Sorry for the delay in publishing this entry. I was not feeling well.
Boy Interrupted is a documentary made with home videos and interviews about Evan, a boy with bipolar disorder who committed suicide in 2005 at the age of fifteen. It was made by his mother, who recorded their crisis to display the psychiatrist. Evan's story made me relive mine. This entry is my way of documenting life with mental illness. I want people to see the hell that really is and stop thinking about madness as something cool and desirable. This is not the wonderland, Kurt Cobain is not a saint. Life is a confusing and often lonely and those who admire her are ignorant.
So how does it feel to live with something, how is the life of those suffering from madness? When using the word crazy I mean those mental disorders while not as serious to be hospitalized in a psychiatric forever drooling in a straitjacket, nor are mild enough to ignore. I've only dealt with in depth to a person in a condition similar to mine, whom I thank for his vision for this entry, Alejandro , whose blog I recommend to anyone who enjoys me, to know their perspective on regard.
not know much about my condition, as experts believe it would be counterproductive for me to know the diagnosis. Many people do not think you have a real problem and often when I'm fine, I doubt it. Just beginning to think I have trouble managing my emotions, I'm impulsive and immature, but normal. I continue taking my medication, magnesium valproate and sertraline, and pressure by maternal smoking, but it seems unnecessary. At those times I would dream of a perfectly normal life.
Reality always ends up hitting. I can not even blame the hormonal changes of adolescence (I'm getting old!). Date reviewed my next menstrual period, yes, it must be that, but I find that there are still a couple of weeks. Why do I feel this way? Unable to find a satisfactory answer. Nothing has changed around me, is the same as when I'm good. Why, then, I feel my world shrink, which hopes fade, I drown? And when I finally defeated shrug in my bed crying every night to sleep, Henry Jekyll returns. Then I explained that it was all a misunderstanding, there must be an explanation, look for excuses and decide not to think about it. Life smiles at me. Do not you ever wonder, reader, that my posts have these mood swings? Surely you think I am voluble. Sometimes I think so too.
When I started going crazy? I'm not sure. When I was thirteen I became aware that others did not fit. They met my depression from loneliness with my burning desire to be a famous writer. My misfortune was real, but exaggerated. Used it to make me interesting and somehow get attention. I thought only crazy reach the fantastic inspiration of my heroes. Attacks pretended maniacs, exaggerating all my emotions, I even induce depression. Wanted others to believe she was crazy. I wanted to believe it myself and finally reach the pantheon of writers insane. Maybe I was not even like them, but I was always different, strange, rare, non-flammable. I thought there was nothing wrong with taking advantage of my misfortunes.
pretended to believe it so I started. Ridiculously faked suicide attempts for myself. Each visit to the psychologist I was proud. Puberty was a bright, educated and informed that he could manipulate the diagnoses of these chachareros. Still do not know if I actually convinced them or something of unintentional worry. He slept all afternoon, was living in my own fantasy world and only found pathetic love love more than I cared to achieve immortality of fame.
When I had my first boyfriend and I fell in love, I left all my dark and strange pose to devote myself to enjoy my newly-won happiness. Who needs the glory when it is in heaven? Even enjoyed being the rare, but pretend I was not interested bitterness or melancholy. Then it happened. Inside me grew suspicious fatal. Carnivores jealousy, mistrust and paranoia. It was intense dramas to manipulate the beloved, emotional blackmail, verbal violence. Pretended respiratory crisis. The fatality was that my frustration and did not fit into words and physical violence started, first in pushing and slapping perhaps fictional, reaching bites, punches, kicks and other horrors. After each crisis I finished crying, sometimes begging for forgiveness, sometimes manipulating everything so that it seems the culprit, depending on the severity of the beating. But always resorted to my madness fictional (or perhaps not) to justify. He said he did not know what he did, it was not me.
This is the first time that I admit and I hope if he reads it achieves forgive. The truth I knew what he was doing. I was more conscious than ever. Inexplicable sadism invaded me. Every little offense I wanted to pay, make him feel the pain I felt. In my head it made sense. I had to tame it, he owed me obedience. He was naive, I sly. That was our ruin. Apologized many times without noticing. It was for him and the beatings began to see psychiatrists and neurologists. I did research and began to medicate. When he left I realized the gravity of what I did, but it was so bad that I could not act maturely and a last resort I found to get it back was the warning of my suicide. That night I swallowed about 300 pills. I washed the stomach. I spent months on end buried. I hit the knowledge that what I thought it was fake was real crazy and terrible and in the end recognize the value of that boy I felt weak. The regret and guilt hurt more than a stomach wash and its aftermath remain much more time.
I started searching desperately for a way out of the suffering. I drank water I swore never to try. I found the duality that characterized my writing and my life, I met Jekyll and Hyde. For that moment I knew the problem was real and that I had no control over it, no longer was the game of my puberty and I never knew when I got out of hand or perhaps had nothing to do and was an unfortunate coincidence. In my second relationship watched my reactions, I was attentive, respectful and considerate, but could not hold from time to time my demons and anger rose like a funeral pyre. Could suffocate with speed, but this boyfriend did not suffice my apologies and my explanations. The memory of my jealousy were following clear in his memory. He did not trust me.
time I was a Neurotics Anonymous, not put up with, but I learned very important things to those who still resort to when I feel very bad. At present I am single and I intend to go on much longer. If you really love me so important as I say, I grow and enjoy my life alone and so I know the next time will not be out of loneliness, dependence, or idealism. If I have a boyfriend just to have a sure to be someone who is not right for me. To reach Mr. Right must stop looking and let me find it. Plus I've noticed that got the worst of me when I have a relationship and I want peace for a long time, until you learn to control my insecurity.
Many will say that I enjoy being weird, and it may be true, but either I resigned myself it is not something I can change and maybe a lot of my weirdness does not have much to do with my madness. I like being original. And yes, I often say out loud "I'm crazy" like those stupid girls who want to be, but those who know me understand the meaning of these words. If everyone insists on calling you "crazy" or "whore" but have not done anything to deserve it, they say it ruins the fun indifference.
my illness allows me to appreciate things that many take for granted and move me deeply about insignificant things. It causes me pain, makes me doubt all my friends, my family, including myself. It makes me hate, victimization and spend weeks mulling over silly to find hidden meanings. Confuses me and makes me forgetful and careless. I get the feeling that forgetting something, missing something important, that something is not right. I have pangs of panic suddenly hear laughter and sometimes when I make fun of me. I complex with my appearance or I get self-absorbed. My ego is fragile and easily explode into tears. I constantly feel embarrassed and do not tolerate humiliation or disloyalty. I can not stand the frustration and I am methodical, obsessive and impatient. I take it very personally that people do not keep the promises I made. I am inquisitive and mistrustful. Usually I feel alone and afraid I can not help all the time you leave my friends. I'm used to disappointment, but every time I become more fragile. My illness and pain is a big challenge for me.
write to purge demons to find peace, to clear my mind. I write because I feel that my words need a container, to recall past thoughts. I write because many times I have nobody to tell you what I feel. I write to save my soul.
Beast in me Johnny Cash by
0 comments:
Post a Comment