Precisely, Divinely Wasting Time?

Hi, so I share pretty personal stuff on here. I am aware of that and I’m aware that this is a public platform. I’m not so far gone I don’t know what I’m doing. But I do not recommend this type of vulnerability for all people. Most of my influences are musicians, writers, or comedians that get much of their material from their personal lives. On some level, they were my “friends” who have “spoken my language” when I was too afraid to find people in my immediate life that also did. So, I share my personal life not to encourage everyone to be vulnerable in this way, but because I really enjoy writing and my life simply happens to be most of the content so far.

So, to continue, I’d like to share a journal entry as it pertains to a quote in Touched With Fire by Kay Redfield Jamison, a book I’ve mentioned in earlier posts. Jamison writes:

“…studies have found that rhymes, punning, and sound associations increase during mania, and many patients spontaneously start writing poetry while manic (often without any previous interest in either reading or writing poetry). Likewise, in studies of word-associational patterns, researchers have found that the number of original responses to a word-association task (in which an individual is asked to give as many associations as possible to a particular word) increase threefold during mania; the number of statistically common, or predictable, responses falls by approximately one-third” (p. 121-122)

This describes precisely what I experienced during my first bouts of mania around 2010. Initially, it began with writing small sets of lyrics or poems and eventually evolved into writing “poetry” that really wouldn’t make much sense to anyone else. Some psychiatrists would call it “clang association” or “word salad” where there are a lot of rhyming words but no real discernible meaning. I would say in some cases there is no discernible meaning even by the person who wrote it, but for me, I can still tell you to many of the associations I was referring to when I wrote sets of words from 5 or more years ago.

Nowadays, I do take medications to keep me from dangerous extremes, but it seems my synapses are somewhat forever residually crossed, and I am able write in a similar fashion without being in an particularly elevated state. Many times it’s more effective for me to write this way to externally process in a journal entry so I don’t have to spend the energy unscrambling it for someone else to read. The entry I’ve included at the end of this post is such an example.

My intent here is, one, to simply show a less polished stream of melded coginitions for those who might not ever get to experience it. But on a deeper level, I cannot tell you how many times I’ve been told by mental health practitioners that I must make a decision to “live a normal life.” I have spent so long striving to fit in to whatever concept I learned was “living a normal life, ” and have concluded that trying to meet that definition has been the cause of more stress, lack of sleep, fears, hopelessness, pain, resentments, self-hatred, guilt, shame, and ultimately an overall ability to function to meet basic needs, that I am hereby hanging that ideal forever.

My mind has been precisely and divinely shattered by and for God to shine through it’s beautiful cracks to show me and hopefully others the Way to an eternal, abundant life far greater than any life I ever had planned. I feel when I can have that perspective, suffering suddenly makes sense, and I can have joy in the midst of the most painful struggles. Thank you for taking the time to read.

wasting time. or am i? as i refine. who am i. Im losing my mind. All the time. This time. Time rewinds. As i sit and find. And listen to these thoughts of mine. All the grime. All the grime. Pay the fine. Just pay the fine!! I’m FINE. go away. Im trying to be wonderful. What sins of mine do I hide behind? God gave us leaves for dignity. Because He is kind. All the time. Oh so kind all the time. Are we splittin hairs here? Taking off layers here? Where the hell did you leave me here? Why the hell did you leave me where- Leave me where? Don’t leave me God!! I don’t want to lose you never. Skitz and tricks and cricks and lips. Tell tell tell. Me everything. This is weird. Weirdo with a string. Kite string tied to the satellite thing. Im ringing. My hands apart. Run ! Run ; away. So far away.. To the sea and to my knees I fell beneath the trees. the oak trees, make me steady, make me calm. I am strong, like a swan song.. Too dark , oh so dark. Too dark to be like a lamp in a lampoon frost gotta take a shower with a moonsock. A moonsock? What the hells a moonsock? Idk but I want one though..maybe. Can you sing to me like a leopard tree? Fell asleep with you whispering. Its a tick tock. Yes a clock clock. Fell wide awake when the clock struck 3. Television me. Tell a vision to. You. with a- wait im journaling. Get back on track. Like a cardiac. Let the truth. Set you free. After being, so miserably. I got ear wax in my mouth. Not true but, yuck yuck yuck. I am stuck on this here rut. Take a check of chicken pox. I’m locked up like kittens be, in the shop on the suburban block. When will harry ever beat the ocean back? Cracked the whip with cardboard stock. I stop.

Inspired by Fire

Lately, I wrote some prose/poetry (not exactly sure what you would call it) inspired by a quote from probably the most well known and cited author on Bipolar, Kay Redfield Jamison. The book is called Touched With Fire, and it looks at the overlap between artist temperament and psychopathology (mental illness.) Here’s the quote then my work is below it:

“We have seen that the creative act always involves a regression to earlier, more primitive levels in the mental hierarchy, while other processes continue simultaneously on the rational surface—a condition that reminds one of a skin-diver with a breathing-tube. (Needless to say, the exercise has its dangers: skin-divers are prone to fall victims to the ‘rapture of the deep’ and tear their breathing-tubes off—the reculer sans sauter of William Blake and so many others….) The capacity to regress, more or less at will, to the games of the underground, without losing contact with the surface, seems to be the essence of the poetic, and of any other form of creativity.” – from Touched With Fire by Kay Redfield Jamison

 

Became pain to create. Lost, fell way to the floor of the ocean dark depths cracks lasted so long but now gone rose raised came back up to the surface deep breath gasp breech the glass waves regain the deranged senses lenses cleansed.. oh no it’s all bad I’ve done so much wrong wait none not all bad reframe some good some great ride the spiral through the next cycle live die resurrect natural pattern divinely inspired cut the wires held up by smoke touched with fire bolts of voltage so strong can’t handle it alone thank god for holding me cosmic dust bursting at the seams spirituality and dreams energy so extreme screaming thoughts so loud can’t hear reality.

I’m home.

Calm peace within a storm waters wakes placid lake cool breeze beach daze feel the tides hydrate cells membrane divide breath expands contracts sun warms bright simply alive inside mind drifts with the crests of the waves way away places no traces pristine peace leaves gently clean air crisp brisk quickens the heartbeat streams rivers run beneath skin seen blue as the sky high above gesthemane garden olive press lessened with divine weightless fabric assistance… singed but slighlty more trancended.