CrashCourse Naps and SugarPlum Dreams

     Groggily waking up from an unplanned nap while watching Crash Course on youtube, I find the majority of my day has escaped me. While this normally would be aggravating and leave me feeling slightly inadequate or like an incredibly lazy bum, waking up to a lit Christmas tree I decorated with my roommate while surrounded by two delightfully warm pooches and a fuzzy kitten gives me a sort of holiday buzz only the Grinch could understand.
     With this peaceful easy feeling a-brewing inside I figure, what better time to make my brother's Christmas ornaments? You see, he has a tree decorating party every year, and everyone must bring an ornament to decorate with. The top three prizes win things from random bowling trophies to bottles of rum. With my brother being a Buffalo cop and sarcastic son-of-a-bitch, what would be more perfect that to make him a new version of the 12 days of Christmas? (And yes, it works in song form. Please sing it.) Without further a-do, I present to you...

The Twelve Drugs of Christmas

On the First Day of Christmas my Dealer gave to me, 

a Hit From an Aerosol Can,

On the Second Day of Christmas my Dealer gave to me,

Two Grams of Pot,

On the Third Day of Christmas my Dealer gave to me,

Three Urine Samples,
On the Fourth Day of Christmas my Dealer gave to me,
Four Half-Smoked Roaches,
On the Fifth Day of Christmas my Dealer gave to me,
Five Rolls on Ex,
On the Sixth Day of Christmas my Dealer gave to me,
Six Wild Mushrooms,
On the Seventh Day of Christmas my Dealer gave to me,
Seven Lines of Coke,
On the Eighth Day of Christmas my Dealer gave to me,
Eight Tabs of Acid,
On the Ninth Day of Christmas my Dealer gave to me,
Nine Rocks from Crack-Whores,
On the Tenth Day of Christmas my Dealer gave to me,
Ten Shards of Meth,
On the Eleventh Day of Christmas my Dealer gave to me,
Eleven Pills of Molly,
On the Twelfth Day of Christmas my Dealer gave to me,
Twelve Scores of Heroine.

*Disclaimer: No real drugs were used in the making of this gag-ornament. 

Swing Low

Do you ever have those incredibly surreal moments when you realize: This is my life...?

I don't fully know how else to explain it, but pulling into my driveway after dropping off my younger sister, this is the feeling I get. I suppose I feel like this because I hope this is not how she will end up. She had her first string of anxiety attacks today.
That's how it started for me.
Maybe for her if things do get worse, the medications they have will work. Then she can feel a base level of normal instead of going through the manic ups and depressing lows that I do.

This is part of why I don't want children.

I love children, and the majority of my work is with them. Heck, the first book I wrote was a children's book. But biological children? Nope. I don't want them to have to face what I'm going through right now. I don't want them to have the potential of the future that I had from ages 18-24. Parts of it are bright, yes. There are lessons to be learned, yes. I am a stronger and more resourceful person, yes. But the pain of it all...A lot of times I'm not entirely convinced it was worth it.

There are things that I feel I appreciate and enjoy more than others. The smooth touch of keys on a keyboard, a faint cello in the background of a symphony, the look of the stars at night, the feeling of a brush on a canvas and the ability to lose hours and days in a painting, the ability to lose myself completely in a story -- becoming it, feeling it, living it...this is why I am so attached to The Giver by Lois Lowry. A world devoid of color, devoid of music, devoid of true emotion and feelings. A world where babies that are colicky or deformed or different are killed. A world I never would have been able to exist in.

There are other things I feel more than others. Depression, loss, exquisite sadness, weariness, fatigue, failure -- the list goes on and on. There are plenty of days where as I look at my surroundings I envision different ways I might die and be found. So far everything has been too messy, too dirty, and too ugly.

So here I sit. Realizing in a brief moment of clarity exactly where my life is, and hoping I will continue to enjoy living it.

When you only cut off the branches, what remains

We are here as omens

     my brothers and me.

We stand here erect 

     dismembered, disemboweled

The quaint view of this peaceful land

     jarred and jolted by our presence.

The master of the house,

     we call him Vlad

He has taken our lives, our limbs,

     our souls

He has put us on display for all others to see.

     A warning 

of what their fate may be.

Myself: A Diagnosis

Brazen                                     Dischordant

Impassioned                            Imaginative

Poignant                                  Sensitive

Observant                                Obliging

Lyrical                                      Respectful

Artistic                                     Devious

Ridiculous                               Eccentric

                                                Reserved

I Am a Writer

I have just discovered that I, am a writer.

I have always thought of myself as an artist, and to a degree I am. Painting and woodworking and refinishing furniture are some of my favorite ways to occupy my time. I couldn't live without it, I tried.

But --

I, am a writer.

                                            I get manic, I write. 

                                            I get depressed, I write. 

                                            I am overjoyed, I write. 

                                            I'm unsure, I write. 

                                            I'm every emotion at once and falling apart from feeling
                                              too much...

                       I write. 

Writing is my soul. Whether or not anyone else ever reads any of these god forsaken blurbs I'll be embarrassed of in a month, it's not for them. It's for me.
And I wouldn't be here today without it.

The Love We Deserve

A friend recently went through a slightly tumultuous break up with an incredibly toxic and manipulative person. It brought me back to one of my favorite lines from a book, "We accept the love we think we deserve." The Perks of Being a Wallflower - Stephen Chbosky.
     You always wonder why the sweet girl ends up with the full-of-himself, aloof jerk. Or why the good guy ends up with the bitchy, bossy, over-the-top girlfriend. Neither the sweet girl or good guy are happy, and they deserve so much better, yet here they sit. Why?

I am living proof of Chbosky's statement. I know why. 

     Having my family torn apart at age 18 and still removing shrapnel from the explosion today, being married at 21 and divorced at 22, and receiving a diagnosis of bipolar disorder at 24, I am broken. I feel like damaged goods. Like recycled trash that will never find anyone broken and battered enough to see it as something still useable. I am wrong. In my highs, I know I am wrong. It's in the back of my head, but I can push it away. In my lows, I feel it is the truest statement I have ever breathed.
     When you go through trauma, of any sort, you feel like pieces of you are broken and missing. You begin to feel ashamed that whatever happened, happened, and you feel less than desirable because of it. So when someone throws their attentions your way you think to yourself, 'Can this be? Do they actually want me? Am I good enough for them?' and your heart begins to swell. And the more broken they are, the safer you feel that your own failings will not be a downfall in this relationship. Together you can pretend to be whole.
     This is why we accept that love. This is why we can't truly love until we learn to love ourselves. Being content in your skin and loving yourself can be the hardest thing you've ever had to try and do.

But that is the love that you actually do deserve. 

"I just want you to know that you're very special...and the only reason I'm telling you this is that I don't know if anyone else ever has." The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Its the Little Accomplishments

Ten Thousand Words

10,348 to be exact

For my first novel I have to say, this is pretty exciting. I've had the idea floating around and worked on it sporadically in more of an outline sense for a quite a few months but was always afraid to take that leap to sit and just start writing. 

Never has a keyboard become more intimidating.

Then along came NaNoWriMo and little did I know, it would be just the push I needed to let my writing juices flow freely and quit judging myself and just get it all out there. Ten thousand might be a beginner's triumphant landmark in the lofty goal that is Fifty Thousand Words, but having five days of writing with over two thousand words written each day after a summer of nothing but outlines, that means something. It might seem silly to some that the NaNoWriMo website awards badges to your profile when you hit goals such as these, but right now I am wearing that badge with pride. I can go to sleep tonight knowing I'm just that much closer toward achieving my dream. Maybe the whole thing is silly, but when you have a community of support for what you're doing you figure, you know what? why not! 

So now its your turn. What fairy tales do you have lying in wait inside of you?

"There is nothing to writing. 

All you do is sit down to a typewriter 

and bleed."

- Ernest Hemingway

Writing Battle: Depressing vs. Happy ... GO!

Today I have found that writing happiness is oddly more difficult than writing murky depressive, emotional scenes. 

You have to wonder if that says anything about you as a person. 

     When the happiness comes, it is inspired by real past life experiences, but those moments are fleeting. The emotions of deep despair, of self depreciation, of confusion, disorientation, and loneliness; those are more readily accessible. These lie in wait just below the surface, clawing and pulling their way through the thin layer of happiness that coats the top.
     It's difficult to write when you're feeling happy, because you fear your writing may become too distant and un-relatable in its fairytale likeness.

And so, I break to learn the guitar for the Sunday School Christmas Program.

And attempt to reach my previous depressive state. 

Writer's Block

Taking a break from my novel writing for NaNoWriMo...

That's a lie.

Writer's block has officially stuck. 

Writing my first novel is a bit daunting. I was very excited about it at first and went gung-ho and was incredibly excited when I had 1,000 words written...until I realized how little 1,000 words is in the grand scheme of things. And I began to get un-excited. And then daunted. And frightened.

And then came Cole. 

She's basically the best. She is always there. I mean ALWAYS. She's like the Alfred to Bruce Wayne. She has all the solutions tucked away in her sleeves and imparts all of her knowledge upon this lowly grasshopper at precisely the moment it is needed. I don't think there will ever be a time I don't look up to her. In fact, you should probably check her out at www.nicoleatone.com. If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't be reviewing books for Alternating Current, which you should also check out, I wouldn't be pursuing my art further...heck, without her I wouldn't be pursuing any of my passions or believing I could actually do them.

Today's lesson: Know your support, and love and appreciate them with everything you've got. They probably need it more than you know, and after all, you need them more than they know.

My Best Day Ever in 8 Not-Necessarily-Easy Steps

So you know how when you're young they always ask you in school to write about the very best day you've ever had?

I'm having one of those moments, so bear with me.

I've very recently been advised that I may be bipolar. Its not a full diagnoses, but it puts a few thoughts in your brain as to what your life really is. Its kind of funny actually because when you watch all of these "chick-flicks" where something dramatic happens and you find out who your true friends really are, that actually happens. And I wasn't expecting this outcome necessarily, mainly because I've always felt I would be a burden to people I suppose, but all of the friends I've stayed close with through the years stood right up beside me and told me this was something I could handle. Its pretty awesome to have the amazing friends that I do. They were amazing before they told me that, of course, but them having my back like that was an incredible thing to witness.
So with these wonderful people, comes more wonderful people. If you think about it, when all of your close friends are like that, chances are their other friends will be very similar as well. All of this being said, let's go on to my best day ever.

It starts how it ends: with people.

My friend and her fiance know what's been going on in my life and asked me to come to the art festival with them last weekend and meet some of their friends, just hang out and have a good time. The day starts as an average day: Step 1 - Get my ass out of bed. This is a more difficult task than one might imagine what with depression and insomnia asking you to never leave your comfortable pillow top, but eventually the heat of two sleeping canine bodies gives you the need to remove all blankets--and once that's done you may as well go to the next step of getting out of bed anyways.
Step 2 - Shower. Cleanliness is necessary. Especially after a night with two dogs in your bed.
Step 3 - Panic Attack. Daily recurrences of these beauties are what gives me a perpetual shaking in my right hand. It almost never stops, but the days that I am still are a fleeting oasis that I do not take for granted.
Step 4 - Heart Pills. Since anti-depressants have the reverse effect on me, the only way to make my daily panic attacks come to a screeching halt would be through my fabulous friend Propranolol. This merciful drug makes my heart stop trying to barrage its way through my chest with the power of the angry mob in Beauty and the Beast, and instead sings it a lullaby all the way back down to its gentle, steady rhythm.
Step 5 - Shit. I forgot my Heart Pills. My panic attack begins when I am almost to her apartment. Once I am there I rummage through my purse to discover I left them on my nightstand after having a panic attack in bed in the middle of the night, (insomnia will do this to you).
Step 6 -- Alcohol. Luckily my dear friend is in a frenzied mood as well this morning and suggests a light cocktail to start the day. Have I mentioned how wonderful my friends are?
Step 7 - Drugs. As we walk to meet more of her friends, we discuss the goings on in our brains. As the fiance to this lovely lady suffers from mental disturbances as well, he offers an herbal remedy of which I am very well acquainted, and my mind begins to find its balance. You see, many people smoke to get high. I smoke to stay sane. My brain can be a beautiful and terrifying thing, often all at once. If you've ever seen a computer writing code line, after line, after line, after line, after line, after line...you have seen my brain at work. It starts with one tiny thought and just. keeps. going. I don't smoke to get high. I smoke because it takes my brain from a coding machine to an Instant Messenger conversation in which both you and your friend are busy, so conversation is consistent, but not hurried.
Step 8 - People. Now that my brain is calmed down and ready to handle average-speed conversations with multiple people instead of one ridiculously fast-paced conversation with itself, I am introduced to a new friend group. And let me tell you, these people are extraordinary. Since my depression began I started changing from a social butterfly to a hermit to someone who gets so anxious they are terrified to even go to the grocery store. Meeting new people can be fun when I'm on an upswing and feeling good, but on a down swing the last thing that I want is people. Usually. Thank God for these friends. Have I mentioned how wonderful my friends are? Because their friends are just as equally amazing. I know two of the thirteen people I am with, but even with my morning panic attack and my social anxiety and my deep desire to whither away in my own bed, they make me feel comfortable. I don't know if you caught that so I'm going to say it again: They make me feel comfortable. So comfortable, that even after the two friends that I know leave, I stay for another four hours. I get all dressed up with the girls. I stay another 3 hours. We go out dancing. I danced the night away with a handsome fellow I just met that day. I just met these people and they care enough to make me 100% part of this group, enough to make sure I make it back to my friend's apartment okay, enough to offer two couches and an inflatable mattress and spend the night, enough to give me a number and make me swear on my life I will text them the second I get home to let them know I made it back safe.

Finding friends like this leaves me speechless. Leaves me with a smile I can go back to any time I am having the worst day of my life. Because to me, being surrounded by this number and quality of exceptional people, this, will always be my best day ever. And I plan on having plenty more.

The Void

It is interesting to me to see the things that people use to fill their voids. Some people use material things. Some people use other people. Some people turn to drugs and alcohol since the only way they know how to cope is through escape and forgetfulness. Others choose God, and still others choose art.

But can the void ever truly be filled?

Are we whole when we begin?

What if we were created with a void simply for the purpose of giving us a drive for life? Think about it. If we were whole when we started would we have a zest for life? Would we want or need to go out and have all of the experiences that we have? Or would we be content with where were and never inclined to move forward?

What causes a person to choose destructive behavior to fill the void over fulfilling and sustaining things? I'm saying this not literally meaning the psychology behind it, but just in wonder and awe of the fact that four different people can all go through the same experience and yet choose completely different methods of coping.

My Heart is Stone

The overwhelming sadness and desperation that takes takes hold, the urge to just sit and let my tears drain themselves to relieve this burning pressure contained within my eyes; what is it for?

Why, when I feel overcome with grief, do I never have a reason for it? Why this void that cannot be filled?

The yearning to be able to release, to let it all flow from me and take with it this burden that I bear. But then, of course, the moment that I get to myself when I may finally demolish the boundaries of socialization, I cannot.

I try, Oh God, do I try.

My eyes may moisten a touch, but nothing more. Not a single tear drop will be shed. Is it from fear that I hold it all inside? Fear of what? I am alone. There is only me and my thoughts. There is nothing here to judge me, nothing to mock or terrorize. I am finally alone....

This yearning lives in my heart to relieve the emptiness by letting the flood gates loose, breaking down the barred doors and letting my soul free. I want it, I can feel it, the heaving in my chest; and yet, it cannot be touched.

The break walls remain in tact despite the thrashing course of the torrent sea pleading and forcing its way through. The doors remain bolted and barred.

My heart is stone.

It is as if it once were a tree, magnificent and majestic. A beautiful, tall, thriving red wood. Until a simpleton with an axe decided to render it of its beauty for one small sprig, and felled it. The wood now petrified and hard as stone remembers its beauty, its life and vivaciousness, its longing to grow and yearning for further endeavors. 

It is still.

It beats no longer.

My heart is but a mere portrait of what it was and now it has no more than memories. Base, cruel, taunting memories. It shall not be the same. It is forever changed by the actions of one small man with one small axe. Here is your proof that size is of no matter. 

Even the smallest of men with the smallest of tools can make the largest impact on a life, a soul, a raging and fiery beauty of which most men stand in awe. All it takes is one small cut to bleed the whole thing dry. One small cut to bring it to the ground, to have it begging on its knees for what life it has left. Forever hungry, forever thirsty, forever wishing and wallowing, just waiting for the day it might be whole again.

But things will never be as they were.

Empty

That haunting silence of night.

Perpetually echoing the loneliness and solitude confined to an empty room.

An empty bed.

The constant ticking of the clock my only companion. 

The clammy sheets my only warmth.

There was a time the night was filled with music, warm, welcoming.

A time when I was whole.

Before I met any of them that ripped me apart and left with shards of my heart to mount as trophies on their mantels. 

The night used to be my home. 

My solace, my comfort, my peace.

Now only the silence haunts me.

The music has gone, the life, the contentment.

All gone.

Left.

Silence.

How to Choose Your Best Friend

Have you ever thought back to when you were very young and made some of your first friends? 

     My next door neighbor Jimmy lived with his Grandma and had a collection of pet snakes in her attic. I never stayed around for feeding time, but me and the corn snake got along quite well. 

     Gabby and Mike I met because they were my brother's friends. I would tag along for whatever they were doing, and usually that included playing pranks on Jimmy. One day we decided to grind up some sidewalk chalk and dust it all over our hands. We went up to Jimmy as a group and told him that sometimes we disappear during the day because we were all actually ghosts; incredibly believable when we showed him our pale ghostly hands. He screamed when we told him if we touched him he would become a ghost too, and got on his bike and tried to run away. 

     When I asked another friend how he became friends with his BFF of 20 years, it turns out it was all because this kid yelled at him, "You pancake, I'll poop on you!".

These are the things lasting friendships are made of.