i made another thing
I was told I was too old to spend hours on tumblr with the teenagers.
I was told I was too old to obsess over actors.
I was told I was too old to obsess over fictional characters.
I was told I was too old to write fan fic.
I’d like to point out that I’m NOT to old to find an escape from the noise in my head.
If I need to regress, then I’m going to fucking regress.
I buried a post about my version of self-harm in a flurry of fandom posts… because I didn’t want it found, even though I made it public.
I’m a walking contradiction. I know. It’s part of my charm.
When I get like this (on the fringe of The Ick), I’ll do anything to laugh or otherwise distract myself. Otherwise, the voices in my head drown out everything worth hearing. I’ve talked about them, sometimes too much, but they’re always there. When I’m manic, they tell me to do stupid, reckless things. When I’m depressed, they tell me to do stupid, reckless things. Since basically I reduce myself to blogging when I get like this, I don’t get a whole of distraction from other people. (I almost said ‘stimulation’. That’s something COMPLETELY different. Freudian slip, much?)
That’s not to say that I don’t have people reaching out to me and keeping me sane. That’s not to say I don’t have other outlets that will keep me distracted.
On my list of distractions is listening to “Cabin Pressure” - it never fails to crack me up. (Yes, it includes Benedict Cumberbatch, but that’s besides the point.)
Seriously, how can you NOT laugh with dialogue like this:
Arthur: Aha, my signature dish. Behold! Surprising Rice.
Douglas: Good lord!
Martin: What are those bits?
Arthur: Ah, you see, Skipper, if you don’t mind me saying so, that question is entirely against the spirit of Surprising Rice.
Long story short…be patient with me and my non-stop fangirling.
I’m going to get better soon.
And things should change around here.
perfect benedict is perfect
The more I learn about this man, the less he surprises me.
Let’s talk self-harm, shall we?
I’ve never been one for blood, so conventional self-harm is something I’ve never been interested in.
But. I bite the shit out of my nails. My pinkies, usually.
The number of days I walk around with one of my pinkies covered in a band-aid wrap of my own creation is astonishing. I’ve actually managed to lose count of the number of times I’ve done it recently.
Thursday morning, I ripped off the ENTIRE pinky nail on my right hand. Like down to the cuticle. Gone, baby, gone. Just like that.
Can you believe I was pissed that it didn’t hurt? PISSED.
Isn’t that the whole point of self-harm? To replace mental pain with something tangible? To distract you from what’s really going on?
The only thing I got out of it is a band-aid on my pinky that gets in the way when I type.
The most ironic part of this?
A few years ago, I went to see a hypnotist about breaking my nail biting habit. Under hypnosis, and I mean completely under, she asked me why I bit my nails.
I told her it was a comfort thing.
And that I wasn’t going to stop.
Maybe I should have seen someone about curbing my self-harm habit instead…
I’m a little over trying to type with band-aids on my pinkies.
For the record, this is not the first email I’ve received that starts like this:
Can I ask you a very personal question? It’s personal for me, I mean. Not something to freak out over, just not something I would talk to just anyone about.
I get messages like that on Facebook, via email, and even tumblr, all the time.
I’ve saved lives, and I’ve saved marriages.
I feel like a super hero…
I want a fan club, an action figure (complete with ginormous boobs, please), and a movie written by Kevin Smith, starring Jared Padalecki, Jensen Ackles, David Tennant, Benedict Cumberbatch, and Martin Freeman, directed by Joss Whedon, and produced by Eric Kripke. ALL the actors, of course, would be my love interests. (Can you say ‘explicit love scenes’ boys and girls? I knew you could! Mmmm… what a perfect example of the recklessness of the mania!!!) However, Tennant MUST use his real accent, because Scottish accents top English accents anytime. Except for Steven Moffat’s Scottish accent, because… well… he’s MOFFAT. He’s DEFINITELY not allowed anywhere near my blockbuster. Unless he’s my arch enemy. OOH! He could be The Evil… something.
Fangirling over my movie aside, it blows my mind that nine times out of the ten I get approached it’s because I’m so open about the bipolar.
I wish I had the answers every one looks for. I wish I held the cure.
All I can do is talk about why I don’t get suicidal (any more), how I get when I get manic (rather dangerous to others), and how I get when I’m depressed (also rather dangerous, but to myself).
I told a person once that I’m not a shrink, but I’ve been shrunk.
Maybe I’ll just write a memoir or something… get what I can out there and maybe help a broader audience.
Or maybe I’ll write that script for my superhero movie instead.
dipping back into the well, i ‘spose.
So… In the past two days, I posted about trying to see the depression through someone else’s eyes and coming out of the bipolar closet, and then this happened:
But, the point here is I’m absolutely stunned at what’s out there, the shaming of it all. I’ve been always up front about my melancholic nature because I don’t think it’s helpful living “in a closet” about any big aspect of your life - and it helps people understand that it’s not their fault, nor mine, though I make every attempt to keep the depression hounds out of the lives of others.
A friend of mine suggested that I write something from my point of view because, surprisingly, I manage to give an outwards impression of having my shit together. I was shocked to hear this. And I find this comical, but I see her point. I’m functioning. I’ve adapted. I’m surprisingly okay. I think the medical term is “resilient”.
The thing is, we never speak up around this kind of foolishness, we never talk back to the Naturally Happy people who keep telling us what to do and how to be. And I’ve made some promises to some people to find the words to retort this endless and unhelpful cycle of feeling worse because we can’t just adopt better habits.
Should I revisit the depression? The crushing soul sucking depression that being unemployed brought on? Should I talk about the nonstop crying?
I’m always going to discuss it. I’m always going to link to things that sum up the depression in ways I can’t.
Because it needs to be said. Because we need to remove the stigma.
Because depression lies.
Because none of us are alone.
(I guess this means I’m coming out of the closet when someone asks about Katniss on Monday.)
221 days until “Catching Fire”, but who’s counting?
“I’m so sick of saying the words gay and lesbian. Can we just — people. I’m so tired of that. One day I want my son to come home from school and be like, I found this guy and I love him. And I’m gonna be like yes, you do, and that’s okay.”
(I thought I’d break up the BBC spam with some JHutch. He’s cute and smart.)
I brought all my toys to work yesterday and finally set up my desk. It felt weird to bring my red dress picture and my Katniss action figure if only because now I have to explain the story behind them. I’m not ready to come out of the closet yet. Yeah, I’m afraid to come out of the closet.
Kind of ironic, isn’t it?
So… now I’m featuring Peeta on my blog to compliment the importance of Katniss in my life.