Day by day, note by note, tick by tock…
An Honest Experiment #2
So here we are again, another gander at my quest to find some form of authenticity in my writing. I’m hoping to commit to a schedule of these once a week. But this one will have a little bit of a quirk to it. These will still remain unedited, (at least for the most part it’s hard not to backspace a couple of times when you think up a better string of words to use), and unspoiled by someone else’s critiques (no matter how helpful they may be, it’ll be too late), I am going to add to this bit by bit until the day I’ve scheduled to post it.
It’s Wednesday, and I’m at my dining table tapping away, remembering this project and the reception I got from one of the people closest to me. When I shared the first entry in this little project, I informed them about it, pitching the general idea. They didn’t exactly wait for me to finish my explanation and had some concerns about the content within. One such as mentioning my visit to the hospital a few weeks ago. What would other people think of me admitting that? What about the potential employers researching my online presence? Trolls with nothing better to do than pick apart my character and deem this pointless drivel? The aggressively ‘woke’ people saying I’m trivialising mental patients for only spending one night in the psych ward? They were valid, don’t get me wrong, but totally counterproductive to what I am trying to do here. Authenticity, honesty, transparency. Those are my primary goals in this journey.
I’m a sensitive soul, so some tears came out when I shared with this person my reasons for taking such a risk. At that moment, not even I knew how deep this went for me, how much more it could help to just let it out and let it go. Not only for me but, if there is a need that arises, dear reader, go for it.
Say it. Sing it. Scream it!
As to the question about my being a patient in a psych ward, that wasn’t a ploy for sympathy, I assure you. I have since seen the right doctors in my own time to help me battle a great amount of darkness that was weighing me down. There are still some details I am hesitant to share, especially with the potential to trigger a few others who had been in similar situations with deeper trauma. I won’t share where this place was, or who I spoke to, just to protect said parties. As for what brought me there…
…well, despite the weeks since, I am still working towards a state where I can feel comfortable and confident about sharing such details.
Something that has always helped has been music, and in the past few days, I’ve been lucky to have the universe nag me into just sitting and listening. It’s brilliant how a tune can make your day or help you confront your inner turmoil just knowing that someone out there has felt the same.
As I was progressing through my novel I stumbled upon a song in its designated Spotify playlist that prompted me to write this entry; a little problematic number titled ‘Teeny Bopper Crack Whore’ by Porcelain Black (known in the MySpace/Bebo era as Porcelain and the Tramps). Something about that album spoke to my inner rebellious teenager that was starting to explore my sexuality. It reminded me of all the other bands and musicians whose sound gave the space to let a certain part of me breathe and recognise itself, (Evanescence chief among them, if my soul were a soundtrack it would be the entire Fallen album).
Happy Pride Month!
Today is Friday, and over the last two days I have seen a psychiatrist. I was glad to be told that don’t need medication at this point for my mental health, and I honestly feel as though I’m taking the steps toward a future that I can find myself happy in. But I still experience the rise and fall of mood, the conflict and decay and resurgence of thoughts. I find myself thinking about something big that I have lost, whether it was I who lost them, or they are the one who was lost, and in turn I lost myself to help them. That has been a topic that bounces back and forth with doctors and family and friends. I know my part in losing this person, I wonder if they know the part they took. No, I gave it to them, willingly, wholly, it was theirs to use, to hold, to grow themselves with. It has been a little over a week, and the attachment hasn’t yet severed. But the space between us, while it feels so temporary, while the urge to reach out to them is so strong, I wrestle among truths between my realm and theirs and the realm in which we both exist.
I believe this chord is being cut at the steady pace I had hoped it would. I am learning and growing at a rate I had to remind myself I was capable of. Yet I am still at a stage where I fear there is more than one chord tethering us. I wonder, are they keeping their promise to do the same? Are they as lucky as I am to have the support they need right now? The kind that truly gives them the space to express how they feel, and cheer them on when they achieve another stride towards their best self? I can only hope.
I suppose the part I mourn the most is the image they had built of themselves in my head, and realising and accepting the possibility that I had tricked myself into building it further or perhaps I was the lonely sculptor. I still don’t want to believe that I was the only hands crafting this illusion. I don’t want it to be an illusion at all. I still believe in this person.
Was I a fool for working so hard and forgetting to mould my own likeness? Of course, but I am learning.
Am I still a fool for sharing this to strangers on the internet? Probably. But if it can help someone else going through it, it’s worth it to me.
I suppose I should tie this in with a theme, so I will return to the concept of music. As Amy Lee’s voice once again returns me to the very foundation of my psyche through my purple MX1 headphones, and I am typing away at this, it still astounds me the powerful healing magick that is music. I thank the thoughts that come and go. The inspiration and the understanding —
Ooh, My Last Breath just came on, that’s a good one!
Anyway, it is through this amazing ability to translate experiences into something tangible and available to indulge in again and again that still amazes me. To listen to a message and use it to drive you forward, help you overcome fears, give you the courage to feel and wisdom to navigate through your worst moments.
It’s Sunday, and the last two nights have been both difficult, exhilerating, humbling, and revealing. Time truly does move at different speeds, and I realised this when I got a notification for a writer’s group meeting (I didn’t end up attending, was much to emotional). I remember feeling as though the last week and a half was quite possibly the longest I had ever experienced, and that meeting reminder woke me up to how short it was. It felt like it wasn’t a day before that I was chatting to these other writers. Funny how that works, to imagine every thread of time that passes, those hours that feel like seconds, those days that feel like years.
So what prompted me to write this in the… oh… it’s the afternoon…oh well…
“Don’t waste your time on me, you’re already the voice inside my head”
Blink182’s discography is impressive with lyrics like this. It stuck out to me this listen through, even moved me to tears, not because I related to it, but I could imagine the kind of person that would. The attachments that we form, and whether or not we feel worthy of them, is torturous and yet we hope beyond hope the other sees beyond that, most often they do, until they don’t. But at one point they did, and it’s important to hold onto that, love yourself and forgive yourself for being so cruel to yourself.
Yes, I realise that’s how I sound right now. Just go with it.
But there is enough that happened in this slow freezerburn of a week that I’m going to congratulate myself on surviving. To those that have checked in, shown their love and support, kept me going, and telling it like it is when I’m running away with my thoughts, and allowing me space to process everything I need to. You’re all amazing, and I am so grateful to you. Thank you and I love you.
I know that sounds like me signing off for this, but keeping this going is something for myself, to heal, to find my place in this expanse. And it’s also for you, reader. You aren’t alone. I’m here too, and I’m reminding us both that there is still hope that seeps through in the little things, those minuscule victories that get easier as time marches in its confusing tempo, its jumbled melodies, its layered vocals. Rememeber one of those voices in the chorus is yours.
Turn up the volume and listen to yourself.
You are here.
-M