Dove of Depression

The day like a dove dipped into darkness.
The pen sits so silent again. Streaming consciousness kisses the melodic mood on the swing set. The flame at the waters edge enlightens the ripples of an alternate reality. They roll with anticipation of evaporation like a mood made of wood. Ready for the chisel and hammer? Some use a saw to recreate the perfect mode of expression. These wood beams glare over the seas. Names not their own have been carved into their skin like tattoos of lost love. Rings of age surround the fingers of the knife that digs near the shore. In order to explore the depths, the cuts must be made. Branches like bones are broken again to fix the brokenness. Men are like trees walking towards the dusk.
Women walk along the edge of dawn waiting for the perfect place to rest under the shade.
Too close and thorns.
Too far and the fruit is out of reach.
Two is better than one unless the one is broken.
Two broken is worse than one if the brokenness is bitter in the roots. Better not to be bitter unless the bitterness is bittersweet. Better not to be sweet if it always leads to brokenness.
The bitter broken token has been paid. The shade creates a shadowy threat that is ripe with fear of pain. Fear of pain is the root cause of long walks from the park to the waters tears.
Not even sure if today existed. Tonight is perfectly perpetual. Pain carves through like a rusty knife in a wood branch. A dove dives towards the bitter broken branch brooding over the names. I still see one. It’s not my name but it still feels like mine in the dark.

Diving into depression session

Adult with Autism Perspective

To drink or not to drink, often I don’t think of water. Another multi-doctor session via air ways to protect our air passages from passing infections. Lesson learned that once again adults on the spectrum often are undiagnosed due to lack of testing. The grapevine shakes with juicy news of new tests in the field that are being grown. Here’s my acceptance letter to assist from afar, offering the proper inquiry necessary to prevent accidental misses of adults who articulate early.
First, I don’t feel thirst. This anomaly indicates perhaps pituitary dysfunction which shakes hands with this thyroid who needs a steroid to balance. Not actually a steroid but to keep the integrity of the scheme that places words in one act plays. Syndromic Autism or as it is on my file, ASD with a specific specifier having a genetic cause.
Next stage is to zone in on this torrential waterfall a take a sip. It’s all about the perspective. The daunting dance of the psyche has finally concluded. Now we can begin again with a direction that the entire team is satisfied with. Now for the neurologist or genetic specialist to assist in naming the physical claim that has caused damage to this brain. However, not for some time as the wear of this strain is still draining like a snow cap in the summer. So, adults with Autism I salute you. Especially those who didn’t know until you were adults. All sides of the spectrum I wish you the best. I guess this is where I drink from the sink with a tank to think of all those struggling with something unnamed. As with mental disorders this genetic malfunction has been named, claimed, and then rejected all the same. To wit, out of 5 doctors (none specialists) 3 proclaimed Marfans syndrome while 2 others nodded in another way. So strange that genetics can spring forth with so much ambiguity. The good news is, that knowing this perfect label for the genetic syndrome pales in comparison to just knowing why I don’t fit. Sure, I wish to know. Soon I will obsess to find out. However, the ultimate question has been quenched. The water of the unknown psychological issue has been agreed upon and formally written in the file. Self advocacy was definitely necessary. So I feel for those with perhaps less energy or ability to shine lights where darkness looms. For those who wish to speak up but not know what to say. Not to mention, the other co-morbid issues have not gone away. Especially this OCD which is 17 times more likely in the likes of me. 75% of the spectrum moves with a mood disorder which may trump all other diagnosis in terms of order. Hence the reason so many can mask so long without detection. Anxiety…well…sure. IBD most likely due to the conflict of constant tension in the living situation called this body. Fortunately, I don’t still have the temper tantrums that I used to display when play didn’t go my way.
Next phase is the sensory processing issues. That deserves an entire post as the senseless senses played immature games with my consciousness constantly. Just a touch of sugar in my drink and I sink. Just a single degree change of temp and I fall limp from the heat. Now he is sweating but I need a cover. Now the shower is too hot so why bother. The sounds, the sounds just keep sounding the alarm harming the already radiating headache. That was just this morning. The good news is, I know why and that really makes a big difference. Due to the years of research and doctors visits, I may have been the first person ever to hear… “congratulations, you have Autism” and fight back tears of joy. I realize now what I wish I knew then, it’s all about perspective. Time now for me to take a drink from the falls, not because I feel thirsty, but because I can.

Perspective

Vacation in the Storm

Yesterday Is Tomorrow

Change is a must when not to change is the enemy of better days. Yesterday stares at the future wondering what could be. What should be. Trust that the process out of this mess is, as far as I can guess, truly necessary. It’s scary how many are growing stagnant. Older but not wiser but any means. The seasons seem to predict that constant effects are needed to promote new causes. Just because I feel safe in misery does not mean the risk outweighs the means. The committee speaks in community forums about scores of individuals on disability doing nothing.
Nothing!
Truly the process to help process this mess is better than this. Seriously! No, I am just being facetious but with a word full of tongue in cheek. Let’s speak as those who are in the know. We know that yesterday is not gone. We know tomorrow is already here. We know that if anyone is reluctant to change that it is all the same. I can predict the future. It looks just like yesterday without any change.

The Changes of Change

like a deer waiting for the fall

Off to a mountain type rocky start to the finish of a play. Playing with vibrations that transport swifter than an all terrain vehicle. Getting back to normal is a fallacy for the insecurities of fall leaves that ride the winds. They never see the tree again from the same view, only a few may stay awake long enough to notice anyways.
Why are such unmoving, but living to give by the sea type trees so bountiful? They seem to play every time a breeze visits. So stable. So able to just be. Alive and unmotivated to move beyond what the roots authorize. No surprise that they last past the blast of the winds. This tree that my little i does see has been around to see more than me. Perchance, just a glance and he has seen those who made me and escorted me into the scene to breathe. Same chance that once only this type survives, a time when this very tree will see those who read from me. Those from eternity that earth is yet to see. The deer pants and does a dance for the fall of minds. Hunted like a prey. Sought after like for play. Life and death in the tip of the arrow. Buckets of bullets pierced the winds, vibrating the leaves as the tree shook with pain, while the watcher took aim. Cheers! Another death. Someone earned a trophy for the wall case. More leaves fell. The water grew silent in view of the violent vibration of blood on the ground seeping towards the roots of the trees. Tonight we eat. Tonight we sleep. We sleep with the leaves that fell last fall. We eat with the deer that fell last night. We dream of the trees that witnessed the blood. Let me be like a tree. Let me be like a deer. Let my mind rest from the vibrant run of the vehicle that crosses all terrains.

To Be or Not

Recently received a call from a friend who has Aspergers with a strong dose of Bipolar 2. This night I sat on the other side of the desk. He was drunk and seeking methods of suicide to hide from the pride of failure. An ex felon with a job that he hates. Working hard to no end but a paycheck that doesn’t pay respect. He felt lost and abandoned and was definitely 14 cans of beer drunk when the call was made. He said that the suicide hotline often calls the police when chatting and as an ex con, that brought back traumatic memories. When calling for help causes more problems. So he decided to call me instead.
Have not spoke with him in months so it was hearing from a ghost for me. No time to catch up on anything casual as life and death was upon the phone lines. To die or not to die. Not quite the poetic version but this was not a fictional story from history but a reality facing me. I am not used to sitting on this side of the desk. No training on suicide prevention. No idea what to say. So I just listened.
I listened to the problems pouring out like a cold drink on a summer day. I listened to hopeless words stammering forth like sentences from a broken type writer. I realized he was sitting in a room that I had visited myself more than once.
After quite a spell, he retained enough common sense to confess that Bipolar Depression is winning over his will power. That going to the local bar for counsel was not quite working to overcome such negative thoughts and feelings.
I am in a mixed state as I contemplate his fate. So happy to hear he was alive. So sad to hear he is thinking about death. The previous prison record prevented him from purchasing a gun. So he went to research in the light of the dark web. It did offer a plethora of hidden advice on suicide methodologies. He shared his thoughts. I listened.
Tomorrow he officially loses the job that he hates. Tomorrow he wakes up to not having a friend that he had known for years. The obituary spoke so clearly.

“If it wasn’t for my mom”

“I just don’t want to put her through this”

The thoughts that kept him around when all else was failing. Chemicals in the mind like chemtrails decline from the sky. I kept listening. Bipolar depression lesson continued for almost an hour. He almost talked himself sane and sober. Not to suicide. Sure, horrendous English but the best news. I was finally able to offer some free advice. Get help! I know that the last psychiatrist really let him down. He called and texted but she was too busy to return any message. He gave up. I hope now that he knows what so many have to learn. Bipolar depression is real. It is a big deal. Most can’t cope on their own and without help, there can be a loss of hope. He did call. He did reach out. I passed the baton onto the professionals. Hopefully, after losing the job, he finds his way to the office to find his life.
Today I officially started my new job. Suicide prevention hotline. I officially quit. My number is not listed. I filled out no application. My only experience is…experience. I felt the voice of depression. Suicide has called me before on unlisted numbers. I almost answered the call. I didn’t. So far, he hasn’t. I hope that he calls me back. If he does, I will work again. He is my friend. I don’t want to lose anyone else to depression. To die or not, should no longer be the question.

Bipolar Dive

Four seasons of medications that tease the sand like the rain on a sunny day. Oceanic under tow flows perpetually often stealing an unsuspecting visitor to the shoreline. Ignore the education. A brief moment to explore the beautiful depths with scuba gear and a breath. Then the wind of the waves rip the side of the vessel. Gravity exists in such a way. Now the enemy of the surface. The surfers can no longer see my face. Still wondering just how deep this decent into depressions may be. There is definitely not enough air from here to there. Calculate the fear or just enjoy the final view of the underwater tomb stones. I knew it would end this way. So dark and cold. Life swims above. Far above. For the first time I see light vanish. A race for eyes to adjust to the new blindness of old darkness. Others are near but who cares when they are not seen. So it’s a million miles to the next breath. It’s a millisecond before I heard my own muffled sound. Counting down to when there is one left. Shhh! Thoughts seem to make an echo. Echo
seems to make another thought. The pressure is almost unbearable. The end is just above the waves. The bottom has never been seen. The life in the jacket has become straight. The boat rocks. It’s almost my turn to fall in.

Ideas Don’t Stop, I Do

Another great idea. Seems so strange. Such excellent excitement and no excuse will suffice for not finishing. Years of yesterday’s play on the unfinished beginnings. Go and Upgrade. That podcast was a blast for awhile. Maybe brought a smile to someone somewhere. Where? Where they don’t stare at blank walls. Where they they fair well when the seasons fall.
This book is practically writing itself. Just need the hand speed and endurance. Voice recognition software has really come along ways haven’t you? Oh, the website! I almost remembered what I constantly forget. The blog! Oh the fog of the mind. Why whine? Why? Answer another question on questions or answers. And another. And another. They won’t stop coming. Technology has come along way these days. They know. It’s knows. Don’t you? This tablet can read my mind. No, I don’t mind. I just wish it would finish this novel idea. Only 848 pages to go! So…Did you see the price of gold? I am sold that the price will continue to incline as the markets decline due to lack of focus. They are thinking of drinking their fears away. I must stay. I must go for a ride on the blockchain train. It’s the newest solution. I am all in. A great topic for a book. I will start it tonight. This wall looks quite blank. Perhaps words of the unheard should fill it. If these walls were paper they would still be blank. If these walls could write then they would fill my mind with their ideas as well. What do walls think about? I will write on them. They need my ideas to hold these corners in place. I will share so they don’t just stare at me. How impolite! Perhaps I might teach them a lesson. I will reach them with a sledge hammer. Oh! Sister Hammer could really sing. Wait! Anyways those were the days. Days before the flight of ideas. Days before the fight of trying to carry out just one of them, and seeing the

Left of Center Manic Ride

I have four legs. They are round and made of the finest rubber. I am very grounded and I sound like a parking lot full of horses and chariots. My charioteer very clearly needs all of my latest tech to circumspect the terrain. Once, on a night full of painful rain drops from the sky, most of which were forged with ice and wind, my charioteer would pretend to be loosely associated with reality. I have this habit of being on the right side of the road. This night in question, my lights were dimmed against my better judgement, and we went left of center, up a hill, on a dark country lane, in the painful rain drops of ice. Very nice of him to swerve back into comfort zones as I kept a firm grip on the loose ice which was attempting to convert the black top into its own form. I was born to ride in obedience. However, my engine is clever, and I sent multiple warnings to the Mania in charge of this trip. They must have immediately slipped by as we approached another incline in the road. This time my dims were substituted for the same shade as the night combined with the black ice which was secretly planning our demise. No surprise that we accelerated to keep pace with the manic thoughts that were raining out of control like the inclement weather. Left of center, up the hill, in the darkest night. If anyone else is out here, this will be our last drive. The fear that rings in my speakers is a word called “totaled”.
This totally describes the mind state of the manic rain and the pain associated. Yet, the end of the road is near. Just a few minor bruises as we cruise for safer shores. Fortunately the winter night high ways were as empty as the bottles on the dashboard.
I follow the rules of the road. I am well grounded with four legs that are round and made of the finest rubber. I ride right on the roadways day and night. My charioteer on occasion will manically make me ride against my smart computer like brain. It’s just a matter of time before the sum total is more than the total sum. I only wish there was a way to lock the door way when in such a state. No breathalyzers for manic minds. No tests for manic drives.
Let me reverse, as not to veer off topic. Things seem ok inside for a spell. The horses are running tonight. The weather is changing again. These winds are ultra rapid cycling. I am roaring. I am running. It’s getting cold again. The weather looks like rain. The doors are locked as not to let anyone else in. This is a private run. The voice commands are coming faster than normal. I recognize the voice. It’s my job to keep things right.

Manic Dream Panic Scene

There is a place where the dream seems so real, it’s surreal to think that this dream means mania. Not now, but before. Before there was a door to a lake. On the surface, the water faced my direction. In the water, the waves wrote an invisible invitation to walk over and jump in. They promised support. I am sport enough, though, it is tough to think back to the fact that water can not carry the stones that were tossed. But the bobber of the fisherman remains afloat, as does my boat. With a stroke of the pen I signed my name in the air without ink. I guess that means that I didn’t think about the sinking when walking on water was the dream linking the mania, while drinking depression away on the waves. The run on sentence simply foreshadows the reality. Water that holds me in a boat can’t hold me. The drinking was not strong drink, but the loss of thoughts that were already falling to the very place I would be instantly, as the step of security left me looking up to support. The boat floats. The water lied. Weighted down I guess by the manic jacket, the panic attacked me at the bottom of the lake. This quick decent was unique as the boat seemed to lift away from me. The water seemed to speak again stealing my attention from that which was my previous support. This time asking me to breathe like the fish that I see in the sea. For the life of me, I signed my name again, this time with wet ink and no pen. Common knowledge kicks in. The very water needed for life and support let me down in an instant, and offered a watery grave, of which I could write my own name in the sand. How grand to pen my own end.
I can’t control the boat as it floats away. I can’t control what the water will say. I can’t control how I feel today. I can control the pen. I can write my name again. This is manic making me pray for relief. This is panic after support gives way for me.
In the boat again. Not sure how. Willing to float again. Not sure why. The door has closed on the lake. I wonder by who. Mania for the fisherman. Mania is a dream come true.
Please wake me up.
I sign my name.

New Psychiatrist (again)

Uncertainty is for certain. What never changes is that things change. Same questions asked of me, again, this time with a new voice. Suppose the last notes were untrustworthy. Suppose the last notes were private. This Doctor needs to hear for herself rather than trust the several before her who asked the same exact, the same exact questions.
Not very optimistic that this was the last initial interview. Want to review soon, you know, just in case things are seen differently, this time around. Like, am I still OCD? Or Manically depressed or just obsessed with not knowing the proper diagnosis, that seemingly changes as much as a mood of a bipolar friend. Wait, I have no friends, that was an allusion to the illusion that people actually care for more than themselves.
Next month, another call to see if the formal medication, formerly prescribed, now described to me again, as a solution. This time the bottles will have the same name, new dose, with a new name. Wait, does it matter who prescribed the medication initially? Were they wrong? Must accept the diagnosis is the mantra of more than a few. What is it this time?
The trail of prescribed labels tells a fable of trouble in the past. They also gather in the morning and speak of stable days that pass away without much thought. I can not remember when last night ended, but the bottle is open. I tried to sleep, so I think. The bottle is open. So I tried to stop thinking, or so I think.
Better to think in weeks and not days. Better to eat something, anything. When was the last glass of water? Must have been last week. The week I found the open pill bottle. It was a week ago, just like it was yesterday. I slept last week, just like it was last night. I have an appointment tomorrow. I hope to arrive sometime next week.