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The Bear, Part 1

Death consumes me.

I am fighting a bear that is 1000x stronger, 1000x more vicious than me.

They tell me to be brave, to have hope, to take one moment at a time.

I believe the voices that say I am stronger than him.

I tell the bear and he laughs and grows 100 more teeth to rip at my flesh.

He stalks me while I do the things that show that I’m still alive – while I put on clean socks, while I brush my teeth, while I try to sleep.

My death would mean less to the bear than a mosquito does to a windshield.

I beg the bear for a merciful death, for release. I can’t remember why I try to flee from him.

He does not show mercy. While he hunts me I can no more choose to die than I can choose to live.

The Bear, Part 2

Who is this bear that stalks me at night when I am alone, when I am most exposed?

Perhaps he is chemicals and broken synapses in my brain. A hallucination caused by disordered biology. I swallow the pills that they tell me will tame him.

Or, he is a loud roar, no more of a threat than the rolling thunder at night. A desperate cry composed only of Fear. Like dark clouds dispersed by a strong wind, he is quieted to sleep by their assurance that dawn will come and Love will Win.

Or, he is a fragmented part of me, a distortion in a fun house mirror. I invite him in, so that both he and I can become more whole.

Or, he is the escape I hold on to when being alive means experiencing pain. The dark shadows projected against cave walls intensify the size and threat of the bear. I have rejected my own nourishment so that he can grow stronger. I have given him more power than he deserves. When I call for help, the Universe answers with Light to help me see.

The bear and the terror are real. The struggle and the wounded flesh and the monstrosity of feeling caught between life and death are real.

Yet, even as he hunts me, I sharpen my weapons. I find strength left like bread crumbs by those who have been chased by their own bears. I reach through the isolation; my community is my arrows. I scratch my words into rock faces; my  voice is my spear.

I am hunted by him, but night by night I learn more of his secrets. For tonight, the bear and I will rest.

I am still alive. I can choose to live.

Stigma often places the blame of mental illness on the shoulders of those who struggle.

Resources are scarce and the system is overwhelmed.

We are expected to fight our way to wellness in a society that breeds anxiety and despair.

Those of us who are most sensitive are like canaries in the coalmines, but instead of others heeding our warnings, we are expected to adapt ourselves to the poison all around us.

I am a vase full of pain.

Every crack leaks pain out over those who are closest to me.

I want to destroy the vase and end the pain.

But it would spill out over everyone I love.

My sweet wife carries scars that are not hers. When the monster of mental illness grows strong within me, all too often Kathryn becomes its target. When I can barely keep myself alive, the monster feeds on her to destroy us both.

And still, she is here. Firmly by my side as the monster rages and whispers and crawls inside my skin. For the life of me I don’t understand why she stays. Her stated reason, “because I love you,” sounds like a foreign language, an echo I remember was once native to my own tongue.

She could wake from this nightmare, break free and leave the monster and me to live or die alone. But she stays, endlessly spinning the monster’s battles into a dance, a painful turning, full of the fear of losing me to the monster, the guilt of not always knowing the steps, and the worry that she’ll say or do something to make the monster hungry again.

The dance is slow, dizzying and lurching, our feet falling from under us. But she keeps dancing, pulls me into her, gathering my ragged emotions to her chest, my restless hands to her hips, my screaming and racing mind to her neck.

And for a few moments I forget to fear the monster. I forget the terror to flee and find instead the safety of embrace. A soft rhythm moves from her hips through my bones and together we sway like the river grasses against the coming storm’s wind. And maybe, for a fleeting second, I remember the distant call of playfulness, of silly laughter and simple gratitude and quiet peace. And I remember to breathe.

I remember to believe. With two hearts and eight limbs, our insightful minds, and abounding love, we will keep dancing through the panic till our blistered feet, aching bodies, and pounding skulls carry us away from the monster’s reach to a place where we can rest tangled in each other’s skin, waiting to learn whatever music comes to us next.

Screen Shot 2016-12-16 at 4.33.49 PM

Painting by Karis Kazuko Taylor

*”Dancing through the panic” is a reference to Leonard Cohen’s song Dance Me to the End of Love.

 

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