The Return To Innocence

"...Williams died by the claw of the ghastly inner monster that severe depression lodges in the human spirit, losing a long fight with the unholy ghost." -Brain Pickings (included is a link to a book referencing clinical depression to a holy ghost)

In my last session with my therapist, I kept calling depression The Hollow and a Dark Ghost and The Nothing and, naturally, true pure abyss. In such violent howling emptiness, there could be sound and fury, signifying nothing. And sometimes there is just nothing. Fury would be an emotion, after all.
(And I know why depressed people don't tell the tale, lest they be called an idiot. They'll be mocked today. And tomorrow. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. And they are heard no more, and as they are poor players, life is but a walking shadow. Out, brief candle. -And people wonder why we get angry when mental illness gets blamed for so many blameless things and things where mental illness is completely not ever the blame. This is why we can't have nice things.)

People always ask me why I cry when I say I am hollow, empty, ghostly, feeling nothing. Isn't crying an emotion? they say Doesn't it mean you feel something? they say. I think Allie Brosh, who wrote the greatest description of depression I have ever read in her blog Hyperbole and a Half, said it best: It is just something that is happening.
Because I don't feel like crying. I'm crying because my body is having a reaction. A symptom, if you will. Something needs to release. Some sort of physiological reaction must occur, lest I literally fade into ghosts.

I understand some of the reasons Robin did what he did. I don't know why he did what he did. No one knows why. No one can know why, because no one is Robin.
People have the same thoughts and feelings and illnesses as Robin had, and they see everything he saw. But none of them and nobody will ever fully purely viscerally know, truly know why he, Robin Williams, the funniest man of a thousand laughs, physically participated in his own death. Only Robin Williams knows.

Cool story, bro:
Someone who survied her own suicide attempt once told me that for her, there was only pain, agony, chaos, and the kind of despair that consumes utterly. Beneath it was a nearly robotic thought process. Any emotional thoughts came from a distance. As she began the process, she became enveloped in a still emotionless sedating transcendent serenity, and time slowed down, and she literally had no more thoughts. Since she was stopped by other people, she couldn't tell me much more. But she told me that during recovery, she experienced every single one of those sensations at once, from the pain and chaos to the calm transcendence. It took a lot of sedatives and intense biofeedback to help her out of that state and she was put on suicide watch again for a few days. They allowed her family to bring in her kitten, which helped so much that she now advocates for cat therapy when treating mental illness. I think of her when I talk to attempt survivors. I only remember her first name and some day I will forget some of her story. But she lives a different life. Not better nor worse, just different. She has learned lessons. She doesn't regret things. She still battles symptoms and switched to a new drug regimen and still does biofeedback. She hasn't had any suicidal ideations in over a year. She also treats her cat like the most important sentient being in the universe, since he helped save her life. Cats are awesome.

Back pain back pain back pain backpain backpain backpain NNNGGHH.
It's the lumbar area, leading to sciatica down both legs. Of course, you know? I've got an appointment with my new orthopedist on January sixth, and we're going to get be fitted for true customized orthotics... although I am going to insist they be cushioned, if not highly comfortable. The ones I had as a teenager actually made my feet hurt whilst walking. I still have the left one from those days. It is not comfortable. I understand practicality and function, but still.
Nnngh. Back, hips, legs, knees, ankles. Come on, drugs, work faster.

When we came home from grocery shopping, I looked up at the stairs and whispered, "Mama's home, Rose." I had meant it merely for her memory, for her spirit that now lived in the house, free to leave the clay statue that was a vessel, as Adam had not bound her to it. Adam said, "She's still gone, sweetheart." And I knew, and I reminded him that it was just... oh, I couldn't even find the words. It was just for her ghost. But he knew. We held each other and he knew.

My friends have cried for me, I think, more than I've cried for myself. I will have pockets of moments in which I will break down in gasping sobs, but they are so quick and triggered. A brush that had moved through her fur while I was comforting her in her lethargy, before I understood what was really happening, tufts of fur clinging to the bristles that I may not remove for a while. My pillow, and the soft bean-bag type pillow behind it that served as a general cat pillow but which was generally used by Rose especially in the mornings. A bag of Greenies treats that I realized I no longer had to move to a high place where Rose couldn't grab it and tear into it. Sitting in this desk chair, now, and knowing that Rose will never jump onto my lap and rub her cheeks over my mouth. She will not curl up on the floor, waiting for me to announce that Mama is going to bed so she can lead me there and see me to sleep. Oh. Yes, I'm in tears now. Oh, babygirl. Luna is on my lap now, kissing me, nuzzling. In her own Luna way.

We will be adopting another cat. Yes. It may be sooner than anyone thinks. I've already dreamed of her. I've already named her. I already know her age range. But... you know, someones through the grief and the numbness and the deep deep shock and the horror of physical death, we know deep deep inside that even if it takes only a week or two to get another pet, it is nothing like a replacement. It just means that the throbbing empty hollow burning in our hearts might start to heal, just a little. Luna is still my heart and soul, my queen and my moon goddess, my precious love. Jupiter is still my beautiful big boy, my chatty feline child who brightens my day just by smiling. The new kitten, the new young cat, will never be Rose. She will be herself.
Rose is never coming back, not even in a new incarnation. I'm not even sure I want that; it might hurt too deeply. Rose herself was already the reincarnation of Adam's patchwork dog, Ralph. Rose spent five glorious years learning to love and be loved. In Buddhism, that is a vital thing. All animals understand this. It is slightly Jainist. Adam and I, in our eclectic paganism, are mildly Buddhist in various, often conflicting, ways. It is not possible for us to be fully Buddhist in any way, but eclecticism is a wide arena.

"Life is a journey.
Death is a return to earth.
The universe is like an inn.
The passing years are like dust.
Regard this phantom world
As a star at dawn, a bubble in a stream,
A flash of lightning in a summer cloud,
A flickering lamp - a phantom - and a dream"

Seizure happened in the kitchen. Jupiter meowed and rubbed against me while I crouched. Adam came in and gently lay me on the floor. My eyes were open and blank. Adam touched my face and reached for my mind, and I spasmed and gasped and blinked. I asked why I was on the floor. Adam helped me up and stood me against the large freezer. My memory is swirling. Alicia is holding me. Earlier, Adam said he told his boss, a fellow animal lover, that he needed an extra day to care for his wife. I rolled my eyes and said that was not necessary; that I was fine. Never mind. It was so dark and so white equally braided as order and chaos magics. I was spinning at ninety-nine percent light speed and thirty-five miles an hour. The world was elsewhere. A few seconds lasted a thousand years. Adam suggested I go upstairs and rest. Jupiter is suggesting a cuddle. I am thinking coffee and clonazepam and baclofen. I am made of light and love and pure order-chaos magic in its simplest form. I can give myself the right strength. May be that I can regenerate. As brightly and intensely as a Time Lord. I always shine enough for everyone.

I'm too much in shock and too tired, so I am copying from Facebook.

Yesterday Part 1.
I don't think I'm having a nightmare. But if I am, I just want to do something to make Rose stop panting rapidly and lethargically with wide pupils and mild legarthy. It is four in the morning. I have no car. I could call a taxi service to take us to the Nebel Street emergency clinic but I can't think straight. Maybe she is having a cat anxiety attack. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's nothing. I will stay awake for her. I will offer her treats. I will remain calm because Klonopin is in me and I cannot panic. She is letting me cuddle her. Maybe it's nothing. I need it to be nothing. It's four in the morning and I can't drive and I can't find a carrier and vets don't make house calls. I need this to be nothing. Bast, please let Rose be fine. I will stay awake.

Yesterday Part 2.
Okay. Rose is okay. I mean... well, she did turn down Greenies, which never happens, which means she may not be hungry or is just very tired. When I pressed my ear to her side, I didn't hear anything unusual, just breathing and purring. But she also turned down water and food, which makes me concerned. Her nose is dark... is that a thing? I mean, it's not that 'normal' bright pink flush. She is also acting physically weak - when I picked her up she went limp, and when I put her on the dresser with the food and water bowls she looked almost depressed. She then jumped off and lay on the floor and mewed. I think it's allergies or maybe the start of a cold. She is absolutely lethargic. There isn't much I can do right now - I don't want to rush her to a vet right now just out of worry. She's breathing fine. Adam won't be home until tomorrow, though.

Today Part 1.
As soon as Adam gets home we are rushing Rose to the VCA emergency clinic on Perry Parkway. FYI. Her breathing troubles are much worse.

Today Part 2.
Rose Sunshine Paul.
Time of death: 2:20 PM December 14 2013. VCA Veterinary Referral Associates.
My cat died of heart failure caused by liquid around the heart and lungs.

Today Part 3.
Rose Sunshine Paul.
April 2008 to December 2013. Confirmed cause of death: fluid around the heart and lungs. Heart attack and shock.

At the Gaithersburg VCA Veterinary Referral Associates, the closest pet emergency hospital, the one we have been going to for years since its Darnestown location... they called in every single doctor and nurse into the ICU since Rose was already severely critical. They did everything possible to stabilize her even through the Code Blue. A dozen veterinary specialists for one little cat. They spent 15 minutes on resuscitation. Dr. Marc led us to the comfort room and said there was nothing else to ben done. Let me stress that every single doctor was in that room working to save our cat.
We opted for a private cremation. Just like Tuesday and Ralph and Puff, with polished wood boxes and name plates and clay discs with paw prints. These people were wonderful.
Rose died knowing she was dearly loved. She knew how intensely we cherished her. She loved us with every part of her soul. We were tribe.

Adam and I held her in the towels and hugged her body, and Adam absorbed her soul. At home, he transferred Rose to the sculpture he had made, with gold and cream paint. Rose as a soul will always be with us.





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Well, now that I've learned how to properly pronounce "Hypoxic-ischemic encephalopathy" I can do more thorough research into how the brain lesions from periventricular leukomalacia damaged those particular sections of my brain.
As cerebral palsy is a static encephalopathy, yet always comes with co-morbid and co-existing disorders that are progressive, cerebral palsy can sometimes be confused with a disease that progresses. But no. The damage has already been done and cannot change. However, the extent of that damage can spawn syndromes and conditions over the years that can still cause permanent and progressive damage to the brain and the body. Which basically means that I get to smack anyone upside the head who insists that I can be completely cured. Because it's funny.

Also, this is accurate:
**
Periventricular leukomalacia (PVL) is a type of brain damage that involves the periventricular white matter of the brain. Damage to white matter results in the death and decay of injured cells, leaving empty areas in the brain — called lateral ventricles, which fill with fluid (a condition called leukomalacia).
The brain primarily consists of white matter and gray matter. Gray matter has neural cell bodies, which can initiate nerve impulses, while white matter transports impulses between gray matter cells. The periventricular white matter that surrounds two horseshoe shaped cavities in the brain is primarily responsible for the transmission of nerve impulses that control motor function. Damage in this area can result in spasticity and intellectual impairment.
Myelin is an integral component of white matter that coats and essentially insulates cell pathways, promoting speedy transmission of nerve impulses. Damage to myelin slows and impedes nerve transmission, possibly impairing brain function.
Approximately 60-100% of infants with periventricular leukomalacia are diagnosed with cerebral palsy. Four to 26% of premature infants placed in neonatal intensive care units have cerebral palsy. In severe cases, postmortem examinations have discovered that 75% of premature infants who died shortly after birth had periventricular leukomalacia.
Experts believe intrauterine infections are the underlying factor for periventricular leukomalacia. Membranes around the fetus are affected by the release of toxins, which travel through amniotic fluid to selectively injure areas of the developing brain. These toxins can also cause premature rupture of the membranes and premature birth.
**

In conclusion: Whenever someone thinks they're insulting me by telling me I am brain-damaged, I always say "Thank you! I am brain damaged! I'm impressed you noticed!" Which confuses them so much that they just stop talking altogether. And then I feel happy.

SCIENCE!

Crying. Sobbing. Full force. Oh gods. I love this, I love this, I love this. I love this.
If Ronan does "Illusion" or "Standing" like this I will be destroyed.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q4TKup2Uifo

Illusion:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZGuGiezVzXE
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5WWLwcw5YKY

Standing:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZGuGiezVzXE
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cTNqgKvkOmo

Beloved:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MuRnm3_ZkbA
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cCUepJnw5xQ

Today is a day of deep, deep depression, fatigue, and chronic pain so endless that the abyss is right in my face grinning. Everything is a Cheshire cat.

I have been forming this post in my head since yesterday morning, when I woke up with nothing working properly, with only bits of my brain and body truly functional, and I had to put on a mask and a whole costume, I had to grip my spears and even a sword for dear life, I had to smile and pretend to shine because I refused to worry anyone, because I didn't want to sink further.

And people tend to get tired of me constantly talking about my pains and feelings, because whoa, can't I talk about happy things, things that maybe don't involve medicine and coping mechanisms and feelings?
But here is the Big Thing: So many people feel this way. So many dear friends will read this and understand and perhaps comment and know they have someone to help them stand and fight.
And that is the other Big Thing. We do need help. We do need to stand with each other and fight. On the internet and in life, there are people who will say we are faking, that we are pill addicts, that we are attention whores, that we are crazy.

I will stand up and say, No, I am not faking, nor a pill addict, nor do I desire attention. But crazy? Yes. Yes, I am crazy. Yes, I need help. I am getting help. Medications. Therapy. Exercise. Nutrition. Supplements. Herbs. Vitamins. Holistics. I am not afraid to tell you what is happening, because you need to hear it, you who would mock and tease and bully and tell me to "Just slap a Band-Aid on it and walk it off, just exercise and feel better, just eat this food for two weeks without any drugs, just smile a lot, oh hey, I felt sad yesterday and then I got over it, I know how you feel, I wrenched my ankle last week and wrapped it up and now I feel better, I know how you feel, maybe you're just pretending, why don't you just get better? Quit talking about how much you hurt, everybody hurts, it could be worse."
It could be worse, yes oh yes. Ohhh, sweethearts, it could be so much worse. Yes.
Here, let us try something: You can have my body for a while. You can feel every single feeling I feel, think every thought I think, know every pain I know. See how it feels. No? You can't? Really? Are you sure? Still no? Oh, dear. Well, then, I suppose we will have to stop associating, even if we have only been talking via a forum, a community, a social network, a bus stop, a party, via phone, via web video, in a store, in a house. Oh, well. I thought maybe you had enough compassion, or, you know, empathy. I guess I won't find out. But you know what? If it ever happens to you - and part of me hopes it won't and part of me hopes it will - I shall still stand with you even if you hurt me, because warriors stand up.

There are beautiful, wonderful, incredible, amazing, extraordinary, fantastic people who are being slowly devastated, crippled, destroyed by their own bodies' various systems, for no true reason other than they just happen to live in those bodies. Some of them think about how horrible they are, how they are useless, worthless, pointless, draining, a burden to everyone around them. I feel that way quite a bit. There are some who want to harm themselves, some who want to kill themselves. I cannot do that, but I admit I have imagined it. If I truly wanted to harm myself, I would stop taking my medications. I would let all the pain crash over me in one single tsunami with wave after wave, while I spasm and shake and seize and sob and scream and shiver because I refuse to give myself relief, because I refuse to make it stop. But I will not do that. I can not do that. It would destroy everyone who loves me, whom I love. And I know that. That is another Big Thing.

To everyone reading this who feels the same way: I love you. You are loved. You will always be loved. You are extraordinary. You are amazing. You are fantastic. You are beautiful in so many ways. I love you. I will stand up with you. I will give you spears, swords, shields. I will show you how to scream a battle cry loud enough to make the gods hear you. I will show you how to launch into battle with these monsters. We will never win the war. We will often retreat covered in blood and darkness, growling and licking our wounds and crouching together to patch up each other's wounds.
I will take you by the hand and lead you outside. We will stare up at the sky and say, "Oh, this is such a beautiful sky." The sky may not look beautiful. The sky may be full of dark storm clouds and we cannot see the sun. But just because there is a storm does not mean that the sky has gone away. The clouds and the dark will move, and we will see the bright, bright sky, all shades of blue, and we will see the sun, gazing upon us like the eye of a god, giving us light and warmth and strength. We cannot look directly at the sun, but we can look at the sky and call it beautiful, and we can look at each other, covered in war wounds, and say we are beautiful. We are. We are beautiful.
I love you.





















Oh, and I wanted to add: I took my painkillers and anti-anxiety drugs today, of course. They are helping, of course. I got exercise, I meditated deeply, I spoke with a therapist, I ate healthful happy foods, I did all the things people suggest one does in these situations. I am very very slowly working my way back to a steady and stable mood, but it will take a while - many people don't understand that it takes a while. That is yet another Big Thing. "Why isn't your treatment working yet? What is wrong with you? Shouldn't you be feeling better by now? Why are you still like this?"
It is tiring, and it is irritating. But I am still going to share, and speak, and stand, and stay strong. Because you asked. Because you need to know. Because I love you.

I am going to make a cup of sea buckthorn berry green tea and sip it slowly.
I am going to drink acai juice blended with goji and mangosteen.
I am going to watch more episodes of "Babylon 5."
I am going to treat my skin with various superfruit products.
I am going to hug all three of my cats until they purr.
I am going to try and meditate.

Today, a friend killed herself. I don't know why yet. I don't have any details. People are shocked and sick and numb and confused and angry and upset. Her Facebook wall is full of posts from people expressing love, and wondering why, wondering why she didn't come to anyone. I don't know if anyone knew she was in such a mindset. I don't think anyone ever thought she would ever consider suicide. I don't know. I don't know why these things happen. I can't make sense of it. I've missed her since she moved away. Now she will never come back.

I hope Adam reaches Manhattan safely and soon. I hope he gets rest and pain relief. I hope his job for the next four days goes well. I love him. I called him to let him know that M. was dead and then I told him I loved him, over and over. It's what I can do. I can tell people that I love them.

"So," he said as two of the nurses drew a sheet over his remains and the others left the room to console Wanda, "That's it. I go through the rest of timeless time, on a new, higher plane of existence, and as I float godlike among the insubstantial void, all I'll ever be thinking is, Who the fuck was Cary?"

"Stories are hope. They take you out of yourself for a bit, and when you get dropped back in, you're different – you're stronger, you’ve seen more, you've felt more. Stories are like spiritual currency."

http://darkplanet.basespace.net/nonfict/sandman.html
If you have not yet picked up The Sandman: Book Of Dreams, a collection of short stories inspired by Neil Gaiman's graphic novels and edited by Neil Gaiman, you should do so just for the above story. It's about Wanda, the male-to-female transsexual from "A Game Of You" and it's about her friend Darren, who is in a hospital bed dying rapidly from AIDS. Wanda is telling him a story, and Death comes to him before he finds out how it ends. He gets very upset -- he wants to hear the end, he wants to find out who was the guy Wanda had been fucking behind the Countess' back. He tries to defy Death herself, but Wanda is too upset to finish. So Death makes a deal with Darren and tells him he can come back later, as a spirit, so Wanda can tell him who Cary was.
The story is about dying before the story ends. But it's also about being an endless part of the story, forever in time, having that "extra smidgen of eternity" because part of you will always remain, in the story.
The story made me smile big and go "Awwww!" and sniffle a little.
And you know what, The Dream King really does look a bit like Daniel Day-Lewis.
I think the story tells a lot about life and death and how it just keeps going, this one long cycle, this neverending story. We can always come back later to hear how it ends.

That is why I write stories. It's also about leaving a piece of yourself out there, in the insubstantial void, where spirits floating godlike can know who you are.