Being pulled from reality pt 2

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Falling into the abyss. Darkness over takes me pulling the breath from my lips and sucking my lungs dry. Around me life is being drained from the living to give to the dead so they rise again. A cycle of unforgiving light. 

I fall with my back toward whatever direction I’m going – am I falling up? Everything seems to be getting smaller – but if I’m falling down maybe I’m looking up? It’s all dark anyways. Light dots and darkness dots begin to penetrate my eyes. I can only feel my body – falling falling into a never ending cycle. Never reaching terminal velosity. It just keeps on pulling me sucking the breath out of me, yet I still can breath – or am I? Have I died already? I feel my body, but the darkness is to dark to see if I’m actually still in it. 

Infinite darkness in each and every infinite piece of gathering darkness. But in that darkness light also exists. Between each dark spot there is a source of light. I need to fall into one of those. Smaller than an atom I have to fit or I perish. Would it matter if I did? So I turn towards what’s pulling me. A light. I see it. I dive. Straighten my legs and arms close into my body – but if there’s light why can’t I see my body? Never mind that, I need to focus. What does this light bring me? Why is it pulling me? I’ll fight to survive. 

I never get any closer but I’m still heading towards the light. Why do I not feel the sit being pushed around me? How do I know that I’m falling? 

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Disassociation 

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Where you know it’s happening but you’re watching. When you feel your body but can’t control it. Where you understand but don’t act. Numb. Fights inward. Fights outward. Life. Acceptance? Grief, GUILT. What is it? 

Words can’t describe, because words don’t experience. If I place my hands, just there you’ll understand. But you can’t, you don’t accept. 

I give, give, give… to nothing. What do I give? My life, my energy. Does it matter? It only is matter. Matter and their workings. Energy. I put my energy into you. Then what? Push back, flaming death back into my face. But from under it comes. From myself. Was it I who pushed? Did I give to receive this? 

Words, distraught. Words, misunderstood. Words, painful words. They mean nothing. 

But if I place my hands just there, maybe you can understand. I repeat this why? Because you’ll never understand. Never. You will not understand because you are not me, you don’t need to understand, so why speak? Silence, just, patience, time; tried and true 

Fight, fight again, with me with you. Feel the push. Feel. The. Push. When I place my hands just there. It’s true. My hands, they don’t lie. My hands can’t lie, they can’t speak. Truth is hidden, it’s hidden from above, below, under, in, out, around. Forever truth rings in a song. Music so beautifully, painfully, emotional. The music of us. 

Disassociation of life. Reality? Truth? What is it? 

Is death our mother? 

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Honestly, 

What’s the point of living if beyond living there is nothing? Beyond dying there is nothing. I don’t see the point in any of it. There is no “heaven” and the heaven that you think is heaven is beyond the self so the you that you are now won’t be then. You don’t experience “pleasure” you experience nothing. Because there isn’t anything. So to bring yourself out of something is the hardest thing. Maybe the glory is killing yourself. 

Maybe that’s how you reach nirvana… but knowing that dying is okay. So if dying is okay – then why do we wait to die? What do we experience pain, suffering and hate only to die? Yes there is love and goodness and joy – but are those even real emotions? I mean chemically speaking yes. All the neurons fire in the brain to create a release of hormones that create an emotion – so truely what is the point of living if death is the ultimate end. Why do I need to go through this suffering of existing when I don’t even need to be me. 

They say we go through a journey of self discovery – but do we ever find ourselves? Who has turkey found themselves? No one – why? Because no one exists. This is all just a made up world in my mind. It’s my world like the one you’re living in is yours. There is no point in “living” only happening. We only “happen” so why not end the happening before the “projected date” the fate of us all lies in dying. We will all die there is no difference in you or me because we both will die. 

Death does not segregate, does not go unpunished, does not hate, isn’t bias, in a twisted way, it loves everyone equal. Maybe the good die young because death loved them more. If death was a mother, everyone would go to her. But why do we all not? Our ego drives us to be contained in this world – to drive us to end with nothing.

Or if death was our mother were we born from her? Absolutely… we are all made from a death of a star, a death of a tree to decompose to make fertilizer to become another tree – a death of a person to become another person. A cycle. A woman’s cycle, our earths cycle. 

And I’m not upset. I don’t say these worlds because I’m mad or angry or sad. Yes events have brought me here but I’ve been this way since I was a child. I remember being upset at 10 years old. For reasons I could never explain. I was in therapy since I was 8-9 and I could never get it “right”. So honestly is a chemical imbalance that you people stay here? Or that I’m still here? What was the first person that came to be say – hmmm I think living is good so I’ll make more. Was it evolution or God? Could it have been both? Are we puppets to a game to inhabit a planet for a few centuries while a slower race (not mentally but timely) measure our chemical reactions? 

What IS Reality?!

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It is but a dream, a perception of the senses that create a chemical compound to create an image or emotion. Like music in a car or a motion picture. How is it that the “energy” from a computer chip creates a sound or an image that creates a real emotion? But it’s not in front of you, yet this emotion from the music or movie feels real. It pulls you in, you get into a funk after a sad or crazy one, one that makes you think. 

So what different in a trauma of a dream, and real life? This is in my head – all the senses penatrating my brain. Sight, smell, taste, touch and hearing. All of my dreams are real. How is it that I can’t determine the real world and the dream world? I wake up to a familiar scene but that familiar scene can be one of a “reoccurring dream” so I implore what is the real reality? Isnt it that a scene is so monumental in a movie that it’s pulls you closer into the screen? You can’t turn away because of the depth of your feelings – you have no idea who or what is around you – only this moment in a movie. It’s a moment in my mind of these senses that captivate me in this world. How is it that I feel like I can feel other worlds? 
They exist, I’m not talking about aliens, yes those are quite possible – but I’m not all about it, obsessed that they do, I entertain the thought because how is it that I could ever know? Honestly? How is it that I know anything? How can my brain store more or less than yours? How does someone remember something but not another? Chemicals, emotions, feelings. It’s the self. This ego, this soul.  

I, I, i, i, i…. me me ME! That’s how. This is hell. This reality in which we are punished from oneness. 

Dreams; hell. Senses; hell. Life; hell. 

I’m the Bible it says hell is a burning firing pits. That pit in your stomach? That heat when you’re angry? Anger is love’s fear. God IS love. Anger is the separation from God. So here I am living in this hell with only a glimpse of what true love really is. What GOD is. What I’m meant to be – with God. Not as a me or I, but as in love morphed into nothingness and everythingness with God. Because we are made in his “image” in which our human language can’t properly communicate. 

Rage – it’s not all about you

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“Do not go gentle into that dark night..” said Dylan Thomas, is exactly what I did today. I didn’t not go gentle into myself which pushed me back out into rage. 

“Dr. Now would be a good time for you to get angry” “that’s my secret Captian, I’m always angry”. A dialogue from the Avengures. That’s me. I’m always angry, but I very very seldom show it. But like in one of my last blogs I also said that the safety I’m feeling within my bf is allowing me to open myself. And my rage has finally been displayed. Torn myself apart to show my true colors to someone I love. It’s been since my divorce that I’ve let this side come out. More than 2 years, maybe 3. But this bad? I’m not sure. 

It was a build up I’m seeing. One event after another, stress piling on to of stress. Pain upon pain.  “You hide it so well” “how could you not show it for so long?” Says my Mamaw as I tell her my dark secrets of living in my past, and how it’s become to creep itself back into my life. 

Two nights ago I woke up hyperventilating from a dream of murder. I’ve been over exercising at the gym. Working tirelessly in the yard to gain something, to show myself what? Then my bf comes at me last night about how his dad thinks I need to spend more time with him at church. How a good “successful” family is a “church going” family. I have faith but in my own way. I don’t condone Christian faith nor do I not believe I just have my own way of going about it. I as raised in church and I hated every moment of it. Being  teased by the kids in Sunday school, in youth group – not feeling welcome by anyone there. Judgmental is all I see with Christian’s yet my boyfriend is different. He has a strong faith (which I do) but he doesn’t judge me for my way of believing. I pray with him and his family and I go to church if it is required of me to show my support for him. But I won’t go every Sunday nor do I think it’s necessary for a successful family. 

This was just one of the straws the broke the camels back this morning. Upon the conversation of church and his family and his faith, I began to work hard in the yard, letting steam out but then I hit a plateau. I needed a piece of equipment I didn’t have so I stopped. I made peace with my boyfriend and desired make up sex. But what I got was nothing and a sexual energy build up that made me more mad. Then I became crazy. I got my clothes on for the gym to blow off steam and had my phone and keys to head out. Then…

He said “it’s not all about you” I lost it. I threw down all my stuff grabbed my hair walked into the bathroom, fell on the floor – “it’s not all about me?” Kept throbbing in my head making me crazy – what about all the times I don’t “get off” and he does? I felt the world collapsing – why was this making me so crazy?!? 

This happened in less than a minute but it felt as if time had slowed but my mind was not there. I could only witness. I was helpless in controlling my actions, feelings and rage. I couldn’t lay still my hair was being pulled from my scalp. I felt like this was it. My last straw. I got up and walked out. I saw my massage table neatly folded and zipped in its protective case with my clothes drapped over it from working last night. I cant remember if he said something when I walked out of the bathroom into the room. I was calm. I looked calm. I held my breath afraid to let any energy release from my body. But I couldn’t hold my breath forever. 

As soon as I placed my hands on the massage table over the clothes I lost myself. I breathed out a whirl winded fury of energetic rage that Over took my mind and actions. I detached from my senses. I threw the clothes across the room, I don’t remember if I said it or thought it – idk that it matters to anyone but me, but it felt as though I screamed “I can’t do this anymore!” 

It wasn’t a “do this” as a being in a relationship anymore it was can’t do life anymore. I really have a hard time understanding what life means and what the point of it is. 

I pulled my massage table off the wall so it began to fall and I began banging as hard as i could on it. This is where my sight left me. I felt my knees drop and I hit some thing hard with my hands. It must have been the top of the wooden table. Then soft. The cushioned part of the  table. I banged on it as hard as I could with closed fists, I pounded the life out of it. Did I wish it were me? 

I probably looked like a monkey beating a drum with long arms stretched toward the ceiling using every bit of length and power I had. The next thing I know I’m falling toward the floor. Now struggling for my life to escape a grasp I’m unaware is real or imagined. I struggle. “LET ME GO!!!” I struggle helplessly to break his grasp. I begin to scream and cry at the same time. I don’t know what’s going on. 

He said “shhh, it’s okay, I got you. I’m here. Stop fighting it. I’m not letting you go. I got you.” 

The long minute has passed and we’re on the floor. I can’t move now, only cry. It’s not that I can’t move because of him, he let go. I can’t move because I paralyzed myself with rage, guilt, pain, memories, thoughts – but mostly memories and illogical thoughts. 

I wanted to reach out to kick, punch, hit, swing all my arms, legs, and head just to get away. But it wasn’t him I wanted to get away from – it was myself. 

I continued the cycle of hating myself. Angry, guilt for being angry, confused as to why I’m angry, pain of past memories, then illogical irrational thoughts of the future, then feeling stupid for feeling that way about things that haven’t happened, not understanding why I’m thinking that in the first place, now I’m back to me laying on the floor. Where did my time go? How did I leave my body here to race with my thoughts. My body feels the time. It wasn’t long. But my mind feels eternity. 

He’s still rubbing my back. Did he leave? He’s speaking to me, words he always does of comfort and safety. Im here, Im not leaving you. I love you. It’s okay. 

I begin hyperventilating- he doesn’t deserve this. I don’t deserve him. He tells me to breath slowly, but I can’t. Just hearing him speak reminds me of the unworthiness I feel to have him choose me to love. Why does he love me? Am I faking it or is he? Have I faked it this whole time? Or has he? I’m loosing myself again. My mind chokes with my throat and I get light headed. I feel sick. 

All this perception of life. All this confusion, miscommunication because I don’t see life the way you do or he or she does. What’s going on in the “physical world” that’s keeping us from peace? 

But peace and freedom are found when we cease to be. 

Smartly Insane

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Maybe, I’m tired from hiding from myself. Maybe I’m tired of holding onto something that is initially unattainable at this moment in my life. 

My disillusional sense of reality has final surfaced, allowing me to see that I’m not seeing correctly. The awareness of my disillusional mind has made me realize that the reason it’s so hard to fit in with people is my way of thinking. My severe paranoia of life and how I believe life is, and how it actually is. But honestly, how do we really know how life really is, and how it’s supposed to be. I don’t know what you’re thinking nor can I ever. Your perception on life is different from mine, especially since my “perception” is perceiving alternate to reality entirely. Does that make me crazy? I don’t think so. Maybe instead of being insanely smart, I’m smartly insane. 

Instead of being a genius I’m a crazy smart girl. I’m not by any means a genius or insanely smart. But because of the mixing of my logical and creative thoughts, I am smartly insane. 

Because I’ll rationalize something to create a good idea that’s then bombarded with creative illogical thoughts that I believe because they began logical. 

This square piece fits into the square portion, but wait the square piece can still fit into the circle piece… yes if the circle is big enough… or if the square small enough… half empty, half full…perspective.  but reality says nope, you can’t fit it because it’s rationed the same. The circumference of the circle equals the diameter of the square therefor you loose. But magically or theoretically speaking it could… so there! I’m still right – it just doesn’t work for me now at this moment. 

That ladies and gentlemen is my brain at work. That is my disillusioned thought process. Everything hypothetical and theoretically speaking – anything is possible I’m told, well I can’t fly now can i?

But I can fly in a plane?

 Right but you don’t have wings yourself. 

But I could in another deminsion… 

we’re done here. 

Papers to Describe Me

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He gave me two stacks of paper. This man in a white coat holds the power to label my insanity. He tells me to go back to my room and read them to see which one I thought discribed me better… how am I supposed to know? He’s the doctor anyway. I held in my hands this banquet of words lined perfectly with pictures of sad women and men, looking out of a window trying to escape their mind, when I feel all they really want is to escape slavery. 

I gentlely grip the papers as he continues to speak to me in mindless words that seem to be a manuscript for all the inpatients. I feel as though every smile ever expressed on my face is now falling with my down turned lips. The gravity of society, pulls them away from the gentle crows feet wrinkles from my eyes that I so willingly expressed as a child. Running through the woods singing with the birds and absorbing all the suns rays through the canopy. As I breath in now to find I’m stuck with barred windows and bolted doors and I wish I could be free. 

Not just free from this prison of “sanity”, by this cookie cutter of humans this medication turns me into. I don’t want to be normal. I want to live! I want to feel alive. Not the alive you get with an adrenaline rush the alive feeling that comes with being free to choose, without laws and regulations. I feel like I knew that time. I feel like I still know. Like I’m waiting for a ship to become visible to take me away to my real home. 

Yet, I sit in this seat across this man telling me what I am, not who I am, in this description of how people should act in this society. Fuck that. 

Rage begins to boil inside my being. I want to reach across the room and rip the man apart who talks in a monotone voice, with no reason, about who he thinks I am. I want to scream and tell him to shut the fuck up, to ask him if he even knows he’s being a conformist to a “man” who no one sees. 

All my muscles relax before I show him my rage and I’m stuck in this hole longer than I’m gifted. My whole body relaxes, it’s like poison running through my veins paralyzingly me, burning holes and leaking my life force out into my muscles. They want so badly to contract, but my brain shuts out the will to move. I’m frozen with anger. I’m frozen to society’s grip on me. 

I finally hear something that’s like “you’re free to go”. Free?! How is going back out of your office into a hall wall with other locked rooms free?  Unlike some of the patients here I am not threatening enough to be in a straight jacket, but this level of the building I don’t think anyone is straight jacketed. 

One person I remember screaming and yelling one night. I feared he would come into my room, hurt me. Rape me. My mind wandered to the possibilities of what he could do before any of the nurses could get to him, and even if they could, would they be able to stop him? Panic filled me with escape routes. I couldn’t escape. Illogical imagination  filled my head with what would happen. The next day I wake up with no recollection of ever falling asleep. What happened to him? To me? What is this place? He wasn’t anywhere to be seen in any of the groups or therapies. And as my mind wonders it becomes unrealistic. 

They took him away to the lower level below ground where no screams can be heard and they practice illegal treatments to reduce rage in “the rebellious” for the coming when we all uprise against “the man” and take back our Mother…

Okay I’m laying down again. But as I lay in my bed the papers are still in my hand unaware until now. I sit up again. My memory of this is fogged. I feel as though I’m locked in a room filled with a single light to give me a dimmed view of the words. I’m locked in a cell with no way to see, hear or speak to the outside world. I’m confined to a lonely chair with a Lonely table. Cold Shackles cross my arms and feet. I can’t move till I finish these nonsensical paragraphs of who I am being labeled as. He wants me to tell him later which stack of paper describes me the best, as I believe I am. 

As I read these papers I’m filled with the belief I am those things.  I’m a “borderline” I have PTSD. Both of them fit who I am, what makes me. The chain breaks and I am released back into my room. I believe what he says. 
There’s therapy session after therapy session, and after those; groups and things to learn to put in our tool box to fit into society better. 

I walk out of my room. Groups and therapy are mandatory your first inpatient visit. I slump, head down, defeated. Shoulders turned inward. I hated this place even more. My child inside kicks and screams as I repressed her; she cries to be set free. To rebel. I silence her. She can not live here.