Fuck High-Functioning

Every time you say “high-functioning,”
I feel nails scratching my cheese brain
can’t you see all the ganglion holes?
The dead traumatized neuronic garden?
Each intrusive thought is a stab wound.
Every panic attack suffocates a sphere.
Every manic outbreak is a machete slash.
Each depression is a culling of millions.
The OCD thought patterns are flamethrowers
My mind is a battleground. A horror scene.
Psychosis is barbed wire around my stem.
Delusions are corsets draining me of air.
Hallucinations are vices driving down.
Paranoia is a straitjacket, tightening.
People are on disability for a sixth
of the diagnoses I have – depression,
anxiety, panic attacks, psychosis, OCD,
ADHD, mania, dissociation, bipolar,
violent, horrid intrusive thoughts that
make a monster of me, normalcy is just
a dream when your soul is bedridden,
well is not real, health is not possible,
and the Sword of Damocles is my balance,
so I swallow the pills, walk the tightrope
and sometimes I slip into a net of razors.

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Girl Becomes Storm

The Devil once said my soul was a black hurricane.
That every time I injured myself, I bled red gold.
Through Satan’s eyes shadowed mountains engulfed,
my spirit the abyssal storm, tempestuous, ruinous.
My mania and fire of violence razed stone houses,
sucked water from wells, lifted wolves to the air.
I carried dragons of pitch, in me were the waves
of tsunamis, abreast on thousand mile gales, I
was beautiful, I am wretched, maybe I’ll be Lilith
and eat the corpses of infants, maybe I’m Medusa
and when men get too close, they turn cold and stony.
My heart is a harbinger of doom, my heart is wind.
You could siphon the currents of my blood in a flute
and it’s tremor would break the Seventh Seal, o Beast
of the End, come to my thundercloud breast and suckle,
I smite friends and foes alike, I am venom murder,
black snake of the sky, void mother, girl hurricane.

My Epitaph is a Fuck You

You’re growing tired of me, I can tell, my feathers are fraying
angels without wings aren’t angels at all, I can’t sing a lick,
kick me out of Heaven into the hellish choir with Cuban cigars,
the smoke will give me asthma, I’ll breakdown, scream, beat my
arms black and blue like I did laying on the floor with stigmata.
Today is not my day, tomorrow never comes, and yesterday died.
We may well nosedive into the Pit and scream out our last words.
May as well carve my epitaph “Life was Short and Shit, I Quit.”

(After all, writing out these trite little poems keeps me alive.)

Anxiety, My Master

My eyes are rotting wounds, tears venom seeps
onto crater collarbone, I drag invisible knife
through the ugly swell of breast and belly, rue
my creation, my sickness, my mind hellish bells.

I am constantly falling down an elevator shaft,
and when I cling to the pulley, I cut my hands
on barbed wire, I do not deserve life, friends,
for I am a swamp hope sinks into and cannot fly.

My brain is on fire, bipolar beast, ricotta cheese
holes and smelly with fog of medicine, depression
mania is wedding dress restraints, I married demons
that ride me with spite, I am Hell’s bird, Babalon.

When you have wanted to kill yourself a hundred times
no, jump in front of a train, no, drown in undertow?
Does that make sense? Thanatos drive whispering you to
take a razor and fuck yourself up, get high off death.

There is no end, just cycles of pain, my thoughts
scream, teem with obsessive compulsive, a panic parade
but I bury the swords deeper and walk bleeding heart
I am the sheath of my torment. I carry agony well.

On Hiding Behind Okay

For the past month, I have been hiding behind okay.

What turned out to be a rare and serious case of strep throat the first week of April pushed me into a manic, panic attack ridden state with memory problems where I was messing up at work, forgetting basic details, and also my throat felt like knives and I had a raging fever but was too stubborn to heed my body – so I worked four full 9-5 days until the clinic finally called me, told me they got back the lab results, and that no it wasn’t allergies, yes you are seriously ill.

Then I went on antibiotics.  And I didn’t know it at the time, as the research just came out in 2015, but antibiotics can push bipolar patients into manic states.  So, already delirious off fevers and infections, I swallowed two pills daily that led to me becoming suicidal, violently unstable, a crying wreck with no self-esteem that thought she was a horrible person, and multiple panic attacks where I was inches away from walking into traffic or jumping in front of the Metro.

If you had asked me how I was doing, I would have said?

Okay.

I still went out with friends.  I went on dates with the guy I like.  Sometimes I had to cancel, and sometimes I went home in a crying wreck, curling up in my bed for a ball for hours.

But I didn’t miss a day of work.

I didn’t miss friend’s parties.

I didn’t miss my kindred dinners or blots.

I went to classes from 7:20-11:00 on Mondays without complaint.

I push, and I push, and I push, and I never admit that I’m not okay.

My best friend told me that apparently all my friends think I’m a badass, which never really dawned on me, but they’ve seen me wrestle with this monster that is bipolar type 1 with psychosis, paranoia, anxiety, panic disorder, and OCD.  One alone could put someone on disability.  I’m such a special snowflake I have six diagnoses.  And I work a my dream job doing hard work on Capitol Hill for forty hours each week and still have time to be a cornerstone for friends.

When I was at my sickest, and I couldn’t take care of myself, I still was taking care of other people.  Two Sundays ago, six of my friends opened up to me with their worst fears and problems all in the span of 5 hours.  It was therapeutic for me to help them, because I was so mentally weak and unstable, I thought maybe if I could stretch to listen to and nurture them, I could fix myself.

I still haven’t fixed myself.

After an entire month, I’m finally stable again, and my mania and panic attacks have worn off.  As in I-can’t-breathe-I’m-going-to-violently-kill-myself-and-blame-my-parents-for-not-aborting-the-worthless-cunt-I-am panic attacks.

I like to fantasize about my death a lot.

Oven head like Sylvia Plath.

Self mutilation like Van Gogh.

Pills, poison, jumping from a building.

It’s nice to know that at any moment, you can end your hell of a life.

And trust me, my life was absolute shit.

Sometimes I think suicide is stupid.  Sometimes I think it’s worth it.

Samael calls it selfish and shameful.

Michael just holds me and sings lullabies and runs his fingers through my hair.

Freyr became a tree with me, and I felt so at peace as a tree, feeding off starlight and rain.

Sometimes I wish I was normal, just for one, a single, glorious day, not a slave to my emotions or the turmoil and intrusive thoughts and delusions.

These gods and angels and demons, they could all just be in my head.

This universe could just be some sick trick a comatose brain is playing.

When you’re one of the crazies, you realize reality is fickle, and that you are never in control, not really.

So yes, I am okay.

But then again –

I am never okay.

When I was crying to my mom on the phone about to jump in front of the six o ‘clock train, she said I was too high-functioning to ever go on disability.  And it’s so fucking true. I’m too talented.  Insanely smart.  Too strong.  Not that being on disability means you’re weak, but honestly, with my diagnosis, most people are flat out homeless and very few have high profile jobs saving the world.

Most are probably just dead.

So I guess I’ll keep living, keep being useful, and try to take care of myself.

Because if I don’t, I’ll break again.

I’ll want to die again, return to the void.

Samael turned into the Void in one of my dreams, and he wrapped himself around me and I just dissolved.  Into nothingness.  That’s how I hope Death is.  Just erasing.  Nonexistence.

Because hell no am I doing this again.

I quit life next go around.

I will be nirvana.

Nothing.

 

Mania, O Mania

At first it was a brain on fire
cruel nights, razors, psychosis
gods talked and demons caressed
you are Eve, Mother Mary, Whore,
anything your brain tells you
you threw all your belongings out
the window, glass cut you, you tried
to hurl yourself out, only stopped
when a wailing mother dragged you
to a straitjacket, and stale hospital
beds, the ward couldn’t hold you,
the drugs drowned you, but your
madness still frothed to a foam
the voices and sobbing Devil were
sweet, horrible, murderous, splendid
the nurses were angels, your parents
were predators, you couldn’t remember
your name – Iris, Puck, Persephone –
you cycled through myth encyclopedias
a new delusion to wear each day,
Depakote and Seroquel and Clonazepam
they all sounded like veneral diseases,
but you swallowed the medicine anyway,
nurses checked under your tongue, a
gulp of water to make them go down,
you scribbled mania in rainbow pencils
lit the ward up with rabid laughter,
it took four years to find yourself
again, and truly, you never even left
the hospital, because inside, you still
carry the skinhead Buddhist monk on crack
the beautiful olive diplomat’s daughter
the girl who picked her wrist wounds
the words of the pagans and poets, you
are a walking mausoleum, and bipolar bodes
unwell, chronic, there is never an escape.

Hayah Havah

Sometimes I look back on my manic writing and wonder what the hell my brain was smoking. 😛

Appear, appear, whatso thy shape or name
O Mountain Bull, Snake of the Hundred Heads,
Lion of the Burning Flame!
O God, Beast, Mystery, come!

-Eurpides, The Bacchanals

Hayah is the name that God
stated would be known for eternity.

The Son of Mourning cries “I AM.”

Hayah Havah

Into nothing.

They say Sin was born from his heart, and sprang full-formed like Athena, then fell with her father to Hell. They joined in filth and bore Death.

They became Death. It’s a slip of the tongue.

Some speak in tongues and psalms. I choose riddles and lies. The hardest answers are never hidden, but you will die looking in my arms.

The Nachash was the slyest of beasts in the field, graced with Sapha, language. He whispered to the furrows of the earth, like the ghost of dead Pan’s piping.

Sapha, his hiss. The Word of God.

He called his creation Hayah. Nachash was fond of names. He called her many things.

Hayah meant Life. To fall out, like the Shekinah, exiled from above. Hayah, to become. A soul in chrysalis. Set in perpetual motion in a dance that has no end, kinetic heat to thermal, transcending matter and time. The first soul in the belly of the ouroborous.

He will swallow her again at the End Times. And Nachash will cry, for he yearns for the brilliance within her, but the serpent cannot see into his own flesh. He asks her how it tastes and she weeps. We are all in the belly of the beast. He cannot see that and thinks he’s alone.

She was Chayah then. The Mother of All Living, a promise. For a short time, they walked together. The animals did not fear her, bears fed her honey from the trees. She was just a child in those days. A flower yet unripened that Nachash carried on his backs.

He sought good earth to plant in, as only a man on his belly can. In him are bones like Cadmus’ teeth, where he sows them, there grows nations.

Some say Eve was made by the snake. He crafted her from the jewels inside his skull. Knowing no one else, Nachash was her dearest companion. It was perfect, for a time, and he taught her the whispers of the stars he had learned on his thousand sojourns. But he grew hungry for a heart, and the Nachash desired to eat her.

Dragons, however noble, think us prey at the end of the day, and Havah, however beautiful, would taste exquisite with ketchup.

He did not like the thought, so Nachash waged war against himself and ate his flesh til he was nothing but bone. Still, the beast gnawed within him, so he chose death over her destruction. People often die for their dreams. He’d thought them all fools until he imagined his could fail.

She did not ken endings yet and tried to breathe life in him.

In death he exiled her, and she wandered through the wastelands. She found Adamah by the sea and they cast their lots together. Wayward children abandoned by their makers, kicked out of the angels’ nests.

When they joined, the animals turned from her and nettles stung.

Overnight nature unleashed its arsenal. Perhaps the Nachash was jealous. It is a question no one asks.

When the Bacchants crown themselves with serpents, they cry out the names “Eva!” and Saboe!”, invoking the god of madness who gave his heart and blood for wine. Sabazios and Eve, who devoured Zagreus’ heart and dared dream of taking fate’s thread in her own hands.

Some say that Eve was the snake, or, that she became one. Perhaps she was Medusa, cursed by love to become a monster and bear the stain of zuhama.

It flows like blood each moon from her children, and the sly serpent gets his offerings via humanity’s exquisite biology. Neither bitches in heat nor man enough to walk in the Light of God, we haunt the between-spaces like him, exiles in our worlds. Cursed for fairness they claim is vain, and a weakness they measure by bloodletting alone.

But we are the givers, always have been. Eve gave as Adamah could not. She gave until she thought she would break.

But even serpents cannot untie Gordian knots. She tried to unravel hers, but it is a history knotted into oblivion. She tries to remember, but the memories slip from her hands like sand.

So Hayah sits in the dirt, drawing labyrinths, and imagines herself the monster in the middle, minotaurs be damned. Ariadne can dance clockwork around the hero and strangle him with her threads. Adamah leaves her on the shore and the serpent comes.

“I love you,” she said.

“I will eat you.”

So he ate her mortality.

When Hayah’s first blood came that night, the Nachash renamed her Chavah. He found it was easier to take back things once forgotten than break promises he had never said.

Chavah, a word that means “Snake,” for he was the serpent, and she was his child.

Moses asked the purifying fires of the rose bush Adonai’s name. The Angel of the Lord cried Hayah Havah. He weeps it at night when he is alone:

Hayah Havah Elohim. Eloa Regina Angelum. Your flesh is my bread and wine.

Sister, my sister, stop crying, for the world is bitter, but our love is sweet.

My tears are the waters of life, and our children will rise from the ash. Sister, my sister, come with me. Our children are so small and fragile. Dared I dream that we could raise vines.

In the moonlight you thought me a stranger. You came to me with open palms. One damned me for my betrayal, the other kissed sweetness into my heart.

I wear your curse as my glory. This stigmata flow black like our words.

Wisdom, my sister, fall with me.

For too long I have been entombed.

*YHVH- personal Name of God, derived from root Havah (there is, to be)

God made mankind but for loneliness.
Yah the Serpent encircles the Tree.

Yah Weh. He is the Snake.
The serpent that crowns Shoshanna.

Names.
Such funny things.
He called me his rose and his lily
Adders should know nothing of love.

There was no God to wage war against.
Just a sacrifice to Himself

The Id revolts against the Ego.
Angels the intermediary
are caught in the dance
between.

Bite me,
I’ll tell you his secret.

God?

He’s not dead

Just mad.