There should be a way to fight this, “dirty. ”
…There should be a mental equivalent of brass-knuckle-packin’ fisticuffs you can haul out…and hair you can pull. You ought to be able to scratch it’s mutherfucking eyes out, bare-handed. You should be able to draw and see blood, to leave a wound with a scar that you can visualize later at other shitty times, so you can point at it and say: “See?! Kicked your ass that time, so I can damn-well do it again! ”
…If there was a way to fight this shit, dirty. I’d have long since done it by now.
…It can’t possibly be more taxing on my body than the only way I have to fight it: which is this absolutely exhausting step-by-step process…which besides the drudgery of “sameness, ” costs more and more frustration and stress with less and less yield. Because my brain is not playing fair.
…So, IT can fight dirty as hell…and I’m stuck with throwing walks and meditation at it, feeling like some chumped up asshole whose just letting the inmates run the asylum from plays of sheer overpowering insistence.
I don’t like losing. I don’t like being tied and strapped up in a helpless configuration of a straight jacket that my brain from time to time gets thrown into. I am in one right now…truth-told: I have been for a while. I am exhausted from fighting it. I keep waiting to find the combo out, and can’t. I’m doing all the “right” things, fighting cleanly by all the “right” rules.
…And it all means dick.
It is beating the shit out of me.
…And I have no choice…none whatsoever…but to let it.
And it makes me mutherfucking FURIOUS.
I am exhausted. I can’t work any harder than I am. I can’t screw a pretend smile and positive outlook on my face any more hours a day than this. I am losing my sense of personal strength as I try to temper my temper…my ONLY available asset I feel confidence in. I want to let the Hulk out and do a shit ton of damage…to show my brain that my will and fight IS stronger than “it.”
…And while that would feel absolutely AMAZING for a while: liberating and ass-kicking and power -infusing…I know that you cannot strong-arm this shit to “win. ” It is a lie that makes you feel good for a time..but it ends up costing so much more in the end.
Like: your sanity. In full.
…My rage right now is so great, that to unleash and feed it would be to throw a fifth of whiskey down it’s throat, tear off all it’s clothes, and go on a wild ride of nights full of random, wild, fuck-you, abandon.
…Which is all fun and games and liberation. Until you wake up alone, in some other person’s bed you don’t know, and can’t remember what the hell even happened.
My rage at my mental illness is exactly like an alcoholic blackout binge.
…How else am I supposed to fight it? How else do I feel like I have any power at all? When every “good for me” weapon is so supposedly “peaceful” and “enlightening ” and so very often feels totally and completely ill equipped for the monster fight it wakes up to…every day now for quite some time.
I am tired of fighting an honest fight.
I am tired of taking long walks every day in fresh air.
I am tired of trying to refocus and meditate.
I am tired of pretending I’m not scared about 11,000 ordinary things on any given day.
I am tired of trying to spin my mental nightmares into something funny to laugh at in public, as they continue to privately terrify me.
You are my people. This is this fucking blog’s purpose. I am standing here saying, “I know I’m not alone. There are a lot of us. And we are all fighting and all tired.”
I know that.
In the same “deep-truth” place where I also know that in some nondescript amount of time…just from out of nowhere, I will turn a corner…my brain will settle down a bit, and some semblance of peace (or at least far less struggle) will come again.
…But that time is not now. And while I fight on, I needed to stand up in the room and say:
It’s bad times.
I am frustrated.
I am very angry.
I am tired.
I am still FUCKING IN HERE.