It is a fact that it is much easier, more immediate, to fall into negative thoughts than it is to crawl out and resume the positive. Lately, avoiding all sorts of things I have given up explaining to people, and continuing to constantly work on myself and my thoughts, it’s been easier to remain positive.
Taking pills reminds you that the darkness is always there, always lurking behind the corner.
Do you know what it feels like to want to die all the time?
And yet, I remain positive. I have no problem with what I’ve seen defined as sunshine-spewers. Perhaps because I’ve been called one all my life, and I know what lies behind, I know how much work goes into spewing that sunshine, colouring that rainbow. I don’t hold it against anybody who hates them/us (depending on where I am on the grey spectrum). I have been one, and I have hated them too. Been there done that done it all.
This morning all it took was one aborted conversation to drive right into the rut again. But this time I came out, fairly quickly. I thanked the meds, and I thanked my own thoughts. I thought about (my ticket to that superfast downward bullet train) my two dead boys (not my children, my friends, old lovers from a long, long time ago), my favourite, beautiful two.
I smiled, because I could still remember their faces, perfectly.
They are still not gone, they live within me still. Their death caused me more distress than a lot of subsequent deaths because they were both within themselves, and towards me, utter beauty.
I go weak in the presence of beauty.
They have been the faces and ghosts that have sustained me soooo many times in the past, and for so long, and I am so happy that they are still there. Had I any talent as a portrait artist, I could still draw them.
Both had dark hair and brown soulful eyes, Italian-style.
So as I got up and started washing some dishes and kept telling myself to take the pills as I washed, I thought of them, and made myself smile. Thoughts came to distract me and bring me down, I kept them at bay. Then the radio.
The radio is my every day Russian roulette. I constantly crave the radio, and yet I know it is very dangerous for me, as I have no control on what music is being played. Music is insanely triggering for me, as I know it is for many people. My first step towards re-establishing some sort of control in my life was to purge my playlist, on a regular basis, of all the music I would regularly put in it that drives me manic, or sullen, or despairing. It is a constant and very difficult task so I am almost glad not to have any music on my phone at all now, thanks to all the phone changes and laptop resets and blah blah.
I now have two radios, one in the kitchen and one in here, where I work.
I adore the radio, because it is random and I never know what to expect. And I hate the radio: it will sneak up on me and attack me with news I really don’t want to hear, and songs that could easily send me into despair in a matter of seconds.
I like it. It is dangerous, it is a thrill. It says something about having mental happiness issues that a simple radio feels more dangerous to my incolumity than walking around rough parts of London. I was fearless then, and I have lived and have no fear of the worst drunks, sometime criminals, homeless people sunk in insanity, being alone in a foreign country… for all that and more, I am fearless. But throw the right song at me at the right/wrong time, and I remember what it’s like to fight for survival.
I am so glad, it really is to remember. Of course one should never say those words “I’m fine now, I’m not in that kind of danger anymore“. So when Mr Jones of the Counting Crows came on, I almost enjoyed my battle.
I was braiding my daughter’s hair, and she was shushing me, as she always does, she doesn’t want me singing. I adore my daughter, but I had to stifle the aggressive punk in me who wanted to growl at her “YOU shut up” and I carried on humming along to it. I said it, but hushed and humorously. She kept quiet. As I braided her hair and sort-of-sang along, I felt the struggle. The self-homicidal reckless twenty-something fighting through the meds and all my spiritual and emotional and psychological work on myself to tear out and scream while that big heavy protective coat, made up of helpful chemicals, vitamins, thoughts, feelings, spirit, moved to envelope her and keep her calm.
And I came through! And what was left, was a self-satisfied smug smile inside, that said see: you can now walk through that crazy neighbourhood, and come up unscathed. Hah.
You gotta have your little pleasures 🙂