I never thought that the girl, who frequently tripped over her squeaky clean shoes as she ran to trauma, would become a writer.
Unfortunate circumstances hijacked the course that I had intended to go in life. Every day I struggled to regain control and every day I felt my hope being ripped apart by the seemingly constant push of death and pull of being alive. More often than not, I thought of letting go; dissolve into nothingness. It was but a sick fantasy of mine as I drove through intersections, stood dangerously close to edges, walked across the street, to be rid of the pain.
I had the hardest time opening up to my psychiatrist to begin with and to tell him how excited I felt when I thought of death was a secret I wouldn’t divulge for months. That, along with intense rage, anxiety, paranoia, they had nowhere to go. They were stuck in the confines of my mind. I needed to let them go. So I wrote.
I stabbed emotionally charged words onto paper, giving my agony a mother f*cking voice to be reckoned with. It gave me power over the purgatory as I told it how much I hated what it stole from me. I wrote notes to my family and to myself that promised I would fight until my soul bled smiles instead of tears.
The satisfaction that came with writing was the best therapy I had and still is.
And cookies, hugs from my boys, my dog refraining from eating dirty underwear for at least a day, friends who bring the funny, good music, drugs and sunshine and unicorn farts.
I am not sure if I really remember having a quiet mind where the thoughts waxed and waned just how it should. Normal I suppose. My bipolar mind however, runs as erratic as my moods. It races with brilliant thoughts that fly from one to the next when I’m hypomanic* and it stands still in the middle of the stagnant dark ones when I’m depressed.
“How can you write during times like that?” I’m asked time and time again.
It’s because I fight past the chaos so that I can listen to the tune that my heart is beating to.
Being mindful, ever present, I notice all the delicate beauty around me and the cloudy air that can smother it. It’s the connection of the emotions in that exact moment in which I experience them, that fills in the sentences of my pieces.
It’s like a valve that opens and allows the pain to flow.
It’s the art of setting it free, even if it’s only for a short while.
Writing is my control over what is trying to kill me.
Life has been rough these last few years, but in that, I have found pieces of myself that I never knew existed.
And I kind of like her.
I do mourn from time to time of the Kimberly I think I’ve lost. I could have still been running up and down the halls of the ER. I could have shot out seven kids by now. I could have. I could have. I could have.
But when I look at the Kimberly now in the mirror cursing Lithium for birthing zits on my face, I see a fighter, survivor, sometimes broken but with pretty hair…
And a writer.
*That post exactly exemplifies my hypomania. What the hell was I thinking? Purple pants?