As writers often suggest, sit in the chair daily. For common writers of novels and epics there is a common practice to sit in the “chair” even if nothing comes out. I was taught that it is the discipline that will eventually yield works of art. If only that were true for every personality. What if the person has say, an axis II Personality disorder, is it still true for them. Those who wrestle with Borderline personality disorder can have such rapid mood swings that a daily blog would be as diverse as the fall leaves on a windy day. I was once diagnosed as BPD before the Axis I disorder took precedence. We did a lot of work trying to find the point of rest. The ability to relax daily. A great theory but the reality was wanting.

Today I sense the swing of moods against my volition. The desire to write something positive or edifying but thoughts of just surviving are fighting against me. So I must leave it as a quick attempt to communicate but as for the normal voice of poetry, not today. Axis II wins again.

The daily grind is to difficult to find for writing. I admire all who write consistently for that takes discipline that’s foreign to me. If I could write a novel it would have thirty first chapters plus 15 finals. The in between is beyond mental capacity to focus and dictate. Even when feeling “even” its hard to focus on anything except the moment. Then when necessary ideas enter the mind they become extremely exhausting for the rest of the body. That means the body will need more rest just to do what is deemed necessary to live in society. Such as that shower which is way downstairs, seems to far away, and I just was there yesterday, anyway. I fell asleep which was a victory for me but to wake and start everything again seems to much with new ideas moving in. So I return to focusing on the task of tomorrow with the hope that the next day will be like yesterday. A day with nothing new. Then the old energy can be renewed again to think of something that I don’t ever plan on finishing. Or finally finishing but with nothing in between like a blank stare at a blank page with last years date.

Most people who suffer and have sought help often start with information gathering. Therefore, though we are not experts or professionals, we know some things. However, some people are so ill, that everyone knows something is wrong. Alas, what happens if everyone but the sufferer knows? What happens when you see someone who not only refuses help but rebels and scoffs at the idea? This is an extremely difficult situation since they can be people we care about.

So what is the resolution? Well, I had to spend time in shifts. I had to start limiting our conversations to times when I am able to withstand verbal lashings and toxic out cries. Then I had to quickly withdraw again. The withdrawals however, cause the other who suffers from classic Borderline Personality Disorder to rage against rejection. There in is the conflict. Hang out and get beat up or lay low and still get beat up. I need to much help to help someone who needs as much as I do! So I continue in conflict until I heal or someone wise reveals to them to seek help.

(A metaphor about brain fog in particular and the various types of dissociative disorder in general.)

Time is running on empty. Hope someone kicks in for gas money. Broken men blind to the gauge due to rage of getting ahead. Accelerating without cause rather than contemplating the effects of driving without direction. How long will a man drive lost before asking for directions? How long is the road ahead? What if the fill up is farther than the fuel reserve.

Cruise control has canceled concentration. GPS is a voice that I can not afford to trust. I ask, “who told GPS what to say?” What if the entire program is intended to drive me. Who is responsible for an accident in a driverless car?

My car is humanless. I walk and carry my car on two feet. My car is trying to put me on cruise control. I am going to ignore it’s orders. I am going to keep walking my humanless car on two feet until no more reserve, or I crash.

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When times allow the pen moves against pages which resist just enough to take the ink in art form. Such a contradiction for written diction to be understood. Lead gets left in the contrail leaving tails and dots across the paper sky.

Airplanes fly now without evidence except the sound air. They text across the sky with wings that wage war against particles. I looked to see the past. The flight of words was gone before I knew what was said.

The stars write history and email them in light letters. The plane texts across the lines. I grab a pencil to keep up! I am from the past.

Creating pathways to higher ways of living for those fighting against mental illness. Poetry and music are the avenues of expression for lessons on living during a war that never calls a truce. This is neither advice nor excuse but artistic attempts at explaining the reality of chemical imbalances.

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