Shroom Trip: A Detailed Account of My Best/Worst Night

Tuesday, December 12

My boyfriend sends me a picture of the four little mushrooms.

I hadn’t taken my medicine in months. Seroquel, an antipsychotic, and Lexapro, an antidepressant. Both were supposed to treat my bipolar disorder – both did nothing. I’d read about psychedelics, particularly LSD, before; I’d heard of its whirlwind effects on the mind, how it can sometimes treat certain mental illnesses. I was at the end of my rope, looking for a last resort. I’d been considering suicide for the better part of five years. Dangling on a string, grasping for straws, met with not even a drop of hope. I was in desperate need of something new, something beautiful. If it meant taking a trip into my psyche, I was going to do it. Shrooms, though? I hadn’t done much research on those. From friends I’d heard it would be a spiritual experience, an emotional one.

I think, How much harm could it possibly bring me? Certainly no more mental damage than what’s already there.

Wednesday, December 13

 

While sitting on my bed, a hot bowl of mostly untouched black beans and rice in my lap, I decide to go for it. I make plans to meet up with my boyfriend later that night.
Preparation: I put some makeup on my face, grab a copy of one of my most calming books (Eat, Pray, Love), and change into comfy clothes. I hardly know what to expect.
In the car, my boyfriend tells me we’re going to grind the shrooms up and put them on burgers to quell some of the acrid, harsh taste.
“So I read that in people with preexisting mental illness, psychedelics can go one of two ways – they can hurt, or they can help. What if they hurt me? I could be be even worse than I already am,” I say. My stomach is in knots.
“You’re psyching yourself out,” he says, exasperated. “Just don’t think about it so much.”
I remember what my friends who have done psychedelics have told me. Sit back and let it take over you. Don’t fight it, or else you’ll spiral into a bad trip. Just relax.


Around nine in the evening, now sitting on his bed, burgers and shrooms spread out before us, I brace myself. How stupid, I think. Tons of people have done psychedelics. I’m probably the only one who gets so freaked out.
He grinds the shrooms up, and we spread them over the food. Then we eat.
It doesn’t taste nice.
“How long will it take to work?” I ask.
“About thirty to forty-five minutes,” he says.
It’s too late to turn back now.
A little over ten minutes later, I develop a migraine. The worst headache I can remember having in a long time. Second symptom, nausea. I’d read in the past that nausea was a side effect of the body struggling to digest shrooms, but the headache, I hadn’t heard of that one. Besides, only ten minutes in, how could I be feeling it already?
Ten more minutes pass. My boyfriends turns on his television to a four-hour YouTube video of “trippy” visuals and adds hours of music to a Spotify queue. He lets me add my own songs – mostly Grateful Dead, for comfort.

THE COMEUP:
(at this point, we are not tripping yet, but getting there. This is the period where the shrooms first begin to take effect.)

It is now around thirty minutes after we ate the shroom-burgers, and as we watch the visuals on the TV screen, suddenly both of us find everything hilarious. On the screen is a strange combination of geometric patterns, hyper-saturated colors, and first-person journeys into tubes that lead to more tubes.
“We’re in tubes upon tubes upon tubes,” I say to my boyfriend, giggling uncontrollably.
“Do you even remember what the word ‘tube’ means? I don’t.”
In the same way that if someone says a word too many times, it begins to lose its meaning, both of us forget what that word means. We look it up online and still can’t comprehend it. We laugh. At everything. Things that aren’t even funny. I feel loopy, the nausea and headache I had been feeling earlier had gone away. At this point, I’m just feeling like I’d smoked a lot of weed, not that I’d taken a psychedelic. No visuals yet, nor any of the things that make up a typical trip experience.
I’m texting some of my friends about the tubes and the loopiness and this next video we had put on called Electric Sheep. I feel happy, high. This goes on for about fifteen to twenty minutes, and since my boyfriend had taken almost double the amount of shrooms that I did, he begins to trip. A Grateful Dead song is on.
Well, this is disappointing, I think. How come I’m not experiencing this yet? Shouldn’t it have kicked in by now?
I decide to eat another shroom. This one I eat whole, no food disguising the taste. It’s absolutely awful.

THE TRIP (GOOD):
(this is the main event of psychedelics, the one many people who haven’t tried them are most interested in hearing about.)

I notice that colors become more vivid, saturated. I see 3D colors. Objects are lined in red and blue. The visuals on the TV are coming to life. My body feels warm, fuzzy, and heavy from head to toe. My limbs weighed down by sandbags. Rather than giggling at everything, I start to think very deeply.
I text a friend: “I’m getting into the thinking aspect of it. I think this is where you’re going to need to help calm me because all these emotions are coming forward. It’s physically hurting my chest.” I grab my boyfriend’s journal and a pen and write one sentence: I can’t tell if I am on top of the world or lying underneath it.
I can feel myself spiraling, but I remember what I’d read and heard to avoid a bad trip: don’t overthink it, just relax and let it take over. Fighting this will make it worse. Breathe, meditate, ground yourself. Lose yourself in your mind. Explore yourself, take this as an opportunity to grow.
I do all these things, and am pleasantly surprised to find that the anxiety has gone away. I am now feeling more joyful and optimistic than I’ve ever felt in my life. I notice that the walls and my phone screen are “breathing.” Growing bigger, then shrinking. Grow, shrink. Grow, shrink, as if they are taking breaths. The red curtains are vibrating. Everything is moving, but in slow motion. Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon album plays.
“This is the best music I’ve ever heard,” I say to my boyfriend. He’s fully immersed in the trip, too, so we enjoy the visuals together. There are posters on the wall, and they are moving very slowly, leaving traces of themselves behind, almost spreading on the walls.
I had thought that I’d be frightened by the trip, but instead, I find myself in pure awe of the things going on around me. We notice that if we move our hands in front of our faces, they look shifty, slow.
Happiness is bursting out of me. Reaching to the very core of my being. I feel like shouting it from the rooftops, spreading this elation to everyone.
I text my friends about it. I tell my boyfriend that my bipolar depression, anxiety and BPD are gone, fallen away like gentle leaves. In this moment, I know nothing but the purest kind of joy, the kind that makes you love life and everyone in it.
I begin to dissociate from myself. I’d already had a problem with dissociation for years, but this time, instead of being scary and dark, it’s okay. From the very bottom of my heart, everything is okay. It’s a feeling I had never known until this moment.
Instead of being a person, I am a concept. I am one with the universe. I am connected to nature, to every person on this earth. I’d read about something called ego death. I’d thought I would be frightened by it, but no, this? This is lovely. This is exactly what I need. My mental illnesses are gone. How can this be?
Shrooms are a miracle drug.
I am having the strangest sensation that I am living in a 1950’s style movie. In a pastel diner, baby blue and scarlet red booths. I am not me. I am someone else. Pink Floyd’s song Cash plays in the background. I think it is the best song I’ve ever heard. Every song is the best song I’ve ever heard. My boyfriend is both taking in my happiness and giving it off himself. I feel like we are not two separate people but one. My thoughts are his own. His are mine.
The colors from the television are bouncing around the room. I tell him that I am healed, that I am genuinely happy and I will be forever.

That full-body warmth spreads to my fingertips. Euphoria has me in its soft, comforting arms. I feel loving and loved.

THE TRIP/COMEDOWN? (BAD):
(The good aspect of my trip lasted for 4-5 hours. Shroom trips last around 4-6 hours. At this point, I inexplicably began to fall into an extreme low. I don’t know why this happened, and I don’t want to go down the rabbit hole of trying to analyze it, I’m just going to describe it. These descriptions may be disturbing to some. It’s difficult and upsetting for me to recount everything that happened, so I apologize if this isn’t as detailed as the good portion. I’m going to switch from present-tense to past-tense during this, as it’s more comfortable for me to describe this that way than put myself inside of it again.)

The bad portion happened around thirty minutes after the good portion ended. For that short period in between, I felt stuck in a limbo, neither good nor bad. At that point, I had held a normal conversation with my boyfriend. The visuals were gone. I thought I was coming down. Well, that was a good trip. I thought. Now I’m back to normal. 

And then it happened. I started spiraling. And this time, I didn’t calm myself, didn’t want to. My thoughts were completely fragmented, incoherent. I went from texting my friends in a manic high about how happy I was that my mental illnesses had gone away, to not texting anyone at all. Mostly because it was difficult to type proper thoughts and I was embarrassed about it. I told my boyfriend that I was starting to lose that insane joy that I’d felt before. He told me that it’s okay, it’ll be okay.
But it was becoming difficult for me to feel okay. I couldn’t even remember what that felt like. I felt like I had been on a plane, soaring smoothly through the clouds, and suddenly I’d made a crash landing. The amazing visuals started to disappear. I was drowning in my thoughts, but still dissociated from them. At the time, I interpreted going through my psyche as wandering through a forest in the black of night. I had no weapons to defend myself against the roots that were slithering away from the trees and cutting at my feet.

The warmth I had felt earlier was gone. I was freezing cold. The depression and negative mental patterns that I thought were gone came back, this time with a vengeance. I was absolutely heartbroken. How stupid of me to think that they could just go away. They’d never go away. I was stuck with them and would be forever. The only way out was through death, but probably not even then. I felt doomed forever. Instead of feeling happy to the core, I felt crushed. I was humiliated and shocked that I had felt so elated just hours before. Was it all a lie?
The thoughts got worse.
Did you really think that you would be okay? That’s absolutely laughable. How could you be so stupid? You don’t deserve to be okay. Everyone hates you. You should hate yourself. And you deserve to hate yourself. Happiness is for them. Not you. The only thing you deserve is death.
During that time, my boyfriend had turned off the TV and music and was going to sleep. He had had a good comedown. I attempted sleep myself, but I couldn’t, even though my eyes were burning.
The hallucinations started once he fell asleep. A thought came to me that he wasn’t sleeping, he was dead. It occurred to me to check that he was still breathing.
Wait, what? How could he be dead? You’re just paranoid. Stop that, I told myself.
I was hearing banging outside the bedroom door. I almost woke him up to ask him what his family was doing out there, because it was irritating me. Then I stopped for a second and listened closer, and there was nothing. It was in my head. Later, I asked him about it, and he said that everyone was asleep, that I was hearing things. It was around two am.
My senses started to quicken to the point of sensory overload. I heard crackling sounds around me, like someone was chewing Pop Rocks. This was in my head, too, I realized.
I woke my boyfriend up once. “Something’s happening to me,” I said. “I’m hearing things that aren’t there. I think I’m going crazy. What if I stay this way forever?”
“You’re not going crazy,” he said. He held me until I was relatively calm, then went back to sleep. I desperately wanted him to stay awake so I wouldn’t be alone with my thoughts, but felt bad asking him to because I didn’t want to annoy him.
That’s another thought I was having. You’re so annoying. Don’t you realize that no one wants you around them? No one wants you to be alive. Why do you think all your friends left you? Why do you think all your past relationships failed? You’re annoying. Just shut up for once. Let him sleep.

The auditory hallucinations started to fade, but in their place came visual ones. I saw silhouettes dancing around the walls. I saw a man in a black suit and tie sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at me with red eyes. I saw a demonic creature on the wall. I saw red letters in the air that spelled out “THEY’RE COMING FOR YOU.” I felt a pain in my left wrist, then looked down and realized I had been digging my nails into my skin. I didn’t know what was happening to me. I wanted to kill myself. I thought of going home and swallowing a whole bottle of Adderall.

It was pure insanity. I still saw geometric patterns, but instead of being funny like they were during the good trip, they represented death, murder, suicide, all the bad things I could think of. I woke my boyfriend up again because I needed him to turn the light on so I would stop seeing things in the darkness. He lit a candle. It got a little better.
At one point, I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I remember was waking up at around nine in the morning. The psychotic delusions and hallucinations were gone, but I felt like I’d been hit by a train. My eyes hurt from scratching at them for hours on end. My head pounded. I felt weak.

The trip was over. We went to a convenience store, got coffee and some doughnuts, and then he dropped me off at my house.

This was the day before yesterday. I’m still trying to make sense of what happened. I’m just writing this now so I have it somewhere, in case I forget. For now, I’m putting this off as a bad dream I had.
I don’t condone the use of psychedelics or any illegal drug. But I’m also not trying to scare anyone off of them. The truth is, though some people with mental disorders benefit from these drugs, in a lot of cases, they just don’t. They take you into your psyche. They reveal repressed memories. If you’re not comfortable with temporary insanity and complete loss of control, stay away from them.
I don’t know how to think of my trip. When it was good, it was the best I’ve ever felt. Unfortunately, the bad was so horrible that it outweighed the good. And I can’t look back at it and think of it as good.

I hope you all have a good day and thanks for reading.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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October update/why I stopped writing

I haven’t touched this blog in four months. Sometime around July, I put all my journals in storage, stopped updating this blog, and even stopped writing poetry altogether. It’s strange how something I used to be so in love with has become something that rarely crosses my mind anymore.
I don’t have an explanation for this. A major depressive episode, maybe. Loss of inspiration. Loss of creativity.
I wish I could spin worlds with my words the way I used to. I don’t want to be that girl who had a talent and lost it. I’ve been writing since I was five. This is all I know.
So here I am; it’s a little after one in the morning, and today I’ve had a sudden urge to write again. For months I felt so trapped in my head that to pour it all out felt like reopening a poorly bandaged wound. I don’t want this to be another cliched “my heart is broken” post, because I think I’m healing. I will start writing again. Even though my head is telling me that it’s pointless, that I’m useless and my words are burnt ashes, I’ll still try. I think that’s a step towards recovery.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

New Life in Florida, Lack of Poetic Voice (part two), Confusion That Never Stops

I haven’t written anything in a long time. Not on this blog, not in my journal, nothing. Lately my mind has become indistinguishable from a tempest brewing over a desert. So, despite the fact that I’m wearing acrylic nails and typing at my normal 115-WPM speed is nearly impossible, not to mention that my brain has turned into actual mush, I’m going to do it anyway.

I moved to Florida two days ago. The packing process was brutal, the seeing-all-my-friends-for-the-last-time was worse. It was hurtful and disappointing realizing how many people really didn’t bother to see me before I left, nor speak to me at all. It’s a painful thing moving a thousand miles and a time zone away from your home, and feeling as if no one cares you’re gone compounds that feeling. I feel alone in this place. It’s surreal, as if any moment I should be waking up, almost resisting the urge to pinch my arm to force my body to snap back to reality, but it’s not happening. I’ve had nightmares these past two nights. Horrible, terrifying nightmares about memories I thought I’d forgotten long ago that leave a bad taste in my mouth. More than anything, living here I feel dizzyingly free. My first night here I went for a run at midnight in the pouring rain–we were receiving the bands of a double tropical storm and tornado as a lovely welcome gift–with my hair down and twisting with the wind, and I felt euphoric for the first time in weeks. The rain soaked through my shoes and trickled down my face like icy teardrops, but I’ve never felt more liberated.

It both hurts and calms me that I’m hundreds of miles away from everyone I care about. Hurts because with distance, there is really no way to know whether they will miss you or forget about you. Calms me because I can sleep soundly knowing that all my bad memories are dead and gone. I am no longer standing in the wreckage of a storm I never learned how to get control over. I am living a new life already. Homesickness might be the death of me, but I know that with time I’ll find people and places that will matter more to me than that friend I lost or that coffee shop I used to go to every Wednesday. Someday I’ll find myself. I’m only coming to accept that Virginia wasn’t the place for me.

 

Update on my medication: I am still on the same dose of Seroquel and Lexapro (100mg Ser and 10mg Lex), and I think so far it’s working. Certainly helps me sleep. I’m hoping it’ll quell these nightmares tonight so I can stop waking up all but screaming.

Maybe I’ll get a poem down tonight. More than anything, I’m afraid that going through the shock of moving to a new environment has killed my creativity. Though, logically, I know that’s impossible. I’m hurting. Confused. Lost. And I’m tired. I’m tired. I just want to get it out so it can stop pounding on the walls of my heart–it’s really wearing me out.

Operation Pied Piper, Mixed Feelings, & Lack of Poetic Voice

On a glum Saturday in summer of 1938, with the threat of rain tinting the clouds a ghostly gray and the people of England coating their windows in scarlet sheets in hopes of catching some of the flooding, word came in that the German air raids would be back. In 1939, London’s City Council began making requests for buses and trains. The plan was to evacuate all of the British children to open homes in the countryside to evacuate the blitzkrieg — massive warfare. September 1, 1939, Germany invaded Poland, marking the beginning of history’s second world war. While the German planes were opening fire on the dark, small homes of England, hundreds of thousands of British children were boarding trains, bidding farewell to their mothers, and curling up on the hard seats of the trains, leather-bound books in hand, praying that they would return to their families. The children were marked with little white cards, and around their necks, a tiny cardboard box containing a gas mask. It’s been written that the brothers and sisters clung to each other while in line, hand in hand, “like grim death, refusing to be parted.” Think Chronicles of Narnia; the Lion, the Witch & the Wardrobe. That’s what was going on here. This massive evacuation of more than 3.5 million children–the largest in history to date– ultimately turned out to be somewhat a false alarm; the threat of German air raids had subsided in the few years after the children’s traumatic separation from their parents, and they were ordered to return.
Image result for operation pied piper
If you’re wondering why I’m giving a historical lecture on this blog, well, I’m not really sure either. This is one of the most fascinating pieces of history to me, and one that I like to reference in some of my poems. Something about the urgency of it all, the way those poor children had to pack their lives in a brown box and flee their home in an instant gives me chills. That, and Narnia is one of my favorite movies of all time.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about poetic voices — the unique tone a writer incorporates in his/her writing to give it an extra flair, a tint of familiarity. I don’t know what my writer’s tone is yet. Maybe I already have one. I know that I tend to overuse words like “melancholy” (it rings in my head. Beauty in a word) and “baby’s-breath” (not that pretty of a plant, but the most beautiful phrase I’ve ever heard, and I can also thank Nirvana for that), and oceans (don’t hate me for this, I know it’s riddled with cliches). I’ve been so overwhelmed with catching up on the tons (tons) of schoolwork I’ve missed and packing my things up for this Florida move in June, I haven’t had time to collect my thoughts enough to write a coherent poem. My journal lately has been a nearly-indecipherable ramble of out-of-place words and half-poems. I don’t know how to turn my feelings into something that will make sense on paper. I’ve never had this problem before, and it’s scary to me.
I’m constantly worrying that one day I will suddenly lose this innate ability I seem to have to dictate language in a way that sings. An old English teacher once told my dad that I seem to have complete control over the English language in a way that’s fascinating to her. That’s one of the best compliments I’ve received.

So I don’t know. I’m all caught up in regrets and hazy memories with no place to store it. I’ve been writing a short story lately, nearly ten thousand words in. I’m quite proud of it. That’s the only writing accomplishment I have to say for myself lately.
Tell me your thoughts.

Music of the Day: The Cure, Mac DeMarco; Musings on My Struggle With Bipolar Disorder

Early July of 2015, while sitting in a tiny restaurant in Atlanta, Georgia (after having dashed across the street, narrowly avoiding being hit by a Jeep), I first heard The Cure’s 1987 hit “Just Like Heaven.” I remember thinking it was the kind of song that’s laced with nostalgia in every note. It was bright, bubbly. I added it to my playlist that day. In a sense, the song became the soundtrack of my summer, along with Mac DeMarco’s Salad Days. During the day that I discovered The Cure and Mac D, I was on a sixteen-hour road trip back to the peninsula after spending a week in Pensacola. I was car-sick and had no way of knowing that when I got home, I would be thrown into the abyss of my first ever manic episode.

Image result for the cure

There’s not a lot I remember. More often than not I felt the sensation that my head was spinning, that my movements were entirely automated, that every natural disaster was taking place in the fault lines of my skin. Manic episodes, associated with all types of bipolar disorder, are periods lasting from a few days to–albeit less commonly–months, in which a person’s self-confidence, energy levels, and motivation hit a fever pitch. It can feel like there is this raw, powerful energy flowing through your blood, twisting your thoughts around, clouding your vision. These episodes are associated with high impulsiveness, doing things one would never do under normal circumstances. I remember taking a family member’s Xanax on multiple occasions, swallowing around sixteen at a time (this happened during that summer of 2015).
In addition, if mania reaches an unchecked level, hallucinations and delusions are common. When I had my first ever manic episode, it went on for a week (I was eventually diagnosed with type II bipolar, and my episodes have never been that long or severe since then) and even little things like my depth perception were . . . off. I hadn’t slept for around three days, and on my little brother’s birthday July 28th, we had gone to a restaurant and then a mini-golfing course to celebrate. I was tired to the core. My bones were screaming at me for sleep, but I simply couldn’t. The energy was taking over me. It felt evil. My parents joked that I was on drugs, and it felt like I was, but I started crying — I remember that I was hypersensitive at that time. My brother had been walking in front of me, maybe ten feet away, but the distortions of vision in my head caused me to see him closer than he actually was. This led to me snapping at him, “Back up! You’re standing too close.” He looked at me, confusion etched onto his face. “What do you mean? I’m not walking anywhere near you.”
Oh. I looked again and realized he wasn’t as close as I’d thought he was. In another instance around an hour later, I had excused myself to the restroom during dinner at Cracker Barrel, and when I stepped outside, there was an elderly woman, maybe in her nineties, laughing at me. I said nothing to her, but she hummed a low whistle and said, “You’re not welcome here. Go home,” and bore her eyes into mine. I turned around, looking for my family, and when I turned back, she was gone.
It’s instances like these that are the reason why mania is considered a mental illness and not just a euphoric spike of positive energy. I am on medication now, thankfully.

Back to The Cure. My dad and I play The Cure every time we’re in the car together, it’s kind of a ritual. One of our favorites is the 1982 release “One Hundred Years.” The first listing on The Cure’s Pornography album (strangle title, I know), the song begins with an eerie, haunting guitar riff and the words “Doesn’t matter if we all die.” The song speaks of what I’m assuming is one hundred years of bloodshed and wartime, including a young black-haired girl who had lost her father in the war, a soldier on the front lines, a man in the office of a high building referencing perhaps a terrorist attack, and some of the most dark melodies I’ve heard yet in a song. We speculated for a while on what this song is about, so I did some research. Though the album was influenced heavily by psychedelic drugs, frontman Robert Smith stated that he was going for a “virtually unbearable” sound, implying that the lyrics were meant to sound ‘goth’ and depressive, lacking any real substance. Many of the songs on this album are, indeed, depressing. “One Hundred Years” stands as one of my favorite songs of all time, nonetheless.

Next up, Mac DeMarco. Salad Days will, I think, forever be one of my favorite albums of any artist. I first heard this on that dreadful sixteen-hour car trip back home, and I fell in love. Mac his a very distinct sound, mixing slow jam with psychedelic rock with “jangle pop.” The album kicks off with the song “Salad Days” itself — the lyrics “As I’m getting older, chip up on my shoulder, rolling through life to roll over and die.”
Perhaps the best song on this album, in my opinion, is “Brother.” The end instrumentals of this song are haunting with a trace of surrealism. It reminds me of that episode in summer, 2015. I’ve watched countless Mac interviews and vlogs, and I think he’s adorable, little tooth-gap/Viceroy cap and all.

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The Secret Language of Flowers, or The Enigma of Unrequited Love in Rose Talk

The last month of 1820

was a dying bouquet.

Women wore hyacinths

in ashy chignon buns,

blue laced with sunlight.

Men slashed gardenias

across their throats

like box blades, leaving

the slated white to

stain their collarbones.

They say every flower

is a secret language;

where yellow sees kin,

red sees limerence

and the blood of angels.

White is a purity ring

of hope, of sleepsongs

and his wrists on yours.

When I met you,

there were black petals

resting on your left foot–

dark magic, you said.

A columbine, a primrose,

pollen mixed with nightfall.

You took the flower from off

your body and tucked it

into my hair, told me it was

dying nightshade, louder

than red and twice as lucky.

When you left

it rained for

days, enough to wither the

tongues of the flowers,

kill their spoken word, wash

the black out with salt.

Your roses were a dark

cloud, and I’m finally learning

how to unlearn their language.

 

 

A Thousand Miles/Old Friends With New Faces/Losing Sight of Everything

I’m moving. In June. To Florida.

I’m moving.

To Florida. A thousand miles away.

I don’t understand why this is so hard for me to say. I can’t speak those six simple words out loud. They get stuck in my throat like crickets. Perhaps I’m hoping that if I don’t admit them to myself, they won’t be true.

I live in Virginia, as close to the oceans as one can get. The weather here is insane due to the fact that we are on a peninsula, surrounded on three sides by water. Our seasons aren’t so much seasons as they are sea-directed rapid shifts of snow one day and sunburn the next. I was born in Jacksonville, Florida, but I have lived here in Virginia since before kindergarten. I remember not knowing why we were packing up our things and leaving (Navy dad), just that we were. I remember running up the steps to the big white apartment complex we’d be moving into and stepping right on top of a sharp-end-up nail, lodging it deep into my foot. I remember limp-running into my new home, crying from the pain but giddy.

Years later, we moved to the house I live in now. I thought it was the most beautiful place. I loved my neighborhood and the friends I made down the street. This was the place where I fell in love with words, with shady groves and maple trees and forests that were magical only in my own head. I colored twigs and sticks Sharpie-black and pretended like they were Harry Potter wands (HP was the first and only love of my life), then stained my jeans with the ink and got reprimanded. I was gifted a tiny green parakeet for my birthday and quickly became afraid of it. I sat in my bed on Christmas Eve at ten years old crying because I was terrified of growing up and losing everything I had, afraid that I hadn’t lived a good enough childhood (I met our good old friend called ‘existential crisis’ at a very young age).

Virginia has a lot of my memories. Here I met the friends that I’ll remember for the rest of my life, the rag-tag group of seven writers I call my “dead poets society.” Our group isn’t exactly a group anymore… there’s been a lot of falling out, and I lost my best friend. If you’re reading this, and you might because I’ve posted the link to my blog everywhere, I love you. You’re always welcome back home.

Okay. I’ve become a crying mess typing this. I’ve more or less accepted the fact that I’m going to be moving and leaving my old life behind while starting a new one in Florida. I’ve accepted it, but I haven’t accepted the life I’ll be losing. It hurts.

 

Part II of this nonsensical rant: WHAAAAT is wrong with my heart?

That’s all I’m going to say about this.

Until next time, I hope you all enjoyed my emotional outpour.

Hold My Hand and Walk Back Through Time: Growing Up with BPD

“Someday, the nostalgia will fade and we will learn that it is merely gravity making us frown.” ~d.s.h.

I have never been an aggressive person. Even as a child in class I was afraid to ask someone for a pencil or speak up in class when a peer made an offhand comment to me for fear of drawing attention to myself, of being called dramatic and “tattle-tale.” Regarding my elementary school, my peers and I were part of this international baccalaureate program in which we were rewarded for demonstrating skills such as empathy, or getting a top grade on our reading comprehension tests. We were considered the “gifted” kids. Fifth grade came around, and with my mousy black hair and wide, anxious eyes, I auditioned for the winter school musical. I’m not even sure I was all that good at singing, but I got the part for solo. I find this very strange looking back on it. Presently, I would never think about performing in front of a giant crowd like I once did — I admire child-me’s bravery.

I had always been a nervous, highly sensitive child. At age seven I started this compulsive habit of ripping out my hair and picking off skin from the area around my fingernails (I still have the finger-picking habit today). No one understood why I did this and I didn’t either. It felt like it was something I had to do, and while I was doing it, I’d go into this trance-like state where I wasn’t entirely aware of my surroundings. At that age I also found anger quite a difficult emotion for me to articulate. I could get intensely jealous over small things, and this led to a lot of fights with my friends back then. I wasn’t capable of introspection at ten years old. When my family upset me I released the growing tension inside of me, the electrical storm brewing in my chest, by bending my fingers back as far as they’d go. I did this because the pain relieved the anger. except my family didn’t know that — they thought it was funny and often mocked me. At the time I didn’t know what self-harm even was. It was just something I did. When I got older, this coping mechanism evolved from finger-bending to cutting my thighs, burning my arms, and punching things.

As I grew into adolescence, my emotions became increasingly volatile. I remember feeling like a dull, hollow shell of a child, entirely at the mercy of my environment. I could flip from one emotion and to another and then back again at the drop of a hat. It was frightening both to me and my family.

Shame, shame, shame. January of this year I was reevaluated by psychiatrists (the first time I received two diagnoses of MDD and social phobia) and diagnosed with type II bipolar disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, and borderline personality disorder. I did not begin taking medicine until the end of March when I spent eight days in a psychiatric facility. I remember being woken up at six am in the soft blue light of dawn to have my blood taken; as I was sitting on the chair outside my nurse’s office, groggy and annoyed, a middle-aged blonde woman approached me and said, “Oh, sorry to interrupt, but I’ve been watching you just from over there. You’re very beautiful. You could be a model! What’s a pretty little girl like you doing in a place like this?” I didn’t know what to say. What was I doing in there? There’s a lot of answers. The most obvious one, I had overdosed on pills. The second answer, I had lost control of my emotions. Third, I wanted to start over. There’s a whole lot of excuses.

In the hospital I was prescribed 10mg Lexapro and 100mg Seroquel. I was advised to take it at night due to how sleepy the medication makes me. So far, my moods are still a tempest, only slightly more dampened down. Now I don’t have mania to sweep me off my feet and turn my thoughts into a cyclone, and I’m not particularly depressed, but I still spiral into a suicidal downfall when my borderline triggers act up. I’m in therapy twice a week. It’s a work in progress, but I know anything is possible.

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Song of the Day: Bittersweet Symphony

“It’s a bittersweet symphony, that’s life.”

Ever since I was eight years old and obsessed with gymnastics, I can’t remember a time I wasn’t in love with this song. Released in 1997 by English artist Richard Ashcroft, Bittersweet gained instant popularity and critique, altogether. The rights to the song were taken by Allen Klein due to supposed copying of a Rolling Stones melody.  Despite itself, though, The Verve is almost ethereal to me. I don’t know too many songs by them but this is definitely my go-to when I’m feeling low. It’s one of the reasons I have such a strong desire now to learn cello (if only I had the patience).

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This past week has been so draining that I haven’t been able to write anything. I open my journal, which usually gives me inspiration to write just from the elegance of it, and find myself hating my poetry. I’m in an advanced creative writing class, so writing and reading poetry to the best of my ability is paramount. The other day, just for the fun of it, I decided to read a poem of mine to the class (title: Holland, 1945, after a Neutral Milk Hotel song of the same name), and as I was writing the poem I saw no issues with it. After reading, however, I felt like burning everything I’d ever written. I felt like I had to decorate my poetry in flowery writing so people would think it’s “pretty,” rather than use the raw and somewhat uncomfortable words I’d used in the poem (it’s about Anne Frank, for heaven’s sake). Logically I know this is wrong. I’m generally just in a funk I don’t know how to break out of.

I needed comfort, so I listened to this song for maybe the thousandth time. I let the melody shine and cleanse my mind like the song said, and I slowly started to feel better. Music is wildly important in my life, and I’m so, so glad songs like these exist.

What’s in a Poem?

A few weeks ago I asked a friend of mine what her favorite season was. She told me summer, because in the lazy heat of the season she felt more secure stepping outside; to her, cold weather was like an invader chilling her to the bones. There was an apparent association between snow and fear. When asked, I’ve always said that winter is my favorite season (Christmas, snow, warm nostalgia by the fireplace, what’s not to love?), but just recently I’ve realized that I despise winter, much for the same reason my friend does. Rather, I am more in love with the concept of winter. I told my friend about this, and she said, “That’s why I don’t trust poetry. It unabashedly romanticizes everything. Though miraculously structured and made savory through choice diction… poetry is a lie.” I thought about this for a while. Do I agree? Not quite. I think that poets are experts at taking the mundane and turning it into the extraordinary. Though guilty of viewing the world through “rose-colored lenses,” I would not go as far as to say that writing is a lie.

Webster’s Dictionary defines poetry as “Writing that formulates a concentrated imaginative awareness of experience in language chosen and arranged to create a specific emotional response through meaning, sound and rhythm.” Simply put, poetry practices digging deeper into ordinary language, essentially “painting a picture with words.” From Keats-style romance to Japanese tankas whispered on the lips of lovers to Ars Poetica, a detailed twenty-four-line poem about poetry itself, this unique style of writing manifests in colorful variety. Poets carry within us this deep, instinctive urge to convey our thoughts through words rather than pictures, in metaphors rather than concrete terms. It isn’t about applying a simple rhyme scheme and some line breaks to words — that’s not what a poem is. Sure, rhyming is used in many types of poetry, but I have surveyed dozens of non-writers from around my school, and nearly everyone defined a poem in the Shakespearean sense, which does not encompass all poetry. My personal favorite is free-verse, for example. There are no rules, no syllable counts to follow. To me, writing a poem free-verse feels like picking out words and feeling them, tasting them on your tongue, allowing them to absorb your thoughts with gentle hands and then flow from your fingertips. Or perhaps stealing the sun from the sky just for a moment so that everything goes black except for the grandiose, blinding light illuminating only your words on the paper.

Poems are spontaneous and strong-willed, often taking on a mind of their own. I typically find it hard to stay on subject when I sit down to start writing, because my brain takes an idea and runs with it, and the end product is hardly recognizable. One of my favorite things to compare, though possibly banal, is seasons with moods. Living with Bipolar II, my moods are often correlated directly with seasonal changes, so this makes sense. When I think of winter, I think of steel and ice, headaches from the brisk, unforgiving wind, morning cigarettes leaving an acrid taste in your mouth, fitful sleep, dawn coming down through violet clouds. Summer, to me, is hazy white, fading in and out of lucidity, manic bursts of my soul on fire, fainting from the heat, blurred melancholy. Spring and autumn are sisters in hand, twin souls, two maple trees with their leaves kissed to ash by lightning. In spring, snapdragons, waxflowers, climbing nightshades and baby’s-breath come to life, peek out from underneath thawing leaves to make sure it is safe to bloom. In autumn, that same life is taken away by whistling winds from the north; burnt orange and charcoal clouds.

There is an endless list of things to be said about poetry. It is the deadly calm before the storm and the falling asleep in the wreckage after it has passed. It is scribbling down racing thoughts on a torn napkin because you forgot to bring your notebook that day but couldn’t bear to let the idea float away. It is telling the truth in raw imagery; tranquil yet rageful, standing ceasefire yet waging war. My only hope is that one day I find the words to give back to poetry what it has given me, this beautiful gift of expression.