Friday, September 26, 2008

restraint. resignation and formalities

Silent voices
in my head
Running in
all vectors.
Screams -
I can't let out
for too much
Restraint!


Eventually it all welled up in me, bounded by my restraint. Some time this week my pain let itself loose from within me and it hurt so much I started drinking from very early in the morning. After breakfast and meds I opened my bottle of scotch. It is sacrilege to mix single malt whiskey with anything other than ice or water but by lunchtime I had six glasses of Glenfiddich mixed with green tea to wash it all down. I just wanted to remove the pain so much. My body started to feel lighter from the tension I had been having since Monday's panic attack. I started dancing in my room to Giles Peterson, tossing my pain away. But it remained inside me, finally exploding from deep within the recesses of my soul in shouts and cries that I could no longer restrain. It hurt so much, so much, I took out my Swiss army knife and whipped out both the small and the big blades, and cut, cut, cut, to try and cut the pain out of my body. I never cut this hard before. I haven't screamed this much in a long while now.

Everyone keeps saying: two steps forward, one step back, but that is still progress. My steps forward are tiny. Like formalities I go through because I am obliged to try and recover. I cannot deny that I have a sense of resignation about this. Like Murakami says in his running journal: his body had reached a point where it became resigned to the weariness of the distance run, that each step forward and every swing of his arms became like formalities his body had to go through. That is me. In another analogy of taking steps, Dr. K said to me yesterday, 'Take small steps. Then when you feel comfortable with one step, move on to the next level of discomfort, try something else.' Sounds just like how Murakami trains for his marathons as a running novelist. But honestly, I feel that my depression-marathon may never end until I die. I will just keep going and on till then. Two steps forward, one step back.

This week is a series of related step-backs. I am thankful for Fluanxol (my short-term, tide-over medication), so that I can stop stepping back so much and hurting everyone around me. My body is tied to a buoy and a weight at the same time, this way I can continue showering myself, talking, eating, and do some non-strenuous hobbies, even though my depression is mightily weighty, seeping out of me like the blood from my cuts. (This is how resignation speaks for itself.)

I am thankful for J who is now asleep after a hard week of work and dealing with my crises. I was about to turn in tonight too, after reading. But I just felt like writing. Granted, I don't have much material to write about, save myself. Even with this limited material I still fill notebooks at the rate of about one in three weeks. I don't know why I have so much to write about.

If I really wanted to do my formalities justice, I should write about that one fact that my doctor keeps asking me to confront. As I open a new notebook, maybe tonight I finally shall be able to face this ghost of my life proper, resigned or not.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

voice

On Monday morning while I was preparing for my Tuesday classes before I had to leave for Batam that night, I had a major panic attack. It was catastrophic because my anxiety ended up lasting pretty much for two days or more. When it happened I tried not to hyperventilate, lest I faint, by doing some Mona-style deep breathing. I called J, who asked me to rest and not think about Batam for a while, to read a book instead. I picked up an Archie comic, took a X*anax, had a cig, and then when I calmed down, I realised I couldn't talk.

I would have called my doctor immediately but even if I did I wouldn't have any speech ability to explain anything over the phone.

I waited for J's meeting which was nearby to be over, and then he came over and called Dr. K for me, explaining the situation according to what I had written on paper. I was barely speaking above a whisper, which even then caused me great amount of effort. Dr. K prescribed me to take a dose of 2 X*anaxes. When I came to, I regained my voice.

Obviously, I couldn't make it to Batam this week.

J scheduled an outpatient appointment for me at the hospital the very next morning. By then, I was able to talk and move, but my chest hurt. Like it does after I strain my chest muscles after playing, say ball games or lifting too much weights.

I told Dr. that I suddenly had an information overload in my brain and then the attack just started. Even though I probably would have been able to do my work on time. Or even if I hadn't prepared myself up to the standards I wanted, I would have been able to do teach the classes okay if I had gone to teach just the same. Dr. gave me beta-blockers to help me function in doing my work so I wouldn't get an attack the next time I am trying to do my work.

While I am now resting, my depression has gone back to normal: I resumed my fits of crying for no reason or at the slightest emotional disturbance. I have become unsociable, cut myself off online communication, and resumed sleeping a lot. My room is in a mess. Last night I cried while watching OC online, not even because it was a sad episode; I was merely waiting for it to upload. J woke up and comforted me, but I was in a mildly catatonic state, not talking, only answering yes-and-no answers, filled with I-don't-knows. I felt like my tears were coming right from the depths of whatever is left of my soul. I took my usual nightly meds, and more X*anax, had a cigarette, and tried to sleep, crying onto J's face while he waited for me to calm down. Then the worst of the night was over.

I know I shouldn't think about giving up my career that has barely restarted, but while I am away out of the country, not being able to talk to J (phone bills hit the roof already, and no internet therefore no Skype), and my mom officially moving back to JB, it is too much loss to take, accompanied by my serious lack of incompetence at work. I feel loveless, alone, and hugely incompetent. I seriously don't think I can do this job, but I am trying anyway, every day, every week. Despite the fact that I truly believe I will not do an excellent job. I am like a machine that still tries to run even thought its internal system has already failed and is still undergoing inconclusive and extremely slow, possibly hopeless, repairs.

I am beginning to hear things in my head, not audible voices, more like whispers in winds of every direction. I say things like, I want to sleep on the outside of the bed near the door, so I know when people go out I will know, even though there is only J in the room. I feel like screaming so much, but restraint and concern for my neighbours stop me. I feel like dying because I will never get well, killing me would be an ease on everyone's time and finances.

I just want to rest. I don't know how long I will take.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

bland

Inspired by Irwin's comment on my previous post, I reread The Bell Jar yesterday. I remember how the first time I read the same book, I felt the protagonist to be really normal: her thoughts, actions and especially her feelings. They seemed to be perfectly bland, why would anyone feel it was an epitome of depression and sadness? Maybe Sylvia Plath wrote that way to mimic the 'sour air' she wanted to convey about the bell jar. Or maybe her thoughts to me were normal because I felt the same way and no one feels strange staring at themselves in the mirror, seeing the same image morning after morning.

Frustrated this morning because of my ongoing flu' symptoms and even more so my bad night's sleep (skipped my Lorazepam; bad idea) I lay in bed, dazed, feeling bland. I cannot answer questions like 'Why am I unhappy,' or 'What makes me happy, because my answers nowadays are exceedingly bland. If I could forever remain in my home which is my asylum, I would feel safe, but bland. However I could do things I liked, like writing, reading, watching films, and Jian: all doable in my own home. I would be in a state of equilibrium.

But happiness is an elusive feeling. Peace I know, excitement I know, safety I know, love I know, but happiness? I am supposed to be happy, being on meds, moving along nicely, having J as my companion, having my dream job. Sadness has eluded me nicely; happiness too. Hence the daze, the blandness, and the desire to just remain in my own asylum. It is tiring to live life in a daze, with trying sleep, drained of energy, easily stressed like a hamster loose on a city sidewalk, and clueless about what I can do to make me happy. Do do do do do dodiddonedodododo. I am tired!

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

boiling pot

Sometimes I feel that my medications are like a lid on a boiling pot, while my efforts and reinventing myself to disincline away from my depressive habits, are like blowing the fire on the gas stove that which this boiling pot sits on. The fire needs to be turned off, the pot cooled, washed and kept - Impossible.

While I feel some semblance of normality now and have been for a while, I still feel debilitated enough that any goal-orientated effort is extremely depressing and strenuous. I motivate myself somewhat by writing and praying copiously enough to expunge all my crazy thoughts, relevant or otherwise. It works! Like treading water in the sea during a storm, I manage to stay afloat from time to time. It is tiring, and feelings of death and hopelessness cannot help but float by sometimes, it is open sea after all, treading water for so long can make you delirious.

I have come to accept that I will always be sick. With that acceptance comes the fact that since I will always be this way, I should stop waiting and working so hard to recover before I make something out of this meagre life of mine. Since I may never recover I might as well restart my career fully, now, else it is never.

We all have to stop thinking I will necessarily get better. I have to accept my tears, I have to accept the numbness and pain, I have to accept my bouts of recluse, I have to accept that it will be harder and more effort some to do things than it would be for normal people, I have to accept that sleeping and waking will be difficult, I have to accept that I will feel sad for most things seen and unseen, I have to accept that I will always need to ask for help whenever I feel anguish enough to want to die.

A persistent boiling pot that cannot be shut down, I will just have to keep watch over it so it doesn't boil over.

On the Threshold of Eternity





















On the Threshold of Eternity
.

In 1890, Vincent van Gogh painted this picture seen by some as symbolizing the despair and hopelessness felt in depression. Van Gogh himself suffered from depression and committed suicide later that same year.

Saturday, September 6, 2008

refuge, stress and a daze

Writing has become my source of earthly refuge because it is here that I can retreat into my world. Not even my closest loved ones can interrupt me safely from this haphazard ritual of mine, without being lashed out at by me for being taken out of the flow of words that come forth, be it on paper or on the computer. When I need safety from my crazy mind I write, as long as I can find the first words to form one phrase within me. When the words don't come I feel an anguish that translates into a need for a crutch in some kind of imbibed substance or in angered shouts. Sleep is probably about the only other activity that can provide a similar sense of safety; this probably explains why, apart from a true physiological lack of energy, depressed people sleep a lot when they finally can.

I feel anguish and therefore a need to write because even though my dream is finally coming true again - my going to Indonesia to work on my humanitarian career - it is fraught with fears and insecurities that stem from me and myself alone. It should finally make me happy, finally, after sabbaticals and rest from work that has not been satisfying because it is not what I truly want to do. I need to raise funds and while I have a salesperson's persona within me, she seems like a ghost of the past that hardly seems like me at all. I am also not the best Christian around to be raising funds for 'missionary work', because while my work is missionary, I am nothing close to what that term represents in terms of character and an image of being above-board. I am torn between two countries because my ties are still here, yet I want to be immersed in my work there. And my resilience to stress is still so low I cannot comprehend how I could have endured any form of work stress in the past. I should be able to do my job, because the Elaine that people have known all along will excel, even those who barely know me feel that way. But that Elaine feels like a shadow to me, running then on strength unknown and probably supernatural. Wrung to my depths as I am right now, I am a corpse with a weaker ghost within, seen by all as an Elaine at rest and able to rise up to become the best in her field once again. I have doubts of that so severe that I feel anguish.

I have always relished the challenge of stepping outside the 'comfort-zone' but right now instead of being excited by the challenge I feel a want for safety so much, even the thought of living in an asylum gives me comfort. I am far from having to live in one but my flat is like my asylum, with every comfort that I need here in material and in persons I love. The challenge to step outside my comfort nowadays, which I do try to, eventually and despite all, still brings about stress and I get upset enough to have to rely on my emergency Xa*nax, Slims, and alcohol where possible. All this for a little bit of stress. And as usual I am also sick (eczema and just the 'flu) which is how stress chooses to manifest itself in me. (Although probably the 'flu is more because I took the public bus that day, sick people everywhere in a contained, unhygienic space. Public transport makes me sick, literally. It also makes me very stressed but that is another story.)

I don't know how I can overcome this and this conflict within me is what drives me to seek refuge in my writing. My body is rejecting my fears by creating this anguish and this 'flu which goes against my primal and heavenly instinct to serve the poorest people who are in greater need than I am. I am a fusion of vision and fear, of a shadow of the past and a ghost of the present. I am able and unable. The greatest battles are fought in the mind. When I am weak then I am strong.

Conflicting states of being result in me being in a daze sometimes, like how aquatic confluences create silt and flotsam. I try to function as normally as possible socially, with my medication giving needed energy to. I know I will likely breakdown in embarking on this job in Indo but I am going to do it anyway. Thus the daze. I try to not be my past workaholic-perfectionist self which plans everything down to the T, but yet I feel that inadequate if I don't. Thus the daze.

Amidst all I guess I will keep writing.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

writer's agoraphobia

From reading Amitav Ghosh's The Glass Palace, I intrinsically realise a flaw in my writing. One of the book's characters mentions that she finds it hard to write of the world outside, having to exit her inner world to observe the workings of the world beyond. She finds it terrifying, intrusive, violating, to enter a house that is not hers, in a way that classical writers do, writing about streets and other public places beyond the domain of their private lives.

I suppose she means that it is scary to enter into a world that is not yours, that perhaps this world might reject you, or you might reject this same world you enter. How she feels parallels the way I live, subconciously, as I seem to only write of what is in me. I write based on internal inspiration, and while I can tweak my sensitivity to inspiration, I have yet to fully master 'Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance' as it were in the book of the same name. I am not a master of my machine if I cannot take it further than my own neighbourhood.

I write observational accounts poorly, preferring to relate my response and thoughts to the event, rather than the sensoral details of the event itself. If I simulate the process right now of entering an event I would like to relate, and forgetting my own inner world for a moment, it feels as if I am losing my moorings and slowly am floating out into the open sea, to be lost until found again, if ever.

I used to think that the reason why I dislike writing reportorial accounts of events is because they are cliched and uninspiring. Like newspaper articles with staccato sentences reeking of a job merely needing to be done and nothing much else. My passionate opinion in me rules over the blatant facts of the world, for facts can be found on the bottom of any news channel, but opinion seeks to change and inspire, something of a higher intelligence.

Yet it is also true that I do indeed find it scary to write about an external collection of facts that have nothing to do with me, afraid that I might misrepresent it, or inadequately report it, denying the world of real, vanilla truth. I have to learn how to step out, eventually. Even the Impressionist artists once studied the Classical works of realistic representation, before they painted what themselves saw instead.

Monday, September 1, 2008

dislike

J read my 49 dislikes and felt perturbed that many of his quirks are on that list (cannot find it in my blog archive, not sure where it is). Some of those things matter less to me now that I am less irritable and less angry. I cannot remember what was on that list but I am going to write a fresh one nonetheless. My dislikes are more like stress factors to me, small circumstances and traits about places and people that stress me out.

  1. I don't like sick people coughing, sneezing, sniffing or blowing their nose in public places. I start to feel sick and wish I could Lysol them down.
  2. I don't like taking public transport not only because of germs but because they smell weird and are crowded. People tend to look strange, wearing strange clothes, speaking in strange accents and language, and they tend to jostle into me and come too close such that if I move my arms just the slightest, I will come into - ugh - contact with them.
  3. I don't like purple. It makes me feel sick.
  4. I don't like people who share my table at public eating places to slurp their food. It is absolutely gross. Eat quietly FFS! No wonder no one is having their meal with you such that you have to share my table.
  5. I don't like posers who think they are so glam so cool so hip when all they are are just actors.
  6. I don't like civil servants unless they are my friends already in which case they are the clever exceptions to a profession fraught with stupidity.
  7. I don't like Hong Kong drama serials and other similar Asian soaps - they absolutely make me upset and I could get a panic attack just be persisting at watching any.
  8. I don't like matriarchal Cantonese aunties.
  9. I don't like mainland Chinese. They disgrace they entire Chinese race. I would sooner visit India even though I don't like crowds.
  10. I don't like public speakers who cannot speak proper English. Step off the rostrum and attend some toastmaster's classes please!
  11. I don't like floaty animals in water known as aquatic life. I like to remain at sea level and not under... the thought of having floaty animals near me in the water creeps me out.
  12. I don't like women who cannot even be bothered to put even a sliver of makeup when they go out, work or pleasure inclusive. It's utterly disrespectful for anyone who has to look at them.
  13. I don't like eating leek, spring onion, lady's finger and brinjal.
  14. I don't like replying text messages and answering the phone very much unless it is critical.
  15. I don't like exercising in gyms; outdoors or in my own home is best. Gyms are crowded, unisex, and sweaty...
  16. I don't like watching sports on TV very much except for soccer.
  17. I don't like reading the local newspaper. In my own opinion it is not a complete accurate picture of the world. (To be honest it makes me angry to read or hear from it. I truly, truly believe we need independent journalism in this country but it is not to be.
  18. I don't like fruit such as mangosteen and dragonfruit.
That's about it. I guess I am less irritable now, hence the supposedly shorter list. One day I shall be even more at peace with the world and its smelly public transport receptacles of coughing people...