If you are reading this, please quickly check out this (it will open in a new window) and help any way you can: either a few dollars, or passing the message on), then if you’re into moans, please continue. If not, bye bye, I won’t bear a grudge.
September 11th. I say it like that even though I’m European because well it’s obvious why, don’t make me patronise you by explaining to you why saying it the American way just becomes more powerful.
It’s powerful for me because here I was saying how the tower would come down when I finally went to the psychiatrists: the Tower as in the Tarot symbol, which signifies that all your barriers, your protective truths that you have invented for yourself, all your sheltered space, would all be torn apart, struck by lightning, disintegrated, and it will leave you naked, vulnerable. There is, as there always is, a positive spin to the card in a reading, and that is that “At least you no longer will be able to lie to yourself, and all will be clean, pure, and true.”
I read an article recently about how the September 11 attacks changed America. Asides from the obvious, this person was saying how suddenly (I am so sorry I wish I remembered who had written that very good article), they realised as young adults that hey, America is seen as “the bad guy” by some. Personally, I remember even before that horrible day happened, talking with my Italian friends and how angry they were about the States being the bully of the world, and I was expressing my opinion, and that I felt sorry for them, because I still remembered when American was synonymous of “the good guys”, the saviours. I grew up with the movies, you know, as you do. And this new view of the Americans, no matter how documented or real, I didn’t like it. And yes, I felt sorry for them, because they were in Italy as tourists, and everyone used to love them, not just because they spent money, but because they were NICE. They were nicer than the superior sounding English, nicer than the exacting Germans… Americans were always nice, and friendly, and laughing, and made everything seem possible. At the time, however, Americans were seen with increasing hatred. Not very liked anymore, in Italy, and they seemed to be disconcerted, uncomprehending as to why that was happening. Then September 11 happened and all that hatred turned to pity, but still, the Americans had lost their patina of dreaminess, of likeableness. They were now very real, and very complex.
I truly hope if you’re American and you’re reading this you will forgive me if I dare use such a terrible date as meaningful for the day I finally, after thirty years of wondering and then dismissing, denying, whether or not I had a mental illness, go and see a psychiatrist.
What has brought me forward till now was a constant swing from the horror that surrounded me or that I myself caused in my mind and in the words outside of me to seeing the stunning beauty around me in everything and everyone. I have an especially big problem with people. In fact I often thought that my salvation would be to remove myself from people. “All people are wonderful human beings deep down, they all mean good, things just go wrong for them”. Or “I trust everyone, all the time. If they turn out to be untrustworthy, I will suffer, but still trust everyone, all the time”. Or “Can people really be so mean?” (the latter is the thought I always dismiss).
What is mean?
Well, that’s the problem isn’t it? So much of what people are is considered ok, normal. But so much just isn’t, for me. Even in the people around me, even in those closest to me, I perceive elements of what I consider mean and I just want to avoid them, get away from them. If I am hypersensitive about something, I am teased, or berated, or told off for something, a part of me, the little girl in me, fights through that massive lump in her chest and says “You are being MEAN. I don’t like you.”
I am 43 and still hurt like a little girl. A phrase, an attitude, a stern look, and I crumble. I am so tired of it. Sometimes, my pride would come out and I would stand tall and say “You know what?! Your principles are NOT my own. I will live according to MINE. So to hell with you!”. Now I look at myself and a-ha, there’s the first bit of truth: I cannot. I now know that the world is what it is, and I can’t shape it to my will. I don’t earn (well I would if they blooming well paid me, actually, I am not completely out of work yet!) and so I have no right to speak. On days like these I want to take everyone who has ever had a cross word for me, who has ever thought it is ok to tell me off, and dump them and leave.
I guess on September the 11th (and later, if it continues) I will know what the medical profession has to say: whether I can stand on my own two feet and tell everyone to go to hell and build the courage to make my world the way I see it, and to defend it, or whether I shan’t have any say, because deemed mentally unstable, and therefore, all my opinions are worthless to start with.
My husband asked me if, in the middle of great arguments concerning my money expenditure, I gave money to save a cat. He read my blog post enough to see that, but he didn’t read anything beyond that. If he had, he wouldn’t ask.
I know, from being homeless, from being poor, that those who have no money are the first to give to those who have no money. Funny that eh? I understand his disappointment in me. I dread his anger with me. I resent his getting angry with me, telling me off like a child. I wish he would shake his head and laugh and say look, no more bank card for you, but I understand. He won’t.
I wish I could tell him but look at what you spent on such and such. Look at the money you waste on such and such! I can’t, however, because his money comes in every month, mine doesn’t. AND, soon, he will have a further weapon: see, you’re bipolar, so you can’t be trusted with money. your decisions are rational decisions, they are an expression of your manic moments. Are they? I am going crazy before I have even been diagnosed. I guess we shall see. My forever terror is finally going to be faced, and I truly hope it is a good thing.
Why am I doing it? Is it because I believe that everyone should know the truth, I believe in transparency, in seeing things for what they are? I may have said that on occasion, and yet I have kept 90% of myself to myself all my life.
No, I would rather still see the Americans as the good guys. I don’t like the sound of falling towers, in my head or otherwise. I am not sure what’s inside those walls. I am not sure I want to see it. But if Dr. Guy there has a way to shut out my thoughts, and erase my memory, and stop me living in a constant drama, then I might just take it.