon frère.
It’s a tough pill to swallow to be told the best times of your life were actually mental illness.
It’s a tough pill to swallow to be told the best times of your life were actually mental illness.
Was it a good idea to call my psychiatrist on a Saturday
night and excitedly report I could shoot sparks from my fingertips? Then two days later announce my marriage plans to a guy I met a week prior? To my doctor and my entire family mind you. Probably not my best ideas.
But hey, those are stories for other ideas du jour.
Why am I telling you this anyway. I am not like some, bipolar poster girl. In fact, I contest the label being applied to me. It doesn't fit. I don't wear it. Just because I may have unusual schedule habits and eccentric priorities... these certainly do not make me mentally ill.
Dig it.
Dig it.
I did in fact have a frenzied start, I also went on hiatus. I relocated 1500 miles away, and I'm *almost* finished with a book I wrote, and now I am back, maybe.</br>
