I'm bipolar. I blog about it. I also blog about sex, theology and atheology, funny shit and sad shit, books, music, feminism, and love. Mostly love.

Friday, March 30, 2012

Help from God

She looked out the car window, biting her cuticles. Biting away until it bled. Then she moved on to the next finger. Biting, biting down until she could no longer bite her skin and moved on to her nails. It was raining and she liked to watch carefully as the water droplets raced and collided, making bigger droplets that ran faster and faster, their weight carrying them backward, downward.

Sometimes she'd find herself rooting for a small droplet, encouraging it to run the race alone, to avoid competitors all together, to be okay with losing. A small few would make it to the end of their window journey having never touched another droplet, and she would smile a little between nibbles on her bloody fingers. That's perseverance, she thought to herself. She liked people who could do things alone. Except for God. God should help people because it doesn't hurt Him to do so. She expected this of God.

"Jesus Christ, honey stop doing that!" She was startled and accidentally bit her finger too hard on a raw tip. The little wound opened wider and bled freely. "Stop biting your damn nails. They look terrible." She didn't like that. If she wanted to stop biting her nails, she could do it on her own. If she wanted. She didn't care. And when her mother berated her, preaching about germs and fecal matter, she ignored her, but she stopped biting. There was nothing left there.

She was being driven to her therapy session. She liked her therapist okay, but she could take care of herself, she knew. She didn't like people who used other people to take care of them. Once you reach a certain age you deserved and should be expected to become independent. She knew this.

She looked back at the window. Perhaps ten more minutes, she thought. They had to go out of town. Country towns didn't have much by way of mental health care in those days. When they reached the third stoplight of the trip, she watched the droplets roll straight down the window. Her heart kind of sank with them. They would never win the race, now. They died in a sense. They slid lifelessly downward--dead. The light turned green. They started to move forward. The drops that hadn't reached the bottom yet still had a chance! Come on, Mom, let's go! I don't want them to die! Then screeching tires, a cursing horn, a moment of silence...

Then screaming.

Was she screaming? No, it's Mom. She was burning. But she needed to take care of herself. How terrible for a mother to expect her 10 year-old to save her. And she watched. She did nothing. When the paramedics arrived she feigned sleep, whispering prayers she didn't believe in. Humans needed to take care of themselves. But God needed to take care of everyone. But she already knew God had failed.

And then she hated herself. Her mother died. She could have saved her. Guilt, guilt, guilt, guilt... there was nothing she could do now. God had failed her. He failed, failed, failed... but so had she. She eventually forgave herself for that day in the car, but she never forgave God.

Years later she had a minor accident with her daughter in the car. She had a concussion, but nothing too terrible happened. The daughter was trying to gather herself. Her seat belt had burned her chest. And the mother looked very seriously, nearly angrily, at her daughter. "Don't you dare start praying," she said. Her daughter started crying. And her mother kept saying it louder and louder. "DON'T YOU DARE START PRAYING!"

And the little girl, out of fear, ran out of the car. Her mother continued to call after her, but after a while it faded. In their small town she found her father's mother's home easily. She was crying, she was a little bruised and the seat belt burn was getting sticky and a little bloody. She'd heard thunder. Her teacher said not to be outside if you heard thunder. You could be struck by lighting.

She walked inside without knocking, she was too scared to wait. She heard voices from inside the kitchen. Oma was on the floor and two police men were standing over her, smoking and laughing. "Keine rauchen, bitte" she said. Her grandmother would have been proud. Of course, the policemen didn't understand. Instead they laughed more, as if she had contributed to an existing joke--an inside joke. "Don't you dare start praying." she said in a voice so hateful and mature that they looked at the six year-old bewildered. They left, unsure what her words had meant. But she knew. She knew those words meant leave. Leave now.

About twenty-five years later, that little girl took her daughter to her estranged mother's funeral. The daughter had never met her grandmother. Her mother hadn't spoken to the crazy woman but four times since that day. First, on the day of her wedding. Second, on the day Haley was born. Third, when her father died. Fourth, at her deathbed. They had an average kind of funeral, with the expected performance of archaic and barbaric rituals. But then the crazy grandma sat up in her casket and laughed. She laughed and laughed as if she needed no breath for it. She pointed at the mother and screeched. She started screaming as if she were terrified and couldn't move her legs to leave. The mother put her face in her hands. The already tearful mother cried harder. Why is she doing this to me? The rest of the mourners tried to comfort her. "She's in heaven now," "God takes them when they're ready," "She's at peace now."

But Haley saw something the others didn't. She saw her mother's eyes behind her long, thin fingers. Her mother saw, heard, felt what wasn't there. Only Haley sensed it. She knew what her mother had always said to get her attention and tell her it was time to leave. "Mommy. Don't you dare start praying." Her voice contained the same hard quality that her mother and crazy grandmother had when they spoke those words. There was evil in it. But her mother looked at her seriously. It was Haley's first time speaking those words, but they felt comfortable and right in her mouth. They belonged to her genetics.

The people trying to comfort her mother gasped. The cursed, they cried, they tried to touch Haley and convince her of God's presence. Haley would have none of that. With her mother's attention, she spoke the words again. "Don't. You. Dare. Start. Praying." Her mother nodded at her baby's words. She stood, took her daughter's hand, and they walked away together, whispering those words. They ignored the words of their audience. The continuous string of gasps. Those people just wanted to help, but they would never again accept help from anyone but one another.

Picture: Oleg Dou. His stuff really struck me. Here's the link

Thursday, March 29, 2012


When she kissed him everything went warm, and a strange, tickling sensation walked its way down her spine, one vertebrae at a time. That feeling settled right on the flatness before her big, rounded bottom. Her neck tightened and she didn't need to breathe. She grabbed his shirt to keep from falling. He put his hands cautiously in her hair and on her back, pulling her closer; and the rest of the room, which she had once been so very aware of, fell away, dripping, dripping, dripping, slowly until nothing was there anymore. Even the floor felt like air--like clouds.

It was dark in there, like it should have been. Deeds deemed dark need to be done under the mourning veil of darkness. Devil in Darkness and Lord in Light. Just don't remember my face, please. And even when you stop feeling shame--when you just feel what's right to you, old habits die hard. Even the prettiest people want to hide behind darkness, even the boldest.

She loved him that night. She believed what she wanted to believe. She believed in the sweetness of his breath, in the sincerity of his voice, and the warmth of his arm draped over her. What purpose that belief served was and is unclear to her. She knows only that these existed for some greater purpose to her: Breath. Voice. Warmth.

These beliefs may have been unfounded, but it is better to believe and be burned than to doubt and be diffident. If she listened for the lies in his words, she would go mad. If she waited for him to make a move, she'd be on the shelf. She knew that the only way to survive her love, was to have faith in what could not betray her: tangible, beautiful feeling.

Along the lines of forgiveness

is a parallel line of hatred. They both extend forth, seemingly endlessly. On, on, on... until a rather ominous wall stops both of them. The wall is hard to see for some until he's right in front of it. I think it depends on how fast you're moving. If he were to go slowly, he could see these things better. Both lines, like roads, begin with wildflowers on either side, and a sunny breath of air whipping them around at the stems. There is a sweet smell, perhaps from the flowers, and perhaps from joy. One can smell joy on the line.

If one were to move quickly, that person would not notice that ahead, one line remains clean, with only a few potholes and dark clouds. The same person would not notice that the falling clouds erased the road behind them with each step--a fog then nothing. Not blackness, but white. A bright light that blinds. Looking back, then forward, would leave blue dots on his vision for the next few steps.

And if another person, on the other road, were moving quickly she would not notice that there was a great deal of gradual darkness ahead of her. She would be moving so quickly that she would be struck by the darkness, bewildered, and disoriented. She would find it hard to see. Although the darkness was gradual, one who is moving so quickly would not feel the creep of night down their spine until the night was completely upon them.

She may stop a moment, the fog hovering directly behind her. There would no longer flowers on the sides of the line. The comfortable, country dirt road would have turned to muck, a deep pool of brown sludge that pulled one's foot down with insistent hands. She could see, only a few yards off, that the other line would be hovering also, as if waiting for her to leap over there. It is so much brighter, yet none of that light would shine on the line of hatred. It is a spotlight on a distant stage. She would try to sprint across to the other side, but her feet would be stuck in the mud, and she would trip into a scratchy bed of weeds. There would be a snake in the grass, and she would scramble back onto the road from whence she had come. Covered in mud, she would cry... but no one can hear you in the dark when you are on the line. You have to scream loud enough, you have to fight hard enough... but she had lost the will. She crawled on.

She became accustomed to the mud--to the darkness. It was part of her. She found happiness in small things, but she could not deny she was shrouded in black. If both the man and woman reached the end of their lines at the same time they would come to a wall. They would have slowed down after a while, as is customary of human-nature.

And looking directly up from the very definite and serious brick wall the very old man and woman would see brightness. It would blind the woman, but the man would feel it's warmth and smile at it. It was a brightness the woman had forgotten about--she hadn't seen it since the beginning of the road. This brightness would lift them both up. White waters would wash away the mud from the woman's body. She would lose sight of the man, but he had moved farther than she. In the water she could see thousands of men and women's bodies being cleaned by the ethereal waves. It was peaceful, in a way. But disconcerting. Care was a foreign concept.

*Photograph: "Picaso" by Cory Smith

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

From the Slut Walk

There is no excuse. A woman has the right to wear whatever she wants. No one asks for rape.

Upside Down

One day I was un-entertained by the television, social media networks, and books that usually might have provided some stimulation in a flat kind of atmosphere. So instead I decided to do a hand-stand. I wasn't sure how long I could hold it or if I could walk on my hands, but upside-down sounded like perspective. So I kicked my feet up. And upside down everything was clear. I saw new colors, I saw precious little creatures who have never been named by humankind. Purple cats licked my nose and biker owls with crossbones on their leather jackets offered me some tea. I accepted it and drinking it was a more complex and a more engaging experience than it ever had been before. Tea tasted like falling in love and like the sound of campfire songs. Nothing was wrong there. I knew everything ever to know. I knew my purpose in life.

And then I woke up in a hospital bed. They told me that I hit my head and was knocked out. I know better. I was in heaven. I had created heaven on earth! No one had done that before. And the second they let me go, I'm going back. And they can't stop me.

*The message delivered through the image at the top is compliments of: http://www.streetartutopia.com/

I am not to be touched.

If I were to follow a young girl who was running, running along the side of the road, and she was so out of breath that no words or scream would come, I would not be sure if she needed rescued. And in following her I would see the perfect curls of her blond hair, like the dolls with which I once lined the shelves of my Kinderzimmer, the dolls I wasn't supposed to play with. And if I followed closer still, I would notice her skin looked like the porcelain of those untouched dolls. It was so smooth, pale, hard, and... and when she looked over her shoulder, a look of fear was painted, painted on her little doll-face. Her mouth was painted at an open slant, like a tilted crescent moon, her eyes were painted to be eternally heavy with flat, cold, and superficial-blue salt-water, and her brow was painted in a crumpled, horrified shape. Who would paint such a horrible face?

And when she turned her head back toward her flight, she tripped over a rock in the loose gravel. Her knees were grazed, her perfect, little white shoes scuffed beyond repair, her curls tussled beautifully in their desperate attempt to maintain their perfection, and her dress a little ripped, and with blood from her injured knees beginning to seep through the blue material. She was in pain. The painted face moved like a magic trick, and it talked between heavy, unrelenting wheezes. "Please! Please stop. Leave me alone!" And her perfect little face burst into tears. Painted heavy with flat, cold, and superficial-blue salt-water. They slid down her cheeks like a picture in motion. A one dimensional image of a deep, deep fearful emotion. One chased the next... tear, tear, tear-tear-tear.

I was so taken aback. I didn't know it was me she was running from! I just wanted to touch her. I tried to touch her beautiful curls and she slapped my hand away with hard, porcelain fingers. Her face turned from fear to one of a pure and fearful rage. "I am not to be touched."

And I put her back on my shelf.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words.

If a picture can speak a thousand words, then what is to be said for a thousand words? I speak and I speak and I speak... and nothing is said to those who don't understand me. And of a picture--much is to be said--said--for the value of of its communicative value. It communicates to those who understand it. Music, dance, theatre...

all for the sake of communication. To share an idea, a concern, a feeling that cannot otherwise be expressed. Words do for me what a picture does for some. A picture does for me what words can do for some. Anything can reach anyone if they choose to seek meaning. Art is Meaning. And Meaning is Message.

NOTE: Hypocrite literally means behind the mask. Two masked figures representing hypocrisy, and the knives in reference to Caesar. "Back-stabber" for real, friends. I liked it. I don't know whose it is. If you find out, let me know, please.

First Post... wow.

This is my first post in my new blog. I haven't decided where I want this blog to go. I've decided to stop treating my blog like a journal. No more personal stories with clear details. I'll include some life events, though, but I think only for the sake of creative writing. If I want to write about them eloquently, instead of bitchily, then I'll include it.
The title: I'm bipolar. I'm constantly living on the sill. Sometimes I kind of slip out and have to catch myself, and sometimes I crawl back inside. It's like... I'm always on the edge. Irving wanted us to keep passing the open windows. The artist--the writer--in that story didn't. She jumped. I don't want to jump. But I don't want to live as safely as I used to, inside, where I couldn't see the world. To toe the line of creativity and art, I have to toe the line of madness. These will be my stories, my poetry, my prosetry, and some philosophical and theological ideas. For right now, I'll keep this public, but I'll remain anonymous (as anonymous as the nature of this blog allows), and when I feel that anonymity has been breached, or my intentions misconstrued, then I'll move back into a private format, in which I'll maintain the same kind of format.
I hope you all feel at home here. I think I'll still call you my passengers, and I am still the Conductor. That part of me is still alive. But I have developed enough that I need to expand. I need to let more people see me. I need to feel a little exposed. I can't keep hiding behind permissions. I have changed. I am not someone entirely different, but I am a different version of the most basic form of myself that was brought into this earth and solidified in my upbringing. I am growing though, constantly. This is a reflection of the next step in my life. Welcome.