A poetic journey through my mind

Posts tagged “insanity

Death and the Cheese Sandwich, a ramble in realtime.

The hardest thing for anyone with -any- “invisible” disability, mental or physical, seems to me to be that no one really believes it. As long as you are doing badly, dark days, physical issues, pain…it’s fine. But just as soon as you manage to drag yourself up from the bottom, it all of a sudden becomes a commonplace. Not a struggle well rewarded, but merely “Why didn’t you do that before?”.
They hold “normal people” up to you as if they were some goal that you are supposed to aspire to. “Normal people take daily showers. Normal people are social. Normal people…” Normal people can kiss my ass. I can’t think of anything I’d less rather be than “normal”. Normal people watch politics, reality shows, commercial/cable tv…and -enjoy- it! Normal people are “too old for cartoons”, even anime. Normal people believe everything someone posts on FaceBook, even when the same picture has been used a thousand times to solicit help for so many different causes no one can even remember what the original was. Normal people watch sports…well, the guy half, anyway. Normal people don’t take medications unless they have a cold, or they’re over 50. Normal people don’t collect “toys” from their favorite series or books. Normal people don’t read speculative fiction, unless it’s romantic, and then it’s ok.
Let’s pause on that one for a second…never mind that, as the quote almost said “it’s like having an affair with a cheese sandwich”…never mind the uber-teen-angst aspect…never mind all that. Since when did the paranormal/supernatural turn into todays fantasy romance? Not dissing the goth thing. Far from it. Full-fledged Fairy Goth right here. But seriously, people? Vampires and Werewolves in love triangles with poor confused women…notice that it’s almost -never- a human -male- having to choose between the woodsy, outdoorsy, sexy-feral wolf-chick and the sophisticated, refined, sexy-dangerous vamp-chick. Hmm. Maybe I should write one. Or mix it up. Gay vampire is a thing…and lord knows that Were’s and Bears would hit it off…so a confused young queer boy who doesn’t understand why both sides are attractive to him? *giggle* No, luckily for the world of Para-Romance I have more self-respect than that. ;p ¬†Besides, according to “rule whatever-it-is” it’s bound to be already out there. ¬†>.>
Ok, Wild Tangent exercised, now back to the original rant. It’s just frustrating to be the only one telling me how well I’m doing, and having to lift myself by my own bootstraps, figuratively speaking. And it’s downright painful to have people accuse me of not being sick, now that I’m doing better. Hard enough swimming upstream without the folks around me pouring poison in the water and strengthening the current by weakening me. I know all the explanations: “They’re jealous. They’re afraid you won’t need them. They need to be needed, so they sabotage.” Bull. In my case, while the first might be barely possible, it’s accompanied by so much straight out hate and paranoia that “unintentional sabotage” isn’t an operative phrase…it’s closer to “deliberate malfeasance”. Frustrating? Try infuriating, especially since there’s not a blessed thing I can do about it, not having that sort of temperament, little say the physical, psychological or emotional -ability- for that sort of nonsense. *shrug*
So yeah. It’s almost 5 in the morning, I haven’t written a word in weeks, haven’t even opened my laptop to play games…why should I, I have my phone for that? And so my brain rots slowly away, and my “curious appetites” get…well, curiouser and curiouser, if you’ll excuse the misquote. ;p So I get on tonight, for various reasons, and start looking at craft things. >.< Doh. Sooo many new toys!!! I need all the pretties and shinies! Mia and I are in a constant tug-of-war over all the bright beads and moldable plastics and jello-molds (No, dear heart, we need to actually -use- the ones we’ve bought before we can -maybe- justify buying more…no, not even the 100 count silicone gummi bear mold with the special dropper, I’m sorry. ;p) and so on, until I’m left to wonder…how in all the special hells of Hel do “normal folks” manage to keep from going insane and running ferret-shock through the internetz screaming “Shut up and take my money!”?
Also, is insanity different from creativity, and if so, how? Discuss. ;p
This is now over 700 words long, in case anyone is interested, and since I love you all to distraction…I’m gonna go and stop distracting you. Don’t worry, though…I’ll be back with more whinging and complaining and maybe, possibly, although don’t count on it, some actual creative work. Like a poem or story or something. Not just me/us rambling. Oh, and just in case it isn’t clear or you’re just tuning in to the Kyotzeta Channel…there’s only one of me. Promise. I’m BPD (or whatever new buzz-word they’re calling it now…;p) not MPD/DD. I just happen to have unusually talkative inner voices that refuse to stay inner, and since I’m my own best company, why the Hel not?
TTYL, my internetz!
KC, Mia, et al.


Through the Looking Glass…Again.

The mirror me has other eyes,
I meet them, not from vanity,
Dark they are, and umber hued,
The color of insanity.

Pinned like a butterfly I stand,
Meeting that endless gaze,
Till terrified I wrench away,
And dash into the maze.

The path before me twists and turns,
All distance an illusion,
At every bend another choice,
Each step ends in confusion.

The Sound of Madness watches me,
Her mocking gaze surrounds me,
Laughing as I stumble past,
And walls of glass confound me.


Paper Girl pt. 2: Paper Mache

Once there was a little girl made of paper, with a hollow space in the middle that ate the world and never had enough. The space howled and whined and ate and ate, not just food, but love, and kindness, and pain, and anger, and courage, and all the things that make up a little girl, or even a big girl, until all that was left was what other people saw and said and stuck on. Then one day, the little girl had enough. She held on to her last story, holding until her fingers were on fire, until her tears melted in the fire, until her anger turned back to ice, and the last story came to be a strong, solid shell around the hole. The hole whined and snarled, but no matter how hungry it felt, how empty, the girl knew that it would never be filled. So she built her shell with the food, instead. She took the kindness, and the courage, and the words and words and words that everyone threw at her, and she used her pretty eyes to make them as pretty as she could, and pasted them into bright places and patterns on her hard, strong paper shell. Sometimes the hollow was stronger, and a few pieces were lost, but she always managed to find new ones, sometimes even better ones. And maybe she lived happily ever after, in her own way, and maybe she didn’t, but either way, she had a new name, and it would keep her safe. She was no longer the paper girl…she was the Paper Mache Girl!


Paper Girl

Once there was a little girl who was made out of paper. On the inside she was all empty and missing and gone, but on the outside people had stuck pictures and stories and questions and lies and truths and more stories about how they thought she was and what they thought she was like and they just kept putting more and more on until she had a nice paper shell on, all made out of what everyone else thought and felt and said about her. And she lived all alone, and she kept out of storms, because all the loud noises and yelling and words could tear pieces right out of her paper shell and just let it go it flying off into the wind and she’d never get it back, even if it was a part she really liked. And she stayed away from people in charge, which was hard, cause everyone was in charge, cause they could say things and do things and tear things off of her that they didn’t like, or didn’t agree with, or just because they felt like being mean that day, and she couldn’t do anything about it because there wasn’t any her inside to do anything so she just had to stand there and watch, with her paper eyes, as the pieces tore off (and it hurt, when they tore off) and flew away. And then one day one of the people she loved, one of the people who were closest to her, was sad and mad and scared and got really upset at something the girl did, and so she gave her to the really-in-charge people, and they took her away and locked her up in the dark and the cold and the wind kept blowing all the while they looked at her and she could feel the pages and pieces blowing off and off and off like a storm of her. And then they let her go, but she was so fragile then, her shell was so gone, that bits and pieces of the hole inside shone through, and scared the people around her, so she tried to put things back on, but they kept falling off, cause she didn’t know how to make them stick. Only other people could do that, but everyone didn’t know how many pieces she was missing, so they didn’t know to help fill in the gaps. And so she kept moving and going, cause what else was there to do, and the people-in-charge kept tearing and ripping at her, like dogs with a newspaper, and when she tried to tell them that they were hurting her, they just got angry and tore more, and told her that if she didn’t stop they would lock her up in the dark again and she knew that if they did that, that all her pieces would just fall off, and she’d dissappear forever, so she just kept trying and trying to hold things together, but pieces were falling off and she didn’t know what to do. She tried using lots and lots of glue to hold things on, but it made her sick, and sleepy, and didn’t really help, it just made things take longer to do and still the pieces fell off. She tried to ask other people to stick things back on, but it just confused them, and they got frustrated with her asking and asking and didn’t want to be around her anymore. She even went to the people who made the glue, and asked them what to do, but they said she had to learn to do it herself, and they couldn’t help, unless she felt like she was going to start tearing pieces off, herself, and then they’d lock her up and use lots of glue to stick new/old pieces back on, but she knew that that kind of glue only worked for a little while before it cracked and made things worse than before. And they kept telling her that she had to hold herself together, and keep doing what they said, or they’d lock her up in the dark again, and no matter what she said or did or didn’t say or didn’t do, they just kept tearing and tearing until she was so weak all she could do was lie in a pile and listen to the sound of pages fluttering off into the distance, more and more and then less and less until all that was left was one piece of paper and it had this story on it…and pretty soon now, that one will go too, and that will be the end.


How Many Miles to Bedlam

how many miles to bethlehem
three-score years and ten,
you can get there by candle-light
but you’ll never come home again.

the walls are mirror covered,
in the room inside my head,
sprinkled with manic laughter
and eyes of glowing red.

the eyes are the window of the soul,
or so the proverbs say,
mine open on a burning hell
of discord and decay.

chaos is my normal,
normal is a curse,
sanity is stifling,
and boredom ten times worse.

my laughter smells of lightning,
and color-coded shame,
my face a demons beauty,
my heart an angels game.

look deep into my eyes and see
the mirror crazed within,
razor sharp glass shards that swirl
and swell beneath my skin.


Song

what good are words when I can’t even tell that the mind in my head has gone numb, I can’t taste the world, I can’t feel the pain, I sing while I sleep, and they come.

I can’t feel at all, or maybe too much, an overload bearing me down, I try to distract, to make a new track, but I sing a sad song, just a clown.

the words come at night, at sleep and at play, they dance and they sing through my mind, I sleep all the day so I don’t have to hear all the people who try to be kind.

they can’t understand, they can’t feel the pull, the rhythm insistent and clear, they say write it out, just put it down, and they don’t know that’s just what I fear.

what good are words when I can’t even tell that the mind in my head has gone numb, I can’t taste the world, I can’t feel the pain, I sing while I sleep, and they come.


Fear

I need to make it clear,
the deadly way I feel,
that all the while I’m here,
this world is not quite real.

The floor beneath my feet,
the walls that box me in,
the voices on the street,
the screams beneath my skin.

My eyes within the glass,
my heart within my chest,
my too abundant mass,
a long unwelcomed guest.

I strain to breach the wall,
to shatter all the lies,
but still the wall stands tall,
and the world wears its disguise.

My fight will never end,
my dawn will never come,
my signal never send,
my voice is locked, and dumb.

The words come from my mind,
and from the deepest well,
and every line is signed,
with love, to you, from hell.


A River flows

mind of diamond, sharp as sin, secrets held so deep within,
not my secrets, not my war, still I wonder what they made me for.

hunted, broken, lost and found, she knows the ways to go to ground,
she steps outside her minds embrace, to hide from the eternal chase.

she speaks as one, and sometimes two, she hears them speak, the loyal crew,
without words she sees their thoughts, the yes and no, the shouldn’ts and ought’s.

I am she, and sometimes me, and sometimes someone else beside,
my brother and my new family, they don’t know where I go to hide.
I can rove through future, past, the trappings of the worlds embrace,
and hide myself in deepest dark, in endless light and lightless Space.

they chase and hound her, hands of blue, but with her, come her family/crew,
daring both the dark and light, to keep her from their evil sight.

they chase her for the gift they gave, the torment locked so deep inside,
but safe now in the ships soft womb, she knows full well the winning side.
the captain brave, so strong and tall, her brother with his quick sure hands,
who left his life to give her hers, although he seldom understands.

the pilot with his ready laugh, who keeps the ship so straight and true,
the warrior woman, dark and tall, the lovely lady, heart of the crew,
the fixer, sweet as apple pie, the shepherd with his own dark past,
the mercenary, tough and gruff. among them, she belongs, at last.


Wings

why am I still swimming? why do I stay in this stagnant pool,
this stinking morass of blood and bone and soul?
is it because I wish it so? I who once so boldly owned the sky?
Est-ce que…it is because…I have grown old, and can no longer fly.

once were my wings of silk and satin made,
the pearly hues of heaven in their shade.
now they are torn and ripped and ragged things,
I drown in their embrace, my salt tears sting.

no longer can I do more than glimpse the sky so far above,
a bit of cloud, a hint of blue, a memory of long forgotten love.
once begotten love, long gone rotten love, love that was my all…until I found it,
until I felt the work and pain, the desperate loss, the many sharpened edges which surround it.

once were my wings of silk and satin made,
the pearly hues of heaven in their shade.
now they are torn and ripped and ragged things,
I drown in their embrace, my salt tears sting.

the sky is gone, I still swim on, despite my raddled hearts most fervent wish,
I circle the eternal drain, consuming only tasteless pain, sorrow in a cracked ceramic dish.
seasoned with guilt, served by my own hand, a VIP in a restaurant of one,
the body survives, worse, it dares to thrive, a rotting corpse beneath the poisonous sun.

once were my wings of silk and satin made,
the pearly hues of heaven in their shade.
now they are torn and ripped and ragged things,
I drown in their embrace, my salt tears sting.

will you follow me down, will you watch as I drown,
will you witness the wreckage of what once was fine?
in the depths of the well, this secret I tell…
I drown in the stinking sewer of my own mind.


Little Girl Lost

Little girl lost, I fell through a hole,
my sanity serving to pay the toll,
my name they took to serve as well,
and all that’s left is an empty shell.
They call me “girl” and stroke my hair,
they strip my soul and body bare,
they feed me lies and pretty words,
and filter past in nightmare herds,
the faces blurring in my head,
mourners for the not-quite-dead.
my casket is as soft as silk,
my skin they keep as white as milk,
they brush my hair and whisper lies,
they turn their heads, avoid my eyes,
they pose the body carefully,
the pieces that are left of me
perform throughout the endless night,
and then lie still at mornings light,
a battered doll with broken strings,
a bird with torn and shackled wings.