Happy

It was when I watched you laugh when you weren’t expecting to- then I was held hostage.

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Happy

You spread through me like a cancer.
I would be lying if I said I stood my ground when you started misleading.
All of your words are bullets or pearls.

Our friends could see through the pictures we’d been painting like the man and his muse.
It’s a soundless death I stand here facing.
Of course you’ll be okay.
It’s some combination of defiance and ignorance that keeps you safe.
And you are so young.

It was when I watched you laugh when you weren’t expecting to- then I was held hostage.
A prisoner of love and war.

You knocked me back child!
The army of inscrutability.
And alcohol…?
When you considered my words!
And then decided me,
I set my hounds on you.
My voice is my militia.
I use it despite your protests.
I know what my heart will tell me.
Why would anyone run from love?

You’ve left me totally useless.
Yet I wonder if that was God’s work??
In a completely non-patriarchal, western thinking kind of way.
Even when life pins you down there is the shouting
and the why should I give a fuck?!
I would say because mercy for me is synonymous with pain.
I wish I had your moxie.
One day you’ll wish for my patience.
I know for sure they’ll beg me for answers-                                                  Crying what did I say?
And then what did I do to you??

But watching you laugh
when you weren’t expecting to,
still gets me off.                                           Like the sun in my face                                       and that makes me happy.

Kimkoa 2010

Sing It Loud, Say It Proud

I don’t do this for myself. I do it for my children. For my daughter who will have her own children one day and may suffer as I did.

You never know what will happen when you reach out to someone. Not everyone is ready for a true friend. It’s taken me a long time to realize this. I still don’t understand it and take it personally more often than not.

I’m a transparent person. I have hurdles I have to overcome, battles I need to fight and I am an imperfect person something I don’t try to hide. I worry sometimes I come across as a toddler yelling “I make mistakes!” with a wide sunny grin as though it were a gift. Perhaps I do come across that way sometimes however I don’t think that’s something to apologize for. One thing about making mistakes is at least you know you’ve tried to DO something. You’ve tried to make a thing happen even if you bungled the entire operation from start to finish. Some mistakes are worse than others obviously. Still we learn from them, however hard the lesson.

My continual need to reach out to other people and share my story with them and hear theirs is just part of me, it’s who I am because of how my life has been. The joy I’ve experienced when I share what I’ve been through and someone else shares what they’ve been through with me and we each accept, forgive and love each other despite those scars is nameless. It literally cannot be touched. Because of this however, when I see an opportunity for that level of happiness and my attempts are met with a firmly closed door, or worse a mere dismissal as if my olive branch never existed I am so crushed, I feel so rejected that it’s hard to LET IT GO. I can’t MOVE ON. I want to know why I couldn’t reach them. Why they wouldn’t let me in.

The truth is, it isn’t about me. It isn’t about me at all. There are a million and one reasons why someone keeps the doors of their life closed and the shades of their heart drawn even against the brightest, most beautiful days. It’s their right to take solace behind a locked door. Just because I want them to feel the sun with me doesn’t mean they have to and it doesn’t mean that sunlight is any less beautiful. It’s just the way of things. It’s the way people are. For someone who is used to hiding, used to pretending to be “perfect” my openness and consequent awareness is off-putting. What? They say. How do you know me so well? Only because I am you I think. Only because I used to try to hide too.

This is how it is battling bipolar disorder. Battling anxiety, depression, self doubt. Battling any mental illness really. Once you accept that you need help and you ask for that help and you receive it, you want to share it with everyone else. And you become adept at spotting the same illnesses, the same broken pieces in others. You want to help them too. Even when they don’t want anything you have to give. Because part of the struggle is learning to break open that rusty lock and connect with others who feel the way you do.

I’m on a journey. I used to take a multitude of pills just to stay stable. Things are different now. It’s important to note I have been working with medical professionals and no one should ever EVER just stop taking their medication. I just happen to have a big mouth and a refusal to accept a regimen that isn’t working for me (restless legs, 50 lb weight gain, the inability to write, etc) So I used my big mouth and about a thousand phone calls and I now take one pill for my bipolar (lithium), one (will likely become two) pill for my raging ADHD (vyvanse), two for the anxiety brought on by OCD (gabapentin & klonopin) and one for sleep (lunesta). I actually tried ambien and had a psychotic reaction to it so if this has happened to you you’re not alone. I took the pill and 30 minutes later I told my husband- “The eye told me you have bodies buried in the yard.” Needless to say I never took it again.

Sleep is so elusive but my God it’s so vital especially when you’re battling mental illness. But who can sleep when there’s so much to do, so much to think about and everything whirls around in my head like a carnival ride you can’t get off of. It’s important to note that sleeping pills are EXTREMELY dangerous. The wrong one can change you into a psychotic mess. And if you’re extremely depressed, in large doses they will kill you.

I wrote in a past blog about how lucky I was and how much I loved my doctor. Well as usual nothing lasts. This is what we as people who suffer these illnesses go through. I put my entire trust in her and our last appointment she told me that although she was reducing her case load she would never drop me as a client. A week later I got a phone call from her office saying she would no longer be seeing me, I was referred to a new doctor and the earliest appointment would be in three months. I thought well of course that happened. So for the last two and a half months I have become best friends with the certified medical assistants who have been my bridge over this doctor-less sea of side effects and dosage problems. Insurance issues and complete frustration and loss of faith. If you ever see a CMA give them a hug. I don’t know what I would have done without them.

All is not lost however. I found out that this new doctor is an osteopath who specializes in treating people with psychiatric conditions using a combination of traditional western medicine and alternative natural remedies. Hallelujah! Praise the Lord! I may have hit the jackpot! I have been praying for this since I got sick. Because there are not just these diagnoses that hang over me like a witch’s cloak. I have polycystic ovarian syndrome. At the time I was diagnosed with Bipolar 1 I was suffering extreme postpartum psychosis, WHICH can last UP TO THREE YEARS. I also have uterine prolapse so I only ever go two to three days maximum without bleeding like a stuck pig. I also have cysts all over my thyroid so prominent you can see one of them sticking out of the side of my throat! Hmmm. How many conditions could the side effects of what I am going through mimic? How many doctors would want to throw pill after pill at me clueless as to why they don’t work? I’m not saying I’m not bipolar. I really don’t know where I fall on the spectrum of mood and mental disorders. I’ve learned that a pregnancy can shift a mild case of bipolar 2 into a severe case of bipolar 1. I do have many of the symptoms. I also have many of the symptoms of the other conditions I’m suffering. So who knows and really I HATE labels. We’re all humans dealing with different levels of hardship and whatever you call yourself, judgment and stigma must be erased from our vocabularies.

What I’m trying to say is that there may be more ways of treating your condition whatever it may be, beyond just pills. On top of pills. On top of pills.

I know I’m not alone. That’s why I’m speaking out. In the Netherlands their schizophrenic people remain integrated into society. People treat them with kindness. The reorient them into reality as a whole, as a group, rather than locking them away. Studies show they get better! They regain their grip on who they are and what is real. Now I can’t say that would work for everyone. It would be amazing but this society is so diversified and disconnected I have a hard time believing what works in a homogeneous social system would work here in the melting pot that is America. But the lesson is in their lack of judgment. The person is sick. Not evil, not gross, not to be shunned and avoided. Just sick. That’s all. It’s so simple.

When I was hospitalized I went on social media and asked for visitors. I asked for flowers. I let everyone know where I was and that I was lonely for companionship. One loving couple came to see me with flowers and a balloon. My aunt Nycki and Uncle Tom. They brought a card for Alice. Do you know why they came? Because their son suffers from a mental illness and they were not afraid of the behavioral health ward. Which by the way is calm, clean, full of loving nurses and good people. People who are ill just like anyone else. There are children and husbands who come and spend time with their mothers. They bring games and cookies. They bring the freedom of the outside. Their are girlfriends who come to see their boyfriends with paper bags full of sweatshirts, headphones, love letters. They hug each other. Long embraces. Everyone looks away as the tears roll down their cheeks. Usually one of the older female patients will bring tissues. Sometimes a tiny carton of juice. Of course there are the patients who sit in their rooms during visiting hours. Because no one is coming. That was never me. Even though none of my friends came, my aunt and uncle did. And my family was there for every visitation. I even had a birthday cake with real candles in my room surrounded by them. Another Aunt and Uncle sent flowers. A dear friend from high school sent flowers. He was in Hawaii and unable to visit. But he made sure to let me know he cared. But none of my friends came. Most of them ignored my obvious distress. I thought to myself here I am in the hospital, having been diagnosed with a disease deadlier than cancer and hardly anyone seems to care. But that’s how it is. People hear the word bipolar and they want to get as far away from you as possible. Women hide their postpartum conditions out of the very real fear of judgment. And then they end up in the hospital crying over why it has to be this way while their visiting babies fill up the ward with their sounds of new life.

For all of these reasons I sing out my story. I tell anyone who will listen about what I’ve been through, what I’m going through and what I have yet to overcome. I don’t do this for myself. I do it for my children. For my daughter who will have her own children one day and may suffer as I did. I do it for all the other people struggling under the weight of their diagnoses, their medications, doctors who don’t listen, friends who don’t care. I will never be quiet. And maybe just maybe things will change.

A Solitary Life

I’ve come to accept my days are lonely ones. That mine is the life of a writer, and it is a solitary life. I’ve come to realize that almost no one wants to hear the truth. Most especially not about themselves. 

It’s hard to put into words how much life can hurt sometimes. How it can kick you in the head, I’m at a point in my life where I don’t even know what the word friendship means. It seems like every person I truly open up to breaks my heart in some way and I don’t think this is unique to me. There are perhaps one or two people I can trust but the vast majority of people are so selfish, so full of holes they need to fill I end up getting broken in the process of trying to love them.

I’m angry that the world is not a better place. That people are not easier. I’ve come to accept my days are lonely ones. That mine is the life of a writer, and it is a solitary life. I’ve come to realize that almost no one wants to hear the truth. Most especially not about themselves.

Most of the time I’m crying on the inside. I wonder how many people feel like that? I walk around my garden and watch my flowers blooming and think what a world is this that you are stretching up into? When you are bipolar they give you bottles of pills. As if that were enough to fix it. And when those bottles of pills make you feel worse they give you more pills. And so on and so on, into infinity until you feel like some kind of tik-tok animated machine; click, click pop pill, click, clack. Sometimes I don’t want to take a crappy pill that makes me feel like a space cadet. I want to breathe the air. Or sleep. Or yell at someone. Anything but take another pill.

I invent projects for myself. Organize this shelf. Filter through these papers and toss the unnecessary ones. List everything we don’t need on marketplace. It’s my desperate attempt to feel useful. To feel like my time on earth has not been wasted. Lately my greatest hope is that my children turn out just enough like me to be creatively interesting but not so much like me as to be failures. This society has no patience for the creative yet broken ones of us. Entertain us! It screams. And keep your fucking self together! As if. As if that were even possible.

I’ve been sensitive my entire life. I spent my childhood on stage performing, making other people smile. Swallowing my fears and anxieties to create the pretty picture everyone wanted to see. But something happened. One day everything I had been shoving down day after day, month after month, year after year started coming back up. Bubbling and oozing at first, then bits began shooting out like lava from a volcano. It was a viscous and frightening rage so old and foul I wondered if it was entirely mine. And it wasn’t just rage. It was a howling and ancient sadness, from deep under the earth. It was the sadness all women share and yet hide from each other. The sadness and anger of a lost sisterhood. I wanted to scream it aloud. I wanted to call out its name from the highest place I could find. But no one wanted to listen. Because God forbid you mention it. Heaven help you if you even hint at its existence. Women don’t want to talk about what breathes just beneath their skin. About the lies they live and the fairytales they tell their daughters. Women don’t want to be reminded that behind their eyeshadow, under their mascara and their lipstick they are growing older. Losing their grip on the stares of young men. That under their skirts their asses are not as tight. That slowly they are becoming invisible and Goddamn it hurts.

In some cultures the old age of women is treated with reverence. They are considered precious. Indispensable. Wise. Not ours. Not in America the Beautiful. Here we try to outrun it. With surgeries and creams. With makeup that creates the illusion of youth. We pull the hairs from our chins and freeze our faces with needles full of botox. But even then, even then all of this is useless against the onslaught of time. Eventually we all surrender.

I had a nightmare last night that someone took a hook and shoved it up inside me and ripped open my uterus. In my dream it was the new birth control. I wonder if we are not so far from that. Women seem to be willing to do almost anything to their bodies to get what they want and men are as cruel as they have always been. In my dream I could feel Mother Earth groaning. A great collective nameless pain. I felt myself carried away on the waves of her sadness. It was my sadness. Our sadness that only I and She could feel.

I can barely tolerate kindness anymore. I’m so tired of explaining why it doesn’t make me happy. Why I haven’t gotten over the things I’ve lost. As if you ever get over them. I am learning to let go of certain things. The expectation of happiness. The warmth of friendship. The understanding of other people. The triumph of wisdom and truth. As I have said I hope to pass on my creativity and the joy of my early years to my children. But not my darkness. Not the hollow places of my soul I must outrun in order to keep breathing. Because for the creatively fragile a heart can only take so much. For the creatively fragile a heart is not made of steel, or some other unbreakable stuff. The heart bleeds. It trembles and sighs and breaks open. Despite our armor we are not so impenetrable as we would like to believe.

Maybe today there will be a break in the clouds. Maybe the sun will shine gently on my shoulders and my flowers will surround me as lost friends. Maybe my daughter will glow her perfect smile in my direction and for a moment I’ll be free of the truth of the world’s ugliness. One can only hope.

 

Bad Girl

He gave you flowers and they were perfect, beautiful and inside you screamed
Bad girl
He took you to lunch and the sun was shining brightly
But not for you
You stepped out on the deck and it disappeared never to return
He offered you his vest and you refused it. Preferring to feel like the ice inside you
Bad girl
He surprised you with a cake for the whole family and all you wanted to do was sleep
Sleep until the ocean rose up and covered you like a broken mermaid
Bad girl
You woke up and and painted your face with the smile they wanted
You swallowed your cake
You hugged your daughter
And all the while his sentence hung like mouldy ropes all around you
“She was a strong woman…unlike you”

Kimkoa 2018