It's been six years since I slept soundly with a man with his arms around me all night long.

I have always preferred to sleep alone.

But there he was, behind me, occasionally snoring lightly.

For Emily

I still remember you.

I still hold onto you.

IF only I could have saved your life, six years ago today.

Is she mentally retarded or just really nice?

One of those FAcebook statuses that I never posted for a reason.

Is it possible to forget how to be a human being?

To generate love for someone?

He talks to me as I am leaning against the seat of the truck--as if to a child without being condescending, "This is physical intimacy." He is kissing me more.

"Promise me" the voices say, over and over again, always something they are promising, never delivering.

I consider nursing these damn promises with booze, wondering how long I could go without falling into hard core psychosis again.

Promise me...

Sex: Anxiety? Part II

More meat for the Meat Grinder or have I changed my ways because of the psychosis and because I was diagnosed HPV-positive over the summer?

My attitudes towards sex has changed as I am leaving the lifestyle of hunting for casual sex behind.

I have no judgment on those who partake on casual sex. I don't think it's wrong or immoral nor do I think it's a meaningless exercise in exploring one's sexuality as long as it's done safely.

Perhaps I would still be visiting a bar on a weekly basis if I had never entered a psychotic episode. I will never know, but my suspicious nature increasing as part of symptoms in psychosis makes it difficult to trust some stranger enough to take the clothes off and fuck.

I can assume that as soon as the psychotic symptoms subside completely, and if I go into manic episode again, my attitudes towards sex might become more liberal.

Regardless, for the next two years, I will continue to test positive for HPV, and I will have to disclose that to anyone I have sex with until I test negative at some point in the future.

We were in the middle of making out, and I ask, "Do you want to meet my parents?" I laugh.

"Sure. I'm not afraid to meet anyone's parents," he says.

"There's a story behind that question actually."

Sex: Anxiety?

I find something frightening about the prospect of having sex again with a stranger or even a friend, who I've never been intimate with before. I can't quite describe how I've change from being a whore to someone who is timid in this regard.

"Maybe he's not coming back," I said, talking about Morpheus.

"Good," Rosa said.

The District Training Manager in the Parking Lot

He kisses me in the parking lot as I'm leaned against the side of the driver's seat of my mother's truck as the driver's door is open. I'm supposed to feel something, but I only feel faintly of fear and attraction due to the drugs damping effects. Where is this all going? Part of my mind wanders. You're leaving in less than two weeks.

YOu know things are going bad when you're staring at each other at the bar, and the world is soundless and shrinks.

And so, it begins.

He looks at you, and looks at you like he could kiss you right there, but he's waiting.

I hardly remember what making love feels like--it's been almost a year.

The District Training Manager, as he was called in "Panther," is a handsome man.

I take off his cap at the bar, and play with his hair to straighten it some.

He smiles at me to make me smile at him.

Cyberstalking in EXcess

Days of Googling proved that I was looking under the wrong business name for MOrpheus, and finally found the address of his [old] office, and another business line that of which I don't know what has become of it. There was only a generic greeting of the answering machine, so I didn't leave a message.

I now have a way to drop off my letters, but I can't bear the thought of them getting into the wrong hands by accident.

I don't know if this information is current since as far as I know he sold this business.

You can go insane

From all of this

And not come back

--September 2, 2011 Word Doc

I miss Morpheus.

I'm tired of explaining to people justification for my longing or why I haven't left and "done better" for myself.

When I'm ready for finding a new man, I will go out and get myself one.

For now, I wallow in my pain and own giant tragedy.

"The sad part is half of you wants to die." One of the voices. Tim. "You don't have the fucking guts to kill yourself."

" I think my life is a waste."

--Word Doc from September 1, 2011

"Lacey, promise me you won't hurt yourself," one of the voices said to me today.

More Help

"I wish I had more help out there to get me through this, but I don’t."

--Word Doc from August 29, 2011

Bullied

"I do not want to be bullied around by voices in my head. By any of them."

--Word Doc from August 28, 2011

When bad events happen in your life, you want a tether connecting them all--

To the person(s) who has done you wrong all those years.

In psychosis, you see it all, through the restrains of normalized thinking--straight into the evil of human nature.

And somehow, in that state, it all makes sense.

OUt of County

Last week, I met with one of the brightest private practice psychiatrists in town, whose name I will not reveal, and I paid him with cash. He is gracious enough to take me on as a client even though I can't see him but twice a month, and he discounted his rates.

He put me on .5mg of Risperidone in hopes of stopping the remaining infrequent voices that come and go.

This should mean that I'm out of the county system.

"I hear voices. INteresting. d a"

--Word Doc from August 7, 2011

"I don’t want to admit to my therapist that I have experienced days and weeks where I’m feeling great and functional, but every ledge, every passing car, I think about killing myself."

--James Claims

"Listen to this: I don’t want to die"

--Word Doc from August 12, 2011 when the auditory hallucinations were the worst

The voices keep saying, "Lacey, are you listening to me?"

"I'Il love you lace more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my whole life," one of the voices says.

I mean who says that shit comes my reply.

--From a Word File dated August 10, 2011

This "gift"~ though mostly schizophrenia is not a gift, more like the bar scene in Star Wars~is particular to certain things but is hopscotch & random throughout the day. When it is on I hear you bull horn, see you in microscopic detail, & smell you like a French perfume tester would.

--Stalled at 12: I Can TEll You aTe Bacon Yesterday

About the Hades' Quotes

Minor author's note:

This came up during an email conversation. All Hades' comments from his blog entries reproduced in my entries were in reference towards me.

"Insanity is, really, not a lot of fun. You might find some parts of it interesting at the time, or you may laugh about it later, but really, it's not a pleasant experience."

--How I Know What is Real About My Life

"I've dealt with a lot of decidedly grown-up shit this past year, and it is only by sheer luck -- and the help and support of my friends and family -- that I've been able to make it through everything without giving up. Like I've said before, bettering myself a little more every day has become my motto in life, and I'm sticking by it. I have to, in order to keep getting up in the morning. It's that drive to succeed that will get me through my 29th year on this planet and hopefully carry me far into my thirties."

--Brando

I loved this entry.

Why I Call Myself the Nutty Whore

"So Bathie how was your Thanksgiving?" ie: Is that whore still there?

"Oh you know, it was a little crazy." ie. The girl was nuts.

--Hades

ONe of my best friends and I thought that was funnier than hell.

Whenever I sleep with someone and tell him the story, he says now, "The Nutty Whore strikes again."

"You're stupid, you know that, right, Lace?" One of the voices talking.

"I've seen others eat more in one meal than Persephone ate the whole week. She goes into the bathroom after almost every meal. She is purging."

--Hades

I was not purging. I had strep throat, and come to find out! I was allergic to the penicillin I was taking. I was very sick the whole trip in Detroit.

Interestingly enough, I was not too sick to drink. Yeehaaaw!

"I am fond of her but there isn't the same spark I have found with others, when I am with her."

--Hades

"I pride myself as having a sense of style and so far she had been showing little of her own..."

--Hades

I realized that today, officially, everything that I am wearing with the exception of my panties (they are Victoria's Secret) were bought and paid for from Wal-Mart.

Excuse me, the sweatshirt is Costco.

I'm Cheesy, I Get it

"I'd rather fight with you than make love to anyone else. You inside me feels like dying and rushing to heaven." Her message reads.

I try to cushion my reply. "You deserve someone you don't have to fight with all the time. I want someone I don't fight with."

--Hades


"I'd rather fight with you than make love to anyone else" is a borrowed movie line found in "The Wedding Date (2005)."

reference:

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0372532/quotes

There seemed to be no place to go but downward, and so one heavy step at a time, I stumble.

The absence of love did this--not hate, not jealousy, not fear--

Only longing, only grief.

"At my worst, I surrendered myself to something much, much worse: utter loneliness."

--Jack

All I wanted for Christmas was to see him once before, even if it was briefly.

That's not going to happen.

"Lacey, did you ever love me? Like really love me?" One of the voices says. "I loved you."

"That [Morpheus] is a load of horse shit, huh?" Says Beverly.

"This is inside of you," Beverly, one of the voices, says to me.

I have a split moment image of her, smoking a cigarette while sitting down in the corner of a room.

"Look at me, Lace, look, I'm going to call," one of the voices.

This hurts.

"Don't be upset, baby girl, I'm coming back...."

And then, I start to cry.

"He wasn't yours, he'll never be yours," Rosa said to me over the phone, talking about Morpheus.

"I love this woman because she was made for me. And I was made for her."

--the Jack

I'll be honest, I skimmed the entry.

But I'm happy for him.

[Edit: the only time I ever said someone was meant for me,

I was referring to his dick.]

"Yet it can't be just a story of damage; it has to be a love story too, or it won't work."

--Harry

"She always was an engaging writer."

--Hades in reference to me

I don't cry over Morpheus even though it's been months since we last spoke, and longer than that since we've embraced.

I don't cry over Jack--this being the end of the road for our relationship, whatever type it might be.

The emptiness is fueled by pharmaceuticals, propelled by some natural learning on my part.

I swim every day in longing and grief. I drown in unanswered questions.

What if love never runs out? What if you are in love your whole life with someone who is unattainable to you?

He dies one day, and you're never invited to the funeral. You're a mystery to the world outside, his world.

YOu want closure and acceptance and some giant pain reliever.

You want what he could never give.

HOward Smith

"This is what you are.
This is what you were always going to become."

--Benedict Smith

When I wrote "One of the Original Smith's," I obviously used him as part of the inspiration.

When the voices were at their worst while I was at STanford the first time this year, I just kept envisioning that bottle of morphine--rationalizing if I did that, and stopped thinking about hanging like how the voices were talking--then I would survive my hospitalization--

And if the voices didn't go away, I would have one of the best ways in the world to kill myself with--morphine OD when I got home.

A couple of days ago, the auditory hallucinations were really bad. Sometimes, I want to die. Everywhere, I look for ways to do it. Walking in front of traffic. Jumping off of a bridge.

I re-play the voicemail message of MOrpheus so I can hear his voice. I have no idea when he'll call again.

Wounded Ego, Chief

All that really happened in the Jack situation was an injured ego.

Some could argue that it was a minor scrape. The man never set eyes on me. The rejection wasn't about me, as a whole person, but just about an online persona--hardly worth getting upset over.

Still, I invested a lot of time getting to know someone who I will never get to know better. We will never be true friends.

God Said So

And pretty girls always get what they want.

I FAiled CAlculus Four Times

How do you operate?

I've met a lot of men in my day, with no more introduction than "C-cup and brunette. And tall."

With only two exceptions, they seemed pleased.

You can't make people like you, but I've tried my damnest in the business of stripping, hooking, whoring.

I feel like writing back, "but I'm fucking pretty!!!!"

And then a few hours later, "And I wrote you letters."

CAlculate that, Baby Cakes.

"A child with a learning disability who suffers repeated
setbacks in school might 'solve' this problem by convincing himself that he does not
care about success or failure and hence stop making any effort."

--Psychology, Fifth Edition

I love this because it explains a lot about my struggles and ambivalence towards academia now.

"I'm afraid that they're [the doctors at county] going to say that you're schizophrenic," My therapist said because of the persistence of auditory hallucinations. "However you don't have enough negative symptoms...and to me, you don't seem schizophrenic..."

Remember That Long Distance RElationship I Mentioned? Here's One of the EX's

"Sex together is good."

-Hades

The only nice thing he ever wrote about me.

He wrote me a letter a few days ago:

I am sorry to read that you are going through such ruff [sic] times. I am glad to see you are trying to take care of yourself and working with professionals. I hope there is a solution to your struggle that will allow you to enjoy life.

[Hades]

I didn't reply.

Heading for the Edge, Part II

I know what it's like never to be able to get it back again.

To sit at the silent edge, waiting.

For the train's whistle, for the gun shot, for the pop of the morphine bottle's top.

To die, rather than to live hallow of love's blood.

One Facebook, I left the status, "You broke my heart, Baby Cakes."

ONe of my readers wrote back, "What heart?"

Heading for the Edge

While skimming through Jack's entry on being in love, I realized:

I use to be in love like that--once.

And I know what it's like to have it drained out of you like watching your blood falling and clinging to your pant leg, drooling down your ankle, pooling at your feet and splashing on your shoes.

In rejection, we learn more of who we are than in love.

" It wasn't as if I would have wanted something to happend [sic] between us. That's not the way I operate."

--Jack

Because more in pain, we are stripped down to our sinews and guts--the feelings we take to hide.

I want to send back, "But I wrote you letters."

Most people, if not all people, don't understand the Jack obsession (let's call it what it is). While I was psychotic, the obsession was at an all time high. Now that I'm not psychotic, but still experiencing psychotic symptoms (auditory hallucinations), what is Jack to me?

He's a dream--I dreamed once.

And got caught in the storm out to sea.

And almost drowned.

NOw, I'm back to shore, coughing and choking. Looking around, wondering where does the dream end and the reality pick up?

Two beers later like swallowing deep sea water, how happy am I that he found the love of his life?

One dream stole. One "if" never realized, one "fantasy" never painted.

Do I just need a new canvas? Do I need a partner artist?

OR am I going under?

"To live is like to love--all reason is against it, and all healthy instinct for it." – Samuel Butler

#1 FAn in the FAn Club

I can't figure out if it would be uber-creepy or flattering to ask for a poster of one of Jack's pictures that he posted on his blog (that is now gone). It's of him in a white t-shirt standing next to his bicycle.

I sided on the creepy or at least decided he wouldn't find it funny.

"I am in love."

--Jack

Don't worry. How many times in your life does it happen when a girl buys a plane ticket to meet you, and you haven't agreed to meet her anywhere? She just pick somewhere in one of your states. Hoping, you'll go along with her plan.

Then you're saying, like, well, you know, can we just skip this part? I really didn't ask for you to fucking fly 3,000 miles.

There's no reality now.

FAce to face makes it real. No more anon. There's a foundation for human connection.

But it never happened. Instead now, we're writing fiction.

Imaginary Jack Letters

My email ["A Heart"] has gone unanswered.

NO one likes to face stupid ideas--it's more comfortable when it's other people's ideas--but considerably less comfortable when it's other people's stupid, romantic, emotional--all pinned on you ideas.

"Dear Lacey,

Have you ever been in Ithaca during the winter? Very cold. Having an Ivy League degree--I would know--doesn't make up for the weather difference. STay in CA.

Cuddles."

"Dear Lace,

You don't actually want to see me. I"m a very short, very fat man. Like this. See photo. And I lied about Harvard. I graduated from Brown. No one is impressed by Brown. yOu don't even know where it is.

Cuddles.

P.S. And it's still cold in Ithaca."

"Dear Lace,

I would tell you I'm married, but you'd just get on the plane faster.

Cuddles.

P.S. Did I tell you that it's extremely cold in Ithaca?"

More Auditory Hallucinations

"where are you going?"

"Out."

"I'm coming with you."

"NO, you're not. YOu're staying here."

[That one plays over and over again]

"I can't believe you'd do this to me, bitch." More arguing. "YOU TOLD ME....I can't believe I trusted you, now I know..."

"You have to go home!!!"

"It's time for you to go to bed."

"Mommy, I don't want to go to bed."

"Just shut up and eat your dinner."

"Just stop your crying or I'll give you something to cry about."

"What's this? Did you do this!?!"

"Lacey, stop your whining."

Some of them are memories coming back as hallucinations.

"Where are you going?!?!"

"Lacey, we're going to kill you before Christmas."

Says the voice. e.

"What are you doing? I told you to stop it!" More arguing.

Sometimes I just hear people arguing in my head, loud.

I wonder if it isn't old memories from my childhood and my parents are the ones--but it's coming back as auditory hallucinations.

"Stop! You're hurting her."

"What are you saying? I can't understand you when you're like this."

Sometimes it seems too much: listening to the voices, wanting to die.

There's no escape except infinity's borrowed muzzle.

A creature wasn't mean to be as happy as I was with you.

Morpheus

WE have no pictures of us together.

All I have are those photos that were copied off of his wife's FAcebook page and printed out.

The LSU Professor told me a long time ago that you can never ask for an apology. You either get one or you don't.

I wonder if you can apologize for breaking someone's heart. What if you didn't mean to?

An apology though makes everyone just feel better, right?

I thought about all the crappy lines in the world, "WE just don't feel the same way about each other," etc.

Then one missing apology ends up being another kick in the face.

I told myself, if I got the record straight--as if there was a record that needed to be straightened--as if three blogs and a personal journal wasn't enough--if I told him--

This is what you did to me.

There would be a transfer. The pain would go from me to him. This is yours. YOu can have it back now.

I picture myself for the crying I can't do.

I picture myself for the front door that never appeared.

YOurs.

You broke my heart when...

[December 4, "A Heart" email]

Peas and CAttle and Life Lessons

ONe of my ex's use to pick peas out of the rice whenever we were out to eat. He was a big man (still is), and so, he was slumped over the table, both elbows on the wood, shuffling around peas like they were small cattle to be herded up into a loading dock onwards into a truck. Delicately, he didn't miss a single one.

I think of that whenever I think of couples complaining about each other, small habits that grind away, leave small red marks on each other's skin, eating away at togetherness.

I learned both then that his table manners didn't bother me, and that simultaneously, I preferred to eat alone.

For Jack

The man who is brave enough to face his lies is the man who safely holds his truth.

Lies in the FRagility of Honesty

"we all lie, we all lie to make up in the reflection back when we see ourselves, we don't even see ourselves clearly for who we really are, we're just punching our fists bloody in the house of mirrors, crashing, trashing the stranger who stares back."


--FAcebook status from today

The World Wrapped in Psychosis

When you're psychotic, you think that the world is going to make some sort of sense--that everything happens for a reason.

Then you wake up and realize that the world is chaos. All those strings you tied, fall apart in your hand, all those connections you make were false.

There's no comfort to be found.

The voices were shouting at each other, and there was nothing I could do.

Outside of STaples.

“I didn’t know what was happening to me,” he says of the first days and weeks of his psychosis. “I was being re-created. … I went from where I wasn’t sensing anything to 100 percent sensory overload. It was like … it was intense.”

He wanted it to stop, and he didn’t.

--Awakening to What Life's About

What Happen to the Mystical Creature of Jack, Part II

Because I quickly turned psychotic, I never felt rejected by Jack, although that was clearly the case back in FEbruary. He said to me a relationship between us because of the distance was "impractical," and he would not meet me. He just wanted someone to talk to.

Most normal people would cry, get on with their lives, but I didn't--from this point, I quickly turned delusional.

What Happen to the Mystical Creature of Jack

DEspite the fact that the whole Jack (the blogger) mess happened right as I dived into psychosis, my therapist and I have never talked about him. It's hard to put into words any type of long distance "romance" or "romantic feelings," especially if it's one sided.

I don't know what was worse for my brain, being in love with two men or realizing the hard work and trust into another long distance relationship (I've already been in two, one that was successful, one that was heartbreakingly horrible).

Nothing happened. Jack disappeared. My emails to him became more and more insane, and less coherent.

From there, Jack became almost a mystical creature, representing several men, and the delusions deepened as the months passed until I finally went into Stanford.

There was a nightmarish obsessive quality to being psychotic that I will never get over. My delusions only twisted reality, never fully escaping it, which meant that I hurt real people in the process. The person I twisted the most, of course, was only myself.

Who Says Buttercup?

There's a female voice in the background who says over and over again, "Promise me..."

Anymore I can't tell what's normal or what's not. Should that voice be there? Is it just a rebound of my normal consciousness?

Apparently, doll, you didn't get the memo. Promise broken.

Lost in the Hike

I was out hiking, and I started to cry, but I had no idea why. It just came over me suddenly.

Somewhere in the mess of my brain, I lost the thought that spurred the tears.

My therapist described Morpheus as a man "who lies to the whole world." Why would he tell me the truth if he was seeing someone else now?

I don't care. I just know he's been gone for a few months.

The voices were no happy companions, telling me I'm going to end up fat, and other vicious assaults upon my self-esteem--always reminding me that I'm well--but not that well--I'm on the curve, climbing up towards that 100%, that girl before this girl--will I ever get there?

I spend my time gazing into the wide eyes of long, sad songs, wondering where grief ends.

"Loss my heart. I lost my mind." ("Without You" by David Guetta ft. Usher)

I feel like sending a message to Jack, "Well, I'd give you my blog address, but half of it is about you. Not you-you, but some psychotic mix of you."

Flattering really.

While I was psychotic,

At the center of the chaos was the delusion:

Where's Jack?

Because Jack's identity he gave me was wrong (this is Jack the blogger, not the other "Jack's" who get thrown around in my blog). Another core delusion.

Looking back, it's odd that I latched on so terribly to finding one person in mist to losing so much--sanity--people--a job.

I recently re-connected with Jack on Facebook. He is found.

I look down the road of my life, and what do I see? Nothing. I can't visualize my own future. What's out there for me?

I picture alcohol and pills. Would anyone blame me? People would just say the voices came back.

The train comes through the back of the neighbor's property at about seven o' clock am. I think about that, standing out there on the track. Waiting.

I cry sometimes for seemingly no reason, at odd points in the middle of my day.

Do I even care anymore about Morpheus? When he comes back after being gone through one of the most difficult periods of my life? AT least in 2008, he was there, coming and going drunkenly.

Do I care?

TAlking about Morpheus in therapy was like being punched in the stomach. So, I left only after fifteen minutes.

I'm crying now as I write this. I wonder how much of this depression is about him.

Suicides die lonely. Isn't that their charge?

Our own death is impersonal even to us.

The voices keep telling me I won't make it to my next birthday.

Survival

I imagine sitting down in a circle of chairs at someone's basement where they serve cheap, stale cookies and strong, old coffee in little, white, styrofoam cups. Grief group. EVeryone survived some massive tragedy.

Me? Is it like AA? Where you're allowed to just not speak, skip a turn?

I think of buses hitting me while I'm out walking and trains mowing me over. I wonder exactly what it would look like--hanging in a garage?

CAn't I get through this?

But I'm dealing with it alone. There's no group, no calender day, nothing. IF you survive, people notice you showed up to work or school or church. Nothing amiss.

The truth is, no one cares about my cyclical grieving, around and around we go.

HOw many times did I pull myself up out of the flames of hell? Just to tell the same, boring story about a girl in love with a man who won't stay?

People like to fantasize, but there's a problem with you fantasize about death or suicide. So, I never wrote Jae killing herself, figuring for me it was giving into my own demons.

I always wonder what grief was like, if it was different than depression, if it molded into depression so close you couldn't tell the difference. IF I could walk into a group meeting for grieving, and be accepted as a member or ridiculed into leaving because no one has died yet.

I want to kill Jae for this very reason. Her wedding day, she doesn't go to the chapel instead she drives to his house with no one there, pulls into the garage, one bullet to the chest, one letter to Howard. "I came here because this is where I always wanted to be--with you."

There's something about dying that says something about living. How you die. When you commit suicide is a rebellion against some part of your life. For Jae, it is a rebellion against love, the heartache she bared.

Was I enough to break up two people? Never.

"Only if he misses you enough," my therapist said on the odds that mOrpheus would leave his wife.

My therapist says that I'm in a stage of anticipatory grief over Morpheus.

All I know is: I can barely function. Yesterday, I did nothing. NO school work, no exercise. I didn't talk to anyone.

"I believe you will have more than one 'love of your life,' " My therapist said.

People keep rushing the end of Morpheus. Now, they say. No. Now.

But MOrpheus always comes in at the last minute. Says something grand. Romantic. Saves the day.

YOu're sick, and then one day, you're "healthy."

And you realize certain elements of your life haven't changed.

And for some reason or a lot of reasons, this makes you suicidal.

And whenever you say that in your mind, you hear voices cheering you on.

AS someone who is recovering from a psychotic episode, I have to wonder whenever I make loose associations, i.e. that MOrpheus is the person who is calling me behind the restricted number simply because I can't imagine anyone else doing it.

In my recent world, it's a sign of mental illness to make bad assumptions.

I've been fighting with myself for days. Who would call and just hang up?

Then, on November 15th, I received two REstricted number calls starting at roughly 12:03am.

I answered the second one, "Hello?"

Whoever it was, just hung up.

"The Switchboard Concept

"The Switchboard Concept

I'm facing my second psychiatric hospitalization of this year alone. I have no brave words for myself. It hasn't been fun or exciting even.

When I was more psychotic I became obsessed with behaviometrics, the idea how do you identify people you cannot see up close and personal? Over the phone? Over the internet? Who are these people? Hence, the Switchboard Concept.

I have no proof it exists. I made it the title of my blog because it's a reminder of the wacky things that come from mental illness, the creativity that springs forth."

--Sunday, September 25, 2011

"Every day I take my mouthful of pills thinking that I am safe nowhere. Not here. NOt at Stanford.

That is the life of living with voices. a."

--Sunday, September 25, 2011

"Sunday, September 25, 2011

AS a bipolar, I always kept my symptoms hidden from my family members and my troubles to a close circle of a few friends.

NOw, that's out of the question.

I'm never left alone. I always have one family member with me. We don't like to think of it as babysitting, but it is. d

For my safety, they say. We all agree to it.

Is my illness that bad that I could snap at any time/

NO one really knows. ad

Hence, why I'm watched all the time."

"I'm a loser," I told MOm.

I was out on my walk near my parent's ranch when a guy in a little green truck went by, and waving his arm, almost to flag me down.

Where are you, MOrpheus?

Never Gone

The voices came back, just a little enough to let me know that they will never be gone.

Just as I was feeling depressed and suicidal.

"This is good news!" My therapist said. "It means you're not schizophrenic." Meaning there's a correlation between mood and auditory hallucinations.

The Funeral Parade

For some reason, I was standing by the window, inside a cafe, holding my cup of coffee, and your black Denali truck drove by. I was close enough to read the rear license plate.

I walked around the doorway, and watched you drive down the street, and out of sight.

"So, little kids, huh? That must make it hard to get a divorce" came the reaction from my all too real therapist.

searching for you everywhere online trying to find your number...

Please talk to me when you call.

Every time I go downtown and I see a blonde woman with kids, I think, "It's the Wife. The Wife, dive! Dive! Dive!"

The Break

It's hard to stay positive knowing that the next conversation is going to be about separation papers that simply don't exist.

This is where I'm applauded by my therapist and by my grandmother who knows some of the story for my strength.

IN reality, I just want to be with him again, in those little bubbles of time that we are use to, no matter how dangerous to my mental health.

I'm not a patient person--but I've managed to wait for four years for these magical papers to appear that haven't. How long can I wait without seeing him?

What Friends ARe For

ONe of my therapists tried this trick--if I wanted my only son to grow up to be MOrpheus.

Would I be proud of him?

Yes. He's very smart and high functioning. I would rather the kid turn out like him than to experience auditory hallucinations, a psychotic episode, severe depression, etc and be like me. How's that?

I can see the therapist now, her down in her notepad, writing softly, and then saying, "Do you really want a man who calls you up in the middle of the night, drunk?"

LIst faults, A, B, and C. Check mark. AT least he called.

It's frightening to face choices--girlfriend versus a marriage. Or perhaps he was thinking about our fight, and my psychotic behavior is what he found to be scary.

The therapist would not be interested in any of this. MOrpheus is the bad guy. Rationalizing any of his behavior just annoys Ph.D.'s and Master's alike.

I hear that a lot, "Do you really want...?"

I've been with a lot of men, more than the average woman my age, and I've never found one better. This is a statement that therapist will refute yet they can't rob me of my experiences. They can't claim the hours I've survived and lived. They can only argue about their standards and vision of life. About what looks good to them from their point of view.

"Do you really want some guy calling you at almost one am because he's lonely and wants sex?" A therapist will ask.

There's an shared intimacy at one am, and it's not just about sex. The problem isn't one am (who really cares about the time); the problem is the gift of friendship (I bail you out, you bail me out) isn't shared. IN other words, I can't call him at one am and cry on his shoulder. I have friends in which I can do that.

Therapists misread sex. Sex was my business, I know how it rolls around in the male mind and in the female mind. You have sex in these circumstances, it's like putting a pacifier in someone's mouth. IT works, but not for long, and we all have to grow up. IN the long run, it's not solving any problems.

Sometimes sex does help if it goes along with healthy verbal communication.

Good friends take each other phone calls at one am. WE listen to each other whenever we're drunk, sober, psychotic or delusional. It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it.

I would still give all of myself to you.

In due time.

More On the REstricted Number

A few weeks ago, a restricted number started calling about five days a week, let it ring once or twice, and then hang up before I had a chance to catch it.

I didn't think much of it until today, thinking it was bill collectors or some type of spam.

WE Would Have Had One Hell of a STory

"Because it’s boring to say that things don’t work out like they do in the movies. Everyone knows that. Even 21-year-olds. But it’s hard to resist a great story. If we had lasted, we would have had one hell of a story."

--When the Words Don't Fit

While out for my walk today, I saw a man who looked like Morpheus pulling out of the driveway of the dump, and he waved at me. I didn't recognize the vehicle (it was a new Dodge Ram).

On Writing a Therapist

When I was senior in high school, my teacher wanted me to be published. ONe of my projects was a story called "Meredith Black" and the entire story was based in a therapy room.

Meredith was a tense, accomplished me with depression only (back then, I was depression and anxiety only), who was rather heartless at age thirty-five. NO marriage. NO long term boyfriends. She had no bad habits but smoking. Typical for a man, not so for a woman, she put all of her negative energy into her job. She was an economist (I after all at the time was an A econ student).

Except she fell in love with one of her male friends, and then promptly refuse to see him.

I sense the pain of make late night phone calls and hanging up.

I see a therapy sitting in a chair, doodling on a paper, completely unconcerned with Morpheus's position.

"This means he loves me," I want to say.

"Suffering is love?" is a witty answer, but not likely to be heard.

No one wants to suffer alone. People want to be remembered daily when they are in love and separated.

If I had to write a therapist again, I would write a therapist who is more along the lines of "try it and see if it bites you." IF it bites you repeatedly perhaps you should change your course.

What is forgotten is the fact that with the mood instability of an intense love high blinds you to the consequences of the bite felt weeks and months later. There's no moral argument to be made (who's soul could you save?).

I never grew up to be a Meredith mostly because I ended up being bipolar, and when manic, I experimented with sex and relationships.

Last night around 12:22am, one call from a restricted number.

Last night around 12:52am, another call from a restricted number.

IT was the third I decided to answer. d "Hello," I said. There was a long silence.

"Hello," he said back, quiet and distance-like.

It sounded like mOrpheus.

I couldn't tell for sure. "Who is this?"

Click. He hung up on me.

STuck Waiting

NO one encourages the Other Woman to cling to her fantasies of someday running away with The Husband (who is really the Ex-Husband). NO one encourages her to sit by the phone, and waste her life away patiently waiting.

Ask anyone in the "Other Woman" position, and it seems as if there is a forever hold on life, and we are stuck waiting. WAiting. WAiting. And waiting.

Rumination is high lately, which means my brain itself is on hold. Whatever space is up there freed from homework is focused on MOrpheus. When will he call? What can we say?

NOrmally it's not this bad, but seeing him downtown shook loose old feelings and memories.

Even the last therapist admitted that so much of my life had been bad, he was one of the good pieces. Who wouldn't ruminate about someone who brought you good feelings once you were with him? EVen if those times were few and far between?

How do you convince a therapist that you should stay with a married man who you only see a few times per year?

ONly if you have a romantic one.

Even the most hopeful of all therapists (this model would be my first psychiatrist ever who does therapy) would be worried about Mommy hitting Daddy, and still no separation filed.

I was drowning at this point in the story, and there was no psychiatrist to give words to me. I could see the sunlight shining through the water as my hands grasp towards the air. In one month, I would crack open and be psychotic. All would be dark and lost.

There was no romance in domestic violence nor was I well suited to give advice on the matter. I laughed slightly in the cab of the truck when MOrpheus told me about it, but order a therapist and a lawyer. My advice like my chuckle was ignored.

WE can all look back, and say this moment. You have a moment to walk away from a bad situation, and you have the balls to stay. There's just sad stories to be told. I called Morpheus back after I left him at his truck.

NO one is willing to say that love saves all, cares all, heals all, and makes all better. The truth is: it does, but the individual has to do the work too.

Cheating is STill WRong

AFter a while you realize that going to a therapy room and listening to common sense remarks to critical remarks to down-right bitchy ones don't help.

NO therapist is going to hold my hand, and tell me she feels sorry for me too even though I've been through hell. Some of the loneliest places I've been have been after break up's. There is no comfort, no rest, no joy found. You're on your own to soothe yourself.

The stigma against the Other Woman is great. NO writing I've read has been complimentary. It's about how we have as many issues as the married man we're involved with, if not more. Low self-esteem, etc.

Why treat the Other Woman bad? BEcause society still says that cheating is wrong. It's against our social norms. That's reason enough. Also, out of the three people involved, the Husband, the Wife, and the Other Woman, the Other Woman has the least amount of power.

More On Therapy: The Family

Sitting on the therapy couch it's hard to argue the value of having a lover you only see once every few months. The longest I went? Nine. This is during the birth of his third.

I have a picture of him holding his youngest. He looks more scared than anything.

I see a therapist sitting on the chair, asking me without even words what am I doing in a family mess this size.

It didn't start out like that. He was sitting on a hotel (Quality Suites, to be exact) bed, and said to me, "It's not like I have a coach." It was a plead that I took seriously and with all my heart. It kept me from walking out of the door and never coming back (as I was ready to do after the first time we had sex). Asking me for help handling the responsibilities of mixing our relationship and his family (and keeping them separate). How do you juggle the juggle?

Scratch that. It did start out like that. A huge family problem I could never solve. But I was too naive, and too in love to care--this is selfishness in plain view on my part. You think you fall in love and it's just you.

This is again where therapists lose interest in arguing. It was so obvious, wasn't it? He's married. He comes with other people connected to him, who can be hurt by his actions with me. MOst therapists give a "He's the one married, not you" line to lessen my guilt, but I never forget the shake of the head. I seem so wise. Years ago, growing up, I was more mature for my age. Why fall into this trap when it can clearly be avoided?

Why not pick someone single, without kids, why not the guy next door? The guy holding the beer at the bar? For god's sake, there must be another guy.

Another guy never really stepped up. One of my boyfriends was so insecure about it, he always had a girl waiting for him, it's hard to tell who did the worse damage to whom.

ARguing that kids are baggage is like saying that my mother is baggage or any other family member. It's cruel for one thing. They're not dogs you can take to the pound when you don't want them anymore. I've had therapists argue about that. I find it appalling and bad taste. So, he has three kids. They're not mine, and I don't make decisions concerning them.

Next weekend is my friend's wedding. I always figured she would marry before me, but I'm ill prepared to go. Going to the wedding brings up what my therapist says is anger (that I never deal with as I'm disassociated from my feelings).

I'm in love too, I asked a man to marry me, to which he gave no reply.

I don't feel like celebrating marriage--not that I'm unhappy for my friend.

There will also be the temptation to drink.

If you had a towel in your hand, and were headed to the shower room with voices in your head telling you to hang, what would stop you?

This morning I took an "ethics quiz" for University of Phoenix, which reminded me of SAT and the military. Who are you, and what will you do if you find yourself in a fire-fight?

I promised "DAD" seven months (that I would not hurt myself nor committed suicide). DAD, of course, turned out not to be real. The threat of death in a sense turned out not to be real.

I thought about turning it into a sci-fi story. What if the government could hack into your brains, what if this technology was new, and they--in the spirit of Skinner--killed people this way if only to know how? The goal was to do it faster and better than anyone. Most people state the obvious if you can do that, you can induce a seizure, and kill someone within seconds, within minutes without the fun of driving them to attempt or commit suicide.

What if it was more of a military experiment on stealing the one thing we never thought we could--free will? And you can't get that by inducing a seizure. It could be a story about misuse of military technology being tested on ordinary private citizens, every paranoid person's worst nightmare.

It would be easy to write, although I wonder if it would be somewhat dangerous at this point (as if giving into my delusions again). The idea of free will, delusions, auditory hallucinations, etc is interesting to play with.

The Pipe Dream

"We sold ourselves a pipe dream that everyone could get rich and no one would get hurt — a pipe dream that exploded like a pipe bomb when the already-rich grabbed for all the gold; when they used their fortunes to influence government and gain favors and protection; when everyone else was left to scrounge around their ankles in hopes that a few coins would fall.

We have not taken care of the least among us. We have allowed a revolting level of income inequality to develop. We have watched as millions of our fellow countrymen have fallen into poverty. And we have done a poor job of educating our children and now threaten to leave them a country that is a shell of its former self. We should be ashamed."

--America's Exploding Pipe Dream

A Make Believe Therapy Session

Sit down in a make believe therapy session. The therapist has out her pen and writing pad in a chair across from the couch.

"Do you think he'll call soon?" I think to ask, but don't. I just sit there on the dark pink couch with my eyes out the window. The butterflies are thick this time of year.

"Did you really think you two would end up together?" She thinks (in reality that question has been asked to me from another therapist).

Love is the biggest dreamer, is it not? It doesn't help if every time he's on the phone he dreams with me. He told me once I was the prettiest girl in the world.

"It takes more than sex and charms to make a relationship work," she says to me.

For how long? Because we have been doing this for four years. I have heard of worse stories, people and sex staying together for twenty years even though the rest of the relationship was bad, having sex right up until the final papers were through the court. People underestimate good or great sex. WE stupid people call it being in love. Define sex. Define being in love. YOu find yourself searching for words for a reason. They go together, and we can't easily separate them out.

I keep playing it out, over and over again, sitting in a little room, the children's room for kids with mental disorders--which has a big window to look out--my escape. My therapist sitting there, not wanting to talk about mOprheus. I ask the same silly questions a five year old would, no doubt his does when Mommy and DAddy fight. He says the fighting is so bad, he has to leave, and then come back later. I dissociate--Mommy and DAddy don't affect me anymore. Still, I ask, "What do you think he'll say?" My imaginary therapist is critical and sensible. When will Daddy be back?

"Yes, he will get a separation magically just because you finally said so." She replies with some humor.

In reality, no one has shown any humor. INstead, they want me to find out odds. 70% chance? 30%? What are we working with here, Lacey? All the while, the therapist(s) nodd and then sigh and want me to admit that the situation is hopeless. There's a maze. A rat. And some cheese if you get away from the married man. IF you grieve enough, you are rewarded. For most of this, I can't tell if I lie.

"Maybe he will hurry up then if he can't see me." I've never really said that, but that's the point right? WE break up. He has incentive now, more anyway, to get his separation. This says nothing about the odds. I don't have my calculator out. I didn't take statistics in college.

"And just exactly how long are you planning on waiting for a man to divorce when his mother runs a Bible bookstore, and his wife comes from a conservative background? A year? Two? Five?" The therapist sighs.

"So, do you think he'll call me this month? Probably not. It's like too late, huh?" This is a dip into the central portion of my thinking. Maybe the Wife took them to the second house for Trick-Or-Treating, and he stayed here in SLO. The therapist is not amused. "I'll know when it's time to give up. Or I'll find someone better." I lie. Even to a pretend therapist I lie. I can't stand talking about MOrpheus in therapy because you're always bound to lie. I can't see the point ahead in my future where I give up. That was closer to the truth. Was I just a kid who learned to bash his brains into the wall repeatedly? Was this my punishment, therapy?

She rambles on about how he isn't good for me. They all ramble at this point. He's not available.

I'm more of an act in a tragic play. CAn't they see that?

"NO. He's just taking advantage of you."

IN therapy, there was always that angle, which I loved. He was taking advantage of me, yet I went willingly and happily into his house without exception and this was not 1800's. It was hard to explain how happily I went into the bedroom without giving gross details of the sex to a new or bashful therapist. We were equals in how bad we were fucking with each other. Lately proved an exception (the psychotic break), but you can't say that was directly his fault. Even if it was (some of it, sure), did he do it on purpose? NO.

People confuse lack of insight into behavior with malignancy.

The whole circle is "people want better for me," and while I'm in love with Morpheus.

That Married Man Business, Part II

Even though MOrpheus has seen me in public with and without his wife, he has never acknowledged my presence with a wave or a nodd. He pretends not to see me after a good long stare.

I am invisible to him.

Out of all the men I know, I want to take mOrpheus to my friend's wedding the most. He could meet some of my high school friends, and we could spend the day together. This won't happen.

If you were sick or dying or needing to get to hospital, you cannot call Morpheus and get help. I tried. Ten phone calls in one single day.

What do I get out of this relationship?

That Married Man Business

Being involved with a married man means we never celebrate any holidays together, no birthday's, no Valentine's DAy's, much less any of the other more important family holiday's.

Historically, if my lucky, I get to see him just before.

"Up again in the morning to hit the gym. If I can grind hard enough, I can chase away much of my introspection and her from my thoughts."

--Life in the AGe of Byrony

Alcohol and ON Being Ordinary

Being ordinary and being happy have nothing to do with each other.

Can you get a fill of life's experiences, to hell with other people, and still end your life with a deep sense of fulfillment?

CAn you be ordinary and be a waste of a life and still be happy at your meaningless end?

EVeryone knows my end will come faster if I drink, whether psychosis will call for me like siren or in the physical sense. I could lose years to a thought disorder, losing friends, money, all helped by vodka.

I could drown myself to faceless death.

Some days it feels like it wouldn't matter--shot or no shot--but this is the depression over my shoulder bullying me around.

I quit opiates without looking back. I sigh at people who won't because of the withdrawals.

Drugs make you ordinary because there are a separation because you and people, your community, not to mention the damage done to you. The feeling is one of being extraordinary, but it is illusionary.

There are days when nothing matters.

Yesterday, I saw a homeless man in the parking with a beer in a paper bag, mumbling to himself, probably hearing voices.

I wonder how different we are from each other. Was it just the alcohol?

Therapy Session

I feel like he's gone.

I hate going to professional advice, and getting it--the ol' "you deserve better," and variation on theme.

From there, they point to me. What was lacking in my psychology to make me cling so hard to someone who is so obviously unavailable?

IN this, we (Morpheus and I) are both at fault.

From there, they only dig a little deeper and say that I like it this way, mourning and grieving for what is gone because better gone than clinging back at me. Better sorrow than love.

That is the box they fit me in.

After MOrpheus, I will find another man just like him. "Nevermind, I'll find someone like you..." Adele, "Someone LIke YOu."

He's not gone, they say. He'll come back. Or they won't say anything at all, staring at their paper because it's not important if he comes back. There's a pause and then they'll move on to a different subject.

"Does he love me?" I'll almost ask.

The silence is short. WE talk about my feelings. What are my feelings? Name them, one by one.

"Are you sure he's coming back?" I'll almost ask. It's right there. The question.

"What do you want me to say? Do you want me to pacify you with an answer even though I don't know?" The therapist almost says back. Her head is down, watching the paper closely.

"What if I'm different?" I want to say.

"But you're not." She wants to say. She's seen a case like mine before. A little girl all grown up, still looking for a daddy. Grow up, or you'll be stuck with the distant, father figure forever. YOu know? Alcohol, barely pays attention to you. Morpheus is not special.

"What if we're in love? What if it's forever?" I want to tell her over and over again. Therapists never see love. They never respect love. YOu walk into a therapy room, they will tell you 1,000 love went wrong. I wait for a little jerky remark about getting a dog. Or something cliche like "Morpheus won't be the last man in life you'll ever love." Sometimes I respect silence. Respect what love does to a heart, makes it hurt so bad that no words will be believed. You can't talk a heart out of love. You can talk it to death.

In my mind she points to all the bad ways Morpheus has influenced my brain. The voices, the mood swings, the psychotic break. What the fuck is next? IN reality, she's just sitting there in her chair, not at all concerned with Morpheus.

Talking people out of love, I've realized, is like talking them out of delusions. The more you talk the less people trust you. Who doesn't love love? And yet, there are people on the planet, therapists are a good example, who go around criticizing love as profession.

"HOw do you know he won't cheat on you?" The therapist asks. A real question, one of her first.

I was caught. MY grandmother in the room. The real answer was silence because I didn't know. NO one knows for sure. I loved a gamble. I openly admitted that. Did that make me a bad person?

"You deserve better," I hear the therapist saying as she sits in her chair, silent. d YOu didn't need voices for that shit.

"There's no one better," I want to say. I never have a chance to say it. I sense the therapist inwardly mocking me. YOung love, blind. WE will find and replace, easily. Give me six months. A few years, tops. I'm pretty, I stay in shape. I'll walk into a bar once, and find Mr. Right. I'll regret the extremist statements I've made about MOrpheus.

"He has baggage..." She almost says. "Three kids is a lot of work. Time away from you. All that responsibility even if he does get his separation. And he deals with his problems by drinking."

I picture my stepfather's alcoholism, and the environment. IF I ever want to leave that. If it's possible. CAn you believe someone is the greatest man in the world if he's an alcoholic too? Or does that make you at fault?

Does it make you at fault every time he was supposed to do something and disappointed you because you know what type of person he is?

The therapist wasn't interested in answering those questions as she sat in her chair.

IF there's one scenario you can forget, it's that there will ever be a family made up of MOrpheus and me.

I started to write a novel about the "what if's" in life, but quickly stopped. I didn't have enough fuel. What would we be like if we got everything we wanted?

That was unfortunate. AT the time, MOrpheus didn't want any more kids, and I wanted one.

All The Traditional Things You Give Up When DAting A Married Man

I think about all the traditional things I'm missing by being in love with a married man.

On FAcebook, it says that I'm single even though I won't date or commit to anyone else because it would be unfair to someone as I'm in love with Morpheus.

Morpheus and I have never actually made it to dinner (he asked me once, and then we got into a fight about his wife, and plans were canceled).

None of my friends have met him. My parents have not met him, although my mother use to talk to him all the time.

Then there is the lack of communication because he has to sneak around his wife. It is here-and-there txt-messages, and only seeing each other, at best, once every two months. I can't just call him, and say, "Hi." I have an easier time, I fucking swear to god, of getting ahold of the fucking Pope.

WE have never gone on dates.

WE have never made it to coffee, despite the fact that I have called and requested this several times.

WE are always dreaming, never putting into action for today, for tomorrow.

None of my other relationships with men will develop into anything because of him.

Morpheus gives no prior notice to when he is available. He just calls when he wants me to come over or meet somewhere. I am expected to show up.

There's no pictures. I've known the man for four years, and all of the pictures I have of him are from his wife. There are none of him and I together.

It's hard explaining my relationship with him to friends and family without pissing "traditional" people off. Everyone has an opinion, and they want to share and help and make things worse by judging.

I can never find the master bedroom. What is with that fucking house? Why? Because I've never been there when it's light outside!!!!

It's been four years, all those one night stands, and he doesn't know I drool on the pillow or that crusty morning look because why? I leave before then.

The dude has a hang up about coffee. One morning, I point to the coffee maker on the kitchen counter. "YOu make coffee?" NO. d "Okay...." He drinks fucking coffee. I went home that morning coffee-less. He just didn't want me to hang out in the AM, ruining his regular schedule. Really cute, right? I'm waiting for the morning when he leaves for work, I come over. It's me and the Wife. WE have coffee. Call him over then. "Honey. WE have stuff to talk about over coffee."

Our fights takes months. I'm learning this--this is new. A normal boyfriend or guy. YOu get into a fight, it lasts a few hours. Someone gives up, someone apologizes. Done. Not with MOrpheus. This shit is getting strung out. For god's sakes man. What the fuck are we doing?

Here's the obvious: You put in all that work. You stay up late. YOu answer your phone always. YOu provide interesting, entertaining sex. You can't marry a married man. A normal boyfriend after four years would be ready for the big question unless he was a complete dumbass.

Therapist asked me, "Do you want a new man?"


I just shook my head, NO. If only there was a place psychologically I could get at where I could just toss out Morpheus, and be ready to find someone new. It's never happened since I met the man. He's just dominated my brain.

On Death Threats

The voices told me I wouldn't live to see twenty-ninth birthday, which doesn't leave a lot of room for major life adjustments. You can't finish an education, buy a house, get married (perhaps this is the easiest of the bunch to accomplish), or find a soul-enriching job in just a matter of a few months.

It's easy to run to a life coach, and say, "Fix me."

YOu can, however, get pregnant in a matter of months.

I made the first step in going back to school in order to finish my education, even if it wasn't my first choice school.

STraightening out my personal life takes time, and a lot of looking inside. This is unusual. My therapist doesn't want to talk much about MOrpheus, and neither do I--and yet I'm accused of being dissociated from my feelings--and need help getting reconnected. I'm left with doing it on my own with my writing.

A part of me is still spooked by the voices and their "deadline" (pardon the pun). This is my third brush with death, thanks to mental illness. I keep waiting for the voices to just pop up and take over again like they did in the past. "You thought we were gone! Ha!" I go for a drive on May 27, 2012, and BAM! Die in an auto-collision. The voices knew the whole time.

I go downtown, looking over every vehicle, and walk and walk and walk, trying to find him.

I've turned this into a daily exercise.

I'm facing the hard realization that the conversation we have will not be a good one. I picture us fighting in my head. I wonder where this will lead.

I wonder if we will see each other again.

I wonder if you can stay broken-hearted forever. The correct answer is yes, my grandmother did.

Is it better to die young with hopes and dreams than to live out the bitterness of a disappointing life?

On Being Ordinary, Part II

Is it grandiose even to ask: am I meant for better and greater things, if it only means to give back to this earth?

Will life hold any significant meaning?

Or will I always struggle to apply justice?

To me now, life is life. It is meaningless because there is no "God" to give it meaning. WE make our own meaning as individuals whatever that is to us as creatures of biopsychology. Greater good is determined in actuality by others. You can be a great friend, a great spouse, a great parent--this collects into making you a great person, but still "ordinary" by social standards. For instance, you, this great person, never won the NObel PRize or became famous.

Then, sometimes "ordinary" is still just plain "ordinary" as you did not contribute any value back to society. Perhaps you were even harmful at times.

Faced with death everyone wants to have done more. Face with death at twenty-eight years old, I realized what I had done enough of--

LIfe had filled me with plenty of experiences already. I had felt no ordinary amount of passionate love. I need not to ever fall in love again. I knew the sensation, felt the consequences of it. I could live without it for the rest of my life.

LIfe had filled me with plenty of dangerous, impersonal sex. The other end of the spectrum and the scale.

And yet, at twenty-eight, my life was horribly empty of many things. I never talked back to the voices as they were intent on killing me. I never cried. I never whined or begged for my life. But I noticed. I still had things in life that I wanted at twenty-eight. My life was ordinary in both sense of the word. What had I contributed to society?

What had I given back to my fellow citizens?

I have a rule. IF I have a dollar in my wallet and I see someone who is homeless, I give it away (unless it's the last of my money).

What do I do to make other people's life better?

I came up with nothing. FAlling in love, and loving someone unconditioningly from afar isn't a substitute for a real, day-to-day relationship that is the cornerstone of our society. IT is the family.

On Being Ordinary And Under Water

One thing I learned while patiently waiting for the voices to kill me--how ordinary my life is. How I will live and die and not make much of a mark on this planet.

When we are younger, we have much larger aspirations, thinking this will somehow guard us from death.

I, instead, have succumb to an ordinary, plain, average life.

What makes the total of a life? Some people the greatest they contribute to this planet is their children.

Some of us have this realization, and battle it at certain points throughout our lives, we call it "midlife crisis," or other terms. WE wake up one day, and wonder where all the time has went, and you understand that the flexibility to be anyone you want to be, go anywhere you want to go--is closing. LIfe feels set. Bad choices. Good choices. Here you are. Try moving with kids, mortgage, with high unemployment rates, with a marriage.

For some of us it doesn't take "voices" screaming that they are going to kill you to ponder this.

I haven't paved my way for myself in a long time. Was prostitution and dancing an act of desperation? IN the beginning, it was, although I came to enjoy it. Losing dreams means settling for less than even second best. It means conforming to other's wants and expectations. When you sit in a hospital with raging "voices" your priorities re-align. You're stuck on survival, not kicking the world's ass. Your brain is taking hostage.

I wish I could say that I put up more a fight, but the vast majority of the time, I was ignorant of my delusions and paranoia. I can only be proud that I avoided the shower room at STanford while the voices were trying to make me hang there.

I lost nine months to illness, a psychotic break (stopping only when the voices disappeared completely). It was not my longest episode, but clearly my most severe and insidious. A few people knew there was something wrong with me, but no one knew how severely I was affected--including myself. Always previously, I was all informed of my own condition, and could help seek on my own without anyone prompting me.

The voices were sometimes pleasant, but you never remember that stuff. A large part of their banter was about my IQ, how smart or how stupid I was. I read a research article that says they can't find a link between auditory hallucinations and previous history of trauma. I can't figure out why the voices went after my IQ level unless it's just something I'm especially sensitive about. Again, this goes back to my ordinary status. My IQ is probably above average, but it's not genius level--the voices argued about this too.

After going through what I went through, I have a new sense of humility. I feel beaten down even though the voices are gone.

Sanity is thinner, the ice covered pond we all skate on. WE watch others fall through, our hands dipping into the cold water in hopes of helping, thinking we will never be there ourselves.

Schizophrenia besides HIV is the only disease that scares me. NOw I join it's family with Schizoaffective Disorder.

I was under water. The person I talked to the most, RAndy yelling and screaming at me because he didn't understand that I was experiencing delusions. I didn't know who he was. Capgras delusion. In a world in which everyone was unrecognizable.

The treatment to come back to the edge of the pond, safe and sound, was impersonal. I barely noticed it happening in the beginning except that it worked, and that it was Zyprexa. The people were just people rotating in and out of my room. NO one stood out. In return, I never made a great connection with any of the doctors during either visit. I was left to sit in my room and ponder health and illness. Open my mouth for the meds. Close. Therapy done.

I had no relative idea of how sick I was, and still don't to this day. The doctors seem to take it all in without affect.

Would they show it on their faces if I was dying? NO.

I didn't look at the other patients. Or talk to them. I wondered if they heard voices too.

I was at STanford. To this day, I wondered, even as a patient, if I belonged at STanford as student. Sick students end up there too. One of them was my roommate. The doctors didn't seem particularly concerned about my cognitive abilities or if I was high functioning or not. None of them gave me a pep talk on the way out, either visit. I would have to do the pep talk on my own. Or just do it. LIfe. Be the success story.

LIving the ordinary life is okay if you have love. If you married the greatest guy in the world to you. Then, an ordinary life isn't so ordinary, and your priorities change.

I wait patiently for MOrpheus to call, and I know he will. I have my script ready. I will address the fact that I asked him to marry me (while being completely psychotic). I will tell him about my bipolar symptoms (ignoring the diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder since it's too complicated at this point), and address the fact that I went to his house while his wife and family were there.

It's been over three months since we've talked to each other since I expect he will show up in one form or another soon.

I'm not looking forward to fighting about the no sex before separation papers rule.