Dying Truth




A tarot reader in New Orleans once said to me:

“He will come.”


And I hold onto that dying truth

Like the last shards of a broken version of myself

When I cry myself to sleep.


I am sure I have put myself back together again

But there seems to have been a missing piece

Although I have searched

Through fog and dust and tears and blood

I can’t find it

I just keep looking

And I’ll keep waiting,

Until he shows up

On my doorstep

With ice cream and coloring books.



I used to color in the psych wards

Even though it was against the rules

They let me fingerpaint

That one time when I had escaped my reality


Even though images of my death


I felt somehow more at peace than ever

When I gave the best of my pictures

To the young girl who was going to Bryce–

At least I was somehow useful

though it was so sad:

“I have no one to take care of me.”


I realized that’s all I ever wanted


But can he find me?

Does he feel as hopeless

As I feel every now and then?


At least I’m free

Cause when I was in Gen Pop that time

A girl said:

“She’s a richy-rich girl, but she ‘aight.”

Which has basically been everyone’s assessment

Of me always….

Although, as Mr. Nice Nasty pointed out:

“That’s the best compliment you could get in jail.”



At least now

I can say I have lived


most people just do what they’re suppose to


I’ve let go of the life

I’m  “suppose” to have


never really setting out to get married,

I suppose I can’t complain I am still single


But I do feel a twinge of regret,

Like, well, what now?

Even though he fell off that train

He probably has more peace

Than I.


Although it’s not a bad life,

It’s just that I get lonely sometimes

Waiting for the man

That tarot reader spoke of.



Note: The tarot reading was indeed accurate—I was married 10.15.17.



















Another Life

download-2So what I hope is a final diagnosis has been unleashed upon me.  It was given to me years ago, by the only good psychiatrist I have ever had (previous to the current time), considering the deep south is full of imposters and those whom actually little knowledge of diagnosis.  Schizoaffective, Bipolar type.  This means I have elements of both bipolar disorder and schizoaffective disorder.  Also, I have been diagnosed with PTSD.  I think the PTSD is severe—I can’t tolerate bright lights, a lot of people, or noise.  I am overly aware of sounds and sensations.  It feels like a PTSD thing, rather than a psychosis thing, but I am also experiencing elements of psychosis.  I hear music, and I know its not there.  The Dr.’s seem surprised I have this awareness; yes, there is insight, but I don’t know why.  Perhaps because I have been down this road before, and I know the deal.  First, the music that seems so soft.  I turn off everything that it could stem from and I still hear it.  I ignore it and tell myself it doesn’t matter.  But it does.  It does, because mental illness steals from me.  I see my former Master degree cohorts becoming Directors of organizations and departments; I see my high school friends whom have been married for 10 years; I see my former co-workers have babies, and I realize there are things that otherwise would have the ability to do, but because of my illness, I do not.  I am 37 and psychotic and depressed (a severe mix) and I will not recover more than likely in time to have a child.  I will be rocketed back into psychosis, my mind thrown away.  I wonder if this will ever end, or if every good day simply leads back to a sideways one.  I feel well enough to walk the dog, and feel grateful for that.  We walk and walk and I wonder, what are the lives like of the people inside each house?  Are they like mine?  The kids in 421, playing rap music and laughing; the old lady in her lazy boy, always in her lazy boy with her housecoat on, with no curtains on her windows.  The couple in the house with orange lights, their only Halloween decorations.  Am I the only one going insane?

Schizoaffective disorder effects .03% of the population.  If I tell bipolar people, those who know what stigma is like, that I have psychotic features they recoil from me and say “I don’t have that;” If I tell a “normal” person, they immediately take a step back at the word, schizo, horrified and confused.  The Dr.’s say that the ability to seem normal and functional and “present well” is part of my illness, and I wonder who else is out there, who is like me, but is “presenting well.”  It is a little scary, to tell you the truth, that we are out in the world like normal people, that other people have thoughts like me.  My therapist likes group therapy for me, and although I try it, I realize that anxiety/depression groups have no understanding of anything more severe, and bipolar patients compete for whose sicker.  I can “win” that competition quite easily if I wanted to, but I don’t try, it doesn’t make sense to me.  Why would I want to be the sickest person in the room?  I have been that person my whole life, and I don’t want pity from anyone.  I shy away from telling anyone but my fiancé what is going on internally for me, because I think it makes people sad. I don’t want people to be sad.  I used to be unable to pick up on others emotions or reactions, now I seem intimately attuned to them.  People feel sad and sorry for me and it just causes me more pain, so I don’t talk about my illness, but that allows it to grow.  So I realize that I must; I casually make light of hearing mumbling voices or music.  People seem to take it better this way, like they understand I am sick, but I don’t really act like I am, so it is ok.  In reality, I am in so much pain that it hurts to think.  I try to reel in my thoughts and go in a different direction, sometimes it works.  Sometime, it doesn’t, particularly when Gretchen is whispering in my ear.  You know how you have a voice in your head, that’s your own voice?  Everyone has this, but I have another voice, that seems separate from me, but it’s my own voice, speaking to me in third person.  “You shouldn’t have done that,” “you are a fuck-up.”  Some people have this, and its still normal, but when it is more often, and so demeaning, it into dances on the edge of psychosis.  I call this place “the borderlands” and sometimes I live there.  This is where Gretchen also lives and speaks to me.  I try not to give her power, but sometimes she overcomes me, she is me, but not me at the same time.  Gretchen spoke her name to me suddenly one day, and it surprised me because it gives me power over her to some extent, as to know someone’s true name give you power.  I am changing my own name, again, to become someone else.  Like the 8 of cups in tarot, I am walking away from everything, have walked away from almost everything, to be reborn into what I hope is another life.

There is beauty in the Madness – An Experience of Watching Blade Runner 2049


images-1Blade Runner 2049 is truly a spiritual experience to watch, or at least it was for me.  The dark, gritty, hazy feel is reminiscent of both the future and the past.  I related to it because of the need to feel human in a world of madness in which I do not.  The desire to do something great; to make meaning of this madness of the human condition.  To quelch the numbness I feel inside.  Ryan Gosling does justice to the original film in his role, as does the entire film.  I watched intently, with a feeling of Deja vu, but for what, I did not know.  The seasons changed rapidly in the film, much like my sharp, jagged moods.  Sometime I was unsure of reality, such when I thought my seat was moving, but it was not a D-box film.  The seat moving (for some reason) concerned me more than the realization this was possibly a hallucination.  It is fine when I experience things that aren’t real, as long as I can figure that out at some point.  It is when I can’t, that I am really in trouble.  Then, the demon in my mind becomes louder and stronger.

The film was a strange sort of beautiful, with several characters who were meant to remind you of characters in the original film and a strong, but, disturbing ending.  Despite it being disturbing, I loved it; maybe because it is much like my real life with regards to the feel of my life, my mind, and my emotions.  The film reminded me of a time, long ago, when I saw the film eXistenZ (David Cronenburg, 1999) in a small, dark house in a small town filled with a gritty madness.  Both films affected me on primal level, the surreal experience making me unsure of the nature of reality.  I have recently learned I live primarily in what I call  “The Borderlands” or the space between reality and psychosis.  Psychosis is like a waking dream, like a spiritual experience, which eventually turns into intense darkness of the soul.  Voices cry out to me: “welcome to your own reality television show” and that is certainly the feel of the experience.  “the only was to live is to die” they say, and so I began to climb out the window of the 13th floor of my apartment.  A sharp pain hits me when I scrap my skin on the brick, and I am jolted, for just long enough back to a sort of reality, realizing this is not a good idea.  Blade runner is somewhat like this experience, except I actually jumped, but didn’t die.  Or maybe, I did die, but like the voices said, I live again, reborn.



The sound of a door closing, the buzz of an alarm, the ambient waves of a piano

I recoil

Sharp, jagged moods:

pop another pill

sink deep into

Emotional Novocain.

Down the rabbit hole

Clouds of Hazy memory

Float past

Turned down the volume of my mind

The happy demon in my head says

“You are going to die”

climbing up to the 13th floor

twisting in the air

I want to feel the ground beneath my feet again

All these things are true

And contradictory too

I am sideways in the world.

Clouds and Dreams are Hazy Matchmakers

257px-Irid_clouds1She envisions the rest of her life laid before her, like a barren wasteland.  She crawls through the dust, choking; he is strangling her.  The past lies in ruins behind her; Ahead, in the distance, there could be rainbow lake.  Is it an illusion?  It glitters, taunting her, and she knows it is not meant for her.

She forgot how easily everything can break. Shattered, she can not find the will to put herself back together once again.  Clouds and dreams are hazy matchmakers.  She is frozen.  Death creeps in, stealing her mind silently.

She tried to end her life the day before her wedding day. She was in so much pain it didn’t make sense anymore.   So much so she couldn’t feel anything anymore.  Waking up, she realized she needed to be strong enough to create something, to make the madness have meaning.   She needed to make up a reason to live just to open her eyes in the morning.

“You Kept Me Up with All Your Manic Energy”   – Waxahatchee, “Brass Beam”



I just planned out the next six years of my life.  I am getting married in 25 days, if you didn’t know, dear readers.  So, my manic brain just said, you must do everything now.  And so I listened to the voice in my head – getting well, finances, child, finishing the book I am writing, getting a job, moving to another city, and then back again, getting another job after two years at home with the baby.  Some of this stuff I can’t even predict, but oh, how I have tried.  I wrote It all down as my fiancé slept.  We hadn’t had sex in a week-the longest we have ever gone-and tonight the primal sex sent me spinning.  The dog even thinks I am crazy. I have been whirling through another 1,000 words of writing my book.  My memoir.  I started it Friday – 6 days ago.  Which, in my state of chaos and self-delusion, I think I can finish in 6 months.  I do have 3,176 words in a matter of four sittings.  I twirl my engagement ring on my finger and write and write while thoughts fly.  I am hyper-aware of everything and super zoned in on myself at the same time.  I chain-vape and it feels like I am getting somewhere, even though nothing is actually happening yet because it is just 4am on a Wednesday morning but I think I can take over the world (although this time, maybe I will try it clothed.  See post: “Never throw your cell at a cop and other fun learning experiences”).  I simultaneously can’t collect thoughts and also have an abundance of them.  No, I am not on drugs.  I am on the residuals of sex and mania, mixed together like some forbidden cocktail.  And I have drunk the cocktail as fast as possible, at hyper-speed, actually.  It hits me like a line of cocaine.  My fingers don’t keep up with my mind as I write this.  I am on Hi-fi speed like a scratchy record playing the same part of the song over and over again.  Skip. Skip. Skip.  I jump with a jolt at any idea, and they all sound grand.  Except the financial one, which makes me irritable. Next thing I know, I am raging at Facebook and Trump (like the former matters).  However, on Facebook, I see shiny, bright people with lives that feel so elusive to me.  What is it even like to feel normal? Did I ever even know?  I have enough insight to know I don’t know.  I plan how my memoir is going to win awards, and I will be signing books for those people on FB that I am “friends” with that I don’t even like.  I am amazing.  I feel amazing.  I sometimes question am I happy, or just manic; right now I know the answer, but I don’t care, I just keep going.  My Fiancé comes downstairs and I say “I hope I didn’t keep you up with all my manic energy?”  “No,” he replies,  “I took a melatonin to sleep, so I just came to check on you.”  He probably woke up because of a trippy melatonin – induced dream, I think, and continue on, telling him I have planned out our lives until the year 2023.  He knows I am manic, and so he says sleepily, “That is good.  We will have a good life.”  I laugh and smile, and continue on – why sleep now? It is 5am and so I make coffee because I think that’s what I need, even though I know it isn’t.   It is 5am and I am as electrified as I was yesterday morning, waking up to a nightmare, except in a good way I think.  I listen STILL to the SAME album I have heard 500 times in the last week, except I skip all the slow songs.  That will slow me down, and I can’t stop now.  I can’t I can’t I can’t.  I keep myself “up with all my manic energy.”

Deep Wonderland: Down the Rabbit Hole

The world spins, goes out of focus, becomes a hazy spark of confusion.  I feel like I just woke up from a dream. Fantastic daymares plague me.  Electrified, I sit in silence.  I can’t see myself clearly, or sometimes, at all.  I am disconnected from my life, myself, my emotions.  My life is a hazy, black and white silent film.  A clock strikes 3am, and I go numb.  The buzz in my head is loud—so loud I can’t think.  Thoughts feel jumbled and the world feels strange.  I wonder “is this the end?”  A sharp inhale, and I am flying.  Jagged images float past me, and I reach for them, under the substance of reality.  Sounds are dull and far away.   Vaguely, light slowly, silently filters through as it’s own odd sensation.  Simultaneously, I feel empty.  My soul is outside of my body.  I look back at myself, and I do not recognize myself.  I do not understand; perhaps, I am not meant to fully know the pain. I have gone into deep wonder and fallen through the rabbit hole; The other side is mysterious and dark.