closer to closure.

i drove home, i drove backward. this wouldn’t be my first time trying to peel the day away, achieve clarity on the likelihood of tomorrow. so they say this is her problem. i go grabbing for air with nails. forget i need hips to make a hula hoop spin. i had no time for jokes, small talk. six hours, one of them was counting, then she’ll be gone. i spent “extra” time thinking of men, few that have, and are, creating a changed me. tease a tongue into the mouth, and the kissed wake hungover with nerves. so the sought after always is comparing sense to sex, scraping the dream from her eye. while the lover stays, focusing on film. although ask and he’ll talk about patience, his flexibility as a grown man. we women are expected to thank him. after all how many times has our difficulty been topic for conversation. this means they like us, are thinking. and, of course, their nature isn’t to dehumanize anyone. men need our emotion to blame theirs on. projection!, the transparency. see they love all this feeling, wait around for all that touching coming after. he said i love you when i was in his arms. said i love you as i thought to pull away. said i love you when we had nowhere to go. it was obvious how different we are when i told him he is the best. and i am sure he knew better, recognizing my response did not reflect my reaction. what should have been said? what is it i want? i drove home, i drove backward. and thought of him, how once we separated we were able to quit smoking cigarettes.

Listening

He said it not me.

It was difficult to begin talking. I had not talked very much for the past fifteen years, not really talking the way I once talked with Mary Whitney, and Jeremiah the peddler, and with Jamie Walsh too before he became so treacherous towards me; and in a way I had forgotten how. I told Dr. Jordan that I did not know what he wanted me to say. He said it wasn't what he wanted me to say, but what I wanted to say myself, that was of interest to him. I said I had no wants of that kind, as it was not my place to want to say anything.

Now Grace he said, you must do better than that, we made a bargain.
Yes Sir, I said. But I cannot think of anything.
Then let us discuss the weather, he said; you must have some observations to make on it, since that is the way everyone else begins.
I smiled at that, but I was just as shy.

Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood, p 67.

moreintelligentlife.com

BEING CRAZY IS NOISY

via moreintelligentlife
By John Sterns

Created 18/06/2009 - 11:48

John Sterns is diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder (a co-diagnosis of schizophrenia and bipolar disorder), chronic depression and chronic anxiety. He describes a lifetime of fighting demons ...

Special to MORE INTELLIGENT LIFE

I. I hear voices (“auditory hallucinations”, technically). They come from all directions and fill my mind with hateful, self-destructive demands. One comes from above the crown of my head and commands, “You must die”. Another rests on my left shoulder and says, “You should be dead”. A third whispers insidiously into my left ear, “Kill yourself”.

But the most persistent and long-standing of my voices, which began when I was eight years old, pounds on my left shoulder like a jackhammer, repeating, “I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself.” It never ends. My response to this particular voice was to develop a permanent cringe in my right shoulder. I am now spending thousands of dollars to correct compressed discs in my neck that have caused me chronic pain for nearly 30 years.

Before my treatment, hospitalisations and incarcerations, these voices were all separate and distinct, with individual sounds, tones, rhythms and pitches. Now they are one voice--my voice. Once a chorus, they have become a soloist, though attacking me with the same message. Treatment has meant that I have finally found a “self”, a “me”, after four decades. But the me I’ve discovered is now my enemy.

II. Not all voices are demonic. I once met a man who heard happy voices. I was walking down the hall of the locked ward in the hospital’s inpatient facility (“Club Head”, we called it) and a young man with dark curly hair approached me, staring into space, smiling, giggling, laughing. He turned his head to whisper to someone who was obviously not there. We passed each other and I heard him chuckle and say, “That’s very funny.” I knew he wasn’t talking to me–I hadn’t said or done anything–and I knew he was psychotic (I recognised the symptoms). At dinner that night I asked my roommate about the young man. “Oh, that’s Kevin," he answered. "He hears happy voices.”

I immediately hated Kevin. I have been tormented with psychosis and delusions since I was four years old. To meet someone decades later who apparently relished the very same symptoms that have haunted me all of my life felt unfair, an abomination. I avoided Kevin. When I did run into him I wished him the worst voices--the kind that would finally push him over the edge. I wanted him to fall into the endless pit of suffering and pain where I have spent nearly every day of the last 40 years. This is wrong, I know, but I do not yet understand how to be both crazy and compassionate.


III. During one hospital stay, we were encouraged to use art to express how we felt about ourselves, our illnesses, our pasts and futures. As a child I hated art classes. I was a disaster: my chronic anxiety led to constant sweating, which caused paints, pens, crayons and coloured papers to smear my young face, hands and clothing. The result was often a sickly green-grey mess, a melted miasma. By the third grade I received a free pass from all art classes through the remainder of my school years.

Art therapy required me to sit around a table with seven other inmates and a social worker, and stare at a blank piece of paper and a torn box of broken crayons. I didn’t want to draw anything. In fact, I didn’t want to think about my illness--not my past, my present and certainly not my future. After an hour the social worker announced that art therapy was done and we had to hand in our work. I turned in my blank sheet of paper and walked to the cafeteria for lunch. I told myself I had made an existential statement. Blank was as good as it gets.

The next day brought another art therapy session and once again I turned in a blank sheet of white paper. That afternoon I was called to meet with the social worker who guarded the art therapy class.

“John,” she began ominously, “you are failing art therapy.”

I misheard her, clearly. How can one fail art therapy?

“Unless you make more of an effort,” she continued gravely, “you will not pass. You will not be released.”

The conversation was obviously over.

I returned to my bedroom and considered this exchange. Being called a failure did not surprise me. I am a failure--that I already knew. It was the "You will not be released" part that grabbed my attention. I wanted to be released. Club Head has its advantages: shelter, a bed, meals and the suspension of disbelief for all the problems I've caused, the troubles I face, and the remorse, disappoinment, disgust and fear I will feel for hurting others. But I missed my wife and son, so I resolved to make more of an effort during art therapy over the next few days.

So I draw. And draw, and draw some more. Colours fill the pages and I am the most prolific crazy art-therapy inmate ever to grace the hospital floor. Over the next two days I draw and colour geometric shapes, which I had calculated would be safely "meaningful". My favourite drawing was a rough outline of the state of Alaska that I call “All-I-Ask-Ya”. It has the city “Nome” plotted on the map.

But at the end of each class, I felt sad. The drawings meant nothing to me. I was not using art to express myself. I didn't even know what that meant.

After three days I was told that I had passed art therapy and would be moved to the open ward. A victory. I didn’t tell them that I still had auditory, visual and kinesthetic hallucinations, paranoid delusions and daily thoughts of suicide. That would mess things up.

Picture credit: lepiaf.geo [1], *_Abhi_* [2] (both via Flickr)

I, too, have been crying.

The most distressing position to be in is across from your father, hearing his cry. It’s impossible to stare, even though it’s amazing. Could I be intruding? I feel that way. He was sitting at his desk, the morning after Father’s Day, when I gave him his card. I don’t like to be in the room when things I’ve given are opened. I don’t like reactions. I don’t like having to wait, to watch my under or overwhelming effect. There are few moments when we have room to breathe. I feel this should be one of them. He made stick around. I buried my eyes in corners. You see, I appear distracted but rarely ever am. He cried immediately. Broke down. I have never heard emotion as loud. My timing is always on. If only, I were off. If I could be lighthearted in a letter. If I didn’t show him what he has meant. If I didn’t assure him I will always be the child he sees he is losing.

before:

2005 June 25

"sometimes i question whether i turn my desires into realities too easily. too keen on experiencing or the enjoyment to consider the consequences or maybe even others. then there is the whole concept that i'm living a life that those in their late twenties are experiencing. there is always two sides to each question. two answers, i suppose. i see my sister and the boy she is seeing &it just sorta sinks in that i haven't really had that. sure, i've had plenty of other things - but never really the nights where you sit on the living room couch &watch a rented mystery &make a cake. i've always been too shy to do all the cutesy things. i applaud those that do, maybe envy them &its funny because i hear how people talk up my situations. i suppose we always wonder about what we don't have. i love &do enjoy where i'm at.. but every once &awhile i wonder if maybe i pushed for it all too fast. i didn't experience what those my age were. i outgrew even what i didn't know."

Film To See:

"One night, I sat down, the ideas came in, and it was a most beautiful experience. Everything was seen from a different angle ... Now, looking back, I see that [the film] always wanted to be this way. It just took this strange beginning to cause it to be what it is." - David Lynch.

garden of evil.

Having no say on whether I am ready, he says this is real. Don’t I feel it? Pushing me. There was no question. Through my body, yes, of course. I shared secrets, Hemingway. Told him I was him; sorting matters, resigning lovers, abandonment, oh, the charm we haven’t got. Writing those we no longer need. Our pages, unheard gestures, are a final wave. Goodbyes, they take so long. And the story changes at least nine times; in the interim, even after.

 

I have a lot to be good at.

I can’t say anything that you won’t care about. We have made me quiet. These days you think you know how to read me. Now I make you insecure. And I can’t feel guilty about what I haven’t yet done. I enjoy watching you listening, become shy seem stupid when you probe me to answer my abstractions, I hate a phase your face passes through. I’ve failed to keep what was there. It only takes a moment for you to worry about me. I enjoy watching all the silence in you; even I want to ask how you are doing. 

favourite new band:

The Xx - Crystalised

A Good Man Recommended:

What is Beauty?
an extract from
Meeting Life: Writing and Talks on Finding Your Path Without Retreating from Society
by Jiddu Krishnamurti

Questioner: I don't know what beauty is. I never even thought about it until I heard you talk about it. I'm an engineer and have constructed many buildings, bridges and railways. I've lived a hard life in the open and in countries where there are few trees. On a walk one day you pointed out the beautiful shape of a tree. I looked at it and repeated the words, 'How beautiful,' but deeply inside me I didn't really feel anything at all. I politely agreed with you, but I don't really know what beauty is. Sometimes a straight railway line might seem beautiful to me and sometimes I admire one of those marvelous modern bridges across a great river or across the mouth of a harbour. They are functional and are supposed to be quite beautiful, but I don't really see it. Those modern jet planes are functional machines. When you pointed them out to me and said they were beautiful I somehow felt they were things to be used and wondered why you got so excited about them. That yellow flower on the walk didn't give me at all the same quality of feeling as it gave you. I dare say I am really crude. Your mind is much sharper than mine. I've never bothered to look at my feelings or cultivate them. I've had children and the pleasure of sex, but even that has been rather dull and heavy. And now I wonder if I am not being deprived of something which you call beauty and whether at my age I can ever really feel it, see the world as a marvelous thing, the heavens ,the woods and the rivers. What is beauty?

Krishnamurti: Are you talking about the beauty of living or the beauty that the eye sees in something, or the beauty of a poem or the beauty of music? Probably all this may sound to you rather sentimental and emotional, but there is beauty in mathematics too, which you know. In that there is supreme order. And isn't the same order in life also beautiful?

Questioner: I don't know if it is beautiful, but I do know what I've don with my own life: I've rigorously, almost brutally, disciplined myself, and there is a certain tortured order in that. But probably you would say that this is not order at all. I don't really know what it means to live beautifully. In fact, I really know nothing except a few mechanical things connected with my job; I see by talking to you that my life is pretty dull, or rather my mind is. So how can I wake up to this sensitivity, to this intelligence that makes life extremely beautiful to you?

Krishnamurti: First, sir, one has to sharpen the senses by looking, touching, observing, listening not only to the birds, to the rustle of the leaves, but also to the words that you use yourself, the feeling you have - however small and petty - for all the secret intimations of your own mind. Listen to them and don't suppress them, don't control them or try to sublimate them. Just listen to them. The sensitivity to the senses doesn't mean their indulgence, doesn't mean yielding to urges or resisting those urges, but means simply observing so that the mind is always watchful as when you walk on a railway line; you may lose your balance but you immediately get back on to the rail. So the whole organism becomes alive, sensitive, intelligent, balanced, taut.

Probably you consider the body is not at all important. I've seen you eat, and you eat as if you were feeding a furnace... This is comparatively easy. But what is more difficult is to free that mind from the mechanical habits of thought, feeling and action into which it has been driven by circumstances - by one's wife, one's children, one's job. The mind itself has lost its elasticity. The more subtle forms of observation escape it. This means seeing yourself actually as you are without wanting to correct yourself or change what you see or escape from it - just to see yourself actually as you are, so that the mind doesn't fall back into other series of habits. When such a mind looks at a flower or the colour of a dress or a dead leaf falling from a tree, it is now capable of seeing the movement of that leaf as it falls and the colour of that flower vividly. So both outwardly and inwardly the mind becomes highly alive, pliable, alert; there is a sensitivity which makes the mind intelligent. Sensitivity, intelligence and freedom in action are the beauty of living.

Questioner: All right. So one observes, one become very sensitive, very watchful, and then what? Is that all there is, just marvelling forever at perfectly commonplace things? I am sure that everybody does this all the time, at least when they are young, and there is nothing earth-shaking about it. What then? Isn't there some further step than just this observation that you talk about?

Krishnamurti: You started this conversation by asking about beauty, by saying that you do not feel it. You also said that in your life there is no beauty and so we are inquiring into this question of what beauty is, not only verbally or intellectually but feeling the very throb of it.

Questioner: Yes, that is so, but when I asked you I wondered i there isn't something beyond just the sensitive looking you describe.

Krishnamurti: Of course there is, but unless one has the sensitivity of observation, seeing what is infinitely greater cannot come about.

From Bulletin 32, 1977
for a collection of Jiddu Krishnamurti's quotations on Love

Heat Wave.

During summer, we take our time falling in love. The day is enriched hour by hour. Making it heavy, getting us heated, pulling our pants off. We achieve color to better compliment our bodies. Darker and we look alive. He wants to get through to me. So he says things, so I listen. And he gives himself away so well, and I feel warmer on the inside. It’s funny how these changes happen. This way we are only in our mind. This should and shouldn’t matter, I think. He doesn’t like that my body does all the talking; thinks this is no compliment. And I don’t like hearing him talk that way, hearing this either. He wants me to say it. But how can I when love now sounds questionable? It never feels as you think it should, thought it would. Once upon a time, being a bad girl made everyone believe you were giving yourself away, easily. During summer—after having lived eighty-four seasons, the color changing, the body aging that much—I take my time falling in love. Go by the pond to wait a little. I could be promising promises or I could watch the sun become wasted. It feels good not to be moving. But it feels different also. It just so happens that fewer people are around these days. It just so happens this is when I am taking my time. The heaviness of the hour is exhausting. And the heat makes me tired too. It feels good not to be moving. Feels like the summer to be forgetting the end, that he can’t wait till fall to have me finally speaking.

Summer 2009:

When no one is by you what do you think? Last night I almost told him.

She stared instead. And he loved those eyes.

I’m wondering whether he knew just by looking. He talked a lot so I couldn’t think, wouldn’t worry. But I’m unstoppable. It feels cheap holding hands at the bar. Which is why I’ve never let it happen. The summer makes me lazy, so I shower sitting and have the water come to me. Life becomes something else when you have someone who wants to kiss you everyday. This is the first time I haven’t had to use my tongue to enjoy myself.

Same day Different year.

Thumbed through envelopes of 1998 photographs last night. Convo: 'Wearing one pieces then, just like you do now. Have you ever worn a bikini?" No, never. (thinking, well yes, those few times I let myself when I was skin, when I was bone). "Why not?" I hate myself in them. "So I have to get you to a private beach." Those are my two fears. "What?" Bikinis and beaches.

I was stupid saying any of these things. Then today I checked out my journal entry from June 9 2004. I need documentation because past is proof. I need to take time by the balls and overcome myself. I've gotten better. There's a certain quickness that has surprised me. Call it love. Call it growing up. I'm opening up to what I'm not. Because I actually care. Maybe about him. Maybe about me. The next step I know I need to take to be better, to be - well - rounded.

The entry begun as follows. I was at Sanibel Island:

2004 June 09

"I hate bathing suits. I try really hard to be confident. But then things convince me otherwise, like mirrors, that I'm just gross. & no matter what people tell me, no matter who they are, I think they are lying. I think they are just worried & trying to feed me words I'll believe, but I don't. I will tell you that I am eating better than I have been since freshman year. I don't count calories or eat small amounts. I do not have a disorder, at all, just an image issue. The point of this was to express my desire to start working out once I get home. Not only do I love working out (it's a great feeling to have a routine) but it's a great way to release pent up anger? Hah, which I have none of, of course."

Same day. Different hour:

"BASICALLY, HI LOVES

Ive been having an AMAZING time. Friday & Saturday was rough. I felt like I could cry at a drop of a pin. I was down & yet now everything has completely cleared up. I'm really happy. PERIOD. Being here is exactly what I said it would be before I left. Something I needed. It's great to be away & realize that you d-o n-o-t need to rely on anyone. Or more over, I don't need anyone to be happy. I don't feel like anyone has this control over me anymore, I'm just more or less above it. Them. Him. Her. Whoever. BEING ON THE BOAT & TUBING are possibly the greatest feelings of life. It does sound extreme, hahha, but honest. I love being on the boat, listening to music, it gives me 793749 reasons to really go check out San Diego. ANYHOW, I really love my black nails, my rainbow belt, my pointy bracelets, my 70s glasses, & my new pin (Thank you Alli) "BE NICE TO YOUR ENEMIES, IT FUCKS WITH THEIR HEAD" THIS HAS BEEN WONDERFUL <3"

It wasn't the story I needed.

Before she left on her flight, I told her I may be in love.

“You think you are or…”
“I feel I am.”

It’s better not to think. She said something about this being the third time. She could have said anything other than that. But, no. I’d rather be a liar than lucky. She made me sound like I was always falling. Falling into major conditions. A sickness. Depositing sanity to accumulate change. I’m not very mathematic. It hasn’t been three times, I wanted to fire back, but nothing is worse than denial, doubt. She was envious, dropped the call, took to Chicago and three days after my confession sent me a text saying she had found her mate, her soul. Congratulations. I replied but she hasn’t seen this because they are talking, still. Sixteen days ago, I said I am in love. But I kept this to myself because I didn’t know what to do with it. I hadn’t decided. Once it’s said, more time is spent trying to understand what it means, if love is what you wanted when you stopped by his house that one day. The day I didn't think could make me feel differently at all.

The Catch: When Asked to Speak I Can’t.

Yesterday, we ate and drove. Our only good idea when it wouldn’t rain. She called pet stores while speed and wind wrapped hair to our friend’s face. Their hands reached out and up as I advanced to sixth gear. We may have no reason to rush but that has nothing to do with how we may need it. At lunch, she said they are my friends. She said it is okay to talk seriously. Of course I knew this but didn’t exactly know why a square table and ceviche seemed like a great setting for an intervention. When I asked for a drink menu, she asked if I was getting sauced up. The pairing of this with their diet cokes made me embarrassed so I said maybe and then never made eye contact with the waiter again. Driving is more fulfilling than food. It’s an empty space in time to fill with consideration. Which is why the driver should be idealized as an escapist and cynic. I considered my point as I took us places I had thought about but had no reason for being in. She bought food for a kitten she hadn’t found. And my friend chose toys and decided between color choices of liter boxes, while I held a white bunny over my heart. Everyone tells me not to buy another and in the same breath acknowledges them as my favourite animal. I acknowledge that I am 65% silent but I hope that doesn’t take away from the fact that I can’t be okay with what many spend all their time speaking about. Instead of excessive commentary, I just wish someone would ask me why I might want a bunny instead of a gerbil or dog. But I guess what is said compared to what is asked doesn’t impact the living like I imagine it could. What amazes me is our opportunities. In the center of a Petco, anyone can hold a bunny and discover why they are the way they are and how they are made to love. I only had to touch her between the ears more than twice and her posture perked, devotedly. But the point is, I only had to touch. And it was like watching a body feel for the first time. I wasn’t with the bunny for twenty-minutes before I loved her. And had to drive home.

not the end of everything.

– before beginning, I become distracted by my image – and what’s distracting is I don’t think of it as my own – (I’ve written this two thousand times before, in other words and also the same) – the maintenance of being myself – well, it’s an idea I’ve been engaged with all my life – and the truth is it’s a process which I acknowledge but somehow can’t accept – I have no patience, that’s one theory – fuck your theories – and I agree – or maybe, it’s being better than myself that I take to be my responsibility – if not, a responsibility, call it the chore I’m asked to accomplish everyday – the only job my parents hold me accountable for – she said if it’s about you, then your life is paved by selfish pursuit – in other words, you don’t mean to do good –the great kind, that is – when she said that, it wasn’t the first time, I knew this but it’s not like she remembered – because what she says about me and my life doesn’t effect her – I tried to process the insinuation, along with the last few weeks – but it was a lot to do at once – and, well, I don’t have patience – not any patience, but the patience this sort of revelation requires – so because I couldn’t do everything I just repeated what she said, well the one line that stuck or that I remembered – and while repeating it, I told myself to memorize it, remember it really, so it can mean something for someone – but as I was repeating it, I began replacing “it” with “this” and now what I’m so hurt about is when she said, “if this is about you, then your life is only in pursuit of doing good for yourself” – I feel hurt but maybe it’s just the confusion – so I told her – “I never say I want to be a famous author”…“I’ve never said that” – which was true at the time and still is if I say so myself – I stood up because I was through talking, which means I just couldn’t talk or want to – and pulled the fat of my thighs like a clamp – in the mirror I looked thin – but then I thought about my hands and the pulling and that I was becoming an illusion, that I wanted to mistake the real, that I was anything but substantial – really all I was doing was perpetuating an ideal – “Would you stop already, it’s fucking nauseating” – “This fat is going to make me throw up” – “It’s muscle” – “It’s weakness” – “Get over yourself” – “I am”– “Why were you crying about who takes the cat when you move?” – “Because” – “You’re leaving?” – “Because I love her” – “You’ll love any cat that’s yours” – “What else am I doing wrong?” – she was talking, explaining, expounding, whatever word makes a drone sound somewhat worthy of listening to – but I couldn’t hear her, only because I didn’t want to care – you know people can talk for hours and never know each other – even though she told her and he told him that that night they were so close – at times I know I’ve lived two lives and just yesterday was told, in this third one, that I live in the moment but then will go and spend time thinking, spend too much time reflecting – when I was a child, I thought adults were different because they acknowledged the important things – I always thought this was a privilege – now-an-age I seem to be wrong and friends try to correct my behavior – I don’t care – when I was intimidated by adults, their lives, I still dreamed about them – and I do – dream about me all grown, secure, writing about the world, how we look too big, feel so small –