Morning claws at my intellect
crying for sense,
through freight train thoughts.
If only I could reach
the emergency brake.
Music and I won’t be friends today. From bad club mixes to chill jazz, my mind would have none of it. I felt raw and it scrubbed like an abrasive. A giant steel wool striking my nerves. I could feel the blood in my brain angry and ready to attack.
The world is incredibly noisy. I don’t really know how babies sleep.
I am losing this battle of management. My focus subdivided into tiny nations, each with their own ruler, all of them tyrants.
The way modern post industrial society thrives on the scattering of attention both intrigues and scares me. I am not keeping up. Bipolar does not allow for the stoking of ten fires at once, each controlled and successfully finished. It seems as soon as I am lighting the next fire, the first three have grown out of control and are burning down the forest of my mind but of course, I intend to continue to light more fires.
Months ago when I told my psychiatrist I often forget to eat, he seemed incredulous. To be fair, I’m not 98 pounds. I only realize I have forgotten to eat when I am far from home and start to feel strange sitting with an absence of nutrition.
The constant neural stimulation creates difficulties that I often don’t speak about but are pretty evident if you spend time with me: skin picking, talking to myself, sucking in my breath sharply, humming, etc. My mind is exploding into the body at rapid pace and I am trying to leak it out gently. I was once questioned, what is it that you’re doing? To which I replied, “This is just me. This is just what I do.”
It frightens people in the grocery store, which is great, actually. Please get away from me. I have important things to consider. I’m aware that as time goes on, the spiral gets deeper. I can’t function the way other people can and have to pick my situations on the fly. What kind of day is this going to be?
When people react to me sometimes, I have to think, is my smile inappropriate or are they just rude motherfuckers? I honestly don’t have the capacity to actually determine that one way or the other.
The lack of understanding America has for the severely mentally ill often manifests in this confusing manner where my intellect is also considered limited although it is not. I am a university college graduate with a 3.9 GPA. My major was English but I also got A’s in Chemistry, Physics, and Biology. Just because I act weird must mean I chew on crayons, can’t add or subtract, or wet my pants on the bus.
There is a lot of assuming, judging, and assigning of character. I don’t own a gun, by the way. Perhaps it’s because we love categories (race, gender, sexuality) and feel safe by the association of traits. This has always been troublesome for me (grew up in a Black/Latino neighborhood, old school “tomboy”, and bisexual) but as a result, I give people a wide berth to just be themselves without any steel stamped conclusions.
Our heads define us, not our skin color or genitals or sex partners.
And my head is a little busy today. Truth be told, it’s been spinning for a month. It’s a bit like the window of a front loading washer if instead of detergent, you added dirt, hope, and determination.
Fellow spinners, let us have no despair! Spin fast, get it out, and repeat.