Roam

I have become a ghost
in this old house—
perhaps its quietest inhabitant.

I turn lights on and off
and most of the time,
there is no one here to notice,
no one to exclaim, to marvel
at all we do not understand.
TV channels change at my
will—no one cries foul or
questions the electricity's
motives.

I do not need to eat because
I am no longer here. The kitchen
ghost is happy to have the
abandoned room all to herself.
She rolls out her biscuits
and tries to ignore
the still earthly 21st-century
table detritus that interferes,
the kaleidoscope mess that
makes her squint and rub her
eyes with floured fingers.

There is no need for me to
take up smoking—I can smell
Mr. Pipe's smoke coming from
my daughter's room when she
is not there. Clever Mr. Pipe,
ensuring himself a name for
all eternity.

Mr. Squash has gone away,
irritated by my failed vegetable
gardens and dead lilies. He knows
what matters and no one is listening.

When I was alive, I used to smudge
charcoal on paper. I used to write down
the voices of those I did not know. People
would take these pieces of paper
from me, busy themselves with them.
That was my short experiment with
living. Quick, bright flame turned
tall, thin shadow—
taller, thinner, than in life.

This ghost has no energy left
for creation. I left behind what
I could. I do not burn to create.
I have no heat and nothing to burn.

I am not an original spectre.
I offer nothing fanciful or daring, no
dazzling extrusions of ectoplasm, nothing
that the ghosts or the living appreciate.

It's all been done. I have been done:
I weep. I descend and ascend the stairs,
endlessly. I can feel the last of my energy
pooling in my room, creating its own thumbprint,
whorls of unanswered grief. Years from now,
some woman will feel uneasy as she sets
her slippers down beside the bed.

When even the animals tire of me
I take to the streets. I roam. I haunt
other homes, dwellings where I am
least likely to be a nuisance. I seek
familiars. I want to be warm again.
You don't know what this terrible
cold is like.

If I do not show up on your doorstep,
if I do not rattle your windows,
if I do not moan in your attic,
consider yourself lucky.

Never begrudge a ghost its roaming.
It is bad luck to begrudge a ghost
its wanderings. A ghost—
like the living—
is simply doing its best.

If it finds its way into the bland light
we like to talk about in passing,
it will catch fire and burn with the
joy it no longer remembers.

Until then, the hide-and-seek
continues. Ghosts do both:
the hiding and the seeking.
There is nothing for it. Let
them play, let them play.

Two syllables: sewage. Two words: my house.

Two words.

Liquefied poop. Blockage. My luck.

My basement. Men came. Men tromped. Slimebugs flew. Men screamed. Hammers pounded. Sewage everywhere. On pants. On shoes. In kitchen. City wrong. Mr. Rooter wrong.

Cleaning, me. And friend.

Made call. "$1200 to $1800." Nope. We'll do.

Tears out. Friend in. Shop Vac in. Sewage out. Vomit, plentiful. Sewage gnats. House, sullied.

Metaphor, yes? Or no?

Done. Ebay? Sell house?

Tears, plentiful. Anger, plentiful. Done in. Done with. Just done.

Bipolar Jell-O

I know more than a few women (I'm one of them) who will only go to a female gynecologist, because of the infamous "would you trust a mechanic who's never owned a car?" theory.

I'm not saying it's an intelligent way to choose a gynecologist. After all, my brother has ob/gyn privileges and delivers babies like a champ. I'd trust that guy with my life—and my parts, if it were necessary, although that might send both of us into therapy right quick.

It's just a gut thing. I'm just not comfortable, in general, talking froufyhooha with Dr. Hoojackapiffy.

Bipolar disorder and major depression are lonely hauls, partly because of a similar theory. A lot of folks with mood disorders like bipolar—when they're in the downswing of illness—wake up thinking:

Jesus, I don't want to wake up. Why am I alive when there are so many good people dying, when so many people have lost vibrant loved ones too soon? Who could possibly understand this? Why am I so ungrateful for my life?

It's a pretty heavy way to start the day. No one wants to be ungrateful for a life. NO ONE.

This is why isolation goes with the terrain of mental illness. We don't know who the hell to talk to, besides our therapists and doctors (if we're fortunate enough to have those in our posse). Because we're deeply ashamed.

We think you can't understand. This may or may not be true.

We want to believe you could help. But our gut says you probably can't. This may or may not be true.

We can't seem to "get better" for good, and we're pretty sure you've noticed. This may or may not be true.

Our theories can keep us locked up pretty tight. We strap on our smiles like oxygen masks and ain't NOBODY gonna budge 'em in the school parking lot at pickup time after school. Uh-uh. Smile and wave, boys, smile and wave. We've already burst into tears on you a few too many times, just as you were trying to climb into your Subaru.

Fibromyalgia, Lyme disease, TMJ, bipolar, depression, anxiety disorders—in the lunchroom of the world's many illnesses, we're a few of the ones sitting at the table in the back, at the iffy table of misfits, eating our stigma Jell-O. Not everyone's convinced we really exist. Sometimes, we're not sure we really exist, or if we're just f*ckups.

Despite your memories of malingering Aunt Ethel or raving Cousin Fred (who were probably hurting pretty bad), most of us aren't whining about it. We're honestly just staring into our Jell-O, trying to figure out what to do next. We can get real quiet, trying to figure out what's going to get us through today. And the next.

Heart disease, HIV, cancer, diabetes, MS, muscular dystrophy, cerebral palsy—now, ain't nobody gonna argue with you guys. You exist. We all see you, and we wish we could take away your pain. Your people have one hell of a battle, and as it should be, hats off to you. We'd do anything to give you back what—and whom—you've lost.

At the same time, we'd do anything to get back what—and whom—we've lost. Manic-depression steals you away from yourself, hijacks you. You no longer know what's real. Is that happy thought about climbing Mount Everest an optimistic goal, or an absurd manic delusion? Are those tears (the ones that come so often when you're alone) signs of depression, or simply part of your natural loser-weirdo temperament?

Here's something that sucks: I no longer remember what I like to do. How odd and sad is that? The door to that information is shut tight and bolted. When asked what makes me happy (besides my daughters) I can't answer the question. I stammer. I tear up. I don't remember what it was like to wake up happy.

Did I, once? Wake up happy? Yes, I think I did. People who have known me for a long time tell me I did, but now I wonder what was real, what face I was showing them, back then.

My gut says, yes, I used to be happy. I've been keeping a list of remembered happiness, moments in which I could feel myself glow. Days of contentment.

But my gut doesn't say anything when I ask it if I'll ever be happy again, for more than a half-day, here or there. My gut goes quiet. I don't like the quiet.

It's hard to keep going.

I keep a gratitude journal. I take my medicine. I go to my doctors, tick tock I don't stop. I try to get out, adopt kittens, hike with the dogs, pick daylilies, see the ocean sometimes.

My best energy goes into being a mother. I am a real mom, a good mom. They know the "polar bears" eat at me on some days more than others. I acknowledge what they are seeing. I want them to know that their experience of their mama is honest and true. I want them to trust their guts, their instincts. So I apologize when things go wrong. But I am firm when I know I am right. They complain that I am not a softie, and that I don't put Nutella sandwiches in their lunchboxes every day. I complain that they need to learn responsibility and put their own damn underpants on and stop with the sniveling.

We do all right together, the three of us. I'm proud of that.

But it's still hard to keep going. I put the girls to bed at 8:30. I put myself to bed at 8:45. Because, most nights, I can't think of a reason to stay awake any longer.

I write not to be a drag. Trust me, I'll say it over and over—being a drag is THE LAST THING anyone with mental illness yearns to be. I believe many suicides occur because the person battling his or her brain's death spiral of vicious activity couldn't take the thought of being perceived as a burden any longer.

I write not to scare, but to try to put words to a very slippery disorder. I think bipolar illness—like most mental illness—needs more words than have been offered up so far.

I was diagnosed in 2005. I made the choice to write about this damn illness some time ago in the hope that it would be helpful to someone else.

It's real, this mean old manic-depression. It ain't no joke. And the triggers that worsen the spiral—up or down—are happening all the time. Breakups, relationship issues, no jobs, divorce, death, money problems. We can't "get over it" because...wait for it, wait for it...we can't get over it. Aw! Snap! Our thought patterns are a snarling, nasty, miserable tangle. We swear to God to you that we are working on these technical difficulties.

I know you think yoga would help, and more fish oil. They probably would, but if I've got four units of energy a day, and I've already used up three, I'm going to apply that last unit to putting words on a page.

I write because writing is something tangible I can point to. It's one way of taking on this bully that won't quit. It's a truthful, meditative act with something to show for itself. (Although I'd rather just club the bully in the knees and be done with it, once and for all. But they haven't come up with that med yet.)

Writing here reminds me that I made it through another day. Writing at BEAW reminds me that I am still here, and surely, surely, that must count for something, even if it often feels like nothing, nothing at all.

Punchline

Yellow Penske trucks,
hospital hand towels,
ventriloquist dummies,
silver candlesticks.
All puppets—
socks to marionnettes—
it will never matter.

Rolling farmland,
Canadian cities
(except, perhaps, Porcupine Plain and Winnipeg).
Lice combs, shaving brushes,
proscenium stages, the hole
in the roof, the maple roots
forcing their way into the pipes.

When I flush the downstairs toilet,
the sink gurgles and small insects
spray out of the drain. They will
be here, all week. Tell your friends
you enjoyed the show.

Another Penske truck, just ahead.
I cannot understand why
no one is laughing, why
no one hangs out of a car
window, applauding.

Surely there was laughter when
we first uttered the absurdest
of words: divorce. As if!
We killed that night.

The parallel gold lines
painted on the asphalt of Route 2?
They irritate the tough crowd,
blazing autumn trees,
who know better than to pair up,
who know better than to try
to stay the same.



***Same post as over at the regular blog. But feel free to leave comments here. My spambot has gone crazy over at breedemandweep.com and I have to unsnarl the mess.