mental illness – Page 3 – Blue Ink Alchemy

Tag: mental illness (page 3 of 7)

Being The Change

“Striving for excellence motivates you; striving for perfection is demoralizing.” — Harriet Braiker

I have to remind myself that I am not perfect.

I have to remind myself that I will never attain perfection.

I have to remind myself that I can’t work on myself alone.

These can be difficult for me to keep in mind. Especially that last part. White male-presenting folks in this society are expected to be self-sufficient self-starters, to have the inherent strength to yank ourselves up by our own bootstraps, to achieve simply by virtue of being white and male-bodied. Lack the strength, and you’re a ‘wimp’. Listen to the advice of those with different genders, colors, or orientations, and you’re a ‘cuck’. Struggle to reach even simple goals, like picking up the phone to handle important issues or make appointments, and you’re a ‘failure’.

This onus is nowhere near as bad as it is upon non-white non-male-presenters, but it still exists.

This is also not an excuse for bad behavior or bad decisions.

I don’t blame this state of affairs for my moments of weakness or those mistakes I’ve made that have shamed me and made me feel the opposite of proud in myself. My mental illness is not, nor will it ever be, something I can or should hide behind. It is an explanation, not an excuse. There is a large difference between the two. I still said the words I said; I still took the actions that I took. Those things are on me, and they are my responsibility.

When I make those mistakes, I get flustered. I back myself into a corner by admonishing myself, by berating myself for the mistakes I’ve made, by letting any of the fully justified criticism being related to me get amplified to a deafening level. Every moment of this pushes me further and further back, undoes hard work that I have done, and can even bring back the spectre of a version of myself that died years ago. The simpering, weak, reactionary, childish, trifling-ass…

I’m doing it again.

I have to examine this calmly. I have to avoid working myself into a self-flagellating froth. I’m writing this mostly as a stream of consciousness; other than spelling mistakes, I’m not editing things. This is a look inside of my head. And, more often than I’d like to admit, it’s not a very nice place.

When I have been backed into a corner, fielded accusations or insults, they’ve gone straight to my heart, and I’ve acquiesced, made myself smaller, given the accusers what they want, just to make the accusations stop. Just to be left alone. In the past, I’ve left very little room for myself, to stand up for myself, to assert that no, I have just as much right to fight back as anybody else, that I have my own sovereignty, my own identity. I’ve failed myself many times in this regard; I’ve pushed my own identity away so that it conforms to the perceptions of others, just to satisfy them, just to make them feel like they’ve won, just so they will leave me alone, in the desperate hope that it will stop the pain.

Again — and I must stress this — this is not an excuse for any of the above behaviors. They are childish, inappropriate, and even toxic. I am not proud of them. I am not hiding behind them. This is a statement of the facts. This is who I’ve been.

It is not who I would choose to be.

I’ve seen others do this. Perhaps not to the drama-mongering extreme that I’ve engaged in during the moments of which I am the least proud, but definitely turning themselves down, making themselves smaller, hiding themselves away. And it breaks my heart.

Compassion for others is a trait that some would argue is detrimental to one’s success. Look at those who are “successful” in the eyes of the greater population of capitalists and autocrats. They don’t give a damn about other people. They leverage their privilege and exploit weaknesses to get ahead, to make money, to seize fame. Being a “good person” is one of those exploitable weakness. It’s been used against me. So, too, have the weaknesses enumerated above. It’s left me with scars, with knives in my back, with bruises on my heart.

I’m waxing poetic again. Let me get back on point.

I can’t change the past. I can’t make up for all of my mistakes. I can’t dwell on my divorces, or my estrangement from the child I brought into this world, knowing now that I was — and perhaps always will be — ill-equipped to handle those responsibilities. Prevailing sentiments and admonishments from others would contend that “better men” would be able to “man up” and rise to the occasions. I didn’t. I failed. And I can’t change that.

The only thing I can do, the only thing I am empowered to do, is change these things, change myself, for the better going forward.

I know I can do it. I’ve seen it. Not just in myself, either. I’ve encountered, spoken to, been seen by people who knew me before. They’ve seen the changes in me. Some have looked on them with pride; others, with shock. I’m doing everything I can to make those changes consistent, self-evident, and ever-evolving. Ever onward, always upward.

When I stumble and fall back, I feel an incredible amount of shame, even though rational thought reminds me that mistakes and misfires are inevitable.

They don’t matter anywhere near as much as what I do when they happen.

I still have to unlearn some of my old behaviors. I have more work to do than I’d thought. I am not as “fine” as I’ve pretended to be. I still need help. Adjusted meds, better counseling, more time taken to step away from the escapism of screens and dice, the dire circumstances of the outside world, the overwhelming presence of others, and pasts I have with them, and futures I crave with them. I need to take more space for myself, center and calm myself within that space, and be the change I want to see in the world.

That is something I’ve wanted since I was a boy. When I’ve fallen short of the mark, that is when I’ve considered myself a failure, and mentally and emotionally abused myself for that shortcoming.

I still need to address that, to examine it, and change those neural patterns and behaviors so I am better equipped to be a better person, a better friend, a better partner, a better man.

Not a perfect one. I’m not perfect. I can’t be perfect.

That doesn’t mean I can’t be awesome.

“Awesome” is a much better goal than “perfect.”

Hell, it even sounds better.

I’m going to try and refocus on that, to work on better handling depression and doubt, and to seek the help and self-care I need to keep myself alive, moving forward, and being awesome.

I have to believe in myself.

All I ask of you, if you’ve read this far, if you’re seeing this, is that you believe in me when I can’t do that. When I can’t believe in myself, please believe in me.

Tell me that you do. I’ll always tell you the same. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

I’m always open to hearing from you, if what you have to say is honest, helpful, constructive, and coming from a place of love and respect.

I will always believe in you, that you can be the change that you want to see in this broken world.

Because that is what compassion is.

And it is what I would want you to do for me.

Tuesdays are for telling my story.

500 Words on Communication

August 4, 2017 / BlueInkAlchemist / 0 Comments

We humans are social creatures. We make connections with one another, and maintaining those connections requires communication. We’ve done it through letters (and honestly, I should write more letters), telegrams, telephones, and now the Internet. But throughout all of the iterations of our communication means, one fact has remained the same: it’s a two-way street.

We live in a world where, every day, it becomes more and more apparent that some of us are dealing with head weasels of various shapes and sizes. Some of them say that we’re not worth talking to. Others pull us back from seeking connection, or re-connection, out of fear or guilt or anxiety, be it rooted in reality or a creation of the weasel in question. People get wrapped up in work, studies, real-world concerns, or the static of emotions and thoughts that are no fault of their own, the echoes of trauma and anticipation of fresh wounds. Through this, one of the lines of communication goes silent.

Do we, on the other end, leave our line back to that person open?

For the most part, I say yes, especially if the person is someone we care about. In most cases, I prefer to make myself available. Sure, a person may seize upon that opening to try and cause drama, or express a toxic opinion, or otherwise attempt to undermine whatever progress I have made or am making. In which case, fine, eat my static. I’m not responsible for the pettiness of other people, save for my desire as a human being to bring out the best in other human beings. And, let’s face it, being petty and projecting upon others to avoid our own issues is far less than our best. I’ve learned to do better. I still have a lot to learn, for certain, but at least that’s crystal clear.

Enough about trifles. There are far more important people in my life than those who would trifle. I can’t help but see the potential in others, a strength or fortitude they may not see themselves. Worse, some of the people I see have within them the desire to overcome what impedes them, but don’t necessarily believe that they can. I want to foster that belief. I want to stoke that fire. I’ve had it done for me, by therapists and friends and loved ones, and I want nothing more than to turn around and do the same for those I admire, care about, and love.

I don’t want to put people on the spot, or name names, but… dammit, if you’re reading this, and it resonates, feel free to reach out to me. It’s okay. It’ll be okay. I will hold space for you and try to hear you out, because that’s what I’d want you to do for me.

Maybe I’m wasting my time in writing this, or this will go unread, or…

That’s my own head weasels talking.

And you, and I, can always talk louder than they ever could.

On Fridays I write 500 words.

500 Words From Heinlein

May 12, 2017 / BlueInkAlchemist / 0 Comments

Courtesy Floating Robes

I lie. Not all 500 of these words come to you from the pen of Robert A. Heinlein. But most of them will. Mostly because, after several years, I once again picked up (or, in this case, began listening to) The Cat Who Walks Through Walls, a seminal book of my early teen years and the one that pushed me towards this writing business in which I engage.

… I have this one nasty habit. Makes me hard to live with. I write …

At the moment, writing is not my primary profession. But it’s always there. In the back of my mind, a prodding need persists. I’m a storyteller. I have to tell stories. It’s a basic imperative, like my need to eat and breathe and gallivant as urbanely, responsibly, and respectfully as possible. Those things cost, and writing, at least in the stage I linger at, does not pay.

… writing is a legal way of avoiding work without actually stealing and one that doesn’t take any talent or training.

I’m in a perpetual state of “I’m working on it,” with a few projects. I am, hopefully, in a place where I can carve out more time to do it. And none too soon, because it’s really started to bug me.

… writing is antisocial. It’s as solitary as masturbation. Disturb a writer when he is in the throes of creation and he is likely to turn and bite right to the bone … and not even know that he’s doing it. As writers’ wives and husbands often learn to their horror …

I of course am not so ignorant as to blame my writing for the skeletons hanging in my closet. My mental illness and prior emotional instability were the impetus for several bad decisions, but as any storyteller would tell you, a good character becomes aware of their shortcomings, and seeks to overcome them. So it is with me. And yet, if writing is a shortcoming, I do not seek to overcome it.

In a household with more than one person, of which one is a writer, the only solution known to science is to provide the patient with an isolation room, where he can endure the acute stages in private, and where food can be poked in to him with a stick. Because, if you disturb the patient at such times, he may break into tears …

If nothing else, writing is a way for me to express my emotions in a safe environment. The lines of journals become a padded room. And as plotlines and characters take shape and grow over the course of my writing, parts of myself and my experiences and emotions flow into them. I have professional therapists — and a battery of medications and vitamins — but my pen, perhaps, is the best tool for how I continue to get better.

Besides…

There is no way to stop. Writers go on writing long after it becomes financially unnecessary … because it hurts less to write than it does not to write.

Indeed.

On Fridays I write 500 words.

Tightening Focus

May 1, 2017 / BlueInkAlchemist / 0 Comments

Courtesy cepolina.com - http://www.cepolina.com/camera-focus-spiral.html

Not all bipolar swings are inherently negative. A downward swing towards depression, if examined from an objective standpoint, can be a time for reflection and constructive introversion. Sometimes, one has to distance or disconnect oneself from the usual stimuli of the outside world to take stock, recover strength, and realign thoughts and goals. By the same coin, a upward swing — not necessarily into full hypomania — can be a boom time of great creativity, channeling energy into endeavors that suit one’s goals.

This takes time, practice, the help of a therapist and loved ones, and a good amount of hammering out new pathways in one’s thought processes and emotional self-examination. It isn’t easy. But it’s worth it.

It also eats up a bunch of spoons.

If you’re not familiar with the Spoon Theory, I expound upon it (and reference its source) here. Most spoonies deal with a purely physical ailment — fibromyalgia, endometriosis, auto-immune diseases, etc. Mental illness can qualify as well — bipolar disorder, PTSD, anxiety, and so on. If you get a flashback, a sting of anxiety, or enter a mixed state, you have to spend time and energy dealing with that state of being before you can move on to something like sleeping, or eating. You spend spoons you’d otherwise spend elsewhere.

It can be easy to realize, in retrospect, that we haven’t taken steps towards reaching our long-term goals. We might even look around us and see all sorts of things that could be addressed, in terms of chores or self-care. I feel that it’s important to keep focus on the fact that our worth is not tied to our productivity, no matter what this modern capitalist dystopia in which we find ourselves might say. We can, and should, find self-worth in who we are and what we cultivate in ourselves and the world around us.

There are two factors that inform the ways in which we contribute to the world around us: willingness and ability. If we have the willingness to contribute, but not the ability — be it because of spoons, money, skills, or other resources — that has worth, in and of itself, and in my opinion, does not get recognized as much as it should. On the flip side, if one has the ability to contribute, but not the willingness… well, that’s a completely different kettle of fish.

In the aftermath of those moments of introspection and personal re-alignment, the next step is to examine what is worthy of focus, and what can be set aside, at least for now. For example: I haven’t spent as much time writing as I have in gaming. I even tried my hand at streaming Hearthstone again over a couple of weekends. The thing is, there are only so many hours in the day and I only have so many spoons. And, let’s be honest, I’m a better writer than I am a gamer. I may get myself to Legend rank in Hearthstone, but I doubt I have the time and bandwidth to both cultivate tournament-level skills in that game and finish the writing projects that may actually achieve my long-term goal of writing novels as my primary means of income.

So it’s time to focus on that, and get the words out, and get this shit done.

For whatever it’s worth, May is Mental Health Month, and as we go through it, I’m going to also take time to reflect on how I’ve been improving over the last few months, what I can bring up in therapy, and how I can continue carving new and healthier neural pathways. I hope these experiences, and my words, prove helpful to you. It can be difficult for me to remember that focusing on myself and the way forward is not selfish, in and of itself; rather, if I do not build myself up, and celebrate myself, the world will be all to happy to tear me down and strip-mine me for useful material the way they have our planet.

But that’s a post for a different day.

Tuesdays are for telling my story.

Asking The Right Questions

January 10, 2017 / BlueInkAlchemist / 0 Comments

Am I a good man?

It’s a question I’m asking myself on a daily basis. Months after so many people made up their minds that the answer was a resounding ‘NO’, I’m still asking it. I lose sleep over it. I wake up with my guts in knots thinking about it. I find myself disengaged from the world around me, trying my best to lose myself in work, and distracting myself with media and gaming to avoid the question. But I keep coming back to it.

I want to believe that I am. I want to believe that just by asking the question, seriously pondering it, at least shows a glimmer of hope that it might be true. It’s a spark, the embryo of a flame, and if I can hold on to it, nurture it, stoke it with the right questions and breathe life into it gently, it will grow, and maybe shine a light that will show my true Self, even to those who made up their minds.

People can be wrong. I have been wrong. I’m trying to make it right, as much as I can, without imposing myself or pushing for unwanted direct contact or making people uncomfortable. I’m trading my discomfort for the comfort of others. The way I’ve always tried to do, even if it’s proven unhealthy for me. My brain’s wired for that behavior, and rewiring it has proven very, very difficult.

How could I ever put myself over others?

That’s the question this line of thought brings to mind. In moments of weakness, of hypomania, of knee-jerk reactions, I know I can behave rashly, even put what I want or feel above what others want or feel. But how can that be, when the other 99% of my life is spent worrying myself literally sick over what others think and feel? How is that I can, and have, lost my grip on my empathy? Is there a way for me to prioritize myself, my health, my well-being, in such a way that such an awful thing never, ever happens again?

I’m scared. I’m scared of a lot of things. Running out of time, losing what little I have left, failing and falling again to the point I don’t see a way out, with no strength left to save myself.

I’m scared I’ll never fully recover.

I’m scared I’ll lose my way again, in spite of the progress I’ve already made in the Work.

I’m scared that, in trying to prioritize myself, in convincing myself that yes, I am in fact a good man, I’ll get too caught up in my positivity and hype, to the point that my privilege and intelligence and empathy become things I exploit; I’m scared I will truly, thoroughly become something I loathe, that I would never, ever choose to be.

I know people exist who feel no guilt or remorse for the choices they make. The people who twist the facts to fit their own narratives. The people who never check their perceptions against a sequence of events or the proven nature of the people around them. The people who are so wrapped up in themselves they give nary a thought to the feelings or well-being of others. Their only goal is self-advancement; their primary concern is how far they can propel themselves above others. They leave reputations, relationships, communities, even bodies burning in their wake, and they are so myopically focused on their own goals they do not smell the rancid smoke for which they are responsible. And I’m scared of becoming one of them, rather than merely being accused of being one of them.

I’m scared that no matter how ‘better’ I get, it won’t be ‘good enough’. It won’t be proof enough that I’m not who they have said I am, who they may still believe me to be.

Why do the opinions of others matter?

Being honest about my role in the discomfort of others has been taken as implicit confession of guilt towards simplistic accusations. Maintaining distance and holding space has been seen as ‘ghosting’ or disposing of people I still consider important to me. Expounding upon my moments of crisis have been called ‘manipulation’ and ‘attention-seeking’. Asking for help is seen as weakness, and an excuse to scapegoat me, gaslight me, and kick me while I’m down. Openly seeking discussion about my thought processes and unresolved guilt, and fighting the stigma of my bipolar disorder, are categorized as trying to weasel out of taking responsibility for my actions. Why do I care about what people like that think?

Anybody who knows me, who has taken the time to engage with my Self, knows all of that is bullshit. Some who have made efforts in the past to forge a friendship with me that goes beyond public perception have fallen in with the toxic thinking that fueled the ways I’ve been used and abused. Even as some write me off, I struggle to understand them, to imagine them complexly, to comprehend their motivations. Some said what they said to further their own agendas, some reacted out of triggered disgust, and others merely disengaged to avoid dwelling on painful or problematic subjects. Why do I still hold space for them?

It’s been asked of me by people who have shown they truly care about me. True empathy has been expressed by those still connected with me who’ve seen the evidence of the Work but have also been privy to me asking these questions, struggling with these concerns, ruminating over these opinions. Why do I devote any firing of synapses to people who have shown me how little I actually matter? Why do these phantoms take up any space in my head or my heart? Why can’t I just write them off, let them go, move on with my life?

“I know it’s easier said than done” tends to follow those questions, and I know how true that is. Anybody acquainted with the grief that comes with the loss of a close family member or friend knows that it’s not a once-and-done obstacle that you just ‘get over’ and you’re finished, congrats, here’s a medal. It’s cyclical. It comes and it goes. You miss people, you miss them every day, sometimes just in the back of your mind, sometimes like a vice grip on your heart leaving you unable to move. January is particularly hard for me because of grief like that. For me, for a couple of people, the grief is worse because I know they’re still alive. They’re still out in the world. I know they’re hurting. I know they’re dealing with pain, loss, and questions that I understand, that I experience myself, that I might, just maybe, be able to help with.

But I don’t know if I can. I err on the side of caution. And it breaks my heart all over again.

Even if I felt I could, would I? Or would I keep my distance because I’m too scared of fucking it up again and causing more pain and who knows if they’d be open to that sort of interaction anyway?

Should I even be writing this here?

Even now I’m questioning my motivation for putting this out into view of the public. All of this is rooted in my struggle (and occasional inability) to cope with everything that’s atypical of my neurological system. Bipolar disorder, PTSD, social anxiety, the massive guilt complex — it’s no more ‘normal’ than the political situation in our world today. I’m on medication; I’m in touch with professionals; I’m studying meditation, neurological solutions, psychology and everything else that makes up the Work. Writing is a part of it — it’s a part of me — and a contribution I can make towards both my well-being and awareness that helps the well-being of others is to fight the stigma by talking about it.

I know that a lot of this stuff can or would make people uncomfortable if they bothered to read it. Hell, writing it makes me uncomfortable to the point I’ve put off writing it, even longhand in a journal, to say nothing of on this silly blog. Causing discomfort in people in general, especially people I care about — even those who might have stopped caring about me some time ago — falls squarely in the category of ‘shit I don’t want to do.’ For all I know, all of this claptrap about the Work and how I feel and what I’m dealing with may get extrapolated and twisted around into ‘yet another bid for attention’ and thrown into the mental garbage along with the person so many people decided I was, without bringing things directly to me or imagining me complexly. This might challenge those perceptions, which will make people uncomfortable, and much like I do with my guts in asking these questions, they’ll twist themselves around to avoid that discomfort and maintain the illusion that they know exactly what happened and exactly who this or that person was and exactly what the facts are despite not having all of them.

But I also know that without discomfort, there is no growth. And as much as I want to, as deep as I have looked within myself, I have struggled and failed to find the answers for the questions I’m asking. And I have to keep asking questions, deep ones, uncomfortable ones, if I ever want to untangle those knots, heal these wounds, kindle that beacon, progress in this Work. Which brings me to the last one.

Am I asking the right questions?

Right or wrong, for better and for worse, I’m going to be struggling to find the answers for a long, long time.

Tuesdays are for telling my story.

Tag: mental illness (page 3 of 7)

Being The Change

500 Words on Communication

500 Words From Heinlein

Tightening Focus

Asking The Right Questions

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