One thing that has come up in my life regarding episodes leading to hospitalization is that of abandonment. I have the pleasure of having very close relatives and friends whom I can count on through thick and thin, yet acquaintances that couldn’t care less about my problems, bipolar or otherwise. I am sad to say that that statement was turned on its head, and that turn slapped me hard. I sat in that hospital under a cloud of despair, hanging on to anything that gave me hope; anything that I could grasp to prevent the yearning for the void of death from consuming me. I needed someone. I needed someone who loved me to tell me so – to come to me and tell me so and what I got was “I can’t come”, “I can’t bear to see you there with those people”. Talk about darkness! It was one time that I could say unselfishly that it was about me and I was handed a reason that was about them. These are people who I love and whom I thought loved me. It made my darkness even darker. The only ones I could count on were my parents and those in the hospital along with me. I was abandoned. Now I know how it feels. It makes me feel even worth less than the worthlessness I already feel. It makes me realize that all the “I love you”-s and “I’ll be there”-s perhaps don’t mean anything at all – or at least not as much as one had hoped.
“Look at it from their side” I tell myself. A mental hospital to them is straight-jackets, padded cells and people screaming and banging their heads on walls. What else are they to think, for that’s all they see and are shown. Television, radio, history in general has given us this vision. And they’re scared to see us in this environment, so they say – broken, literally at the end of our rope. I must say, it’s not like that! Not that it was a pleasant experience by any means, but it was for the circumstances of my being there and the things needed to help my mind become even; not for any of those perceptions.
Going forward, I do not know how this shall affect me. It cut deeply. It ripped a hole with a jagged edge; one which I can’t say can be mended. I will remember. How else can I protect myself? Which leads me back around to isolating. Conundrum.
So where’s the hope? I guess people aren’t perfect. And there is a saying about not throwing the baby out with the bath-water.
Friday, July 03, 2009
I've had alot of time on my hands; time to recoup, regroup and get myself better so that I can get moving with my life again. I feel almost embarrassed to be talking about depression again, but depression is morbid and that is the tunnel that I am working my way out of right now. I should not be up this late writing this right now, as I am disregarding one of the first rules of my recovery - to stay on a schedule and get enough sleep. My excuse is that I felt that I had to write something - that's it(Operative word here is Excuse). I understand that my manias heve been a bit more apparent the last few months (like Easter Sunday I decided in a split second that I was going to come home, pack my clothes and drive off to who knows where, forever). In that same manner I've decided that I'm going to make a book about me and my art. I've spent the last 2 days retrieving photographs. It started out to focus just on my posters, but I'd like to talk about myself and what I go through in this life that is so highly spiced with bipolar illness; something like I do in this blog already, but with a bit more detail. I suppose that someone may want a copy at some time, though that's not the reason I'm making it. I kinda want something "substantial"; something I can hold in my hands. I'll definitely make an announcement when its available.