I haven’t wrote to you my silent audience in seven months. That’s not an apology- just an observation. Not much happened in those months-I felt I was trapped in the Mr. Robot plot line when Leon is watching 90’s sitcoms- so yeah I watched a lot of tv and maybe I can start dissecting down shows for you in the future. You would like that right? But alas me first must go through the drudgery of what got me posting again. First, a month or two before my last post, a brand new med provider, who only knew me from reading a chart from her overloaded casework sat down with me for less than 15 minutes had lowered a dose of meds I was on when I was feeling better than ever because she felt my doses were too high-and well that wasn’t her style. Even though the med combo she changed was giving to me by an award winning psychiatrist when I was in the BCU( inpatient- psyche ward for those that aren’t into the lingo). And before that med drop I had done so much trauma work to find peace with the murders themselves I was feeling better than I had in a decade. The change down in meds led to the depression to return. But it was to me the worst type of depression: the one where you don’t go through a crazy suicidal spiral you can you use to fuse writing, but instead where you just lose interest in all your loves- most crucially my love of writing. Eventually I started living in a purgatory where each day at school working and teaching the kids became a sanctuary where I felt joy- and after the last bell of the day I felt just like Halloween decorations in an attic just existing to be used on a day celebrating terror, masks, and fear. This purgatory led to the anesthetic of vodka to fill the void. Never understanding why I couldn’t figure out my depression, why I was so full of hatred in my gut, and why was I not fighting back anymore. Than around Christmas I had a manic episode where I was living in a delusion where money didn’t matter, and the only solace I found was in cam models online. I wasn’t in it so much for the general idea of their existence- not say that wasn’t an enticement and perk- but it was more to have conversations beyond the character they have to play. At first I mostly talked to a newcomer from Russia who in one of her model pics was reading an Emily Bronte novel. She absolutely hated doing this because she was too sensitive and naively thought she could find human connection with such a job since was young and enjoyed sex. Instead she was mostly treated as someone who literally didn’t exist- just a pornhub video come to life where the person on the end of the other screen becomes the director using her simply as an object for his sexual hang-ups. She soon left- I didn’t blame her. After failing to find a girl that intrigued or interested meet I met a Columbian girl dealing with a dad with cancer, and a schizophrenic brother. She was honest, and soon we became snapchat friends. She was brutally frank with me as she said that I had a very handsome face, but she was worried because I was out of shape and drinking too much, and needed to go to the gym because of my health, and I wasn’t getting any younger. All of this was true- I had gained about 25 pounds since that last post and became the fat John Wick Version of Fat Thor, and I hadn’t hit the gym in months. And just for the record neither model ever hit me up for me to send them money. Anyway after the manic episode ended- or at least when I finally realized it was over- the suicidal thoughts crept back after a year of never having that question flow in my head. I tried to pretend I was fine, and didn’t need help, but the thoughts and impulses became worst so I went to the ER and checked back into inpatient at the BHU(Behavior Health Unit) about a year from my last visit. I was still delusional thinking I just needed a quick detox and med tweak. But for ten of the 15 days I was inpatient my head was pollen flowing through an aimless wind. I heard voices, hallucinations that begged me to believe they were honest, and a mind always on the verge about to collide with a mountain because of the fog. I couldn’t concentrate to read or write, so instead I just spent days walking miles around the unit, doing yoga stretches, and trying not to bang my head on a window to end the pain- or use the pain to stay in the fog long enough to finally succeeding in hitting the mountain to find the peace I was searching for. I only told my work, and my parents I was checking in. I didn’t bring anyone’s phone numbers, nor want anyone to call to talk to me, because I knew in the back of my mind I needed to experience this journey without distraction. Day 11 was the fucking worst. I sat, and walked with my big belly of emotions. I just let them come through me, feeling everyone, not judging, nor interrupting anyone that passed, and just being ohhh so fucking uncomfortable every second of that day. Usually in the past I would try to distract myself from that uncomfortableness; I would talk to a pretty girl, take an anxiety pill, or try to help someone out with their problems. But instead I just walked and let these feelings lash me on my bare back. Tuesday came with comfort and relief. I found a note in a random journal I hadn’t used in a year and that note cut me in half with how they viewed my words with such sincerity, and how I used those words to destroy her delicate and brittle soul in the end out of my fear of losing someone I truly could care about- but that part will be for another day- maybe another story- but it finally made me examine with honest eyes why that hatred was still in me. I had one piece of the puzzle missing left to truly explore. When I no longer could pin-point my hatred, and found healing from my eldest brother murdering my sister Tricia, my four year old niece Gillian, or my two year old nephew James- I raked my brain to find why was I still so full of hate? So I took a sword with a rusted spikes on the end to my belly to see what would spill out on the pages. What I found wasn’t pretty metaphors or gruesome destructions it was more simple. I hated myself and never wanted to feel the loss like I had before so I became a time bomb of self-destruction when anything starting going good. Not wanting truly wanting to get close to anybody, and tricking my brain against all reason that I wasn’t and could not be loved had become ingrained truths in me. I had suppressed so much emotion after the tragedy I had rewired my brain to never want to give anyone the chance to cause me the feelings as losing them had. That simple truth- plus a new med, and med tweak has put me back on track. I know what I have to work on in therapy now- especially in EMDR. I know I have to be more social not isolated, and structured throughout my day. And know I need to return to the gym, and back to my healthy eating style. And I know I have to be faithfully honest to myself, and you my fearless readers. So get ready for some rawness, some beauty touched with some joyous agony, and probably some weird shit too.
Published by Patrick Bernard
Patrick Bernard is a professional writer, dj, soccer coach and the Lebron James of the blog game. He has MFA from SNHU in creative non-fiction and has wrote for various magazines and websites such as the Boston Phoenix, Wire, Turntablelab, and numerous freelance projects including some of your favorite dj’s bios. His writing explores everything from mental health, professional wrestling, music, recovery, suicide, trauma, cam models, obscure kraut/psyche rock, murder, house music, death, weirdos, train bums and gratitude. View all posts by Patrick Bernard