Mental illness

March 2, 2015 1 comment

Letters: Trust myself in you.

I love to write. There’s something beautiful and wonderful about words, a magic that goes much deeper than pen, ink, or a digital image on a screen.

It is unfortunate, but words don’t really pay a whole lot and the human body needs food to live. The brain is a story producing engine that requires fuel — food, sleep, a surcease from stress. And lately I have felt very run down and afraid.

I am fairly open about my mental health issues. It’s not something I feel a need to hide — I might not wear the tee shirt, but I’m not ashamed either.

There is a part of me that is desperately afraid of attention and success. I want to do well in life, but at my core I feel as though I need to be punished. I do not deserve love or comfort; I should live in squalor and do without food or sleep.

I cannot explain the part that hates myself. That’s why it’s called a mental illness. There’s something living in my brain and it is mostly outside of my control.

It makes me afraid of people. Even with all of the love in my heart, I cringe away from those I care about. One day vivacious and alive, the next a dull and empty shell.

I wash my hands compulsively. I cringe away from the sound of people eating. My skin breaks out in sweat when I notice the eyes of strangers LOOKING at me.

I cover myself in heavy layers and I hate, hate, HATE the things other people think of me. With a single look my whole day can be ruined, and I don’t know why my fears affect me so.

My mood shifts and change, taking my personality with it. Open and alive, joyous in every moment. Frenetic energy, destructive need to please. Cold fear and quiet despair, sucked down into the darkest depths of melancholy: Why am I still here?

Each day is an adventure in finding out who I am and who I’m going to be. Happy-go-lucky party girl. Wailing banshee with a mouthful of profanity and rage. Shy introvert struggling to hold on. Or blank automaton sleepwalking through the hours, unable to even care.

I try not to let my mental illness control me, but that’s part of its sick trick. It holds me captive in my own skin, unable and unwilling to ask for the help I need. “I can handle things alone. I don’t need anyone. Today is going to be a good day. I can’t let anyone see what a mess I am. I don’t deserve help anyway.”

* * *

It’s sad, but I can’t trust myself. My own brain fights against me. My moods are a liar.

That said, I love to write. I am filled with stories of other places and people. And as my mood shifts and bends, wonderful characters are created and born.

Would medication take them all away?

I do not trust myself to take care of me. How strange is that? How frightening, to wonder if I will come back to myself and find my life in ruins — it’s happened before, it will happen again. I am an explosion caught in time, already ignited and waiting to burn.

The only thing I have of worth is my words. They’re the only constancy about me, my only means of displaying my love — for life, for me, for you.

And so I write my stories and I send them out into the world. It’s the way I say “I love you. I cherish you. I want you to love me too, just don’t say the words or I will run away.”

Kimichee, AO3, LJ — it makes me happy to post my stories and see them read. Even knowing that I should not give all of myself away for free, I cannot help myself. I love so much with my words. I just want people to see the real me, even if it’s only on occasion, even if it’s only parts of me.

So I write and write, and I share and share. And I’ve accepted that that’s who I’m destined to be.

And I trust myself to all of you. That those who love my words will buy my books even if they can get the words for free.

Because at the end of the day I am only human. And humans need food, water, clean air and sunshine, a place to lay a weary head, clothes and shoes to wear, and the peace of knowing that when I leave with my mind someone will make sure my body does not die.

I cannot trust myself. So I will trust you.

Thank you.

Love,
~ HarperWCK

July 20, 2013 0 comments

What is the deal with airplane food…

No, seriously, my mind is buzzing along a million miles an hour. I’m about an inch away from bouncing off the walls, yet it’s exciting and it feels good.

Mania. It’s the greatest fucking thing ever created.

Right up until it takes that downward turn and I start questioning everything I’ve ever done or ever said and I completely go off the rails. All these things I do so joyfully now, the words I scream out to the Internet and the things that I do and buy in real life … They always come back to haunt me later.

I promise things that bring me difficulty. I feel things like floating acid tripping butterflies. And at the end of the day, I have a great time either ruining or living my life.

It always feels the same either way.

Waking up with that sense that I’ve done wrong and not quite sure where I’ve misplaced my step. It sucks. I hate it. There’s nothing I can do to change it.

You don’t know what it’s like to need help so bad, but to not be able to say the words to anyone. There’s so much shame involved with any kind of mental illness. Even just using the words … mental illness … it makes my stomach crumble into knots.

There’s some days when I wake up hating everyone and everything, but when it comes down to it, it’s me that I hate. Because everything about the world I see, that’s my perception of things, the way that my brain puts it together. I am decoding messages that only I receive.

Everyone literally walks around in their own world, because each person has their own way of seeing things. So when I can look at something and all I feel is distaste, that’s my perception of things.

My idea of beauty is different and unique, as is my sense of disgust. And it all rides on what I feel at a particular time and place, the way my brain chemistry has decided to turn things. So sometimes there’s regret for the things I’ve said and didn’t say, the things I did and didn’t do, but always I’m left to deal with the consequences.

Mental illness is like being drunk all the time. Once the mood shifts, there’s nothing to block it or slow it down. When I’m angry, I’m angry. When I’m sad, I’m sad. And when I’m happy, I’m happy right up until the point I get terrified and end up hiding in the closet because everyone is out to get me.

And I write about it, and I write about it, and oh yeah, I write about it.

Even my characters that are like gods walking on Earth have problems with the way they see things or the way they react to a given situation. Or someone gets slipped some creepy drug, and having their perception of reality violently changed sends them on a bad trip. I have never written a character that is completely well-adjusted or happy in life.

Because I don’t think that perfect happiness exists. How boring would that have to be? It’s like the Matrix. When it was perfect, the human brain rejected it for a lie.

So I think the whole of humanity is a little bit crazy. It shouldn’t be something that we’re ashamed of, though it doesn’t need to be yelled from the mountain tops. It’s just a bit of mixed up chemistry.

If diet, exercise, music, and routine behavior can adjust someone’s brain to put them in a better mood and a better working order … Then it’s not something people should be stigmatized for and everyone should know that.

There’s no reason to hide away from the world, and no reason for the world to turn on someone. Mental illness is something that can easily be handled with compassion and self-knowledge.

Because knowledge is half the battle.