Eyes Pinched Shut

I took this photo near Monterrey, CA.

Listen, I am so scared to have a blog. I am not good at sharing my opinions on the internet, because what if they're wrong? Being a people pleaser is one of my biggest faults. I want everyone to love me.

In fact, the other night a man said he was enamored with me. What am I supposed to do with that when the whole pretense was false? Sometimes the pretense of love hurts my feelings.

I feel everything too deeply. But my algorithm says "feel the forgotten things" and my sister tells me that "feelings are a gift." The crazy thing is not that I feel so deeply but rather that it is considered wrong to feel the way I do. What is passion if not all-consuming?

I have bipolar disorder and this makes me “mentally ill” I suppose. At times I do not want to be well, because to me, "well" means that I must feel bored and numb and boring. It is hard for me to let go of feeling. I love to create. I love to feel. But I've been told it’s wrong or harmful to feel as much as I do. 

It is true that I cannot control the highs and lows. I don’t always want to. I love feeling invincible and hot and smart. Thinking fast. Yet, I fear that the deep depression following the high makes sense, because I must feel the complete opposite if I am to have theoretical balance. That’s the part that is primarily painful for others. When I hate myself so deeply that I want to cease existing. 

It feels as though I’ve been sentenced a life of liminality.

“Hey Macy, everything will be easier if you live in the cloud train station with Dumbledore where everything is still and boring.” 

“Oh, and you can never leave.” 

I have to take medication. What does Macy mean if she takes anti-psychotics? Is she still cool and fun and interesting? Does that actually help her future?

Will I ever be at peace? I am the same as before my official diagnosis. I knew anyway, but now it’s real. I'm actually crazy, but not really, but also really.

The other sadness comes from knowing that it’s not my fault. My doctor said that my personality and my disorders and flaws are all trauma. That means I can work on them and have a better personality or whatever. At least that’s the impression I was given.

but i kind of really like my personality. 

Should I compare myself to other bipolar people? They are creative and cool and interesting and many died too early. The tortured poet or gothic author. The hot gay singer.

Will I leave a legacy if I am treated? Will I ever write my novel/tv show? Will I publish poetry? Or maybe I will be quiet and work at a small desk and spend a lot of time doing yoga. Would that be good enough?

If I can be amazing and intense and alone is that best?

It would be the most romantic.

Or should I choose to be reflective and numb and with people who care about me? I don’t know the answer but my control issues and picking favorite people and constant spiraling all make much more sense.

Someday I won’t miss two midterms and cry about only having a cucumber and cheez-its at home because I was too low to buy new groceries. And I won’t hook up with another strange man that I don’t know because it’s the last time I can before I am medicated and I just need to feel something just one more night. But then I go home for Christmas and I end up off my meds and I fall apart and I do it all again.

I don’t know how this ends, but I am anxious and my stomach hurts. But I am certain that I don’t want to be a monster or play Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde for the rest of my life, so I’m going to try and find balance. And that makes me cry. 

I don’t want to be boring.

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I want to start using big words again. Like when I was small. I want to say things with unusual sounds. Coccyx, melancholy, bamboozle, agog, nefarious, superfluous (if you will). I have a folder of the apps I never use but can't delete on my phone with that name. Superfluous.

Also, crisp feels yummy in the mouth, start to finish, in order.

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This is my real opinion being shared with real people on the internet: I am disappointed deeply by the election. That is my opinion. And I mean it. Observing the inauguration unfold two days ago hurt my heart. As someone who was raised christian, "Love one another," and "Judge not, lest ye be judged," were taught in my sunday school classes.

Be kind please. Jesus is a metaphor and we should love each other better.

Because why would we want to have more military funding when we already spend 26 times more on our military than any other country, or weird legislation saying that there are only two genders, or more access to guns and less gun control (when guns are literally the number one cause of death for children in the United States - more than car accidents, or COVID, or cancer) but yeah, let's cut education funding and deport mothers and sisters and brothers and fathers and rename the Gulf of Mexico. I kind of wrote a poem about this on Monday.

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costco theology

my costco rotisserie chicken is five dollars

five dollars for the life of a chicken

i make soup in my kitchen

meanwhile, trump is president again

three arby’s wine glasses

line the worn white windowsill

next to the gnomes

full of salt and pepper

anthony bourdain and picasso watch

from peeled daisy yellow wallpaper

whispering about

the wicker chair with a broken back

a sun catcher delights,

dancing in her cracked windowpane

while the sonny angel with elephant ears

glares at the monstera

crumbs on my feet.

i’d say it’s not fair

but life has never been fair.

the world is at least half terrible.

gloom lurks, children die, families split.

life is short and the world is at least half terrible.

once, in this sunshine kitchen

i clung to expectations and ideals.

now, i muse over five-dollar chicken

and wonder, what is life worth?

does god know about my chicken soup?

that I simmer on three, not four

that it has apples, not potatoes

“omniscient, omnipotent, omnibenevolent”

is omni-anything good?

i sweep the floor, then water the plants.

i wish to be audacious.

i smile

as the kitchen sunlight casts defiance

at god’s feet.

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The end for now. (I am being so brave).

Yours Truly,

Macy