The Eddie series has reached its terminal point.
Writing in this way, purging, has forced a perplexing state.
There are many of you who I don’t know personally, and even those who I do know personally may not know that I suffer from Bipolar Disorder with a strong side of Panic.
I have triggered my own illness, which is manageable but disruptive. I write now to share the experience, to help develop an understanding of how a lifelong struggle with this illness has left me feeling alienated enough not to know if I’ll ever keep people in my life. My panic and anxiety comes from the fear of being too sick (even when healthy) an individual to develop a life in regular social circumstance.
The remaining Eddie stories, and there are only a few, are impossible to write without somehow exposing the identity of the involved Eddie. In my current state, too many emotions prevent me from criminalizing men who have been recent peers of mine, who share current peers of mine, who are Around enough to experience silent judgment based on my perspective of our story.
I remain challenged to find a way to distinguish “Our Story” from “My Story” from “His Story” (Which I only really care about if writing dramatically. When writing autobiographically, His Story is just a pile of shit I try to avoid).
I only write today to summarize the result of the series.
If you are prone to stigmatizing mental disorders or, contrastingly, if you are prone to experiencing mental disorder, I hope to enlighten your experience with a naked description of my own.
I believe we are all disordered.
I believe we are all struggling with ego.
Some of us have received diagnosis and support. Some of us cannot do that. Some of us do not need that. We are all just “some of us” and we all deal with that differently. It’s been my experience that medication and meditation help. All other practices, including talk therapy and psychoanalysis, irritate me. Mood disorders are a self-involved experience. The I, the Ego, becomes the center of the individual mind’s processes. If dwelled upon, the individual’s perspective on her experience grows to dramatic climax. Often, to dissolve my mood, I eliminate the word I from my vocabulary (a challenge I dare any of you to try).
At this point, the word I will be eliminated from The Story.
The Story will detail the writer’s result, the result of her own purge, her slight exorcism, her unmiraculous experiences, her gift, her Here You Go, her nonsense. This is the result of Eddie, I Hate You.
The Deep Incomplete
The man she first loved
The man who first loved her
The man she first kissed
The man she first slept beside
The man she first slept with
The boy by the locker
The boy whose mother swore they were in love
The group of them
The poetry she gave him
The accident she made of him
The wrong remark
The wrong remark
The wrong remark
She remembers all instances of Him, each thing he was a part of but she cannot remember her feelings or actions when he was gone, when they were gone, when she was alone.
Her behavior while alone is marked by a deep incomplete.
This is why she takes notes.
For, when dizzy and cramped, helpless but for the ground beneath her, she takes notes on her body and her other pieces just in case she one day needs proof of having stayed awake.
She threw away years of these notes.
Shelves of childhood markings.
Books proving that nights in bed are hardly for sleeping.
In manic stupor she destroyed everything she had ever worked on. She believed it was bad energy. She believed in destruction. She ruined her proof of self. She hoped for a new person. It did not work. All she has now is absence.
But, still, she numbers in accordance with the time she’s been keeping her whole life, minutes she knows matter to her because the speed of time is unfortunate and, for all we know, false.
After weeks of writing about memory, after weeks of subsequent anger, after acknowledging that she has built herself a cave of helpless lunacy, she confides in friends but it only makes her feel more away, more alone, more judged.
Who ever said she chose this?
This is a descent.
This has not been chosen.
The final story was meant to be the story of her first love.
When she first fell in love, she was freshly approaching psychosis. She finally believed she could be loved but, the memory only allows for the knowledge of psychotic impulse.
It was not love.
It cannot be written about.
The height of that feeling, the feeling she had, not long ago, the one that drove her eventually into a pit of WHERE IS THIS and squashed any impulses at all, the one that prevented her from listening to, from agreeing with, from touching reality, that feeling made destinations out of people. Everyone glowed. Everything glowed. Everywhere was just a new escape.
The result was humiliating. Love.
It was not chosen.
Confidence in conversation with friends about insecurity and fear regarding her various states of being leads her further into corners of anger (if at a height) or grief (if at a low). She can only manage these moods if they move gently through her. Suddenness stunts her control.
She thinks of swinging. And falling. And swinging. And falling.
If she waits long enough in silence and stillness, the body will center, the mind will hush.
Space is needed for the waiting.
Time is needed for the waiting.
The impulse to interrupt herself continues and continues. She should write this down. She should write this down.
- Non-disaster disaster
- outdoor laughter
- lost appliance
Lists to herself.
- no one is here
- staring at no one
- and indecency
- and indecency
Lists of the things that are really happening.
Everything else is fiction.
All the people she knows are fiction. They speak hypocritically because that is usually what is young and human. But, it makes them fiction.
All the actions are fictional because they end abruptly and soon don’t matter anymore.
All that is real are these lists.
There are no Eddies on this list.
There are no Eddies here.
None of them have known.
That when they come and when they go, they spin her swinging. Into the Deep Incomplete.
Reflection clearly marks this a problem.
Reflection stirs fear: How can she ever love. Who could ever love her.
And, the acknowledgement: She is actually quite healthy.
If only happiness were more consistent. She’d be a marked example of Real Good.
If only there were a way to glue feet to the ground and insist that the world obey her right to station.
But the world moves.
And so, she moves.
The memories, the notes of her movements are fascinating.
She is more interesting than the things that happen to her.
She is more interesting than the things that happen to anyone.
She just hasn’t found a way to be ok with that yet.
Only the whisper of forced air moving at a conditioned rate.
This morning she told her dog she was bleeding.
There is no one here.
She is this memory.
This is a memory of her.
Marked because marking it keeps her sane.
It’s the memories of others that hurt her: she might vomit at any moment, pained legs make it difficult to stand, drink ginger, eat rice, watch light move, visit friends, listen quietly, go to work, walk, walk, walk and it all must be happening.
It’s the feeling of doubting reality.
And the temptation to worship those doubts.
New twitches, she’s noticed.
Everyone will notice.