Inside the mind of a mood disorder

Within the course of an hour last night I went from smiling laughing happy.

...Discontent upset inconsolable.

I woke up angry.

I threw things in front of my girlfriend.

I hate my brain.

I'm not.

Oh.

Kay.

Future fucking.

I want this.

For you.

There are small things that I incorporate into my life which may seem silly and insignificant - But I hold them dear. Over the past 5 years I've had one housing crisis after the other. At first I was okay with being transient, flexible, fitting my life into a series of suitcases. Then it became tiring - I wanted to unpack my bags and call some place home. The last solid place where I spent more than a year was almost exactly 5 years ago.

Shortly after I moved in, my dear friend Virginia W. gave me a painting of the Hindu Triple Goddess, Kali. At the time, Virginia was in remission for the second time from lung cancer. She told me the story of the Goddess Kali, her representation of creation, destruction, and regeneration. She told me that most people recognize her for her element of destruction, but reminded me that all three elements were equally necessary for progress.

Shortly after Virginia thought she had beaten cancer (and was smoking a pack a day to prove it) I watched her go through another diagnoses and begin to deteriorate. I watched V go through the three cycles of the Goddess Kali, and she was true to herself until the very last day. Although it was obviously not wise, V smoked until the day she died - And if anyone ever said anything about it, she would tell them we all don't know when it will be over; we all could drop dead tomorrow, and when it happened she was going to be doing what she wanted. And she was.

After Virginia passed, I took a little more sentiment to the painting - I started moving around when I left for California, and would always be sure to plant my painting of Kali in my new dwellings. This last set of moves, the painting stayed in a box and shuffled from one place to the next, and again to the next. This painting is home to me and I haven't been home in a LONG time. It's like wearing a pair of shoes that are too small for years, like having a sneeze you just can't let go of, like not knowing what to call home.

Today, I unpacked a box - And found the painting VW gave me almost 5 years ago. I kicked off those stifling shoes, sneezed, and put up my favorite painting. I feel like I am finally home.


"
When you try your best but you don't succeed
When you get what you want but not what you need
When you feel so tired but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse.

And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

And high up above earth or down below
When you're too in love to let it go
But if you never try you'll never know
Just what you're worth

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

Tears stream, down your face
When you lose something you cannot replace
Tears stream down your face and I...


Tears stream, down your face
I promise you I will learn from my mistakes
Tears stream down your face and I...


Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you.
"

Once again, I'm putting my life onto a website and assuming it will remain protected - doesn't make much sense.

I've just had a wonderful conversation with Mom about how much she always loved me and my sister. How we always knew; there was always a hug, a note in our lunch box, and an 'I love you' before every hang up. So I got a little reminiscent and looked at some old photos and have noticed that costume pieces have always been a part of my life.

It seems odd - we all like to dress our children up to showcase them . . . but I took that and ran with it. I remember my mother having to hide my Halloween costume and I was rewarded with being able to play with it. My costumes were my favorite toys. I remember them vividly; The purple Ninja Turtle, belt found usually on my head, the hill billy teeth, proudly worn with my sister, the fake facial piercings I would use to welcome Grandma when she came to visit, the ever sought after rainbow-suspenders, glue-on facial hair and all of the mishaps that come along with it, and Sunday's Marathon: PINK TIGHTS.

I define myself through my costume pieces. When I do things I love. Things I crave. I do them with costume.

When I shine at work - I'm trying to motivate these kids making next to nothing to make a kid's day, I do it with a mustache, ganster hat, and rainbow suspenders.

When I play with my siblings - First step in every game is donning a cape or cloak of some kind.

When I run a fucking marathon - Pink tights, pink headband, and of course . . . Superman undies.

I love costume. I love becoming someone new and being able to experience new things and try on new personalities, merely because I'm wearing a wig. I show who I really am when I'm in costume. Impulsive. Creative. Selfish. Loving. Active. Hedonistic. I can be anyone. I can create and communicate with new people. It's my connection to children. My costume.

Focus and Athleticism Replaced with Hedonism

I'm planning a full report on my marathon experience - But would like to do so whilst sober :o)
Since I don't actually have any followers, I'll be mostly free and honest about my current situation.

I returned from Portland last night, and proceeded to get very verry stoned - In hopes that I might actually be able to sleep through an entire night. Quality of sleep aside, I didn't even get the quantity I had hoped for.

Now I'm being downright impulsive - Not like this is anything new. Upon arriving home from class, I remembered I had some experimental mushrooms that had been set aside for a rainy day. It wasn't raining, but hey - I was bored.

This has been part of my recent experiment - Psychedelics and the study of new relationships, emotions, and senses that arise from their use. I'm not sure I'm seeking any sort of spiritual experiences, because frankly the last time I did that I ended up in a cult for five years. Moreso, I'm experimenting with impulsivity. The last LSD experience resulted in a tent being built in my living room, finger painting, and cuddling.

Whilst in Portland, I sat in a very classy restaurant and explained to a friend how I am often (completely sober) fighting off urges of impulse, much like an eight year old. The previous night I had watched two young boys, probably about ten, exhibiting what I feel on a day to day basis. They had to be quiet, engage in polite conversation with people they had little interest, and act under a certain set of expectations. All the while, the boys are looking around, wanting to touch, laugh, play - I could tell. I wanted to play too. And my suspicions were confirmed when I saw them sneak away to the bathroom, discovering a large tub of wine corks. The boys dug their paws into the corks - smelling, touching, experiencing.

My friend proceeded to fold her cloth napkin into a hat and placed it on her head. I loved it. The rest of my party was less amused. Point proven.

Why do we hold back? At what age do we realize that acting on impulse is inappropriate? Shouldn't we be experiencing everything to it's fullest in our short lives?

Which brings me back to my experiment. What I've discovered is that I don't really need psychedelics to have impulsive desires at the surface - I use them because when I do, I have the freedom to act on these impulses in an explicable fashion. I create an environment of impulsivity. It's safe there. When sharing about finger painting, or the fact that the tent has now become my primary living quarters, people wonder. But if you add a little LSD into the equation, it makes sense to those boring "sit and talkers."

I'll end on this. At least I think I will - But who knows given my current condition. . . Jill and I got onto the elevator in our hotel (after a few glasses of very good wine) and read that the elevator had just been painted - DON'T TOUCH! This was glorious for me. I wanted to reach out and make my mark. Like any normal eight year old. But with me was a very realistic, a-type, new friend. She took a picture. I kept quiet and did not touch.

Next time - I'm making art in that damn elevator.

Who do I Run For?

Here I am, six months into my marathon journey. I find myself in a hotel room in Portland, Oregon with what seems like three complete strangers.


Two women who will be taking on the marathon along side me tomorrow, and a husband. Since we arrived, my running mates have been showcasing inspirations, motivations, stories, victories. Amy's husband will be our cheerleader on the course, Jill will be running with a picture of her son pinned to her bib.

Before leaving, Amy's co-workers threw her a small "good luck" surprise party. Well wishes and good thoughts have been pouring her way via social networking sites, text messages, etc..


Jill was given a "box of love" from her son, and her family will be watching her every move when she steps on the course.

As for me, I'm struggling. I called my dad this morning to say hello to the kids and he asked me casually how the run was - Glad it's important enough to remember the date I've been repeating for 6 months. Thanks pops. I have been pathetically seeking accolades from my peers with facebook status updates, and getting few bites. Frankly, I can't blame anyone for not understanding just how important this day is to me.


I sat down and flipped over my pace bracelet to start listing the 26 names of people who inspire me - In the past I have dedicated a mile to someone I am running for. As I looked at the blank underbelly of my pace bracelet, I asked myself "who do you run for?" or more appropriate "who are you running THIS ONE for?"


What I ended up with was 26 numbers, and no names. Yes, I have many who have inspired me, who have made me believe that I could run a whole 26.2 miles IN A ROW, but . . .


Last year I walked up to the starting line full of dissapointments. I had spent the morning on the phone listening to apologies, realizing promises of support that wouldn't be kept. It would never be as important to them as it was to me.


However, by my side was my sister - She still can never understand what it means to me (until we cross the finish line together), but she knew that it was big. And regardless of whether she ever takes up running and can truly understand, she showed up, and held me as I cried over my bastardly father who never would really care, or try to.


So this year, these miles traveled, blisters formed, tears cried, GU's consumed will be run first and foremost for me. Followed will be those that I carry in my heart; Sara, Emma, Mom, and Greg. These are the ones that whether or not they understand, it doesn't matter - They have always loved and supported me regardless of understanding or not. Because they love me.

So tomorrow will be for my wonderful sister, Sara; her beautiful daughter, Emma; my running partner and best friend, Mom; and the only man I'll ever give my heart to - Greg. But first and foremost, I run tomorrow for me. For I know I cannot let myself down.