I never know what to listen to, the chimes or the sirens. Walking to the library just a few minutes ago I was attending to the tears behind my eyes and the frustration of my morning. I have been unable to hit the "sweet spot"--that good feeling, that alive and safe and confident feeling. I have instead been awash in amorphous fear and guilt and angry conversations in my head with my house mates. I have been furious at others and myself. I have been unable, in short, to keep myself safe from the delusions of my illness. I have wondered what I am really scared of; perhaps of the fear itself, perhaps of the delusions themselves, perhaps of the pain twisting in my chest, definitely of other people. I have been unable to plan my day--what set of activities will keep me away from danger--away from a deeper fall into emotional and mental chaos. My mind settled on worry about laundry; about having to make a decision whether to advance a housemate's laundry or leave it on top of the dryer if someone gets ahead of me in the laundry line this afternoon. I have ended up planning my day around getting home soon enough to be the first person in the laundry--no conversations needed, no decisions with possible dangerous repercussions to make. Perhaps someone will get angry at me for putting there clothes in the dryer, or for not. Maybe they will retaliate and throw my clothes on the floor. How will I survive if someone is mad at me--such terror it will bring me, such paranoia, such kissing ass to make sure they still like me, such complete lack of safety until they are no longer mad at me. So I must be the first in the washer today. Close up shop. The less communication needed the better. How lonely. It all feels like an emergency, all the time, to escape these spaghetti thoughts twisting around, these pancake thoughts piling up at amazing speed, these stuttering thoughts, trying to be born into my consciousness as my superego tries to shut them down. It is tiring to manage this fear.
This emergency of existence is often all I see, hear, talk about. But today, on the way here, I hear them both--the chimes of a nearby church and the sirens of a fire truck in the neighborhood. I am not all fear. It is a meditation technique, to be so open that you can focus on the breath, the sounds around you, and your body in space. Rarely can I do this, rarely can I even focus just on my breath. But today I hear both, the beauty in the bells and the wailing of the firetruck.
I am at a loss to name the parts of me that make music, but I'm told they exist. My psychiatrist, Dr. M, reminds me insistently from time to time that I am strong, confident, and powerful. He even told me recently that he was terrified of me the first few months we worked together. Somehow this made me feel good. I laughed, but I took it to heart.
But how about this? How about sitting here, writing into cyberspace, sharing my experience as I've dreamed of doing for my whole life. Telling my secrets, albeit anonymously, as I've always wanted to. With this blog, only in its third day of creation, I feel like my life has a little flavor to it. A purpose? I won't go that far--too much pressure. But definitely a little flavor beyond the coconut ice cream with hot fudge I allow myself once each week. A little flavor beyond my regimented life, a highly disciplined existence created for the sole purpose of staying safe, feeling safe. I picture my head as shaped like a coconut yet made of burnished steel, clamped shut unable to let anything out or anything in; inside it is rife inside with squirrelly thoughts and little movie shorts that pop up instantaneously, and so on. I picture my heart like an off white seed pod, wedged in my chest among my reddish, purple organs, sealed shut--no love gained, no love lost. I am, in this way, immune to change of the human kind. Borne of learning and interaction of tears and joy. I do not go there.
But here I am. Writing, like I've always said I wanted to. That's all I want to say. I don't want to turn this into a pressure, a potential cure (ha!) , a way out of my halfway house (although I've been thinking that all morning.) I've enjoyed this. Eighteen minutes left. I think I'll check my e-mail.