It’s no secret. I’m shameless. I was brought into this world with one missing section of the brain: the one that helps process and filter words and emotions before they get sent to the vocal cords. Or the fingertips. It’s no longer a secret that I had a less-than-blissful childhood.
Many friends have reached out in awe/shock/admiration towards my courage to publicly share something so personal and intense and I appreciate the outpour. Rest assured, it was no easy task. You see the truth is a restless fucking bitch. She’s a poisonous snake that slithers in and out of the tiniest crevices of your mind and she’s too damn fast and slippery to ever grasp hold of. Her hissing will keep you up night after night reminiscing the inevitable…reliving the unspeakable. Consuming bits and pieces of your soul to further strengthen her control. She will haunt you until you have nothing left. But I’ve studied her in silence. I know her game now….
Expose her. Show the world her face and she will dry and wither in the light. She kept me silent. Kept me dark. For so fucking long she twisted herself within and around me- she squeezed so fucking tight I could barely catch my breathe. The truth. It can kill you. Or you can use it against itself to set you free.
Honestly, I don’t know if my level of vulnerability is a good thing, or a what the FUCK please shut UP already thing. But what I do know is that, I’m not crazy. I’ve been told an embarrassing amount of times that I should seek professional help. That I’m probably medically bipolar like my mother. That I have multiple personality disorder. That I should be on meds. That I have anger management issues. BLAH BLAH BLAH. Yea.. I’ve heard it all. And these accusations may well be the truth. Shit to be honest I would NOT be surprised if I were diagnosed with all the above and then some. But literally FUCK any and everyone who can’t say I don’t have my shit together. Listen I have to fight with people to take meds when I’m dying sick with fever or in pain. It’s not my thing despite my 15 years in the medical field. I haven’t seen a doctor since I was CHILD. (A gyno doesn’t really count). When teachers suggested I get my daughter medicated for possible A.D.D. I basically kindly instructed them to go fuck themselves and do what they’re trained to do. Have patience, help her discover her strengths, and BRING THEM OUT in her. (If you’re a teacher, please, there’s more to it than this… that’s gonna take another post in itself trust me. It’s not what you think!) But my point is- I’ve watched meds deteriorate people. And when it comes to the mind- it wasn’t meant to be medicated (mildly speaking of course). There are no fucking pills for the result of infedelity, a broken heart, childhood trauma. Dude come on. It’s a fucking bandaid. You know how you fix shit like that? YOU CAN’T. You live, you learn, you grow, you keep moving, and you fight.
But let’s talk truth. Yes. I have severe anger management issues. NO. I have never hurt my kids, myself, or anyone else nor have I thought of doing so. Have I threatened to shank my man to death in his sleep? AB-SO-FUCKEN-LUTELY. Am I capable? Probably not. I can’t even spank my kids. I’ve literally spanked my kids 1-3 times in their entire lives (and that’s total, for both). I completely suck at disciplining my children. I don’t get it. I can’t see the boundaries. I do not understand that discipline does not equal abuse. I don’t know any better. But who can blame me for fearing that my kids will some day write some massively fucked up blogs about how I destroyed their childhood? I just can’t. There’s no gray area for me on this. It’s black or white and there’s no one who could argue with me on this one because I won’t even discuss it any further. I’m fully happy playing the good cop for the rest of their lives. YES I want to be their friend AND their mom. YES it is possible. A child who is hit, does not understand anything but fearing the pain to come. Believe me, it will get old. It’s gets so old they will laugh in your face and start to defend themselves one day. They will harbor anger until there’s no space left and there’s no place for it to go except OUT. I just refuse to relive this through my own kids. Sorry.
More truth? I’m for sure bipolar. I go from zero to a hundred faster than a bolt of lightening can strike land. The causes? I can’t even remember by the time the rage is over. And it’s not only about rage. It’s the split-second mood changes. I can feel beautiful, confident, sexy… I can feel like there’s nothing I can’t conquer and like I own the fucking universe one minute- and suddenly my world is crumbling down on me. Suddenly I’m fat. Suddenly I hate myself. Suddenly I’m sparking up a fight over things of the past. Suddenly I just want to do nothing. I just want to sleep. I just want the earth to swallow me whole. Suddenly… my lights get turned off. And it’ll be a while before I find the switch again so here I am, walking around in the dark…keeping my shit together so that my kids can’t tell that I’m walking head-first into walls and tripping over everything in my path. Here I am, forcefully laughing loud enough so that they can’t tell that I’m actually sobbing for no apparent reason. Here I am, faking a smile so that they can’t see what a desperate wreck I am in search of that that fucking light switch- like a lost, blind mouse being hunted by 76 cats.
Can you handle more? Well. There’s so much darkness. I often think/dream of the most intense things imaginable, more than usual with such strong detail that they feel real. Like I’m there, and not here. Like I’m having an out of body experience and I’m hovering over these thoughts/dreams and I’m feeling everything that is happening. It’s complicated. But these moments that aren’t even happening- they affect me in real time. And then how the fuck do I explain THAT? Like yea no.. sorry it’s just that I just died, went to my own funeral, saw my children suffering, and buried myself but don’t mind me haha I’m back now. It’s RIDICULOUS and so random and NOT sparked by anything at all. I mean, things you would never even THINK to even consider to ever think about. It could happen when I’m driving. Blow-drying my hair. Laying in bed awake. When the kids aren’t home and the house is quiet.. There’s so much death and sadness and tragedy running through my mind that it makes my heart sink. It makes me fear getting in my car, or dropping off my kids with anyone or anywhere, or even being in a crowded place. My hubby walked in on me one night crying on the floor, typing him and the kids up a goodbye letter for fucks sake. I realized what a complete asshole I was being, wiped my tears and got up and kept doing what I was doing. It’s as if ….the grim reaper were humming soft lullabies of tragedy in my ears when I’m not distracted enough. It seems insane. I get it! I KNOW. So I don’t blame him for suggesting “help”…but he will never understand.
In 31 years the closest I’ve ever been to trying some kind of therapy was in high school. And it was purely an excuse to skip some fucking class. And there was that one time in college when I decided that becoming a bulimic would be the quickest solution to fitting in with these anorexic white bitches who treated me like I was some fucking scum off another planet. Talk about peer pressure. In college. Yea. More like culture shock. Thanks Buffalo, NY for showing me just how ALIVE as fuck racism is in this country. I was alone. I was sick. And I was literally killing myself. So the obvious. I dropped out my junior year as a chemistry major taking graduate level courses having been appointed an honors level T.A. teaching cell biology…. and came home. Or so the story goes. What a shit show huh? Meh. It was what it was.
So why haven’t I found a pro? Because I’m a motherfucking artist. Like don’t they get it?Artists, writers, great thinkers, inventors.. we just aren’t wired like the rest. My issues, my experiences, and my downfalls…they aren’t punishments. They aren’t illnesses. They aren’t failures or side-effects. They are my gifts. I don’t know who the fuck I would be, if I weren’t missing a few screws or if I wouldn’t have lived such a difficult and untraditional childhood. I don’t know who the fuck I would be if I didn’t have so much darkness and so much light all mixed up inside of me like the cocktail from Hell. I don’t know who the fuck I would be without my sprouts of pain followed by sudden perkiness. Seriously. Who the fuck would ANY OF US BE… without the things that ultimately shaped to us to BE WHO WE ARE? Why in fucks sake would I want to pay someone to tighten my screws or untangle my wires?
I never said I was broken. I just said that I’m dealing with some complex things. I never said I was lost. I just said that at times, I lose sight. But I always find the switch and no one ever notices I was even looking for it. I never said I was sick. I just said that I could use some healthier moments in time. I’m aware that life is this rollercoaster and this is all part of the ride. I’m aware that I am not alone. I’m aware that we all have fucking issues and demons and parts of ourselves that we still don’t understand or know how to fully control. I’m aware that there are multiple sides to the spectrum. I’m aware that we all handle things in our own ways. And while somebof us choose to need help taking control of said “things”, others of us choose to embrace these “thing”. We use these “things” as weapons and tools to help us fight and figure our ways through this maze of life.
My “things”? Yea. They’re my pens/pencils/fingers-to-keyboard. They’re my hands making gorgeous cakes. They’re my paint brushes on a stormy day. They’re my Alicia Keys concerts in the shower. They’re my tandem sketches on the corners of my notebooks at work while I’m on the phone with patients. They’re everything that make me, ME. And I have no intention of silencing them, concealing them, or surrendering them to sterile robots equipped with fancy med school degrees.
So to the proposals, the assumptions, the offers, the advice, and the untrained diagnoses set forth by X amount of people in my life: NO. I don’t need some white-coated, FIU graduated, bubble-gum chewing, undercover-blonde-whore with unprescribed cat-eye glasses she probably uses to role-play with her dumber-than-life boyfriend and a tamed Hialeah attitude…. to try to fix me with Xanax and weekly sessions of note-taking which she will for SURE use as the main topic of happy hour (because really.. HIPPA?! Is that like, even THING? Hehehe! ::::rolls eyes and flips hair:::: ) Nope. She ain’t charging ME 150 bucks an hour to support a fake Loubitton collection and a lease on a 3-series BMW. Just no. ::::HAND TO FACE::::
I am a fucking beautiful disaster dipped in black glitter and there’s no getting rid of that shit. So let me live. Let me shimmer through life with all of my dark glory. Geez….